for salutosinedelectat

[sauntered_downward]

Follows this.

They couldn't just teleport themselves there. Any miracles, demonic or otherwise, would attract too much attention. No, Crowley was actually going to have to sit there, plugging their information into an online search engine, and do it all manually. Fluctuating airline prices were demonic work, and right now a trip to Japan was over six thousand pounds more expensive than if he had bought it three days earlier, which was totally outrageous. Crowley didn't know a lot about money except what it made men do to each other, he'd never had to. But now, making money appear out of nothing could turn the wrong eye on them if he wasn't careful.

Luckily, he had quite a few credit cards that never needed paying or had a limit on them. They would work in a pinch for a moment like this. He didn't know if that sort of perk-of-being-a-demon could ever be taken away from him, but he hoped not.

The flight itself was a long one, and Crowley settled himself in for it by making sure they were flying at least first class. That way they could see everyone coming at them and have a few glasses of wine on the journey.

"I don't think they know about these passports," Crowley says. "They might, but I doubt it. I had them made back during the last World War, just kept them in good condition."

The second World War was something that Crowley took responsibility for, but he hated every moment of it, and what his side did to make it worse made him sick. He was more than prepared to hide away if he needed to when things went wrong back then. And, at the time, he had also created a passport for Aziraphale, in case he wanted to come along. No other reason for that, he told himself.

Comments

[salutosinedelectat]

Somewhere where the moment won't be right, either, but maybe it never is.

He has to clear his throat quietly, idly straighten up Crowley's lapels, even though there's absolutely nothing wrong with them, but it keeps his eyes and hands focused. "Yes. I do believe it is getting quite late."

Not that it matters. Never did.

[sauntered_downward]

It's getting quite late, Aziraphale had mentioned before. And what will they do? Certainly not sleep. Maybe eat the sushi that Crowley froze in time for them. Then, what? Sit there and not talk about what they're not talking about? Maybe lie on the bed and wait for morning, wait for the next wave of trouble to follow them? Drink, maybe? Crowley could sit, stare at Aziraphale, and long for what they almost have right now?

Aziraphale is literally in his arms right now. Right now. And if Crowley can't do anything about it now, when will they ever? Another thousand years? Another six? If they even make it that long.

"Oh, fuck it." he mutters, and he leans in to kiss Aziraphale again.

/victorious airhorns

[salutosinedelectat]

The angel stares up at him when he lingers, finding himself in another kiss before he even knows it. There's only a muffled beginning of a word, a few seconds of startled confusion, and then--


--and then he just...closes his eyes. Holds onto his jacket, gently, and, for a moment, he wants to keep forgetting. Keep himself from all the idle comments that mean nothing and go nowhere, from advertising the looks he can't make himself keep. For this moment, just this. This is all there could be, and he's more than fine with that.

AT LAST!

[sauntered_downward]

Crowley can't say anything he wants to, but he can try to show Aziraphale. He's tried to show him for thousands of years, but it's never been enough. And now, in this moment, he tries to say what he can't through a moments-long kiss.

After all, demons don't love anything. And Crowley doesn't really like much of anything that isn't associated with Aziraphale. He's been soft for a long time, but he's not soft enough to think he loves things. Except Aziraphale. And if he could express how unique and special the angel is to him in this kiss, he would, and he tries to. He tries to share it.

Because, if this is all they ever have, Crowley wants it to be enough.

[salutosinedelectat]

Angels are beings of love. They can sense it, among other types of auras, ever lasting as it might be. And it's not that Aziraphale couldn't read the signals Crowley was sending him. It's not that he doesn't know the words and thoughts unsaid, however vague his assumptions might be. It's all the things in the middle and around it, making it too risky, impossible, too dangerous. Too terrifying and strange.

But here they are. Here they are, and living years at a time, in a moment, all their looks and the more powerful times when things went unclear, unsaid. And he's holding onto the now, the Present.

Another moment, he doesn't know how long it lasts. Can't tell how people and sounds and things change around them. When he does pull back, barely so, he looks up at him again, and all he wants is a moment of peace, alone, with him. All he could give everything for.

"...Crowley-" He starts, muttered, but doesn't quite find the words even then.

[sauntered_downward]

"Aziraphale," Crowley replies. His angel, the only one. He can tell him, now, that he loves him. Or maybe he can take him back to the safe place, hold him there, tell him there. Give him a moment where it's just the two of them. There has to be some way to make this moment last longer. Because after everything, don't they deserve this? Didn't they earn this moment together?

"Crowley!"

Crowley has been so wrapped up in his moment with Aziraphale that he didn't even notice that the singing had stopped, that someone had taken the stage, had grabbed the microphone, and was now addressing the crowd. A few people in the audience are startled, a few are even afraid, and with good reason. Crowley turns immediately, putting himself between the speaker and Aziraphale.

Hastur.

GODDAMNIT HASTUR WHY

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale immediately jumps to attention, whiplash between the moments and emotions having to wait until later. He knows that figure, though it takes him an extra second to recognize him in a place that was, until mere seconds ago, filled with joy, music and dancing.

How many things can happen in one night? How many times--

He looks at Crowley, then stares at the Duke, not speaking, but wondering if any demon or angel would attempt to attack them directly after the trials. Had they seen through it? Did they know? Is this one alone?

[sauntered_downward]

Crowley stands between Hastur and Aziraphale, but he isn't certain that Hastur can see them. He must know they're there, otherwise why expose himself like this? Several reasons, Crowley's mind immediately supplies: #1) Hastur is not all that bright, and #2) Hastur hates Crowley. This is the opportunity to attack Crowley directly, and he will, with a vengeance, and whenever possible. He might not even be acting on orders, for all Crowley knows.

"There's a door in the back," Crowley says to Aziraphale. "Behind the toilets. I'll distract him, you turn and run."

He raises a hand up and a notecard appears, with the address of the temple on it, he thrusts it towards the angel.

"Meet me here."

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale has the notecard in his hands before he has anything to say about it, he stares at it, then at Crowley.

"--are you bloody mad? I'm not leaving you here by yourself." There's anxiety in his voice, sure, but quite a lot of assertiveness.

"And there's all these mortals here, we can't just--we can't do this here."

Because, you see, Aziraphale might think himself soft and a coward, but he's not letting Crowley to fight alone.

[sauntered_downward]

"I'll take him elsewhere," Crowley says. "I won't let them get hurt." Much. Well, not very much, at least. He can't control Hastur, who currently has lit his hands on fire as he calls out for Crowley again. Patrons of the bar have started to run towards the door, though few have made it out the back way Crowley had suggested.

"Hastur hates me, always has and he always will. He'll do anything he can to hurt me. That includes hurting anything I love," Crowley says, gripping Aziraphale's shoulder. "I can handle him, but I can't handle losing you."

Can he handle him? Of course he can, he tells himself. He's faced the Duke of Hell before and won. Mostly won. Got him out of the way for a while, at least. He can do it again.

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale stares at him, once again finding himself almost resenting those very stylish sunglasses. Resenting that this is how they--

"No." He says finally, after a long moment of staring. But, of all people, Crowley might know how there are times when the angel is incredibly hard to sway. There's the right things to say, right things to use, sometimes, but not here. No, he's not leaving Crowley alone. Not now. Not here.

He goes to speak but he light from the flames are moving closer and the other patrons are running, and they soon will be discovered. So he grabs Crowley's arm and quickly rushes out of the dance floors, pulling the demon behind a corner with him. Not a good hiding place by any standards, but they need to think.

[sauntered_downward]

Crowley lets Aziraphale pull him away. Aziraphale has to listen, he has to---but he knows that tone, he knows when the angel isn't going to just listen to reason like he should, like a reasonable person would. No, he's going to stay and get himself killed. The thought of something happening to him sits in the pit of Crowley's stomach like an icy knife. Nothing can happen to Aziraphale, he can't let it.

"That is Hellfire," he warns the angel. "Any of that touches you---" It's like holy water to an angel, but he's certain Aziraphale knows that.

What can they do? There has to be something they can do, with their limited competence combined. He can't convince Aziraphale to leave, and he's not going to try to argue, not when they have such little time. All he can do is----well, not pray, that's not exactly Crowley's style, but hope, at least.

"What have we got?" he asks, letting out a reluctant sigh.

[salutosinedelectat]

Hellfire. So, that's a thing. That's a thing, and that is Hellfire, and that is a Duke of Hell, and they're stuck inside a karaoke bar with no flaming sword and no holy water.

Great. Yes, this is great, this is fantastic. Damn near perfect.

He tries to think, back pressed against the wall. "Magic." Obviously. "We get these people out of here and--and we go. Maybe back to the temple, oh--"

They don't even know if he still thinks they can't be destroyed by traditional means. He certainly doesn't actually want to know how it feels to be gently kissed by fire from the pits of Hell itself.

[sauntered_downward]

Magic. Well, there's a thing if they had it, they'd at least have an advantage. They did have Aziraphale, who had holy everything, but it all depended on what he could do before Hastur hurt him.

"If we can get him distracted enough, we should be able to teleport ourselves out of here," Crowley suggests. "Maybe only a block away from the temple. Give them a range where to find us, but they won't know the exact location. If I'm imagining right, they won't even see it, it won't even register to them. It should be safe."

Oh, but he hopes he's right.

He raises a hand, and a crowbar appears. He glances over the side of the booth.

"I'll distract him. He can't hurt me with that fire." Well, not much, anyway. "You get everyone out, then start towards the door."

[salutosinedelectat]

It's a plan, better than simply leaving him behind and hoping for the best. While it still...is a lot of that. But, much like the plane, the last thing he wants is to involve more poor humans in ethereal affairs, much less something like this.

"Crowley-" He instinctively grabs onto Crowley's sleeve, just a moment. Just a thought of what if this doesn't work? What if this is it? Concepts that drop into his stomach like ice.

Will he not get the chance to say it back?

[sauntered_downward]

Crowley pulls off his sunglasses to get a better look over the edge of the booth. Hastur is creating fire, tossing it left and right. Causing chaos. Causing destruction. Basically, being a Very Good Demon. Even if he isn't acting on orders, he'll get an accommodation for this.

He looks back at Aziraphale. There's a chance---a very good chance---that Hastur will kill Crowley out there. This could be it. This could be the last time they see each other. This could be the last time he looks at his angel, the last time he sees him. But Aziraphale will escape, he tells himself. Aziraphale will live through this, and that's all that matters.

"I'll meet you at the temple," he says. "I'll be there."

He could tell him he loves him, right now. He could tell him that, but even now it's hard. Even now, there are so many things between them.

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale could tell him, he could. He feels like he should, as he's staring into his eyes, and the unsaid words are so much worse than before. The idea that this might be it. The idea that they've been around for thousands of years, adverted the literal end of the world, escaped punishment, have ran so far for so long, and that this, that this might be it.

But he can't say it. He can't say it now. He can't say it, because he has to believe that they'll make it.

"I'm not leaving without you." Quiet, the bite taken out of it, but no less real. He means it, and he knows Crowley knows he does.

He lingers, but the sound of the bar being hit with a blast of fire snaps him out of it. Aziraphale lets go of his sleeve, keeps himself lowered, fumbling his way out to one of the corridors to find any hiding mortals.

" I'll get them out, you--you keep yourself in one piece!"

Please.

[sauntered_downward]

Crowley isn't always fantastic at saying what he wants to say. He'll want to say something significant, want to tell Aziraphale something important, and instead he'll be flippant, or he'll just stare at the angel, and expect his words are somehow understood. And, now that he thinks about it, they usually are. They don't need to say things, not always. Not really. They understand each other.

Like now. Right now, he wants to say I love you, and Please be safe, and I'll come back to you. Instead, he says:

"Oh, have it your way."

And he steps out from the corner, heading over to face Hastur. The Duke is on the stage, setting various parts of the bar on fire, surrounded by the chaos he has created, laughing. Oh, he has such a backwards, unpleasant laugh. There's nothing but malice in everything Hastur does.

"Hastur!" Crowley calls out, brandishing his crowbar. He can do this, he thinks. He can get him talking, he can get him distracted. Give Aziraphale time with the humans, give him time to get them out.

"Crowley," the demon says, satisfied. He immediately throws a blast of fire at Crowley, throwing him back until he flies up, hitting the far wall of the bar. Crowley lands on the ground with an unpleasant thud, dropping his weapon.

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale rushes through the back corridors of the bar, trying to ignore the sounds in the main room. That thud and the clatter of the crowbar. And what is, he's sure, a building that's beginning to be slowly consumed by not just fire, but Hellfire. Yes, he's going to try to push those thoughts aside and imagine that everything's absolutely, positively, verifiably fine.

He stops, hesitating, then pushes open the bathroom door, finding a small group of humans hiding from the commotion. "This way! Come on, quickly now," He signals them along, a mixture of English and Japanese as he guides them towards the back door, which miraculously swings open before any of them touch it.

He hears more voices from the kitchen, and he rushes in there to do the same, guiding them through, trying to cast a net over the building and try and sense any other humans.

The booths-- the private booths across the small building, he needs to check those, which puts him passing through the door to the main dancefloor. But it's stronger than him, the need to look in, to check-- to hope Crowley's keeping his promise of staying in one single physical piece.

[sauntered_downward]

Crowley is doing fine.

He picks himself up among the broken bottles of alcohol, and groans a little at the unpleasant feeling in his stomach and back from the throw, and tells himself that no, no, this is fine. There's fire everywhere---Hellfire everywhere---and he tells himself that he can still do this, he can still be distracting. He an still keep Hastur distracted. He can make sure Aziraphale has the time he needs.

"Do you know how long I have waited for this?" Hastur sneers, stepping forward. He lands a kick at Crowley's side, and Crowley falls back down into the broken glass.

But no, no, Crowley is fine.

He imagines the crowbar back in his hand and swimgs it at Hastur's feet, temporarily throwing the Duke off balance. It's enough to get himself back on his feet and he takes a step back, but not fast enough before Hastur gets a grip around Crowley's throat.

He feels burning where the Duke grabs his throat. He feels burning, like he's being eaten up from the inside out.

Hastur grins, a huge, black-toothed smile. "This is going to hurt you a lot more than it's going to hurt me."

[salutosinedelectat]

The fire's growing, proper properties none-the-wiser to anyone that isn't of ethereal or supernatural leaning. But oh, he's painfully aware, he knows that it would do a lot more than simply discorporating him if he came in contact with it.

But no thoughts last, not when he sees Crowley in Hastur's grasp and he's faced, yet again, with the kind of reality he'd desperately love to be able to ignore.

It's stronger than him, instincts stronger than him but unfortunately not on friendly terms with logical thinking. "Crowley!" As he steps forward with absolutely no plan.

That is Hellfire, that is a Duke of Hell, that is Crowley, and he has no plan.

[sauntered_downward]

Hastur likes to destroy people from the inside out, and Crowley can feel that happening, feel himself being burned up from his touch. His eyes start to go black and then...

And then Hastur has something that has caught his attention that is far more entertaining than Crowley. He drops the demon unceremoniously onto the ground and turns to face Aziraphale.

"Aziraphale!" Crowley chokes out. There is Aziraphale, and there is Hellfire everywhere. He has to get out, he has to get away. There is so much fire, and all Crowley can think of is the bookshop, and when he was absolutely certain that he'd lost the angel forever.

Not now. It couldn't be like this.

"Aziraphale, run!" He imagines a column of air, blasting a pathway across the dancefloor, giving the angel an escape.

[salutosinedelectat]

The wind blasts his coat back and he holds out an arm to shield himself, only a step taken back. He stares at Hastur, feeling the revolting aura of the Duke - and he can't see Crowley, though he's sure he head him.

"You--" He starts, he falters, he fails. He can't threaten a Duke, what good will that do? He's seen how this one hungers for Crowley's destruction, and he had believed that his little play would've been the last time he actually saw him.

"--you do not belong here!" What? Oh, Lord. His voice doesn't come out particularly steady, but maybe he can drag the Duke away from Crowley for long enough for the demon to think of something, gather himself, anything.

[sauntered_downward]

No. No, not Aziraphale. Crowley sees him, surrounded by all the fire, and he remembers the bookshop, remembers seeing all the fire and knowing he had lost him forever. Knowing it in his soul and how much he grieved in that moment. This was that moment again. All the Hellfire around Aziraphale, him not running, instead choosing to face down Hastur.

"Brave," Hastur says. "But you can't defeat me." He raises up an arm and points it at Aziraphale.

Crowley has no idea what Hastur is about to do, but he has to stop him. There has to be something that he and Aziraphale can do with their limited competence combined. He grabs his crowbar off of the ground and swings it at Hastur's midsection from behind. It clangs, but invokes no reaction from the Duke.

[salutosinedelectat]

Well, the Duke is pretty much right, all things considered. Being nothing but a Principality, a defected one at that, with no weapon or powerful holy resource to speak of, it's not like Aziraphale has that many tools in his disposal that would allow him to really harm a Duke of Hell.

The fire is beginning to consume the room. The colorful lights are gone, no more music, no more of that cheerful sound of people drinking, chatting and bonding together. Only fire, destruction, and imminent danger.

But still, Aziraphale stands. Not particularly steady or threatening, mind you, but he does stand, spotting Crowley behind Hastur, relieved to see his companion still moving, although that display isn't particularly convincing.

"--Not here! We can't do this here, there's--" He looks at Hastur again, also not really convinced that he can really argue with this creature of evil.

Please, Crowley. You're good with plans. We need a plan. We need to end this, before--