I swear that someday I'll get a happy/funny fic to add to this series again like I did with Brother Hamster. Unfortunately, this is not that fic (nor will the one that I just planned). But at least they got Aziraphale to a healer. That's good, right?

Warlock stayed in the house just as Crowley told him. Even when a bolt of lightning struck and night fell, he stayed inside. He scrubbed his hands clean and yanked off his jumper with the blood splattered on the sleeves. And when he looked out the window and saw only Crowley kneeling in the darkness, unmoving and alone, Warlock crept back to his room. Despite his turbulent thoughts and emotions, the boy crawled into bed.

There was very little that he could do. And while he couldn't control or even induce the arrival of his Dreams, he could hope. A glimpse of the immediate past or the future might offer some helpful insight.

Sleep came for him, ushered in by a few more orchestrative songs on his iPod. And he managed to remain asleep for several hours. When Warlock woke up, he quickly scribbled down everything that he remembered from his Dream. Then, looking over what he wrote, Warlock made a decision.

It wasn't that hard of a decision.

The darkness and chill of the night made him shiver as he stepped outside. Warlock headed to the motionless figure still kneeling on the ground, arms curled around himself and golden eyes staring at nothing. [10] The empty and broken expression made something in him twist. It wasn't right to see the demon in that state and it wasn't right that the angel was gone. Nothing was right.

"Nanny?" he said quietly, reaching for his hand.

Crowley blinked slowly, trying to focus on more than the horrors of his own mind and his churning emotions. His hand felt cold to the touch. Too cold for a demon who appreciated heat and warmth as much as he did. He'd been there for hours, not noticing the change in temperature. That told Warlock everything that he needed to know about his mental state. It told him how worried Crowley was about Aziraphale.

"Come on," continued Warlock as he pulled him to his feet. "It's late and cold out here. How about you get inside and get cleaned up? Take a warm bath?"

He took a shaking breath and swallowed, nodding slowly as Crowley tried to regain his composure. His yellow eyes gradually shrank back down until Warlock could see the whites around the irises. He pulled out a pair of sunglasses and settled them back on his face. Then he let the boy pull him back towards the house.

"Aziraphale… He'll be all right," said Crowley quietly. "Raphael is Heaven's best healer. And we have a deal. He'll be all right."

He didn't sound completely certain about it. But they both wanted to believe it. They wanted to believe that Aziraphale would be all right. They needed to believe that. But they couldn't do anything more to help him. They could only wait.

Well, Warlock planned to do more than wait. His Dream showed him exactly what he should do. He just needed to take care of his godparent first.

"He'll be home soon," he agreed. "But you don't want to worry him. Let's get you warmed up properly and clean up everything, okay?"

Giving Warlock a weak smile that did nothing to hide his grief, Crowley said, "I thought that I was supposed to be the one taking care of you, hellspawn."

"Someone needs to keep an eye on you until he gets back."

Warlock waited until he heard the water running in the master bathroom. That should give him some time while Crowley cleaned off the dried blood and warmed up his reptilian self. Only when he was certain that the demon would be all right did Warlock head out.

He reclaimed his toy water gun from the front yard. Then, bundling up all his emotions and pushing them out of the way for the moment, he slipped into the Bentley and eased it out of the garage. [11] Navigating the roads of Tadfield at three in the morning would be easier with headlights, but he didn't have the patience to find the switch. But he was a boy on a mission and couldn't be stopped. He simply drove slowly.

After a brief stop at the church, Warlock urged the car as close to the woods as he could manage. Then he parked and slipped out silently. He walked across the dead leaves in the dark. He knew that he should be making a distracting amount of noise, but he also knew that no one would pay him any attention regardless. He was easy to ignore. Warlock quietly followed the directions that his Dream provided. He knew what he needed to do.

The demon was there, scowling and nursing a long shallow cut. An injury from his attack. Hastur lurked in the forest, either not wanting to return to Hell while injured or planning to finish the job if Aziraphale survived. He was exactly where the Dream had shown him to be. He didn't notice anyone approaching. No one ever noticed when Warlock wanted to be ignored. He lurked there, not suspecting a thing.

There was no warning. Because he didn't give Aziraphale any warning.

Warlock fired holy water at him. A powerful blast of it from his newly-refilled water gun. And he watched Hastur immediately melt away with a sudden scream of horror and pain. It was over in seconds.

The boy was raised to care for all living things, but also to crush his enemies beneath his heel. That type of upbringing left its marks. He cared deeply for a handful of people and could be brutally protective of them. Hastur tried to kill someone important to Warlock. And there were consequences for such things.

Warlock stared at the damp smear on the ground for a moment. Cold. Remorseless. And without a single regret for Hastur's fate. Then he stepped on it, grinding his foot on what was left of the demon. The gesture felt right.

"You hurt Aziraphale," he said quietly. "You tried to kill him and that almost broke Nanny's heart. I won't let you hurt my family again."

He thought that dealing with Hastur would make him feel better. He thought he would feel better when they were safer. But he didn't. Not really. He didn't really regret committing his first murder since it was to keep everyone safe, but he also didn't feel proud of his actions. It was simply something that he needed to do. It was the best option. And at least it was over quickly; he didn't make anyone suffer for very long.

Picking up the occult dagger from where Hastur dropped it during his melting, [12] he quietly wandered his way back out of the forest. He climbed back into the Bentley. And with the steady beat from "Another One Bites the Dust" pounding out of the speakers, Warlock coaxed the car towards home.

He didn't try to park the Bentley back in the garage. Warlock couldn't guarantee that the sound would be covered up by running water this time and he didn't want to explain what he was doing with the car in the middle of the night. Crowley might encourage him to cause trouble and break rules, but stealing the Bentley to go out to kill a Duke of Hell might be pushing things.

He hid both the water gun and the knife under the bench in the garden before slipping back inside. Warlock winced at every creak as he crept in. The cottage was too dark and too quiet. None of the radios were playing. There was no angel sitting in the library while listening to classical music nor was he upstairs reading in bed. It felt wrong. And it felt harder to sneak back into his room with the deathly silence hanging over the place.

But he knew that he could do it. No one ever noticed Warlock when he wanted to be ignored. Not when he Expected to remain unobserved. That particular trick would always make it easier to sneak his way back into his room.

Until he stepped into his bedroom to find Crowley sitting on the edge of the bed. Waiting for him.

"Nanny," he yelped, jumping in surprise. "Feeling better after your bath?"

Gesturing for the boy to join him, Crowley said evenly, "I should probably be encouraging teenage rebellion like sneaking out in the middle of the night, but I don't think either of us are in the mood for that. This was something else. Probably something dangerous. Please tell me that you weren't breaking into Heaven or Hell again."

"Sorry." Warlock sat down next to him and gave the demon a tired shrug. "I didn't go far. I was just… fixing things."

"What kind of things?"

Shrugging again as he stared down at the floor, he said, "Making sure that Hastur can't hurt you or Aziraphale again."

"What did you do?"

"I crushed my enemy beneath my heel, Nanny."

After a moment, Crowley's arm snaked around and pulled him into a hug. A tight and almost desperate hug, the boy's face buried into his shoulder. Holding him close as if he expected Warlock to disappear like Aziraphale did.

All the tangled emotions that he'd shoved down came bubbling back to the surface. Everything from the last several hours tried to swallow him whole. Aziraphale getting stabbed, Crowley nearly breaking down from it, and executing Hastur. It was too much. He didn't even know what he was feeling except it was too much. Warlock just wanted to stay in that safe and tight embrace.

Running his hand through the boy's hair, Crowley said, "You could have been killed. Hastur was never one to show mercy. It is impressive, taking down a Duke of Hell, but we could have lost you. And I can't… Not both of you. I need you both to be safe. You need to be more careful. I can't always protect you two if I'm not there."

"I'm sorry that I worried you," he said. "But I'm not sorry that he's gone." Squeezing a little tighter, Warlock said, "And Aziraphale isn't gone, right? There's still a chance that Raphael can help him."

"Yesss," hissed Crowley quietly. Taking a shaky breath, he slowly released the hug. "He'll be home soon. I'm sure of it. Until then, you should get some more sleep."

Warlock grumbled wordlessly as the demon pushed him down on the bed. Crowley pulled the blanket over him while humming a familiar lullaby. It reminded him of when Warlock was five. Apparently he would never be too old to be tucked into bed by his nanny.


He couldn't sleep. He refused to even try. Crowley couldn't risk the nightmares waiting for him. There would be no one waiting to wake him up. And Crowley knew exactly what he would see in his nightmares. He would see Aziraphale, pale and bleeding from numerous cuts to his corporation and his True Form. He would see the angel dying in his arms while Crowley struggled and failed to heal him. Crowley knew that's what he would see because that's what he saw when he closed his eyes. That mental image had kept him trapped in front of the cottage for hours, unable to move or think until Warlock pulled him out of it.

Sleeping was not an option.

Cleaning off the blood and ichor helped. As did letting the warmth sink into his chilled body. But Crowley couldn't shake it off. He couldn't get past the grief, guilt, and feeling of loss and despair weighing him down. Which was why, after he finished tucking Warlock back into bed and coaxing him off to sleep again, he wandered back down to the library. The room felt the most like the angel, the lingering scent almost comforting.

If Raphael failed, Crowley would never see his angel again. He would lose him. And if Raphael managed to save Aziraphale, then Crowley would still never see the angel again. Because that was the deal. Crowley's life in exchange for Aziraphale. The demon was the one who would be gone forever. Maybe dead, maybe imprisoned, or maybe tortured for the rest of eternity. Regardless, no matter what happened, Crowley and Aziraphale would be separated.

Crowley silently wandered among the shelves. Breathing in the remaining scent from the angel. Trying to memorize everything about Aziraphale while he still could. It did nothing to ease the ache in his chest.

If Aziraphale survived… Crowley knew that he might not have a chance to exchange any last words. It depended on how quickly Raphael claimed his reward. And if that did happen, then Aziraphale deserved something. An explanation. An apology. A farewell. Something.

He found a piece of parchment and a pen that the angel had kept stashed away. [13] And with some careful consideration, Crowley slowly wrote out a letter for the angel. One that he nearly tossed away half a dozen times. It was hard to find the right words. It was hard to know what he wanted to say or what Aziraphale would need to hear. But he finished it. The effort took until dawn and left a lump in his throat, but he managed to write everything down.

Then, wiping away the dampness on his face, Crowley added a little sealing wax before miracling up his old signet ring to finish it off. He remembered enough about those days to do the job right. A small and neat seal in the appropriate colors. Aziraphale deserved those small touches.

The early morning light shone through the windows, creeping along the walls as time passed. Warlock should have been stirring, but he'd had a long and stressful night. Sneaking off to apparently vanquish Hastur could wear a boy out. And Crowley had no intentions of waking him up. Just because the demon couldn't risk sleeping without undoubtedly suffering vivid nightmares didn't mean that he would deny the boy his rest. Crowley simply waited quietly as the sun continued to move across the sky.

Though waiting was a new kind of torture. He didn't know when he would find out anything. Raphael told him that he would let Crowley know how Aziraphale was doing, but he didn't offer a time frame. It could be hours. Days. Maybe even weeks. And Crowley would be stuck in that anxious and stressful mental state, twisting himself into knots inside his head. He would be trapped like that until he found out what happened to his angel.

Crowley lost track of time until Warlock came downstairs, preparing some toast for himself and pushing an apple into the demon's hands. [14] Wrapped in a cozy gray jumper and twisting his protective feather charm looped around his neck, the boy gave Crowley a concerned look. Like he was searching for the right thing to say. Finally, Warlock finished his toast and wrapped the demon in a hug.

"Morning," he murmured, his words muffled by his face buried in Crowley's chest. "Did you get any sleep, Nanny?"

"Afraid not. Didn't seem wise."

"Worried about sleep teleporting?"

Hugging the boy tight, Crowley said, "Something like that. Do you want some actual breakfast? I should get you something."

"I'm not hungry."

Before Crowley could push further, an unexpected scent caught his attention. His head snapped up as he breathed it in. An angel. Not Aziraphale, but definitely an angel. A powerful one. While technically it could be almost anyone, Crowley knew that Heaven was at least pretending to stay away and that would limit the number of angels that it could be.

Sunglasses immediately in place and apple forgotten, he was at the door before he even realized that he'd moved.

Raphael stood right at the entrance of the garden, just outside the property. Leaning on his cane and politely waiting on the other side of the wards. His presence should have been reassuring since Crowley could finally get some answers. But his nerves only worsened, leaving the demon frozen at the door until Warlock took his hand. The pair cautiously approached.

"Aziraphale… Is he…?" asked Crowley, struggling to get the words out.

Every fear, every horrifying nightmare, and every desperate hope warred inside him. He needed to know what happened. He needed to know if Aziraphale was all right. But at the same time, he was terrified of the answer.

It was like that thought experiment with the cat, the box, and the vial of poison that some messed up human put in the box. As long as Crowley didn't know for certain, his angel was both dead and alive at the same time. But as soon as Raphael answered, he would be left with either a living angel or the heartbreaking pain of loss.

"He is stronger than he looks. Or at least, he is very stubborn," he said. "You did well keeping him alive until you summoned me. And it was easier to heal his True Form when Zerachiel [15] took care of his corporeal body and ensured that he didn't discorporate while I worked. After we healed the worst of his wounds, I waited a few hours to ensure that he remained stable. But yes, Aziraphale is alive and resting in my healing ward."

Crowley's hand managed to land on the wall next to them. Letting him brace himself when his legs tried to collapse under him. Relief rushed in like a cold flood. Warlock squeezed his arm, whispering frantic words that the demon couldn't seem to properly comprehend.

Alive. Aziraphale was alive. His angel wasn't gone.

That was worth any price. No matter what happened to the demon next, it would be worth it because Aziraphale was alive.

"Can… can I see him first?" asked Crowley, his voice tight.

That was all he wanted. Even just a glimpse. Maybe it was greedy, but he was a demon. He was allowed to be greedy. He just wanted to see Aziraphale one last time. Before he surrendered to whatever fate that the Archangel had in mind.

Nodding cautiously, Raphael said, "As long as the patient continues to rest, there is nothing wrong with him having a visitor."

"Letting a demon into Heaven?" he asked with a breathless chuckle. "What would the other angels say?"

"My healing ward, my rules."

Crowley took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he turned towards Warlock. He did feel guilty that his deal would mean that he would be leaving the boy as well. He and Aziraphale told Warlock that they would take care of him. That's what Warlock wanted. For the three of them to be together. But Crowley wouldn't be able to keep that promise. All that he could do was hope that the angel could handle it alone.

Hugging Warlock close, he said, "Listen carefully, hellspawn. I need you to head over to Book Girl's cottage for a while. And yes, I know that you can take care of yourself, you proved that already, but I need you to stay with her and her nerd until one of us comes get you."

Warlock twisted his head to glare stubbornly at him. Crowley tried his best to hide his expression behind his sunglasses. He didn't want to admit to the boy that this would be the last time that he would ever see the kid. Crowley wasn't even certain that he would be able to get the words out because it would feel like a betrayal. Like he was abandoning Warlock again. But he had no choice. The deal with Raphael was the best option out of a lot of horrible outcomes. And after a few moments of glaring, Warlock gave a slight shrug.

"Fine. But you need to take this."

He shoved his iPod into Crowley's hands. The demon could only stare.

"Why?"

"Aziraphale is in Heaven right now. Didn't you always say it's white, quiet, and boring? That's not good for him."

Crowley stiffened at his words. He was right. Aziraphale was somewhere quiet and white. He was in Heaven, the last place that the angel needed to be after they locked him up in that horrible room. There was no way that he would react well to that. Crowley needed to get up there immediately.


Aziraphale didn't have much experience with sleeping, meaning that regaining consciousness remained a novel event. This time was a slow process. He gradually regained awareness and none of it was particularly pleasant.

Despite his previous unconscious state, Aziraphale still felt exhausted and weak. His corporation ached and felt impossibly heavy. And his True Form hurt. Like he'd been carefully stitched back together. But more concerning was the feeling of anxiety scraping across his nerves and clawing its way up his throat for reasons that he couldn't explain. A feeling of being trapped and panicking.

It took a few moments to realize what was wrong. It was too quiet.

His eyes flew open as his breath caught in his constricting chest. And he immediately shot up when he only saw white. Aziraphale vaguely noticed that he was sitting on a narrow bed in the middle of a long room filled with similar empty beds and that he seemed to be dressed in a loose white nightgown. But he couldn't seem to focus on the details. All that he could see what the endless whiteness with the silence roaring in his ears.

Trapped. He was trapped in the blinding whiteness and deafening silence. There was no escape. Anxiety wrapped around him tightly.

Aziraphale needed out. He needed to make it stop. There had to be a way out.

Writing. He needed to keep writing. If he wrote enough, they would let him out. If he corrected all the reports, Gabriel would let him out and he could go save Crowley.

His hand scrambled on the soft surface, but he couldn't find the pen. He needed the pen in order to write the corrections. If he couldn't write, then he couldn't get out. He couldn't escape without the pen. He couldn't leave the white silence. He needed it to stop.

A desperate snap of his fingers gave him a pen, but the miracle sent a sharp spike of intense pain through his true form. But that was fine because he had the pen now. He could write those corrections. All he had to do was keeping writing and he could escape the awful white room and silence. The stack of paper was gone, so he would need to improvise. Aziraphale ignored the pain and tried to write on the white surface under his hands.

Keep writing. Just keep writing. If he did enough, then the silence and whiteness would end. Keep going and the horrible quiet and blinding whiteness would end. He needed to make it end. He needed to get out.

A firm hand wrapped around his wrist, stopping his attempt to write. The touch startled him, leaving Aziraphale blinking as his thoughts stumbled. Then something pressed against his lips. When the angel instinctively opened his mouth, a small object slipped onto his tongue. A sweet and bitter flavor flooded his mouth. The familiar taste of dark chocolate.

Aziraphale focused on the firm and gentle hands moving up to cup his face and the taste of expensive dark chocolate. He focused on his senses of touch and taste. The tight pressure around his chest began to ease. And the longer that he focused on the intruding sensations, the more that he noticed the rest of his surroundings. A calming and soothing voice and a figure dressed in black kneeling in front of him.

Crowley.

"That's it. There you go, angel," he murmured, his hand brushing back Aziraphale's hair. "I've got you. Done trying to write on the sheets?"

Smiling as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against Crowley's forehead, Aziraphale said, "Thank you, my dearest. I hope that I didn't worry you too much."

"Me? Worried? That's your job."

Then, pulling back slightly, Crowley snapped his fingers. Curtains, like those once used to partition off sections of a hospital wing, formed around the narrow bed. Creamy yellow curtains that blocked the view of the rest of the room. Aziraphale could feel his anxiety melting away.

Unfortunately, calming down made it harder to ignore the renewed pain.

"What did you do to yourself?"

Aziraphale jolted in surprise as an unfamiliar angel summoned a stool next to the bed, [16] sitting down while resting his cane next to them. The clinical way that he Looked at Aziraphale was rather uncomfortable. Nor was he comfortable with the idea of a strange angel that close to his demon.

Who was currently in Heaven. While he was starting to remember how he got hurt and the immediate aftermath, Aziraphale had some serious questions about why he and Crowley were in Heaven at the moment.

"Aziraphale? Raphael," said Crowley briskly, moving to sit on the bed next to him. "Raphael? Aziraphale."

"You tore one of your wounds back open." Raphael shook his head disapprovingly. "Idiot. You tried a miracle, didn't you? I suppose I'll need to fix that again. I would prefer to have your actual permission this time since you're conscious to give consent."

It was always dangerous, making himself vulnerable like that. Opening himself up enough for another angel to use miracles directly on him. In the past, he would try to reassure himself that it was Heaven and he could trust his fellow angels. But even then, he knew the possible dangers that he didn't want to admit. Someone could just as easily destroy him or manipulate him with their powers as they could heal him. It took trust to allow someone that kind of power over him. And Aziraphale knew that he couldn't trust most of Heaven.

But Crowley was next to him. And he could trust the demon's judgement. He turned towards Crowley with a questioning look.

Taking the angel's hand and brushing his thumb across his knuckles, Crowley whispered, "It's fine. I made a deal with him to heal you. You can trust him to finish the job."

Raphael frowned briefly, but Aziraphale gave a slow nod. Crowley said it would be all right. And Raphael was a healer. The greatest healer in Heaven. While he'd been disillusioned about most of the other angels, healers weren't generally known to be combative by nature. They had gentler reputations. Raphael probably wouldn't attack.

He didn't completely trust the Archangel that he'd only heard a few stories about, but he did trust Crowley. And Crowley said it would be safe.

Squeezing the demon's hand, Aziraphale lowered all of his defenses to make himself vulnerable for the Archangel to do what he wanted.

Aziraphale didn't have much experience when it came to having his True Form healed. When he was forced to heal Crowley while in Hell, he'd mostly poured as much healing energy into the demon as possible. A powerful miracle to strengthen and heal in a very generalized fashion. What Raphael did when he pressed a hand to Aziraphale's chest and pushed in with celestial energy felt stronger, but also more precise and controlled. Like a scalpel instead of a sledgehammer. Except less destructive.

It didn't hurt, but it felt very strange and uncomfortable. Aziraphale couldn't even describe the sensation of another angel's powers slipping into him, carefully reaching for that sharper pain and pressing the torn edges back together. Sealing the wound like celestial stitches.

"There you go," said Raphael as he finally withdrew his power. "At least it was one of the shallower ones. And apologies for before. I was not informed that your surroundings would cause you that level of distress." He pulled his hand away from the other angel. "Now, listen to me carefully. You will remain in my healing ward until at least some time tomorrow. Then, if nothing goes wrong and as long as you remain in a calm and restful environment for the next two weeks of your recovery, you can return to Earth. It might even be better for the majority of your recovery time to be spent somewhere less stressful for you than Heaven. But you are absolutely forbidden to use miracles for at least a month. I will not have my hard work undone by sheer recklessness or impatience. You will follow these orders to the letter or else you will spend the entirety of your recovery under my direct supervision in my healing ward. And you will not enjoy a second of it. Do I make myself clear?"

Giving a slow nod, Aziraphale leaned slightly closer to Crowley. The sharper pain might have eased, but the rest of the aches and the weariness remained. Crowley might be able to tempt him into an actual nap. Sleep seemed like a wonderful idea.

Climbing back to his feet, his cane clicking slightly on contact with the floor, Raphael said, "I have to make my rounds. I don't know what you two get up to when you're alone on Earth and I don't care as long as you don't attempt anything to strenuous. I will be back later to check on my patient."

As Raphael disappeared behind the yellow curtains, Crowley curled his arm around the angel. Aziraphale smiled back tiredly as the demon reached up to run his fingers through the angel's hair a few times. It felt nice. And he could feel the demon's gaze through his sunglasses. Just like he could sense the bright and familiar love radiating from Crowley in warm and comforting waves.

"I almost lost you," said Crowley, barely breathing out the words. He brushed a soft kiss to Aziraphale's forehead. "I couldn't do anything about it. So please, I really need you to stay out of trouble, angel. It's a bit stressful for everyone."

"I'm sorry to worry you, my dearest."

Not that it was really his fault. How could Aziraphale have predicted that a Duke of Hell would show up to stab him? No one could have foreseen that. [17] But now was not the time to point out that logical fact. Not when Crowley was clearly upset and overwhelmed with relief. He needed a moment to reassure himself.

"Not worried," mumbled Crowley, convincing absolutely no one. "Just… You need to be careful. What if I'm not there next time to pull you out of danger?"

Smiling tiredly, he said, "You've never let me down before and I highly doubt that you ever will."

Crowley didn't say anything. Instead, he simply tightened his hold on the angel for a brief moment. A tight and slightly shaking hug. Then he slowly pulled something out of his pocket.

"Warlock sent this. He thought you could use some music while you were up here," he said unsteadily.

He fumbled around with the small device for a moment. Then, rather than putting the tiny speakers in the angel's ears, Crowley draped the wires across Aziraphale's shoulders while putting the music player in a newly-formed breast pocket on his nightgown. The faint music played just loud enough to be heard on the edge of his awareness. Ensuring that the awful silence would not return.

"Come on," said Crowley quietly. He gently pushed Aziraphale back down on the narrow bed. "You heard the doc. You need your rest."

Aziraphale settled back down as the demon tugged the white sheet over him. The creamy white curtains around the bed and the quiet music kept the feeling of anxiety at bay. Crowley curled up on the edge of the bed next to him, though Aziraphale wasn't certain how he fit. But he did, balanced on the tiniest amount of space. With the angel on his back and tucked in comfortably, Crowley was on his side with one arm curled protectively over him.

"Go to sleep, Aziraphale. You'll be safe. I'll keep an eye on you," said Crowley. Hesitantly, he whispered, "Could you… could you please… could you say…?"

Smiling as he closed his eyes, Aziraphale murmured, "I love you, Crowley. And thank you."

He felt a tiny shiver from the demon. But he didn't say anything further. And despite Aziraphale's general disinterest in sleep, his weariness pulled him back under.


Crowley remained curled up on the edge of the narrow bed, watching his angel sleep. He rarely had the chance to see Aziraphale asleep. He might be able to occasionally coax the angel into a nap in the last couple of years, but it remained a rare event. It was nice. Seeing him that peaceful and relaxed. And he was taking the opportunity to study ever inch of Aziraphale's restful face and breathe in his comforting scent. Memorizing every part of his corporation and then Looking over the angel's True Form, noting the healing wounds that Raphael had fixed. Then repeating the entire process again.

Crowley couldn't help examining him in every way. He already knew every part of Aziraphale. But it would be his last chance to see his angel. He refused to squander even a moment.

Maybe a few minutes passed or perhaps a few hours. But eventually footsteps and the tap of a cane approached and the curtains moved. Raphael gave them both appraising looks and Looks as Crowley slowly sat up.

"Time's up?" asked Crowley, trying to give him a wry grin even as it felt like something inside him was sinking fast.

Leaning on his cane, Raphael said, "I thought that we should take care of a few matters while the patient is resting. It might be less stressful for all involved. And since I would rather not disturb his sleep during his recovery, perhaps it would be better if we conduct this business elsewhere."

Crowley swallowed hard. Time to uphold his half of the bargain. Raphael saved Aziraphale. His angel survived. He was healing and would go home soon. Aziraphale would get to live. Raphael did exactly what Crowley requested. Which meant that his life was forfeit. It belonged to the Archangel to do as he saw fit.

Execution. Imprisonment. Torture. By Raphael, by the other angels, or by Hell. The details didn't matter. Crowley had a general idea of what was coming.

Giving a small nod, Crowley whispered, "I'm coming."

He reached over and straightened the white sheet covering Aziraphale. Demonic miracles turned out to be more difficult to perform in Heaven. The curtains around the bed, offering his angel privacy and a splash of color to sooth him, were tricky enough to produce and made him glad that he brought the piece of dark chocolate from Earth. [18] But Crowley put in the effort to shift Aziraphale into a comfortable set of soft flannel pajamas. And he used the opportunity to stealthily sneak his folded letter into the angel's hand.

Leaving Aziraphale was almost physical and metaphysically painful. It was certainly emotional agony. But Crowley managed to force his body to obey.

He hadn't paid much attention to his surroundings on the way in, too concerned with reaching Aziraphale. Now he could notice things. Other than his miracled curtains, the healing ward wasn't partitioned off. There were neat empty beds arranged in neat lines along the length of the long white room, but no privacy. Maybe because angels weren't supposed to need it or because most would actually be comforted by the familiar emptiness of the larger space since most of Heaven was like that. Either way, Crowley could see that there were no other patients currently occupying the beds. A few other angels walking around who were clearly other healers and who gave him a suspicious look, but no other patients.

There were a few doors near where they came in. Pausing briefly to speak quietly to an angel with straight black hair and observant eyes, Raphael led him into a smaller room. Relatively speaking. A white room with a pale couch, an armchair, a low cot, a white filing cabinet, and a wooden stool. The vast majority of the furniture packed into the relatively small space offered places to sit. Which Raphael seemed intent on using immediately, gesturing for Crowley to sit on the cot while he moved the stool right next to it.

"I asked Zadkiel [19] to keep an eye on things for a while. She'll let me know if anything happens with Aziraphale," said Raphael. "Have a seat. I will try to make this quick."

So not Hell or the other angels. Raphael intended to do the job himself. Crowley fought the urge to run away. Every instinct shrieked at him to escape, but he couldn't. Aziraphale was still healing and he couldn't risk his angel by breaking their deal. Which meant that Crowley sat down on the cot, fighting with everything that he had to stay still.

"I suppose this entire situation is a bit stressful for you, so let's not draw it out. If you would allow me to proceed, I promise that it won't hurt," he continued in a clinical tone. "There may be some discomfort, but no pain."

No pain. Crowley smiled wryly. A healer's kindness. Hell or the other angels wouldn't have been that kind. They would want him screaming during his destruction. At least Raphael was treating it like a mercy killing. No violence, suffering, or fear. Just reach into the demon's True Form and end it.

He closed his eyes and lowered all of his natural defenses. Giving Raphael complete access to do whatever he wished. It was the demonic or angelic equivalent of tilting back his head to bare his throat, making it easier to slit if someone wanted to try it. As open and vulnerable as possible.

Keeping his eyes shut, Crowley thought about Aziraphale. He thought about the first time that he saw the angel on the wall of Eden. He remembered the first time that he saw Aziraphale smile. Crowley pictured that moment as vividly as possible. That's all that he wanted to think about. His angel smiling at him.

He tried not flinch in surprise when Raphael's hand pressed against his chest. Then Crowley also felt the Archangel reaching into his True Form.

And it might as well be the Angel of Death himself there to claim him.


[10] He'd had his sunglasses on earlier, but he'd misplaced them at some point during his heartbroken tears and mental spiral.

[11] Warlock didn't technically know how to drive yet and certainly not legally. But he'd played enough video games that he had a general idea. And the Bentley had been on the road long enough that it knew better than to let him crash.

[12] Warlock knew better than to leave supernatural weaponry lying around where anyone could stumble on it.

[13] There were more modern materials available, but Aziraphale always had a soft spot for more traditional methods.

[14] The trio tended to keep fresh fruit available for snacks. Warlock was a growing boy, after all, and Anathema made certain to remind the pair that locally-grown fruits and vegetables were an important part of a healthy diet. Apples were a particular household favorite.

[15] Zerachiel was an angel of healing, one who was often charged to look after mortals more closely than most and mildly fond of children. But they were also rather judgmental and would have complained more about helping to heal the traitor to Heaven if it wasn't for the fact that they were a healer. Being a healer came with certain obligations. Also, they would never argue when Raphael gave them an order.

[16] The last time that Gabriel tried to lecture Raphael about frivolous miracles, he walked out of the healing ward with a limp of his own.

[17] Agnes Nutter did, but that particular prophecy had long since been reduced to ash. Which also didn't surprise the dead witch.

[18] They'd figured out that when Aziraphale started having issues with a space being too white or quiet, the best way to pull him out of it was to appeal to his other senses. Touch was usually fairly effective, but it worked better to address multiple senses. And the delicious taste of gourmet-level dark chocolate was something that Heaven could never match.

[19] Zadkiel was not technically a healer. She was not created specifically for that purpose. She was an archangel [20] of freedom, benevolence, and mercy. Furthermore, she was the patron angel of all who forgive. But Raphael had borrowed her during the War when he needed as many angels as possible to assist him and she simply never left. And she had a good head on her shoulders, could keep calm during a crisis, learned more precise healing methods quickly, and benevolence and mercy were both good traits to possess when it came to caring for the injured and dying.

[20] There was a difference between Archangel and archangel. And not just a lack of capitalization for the latter. The two terms didn't sound as similar in the original language.

Please forgive me for the cliffhanger, but it was the ideal place to stop. And because watching people squirm from cliffhangers amuses me. It makes people scream in the comments and call me a monster.