The day it all went to Hell (or Heaven, more like), dawned just like any other. The Sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the sky was a brilliant blue, with only a slight whiff of cloud.
Crowley and Aziraphale had agreed to dine at the Ritz that evening, so Crowley pulled up his Bentley outside the bookshop promptly at five-thirty, ready to chauffeur Aziraphale there. Slotting into a carpark that had miraculously come free, he turned the engine off sharply, the music (Love of My Life, by Queen) abruptly stopping. Crowley sauntered across the pavement and flung the doors open, unable to contain his excitement for their date. Dinner. Whatever.
"Angel?" he called, "Ready for dinner?"
No answer.
Crowley strode into the back room. Aziraphale was often lost to the world when he got his hands on some new books-particularly the rare editions. Crowley hadn't heard from him for two months after the Christmas when he'd bought Aziraphale the Codex Leicester.
The back room was empty.
"Angel?" Crowley yelled, starting to get worried. "Aziraphale?"
THUD.
Crowley's head immediately jerked upwards, to the upper floor, where the thud had come from. He sprinted out of the room and up the stairs, and burst into the only room upstairs-Aziraphale's almost unused bedroom.
Crowley had been worried, but he wasn't even close to prepared for the horrifying sight inside.
The archangels Gabriel, Sandalphon and Uriel were looming over a bloody mess on the floor, which Crowley realised with a start was Aziraphale.
Without stopping to think, he ran at Gabriel, intent on tearing him to shreds for what he'd inflicted upon his angel. The angels simply joined hands in a circle around Aziraphale, and in a flash of white light, they vanished, leaving a white beam of quickly fading light behind.
Crowley didn't pause to consider his options, or construct a plan, he just stepped straight in and followed them.
He came out in one of the gleaming white back rooms of Heaven. He shuddered, repressing the memories of the last time he'd been there, right before he Fell.
He turned around, and saw two grunt angels dragging Aziraphale into one of the rooms he knew to be a torture room. Crowley followed them on silent feet, slipping into the room behind them.
"We know you're there, demon," Gabriel said.
Crowley smirked. "I'm not a fucking idiot, Gabe. Although it seems you are."
Gabriel's eyes flashed at the nickname, but he seemed more interested in the latter half of Crowley's sentence. "And why, pray tell, am I an idiot?" he asked with mock politeness.
"I'm the Serpent of Eden. I stopped the bloody Apocalypse. Do you really think it's beneath me to hide my handiwork on a lowly Principality?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley saw Aziraphale lift his head slightly off the floor, leaving a bloody smudge behind. He locked eyes, and tried to silently convey his message.
"What the blazes do you mean?" Gabriel asked, shocked.
"Like I'm gonna tell you," Crowley snorted.
Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "Then why did you follow us into Heaven? Death wish?"
"I'm a demon, dumbarse. I sin. I brag. And right now, I'm bragging about my brilliant, six-thousand-year long deception of Aziraphale," Crowley lied.
"You-you corrupted Aziraphale?" Uriel asked.
"Yup," Crowley said, "He's made it a bit harder recently. Been fighting me since I started stopping the Apocalypse. It was very hard to keep my hold on him, you should be proud. But I don't need him any more. My work is done. I have triumphed over the angels."
With that, Crowley turned around and walked out of the room, hoping Gabriel would fall for his lies.
He did.
"Grab him," Gabriel ordered, "Chain him up. And take the Principality to the healers. They might be able to work out what the demon's done."
Crowley faked fighting the angels that grabbed him, and locked holy manacles around his wrists and ankles. As he was dragged into another room and chained to the wall, he saw Aziraphale being wheeled away on a stretcher. That was enough for him. If Heaven believed him, they would take their anger out on him, and leave his angel alone. And Aziraphale could go back and live among them, and live happily ever after.
He could endure Heaven for Aziraphale.
After what he estimated to be approximately three hours, Gabriel and Sandalphon entered his cell, looking rather grim.
"Our healers can't work out what you've done to Aziraphale. Care to share?" Gabriel asked, looking like he hoped Crowley wouldn't.
"I'd rather not. Trade secrets, and all that," said Crowley casually, folding his arms and trying to appear at ease, as much as he could chained to a wall.
Gabriel smiled, and walked forward slowly. Crowley tried to ignore the small ball of fear curling its way into his stomach.
Gabriel leaned forward, and grabbed the manacles on Crowley's wrists. They began to glow faintly, and inscriptions carved themselves into the pure white metal.
He'd blessed them.
Crowley hissed in pain as the manacles burned his flesh, turning it red and angry in seconds. Gabriel stood up, and yanked Crowley up with him, slamming him into the wall. His head knocked hard against it, and his sunglasses fell off, leaving his yellow snake eyes exposed.
Gabriel wasn't done. He ripped off Crowley's clothes: first his black jacket, then his stylish grey necktie, his shirt and singlet, and then his trousers, Sandalphon subtly miracling his shoes and socks away.
He was naked except for his undies, and he shuddered to think at what Gabriel wanted them gone for.
"Having fun?" he asked with a cocky smile.
Gabriel carefully chained Crowley's hands to an anchor in the ceiling, hoisting them above his head, and Crowley gasped as that made him rest his wrists against the holy manacles, his toes barely brushing the floor.
"Last chance to tell us," Gabriel offered. Crowley didn't answer. "Let's begin."
Sandalphon came over, bearing two whips, each with nine tails extending from the end, each tail ending in a mean-looking iron hook.
Gabriel took one, drew his arm back, and let the whip fly across Crowley's back.
Crowley bit his tongue to keep from screaming, drawing blood.
One, he thought dully. He kept counting as Sandalphon and Gabriel took turns to whip him on his back, his legs, chest, feet and arms. Two. Three. Four.
It took fifteen strikes for him to scream. Two hooks hit the same place on a muscle, and he couldn't hold it in.
It took twenty-seven strikes for him to lose count.
After forty-three, he blacked out.
After fifty, the angels left him, releasing him from the ceiling, letting him flop on the floor in a bloody mess.