Crowley got back from heaven with an unholy headache from the light and stiff limbs from the cold emptiness—lucky the hell-fire warmed him up a bit—and went directly to St James' Park.

When he arrived he slumped down on one of the benches and waited. The collar itched against his neck and Crowley scratched it absentmindedly as he thought that for the first time in his life, he had been truly lucky. If Heaven had planned to punish Aziraphale with anything other than hellfire, then he would have been toast. He really hoped that Aziraphale had been as lucky during his own visit in hell.

To his relief, not even ten minutes passed before Aziraphale sat down next to him, back straighter than it had any right to be while looking like Crowley. He smiled and patted Crowley's shoulder, "I'm glad to see you."

Crowley snorted and looked over at the ducks swimming in the pond. "I hope you didn't act like this while down there. Not even they are stupid enough to buy that."

"Of course I didn't!" The indignation was clear in his voice, before it morphed into a proud little smile. "I made them get me a rubber duck. I even got Michael to miracle me a towel!"

Crowley couldn't stop himself from laughing at that and it loosened something inside him that he hadn't noticed tensing up ever since they parted ways. He slumped further down on the bench. "Lucky both Above and Below hasn't really gotten imagination down pat. I'm glad we were right in what the punishments were going to be."

Aziraphale nodded, which quickly turned into a slightly stunned expression when Crowley added, in a voice almost too quiet to hear, "I'm glad you're okay."

Aziraphale, with Crowley's face, smiled; a blinding smile with soft eyes visible even behind the sunglasses. "My dear boy, I'm also so happy you're okay!"

Crowley decided that the expression looked decidedly out of place on Crowley's own face, so he cleared his throat and reached out a hand, "Let's change back."

Aziraphale was still smiling as he nodded and grabbed Crowley's hand. The change flowed up their arms; from white to black and black to white, grey in the middle.

"That's better," Crowley said with a released breath and a crack of his neck when he was fully back to himself.

"I agree. Those pants are awfully tight." Aziraphale brushed his own pants off before getting up from the bench, holding his hand out for Crowley. "I want to check on my bookshop. Let's get something to drink, my throat is killing me. How do you stand all that sulfur in the air?"

"How do you stand all that cold, emptiness? And the light! And I'm the one wearing shades." Crowley countered as he grabbed Aziraphale's hand for the second time and allowed himself to get pulled up. They let their hands linger for slightly longer than necessary before letting go and starting to walk the familiar route to the bookshop.

Sitting in the warm back room of the bookshop was a welcome change of pace after the last couple of day's very hectic schedule. The world was safe— for now— and so were they.

Crowley stretched out his legs in front of him where he was sitting in the sofa and cast a look around the room; taking in the cluttered shelves, stacks of books littering every other surface, and the dusty kind of coziness he knew Aziraphale was careful in cultivating. "You know, I don't really remember much about heaven." He could see Aziraphale freeze at these words. If it was something Crowley didn't talk about it was the time before his fall. Before Aziraphale could interrupt him, Crowley continued, "Going back there made me realize something."

"What is that?" The question was careful and quiet.

"You really aren't homesick."

"Excuse me?"

"It's almost as if you've decorated this place to look as little as heaven as possible."

"I did not—!"

Crowley waved a hand in the flustered angel's direction and softened his voice, "It's not a bad thing. That place," and he nods towards the ceiling, "was even more dreadfully empty and bright than I remember. And so cold! At least this dusty place could pass for cozy."

"Well. It's nice with some… personality."

Crowley smiled, and was annoyed when he felt it come out more genuine than he would have preferred. "It sure is."

Aziraphale smiled back and Crowley allowed himself a second of revelling in it before he looked away with a practiced frown. Aziraphale spoke in a soft voice, "That's very nice o—"

Crowley raised his own voice and cut the angel off, "But I can't believe they would have actually burnt you in hellfire! Where did the strongly worded letters go?!"

Aziraphale chuckled, even as a sad expression overtook his face. "Even heaven has its limits, dear."

"Don't I know it," Crowley muttered before a smirk spread over his face. "Well, Gabriel won't be so full of himself the next time you meet him."

"What did you do?"

"Let's just say he thinks you can breathe fire now and that you're more than willing to do it in his direction."

"You didn't!"

Crowley kept on smiling and nodded, eyes crinkling at the edges.

Aziraphale gave a short snort before giving in; laughter bubbling out and seemingly filling the whole room.

Crowley didn't even try to cover up his smile at the sound of it, he had decided long ago that an angels laugh must have been designed to bring happiness to all creatures on earth, including demons. Especially this angel's laugh.

Aziraphale wiped at his eyes as he continued to chuckle. He finally leaned back beside Crowley, folding his hands in his lap as he turned towards him with a beaming smile that was heavenly enough to make Crowley avert his eyes. "And by the way, you're in no position to criticise my interior design! I've seen your empty and clean apartment. Not very similar to the dirty and crowded hell, now is it?"

Crowley opened his mouth to retort, but stopped himself as he thought of his sleek and stylised apartment. Aziraphale was right; it didn't look anything like hell, but it did resemble another place a whole lot more. The smile on his face died down and he shrugged. "I guess not."

Crowley frowned, maybe he was the one feeling homesick. And it was for a home he couldn't even remember. He shook his head and clapped his hands, startling Aziraphale. "Well! Thank Someone that's over with! Let's not ever do that again!"

"At least it should keep us in the clear for a while."

"Yeah…" Crowley trailer off and silence enveloped the room. They were both very carefully not thinking about what could happen if, or when, their bosses decided to chance trying the whole punishing thing again.

"They'll figure it out," Aziraphale spoke in a small voice. "And if not, they will still find a way to come for us sooner or later."

"Of course they will! But then we'll have thought up something new. Just gotta stay one step ahead."

"Is that any way to live? What if we trip during one of your metaphorical steps?"

"Then what do you propose we do?"

"I— I don't know."

"Think of it like living like humans!" Crowley threw his hands in the air with a grin that was slightly too wide to be genuine. "You never know when it's gonna end!"

Aziraphale grimaced. "That's the one thing about humans that I don't care for. And besides, if they do get to us, then our death won't come as easy as it does for most humans."

Crowley slumped back down. "I know. Let's lay low for a while. Who knows? Maybe they will forget about us."

They did not forget about them.

Heaven came first; stern letters and more demanding paper-work that actually required Aziraphale to do the smiting and the miracles for once.

Aziraphale and Crowley had spent countless hours discussing all the ways that both sides could get back at them; coming up with increasingly dreadful and imaginative punishments over increasingly stronger bottles of wines. These nights morphed into them complaining about Aziraphale actually having to work for once—with Crowley's help, of course— even as they smiled in relief at the relatively mild punishment.

They had come to the conclusion that heaven didn't feel like making a personal visit after Asiraphales presumed new ability to withstand and breathe hellfire.

The respite was short as Hell came soon after and just as Crowley had foreseen there was no penmanship in sight. Instead they came with fire and blood and pain.

It all started one day as they entered the bookshop after another evening of dreadfully blessed work on orders from Above. The laughter shared between them suddenly became one-sided as Crowley froze in the middle of a step. He took another deep breath and felt his blood run cold at the familiar smell. Sulfur.

The relief he had felt at heavens meager revenge left Crowley at once; now it was his time.

He cast a quick look around, but couldn't see anything out of place. A warning then—a threat. They would come for him and they let Crowley know it, which meant that they knew he couldn't get away.

It was unlike Hell to be subtle in any way but they seemed to have managed to pick up on a few new techniques when it came to scaring people. It worked.

Crowley sent Aziraphale a quick look but the other didn't seem to have noticed the smell, so Crowley plastered a neutral expression on his face and stopped right inside the door. He couldn't drag Aziraphale into this. He couldn't crush the hopeful light that had taken place in his friend's eyes after heaven's meager punishment. He could face this alone and then come back to continue just like before. "I have to go."

"What?" Aziraphale looked over at him and Crowley hated the worry that had already taken root in the other's eyes. Aziraphale was too good for him. He had to leave quick, before he figured out what was going on.

"I have to go. Now. It was nice hanging with you, angel."

Before he could leave, a hand shot out and grabbed his sleeve. Crowley had to consciously keep himself from cursing as he looked up into the wide and worried eyes of his friend. Aziraphale looked hurt and scared, and Crowley found that he hated the fact that he had put that look on his face. When he spoke, Aziraphale's voice was hesitant and quiet, "Why all of a sudden…?"

"You know how it is. Demonic duties and what-not. I can't hang around an angel all the time, what would people think?" Crowley waved his hand as casually as he could manage while not-praying for Aziraphale to drop it, to just let it go and stay out of it.

"We can work something out. Just stay a few minutes and—"

Another whiff of sulfur reached Crowley's nose and he turned on the spot. He had to get out of here now, before they decided to come and get him. "I'll see you later. Stay safe."

Crowley inched slowly into his apartment. The smell of sulfur was stronger here; permeating the whole apartment and making his eyes water—not from the smell, he was a demon after all, but because of the associations it carried. Sulfur meant suffering, pain, striving for ideals he could never reach and conforming to ideas he didn't share, but most of all it meant loneliness. Loneliness from anyone who had ever understood him, loneliness away from Aziraphale.

Crowley slowly turned a corner and stopped dead when his eyes landed on a very familiar face. A very familiar, unsettlingly smiling face.

"Hello, Crowley," Hastur said with the same happiness in his voice that you would think maggots felt when finding a new source of food. "What did you think of my little sulfur trickery? Smart, huh?"

Crowley opened his mouth to answer but before he had the time, Hastur moved. The breath he had taken to talk left his lungs in a painful rush as Hastur's right hand slammed into his abdomen. He stumbled and then fell as something hard struck his left shoulder, accompanied by a piercing pain. A blade.

"You couldn't possibly think that I would give you time to weasel your way out of the situation again, did you Crawly?" Hastur spat his name as if it was something holy while twisting the weapon—was it a damn sword?!—in his shoulder.

Crowley gave a short yelp at the sudden pain.

"Ah, much better." Hastur wiggled the blade lightly and spoke with as much happiness in his voice as Crowley had ever heard from the other demon. "You know, this way of communicating suits you much better."

Crowley scrambled for purchase against Hastur's arm but all he managed to do was rip the other's sleeve. The pain spread from his shoulder in pulsating bursts and Crowley couldn't keep in a groan as he broke out in a cold sweat.

"Pathetic. I can't believe Ligur got done in by such a sad excuse for a demon."

Hastur got to his feet and Crowley groaned where he lay—he wasn't able to will the wound to heal as long as the blade stayed imbedded in his shoulder. He allowed himself a second to suck in a deep breath and press down on the pain before reaching up his right hand to grab the blade in his shoulder.

A foot connected with his hand before it could reach the handle; stamping down on it hard. Crowley cursed as it too was pinned to the floor. Hastur gave a short, joyless, laugh. "I don't think so."

Crowley hissed as he looked up at Hastur, who smiled back and spoke in his usual dead tone, "I was going to pay you back for what you did to Ligur but sadly you are apparently immune to those barbaric methods now. So I thought we should try something new. You like your new and modern things right? Well, you're going to love this."

Crowley forced out a laugh. "Hah! You?! Trying new things?!"

"Hello, Crowley."

The laughter came to an abrupt end as Crowley twisted his head to see who had just entered the room. "Michael."

Crowley kept his voice as casual as he was able to with his face half against the floor and agony emanating from his shoulder. "I haven't seen you since the fourteen hundreds."

"I am well aware that you were behind that mob of humans. They ruined a perfectly functional body."

"I will never pass up on claiming that as one of my deeds. It was hilarioussss." Crowley did his best to keep the pain out of his voice, intentionally dragging out the last s into a hiss as he smiled up at Michael's face.

"Smile while you can demon. I don't care about the humans or what they do but you made a fool of me in front of Beelzebub and all the forces of hell with that holy water stunt, and that was a mistake." Michael smiled as she raised a bundled up package; it was long as her arm and wrapped in what looked like centuries old cloth.

Crowley frowned. "What is that?" Michael simply smiled wider as she started walking towards him and Hastur. Crowley struggled against Hastur's foot on his back and the blade in his shoulder, which only resulted in Hastur barking out a laugh and pressing down harder. Crowley kept his eyes on the approaching Michael. "What is that?!"

She smiled as she raised both arms with the bundle held in front of her chest. "This, my dear forsaken one, is your end."

Michael unwrapped the bundle slowly and revealed a blade. A long, shining, and very sharp-looking blade. The smile that spread over her face matched it.

Crowley's eyes widened as his fear surged into panic. He recognized that blade.

"Where did you get that?" Crowley breathed out with his eyes fixated on the weapon he hadn't seen for six thousand years.

"Well, I picked it up sometime during the last millennia. Can you believe that it was in the possession of a lowly human?" Michael said as she stopped beside Hastur, right above Crowley, casting a quick and disdainful glance down at the blade embedded in Crowley's shoulder. "Can you remove that barbaric excuse for a weapon?"

Hastur tore the weapon from Crowley's shoulder with one swift motion, giving Crowley just enough time to suck in a hissing breath at the sudden pain before Michael plunged the sword down in its place.

It pierced his left shoulder in almost exactly the same place as the other blade; but the pain. The pain was on a whole new level.

The sword came to a halt as it reached the floor beneath him; effectively pinning him in place where the long blade bit into the wood.

Crowley screamed.

Something didn't feel right. The wound burnt. Something wasn't—He had to get out of there. He had to—

Before he had time to think it through, Crowley willed his wings into this reality and immediately beat them down. Hard.

Hastur blessed as he was thrown off Crowley's back by the sudden appearance of the feathered appendages.

Crowley tried to get his hands under him and rise from his position on the floor but he was stuck—the sword not budging. Crowley raised his head and caught Michael with a startled expression before he saw it slowly morphing into joy and for a bless— cursed second Crowley wondered why.

Then he felt it.

The blade in his shoulder had gone from hot and painful to being on fire— actually and literally on fire.

The fire from the sword spread to his feathers, and then his skin; travelling over the length of his wings and burning, burning, burning!

It took Crowley a while to realize that the screams he heard were coming from him. It took him less than a second to realize that he was beyond caring.

Even without cohesive thought he instinctively hid his wings from this plane of existence again; trying to protect them from further harm, but the damage had already been done. He could feel the fire smoldering and eating away at them even as it sputtered out. It reminded him too much of burning, of falling, of uncertainty and pain and loneliness and—

Sudden pain jolted him from his thoughts and he realized that someone had stomped down on his back; right where his wings would protrude from if they were still tangible. Crowley's throat felt as if it had been burned raw as well, but it still managed to produce a scream.

Hastur's dry laugh filtered into his flickering consciousness from above. "Well, that was stupid of you, now wasn't it?"

Michael made a tutting noise where she stood a couple of meters away. "You won't be flying anywhere anytime soon."

Suddenly there was the sound of a door opening. Crowley struggled against the foot still placed on his back to try and turn his head towards the room's entrance; towards where whoever it was would enter from.

"Crowley? I'm sorry, but I had to come over." The sound of Aziraphale's voice was like a balm on his soul until the panic set in. He can't be here! He's going to get hurt! "Crowley? Are you in here?"

Hastur leaned down close to Crowley's face and hissed, "You stay quiet." If you make a sound that angel will never walk out of here."

"You can't hurt him," Crowley wheezed out between gasps of pain.

"If you continue to whine, then we will." Hastur smiled down at him before grinding his foot into his back.

Crowley pressed his mouth into a thin line and tried to focus on his breathing as he trembled, doing his best to will the world to stay in focus as darkness threatened to overtake him.

Distantly he could hear footsteps approaching and for the first time in six thousand years, he prayed.