Part Three: In Which Hastur Seduces Aziraphale & Industrialists Make a Big Bang
A box sat on the counter. It was mostly empty, containing only a few miscellaneous items: a porcelain figure of Lewis Carroll's Alice from Alice in Wonderland that had been put back together after breaking, some corks from vintage wine bottles, a letter or two, a jet black quill pen that had been borrowed and never returned, a thick book with a bloodstain on one side, and an ancient leather pouch that had once held something illegal and very addictive.
Aziraphale had been staring at the box for the past week and biting his nails. He never bit his nails, ever. The letter C was scrawled on one side; it was everything that Crowley had ever given to him (except for the box, and countless headaches and heartbreaks).
"It's for the best," he repeated to himself. "Remove the thorns and the memories shall follow. This is how it should be."
He picked up the box and carried it out to the kerb, set it down to be picked over by bums, roving drunks, or the trash collectors, whomever got to it first. From a different perspective, it was all useless rubbish. No one could possibly want it. It was just a box of junk.
But junk that had once meant something, junk that had been regarded as precious before last week. To anyone else it was worthless, but to Aziraphale...
The angel shuddered and wrapped his coat around himself. It was cold out tonight. He ought to go in and make a hot cup of cocoa, that's what he ought to do. But it wasn't what he wanted to do; he wanted to grab the box and rush back inside, put everything back where it was, and call Crowley to apologise.
He's not like that anymore and you know it, he thought to himself. He's finally shown his true colours and you did yourself a favour by shaking him off once and for all. The only regrettable thing is that you didn't do it sooner, before you got attached to him. Any sympathy you still feel for him is your own fault and you deserve it. Trusting a demon… what were you thinking, Aziraphale?
He snapped himself out of it and went back inside the shop, locking the door behind him and drawing the dingy curtains. He shrugged off his coat and went to the kitchenette in the back room, putting the kettle on for cocoa.
No. Nothing cocoa. Not ever again. It would be tea from now on. That treacherous demon was responsible for his chocolate addiction, after all. Remove the thorns and the memories shall follow. It's for the best.
A couple of minutes later Aziraphale prepared a cup of oolong and sat down on the Dead Heifer sofa. After a few moments he stood again. That thing was going to have to go as well—it held more stories than Arabian Nights. The angel took his tea out into the shop and sat behind the counter. For entertainment he listened to the grandfather clock tick loudly from the back room like a time bomb, and stared at the front door with a blank expression.
He wondered how long it was going to be before he stopped expecting the phone to ring at this hour and to hear Crowley's perpetually sly, mischievous voice asking him out to dinner. He wondered how long it would take him until he could hear a word or see an object without conjuring up the images of sunglasses and snakeskin shoes, of old cars and houseplants, of expensive Italian suits and a handsome face. He wondered how much of his life he was going to have to erase in order to free himself from the memories of his former friend. But most of all, he wondered how much of himself he had given to Crowley, and if the tattered ruins of what remained after the severance were enough of a reason to keep on going.
Aziraphale placed his palms to his temples and rested his elbows on the counter. He had never felt so alone in his immortal life.
Ever since the Beginning he knew that the wily serpent would always be out there somewhere, being bad and causing trouble for mankind in as many ways as he could. It had seemed harmless back then, even when they argued; it was different because they had always seemed like friends, no matter whose side they were on. They had never been enemies, not really. They just had different opinions, like everyone else in the universe.
But things had changed. Trust had been broken. The very foundation of friendship itself had been shattered. Crowley revealed himself to be a liar and deceiver, just like Hastur had said. Yes, the wily serpent would still be out there somewhere, only now he didn't have to pretend to be 'not-so-bad' to keep an angel fooled. He could let it all hang out, his true self and all of his evil, conniving intentions. He had kept Aziraphale ignorant ever since they had met, a talented actor acting as if he were pretending not to be acting when he was actually acting all along.
Aziraphale needed someone. He had to talk to someone, anyone, even a complete stranger. He couldn't stand to be alone now. He was going to go mad if he had to stay in the bookshop by himself a second longer. He had to leave. He had to go out and just get away from it all. Now.
Tea forgotten, the angel walked over and grabbed his coat as the clock began to chime midnight. As he pulled it on he recalled how many times he had worn the familiar beige garment with the fur collar to meet Crowley at St. James' Park, and promptly tossed it to the floor. He was immortal. He didn't need a bloody coat.
Aziraphale walked out of the shop and closed the door, wincing a little as a chilling breeze swept by him. Instinctively he shoved his hands into his pockets, and felt a piece of paper. He didn't remember pocketing anything today, nor yesterday, for that matter. Puzzled, he pulled out the creased business card and gazed at it.
D. Hastur
Old Vandervent Warehouse
London
He bit his lip and wondered if he were actually desperate enough to seek company and perhaps solace from a duke of Hell. He had already harmed himself enough by hanging about demonic creatures for thousands of years… so what does a brief chat matter now? He was a Principality. He could handle himself if things went awry.
Slipping the card back into his pocket, Aziraphale started off the stoop and began striding quickly towards the Vandervent warehouse.
The decrepit bay door lifted open with a rusty screech, and Hastur feigned mild surprise when he saw Aziraphale standing there in the dark with his arms crossed and his shoulders hunched over as if warding off an internal chill. His nose was red, his face chapped and puffy, and he didn't even need to be wearing mascara in order to tell that he had been crying.
"I c-couldn't find your front door," he stammered, possibly from the night air but probably from his emotional state. "I went round and knocked everywhere. I was afraid you had already gone."
"I apologise, Your Highness, I was busy and didn't hear you," the duke lied, pleased to discover that his tardiness in answering had left the angel's nerves in tatters. "Do come in, won't you."
"Th-thank you."
"I must say, I wasn't expecting anyone at this hour. It's quite dangerous to travel this end of town at night, especially alone. But you can take care of yourself, can't you?"
The metal door slid down with a bang, and Aziraphale was lost in the pitch darkness with a demon. His heart began to pound frantically.
"Is there something you would like to talk about?" came the disembodied voice. "Come, I have a more comfortable place to entertain guests."
Aziraphale heard footsteps walking away from him, and then they abruptly stopped.
"Forgive me, Your Highness—demons aren't accustomed to remembering manners."
A friendly yellow-orange light flared up and illuminated the interior of the loading bay. Hastur smiled charmingly at the angel's worried expression, who saw that the source of the light was coming from the demon's hand: a gently billowing ball of flame was burning soundlessly from his palm like a torch.
He gestured with it politely. "This way."
Aziraphale followed the duke nervously through the cold, dank corridors of the warehouse until one hall opened up into a sprawling central room with a high ceiling. Large windows high up on the walls allowed faint moonlight to filter in, and a railed walkway ran about the circumference, perhaps where managers had once stood to oversee the activities of the workers. It was upon reaching this room that Hastur extinguished the flame and waved his hand. Lights magically came on, revealing a Victorian style parlour that looked as if it had been plucked from a 19th century mystery novel and dropped into the middle of an industrial factory. All it lacked was a crackling fireplace. Nevertheless, it made the furniture seem all the more soft and appealing when surrounded by cold, hard metal and concrete.
"Have a seat and make yourself at home," Hastur bade.
"This is quite a cosy place you've got here," Aziraphale sniffed as he sat down on one end of a dark red chaise. "I never thought that a demon would have such an appreciation for- augh!"
The angel sprang up in surprise and looked down to where he had been sitting. A wheezing Chihuahua crawled out from behind one of the pillows and gasped, "Watch where you put that gigantic ass of yours, I was sleeping!"
Aziraphale's face described a stunned look, either at the fact that the tiny dog in the sweater had spoken, or the fact that he'd had the audacity to mention the angel's derriere.
Hastur laughed and sat down in the chair opposite the chaise. "You'll have to forgive Ed, Your Highness. We don't usually have guests."
"Highness?" Ed pretended to look apologetic. "Er, my bad. I'm a little cranky when I wake up."
"No, no, that's all right," said Aziraphale, sitting down again on the other side of the chaise. "I should have looked first." He glanced over at Hastur. "Is he…?"
"A demon?"
"American. I'd always imagined Chihuahuas to speak like Cheech Marin."
"Ha, no," Hastur said, reaching over to the lamp table beside his chair and taking a cigar from the box. He put it between his teeth but didn't light it. "I'm afraid Ed here is one of Hell's numerous imps. He was my personal assistant before an accident got him stuck in the body of a large rat."
Aziraphale glanced uneasily at the imp-dog sitting next to him, scratching an ear with a hind leg. "How unfortunate," he murmured.
"Hardly," Ed muttered. "I only had one arm before. Compared to that, this body is fricking awesome."
"Ed," Hastur interrupted, sounding annoyed, "why don't you go chase tyres and leave our guest alone, hm? He and I have much to discuss."
"All right," Ed sighed, hopping off the chaise. He tip-tapped away into the dark corners of the warehouse and presumably out to do exactly what his boss had suggested.
Aziraphale stared after him with a hollow, melancholy expression. "It must be nice," he said softly, "having an associate to keep you company."
"Associate?" Hastur scoffed, lighting his cigar. "If you could even call him that. More trouble than he's worth, the bloody twit."
"Aren't they all?" The angel turned his head to gaze at the duke. "I'm sure you said the same thing about Ligur."
For the briefest of seconds, Hastur's façade faltered and a blank emptiness settled into his dark eyes. Then with a blink it disappeared.
"Ligur's dead," he said matter-of-factly. "I've gotten over it. Which is something that you need to be thinking about as well, angel. Judging from your appearance I'd be hard-pressed to say that you haven't been in mourning."
Aziraphale sniffed and gazed at the floor. "Is it that obvious?"
"Glaringly. Listen, you can't have second thoughts about this sort of thing. What's done is done and you should just learn to accept it and move on."
"I've tried," Aziraphale choked, blinking rapidly. "I really have tried, but I just can't- I can't seem to… I-I feel as if half of me has gone missing."
"That feeling will fade in time, I assure you," said Hastur. "Soon you'll forget all about him, and everything will be as it should again. Aziraphale."
The angel raised his head. His cheeks were shiny and wet, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy. He looked awful, but more importantly, needy and vulnerable.
Hastur forced a concerned smile onto his face. "Would you like some tea? Or perhaps something a bit stronger?"
The angel hiccupped and sighed gratefully. "Yes, tea would be lovely," he almost laughed, wiping his face on his sleeve.
With a wave of the duke's hand, a fully stocked tray appeared on the coffee table, teapot steaming invitingly. "Is Ceylon all right, or would you prefer a different blend?"
"No, it's just perfect, thank you," Aziraphale sniffed again, leaning over to prepare a cup.
"Don't mention it," Hastur said with a creeping grin, watching with satisfaction as the angel spooned an odd, silvery sugar into his tea and stirred.
"I feel like such a fool," he said shakily, holding the cup and saucer in his hand and sitting on the edge of the chaise. "All this time, I was in so much danger and never even realised it. I can't believe that I didn't see it before. It was so obvious, I'm… I'm positively ashamed of myself."
Aziraphale bowed his head and dejectedly sipped his tea.
"He had you from the Beginning," the duke said helpfully. "Anyone could have fallen for his wiles. He's an expert, that one. Don't blame yourself for being fooled, blame yourself for hanging onto the farce you call a friendship. The sooner you put that behind you, the sooner you can get back to where you belong, in that shining holy light you people love so much."
"And what about you?" Aziraphale asked timidly, and then tipped his teacup back to take a generous gulp.
"Me, oh, don't worry about me," Hastur blew a cloud of smoke to the side. "I'm returning to Dis just as soon as I take care of a few miscellaneous tasks. This is all off the record, you know. As soon as I leave Earth we're going to be enemies again."
"I understand," the angel said, pouring his second cup and stirring in heaping spoonfuls of sugar. "In fact, I… I came here partly because I wanted to tell you how much I appreciate all that you've done for me, and how thankful I am that you risked so much for the sake of truth." Sip. "I think it was very courageous of you and I owe you my grace because of it."
"You know I went through all this just because I hate Crowley, right?"
"Yes, of course." Sip.
"Good. Because the last thing I need is an angel trying to pin a medal on me for being an hero."
Aziraphale laughed lightly and sounded relieved. Hastur smiled and it was anything but light.
"No, I suppose not," the angel agreed, pouring his third cup and scraping the bottom of the sugar jar. "But all the same, I'm grateful that you were able to put aside our differences to meet me like this." Gulp. The drained teacup was placed on the tray next to the empty sugar jar. "I can't tell you how… glad and fortunate I feel to be… to have been saved in the nick of time before I…"
And suddenly Aziraphale was weeping, shaking his head slowly back and forth and choking out sobs that shook his entire frame. It was alarming. Hastur barely had to pretend to be concerned; he placed his cigar on the ashtray and walked over to sit on the chaise next to the distraught angel.
"I-I came so close to F-Falling and I didn't e-even know it-! It terrifies me," he gasped. "How could I ha-have been so blind?"
"There there, Your Highness," Hastur murmured, placing a thin hand on the trembling shoulder. "At least you are safe now." And then most terrible, evil grin crept onto the duke's lips like a deadly shadow in the night.
Aziraphale hiccupped, turned, and threw an arm about the demon, pressing his face against his chest and the unfamiliar scent of clothes. He was thin, more sharp and sinewy than Crowley, but the body was just as warm. It didn't matter anyway; Aziraphale needed someone to hold.
Hastur, fighting back the instinctive urge to shove the disgusting creature off of him, placed his arms about the angel and endured the sniveling for as long as he could bear, which was not very long at all. Then, very gently, he took him by the shoulders and eased him away.
Aziraphale, eyes dilated and vacantly cloudy, stared at Hastur's face with swollen, trembling lips as fat tears ran down his flushed cheeks one after the other like raindrops on a window pane.
"You don't look well, angel," the duke breathed. "Perhaps you should lie down."
Aziraphale's eyes opened a little wider as he felt the demon begin to push him down onto the cushions, but when he tried to resist it felt as if all the energy had been drained from his body; he could barely even lift his arms.
Soon he was lying flat on the chaise, staring up at Hastur who was hovering over him on his hands and knees, an unholy light glimmering in his dark eyes.
"Stop…" Aziraphale whispered distantly. "What are y-"
"Shh, it's all right," Hastur shushed, caressing the plump cheek with his rough hand. "You're in pain. I can make you feel better."
The hand travelled down the angel's neck and began to unbutton his collar. Aziraphale winced, fought to clear his mind, and failed. He began to groan softly in protest, but found that the more he tried to speak, the more his larynx seemed to constrict. One button after another was undone until none remained, and the invasive hand drew aside the halved cloth to expose a smooth, pale chest and belly.
Aziraphale said in a strangled whisper, "Wh-what did… you…"
"If I were you I wouldn't waste your breath," Hastur advised. "Your voice will be completely gone soon. Couldn't have you pulling a stunt with the heavenly tongue like last time, could I? It's a shame, though—I was really looking forward to hearing you scream."
Fright and confusion caused the angel's eyes to widen. The demon cackled.
"Oh, come now, don't look so surprised! You knew that something was coming, you had those premonitions, remember?" When he spoke next, it was with Aziraphale's voice. "Crowley, trouble is brewing. I think something terrible is going to happen."
"You…" Aziraphale rasped. "S-set me up…!"
"Yes, all those months of spying on you and that snake bastard really paid off, otherwise I'd never known you had such a sweet tooth," Hastur said, unable to conceal his infernal delight. "Speaking of which, I hope you enjoyed the tea tonight. The sugar was complimentary of Hell's Kitchen. The special on the menu was paralysis, so it looks as if you and I are going to be spending some quality time together." He ended with a sinister laugh.
Aziraphale looked frightened, regretful and angry all at once. "B-bastard…"
"You trust demons far too much, angel," Hastur muttered, straddling his hips. "You know, trust is like virginity. Once you give it away, there's no getting it back."
He reached inside his blazer and withdrew a gleaming dagger from an unseen pocket. The hilt was black onyx, carved into the shape of a ram skull and trimmed with silver. Two rubies glowed within the sockets for eyes, and the symbols that were etched onto the blade spoke of its hellish origins in the forges of the Deep.
Aziraphale realised all too late that he was in a serious, life-threatening predicament and began to squirm weakly, but whatever Hastur had given him was hindering his ability to summon any of his ethereal powers—he was at the mercy of Hell, and this time the joke was literal.
"Let's see," the duke drawled, running his tongue across the razor sharp steel. "We need to get rid of this pesky corporation of yours. Any ideas, angel? No? All right then, I can be creative. I wonder, how many cuts does it take to get to the ethereal centre of an ethereal being? Let's find out."
He pressed the edge of the knife to the soft flesh of Aziraphale's belly and drew a swift line to his collarbone. The wound began to hiss and steam, for like any a weapon created in Hell, it had the power to eat through a mortal corporation and dissolve it as easily as sulphuric acid. The angel didn't feel the pain until the blood began to ooze, sizzling from his cloven flesh. The incision was shallow enough that it didn't disembowel him, but deep enough that streams of blood began to course down the sides of his body in burning rivulets.
"One..."
Hastur used the tip of the blade to slice a swath across Aziraphale's chest, perpendicular to the first cut, and making the angel's body resemble a living autopsy. Aziraphale opened his mouth to cry out but no sound came forth; he was unable to numb himself to the earthly pain he was experiencing and helpless to stop the slow, methodic butchering.
"Two..."
A slender ribbon of blood followed the wake of the infernal metal as it carved a searing line into the angel's throat, barely missing numerous veins and tendons.
"Three…"
The cold steel was pressed flat against his belly again, gliding gently across his skin and smearing crimson swaths of blood in its wake. The whole time Hastur gazed into Aziraphale's pale, terrified eyes, relishing the panic and pain he saw stirring in their depths, savouring it as if he had desired nothing but this for time uncounted. He brought his free hand around to cradle the warm neck beneath him and hold it steady.
For a moment they stared soul to soul at one another, then with sudden and unexpected swiftness, the dagger was thrust into flesh, deeper and deeper until the hilt kissed the surface of bloody skin and the tip of the blade met the chaise cushion on the other side. Aziraphale's mouth opened wide to gasp wordlessly in shock and agony, and reflexively seized a hold of the demon's shoulders, clenching tightly in a white-knuckled grip.
"I never thought I'd want to penetrate an angel," Hastur murmured, "but I suppose there's a first time for everything."
Aziraphale felt the impossibly cold metal as it pierced through muscle and organ and tissue, and clenched his teeth, bearing it in absolute silence The dagger twisted cruelly, severing the column of nerves that kept his mortal corporation alive—there was a flicker, a shimmer, and the angel's earthly guise melted away.
Wings burst from beneath him and sent Hastur tumbling off the chaise. Aziraphale sobbed a ragged gasp, grabbed the handle of the weapon that was still embedded in his abdomen and wrenched it free, dropping it to the rug. He panted and placed a trembling hand over the bloodstain forming on his white mantle, and attempted to bolster enough strength to pull himself upright. But it hurt far too much—the infernal dagger had wounded his true form.
With a stifled groan of misery, Aziraphale half-fainted half-toppled off of the chaise and beside Hastur, who was already crawling to his knees. Using his last reserve of energy, the angel rolled over onto his side with hopes of crawling away, but a hard hand seized hold of his wing and pulled, ripping pristine white feathers out painfully. He grimaced, and then the duke was on top of him, grinding his wings into the floor and grinning maniacally as he took the round face in his hand.
"There you are," he said with a playful tone. "Surely you weren't thinking of leaving already, were you, Your Highness? That would be quite rude."
The fingertips of a pale, shaking hand brushed against the pommel of the blood-soaked weapon lying on the rug and slowly tried to grasp it.
Hastur brought his face down towards Aziraphale's, who shut his eyes tightly and tried to turn away.
"Aw, what's the matter?" the duke pouted. "Am I not handsome enough for you, dove? Perhaps you'd put out if I looked like Crowley, is that it?"
He began to stroke through Aziraphale's hair, murmuring seductively, "Either way, you belong to me now. You have no power to resist, and he who cannot resist cannot beg for forgiveness when he Falls."
The angel shrieked mutely when his mouth was pried open like a clam and a disgustingly moist, hot tongue slithered its way inside. He gagged and wanted to struggle but his body would not cooperate; Hastur's lips met Aziraphale's in blasphemous, revolting union and there was nothing he could do about it except lie in a state of semi-paralysis and await the worst fifteen minutes of the rest of his life. And strangely enough, all he could think about was-
The drone of a revving engine suddenly sounded, louder and louder until a tremendous explosion rocked the entire warehouse, metal shrieking as the front of a 1926 Bentley came crashing through the side of the building and stopped after a few metres.
The engine belched smoke and fire before dying with a sputter. The windscreen was in shards, all the tyres were flat, the left rear wheel abruptly collapsed in half, both front fenders were gone, one headlamp was missing and the other was dangling by a coil of wires like a popped-out eyeball.
The duke had broken the damning kiss to stare with incredulous shock at the vehicle that had ruined the mood, momentarily distracted.
Aziraphale gasped for breath and gritted his teeth. With a burst of newfound strength, he wrapped his fist around the hilt and buried the bloodied dagger into Hastur's shoulder.
The demon roared in pain and reeled back, clutching his wounded arm; the traces of holy blood on the embedded blade caused his infernal corporation to sting and burn as if on fire. Aziraphale turned himself over and attempted to get on his hands and knees, but his arms were shaking too badly and his stab wound was excruciating. He slumped down onto his stomach and heard the sound of metal being thrown against the floor. Hastur had removed the dagger.
"You little bitch," a voice snarled behind him, and then the sharp heel of a boot was digging into his back between his wings, pinning him to the floor. "You're going to live just long enough to regret that."
The angel cringed as more weight was applied to the boot. From the wreckage of the vehicle, a metal door could be hear screeching open, and glass crunching under snakeskin shoes. Then a familiar voice came from the shadows: "I warned you, Hastur, touch him and I'll kill you."
Both the duke and Aziraphale slowly looked up to see none other than Crowley saunter forth from the darkness over broken glass and twisted metal. His suit was in tatters, the jacket missing, his white shirt untucked, ragged and stained, drenched with sweat. Pieces of glittering glass speckled his body like stardust. He was streaked with blood from head to toe, covered with scratches, and his disheveled black hair fell haphazardly into his amber eyes as he stood glaring at Hastur with murderous intent.
"Say your fucking prayers," he uttered.
"Cr… Crowley…" Aziraphale choked under his breath, tears brimming in his eyes with disbelief.
Butchered, crippled ebony wings spread open with all the silent menace of a cobra raising its hooded head to strike, and Hastur looked as if he had seen a ghost. A holy one.
"Y-you! You're supposed to be dead! I gave you enough poison to kill a prince of Hell!"
Crowley smiled recklessly and strode forward, limping slightly. "I guess somebody Up There must like me."
Hastur snarled and ground his heel into the angel's back, eliciting an expression of suffering from his quarry. Crowley immediately froze.
"You're not getting him back, Crawly. He's mine now."
"He's had nothing to do with this," came the level reply. "I was the one who killed Ligur. It's me you want."
"You're right," the duke said, removing his foot from Aziraphale and taking a few steps towards the challenging demon. "And after I finish ripping your flesh to pieces, that idiotic angel of yours is going to be the spoils of my victory. And I will spoil him, Crawly, in all the filthy ways you could only dream of."
There was a tearing sound, and a larger, more nicely-groomed pair of wings unfolded from Hastur's back and stretched wide in all their intimidating, unholy terror .
Crowley took a step backwards, eyes darting from Aziraphale to the rapidly-advancing duke of Hell. It soon became painfully clear that he had failed to come up with a suitable back-up plan again, but he wasn't going to run away this time, not after the torture he had endured. Hastur's had it coming to him for years, and now it was Anthony Crowley's turn to show the bastard who-
An uppercut promptly sent Anthony Crowley airborne and crashing against the mangled grill of the Bentley, leaving a monstrous dent in it. Before he could recuperate, Hastur reached down and grabbed him by the throat, hoisting him up and off his feet. Crowley hissed and scrabbled at the hand, and then placed a poorly-aimed but painful kick in Hastur's gut. The duke let out an "oof!", dropped his opponent, and doubled over. Crowley hit the floor with a plan; he turned around grabbed the licence plate strut of the Bentley, twisting it off with a grunt and crawling to his feet. He held the iron rod in both hands and waited until Hastur had raised his head.
Babe Ruth would have been proud. There came a crack as the strut connected with the duke's head and sent him careening several metres to the side, where he toppled to the floor and didn't move.
Panting, Crowley dropped the metal bar with a clang and fell back against the Bentley, wiping the spatters of blood from his face. Movement caught his eye, and he looked across the warehouse floor to see Aziraphale pull himself onto the chaise and close his eyes. The blood from his stab wound had created a large, ugly stain on the front of his uniform.
"Angel," Crowley uttered, and stumbled forward quickly, crossing the room with erratic steps. He fell to his knees beside the chaise and took his friend's cold, bloody hand in his own. One blue eye opened and looked down at him.
"Said I never wanted… to see you again," Aziraphale managed to whisper with much effort. "But I've never… been more glad to see you than now."
Crowley smiled like he didn't care who saw him, and it was the most beautiful thing in all the world. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic Ziploc bag filled with white powder.
"I need you to take this," he said.
Any sort of hopefulness that had been on Aziraphale's face promptly dropped off and settled into a dully incredulous expression. "Crowley," he rasped, "I'm wounded, bleeding, and half-paralysed… and you want me to start a cocaine habit?"
"It's not cocaine, Oz, it's medicine."
"How do I know that?"
There came a low groan from where Hastur had fallen, and Crowley pressed the bag into Aziraphale's hand urgently.
"Trust me," he demanded, but his eyes were begging desperately. "Aziraphale, you have to trust me."
The angel looked strangely sad as he turned his head away. "I don't trust demons anymore," he murmured.
"And I don't blame you. Now hurry and take it before Hastur comes round."
"How do I do that?"
"I don't know. You figure it out."
"Where did you get this?"
The demon looked vaguely anxious. "It was given to me by someone. They left a note with instructions to bring it to you." He glanced over his shoulder and then back at Aziraphale. "Look, I don't have time to tell you about it right now. Just trust me and take it. I'm going to try to buy you some time, okay?"
"You're not going to kill him, are you?"
"I don't think I could, not in the shape I'm in," Crowley said grimly. "I'm a few more sucker punches away from unconscious, so take the medicine now. If I get bludgeoned to death out there and Hastur comes back for you, at least you'll have the strength to get the hell out of here."
"Crowley, I…"
On the other side of the warehouse, Hastur was climbing to his feet and growling broken curses.
"Oh shit," Crowley muttered. He stood quickly and tried to move, but the hand he had been holding suddenly clenched and wouldn't let go. He looked down at Aziraphale's face. The angel was smiling.
"…I always knew, deep down inside, that there was a spark of goodness in you."
One side of Crowley's mouth twitched upward into a half-grin. He gave the hand a squeeze, and then darted away towards the Bentley.
Hastur stood groggily and placed a hand to the side of his head where a noticeably rod-shaped, bloody dent gave him the appearance of a bad Picasso painting. With a guttural grumble, he turned around to see if he could find the slimy bastard who delivered the blow, only to receive a second one in the throat. The duke brayed and stumbled backwards.
Crowley, licence plate strut in hand and swinging it like a baseball bat, flapped his wings and struck again. And again. And again. Sprinkles of blood cascaded into the air, bones crunched, feathers went flying, and still Hastur kept crawling to his feet—he was unstoppable. Crowley somehow knew he would be, and knew also that when he had exhausted himself, Hastur was going to tear him limb from bloody limb and enjoy every moment of it. But Aziraphale… at least Aziraphale would have a chance.
So Crowley gritted his teeth and gave it his all, and the rod fell mercilessly upon the duke of Hell. Because, if he were going to die, he wanted to die protecting all he had ever cared about.
Aziraphale tossed the empty bag aside, swept the residual powder from his face and coughed, trying to get the dryness out of his throat. He winced, fighting the urge to wrap his wings around himself and cocoon for a few days. His eyes were watering, his whole body tingling like it had gone to sleep, but he was beginning to feel stronger, slowly. His stab wound was ceasing to ache, but not quickly enough. He gazed across the warehouse at his associate's gradually waning attacks and knew that he was not going to be healed in time.
With nothing left to do and nowhere else to turn, Aziraphale closed his eyes and began to murmur softly.
Each of Crowley's swings grew weaker as his strength dwindled, until at last the strut was intercepted by Hastur's angry fist and wrenched from Crowley's grasp. Crowley did not retreat or even try to defend himself; he simply stood as straight as he could and faced the ugly wrath of Hell with the uncharacteristic brand courage that only comes from being utterly mad and suicidal.
Hastur's bloody hand seized Crowley's neck and picked him up, hurling him into the front of the Bentley with force enough to crush the entire engine carriage like it had struck a brick wall at 65 mph. The wounded demon had just enough time to let out a soft moan before he was grabbed by the hair and dragged to his feet.
Hastur was truly a terrifying sight; an insane gleam shined in his eyes like knives, his face was twitching and dark with rage, his wings trembling from the sheer might of his unleashed ire.
"You," he uttered, releasing the dark hair and grabbing Crowley by the throat, digging his fingers into the vulnerable flesh until it bled, "have not even begun to suffer."
Crowley scratched feebly at the unmovable hand that was crushing the air from his throat, and felt his consciousness begin to darken around the edges.
"I don't understand," hissed Hastur between clenched teeth. "Why fight for an angel who knows your secret? What reason have you got to pretend to be his friend anymore? He'll never trust you again. You're finished!"
"You're… wrong," Crowley gasped. "He trusts me."
"And why would you think that?"
"Because he's-" Blood spattered from the demon's mouth. "-my friend. And he knows… that I love him."
Hastur looked almost nauseated, his sharp features twisting into an expression of complete loathing and revulsion. "You're disgusting, Crawly, you sniveling worm of a traitor," he sneered, tightening his grip. "Hell will be glad I got rid of you."
Crowley gurgled blood, closed his eyes, and waited to die. He wasn't thinking about his pain anymore, or death, or Hastur. No, only that damned, bloody, stupid, wonderful angel, and all the trouble that being his friend had caused. He realised, then, it had been worth it. If only there were some way to know that Aziraphale would get out of this unharmed and spend the rest of eternity collecting books and Regency silver snuff boxes, and puttering around London while dressed in styles forty years passed, Crowley thought, perhaps dying wasn't so bad after all.
"Halt!" shouted an unfamiliar voice, and blinding light shot through the entire warehouse like a laser cannon.
Aziraphale winced. Hastur winced. Even Crowley winced, and his eyes were already closed. The duke dropped his quarry to shield his vision. Aziraphale slid off the chaise and onto the floor, covering his face with his arms. Crowley laid on his back, breathed shallowly, and waited to die.
A heavily-accented voice barked from the light: "Schwartz! Mathilde! Stellst ihr diesen Herzog unter Arrest!"
Hastur heard a pair of approaching footsteps, and lowered his arms in time to have a white leather glove crack him one right in his nose, followed by a sharp knee to the groin, followed by a solid punch in the eye. Moaning, he fell to the floor and was suddenly staring at a shiny white pair of knee-high stiletto boots with heels that resembled knitting needles.
Looking up, he saw a beautiful woman attached to them. She was dressed in skintight white PVC and had long black hair. Her lips were the colour of murder, she wore an eye patch over one eye and gratuitous mascara on the other, and she was tapping a riding whip against her thigh.
"Who the hell are you?" Hastur demanded.
He was suddenly taken by the collar and face to face with the most frightening human being he had ever laid eyes on°.
(°And this was after he had seen John Waters' Pink Flamingos.)
"Das," the man-shaped terror muttered, "ist mein seester, you dumm fick."
And all Hastur could say was, "Oh."
Aziraphale lifted his head when the light seemed to fade, and glanced around cautiously. He tried to get on his feet but slipped and fell, jamming his wing into the coffee table painfully.
"Herr Engel," growled a gruff, sub-sonically deep voice from above, and Aziraphale looked up to see the human equivalent of Mount Everest extending a giant, beefy, hairy-knuckled hand toward him. "Komm wis me if you want to liff."
"Oh my," said Herr Engel, but accepted the mighty hand, mostly because he was afraid of what would happen if he declined.
The gargantuan German yanked him up as easily as a sack of kraut and into his big, muscular arms. Aziraphale didn't know what they fed this fellow, but it probably wasn't fig leaves and sushi. He latched his arms around a neck like a tree trunk and held on, hoping that he would have at least a shred of dignity remaining before the end of the night.
Meanwhile, Crowley was beginning to get quite comfortable on the broken glass and metal he was resting on when a shadow fell over him. He blinked open his eyes and stared at the face looking down at him, a familiar, androgynous one that smiled kindly.
"Herr Crowley," it said, and kneeled down by the wounded demon. "You are not badly hurt, yeah?"
"Think I might live," the demon replied as his rescuer helped him to his feet. "I know you, don't I?"
"Yess, you do," said a different voice, and Crowley turned to see another man dressed in similar attire; he had dark hair, green eyes, and wore a black arm band with the symbol of odegra emblazoned onto it.
"I am Kristof," he said. "Das ist Senne-" He gestured to the androgynous young man.
"-Eis-" He pointed to the mountain that was carrying Aziraphale towards them.
"-Schwartz un Mathilde." He nodded to the two holding Hastur to the ground. "We are Chemikal DessChrist, un we hab komm to safe you… un your engel friend."
Crowley felt like laughing, but not out of joy. In fact, going mad sounded like a smashing good idea about now. "You're... you are. But you've got infernal power. I thought you were… just a bunch of psychotic metalheads."
"Vee are de Knights of Satan," said Schwartz, looking up from where Hastur lay pinned to the ground by a sharp stiletto, "dark agents of de mortal worlt. Vee hab sworn allegians to der Lord of Darkness, un hab been charged wis protectink His Mashesty's serfants, eefan from zere own."
"We are on your seite, Crowley," Senne, the one with the better English, murmured with a gentle smile. "And your friends are also friends of us."
"Thank industrial-fuck-metal for that," Aziraphale tittered nervously as Eis approached and set him on his feet.
"Goddamn it, Alice." Crowley limped forward and grabbed the angel in a tight embrace. "I'm so sorry."
Aziraphale smiled apologetically and placed his arms around the demon's shoulders. "No, Crowley. I'm the one who should be apologising. I allowed my fear to get the better of me and-"
"Don't start. If I hadn't killed Ligur and pissed off Hastur, none of this would have ever happened."
"To tell the truth," said Aziraphale, pulling away, "I'm glad it did."
"Why? You almost died. Did you ever stop to think about how I would feel, being responsible for…"
He trailed off, looking fatigued and ill. The angel's face changed when he finally realised it.
"I never thought of it that way," he murmured. "I'm sorry for making you worry."
Crowley waved a hand forlornly and shrugged.
"As mush as I hate to inserrupt deese reuniting," Kristof said, "we hab to take de Duke in für questioning."
"Un dis whole place needs to be e-leemie-nated," Mathilde drawled as her brother hauled Hastur to his feet and began to tie his arms and wings down with an odd-looking rope.
Kristof nodded. "Senne, you und Eis take Herr Crowley und his engel friend to safety. Schwartz, you know what to do. Mathilde, set up de bomb."
"Bomb?" Aziraphale echoed, to which the green-eyed man smiled dangerously.
"We do not call owerselves Chemical DessChrist for nossink, engel. Mathilde ist de engineer of chemistry wis a specialty in hazardous substances. She has de talent for blowing sings up."
Mathilde had produced a silver attaché case and opened it, revealing vials of strangely-coloured liquid packed carefully in a foam holder. She kneeled down, snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and removed a tangle of wires attached to a digital detonating device.
"Ah," Aziraphale nodded. "Charming girl."
An enraged Hastur exploded into a conniption, thundering, "What's the meaning of this! You bloody bunch of foreign freaks! Who sent you! Who are you working for? I demand an explanation! Do you even know who I AM? I'm a DUKE, that's who, and I outrank you worthless sacks of mortal meat by-"
Schwartz calmly swung his fist into Hastur's mouth, silencing his squabbling. He shook his hand and cracked his knuckles as the duke reeled.
"Nobody is abofe de law, Herzog. You are unter arrest für crossink de Border wisaus permission, unautorised covert operations, possessions of illegal substances wis criminal intent, destruction of person un property, assaultink an agent-"
Hastur began to rant and argue as he was roughly hauled from the warehouse. Crowley felt a tug on his sleeve and turned to see Senne gazing at him intently.
"Come," he said, "we must go now."
"Wait," Crowley said as the two Germans began to usher him and Aziraphale towards a corridor marked EXIT. "What about my car? I can't just… I mean."
"Your automobile es lost, Herr Crowley," Kristof said. "Eefen if it were not saturated in de poison, I doubt it could be repairt, eefen by your powers. I'm sorry."
The demon faltered for a moment, and then Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder. "Let it go, my dear. There are more important matters to be concerned with-"
"Fife minutes un countink," Mathilde called.
"-like that one."
Kristof nodded crisply. "Go wis sem, Crowley."
"Aren't you coming with us?"
"Mathilde und I are stayink here to make sure everysing gets taken care of, un sat all traces of de poison are removt. Your apartment has already been destroit, I am afraid. But do not worry. Everysing will work out."
Aziraphale pulled Crowley's shoulder earnestly. He swallowed dryly and gazed his last upon his beloved Bentley, then turned away.
Sliding into the backseat of Chemical DeathChrist's white Hummer was rather awkward with one's wings still out; Aziraphale had climbed in first and tried to help Crowley in without causing him unnecessary pain to his already mangled wings. Blood got smeared all over the nice leather interior and feathers were soon everywhere. It looked as if someone had sacrificed three chickens and a half dozen crows back there before Eis and Senne strapped themselves in up front and roared off into the night.
Lights from windows and street lamps streaked by, and danced across the two shadowy figures shuffling around in an attempt to get settled without possibly breaking, bloodying or bruising anything that hadn't already been broken, bloodied or bruised.
"Ow. Ow. My leg. That hurts," Crowley grunted as Aziraphale tried to coax him into a comfortable position.
"Don't put pressure on it," the angel said. "Here, lie on your side."
"Nnh. Can't bend my wing that way anymore."
"All right, turn over the other way and put it out in the open. Ah, young DeathChrist lad, could you slide your seat up an inch or so? Yes, thank you, that's good. All right now, Crowley, put your wing here and lie this way."
"Ouch."
"There we are. Don't be shy then, I want to have a look at you and make sure you've not broken your head."
Crowley rested his cheek on Aziraphale's thigh and stared at the bloodstained white linen as plump fingers gently began to comb through his messy black hair.
"Are you still bleeding?" the demon murmured.
"I'm all right, don't worry. It's healing up slowly, and I wager I'll be good in a few days."
Aziraphale used the edge of his standard Heaven-issue uniform to wipe the mess from Crowley's face. The angel's voice fell to a low whisper as he spoke in a language only he and his associate knew.
"Forgive me for doubting you. I was a fool."
Crowley closed his eyes. "You were right to have done it. I would be worried otherwise, given what we are."
"Enemies?"
"No. Incompetent."
Aziraphale laughed softly, and then there was a ground-shaking boom from somewhere far behind the Hummer. The two Germans glanced in the rear view mirror at the small, fiery mushroom cloud pluming over the jagged silhouettes of buildings on the horizon.
"De bitch alvays oferdoes it," Eis grumbled.
"But she es goot at what she does," said Senne cheerfully.
Crowley suddenly grimaced and moaned softly in his throat. Aziraphale thought he was dying.
"What's the matter? Where does it hurt? Do we need to pull over?"
"My… carrrr," the demon moped, trying his damnedest to keep the levees in his eyes from breaking. "My flat. My watch. My houseplants, my compact disc collection, my television-"
He hissed as he drew in a breath and looked as if he were cutting off his own hand instead of giving a verbal list of his bygone possessions.
"-my sofa, my suits, my bed, my liquor, my fucking cellular phone."
He began to writhe. Aziraphale tsked.
"There, there, it's all replaceable, Crowley. Don't make such a fuss."
"But the memories. They're all I've got left now and it's just not enough. I've lost everything."
"Nonsense. You've still got me."
"Gosh, that's really sweet."
"I know."
"Roll down the window. I'm going to throw up."
"Are you serious?"
"No."
"I ought to smack you."
"Make my day," Crowley scoffed, "cause it can't possibly get any worse than this."
Unfortunately, he said that before Aziraphale leaned down and placed a gentle kiss to his forehead.
"Fine. Make a liar out of me then," the demon sighed.
A warm hand patted his cheek. "Try to get some rest, Crowley."
"I don't know if I'll ever be able to sleep again," he said, but closed his eyes nevertheless.
In no time he was whistling softly through his nose as he soundly slept. He didn't even wake when Senne fed Chemical DeathChrist's newest single into the CD player, nor did he hear Aziraphale's comment of, "Say, that doesn't sound half bad."
Ed, the sweater-clad Chihuahua-Demon, stood forlornly in the centre of a large, charred, blackened crater where the Vandervent warehouse once sat. Fires still burned on top of the rubble and plumes of smoke made the terrain resemble a scene from All Quiet on the Western Front. No sign of Hastur or any other infernal life-form could be seen.
"I must have missed one hell of a Felling," Ed said to himself. "Hey, boss! Boss!"
The imp trotted through the wreckage, calling out for the duke and growing increasingly worried. After an hour of fruitless searching, he sat down on a small mound of broken concrete and wondered what he was going to do. Then the bottom line dawned upon him, and he wondered what he was going to do.
"I've been left behind," Ed said slowly. "The boss must've taken the angel and gone back to Dis without me. He left me here all alone. I'm by myself and there's nobody who's gonna look after me. I'm on my own now."
Silence.
"I'm free! Ya ha ha! I'm freeeee!"
The Chihuahua let out a joyous bark and scampered from the ruins, down the dark street, and towards a brand new life waiting for him in the City of Fog.
When Crowley awoke, it was dark. He was lying on his stomach, obviously having been purposely placed there so that he wouldn't be putting weight on his wings, which he realised were still out in the open. He propped himself up a little and found he was in a small bed with an antique wooden headboard. It creaked terribly. The pillows were soft and familiar-smelling, as were the blankets, however tacky and outdated the designs.
Crowley grunted softly as he turned over and sat up, sore and aching from head to sole. He appeared to be in a small, sparsely-furnished bedroom, and the only light came from a dim little lamp sitting on a desk across the room. He recognised the porcelain figure of Lewis Carroll's Alice from Alice in Wonderland, standing beside the lamp as if it had been placed there to watch over him. The only window in the room was open slightly, and the cool air that drifted into the pleasantly warm interior alerted Crowley to the fact that it was nighttime, though which night, he hadn't the slightest.
Pushing the covers aside, he discovered that his wounds had been dressed and bandaged with gauze, and some sort of gooey poultice was covering the bare skin where he had sustained minor cuts and bruises. He also found, to his surprising dismay, that he was nude but for the ugliest, most horrifically retro pair of men's briefs he had ever seen in his life.
It was then that he knew: this could only be the work of Florence Nightingangel.
There came the sound of footsteps padding up stairs. A moment later the door to the little bedroom above a certain bookshop squeaked open, and Aziraphale stepped inside with a smile. Crowley was so unbelievably glad to see him that he was willing to overlook the ugly skivvies for now.
"My dear Crowley," the angel said reverently, and sat in the chair that was already pulled up to the bedside. "How are you feeling?"
"Just wonderful, Alice, perfectly splendid. No, really. How do you think I feel, hmm?"
"Good to see that acidic sarcasm of yours is undamaged. How about those wings?"
"Oh, you mean these two appendages of pure pain sticking out of my back? They're fine, I suppose."
"Hastur did quite a job on you, liebchen. Your flight feathers have been hacked clean off, some of them ripped out completely. It's going to be a while before they regrow."
"I never fly anywhere anymore anyway."
"With anyone anywho."
Crowley didn't mean to let loose a laugh, but he hadn't known it was coming. He looked embarrassed and quickly quieted himself, though he couldn't seem to stop smiling or banish the reddish hue from his cheeks. It was positively endearing.
"Crowley," said Aziraphale, "I'm afraid I've fallen terribly in love with you."
"Nice. You want me to off myself right here, then?"
"I mean it."
"All the more reason."
"I almost lost you."
"Me too. I don't know how I would ever be able to go on without me."
"You're such a bastard."
"I know."
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
"I'm glad."
"Ditto. Let's change the subject now, shall we?"
"Sounds good to me."
"Okay."
"Right then."
Silence.
"Tea for two?"
"That'd be nice."
Nine minutes later Aziraphale walked back into the room carrying a tea tray. He sat in the chair beside the bed and placed the tray on Crowley's lap, and the two shared cups of Earl Grey quietly.
"Nice corporation," said the demon after a while.
"Thanks. It's new."
"I can tell. Looks younger than your last one."
"I hadn't noticed."
"Your eyes are still the same."
"Like yours, they always are."
Silence.
"Good tea. Hits the spot."
"I made yours special."
Crowley almost choked and fought the instinctive urge to spew his mouthful out like a leaking high-pressure valve.
Aziraphale smiled. "Don't worry, it's special in a good way. Kristof stopped by with the band and gave me some sort of antitoxin for you. Said it will help you get your strength back twice as fast."
"When was this?"
"Yesterday. You were sleeping, I thought you'd be cross if I woke you."
"Have they left?"
"Yes. Gone back to Amsterdam, or wherever they came from. Herr Schwartz said he successfully turned Hastur in to the infernal authorities. He's going to go on trial."
Crowley looked deeply perturbed. "I hope I don't have to testify. If he doesn't get the death penalty, I'm just going to save him the trouble and kill myself. He'll never stop trying to get at me, you know that, right?"
Aziraphale nodded slowly.
"And now he's going to be after you, too."
"At least we've got another thing in common. We can watch each other's backs."
"We already do that."
"I suppose so. But speaking of which," the angel said, "what happened?"
"What happened when?"
"Everywhen. After you spent two weeks in marijuana. I mean Amsterdam. And everything thereafter."
Crowley finished his tea and began a long, detailed recount of everything that had happened to him, from his blackouts and internal conflicts to his insatiable impulses and erotic encounter with the Bentley (may it forever burn rubber on a brimstone racetrack Down Below, amen). He was a little shocked to discover how much time had passed without his knowledge, but time means nothing or next-to-nothing to an immortal being anyway, so he didn't allow it to bother him for long. The angel listened intently, leaning forward and gazing at his associate with rapt fascination as he told he story.
"-and then, when I was lying there on the floor of my flat, coughing up blood and paralysed in pain, I saw a light."
Aziraphale perked. "What sort of light?"
"The light at the end of the tunnel, you know, the here-comes-death sort of light." He shook his head vaguely, staring ahead with a blank expression. "It kept getting brighter and brighter, and then it was suddenly gone. I woke up and found myself standing in the kitchen and holding a plastic bag of powder in one hand and a note in the other. I put it in my pants pocket, but you took my pants off, angel."
He smiled at Aziraphale like the cat who ate the canary. The angel looked flustered.
"I'll have you know that I cleaned and folded those shredded kecks of yours, so wipe that smirk off your face."
"I can't move my arms all of the sudden. Wipe it off for me?"
Aziraphale half-grinned and stood to fetch the remains of Crowley's pants from where they lay folded on a chest at the foot of the bed.
"Left back pocket," said the demon. "Ought to still be there if you haven't put them through the heavy wash cycle."
"I haven't," insisted Aziraphale, rifling through the pants until a creased, wrinkled piece of paper fluttered to the floor. He picked it up and opened it carefully. In faded red ink was writ:
You're not fixed yet but still alive.
Did my best, not used to working on
Other types. In left hand is medicine.
(Forgive the Ziploc.) Aziraphael needs
it ASAP. Old Vandervent building, great
peril. Hastur will Fell him w/out you. Make haste.
Also: tell Hastur to take back what
he said about calling me a poncy tosser.
Aziraphale's eyes widened and he lost his breath for a few moments.
"Hey. Oz. You there?"
The angel rose to his feet and sat down beside Crowley, whose eyes narrowed at him.
"You don't look so good, angel. Something wrong? Any idea who wrote this letter, 'cause I sure want to thank the person who did. I mean, they saved my life really, and yours. Hello? Earth to Aziraphale."
"No," said Aziraphale softly, then folded the note and looked up with a small smile. "I haven't the slightest."
"Great," Crowley huffed. "Makes me sick, some Good Samaritan wandering around out there, helping demons. Say, do you think it could have been the DeathChrist psychos? They seem like the type."
"When they were here I asked them how they received their orders to save us, and from whom."
"And?"
The angel shook his head. "All they said was that they had received an anonymous tip that something illegal was going down in London, and to come prepared for confrontation. Everything else is classified, so they said."
"That's bureaucracy for you," Crowley muttered, leaning back. "Bloody business- ow!"
"You can't lie on your wings yet, dearest, they've not healed yet. Come along now, sit up. I'm still sore from my adventures as an angelic pincushion and I know you're not completely crippled, so help me out a little, please, if you wouldn't mind. Thank you."
"Nnh. I need to go get a new corporation, Aziraphale."
"You," he said as he gathered the empty teacups, "are not going anywhere until you can move without moaning, now just relax and I'll prepare some more tea."
"You know, moaning isn't always something that has to be pain-related," Crowley said.
"In a few moments it most certainly shall, unless you remove that hand from my knee."
"Gads, you're a frigid one, aren't you. A regular iceberg. I mean, here I am, trapped in your sodding bookshop like a prisoner, bedridden after saving the day, wearing the ugliest knickers this side of the eighteenth century while being looked after by Nurse Ratchet herself. And you still haven't thanked me for saving your life."
Aziraphale stood and leaned down until he was face to face with Crowley.
"I plan on thanking you for that later," he said in a low whisper, "but right now you're in no condition to accept my gratitude."
Crowley gulped. "I see."
"There's a dear chap." Aziraphale patted his cheek. "Now then, more special tea for Herr Crowley?"
"I was thinking something a little stronger… like a bottle of Bordeaux, perhaps?"
Count Hastur stood out by the garbage-clogged kerb in Dis and gazed up at the Duke Building with the newly vacated corner office on the thirteenth floor, holding the contents of his desk in a cardboard box as he gnashed his teeth in irreparable rage.
"I swear on my life, I'll get you for this one day, Crawly," he uttered. "And your little angel, too!"
SO Not The End