Author's Note: Hey thanks for the reviews, guys! I worked super hard on this next chapter, please do let me know what you think of it. (As Aziraphale would say.)

Or: Comment on this or it doesn't get updated. (As Crowley would say.) xD

jk jk Though crits/comments are much appreciated. Lol. I'm having too much fun.

Just so you know, this next bit is one full section, but I put in lines to break up the switching POVs. It shouldn't be confusing. I hope.

Anyway, thanks for reading this, I really do hope you guys like it so far! (And GO still doesn't belong to me, btw.)

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Chapter Six

Aziraphale lost consciousness when his wing snapped, but pain and something else, something like apprehension, eased him partially out of the stupor he was in; just enough so that some part of him realized that he didn't really want to wake up. The still dark was comforting, pain free, and it was easy to sink back down into oblivion…

But it was hot. Extremely hot. Something told him that this was wrong, that it should bother him, but he was too weak to care. A sound did manage to penetrate his barriers—a continuous moaning noise. Was he making that noise?

It was at that moment the entirety of his pain registered and he sucked in a shaky, wet breath. Aziraphale felt dazed, befuddled, and then he was, needlessly, gasping for air with distress. Oh, heavens, it hurt. His entire body ached, as though he had gone cliff diving into a pool of crushed glass and then been run over by a steam roller. The worst of it was the intense pain in his shoulder and in his wing, and Aziraphale wanted to shift one or both of them, but he couldn't seem to move.

What had happened? He seemed to recall a demon being the basis of the situation, but not Crowley… Crowley wouldn't hurt him… (1)

And then he remembered Hastur's depraved grin and the white hot pain of the duke pulling out one of the stakes Aziraphale was pinned with, causing his left wing to snap. The angel couldn't summon the energy or will to open his eyes and see what he was going to be impaled with next (2)—the left wouldn't open, anyway—and he knew, almost certainly, that he wouldn't be able to reach up and pull the crude stake from his wing. Not without great cost to himself.

Aziraphale was stuck. The thought almost made him laugh—he was stuck through the wing and stuck on the tree. Oh dear. It seemed as though he was slightly…delirious. Sighing, the Principality sagged against the tree in the park, taking in a deep breath and the nutty, grassy scents mingling with the smell of blood and sweat and…sulphur?

Aziraphale's right eye opened, and he took in the scene before him, horrified and gasping loudly. He was not, perhaps surprisingly, focused on the flames of hellfire that were quite literally almost beneath him (3), but on the two demonic figures locked in vicious combat.

"Cr-crowley," Aziraphale tried to shout, but his throat was closed up and he merely made an ill-sounding groan.

He twisted and turned, nearly retching with the pain in his left wing as he strained to be able to see. What the dev—er, by Jove, what was Crowley doing? Hastur was a duke; Crowley wasn't. Hastur was huge; Crowley wasn't. Hastur was vicious and nasty and a Twisted Bastard; Crowley wasn't. (4)

Although it could have been due to the fact that the angel was currently in a not-so-pleasant mood—being tortured and skewered tends to do that to a being—Aziraphale's first reaction other than anxiety for Crowley was one of slight annoyance. The angel had endured pain, had been maimed, practically, so that Hastur wouldn't get his hands on his counterpart and the silly serpent had decided to make it easy for the duke and come to him!

Still, Aziraphale had to admit, there was a nice warm glow in his chest at the seemingly incongruous spectacle in front of him. Crowley was protecting him. Perhaps the feeling of friendship—that is, camaraderie, the small goody two wings angel inside of him corrected—he had for Crowley was mutual. After all, A. J. Crowley was certainly fighting for something fervently—Aziraphale had last seen the demon with that kind of vehemence, desperation, and dedication during the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't. Hastur, on the other hand, was all hard rage and no planning. If Crowley minded his temper, he had a chance.

Crowley ducked as a meaty fist aimed for his head and he raked his claws across Hastur's side. Just as he ripped through flesh, one of the duke's wings slammed into Crowley, putting him off balance, and the duke charged him, throwing him into a small tree so hard that splinters stabbed into his arms.

He ignored the pain and lashed out at Hastur as he came near, each of them trying to rip the other apart. Finally, Crowley managed to twist behind the duke and grab one of the duke's wings and he wrenched it as hard as he could, gripping the greasy feathers tightly. (5)

Finally Crowley seemed to have the advantage—he was holding on tight with his talons, avoiding the blows from the higher ranked demon's free wing, and Hastur couldn't seem to reach him with his arms.

It was time to end it. Crowley opened his mouth, fangs ready to sink into the other demon's neck when the duke of Hell let out a roar and bellowed out something and all of a sudden there were imps everywhere.

"Bugger it," Crowley said, managing to hiss the words even though there weren't any 's,' 'c', or 'z' sounds in the phrase. He was, to put it in common Earth vernacular, dead meat. Toast. Finished. Dead.

Aziraphale watched as the mass of imps swarmed Crowley, who pulled them off right and left and thrashed and bit to try and fend them off, but more came and the real danger was Hastur, who clearly meant to kill Crowley while he dealt with his minions.

"N-no!" Aziraphale cried, his voice hoarse and wavering. "Sunglasses up!" He added, yelling at Crowley, who, guessing what the angel has in mind, instantly willed his shades further up onto his nose.

Aziraphale, when he saw the glasses were secured, gathered some of the dwindling energy he had and focused what Crowley had always sarcastically called his 'Bloody Blinding Beam of Blessed Light' on Hastur. The burst of angelic light was one of Aziraphale's weaker gifts, but it was enough to scatter the imps and temporarily blind Hastur. Crowley, with his shades, was unaffected and he rose to his feet and tried to gather his wits about him, thankful the angel had helped buy him some time.

Aziraphale wasn't finished, though. He knew the duke was only momentarily stunned and that his parlor trick might have temporarily saved Crowley, but it had made Hastur really enraged and even more prepared for bloodlust whereas Crowley was already tired and bleeding. Bless something, Aziraphale thought, he needed to Bless something…but what? He did not have the energy to materialize something appropriate and then Bless it with enough holy power to kill Hastur; he would have to use something close to hand.

While the angel was debating, Hastur roared and became even larger, having entirely assumed his hideous true shape.

"!" Aziraphale looked around wildly. "Crowley, gloves, now!" he yelled brokenly as he reached up through a haze of pain and agony to Bless the bench leg sticking out of his wing. After it was significantly holy, he took it into both hands and pulled it out of the tree, out of his wing, screaming in agony. He just managed to throw it in Crowley's direction before he fell to the flame-streaked ground.

1. Wellll, Crowley wouldn't hurt him physically. (He was a demon, after all, and demons are bound to hurt one's feelings on the occasion.) Remembering something, Aziraphale amended this thought; Crowley would not physically injure him seriously. (The angel was still slightly upset by the occasion when, several months before hand, Crowley had 'accidentally' left the new cactus he'd purchased on Aziraphale's seat in the Bentley, causing him to sit on it and then, embarrassingly, swear in a most un-angelic way and hop around while trying to pry the wretched plant off of his derriere. Crowley had Fallen Over with Laughter.)

2. Apparently, Hastur had taken a seminar on the subject of 'Impalement and How it Can Pierce Through Even the Most Stubborn of Victim's Nerves (And Bits of Them).'

3. Though those were a concern, too. It wasn't as if he was wearing fireproof tartan pants.

4. Crowley was perhaps a little twisted, and a Flash Bastard, but he wasn't a Twisted Bastard or really all that nasty. When it came down to it, the fallen angel was actually a nice enough chap, good heart and all.

5. Of course, many demons do have better groomed wings than angels, especially angels like Aziraphale, but Hastur was one of the exceptions. After all, he had once heard someone say cleanliness was next to godliness and Hastur certainly didn't want anything to do with Godliness. Especially as it was an excuse to avoid grooming.