... And All the World's a Stage (3/3, part I) (SPN/GO crossover, gen)

[thinkatory]

Title: ... And All The World's a Stage (3/3, part I)
Fandom: Supernatural/Good Omens
Characters/Pairing: Crowley-centric. In this part, Lilith, Aziraphale, OFCs and OMC demons (Vivienne, Mariel and Tristane), Belling the tailor; Crowley/Lilith, Crowley/Aziraphale, Crowley/OFCs.
Rating: R.
Word count: 10535.
Warning: Disturbing, gory imagery involving children, major character death, sexual themes.
Note: This fic is set in a merged 'verse, with GO background and setting for the SPN Apocalypse plotline, with Crowley being the nexus of both. (Also, to see the footnotes, mouseover the link.) Spoilers up to SPN 5x21. Credit to occultebelta once again for the beta job, as well as dramaturgy. Epilogue forthcoming! This chapter is too long so it's in two parts, link is at the bottom to continue!
Summary: Late 2008 to early 2009; Crowley's reconnection with Aziraphale raises a series of questions, and leads to its inevitable conclusion. Alliances in Hell are complicated. At this point he couldn't tell you whose side he's really on, not that he actually would if he knew. All he knows is that he would rather not die, and that's inevitable once Lucifer's out. Unless he makes himself useful. ... He's trying not to think about that.

Chapter 1: 1987 to 2007; how Crowley survived the aftermath of the Adam Young incident and rose to prominence beside Lilith.
Chapter 2: 2007 to 2008; Crowley sizes up the players and stacks his deck in preparation for the coming Apocalypse.


September 2008

Dean Winchester breaks the first seal on an otherwise completely boring Thursday in August.

For some reason it surprises him when the Winchester brothers completely fail in their fight against Hell. There was this idea floating around that the Winchesters were real contenders, unlike most hunters, who turn out to be target practice more often than not. But Dean, he breaks like a cheap London chopstick compared to Daddy, and Sam, well, all of the birdies are saying he's running around with that bitch Ruby again. [1]

The angels show up at Hell's gate within the week of Dean's death. They don't stop pushing their way through the circles, so Crowley has to put up with Beelzebub and the rest of Hell's bureaucrats bitching at Lilith. Apparently she was supposed to have seen this coming and given them some warning to put their paperwork in order. How are they supposed to get any business done with angels waging war downstairs?

Lilith shouts something in a language Crowley hasn't heard in a few thousand years, and Beelzebub flees the stereo system like a shot. He doesn't even bat an eyelash. "Blimey, you'd think it was life or death the way he was talking," he blithely says instead.

She flops down next to him on the couch, petulant and annoyed again. "Children, Crowley. They're just children, screaming for their mother. Most haven't ever seen an angel, never mind fought one. I thought we had an army."

"We do," Crowley supposes, curling a strand of her hair around his finger thoughtfully. "But never mind armies. Heaven's full of unimaginative bastards. We've got the market cornered on creative strategy."

She nods (whether or not she's listened is up for debate) and leans into his touch. "Have you ever really seen an angel?" she asks him lightly.

Funny that he knows all of her legends but she doesn't seem to know many of his. There's no question of who the real VIP is here. "Yeah. Showoffs," he says, dismissive.

"It made me wonder what God must be like." Lilith goes still, her eyes gently closed, actually relaxed. "Seeing Him, as He was made to be seen. I thought I would die from His beauty, Crowley."

It gets easier every year to bite his tongue. "Special from the start, you were."

"That's what He said," she says, like he needed confirmation. "He said I was special."

They never talk about this, mostly because Crowley doesn't know what the fuck will come out of his mouth if Lilith starts gushing about Lucifer in front of him, and the prospect of dying by Lilith's hand because he badmouthed the Morningstar who she loves so much more...

Fuck it, he's better than this.

"Do you miss Him?" he asks bluntly.

She doesn't hesitate to answer. "Yes. I haven't seen Him since our daughter was born. That was the last He saw of me, before the cage."

Lilith's hand closes around his, and he does his best not to soften. "Right. The cage." Everyone knows about the cage. It just sits there, at the bottom of Hell, red-hot, shadowed, barely visible, managing to loom despite that geography forces you to look down at it.

"He told me it would happen, Crowley," she says softly. "How it would happen. That Michael would come for Him, with the four riders behind him, and that I would never see Him again."

"Fucking prophecy," he says, unimpressed, but then he realizes exactly what he's heard and decides to pretend he hasn't. "He knew, then."

She opens her eyes and shrugs at him. "It is written."

"So I've heard." Crowley kisses her on the mouth to distract her, and she smirks against his mouth, moving easily to straddle his lap. "Tell me more."

Lilith guides him to unbutton her shirt, and she starts to speak, in that voice, her voice, that human-demon-vessel voice that only she can call up -- that voice that has the power of Hell and emotion of humanity all at once.

"He lied to me. So many lies, Crowley."

"It's what He does," he says, trying to play it cool and genuinely wondering how the fuck he ever managed it with her.

She turns her head when he goes to kiss her, and gives an appreciative murmur when he sinks her back into the couch. "But they weren't lies, that's the strange thing," she goes on, resting her hand on the back of his head. "Just like you. He lied and lied but they were all lies to make me love Him. And I did, and I believed Him. That makes them true. Doesn't it?"

Fuck, Crowley really wishes he could be listening to her, but he's too far gone. He's witnessed witches being burned at the stake, Aztecs sacrificing their own, all in the fervor of religion. It's nothing compared to how desperately he worships at her body now, working steadily to leave her completely bare and take her in, demon and human and sin incarnate.

She smiles down at him. It's still the worst thing he's ever seen, but it's his. "Do you love me?" she asks.

His mind is blank. She's right; he always has a lie on the tip of his forked tongue. But not now.

It comes out in a hiss. "Yes."

She yanks him closer, hard, into a frenzied, biting kiss --

Then she abruptly breaks it, along with the power she'd so effortlessly used on him, possibly not even on purpose. Before Crowley can recover and figure out what the hell is going on, she's torn open her own wrist and is impatiently drawing sigils on the ground in her own blood.

"What?" he manages, just before she slams her hand down on the spell and Beelzebub appears in a flash of flame.

Beelzebub looks from a naked and glaring Lilith to Crowley's bloody lip and torn shirt, and doesn't seem to know what to say. Crowley gets some satisfaction from that. "I did not intend to interrupt, mizztrezz," he says hurriedly to Lilith.

"What is it," she snarls, not nearly as amused. "What could POSSIBLY be so important?"

Beelzebub markedly hesitates. "Ah, yezz, well -- "

"Oh, get on with it," Crowley says, because he has the authority and he's damn well going to use it.

"They have Dean Winchester. Heaven hazz Dean Winchester," Beelzebub blurts out.

"No," Lilith screeches instantly, and just as Beelzebub starts to beg, she blasts him back to Hell and abandons her meatsuit.

Crowley looks from the ruined rug to the dazed and naked twenty-something sitting on his couch with her arm hacked open, and sighs. "Just me then," he concludes, and lights a fag right before the girl starts to scream.

He reaches over and touches her forehead, knocking her out. "Shut it," he advises her, and starts idly thinking of what the blessed host to do now when his cell starts to buzz against the computer desk.

"Anthony J Crowley speaking, how may I help you," he answers flatly, tired of this night already.

"Crowley -- you need to come here, now, we need to talk. They're back, Crowley, and -- "

There's a tinny crash in the background noise of the call. It sounds like Aziraphale, but more like Aziraphale would sound if he were panicking, which is so unlikely that it can't be true.

"Who is this?" he asks.

"THIS IS NOT THE TIME TO FOOL AROUND, CROWLEY," Aziraphale shouts in his ear.

"Oi," Crowley warns, holding the phone away from his ear. "ENOUGH SHOUTING," he returns in kind, and then reasonably returns to normal conversation. "Now what are you on about?"

"The angels are back. They have the Vessel. But they're back. Don't you -- look, you need to come here, now, I can't explain this here," Aziraphale says in a tone that Crowley can only accurately describe as forcefully neurotic. "Please."

Crowley pauses. The implication of the night's events is starting to sink into his head, and even though it doesn't even seem half over it's already not looking good. "All right," he agrees. "But I have an errand to run first."

"I don't need to hear about your sex life," the angel says acidly. "Now get the sodding hell over here."

"Wow, you really have gone native," Crowley says, amused. Aziraphale hangs up on him. "Never could laugh at himself," he mutters under his breath, and goes to pick up the girl.

September 18, 2008

Aziraphale isn't at his shop. He's in a flat, a very well protected one at that; Crowley has to step lightly to avoid all of the devil's traps and other occult security measures in place. "I'd never figured you for the paranoid type," he calls into the sitting room, and reappears on the other side of the carpet square with a devil's trap painted underneath.

Then he sees the books, the newspapers, and the notes and pin-covered maps all over the corkboard, and his eyebrows raise. "... But I could be wrong," he concedes.

Aziraphale looks around from his station at the corkboard in annoyance. "I tell you that the host of Heaven's returned to Earth after its siege of Hell and all you've got is pithy comments," he says sharply. "What exactly is it going to take to make you take this seriously?"

"I'm taking it seriously, angel, I'm just not panicking." Crowley looks over Aziraphale's shoulder, takes a closer look at the notes he's made in his neat but terse handwriting, and only processes a note about some sort of storm in Chicago before the angel sends him a step back with another glare. "What? God, you're touchy."

"Of course you're not panicking," Aziraphale snaps, on edge. "You have Lilith to hide behind, what's there to be afraid of?"

Crowley is frankly unimpressed, but if he wants to play it like that. "Right. Heavenly host sets up camp on Earth, I've got no reason to panic, oh wait, yes, I do," he says acidly. "The more important question is why should you?"

Just like that the angel's on the defensive. "Don't be thick, Crowley," he says wearily, and his mouth drops shut before he says anything else, his head tilted as he listens.

After this long, he knows that look. "What? What are they saying?"

"He's alive," Aziraphale says, lightly, gaze still off in the distance as he listens. "Dean Winchester lives again."

"Of course he does. Really, as hunters go you lot could've picked a better one to heroworship," Crowley says. "But we all know Michael's a sucker for a square jaw and go-getter personality."

"He wasn't chosen. It is written." Just like that, Aziraphale snaps out of it, troubled, and picks a pin from the box on the table. He deliberately sticks it in the map, near the center of Illinois.

"Yes, I've bloody heard." Crowley's really losing patience with the entire destiny, prophecy thing. "Spare me, I'll be hearing enough about the Winchesters later. What is it I can do for you?"

"Nothing," Aziraphale snaps off, openly bitter and, much to Crowley's surprise, terrified. "That's the problem." He opens up a toolbox (what is Aziraphale doing with an actual toolbox?) and pulls out a knife. Then he slices open his wrist, his jaw set in pain, and starts to draw a sigil on the wall in his own blood.

"You aren't seeing this," the angel mentions sharply, and straightens some of the lines before he goes back into the toolbox to pull out gauze and bind up his wrist.

Crowley can't ignore what he's just seen. He stares at the bandage peeking out of Aziraphale's other sleeve, realizes how many changes of clothes he's seen the angel in, the phone, the shop, the utter mundane living of it all, and what was previously a looming hypothetical now might as well be hanging over them in neon lights.

"You're..."

"Human," Aziraphale says flatly. "Yes."

But you can't be is too cliche, so he manages to keep himself from saying it until he can find something else. "You've lost me," Crowley confesses.

"I was an angel. I'm not anymore." Aziraphale's being terse and obnoxious, which is pretty damn angelic of him in Crowley's experience. "Don't act so surprised, it's been fairly obvious for some time now, even if you were too polite to point it out. For once."

There are at least seven levels on which this is incredibly bad, and the first of them is that Crowley's standing less than thirty feet with an angel-turned-human who knows about Hell's plan to release Lucifer, and odds are fairly good that he sort of has an obligation to kill him. "I thought your power might've been limited, but I didn't think you could -- well."

"This vessel died about four months ago." Aziraphale looks down at himself, and takes a heavy seat on the couch. "His name was Daniel Lassiter. I told him it would only be a few months at most." He exhales. "I didn't mean to lie."

Crowley is admittedly more than out of his depth in any sort of situation that casts him as confessor, so he just ignores that it's happening at all. "Let's take the ego back a notch," he advises. "The heavenly host is only here to stop the Apocalypse, and from the sounds of it that's going to take up more than enough of their time and energy, so I really doubt they're going to go out of their way to finish you off, especially if you make it difficult for them."

Aziraphale looks stunned. "You aren't listening," he says, as though realizing.

"I am. I'm ignoring it. Humans bore me," Crowley says, ignores the pained sound the angel makes at that, and looks at the map instead. "So, do you mind explaining the Conspiracy Theory decor?" He gestures around the flat.

He unwillingly speaks when Crowley won't stop sending him the same expectant look. "I found their research." He nods to the boxes of books stacked in the corner. "They didn't go to any great effort to hide their tracks, so... I know what they know."

The angel and his books. Honestly. "Whose research on what exactly?"

"Heaven and Hell's research on the seals. Naturally Heaven doesn't do their own research, but I know the networks, of course," Aziraphale says, and averts his gaze to tighten the gauze on his arm. "Hell just left it sit once they were finished."

"You've been researching the seals," Crowley repeats, incredulous. "We only just broke the first seal."

"I told you, it is written," Aziraphale says, in that insanely annoying reasonable tone of his. "Very few people have bothered to sit down and read it, though."

"Yeah." Crowley considers that, and shrugs. "That's why we keep you around. And while we're on the topic... let's make a deal." The look on the angel's face forces him to rephrase. "An Arrangement?"

"An Arrangement," Aziraphale agrees warily. "I'm listening."

Crowley claps a hand onto Aziraphale's shoulder and puts the other over the gauze-bound cut; once the angel's noticed it's healed, he's smiling like a snake. "You won't regret it."

December 2008

As it turns out, Crowley's in something of a precarious position again.

Twenty years ago, he'd wanted to prevent the end of the world largely because he'd bollocksed the whole thing up and he was bound to spend the rest of his existence in endless suffering in the fires and torture racks of Hell no matter how it ended. Then, of course, when confronted with the rack he'd deigned to become the King of the Crossroads in return for helping bring on the return of Lucifer.

Now he's back trying to stop the fucking thing again. It's not about humanity, he certainly doesn't like them all that much, or even believe that they don't for the most part deserve to be subjected to Hell, because a large part of them have ensured themselves a spot without even making an explicit reservation with one of his employees. It's really more that he likes the world as it is, full of bastards, angelic, demonic, and human alike. [2]

Really it boils down to the simpler nature of things, as it usually does. He's a demon, after all, and though good has to struggle with a moral paradigm and think all of its decisions through on that basis, evil has to be constantly watching its step so it can reap the best rewards. [3]

What benefit does he get from a world run from an angel, really?

Alliances in Hell are complicated. At this point he couldn't tell you whose side he's really on, not that he actually would if he knew. All he knows is that he would rather not die, and that's inevitable once Lucifer's out. Unless he makes himself useful. [4]

The Arrangement he made with Aziraphale has no collateral. It's based on an expectation of honor and trust, which is the most unnerving thing about it. It's the simplest thing he's ever agreed to.

We're going to subvert Lucifer's return and the ensuing Apocalypse by any means necessary.

Normally the context of the words ‘by any means necessary’ in Crowley’s life would be stay alive by any means necessary, but this is an entirely new life philosophy. He would blame the angel for oversimplifying things to the point of absurdity, but the ridiculous thing is that he agrees.

By any means necessary it is.

He has four tailors - one in Madison, one in New York City, another in LA and a last in Mississippi. North, South, East and West, he’s got his meatsuits covered. All of them are equally talented, although LA is by far his favorite. He’s just flown Belling the younger of Belling and Belling to his current house in Phoenix (now that’s what he calls service) because there’s nothing to take your mind off of the sequence of insane events known as existence than the mindless spending of money on things that you want much more than you need.

Belling is measuring his inseam at the point that he’s grown bored of the professional silence. "Have you ever had the misfortune to mix business and pleasure, Mr Belling?" he asks out of nowhere.

The tailor looks up at him, plainly awkward, but goes along like this line of conversation at this point in the process is completely normal. "I’m not sure I understand your meaning, sir," he says.

"Friendship, Mr. Belling. Trust and honor. It has no place in business, don’t you think?"

Belling carries on. "Business is generally an exchange of some variety, money for services or products. It’s important to know the people you’re dealing with are trustworthy, and confidence is wholly necessary, but there is really no need to extend it beyond the conclusion of the deal. We, of course, have an understanding with certain clients, like yourself, Mr. Crowley."

"Yes, the understanding’s where things get messy," Crowley muses. "If it outlasts a deal. If it extends to favoritism."

"In that case I might look into other partners." The tailor straightens and records the measurements fastidiously. "If I understand you correctly. How is your business faring, sir?"

"Flourishing," Crowley says, honestly. "These are very exciting times. Very lucrative."

"Wonderful news, Mr. Crowley," Belling says, and carries on.

A door slams on the other side of the house, and Crowley instantly looks up, paranoid and irritated all at once.

"Hello-o…" Tristane’s croon carries down the corridor.

Crowley tries not to sigh, but then there’s another voice. "Blessed host you’re obnoxious sometimes." Has to be Vivienne. Not all bad.

"My associates," he explains to Belling, and cannot really mask his annoyance. This is really not the time. "My apologies."

"I’ll gladly accept both, sir," Belling says easily.

"Good man." Crowley looks at the pair of demons as they enter his study. "This had better be good."

Vivienne looks good, clothed in a fine black girl with a devastatingly wonderful body. Tristane’s too young to pass off as anything but a case of nepotism. [5] "I wish you two were half as skilled at your jobs as you are at knowing the exact most inconvenient time to bother me," Crowley says plainly.

"I have to say I wasn’t expecting this," Vivienne says to Tristane, bemused, then adds to Crowley, "Another suit? Really?"

"The heart wants what the heart wants," he says, and sends Belling a long-suffering look as the tailor glances up at him.

"And your heart… wants suits," Tristane concludes.

"When you grow up you may find finery’s worth the effort for the comfort." Crowley eyes them. "So. What is it this time? Passed my sales goals? Are we past 36? Or are you here to raid my liquor?"

"Maybe, but - " Tristane edges forward. "Listen, Crowley, we’ve got a - "

Vivienne cuts him off with a hand on his shoulder, and lightly moves him aside. Crowley appraises her; she’s the best of his girls and she’s never been this eager. This should be good. "I suppose the reason no one’s been told about the big deal is because you’re doing it," she says.

"‘The big deal’," Crowley repeats, and sends her a skeptical look. "You could be more specific."

"What about the help here?" Tristane points out, with a nod to the tailor.

Idiots. Hell is full of idiots. "How much longer, Mr. Belling?"

"No more than five, sir."

"We can entertain ourselves," Vivienne decides, and saunters back. "Besides, you’re likely to just tell us to mind our own business so we might as well just go ahead and do that."

"Your business is by definition my business so you can bloody wait," Crowley says, unmoved.

Tristane seems ready to go, but Vivienne lingers. "We found another seal," she says. "One that only our company is suited to handle. But it’s big. Big enough for you, or Lilith. We - "

"That’s enough." It’s incredibly off-putting that they know something he doesn’t, but this is why he keeps them on their toes. If they’re paranoid, they won’t notice that he’s paranoid. "Wait on the patio, will you? We can talk shop once Mr. Belling’s done his work."

Vivienne instantly grabs Tristane’s hand as his mouth opens to object, and hauls him out. Crowley looks to Belling’s placid face.

"Amateurs," he says.

"Yes, sir," Belling confirms mildly.

He slips Belling a sizable tip to ensure what he’ll remember about the trip to Phoenix, and sends him off without another word. The suit is going to be amazing; he tries not to think about the fact that he might not last long enough to wear it.

Much to his surprise, when he reaches the patio, Vivienne and Tristane are tangled in what might be called a passionate embrace by predatory animals. It sets his teeth on edge. "Entertaining yourselves," he says, "no kidding."

Vivienne runs her fingers into a satisfied Tristane’s hair as she pulls back, and adds to Crowley as though she didn’t just have her tongue down Tristane’s currently quite underage throat, "That was ten minutes."

"We can keep waiting," Tristane volunteers. He hasn’t bothered to move his hands from her ass yet.

"Keep it zipped," Crowley says, and sits across from them. Vivienne stays in Tristane’s lap, even now. It doesn’t bother him, unprofessional as it might be. They’re demons, after all. [6] "You had something to ask me."

Tristane speaks up before Vivienne can get a word in. "You’ll be breaking that seal, won’t you?"

"Which seal?" Crowley asks, nonplussed.

"Don’t play stupid," Vivienne interjects, and reaches across the table to touch his forehead.

And so it is written that an angel will make covenant with Hell.

He recoils in spite of himself, as it sinks in. "That seal," he says. "Right." He looks at her, in slight amazement. "Hell Below, you are clever."

Vivienne's expression doesn't change. [7] "So you’re going to do it," she says casually.

"I knew it," Tristane snaps. [8] "I just knew it. Of course, we all know why - "

Crowley raises his hand to stop him talking. "Lilith doesn’t know. I found it, I figured I might as well."

"Because you know the angel," Tristane figures.

It takes Crowley a second to form an appropriately unconcerned response, which is good because Vivienne cuts in. "Tristane - "

"What?" Tristane shrugs. "Everyone knows. We didn’t know angels could make deals, but we found one, anyway. The one you dated in the ’80s, Crowley."

Crowley almost starts with we weren’t dating but it sounds a little defensive. "Do you two really think you could sell to an angel? Have you ever seen one, nevertheless spoken to one? Or fought one? He’s likely to kill you."

"Maybe him," Vivienne says lightly, patting Tristane’s cheek. "Not me."

"Hey," Tristane protests, actually offended.

She’s ignoring him now. Her eyes are on Crowley, bright and wicked and just the way he likes his girls. "I found him," she says smoothly. "I can take you to him."

Tristane throws his hands up. "Viv - "

"Enough," Vivienne retorts, and presses his hands to the arms of the chair, effortlessly sealing him there. She smirks at the cool look he gives her. "Stay."

Crowley could only like her better if she’d gagged him at this point. "As you were saying?" he prompts her.

"We were going to do this together," Tristane snaps at Vivienne.

"You wanted to make the deal, I did all the work." Cool as anything, Vivienne slides out of his lap and sits in the chair next to Crowley as though Tristane isn’t there at all. "Crowley," she starts, and takes one of his hands. "Please."

She’s got that lean, hungry look in her eye, and that means only one thing. He’s got no choice. He snaps his fingers to release Tristane from Vivienne’s bonds. "You can leave."

"You bastard," Tristane realizes.

"Yeah," Crowley says. "What are you, new?"

"There’s a contract up anyway," Tristane says acidly. "Have fun." He vanishes with a huff.

Vivenne just eyes him with more satisfaction than anything else, and releases his hand. [9] "Looks like business is good."

"Business is always good," Crowley concedes, then admits, "but it’s never been better."

"You know what I think?" She doesn’t wait for a snarky response. "I think that’s part of the plan. Hell on Earth starts with the little bit of Hell in every human being. Even if we don’t get them, but especially if we do."

Always interesting to hear what the underlings think the master plan is. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that when it comes to Hell, humanity’s a self-propelling machine." Vivienne crosses her legs and leans back in the chair. "They hurt each other. The victim goes on to hurt others. Sin is a disease, Crowley, and we guarantee it won’t die out. We reward the worst, and that just convince the rest that evil acts can’t be all bad. If big terrible bankers can destroy the economy and get away with golden parachutes, surely a little embezzling here or there isn’t all bad."

Hell is full of idiots, but there’s a scale, and she’s on the right end of it. "You, my dear, are damn keen."

She smiles. "Mark my words, though. We’re going to start it but they’re going to end it. Happily. They’ll welcome Hell on Earth."

"And why shouldn’t they," he says dryly.

They’re off-topic, but he’s comfortable biding his time. She looks thoughtful, so he lets her go on. "What happens when he finishes this, do you think?"

He has a few ideas. None of them end well for anybody. "Ah, it’s… hard to say."

"But Crowley, you can say anything you want."

He snorts at that, and she smirks, nudging her foot against his idly. "I want Lucifer back," she muses. "I want to see Hell on Earth, because I want to see these little insects crawl and beg and realize that their god and their leaders and even we aren’t going to save their asses and give them the excuses and hope they so desperately crave."

Crowley won’t pretend he hasn’t thought it before. The fact is, they deserve it, more than most of the original demons ever did. "Like I said," he says lightly, "keen."

She eyes him as he stands and looks thoughtfully to the house. "More comfortable places to have a chat," he says in explanation, and leads her back inside, fixing them both a drink as casually as anything. "So, about the seal."

"Finally a seal only one of us can break." Vivienne stretches out on the couch with some satisfaction. "I always feel like we get shafted in the great plans. They’re looking for soldiers."

"If you want to go enlist, feel free," Crowley says mildly.

She laughs. "You’d never let me, I’m too good."

"That’s right." He serves up her drink and takes a seat when she moves her legs, doing his best not to smirk as she simply places them back, in his lap. "You came here to sell to me." He offers the drink to her. "Go on. Sell."

Vivienne drinks, sets the glass aside, and contemplates his hand on her knee with a smirk. "It’s ours, Crowley," she says sleekly. "You and me. It’s Lilith’s war, Lucifer’s victory, and you’re right, we’re just salesman. But for once? I’d like to give these bastards what they deserve myself."

She’s young, but in a thousand years or more that tart hatred of hers, the disdainful amusement, the power she greedily cultivates, it’ll start to taste like Lilith’s.

Crowley drinks, and then he looks thoughtful, even as she draws closer to him, curious and anxious and all those little flaws she’ll need to burn away before she’s half as good as him.

"Sold," he says, and kisses her.

January 2009

If Crowley were anyone else, he would now take this narrative moment to complain about how very full of shit his life is on a daily basis. But he's got his dignity, he's what you'd call a noble demon [10] or at least a man of class. Men of class don't talk about how fantastically shitty their lives are; instead, they buy expensive things to pretty up the shit they deal with every day.

As it is, Hell's earthbound contingent is a fucking mess these days. They're all mad for the blessed seals. Kill this, blind that, hop on one foot and sing a song, they might even drink holy water if it was prefaced with a thus it is written. Lilith won't answer him even when he contacts her over what he's starting to mentally call Hell FM, Mariel's off the job because she was either stupid or insane enough to poke her thick bloody skull into a garrison's nest in an attempt to break the seal, and Vivienne's almost at Lilith-level mania over trying to find Aziraphale.

Crowley really shouldn't find it amusing at all that Aziraphale is this good at evading capture, but he's a man of class and it takes style for an angel-turned-human to pull spellwork like this.

Of course, he hides his amusement when Vivienne shows up for the sixth time in two weeks, fuming. "It said he was in Cincinnati," she says, immediately on the defensive.

"Is he?" he returns.

She gives him that look like she wants to rip his head off and play football with it just to make her irritation perfectly clear. "What do you think?"

He glances away. "I think you're losing your touch, pet."

That insult stings, and he has to hide his satisfaction at her weakness. To think he's been at all concerned about her potential to cause trouble. "For the King of the Crossroads you're not much help," she retorts.

"You want the credit? You do the legwork." Crowley flicks on the radio with a dismissive wave of his hand. [11] "You think I got this crown by sitting on my arse asking for favors and help?"

Vivienne leans over the table he's sitting at and smacks the surface in front of him. "I think you got it by sleeping with the Queen," she hisses.

He could hurt her for such insolence, but he's not interested in that today. Hellbitches always pace, howl and bite when restless. "If that was all it took to get a promotion, there'd be far more regicide," he dismisses.

She flicks a piece of hair out of his face, irritated but still affectionate. Good. "You're missing the point."

"Stop complaining," he decides to advise, at long last. "Have I ever done you wrong? Everything will work out nice and neat and in your favor. Unless you keep on bitching, then I'll cut you out of the deal and do it myself."

Vivienne softens. "Crowley. Please."

Typical. Crowley cracks a smile. "That's what I thought."

She relaxes, just barely, and nods as he pours her a glass of wine. "Tris thinks you're going to take the credit. Make us do the work, then not say a word to Lilith about who clipped the angel's wings for you."

"Don't you trust me?" he asks rhetorically, and smirks at her unamused look. "Lilith doesn't expect me to participate. She doesn't need an excuse to compliment my work ethic, either. Do I need the boost? No, but you do. Do you think you've made anything resembling a mark in your time in my service?"

"Do you ever stop talking?" Vivienne retorts, not unkindly. "Anyway, we're just going to have to run this sanctimonious freak ragged. I have Tristane running a second spell now."

"You pulled him into this," Crowley half-asks her, skeptical.

She shrugs. "Mariel made a good case for breaking seals over making deals. What can I say?"

Blessed host. All he needs is for his entire roster to go chasing after Aziraphale. "Exactly how many people have you told?"

"Does it matter?" she shoots back.

His eyes flash and she flinches back in her seat, unable to stop the meatsuit from reacting. "Are you mouthing off to me?" It comes out in a hiss.

"No," Vivienne says instantly. "Not at all, Crowley."

"How many know?"

"Just the three of us. Four," she corrects abruptly. "Four. That's it."

This is all such a blessed mess and he's never enjoyed playing it by ear. "I have business to do. Come see me once you have results."

Vivienne raises her eyebrows at Crowley, then gestures with her head behind him. Crowley glances back, through the patio door, and rolls his eyes at Tristane's cheerful wave. How timely. "In here," he mouths, waving him in.

"Prepare yourselves," Tristane says in a contrarily sober tone upon setting foot in the living room, "'cause you're gonna need to be ready to love me. Just wait," he interrupts himself at the incredulous look mirrored on both the other demons' faces, "you're gonna love this."

"I would love it if you would say what you had to say and then stopped talking," Crowley concedes.

As if struck by something, Vivienne suddenly sits up ram-rod straight. "Did it work?"

"It worked, I didn't have holy fire or anything but the spell summoned him into the circle and you won't believe this, you really won't believe this -- he just hopped in the fucking car," Tristane babbles. "He hasn't put up a fight at all -- "

Crowley is having a hell of a time hiding his amusement, so he manages to miss Vivienne's horror until she snaps, "So you brought him here? To Crowley? You idiot!"

"What? He wanted to see Crowley!" Tristane protests.

"Likely to kill him!"

Well, this is all bound to turn out quite interesting. For once Crowley's fear of death is drowned out by his interest in the turn of events -- mostly because for once he has an idea. "Stop bickering. You -- with me," he adds to Tristane. "Viv, pet, there's holy oil in the closet, draw us a circle. And don't mess the carpet."

Vivienne stares at him, aghast. "But -- Crowley -- "

He raises an eyebrow at her. "Now," he says archly, and grabs the stunned witch by the shoulder to haul him along. "I'll undo the Enochian warding, you bring him in, if I don't come back within ten minutes soak the blessed bastard in holy oil and torch him and the whole house. I haven't been in angelic reach for twenty years and with good reason -- walk faster!"

Tristane stumbles over a pavement slab as they hurry down the walk. "I don't understand," he starts to confess.

"Do you ever," Crowley asks rhetorically without missing a beat, and shoves him towards the car once it's in sight. He doesn't allow himself to catch Aziraphale's steady gaze on him as he passes through the gate, and takes out a knife to scratch a line in the Enochian warding. The sigils drain of the power, and he watches the car pull into the driveway.

He immediately mends the sigil and vanishes to his study, poring over papers and weapons and everything he can think of in the instant he has to form a real and coherent plan from nothing. The scent of holy fire fills the corridor as he appears downstairs, and saunters towards the ethereal glow centered in the bedroom.

There’s Aziraphale in a wide circle of holy fire, seated in a chair like the lamb waiting for slaughter. Lovely. "Really?" he asks Vivienne, ignoring the angel for the moment. "I told you to mind the carpet."

She shrugs, and with a smooth motion pulls open a drawer to send a loving glance at the collection of knives there. "It's where you keep these," she reminds him.

"How do you know that?" Tristane asks warily.

The last thing Crowley expects is for Aziraphale to interrupt, but he does. "I imagine he's had sexual intercourse with her here a number of times and the knives were put to imaginative use."

"You have no idea," Vivienne informs the angel, offhand. "Well, by the end of this you will, but -- "

"Do they actually think they can kill me?" Aziraphale asks Crowley, ignoring the younger demons. "Are these really your best? How dreadful. I don't remember you ever being this incompetent."

"Whoa, watch it," Tristane warns, and picks up a knife with a serrated edge. "Don't forget who found you, genius."

"Ah, let me clear this up for you. I let you find me," Aziraphale explains slowly to the witch. "Do you think I haven't noticed you looking? A summons is only that, a summons. I chose to answer. I'm sorry to have given you the impression that you accomplished something."

"I hate angels," Vivienne says under her breath.

"Rather the point," Crowley answers, and gestures to Tristane for the knife. "Angel," he greets Aziraphale, "we need to talk."

"Yes, that's why I'm here," Aziraphale says, with that angelic tone of self-importance and arrogance. [12] "There is really no need for holy fire, I have hopes there will be no need for violence."

Crowley considers the knife, its edge, the shining dull mirror of the flat, and appears on the other side of the holy fire. The fire reflects in the angel's eyes, all mischief and your turn. "I don't know how to kill an angel but I have a few ideas," he says reflectively, "and I'm eager to learn. I want intel."

The angel sends a disinterested look at the knife. "I won't be able to give you any information of any worth. This vessel is of no consequence."

"Cut him up, Crowley," Tristane presses.

Vivienne shoves him. "Why did you come here, Aziraphale?"

"And I trust you'll be honest," Crowley says, acidly charming, with the knife to his jugular.

Aziraphale looks up at him, the satisfaction shining past the fear. "I came here to tell you there's no point in searching myself or any other angels out. Break all the seals you want. The plan is just, and Heaven has no intent to stop it."

It's brilliant. It's brilliant, it's just smug enough and even he believes Aziraphale for a moment. "He's bluffing," Crowley tells the others without looking away.

Tristane sounds spooked, though. "Why the hell would he bluff?"

"Heaven realizes what they're up against," Vivienne says, and within an instant he feels her breath against his neck and her body against his back. Her hand curls around his and she guides the knife along the thrum of Aziraphale's carotid. "So let's show them."

"It's just a vessel," Crowley reminds her, keeping his voice low.

"Free Lucifer. Do it. Michael will win us the war," Aziraphale swears.

Crowley feels like slitting open his throat might be worth shutting him up. "You realize we've got you where we want you, birdie? That's why you're playing a game."

"I'm not telling you anything you haven't already suspected."

"Viv," Tristane snaps, out of nowhere. "We need to talk."

"Not now, Tris." Vivienne swiftly guides the knife across the underside of Aziraphale's chin, and blood drips onto the angel's trousers and folded hands. He doesn't react. [13] "I think we should set this vessel on fire and see how the angel likes it."

"Wait, wait wait, I thought there was a plan here," Tristane says, and snaps his fingers at them from the other side of the holy fire to get some attention. "Hey! Crowley, are you awake in there?"

"Throw a 'sir' in there and I might listen," Crowley retorts, and exchanges a look with Aziraphale. "No point in showing our hand, though I know that is a whore's instinct."

"I'd supposed him a witch, always good to know my instincts are on the money," Aziraphale says lightly.

"Shut up," Tristane says with nothing short of disgust.

"You want us to break seals?" Vivienne steals the knife from Crowley's loose grip and crosses to Aziraphale's other side, abandoning her flirtation for now. "Then help us."

Tristane laughs, and reappears behind the angel, a knife appearing in his hand as well. "Let's make a deal," he crows, pressing the flat of the blade to the angel's face.

"I don't like your underlings," Aziraphale tells Crowley openly.

"Neither do I," Crowley answers without missing a beat, "but he's got the gist of it. 'And so it is written that an angel will make covenant with Hell.' What do you make of that, angel?"

Horror dawns on Aziraphale's face. "Ooh, we hit a nerve," Vivienne croons.

"Make a deal or you'll be the next Human Torch," Tristane stage-whispers to Aziraphale.

Crowley wishes the kids didn't have such a penchant for the dramatic. "And watch your angelic tongue or we may cut it out. He gets the point," he adds to his employees. "Now can we get to it?"

"What I don't get," Tristane says conspiratorially to the angel, his arm slung around Aziraphale's shoulders like an old friend, "is why you came here at all. I summoned you and you showed up all 'Let's go.' What could you possibly gain?"

"They know where I am," Crowley lies fluently. "But it doesn’t matter, I can abandon this house. Torch the place once we're finished, et cetera, collect the insurance. Lovely system, that."

Vivienne now toys with Aziraphale's hair. "But Crowley," she muses, "if they want us to break Lucifer out, there's no point in killing you, you're helping."

"Are you stupid? It's not about me," Crowley retorts.

"It's about Lilith," Aziraphale finishes the thought, coolly.

With a flick of Vivienne's knife there's a gash in Aziraphale's cheek and Crowley can see Tristane's eyes move to the still-unhealed cut under his chin. [14] "What about Lilith," Crowley snaps at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale shrugs. "Nothing I'll tell you."

"Why aren't you healing, angel?" Tristane interrupts.

"Why are you talking?" Crowley asks in much the same tone.

"Because he's not healing." Tristane points to the cut. "Either of 'em. The vessel should heal. They heal, it's what they do, right?"

Crowley rolls his eyes and throws Tristane to the floor with a gesture of his hand, pins him there with effortless magic. "What do you know about angels?" he asks loudly.

"Enough," Tristane counters. "Now come on, let me go!"

His meatsuit's hair is close to the holy fire. Oh, precious. Crowley can't help but smile. "No. Going to apologize?"

"Fuck off, Crowley -- "

"Right," Crowley says evenly, "back to business, shall we?"

"Angels are indestructible and you're a wilting flower," Vivienne says, softly dangerous, her eyes flickering red. "I don't think you're an angel at all."

"That's my girl -- Viv, talk to me," Tristane calls over to her desperately.

"He's a human, baby," she calls back, and puts her hands on Aziraphale's knees as she looks up at him. "Isn't an angel in there. Just a dime-store soul. We've been had."

Tristane sends a wild look at Crowley, who can't be bothered to even begin to take this seriously. "How in the fuck -- "

"You two are so endlessly stupid, honestly," Crowley sighs, and puts a hand on Vivienne's head, making a fist in her hair and pulling her gaze up to his pointedly. "They pulled the plug on him. We can still make a deal."

"You knew," Vivienne says, soft and low.

She’s guessing, but it’s a good guess. Crowley does his best not to quirk too obvious an eyebrow. "Watch your tongue," he warns once again.

Vivienne looks to Aziraphale and so does Crowley and that's the instant they both see it in his face. Dammit! "He knew all along! Crowley, what are you even playing at?"

Aziraphale exhales involuntarily and straightens as Crowley gives him a deeply irritated look, and Vivienne seizes him by the shirt. "Crowley, don't do something -- "

He's already reached into the back of his trousers and pulled out the Colt. Before Vivienne's knife reaches Aziraphale's chest, he's fired it into the back of her head.

"... stupid," Aziraphale finishes, staring down into the shattered skull now in his lap.

"What the -- what in the FUCKING FUCK," Tristane manages. "The Colt's supposed to be fucking -- WHY DID YOU KILL HER?"

Crowley spares him a glance. "I never liked you," he mentions, and blows Tristane away.

Aziraphale is tensed and has the worst sort of judgmental, moralistic asshole expression on his face once Crowley looks back to him. "You -- " he finds his tongue. "Why in the seven hells did you do that?"

"Once they figured out that I knew you were human but I didn't mention it, they'd start questioning everything else about why you came along, and I'd be knee-deep in trouble instead of bone fragments," Crowley says, and brushes brain tissue off of his shirt. "I'm a little surprised you can still reply to summons."

"That's what you take away from all this?" Aziraphale demands, and shoves Vivienne's body away hurriedly, so he can stand. It lands in the path of the holy fire and breaks the circle. "You -- Crowley, you just killed two of your own!"

"How many of your own would you kill to keep yourself alive?" Crowley doesn't bother waiting for a reply. "That's all you've got to say? Good, you can go home."

"What are you talking about, I can't go -- " The angel suddenly freezes. "Crowley," he starts, a snap to his voice.

He sighs and takes a seat backwards in the chair, nudging Vivienne's body aside unabashedly. "I wondered when you'd get to that bit, let's get it over with. Go on, yell," he instructs Aziraphale.

"No! No talking down to me!" Aziraphale's voice rises, and the frustration of not having the power to do anything besides talk and shove and all the physical nonsense seems to be driving him completely insane. "You have the Colt! You've had the Colt for nearly a year and I had to find out from a prophet! You should have given that to the Winchesters ages ago, do you know how much good they would have done? There would be no war at all -- stop that!"

Crowley lowers his hand and stops the talk talk talk, blah blah blah motion he was doing for his own entertainment. "Go on," he encourages.

Aziraphale is nearly in hysterics, and Crowley should probably be taking this seriously, but it's hard to. "You -- you have Lilith in one back pocket and the Colt in the other and it never occurred to you to kill her?"

Wait. Now he's listening. "Are you hearing yourself?" Crowley asks skeptically.

"Are you seeing yourself?" Aziraphale retorts nastily.

Crowley presses a hand to his forehead. "I don't even want to ask. In case you were wondering, yes, these sort of dramatics are entirely why I didn't call you back -- "

"No, no, I was calling you about something else entirely, that's the absolute worst part," the angel rants. "Something for your own damned sake, but you seem to know already and that makes this just so much worse." He backs off, nearly trips over Vivienne's body and out of the holy fire. "You -- you are a snake, a complete snake."

"Yes," Crowley answers, blandly as he dares. "What was your news? Just so I'm aware."

Aziraphale seems to be considering an escape plan, but Crowley can almost see the wheels turning -- he's barred inside by the Enochian sigils. "I found the last seal," he says finally, almost forcing it out.

"The last seal. Let me guess," Crowley muses. "Something dramatic, something that would really piss Lucifer off to have to do."

Aziraphale doesn't seem to want to look at him, and just wipes blood from his chin. "Lilith has to die."

There's a pause when Crowley stops cold and tries to think of something pithy to say through the shock. "Yes, that would do it," he comes up with, at long last.

"It's true. Lilith's death is the last seal." The angel's in his bibliophile tone now, happy enough to lecture away. "65 seals all broken, then she has to die. Only then." He's watching Crowley, and it's the best Crowley can do not to react at all. "She can't be the 64th or the 67th seal -- she has to be the 66th. Everything hinges on Lilith. And you know I mean everything."

For all the blessed fucking angels in Heaven, Aziraphale might be trapped here but Crowley's trapped here with him and that's just as bad. "Be less subtle, I don't seem to be catching your point."

Aziraphale looks at the Colt, still at the ready in Crowley's hands, and his tone softens. "You have the means, the access, and the motive. You can save the world. Or let them burn it down."

All Crowley can do is stare. "I hope you realize how insane you sound."

"We're only 36 seals in. Make Lilith the 37th," Aziraphale says, abruptly direct and eager. "You have one of the only things that can kill her and she trusts you. Why shouldn't you? Crowley, she's trying to bring back the Morningstar, you know what he'll do -- "

He can't listen to this. "Or you could be telling me to do this so I kill her and she isn't there to rally the rabble. The rabble is rallied, darling, there's no undoing that! The world's going to Hell no matter what I do -- "

"'And it is written that the first demon shall be the last seal,'" the angel says, firm and sad and so perfectly human. The blessed bastard.

Crowley pulls a pack of fags from his blood-spattered jacket and lights one with the tip of his finger, taking an idle drag while he thinks. "It's not meant to be me," he points out. "Talk about ineffable."

"Crowley," Aziraphale starts, annoyed.

He waves the angel off, dismissive. "The prophet saw me and Bela Talbot, you think it's because I did the Winchesters' job for them? This isn't the epic of Anthony J. Crowley, these are the Winchester Gospels!"

"You hate prophecy," the angel points out.

"And I avoid it, or I void it, where I can. This? Not one of those cases. Too big for a small fish like me."

"Now you're a small fish? I thought you were King of the Crossroads," Aziraphale answers drolly.

Crowley throws his hands up. "You think there's a prophet watching every move and shag the Winchesters make because, what, they look like fugitives from a Springsteen-inspired male modeling shoot? I'm just paying attention, angel."

"You don't want to kill Lilith. Admit it," Aziraphale says bluntly, which is shocking enough to leave him speechless, except that the angel isn't finished. "Only you would be selfish enough to let the world burn for the sake of a shag."

Crowley's standing before he realizes it, and shoves the chair to the ground. "I don't have to listen to this in my own house," he decides, and steps over Vivienne and out of the holy fire, away from Aziraphale. "I saved your life and this is what you drop in my lap? I killed two of my own for you!"

"You killed two of your own to save your own hide, don't even start," Aziraphale says in blatant disgust.

"I didn't plan this! They found that seal themselves, they told me about it, that witch summoned your pert little arse and I had to clean up your mess because there's only one angel I know of that could sell his own soul," Crowley finishes, relishing his own chance at a rant, "so shut bloody well up, all right?"

Aziraphale glares at him. "What did you say about my arse?" he demands.

Crowley raises his eyebrows. "That's what you took away from that?"

The angel goes a bit red and it's all Crowley can do to not be a little smug at that. "What seal?" Aziraphale presses, still indignant.

"Angel making covenant with Hell, all that," he says flippantly. "Are you in?"

The very idea shocks the angel silent for a moment. "I am not breaking a seal," he says severely.

"Are you ready to die, then?"

There's a moment where Aziraphale's face is completely glass, where he knows what he should say, but he doesn't. "Crowley," he starts.

"I'm not particularly keen to break a seal either," Crowley says, "so you know. That's incidental."

"Incidental? We agreed to stop the Apocalypse, and you want me to make a deal with you, with Hell, and break a seal in the process, just to save myself from a hypothetical horde of demons out to kill me?"

He clears his throat delicately. "They're not hypothetical, you saw what happened to Ananchel, didn't you? Oh, and the traitor Ruby, she spent eight hours on Alistair's rack, but I suppose you'd be happy to suffer real torture, you big tough angel, you."

"Crowley -- "

"It'd be worse with you, anyway. You've crossed everyone. And if Hell can find you -- "

"Heaven can," Aziraphale concludes, winded.

"You have a chance to hide yourself from everyone. No more spells, no more running," Crowley says, to the point. "I'm the only demon who won't write an 'except on Sundays' clause into whatever deal you choose, so this is a golden opportunity. Skirt death, Aziraphale, or face him, those are your options, because you're far more mortal than most."

Aziraphale absorbs that, and sits absently on the bed. "My word," he says, once Crowley's joined him there. "What's the world come to when you're tempting me?"

Crowley pats his shoulder, and can't help a smirk at the way he flinches. "Your immortal soul, for the chance to be invisible to the forces of Heaven and Hell? That's not temptation, angel, that's sense."

"So if I die -- " Aziraphale turns to look him in the face.

What's strange -- what has been strange, and what continues to be strange -- is how Aziraphale's vessel is his now. He's always seemed incidentally physical, as though affecting an accent he could drop at any moment. Now he's... still an angel, there's still vestiges of it here and there, but Vivienne was right. He moves, thinks, bleeds like a human, and a soul's burning through his eyes every second of the way.

"Straight to Hell, do not pass GO, do not collect 200 dollars." He fakes his way through the jokes, the tone, and puts a hand to Aziraphale's cheek to heal the wound there, smoothing a thumb against it before he cups his chin and heals him there. The angel hasn't looked away. "Try not to piss off humanity as well."

Aziraphale is too human, too real, too vulnerable and open here, and it's making him uncomfortable. "Was this your plan all along, Crowley?" he asks, still leaning into his touch.

"You're asking me to be honest," Crowley points out dryly.

"Yes," the angel says, unabashed.

Well. "I'm a demon. I have my pride."

"I'm well aware."

Standoffs. He hates standoffs. "Yes. Fine. I had no plan to bring you here to break a seal for my own reasons, and I am being astoundingly honest at the moment. I should have thought the Colt and the lies and the murders might have proved I'm not on Team Lucifer, but if you need a written affidavit -- "

"Stop it, Crowley." Aziraphale seems genuinely shaken, to the core. [15] "All the forces of Heaven and Hell, it's..." Just the choice has aged him ten years -- a process he's seen a thousand times, a thousand times a thousand, but it's never been quite so pointed as with an angel gone mortal. "All of them. Free of this -- no more running or ridiculous rituals every single day -- "

"Also cuts down on the paranoia," Crowley feels worth mentioning.

"This deal would include you," Aziraphale blurts out in the silence, and then adds quickly, "I would be invisible to you as well. Yes?"

Oh, so he noticed. "Yes. Might be King of the Crossroads, but others will see this contract, including Lilith. I can't exactly write myself in as an exception and get away with claiming this as a bad deed on Hell's behalf, can I?"

He moves closer to Crowley, and takes his hand. "Then don't. File the contract, kill Lilith, end this, Crowley, please, this could be over."

"That's not how this works," he insists. [16] "Angel, I'm doing what I can -- "

"You'd rather stay with her. She's going to die," Aziraphale enunciates, and presses on past the flat, unamused glare Crowley sends him at the condescension. "They're going to kill her, even if you don't, and her death springs the cage. You can't save her, so -- so save the world!"

Crowley sends him a weary look. "You're proposing the noble solution that we trot off into the sunset and this will all go away if I succeed in blowing away the Queen of Hell with this thing." He takes up the Colt and waves it demonstratively. "Guess what? She's not afraid of it. She only wants it away from the Winchesters. She wouldn't care if I had it, and I doubt it'd kill her. Your idea's romantic and all but I'm not booking a B&B any time soon. If you're hidden, someone needs to be keeping track of this, don't you think?"

Aziraphale doesn't seem to enjoy being mocked. Go figure. "I can look after the Apocalypse while I'm hidden."

"I mean the Colt. The prophet specifically noted me as the bearer of the Colt, means I'm likely to have someone knocking down my door for it. Most likely the Winchesters. I'll have to be available, won't I?"

"You're making excuses," the angel says sharply.

"But I'm not wrong," Crowley answers. "Also, you're sulking."

"And they're still excuses."

"You are... so human."

Aziraphale makes an exasperated sound and kisses him on the mouth. This is not exactly a surprise in theory, but it's still unexpected. He's very human, very warm and physical and present, moreso than any meatsuit-wearing demon he's fucked in the last few centuries.

It's a damn good kiss. Talk about temptation.

"You like the new body, I take it," he says, once the angel breaks away, almost guiltily. "So do I, it's very... Hugh Dancy? I thought I'd aim pretty -- "

"You've always talked too much." Aziraphale is still very close. "And yes, I like the body."

"Always liked yours."

"I noticed. Pert? Really?"

Crowley is far too up for this right now -- damn, damn the time, damn the Apocalypse -- but there are bodies on his floor and the Queen of Hell knows where he lives. "Is this the time, angel?"

"Help me finish this and I'll do your deal," the angel says, patiently, almost absolving. "Give them the gun. We haven't got this far to just stand by and watch."

He hates how he feels now -- guilty, exposed, obvious and too many blessed things, Heaven above -- so he slides a hand between the angel's legs and his mouth against his neck. "Do you know what you want?" he murmurs.

"Yes," Aziraphale answers, clearly, without hesitation.

The contract is simple, clear, no complications, no clauses, it takes him only an instant to create, far shorter than the kiss. It's Aziraphale who initiates, desperate more for the means than the end, and the link is made, the contract signed, the magic bound. The angel is breathless and guilty once he pulls away, and Crowley stays close, doesn't let him second-guess.

"Ten years," he says, quiet and light. "No one finds you. Not me -- not anyone. No summons, nothing. You can find me, but I don't recommend it. They'll be looking for that. This is it for us, angel, I'm in deep trouble now."

"Deep cover," Aziraphale corrects in soft jest, and closes his eyes tightly. "You'll give it back."

Crowley hates this, he hates it. "Do you trust me," he forces out, between his teeth.

"Yes," the angel immediately whispers.

"Then you know the answer to that."

Aziraphale exhales, and touches Crowley's face, desperate for touch and comfort, so human. "This isn't my body, I don't understand how I could sell..."

"It's your body now. Trust me, I can tell," Crowley says, and grazes his hand up the inseam of the angel's business trousers. "All too physical, pet -- "

"Crowley -- "

"Oh, so sorry," he murmurs, barely contrite, and smirks. "Angel."

Temptation's like wine -- it gets better with age, and there isn't much temptation more aged than something as dirty and wrong as this, angel and demon fucking in the midst of Apocalypse. It intoxicates and hangs heavy in the air, enough for them to forget the bodies on the floor, the blood of innocent meatsuits on their clothing and the Colt resting on the nightstand as Crowley makes him bloody beg for every inch of it.

It's a loss, with Hell to pay. But right now, oh, it feels like victory.

Chapter 3, Part II: May 2009 to Spring 2010; Crowley puts his plan into action and leaves a trail of bodies in his wake.