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.

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[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--

[sauntered_downward]

Plans? Plans? Crowley's only thought right now is that he has to keep Aziraphale alive, somehow. His heart is pounding in his chest and fear has replaced everything else in his veins. There is no coming back for Aziraphale if Hastur gets a hold of him. And Hastur will hurt him, Hastur will kill him.

How can Aziraphale hurt Hastur? They don't have any water for him to bless, but there has to be something. Something he can pray for, something he can miracle to their aid.

"Throw something divine at him!" Crowley calls out. "A blessing! Something, anything!"

He swings his crowbar again, but this time Hastur catches it, and throws Crowley back again, into a pile of flames.

[salutosinedelectat]

"Crowley!" The angel shouts desperately as his companion disappears into the flames, which, logically, he is aware won't really hurt him, but logic is struggling to make itself heard right now.

What can he do? He has no weapons. Any blessings he could cast are severely too weak to deal with such a high cast demon. The building won't survive the flames forever, and this monster won't hesitate to end Crowley's life. Hes seen the rage and utter hatred in those eyes.

"Stop!" As if an order would change things. But if he can get his attention on Aziraphale, maybe Crowley could... Maybe he could be spared. "Please--spare him."

He knows pleading will mean nothing. And he knows Crowley will hate him for it. But, still, he tries.

"Take me."

[sauntered_downward]

"You want me to take you?" Hastur says, sounding incredulous. Perhaps the idea of self-sacrifice isn't something Hastur has ever considered. Perhaps the idea of sacrificing oneself for Crowley just sounds absurd.

Crowley, for his part, is trying desperately to get up. He doesn't have anything broken, but the throw has definitely knocked the wind out of him. He hears what Aziraphale offers, and he has to stop him. That stupid angel. Does he really think he can make a deal with a demon? Does he really think Crowley would want him to?

"Oh, very well," Hastur says, and far too easily. He offers out a grimy hand in the angel's direction. "Your life for the traitor's."

"Aziraphale, don't!" Crowley calls out, trying to get to his feet. He needs to---he has to do something---he has to figure it out, and fast.

[salutosinedelectat]

He hears Crowley's voice, faintly, over the roaring fire and the cracking walls. He hears his name and the protest, but he keeps his eyes on the Duke.

Aziraphale can be many things. He can be naive. He can be a bit backwards at times, he can jump to conclusions, be too impulsive and not think things through. But he's not that stupid. He trusts demons to lie - any, all of them, all but Crowley - and the ease in the response doesn't escape him.

He stands his ground, looking firmly at the Duke. Not like he can ask him to make a promise. He'd be back at square one.

"--his safety." He's fishing, but he tries. "His safety, and the end of all of this."

A lamp falls from the ceiling on the corner of the dance floor, crashing down into flames.

"How do I know you'll keep your word?"

[sauntered_downward]

First of all, how dare he.

This is supposed to be what Crowley does. Crowley sacrifices himself to end this, because it's what would save Aziraphale. He's been thinking it since before they were in that awful motel eating cheap sushi and talking about Japan. He's been thinking it, and then here Aziraphale is, trying to make the bargain that was supposed to be Crowley's to offer.

He's too exposed here. He drops to the ground and concentrates. It's been a long time since he's done this, but it's time, now. He becomes long and thin, sliding his body across the floor.

"You don't," Hastur says. "After all. You don't have anything to bargain with except your life. And I was going to take that anyway."

He takes a step forward and his hand shoots out, going around the angel's throat.

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale, defected or not, is an angel - a principality, in fact. Lower caste angels, made to receiver orders, and created to guide and protect. But there's something he's always done wrong - he always protected the wrong thing. The wrong idea. The wrong person.

He's been wrong a lot. But most times he's been wrong, he'd like to believe it was with the right intentions.

He doesn't have time to react. Before he knows it, the Duke has him by the throat and off his feet, unneeded breath forced out of his lungs. He grips at his arm, eyes wide, finding himself facing a reality he's seen many times, but never quite as clear -

This is it.

He stares at those black, hateful eyes. He digs his nails into the torn fabric of his sleeves and he stares, as Hellfire licks the walls and tears the place asunder. As the colorful lights and loud music are nothing but recent memories, and a place of joy and laughter and community become a scarily accurate example of the very pits of Hell. And he can't see Crowley anymore.

He can't hear him.

And he hopes he ran. He doesn't think he did. But he hopes, for a second, that this could mean something. That he did something. Maybe something right.

It burns.


His eyes turn up to the ceiling. He can't tell if it's the fire or something else, but everything's starting to blur. To go white. But he sees the ceiling, darkened lights reflecting the light of the flames.

He blinks. And he imagines the ceiling collapsing.

Lets hope he has good aim.

[sauntered_downward]

Crowley slithers, curling his serpentine body around the flames, towards where Hastur has Aziraphale in his grasp. He's not venomous, but he can be deadly with the right strike. He moves towards Hastur's feet with surprising speed when he hears the crack. He turns his head up to see the ceiling start to fall. The ceiling is falling, aiming right for Hastur and Aziraphale. It can't be a coincidence. No, this is divine intervention, this is Aziraphale's intervention.

And Crowley can't do anything but imagine a demonic miracle of his own. A miracle in which Aziraphale comes out of this, completely unharmed. Like a bubble of safety, wrapped around the angel, keeping him whole, keeping him from injury.

Hastur, meanwhile, lets out a cry of surprise as the ceiling collapses onto him without warning, discorporating him instantly.

[salutosinedelectat]

Ironic, isn't it?

He hears the ceiling crack, another second or two of the white taking over his vision. He hears Hastur cry out. He feels himself hit the floor, the heat, something falling on him.

Ah, this is strange. Everything goes so quiet. So distant. So...




Ride home. A soft voice in his mind.

[sauntered_downward]

Crowley slithers up around Aziraphale, circling him completely in his snake form. There's a beam angled just above the angel, having wedged itself between the bar and the place Crowley smashed into the wall. He thinks, and the beam flies away. Crowley doesn't care if anyone finds him from use of miracles, he's getting Aziraphale out of this. It's also very, very obvious that the angel is far from all right. Crowley doesn't know what Hastur did to the angel while he was holding him, but he imagines it's what he did while he was holding onto Crowley----deadly for a demon if held long enough, but far worse for an angel.

He concentrates, stretches himself, and forms back his own humanoid body. The heat from the Hellfire is still everywhere.

"Aziraphale!" he says, gripping his hand. "Aziraphale, I'm going to get us out of here!"

[salutosinedelectat]

He hears Crowley's voice. He could smile--is he smiling? He should be, but oh, he sounds so distant.

The angel turns his head, opens his eyes slightly. All he sees is fire, vague shapes, but he hears him.

That's fine.

His eyes close again. But it's fine.

It's tickety-boo.

[sauntered_downward]

"Aziraphale? Aziraphale!"

No. No. Panic slides through Crowley's body like a thousand razor blades. He didn't move fast enough. He didn't get him away from Hastur fast enough. It doesn't matter, because right now, all he has to do is concentrate. Concentrate, get them away from here.

He shouldn't teleport them to the safe place, he thinks. He should teleport them some distance away, take a cab or something and get there eventually, because that would be the safest. But bugger that, because he doesn't even know if Aziraphale can stand. He closes his eyes and teleports them to the street in front of the AirBnb, a lovely loft inside of a Buddhist temple. He has the key already, having miracled away the need to find it hidden in a locksafe at a local cafe. They can know the street they're on, but if Crowley has judged correctly, they'll look right over this temple.

The street is dark and impossibly quiet after the loud burning sounds of the bar. It's also cold, sharp and wet against Crowley's skin.

"Aziraphale," he says. "Can you stand? I can carry you."

[salutosinedelectat]

Where is he? He sees...white. A whole lot of white. And for a moment, he's intensely terrified that everything went awry. That he missed the shot, and discorporated himself along with the Duke, and shot himself right back into the lion's den.

But...nothing happens. No one shows up. No angels, archangels, quartermasters, heads of accounting, H&R. No, it's nothing, stretching out forever.

Oh.

This is...well, it's something.






Aziraphale lies on the ground, not moving or responding, his clothes, covered in soot and ash. His bow tie partially singed from where Hastur's hand touched it.

Thin dark lines peek out from under his collar, on his skin, like a lightning mark.

[sauntered_downward]

Crowley gingerly touches Aziraphale's neck, right where the dark lines peek out. Oh, that's not good. Can't be good, definitely can't be good. He has to get Aziraphale help now----except there's no help to go to. No one who could bless him, no church that would take either of them. They have each other, and that is it. And Crowley is positively useless here. All he can do is watch the person who means everything to him lie there, possibly dying.

But if he dies, Hell will pay for it. Hastur won't get away with it.

He unlocks the door to the loft and leans down, carefully moving to lift Aziraphale up, wrapping one of his arms over his shoulder. It's for the best that there isn't anyone around, otherwise it might look a little odd, how easily Crowley can pick the angel up and lift him.

"It's all right, angel," he says. "Getting you inside. I'll get you inside, we'll get...I'll get...I'll take a look at what's happened."

Crowley has healed things before. Injured animals, mostly. Things he's accidentally hit with his car. He never means to hurt them, and it feels wrong just leaving them there to suffer. Little injuries, he's fixed them up. But something like this? That takes a divine miracle.

[salutosinedelectat]

He walks, but his feet don't actually touch anything. He can't tell if he's pushing off anything or floating. The only sound is himself, there's no walls, no windows, no sky. No time. Nothing at all.

Just Aziraphale, and endless white. Endless nothing, for eternity.

It's fairly disturbing, really.

"Hello?"

Nothing.

"Oh..."





He angel is still unconscious. None of the jostling and moving around gets a response from him.

At least it seems like his coat will be fine after a wash. He'll be happy to know about that. His bowtie, however, might need to be replaced.

And, of course, the thin lines on his skin that barely poke out of his collar. Part of something else, of course, a black mark that concentrates on the center of his chest. Like a burnt mark, splintering through.

Could have been worse.

[sauntered_downward]

From where Crowley is sitting, nothing could be worse. He lays Aziraphale down on the couch, still unconscious. The flat they've rented is small, but it has modern touches to it. A little television, a little book collection---things he thought they both could enjoy while hiding out here. A place for a wine collection...nothing Crowley would want if he were going to be alone.

And he can't be alone. There is no way he's going to be here alone.

Aziraphale's coat be damned. He pulls the coat off and swiftly unbuttons his shirt, revealing the burn mark on the angel's chest. He has no way of telling how bad the injury is, but it looks awful. It looks like something demonic has blazed its way through the angel's body. Aziraphale doesn't need to breathe, he doesn't need a heartbeat, but right now Crowley wishes that he'd have both, just so that he'd be able to tell if Aziraphale were still with him. Discorporation would send him to Heaven, and who knows what will happen to him there. An injury like this could mean far worse.

"Angel, stay with me, please," he murmurs.

He puts a hand over the wound and focuses. There has to be something he can do. Some part of him that remembers being an angel, some part of him that remembers how to heal properly, that can help to fix this.

He focuses, pouring himself into healing the injury. And, for the first time in a very long time, he prays. That this works. That Aziraphale can come back from this.

[salutosinedelectat]

He's not sure what direction to head off in. His voice slightly echoes after he called out, all around, even with nothing to bounce from. It doesn't feel cold, or hot. He feels both too exposed, and cramped in all that nothingness. There's no color, no life, no sound.

He doesn't like it here.

But the angel suddenly turns. He could swear he heard something, something familiar. He couldn't hear the words, but he's sure it was for him. No idea where it came from, no idea where to look.

Then it starts to dim. And he feels himself slowly...drift down. He thinks that's down, anyway, can't quite tell, but he's gaining speed.

He's falling.

He doesn't scream, really. He's just very, very confused.










Aziraphale suddenly sits up with a deep gasp, and all of reality takes a few lazy seconds to come into focus. There's no...white? No-- there's no fire. Hellfire. There's no fire, and no darkened room. No Hastur--

Oh, but there's certainly burning and he grimaces, a hand instinctively curling towards his chest. He looks down at the awful dark splotch on the center of his chest, that splinters out into thin lines down towards his stomach and up to his colar and neck.

What in the world?