Chapter Ten
They both turned, fast enough to cause whiplash as the almost polite, quiet voice interrupted. There, to Aziraphale's dread, in front of the desk, stood an angel. It couldn't be anything else – all white robes and flowing red hair and wings impractically unfurled. It also held a sword.
"Who're you?" Aziraphale asked, tensing.
"Raphael, of the Holy Command," the angel replied importantly. "Are you Aziraphale, Principality and Bearer of the Flaming Sword? Accessory to ending the Apocalypse and Consorter of Demons?"
"Erm, yes?" Aziraphale answered cautiously, flicking his gaze momentarily at an equally confused Crowley.
Raphael hefted his sword easily. "Then I am under orders to dispose of you."
"WHAT?!" came the reply from two identical voices.
"Sorry and all," the angel continued, not looking at all sorry, but with the stony resolution of one who knows he has to do as he was ordered or suffer the consequences.
"'Sorry'?" Aziraphale repeated, scurrying away across the floor and to the door. Unfortunately as he hit the door, scrambling against it and trying to push it open, the angel raised a hand. The lock turned with an ominous click. Aziraphale swallowed.
"I'm sure this is all some sort of mistake…" he tried.
"No, it's definitely you they want dead," Raphael disagreed, walking forwards. "As I said, I'm sorry about all this, but as a disgraced angel, you should know how it is. You follow orders."
"Not if you disagree with them," Aziraphale returned, dragging up his reserve of bravery. If he was going to go, then he'd at least go for what he believed in.
"You can't do this!" Crowley suddenly gasped from where he lay against the bookshelf. The angel spared him a cursory, disgusted glance before turning back to his victim.
"I take no pleasure in this," he continued, raising his sword.
Aziraphale closed his eyes.
There was the sound of a blade cleaving the still air…
With the speed born of desperation, Crowley leapt forwards, only one thing on his mind – Aziraphale. The sword fell. Crowley tensed.
The tip cut cleanly through his chest, sinking deep easily through flesh, muscle and bone. The pain was so intense that Crowley could only gasp and fall back, his mouth wide open.
He saw, blurrily, the angel fall back, the holy sword exiting his body as effortlessly as it had entered. He felt, through the pain, himself fall limply back onto Aziraphale's legs. He heard, dimly, his friend's cry above him as his eyes slipped instinctively shut.
"Crowley?" A shaking hand touched his brow and he forced his eyes open.
"Not Crowley," he hissed, ignoring the blood that pooled at the corner of his mouth. "Fidael. My name is, was, Fidael."
"Fidael," breathed Aziraphale, wiping away the droplet with a shaking finger. "'Loyal of God' - it's a good name."
"Not v-" Crowley coughed weakly, "very demonic." He tried a grin that was lop-sided at best.
"It suits you," the angel replied quietly, trying his own smile. It looked as false as it felt.
Crowley coughed again, this time practically heaving as he spat blood, unable to sit up with Aziraphale's steadying hand on his shoulder.
"Nah," he said shakily, closing his eyes briefly. "t-too an-angelic."
"I always did say there was a spark of good in you," Aziraphale said sadly, trying to keep the smile on his face.
"Bastard," Crowley hissed back affectionately. His eyes slipped shut. With cold, numb hands, Aziraphale gently touched the demon's temple, closing his eyes briefly to hold back the stinging moisture in his eyes.
Then, carefully manoeuvring the demon to the floor, he stood and turned to the angel, his blue eyes flashing ice-cold.
"You killed him," the ex-angel stated, his tone edged sharply enough to cut metal.
"He's a demon!" Raphael protested, not liking the glint in Aziraphale's eye. "And I didn't mean to!"
"You didn't mean to," he repeated slowly. "I'm not sure if that's better or worse than killing him because he's a demon. I'm not entirely sure it matters."
"Y-you wouldn't do anything," Raphael replied uncertainly, the sword tip wandering between them, still covered in Crowley's blood.
"Oh wouldn't I?" Aziraphale hissed, stepping forwards. He threw out his hand to the side, instinctively calling out for his sword. On one level he was surprised when the perfectly-balanced blade materialised in his hand, but on all the others that were screaming red rage, he didn't care. All he wanted was to destroy this puny being who dared hurt Crowley.
"I-you-but," the other angel stuttered, stepping backwards. He stopped when he reached the edge of the desk, his face white as his feathers and terrified.
Aziraphale made to move forwards again, but a sudden flash of light made them both stop and turn.
"Stop this at once!" a strident voice commanded, and instinctively, both angels made a move to hide their blades. Michael stepped forwards, wings unfurled and brushing the ceiling, his grey eyes brooking no argument.
"Now tell me – what is the meaning of this?"