There are entire chunks of Aziraphale's True Form missing, and what remains of that wheel are charred, evidence of a recent burning—and the only thing Crowley can think of which would cause such burning on an angel's essence like this is hellfire, and this thought struggles to connect in his mind.

Aziraphale and hellfire should never be in the same sentence.

That essence should never look charred. It looks like burnt Swiss cheese with little pieces missing along that one wheel.

But that doesn't mean it was hellfire, he thinks desperately. No, not hellfire—hellfire won't stop, it will keep eating at the angel until there's nothing left, and Aziraphale is right here in front of him, warm and solid and real, not writhing in pain. So it can't be hellfire. Aziraphale isn't burning away to nothing.

But he was.

At some point tonight, he was burning away to nothing. Pieces of him are outright missing. Just poof, they're gone and they're not coming back, and this is just what's left of Aziraphale's form—of Aziraphale.

A sob catches in the back of his throat—this low, keening whine he won't let release from his mouth, because Aziraphale isn't burning. He's not dying in this moment; but he was earlier. Earlier he was burning away to nothing, and Crowley had absolutely zero idea about any of this. Was it because of what happened back at the bookshop? Did he fail so badly that he let that hellfire hit Aziraphale, and the angel left so he wouldn't notice?

Is this because of me?

He throws himself back at the angel—arms wrapping around tightly, so very tightly, as he holds on like Aziraphale will reignite if he lets go. Panic scrapes up his throat and peels out of his mouth with this strangled whine as he fights to keep it back, and Aziraphale could have died, he could have burnt away to nothing—

"What happened," he wheezes through clenched teeth. The angel is crushed so tightly against him, and when Aziraphale hums low in his throat it vibrates through Crowley—an audible reassurance the angel is, in fact, still very much alive and not a writhing mess withering away bit by bit. "Jesus—fuck—what the bloody hell happened, Aziraphale?"

"Crowley, my dear," Aziraphale says softly—either because Crowley is crushing him too much and he can't breathe properly or because he simply doesn't want to startled the demon, he's not sure—and he brings his own arms up around the demon in return, clutching back at him. "I'm alright, love. I promise you—I'm alright."

Warmth and a sense of calm flood through him, ebbing off Aziraphale in waves so potent they almost rock Crowley back physically, but he just holds on tight to the angel. Crushing and constricting like the absolute snake that he is, but he can't let go. He can't let go because Aziraphale might actually fade away if he does—he might wither away into nothing and that can't ever happen. Not ever.

The love rolls off Aziraphale as a near-physical force, sending shivers across Crowley's body, goosebumps across his skin. A twisted whine escapes him despite everything, and he closes his eyes and lets that warmth and calm wash over him like a safety blanket.

I can't keep doing this, he thinks. I can't keep almost… almost losing you.

"Oh, my dear. Crowley. It's alright."

He shakes his head, burrowing closer to the angel, to that sense of safety and warmth and love that is just for him—that is so very, very precious to him. This angel is mine. You can't have him. And perhaps he's being too possessive, considering Aziraphale as some prized, precious object—but he can't stop. He can't stop curling tighter around the angel, can't stop the fear burning deep in the pit of his stomach, can't stop the burning of his eyes even though they are tightly shut…

Aziraphale just holds him, and Crowley sinks into him and everything he is and everything he's offering, and for a moment it's just the two of them who exist in this world. There aren't humans, there aren't angels or demons or Heaven or Hell—it's just the two fo them, circling and circled, touching and touched, and that's all that matters. They're all that matters.

A shudder slips the demon. Exhaustion flits through his mind, a heavy weight settling within him and over him as Aziraphale keeps pushing that sense of calm and safety at him. Aziraphale must be as tired as he is, if not more so since he was actually burning—but he gives all he has to Crowley. He's always done everything he can to help Crowley, to keep an eye on him, to keep him out of trouble and safe, and Crowley can't seem to return the favour.

He can't even keep Aziraphale's bookshop from burning down.

His eyes snap open wide. "Oh, your bookshop," he says roughly. "Aziraphale, it caught fire. I'm sorry, I couldn't stop the hellfire in time—"

And you burned. You burned, Aziraphale.

"It's quite alright, my dear," Aziraphale says softly. What ebb of warmth and love doesn't stop filtering for even a fraction of a second as the angel takes his words in stride. "As long as you're safe, that's alright."

"Ngk," Crowley says.

And holds on a little longer. Wonders if he could get away with holding on forever—if Aziraphale would have the patience to tolerate him, if he'd let him just circle and crush him forever…

"How…" He clears his throat and tries again, a little stronger this time, letting that sense of calm safety settle over him like a second skin. "Was it… Was it hell—"

No, he can't say it. Saying it makes it real.

And it can't be real, he thinks. Because hellfire doesn't stop, and if it's real then Aziraphale will burn away forever—

And that panic is rearing it's head again.

"Shh, my dear—I promise it's alright. We're both alright."

He's pathetic, he thinks. Weak and pathetic. Can't seem to stop breaking down like this, constantly on the edge of losing Aziraphale, and instead of fighting to protect the angel, here he is—crushing him, seeking comfort, repeatedly falling apart again and again. Every time he thinks he's started to build himself back up someone takes a hammer to his form again and shatters him, and it gets harder and harder to pick up the pieces and fit them back into place. Entire shards are missing now, and he doesn't know if he'll ever be the same.

Doesn't know how to get past this point. Doesn't know how to get over this overwhelming sense of this is my angel, you can't bloody have him and for the love of everything, please don't take him…

He's a demon and certainly never says please or anything weak like that, but deep in the confines of his mind, he allows the word to exist. To slip across his thoughts as a plea, a prayer, as he holds the angel tight to him.

Punish me however you see fit, just please—leave him be. Not him.

And those thoughts don't make him feel even the slightest bit better. Admitting this fear to himself, inwardly expressing a plea, none of this makes it any better because they aren't out of the woods yet, and he could still lose Aziraphale, after everything. No matter what he tries, it's like Aziraphale is slipping away despite his efforts—sand in a sieve, slipping through his fingers no matter how much he struggles to hold on.

You're being absolutely pathetic, he tells himself. What kind of demon sits around whining like this?

A poor example of one, clearly.

"Was it hellfire?" He finally manages to push out of a reluctant mouth. Snakes can unhinge their jaws to devour food in its entirety, but in this moment his doesn't want to open enough to even speak properly. "The… burning? What happened?"

As much as he doesn't want to hear the answer, to hear his fears confirmed, he needs to know what happened. He takes in a slow, steady breath and forces himself to pull back from the angel, despite the fact this is the very last thing any part of him wants to do in that moment. Aziraphale lets him go, arms dropping away from him, and Crowley carefully avoids his gaze as he sits back on his haunches.

"Hastur got a little cut in," Aziraphale says. "I mean really, it wasn't anything—just a nick, to make me drop my sword."

"But… hellfire?"

"Yes, well, his blade was burning, you see. When he cut my wrist." The words come together faster now, nerves overtaking the angel. "And I guess there was some burning then, but I managed to—ah, that is to say, I defeated him and put the fire out."

Put the fire out.

Crowley looks back at Aziraphale, fear churning in his stomach once more. At this rate he's honestly surprised he hasn't upchucked all the contents of his stomach—which would be very little at this point, considering he hasn't eaten and even consumed alcohol. It's been a very long night. "You put the fire out," he repeats flatly. "You just… put it out, did you? Jussst like that?"

"Well, it took more effort than that," Aziraphale says weakly, and now the angel is looking at he ground, avoiding his gaze. "I popped over to the church we left earlier and dipped my wrist in the font of holy water."

Crowley growls under his breath—a low, vibrating hum in his throat. "That won't put out hellfire, angel," he says sharply.

"No, I didn't think it would," Aziraphale admits, "but it was all I had to work with at the time. The alternative was to, ahm—well, I didn't much prefer dying tonight."

The fear struggles to turn back to panic, but that lingering sense of calm is still hovering over his skin. Aziraphale is very obviously not burning anymore, so the holy water must have worked, even if that seems utterly impossible. He's never heard of holy water stopping hellfire like that before; he's certain if it worked like that then the angels would be taking some with them everywhere they went on Earth to avoid such trouble with demons, and demons wouldn't be nearly so cocky or eager to fight angels.

"Aziraphale, just tell me what happened." He desperately needs to know what took place tonight—how the angel stopped the burning and is alive next to him.

Aziraphale's hands wring together in his lap. A large, heaving sigh escapes him and his shoulders droop with exhaustion. "I just… sort of pictured the holy water as actual water putting out the flames of hellfire, and it just… worked."

"It just worked," Crowley repeats. "You just believed really hard that it would work and it did, is that what you're telling me right now?"

"That is what happened, yes," Aziraphale says quietly. "I'm as confused by it as you, of course, but it was the only option I had and I needed it to work, and it just—sort of did. Work, that is."

"Hellfire doesn't just stop," Crowley mutters, then looks skyward. Looking ups the stars he helped create is better than seeing Aziraphale look so out of sorts right now, better than seeing his True Form with those holes in them. "You're missing chunks, Aziraphale."

"Yes, I am quite aware."

He says it so calmly—oh, it's no big deal, my dear. Yes, I was dying earlier, you see, but now I am quite well. Sorry to trouble you.

He'd known, when he saw the charred wheel and the missing pieces—he knew it had to be hellfire as he couldn't think of anything else which could do such a thing to an angel's essence like that. He knew. So why is it still hitting him so hard? He'd prepared himself for the strike, had steeled himself when he managed to finally ask the question—but there's little he can do to prepare himself for the onslaught of I almost lost you tonight which crashes into him, rocking him back slightly.

Aziraphale is alright.

He's right there in front of him—no longer burning. He's just fine.

And that lingering sense of calm is still floating over him, and he's not going to think about it right now. He just doesn't have the mental capacity to go down that hole again.

"And it… it's out, then?" He asks, looking back at the angel. "The hellfire. It's out?"

"Yes," Aziraphale says, nodding. "And I should heal."

Should heal.

They both know he might not ever heal—those missing pieces are gone, and that wheel is charred, and it might stay that way forever. This might be Aziraphale's new normal when it comes to his form. Maybe, if they're lucky, the charred parts will heal over if given enough time, but those missing chunks will most likely never return. They've already blinked off into nothing, destroyed by the hellfire.

Don't panic, Crowley tells himself. Whatever you do, just don't panic again.

Because Aziraphale is fine. He's alive, and yeah, chunks of him are absent when they definitely shouldn't be, but he's still alive and in the end, that's all that matters.

"My dear, you look absolutely exhausted."

"I am," he admits. He's more than exhausted—he's dead on his feet. Walking out here was an issue, really, staggering about like that. Every single part of him whispers of his exhaustion.

Aziraphale pushes to his feet. "Come now, let's get back to the cottage."

He holds a hand out for Crowley and drags the demon to his feet. The world spins and Crowley shuts his eyes on a wave of dizziness at the change in altitude.

The walk back to the cottage is a blur, but suddenly he's pushing through the doorway with broken bits of wood crunching under his feet, and he looks around absently.

Earlier today, this place felt cozy and warm and safe. It was just him and Aziraphale, together on the couch, and all was well. Funny how quickly things can change.

It's really not funny at all.

Aziraphale takes his hand and pulls him out of the living room, down the hallway toward the bedroom on the first floor. Crowley follows in a daze—aware of the bed approaching but not quite connecting the dots just yet.

Warm hands push at his shoulders to get him to sit on the edge of the bed. He sits.

"Sleep, my dear," Aziraphale says quietly. "You'll feel better, I promise you. And I'll be right here with you."

Sleep.

A shudder slips through him. "Can't sleep."

"Of course you can, Crowley. There's nothing stopping you, and I will keep watch."

He makes it sound so simple…

He blinks the sleep from his eyes. When did they close? "No. Can't."

What if something happens the moment he closes his eyes? He was sleeping soundly on the couch earlier when all Hell broke loose, after all. He needs to be prepared for anything.

"Crowley, I'm sorry, my dear—but you really need to sleep…"

The blessing settles over him, Aziraphale working his sneaky magic once again, but Crowley doesn't fight it this time—just lets himself slip into it willingly, because sleeping will be infinitely better, he thinks, than having to think about Aziraphale burning.

That being said, he knows what he'll dream about.

He struggles to open his eyes.

"Shh, my dear. Dream of whatever you like best."

Aziraphale knows. He always seems to know how to help him.

The second blessing, small thing that it is, settles over him as well, and Crowley gives into the allure of sleep.

xXx

Crowley took to the blessing immediately, the poor thing—he must be dreadfully tired, and that's Aziraphale's fault, really. Crowley shouldn't have been anywhere near that fight, as Hastur was coming for Aziraphale, but he is grateful for the demon's help. He certainly doesn't think he could have taken on the two at once—Hastur was more than enough of a challenge for him, and he barely escaped with his life.

He watches the demon sleep for a moment—just drinking in the sight of him safe and sound, softly snoring with that crease disappeared from his brow finally. Crowley should have a pleasant slumber, he hopes, and turns to leave the room.

He doesn't go far—just outside the door, really. He closes it softly behind him, not wishing to wake Crowley who clearly needs the rest, and then he turns so his back presses into the door, and he lets himself slide down to the floor.

Oh, dear. That really happened. Today really happened.

If someone told him a month ago that he would survive hellfire, he would have thought them utterly insane. What happened in Heaven during his trial was a trick, after all, and he is decidedly not immune to hellfire, not in the slightest. A single blaze of it could destroy him completely.

But tonight…

Tonight he was touched by that infernal flame, and he didn't die.

He got it to stop burning.

Somehow, it worked out. He still reeling from it all, his body trembling as he sits there on the floor and quietly starts to panic. His breaths leave him in a rush, expelled from reluctant lungs as invisible steel bands seem to tighten around them, constricting them much the same way Crowley had been constricting him earlier.

He got the hellfire to stop burning.

That actually happened.

To his knowledge, no angel has ever been able to stop burning once they were been ignited like that. It's what made hellfire so potent, so feared among the angels. But tonight, he managed to do the impossible.

He's not certain if it's because of his quick thinking or if it's because of whatever role he is to play in the journey ahead.

A part of him is certain he should have died tonight.

It's there in the Book of Aziraphale.

That last line.

The angel will burn, and all will be well.

He's supposed to burn. He thought it meant hellfire, but perhaps that isn't what it means at all. He can't think of any other way he could possibly burn, but the Almighty plays an ineffable game of Her own making and maybe it's not for him to truly understand.

Either that, or he outright rebelled against the divine plan again.

Honestly, that wouldn't surprise him if that's the case. It's not like he hasn't already been a disobedient angel. What's another rebellion if it keeps him here with Crowley?

Maybe it was Her will for him to burn, but he stopped the burning in that church. And surely She meant for that to happen, as She would have stopped it from working if it wasn't part of Her plan, right?

Maybe this can all be over. Maybe it is over.

That was the last line in his book, so maybe he narrowly avoided death and everything can now go back to normal. He'll take the random Urges over a day like today, thank you very kindly. He'll happily help people all day long if it will keep today from repeating.

If it will keep him here with Crowley.

A shiver inches down his spine. Neither of them are built to be alone, he thinks—not when their essences have gotten so used to being near one another. He can't lose Crowley just as much as he can't leave the demon.

No. He will have to find some way to make everything better. To fix things, to make them okay again. And he will hope this was the last of his book in the bible, and though he did burn briefly, he did survive and all was well.

He won't accept the alternative.

xXx

The demon wakes two days later.

Aziraphale is sitting in the living room on the couch, reading a book as the sun sets outside. The room is intact once again, fixed with a couple miracles; he couldn't fix the door since it was destroyed by hellfire, but he was able to miracle up another door of the same making and fit it into place. The cottage is once again nice and cozy, when the demon steps out of the bedroom and joins him.

Crowley says nothing as he steps toward the couch. Aziraphale looks up and smiles at the demon, who sits heavily next to him, and then immediately tilts sideways to sprawl out on the couch with his head once again in Aziraphale's lap. Aziraphale's hand comes up automatically, fingers combing through tussled, tangled strands of auburn hair.

Crowley's eyes fall shut and a small sigh escapes him—small, but contented. Relaxed.

"Sleep well, my dear?"

"Mmfh," Crowley says, and then blinks his eyes open. "Sneaky angel, with those sleep blessings."

"You very much needed it."

Crowley chuckles. It is so wonderfully good to hear that sound. "Yeah, s'pose I did. But I'm not thanking you."

"Of course not," Aziraphale says, smiling down at the demon in his lap.

"How long was I out?"

"Two days," he says.

Crowley frowns.

"Oh, don't worry, my dear—I kept watch and everything was perfectly fine," Aziraphale assures him. "I even fixed up the cottage, see?"

"Yeah, saw that. Nice job. And nothing has… happened?"

"No Urges," Aziraphale tells him. "No demons. Nothing has happened, my dear. For now, we are safe."

Safe.

It's a four-letter word which has never quite been allowed in their vocabulary. With Heaven and Hell looming over their backs, they were never truly safe in the past, constantly looking over their shoulders, waiting for the moment either side realised they'd been fraternising and would come for them.

Now, it can be added into their vocabulary. Safe. Safety. The safety might not last, but they do have this—little stolen moments where they are safe and together, and Aziraphale cherishes these moments.

Hastur might have simply been discorporated and not destroyed, and he certainly knows of this cottage and will come looking for them soon, but Aziraphale also knows how frustrating it can be to be issued a new body. So they, at the very least, have a little time to catch their breath.

Aziraphale has never killed anything before, but in that moment, he actually hopes Hastur is dead-dead, forever. Glancing down at the demon in his lap, he doesn't even feel guilty for such a thought, such a hope.