Title: High Treason
Chapter: Nine
Chapter rating: PG-13 - violence
Coupling: Crowley/Aziraphale
Notes: Please don't kill me?

~Tomo~
www.amberstone.net
knivesnomiko.pitas.com
~~~~~

The first light was a soft blue color, a tiny orb that hovered busily in space like an angry firefly. /This Game is almost over./ It said, with an almost disappointed tone.

The second light was red, and looked more like smoke than any sort of insect. It's voice was hollow. \So it is.\

/Rather more interesting than I thought it would be, old sport. You've played a remarkable round./

\Who will win?\

/Hard to say. Not that it matters. This has been a *close* round~/ the voice sounded utterly satisfied.

A metallic chuckle. \Gloating doesn't become you, Old One. Roll your turn!\

The blue 'light' flickered, and two very small, very complex dice hit the nonexistent ground and rolled a bit. \....hm. Your sportsmanship is disgusting.\

/Let's finish this./

Soft waves of laughter filled the un-place.

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~~~~

"Right over that rise of buildings is where they're stationed," Anathema told Aziraphale precisely. The angel nodded tiredly and glanced about - "Maybe that building across there?" the young woman pointed in suggestion.

Aziraphale nodded and shifted Crowley's dead weight - he was still slung limply over one of the angel's proud shoulders. At least the embarrassing noises had stopped - the angel's throat was sore from fake coughs to cover the inappropriate words, though Anathema didn't seem to care. "Right. Thanks."

The building seemed to have been some sort of restaurant, and Aziraphale let Crowley come down to rest behind the counter of the bar, pillowing his head on soft black wings. Crowley had ceased his moaning and his expression had dissolved into something akin to satisfaction that seemed, to the angel, to be almost more embarrassing. Aziraphale shook his head irritably and brushed black hair out of the demon's eyes.

"I'm going now," he told Crowley.

The demon didn't move.

"To fight the Metatron. I may... I may not be successful." Aziraphale cleared his throat. "And I may not be precisely alive when you wake up - if you ever wake up."

Very carefully the angel ran a finger down the side of Crowley's face, sighing softly. There were rough patches where scales were interlocked with flesh here and there on the demon's soft complexion, and endless, glassy planes of throat and chest that the angel had never looked at closely before - but when he did, now, he discovered that they were very much like his own, almost...

Well, he reminded himself, letting his fingertips pause at Crowley's chin, they were cast from the same mold. Crowley had been an angel once, and so it was natural that he seem familiar in appearance. It was natural that he should feel he knew the body of the being before him... right? "Just so you know," he whispered softly, "I don't mind so much about it...about your... feelings."

He cleared his throat, the confession going unheard.

Crowley did stir faintly then, leaning into the angel's cool touch and mumbling something inaudible under his breath. Aziraphale smiled. "You surprised me when you told me. But..." He thought of Hastur, Anathema - God - Newt - "......I think maybe I'm the last one to figure it out. Funny how that happens sometimes."

He closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. "No. I guess it really isn't, is it?"

With that, the angel hesitantly leaned forward and pressed his lips very softly to Crowley's cheek, just above a patch of darkened scales - then pulled away and sighed. "I wish..."

No. Wishes were for people - or angels - who did not believe they were coming 'home'.

Crowley was all the home he had really needed for six thousand years.

"I hope I can get the courage up to tell you that when you're awake," the angel murmured with forced optimism and stood, his robes rustling faintly.

Crowley, in his dream world universes away, had the distinct impression that something important had just left him behind - but when he turned and gazed at a sleeping angel, he decided that he had everything he'd ever wanted right there.

He touched his cheek, fingering the scales curiously. They felt...warm...

"Crowley?"

Oh, he had woken Aziraphale. "Mm...?" Crowley mumbled.

"What's wrong?"

"I didn't mean to wake you." He allowed himself the luxury of pulling his angel closer and kissing soft lips.

'Aziraphale' reached out with warm fingers to touch Crowley's face. "You look sad."

"I just....feel.... never mind. Go to sleep, it's nothing." He looked away. "It's nothing at all."

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~~~~

Anathema was waiting for Aziraphale behind a low laying wall, her eyes wide as she gestured silently. The angel gave her a blank look, and she rolled her eyes before pointing. "They're right over there - by the fountain. About twenty-five metres away."

Aziraphale nodded, raised one hand, and whispered very softly the words that summoned his sword. It appeared in his hand, flaming quite like Aziraphale himself, as Anathema stared, unsure whether to be impressed or amused.

Finally she managed to ask. "Um...what was that?"

"This?" Aziraphale smiled faintly. "My sword. The Lord gave it to me, and promised -"

"Not the weapon," she blinked, "the word. The one you just said."

"The word?" Aziraphale mumbled it again, and Anathema began giggling madly. "What? That word is one of the holiest ever spoken, it summons the sword into my hands -"

"But - " Anathema managed between smothered giggles, " - it sounds - " she bit down on her own sleeve, " - like a chicken - "

"A...chicken?" The angel looked shocked.

" - or a goose - "

"No!"

" - not very quail-ish, though - "

Aziraphale's face went purple with indignant, righteous anger. "How can you say that?" he immediately hissed back. "That was the name of one of the purest creatures of Eden! Beautiful birds with incredible plumage that perched in the canopy of short trees, calling their name..."

"But..."

"But nothing!"

"Say it again, please?" Anathema wheezed.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, and spoke very primly, as if to teach her a lesson in manners.

"Buckaw.*" he said.

Anathema rolled in the dirt, filled with mirth that she was unable to contain. Aziraphale gripped his sword nervously. Across the courtyard, the Metatron looked up - and the shit, as they say, it the fan.**

~~~~
* The author would like to point out that what Aziraphale says in this conversation is quite true. Most of the Words of Power have been lost in the sands of time, the ones that remain with humankind are more powerful than anything the race has ever known. The buckaw birds were gentle, kind animals and fond of figs - they sang their sweet buckaw song to all of Eden before apples became a staple of people's diets. When humankind was ejected from the Garden, it was said these birds pined away in their sorrow and lost their lives, though their souls remained on earth in the form of their name - one word, one mighty word that now lives in the minds of a few lowly human families. Speak their name - and remember their love of purity, of song, and of life. Remember their brilliant colors, their faceted eyes, the fear they struck in the heart of other, less incredulous creatures - speak their name and *believe*

Buckaw.

** Or, as some would say, the shit fountain-ed up in coffee colored geysers. Well, there's no accounting for taste.
~~~~

"Stand." Metatron commanded. "Stand and show yourself, for your presence is known and it is useless to hide any longer."

There were soft sounds of a heated argument behind the wall, and then Aziraphale stood, shifting nervously, wiping his palms on the front of his dusty robes. His hands were raised even with his head, and he held no weapon as he fled into the open. "Um. Yes, it's just me - you know, Aziraphale." A weak smile. "Hi."

The Metatron beckoned Aziraphale forward, and the angel shifted nervously. "I like what you've done with the place," he said vaguely, feeling that some compliments were necessary and gesturing faintly to the plaza. Several members of the Metatron's angelic guard raised their firey weapons at the motion, and Aziraphale gulped. "Very.... diverse."

"There is a human soul behind that wall," The Metatron told its guards.

"No!" Aziraphale leapt on the words. "I mean - yes - but she has nothing to do with this. I sort of took advantage of her - not like that - and she told me where you were, but - being a beautiful, hopeful ruler of the Heavenly Kingdom, surely I may reason with you -"

"I am not a hopeful ruler. I am The Ruler."

"O...of course. And.....God?"

If the Metatron smiled, it was only displayed by a faint brightening of it's already brilliant light. "No more."

Aziraphale stared. "...you mean...." No, he told himself sternly in his best English tone, God could not be dead, God would never die. This was a part of the ineffable plan - it had to be - and the knowledge strengthened the angel's will. "I am strong. I broke through your illusions. I have left C..Crawly to rot in them, and I have made my decision.

"Metatron, I..." he stepped closer. "I want to tell you that I am no longer" - the lie was like bile in Aziraphale's throat - "willing to serve on Earth. I no longer wish to be associated with the old God and His ways. I want... your blessing," he whispered, with a voice like tires over gravel.

One more lie and it would all be over.

Perhaps for the third time in all of its creation, the Metatron underestimated someone. The younger angel did not know what about his own manners fooled the great being, the favorite of God - but somehow, he managed. Perhaps the Metatron did not think him capable of a lie, or perhaps it did not believe anyone would back away when faced with its own perfection and beauty - but whatever the reason, it stepped forward. "I would like to know how you freed yourself. And where the demon Crawly is now."

"Certainly," Aziraphale whispered, tensed, and waited.

The Metatron laid a glittering hand in his hair, and was suddenly pegged between the eyes by a very well-aimed stone.

Aziraphale thanked Anathema for her aim as he moved.

"Buckaw," whispered the angel, and drove his suddenly-heavy, burning blade into the Metatron's chest.

For a very long moment there was silence, as every being in the plaza froze, all eyes on Aziraphale as he withdrew his sword and slashed down, hands slick with blood that shared the heat and consistency of burning oil. The sword rose once more, and slammed forward with righteous vengeance - or something like that.

The Metatron's bodiless head - or at least what could be identified as being vaguely head-like, hit the ground with a sizzling thump. The remainder of his torso stood for a few brief heartbeats, wrapped around Aziraphale, before the two followed the tumbling path of gravity and lay writhing on the ground.

~~~~
~~~~

Elsewhere, dice clicked, rolled, and paused.

God's brilliant light flickered faintly.

Lucifer laughed, showering molten sparks with the sound.

In England, Newton Pulsifer looked up, feeling, for some reason, that someone needed his help. In the room next to him, Alli - less than one and sweeter than sugar - screamed in raw fear.

Crowley felt his heart wrench in two as the image of his lover wavered in his arms.

"....angel?" He asked, very softly, as his world began dissolving.

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~~~~

Anathema leapt up even as Aziraphale struck, clambering over the wall towards the burning figures with her heart in her throat. The guards that had been so carefully guarding only moments before, were now engulfed by the task of watching the Metatron burn in a blaze of light that was suddenly quite a bit less Holy.

Amidst the flames she could see Aziraphale's sword, still clutched in a burning hand.

Anathema was a person of intuition, and it was screaming at her to back away, to let it go, to give in. Instead she plunged headlong into the flames, reached that sword and kicked it aside, then wrapped Aziraphale in her arms and pulled him away from the inferno.

Two of the guards panicked and fled. One of them murmured about the End of Everything. Yet another offered Anathema a wet length of cloth, which she took without asking questions.

Aziraphale was smoldering in a way that only a Holy Pyre can induce. One eye was gone, the other closed painfully, and skin - where skin was left - was brittle and red-brown, in places black. His wings were tattered remains of what Anathema could only presume was bone, his hair was cropped and thick with ash, and his entire body was dripping with silvery, steaming angel blood.

"Aziraphale! Oh my - my - God - Aziraphale?!"

He looked up and opened his one good eye, which twinkled rather cheerfully in the morbid firelight, and smiled. She almost choked in relief.

"'m alright, Anathema."

The young woman pressed the cool cloth against Aziraphale's chest and held it there - it was unnerving and frightening to watch the angel draw breath to speak, but never to breath. Then again, in his currant state, breathing might be an agony in itself - so she thanked Whoever for the small blessing. "Why... why did... that happen?"

"He was God's favorite," Aziraphale sighed weakly, his voice a hissing death rattle. "And he deserved... such a beautiful ... holy ... pyre, to clean ... away his sins, I suppose." A weak cough. "He's forgiven in the inferno."

"Damn it. Look at you - damn it. All of this for a stupid...a gamble, a game!"

"It's alright," Aziraphale told her. "I'm an angel. My kind was created to play in games."

Anathema looked stupefied, and paused in her soft strokes. "You mean you knew God was throwing your life around on a pair of dice?"

"Not in those words," Aziraphale looked wry, "No. But if I were Him, I would play."

"You... shh. Don't talk. Crowley should be here any minute, the illusion should have shattered when the Metatron was destroyed. He'll know how to treat you."

"Oh," said Aziraphale weakly. "I know all I need. I just need a very long rest."

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~~~~

Crowley stood.

He was in a bar of some sort.

The first thing he considered was that he had been out drinking alone again - but that proved utterly impossible, as he was not writhing in the throes of a hangover. His second thought was along the lines of 'where the hell did my sexy angel meat get off to?'

The room was deserted and bathed in a reddish glow, and he stepped gingerly over fallen bottles, rubbing his cheek faintly. "Aziraphale?"

Nothing. "Aziiiiraphale...?"

He moved to the door and paused as a sense of foreboding filled his mind. For no reason at all and yet for every reason he could think of, Crowley began to run.

He did not have to go very far, because outside the door of the run-down building Crowley could see two very clearly outlined columns of light.

.....no.

No....

NO.

Whatever inside of him that had been faintly worried was now panicking, and Crowley found himself unable to move, so terrified of what he would see when he rounded the next corner that his legs locked and he ended up tumbling to the ground.

He closed his snake-like eyes and hissed. Black wings spread to the sky.

And he flew.

First, the brilliant, red-gold Pyre of a great and dead angel - a Pyre that Crowley had only seen once before in his lifetime, and never wished to see again. He could not venture nearer to the inferno without risking his own self - and he gave it a wide berth. Beside that was a smaller, silver-blue column - and in it were figures -

He didn't want to speak. His lips moved for him as all thought shut down. "...angel?"

It was Aziraphale, laying with his head in the lap of a young woman, which some functioning portion of Crowley's mind identified as Anathema, a friend. She was crying, wiping his burnt face with a slice of robe and the angel.... the angel was tattered, bloody -

- the angel was smiling in relief -

- and fading away.

"AZIRAPHALE!"

~~~~
~~~~

/Checkmate./

A pause, and then an unwilling concession. \I suppose you are right. I've lost this round.\

Red and blue lights twinkled thoughtfully. /You know, this game cost me two very good angels./

\Well, you knew the risks.\

/It will be very difficult for my realm to function without the Metatron,/ the first, blue-silver voice mourned. /I would very much like another roll. Or two. Or three./

\Another roll?\

/I've won, after all, I deserve spoils./

~~~~
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Crowley woke up, and he was very cold.

He shivered and pulled his wings up to his chest.

- that is, pulled wings that were unnaturally soft against his body, breathed out in incredulous disbelief.

He raised a hand to his face, and found that the scales were gone. "......white......?"

/Hello, Crawly./

"Crowley."

/Crowley. Welcome back./

"Where am I?"

/Limbo./

"Aziraphale...."

The voice was very soft and kind. /...made a most remarkable sacrifice./

"Why?"

/The Metatron needed to be destroyed./

Crowley grasped at the threads of his sanity. "But...why him? Why us?"

The verbal equivalent of a shrug. /The dice chose you./

"You and your fucking games," Crowley curled up against himself. "Wasting my time," he whispered. "......fucking wasting my life - wasting - my - or was that a part of your plan, too? Was my love something you planted for fun?"

/That was your own./

"A small consolation, as you took everything else away from me." Had he not been afraid to move, Crowley would have spit in his disgust.

/Crowley.../

"Don't speak to me."

/I have one roll left./

"Give him back!"

/I cannot do that. It takes more than dice to bring back an angel./

Crowley felt his hopes shrivel.

/If I make this roll, you will have a choice. If the numbers are right, you will have the option to become a full angel again. Your love and your devotion combined with your part in the Apocalypse and this... you are worthy, again./

"You can take your angelic gifts and shove them right back up-"

/If the numbers are beyond right, if fate smiles on you, I may - may - be able to return things to the way they were before./

Crowley sat straight up, and his blue-gold eyes sought about the darkness for a form to apply the voice he was hearing to. "Roll, then. That's all I want."

/It will take some...sacrifices./

"Anything."

The dice leapt across Crowley's field of vision, clinked softly together, and stopped.

/Now we see where you really belong./

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