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London, 1120 A.D.
Aziraphale’s first indication of trouble was a faint tugging sensation, like someone was trying to pull him to the other side of the darkened street. He paused, suddenly winded as if he’d just sprinted through the whole of London. Couldn’t catch his breath.
He pressed a hand to his chest, frowning. Now, that was odd. Perhaps a malfunction with his corporation? Or—
The tugging sensation worsened, and a chill rushed through him. His legs went weak, the world spun, and he crumpled to his knees.
“It worked! I can’t believe it worked!” A young man—no, several young men—rushed out of the shadows of a nearby building. The one in the lead carried a book, and two others bore candles. The rest wielded swords, pitchforks, daggers.
Oh dear.
Aziraphale braced his left hand against the ground and straightened up as much as possible, heart pounding. He extended his other hand, calling on his power, intending to knock the group back…
And nothing happened. Oh, oh no! He tried again, trembling. But his connection to celestial power merely flickered, useless.
Before he could even attempt to fight back any other way, the handle of a pitchfork slammed into his face. He fell back, gasping at the pain. In a fair fight, even without his guardian strength or powers, he could try to hold his own. But this…
Another blow crashed into his face, and he toppled over. Blood ran into one eye. And then hands were on his arms, wrenching at them. Something wrapped around his wrists and then ankles, something that made him feel sick and weak, something that sent seeping pain all through him.
Cursed rope? He blinked, trying to see, but there was such pain, such dizziness. Based on the woozy, nauseated feeling spreading through his body, on the deep pain of flesh rotting, cursed rope was a good guess. And the humans did have that book, which must contain information about supernatural beings. Spells of some sort.
Kicks slammed into Aziraphale’s stomach. He huddled up, coughing through the bursts of pain. Instinctively, he tried to call out to Crowley for help, to send a plea through the astral planes. They had the Arrangement now, after all, had helped each other occasionally for the past century.
But he’d lost access to the astral planes too, cut off from all except physical reality. Another spell, perhaps? Some form of magic or warding, certainly.
Aziraphale could only huddle up as they kicked him over and over. Even that did little in the way of protection. It simply meant that they began to kick him in the back, the head, the legs.
Tears spilled down his cheeks, an involuntary response to the pain and helplessness. He cried out at a particularly vicious blow to the side, more of a stomp than a kick. No amount of struggling against the bonds mattered. He couldn’t break free of the cursed rope, couldn’t call on his power, couldn’t defend himself at all. He could only endure.
By the time the kicks stopped, his head spun so badly that he couldn’t think. There was only pain, dizziness, ragged breaths.
A hand knotted on his hair, wrenching his head up. “What do you have to say for yourself, demon?”
“M’nahdem’n.” Oh dear. That wasn’t even a coherent sentence. But Aziraphale’s mouth was full of blood, his head fuzzy. And oh, everything hurt so much… He almost felt like he was going to vomit, his stomach churning with distress.
And the occult power seeped through him, poisoning everything, rotting the flesh on his wrists and ankles. That alone ought to be proof that he wasn’t a demon, but these humans seemed to be ignoring basic logic.
The leader wrenched on his hair again. “Want you to make us rich. We deserve it. And you can do it, right?”
Aziraphale coughed, and blood spattered the ground. His head swam, the street spinning around him. Really, if they wanted his cooperation, they ought to have asked him rather than beating him to the point of near-incoherence. “M’…not…demon.”
It was the most he could manage, and even that made him feel terribly ill. The leader waved the magic book in his face. “We bound you, demon. Give us gold.”
This was simply insulting. Aziraphale struggled for breath around the stabbing pain in his side. Fractured ribs, perhaps. “M’ an…an angel.”
“Angel, demon. What’s the difference? You still have powers, right?” Another brutal blow crashed into Aziraphale’s face. He automatically attempted to blast the attackers away with a miracle again, and the cursed rope ate through him even faster. Oh…oh, this was simply awful. “We own you now. You’ll do what we say.”
“I-I won’t even consider…” Aziraphale spit blood from his mouth. The world spun endlessly now, completely out of control. He struggled against the bonds to no avail, and panic crushed his chest in. Oh, he had to escape somehow! But there was nothing he could do, each attempt at resistance utterly futile. “If you release me, perhaps I can help in some small—”
The group swarmed around him, laying into him with their pitchfork handles. And then there was a slicing pain across his back, a stabbing agony in his side. Aziraphale screamed in pain and huddled tighter, trying to shield himself from the vicious attack. But there was no point, he was helpless like this, powerless and bound and—
A darkness flooded the street, the same kind of power as the cursed rope. Aziraphale cried out and tried to scramble away, panicking. Oh, oh no, what now? What horrible dark magic were they using on him now? Binding him to their will, finding a way to control his mind? “No, no! Get away, get away, stop it!”
Screams rang through the street, and Aziraphale huddled as tight as possible. Frantic gasps tore from his lungs, the racing breaths of panic. He couldn’t fight back. He couldn’t do anything, couldn’t defend himself in any way, couldn’t escape. Perhaps the Almighty would save him…but as much as he hated to admit it, that was unlikely. She’d never stepped in to save any of the angels who’d run into trouble on Earth.
And now, cut off from Her power, he couldn’t even try to save himself. He could only cower on the ground, an angel of the Lord afraid of the dark. What would Gabriel think if he could see Aziraphale now?
The darkness approached, converging on one point, and he shrank away. “No!”
“Angel! Angel, it’s okay. S’ okay, shh.” Someone crashed to their knees in the dirt, and Aziraphale tried to look up through the haze of pain. Black clothes, dark glasses, red hair… “Aziraphale? It’s okay now. They’ve gone, can’t hurt you anymore.”
A wave of overwhelming relief crashed over Aziraphale, and he sobbed. “C-Crowley?”
“It’s me, angel. It’s Crowley. Oh, shit, what did they do to you?” Crowley laid down in the dirt beside him, bringing his worried face into full view. “See? M’ right here. Can I touch you?”
Aziraphale nodded, lip wobbling no matter how hard he tried to stop the tears. “Mhm.”
“Oh, angel.” Crowley let out a shuddering breath. Still laying within sight, he caught Aziraphale’s hands and gently worked at the rope binding them. “Just a sec, gonna get this shit off you to start. Don’t worry about anything, okay? M’ gonna take care of you.”
Aziraphale sobbed in gratitude—and pain—as Crowley peeled the cursed rope away from his rotting skin. “Crowley, it hurts. And…”
And he was cold, so cold. Drenched in something, the back and side of his tunic wet. Blood? Was it blood?
“I know it hurts. M’ so fucking sorry I didn’t get here sooner, was halfway across town. Here now, got you.” Crowley settled a hand on his head and stroked his hair, pressed a quick kiss to his brow. “I’ve gotta move now so I can heal you up, but I’m not leaving. I’ve got you.”
He moved out of easy view, slim fingers settling against Aziraphale’s calf before tugging on the ankle bindings. Aziraphale tried to twist to see him, but that cause a stabbing pain in his side again. “Crowley? Crowley?”
“Still here, angel. You’re gonna be okay. Those fuckers beat the shit out of you, but I can fix everything. I just gotta get this off you, gimme a second.” The cursed rope slipped free of his ankles, and Aziraphale cried out at the tearing pain. “Fuck. Sorry, Aziraphale. This is, er…ngh. Gonna heal this real quick while I’m down here, okay?”
“Th-they used…used something to cut off my power,” Aziraphale managed. Careful healing energy prickled through his ankles, uncomfortable on its own. But the terrible feeling of flesh rotting away eased, as did some of the putrid smell. “I-I couldn’t protect myself, I…”
He exhaled slowly, then winced at the pain. Goodness, he couldn’t keep falling apart. It must be difficult for Crowley to listen to that. Must have better control. It didn’t matter, really. He was fine now. Everything was fine.
But he’d been so, so helpless.
“Yeah, I felt the magic. It looks like they had a spell book, the bastards.” Crowley moved back into view, gathered Aziraphale’s hands, and sent careful healing through his wrists and forearms. Aziraphale let out a whimper as the pain subsided. “M’ sorry. It must have been scary.”
“It-it was.” But there was no sense dwelling on it, nor in troubling Crowley with complaints. After all, Crowley had been summoned several times over their thousands of years on Earth, and summoning also destroyed the connection to power.
“Okay. I’ve got your wrists and ankles patched up. Lemme see about your side.” Crowley, frowning deeply, touched fingertips to Aziraphale’s side. Jolts of pain spread from the careful contact, and Aziraphale gasped. “Sorry, sorry. Shit. I was gonna fix your ribs first, since that’s gotta really hurt, but... You got stabbed and you’re losing a lot of blood. That first, then ribs.”
“And-and my back?” Aziraphale managed. That burned terribly, a searing pain from shoulder blade to mid back.
“Yeah, they sliced you pretty good.” Rough anger growled in Crowley’s voice, but his hands remained gentle and careful. A light touch here and there, mending the wounds, stitching Aziraphale’s corporation back together. “Okay, angel. Almost done, just gimme another minute…”
Aziraphale swallowed hard, deep ache still spreading through him. But the pain was much better, especially that awful burning sensation and the sense of being slowly poisoned. Now, he was mostly weak and rather shaky.
“All done.” Crowley settled a hand on his head again, gently ruffling his hair. “Can I help you sit up?”
“Y-yes, thank you.” Aziraphale reached out, biting his lip to keep it from quivering. Oh, he simply couldn’t afford to start crying again. Not when he was already causing such trouble. “I’m so sorry to have…well, to have been such an imposition.”
“Wot?” Crowley, one hand behind his head and the other grasping his hand, raised him into a seated position. “You’re not an imposition. You got in trouble, that’s all.”
“No, I was trouble, Crowley.” Aziraphale sniffled, ashamed of himself. A proper angel wouldn’t blunder into a spell, would have been able to counter it. But he’d been distracted, thinking about whether pears were in season.
“That’s total bullshit.” Crowley slid the sunglasses down his nose and ducked to meet Aziraphale’s gaze, frowning. He raised a hand, the motion tentative, and cupped Aziraphale’s cheek. “You’re not trouble, angel. Not ever.”
Aziraphale tried to smile, although he suspected it rather came out as a pathetic struggle not to cry again. Blinking away tears, he glanced around the street. Most of the people who had attacked him—including the leader—writhed on the ground several feet away, mouths open in silent screams. “Um. Crowley. What precisely did you do to those…those nasty people?”
“Oh, them.” Crowley spared them a quick glance, then shrugged and smoothed Aziraphale’s hair. “Eh. I kinda…lost control on the whole ‘appearance of humanity’ thing when I saw what they were doing to you. Not really a hundred percent sure what I did after that, but it involved a lot of really intimidating, nh…”
“Darkness,” Aziraphale said, remembering the force he’d felt.
“Yeah,” Crowley said with a wince. “And maggots and stuff, probably. Sorry if I scared you. I got really angry, kinda lost it. They’ll be all right, just eternally plagued by bad luck. And hopefully nightmares.”
“Well. It’s perhaps not very angelic of me, but I’m rather pleased to hear that.” The book they’d used to bind him lay in the street not far away, and he shivered at the sight of it. Not his normal reaction to books.
Crowley glanced at it and raised an eyebrow. “Did you, er…?”
“No. No, I don’t want it.” Also not his usual reaction to books, but the mere thought of this one sent a sick, scared feeling through him again. What if Crowley hadn’t come along? What might they have done to him?
With a soft hiss, Crowley snapped his fingers. The book burst into flame, a leaping blaze that consumed the pages in a rush. Ash crumpled to the ground, then blew away in a gust of wind.
“Enough of that shit,” he said, voice rough again. He shuddered, then turned back to Aziraphale and tilted his head. Concern crept across his face. “Mm?”
Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply, to reassure the demon that everything was all right. Instead, he began to cry. Quiet, hitching sobs that bubbled up and escaped, tears spilling from his eyes, a twisting anguish in his tummy.
Crowley’s eyes widened, and he curled a hand around the back of Aziraphale’s head. “C’mere, angel,” he whispered, drawing Aziraphale forward. “Come on. S’ okay, I’ve got you.”
Aziraphale sniffled, sobbed again, buried his face in the bony shoulder. More of those wheezing, soft sobs escaped. “Crowley.”
“S’ all right, I’m here. Right here, Aziraphale.” Shushing gently, Crowley pulled him into an almost crushing hug. Hands moved across his back in firm, reassuring circles. “Okay. They can’t hurt you anymore, angel. You’re safe now.”
“I was so scared.” Shivering, he huddled closer. He was safe now—he had always felt safe with Crowley, even before the Arrangement—but the fear remained. “I-I didn’t know what they were going to do to me. I was so helpless, Crowley!”
“I know. It’s a fucking awful feeling.” Slim fingers pushed into his hair and massaged his scalp. “But you’re not helpless anymore. Should have access to your powers now.”
Aziraphale sank into the embrace, trembling. The tears were dying down at least, and he could breathe again. And now that he focused, he could indeed once again feel his connection to ethereal power. “Y-yes, I supposed I’m all right now. A bit…a bit rattled still.”
“Nh, don’t blame you. But you’re okay. Not gonna let anything happen to you.”
More of the fear faded after a few minutes of being held, and Aziraphale drew back. He caught Crowley’s hands and held them tightly, staring at the thin fingers twined with his plump ones. Despite their thousands of years of acquaintance, Crowley’s gentleness still amazed him. Gentleness, but also such fierceness. “You saved me.”
“Mm,” Crowley agreed.
Aziraphale smiled at him, grasping for a familiar game to calm himself. That would also make it easier to ignore the still writhing, terrified sorcerers. “That was very kind of you, Crowley.”
“Nyrrgh, stop that.” Crowley pursed his lips with annoyance. But his eyes remained soft as he met Aziraphale’s gaze. “Gotta, er… It’s the Arrangement, yeah? You needed a hand.”
“I did indeed.” And Crowley had offered it without hesitation, rushing to his defense, healing him, comforting him. It was enough to chase away some of the lingering terror, to leave Aziraphale with a warmth that challenged the chill of fear. “Perhaps I could buy you a drink?”
One corner of Crowley’s mouth twitched into a smile. “If you like.”
“I would very much like.” Clearing his throat, Aziraphale struggled to his feet. He didn’t let go of Crowley’s hand, and Crowley didn’t pull away. Nor did he pull away when Aziraphale moved even closer, close enough that their arms pressed together.
It was still scary, walking through the dark after what had happened—but with Crowley beside him, Aziraphale could endure the fear. After all, some of the darkness was at his side, in the shape of a wonderfully protective demon.