Originally I planned for my next fic in this series to be a more humorous and cheerful one. And I do intend to write it someday. But this idea hit hard and it had so much potential that I couldn't resist the temptation.

And yes, I know the irony of that statement in a fandom that has the original tempter demon as a main character. Regardless, I hope you enjoy the story.

Though if you haven't read "Chosen and Unchosen" first, I highly recommend it since this is a sequel to that fic. Otherwise you'll like be a bit confused about things.

The Healer

There were certain advantages to being a Duke of Hell. One was that he could pull rank and get a new corporation ahead of the line. It wasn't instant, but Hastur managed to claim a corporeal body mere months after his previous one was discorporated in a frankly embarrassing incident. [1]

Unfortunately, things had changed during that time. Both traitors were back on Earth. Heaven refused to risk going against the Ineffable Plan by targeting the angel again. And the not-quite-Anti-Christ made a deal with the devil and claimed Crowley using holy water guns. Satan had no remaining claim on him. Crowley belonged to the child now.

Heaven was intent on ignoring their traitor and Hell couldn't easily drag Crowley down for further punishment without carefully considering the potential loopholes first. Deals with the devil were binding. Especially when Satan was the one who set the terms.

But Hastur couldn't let it go. He needed Crowley to suffer. For his involvement in Aren't-mageddon and for what he did to Ligur. And waiting for his new corporation gave him time to consider his options.

There were certain advantages to being a Duke of Hell.

Deep in Hell was an armory. One filled with weapons from the first War that they kept locked away for the War of Armageddon. It wasn't worth the risk of letting arguing demons turn those weapons against each other. The blades were crafted to harm both corporations and true forms. Rather like the flaming sword that once protected Eden or the sword that Michael still kept close for special occasions. The angels who remained in Heaven and those that later Fell both used those weapons during the Rebellion. The only real difference was that those that the demons retained were too tarnished to shine, though they remained just as sharp. Occult weapons kept sharp and ready for the day that they could finally slaughter all of Heaven.

Sneaking a thin dagger, razor sharp and deadly, was easy enough for him to accomplish. Finding a way to Earth was even easier.

Hastur rose out of the dirt of the forest floor, the borders between Earth and Hell a little weaker where the former Anti-Christ once created a secret entrance. He didn't appreciate the sunshine coming down through the colorful leaves, though the gray clouds on the horizon gave him hope for gloomier weather later. He knew that entering Tadfield was a dangerous move. But avoiding the former Anti-Christ's attention should be easy enough if he was careful. The boy didn't want anything to do with his powers anyway.

Going after Crowley directly wasn't a good option. That could wait until he was certain that he wouldn't incur Satan's displeasure by messing with that deal. As furious as Satan might be with the child, those deals were binding and no one was allowed to break them. But that didn't mean that Hastur couldn't extract some form of revenge.

Crowley took away Hastur's preferred lurking partner. The ideal punishment would be to take away something precious from the traitor.


The setting sun cast a red light on a comfortable home and its surrounding garden. Autumn was firmly settled in place. The air held a nearly constant cool nip. Most of the plants in the garden were already changing colors or preparing to shrivel up to endure the eventual winter. The flowers and plants could have been intimidated into lingering longer, but it would take more effort and threats to make them bloom in cooler weather. And it wasn't worth the effort according to the local demon. It was easier to let them follow nature's rhythms. The resident demon had plenty of other plants inside to torment into a vibrant and terrified state.

A young teenager sprawled lazily on one of the benches in the garden, wearing a thick jumper that was more cozy than fashionable. [2] It was a Friday evening and he was purposefully avoiding starting his homework. Instead, he was listening to his iPod while waiting for his guardians to return. The angel was at a meeting of the Lower Tadfield Residents' Association while the demon was busy replacing every book in R. P. Tyler's household with cheap tawdry romance novels and flat-out erotica. The boy didn't know which one would cause the most chaos; Crowley's method was more immediately satisfying, but Aziraphale's meddling would drive R. P. Tyler into new heights of frustration for several months to come. He was procrastinating on his work because he wanted to hear the results.

The stone wall surrounding the front yard hid most of the property from prying eyes. And layers of demonic, angelic, and even human wards [3] that ensured that no one else from Heaven or Hell could set foot inside uninvited. Their home was meant to be safe.

Which was why Hastur was lurking outside the property. He had the patience of an ambush predator. And he was a champion lurker. He could wait however long that it might take.

The board was set. All the pieces were in place. It wouldn't take long for everything to unfold.


Aziraphale was smiling to himself as he walked home. The meeting went surprisingly well. He rarely got directly involved in the rather amusing feud between Crowley and R. P. Tyler, but that didn't mean that the angel couldn't contribute occasionally. After all the assignments that he'd covered for Crowley over the centuries, he'd gotten used to stirring up a little mischief on occasion. A few careful votes on key topics and bringing up some barely remembered bylaws would cause some ripple effects that would leave the man clenching his teeth in frustration in the spring. It was the type of plan that Crowley would adore. Complicated and wide-spread results with only the smallest amount of initial work. Aziraphale looked forward to explaining it to Crowley that night and seeing his impressed and proud smirk.

He was happy with their new lives together. Him, Crowley, and Warlock. A simple and domestic existence with no connection or obligation to Heaven or Hell. Aziraphale had a cozy home with comforting colors and music in every room, his bookshop in London to keep all the books that wouldn't fit in their house in Tadfield, a handful of human friends, a pair of godchildren, and the demon that he could finally love fully and openly. Even with the lingering issues of the past, Aziraphale wouldn't change what they had now.

Aziraphale walked along the country road, smiling to himself about his productive day and the beautiful sunset. He had no reason to pay attention to the faint sensation of something inhuman at the edges of his awareness. He lived in the same quaint village as a demon, a former Anti-Christ, and a hellhound. And after their last encounters with Heaven and Hell, there was no real reason in his mind to remain constantly on guard. He certainly wasn't paying enough attention to notice anything lurking.

Not until he reached the entrance to the front yard, only a few steps away from crossing the protective wards to safety. Aziraphale caught a brief glimpse of Warlock sitting up on the bench. Then a rough hand grabbed his shoulder and a sharp pain slid into his lower back and somewhere much deeper.

"A little surprise for Crawly," hissed a voice in his ear as Warlock screamed his name.

Hastur. The recognition and agony made Aziraphale gasp. When the demon ripped the sharp object out, the angel twisted around to slug Hastur in the face. The demon's head jerked back, but the blood-streaked dagger was already stabbing into Aziraphale's stomach.

Pain seemed to explode through him. Physical agony and something deeper. To his true form. He couldn't breathe enough to scream.

Aziraphale's hands fumbled, trying to grab the dagger to stop him. But Hastur was repeatedly stabbing him in a blur of motion. Fast and brutal. The blade plunged in and out. Piercing his chest, stomach, and into his true form in sharp bright flashes of pain.

Blood poured out as his thoughts grew cloudy and his head swam. And his true form writhed in agony from the damage.

His slippery hand managed to finally wrap about the hilt, twisting the dagger with all his strength to force it away. Aziraphale managed to swipe at the demon with it. A long shallow scratch was left on the snarling Hastur's arm before he could stop the angel.

But pain, blood loss, and numerous deep wounds to his true form took their toll. Before Aziraphale could wrestle the dagger completely away or escape, his legs gave out. He collapsed to the ground. And Hastur crouched beside him, stabbing the blade through the ribs and twisted.

Aziraphale's vision went white with overwhelming pain. He gasped weakly as blood tried to drown him, leaving him tasting copper. Unconsciousness tried to dig its claws into him to pull him under, leaving the angel struggling against the force. And his true form felt like he'd been torn to shreds. He couldn't concentrate enough for a miracle to combat the damage.

But somewhere he distantly heard someone yelling.


When a creepy and yet familiar demon suddenly stabbed Aziraphale without warning right outside their walled garden, Warlock did the smart thing and ran. He ran back into the house, nearly stumbling on the stairs and banging his knees roughly when he dove under his bed. Then the young teenager shoved himself back to his feet with a familiar piece of molded plastic in his hands. He practically leapt down the stairs two at a time.

He burst back outside, sprinting towards the demon looming over the downed angel. Warlock swung his chosen weapon around to the attack position even as he kept running.

"Hey, Poo Man! Leave him alone!"

Hastur's head snapped up. And his vicious snarl turned into pale panic as he spotted the water gun. Warlock knew that he didn't get to witness the boy's confrontation with Satan; he'd dealt with that particular demon immediately upon entering Hell. But gossip clearly warned Hastur about how Warlock used a water gun filled with holy water against the devil.

And with the knowledge of exactly what the boy was capable of when provoked, Hastur reacted in the most rational way. He yanked the long knife out of Aziraphale's chest and flung himself to his feet, running away from the obvious threat. He'd clearly finished what he wanted to do anyway and had no interest in being melted into goo.

As soon as the danger was gone, Warlock tossed away the empty toy. [4] Then he grabbed the angel's shoulders and dragged him the short distance into the garden. Behind the protective wards were Hastur wouldn't be able to reach him again.

He didn't want to look at the dark stains ruining Aziraphale's coat and vest. He didn't want to see the streak of blood that moving him left behind on the dying grass. Because it looked terrifying and awful. And he couldn't afford to panic.

"It's all right," said Warlock firmly. [5] "You'll be all right."

But he wasn't truly the Anti-Christ and couldn't twist reality to his Expectations. Not on Earth and not without Adam's support. Not beyond the smallest tricks and subtlest things like his Dreams and escaping notice. And he certainly couldn't reverse the deep stab wounds pouring out blood, Aziraphale weakly pressing at them in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

Which was why Warlock fumbled desperately at the angel's coat pocket. He yanked out the cheap flip-phone that Crowley insisted that Aziraphale carry. The angel never used it to call anyone, but he would answer if Crowley called when he felt antsy. But Warlock quickly dialed the number while ignoring the blood now smeared on his hand and the mobile phone. He couldn't afford to panic. He held the phone while he used his free hand to help apply pressure.

After a couple of rings that seemed to last an eternity, but took almost no time, the line picked up.

"Angel?" said Crowley, confusing and growing concern clear in his voice. Aziraphale never called using his mobile. "What's—"

"Nanny, help!" shouted Warlock into the speaker before tossing the phone aside.

For a second, all that he could hear were the gasping whimpers and a tinny voice yelling questions through the mobile. Then there was a strange pop of something materializing as Crowley practically dove through the phone, stumbling slightly on the landing.

He was wearing his sunglasses. But Warlock had a lifetime of observing those features and sunglasses didn't hide the way his face shifted into a look of absolute horror.


"Angel!"

Crowley's first inkling of dread when he saw Aziraphale's mobile number on the caller ID turned into fear when he heard Warlock's panicked voice. And the fear turned into absolute terror and horror when he traveled through the phone signal to reach a scene from his worst nightmares.

Literally. He'd experienced weeks of continuous nightmares of very similar scenarios. Of Aziraphale lying sprawled limply, wounded and bleeding. He didn't know what happened, but it was all that Crowley could do to avoid freaking out completely as he stumbled over to the injured angel.

"I've got you," he murmured, pulling Aziraphale away from the shaking Warlock and cradling him close. "I'll fix everything. Just let me heal you."

Outside of the highest authority within their own realm, demons and angels couldn't use their powers directly on each other. Not unless their target allowed it. And that included healing. But even if he was struggling to stay awake through the obvious pain and blood loss, Aziraphale lowered his natural defenses. Giving Crowley permission and the opening that he needed to help his angel.

Crowley gathered together as much demonic energy as he could and sent a healing miracle into the pale and barely conscious angel. He looked almost grey and there was so much blood coming from more deep wounds than he could count. But Crowley needed to keep him from discorporating. If his angel lost his corporeal body and returned to Heaven, he would never get Aziraphale back. Crowley pressed his hand to the ruined fabric and tried to focus on the deep cuts.

Then, through his mounting panic and sickening fear, Crowley realized that there was something about the dark stains that was off. A slight golden sheen to the red substance, barely noticeable by the light of the setting sun. It took him a moment to realize what was wrong. And the realization made Crowley cold.

Ichor. Damage to his true form bleeding through [6] to the physical plane in the form of ichor mixed with his blood.

Crowley took a Look towards Aziraphale's true form. And immediately bit back a terrified whine of absolute horror. Aziraphale Looked completely shredded. His angel reminded him of the first War, when everyone was attacking and tearing each other apart. A celestial blade had sliced away at Aziraphale until he was barely recognizable. Or an occult one. The specifics didn't matter because they were essentially the same weapons. Just names for the different sides.

"No, no, no," he whispered.

Discorporation, while still a threat, was no longer his greatest concern. Aziraphale could die from that. A true death. The end of his existence.

He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't lose him. He turned his power towards the deeper wounds.

Eyes pressed closed in agony, Aziraphale leaned his head towards him. Crowley felt him shudder in his arms.

"Hang in there, angel," said Crowley. "Keep breathing and stay with me. I can fix this."

"Hurts…"

Goosebumps formed on Crowley as he tried not to shudder. That wasn't Aziraphale's normal speaking voice. It wasn't a sound that came from his corporation. It was something felt more than heard. Something that couldn't be noticed on the physical plane. That was Aziraphale's angelic voice.

True angelic voices, those that did not require vocal cords to produce and not bound by the limitations of their human-shaped physical bodies, were melodious and beautiful things meant for singing about Her. Those that Fell tended to damage or lose those voices. The more fortunate ones ended up with hoarse, guttural, and rough voices that could never be raised in song again. Crowley could manage a ragged croak still. He didn't end up effectively mute outside of the physical plane after the Fall.

Aziraphale's angelic voice was impossibly beautiful to the point that it hurt the demon to hear it. But even with that beauty, he sounded weak and pained. The sound broke Crowley's heart. His angel was hurting and he needed to fix it.

"I know it hurts. I know," said Crowley, managing to shakily brush back his pale hair from his ashen face. "It'll stop soon. I'll make it stop."

Crowley pulled in more power from the depths of Hell, more than he'd attempted to use in a couple of years. Certainly more than he'd used since he was nearly worn away and shattered by the strain of those endless nightmare loops. Enough power that he was light-headed by the current strain. And he turned that power towards healing the dying angel's true form.

There was an eel-shaped creature that lived at the bottom of the ocean called a hagfish. Unremarkable to look at and not that clever, the hagfish was most well-known for their unique defensive strategy. The long, thin, and wiggling creatures possessed the ability to produce enough slime to fill a large bucket in less than a minute. The copious amounts of slime would make it difficult for predators or curious humans to grasp the small creatures.

Crowley's attempt to keep Aziraphale's corporeal body from expiring while trying to heal the grave injuries to his true form were as difficult as holding onto half a dozen squirming and wiggling hagfish. Or, to use a more accurate analogy, it was like holding half a dozen squirming and wiggling hagfish while trying to tie the slime-producing creatures together and knowing that dropping a single one in the process would be a fatal mistake.

True forms were harder to heal than corporations. And Crowley was nearly shaking with the strain, stress, and absolute horror of living through his worst nightmare. Despite how hard he was trying to heal the deep wounds to the angel's corporeal and true forms, it felt like he was only managing to hold his ground. There was too much. He couldn't seem to make any real progress.

Crowley clenched his teeth to fight back the feeling of sobs trying to climb up his throat. He couldn't lose Aziraphale. He couldn't go through that again. Not for real. But he couldn't save him. He could feel the strain threatening to tear at old injuries and weak points, where the nightmare loops nearly destroyed him a few months ago. Before that point, Crowley could keep his burning Bentley together all the way to Tadfield and then pull them outside of time and reality briefly. And now he couldn't even save his angel.

Not alone.

That thought sparked a desperate and terrifying idea. The product of his wild and frantic imagination. Crowley knew how dangerous it was and how incredibly stupid he was to even consider it. There would be consequences. But he didn't have many good options.

Looking up at the pale face of Warlock, feeling a quick twinge of guilt through the panic and terror, Crowley said, "Hellspawn, I need you to grab a book. John Dee's 'De Heptarchia Mystica.' The unedited version. In the library, fourth shelf, third row down, fifth volume. [7] Get it fast."

Warlock took off running towards their home, not even hesitating. Crowley forced himself to let go of a tiny amount of the demonic power that he was using to keep his angel alive. Just enough to let the dead grass burn in specific patterns before extinguishing, leaving clear lines for a summoning circle behind.

He'd heard about John Dee back in the day. The man knew about summoning angels, but it was more like a polite invitation or a supernatural phone call. Not forcibly yanking them somewhere like people did with demons. They had a choice in the matter. Most humans would be afraid to treat an angel the same way that they would a demon. At least the ones who thought that they were good people were.

But angels and demons came from the same basic stock. It was just names for the sides. In theory, there was no reason why a summoning circle for demons couldn't work for an angel. There was no reason why it couldn't force an angel to show up. He just needed to right symbols for the angel in question. And that meant doublechecking with the book. He couldn't afford any mistakes.

"It's going to be okay, Aziraphale," he murmured, pressing a shaky kiss to the angel's forehead. "I'll make sure that you'll be okay."

Aziraphale needed more than Crowley could give him. He needed someone powerful and capable of repairing the deep gashes in the angel's true form. Aziraphale needed a healer. A real one. And Crowley was going to get him the best one possible.


As an Archangel associated with healing and some humans feeling uncomfortable beseeching Her directly, Raphael was used to humans sending him prayers to help with sickness and injuries. Any angel could use miracles to perform such healing, but he was the one with the reputation for them. There were other healers under in command in his ward in Heaven. And some were very good. But he was the best. And Raphael was the name that humans knew and recognized.

There was also a time frame where humans tried to contact angels more directly. Light and delicate summoning spells that were used as more direct method of asking angels for help. A more personal invitation to encourage a response. He recalled a rather odd human named John Dee who was particularly fond of it, often contacting Uriel to speak with them on various things. While not usually invited like that, Raphael was familiar with such methods.

But having some unknown power latch onto his true form and yank the Archangel out of Heaven, stumbling painfully before he caught himself with his cane, [8] was a new experience. And one that he immediately disapproved of.

He was a healer. He could not afford to be interrupted without warning. Most of his patients over the last several thousand years were only suffering from minor injuries from training accidents. [9] But that didn't mean that Raphael could afford to be pulled away from his healing ward without warning. No one could plan for emergencies.

The foretold Apocalypse, and all the gravely wounded angels being brought into his ward on the verge of dying that it would bring, might have been thankfully postponed, but Raphael was too cynical to believe that the violent assaults and murders would never happen. Angels and demons would go to War again. He had to be prepared.

Raphael glared down at the lines of the scorched circle. Power hummed through the symbols that spoke of binding, limitations, and his full name and titles. Someone had gone through a great deal of trouble to trap him and lock away his angelic abilities. He wasn't one for smiting, but Raphael suddenly felt tempted to smack someone's skull with his cane.

Then he turned his attention beyond the borders of the summoning circle. Raphael couldn't use his more angelic senses to properly Look but he could see a human boy. A half-grown one with dark hair, the slightly clammy skin and wide-eyed appearance suggesting emotional shock, but no other obvious injuries or afflictions. More concerning were the two figures in front of the human.

Kneeling in front of the circle burned into the dry grass, and a slightly blood-smeared book next to him, was a demon. Even without access to his more angelic senses and abilities, Raphael could recognize a demon when he saw one. Red-haired, dressed in black, and wearing dark glasses, he stared up at Raphael like he was facing down a dangerous threat. Which was a smart decision. Raphael might be a healer, but he was still an Archangel and the highest authority and power within his healing ward. He could be a dangerous force if provoked.

And the demon didn't seem to be in the best condition to fight. He was pale and shaking slightly. Perhaps from fear and nerves. But Raphael suspected from the strain. Because even if he couldn't See for certain while trapped in the circle, Raphael could tell that most of the demon's focus wasn't on the Archangel. It was on the angel in his arms, the demon's hand pressed tightly to his chest.

A heavily bleeding angel. Unconscious. Ashen complexion. Labored breathing. Multiple lacerations to the upper and middle torso region. Guaranteed injuries to multiple internal organs. Blood flecked on his lips to suggest at least some level of a punctured lung. And the amount of blood already clearly spilled on the ground and the demon holding him meant that a human would be dying and an angel would be on the verge of discorporating.

But they wouldn't risk summoning him for a mere discorporation. Not if the angel and demon were who Raphael suspected that they were. And there were not that many other angel and demon pairs that would be openly obvious about their association. Whatever happened, he doubted that the demon was the one who harmed the angel and then summoned Raphael. And he also suspected that there were other injuries that he couldn't yet See.

"That's Raphael?" asked the child quietly. "Expected something more impressive."

An understandable reaction. He didn't dress in stylish suits like many of his fellow angels. Nor did he keep the flowing robes that humans still tried to portray them in. He found that a white lab coat with numerous pockets to be more practical. And while he'd worn young-looking corporations at one point, his current one was not that of a young man. He was aware that his greying hair and silver eyes didn't make the greatest impact. Nor did the limp that came from the ancient scars left twisted through his true form, the sloppy work of an inexperienced healer doing their best to preserve his existence. But Raphael rarely cared about what kind of impression that he made. It only mattered that he got the job done.

"Warlock," said the demon, never looking away from the Archangel, "go back inside and don't come out no matter what happens."

Raphael briefly assumed that meant the boy was some form of a magic user before realizing that was the human's actual name. An odd choice, but Raphael wasn't current when it came to certain human traditions like naming conventions.

The boy hesitated, but reluctantly obeyed. Only after the door of the house closed behind the human did the demon finally address the Archangel.

"Raphael, Archangel of Healing, Angel of the Trumpet… I beseech you to grant your healing upon Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Principality of Earth," he said solemnly, panting through the words. "The circle in which you are bound ensures that you cannot depart while it is intact until you agree a service for the summoner. One that you must perform. I humbly ask that you heal Aziraphale, preserving his life. And after he is healed, he remains free and safe from Heaven. No imprisonment, punishment, or bindings of any kind. He is to be left alone by Heaven afterwards."

That was enough to confirm Raphael's suspicions. They were the rumored pair of traitors involved in disrupting Armageddon.

"I can read the sigils as well," said Raphael, letting some of his annoyance over the abrupt summons and the awkward position that he was in bleed into his words. "They cannot compel me to do anything without a bargain. Insurance for the demons such summons were designed for. You have only described half of a bargain. What were you intending to offer when you interrupted me like that? I doubt you called for me without something already planned, Tempter."

"Myself."

Brow furrowing, he asked, "Excuse me?"

Bowing his head in a clear sign of surrender, the demon said shakily, "Anthony J. Crowley. The Serpent of Eden. The Original Tempter. Traitor of the Apoca-Oops— Apocalypse."

He took a deep breath, hunching over Aziraphale protectively in a way that would have him mantling the wounded angel if his wings were visible. Guarding the angel while offering himself up, completely vulnerable to the Archangel.

"If you save Aziraphale, then you can do whatever you wish with me. I will let you kill me. Or you can take me up to Heaven to torture, imprison, enslave, or anything else that you want. Turn me over to Gabriel for a public execution. Have Sandalphon rip off my wings. Let every angel practice stabbing me for the apocalypse. Or give me over to Hell if you don't want to dirty your hands yourself. I won't fight back, resist, or try to escape. As long as you save Aziraphale, I'm yours to do with as you wish."

"Your life in exchange for the life of an angel?" asked Raphael, still keeping his voice even.

Crowley raised his head. The dark glasses hid most of his expression. But Raphael could see a faint wetness of his pale skin.

"That's all I have to offer. He's worth far more, but that's all that I have," said Crowley quietly. "Please… Can you save him? I'm not strong enough… I can't…"

Raphael was silent for a moment, leaning heavily on his cane. Then he eased his way down to the ground as close to the pair as the summoning circle would allow. He sat there, considering his choice.

"I cannot promise that. I can't promise to save him. Not until I can properly examine the patient and the extent of his injuries," said Raphael finally. "I need you to break the summoning circle first to let me See him."

Tightening his arm protectively around the unconscious angel, Crowley asked, "Do I look like an idiot? First rule of summoning is never break the circle until you have a deal firmly in place."

"And how long do you think that you can keep Aziraphale from discorporating? Or judging by how desperate you must have been to summon me, from losing his existence fully? You are clearly exhausted and under tremendous strain. If you had any other option available, you would have taken it already. You're backed into a corner and have no other choice."

Crowley gritted his teeth at Raphael's words. But then he looked back down at Aziraphale, his breathing hitching slightly.

Raphael continued, "I can promise that if you release me, nothing will hurt Aziraphale further. He will be a patient under my care and protection. I can't promise that he is within my ability to save, but I will do what I can to help him."

The demon hesitated a moment longer. Then one blood-stained hand jerked forward to tear through a large chunk of scorched grass and dirt, breaking the circle. And the instant that he had full access to his powers again, Raphael paused time.

Not an ability that most angels bothered to develop properly, but he found it useful for triage and diagnosing the extent of injuries.

Raphael noticed the momentary flash of panic on the demon's face when Aziraphale stopped his weak gasps until Crowley realized that time was paused around them. He also noticed the strong, warm, and bright love radiating from Crowley. Which was certainly interesting, but not what Raphael needed to focus on.

When he Looked at his patient, Raphael took note of every deep laceration. The work of an occult weapon. Serious enough wounds that the angel was unlikely to survive. The kind of injuries that ended numerous angels on both sides during the first War, often before a healer could reach them. Aziraphale should have slipped away in the timespan that Raphael was in the circle or even before he was summoned. The demon's stubbornness was the only reason that Aziraphale wasn't gone already.

With time paused, Crowley no longer needed to put all his energy into preserving the angel. He'd slumped tiredly while Raphael Looked over the patient. The demon was too pale and panting too hard. Raphael suspected that he was experiencing some backlash from trying to use a continuous and particularly powerful miracle, far more than he could normally handle. His corporation suffering from nausea, weakness, and exhaustion would be the side effect of such a thing. That would pass with rest. Raphael could also See evidence that Crowley straining his power and true form beyond his limits was not a new occurrence. If he Saw those signs of past strain on an angel in Heaven, Raphael would order them to his healing ward for a proper examination.

But his patient was the angel, not the demon. The wounded, dying, and traitorous angel. Raphael was quite aware that his fellow Archangels would take advantage of his current state. He was aware that they would claim that it was smarter and kinder to let the angel pass in peace.

Then again, none of them were healers. And the demon was not the only one who could be stubborn. Raphael was not one to give up on a patient without at least trying his best.


Crowley was shaking as he held the motionless angel in his arms. From exhaustion, from the fear of losing Aziraphale, and from the dread of what his offer might eventually mean. But he didn't have any intention of going back on his decision. He was exhausted and at the mercy of an Archangel. And if it saved Aziraphale, it would be worth it.

Though the angel would never forgive him. Crowley knew that. Aziraphale told him that he never wanted Crowley to sacrifice himself for the angel. He didn't want Crowley to give his life for Aziraphale's life. The angel made that very clear. And Crowley told him that he would never leave Aziraphale. But now Crowley was doing exactly that. Aziraphale would never forgive him for doing it, but at least he would be alive to be upset.

Raphael slowly looked up from Aziraphale and met Crowley's gaze through the sunglasses. There was a change in his clinical and mildly annoyed expression that made something in Crowley twist sharply.

"Aziraphale's condition is very serious," said Raphael. "Many angels during the War succumbed to similar injuries, even with a healer. I will do what I can to save him. You have my word as an angel of the Lord. And if he cannot be saved, then I will ensure that he experiences no further pain when he is entrusted into Azrael's care."

Crowley swallowed past the tight knot in his throat. But he couldn't give up on Aziraphale. His angel was stronger than that.

"I will need to take the patient to the healing ward," he continued carefully, clearly recognizing that the statement would not go over well. "In Heaven."

Pulling his angel closer to his chest, Crowley hissed, "Over my dead body."

The part of Crowley that had been screaming he's dying, you didn't protect him, you can't save him, you failed him since he arrived home started shrieking don't let him go, you'll lose him, you'll never see him again. He couldn't let Aziraphale go back up to Heaven. They would never let Aziraphale go. They would trap him up there forever and never let the angel come back to Earth. And that would break Aziraphale. They'd trap him in that place until the whiteness and silent broke him further. Even if the angel survived, it would destroy everything precious about him.

"The patient is in no state to willing allow me to heal him. I cannot ask him," said Raphael patiently. "While technically a part of Heaven, the healing ward is essentially its own realm within it. And there is no higher authority or power there other than Her. I can command anyone in the healing ward and they will obey. I was granted that authority and power specifically to let me heal those unable to respond. Since I cannot force him to let me heal him here and he cannot give permission, that is the only way to help him."

He was right. Even before time was paused, Aziraphale wasn't conscious enough anymore to allow Raphael's help. Crowley knew that he was right. And he hated it.

"I swear on all my faith in Her that I only intend to take Aziraphale to heal him and nothing more," he promised. "Please let me do my job and save my patient. That is what you wanted, correct?"

Crowley stared at him in shock, not even breathing. That was not a promise that any angel would make and certainly not lightly. Breaking such a promise implied that their faith in Her was equally fragile. From there, it wasn't that far of a journey to actively Falling. At least, that was the common fear that such a thing would lead to. A danger that no angel would risk. If there was anything that Raphael could say to make Crowley believe him, that promise would be it.

It was hardest thing that he'd ever done and it broke his heart into sharp fragile fragments, but Crowley reluctantly transferred Aziraphale from his arms to the Archangel. Raphael shifted the motionless angel as he sat on the ground, working to find a way to hold his cane without dropping the frozen-in-time Aziraphale. After some adjustments, he seemed satisfied and looked back at Crowley.

"I will return with news of his condition when I know more and can see how he responds to treatment," said Raphael briskly. "You may want to shut your eyes."

That was all the warning there as before a bolt of lightning and an explosion of thunder struck directly in front of him. Temporarily blind and deaf, Crowley scrambled backwards in a flailing panic. After a few moments, his senses returned and he realized two important facts.

Time was flowing again. And both Raphael and Aziraphale were gone.

His fragile composure shattered now that he had nothing left to focus on. All the fear, trauma, grief, and pain struck hard. It took his unnecessary breath away. And he couldn't shove all those emotions away to concentrate on helping. Not anymore. All that he could do was spiral down into the horrible feeling of helplessness and loss. It already felt like Aziraphale was gone forever. Like he was already dead. And it tore at him like claws.

It took a moment for Crowley to recognize that the broken keening of a wounded animal was coming from himself.

His hands and clothes were still stained with Aziraphale's drying blood. The sight was nearly as nauseating as the backlash from the massive, prolonged, and intense miracle. But Crowley didn't have the strength to banish the blood. All that he could do was curl in on himself, arms wrapping around to hold his shaking body together. He could barely breathe. It kept catching roughly in his chest.

Aziraphale was gone and he might never see him again. His angel was in Heaven and dying. And he wouldn't know until it was too late and Raphael told him that he no longer existed. Or perhaps the Archangel would never return with news after all. But regardless, there was nothing that Crowley could do for him now. And it was like every one of those vivid nightmares were hitting him at the same time. He desperately wanted it to be another nightmare. Something that wasn't real and would eventually end.

"Wake up," he whispered. "Let me wake up. Please let me wake up." Crowley pressed his eyes shut, feeling cold tears cutting sharp lines down his face as the sun slipped below the horizon and night truly fell. "Please wake up."


[1] It involved a book, a stairway, a broken neck, and a boy calling him "Poo Man."

[2] Now that he no longer had to be worried about how his appearance would reflect on his father, Warlock had begun experimenting a bit more with how he looked and what he wore. Some of his fashion decisions were better than others. But it was a learning curve and Crowley was at least relieved that he hadn't worn anything tartan. Yet.

[3] Anathema turned out to be good at wards. Something that Agnes Nutter never mentioned in her prophecies to her descendant but was quite aware and proud of regardless.

[4] Neither Warlock nor Aziraphale would ever be comfortable keeping any actual holy water in the same household as Crowley. It felt too much like tempting fate and they could still gain access to it if necessary. Warlock was merely thankful that he could bluff effectively.

[5] Shakily.

[6] An unintentional pun that Crowley would have immediately hated if he noticed.

[7] Crowley would never admit to anyone that he understood and memorized the angel's organization system. A tricky accomplishment with how regularly Aziraphale liked to rearrange them and would switch them out with the books in the shop. But Crowley knew how to pay attention to the things that were important.

[8] Raphael once used a staff, both as a defensive weapon when forced to visit the Earth and as an aid to walk. The first War left its marks even on the Archangel of Healing and the damage always managed to bleed through to his corporations. But a cane was more practical for mobility and he preferred it.

[9] Michael tended to be rough during sparring sessions.

Well, that was certainly a rough first chapter. But what can I say? I was feeling in an evil mood. And I had an interesting time developing the personality for Raphael. I hope that you like him.