Chapter Text
Crowley opened his eyes unwillingly.
He theorized, or perhaps only hoped, that he was finally dead. Actually, properly dead. But no such luck. Heavenly light shone from every angle and he squinted against the brightness. He was being dragged down a hallway. Angels didn’t need to drag people. They could float them quite comfortably above the ground with no more effort, but that would involve far too much dignity. It was also trivial to manifest clothing in Heaven. But Crowly was being dragged naked by his chained wrists down a corridor nevertheless. That was divine retribution for you.
He closed his eyes again. Whatever they had in store for him, it couldn’t possibly be worse than what he had endured since Earth was destroyed. He didn’t have the slightest idea how long it had actually been. Time ran funny in Heaven at the best of times, and this was decidedly not the best of times.
The world hadn’t ended with either a bang or a whimper, as it turned out. It was more of a whoosh. Like a great pile of tinder going up in a fire. Holy fire, but it burns the same.
Crowley had known that there was no hope. Heaven and Hell had fought over Earth, and he hadn’t even tried to stop them. He had run and hidden in his stars. Not Alpha Centauri. They found him. He didn’t know whether or not Aziraphale had helped them do so. He wanted to believe that whatever place he once held in Aziraphale’s heart would have earned him some measure of mercy. But any illusion of safety quickly evaporated. They had hunted him down, and they had made him pay.
To Hell, torture was work. To Heaven, it was an art.
Heaven used physical pain, naturally, but they excelled in the psychological brand of torment. Crowley had held firm in his own mind as long as he could. Probably longer than many of the demons whose screams echoed through Heaven to reach Crowley’s ears. But everyone breaks eventually.
They had used Aziraphale, of course. The first time he appeared to Crowley, he thought for a moment that it was really him, come to save him. It wasn’t. Crowley had, to his credit, realized this fairly quickly, which was helpful because hope is a horrible weapon. The real Aziraphale had never come and Crowley had stopped hoping that he would. Nevertheless, they had used Aziraphale’s hands to inflict some of the worst pain he had to endure. They had used Aziraphale’s voice to tell him over and over again that he was alone, that he was ridiculous, pathetic, the most reprehensible of all demons. He was a waste, he was a fool, Aziraphale could never love him. No one could ever love him. Somewhere in the sea of cruelty and pain, they had found Crowley’s breaking point.
He floated in and out of consciousness as his body trailed over the cold floor. Heaven wasn’t supposed to have temperatures, but the rules were different for The Fallen. Especially now. There was no Hell. There was no Earth. There was only Heaven. And Heaven is the worst possible place for a demon to be. So the floor was cold. He didn’t bother to wonder where he was going. He had no curiosity any more.
He heard three bangs from just above his head and a voice calling “Open up! Special delivery.”
He heard a door creak open. If he had been himself, he would have wondered why there was a door in Heaven, and why it would creak. He felt himself being dragged by his bound wrists through the doorway that shouldn’t be there and then dropped unceremoniously to the floor. The pain of the impact was so slight on the scale of his recent experience that he barely registered it.
The voice continued - “Don’t coddle this one. Final warning. It’s called Crawly.”
The door that shouldn’t exist creaked shut. Crowley - not Crawly. Whatever they say, not Crawly - lay still on the floor, eyes shut. The floor was warmer here. Softer too. He didn’t breathe because he didn’t need to. He was absolutely still. He hoped vaguely that he would cease existing. It was about the only thing he had hoped for for a long time.
“Hello.”
Crowley squeezed his hands into fists. Not that voice. He knew it wasn’t Aziraphale. It had never been Aziraphale. It would never be Aziraphale. This was one more round of torment for him. Another circle of Hellish Heaven. Sometimes it ended more quickly if he didn’t react, so he stayed immobile on the floor.
“My name is Aziraphale.” The-voice-that-could-not-be-Aziraphale’s was very accurate. Their best illusion yet. He still didn’t react.
“Er,” the voice sounded unsure, maybe even nervous. It didn’t matter. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but you are safe here - or - at least as safe as you can be. I will not hurt you, you have my word.”
Interesting. They were going back to tenderness. That had hurt the most, when they had worn Aziraphale’s body and said sweet, kind, soothing things. He was safe, he was loved, they would escape together, it was all going to be alright. That made the eventual pain much, much worse. He had stopped believing it so long ago they had stopped using it. Perhaps they were finally running out of ideas, repeating themselves.
The voice paused for a few moments. Crowley heard what sounded like feet shuffling on carpet, which was impossible because there was no carpet in Heaven. “You erm - that is to say - you are alive, aren’t you?
Crowley didn’t know why it was those words that made him look up. He blinked in the brightness of the room, looking in the direction of the voice.
“Oh, good. At least there’s that. You do look like you’ve been through enough though, don’t you? Here, let me release your wrists.”
The visual illusion was getting better too. They had always got Aziraphale nearly perfectly, but Crowley, who had known Aziraphale’s face better than his own, could never be deceived for long. Maybe it was because he was so tired, but the figure that raised its hands as Crowley’s bonds fell from around his wrists would have given him pause. It was exactly like Aziraphale. The pocket watch was missing, there was no tartan, and his waistcoat was far too new, but otherwise it could have been the angel on the day that he left and tore Crowley’s world apart. Crowley squinted, trying to see the flaw in the illusion.
“Are the lights a bit bright?” The figure flicked a finger and the lights dimmed. Crowley turned and looked around the room. He swallowed hard.
It was the bookshop. Mostly. At least, it was the shape of the bookshop. There were the shelves packed with books, the desk. Tables. But no one could ever mistake this recreation for the original. Everything was too clean and organized. There were no piles of books or papers strewn about. The shelves were all laid out symmetrically, radiating neatly from the circular carpet on which he lay. The books on the shelves were a uniform size and filled each shelf exactly. The colors were off too, the light filtering in through the windows was nothing like sunlight. It lacked the easy comfort and the well-worn familiarity of the genuine article, and yet, it was definitely the bookshop. The bookshop if it had been designed and decorated by someone who was absolutely not Azirapahle.
Crowley turned back to the figure. It wore Aziraphale’s face well. That face was now putting on a very convincing show of concern. Its hands fidgeted as it regarding Crowley. It came no closer, staying a few meters away by the far-too-organized desk.
“Would you like clothing? Or a blanket at least? I can heal your wounds if you like but I’ll have to come closer. I won’t touch you unless you tell me it’s alright.” Not-Aziraphale stood quite still, waiting.
This scenario was too new and different. Crowley thought he was beyond feeling anything but something dangerously close to confusion was rising in his mind. It didn’t matter what the game was. It always ended the same way. And yet…
“What’s going on?” His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears. He couldn’t remember the last time he used it to do anything but scream.
A smile flickered on Not-Aziraphale’s face. Not a smile of triumph, which is what Crowley would have expected, but one of kindness and relief. That was an expression he hadn’t seen on any of the false Aziraphales before. They were getting better. Frighteningly better.
“My name is Aziraphale, as I said. You’ve been - assigned to me, it would seem. Which is, I must imagine, rather jarring. But it’s alright. Well - that is to say - as long as you are with me, you will not come to further harm.”
They had told him about this. Taunted him with it. Something for him to look forward to. The new order of things in Heaven. Select members of The Fallen were to be sentenced to continued existence (as opposed to the reprieve of oblivion) imprisoned in Heaven under the stewardship of various angels. There was no need for labor in Heaven, and the demons couldn’t be of any material use, so the upshot was that the more bloodthirsty angels were gifted a demon to torture as an extra-curricular activity using whatever methods occurred to them. The stated purpose of this arrangement was to carry out the eternal come-uppance of all beings with whom God had taken issue.
And Her Kingdom shall have no end.
Angels had learned more from humanity than Crowley would have expected. The number and variety of methods of torture were staggering, and the perpetuity of the arrangement was one of the few things that sparked anything like fear in Crowley. If he was going to exist forever as the plaything of a sadistic Aziraphale look-alike he would actually go mad. Which would probably be a relief at this point.
“So I belong to you.”
“No!” Not-Aziraphale took a step forward but halted immediately as Crowley instinctively flinched back. “That is, technically, according to the letter of the law, yes. But I don’t see it that way. You will live here with me, and you cannot leave unless in my company. That is not up to me, you understand, but it is the way of things. But, while in this place you are at liberty. I don’t know if the word of an angel means anything to you, but I swear - ”
“Do you know me?” Crowley interrupted. The illusions never waited this long to acknowledge their relationship.
“They told me you’re called Crawly, but other than that, no. Why? Have we met?”
That was unexpected. “You don’t remember me?”
“No. I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t. I was injured rather badly in the war. I lost my memory. I don’t remember anything from before the victory over Hell. They’ve done an admirable job filling in many of the gaps but I’m afraid there are great swaths of my existence I don’t know anything about.” Not-Aziraphale sounded chagrined at the admission, as if he was inconveniencing Crowley.
Crowley considered, trying to understand what the utility of this lie would be. “But you know who you are?”
“Yes of course. I am Aziraphale.”
“Aziraphale what? What is your rank?”
“Oh! Principality. Quite minor.”
Principality. Not Supreme Archangel.
“So - have we met before?” Still-Almost-Certainly-Not-Aziraphale asked.
Have they met before? Have they met before?
Heaven wipes the memories of angels it finds inconvenient, Supreme Archangel or not. Aziraphale certainly had it in him to be inconvenient. It would restore some piece of Crowley’s shattered soul to believe that Aziraphale had not been party to the destruction of the world. Their world.
“No.” He answered. “And I’ll have that blanket now if you don’t mind.”
“Yes, yes of course.” He gestured and Crowley was covered by a soft blanket.
“I am going to go run a few errands.” He moved slowly toward the door, staying against the wall, keeping the maximum possible distance between himself and Crowley, and his hands fully visible. “There is a room at the back, unlocked. There is a warm bath and a few different clothing options. I wasn’t sure what you would prefer. I will be back in a little while. You take the time to get used to the place. I’ll lock up, no one else should enter, and I will knock four times before I come back in. Alright?”
He had reached the door. Crowley nodded.
“Right. I’ll see you later then, Crawly.”
“It’s Crowley,” Crowley said.
“Is it? My mistake. Crowley then. Goodbye.” He turned and opened the door, but paused before crossing the threshold. He looked back to Crowley, still laying on the floor under the blanket. He spoke haltingly, “I am - I really am very sorry.” He looked away quickly and strode out the door, closing it behind him. Crowley heard the door latch and the bolt slide across.
He was left in the silence of the bookshop that was all wrong. He looked down at the blanket covering him. It was tartan.