I know the updates are a bit slow, but this is a busy time of the year and I'm juggling lots of fics. But I'm thankful for those who are reading my stories. Hopefully this is worth the wait.

Pain.

Sharp, throbbing, and blinding pain. He couldn't breathe, but he also couldn't concentrate enough to stop breathing. Not that Crowley could keep his corporation alive without needing to breathe currently. His powers were bound away, leaving him essentially as useless as an unusually durable human. He couldn't do a thing about his situation or the pain that flared and stabbed at him. He was simply trapped.

Trapped. Paralyzed by the incense. Strung up like a side of beef. Blood and ichor drying along his body, the wounds trying to scab over. His head far too unpleasantly light and trying to spin if he thought too hard. And a celestial blade piercing through both the material and metaphysical.

Yet another reason why breathing was a struggle. There was literally something in his chest getting in the way. The blade had torn through his sternum to nestle between his lungs, his pounding heart, and other assorted organs and arteries while simultaneously cleaving deep into his true form. It weighed heavily on everything vulnerable and essential. And judging by Michael's parting remark, it wouldn't be good for his health if the sword moved.

He definitely preferred it when all his innards remained inside and everything sharp and pointy remained outside of both his body and true form. Staring at the way it went through his flesh was not a comforting sight.

Though he had to admit, she was talented when it came to torture. Michael somehow managed to find lots of painful places to poke a blade without immediately causing him to bleed out. She would fit right in with Hell.

As he wobbled back and forth on the edge of unconsciousness, Crowley tried to ignore the pain. The pain and the various wounds that she carved into him. He allowed himself to whimper and groan while he was alone. But he didn't scream in front of Michael and he refused to scream now. Crowley just needed to endure the pain. He could survive.

Aziraphale would come.

He didn't want his angel to risk it. He didn't want Aziraphale anywhere near Heaven or any of those heartless harp-plucking nightmares. Crowley wanted Aziraphale somewhere safe on Earth. Happy and safe.

But he also knew Aziraphale. And Crowley knew that his angel wouldn't leave him in danger. Unless Aziraphale thought that he was destroyed, he would come for Crowley. Aziraphale would come for him.

All that Crowley needed to do was survive until then. Michael didn't think that he could be killed, so she probably wouldn't aim for anything lethal. There would be no point after all. He just needed to hold on. It wasn't like he could escape on his own. Endure the pain and survive.

His soft and strong angel would find him.

He tried to focus on that thought rather than the pain cutting through him on multiple planes. The sharp and throbbing pain flaring through his corporation and the deeper agony engulfing his true form. Crowley wrestled his mind away from the consuming pain and what Michael had done. [16] He just thought about Aziraphale and how he would come for Crowley.

He could picture it. His personal avenging angel with his flaming sword. Perhaps not as powerful as the Archangels, but clever and brave enough to find him. Aziraphale would free him, heal the deep and painful wounds, and bring him home. Where they would curl up together and he would ask for Aziraphale to whisper reassurances of his love, his clever fingers maybe running through Crowley's hair. He just needed to hold on a little longer for Aziraphale to find him. It would be fine.

Aziraphale came for him in the bowels of Hell. He would come for the demon again. And Aziraphale was almost as good at dramatic rescues as Crowley was when he put his mind to it.

He held onto that thought as his grip on consciousness slipped. Pain, blood loss, and exhaustion sent him plunging back into the waiting darkness.

There wasn't much security guarding the limited entrances to Hell. Most people weren't that eager to get in. [17] The main escalator and the elevator were both watched. There were desks with rude and aggressive receptionists to guard the place and sound the alarm if any angels decided to invade. At least that was their purpose in theory. Mostly they just caused headaches for any demons coming in and out of Hell on assignments.

But there was an unofficial entrance.

A place where the barrier between Earth and Hell was a little thinner. Where once a group of children created a road to Hell paved in good intentions. Or at least constructed one of rocks and bricks scribbled with good intentions. And where later a Duke of Hell slipped through to try murdering an angel and ended up destroyed instead. It wasn't an open door, but it was easier to get through than most places.

It wasn't guarded. But perhaps it should have been.

If a few demons had been watching the isolated corner of Hell, they would have spotted the new arrivals sooner. They would have seen two teenage boys and a hellhound walking into Hell, colorful plastic water guns in their hands. Carrying the weapons that Warlock used last time to threaten the devil himself. It made a certain impression. Especially with "Back in Black" playing through the earbuds of his iPod.

Between the pair adopting an air of intimidation with their entrance and the way that Warlock immediately started wrapping himself again in the mantle of power that he'd once claimed, they didn't bother to hide their presence. And the first demon that they encountered shrieked in terror. [18]

"Halt," ordered Warlock before the demon could flee, putting all of his mental force into the command.

And the demon froze. Unable to escape. Unable to disobey. Held under the boy's sway. Warlock had reclaimed the title of Anti-Christ and the right to command the armies of Hell, choosing his own fate. He'd claimed that power for his own, strengthened by Expectations. And now he was wielding that power.

Glaring at the demon, he continued, "Show us the way to your leader. Someone took Nanny and they're going to pay for it."

Michael took care of her various responsibilities as an Archangel with the same type of professionalism and effectiveness that she always did. She had six thousand years of practice. She could do it in her sleep if she was ever so slothful that she would indulge in sleep.

But just because she put in the proper effort didn't mean she couldn't multitask. She considered her next move. Carefully planning what to do to the demon.

Her first session with him had turned out to be a decent start. There was something satisfying about the way her blade slid through his flesh and into his true form. Finding just where to slice, to carve away, and to bury the knife. Causing agony without pushing the damage too far.

But she needed more. A more serious torture to inflict on Crowley. But one that remained nonlethal. She didn't want to risk his immunity having a limit. Aziraphale hadn't wanted to risk her using a celestial blade on him before, so there was at least a chance. If she destroyed the demon, then he wouldn't suffer anymore. She couldn't allow that. It would be too kind.

She simply needed to find just the right amount of controlled violence. And she knew the perfect way.

The door to the chamber opened and closed behind her without her lifting a finger. Another miracle refreshed the supply of frankincense and myrrh. The smell in the room was actually rather pleasant. At least, it was for non-demons. Then she started circling the demon, still dangling from the chains she left him in.

He was conscious, but pale and limp. Bruises and scrapes around the manacles. Scabbed over cuts and various lacerations. A quick Look at his true form showed deep wounds still oozing dark ichor as the injuries interacted with his physical body.

And even exhausted and partially paralyzed by the incense in the air, Crowley managed to glare at her.

"Back already?" he panted. "Was getting bored."

She didn't appreciate the tone, even if he was struggling to speak. Michael grabbed the sword and yanked it out of his chest. Careful enough not to let it shift, but fast enough to make him reflexively gasp and cough. A smooth motion like drawing it from a scabbard. The wound bled more in the sword's absence. But still not enough to immediately discorporate him. Not after she left him alone for a little while to recover his strength.

Michael gestured sharply and the chains went from being bolted to the ceiling to being attached to the floor, yanking Crowley down roughly. The spells still glowed in the metal, but now the manacles bolted directly to the smooth marble. Stretching him out on his stomach, arms pulled tight in front of him. Leaving his scratched up back exposed.

This time, she didn't need to consider the various blades. She already knew what she needed.

Michael picked up the thick knife with a hook built into the length on one side of the blade. A gut-hook knife. Designed to stab inside and then pull out everything internal with the hook. But since it was a celestial blade, it would not be tearing out the corporation's guts.

She dropped down, one knee digging into his lower back while her hand braced on the back of the neck. And with a sharp motion, she stabbed into a carefully chosen spot on the demon's back. Crowley hissed and the muscles twitched weakly as she twisted the blade, hooking what she was searching for on the metaphysical plane. Then she pulled hard. Yanking the wing out to the material plane.

His corporation could move slightly. But his wings were part of his true form. They couldn't even twitch.

The second wing was ripped out the same way. That left them both draped limply on the cool marble. Like a black stain on Heaven itself. Vile and awful.

Granted, the demon's wings were neatly groomed. Especially in comparison to his current disheveled state.

"I would have expected your wings to be mangled messes after the Fall," she said, fingers tracing along the feathers and making his breathing speed up. "Or perhaps they should be scarred by burns. A demon's wings should reflect their wretched state."

She startled a brief yelp out of him when she ripped out a handful of feathers. Michael tore and yanked away. Plucking the smaller feathers from his wings. Sometimes the feathers broke and left a stub of the quill embedded. Tiny pinpricks of blood and ichor were left to dot his skin. Discarded feathers floated and piled around them as she tore out any tertiary or covert feathers.

Then she summoned a pair of needle-nose pliers.

Secondary and primary feathers were not meant to come out. Those feathers were different. They were more permanent feathers. Feathers attached to the bone. Feathers that Michael needed both angelic strength and the pliers to tear out. And Crowley's willpower not to scream started struggling. The strangled sounds that he did make left her grinning.

Michael plucked, pulled, and ripped out every feather from his wings in the roughest manner possible. She didn't stop until Crowley was left with two skinny and bony things attached to his back, the skin red from mistreatment and lightly flecked with blood and ichor. [19] Just as ugly as a demon deserved. She ran her hand along the visibly aching flesh, digging her fingers in hard enough to make him hiss.

"Isn't that better?" she asked. "Now you look more like someone forsaken by Her. Though I suppose you were simply indulging in vanity and pride with how they looked before." When Crowley refused to respond, just breathing a little too fast and too hard, Michael moved her hand over to dig her nails into some of the cuts on his back. "How long did you spend grooming those feathers? Or did that weak and miserable excuse for an angel boyfriend of yours do it?"

Crowley snarled something low and vicious. [20] That filled Michael with a satisfying shiver of excitement. It wasn't quite as good as having the demon screaming and writhing in agony, but it felt nice to make him react.

Besides, he was too paralyzed for proper writhing. That was the downside of using frankincense and myrrh to keep him compliant. A small price to pay.

But tearing the feathers out of his wings wasn't enough. Michael had bigger plans.

She took a moment to spread the skinny and miserable wings properly, stretching them out on the marble. Then Michael miracled up a sturdy sledgehammer.

Humerus. Ulna and radius. Carpometacarpus.

Bones so similar to the ones in his corporation's arms, the limbs stretched out in front of him by chains. So easy to identify. Especially with no feathers to obscure the limp wings.

Best to start from the outside and work her way in. Focusing on the left wing, Michael took careful aim.

"Carpometacarpus," she said calmly, swinging down.

Crack.

Now he was screaming, twitching weakly in agony. But his wings remained paralyzed and motionless. She enjoyed the pained gasps, the new cracks in the marble under him from the impact, and the mangled appearance of the tip of his wing from the bones being crushed.

"Ulna," she said, swinging the sledgehammer overhead, "and radius."

Crack.

Another short scream torn from his throat before giving way to sobbing whimpers. The wing almost looked like he'd gained an extra joint. That was promising. She'd worried that she would need to hit those bones a few more times to break them properly. After all, there were two of them. Side-by-side. Thankfully, she put enough power behind the swing and managed to land perfectly.

The final bone would be the trickiest. The humerus was partially lying across his back with the way that they were attached and how she'd spread his wings. Striking it in the middle ran the risk of hitting his torso, caving in his corporation's ribs and organs. Far too risky. She didn't want him to discorporate just yet.

She would simply have to aim carefully. Right next to his torso instead of directly on it. She should be able to hit his wing.

Once more swinging the sledgehammer overhead, Michael said, "Humerus."

Crack.

Crowley's ragged scream was almost as satisfying as the way the jagged edge of shattered pieces were pressing against the skin. The broken bone threatening to tear through the flesh. The left wing was a mangled mess. And since wings were part of the true form rather than the corporation, the damage was worse and more visceral than it seemed at first glance.

Letting her sledgehammer rest on her shoulder, Michael studied her work. Listening to his pained sounds and watching his weak shivers. Then she stepped around to the other side, where his right wing was still intact.

"Carpometacarpus."

Crack.

Beelzebub did not maintain zir position in Hell by being easily intimidated or by being stupid.

Which was why, when the rumors and whispers of the Anti-Christ returning to stalk through the dark halls of Hell with demands to see someone in authority spread, ze intercepted and took charge immediately. Ze knew that if the boy confronted Satan again, it would be a disaster. And extremely disruptive. Keeping any form of control or organization in place within Hell during the aftermath of the Apoca-fail was a struggle. And then there was the boy's threats of seizing control of demonkind a few years later. Ze didn't want to deal with the headache of a power struggle so soon after that.

Dagon would strangle zir for the nightmarish amount of paperwork that would follow if ze didn't prevent it.

Ze had the other demons bring them to zir office, where ze met them. Two boys slumped in zir spare chairs [21] and the small hellhound curled up at their feet. Both of them were so similar. Dark hair, far too knowledgeable gaze, and the power of Hell twisting around them. It was easy to see how Heaven and Hell mixed the pair up for so long. And now it was even harder to untangle the pair. One surrendering their destined role while the other claimed what was never supposed to be his.

Beelzebub couldn't help vaguely approving of their rebellion. A rather successful one, if ze were honest. Which ze rarely was. Ze was a demon, after all.

"And what brings you back to Hell?" asked Beelzebub.

Adam remained quiet, arms crossed and waiting patiently. Warlock, on the other hand, was glaring while his fingers tapped out a steady rhythm on his holy water gun in an unmistakably threatening fashion. [22]

"Crowley is missing," said Warlock coldly. "Taken by non-human forces. That's unacceptable. Satan made a deal with me, Prince Beelzebub. One that I expect to be honored. I took Crowley, so I get to keep him. He's mine. Satan has no claim on him. Hell has no claim on him." Leaning closer to the desk separating them, he said, "If you or anyone else here took him, I will tear through Hell until I get him back. Even if I have to take over this place to do it. This is the only chance that you get to turn Crowley back over before that happens."

Raising an eyebrow, Beelzebub studied the boy careful. No weakness or hesitation. No doubt or fear. Everything that Warlock said, he fully meant. He would reclaim Crowley or he would undoubtedly employ some form of scorched earth tactics against Hell. Ze could even guess how it would unfold. He would probably melt dozens before running out of ammunition and then he would compel others to obey. The not-quite Anti-Christ might take control of all the armies of Hell and overthrow Satan if necessary. Ze wasn't even certain whether he would succeed or fail.

And that uncertainty made zir more cautious. Now was not the time for an internal struggle and revolution among the demons. The smartest move would be to return Crowley and get Warlock out of there as soon as possible.

There was only one problem.

"Hell's official policy is to avoid both Crowley and even the angel, Aziraphale. There were no orders to abduct him," ze said. "And the last time someone tried to get around the deal with Satan by causing indirect harm to Crowley via the angel, which we did not approve of or know about ahead of time, he did not return and Hell was out yet another duke."

"Yeah, Hastur tried hurting Aziraphale," said Warlock. "I killed him for trying that."

That earned a look from Adam. He'd apparently been unaware of that little fact. Beelzebub mentally filed that information away for later. Ze never knew when ze might need it.

"My point izzz… Crowley isn't here."

Adam frowned slightly and asked, "Are you certain? What if someone went around your back and took him?"

"You both made your demands clear the moment you set foot in Hell and gossip moves just about faster than anything else in the universe. [23] I already ordered a quick search while they brought you here. Wherever Crowley might be, he isn't in Hell."

"If you already knew we were looking for Uncle Crowley, why did you ask what we wanted?"

"Because a smart negotiator doesn't show zir hand before ze have to," said Warlock. "It lets zir keep the advantage for as long as possible."

Chuckling quietly, Beelzebub said, "You were definitely raised by a demon. Too bad you didn't turn out to be the Anti-Christ. Maybe then the Apocalypse would have happened properly."

"Trust me. I might have led Hell's armies, but I wouldn't have followed what was written. It'd be my own Apocalypse, not yours. Destiny's not the boss of me."

Of course Warlock would have refused to obey destiny. Neither boy was particularly obedient nor concerned about what was written. But it would have been interesting to consider what he would have done instead. Probably cause Gabriel to have a bigger conniption than Adam did.

"My point is that Crowley is not here," said Beelzebub, "and no one here had anything to do with his disappearance. No one in Hell went against Satan's deal with you." Hesitating just long enough to make it seem like ze just remembered it, ze added, "There were some rumors about someone researching more specialized binding spells for demons. Among other topics. Dangerous topics. If he's not on Earth and I already told you he's not here…"

"That leaves only Heaven." Warlock nodded thoughtfully. "Do the rumors include a name or am I burning the whole place down?"

"That depends. What's in it for me, boy?" ze asked.

"I might keep you around to help run Hell when I overthrow Satan and take over. I could use someone with experience on my side."

An ally for the boy and added security for zir. Playing both sides to keep power regardless of who emerged victorious? That was a smart move. And Beelzebub did not maintain zir position in Hell by being stupid.

"I can't confirm the rumor. I can't even tell for certain where the rumor originated," ze said carefully. "It was passed around by too many before it caught my attention. But supposedly the person asking about those binding spells was… Archangel Michael. Wouldn't have expected her, but isn't it always like that with the 'good' ones? They always hide something and it is never what you might think it is."

"Michael," said Adam. "You're saying Michael probably took Uncle Crowley?"

Shrugging, Beelzebub said, "Don't know. Don't really care. But that's all I've got. Now, both of you get out of Hell before Satan catches wind of this. I don't want to deal with the headache of you two facing him again. His mood is bad enough already."

[16] And the implications of why Michael had done it. Because Crowley did not want to think about why she would take Ligur's demise so personal. Why she would want revenge for the demon's destruction. Crowley didn't want to think about the two of them having any kind of connection or interaction. What if the Archangel and Duke of Hell were… Nope. He wasn't going to think about it at all. That would be a new form of torture.

[17] Though they were certainly dying to get in.

[18] Even those that didn't witness it firsthand remembered the stories of the last time Warlock was in Hell. Someone threatening Satan, trying to wrestle control of the demons away from him, nearly succeeding, and then attacking the devil with holy water to assert his claim on the traitor of the apocalypse and seal his bargain was not something easily forgotten.

[19] They looked like giant undercooked chicken wings.

[20] And in Sumerian.

[21] Which always wobbled with every movement.

[22] Adam and Warlock had already worked out ahead of time how they wanted to handle the "good cop, bad cop" routine.

[23] Light was almost faster, but somehow word of its arrival always got there first.

Lots of evil in this chapter. I'll be the first to admit it. Poor Crowley's wings have seen better days. And unfortunately, Michael isn't finished torturing her captive. But at least Adam and Warlock have a semi-idea of where he is now. That's good, right?