Work Text:
poi·son, noun; a substance that through its chemical action usually kills, injures, or impairs an organism; something destructive or harmful; an object of aversion or abhorrence
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It took a miracle, in the end, to make Shadwell leave.
Aziraphale nearly collapsed with relief once he was gone; comforted beyond measure to have his long-time agent away from the portal.
That could have gone so much worse.
The residual adrenaline coursing through his veins flared again at the thought.
His hands trembled and he anxiously laced his fingers together, tripping over himself in his haste to deactivate the circle. He sighed with relief, shoulders slumping, as though a huge weight had been taken from him with the extinguishing of the light.
So much worse.
He would have hated it if Shadwell had- if he had-
He shook his head.
There wasn’t time to entertain these thoughts.
Armageddon was almost here and he needed to tell Crowley where the missing antichrist was.
“Right,” he said, rushing to his desk and shoving the True and Accurate Prophecies into a tartan bookbag that was very surprised to find itself existing, before dashing to the door.
“Right,” he repeated. “I just have to tell Crowley and, and then everything will be okay again. We can stop this.” The door to the bookshop slammed shut behind him as he hastily hurried down the steps and hailed a cab. He felt frantic and out of sorts; his corporation felt too tight and for a moment he feared that he might pop like a balloon. The pavement swayed beneath him as he forced his leaden feet to move, ignoring the cab driver's concerned questions as he collapsed into the backseat. His mouth was dry when he spoke, “Oh, I do hope we aren’t too late!”
* * * *
Inside the bookshop, a single candle fell over.
* * * *
Crowley smirked as Hastur continued to shriek from inside the ansaphone. Gleefully, he turned off the machine; cutting Hastur off mid-sentence.
His ears rang in the sudden silence.
So very different from the chaos - the screaming - from earlier.
Wincing, he checked his watch. Brow pinching as he glared at the numbers on the display.
Satan, has it really only been five minutes?
It felt like so much longer…
Outside lightning flashed. followed by the crackling boom of thunder, throwing the shadows of the room into sharp relief.
A manic laugh bubbled out of him at the sound.
He’d killed a duke of hell.
There was no going back now.
Pretty soon Hell would know that he’d betrayed them.
He had to be far, far away when that happened.
Except, no he couldn’t, he realized - only slightly hysterical - because he still had to stop Arma-pain in my arse-geddon from happening.
Aziraphale knew where the antichrist was.
He just had to get to Aziraphale; do- do something about his master’s child; and then everything would go back to the way it was.
All he had to do was get to the bookshop.
Grabbing his phone, he carefully leaped across the steaming pile of goo that used to be Ligur before bursting out of his flat like a bat out of hell.
The Bentley floored it before he’d even finished throwing himself into the driver’s seat. Queen immediately blaring through the speakers as he raced towards SoHo, “ … Thunderbolts and lightning, very, very frightening me!”
* * * *
The door to Crowley’s flat wasn’t closed; watery darkness seeped glared at him from the 2-inch gap.
He stared at that gap, a pit forming in his stomach.
“Crowley,” he called, even as he was already pushing open the door and stepping into the darkness beyond.
There was no reply.
Aziraphale stepped further into the flat.
He had never been here before but he didn’t stop to admire his surroundings. He passed the plants, the eagle lectern, and the statue of what looked like two angels wrestling without a backward glance, calling his fr- Crowley’s name as he went.
The silence pressed down on him, made it hard to breathe. He could feel himself starting to panic, nerves giving way to full-blown anxiety, as though the dam holding his emotions back had burst and he was helpless to do anything but be pulled along in their tide.
His artificial heart pounded madly away in his chest as he started to run.
“Crowley! Crowley! Where are you? Crowley, Crow- Whoa!” He slipped in something and fell hard to the ground, the right side of his body instantly soaked from the puddle he was lying in. Grimacing, he pushed himself up, grumbling to himself about the state of his suit.
The liquid beneath him was thick and cold and yet it burned slightly to touch it - Like touching a pan that you’d expected to be cold and finding it was actually still hot to the touch underneath the initial chill; like the slow burn of stinging nettle as the itch spread; or something like that he supposed. He was a tad too hysterical to think of proper metaphors at the moment. It fell to the ground in long, thick globs when he lifted a hand to inspect it.
His grimace deepened.
“Oh dear, that is disgusting,” he wanted to wipe off his hand, miracle away any trace of the foul substance but something held him back.
The liquid was familiar in some way but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Tentatively, he sniffed it, bracing himself for the terrible stench - rotten eggs, dirt, brimstone, and something distinctly animal-like.
His nose wrinkled.
Oh, that was foul.
It almost smelled like Crowley after he’d spent a long time in hell.
Like Crowley when he’d….
The pit in his stomach worsened and he let out a gasp like he’d been sucker-punched.
It couldn’t be.
He sniffed it again, eyes closing in pain as it only confirmed his suspicions.
There was no mistaking it. It smelled demonic.
Like hell.
Like his dear Crowley.
Except…
It was wrong.
Unbidden, the memory of their fight over a hundred years ago sprang to the front of his mind.
“I'm not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley.”
“That's not what I want it for. Just insurance.”
Insurance.
Aziraphale clenched his hands, his jaw beginning to tremble and the back of his eyes burned as he realized that Crowley had lied to him.
Of course, he had.
He was a demon, that’s what he did.
Still, he clung to the desperate hope that it was all a misunderstanding.
Crowley was fine.
He was fine.
All he had to do was look around the room and-
Now that he was looking, he immediately saw the tartan thermos on the desk.
Cap unscrewed.
Obviously emptied, used.
The holy water was gone.
And that meant that Crowley he had-
That he’d-
That the puddle on the floor was-
Aziraphale’s mouth opened around a silent scream.
“Oh no, no no, no, ” He quietly keened, bowing over the puddle as he sobbed, one hand braced beneath him, the other clutching uselessly at his mouth to muffle the sound. “You lied to me! You, you foul fiend, ” tears clogged his voice, his fingers clenched uselessly at the goo, despite the burn. He would have rent his garments like in times of old if he’d had the strength but...he couldn’t do anything. “Why didn’t you wait? I had the answers! I did! Why couldn’t you slow down for once and let me catch up and now you’re, you’re-,” He cut himself off with an inhuman sound, helpless to do anything but let his friend’s - his best friend’s - name spill from his lips with a - nearly inaudible - tormented gasp, Crowley!”
* * * *
Crowley’s hands clenched tightly around the steering wheel, angry and scared but trying his hardest to maintain his calm facade.
But despite his best efforts it was cracking, yawning open like a great pit, ready to swallow him whole.
His shoulders tensed and he breathed heavily, shakily as he listened to his car phone ring.
And ring.
And ring.
Before the blessed automated message cheerfully informed him that his call could not be connected. He cursed at it, fear curdling beneath the anger.
Aziraphale wasn’t answering his phone.
He’d been right there five minutes ago - he’d called him - so why wasn’t he picking up now?
The great black chasm inside him hissed and spit. It filled his thoughts with a bleak, miasma as it purred he’s gone back to heaven. You missed your chance; why should he wait around here for you. After all, you’re not friends. Or maybe, it cooed, voice sickly sweet, he’s dead and gone. Killed while you were busy playing with Hastur. You remember how vindictive hell can be, how merciless heaven is, right?
Crowley banished the thought with a growl, driving even faster; there was no way Aziraphale was gone. Not on his watch. He was probably just doing important thwarting business; he had an apocalypse to stop after all.
Still, he couldn’t shake the sinking feeling he had.
He made it to the bookshop in record time.
He’d never driven faster.
Above him, the already dark storm clouds blackened further as smoke poured from the bookshop in front of him.
Aziraphale’s bookshop was burning.
Fear grasped Crowley’s heart with ice-cold fingers and squeezed.
He let out a pained breath; hardly stopping to park the Bentley before he threw himself out the driver’s side door. Firefighters scuttled around him like ants as they worked to stop the blaze, one called out to him, “Are you the owner of this establishment?”
Crowley snarled at him, calling over his shoulder as he ran up the steps, miracling the doors open with a sharp snap, “Do I look like I run a bookshop?”
The firefighter shouted some warning after him but Crowley snapped again to close the door and ignored it.
Inside it’s an inferno.
Ash and burning pages fly through the air, nearly obscured by the thick, black smoke that hung around the room like a shroud. The air was painfully hot, every breath burned, smoke scoured blazing lines of fire down his throat; it was nearly impossible to breathe so Crowley stopped.
It’s not like he needed to breathe anyway; while he’s at it he willed his eyes not to water and his voice to carry over the roar of the flames and the terrible crack as the timber started to give out.
He careened madly through the stacks, all his emotions on plain display as his facade finally crumbled, eyes yellow corner to corner and filled with terrible desperation.
“Aziraphale, where the Heaven are you, you idiot? I can't find you!” In his desperation, he spun in a circle. There are so many spaces to check but he doesn’t have time. The bookshop was a chaotic maze of fire that was falling apart at the seams; he needed to find Aziraphale and leave. “Aziraphale, for God's-- For Satan's-- Ah! For somebody's sake, where are you?!”
His shout is cut short when he is suddenly knocked off his feet as a blast of water from the fire hose hits him, shattering the front window and throwing him onto his back. He hits the floor with a dull thud, too stunned to even cry out, even as his ears rang from the crash of the window pane breaking and the noisy flush of water from the fire hose. His hair stuck to his forehead, his clothes steamed as he sat inside the inferno. “You've gone,” he whimpered.
Aziraphale hadn’t gone back to heaven.
Never in a million years would he set fire to his precious bookshop - where Crowley had brought him chocolates when he’d first opened, where they’d shared many a drunken night - and leave it all to burn.
Bile rose in his throat.
Hell had been here after all and they’d killed him.
And he wasn’t coming back.
For a moment, all he could hear was the pounding of blood in his ears and the bookshop as it roared with noise.
Then Crowley screamed.
Tears burning down his cheeks, as he bared his teeth and let himself feel all the anger and sadness and grief that was pouring off of him in waves, “Somebody killed my best friend! Bastards! All of you!”
* * * *
Crowley’s flat rang with silence.
Aziraphale muffled a whimper behind his hands, biting into the meat of his hand as he curled in on himself, eyes shut tightly.
Blocking out the empty thermos, the melted pile of clothes, the stain on the floor.
Not a sound escaped him as he grieved.
Slowly, he took a deep breath, pushed his emotions down. Buried them alive behind an impassable brick wall; there was no grief in heaven, no sorrow, nor anger. None of the nasty little human emotions.
He was an angel, he didn’t- he wasn’t supposed to feel any of that.
So he pushed and shoved and hid away everything he was feeling until he felt as cold and empty as the flat around him.
Until all that was left was the dead silence and stillness of Crowley's minimalistic - empty - flat.