Author's Note: Still don't own anyone, still not getting paid. :)
A second chapter because the first was a bit of a cliffie--does anyone like the story? Meaning, would anyone be interested in reading the end of it? Just asking so I know whether you'd all like it finished. Any comments/critiques'd be welcome, this is my first time writing about everyone's favorite demon and angel duo.
Thanks for reading! :)
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Chapter Two
Crowley increased pressure. The imp let out a small squawk. "The—the Great Duke of Hell, Bringer of Misery, Destroyer of—"
Scowling in impatience, Crowley let his hand develop talons and sunk one into the imps flesh. "Jusst the name, not the moniker."
"Duke Hastur."
Crowley hissed. "Why is he sspying on me?" Generally, subterfuge was not the Duke's style. He was the type to tear wings off first and ask questions later. "Is he trying to find out my fatal weaknesss?" This was said sarcastically—Hastur, if he put his mind to it, could destroy Crowley easily. Even without using holy water. Probably even without using his hands.
"He knows what your weakness is." The imp replied, and then instantly looked as though it seriously regretted speaking. Or existing. (1)
"Really?" Crowley's voice was carefully offhand. Well, it was no great feat of brainwork for Hastur to find out that Holy water would kill him as would being torn into small little bits one at a time. Why hadn't he attacked already?
"Or, should I say," the fatalistic little creature piped upon seeing the demon's seemingly unimpressed attitude. "Who your weakness is."
Crowley's hand tightened automatically and he almost snapped the imp's neck in two at that moment. Who his weakness was? That didn't make any sense. The only being he'd had steady contact with since, well, forever, was…Aziraphale.
But, a voice in his head protested, the angel couldn't be called his weakness, as such. Surely his Achilles' heel (2) was his Desire to Always Look Sexy or how he felt the need to Keep Up With the Times or even his houseplants or the Bentley or something. Not Aziraphale. Demons don't care about angels, demons don't worry about angels, demons don't even like angels.
Sure, he'd gotten used to seeing Aziraphale around—hard not to after 6000+ years—and they did have the Arrangement, but they weren't friends as such. Not really. Okay, so they'd gone through the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't together, that'd bring anybody closer, right? But Aziraphale and Crowley had the same relationship they always did, right? (3)
Somehow Crowley realized that his brain was rambling and he reined it in and glared, eyes glowing, at the imp. "Explain. Everything. Now."
The imp explained.
1. One of the reasons imps have absolutely no life expectancy to speak of is their expendability and also their unique demonic powers of Never Being Able to Shut Up Properly, Fouling Up Even the Simplest of Tasks, and Always Saying the Wrong Thing at the Wrong Time. In that way, they are similar to stereotypical bumbling sidekicks everywhere.
2. And he knew about Achilles' heels. He was the one who had made sure said Greek had an infected callous on his heel and flat arches to boot, for good—for Something's sake.
3. The same relationship they'd had since the Arrangement, that is. Before that, there had been some smiting and general nastiness on both their parts…
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"Oh dear," Aziraphale said, scraping himself up from the ground in front of Their Park Bench. (1) "I don't suppose we can talk about this sensibly?"
The large demon, who Aziraphale recognized as Hastur, Duke of Hell and Bane of Crowley, leered, exposing rotted teeth that would make any dentist have nightmares for eons. "Sure—if you admit that you have a Pact with the demon Crowley."
"A Pact?" Aziraphale asked, edging closer to the pond. He'd just had an idea, and his powers were slightly recovered from his first attack. "Whatever do you mean?" If he could keep Hastur talking for a while longer, he could get close enough…
"I know you have a Pact with him, and you will confess to it." Hastur said this with all the ease of someone who knew he was right, someone who was very probably going to tear the angel apart to make certain that he was right.
He was talking about the Arrangement. Somehow, Hastur was thinking that if he got Aziraphale to acknowledge their agreement, he could hurt Crowley. Well, Aziraphale wasn't going to help the Duke hurt any being, let alone Crowley.
"I am afraid that if you do not…" He paused. It had been a long time since he'd invoked divine wrath and he'd never been very good at threats. "…Desist…this instant I shall be forced to…to compulsorily discorporate you."
The demons laughed. (2) Aziraphale took the opportunity to lunge the rest of the way toward the pond and scoop some of the water into his hands. Hurriedly, he Blessed it, and then threw it over the nearest demons, who screamed, screamed horrifyingly and melted in a way much nastier than the Wicked Witch of the West ever had. Now it was only Hastur and a few imps.
Hastur swore. Or blessed, rather. Aziraphale ignored him, bending down to get another handful of water, but the Duke reached him and the fiery darkness of his sword sliced into him, driving Aziraphale to his knees. Refusing to give up, he grabbed Hastur's wrist with a still-damp palm and Hastur screamed as even the faintest trace of holy water and the touch of the angel seared his skin.
It was a short lived triumph. Hastur retaliated, swinging the dark sword down and slicing partially through his right wing. And then it was Aziraphale that screamed.
1. Yes, scraping is an accurate word as he was thrown down so hard when he got up part of his skin remained behind and the capitals in Their Park Bench are utterly necessary for that's what the bench was. Crowley-and-Aziraphale's Park Bench.
2. Aziraphale was angered by this and, had he actually been the sort of human he appeared to be, would have had nasty flashbacks to being taunted in secondary school.
