Most of what humans believed about demon hunting was false. There were, however, a few things one could do to trap a pesky demon if one had both the cause and the means. For instance, Aziraphale had managed to haul Crowley's body up onto one of his wooden dining chairs and draw a complicated sigil around it, trapping the demon inside its scrawls. It contained Crowley's true name, which the demon had generously spent hours teaching Aziraphale how to draw once while they shared a particularly good bottle of chateauneuf du pape.

As Crowley woke he felt the confines of the sigil immediately and his face broke out into rage, 'When I get out of here, angel, you're going to wish you were never created. I swear I'll—'

'Yes, yes,' Aziraphale held up a dismissive palm, 'I've heard it all before. Shall we get on with things?'

'What things?' Crowley hissed.

'For a start,' Aziraphale tossed a clean and pressed shirt at him, 'I got this from your flat, thought you might want to get the exorcist's blood off of your—'

'I don't care about a few stains!'

'Well you're not setting foot around my shop unless you change, so I suggest you shut up and get bloody well on with it!' Aziraphale suppressed a little gasp. He hadn't felt so cross in such a long time, especially not with Crowley.

Crowley growled in his throat and tore off his stained shirt, dropping it to the ground. Aziraphale felt his cheeks grow warm and turned away to wait for Crowley get dressed again.

'What do you even want with me, anyway?' Crowley asked, picking the shirt up off of the floor, 'Have you brought me here just to watch me undress?'

'I resent what you're implying! I—' The angel whirled around and stopped frozen.

In the centre of Crowley's chest, right in the sternum, was a deep scar in the shape of what Aziraphale could only describe as a broken star. The flesh looked like it had been burned away and then healed again in quick succession and Aziraphale felt faint upon seeing it.

'What's that?' he pointed at Crowley's chest.

Crowley looked down at his chest and shrugged, 'It's a scar.'

'Demons don't have scars,' Aziraphale said quickly between gritted teeth, 'What. Is. It.'

Crowley frowned hard, squinting at the angel, 'Why do you care?'

'When did you get it?' Aziraphale asked again, 'What happened?'

'I—' Crowley stopped, realising that he didn't have an answer, 'I don't know.'

Aziraphale tapped a finger against his lips, 'No, I didn't think you would.'

'Stop talking in riddles! What do you want with me?' Crowley barked.

'I believe that someone has tampered with you, my dear, and it appears that it is not only your mind but your body that has been interfered with.'

'By who?'

Aziraphale shook his head, 'Not sure.'

Crowley shook his head and pulled on the clean shirt Aziraphale had given him, 'No, I don't believe you. You angels are always full of tricks.'

'Listen to yourself!' Aziraphale cried, 'You couldn't sound less like you if you tried!'

'How do you know?' Crowley hissed, 'Who are you to know what I sound like?'

'I'm your bes—' Aziraphale pulled himself back and took a calming breath, 'We're friends.'

Crowley let out a cruel laugh, 'Demons don't make friends with angels.'

'One did.' He said, 'And I'm going to get him back.' He clicked his fingers together and the markings disappeared from the floor.

Crowley scoffed and turned towards the door, 'Good luck with that.' He sauntered towards the exit and fell suddenly, bracing himself against the wall and letting out a groan with pain.

'That'll do it.' The angel shrugged his coat on and picked up his keys, 'Come along now.'

'Come along and what?' Crowley said, leaning against the wall and rubbing his chest, 'What have you done to me?'

'I've bound us together.' Aziraphale said, pulling the door open, 'That means wherever I go you go or it'll start to hurt quite a bit.'

The angel stepped out of the shop and looked back at the demon darkening the doorway.

'Come on!' Aziraphale said, 'We need to go.'

'I'm not going anywhere with you,' Crowley said, 'Just leave me alone, will you?'

Aziraphale took a few steps back and Crowley winced, letting out a groan and stumbling out of the shop.

Aziraphale wasn't sure where to start. He couldn't ask Heaven for help, not now that he wasn't on their side anymore, but they must have done something to Crowley once they found out that he was disguising as the angel. Had they handed him back over to Hell for punishment? No, they couldn't have. Aziraphale was in Hell at the same time Crowley was in Heaven, if that has happened he'd have known about it. So what then? Had Gabriel done something to Crowley?

'What's the last thing you remember?' Aziraphale asked Crowley, knotting his fingers together in front of him.

Crowley rolled his shoulders back, 'Getting slapped by an angel and waking up in a bloody book shop.'

'No, before that.'

'Killing exorcists?'

'Before that?'

'A crazy angel running up to me in the street?'

'Before that!'

'For Hell's sake!' Crowley barked, 'I don't know I was…doing stuff!' he shrugged.

'What stuff? Where?'

Crowley frowned and arched his brow as he thought back.

'What's the last thing you remember before today?' Aziraphale prompted.

A look of pain flashed by Crowley's eyes so fast any stranger would miss it. But not this angel.

'Fire.' Crowley answered.

'Well, that's vague.' Aziraphale muttered, 'Anything else?' Crowley's attention had gone. He was staring across the road at a couple of youths yelling abuse at one another and beating their chests. 'Pay them no mind, Crowley,' Aziraphale said, 'I need you to focus on—hey, where are you going?'

As Crowley reached the middle of the street the bind started to pull and he groaned.

'You can't leave.' Aziraphale said.

'Watch me,' Crowley growled and pressed onwards.

The invisible ties pulled hard at his chest and he doubled over in pain, reaching his knees in the middle of the road and continuing to crawl away from Aziraphale. The angel felt panic wash through him and hurried into the road, after looking both ways of course, to pick the demon up.

'You can't just lie down in the middle of a road!' he cried, pulling Crowley to the pavement, 'You'll get yourself killed—well, inconveniently discorporated.'

'I don't care,' Crowley pulled out of his grasp and kept walking.

'But the paperwork—'

'Fuck the paperwork!' Crowley shouted, 'I'm not your friend and I don't need your help. If you don't leave me alone, angel, I swear to Satan I'll kill you.'

Aziraphale opened his mouth but he had run out of things to say. He couldn't convince Crowley to stay, couldn't force him either. He'd rather get himself killed than stay with Aziraphale and so the angel let go of the binds.

'Fine,' he said, 'Just go then.'

Crowley turned quickly and kept walking, not needing to be told twice.

'I take it you remember The Globe?' Aziraphale asked.

Crowley stopped and tilted his face to the sky, 'What?'

'If you don't need my help, and there's nothing wrong with you, do you remember The Globe Theatre? Hamlet?'

Crowley turned around again, but didn't say anything.

'What about the Spanish Inquisition?'

Crowley shuddered.

'Rome then? Remember Rome?'

No answer.

'You don't do you?' Aziraphale stepped tentatively towards him, 'But you were there, Crowley. In all those places. You lived a life that you don't remember and we need to find a way to get it back. You weren't created for this. This isn't you.'

Something was turning within Crowley that Aziraphale couldn't decipher. Was he getting through to him at all or was the demon just working out how best to kill him?

A man in a pinstripe suit barged past Aziraphale, knocking into his shoulder, and stopped in front of Crowley, 'What's wrong with people these days?' he cried, clearly having just experienced a very bad day at the office and needing someone, anyone, to take it out on, 'You can't just stop and have a chat in the middle of the street. Couple of dickhe—'

Crowley ripped the man's tongue from his mouth before he could finish his sentence. Screams erupted from around the street and Aziraphale's hopes were shattered.