Hey guys! Back with another Good Omens fanfic!

So just FYI this is the sequel to my other story "The Arrangement" and you may want to read that one before you dive into this so you'll know what's going on. Also, there is much angst and whump in this one so you have been warned.

Another note: Again, this is kind of a mix between TV and Book canon. I went with the descriptions of the demons from the book since I found their portrayal in the show a little comical for my purposes here. You can, of course, picture the characters however you want, I just thought I would mention this so as to avoid any possible description confusion that could arise.

(And of course, these ineffable idiots do not belong to me, though I would like to give them both a hug after this)

Crossfire

A Good Omens Fanfic

Chapter One

It was a pleasant day in St. James Park as Aziraphale stood on the small walking bridge over the duck pond, watching the happy water birds bob about and pluck up the bread he tossed to them. They were too well-fed to fight each other over it, but all the same, Aziraphale always made sure he had plenty to go around.

There was a damp chill in the air that day, which regrettably made his recently wounded shoulder ache and he refrained from reaching up to massage it. It had only been two weeks since the unfortunate incident, and he still found himself unable to quite forget everything that had happened. He felt like it shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did—after all, it wasn't the first time he'd gotten injured, or even the first time he'd gotten injured badly. And really, he didn't even remember the worst of it. He thought it was perhaps more the look in Crowley's eyes after the fact that told him just how bad it had been and how lucky he was to have the demon as a friend as he was sure he certainly would have died without Crowley's quick thinking. And not just discorporated either, actually dead.

But he wasn't, and he tried to remind himself of that again as he tossed more bread out to the ducks.

"Fancy seeing you here, angel."

Aziraphale pulled himself out of his dark musings and glanced over to see that the demon had appeared. "Oh, there you are."

Crowley grunted at him in exasperation. He was facing away from Aziraphale, casually leaning back against the railing of the bridge. Or he would appear casual to the common viewer. To Aziraphale's discerning eye he was tense, his eyes darting back and forth across the park underneath his dark glasses.

"Has something happened?" Aziraphale asked quietly, going back to feeding the ducks.

Crowley shifted. "No. Just a feeling is all."

Aziraphale felt a shiver go up his spine at that. "It's been a couple weeks now and you haven't heard anything from the home office," he said optimistically. "Perhaps they still don't know."

They had been cautious the last couple weeks since the incident. Crowley still wasn't sure if he'd actually managed to kill Malebranche—the demon who had stabbed Aziraphale—or if he had only inconveniently discorporated him. If it was the latter, the demon would definitely be back and looking for revenge. So as soon as Crowley had made sure Aziraphale was fine and could manage on his own, he'd gone back to his own flat and they hadn't gotten in contact again until today. Aziraphale really hoped Hell never found out what happened to Malebranche. Truly he didn't wish anyone dead, not even a demon, but he'd never felt closer to wanting that than he did with Malebranche, if only so he could never be allowed to tell the truth. After all, Crowley had only been acting defensively. Aziraphale just didn't think Hell would count that as an excuse.

Crowley didn't reply, shifting again and finally turning around, leaning over the rail to look into the water below.

Aziraphale threw the last of the bread into the water and glanced at him. "My dear, if you're worried you are welcome to come stay at my place for a few days."

"No," Crowley said quickly, pushing away from the railing. "I won't lead them to you again." He pressed his thumb against his opposite palm where a pink scar had formed in the place he had dripped holy water down his hand.

"Surely my place must be safer than your flat," Aziraphale tried to reason.

"Yes, and you seem to forget Malebranche saw you with me last time, unless you don't remember that you got stabbed Aziraphale, because I do!"

The angel could almost feel the tension washing off of Crowley in waves, but before he could say anything else, the demon took a step back. "Look, I'm sure it's fine. But we can't stay here long without risk, so I'll let you go. Let's plan on meeting in another couple weeks to check in."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale called but the demon was already striding away down the path, shoulders hunched and hands shoved in his pockets.

Aziraphale stood there for a long moment, an uncomfortable feeling worming its way into his chest. Crowley may be naturally given to panic, but the demon looked simply terrified to him. He wished Crowley had accepted his invitation, but at the same time he understood the logic behind his refusal. If anything were to happen, it would be better that they weren't both caught in the crossfire.

Still he certainly didn't plan on waiting two weeks to check on his friend. He just hoped they were both a little paranoid after their harrowing experience and in a few weeks, they would forget all about it.

Aziraphale dusted some bread crumbs off his sleeve and walked back toward his shop, still quite unable to rid himself of the chill that had moved from his shoulder to his whole being.

Crowley took care locking his door when he got back to his flat. He had bought new locks—several of them. Though even he knew they wouldn't do much for demons if they really wanted to get in. After all, demons didn't even really need doors. Still, it made him feel a little better, or perhaps it was just helping him fool himself.

He paced around, trying to shake the feeling that had come over him starting yesterday. That something was coming. He couldn't really do anything, he didn't dare turn on the television for fear Hell would contact him. Same with listening to music.

Eventually, he pulled out one of the few books he owned, a pulp fiction novel that Aziraphale would most like tut over, and crawled into his bed—though not after he had gone to the safe behind the portrait of the Mona Lisa and retrieved the thermos from within.

He felt a slight terror every time he glanced at it, sitting so seemingly innocuous on his bedside table, but it would at least take out a few if they came for him.

He didn't really know what he was doing. He'd never really feared Hell before. It was a dark place, and the authorities could be hard on you, but as long as you did a little corrupting here and there and filled out the right paperwork—Hell was big on paperwork—they mostly left you alone to do your own thing. Which is why he couldn't understand why Malebranche had come for him, or understand how he had apparently known about his…fraternizing with Aziraphale. And if Malebranche knew, then who else did? Hastur obviously, but Hastur had never liked Crowley. The trouble lay in the If where someone higher on the food chain knew. Beelzebub, for one. There was a right bastard.

Crowley wouldn't be so worried if he'd just thought Hastur had put Malebranche up to it. The interrogator's failure would be nothing more than an embarrassment to the Duke of Hell, which Hastur would likely pretend never happened and simply glare more furiously at Crowley the next time they met. He just felt there was more to this, which is why he was so terrified. For him and Aziraphale. Because if Hell knew about them, then how long would it be before Heaven caught wind of it too?

He growled and yanked the covers over himself, huddling into the bed. The knife he had stolen from Malebranche was under his pillow, an extra guard, the holy water was on the nightstand, and he was as secure as he could be. No need to worry over something he would be forgetting in a couple months. Perhaps he would work overtime on corrupting the next couple weeks to bring himself back up to good standing.

He picked up the book and started reading, forcing himself to concentrate on it. And soon the words started to run together and the warmth of the bed was working to relax him almost too much. He realized for the first time how exhausted he was. The book fell onto his chest and he let his eyes slip closed, in what he would soon realize was a fatal error.

They came for Crowley in his flat after all.

And he had gone and fallen asleep, not even realizing that there was a presence in his room until far too late to do anything about it.

Crowley came awake with a start, scrabbling at the sheets as hands fastened around his ankles. But the sheets only came off with him, tangling him up. He had no chance to reach for the holy water, not even for the dagger under his pillow which he should have kept in his hand while he slept. The demons hauled him in like a fish in a net, depositing him onto the floor where they surrounded him.

He cried out, cursed at them, scratched and bit, but it did no good. They bound chains around his arms and legs, and left him helpless, hanging over a demon's shoulder as they dragged him through a portal and down.

Crowley landed heavily.

It was dark, except for the dim glow of candlelight. He shivered despite the suffocating heat. A foot thudded into his ribs and Crowley grunted, curling up as much as he could.

"Get him on his knees," a low, sibilant voice hissed.

His chains were being undone, and Crowley struggled again, until he got slapped in the back of the head.

"Stop it."

Hastur. Crowley should have known that bastard was behind this.

"Hastur!" He tried for a confused jovial tone, but his voice sounded too strangled. "Hey old mate, haven't seen you for a while. What's all this then?"

"We know what you did," Hastur said. "We know you tried to stop Malebranche from doing his work. Discorporated him." He sneered, his pale, thin face contorting nastily. "We also know you did it to defend an angel."

Crowley's breath caught in his throat. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. That wasn't good at all. Hell would want blood for that, and they would take their pound of flesh from Crowley happily. But another worrying thought flashed through his mind too. If Hell knew about their charade—then did Heaven also know about it? Was Aziraphale in danger? He didn't think heaven was as strict about things, as big on punishment, but then, he didn't think there had been an angel who worked with a demon since The Fall. What if his friend was in Heaven now, being tortured by his own kind?

He needed to think of something fast.

"Trust me, whatever it is he thought he saw, it's not what it looks like. I can explain!"

"We'll be the judge of that," Hastur snorted.

He didn't have time to think more on a plan of defense though, because he suddenly remembered what else Hastur had said in regards to Malebranche. Discorperated. Tried to stop. No, it couldn't be.

Footsteps came into the room and he looked up to see the tall, formidable figure of Malebranche standing there. The interrogator nodded to the demons who had brought Crowley in before he focused in on the captured demon.

"Crowley," Malebranche said with a cruel leer, looking at Crowley like he was something to eat. "I'm so glad you joined us."

Hastur had hauled him onto his knees, and decided to keep him there with a knife to his throat.

Crowley swallowed hard, the blade bobbing against his throat. "Not like I had much of a choice."

Malebranche strode forward, reaching down and gripping a handful of Crowley's hair, yanking his head back. Crowley felt suddenly very vulnerable. He didn't have his glasses, he was only wearing his black trousers and shirt, didn't even have shoes on—he'd been in bed after all. He certainly didn't feel as brave as he had been in the park when Aziraphale was being threatened.

"I'm sure you remember the last time we met," Malebranche said. "It took me this long to get a new body—paperwork, you know, dreadful. I'm sure you thought you were getting off scot-free, but…here we are." He shrugged, a cruel grin spreading over his face.

Crowley swallowed again, his mouth suddenly very dry. "Oh, that?" he stuttered. "That was just a misunderstanding. You see, I was…I was undercover! I was working to get the angel to be a contact of mine, pretending to be his friend! Sorry I had to stab you, but I was…working on a…a top secret mission and all that. Wasn't gonna blow my cover when I'd already gotten so far!"

Malebranche glanced over at Hastur who shook his head slowly at Crowley's babbling.

The interrogator sighed in disappointment and then slapped Crowley across the face, nearly sending him to the ground.

"Your lies are only making this worse, Crowley."

"They're not lies! Look, no one will admit it because it's top secret and all, but I promise, I—"

Another backhanded blow forced him to catch himself with his bound hands, and Hastur's knife cut his throat a little. Malebranche watched, unamused. "Lord Beelzebub has asked me to oversee your…correction," Malebranche said. "After all, a demon can't be seen fraternizing with an angel. It's just not done."

"I'm not fraternizing!" Crowley tried again, desperate. He had to talk his way out of this, not just for his sake, but for Aziraphale's as well. "For the last time, I was working up a contact! If you'll just listen—"

"Don't be coy," Hastur growled behind him, grabbing him around the throat and hauling him backwards. "That wasn't the first time you and the pigeon were seen together. Why do you think I alerted Malebranche about it in the first place? I've always said that you had grown too fond of Earth and the humans, but maybe you've fallen even farther than that." He leaned in close, foul breath washing over Crowley's face. "Maybe you want to turn traitor, and you know what we do with traitors."

"We have something special prepared," Malebranche said with an oily smile. "Make sure you never disobey again." He nodded to the demon guards and Hastur shoved Crowley away from him as the guards grabbed him between them again and hauled him to his feet, dragging him toward a door at one side of the room.

Crowley struggled as the room was revealed to him, digging his feet in, for the little good it did.

"Welcome to my private office," Malebranche said with a smirk.

The only thing about the room resembling an office was the desk in one corner. The only other furnishing in the room was a rack, and of course the décor on the walls, which held every torture implement ever invented. Crowley went weak in the knees just seeing it and made one last attempt to free himself.

Malebranche went to a table and picked up a knife from among the other instruments there, testing the sharpness menacingly. "You will never leave here unless we let you, Crowley, or unless you learn your lesson. You're trapped for all eternity. An eternity to be spent how we wish." He nodded to the demon guards. "Put him over there, on his knees."

Crowley was led to the open part of the floor; this part was stained darker than the rest of the room. The backs of his knees were kicked, sending him to the ground. Hastur waved a hand and the chains around his arms and legs slithered around him, now just manacling his hands in front of him, chained to the ground through a metal loop built into the floor, effectively keeping him on his knees.

Malebranche strode over and reached out to rip Crowley's shirt open, popping buttons that flew away carelessly to the corners of the room, revealing his skinny chest. Crowley wanted to protest the treatment of an otherwise good shirt when he saw Malebranche taking the knife from Hastur, running a finger over it teasingly, putting Crowley effectively on edge before he placed it on the table with a collection of other sharp and pointy things.

Crowley relaxed slightly for the moment. But the pain was coming soon, he knew it. He just didn't know where it would start.

"You can't do this!" he tried to threaten one more time, struggling against the chains that bound him all too securely.

"Oh, we can," Malebranche said with a smirk, seeming to enjoy Crowley's struggles more than he should. "Lord Beelzebub commands that you be punished and so you shall. Enjoy eternity, Crowley. I know I'll enjoy hearing you scream."

Hastur kicked Crowley for good measure and Crowley finally felt the panic truly setting in. There was no chance of escape. Not now. Even if he got out of this room, these chains, there was no way he could get out of Hell. And even if by some miracle he did, how far would he get before he was simply caught and brought back to this room for Malebranche to torture again?

The head interrogator was browsing his copious amounts of torture implements thoughtfully, turning back to enjoy Crowley's despair.

"Well, little serpent. Let's get started then, shall we?"