First time in a looooong time posting on this site!

This fic was inspired by beautiful, heartbreaking artwork that can be found here: twitter (d0t) com/speremint/status/1142139474580840450

Be forewarned about some blood and gore if you follow through that link (and to a lesser degree, for the fic as well).

It's six minutes past noon when Crowley arrives outside of A.Z. Fell & Co., just as he has most days in the three weeks since the apocalypse-that-was-actually-just-another-Saturday. The day is overcast, par for the course in London, but that won't do for the picnic his angel has planned and so he sends a withering glare skyward as he approaches the shop's entrance.

It's just a warning, really. The clouds still have some time to get their acts together and be on their dismal and dreary way, after which point it won't be Mr. Nice Demon.

Although clouds usually seem rather perceptive, and he knows they'll be gone by the time he heads back outside towards the Bentley, basket and bottles and tartan blanket and angel all in tow.

He twists the doorknob, frowns when he finds it locked. A quick glance at the shaded windows and sign on the door he's never actually bothered to read suggests the shop really is closed, so he unlocks the door with a quick thought and lets himself in, locking it again behind him.

Well, he was early. For once. Aziraphale probably just popped out to grab some kind of fancy cheese or another bottle of wine.

Crowley hopes it's the latter. That would probably go better with the chocolates he's brought.

With little else to do, he waits. Not that that's a problem, really. With over six thousand years' experience under his snakeskin belt, waiting is something he's become extremely good at.

Too good, maybe.

It doesn't matter. Things are good now, maybe better than they've ever been, and he can wait a little longer.

The lights in the shop are still on, he dims them with a snap of his fingers and tosses the box of candy onto one of the few tabletops with free space as he heads for the backroom. Comfier chairs to sprawl in while he waits. He could go upstairs, to Aziraphale's equally-cluttered but equally-cozy little flat, but he doesn't want to presume to be welcome up there when the angel isn't present.

...except he does want to presume that, very much so actually, and is near certain Aziraphale wouldn't mind in the least anyway, but he sits himself down in a well-worn leather chair nevertheless, slides his glasses up to rest on his forehead.

It was one thing to presume, quite another to act on that presumption.

He can wait.

He watches the seconds tick by on his watch for awhile. He flips through several books within reaching distance without taking in any of the words before placing them carefully back on their shelves. He has a few stern words with a slightly wilted spider plant in the corner of the room, which begins to perk up almost immediately, leaves trembling almost imperceptibly.

And then he looks at his watch again, the breath of air escaping through his teeth sounding more like a hiss as he sighs deeply when he realises it's only been four minutes since he sat down.

12:11. They were meant to go for lunch at one. Aziraphale would be back in time to finish preparing their picnic, so maybe...12:45? At the very latest.

It's fine. He can wait.

He's midway through counting the books on the shelf fourth from the right side of the room, third from the top (there had been nineteen second shelf from the top) when he hears the bell above the shop's front door announcing someone's presence. He slides to his feet, is about to call the angel's name when he pauses, sniffs the air cautiously.

...the bell announced something's presence, at least. Something trying very hard to pass as human, something that likely would have succeeded with anything besides another of it's own kind.

He's silent as he crosses the room, placing sunglasses back over his eyes and throwing out a quick ward around the shop to suggest that any potential customers may suddenly have more interest in visiting the Waterstones in Piccadilly instead.

It won't deter Aziraphale in the least, but he can hope to have it long gone before the angel reappears.

He throws open the door of the backroom without having really decided whether he's going to take a confrontational or an indifferent approach with the unwelcome visitor, before taking in the scene before him and abandoning both options in favour of mild confusion and slightly less-than-mild panic.

There isn't just one demon. There's five of them.

Well, fuck. He was already getting sloppy in his newfound retirement.

They look just like tourists of the young, backpacking variety, fresh from the youth hostel two streets over and ready to see the sights of London. They watch him from the doorway, and smile pleasantly enough, with the unnerving exception that the one in front has far too many teeth to truly pass as any self-respecting human.

She steps forward, grin still on display but not reaching her eyes, which have in turn already begun changing from a lovely shade of blue to a much darker, angrier red. But she holds her hands out kindly, as if welcoming an old friend. "Ah! Crawly, isn't it?"

Crowley doesn't know any of them - which isn't that out of the ordinary, there are millions of demons, after all, so if they weren't at the trial, why should they know him? - but he finds it in him to be a little bit offended nonetheless.

"Really? Two thousand years since I've changed it, none of you noticed?"

Another of the tourist-demons, complete with a backpack and a camera around his neck, waves a hand idly and Crowley hears the front door lock tight, likely with far more than simply the deadbolt.

The one apparently in charge shrugs, doesn't bother with an answer. "Your friend here? The angel?"

Another split second decision he hopes he doesn't fuck up as he chooses to answer truthfully, leaning on the doorframe in a convincing attempt at nonchalance. "He isn't, actually. Could I take a message for him and then send you on your way?"

The demon laughs, a short, sharp sound without any humour. "We just wanted to see the angel immune to Hellfire. Fascinating, that."

"Fascinating, yeah."

"Looks like we've found you instead. A traitor, one I've heard is similarly immune to Holy Water. Since we're here anyway, mind telling us how you did it?"

Crowley glances at the old clock ticking away on the wall above their heads. 12:17. He shrugs his shoulder not currently leaning on the doorframe and waves a hand airily. "Oh, well, you know, limited sugar intake, yearly checkups, vaccinations all up to date."

There's a sound like a whip-crack and the demon disappears, only to rematerialize directly in front of him a split second later, hands tight around the lapels of his blazer. Her too-many teeth are already growing longer. "Listen hear, Crawly -"

But he's not listening, he'd really rather not, thank you very much, and two can play at this game. He's got fangs of his own, and more than that besides.

He shoves her back, more force in the gesture than a normal man of his stature would possess, and one she clearly wasn't expecting besides because she staggers a few steps back. He follows her, feels the planes shift around him slightly as he steps out of the doorway to make room for his wings. They flex out behind him, taking up an impressive amount of space in the cluttered shop. The lights he had turned down minutes before brighten and flicker with power surges not present anywhere else on the block.

Anything to up the intimidation factor.

Crowley smiles darkly, displays pointed teeth of his own. "Now, you lisssten. You must know what happened at my trial, even if you weren't there." He hadn't been, after all, and he knew. "It was decided to leave me alone. Now if you'll be on your way, we can pretend this never happened and Hell won't need to find out you've ignored that decision."

He actually thinks it will work, for a moment. Two of the demons nearer to the door must be new to earth or inexperienced, because they look about ready to bolt through the sealed front door.

If they're all like this, maybe it'll be easier than he -

The thought fizzles and dies in his head as the one in charge laughs again, seeming to genuinely be enjoying herself. "You think we actually care about any rules or limitations Hell brings about?" Well, he could relate to that sentiment, at least. She continues before he can reply, still grinning. "You're something else, aren't you?"

"I thought that was obvious when I jumped in a tub of Holy Water. Last chance."

"And it looks like you missed it." This time she's the one to snap her fingers, and it's two of her companions who reappear on either side of him, grips tight around his arms and forcing him towards the ground before he can react.

But react he does even if just a little too late, hissing and clawing and using whatever impromptu weapons he can grab (an old letter opener on the desk) and coming just short of calling up some flame (not the books, not again). He'd never been much of a fighter, but every demon knows the basics. It's a near essential part of the job description, and he can't help the dark thrill of satisfaction when his makeshift blade plunges deeply into camera-demon's leg, who in turn yelps in pain.

All in all, his efforts may have been enough to deter two or even three demons - but not four, and certainly not five.

Most certainly not when the fifth was whatever she is. He really should have paid more attention at the biannual mixers.

"Enough."

When she raises a hand, almost looking bored, Crowley suddenly feels as though he hasn't slept in three centuries. But it's more than that, because he doesn't actually need sleep. But he does need all of the otherworldly perks that come with being a demon, the ones that he can feel are rapidly draining away.

Kind of like Falling again, but without the drastic change in altitude and the sulphur and the pain.

Most of the pain, anyway. He vaguely registers a throbbing sensation somewhere in his ribcage and wonders if he's not the only one who found a letter opener.

He's pushed onto his knees and he can barely find the strength to resist. Even still, he manages to glare at the demon in charge as she stands in front of him, taking glasses which had miraculously stayed put off his face and tossing them somewhere behind her.

"This has been entertaining, Crawly, not a wasted trip after all," she gestures to the two holding him in place and in the next moment he finds himself shoved forward, face pressed painfully into the old wood flooring. He takes a second, focuses to shift his wings back to the ethereal plane (they were just in the way at this point, really), and the panic instantly flares up anew when something stops him from doing so.

"There's just one thing that's been bothering me since this all started," her ever-present smile turns vicious, even though he can no longer see her face.

"Snakes don't have wings."

Crowley doesn't know what she says when they leave. He hears the words, but can't focus to make them into any sort of coherent speech. He hears the bell, mockingly cheerful as it marks their departure, though it sounds like it's coming from several miles away and several miles underwater. He's still on the floor, a rapidly growing pool of blood seeping into the floorboards and his clothes, and he hazily considers the idea of just never moving ever again. Might hurt less.

Because the pain...well, however briefly he'd considered whatever she'd done before to be akin to Falling, it had nothing on this.

He can already feel some of his powers returning, albeit sluggishly - seems whatever she had done had only temporarily blocked them, hadn't taken them away entirely. It's a slow thrum of energy that does little to dull the agony radiating from his back and his wings.

Or what might be left of them.

He doesn't dare look.

Instead he just stares blearily across the room, to the small tables that have been upturned in the struggle, fallen books splashed with dark blood and a box of chocolates spilled across the floor.

Oh, no. The chocolates. Aziraphale would be so disappointed. They were from his favourite shop, and -

Aziraphale.

He couldn't come home to this. The poor angel would have a heart attack, and his discorporation at that moment would be highly inconvenient.

Crowley takes one more long, long moment, then focuses all of his effort into pushing himself back into a kneeling position. His wings seem to scream at the unwanted movement, and it takes all his willpower not to scream out in kind.

Another moment, and then several more, and then he's on his feet, leaning heavily on a larger table. Even without the sight of bloodied black feathers strewn across the floor, the pain was enough to make him dry heave. He didn't often eat unless he was with Aziraphale, and perhaps it was lucky they hadn't been out for lunch in a few days. One fewer mess to clean up in the shop.

Oh, angel, I'm so sorry...

He thinks for a moment, fights past the haze of pain that's threatening to knock his body unconscious, and imagines that everything's fine. That the bookshop is fine, that his wings are fine, that he's...fine...

And to anyone who would happen to walk into the shop in the next few minutes, that's exactly what they might see. A cluttered but clean bookshop, certainly free of bloodstains and worse, and a man, exhausted but whole, any wings he may or may not possess temporarily held in a parallel plane through sheer determination and stubbornness alone.

There...everything is fine. He just needs to keep that in mind until Aziraphale returns. Then he can break it to him slowly, no need to spring it on him all at once. Crowley glances down towards his hand still planted firmly on the table, to the watch on his wrist splattered with blood visible to nobody except him.

12:46.

He can wait.