My muse is insatiable, but random. Ideas spark off regularly, but there's never any garauntee that they'll be connected to anything that went before. Thus we have my first Good Omens fic. And yes, it is Aziraphael/Crowley. I'll warn you before we start. And there will be nastiness involved, and a number of martyr-complexs. But that aside, it worked, in my head at least. So give it a try. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I'm not Prattchet, or Gaiman. To start with, I'm the wrong gender to be either. So I don't own. Not even a little. Sometimes I just hate the world.

Redemption - Chapter 1

Crowley was royally pissed off. Driving furiously back to his apartment, much to the distress of a number of unfortunate pedestrians, he wondered what could have been so bloody important that the angel would stand him up. Okay, sure, it hadn't been a formal arrangement. They just usually went out for a meal of a Thursday, talked shop a bit, compared notes on the vagaries of the human race. It wasn't exactly ground-shakingly important. But still! He'd been rather looking forward to their weekly chat. And then Aziraphael never bloody showed!

He double parked the Bentley and strode into his building, taking petty pleasure in the resounding slam of the doors behind him. His fury carried him through the lobby and halfway up the stairs before the smell came through. Crowley froze, placing his foot carefully down on the next step as he scented the air carefully. The odor was faint, vaguely floral, and no more pervasive than human air freshener, but to the demon it reeked of angel. And not his angel, either. Aziraphael's scent was tempered by glue and paper and dust, the fragrance of old books. This was the smell of straight-up, robe-and-halo angel. Not the kind who would casually drop by for a chat and a cup of tea with a demon. And if he'd picked them up, then there was every chance they'd cottoned on to his presence also, which made retreat impossible, or at least unwise.

Well and so. If they wanted to meet him, then he would certainly make it worth their while. He consciously settled himself, letting every hair and crease fall into place to create a casually untidy apperance. Deshabille. He kept his claws and wings hidden, restraining the instinct to bring every weapon fully to bear. He wasn't Hastur, to leap like an animal to attack. Class. That was the difference. He wouldn't present an inferior image to whoever lurked upstairs. They were the intruders. They were in the wrong. Such things counted, with angels. A righteous anger was a far greater weapon here than a handful of claws.

He sauntered casually up the rest of the stairs, and let himself into the apartment, turning his back to the interior to lock the door. He could feel the wall of rage behind him, and it took all his control to allow himself to present such a vunerable front to the three angels he sensed inside. He turned slowly, letting an easy smile settle on his face. "Anything I can do for you, gentlemen?" he asked smartly.

"I hope so, demon, for your sake," the lead angel snarled. Crowley stared. Blonde hair snarled into elflocks and wings windswept, Gabriel was not a happy angel. The sword in his hand glowed with the Wrath of God, angelic battlerage, and armour had manifest itself over the white robes. Crowley swallowed hard. To his knowledge, he hadn't done anything to deserve Gabriel in avenging-angel mode, but here was the Hand-of-God, in his living room, and most decidedly pissed off. Thank Go...thank He...well, thank something he hadn't come up here armed, or he would have been sliced in two before you could say 'Hello Angel'.

Cautiously, he moved towards them, keeping his hands in view at all times. Three pairs of eyes followed him suspiciously, barely concealed fury riding beneath the surface of their gazes. It went against his every self-preservational instinct to move closer, but the only way to move them down from Defcon-1 was to talk them down. "Okay, lets take it easy here. You want some tea, or something?" He moved slowly, tone even and soothing, like an animal trainer talking to a lion with a toothache. Aziraphael had often called him silvertongued, with good reason. "I'm sure Aziraphael left some bags around here somewhere." Since Crowley himself was a coffee man, the angel had to bring his own teabags, the few times he'd been here. Crowley wondered if mentioning him would calm them somewhat. Worth a try.

Or maybe not. No sooner had the name left his lips than two swords were pricking his shoulderblades, and Gabriel's hands were around his throat. He gasped as the air was cut off, stiffening to avoid 'accidental' injury. His own hands reached up to grasp the angel's wrists, a human instinct that came with the body, as Crowley didn't actually need to breath. But he did need to speak, and the thought of mindspeak with Gabriel in this mood lacked appeal.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he choked. Possibly not the best choice of words, given the situation, but damn it, he was a demon, and some situations demanded profanity, however mild. He clamped his hands around Gabriel's arms and tried to pull, but the angel moved not an inch. Meeting the rage-filled gaze, Crowley realised just how thin the layer of patience keeping Gabriel from snapping his neck really was. The archangel was truly in the depths of battlerage.

"Where is he, demon?" Gabriel growled. "What have you done with him?"

"What have I done with who, you psychotic angel? What are you on about? Hell, what are you on?" Maybe he was being slow, but Crowley felt he had an excuse, in the circumstances. Gabriel shook him hard, causing the other two's swords to dig painfully into his back. Crowley hissed, not in pain, but in rapidly building fury. If they'd lost someone, it was no problem of his, and they had no right to come to his place and treat him like a piece of garbage!

"Where is Aziraphael?" Gabriel roared, and suddenly the bottom dropped out of Crowley's stomach. Aziraphael. His angel was missing ...? Missed appointment. No word. Battle angels in his living room. Aziraphael.

Crowley snapped. His wings burst from his back to arch furiously over him, knocking the archangel's lackeys back. His claws erupted from his hands, slicing through Gabriel's armour as he tore the choking grip away. A second later, and those clawed hands were wrapped around the angel's throat, lifting the hapless warrior off the ground.

"What. Happened. To. Aziraphael?" he hissed in Gabriel's face, eyes furious yellow slits. The bowled angels scrambled to their feet, trying to bring their swords to bear on him again. He ignored them, glaring straight into the face of Gabriel's wrath. And, slowly, the rage ebbed from the captured angel, and he gestured to the other two to back down.

"You don't know, do you?" he asked slowly. Crowley growled in frustration. Of course he didn't! If he'd known, would he be asking? Gabriel nodded, and gestured pointedly to the hand around his throat. Crowley smiled sharply, and squeezed. Until he knew what they were at, he wasn't relinquishing his advantage, however risky. They had attacked him unfairly, and now it was his turn.

Gabriel sighed. "Very well. When did you last see Aziraphael?" Crowley didn't answer. He wasn't going to rat out his angel to this trigger-happy celestial policeman. They could fill him in, not the other way around, and hopefully before Aziraphael was killed or discorporated, or worse. If they suspected demons ... Well, Heaven always suspected demons, but Aziraphael was in Hell's crosshairs, and if they had him ... He stared coldly at Gabriel, and willed the angel to answer him before he was forced to try something drastic.

Gabriel rolled his eyes, his own anger returning. "Fine!" he snapped. "Fine. You want to know, Hellspawn? He was due to report in yesterday. Aziraphael is always punctual. When he failed to check in, we contacted him. Do you know what we found? A ruined bookstore, shreds of paper, scorch marks, and an angel's blood." Crowley jerked, a low growl building in the back of his throat. Blood. Gabriel frowned. "The whole place stank of demon. Naturally we assumed that, as Hell's agent on Earth, you had something to do with it. We want him back, Crawly. Hell doesn't get to keep what's ours. We want him."

He looked expectantly at Crowley, who did nothing for a moment, struggling to contain his rising fury. Then he shrugged mentally, and let it loose. "Yours? You think Aziraphael belongs to you, like a car or a slave? You beaurocratic bastard! He's not yours, or theirs, or anyone's, and no-one gets to keep him! Not angel or demon or God Himself, unless Aziraphael chooses to let them! No-one! If Hell took him, then Hell will regret it!" And, ignoring the horrified outrage of the lesser angels, and Gabriel's weighing gaze, he flung the Hand-of-God into the other two and leapt for the window, wings snapping out.

Arcing down like a bird of prey, eyes blazing yellow fury, claws fully outstretched, Crowley rent open the way to Hell, and plunged into its lurid depths.

XXX

Light. He was surrounded by light. Not the pure, clean light of Heaven, or the warm sunlight of Earth, or the cold glare of human lights. This light was red, dancing and leering and somehow dirty. It lapped like sewage against the dank walls, twinning sadistically with the filthy shadows. The light of damnation. The light of Hell.

Aziraphael crouched in the center of his cell, huddled against the touch of that foul light. He ached, in that dull, endless way that meant he was too tired now to even feel his pain. He was hurt. So badly hurt. No clothes left. Torn away, in the demons' excitement. Torn away, before they tore into him. Into him. He was filthy, now, inside and out. Tainted by their foul touch, their taunts that tore into his soul. So much damage, in so little time. Was this what it felt like to Fall? It must be. Heaven would never want him now.

He huddled further into the embrace of his own damaged wings. The broken feathers brushed streaks of blood over him, but it only mingled with the blood and filth already there. The wings were no longer white. Absently, Aziraphael preened the feathers before his face, pulling away the loosened pinions, numb now to the tiny flares of pain the action brought. He focused, intent, and carefully pulled the delicate feathers out of the clotted blood, and into alignment. It soothed his battered senses, this small expression of order in this damned chaotic mess.

He heard the coming footsteps, the feathery rustlings of demon wings. He ignored it. If they came to hurt him, he couldn't stop them. In two days, they'd rent his pride and willful defiance apart. He stayed focused on his wings, ignoring the flutterings of panic and outright terror that clenched his stomach. Just feathers. Just cleaning the feathers.

The voice that addressed his guard had his head jerking up, though his matted hair caught in the chain around his neck and hurt him. That smooth, cultured tone, like velvet over steel ... Oh Crowley! Please, please don't be here. Please, you can't see me like this. Not you. Please.

"Tell me, friend, is this where they keep the angel filth?" Calm voice, betraying him.

"Yesss indeed, friend. Why? You want sssome fun? Ha."

"Indeed I do, friend," Crowley replied cheerfully. Aziraphael was slightly puzzled by the gurgling sound that followed, and the thud. "Indeed I do."

The door opened, flooding the cell with that horrible light. Aziraphael forced himself not to retreat, not to cower away like a terrified animal. All he was, now, but he couldn't let Crowley see. He looked up at the figure silluetted in the doorway, squinting in the glare. Then Crowley raised his wings, blocking the direct light, and Aziraphael's light-starved eyes saw him clearly in the gloom.

He fought down the urge to back away. Crowley had shed the last vestiges of his human form, and what stood in the doorway was the divine beauty of an angel, twisted by a demon's fury. Clawed hands dripped gore, and the pupils of the slitted golden eyes were narrowed in rage. The demon's face bore anger, and anguish. Crowley stepped inside.

"Angel?" The word was half-swallowed. "Aziraphael?"

Aziraphael swallowed. "Hello dear," he choked. He wanted to cower away from the demonic figure, but still more powerful was the desire to take Crowley's face in his hands, and smooth away the torment there. The lessons of the last couple of days: fear all demons; couldn't compete with the instinctive urge to ease pain. He was an angel still, tainted or no.

But the last few days had left their mark, and he couldn't restrain his flinch as Crowley raised a clawed hand towards his face. He dipped his head to hide behind a hank of filthy hair, shamed by the fear he knew was obvious, and watched Crowley's hand land gently on his chain. He trembled. He wanted to ask the demon not to pull on it, but what if he meant to? What if Crowley was here as a demon, not as a friend? He didn't know if he could stand that.

"Hold still, angel," Crowley murmured. Hold still, you squirming piece of angel filth! No point in struggling. Demon voices. Demon hands. "Only a moment, Aziraphael." The hand shifted, grasping the chain firmly, the back of it nestled almost intimately against Aziraphael's throat, before Crowley ripped the offensive metal away. The sheared links clattered to the floor. Aziraphael started, falling backwards in shock. Crowley caught him gently before he toppled back onto his wings, easing him up. "Easy. Easy, angel. Time to go. Up we come. Come on ..."

Before Aziraphael fully realised what was happening, Crowley had half led, half carried him out the cell door, and into the corridor. It was only as he almost fell over the headless corpse of his guard that the angel's beleagured mind caught up with what was going on. In sudden panic, as the ramifications of what had been done hit him, he jerked away from the demon, fetching up against one slimy wall. Crowley leapt after him, hands darting out to halt his fall.

"Stop!" Aziraphael cried desperately. Crowley froze, confusion and pain evident on his face. Aziraphael ached for it, but Crowley couldn't do this. The demon couldn't be found here, not helping an angel. What he had attempted was pure folly. There was no escape from Hell, and if Crowley was found with him, then the torments he would be submitted to for betraying his kind would be worse than anything visited on the angel. The thought couldn't be borne. He had to make Crowley leave.

"Crowley, you can't be here. Leave, now! Just go Crowley. Please, just go," he pleaded, staring desperately into his companion's hot, angry eyes. Even before he finished speaking, the demon was shaking his head. Aziraphael struggled to think of a way to make him leave. An ordinary demon would never even have tried this. An ordinary demon would have joined in his torment with a will. Crowley had too great a sense of honour. Aziraphael had known it since the almost-Apocalypse, when the demon had stood by his side in defence of the human race. That honour wouldn't let Crowley abandon him. But he was a demon, and prone to rash anger. There was one way ... The angel's heart ached at the thought. To intentionally cause such pain as he was about to ... But Crowley had to be saved. It didn't matter how, Aziraphael had to keep him from harm.

"Get away from me, demon!" he snarled. "Or have your fun and be done. Go join the rest of your rotten kind. Have fun at the angel's expense. You filthy excuse for the Lord's creation! You disgust me! Crawly! Snake in the grass! Did you really think this pathetic ploy would convince me of your good? I know you, hellspawn. I know your tricks, and I won't be fooled! So do your bit of damage and leave me be!"

For one long, horrible moment, Crowley simply stared at him, striken to the bone. The anguish in his face almost undid Aziraphael, and it took every ounce of his battered will to keep from rushing to his friend and apologising with every scrap of sincerity his heart possessed. But Crowley had to be saved.

Then the pain and anger slid from the demon's face, leaving it strangely blank for a minute. Then a slow grin made its way onto that expressive face, and Crowley chuckled richly. Aziraphael started, confused and a little frightened, though there was no malice in the demon's gaze. Crowley reached out, ignoring his flinch, and rested his hand lightly on Aziraphael's cheek.

"Ah, angel," he laughed. "I always knew you were just enough of a bastard to like! A ploy like that is worthy of myself! But you forget. I know you too, heavenspawn. I know your tricks, and I won't be fooled either. You have too much trust and caring in your heart to believe what you've said. I don't even want to think how much it must have hurt you to say such hurtful things." He smiled gently, and Aziraphael sobbed, once, quietly. His plan had failed. Crowley wouldn't leave. But however much fear and worry that knowledge brought him, his selfish heart rejoiced that Crowley trusted him and knew him well enough to have such faith in his trust. He bent his head, overcome, and felt Crowley's arm slide gently around his shoulders.

"Come now, angel," the demon murmured. "Lets leave the martyr complex behind, hmm? I know the Lord programmed it into you, but there's no need for it here. Engage a little survival instinct, maybe? Come with me, and we'll take the express train right out of here. An angel like you doesn't belong in Hell, my friend. Or Heaven either, but we'll leave that for another day. It's time for us to go, Aziraphael."

"Is it, now?" A cold voice echoed through the corridor. Aziraphael jerked upright, spinning to look panicked into the gruesome visage of Beelzebub, Prince of Hell, and his entourage. He felt Crowley stiffen beside him, and knew a moment of pure, unadulterated terror. Lord help them, there was no way to escape this. His mind screamed silently in visceral reaction. That face. Oh God, that face. He remembered the feel of it pressing against him, that hungry mouth closing around his flesh, those vicious teeth tearing into him. He remembered the feeling of the Prince's delight at his pain as it swirled around him in a terrible miasma. He remembered the demon taking him, hurting him, delighting in the pain that he caused, not for punishment, but for his own amusement. He remembered the tide of shame that ripped through him, stronger than the agony, at Beelzebub's foul touch. He remembered that horror, and in his mind the body in the demon prince's clutches was not his, but Crowley's, the face stretched by anguish not his, but his companion's, and his heart almost failed within him. Despair washed through him, and one choked fearful cry escaped him.

Then Crowley moved.

XXX

Crowley watched his angel crumple beside him, watched the horror and terror and shame and despair wash over Aziraphael's face in grisly pantomime, and the fury he had carried within him since hearing of the angel's capture changed, crystallising into something cold and sharp and implacable as the death of the stars. He looked on Beelzebub, on the cause of his angel's pain, and in his mind there was no thought of the other demon's power, or the forces the Prince could bring to bear against him. Had his enemy been Lucifer himself, it would have made no difference. For damaging his angel, for bringing that fear into Aziraphael's heart, he would see them destroyed. Even if it killed him.

He stepped forward, slowly, insolently, and allowed his gaze to wander provocatively over his enemy and his forces. A cold smirk lit his features as he saw Ligur in the front row. He turned his gaze on Beelzebub himself, letting the condescending expression do the damage. He had no need to speak to be insulting. The mockery was in his very bones, his stance, his air. He stood before the Prince of Hell, his figure a single, screaming insult in the face of that power. And then he laughed. High and cold and clear, he laughed at them. He laughed at the frozen expressions of shock and affront on the lesser demons' faces, laughed at the fury that lit Beelzebub's terrible visage, laughed at the very situation he found himself in. He laughed for what he was about to do, laughed for the death he was about to call down on himself, laughed for the irony of it all.

His Aziraphael was going home. His angel would be safe, in the hands of the one power not even Lucifer had found the strength to defy, though he had tried. He turned to touch his angel's face, that same gentle smile on his face as he had seen so often on the other's. He smiled into Aziraphael's confused, fearful face, and murmured softly into his angel's ear: "It seems I may have found a use for a martyr complex, after all. Go safely, my angel. Go home. And don't bother missing me, Aziraphael. I'm having far too much fun to be talked down. Say hi to big brother for me."

He smiled again, and, ignoring the protest forming on his angel's lips, rapped him smartly behind the ear. Aziraphael crumpled. Crowley caught him, easing him down, laying him ever so gently on the floor. He brushed the hair tenderly from the angelic countenance, letting his fingers linger softly on his companion's brow. Then he straightened, and, standing over his angel protectively, turned to face Beelzebub and his horde of demons.

He smiled brightly at them, the sparkle of mischief in his eyes. Doubt suddenly blossomed in the Prince's face, and he opened his mouth to order the attack, but Crowley gave him no chance. He began to speak.

"Our Father," he pronounced, slowly and sonerously. "Who art in Heaven ..." He thrilled at the sheer panicked shock on their faces, even as he felt the first destroying touch of pure holiness feather across his consciousness. "Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come." He was amazed at his own audacity. He'd never had all that much respect for rules, unspoken or otherwise, but surely this took the cake. "Thy will be done." To summon God Himself into Hell. "In Hell as it is in Heaven." To use his own, vunerable demonic form to utter the prayer taught by the Son himself. The divine spirit he called burned into him like a spear of white fire, glorious even as it tore his darker essence apart. "Give us this day our daily bread, And lead us not into temptation." Ironic, that, given that he'd been the original temptor. "But deliver us from evil." Please, deliver Aziraphael from this evil. Save one of your own. If nothing else, let this see him safe.

Crowley felt the fire in every corner of his being, but he had only one more word to say. One word, and his angel was safe. He laughed. Ah, Lord. I hope this gives you a shock, if nothing else. And if you knew this was coming, then you've one hell of a sense of humour, if you'll pardon the expression. He felt delirious. He felt fragmented. He felt exultant. He uttered the final word.

"AMEN."

His world flew apart. He flew apart. His essence, assaulted by the sheer purity and power of his Lord, shrank and billowed like a sheet in a high gale, and he laughed. He thrilled. Even as his senses dwindled and his consciousness fled into God knew where, he exulted. As a demon, bereft of this Presence for so long, the sheer glory of it would have been enough to enrapture him, but Crowley had something more. His word would deliver Aziraphael from Hell. His plea had brought God himself to see his angel safe. The joy of that knowledge filled every mote of what was left of his essence.

He saw a face. It was known to him, a face he had seen once before. A human face, warmed brown by the gaze of the Holy Land's sun, and crinkled in a smile of such quiet joy that Crowley's heart wept to see it. His big brother gazed fondly down at him and blew a gentle breath his way. Crowley spun away, into memory. Into the past.

To be continued ...