Chapter Text
Hell smelled like old socks and cabbage boiled in sulphur. It tasted like the contents of an abscess spilt into ash.
"They will hurt you, angel," Crowley had warned him yesterday. He had been sitting sprawled on the sofa in his stylish flat, looking exhausted and more worried than he would admit. "Pain is their native language. Are you sure you can do this?"
Yes. Yes, he was sure. He could do anything if there was a choice between doing it or losing Crowley. But the demon was right. It hurt. The crowbar they used to knock him out in the park was just the beginning. Hastur seemed particularly eager to use every chance to have a chat in his native language. He merely used the crowbar as interpunction.
"With Hastur, it's personal," Crowley had told him in a low voice when they had been still together, still safe. "You can't show any weakness or hesitation. Act nonchalant, like meeting someone you know very well and pretend to like. Give him a smile when he punches you. Ask if he is having a nice day when... when he..." his voice had trailed off. "Aziraphale, I can't send you there. I can't do this to you..."
"Would you like to take a bath in holy water instead, dear? I know I am a bit out of shape, but I believe I can endure some pain."
"Who told you you are out of shape?" Crowley had snarled.
Aziraphale had looked down at his hands. "Ah, that doesn't matter really... you were speaking about Hastur. What should I tell him to convince him that I am you?"
"I haven't checked my answering machine lately. Would you maybe know if I have any new messages?" he asked nonchalantly as the Duke of Hell twisted his hand behind his back painfully. Something cracked. He bit back a whimper, kept his face stoic, bored.
You can't show any weakness...
Oh, Crowley, this is how they have been treating you every time our plans didn't go too well for your side? You never told me, never mentioned anything…
They didn't even get into the courtroom yet.
"You know guys, as much fun as this is, I don't think the court will like the waiting," he said, licking a swollen, bleeding lip with Crowley's forked tongue.
"Oh, but the court's not assembled yet," someone said from behind his back, a voice like the buzzing of flies. Beelzebub. "You are early. Plenty of time for fun..." The Lord of Hell snapped their fingers, and a tray with tools was passed among the crowd.
Aziraphale never thought of himself as tough. He was the first to admit that he was far from the picture of a battle-ready angel. For himself, he would never endure the following torments. He would break down in tears, begging for the pain to stop. Hell really did know how to inflict it most efficiently. But he was not doing this for himself. Every punch he received was one he took for Crowley. Every hit he took, was one that Crowley didn't. That gave him the resolve he didn't know he possessed, but that was there all the time, he realized now. It was hard and pure like a diamond, deep in the core of his being where no pain could reach.
"Whatever they do, we can't show them that they can hurt us, or they will try again," Crowley's sorrowful voice came through the red haze, from a memory of a different time and place. Yesterday. So long ago... It had been clear that the demon would be a thousand times more willing to take that part upon himself than send Aziraphale into it... if there wouldn't be the near certainty of the trial ending with holy water. No matter the physical anguish, the pain of losing him forever had been something he didn't want the angel to go through. He had only tasted it for a few hours himself and it had been unbearably worse than anything Hell could do to him.
"Really guys, this is getting boring. If you are having fun, you are welcome to go on, but it's a bit embarrassing to watch, you know..." Aziraphale's steely resolve said through Crowley's bloody lips curled in a contemptuous smile. He didn't get a chance to heal himself yet, with the continuous stream of hits that didn't let him focus. Now, he could have done it. They stopped for just enough time. But he didn't. He held himself upright with the sheer strength of will when they let go of him: upright and in a nonchalant posture that he knew so well from watching Crowley for thousands of years, showing them that he didn’t care about the pain. He actually enjoyed that defiance, something he never dared show towards his superiors before.
They believed him. Something in his voice and look made them believe without a doubt not only that he was Crowley, but also that they were just embarrassing themselves with their attempts to hurt him. And no demon likes to be embarrassed in front of other demons, especially inferior ones.
There was a nervous shuffling of feet, then Beelzebub's voice from somewhere down the hall: "The trial of the demon Crowley, beginning with evidence and ending with utter obliviation, is in session. All rise. Bring in the traitor!"
Without even a wince, he healed the bleeding flesh and broken bones although it took much of his will and energy and he felt dizzy afterwards. He did not let himself stagger. Instead, he repaired his clothes and took a new pair of sunglasses from his pocket. When he entered the courtroom, nothing suggested what he had just been through. He emanated Crowley's confidence and he truly felt it this time, because what he told them was absolutely true: there was no way they could hurt him. They didn't have Crowley.
Aziraphale did not expect a fair trial or a chance to defend himself. This was Hell, after all. He enjoyed the part with holy water and Michael's shocked expression when he made her miracle him a towel. He felt strong, like steel tempered by fire. He made sure to make them afraid of Crowley, to make them respect him so that Hell won't bother them again anytime soon.