A/N: Hello, all! This is part 3 of the Feathers series, but can be read on its own. I hadn't originally planned to write a part 3, because I hadn't originally planned to write a part 2, but by happy accident I did just that! You can thank Lady Wallace for sparking the original inspiration, sarahenany for sparking parts 2 and 3 inspiration with her amazing comments, tessseagull for keeping my interest in continuing alive and well, and Aini Nufire for making sure I don't post this with missing words and bizarrely placed commas! ^_^

This one continues the trend of going ever so slightly darker but there's no graphic violence on screen. And as much as I love whump, it is only wonderful because it's a means to an end (even more wonderful comfort!) Happy endings are my life!

It Was a Dark Night (But Hadn't Stormed Since Last Tuesday)

It wasn't raining the night Crowley burst into the bookshop.

An odd thing for Aziraphale to have thought; he might just as well have said they weren't in Poland, or he wasn't eating bananas at the time, or any number of other circumstances that weren't. And yet he very clearly thought it isn't even raining when Crowley stormed through the door as though it wasn't locked with a CLOSED sign clearly posted (it did not say "sorry we're closed", because Aziraphale was never sorry to be closed).

Probably it was the look on the demon's face that prompted the thought. He generally saved scowls like that one for when he was quite cross, from things like cancelled TV programmes (usually from his own evil doings) or meetings in Hell that ran too long (all of them) or weeks where it never stopped raining.

"Angel!" Crowley shouted, slamming the door behind him and turning the lock.

"Whatever is the matter, my dear-"

"I know you're in here, angel!" An absurdly redundant observation to make, since Crowley was looking right at him.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest all the shouting, but Crowley slid his dark glasses down his nose and shook his head. Without his eyes covered, Aziraphale could see the panic in the yellow-gold gaze. Aziraphale remained silent, nodding as he pressed his lips together in a sign that he understood to stay quiet.

Crowley dipped his head towards the back, then started stalking the other direction, seeming to be making a show of looking for him—in the shop that was quite obviously empty but for the two of them. Aziraphale wanted to ask him what in Heaven's name (or in Hell's if he would prefer) he was doing, but obligingly slipped to the back room instead.

A second later, Crowley hurried in behind him.

"Crowley, what-"

"No time," the demon snapped, dashing forward and grabbing Aziraphale's arm. "You have to run."

Aziraphale spluttered. "I don't follow-"

"Run, angel, you have to get out of here. Quickly. Now, in fact. Just trust me."

He did; he also would have felt better with more information. Aziraphale took one look at Crowley's still panic-stricken face and didn't ask questions, though. "Alright, there's a back door to the street-"

"Nah, it's no good, they have the place surrounded."

"They?"

"You have to get up to Heaven, it's the only option. You'll be safe there. Angel, please just hurry."

"But Heaven is across London," Aziraphale reminded him. Some of Crowley's fear was starting to rub off on him and now the angel was feeling decidedly nervous. He couldn't hold the questions back anymore. "Who are they and what are they doing here?"

Crowley cursed, throwing a look back over his shoulder. Then he replied all in one breath, "Someone's been passing secrets on to Heaven and Ligur has everyone convinced it's us which we both know is rubbish because I don't know any secrets even if I was feeling like sharing but they want to know I'm not a traitor so they've sent me here to prove myself."

Aziraphale stared at him, blinking owlishly as it all processed. "But… that's absurd. We meet for lunch sometimes and do small miracles or temptations for each other, that's all. We're not spies."

"Yes, I know that!" Crowley hissed testily. "But they've decided I'm the most likely candidate until I prove otherwise."

"And… how do you prove otherwise?" Aziraphale squeaked though of course he already had an inkling of where this was going.

Crowley stirred and grumbled under his breath before admitting, "They said if I was so clever at getting a feather from Gabriel, I should have no trouble taking one from you."

Aziraphale couldn't help himself; he took a step back from the demon before he'd even realized he'd moved at all. The look on Crowley's face left him cursing himself.

"Which is why I'm telling you to run," Crowley muttered, turning away. "You know I wouldn't. You know that. You don't understand, if I walk out of here without a feather, they'll come in and take it themselves." He gripped Aziraphale's arm again, expression now so distressed that it took the angel's breath away. "Aziraphale, you do not want that to happen. They're not going to just pluck one out and go, they-" Crowley's breath hitched in fear and he shook his head. "You have to run, it's your only chance. You can go through the summoning circle, can't you?"

"But that would discorporate me-"

"Better than the alternative. They'll give you a new body upstairs."

That was probably true, but the fact that Crowley was even suggesting it—Crowley, who shared Aziraphale's disdain for paperwork and the inconvenience of discorporation—spoke to just how awful it would be if the other demons got in. Aziraphale looked down at his hands regretfully, hoping they could rebuild this body just as it was, as he'd gotten rather used to it.

"But wait just a moment," Aziraphale said as Crowley tried to usher him back out the door. The angel dug his heels in and turned. "If they come in here and find me escaped to Heaven, won't that look dreadfully suspicious? What happens to you if you don't return with a feather as proof?"

"Oh, uh… I'll think of something," Crowley muttered distractedly.

Which meant he either hadn't thought about it at all and didn't realize the danger, or he'd given it a good deal of thought and knew the terrible position it would put him in but hadn't yet thought of a way out of it because there wasn't one.

Well, Aziraphale was having none of that. Stepping backwards, he shook his head.

"You need a trophy, Crowley dear. It's alright. I'll give you one, of my own free will, and that's not at all the same as you taking one."

"No- angel- I don't want one!"

Aziraphale understood the hesitancy. To take a feather from an enemy who'd been bested was an old, rather barbaric custom—a way to humiliate an opponent by keeping the feather as a trophy so everyone would know who was the stronger, more powerful one and who was therefore less. In the old days it had usually been accompanied by the victor slaying the loser a second later, of course, though the days of pitched battles between the two camps had ended before humanity was even created, well before Crowley and Aziraphale had met.

The custom had lingered, though. Aziraphale knew that Gabriel in particular had an entire wall in Heaven covered in blackened feathers, each one gaining him more power and respect among the other angels.

Both Aziraphale and Crowley found such things distasteful, though. Recently, the angel had been forced to take one from his friend—who'd been tied up and unable to fight at the time—and it had been the most awful experience of Aziraphale's life, even if it saved both of theirs.

So now that the roles were reversed, he knew exactly how Crowley was feeling but it seemed there was really no other choice.

"Needs must," Aziraphale said in what he hoped was a brave voice, giving his shoulders a light roll as he brought his wings into view.

Somewhere in the front of the building, a door slammed open on its hinges.

"Croooooowleeeey!"

It was too late.

o.O.o

Crowley felt a chill roll down his spine and would have strongly considered turning into a snake and slithering away from this entire mess, except that would leave Aziraphale to face three demons, alone, weaponless. Having been in that position himself with the three archangels, Crowley didn't wish that kind of helpless terror on his friend.

"Fight me," Aziraphale hissed, opening his arms and wings invitingly. "Crowley, they're here now, they might as well see you take one for themselves."

Footsteps slowly, ominously, approached the back room.

Crowley shook his head. "I can't."

"You have to." Aziraphale closed the distance between them so that Crowley could see himself reflected in the angel's wide eyes. His face had gone nearly as pale as his hair. "Crowley, please, I- I would rather it be you than Hastur. Please."

Damn it. Crowley grabbed him by the lapels of his coat but then hesitated. "I'm sorry…"

"I forgive you, dear. And don't mind a thing I say."

Crowley nodded. His gut twisted at the mere thought of what he had to do, but the footsteps in the front room had nearly reached them. The demon took a breath and flung Aziraphale around, slamming him down over the nearby desk so that the stack of books on it tumbled to the floor.

Aziraphale squeaked, likely more distressed about the treatment of the books than himself, and threw a fist up at Crowley's face. It caught him right in the eye. Crowley was just glad Aziraphale was fighting back, making the charade the slightest bit more palatable. He reeled back but didn't release the angel, aware that Hastur, Ligur, and Dagon had reached the back room and were watching with amused snickers.

"Feisty angel," Crowley sneered, forcing contempt into his voice. He released Aziraphale's coat to block his arm instead as the angel swung again. From the corner of his eye, Crowley saw the wing streaking towards him but didn't try to avoid it, letting Aziraphale knock him to the side.

"Maybe we should step in," Dagon tittered from the doorway, though she made no move to do so.

"No," Hastur disagreed to Crowley's relief. "Crowley is supposed to be proving himself."

They couldn't drag this out forever. With another mental apology, hoping this wasn't going to destroy the one friendship Crowley had, the demon grabbed Aziraphale's wing near the joint and yanked him around face first into the wall. Aziraphale choked on a surprised oomph but let Crowley keep him pinned, though the demon could feel him shaking.

Hating Hastur, hating himself, hating everything and everyone that had brought them to this moment, Crowley nevertheless grabbed a shining white primary.

"I told you I'd win eventually," he growled, loud enough for the others to hear him, as though this had been an ongoing rivalry that had finally come to a head.

"Let go, serpent," Aziraphale retorted, making a show of trying to wriggle free and then resting his cheek on the wall when he couldn't, breathing heavily. "Do it, then. It doesn't change anything."

The tone was scathing but the words were a gentle promise and forgiveness that Crowley could never deserve. Steeling himself, the demon plucked the feather straight out of the beautiful wing, mindful not to damage the quill. Though he was expecting Aziraphale to cry out, he still wasn't prepared for it. The angel's wings jerked as though Crowley had been much rougher than he was and an agonized shout tore itself from Aziraphale's throat.

Crowley released him and stepped back with his trophy in hand, letting the angel slump to the ground. Having had feathers taken from him by force in the recent past, Crowley knew it wasn't all a show, even though he'd tried to be as careful as he could.

"Look at that beauty," the demon made himself chuckle, turning his back on Aziraphale and stepping away from him a few paces so that the other demons were obliged to gather in closer to see—away from the angel. "Pristine."

"A fine trophy," Dagon agreed. "That's that, then."

"That is not that," Hastur grumbled. "Someone is a traitor and who else would it be?"

Ligur shifted slightly, just enough to catch Crowley's attention. The demon's eyes narrowed, but no one could see it behind his glasses, of course. Who indeed…

"As you can see, not me," Crowley shrugged, running the feather between his thumb and first finger. It was longer and gleamed even brighter than the covert feather Aziraphale had given to him after his encounter with the archangels, but unlike that one, Crowley ached just to be holding it. He didn't want this. He didn't want to be holding a symbol of power over the angel. He didn't want to be thought of as better than Aziraphale, not when in truth it was quite the opposite. He was low and despicable and this had been a low, despicable thing to do.

A scurry of movement behind them had all four demons turning to see Aziraphale on his feet, nearly to the front door.

"Oy!" Crowley yelled, twitching as though giving chase, not because he actually was but because it was what a proper evil demon would do.

Hastur, unfortunately, really was a proper evil demon. He disappeared in the blink of an eye, reappearing at the door just in time for Aziraphale to nearly run into him. The angel threw up his hands in self-defense. Hastur grabbed his wrists, giving him a harsh shake. Crowley internally groaned.

"And where do you think you're going?" Hastur asked as the rest of the demons joined him out in the central room. "Maybe Crowley isn't our spy—though I still say he is—but we have questions for you, white wings."

"Unhand me at once!" Aziraphale snapped, wings disappearing as he struggled in vain to yank away. "I demand that you-"

"I'm not interested in your demands," Hastur retorted as he manhandled the squirming angel back into the center of the ring.

Aziraphale kicked him—hard. Beside Crowley, Ligur snickered in amusement so Crowley didn't try to hide his own satisfied smile at his angel's spirit.

Hastur didn't seem to find it as funny, growling as he levered downwards. Aziraphale winced, driven down to his knees.

"Whatever you hope to accomplish, you won't succeed," Aziraphale sniffed. "I have nothing to say to you foul creatures."

"We'll see about that," Hastur said. Metal clinked and where he'd been holding Aziraphale's wrists, manacles appeared instead. The demon slid one finger along the short chain connecting them, pulling upwards so that Aziraphale's arms were raised over his head. With his other hand, Hastur reached for the angel's throat. "You're not ready to give anything up yet. That's alright. It takes pain to loosen tongues. Pain and fear."

"Now see here, I've already told you-"

"So you can act as tough as you want," Hastur went on over him. "But once we're finished and have no more use for you…" He leaned in, squeezing enough to make Aziraphale choke and cough. "Then we'll pluck out all your feathers one by one and leave your corpse at Heaven's front door as a warning about spies. Think on that."

"Yes but," Aziraphale wheezed out. "Well, that is to say, Heaven and Hell actually share a front door, it's only once you're inside that-"

Hastur back-handed the angel across the face, letting go of the chain so that Aziraphale was knocked down to the floor.

Dagon and Ligur were both tittering again, but Crowley could barely force a grin to his lips. On the one hand, he was glad Aziraphale was fighting, showing that he wasn't afraid. On the other hand, they both knew that Aziraphale was afraid, that he should be afraid, and that Hastur would only get worse if Aziraphale kept that up. Crowley was torn. He wanted the angel to act cowed to save himself, but loved and admired him for not. He needed a plan, a plan damn it, some way to get them both out of this mess without simultaneously bringing on their own death warrants.

Before he could think of anything, Hastur had turned towards him, pointing.

"You," he snapped. "Go fetch Beelzebub." His grin was dark and dangerous, much like a rabid crocodile, and not the cuddly kind. "After all, the Lord of Hell will want to be here for the… interrogation."

But again, that would leave Aziraphale completely alone and unprotected in the hands of the three demons, at least two of whom believed he had information to be obtained and one of whom, Crowley suspected, needed them to continue believing it.

"Why me?" he protested automatically.

"Because I said so."

"You had all better run back to Hell," Aziraphale piped up, though with a slight tremble in his voice that he couldn't quite hide as he slowly pushed himself back up to his knees. "They'll be checking in on me soon, you know. And if I don't answer, well, you wouldn't want archangels to come looking, now would you? I expect Michael herself will be here quite soon, so-"

"I doubt that," Dagon snorted, but it was Ligur's reaction that interested Crowley more. The duke had shifted back to his other side, chameleon changing colors to an unobtrusive green for no good reason at all. His eyes flicked up to the ceiling above the summoning circle where Michael would mostly likely appear from if she appeared at all.

Again, Crowley frowned. Hmm.

Nevertheless, his primary concern was keeping Aziraphale from being tortured by the three sadistic demons, though how he was supposed to do that without blowing their cover was beyond him. If they went much farther with this, he'd have no choice, covers be damned.

"Problem, Crowley?" Hastur asked with narrowed eyes.

It was a test, obviously a test, but one he was considering failing.

"Yes, do go on then, Crowley," Aziraphale drawled, jerking against the manacles encircling his wrists. "Or do you imagine yourself stronger than them that they would need you here."

Right, point taken, it wasn't like he could do any good here anyway. It was neither a comforting thought nor did it alleviate his guilt. He'd brought this down on Aziraphale. He should have been more careful, should have made the angel leave for Heaven straightaway with no argument, should have done… something.

"Quiet, angel," Ligur grunted. "Let's not forget, he has a trophy from you. Show some respect for your betters." He planted his foot against Aziraphale's back, shoving forward so that the angel had to quickly catch himself on his hands.

Crowley saw Aziraphale's cheeks flush red and wanted to rip Ligur's legs off with his fangs. He'd almost forgotten the trophy, releasing his grip a bit so he didn't damage the quill. It would have to be intact for when he restored it later… once they'd gotten out of this.

If they got out of this.

"You always did underestimate me," the angel murmured to the floor. His head dipped only the slightest fraction in the smallest of nods. "And what I can do."

The demon could hear the unspoken words: I can handle this, Crowley. Just go, do what they say, I can take it. I can survive. I'm tougher than they think.

Though it was perhaps the most unforgiveable thing he'd ever done, Crowley shrugged and turned his back. "Fine. I'll be back soon."

"Oh and Crowley, take the long way," Hastur said as Crowley started to sink down towards the hellish realm. He nodded towards the door when Crowley glanced over his shoulder with a frown. "So we'll have plenty of time to… work."

"Play," Dagon offered cheerfully.

"Hurt him," Ligur clarified, ever helpful.

"Yep, got that," Crowley said through clenched teeth. Knowing he still had to be the demon, he stalked off. "Leave some for me!" he shouted over his shoulder as he walked away from his angel. And someone help them for every mark he found when he returned. If anyone damaged Aziraphale, Crowley would spend the rest of his life subtly making sure their plans all backfired in horrible, awful, agonizing ways.