Ngk.
Hi everyone. I'm new round these parts and nervous (hence the 'Ngk') but I thought I'd go ahead and post what I have of my first ever Good Omens fanfic, "Angelic Lies, Demonic Truths." I also want to say that I am seriously excited (and feeling like a nerd that I AM so excited) that there are so many other GO fans online! And a lot of excellent GO fanfiction! That is just too cool. (Of course, it also puts a lot of pressure on us newbs and all, but hey... ;) )
Summary of my fic: Crowley's being followed. Aziraphale is in serious trouble. Certain demons are longing for revenge. Zira is pressed to 'confess' and Crowley has to try and save him...
(Yeah, I'm not so great with the summaries... ^_^;;; ) This is a dark fic, but I try to keep it darkly humorous through the footnotes and such. (I guess it's kind of like Neil Gaiman's other writings as far as it is dark but there are somewhat darkly humorous parts as well...) There is foul language, violence, and pain. As for rating, let's just say it's at least a 't' for violence. (I do not own these characters, they belong to Pratchett and Gaiman, not me. I just love them both and so write about them without profiting by it. heh.)
Angelic Lies, Demonic Truth
Chapter One
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A. J. Crowley had been being pursued, spied on, and generally Messed With, off and on for a few weeks. Not that it was consistent, and there were only a few times he’d been certain that there were imps following him, but he knew-he would have known even if he hadn’t spotted the little buggers-that Someone Down There was Trying to Get His Goat. He could think of several possibilities as to who it could be, especially after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t. So far, he’d not actually yet caught one of the lesser demons to ask who in the bloody Hell (1) was Interested in him.
That was about to change, however. Crowley had one cornered among a group of his houseplants. He’d stopped by his apartment before going to meet his Adversary in the park. Crowley knew there was an imp in among his houseplants because of the way the plants were openly trembling (2).
With a movement comparable to a predator gliding fleetly through the grass (3), Crowley hurried across the apartment, reached behind his plants, and grabbed the intruder, which somewhat resembled a shaved, mutant pygmy marmoset with a visible boil problem.
“Hello.” Crowley grinned, bearing fangs. It wasn’t a nice grin (4). “What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” Although he enunciated carefully, his voice seemed calm and under control-in other words, it was utterly terrifying.
The imp squeaked as hands closed around its throat. “Or-orders.”
“Whose?” He let his shades slip down his nose a little ways so that the lesser demon could see his golden-yellow slitted eyes.
1. Literally.
2. Of course, they normally trembled, but not quite so much or so obviously. The plants knew, by this time, that subtle fear was the only acceptable way to express the emotion around Crowley. If they got too demonstrative, he disposed of them.
3. With good reason…
4. Crowley actually, if pressed, would have said that he didn’t HAVE a nice grin, that all of his grins varied from mischievous to pure evil and that his smirks were the same way. He was wrong. He did, in fact, have a pleasant grin, albeit a rare one, that for some reason generally manifested itself around Aziraphale (5).
5. Similarly, Aziraphale had a smirk that would occasionally surface when he was around Crowley. Of course, it wasn’t a particularly good smirk, as his blonde, slightly chunky, tartan wearing, bookselling physical manifestation couldn’t quite pull off the smirk. But he did have one.
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Meanwhile…
If the ducks at St. James Park had been capable of being surprised (1), they would have been the moment an ethereal being with wings crashed down into the water. As it was, they only squawked indignantly and moved out of the way of the floundering white-winged figure. Amazingly, all of the humans that had been in the park half an hour earlier had vanished, suddenly remembering they had other things to do in other places. It was just the ducks and the ethereal beings.
Aziraphale was in pain. He was in pain and he had, stupidly, taken in a deep breath of water so that his human form spluttered most indignantly. His wings were soaked and weighted him down and his head was reeling from the blows, and so it was with great difficulty that he stood upright and faced his attackers.
Demons. A pack of demons. They’d ganged up on him and he’d fought hard and managed to injure two of them, but he’d been surprised and overpowered and then tossed into the pond. The pack of demons-Was it a pack of demons? Aziraphale dimly wondered, Or a group? A gaggle?-were laughing at him.
He drew himself up with as much dignity as he could muster considering he was bruised, battered, and soaked (2), and then Aziraphale shed some of the constraints of his human skin, glowing with a Holy light that caused several of the lesser demons to flinch.
Concentrating his energy, he sent out a beam of angelic light that fried two of the imps approaching him and caused all the demons to stagger back, burnt. Aziraphale felt a little non-virtuous triumph that was short lived as he considered his odds.
He was unarmed and outnumbered. It had been a great surprise when he had felt the sudden spike of Demonic Presence behind him-a definitely not Crowley-like Presence since, Aziraphale had to admit, at this point, Crowley’s Presence was more comforting than actually evil-feeling. The angel had almost forgotten that the mere Presence of a demon could be extremely painful. But he certainly remembered now.
Remembered and gritted his teeth determinedly as the largest of the demons approached him. His energy was spent-he couldn’t manifest another burst for a while. He was out of practice and the demonic auras were draining his holy one. Worse than the mere Presence of demons, though, was the pain caused by physical contact with one and this Aziraphale experienced next, as the giant demon lunged forward, took hold of his arm and jerked his shoulder out of its socket.
Naturally Aziraphale struggled, beating his wings in an attempt to get away, but then he was unfortunate enough to find out that even worse than physical contact with a demon (other than Crowley. It never hurt to come in contact with Crowley) was the wounds caused by one of their occult weapons. In this case, it was a blade of hellfire that rammed through his already injured shoulder.
He had experienced pain before, had been discorpulated several times, but this was absolute agony, for the weapon injured Aziraphale himself, in his true form, and not just his man-shaped form. And so it was in body and soul that Aziraphale was tortured.
1. They weren’t. This wasn’t merely because the brains of water fowl are limited, mostly it was because anyone, even a duck, becomes immune to surprise after having angels and demons hanging around them for awhile.
2. And wearing wet, tartan trousers and a wet sweater vest. In other words, it speaks well of Aziraphale that he was able to muster any dignity at all in the circumstances.
Chapter Two
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Crowley increased pressure. The imp let out a small squawk. “The-the Great Duke of Hell, Bringer of Misery, Destroyer of-”
Scowling in impatience, Crowley let his hand develop talons and sunk one into the imp's flesh. “Jusst the name, not the moniker.”
“Duke Hastur.”
Crowley hissed. “Why is he sspying on me?” Generally, subterfuge was not the Duke’s style. He was the type to tear wings off first and ask questions later. “Is he trying to find out my fatal weaknesss?” This was said sarcastically-Hastur, if he put his mind to it, could destroy Crowley easily. Even without using holy water. Possibly even without using his hands.
“He knows what your weakness is.” The imp replied, and then instantly looked as though it seriously regretted speaking. Or existing. (1)
“Really?” Crowley’s voice was carefully offhand. Well, it was no great feat of brainwork for Hastur to find out that holy water would End him as would being torn into small little bits spread out over consecrated ground. Why hadn’t the Duke attacked already?
“Or, should I say,” the fatalistic little creature piped upon seeing the demon’s seemingly unimpressed attitude. “Who your weakness is.”
Crowley’s hand tightened automatically and he almost snapped the imp’s neck in two. Who his weakness was? That didn’t make any sense. The only being he’d had steady contact with since, well, forever, was…Aziraphale.
But, a voice in his head protested, the angel couldn’t be called his weakness, as such. Surely his Achilles' heel (2) was his Desire to Always Look Sexy or how he felt the need to Keep Up With the Times or the Bentley or even his houseplants or something. Not Aziraphale. Demons don’t care about angels, demons don’t worry about angels, demons don’t even like angels.
Sure, he’d gotten used to seeing Aziraphale around-hard not to after 6000+ years-and they did have the Arrangement, but they weren’t friends as such. Not really. Okay, so they’d gone through the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t together-that’d bring anybody closer. But Aziraphale and Crowley had the same relationship they always did, right? (3)
Somehow Crowley realized that his brain was rambling and he reined it in and glared, eyes glowing, at the imp. “Explain. Everything. Now.”
The imp explained.
1. One of the reasons imps have absolutely no life expectancy to speak of is their expendability and also their unique demonic powers of Never Being Able to Shut Up Properly, Fouling Up Even the Simplest of Tasks, and Always Saying the Wrong Thing at the Wrong Time. In that way, they are similar to stereotypical bumbling sidekicks everywhere.
2. And he knew about Achilles’ heels. He was the one who had made sure said Greek had an infected callous on his heel and flat arches to boot, for good-for something’s sakes.
3. The same relationship they’d had since the Arrangement, that is. Before that, there had been some smiting and general nastiness on both their parts…
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“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said, scraping himself up from the ground in front of Their Park Bench. (1) “I don’t suppose we can talk about this sensibly?”
The large demon, who Aziraphale recognized as Hastur, Duke of Hell and Bane of Crowley, leered, exposing rotted teeth that would've made any dentist have nightmares for eons. “Sure-if you admit that you have a Pact with the demon Crowley.”
“A Pact?” Aziraphale asked, edging closer to the pond. He’d just had an idea, and his powers were slightly recovered from his first attack. “Whatever do you mean?” If he could keep Hastur talking for a while longer, he could get close enough…
“I know you have a Pact with him, and you will confess to it.” Hastur said this with all the ease of someone who knew he was right, someone who was very probably going to tear the angel apart to make certain that he was right.
He was talking about the Arrangement. Somehow, Hastur was thinking that if he got Aziraphale to acknowledge their agreement, he could hurt Crowley. Well, Aziraphale wasn’t going to help the Duke hurt any being, let alone Crowley.
“I am afraid that if you do not…” He paused. It had been a long time since he’d invoked divine wrath and he’d never been very good at threats. “…Desist…this instant I shall be forced to…to compulsorily discorporate you.”
The demons laughed. (2) Aziraphale took the opportunity to lunge the rest of the way toward the pond and scoop some of the water into his hands. Hurriedly, he Blessed it, and then threw it over the nearest demons, who screamed, screamed horrifyingly and melted in a way much nastier than the Wicked Witch of the West ever had. Now it was only Hastur and a few imps.
Hastur cursed. Or blessed, rather. Aziraphale ignored him, bending down to get another handful of water, but the Duke reached him and the fiery darkness of his sword sliced into him, driving Aziraphale to his knees. Refusing to give up, he grabbed Hastur’s wrist with a still-damp palm and Hastur screamed as even the faintest trace of holy water and the touch of the angel seared his skin.
It was a short lived triumph. Hastur retaliated, swinging the dark sword down and slicing partially through his right wing. And then it was Aziraphale that screamed.
1. Yes, scraping was an accurate word as he was thrown down so hard when he got up part of his skin remained behind. Furthermore, yes, the capitals in Their Park Bench were utterly necessary for that’s what the bench was. Crowley-and-Aziraphale’s Park Bench.
2. Aziraphale was angered by this and, had he actually been the sort of human he appeared to be, would have had nasty flashbacks to being taunted in secondary school.
Chapter Three
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The shriek of an angel in pain is nothing to be sneezed at. (1) Such a scream-the real, pained cry of an angel suffering-is rather like the ‘shot heard round the world’ at the start of the American Revolution. It is as serious as a bullet and echoes long after the original yell is over and often entails quite a lot of bloodshed.
All of the humans in the vicinity of the park, as dense as they were to ethereal presences, felt the scream of an angel, although they did not actually hear it, which had various effects on them depending on the person. None of the reactions were pleasant. (2) The angel's scream was even less pleasant for one demon who recognized the agony-filled shriek.
Crowley’s anger, which he had been carefully gathering and wrapping up in tight little bundles of control as the imp spoke, erupted into flames quicker than a stack of dried sticks. Aziraphale. The demon tossed the minion of Hell out of his apartment window and ran to the Bentley. At that moment, he wasn’t thinking about the fact that demons weren’t supposed to care if stupid, troublesome, tartan-clad angels were being tortured, that they were, in fact, supposed to like it. No, he had only one thing, one rather un-demonic thought, on his mind and that was to get to Aziraphale.
It was only after he was tearing down the road, going much faster than ought to have been possible, that Anthony J. Crowley pondered what he was doing.
What was he doing? Rushing to Aziraphale’s rescue and preparing to attack a Duke of Hell, for Go-for Sa-for Someone’s sake? He couldn’t even say it was going to help him in the long run-Aziraphale was, honestly, a blessed pain in the ass and confronting Hastur was right up there with dousing himself with holy water on the common sense chart. Why should he help the angel? They were Enemies for Chr-for Manchester’s sake.
Sure, Aziraphale was just enough of a bastard to like, but that didn’t mean Crowley should stick out his own neck for him. No. It didn’t mean that at all. So why was he still speeding down the road as fast as the Bentley could take him, heading toward the source of the scream? Crowley decided to stop asking himself such questions, especially when he probably wouldn’t like the answers to them. Instead, he tromped down on the gas pedal even harder.
1. Unless you’re a demon and allergic.
2. These included nausea, heartburn, trouble sleeping, mental confusion, irritability, nervousness, restlessness, loose stool, and so on. Basically everything one sees in small print at the bottom of ad for medicine.
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The thing that really bothered him, Aziraphale thought dimly, the thing that really got on his nerves was feeling so da-so ruddy helpless. And that was exactly what he felt, at the moment, staked to one of the park’s oldest trees with the broken off, metal legs of a park bench thrust through his wings. He was pinned to the oak like some kind of bizarre butterfly in an entomology collection, all of his weight hanging on his wings, his shoulder disconnected, several of his bones broken, and basically feeling as though he had been flayed all over. And then napalmed.
Aziraphale was grateful for two things. First, he was glad that he wasn’t, in addition to helpless, weak. Well, admitedly he was physically weak, but in general he was not and Aziraphale proved this by stoutly refusing to flinch away from Hastur’s approach. The second thing that made him feel thankful was that Crowley, who was apparently the one Hastur was really cheesed off with, had not come to harm. Granted, if Aziraphale could have been certain that Crowley would defeat Hastur, well then he wouldn’t have minded a bit of assistance from his counterpart.
As it stood, though, he wasn’t sure Crowley could handle the duke and so the angel was relieved that one of them, at least, would escape injury. Aziraphale didn’t dwell on why he felt that way-he knew, deep down, that Crowley was his friend, his best and only friend, and besides, self sacrifice and martyr-complexes and all that were practically built in to angels.
“I could stop the pain,” Hastur said in a low voice.
That would be lovely, Aziraphale thought, but he didn’t say anything. If being around Crowley for so long had taught him anything, it had taught him to recognize Temptation when he heard it. (1)
“I have a bargain to offer unto you,” Hastur whispered in the angel’s bloodied ear. Evidentially he felt the need to clarify, for he added, “I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse,” with a deadly grin on his face. “Confess you have a pact with Crowley and all your pain’s over, done with, kaput.”
Aziraphale, who briefly wondered where Duke Hastur had learned the word ‘kaput,’ opened his good eye. If he could have summoned the energy, he might have made a rude gesture with one of his fingers, a gesture that Crowley was fond of, particularly when he was driving. As it was, the angel could barely lift his head to look Hastur in the eye. His cracked lips bled a little more as he opened his mouth to respond, attempting to conjure some of Crowley’s bravado. “Go back to Hell,” he said.
1. His close proximity to the serpent had also taught him many other interesting things such as “Never go near a karaoke machine after six margaritas” and “Never attempt to Offer Friendly Advice to anyone in a bar that is referred to as a ‘joint,’” etc.
Chapter Four
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Hastur was, to use a particularly apt idiom, foaming at the mouth. His plan had been simple. Hell had decided to ignore Crowley and had, in fact, made it clear that if Hastur himself attempted to haul Crowley over the coals, (1) he would be the one punished. So, as Hastur wanted to keep all his innards in and his nose relatively unplugged (2), almost as much as he wanted to rip Crowley’s forked tongue out of his mouth, he had decided to get to Crowley in some other way. Hence the spying. After Hastur saw that the serpent was still parleying with that blessed angel, the one who’d helped him stop the Apocalypse, Hastur had found his way to revenge.
It was clear that Crowley had made a deal with an angel-funny how that sounded-and the two were obviously cooperating so that they could go about their respective businesses in peace. A deal with a Principality like that was something that Hastur could get Crowley punished for. Definitely. They wouldn’t believe just his word, though-Hastur had never been the most honest of demons-(3) thus he needed proof. Easy enough, he’d decided, he would only have to ambush said angel, have a bit of fun with him, and wait for him to confess. Aziraphale looked downright poofy, Hastur had thought; how hard could it be to intimidate him to rat out his business associate?
Damned hard, Hastur was finding out. He’d underestimated Aziraphale who, for some unknown, misguided reason, was protecting Crowley. If the bloody idiot would only confess, it’d be irrefutable evidence. Hastur even had a formal confession all drawn up, ready for Aziraphale to sign it with his true name, asserting that he was telling the truth. But the angel wouldn’t even verbally admit to his Pact, let alone sign anything saying he had one. Damn and bless. This stubborn bastard was going to need Special Persuasion. (4)
Hastur opened his palm, hellfire immediately engulfing it. “Let me put this another way, angel filth,” he spat. “Either you confess about you and Crowley’s Pact, or I kill you. Not your body. You. Now come clean, pal. ”
The Duke held his hand to the bottom of Aziraphale’s left wing, just close enough so that the delicate, silky ends of the flight feathers began to singe. Hanging around like he was, Aziraphale couldn’t move his wings away without ripping them up some more and so he had to stay very still even as the feathers started smoldering.
Aziraphale used every bit of will power he had left not to squirm or shudder or moan as the tips of his damp feathers finally sputtered into flames. If he was going to Fade into Nonexistence, he was going to do so with some sort of dignity. He almost snorted at that thought-he was pinned to a tree like a deranged Christmas ornament, bloody, broken, wet, and he was certain he made a pathetic sight-it’d be pretty darn hard to find any dignity to die with.
Nevertheless, he shook his head. “I believe,” his voice cracked with pain, “I believe I told you…where you can go, Duke Hastur.”
Crowley would approve of his attitude, Aziraphale was certain. Growling, Hastur extinguished the flames, muttering that burning would be too quick a death. Aziraphale managed to hold in his sigh of relief at the disappearance of the flames.
“You will suffer, angel, I will tear you into tiny pieces and grind you beneath my feet! The last thing you shall know will be agony and I will scatter what’s left of you in the pits of Hell!” The demon grabbed his right, sliced up wing and squeezed the injury. “You’re gonna wish you’d never been Created!”
Aziraphale clenched his jaw tight and bit down into his cheek so hard he made it bleed. The park was blurring around the edges and his head swam, but the pain, the pain was still all too clear.
“Give it up already!” Hastur was yelling. “Condemn Crowley! Confess to the Pact between you and him and save your worthless existence, save your blessed life!”
“No,” Aziraphale stated in a broken, yet assured, voice. “I…Will. Not.”
“Then you get Ended!”
“So…so be it.”
1. Not metaphorically, either.
2. One of the many punishments a Duke that disobeyed could get would be to have his viscera ripped out. Through his nose.
3. If he had been, he’d never have become a Duke…
4. Special Persuasion being one of Hastur’s singular talents.
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Crowley parked the Bentley (1) right outside of the gates of St. James Park and ran toward the demonic and angelic Presences. He could just make out Hastur’s angry bellow followed by, almost inaudibly, Aziraphale.
“Give it up already!” Hastur was yelling. “Condemn Crowley! Confess to the Pact between you and him and save your worthless existence, save your blessed life!”
“No,” Aziraphale’s broken, yet assured, voice said. “I…Will. Not.”
“Then you get Ended!”
“So…so be it.”
Crowley, still running toward them, almost tripped with surprise. Aziraphale was protecting him. The angel was facing down an angry Duke of Hell; he was throwing his life away for him. Blurrily, Crowley tried to recall the last time someone had willingly risked their very existence for him-oh right, nobody ever had, only Aziraphale. It was unacceptable. He wouldn’t allow it. It wasn’t part of the Arrangement!
And then Crowley saw him. For a terrible moment, everything seemed frozen as he stared, transfixed, at the Principality.
His clothing was torn and tattered, revealing various cuts and bruises, both eyes were blackened, the left was swollen shut, his lips were split, there was a slice along his abdomen, his shoulder appeared to have been dislocated and stabbed through with a flaming sword and then, worst of all, were his wings… Aziraphale’s once white, now gore-streaked wings…
Both of the angel’s wings were pierced clean through with some sort of makeshift spear, effectively staking Aziraphale to the oak. His right wing was the bloodiest, with a stab wound cutting into it so far that it had almost been detached, and several of his long flight feathers were burnt at the bottom.
Crowley lost what remained of his control. His wings ruptured from his back, his talons came out, his fangs appeared, his eyes glowed behind his sunglasses, and he felt his scales patterning down his arms and torso. A noise somewhere between a hiss and a growl tore out of his throat.
Hastur turned, spotted Crowley, and leered. With his left hand he summoned his flaming sword and then he grabbed the metal spike protruding from Aziraphale’s right wing with his free hand and ripped it out, brandishing it like another weapon.
There was another horrible, wrenching scream from Aziraphale as he crumpled, his left wing snapping sickeningly as it was forced to hold all his weight.
At the angel’s cry, Crowley hissed furiously, his rage, which he had thought already reached its maximum, flared out around him, white hot. He was going to kill Hastur. He was going to make him pay.
An instant later, Crowley rushed the Duke, colliding into the larger demon hard enough to cause Hastur’s dark sword of hellfire (2) to go flying, landing in the duck pond and narrowly missing a drake.
It was going to be one Hell of a fight. (3)
1. If careening the car onto the pavement and then jumping out of it counts as parking.
2. Also called ‘that big bloody sword what’s burning’ by Ligur, who had ditched his own sword in favor of using his hands eons before he met his untimely end.
3. Bad pun intended. The writer couldn’t help herself.
Chapter Five
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Hastur’s invariable surprise at being attacked did not prevent him from, the moment the sword went flying, ripping out with his taloned left hand and swinging his makeshift club with his right. Crowley, every bit the Serpent, twisted out of the reach of his claws with the ease of a professional contortionist, but he couldn’t avoid the blow that glanced off his side from the metal bench leg. Grinning manically, the duke flexed dramatically, his own wings bursting out.
Eyes narrowed, Crowley took an unnecessary breath and forcibly unclenched his fists. Even though his back was to Aziraphale, he could still see the brutalized form of the angel in his mind’s eye and hear the horrible sharp crack as the bones in his wing snapped. Crowley had to fight the raw anger and desire to kill that coursed through him. He couldn’t lose all control, his mind was his real weapon here-Hastur was stronger, Hastur was more powerful, Hastur was more experienced at ripping out living being’s spinal cords, but Crowley was more clever. He didn’t have much more time than that to contemplate, however, because suddenly Hastur was on him with all the literal fury of a demon scorned (1).
A sapling exploded to Crowley’s right, going up in flames of hellfire and singeing the back of his tailor-made shirt. In dodging the combusting tree, he narrowly missed getting killed as Hastur’s claws swiped at his throat; he had to hurriedly throw himself backwards. It was easy to tell who the offensive fighter was and who the defensive one was, even if Crowley had started the brawl. The thing of it was; Crowley wasn’t a fighter. He was a talker-a Tempter-who would generally fight only if cornered, but luckily, he was also extremely infuriated at the moment. If that was any help.
He twirled again to miss another of the duke’s blows and momentarily lost his balance. He barely had time to roll to his feet before the ground where he had been was engulfed in flames. Da- shit the park was going to need some serious demon redecorating after this battle was over. And then Crowley took in another deep, unnecessary gasp of air as he saw the flames of Hell on the grass spreading, heading directly for the tree Aziraphale was still hanging from.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Crowley exclaimed, although the actual sentence came out in a rush as ‘Y’gottab’kid’n’me.’ He had to win the fight with Hastur and soon, unless he wanted Aziraphale to be angel barbeque. Which, for some reason, he didn’t.
Okay. So he had to win the battle. He hadn’t been thinking about that when he first attacked Hastur-he hadn’t been thinking at all, in point of fact, he’d just wanted to rip his throat out-but now Crowley needed to think even as he dodged the blows and gave a few of his own.
Hastur was a powerhouse, his demon incarnation much larger than Crowley’s with more bulk, resulting in the fact that he was slower. Not by much, but the Serpent would take every advantage he could get. He just needed to stay out of reach of the duke’s giant arms and…and then what?
Having a plan would have been a good idea, but he hadn’t made one, he had seen Aziraphale and gone spare. A small part of Crowley was screaming at himself, wondering why in whatever’s name he had decided attacking Hastur would be a good idea. Why should Crowley risk his own skin for Aziraphale? He wasn’t sure, it was somehow automatic, and besides, regardless of the fact that the angel was supposed to be his enemy, in Crowley’s book, Aziraphale was Someone With Whom You Do Not Fuck, Unless you Want Crowley to Rip your Face Off. It was a new realization, and a somewhat unwelcome one, but Crowley didn’t waste time thinking about it.
Instead, he dodged Hastur’s next heavy swing and pulled one of the oldest tricks in the book (2) by sticking his foot out and causing Hastur to trip.
“Damned snake!” Hastur growled.
Baring his fangs nastily in what was clearly not a smile, Crowley gave him his best Flash Bastard look, his expression clearly saying, ‘yes, that’s me, what of it?’ (3) As Hastur recovered his balance, Crowley risked a glance at the giant oak Aziraphale was on and grimaced.
The flames were steadily heading in the angel’s direction. They were running out of time. Briefly he considered going airborne, but the Duke’s wingspan was huge to make up for his girth and Crowley would lose the advantage of speed. No. No flying.
“You-” For the first time that Crowley could recall, Hastur spluttered. “You care, don’t you? It’s not-it’s not just business! He’s…” His tone was full of dawning horror. (5) “He’s your friend, isn’t he?”
Crowley made a face, for once in his life wishing that there was less talk and more fighting going on at the moment. “Er.”
Shuddering, Hastur made a gesture, and the flames of hellfire grew larger and faster, speeding towards Aziraphale’s tree, and Crowley hissed angrily; he couldn’t extinguish another demon’s hellfire, not a duke’s anyway, the only way he could stop the flames was to kill said demon or at least discorporate the body he was in.
Looking once more at Aziraphale, dangling helplessly because he had refused to betray him, Crowley snarled, his fangs growing larger, and once more went on the offensive. It was all or nothing, kill or be killed (6), and Crowley was not going to Fade into Nonexistence and was, more importantly, sure as Hell not going to let Aziraphale Fade.
1. Well, a demon denied his kill, which is just as bad as a demon scorned. Both of them are about par with a woman scorned, depending, of course, on the woman and the demon involved.
2. And Crowley had written The Book of Tricks. And produced several monologues on the subject as well as a distributional pamphlet.
3. Crowley could have given a snappy come back here, but he was too busy trying to figure out how to a) survive and b) save the angel. Contrary to popular belief, dialogue is not really common during most fights, even the ones between demons. Despite the evidence of movies, most people (and occult/ethereal beings) don’t have the time or the energy to waste on witty repartees. (4)
4. Unless, of course, they’re really really clever.
5. His tone the same, basically, as if a little girl had come up to him riding on a fat pony holding a bunch of kittens while blowing bubbles as a rainbow filled the sky. (Hastur often had nightmares about such things.)
6. Well, kill or let your friend be killed while you yourself are tortured for eternity, assuming that you aren’t killed as well.
Chapter Six
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Aziraphale lost consciousness when his wing snapped, but pain and something else, something like apprehension, eased him partially out of the stupor he was in; just enough so that some part of him realized that he didn’t really want to wake up. The still dark was comforting, pain free, and it was easy to sink back down into oblivion…
But it was hot. Extremely hot. Something told him that this was wrong, that it should bother him, but he was too weak to care. A sound did manage to penetrate his barriers-a continuous moaning noise. Was he making that noise?
It was at that moment the entirety of his pain registered and he sucked in a shaky, wet breath. Aziraphale felt dazed, befuddled, and then he was, needlessly, gasping for air with distress. Oh, heavens, it hurt. His entire body ached, as though he had gone cliff diving into a pool of crushed glass and then been run over by a steam roller. The worst of it was the intense pain in his shoulder and in his wing, and Aziraphale wanted to shift one or both of them, but he couldn’t seem to move.
What had happened? He seemed to recall a demon being the basis of the situation, but not Crowley… Crowley wouldn’t hurt him… (1)
And then he remembered Hastur’s depraved grin and the white hot pain of the Duke pulling out one of the stakes Aziraphale was pinned with, causing his left wing to snap. The angel couldn’t summon the energy or will to open his eyes and see what he was going to be impaled with next (2)-the left wouldn’t open, anyway-and he knew, almost certainly, that he wouldn’t be able to reach up and pull the crude stake from his wing. Not without great cost to himself.
Aziraphale was stuck. The thought almost made him laugh-he was stuck through the wing and stuck on the tree. Oh dear. It seemed as though he was slightly…delirious. Sighing, the Principality sagged against the tree in the park, taking in a deep breath to discover the nutty, grassy scents mingling with the smell of blood and sweat and…sulphur?
Aziraphale’s right eye opened, and he took in the scene before him, horrified and wheezing loudly. He was not, perhaps surprisingly, merely focused on the flames of hellfire that were quite literally almost beneath him (3), but also on the two demonic figures locked in vicious combat.
“Cr-crowley,” Aziraphale tried to shout, but his throat was closed up and he merely made an ill-sounding groan.
He twisted and turned, nearly retching with the pain in his left wing as he strained to see. What the dev-er, by Jove, what was Crowley doing? Hastur was a duke; Crowley wasn’t. Hastur was huge; Crowley wasn’t. Hastur was vicious and nasty and a Twisted Bastard; Crowley wasn’t. (4)
Although it could have been due to the fact that the angel was currently in a not-so-pleasant mood-being tortured and skewered tends to do that to a being-Aziraphale’s first reaction other than anxiety for Crowley was one of slight annoyance. The angel had endured pain, had been maimed, practically, so that Hastur wouldn’t get his hands on his counterpart and the silly Serpent had decided to make it easy for the duke and come to him!
Still, Aziraphale had to admit, there was a nice warm glow in his chest at the seemingly incongruous spectacle in front of him. Crowley was protecting him. Perhaps the feeling of friendship-that is, camaraderie, the small goody-two-wings angel inside of him corrected-he had for Crowley was mutual. After all, A. J. Crowley was certainly fighting for something fervently-Aziraphale had last seen the demon with that kind of vehemence, desperation, and dedication during the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t. Hastur, on the other hand, was all hard rage and no planning. If Crowley minded his temper, he had a chance.
Crowley ducked as a meaty fist aimed for his head and he raked his claws across Hastur’s side. Just as he ripped through flesh, one of the Duke’s wings slammed into Crowley, putting him off balance. Hastur charged him, throwing him into a small tree so hard that splinters stabbed into his arms.
He ignored the pain and lashed out at Hastur as he came near, each of them trying to rip the other apart. Finally, Crowley managed to twist behind the duke and grab one of the duke’s wings and he wrenched it as hard as he could, gripping the greasy feathers tightly. (5)
Finally Crowley seemed to have the advantage-he was holding on tight with his talons, avoiding the blows from the higher ranked demon’s free wing, and Hastur couldn’t seem to reach him with his arms.
It was time to end it. Crowley opened his mouth, fangs ready to sink into the other demon’s neck when the Duke of Hell let out a roar and bellowed out something and all of a sudden there were imps everywhere.
“Bugger it,” Crowley said, managing to hiss the words even though there weren’t any ‘s,’ ‘c’, or ‘z’ sounds in the phrase. He was, to put it in common Earth vernacular, dead meat. Toast. Finished. Dead.
Aziraphale watched as the mass of imps swarmed Crowley, who pulled them off right and left and thrashed and bit to try and fend them off, but more came and the real danger was Hastur, who clearly meant to kill Crowley while he dealt with his minions.
“N-no!” Aziraphale cried, his voice hoarse and wavering. “Sunglasses up!” He added, yelling at Crowley, who, guessing what the angel has in mind, instantly willed his crooked shades straight and further up onto his nose.
When he saw the glasses were secured, Aziraphale gathered some of his dwindling energy and focused what Crowley had always sarcastically called his ‘Bloody Blinding Beam of Blessed Light’ on Hastur. The burst of angelic light was one of Aziraphale’s weaker gifts, but it was enough to scatter the imps and temporarily blind Hastur. Crowley, with his shades, was unaffected and he rose to his feet and tried to gather his wits about him, thankful the angel had helped buy him some time.
Aziraphale wasn’t finished, though. He knew the duke was only momentarily stunned and that while his parlor trick might have temporarily saved Crowley, it had also made Hastur really enraged and even more prepared for bloodlust whereas Crowley was already tired and bleeding. Bless something, Aziraphale thought, he needed to Bless something…but what? He did not have the energy to materialize something appropriate and then Bless it with enough holy power to kill Hastur; he would have to use something close to hand.
While the angel was debating, Hastur roared and became even larger, having entirely assumed his hideous true shape.
“!” Aziraphale looked around wildly. “Crowley, gloves, now!” he yelled brokenly as he reached up through a haze of pain to Bless the bench leg sticking out of his wing. After it was significantly holy, he took it into both hands and pulled it out of the tree, out of his wing, screaming in agony. He just managed to throw it in Crowley’s direction before he fell to the flame-streaked ground.
1. Wellll, Crowley wouldn’t hurt him physically. (He was a demon, after all, and demons were bound to hurt one’s feelings on the occasion.) Remembering something, Aziraphale amended this thought; Crowley would not physically injure him seriously. (The angel was still slightly upset by the occasion when, several months before hand, Crowley had ‘accidentally’ left the new cactus he’d purchased on Aziraphale’s seat in the Bentley, causing him to sit on it and then, embarrassingly, swear in a most un-angelic way and hop around while trying to pry the wretched plant off of his derriere. Crowley had Fallen Over with Laughter.)
2. Apparently, Hastur had taken a seminar on the subject of ‘Impalement and How it Can Pierce Through Even the Most Stubborn of Victim’s Nerves (And Bits of Them).’
3. Though those were a major concern, too. It wasn’t as if he was wearing fireproof tartan pants.
4. Crowley was perhaps a little twisted, and a Flash Bastard, but he wasn’t a Twisted Bastard or really all that nasty. When it came down to it, the fallen angel was actually a nice enough chap, good heart and all.
5. Of course, many demons do have better groomed wings than angels, especially angels like Aziraphale, but Hastur was one of the exceptions. After all, he had once heard someone say cleanliness was next to godliness and Hastur certainly didn’t want anything to do with Godliness. Especially as it was an excuse to avoid grooming.
Author's Note: And that's All I Have so Far! Thanks for reading! :D
As I am new at writing GO ff, any comments/crits would be greatly appreciated. (*runs and hides*)
*Edit*: PART TWO IS HERE: http://community.livejournal.com/lower_tadfield/788994.html?view=9445634#t9445634
Ps) This fic is based on a dream I had after reading a bunch of GO fanfiction. So, part of my inspiration is the other GO writers! (Thanks guys. :D) And my totally messed up subconcious...
Pps) On a side note, I really really really STINK at titles, and the one I have now doesn't make sense because the fic didn't go where I thought it was going and hence the title is a little off now. So if any of you get a Divine Spark for what the title should really be, lemme know. >_<;;;
Summary of my fic: Crowley's being followed. Aziraphale is in serious trouble. Certain demons are longing for revenge. Zira is pressed to 'confess' and Crowley has to try and save him...
(Yeah, I'm not so great with the summaries... ^_^;;; ) This is a dark fic, but I try to keep it darkly humorous through the footnotes and such. (I guess it's kind of like Neil Gaiman's other writings as far as it is dark but there are somewhat darkly humorous parts as well...) There is foul language, violence, and pain. As for rating, let's just say it's at least a 't' for violence. (I do not own these characters, they belong to Pratchett and Gaiman, not me. I just love them both and so write about them without profiting by it. heh.)
Angelic Lies, Demonic Truth
Chapter One
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A. J. Crowley had been being pursued, spied on, and generally Messed With, off and on for a few weeks. Not that it was consistent, and there were only a few times he’d been certain that there were imps following him, but he knew-he would have known even if he hadn’t spotted the little buggers-that Someone Down There was Trying to Get His Goat. He could think of several possibilities as to who it could be, especially after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t. So far, he’d not actually yet caught one of the lesser demons to ask who in the bloody Hell (1) was Interested in him.
That was about to change, however. Crowley had one cornered among a group of his houseplants. He’d stopped by his apartment before going to meet his Adversary in the park. Crowley knew there was an imp in among his houseplants because of the way the plants were openly trembling (2).
With a movement comparable to a predator gliding fleetly through the grass (3), Crowley hurried across the apartment, reached behind his plants, and grabbed the intruder, which somewhat resembled a shaved, mutant pygmy marmoset with a visible boil problem.
“Hello.” Crowley grinned, bearing fangs. It wasn’t a nice grin (4). “What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” Although he enunciated carefully, his voice seemed calm and under control-in other words, it was utterly terrifying.
The imp squeaked as hands closed around its throat. “Or-orders.”
“Whose?” He let his shades slip down his nose a little ways so that the lesser demon could see his golden-yellow slitted eyes.
1. Literally.
2. Of course, they normally trembled, but not quite so much or so obviously. The plants knew, by this time, that subtle fear was the only acceptable way to express the emotion around Crowley. If they got too demonstrative, he disposed of them.
3. With good reason…
4. Crowley actually, if pressed, would have said that he didn’t HAVE a nice grin, that all of his grins varied from mischievous to pure evil and that his smirks were the same way. He was wrong. He did, in fact, have a pleasant grin, albeit a rare one, that for some reason generally manifested itself around Aziraphale (5).
5. Similarly, Aziraphale had a smirk that would occasionally surface when he was around Crowley. Of course, it wasn’t a particularly good smirk, as his blonde, slightly chunky, tartan wearing, bookselling physical manifestation couldn’t quite pull off the smirk. But he did have one.
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Meanwhile…
If the ducks at St. James Park had been capable of being surprised (1), they would have been the moment an ethereal being with wings crashed down into the water. As it was, they only squawked indignantly and moved out of the way of the floundering white-winged figure. Amazingly, all of the humans that had been in the park half an hour earlier had vanished, suddenly remembering they had other things to do in other places. It was just the ducks and the ethereal beings.
Aziraphale was in pain. He was in pain and he had, stupidly, taken in a deep breath of water so that his human form spluttered most indignantly. His wings were soaked and weighted him down and his head was reeling from the blows, and so it was with great difficulty that he stood upright and faced his attackers.
Demons. A pack of demons. They’d ganged up on him and he’d fought hard and managed to injure two of them, but he’d been surprised and overpowered and then tossed into the pond. The pack of demons-Was it a pack of demons? Aziraphale dimly wondered, Or a group? A gaggle?-were laughing at him.
He drew himself up with as much dignity as he could muster considering he was bruised, battered, and soaked (2), and then Aziraphale shed some of the constraints of his human skin, glowing with a Holy light that caused several of the lesser demons to flinch.
Concentrating his energy, he sent out a beam of angelic light that fried two of the imps approaching him and caused all the demons to stagger back, burnt. Aziraphale felt a little non-virtuous triumph that was short lived as he considered his odds.
He was unarmed and outnumbered. It had been a great surprise when he had felt the sudden spike of Demonic Presence behind him-a definitely not Crowley-like Presence since, Aziraphale had to admit, at this point, Crowley’s Presence was more comforting than actually evil-feeling. The angel had almost forgotten that the mere Presence of a demon could be extremely painful. But he certainly remembered now.
Remembered and gritted his teeth determinedly as the largest of the demons approached him. His energy was spent-he couldn’t manifest another burst for a while. He was out of practice and the demonic auras were draining his holy one. Worse than the mere Presence of demons, though, was the pain caused by physical contact with one and this Aziraphale experienced next, as the giant demon lunged forward, took hold of his arm and jerked his shoulder out of its socket.
Naturally Aziraphale struggled, beating his wings in an attempt to get away, but then he was unfortunate enough to find out that even worse than physical contact with a demon (other than Crowley. It never hurt to come in contact with Crowley) was the wounds caused by one of their occult weapons. In this case, it was a blade of hellfire that rammed through his already injured shoulder.
He had experienced pain before, had been discorpulated several times, but this was absolute agony, for the weapon injured Aziraphale himself, in his true form, and not just his man-shaped form. And so it was in body and soul that Aziraphale was tortured.
1. They weren’t. This wasn’t merely because the brains of water fowl are limited, mostly it was because anyone, even a duck, becomes immune to surprise after having angels and demons hanging around them for awhile.
2. And wearing wet, tartan trousers and a wet sweater vest. In other words, it speaks well of Aziraphale that he was able to muster any dignity at all in the circumstances.
Chapter Two
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Crowley increased pressure. The imp let out a small squawk. “The-the Great Duke of Hell, Bringer of Misery, Destroyer of-”
Scowling in impatience, Crowley let his hand develop talons and sunk one into the imp's flesh. “Jusst the name, not the moniker.”
“Duke Hastur.”
Crowley hissed. “Why is he sspying on me?” Generally, subterfuge was not the Duke’s style. He was the type to tear wings off first and ask questions later. “Is he trying to find out my fatal weaknesss?” This was said sarcastically-Hastur, if he put his mind to it, could destroy Crowley easily. Even without using holy water. Possibly even without using his hands.
“He knows what your weakness is.” The imp replied, and then instantly looked as though it seriously regretted speaking. Or existing. (1)
“Really?” Crowley’s voice was carefully offhand. Well, it was no great feat of brainwork for Hastur to find out that holy water would End him as would being torn into small little bits spread out over consecrated ground. Why hadn’t the Duke attacked already?
“Or, should I say,” the fatalistic little creature piped upon seeing the demon’s seemingly unimpressed attitude. “Who your weakness is.”
Crowley’s hand tightened automatically and he almost snapped the imp’s neck in two. Who his weakness was? That didn’t make any sense. The only being he’d had steady contact with since, well, forever, was…Aziraphale.
But, a voice in his head protested, the angel couldn’t be called his weakness, as such. Surely his Achilles' heel (2) was his Desire to Always Look Sexy or how he felt the need to Keep Up With the Times or the Bentley or even his houseplants or something. Not Aziraphale. Demons don’t care about angels, demons don’t worry about angels, demons don’t even like angels.
Sure, he’d gotten used to seeing Aziraphale around-hard not to after 6000+ years-and they did have the Arrangement, but they weren’t friends as such. Not really. Okay, so they’d gone through the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t together-that’d bring anybody closer. But Aziraphale and Crowley had the same relationship they always did, right? (3)
Somehow Crowley realized that his brain was rambling and he reined it in and glared, eyes glowing, at the imp. “Explain. Everything. Now.”
The imp explained.
1. One of the reasons imps have absolutely no life expectancy to speak of is their expendability and also their unique demonic powers of Never Being Able to Shut Up Properly, Fouling Up Even the Simplest of Tasks, and Always Saying the Wrong Thing at the Wrong Time. In that way, they are similar to stereotypical bumbling sidekicks everywhere.
2. And he knew about Achilles’ heels. He was the one who had made sure said Greek had an infected callous on his heel and flat arches to boot, for good-for something’s sakes.
3. The same relationship they’d had since the Arrangement, that is. Before that, there had been some smiting and general nastiness on both their parts…
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“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said, scraping himself up from the ground in front of Their Park Bench. (1) “I don’t suppose we can talk about this sensibly?”
The large demon, who Aziraphale recognized as Hastur, Duke of Hell and Bane of Crowley, leered, exposing rotted teeth that would've made any dentist have nightmares for eons. “Sure-if you admit that you have a Pact with the demon Crowley.”
“A Pact?” Aziraphale asked, edging closer to the pond. He’d just had an idea, and his powers were slightly recovered from his first attack. “Whatever do you mean?” If he could keep Hastur talking for a while longer, he could get close enough…
“I know you have a Pact with him, and you will confess to it.” Hastur said this with all the ease of someone who knew he was right, someone who was very probably going to tear the angel apart to make certain that he was right.
He was talking about the Arrangement. Somehow, Hastur was thinking that if he got Aziraphale to acknowledge their agreement, he could hurt Crowley. Well, Aziraphale wasn’t going to help the Duke hurt any being, let alone Crowley.
“I am afraid that if you do not…” He paused. It had been a long time since he’d invoked divine wrath and he’d never been very good at threats. “…Desist…this instant I shall be forced to…to compulsorily discorporate you.”
The demons laughed. (2) Aziraphale took the opportunity to lunge the rest of the way toward the pond and scoop some of the water into his hands. Hurriedly, he Blessed it, and then threw it over the nearest demons, who screamed, screamed horrifyingly and melted in a way much nastier than the Wicked Witch of the West ever had. Now it was only Hastur and a few imps.
Hastur cursed. Or blessed, rather. Aziraphale ignored him, bending down to get another handful of water, but the Duke reached him and the fiery darkness of his sword sliced into him, driving Aziraphale to his knees. Refusing to give up, he grabbed Hastur’s wrist with a still-damp palm and Hastur screamed as even the faintest trace of holy water and the touch of the angel seared his skin.
It was a short lived triumph. Hastur retaliated, swinging the dark sword down and slicing partially through his right wing. And then it was Aziraphale that screamed.
1. Yes, scraping was an accurate word as he was thrown down so hard when he got up part of his skin remained behind. Furthermore, yes, the capitals in Their Park Bench were utterly necessary for that’s what the bench was. Crowley-and-Aziraphale’s Park Bench.
2. Aziraphale was angered by this and, had he actually been the sort of human he appeared to be, would have had nasty flashbacks to being taunted in secondary school.
Chapter Three
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The shriek of an angel in pain is nothing to be sneezed at. (1) Such a scream-the real, pained cry of an angel suffering-is rather like the ‘shot heard round the world’ at the start of the American Revolution. It is as serious as a bullet and echoes long after the original yell is over and often entails quite a lot of bloodshed.
All of the humans in the vicinity of the park, as dense as they were to ethereal presences, felt the scream of an angel, although they did not actually hear it, which had various effects on them depending on the person. None of the reactions were pleasant. (2) The angel's scream was even less pleasant for one demon who recognized the agony-filled shriek.
Crowley’s anger, which he had been carefully gathering and wrapping up in tight little bundles of control as the imp spoke, erupted into flames quicker than a stack of dried sticks. Aziraphale. The demon tossed the minion of Hell out of his apartment window and ran to the Bentley. At that moment, he wasn’t thinking about the fact that demons weren’t supposed to care if stupid, troublesome, tartan-clad angels were being tortured, that they were, in fact, supposed to like it. No, he had only one thing, one rather un-demonic thought, on his mind and that was to get to Aziraphale.
It was only after he was tearing down the road, going much faster than ought to have been possible, that Anthony J. Crowley pondered what he was doing.
What was he doing? Rushing to Aziraphale’s rescue and preparing to attack a Duke of Hell, for Go-for Sa-for Someone’s sake? He couldn’t even say it was going to help him in the long run-Aziraphale was, honestly, a blessed pain in the ass and confronting Hastur was right up there with dousing himself with holy water on the common sense chart. Why should he help the angel? They were Enemies for Chr-for Manchester’s sake.
Sure, Aziraphale was just enough of a bastard to like, but that didn’t mean Crowley should stick out his own neck for him. No. It didn’t mean that at all. So why was he still speeding down the road as fast as the Bentley could take him, heading toward the source of the scream? Crowley decided to stop asking himself such questions, especially when he probably wouldn’t like the answers to them. Instead, he tromped down on the gas pedal even harder.
1. Unless you’re a demon and allergic.
2. These included nausea, heartburn, trouble sleeping, mental confusion, irritability, nervousness, restlessness, loose stool, and so on. Basically everything one sees in small print at the bottom of ad for medicine.
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The thing that really bothered him, Aziraphale thought dimly, the thing that really got on his nerves was feeling so da-so ruddy helpless. And that was exactly what he felt, at the moment, staked to one of the park’s oldest trees with the broken off, metal legs of a park bench thrust through his wings. He was pinned to the oak like some kind of bizarre butterfly in an entomology collection, all of his weight hanging on his wings, his shoulder disconnected, several of his bones broken, and basically feeling as though he had been flayed all over. And then napalmed.
Aziraphale was grateful for two things. First, he was glad that he wasn’t, in addition to helpless, weak. Well, admitedly he was physically weak, but in general he was not and Aziraphale proved this by stoutly refusing to flinch away from Hastur’s approach. The second thing that made him feel thankful was that Crowley, who was apparently the one Hastur was really cheesed off with, had not come to harm. Granted, if Aziraphale could have been certain that Crowley would defeat Hastur, well then he wouldn’t have minded a bit of assistance from his counterpart.
As it stood, though, he wasn’t sure Crowley could handle the duke and so the angel was relieved that one of them, at least, would escape injury. Aziraphale didn’t dwell on why he felt that way-he knew, deep down, that Crowley was his friend, his best and only friend, and besides, self sacrifice and martyr-complexes and all that were practically built in to angels.
“I could stop the pain,” Hastur said in a low voice.
That would be lovely, Aziraphale thought, but he didn’t say anything. If being around Crowley for so long had taught him anything, it had taught him to recognize Temptation when he heard it. (1)
“I have a bargain to offer unto you,” Hastur whispered in the angel’s bloodied ear. Evidentially he felt the need to clarify, for he added, “I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse,” with a deadly grin on his face. “Confess you have a pact with Crowley and all your pain’s over, done with, kaput.”
Aziraphale, who briefly wondered where Duke Hastur had learned the word ‘kaput,’ opened his good eye. If he could have summoned the energy, he might have made a rude gesture with one of his fingers, a gesture that Crowley was fond of, particularly when he was driving. As it was, the angel could barely lift his head to look Hastur in the eye. His cracked lips bled a little more as he opened his mouth to respond, attempting to conjure some of Crowley’s bravado. “Go back to Hell,” he said.
1. His close proximity to the serpent had also taught him many other interesting things such as “Never go near a karaoke machine after six margaritas” and “Never attempt to Offer Friendly Advice to anyone in a bar that is referred to as a ‘joint,’” etc.
Chapter Four
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Hastur was, to use a particularly apt idiom, foaming at the mouth. His plan had been simple. Hell had decided to ignore Crowley and had, in fact, made it clear that if Hastur himself attempted to haul Crowley over the coals, (1) he would be the one punished. So, as Hastur wanted to keep all his innards in and his nose relatively unplugged (2), almost as much as he wanted to rip Crowley’s forked tongue out of his mouth, he had decided to get to Crowley in some other way. Hence the spying. After Hastur saw that the serpent was still parleying with that blessed angel, the one who’d helped him stop the Apocalypse, Hastur had found his way to revenge.
It was clear that Crowley had made a deal with an angel-funny how that sounded-and the two were obviously cooperating so that they could go about their respective businesses in peace. A deal with a Principality like that was something that Hastur could get Crowley punished for. Definitely. They wouldn’t believe just his word, though-Hastur had never been the most honest of demons-(3) thus he needed proof. Easy enough, he’d decided, he would only have to ambush said angel, have a bit of fun with him, and wait for him to confess. Aziraphale looked downright poofy, Hastur had thought; how hard could it be to intimidate him to rat out his business associate?
Damned hard, Hastur was finding out. He’d underestimated Aziraphale who, for some unknown, misguided reason, was protecting Crowley. If the bloody idiot would only confess, it’d be irrefutable evidence. Hastur even had a formal confession all drawn up, ready for Aziraphale to sign it with his true name, asserting that he was telling the truth. But the angel wouldn’t even verbally admit to his Pact, let alone sign anything saying he had one. Damn and bless. This stubborn bastard was going to need Special Persuasion. (4)
Hastur opened his palm, hellfire immediately engulfing it. “Let me put this another way, angel filth,” he spat. “Either you confess about you and Crowley’s Pact, or I kill you. Not your body. You. Now come clean, pal. ”
The Duke held his hand to the bottom of Aziraphale’s left wing, just close enough so that the delicate, silky ends of the flight feathers began to singe. Hanging around like he was, Aziraphale couldn’t move his wings away without ripping them up some more and so he had to stay very still even as the feathers started smoldering.
Aziraphale used every bit of will power he had left not to squirm or shudder or moan as the tips of his damp feathers finally sputtered into flames. If he was going to Fade into Nonexistence, he was going to do so with some sort of dignity. He almost snorted at that thought-he was pinned to a tree like a deranged Christmas ornament, bloody, broken, wet, and he was certain he made a pathetic sight-it’d be pretty darn hard to find any dignity to die with.
Nevertheless, he shook his head. “I believe,” his voice cracked with pain, “I believe I told you…where you can go, Duke Hastur.”
Crowley would approve of his attitude, Aziraphale was certain. Growling, Hastur extinguished the flames, muttering that burning would be too quick a death. Aziraphale managed to hold in his sigh of relief at the disappearance of the flames.
“You will suffer, angel, I will tear you into tiny pieces and grind you beneath my feet! The last thing you shall know will be agony and I will scatter what’s left of you in the pits of Hell!” The demon grabbed his right, sliced up wing and squeezed the injury. “You’re gonna wish you’d never been Created!”
Aziraphale clenched his jaw tight and bit down into his cheek so hard he made it bleed. The park was blurring around the edges and his head swam, but the pain, the pain was still all too clear.
“Give it up already!” Hastur was yelling. “Condemn Crowley! Confess to the Pact between you and him and save your worthless existence, save your blessed life!”
“No,” Aziraphale stated in a broken, yet assured, voice. “I…Will. Not.”
“Then you get Ended!”
“So…so be it.”
1. Not metaphorically, either.
2. One of the many punishments a Duke that disobeyed could get would be to have his viscera ripped out. Through his nose.
3. If he had been, he’d never have become a Duke…
4. Special Persuasion being one of Hastur’s singular talents.
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Crowley parked the Bentley (1) right outside of the gates of St. James Park and ran toward the demonic and angelic Presences. He could just make out Hastur’s angry bellow followed by, almost inaudibly, Aziraphale.
“Give it up already!” Hastur was yelling. “Condemn Crowley! Confess to the Pact between you and him and save your worthless existence, save your blessed life!”
“No,” Aziraphale’s broken, yet assured, voice said. “I…Will. Not.”
“Then you get Ended!”
“So…so be it.”
Crowley, still running toward them, almost tripped with surprise. Aziraphale was protecting him. The angel was facing down an angry Duke of Hell; he was throwing his life away for him. Blurrily, Crowley tried to recall the last time someone had willingly risked their very existence for him-oh right, nobody ever had, only Aziraphale. It was unacceptable. He wouldn’t allow it. It wasn’t part of the Arrangement!
And then Crowley saw him. For a terrible moment, everything seemed frozen as he stared, transfixed, at the Principality.
His clothing was torn and tattered, revealing various cuts and bruises, both eyes were blackened, the left was swollen shut, his lips were split, there was a slice along his abdomen, his shoulder appeared to have been dislocated and stabbed through with a flaming sword and then, worst of all, were his wings… Aziraphale’s once white, now gore-streaked wings…
Both of the angel’s wings were pierced clean through with some sort of makeshift spear, effectively staking Aziraphale to the oak. His right wing was the bloodiest, with a stab wound cutting into it so far that it had almost been detached, and several of his long flight feathers were burnt at the bottom.
Crowley lost what remained of his control. His wings ruptured from his back, his talons came out, his fangs appeared, his eyes glowed behind his sunglasses, and he felt his scales patterning down his arms and torso. A noise somewhere between a hiss and a growl tore out of his throat.
Hastur turned, spotted Crowley, and leered. With his left hand he summoned his flaming sword and then he grabbed the metal spike protruding from Aziraphale’s right wing with his free hand and ripped it out, brandishing it like another weapon.
There was another horrible, wrenching scream from Aziraphale as he crumpled, his left wing snapping sickeningly as it was forced to hold all his weight.
At the angel’s cry, Crowley hissed furiously, his rage, which he had thought already reached its maximum, flared out around him, white hot. He was going to kill Hastur. He was going to make him pay.
An instant later, Crowley rushed the Duke, colliding into the larger demon hard enough to cause Hastur’s dark sword of hellfire (2) to go flying, landing in the duck pond and narrowly missing a drake.
It was going to be one Hell of a fight. (3)
1. If careening the car onto the pavement and then jumping out of it counts as parking.
2. Also called ‘that big bloody sword what’s burning’ by Ligur, who had ditched his own sword in favor of using his hands eons before he met his untimely end.
3. Bad pun intended. The writer couldn’t help herself.
Chapter Five
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Hastur’s invariable surprise at being attacked did not prevent him from, the moment the sword went flying, ripping out with his taloned left hand and swinging his makeshift club with his right. Crowley, every bit the Serpent, twisted out of the reach of his claws with the ease of a professional contortionist, but he couldn’t avoid the blow that glanced off his side from the metal bench leg. Grinning manically, the duke flexed dramatically, his own wings bursting out.
Eyes narrowed, Crowley took an unnecessary breath and forcibly unclenched his fists. Even though his back was to Aziraphale, he could still see the brutalized form of the angel in his mind’s eye and hear the horrible sharp crack as the bones in his wing snapped. Crowley had to fight the raw anger and desire to kill that coursed through him. He couldn’t lose all control, his mind was his real weapon here-Hastur was stronger, Hastur was more powerful, Hastur was more experienced at ripping out living being’s spinal cords, but Crowley was more clever. He didn’t have much more time than that to contemplate, however, because suddenly Hastur was on him with all the literal fury of a demon scorned (1).
A sapling exploded to Crowley’s right, going up in flames of hellfire and singeing the back of his tailor-made shirt. In dodging the combusting tree, he narrowly missed getting killed as Hastur’s claws swiped at his throat; he had to hurriedly throw himself backwards. It was easy to tell who the offensive fighter was and who the defensive one was, even if Crowley had started the brawl. The thing of it was; Crowley wasn’t a fighter. He was a talker-a Tempter-who would generally fight only if cornered, but luckily, he was also extremely infuriated at the moment. If that was any help.
He twirled again to miss another of the duke’s blows and momentarily lost his balance. He barely had time to roll to his feet before the ground where he had been was engulfed in flames. Da- shit the park was going to need some serious demon redecorating after this battle was over. And then Crowley took in another deep, unnecessary gasp of air as he saw the flames of Hell on the grass spreading, heading directly for the tree Aziraphale was still hanging from.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Crowley exclaimed, although the actual sentence came out in a rush as ‘Y’gottab’kid’n’me.’ He had to win the fight with Hastur and soon, unless he wanted Aziraphale to be angel barbeque. Which, for some reason, he didn’t.
Okay. So he had to win the battle. He hadn’t been thinking about that when he first attacked Hastur-he hadn’t been thinking at all, in point of fact, he’d just wanted to rip his throat out-but now Crowley needed to think even as he dodged the blows and gave a few of his own.
Hastur was a powerhouse, his demon incarnation much larger than Crowley’s with more bulk, resulting in the fact that he was slower. Not by much, but the Serpent would take every advantage he could get. He just needed to stay out of reach of the duke’s giant arms and…and then what?
Having a plan would have been a good idea, but he hadn’t made one, he had seen Aziraphale and gone spare. A small part of Crowley was screaming at himself, wondering why in whatever’s name he had decided attacking Hastur would be a good idea. Why should Crowley risk his own skin for Aziraphale? He wasn’t sure, it was somehow automatic, and besides, regardless of the fact that the angel was supposed to be his enemy, in Crowley’s book, Aziraphale was Someone With Whom You Do Not Fuck, Unless you Want Crowley to Rip your Face Off. It was a new realization, and a somewhat unwelcome one, but Crowley didn’t waste time thinking about it.
Instead, he dodged Hastur’s next heavy swing and pulled one of the oldest tricks in the book (2) by sticking his foot out and causing Hastur to trip.
“Damned snake!” Hastur growled.
Baring his fangs nastily in what was clearly not a smile, Crowley gave him his best Flash Bastard look, his expression clearly saying, ‘yes, that’s me, what of it?’ (3) As Hastur recovered his balance, Crowley risked a glance at the giant oak Aziraphale was on and grimaced.
The flames were steadily heading in the angel’s direction. They were running out of time. Briefly he considered going airborne, but the Duke’s wingspan was huge to make up for his girth and Crowley would lose the advantage of speed. No. No flying.
“You-” For the first time that Crowley could recall, Hastur spluttered. “You care, don’t you? It’s not-it’s not just business! He’s…” His tone was full of dawning horror. (5) “He’s your friend, isn’t he?”
Crowley made a face, for once in his life wishing that there was less talk and more fighting going on at the moment. “Er.”
Shuddering, Hastur made a gesture, and the flames of hellfire grew larger and faster, speeding towards Aziraphale’s tree, and Crowley hissed angrily; he couldn’t extinguish another demon’s hellfire, not a duke’s anyway, the only way he could stop the flames was to kill said demon or at least discorporate the body he was in.
Looking once more at Aziraphale, dangling helplessly because he had refused to betray him, Crowley snarled, his fangs growing larger, and once more went on the offensive. It was all or nothing, kill or be killed (6), and Crowley was not going to Fade into Nonexistence and was, more importantly, sure as Hell not going to let Aziraphale Fade.
1. Well, a demon denied his kill, which is just as bad as a demon scorned. Both of them are about par with a woman scorned, depending, of course, on the woman and the demon involved.
2. And Crowley had written The Book of Tricks. And produced several monologues on the subject as well as a distributional pamphlet.
3. Crowley could have given a snappy come back here, but he was too busy trying to figure out how to a) survive and b) save the angel. Contrary to popular belief, dialogue is not really common during most fights, even the ones between demons. Despite the evidence of movies, most people (and occult/ethereal beings) don’t have the time or the energy to waste on witty repartees. (4)
4. Unless, of course, they’re really really clever.
5. His tone the same, basically, as if a little girl had come up to him riding on a fat pony holding a bunch of kittens while blowing bubbles as a rainbow filled the sky. (Hastur often had nightmares about such things.)
6. Well, kill or let your friend be killed while you yourself are tortured for eternity, assuming that you aren’t killed as well.
Chapter Six
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Aziraphale lost consciousness when his wing snapped, but pain and something else, something like apprehension, eased him partially out of the stupor he was in; just enough so that some part of him realized that he didn’t really want to wake up. The still dark was comforting, pain free, and it was easy to sink back down into oblivion…
But it was hot. Extremely hot. Something told him that this was wrong, that it should bother him, but he was too weak to care. A sound did manage to penetrate his barriers-a continuous moaning noise. Was he making that noise?
It was at that moment the entirety of his pain registered and he sucked in a shaky, wet breath. Aziraphale felt dazed, befuddled, and then he was, needlessly, gasping for air with distress. Oh, heavens, it hurt. His entire body ached, as though he had gone cliff diving into a pool of crushed glass and then been run over by a steam roller. The worst of it was the intense pain in his shoulder and in his wing, and Aziraphale wanted to shift one or both of them, but he couldn’t seem to move.
What had happened? He seemed to recall a demon being the basis of the situation, but not Crowley… Crowley wouldn’t hurt him… (1)
And then he remembered Hastur’s depraved grin and the white hot pain of the Duke pulling out one of the stakes Aziraphale was pinned with, causing his left wing to snap. The angel couldn’t summon the energy or will to open his eyes and see what he was going to be impaled with next (2)-the left wouldn’t open, anyway-and he knew, almost certainly, that he wouldn’t be able to reach up and pull the crude stake from his wing. Not without great cost to himself.
Aziraphale was stuck. The thought almost made him laugh-he was stuck through the wing and stuck on the tree. Oh dear. It seemed as though he was slightly…delirious. Sighing, the Principality sagged against the tree in the park, taking in a deep breath to discover the nutty, grassy scents mingling with the smell of blood and sweat and…sulphur?
Aziraphale’s right eye opened, and he took in the scene before him, horrified and wheezing loudly. He was not, perhaps surprisingly, merely focused on the flames of hellfire that were quite literally almost beneath him (3), but also on the two demonic figures locked in vicious combat.
“Cr-crowley,” Aziraphale tried to shout, but his throat was closed up and he merely made an ill-sounding groan.
He twisted and turned, nearly retching with the pain in his left wing as he strained to see. What the dev-er, by Jove, what was Crowley doing? Hastur was a duke; Crowley wasn’t. Hastur was huge; Crowley wasn’t. Hastur was vicious and nasty and a Twisted Bastard; Crowley wasn’t. (4)
Although it could have been due to the fact that the angel was currently in a not-so-pleasant mood-being tortured and skewered tends to do that to a being-Aziraphale’s first reaction other than anxiety for Crowley was one of slight annoyance. The angel had endured pain, had been maimed, practically, so that Hastur wouldn’t get his hands on his counterpart and the silly Serpent had decided to make it easy for the duke and come to him!
Still, Aziraphale had to admit, there was a nice warm glow in his chest at the seemingly incongruous spectacle in front of him. Crowley was protecting him. Perhaps the feeling of friendship-that is, camaraderie, the small goody-two-wings angel inside of him corrected-he had for Crowley was mutual. After all, A. J. Crowley was certainly fighting for something fervently-Aziraphale had last seen the demon with that kind of vehemence, desperation, and dedication during the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t. Hastur, on the other hand, was all hard rage and no planning. If Crowley minded his temper, he had a chance.
Crowley ducked as a meaty fist aimed for his head and he raked his claws across Hastur’s side. Just as he ripped through flesh, one of the Duke’s wings slammed into Crowley, putting him off balance. Hastur charged him, throwing him into a small tree so hard that splinters stabbed into his arms.
He ignored the pain and lashed out at Hastur as he came near, each of them trying to rip the other apart. Finally, Crowley managed to twist behind the duke and grab one of the duke’s wings and he wrenched it as hard as he could, gripping the greasy feathers tightly. (5)
Finally Crowley seemed to have the advantage-he was holding on tight with his talons, avoiding the blows from the higher ranked demon’s free wing, and Hastur couldn’t seem to reach him with his arms.
It was time to end it. Crowley opened his mouth, fangs ready to sink into the other demon’s neck when the Duke of Hell let out a roar and bellowed out something and all of a sudden there were imps everywhere.
“Bugger it,” Crowley said, managing to hiss the words even though there weren’t any ‘s,’ ‘c’, or ‘z’ sounds in the phrase. He was, to put it in common Earth vernacular, dead meat. Toast. Finished. Dead.
Aziraphale watched as the mass of imps swarmed Crowley, who pulled them off right and left and thrashed and bit to try and fend them off, but more came and the real danger was Hastur, who clearly meant to kill Crowley while he dealt with his minions.
“N-no!” Aziraphale cried, his voice hoarse and wavering. “Sunglasses up!” He added, yelling at Crowley, who, guessing what the angel has in mind, instantly willed his crooked shades straight and further up onto his nose.
When he saw the glasses were secured, Aziraphale gathered some of his dwindling energy and focused what Crowley had always sarcastically called his ‘Bloody Blinding Beam of Blessed Light’ on Hastur. The burst of angelic light was one of Aziraphale’s weaker gifts, but it was enough to scatter the imps and temporarily blind Hastur. Crowley, with his shades, was unaffected and he rose to his feet and tried to gather his wits about him, thankful the angel had helped buy him some time.
Aziraphale wasn’t finished, though. He knew the duke was only momentarily stunned and that while his parlor trick might have temporarily saved Crowley, it had also made Hastur really enraged and even more prepared for bloodlust whereas Crowley was already tired and bleeding. Bless something, Aziraphale thought, he needed to Bless something…but what? He did not have the energy to materialize something appropriate and then Bless it with enough holy power to kill Hastur; he would have to use something close to hand.
While the angel was debating, Hastur roared and became even larger, having entirely assumed his hideous true shape.
“!” Aziraphale looked around wildly. “Crowley, gloves, now!” he yelled brokenly as he reached up through a haze of pain to Bless the bench leg sticking out of his wing. After it was significantly holy, he took it into both hands and pulled it out of the tree, out of his wing, screaming in agony. He just managed to throw it in Crowley’s direction before he fell to the flame-streaked ground.
1. Wellll, Crowley wouldn’t hurt him physically. (He was a demon, after all, and demons were bound to hurt one’s feelings on the occasion.) Remembering something, Aziraphale amended this thought; Crowley would not physically injure him seriously. (The angel was still slightly upset by the occasion when, several months before hand, Crowley had ‘accidentally’ left the new cactus he’d purchased on Aziraphale’s seat in the Bentley, causing him to sit on it and then, embarrassingly, swear in a most un-angelic way and hop around while trying to pry the wretched plant off of his derriere. Crowley had Fallen Over with Laughter.)
2. Apparently, Hastur had taken a seminar on the subject of ‘Impalement and How it Can Pierce Through Even the Most Stubborn of Victim’s Nerves (And Bits of Them).’
3. Though those were a major concern, too. It wasn’t as if he was wearing fireproof tartan pants.
4. Crowley was perhaps a little twisted, and a Flash Bastard, but he wasn’t a Twisted Bastard or really all that nasty. When it came down to it, the fallen angel was actually a nice enough chap, good heart and all.
5. Of course, many demons do have better groomed wings than angels, especially angels like Aziraphale, but Hastur was one of the exceptions. After all, he had once heard someone say cleanliness was next to godliness and Hastur certainly didn’t want anything to do with Godliness. Especially as it was an excuse to avoid grooming.
Author's Note: And that's All I Have so Far! Thanks for reading! :D
As I am new at writing GO ff, any comments/crits would be greatly appreciated. (*runs and hides*)
*Edit*: PART TWO IS HERE: http://community.livejournal.com/lower_tadfield/788994.html?view=9445634#t9445634
Ps) This fic is based on a dream I had after reading a bunch of GO fanfiction. So, part of my inspiration is the other GO writers! (Thanks guys. :D) And my totally messed up subconcious...
Pps) On a side note, I really really really STINK at titles, and the one I have now doesn't make sense because the fic didn't go where I thought it was going and hence the title is a little off now. So if any of you get a Divine Spark for what the title should really be, lemme know. >_<;;;