Strained silence circles the inside of the bookshop. It doesn't exactly feel like the home it's been to Aziraphale the past odd 200 years or so. Normally these walls put him at ease, and the scent of old books and dusty pages are always relaxing because this place is his. It's his little corner of the world, his home, his life—it's everything he's wanted to be, he thinks, and now it just feels… wrong.
It was wrong of him to take on such a human role, he thinks. A bookshop. Honestly, what was he thinking? That he could blend in and lose himself to humanity? Perhaps he blended too well and lost himself along the way, because he is and has always been an angel, not a human. If any part of him should feel like a lie, it should be the human part, because it is the lie—but somehow, it got all twisted around, didn't it? Got twisted so much he saw himself as more human than angel, and being inside a church felt like lying to himself and to God.
But he is an angel, and that will always come with duties. He'll never truly be free; he can see that now.
And now it's too late, he thinks, to do anything else.
The future is written, and So It Shall Be.
At least he knows how it will end—though this certainly doesn't make him feel better. He's not certain when the end will occur, or what events will lead up to it, if it will be tonight or a thousand years from now—but it is written, spelled out for him by Her hand, and he will simply have to accept that. The knowing should bring him comfort.
It doesn't.
The bookshop has never felt so foreign to him.
Crowley prowls back and forth, from one shelf to another, his steps agitated and quick. His essence leaks out of him like a mess of winding darkness at the edge of Aziraphale's vision, and he knows not to get too close lest that darkness attempt to suffocate the light inside him. He knows demons can feel oppressive in their infernal essences, but Crowley has never felt like such a demon to him until now.
Crowley has always appeared as a shadow across his vision—not extinguishing the light, but seemingly pulling it out more. There cannot be shadows without light, and the very existence of light casts a shadow, however faint. It's always felt like a back and forth between them—something invisible, yet substantial, drawing them together indefinitely. Now, though, the darkness radiates something dangerous, something hellish, and it is hard to reconcile this pacing demon in front of him with the one he knows Crowley to be—a fun-loving, even if a little chaotic, demon who loves alcohol, Queen, and causing mischief wherever he goes.
That mischievous edge has faded, Aziraphale thinks. That's what's changed. This is Crowley as a predator—as something he's always been, but Aziraphale has simply forgotten or failed to notice.
Aziraphale sits heavily in his chair, closing his eyes. He can still hear the pacing, can still feel that edge of darkness moving back and forth, and this bookshop still feels so very wrong to him. Unpleasant, even. This place has never felt so unkind to him, and he really doesn't know what to make of it all.
"Perhaps She doesn't mean the fight to happen here," Aziraphale says.
"He'll come," Crowley says sharply. "Trust me, angel, he'll turn up."
He seems so certain. He would know, of course; he's dealt with Hastur long enough.
"We could still leave," the demon suggests, and his pacing stops. "We don't have to sit here waiting around for some sort of fight. We could—"
"It needs to happen," Aziraphale cuts in briskly.
Crowley, for all his dramatics and aggression, has always shied away from actual confrontation. Fighting the humans is one thing, but when it comes to fighting someone else? Someone more powerful than a basic human? He won't outright fight them. Not that he is weak by any means, he just chooses to fight differently—with something creative like disintegrating a Duke into nothing in infernal flames too hot for demons to handle, but Crowley was creative enough to survive the onslaught himself and hold his car together. Crowley has always fought creatively and not aggressively; not physically.
When it looks like he might have to fight physically, he tends to run the other way. Hence the whole 'let's run off together to Alpha Centauri' during the would-be apocalypse.
This can't happen now.
Well, Crowley could leave, he supposes. Nothing in the text mentions the demon's presence during this confrontation, and perhaps it would be best if Crowley was not around to accidentally get dragged into something dangerous, but Aziraphale knows if he mentions this to the demon, it will get ugly fast.
Crowley, for all his faults, is loyal. Hard to believe of a demon, sometimes, and certainly not what one would expect to look at him—snakes are associated with something treacherous and untrustworthy, after all, but Crowley has always been the most honest person Aziraphale knows, and he is unfailingly loyal.
Even when they are having a spat, he shows up to help Aziraphale. Even when the world was ending, he still didn't run away despite how he said otherwise. He stayed around to help out and didn't leave Aziraphale there alone at the end of it all.
Now if only Aziraphale could say the same of himself…
Don't think about it.
He can't afford to let those words linger in his mind right now. It's too distracting—the way it brings tears pricking his eyes, a burn in the back of his throat, the way his breath catches in his chest as he pictures—
Stop it. Don't.
Crowley has resumed prowling. Aziraphale sighs and looks over his books—collections from through the millennia he's been here, watching humanity grow into its own, stuck here through the ages in a way that's never felt so much like being 'trapped', as being free. He's always felt more free here among the humans than he ever did in Heaven, and after the world failed to end, he thought he might finally get to enjoy the freedom and embrace the idea of actually running a bookshop in Soho, since it would finally no longer be just a cover, but his actual life.
A pity that won't be in the cards.
"This is ridiculous," Crowley huffs, and approaches the couch and the chair. His gaze is hidden behind his sunglasses but even so, there's a hint of yellow burning eyes shining through the darkness as he glares down at Aziraphale. "Stuck here waiting like this, it's ridiculous! We don't need to fight him."
"We don't," Aziraphale agrees quietly, hands folded in his lap. "I do."
Crowley's teeth bite together with a snap. "If you think I'm leaving you here—"
"Of course not," Aziraphale says. Crowley is far too loyal for such a thing, even if it might be in his own best interests.
"This is stupid."
"It is unpleasant, yes."
"We don't have to do this! At least not right now."
"Better to get it over with."
Crowley growls low in his throat, running a hand through his hair, mussing the strands even further. "Just because it says you'll smite him doesn't mean you'll win, Aziraphale."
Aziraphale is quite aware of that. Tonight could very well end with them both destroying the other—it would align with those words, after all. It could happen tonight. Or a thousand years from now.
"Best to get it over with," he says again.
"Stupid," the demon hisses, and resumes his pacing.
"Crowley," Aziraphale says, watching the demon momentarily. "When… the fight does start, I need you to do something for me, dear."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"Stay out of it."
A snarl is his response, first and foremost. "Like Hell I will! You're out of your bloody mind if you think I'm leaving you to fight him alone!"
"I can fight him," Aziraphale tells him quietly. "But not if I'm worrying about hurting you because you get too close. I was a soldier, Crowley, I'm certain I can handle the likes of him. But not if… I don't want to hurt you, my dear."
He can't stand the thought of ever hurting Crowley, in any way, sharp, or form. If Crowley gets too close and gets hit with holy fire, or if Hastur tires of his interference and decides to deal with Crowley personally—Aziraphale would never forgive himself.
"I'm not leaving you to fight alone," Crowley says firmly. "Nuh-uh. Not happening, angel. Think of something else."
Think of something else.
There is nothing to think about, really. There is to be a fight—it is written, and it is written that their fires will align, and Aziraphale can see how this all might play out in the end. Crowley does not need to be stuck in the middle of all that.
He will need a plan.
He sighs heavily.
"What is it?" Crowley asks.
"I am simply tired, my dear. I wouldn't turn down some tea…"
The demon snaps to attention. "Tea. Right, that. Yeah, I'll get you some, no worries."
Crowley leaves the room, and Aziraphale starts to plan.
xXx
Aziraphale is hiding something, Crowley is certain of it.
The angel is always hiding something, it seems. It's not that he doesn't trust Crowley, because Crowley knows for a fact the angel has chosen his side instead of Heaven's on more than one occasion and that requires a certain level of trust in him—but he still keeps things from Crowley. Dangerous things, he thinks. Things Crowley probably doesn't want to know, but probably should know.
Aziraphale read something very troubling in that stupid bible, and while it might be related to this new assignment, so to speak, and his apparent need to fight Hastur despite how much Aziraphale seems reluctant to fight anyone, ever—he's certain that's not all of it. There is something very specific Aziraphale is keeping from him.
Crowley doesn't want to pry—of course he doesn't. Aziraphale is entitled to his secrets and he certainly doesn't poke his nose into Crowley's private life if Crowley makes it known he doesn't wish to discuss something, but that's because Aziraphale is a kind angel who cares about privacy and is willing to back off when needed. Crowley isn't so nice, and if something is troubling Aziraphale this much, it's something he really needs to know. He has to know.
He just doesn't know how to ask.
How to get Aziraphale to see reason and tell him.
Tea.
Right, he'll make some tea. Aziraphale has been tense since they returned to the shop and his inability to relax in his own home has Crowley twitchy with his own worries and frustrations.
He feels like he's always shaking when he grabs the blasted kettle from the high shelf.
Stupid thing, this kettle, his hand—all of it. This whole mess is absolutely ridiculous.
The door behind him opens. He looks over his shoulder to find Aziraphale standing just outside the kitchen, holding the door open to peer at him. There's some twisted expression on his stupid face, and Crowley's heart lurches in his chest.
"Something wrong?" He asks, unable to bring himself to move in that moment—he just watches the angel, trying to force a sense of calm back into his being.
"I would really appreciate it if you would stay out of the fight, Crowley."
Crowley hisses. "Not happening, as I said."
Aziraphale is out of his blessed mind if he thinks Crowley is just going to sit by and let him go toe-to-toe with a Duke of Hell. With Hastur of all demons. Absolutely bloody not.
Aziraphale sighs. "I wish you would reconsider, dear."
"Yeah, not happening."
"Then I am sorry."
Dread bursts through him. "Sorry?"
The door closes. There's the vibration of angelic energy—a pleasant melody striking the air somewhere in the back of his mind, and a chill flits through him as he darts toward the door.
Bashes himself against it.
It doesn't open. He's flung from the door for his efforts, away from that divine energy, and a snarl rips his throat.
"Don't you bloody do this to me, Aziraphale," he howls as he throws himself back against the door.
"Terribly sorry, dear boy!" Aziraphale calls to him from the other side. "But I can't have you getting hurt on my behalf. I need to do this alone."
"No, you fucking don't! Aziraphale, open this door right now, you stupid—you reckless—open this door!"
"The ward won't last forever, Crowley. You'll be free by morning."
"Aziraphale, open this fucking door or I swear I'll bloody kill you myself!"
"Oh, you won't do that, dear. You would never hurt me."
The certainty of Aziraphale's voice leaves Crowley snarling as he throws himself once more at the blasted door. He's flung back yet again, his arm throbbing in pain as the holy radiance seeps through, and he fights back the wave of desperation which tries to cling to him and drag him down into an icy darkness.
Aziraphale can't do this to him again. Not again. Images of the last time he put up a ward to keep Crowley away from him dance tauntingly behind his eyes; it had been a bloody nightmare. Aziraphale nearly died, permanently and forever, and soon he will be near Hastur and hellfire and—
He snarls and throws his hands up, tossing a wave of demonic energy at the door, at the wards outside of it keeping it closed, put there by the very angel he's trying to protect. The very angel who simply won't let him protect him.
"Aziraphale, angel—don't do this again—you blasted idiot—You idiot, Aziraphale—open this fucking door! Open it!"
His hands drop as energy fades him. It's been a long, long day so far, first with them relaxing at the cottage where everything was perfectly fine, and then Hastur showed up, a fight broke out, and they made it out and went to the church… now this.
He's honestly exhausted at this point and probably close to being miracled out, his pool of demonic energy rather low, but he can't stop. He can't stop trying to break out. Not if means Aziraphale will be facing Hastur alone.
"We left Heaven and Hell to have the freedom of choice!" He reminds the angel through the door. "Remember, angel? This is you, taking away my freedom."
There's an awful silence at the other side of the door.
Then there's a wave of energy, and the door cracks open. He throws himself at it before Aziraphale can change his mind or stop him, and breaks through, snagging handfuls of the angel's clothing as he all but tosses said angel to the side, slamming Aziraphale's back into a bookshelf. Books topple off the edge and hit the ground but the sound is lost in the ringing of Crowley's ears as he snarls a wordless rage, yellow eyes boring into Aziraphale's blue-grey ones.
Aziraphale looks back at him, calm in the face of a demon's rage, and it just makes Crowley angrier.
"I am sorry," the angel has the audacity to say. "I know we… want the freedom to choose. But I can't have you risking yourself, Crowley."
"Stop locking me away!" Crowley snarls, yanking Aziraphale forward to slam him back against the shelf. Aziraphale winces at the movement but doesn't even try to break away, which somehow makes this worse. "Stop locking me out, you stupid angel! We're in this together!"
"This is my fight, Crowley. Not yours."
"You're my fight!"
Oh. Oh, fuck.
He really didn't mean to shout that, to give voice to such a thing and make it real—but now the words are out there, and they hang between them in a stunned silence. Aziraphale's eyes have blown wide, electric blue with their shock, and Crowley's own eyes must be impossibly wide—he can see the faintest reflection looking back at him, gleaming off Aziraphale's eyes.
He's not certain when he lost his sunglasses, probably in one of his attempts at dashing himself against that bloody door, but now all the rage has left him and he's left standing there, clinging to the angel, holding him against a bookshelf—pinning him there, like everything depends on it. And in a way, it does.
"I just… There's no Our Side without the two of us, is all," he mumbles, looking away.
"Crowley…" Aziraphale's voice is quiet and soft—even fond. Fond? A hand comes to rest on the top of Crowley's hand, fingers lightly tugging his own from their white-knuckled grip on the angel's clothing. "My dear, I would never want to leave you. I have every intention of winning this fight."
"Glad one of us is so confident," the demon says weakly, and shuts his eyes.
"Please stay out of the fray, Crowley."
I can't. I can't do that.
There's no way he can see Aziraphale fighting and not help him, no way he can sit back and do nothing while Hastur tries to get his grubby mitts all over his angel.
This angel right here… yeah, this is mine… bugger off…
"For me?"
Low blow, angel.
There is little Crowley won't do for Aziraphale. Not when he asks directly, not when he says please…
"I can't."
This is not one of those times. He can't sit idly by and do nothing.
He looks back at the angel. "Don't… Don't lock me out again. Don't ward me…"
Aziraphale's brows knit together as his expression twists into something fractured. "Oh, my dear—I am sorry—"
Crowley shakes his head. "Just… not again. Okay? Alright?" He swallows around the sudden lump in his stupid throat. "We're in this together, yeah? Alright?"
"Very well, my dear. Together."
"Well, isn't this touching."
The new voice leaves the two jumping apart, with a snarl already settling in the back of Crowley's throat. He fights the urge to run forward and meet Hastur, to keep him away from the angel and out of this bookshop, but the demon is already there, just inside the shop and watching them with this malicious twist to his lips—some botched version of a smile.
"Hastur," Crowley greets as menacingly as possible. "Fancy seeing you here!"
Behind him, Aziraphale's sword flickers to life, held in the angel's grasp. Just whoosh and Crowley can feel the heat of those holy flames.
"Crowley, please," Aziraphale says quietly.
Crowley knows Azirpahale wants him to step aside and just let them duke it out, but he really, really can't do that. He just—can't. Aziraphale isn't immune to hellfire and Hastur probably has realised this by now, and he just can't stand by and let this happen.
"You can't take us both on," Crowley tells the demon. "I mean—you couldn't even take me on back at my flat, now could you? And you fizzled out in the ring of fire back there—pity, that. Bit of a bummer for you, isn't it? What did Beezlebub say when you turned up because of infernal fire? Were they pissed? I bet they were pissed."
"Crowley," Azirpahale hisses.
Hastur snarls but stops himself from charging forward like Crowley knows he wants to. "Sorry, traitor, but my fight isn't with you tonight."
"Yeah, well, you'll have to get through me to—"
"Ah, but I brought a friend."
A burst of infernal energy slams into Crowley's side, flickering strings of darkness twining with his soul in an unacceptable way, and Crowley snarls and flings a burst of his own energy right back at the new demon who emerges from around a shelf. He doesn't recognise the face, but the energy feels vaguely familiar. Some demon from some middling rank, he thinks, and this is perhaps their first corporation, hence why they seem so unfamiliar.
"Where are my manners?" Hastur sneers. "Crowley, you remember Seigle, don't you?"
The demon, Seigle, says nothing and charges straight at them. Crowley darts out to meet him—which is exactly the wrong move.
Hastur closes in the second he's away from Aziraphale, and there's this god-awful clang as their blades meet in an unholy swipe of fire and rage. Crowley can't look over his shoulder to see how Aziraphale is doing, though, because Seigle's hands have transformed into talons of some sort and they are raking at his face, right for his eyes.
Crowley dips back and falls into a crouch, then whirls around with a swing of momentum, striking his leg against an off-balanced heel. Seigle isn't exactly familiar to him, but he remembers what it was like to take on a newly human form for the first time. He still has trouble walking, so he knows the legs can be a weak point.
The demon howls as his leg gives way and he's sent toppling, but he scratches at Crowley with his essence and talons all the same, snagging the front of his shirt, clawing briefly at his chest with those sharp things nicking the skin and dragging downward—and Crowley hisses as he scrambles back with a wheel of his arms, jerking free of the toppling demon. Infernal fury radiates from that cold, dark essence in front of him and there's dark tendrils shooting toward Crowley's face. He brings his arms up quickly, his own auburn tendrils rising to meet the black ones, and there's a discordant clang as their two conflicting souls intertwine for the briefest moments.
Throwing one's essence at another isn't the most difficult thing in the world, but to turn that prodding into something dangerous and sharp, something damaging to another, well that's another matter entirely. Crowley is rather out of practice in fighting, if he's honest with himself; he's never been a fighter. He was a creator, in Heaven, helping to make the starts and everything. He was an artist then, and he never did catch onto fighting exactly, but even a cornered animal will lash out with a raging fury when cornered.
With Aziraphale somewhere behind him, fighting Hastur, Crowley certainly feels cornered. He won't let this demon break through and overwhelm the angel behind him.
There's another twang of holy energy mixing with demonic behind him—a ripple of displaced radiant air which burn his skin and leaves his teeth gnashing together painfully, but he'd rather feel that energy than Hastur's twisted, demonic essence any day. As long as he feels that holy energy, everything is fine.
Seigle lunges from his position on the ground, arms outstretched for Crowley's middle to tackle him physically. Crowley's had this body a long time now, though, and it is thin and agile, like a snake—he quickly twists out of the way and bashes his open palm into Seigle's shoulder as the demon passes him, forcing the demon back onto the ground with a small burst of demonic energy. A twinge of pain shoots up his arm from the use of the energy, and he's reminded of the fact he'd rather exhausted himself prior to this confrontation.
The faintest hint of sulphur on his tongue is the only warning before a wave of hellfire crashes over him, shooting through him toward—
No, NO—
Crowley snarls and summons a wave of air to circle behind him, a wind wall forcing those hellish flames back toward himself. He can be surrounded in flames but the area behind him cannot be covered in flames and even if he has to hold this wind wall forever, he will do so. Sparks of auburn flicker at his hands, just faintly visible over the orange-red flames of the hellfire surrounding him, and it burns, he thinks—the flames eat at him slowly, as tired as he is, and he can't fail.
He throws the force of those flames back at the demon in front of him until they both surrounded in a swirling vortex of hellfire, and his fingers twitch at his sides as he summons spurts of that infernal energy within himself—picturing his rage, his fear, his desperation all mingled into something nasty and feral, something coiled and striking, something—
A snake of auburn energy slithers around him briefly before it lunges at the demon in front of him. Invisible teeth clamp down on Seigle's arm and wrench the demon toward himself, where his hands come up, already waiting for that presence to slam into his own, and he bids his snake aberration larger, into something worse, something with burning yellow eyes and sharp auburn fangs the same colour as its ghostly form, and he wills it bite. Kill. Maim. BITE.
His hands, physically touching the demon, burn with hellfire as he wills all of his fury and desperation into heating the demon's physical form. Demons are rather immune to hellfire, but it doesn't mean their forms can't burn away if it's hot enough—hence Hastur dispersing in that infernal ring of satanic fire. Sometimes a demon's internal flame can run hotter than simple hellfire and can burn away a form easy as anything. He's witnessed Hastur do it to other demons occasionally, after all.
Crowley himself has never quite managed it before, and he knows it wouldn't work on someone like Hastur, someone much higher up the chain, so to speak—but Seigle is middling like Crowley.
Just not as creative, he thinks.
And Crowley has had a lot of time to get creative with his demonic energy. 6000 years, give or take.
6000 years of honing this particular skill to perfection, because nudging humans requires finesse and craftsmanship sometimes, and Crowley is the best at his job, he thinks—otherwise he would have been recalled to Hell a long, long time ago.
Seigle screams as his core overheats, as flesh starts to melt away and fade into ash as that snake of energy circles tighter, crushing the form with unholy pressure until—
Seigle's form gives way to ash which falls to the ground around him. But the hellfire remains, as hellfire has never quite been tame.
He steps out of the wall of hellfire, toward Aziraphale and Hastur.
There's just one problem: no one is there.