Disclaimer: I own very little.

A/N: I'm terribly sorry for not updating yesterday. In my defence, the first time I could really sit down and write was after 1 AM. After a few mostly sleepless nights because of my exams, I was so tired I couldn't even think straight, plus my asthma'd been acting up all evening. So, I made the selfish decision of not updating. Now, though, I'm giving you a long chapter to make up for that, plus today's chapter (which won't come until later tonight, though.)

Chapter 16:

Religious Recollections

Crowley just stared at the man, who was still looking at him kindly. "Err... I came in by accident," he said, now wildly glancing around. Yes, it was a church of some kind, it seemed; a room full of holy objects, and a priest in attendance. How he hadn't melted yet was anybody's guess. "I'll just be on my way, okay?"

He was just about to flee, sweating with fear, when he heard the priest calling for him. "Do not leave yet, my son," he said. "Those angels are still awaiting outside." As Crowley blinked in confusion, the man smiled. "It would be impossible for me not to notice those angels," he said, "or the holy objects they are all carrying. And I also can sense that you are of the demonic breed. Have no fear, though," he said, a smile still on his lips. "If you are unharmed after this time, you won't be hurt even if you stay for a bit. The holy aura of my little chapel will shield you from any angelic detection."

"But -- how am I unharmed?" asked Crowley, bewildered. "I mean, this is a Christian church, in a way, at least. I should be just a puddle on the floor at the moment, if even that. What is protecting me?"

"I'd say it's mostly the remains of holiness clinging to you," the priest said calmly, seemingly not finding it unusual to stand in the middle of his tiny chapel and be talking with a demon. "Though what I can see of your aura, you appear to be more divine than demonic."

At that, Crowley sputtered. "Now, that's impossible!" he exclaimed. "I'm a fucking Fallen angel! Demons aren't divine. Of divine origin, yes, but we're not in any way divine. Where'd I gotten that much holiness? From the angels? It's not contagious, you know." Nervously, he added, "Is it?"

"Not in the way you fear your darkness is contagious, no," the priest replied. "Your angel is not in any danger of Falling because of you -- unless you tempt him, of course, though I doubt you would do that. However, while his presence does not directly inflict any divinity on you -- well, so it does, but it can't change your aura -- your own decisions and choices, made because of him, can do that. You are changing, Demon -- and you are changing for the better." The priest smiled broadly. "Definitely for the better."

Now, Crowley raised his eyebrows. Just how did this human know all that? And what did the man mean, he was mostly divine? If that were true, he would be an angel, right?

He felt very odd at that thought. What if he truly became an angel again? What would happen?

Well, for one, no angel would be coming after him because of his love for Aziraphale. And there would be no more contacts from Down Below -- that thought alone almost made him wish that he became an angel at the spot. However, he could no more cause any mischief; he'd have to be good and kind and all that jazz, not that he'd ever been the cruelest of demons to begin with. He didn't go in for true evil, just mischief, but he doubted that even that would be accepted if he was one of Heaven's agents.

And besides, if they were on the same side, would they be allowed to both stay positioned on Earth?

Well, maybe they would be. After all, He seemed to be in favour of them, at least enough so not to allow them be broken apart by rapid angels, although He seemed to have forgotten to inform all the angels.

He was shaken from his thoughts by the priest's voice. "To answer what you are probably wondering, I am His servant. He felt that you might need some guidance, and told me to talk to you." The man smiled a bit. "You know, were you to just regret and ask for forgiveness, you would be forgiven."

Now, Crowley snorted disbelievingly. Now, that was a bit too much to believe. "Look, human, I am a demon," he said sharply. "I have claws and fangs, not that they show all the time. My wings are black. Black, not white. I may not know what He wants -- except for play his fucking massive solitaire with us all -- but I do know that no demon has ever Risen." He grimaced. "So, if he truly plans to Raise me, he could just as well give me some sign. After all, he speaks to his angels all the time, doesn't he? I don't ask for much. Well, not much from Him, anyway. As soon as my wings are white, I'll believe that it is possible for me to just whine and be taken back. Until then, well, you can simply just fuck off." Glancing around, he continued, "So tell me, Mister Know-It-All, are those annoying angels still around?"

"I do believe so," the priest replied, appearing entirely unfazed by the angry demon's words. "However, I can show you another way out. There are no angels around there."

Crowley readily followed the man to a small back door. He then slipped out into a dark alley, not bothering to thank the man -- after all, he was a demon, no matter what the idiot human said.

As soon as Crowley had closed the door, the little chapel seemed to start fading away. The priest chuckled slightly, then shook his head, at the same time shaking away his human form. "I do not understand how Aziraphale puts up with such a character on regular basis," muttered Metatron. "Ah, well. It is not my place to judge." Had there been anybody around, they might have heard him mutter quietly, "Although why Uriel wasn't given this task, I do not know." However, there was no one to hear it, and so nobody answered.

And then, the angel disappeared, going to report his mission as an apparent success.

For a moment Aziraphale just stood there, not knowing what to think or do. It seemed all he was capable of at the moment was just standing there and crying. The lower angels hovered about in front of him, seemingly not knowing what to do. Well, he couldn't blame them for that. For everything else he could.

Crowley was dead. That was the only thought in his head now. Crowley was dead, and it was going to take a long time to get him back. And when he came back, would he still be the same Crowley as before?

Suddenly, though, his sad thoughts were interrupted as he felt something -- Crowley's presence. It was dimmed somehow, too faint for him to detect where it was coming from, but it told him that Crowley was still alive, and even relatively well. That thought gave him relief unlike anything else.

"He's alive," he sighed, unable to keep those words inside. "He's alive somewhere."

Of course, the lower angels just had to prove their idiocy by opening their big mouths. "But how is that possible?" asked the girl, looking shocked. "We used all those holy objects on him!"

"...And the holy water!" finished another angel. This, however, he should have not said.

"WHAT?" exclaimed Aziraphale, horrified. "You used holy water on Crowley!"

The leader of the three lower angels squirmed uncomfortably. "Well, yes," he muttered. "Hey, we thought he was evil and all that! So we figured it'd be best if we got rid of him at once!"

"He wasn't even harmed by it," another replied fearfully. "Okay, so he was hurt, but nothing else! He didn't even burn or melt or anything that demons are supposed to do when they come in contact with holy water!"

Now, this truly fascinated Aziraphale. Holy water didn't affect Crowley like it was supposed to? That had to mean something, but what? He didn't dare to even think about the possibilities.

"Well, you wouldn't win him in a fair battle anyway," Aziraphale said bitterly. "He was a cherub before he Fell, and the best warrior there was. The only ones who could win him were -- and still are, I believe -- Michael and Lucifer. You three would hardly offer even a proper distraction for him."

"How can you speak so casually about the Adversary?" asked the girl angel fearfully. "That's blasphemy!"

Now, Aziraphale sighed in frustration. "I wasn't referring to him as he is now," he said irritably. "Believe me, I would not speak lightly about facing him nowadays. However, Lucifer the archangel was quite different from Lucifer the Adversary. I am Gabriel's little brother, and I grew up tugging at Michael's wings and messing up Lucifer's hair. I do not fear speaking of him as he was back when I was little."

Unsurprisingly, the angels seemed quite shocked at this. "You're Gabriel's brother?" asked one disbelievingly, while the other screeched, "You tugged at Michael's wings!"

"Yes and yes," replied Aziraphale irritably. "Now, if you please, I'd like to find Crowley and make sure that he is all right. And you are all going to help me." His tone left no room for arguing.

Gabriel smiled slightly as he wiped a coppery lock of hair from his lover's forehead. Raphael was exhausted, which was only understandable. It was not the first time, either. The healer always put others before himself, never caring how much he himself was hurt if he healed somebody. Of course, this made Gabriel love him only more, but he couldn't help thinking that maybe Raphael could at least sometimes be more selfish. After all, he wasn't the only healer in Heaven capable of healing even bad injuries, and yet he insisted on personally healing everyone who was brought to him instead of telling somebody else to do it. If it hadn't been for Gabriel looking after him, Raphael would have burned out a hundred times already.

Gabriel's thoughts wandered to his little brother, and he shuddered. Now, that was something only Raphael could heal -- and that was truly rare. He now definitely believed Michael's words about Aziraphale still being one of the cherubim, though; no principality could have ever survived close contact with hellfire. His brother had been badly hurt, though. Well, even archangels would have been hurt badly by the hellfire.

That brought up bad memories, from the time of the Fall. Raphael had never been a warrior. He could use a sword as well as the next angel, true, but he had always been a healer first and foremost. And, because of his skills in healing, he had been one of the first to be targeted in the first war to ever be fought.

Gabriel could still remember it like it had happened just moments ago. At one moment, Raphael had been looking at him, shouting something he hadn't been able to hear over the noise of the battle. And the next moment, there had been a flaming sword. It hadn't been divine fire, like the one surrounding Gabriel's own blade; no, it had been a dark, twisted mockery of the holiness those white flames represented. And those flames, that unholy blade, had cut right through his lover, leaving him with a slightly surprised expression.

The blade had run right through Raphael's heart. Anything else his body could have healed, anything else he could have survived. But it had run through his heart, tearing it, and he had fallen down, dead.

Although that was without doubt the worst one, none of Gabriel's memories of that war were pleasant. Like the moment he had seen Aziraphale dying, too.

His dear little brother had stood there, his red and golden armour spotted with angel blood, his eyes shining with divine wrath. Ever new enemies had fallen prey to his sword, his skill only rivalled by three others despite his young age. Two of those three had been locked in a duel in the air above all the others, a sword clashing with another as the two highest of angels had fought. The third had been nowhere to be seen.

Aziraphale had turned around, grinning triumphantly, and Gabriel had grinned back. Then he had cried out in horror as a blade had broken through Aziraphale, the young angel's expression turning from triumphant to slightly surprised. Uriel, who had been fighting beside Gabriel, had frozen.

Aziraphale had fallen to the ground, as lifeless as Raphael. Over his body had another young angel looked at them, his long, black locks flying wild in inexistent wind, his eyes blazing.

Then, before either of the archangels could react in any way, Carowiel had been away.

Even after Aziraphale had managed to reform his body, neither Gabriel nor Uriel had told him just who had struck at him from behind like a coward. They simply couldn't have told him that it had been his dearest childhood friend, the only one besides Michael and Lucifer who would have actually won him in a one-on-one battle. It had been bad enough to tell him that Carowiel had Fallen.

That was one of the things Gabriel meant to ask from the demon. Why had he, well knowing that he was one of the few capable of winning Aziraphale in a fair battle, decided to go about it like a coward?

Raphael frowned in his sleep, and Gabriel reached out a hand to pet his lover's fiery locks of hair. Almost instantly the frown disappeared, and the healer appeared to be sleeping peacefully. The Messenger of God smiled. Leaning forward, he placed a soft kiss on the clear forehead. "Sleep well, love," he whispered gently, a fond smile still lingering on his lips. "You definitely need your rest."

Then he rose and walked out of the room.

Next chapter:

More archangels. More demons.