The visions had gone, receding into his personal darkness like smoke and leaving him quite alone. He felt cold, and noticed he was shivering, but one glance around him told him that he wasn't awake, or if he was, then he'd been moved. He was no longer in the rocky cavern that the Aziraphale-double had tormented him in earlier, but he didn't recognise the unending darkness either, and surmised that he was in fact still unconscious.
That, of course, begged the question of how he knew this. Usually when he was unconscious (admittedly a rarity), he had no idea of it until he woke up afterwards, usually with a splitting headache.
Suddenly, without warning, something brushed his arm. Jumping, he span around swiftly, he was even more surprised to find himself still alone. Heart racing, he waited, his entire body tense.
When he felt something touch his arm this time, his hand shot out and grabbed instinctively, closing tightly on clothing. Glancing up, he spotted a familiar figure, blue eyes bright.
"Crowley?"
"Aziraphale?" His tone echoed his surprise as he loosened his grip. "What are you doing here?"
"I've come to get you out," the ex-angel replied with a small smile.
"You can't come here, it's too dangerous!" Crowley hissed. Aziraphale's face fell.
"After all we've been through? I came here so you could escape, Crowley."
Crowley's heart tightened. "You shouldn't have – you shouldn't be down here at all…"
Before the angel could reply, they both heard footsteps, and a demon appeared, flaming blade drawn.
"Angel, look out!" Crowley yelled futilely as the demon bore down on them, raising his blade. It was too late however – his momentum carried him forwards and Aziraphale's shock held him in place. The blade fell as predictably as a scythe, cutting through Aziraphale's back like a hot knife through butter. The intense blue eyes flew open as he fell forwards, Crowley jumping to catch him.
Trying to hold up the dying angel, he felt his eyes prick with rare tears. Scrabbling to stop the thick blood that was soaking the woollen jumper, he gently lowered him to the floor.
He felt his throat constrict as, wordlessly, the familiar blue eyes slid shut in that deathly pale face.
When he looked up to see their attacker, the demon had gone. Standing, he tried desperately to see where he'd gone, to follow him, to revenge his friend. He couldn't spot him at all, so he glanced back down at Aziraphale, staggering back when he saw that the body had disappeared.
Walking backwards, completely confused, he jumped when he walked straight into something solid, and turning swiftly, was shocked to see Aziraphale standing in front of him. His jumper was soaked in crimson, his face cold and pale, and his eyes burned like ice.
"You killed me, Crowley," the ex-angel stated, stepping forwards. Crowley retreated, his mind working madly to understand beneath the haze of pain and darkness. "I'm dead because of you. Did you know this would happen? Did you engineer this, to kill an angel? I bet that would get you in Their good books again - is that why you did it?
"All this time, I thought you were trying to be good, all this time you pathetically tried to reverse your Fall – and look where it got you! Rejected by Heaven, scorned by Hell, murderer of the only friend you had… What do you have left?"
Aziraphale smiled, the expression full of sadness. "You're all alone, Crowley – there's no-one that can help you now. All this time I thought you were really trying… but you killed me, didn't you? You don't kill your friends if you're an angel, you should know that. So what's left for you? All alone again, and nothing to save you from the truth – I'm so disappointed in you."
The last five words echoed around his mind as the angel faded, leaving Crowley alone again. Tears streaming his cheeks, he curled up into a ball as mindless oblivion returned.
Glancing down the corridor, he put his hand to the door and turned carefully, wondering if Hell would boobytrap her own doors. Luckily, they didn't appear to be quite that paranoid, and it opened easily, swinging open.
It was quite odd, he noticed immediately, how the black marble floor of the corridor seamlessly fitted into the rocky, gravel ground, which spread beneath his feet and upwards to make the walls and ceiling of a cave complex. A wave of smoky air wafted across his face and his eyes, suddenly stung, started to water. Pulling his jumper quickly over his arm, he pressed the woollen cloth over his nose and squinted, stepping forwards.
He suddenly realised how stupid this entire operation was. All right, so the receptionist had said that Crowley was here at least, so it wasn't a complete fool's mission. Still, he was in one of the lowest, nastiest, least-escapable parts of Hell. Plus, he still wore the face he had for six thousand years, and if anyone recognised him, he'd be worse off than the demon he was here to rescue.
He was distracted from this increasingly panicked train of thought by a noise. It was a faint cry, and though Aziraphale had never heard of a demon in pain before, he knew, almost instinctively that it was Crowley. Dashing in that direction, he disregarded any thought of concealment as he glanced around before spotting a small curled up figure; its back against a cove in the wall, presumably an attempt to shelter himself from the barren environment or his persecutors.
Sinking to his knees, he reached out for his friend's shivering shoulder, his face creasing in sorrow.
"Crowley," he whispered, looking for a part of his arm that didn't look painful to the touch and settling for a spot near his elbow.
To his surprise, as soon as his fingertips brushed cloth, Crowley started awake, flinching away from him as wild yellow eyes flew open. What hurt more was the open hostility in his gaze as it focused on the ex-angel.
"Back for some more fun?"
Aziraphale frowned, confused.
"What?"
"Oh don't bother to pretend," the bloodied demon spat, his pale face contorting into an expression of hate. He flung his arms out, making a free target of his chest. "Come on, hit me."
"Crowley, it's me," Aziraphale tried, glancing around to check there was no-one coming. "I've come to get you out of here."
"Yeah yeah yeah," Crowley replied nonchalantly, leaning back against the wall. "Like I'm going to fall for that. I have been a demon as long as most – I know exactly what techniques you're going to-"
"Crowley, listen to me!" the ex-angel hissed, interrupting. "I don't know what they've been doing or saying to you, but it's really me. You know, the angel who always tells you off for drowning ducks in St James? You took me there yesterday, and shocked the life out of me by taking off your sunglasses in public. You yelled at me for being a selfish prick, remember?"
Crowley just stared at him, his eyes looking a little doubtful be didn't relax.
Aziraphale wracked his brains. "Er, I once changed the music in your car for Christian rock and you didn't forgive me for three years, and only when I'd turned it into 'The Decapitated Carrots' and miracled you a bottle of your favourite wine. Then, in revenge, you made the doorbell in my shop cackle loudly instead of ringing until you got sick of the noise every time you visited."
"It was 'The Decimated Carrots'," the demon replied, but his lips were curling into a lop-sided nostalgic smile. Then the next minute he was strictly serious. "What on Earth are you doing here, Aziraphale? You're going to get yourself killed!"
"I came looking for you," he answered a little lamely. "I was worried."
"Well, can't you be worried a long way away?" Crowley asked wearily, pulling his jacket around himself, as if searching for warmth.
"I came to get you out of here," Aziraphale said, and the demon just gaped at him.
"Are you insane?" he asked eventually, staring as if the ex-angel had grown another head. "This is Hell, not a prisoner of war camp – we can't tunnel out, hiding the dirt in our trousers!"
"I am confiscating your war films collection when I get home," Aziraphale commented. "And, OK, I hadn't thought I'd actually get this far, but there must be a way we can get out of here…"
"Let's review then shall we?" Crowley asked with a bite of sarcasm. "There's you – the Clipped angel wearing clothes that are practically a neon sign to those miles around saying in foot-high letters 'Angelic Pansy' and not even enough brains to realise the position he's in. Then there's me, and I highly doubt I can stand, let alone make a daring escape attempt."
"I am not a pansy," he objected.
"Are too," the demon returned, leaning back and closing his eyes, a hint of a smirk playing on his expression.
"Well, maybe a little," Aziraphale conceded as Crowley snorted. "But there must be a way out. I got in, didn't I?"
"The biggest stroke of luck ever seen," the demon commented. He sighed. "Aziraphale, much though it goes against my worse nature and general attitude, you've got to get out of here. There's a chance that if you go on your own, you won't get noticed."
"Self-sacrifice, my dear?" Aziraphale teased gently. "I thought that was an angelic trait. Anyway, I can't just leave you here."
"I'll ask nicely?" the demon asked, but he shook his head.
"Come on, let's see if you can stand." Reaching over, he took Crowley's hand in his and stood, gently pulling the demon up with him. After a few false starts and with the demon clutching rather tightly to his hands, Crowley stood, testing his legs. After a few seconds, his better-than-human constitution rallied and he stepped back, though his hand didn't leave Aziraphale's.
"Here, my dear," the ex-angel offered his shoulder. Shifting into a position where he could lean on his friend, Crowley hissed as he moved painful limbs, biting down hard on his lip.
"Right, Mr Optimist," he said eventually, glancing up and down the cavernous corridor. "Where to now?"
"Well," Aziraphale thought hard. "I came from that direction, which is probably the only way out. They'll notice us if we go past reception – is there another way out?"
Crowley shrugged. "No idea. Though," a thought hit him. "We're in the main building, right? Big decorative doors?" The ex-angel nodded. "Then we shouldn't be too far from Lucifer's Landing."
"He has an American-style holding?" Aziraphale asked, puzzled.
"No, as in landing-ground. The place were we all Fell," Crowley replied, his eyes shadowed. "Anyway, there should be a way out there, and it beats going all the way to the top only to come back down again."
"Right, it's a plan."