This is the last chapter. Thank you all so much for reading! :) I can't wait to find out more about season 3. Do you think we'll get to see this missing bit of time in the show?

For now, let's enjoy the fanfiction... :)

Chapter 6:

Sleeping. Dreaming. Waking up screaming and terribly shaking. Crying. Healing.

This went on for quite some time.

Crowley felt himself getting stronger as time passed. Eventually, lying in bed became more convenience than necessity. Sometimes Aziraphale would bring him tea and some crackers and they would sit together, talking.

Or rather, Aziraphale would talk. Crowley was very quiet. He never touched the food.

When it came to healing Crowley's injuries, however, it was almost always cause for an argument between the two entities. The better Crowley felt the more vehemently he refused to let Aziraphale see the roughest wounds. The angel was stubborn, though, and the look of hurt and rejection in his blue eyes held Crowley back from simply walking out the door.

The demon was better on his feet these days. His strained muscles were still hurting deep to the core and his skin did too when touched, but it was bearable. All thanks to Aziraphale and no thanks to him.

Why did he allow himself to get into this mess in the first place? Why was he still trying to do… good… when he knew the consequences for his kind? Well, he was just getting too bloody smug, wasn't he? He never thought Hell would actually catch him and now that it had happened, he alone should be the one getting himself out of trouble.

The problem was that there still wasn't much he could do. The miraculous sparks weren't flying yet. The metaphorical battery of demonic energy was still low and therefore he was vulnerable if the servants of Hell decided to come for him again.

It was driving Crowley insane.

He felt so insufficient. Like a broken piece of furniture. Useless. Not even nice to look at. But, regardless, Aziraphale still cared for him. He was mending him slowly when he shouldn't have to.

Neither of them knew how much longer it would take for Crowley to get his mojo back. Aziraphale seemed to be certain that it would return, but Crowley, slowly but surely, developed some doubts. Aziraphale hadn't experience first hand what he had been through.

Could he have been permanently damaged? Could the demon blade have cut his miracle powers out of him?

There weren't any records of demons having a run-in with those special blades and staying in their bodies. Maybe what happened to him was an error. His soul, his essence, could've left his body through the tear across his chest and now it wasn't coming back.

That was certainly how it felt to Crowley.

Empty inside. Just anger and fear remained.

And guilt, of course, whenever he looked into Aziraphale's eyes.

The angel had left him alone for the day. He had been in to heal a long, deep cut on his back that stretched from his right shoulder to his left hipbone. Crowley had made a big show of grumbling about and cursing under his breath before baring his back to the angel. He hoped that Aziraphale would get tired of his antics one day and leave him either to rot or to heal in his own time, but it hasn't happened yet.

Quite the opposite. The angel rolled his eyes good-naturedly and merely tutted at Crowley for all his moaning. If the demon got especially gruff and abrasive, Aziraphale got quiet and sulky, which in turn made Crowley feel bad because he knew he was only trying to help, of course.

It had happened so today. The angel had pressed his quivering lips together and mumbled something about giving him more time to adjust before he'd left the room. As always he still did remind Crowley that he was welcome to lounge downstairs in the shop with him. It's more comfortable, said the angel. And we'd be together, was what he sometimes added sheepishly. It's silly, isn't it? Me downstairs and you up here.

But Crowley couldn't quiet the uneasy feeling whenever he was around the angel. He couldn't forget that in a pain-induced frenzy he'd planned to abandon his only friend in the universe.

So, instead, he spent the afternoon pacing up and down his room like a wild animal in a cage, looking out the window and hoping that in addition to his physical scars, his mental and miraculous scars were healing, too.

If he could only track if he was making any progress at all.

In the evening he leafed through the books from the shelf in his room. Aziraphale always kept it stocked up with new volumes to read. But Crowley couldn't concentrate on the words so he finally gave up and slumped down on the bed, all limbs stretched out like a cat in the sun.

Then it started again.

He was alone and it was dark. Impenetrable blackness all around. Crowley felt very small in the vast emptiness. His body was hurting worse again. Naked and vulnerable, Crowley shivered in the cold. It was that peculiar, lonely kind of coldness that surrounded the empty parts of Hell. And now he could smell it, too.

The misery. The damp cold, exhaled by billions of angry demons. The hopelessness.

Crowley began to panic.

Why was he back here? Have they noticed him yet? He needed to get away before they'd find him.

"Crowley." Ligur singsonged and the serpent turned around and back again. No one there. No one at all. He was imagining things.

"Crowley." growled Hastur. Like a hell hound unleashed.

Crowley stepped backwards. He wanted to hold on to something, but there was absolutely nothing there. He was trembling, breathing quickening. Eyes trying to adjust to the dark to no avail.

"Crowley!" hissed Mazikeen and laughed.

"No." mumbled the demon, hugging his own body protectively. "I'm safe. It's not real." He tried to conjure up images of Aziraphale, repeating the words he'd always tell him when he woke up from nightmares, but it didn't stop his limbs from shaking and his heart from beating wildly.

"You were never safe." cackled Mazikeen. "It's all a dream."

"We found you, Crowley." added Ligur.

"No-no-no!"

"We did. And we're going to hurt you, Crowley."

"You haven't served your full sentence yet." muttered Hastur.

Suddenly, all three faces were around him. Like ghost figures in the dark, much bigger than expected. Crowley jerked back. The three demons were close but when their clawing hands reached for him they couldn't quite touch him yet.

"We're gonna get you, Crowley!" boomed Ligur and the serpent took off running. He didn't know where he was going. He couldn't see anything but darkness. After a while he wasn't even sure if he was moving forward at all.

"I'll take your stupid scales!" hissed Mazikeen.

Demon blades were whizzing past his ears. Crowley covered his head and ran on. Then he heard the whip crack.

"You can't escape, Crowley!" Hastur roared.

"No!" he huffed out of breath. Running faster. Heart beating in his throat.

The crack of the whip was getting louder. Crowley was sure he could feel how it sliced the air around him. Mazikeen was still cackling. She was so close. He could tell. Just behind him. Reaching for him. She was going to hurt him. Destroy him. Make him scream.

Faster. He needed to be faster.

There was a light ahead. A way out. Aziraphale? Most likely. He could hear him calling.

"Crowley!" His chosen name spoken with much more worry and care than from those spitting, devilish creatures behind him. They were both calling for him. Soft and full of fear. Vicious and full of hatred.

He was getting closer to the light. He could see the angel.

Crowley hoped. A smile on his lips. And then another crack and something wrapped tightly around his ankle.

The serpent fell and got pulled back into the darkness. "NO!" he screamed, fighting to loosen the end of the whip that had wrapped itself around him. The demons were laughing. Aziraphale was still calling out.

"No, not again! I can't go through that again!" Crowley yelled and he lifted his arm.

Around his hand a ball of flickering orange-red hellfire bloomed. With a cry he swung his arm forward and the fire followed, severing the grip on his ankle and ripping apart the fabric of his nightmare.

Crowley came to, pressed against the headboard of his bed. Sweating and lungs pumping. The smell of sulphur still hung in the air. Remnants of a sudden surge of hellish fire.

Aziraphale was cowering on the ground, as far away from him as the room allowed. He was looking up at him, eyes widened in shock. One arm supported his body on the ground, the other was still frozen mid-air. As if he was protecting himself from something.

The carpet between them was singed.

And it dawned on Crowley what he had done.

"Oh, God." he whispered under his breath. His demonic soul coiled upon Her name.

"C-Crowley…" the angel gasped in surprise. "Did you just…"

He fell silent and Crowley's heart burnt. What have I done?!

"You did a miracle!" Aziraphale exclaimed, the shock in his eyes gave way for wonder and a smile. "Oh, Crowley, I knew it would come back."

He scrambled up from the ground and came closer to the bed again. Immediately, the demon pulled up his legs to keep as much distance as possible. Mortified, he hid his face between his knees, arms thrown over his head, pulling at his flaming red hair. The guilt was too much to bear it any longer.

"It's alright, dear. You didn't know what you were doing." said Aziraphale calmly. "I wasn't hurt. See? ...Crowley?"

There was the inevitable touch of his hand on the demon's arm and Crowley finally freaked.

He raised his head with fire in his snake eyes and pushed the angel back. "Get away from me!" he shrieked, startling Aziraphale and making him stumble. "Don't touch me or I'll hurt you!"

The angel froze, taken aback by Crowley's sudden, explosive rage. His lips trembled, but he persevered stubbornly, taking a step towards his friend again. "You didn't hurt me. You were still enthraled by your nightmare." he tried to explain.

"Don't!" Crowley shouted and the word was accompanied by a vicious hiss. "Go away! Don't come back in here!"

"Crowley, please, listen!" the angel begged.

"I'm too dangerousss!" The serpent stared him down relentlessly. His eyes were big and golden, Aziraphale's full of tears. It didn't make Crowley back down this time; it was for the angel's own good. "GO!" he yelled once more, making the windows rattle in their frames. He sent another sharp hiss after his cry and Aziraphale stepped back with a small sob that sounded like he was kicked in the stomach.

Then he finally turned and hurried out the door.

Without thinking, Crowley clicked his fingers and the door fell shut so hard that the wood splintered. Another sharp glance locked it firmly.

Finally, Crowley unravelled, breaking into shivering, hiccuping sobs. With his knees still pulled up he looked at his hands and what they've done.

Hellfire.

He attacked his angelic friend, who helped him back to his feet when he was done for, who healed the hellish wounds on his body despite the possible consequences for himself, with hellfire.

Aziraphale could've been destroyed. Utterly and completely destroyed without any chance of renewal. And it would've been his fault.

It would've been Crowley's fault!

The demon sank his head back down on his knees. Hands wrapped around himself, sharp fingernails scratching his scarred skin open.

He screamed… and then he cried.

In the end, he knew he had to move past it.

Crowley let time work its way. Let it wash over him and clear away the darkest feelings of depression. He had no sense how long it took until he dared to acknowledge the horrible thing he'd done and, frankly, he knew that he probably wouldn't completely get over it for years to come.

But it was done now. Too late. As always too late. Couldn't be changed anymore.

He had his powers back at least and that meant he could take care of himself now.

Free of any miracle limitations, Crowley began healing himself cut for cut. Too many demonic miracles at once still tired him out so he slept more again.

He still had nightmares.

When he woke up from them, screaming his heart out, hellfire around his hands and breathing raggedly, he could hear Aziraphale behind the door, asking if he was alright. But Crowley didn't let him in. He knew a simple wooden obstacle, locked or not, normally wouldn't stop a celestial being, but the angel respected his wishes and kept his distance.

But he didn't give up on Crowley. And somehow that only made it worse.

One day, the demon sat at the edge of his bed. Sunlight streaming in through the window, highlighting his bright-red hair that covered one side of his face like a curtain. It also hit his bare upper body, throwing shadows on every ragged wound that still jutted out.

Crowley looked almost normal nowadays. Those pale pink streaks where the cuts were caused by Mazikeen's demon blade would never fully go away, but other injuries weren't visible anymore.

His back was the exception. Aziraphale hadn't been done healing it and Crowley couldn't actually see the cuts so they would have to heal over time. The raw red rings of blistered skin around his ankles and wrists, burnt by holy water, were also a tad more complicated to get rid off.

Crowley was working on his left wrist now. Single-mindedly willing the rough skin to calm. It would have been easy for Aziraphale, but a demon would need almost as much power as it took for the angel to heal the demonic blade wound.

He wasn't strong enough yet. Drops of sweat gathered on the serpent's forehead. He took a break, breathing through in frustration. Why couldn't the angel have started with those, if he insisted on healing him?

Just then there was a shy knock on the door.

"Crowley?"

Speak of the… angel… and he's bound to appear.

Crowley ground his teeth, staying silent. Somewhere inside of him his heart was begging him to answer but he couldn't bring himself to actually do it. If the guilt had been too much to meet the angel's gaze before, it now was so stifling that Crowley didn't feel worthy enough to even talk to him.

Not yet at least.

"I… I heard you cry last night." said the angel quietly. "Well, a-at least you weren't screaming. I honestly don't know which is worse."

It's both shameful and weak, Crowley answered in his mind.

"I almost came in, you know? I… I couldn't stand it any longer. To hear you suffer." An audible tiny sob, halted his speech. "But," he came back more resolutely. "You made your wishes quite clear and I am going to honour that."

Of course you do.

"I just wanted you to know… that I am here for you, Crowley."

The demon sank his head, tears gathering in his eyes again. In order to keep any sobbing noises to himself, he bit his lip so hard that it bled.

"If you need more time on your own then I understand that," said the angel, sounding not very convinced. "But I'll be right here. When you're ready. We could… talk about it."

Never.

"About everything that happened." he continued. "I just need you to know that I'm not holding you responsible for anything at all."

Crowley snorted humourlessly.

"This was done to you. It's not your fault, you have to believe me. They have tortured and scared you. Anything that happened as a result from that is completely understandable. You are not to blame, Crowley." the angel emphasized.

Crowley stared at the burn marks on the carpet. The many more singed holes in the blanket or the bed frame that came after. He didn't actually see how close the hellfire came to Aziraphale on the day his powers returned, but his brain offered him an array of vivid scenarios.

More fuel for nightmares.

Aziraphale sighed when his words, again, remained unanswered. "Just give me a sign, will you? When you're ready. Open the door and I'll be there. I promise."

More time past.

Just over three months now since Hell spat him out and released him back to his post on 19th century Earth.

Crowley began thinking about what he should do. Not about Aziraphale, of course. He wasn't even considering his offer to talk it all out. That would mean letting him into the personal Hell that was his mind. Letting him see all the pain – ever since the Fall, really – that had led to this moment.

It just… it wasn't for Aziraphale to know, decided Crowley. He was much too pure. Too kind and gentle to be confronted with the harsh reality of Hell and its awful demons.

No, this was his cross alone to bear.

But Crowley needed a plan. Hell never thought he would recover from this and now that he has, he might have to explain it at some point. They might decide to take him back. Let him rot for the rest of eternity once this project called Earth comes to an end.

And Crowley was not having it. He'd never go back. Never be this helpless and miserable again.

What he needed were means to defend himself when, not if, Hell came for him.

But what Crowley also needed was to be away from the angel. At least for a while.

Frowning sadly, he gazed towards the door that he still kept locked. Whatever Crowley's plan would eventually be, he wouldn't risk Aziraphale getting caught in the crossfire. Not again.

Never again.

He needed to leave.

Crowley wondered if Aziraphale would be angry with him for leaving without saying goodbye, but then chided himself. If the angel was angry then he at least wouldn't come looking for him. This was good. It was what he wanted.

Yeah, right...

Crowley sighed deeply. It was time.

He was in his last stage of recovery. Minor aches and burns, but nothing he couldn't handle on his own. The demon didn't need to hide out in this safe space anymore where other demons couldn't sense him. He was ready to get back to work and face them.

Crowley slouched up from the side of the bed where he'd been sitting, thinking, and sauntered over to a full-length mirror in the corner of the room. One edge of it was slightly melted from one of his delirious attacks, fighting off the nightmarish figments of his imagination. A painful reminder of what he'd almost done to his friend.

The demon lazily snapped his fingers and in place of the comfortable grey cotton pyjamas that Aziraphale had bought for him were black trousers and a dark shirt. A stylish long coat, fitting for the new decade with a little less frill than before, further covered his rake-thin body. He snapped his fingers once more and his long, grown-out hair was again short enough to fit under a black top hat that he would acquire later. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and put his new dark glasses on.

Crowley looked at himself in the mirror and nodded slightly.

Done.

All the pain and all the scars carefully hidden away.

Just one thing left to do now.

He shook his shoulders, bracing himself for pain as he made his wings appear. The serpent groaned between clenched teeth when not fully healed skin was stretched unnaturally. But he breathed through it; he had to see them.

The state of his wings was directly connected to the demon's health. The better he felt the more flawless his wings would appear. Crowley glanced behind him, gently flapping the huge black feathers about. They looked a bit dull and droopy, but overall alright to carry him.

Crowley stepped to the window and looked up. Then down.

He would find a way to be safe, he swore to himself. No, he would find a way to make them both safe. Because, ultimately, that needed to be the goal. A safe space for him and the angel. Far away from Heaven and Hell.

Crowley readied himself to leave… but then he looked back, tethered by the soft voice that pleaded in his mind.

"Just give me a sign, will you? When you're ready. Open the door and I'll be there. I promise."

Crowley's brows furrowed with sorrow behind his dark shades. He clicked his fingers and the door to his room opened a crack. He waited for a heartbeat, simultaneously wishing for and dreading the appearance of the angel. But then he suddenly thought better of it and he disappeared into the city.

Trying to find a flask of holy water.

A single black feather stayed behind when Crowley vanished. It tumbled softly to the ground, waiting to be found.

Here I close this missing scene moment. Maybe this explains the rather cold, stand-offish meeting at the duck pond in St. James Park two years later. ;)

Again, thank you so much for reading, lovely people, and if you enjoyed this story, please let me know in a review!