#My first disastrous run has already plagued my dreams so I have a very dark idea to contemplate 🤔

[mwolf0epsilon]

Not me for real having ideas for a Star Wars XCOM AU where clones are still a thing and the Jedi (and a select few clones) are Psi Operatives...

[lady-divine-writes]

The Deadly Doubts of Aziraphale: Chapter 3 (Rated NC17)

Summary:

After they survive the Holy Water and Hellfire, Aziraphale and Crowley find it hard to be away from one another, constantly plagued by the paranoia that they'll lose each other again. But now, at this new stage in their existence, mostly free, something has started to trouble Aziraphale, something that manages to unearth every single one of his fears, driving him down paths that make him question everything he believes about him and his relationship with his demon.

Warning for this chapter: some horror imagery and violence.

Read on AO3.

“About a week had passed, and the position had begun to grow more complicated.”

“Hmm, what …? What was that you said?”

“I may mention in passing that I suffered a great deal during that unhappy week …”

“Aziraphale? Mmph … who are you talking to …?”

“… as I scarcely left the side of my affianced friend, in the capacity of his most intimate confidant.”

“Aziraphale? What in the Devil …?”

“What weighed upon him most was the feeling of shame, though we saw no one all that week, and sat indoors alone. But he was even ashamed before me, and so much so that the more he confided to me the more vexed he was with me for it.”

“Aziraphale.”

“He was so morbidly apprehensive that he expected that every one knew about it already, the whole town, and was afraid to show himself, not only at the club, but even in his circle of friends.”

“Jesus Christmas …”

“He positively would not go out to take his constitutional till well after dusk, when it was quite dark.”

“Please, no …”

“A week passed and he …”

“Aziraphale!?” A hand sneaks over the top of Aziraphale’s book and covers the page he’s reading. “What are you doing!?”

Aziraphale sighs dramatically, sliding the book out from under the offending hand. “You were asleep, so I decided to read.”

“You should be asleep, too. That’s why we came back here, remember? To sleep?”

“Technically, angels don’t need sleep.”

“Demons don’t need sleep, either, technically, and yet, here we are … in bed.”

Aziraphale assesses the disheveled demon – hair stuck up all over like chaotic licks of flame, the bulk a disastrous mess atop his head; creases from the pillowcase carving a map on his left cheek; his eyes, golden in this light, half-lidded and bleary from exhaustion. Aziraphale shakes his head, his eyes returning to his book. “I think you might be sleeping enough for the both of us, my dear. Why did you wake up, anyway?”

“You mumble when you read. Loudly. Plus the light you read by has gone from subtle glow to Death Valley in August. My eyeballs are charring through my eyelids. Not a very good look, if you ask me.”

Aziraphale glances around and notices, as Crowley had, that instead of a warm radiance focused mainly on the pages of his book, his holy aura had dialed up about seventeen notches, making the room look like they were trapped inside a gigantic tanning bed. “Oops. Sorry about that. I’ll turn it down.”

“What are you reading?” Crowley snatches the book out his angel’s hands and squints at the spine. “Demons?” He snorts. “I suppose I should be flattered but Dostoyevsky? Darling, it’s only Thursday.”

“It was either this or Crime and Punishment.”

“Stellar choices. Remind me never to ask you to read me a bedtime story.”

“That’s fine. I’m not sure I have a copy of The Little Engine That Could readily available anyhow.”

“Nice. Just so you know, since you’re taking pot shots at me, that one in particular did not land because The Little Engine That Could happens to be one of my favorite books. A remarkable work of literature, if you ask me. Brimming with nuance and symbolism,” Crowley grumbles, pulling the comforter over his head and burrowing underneath like … well, like a snake, if Aziraphale is being honest.

Aziraphale looks at the long lump of demon lying beside him and smiles. Even when he’s grumpy, he’s too adorable for words.

And Aziraphale loves him.

He snaps his fingers and the light that surrounds him blinks out.

“I’m sorry if I’m keeping you from sleeping,” he says in a voice Crowley feels more than he hears. It’s melodic, slipping through Crowley’s ears like a whisper of wind in Aziraphale’s attempt to not disturb him too much more. “I know how much you enjoy it. I’m sorry to say that I haven’t as of late.”

“Is it me?” Crowley asks, voice muffled by the thick blanket he refuses to climb out from under to continue this conversation. “Do I snore?”

“No.” Aziraphale gives his lower lip a nibble. “Well, you do snore a little, but that doesn’t keep me from sleeping.”

Crowley finally does peek out. He’s eyes, nose, and a mouth with the blanket still wrapped around him because that’s all he’s willing to expose. “Then what is it?”

“I …” Aziraphale’s last two nightmares scroll through his head like a reel to reel film set on fast forward. From the scenes that stand out, he sees Gabriel’s face grimacing at him, the rage that filled his eyes as he grabbed hold of Aziraphale’s wing and tore it off; he sees Michael and Uriel wedging him between them on that park bench, mocking him with thoughts of Crowley using lust to tempt humans … and all that that would entail; he sees that book with no words, just bugs and marks and scratches with no meaning, cradled in his arms. He wants to talk to Crowley about it. He desperately wants to talk with him. But how does he do that without sounding off his rocker? “I’d rather not discuss it. Not just yet, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It is all the same to me. I care about you. I want you happy. Happy here with me. We’ve spent thousands of years apart. I don’t want to be apart anymore.”

“Neither do I,” Aziraphale returns softly. “But I just … can’t.”

Crowley looks at his angel dressed in his two piece pajamas, sitting ram-rod straight with a book in his hands. He’s basically the same as bookshop Aziraphale, but here in his flat, distinguishable as relaxed only by virtue of his clothing choices.

“If you want, I can move to another room,” Aziraphale offers, “that way you can sleep in darkness. I know you prefer it.”

“That’s not what I want,” Crowley says. “Not at all. I want you here with me, light or no. But I think I can help you out, if you’d let me.”

“How’s that?”

“First of all, let’s close the book and put it away, shall we?” Crowley slides out of the comforter and puts out a hand for Aziraphale’s book. Aziraphale stares at the beckoning hand, reluctant to give it up, but only because he doesn’t want to sleep. He doesn’t even want to try. But there’s more going on here than just sleeping. They’re weaving their lives together. Normally, lying in bed with Crowley is something Aziraphale would enjoy. He knows Crowley enjoys it, too. Looks forward to it even.

They’re never going to get back to enjoying it together if Aziraphale doesn’t work things out.

He hands the book over. Crowley sets it carefully on the table beside him. Then, on second thought, he sticks it in a drawer and snaps his fingers to lock it.

Aziraphale tuts at the absurdity of that gesture since he could simply snap and unlock it again. Counteracting Crowley’s magic is as easy to Aziraphale as eating. Crowley knows that.

Crowley is sending Aziraphale a message.

If he wants his book back, he’s going to have to climb over Crowley to get it.

Crowley rolls back on his side facing his angel. “May I touch you?” he asks, the words catching in his throat,

Aziraphale’s right eyebrow shoots up. “That depends on how you intend on touching me, I suppose.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. Aziraphale is stalling. He just wishes he knew why. “Do you trust me?”

“Against my better judgement,” Aziraphale teases.

“You’re full of zingers tonight, aren’t ya, angel?” Crowley tugs on the hem of Aziraphale’s shirt till he slides down the headboard and joins Crowley beneath the comforter. He positions Aziraphale on his side facing away from him, then wraps his arms around him and holds him tight. He adjusts, then readjusts until they both lay comfortably, Crowley’s nose buried in Aziraphale’s hair, breathing softly against his scalp. “There. How does that suit you?”

“It … it suits me just fine,” Aziraphale replies, overwhelmed by a dark but powerful sensation of love bleeding through his back where Crowley’s chest touches.

Aziraphale was flabbergasted the moment he realized Crowley loved him, when he realized how long Crowley had loved him. Lately, it’s how much Crowley loves him that leaves him speechless. He feels it now, filling his body with its warmth, pooling inside his stomach like a cup of rich cocoa.

“Good. Now try to get some sleep, will ya? Leave the heavy political dramas till sun up.”

***

“Hello, Azzziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s brow crinkles as an oppressive buzzing assaults his ears, encapsulated within a voice of indeterminate species. But he’s heard that voice before. It brings with it memories of Evil and destruction.

Satan and end-of-the-world level matters.

Crowley threatening several times to run away from Earth and leave Aziraphale to face annihilation alone.

It travels down his spine like a Bentley ablaze, held together only by a demon’s imagination, much in the same way that demon should be holding Aziraphale together now.

“Beelzebub?” Aziraphale turns, utterly perplexed. He’s not in Hell. He’s outdoors. But he’s not at the park this time. He’d suspected that if he managed to fall asleep, which he obviously has, he’d end up some place. He’d hoped for no place – a void of solitude behind his eyes he could slip swiftly into, hide himself inside of. He knew that was farfetched. He hasn’t been searching for these dreams; they’ve been coming to him, holding a mirror to his eyes, forcing him to confront his fears. The park as a setting makes sense because it means something to him.

It means something to them – him and Crowley.

This is plain confusing.

He’s at Tadfield Air Base, the book he’d been carrying in his last two dreams replaced by his unlit sword. He has to admit both are a pleasant change, but he doesn’t understand. Why would he come here? Their mission in Tadfield finished after Adam thwarted the Apocalypse. He’d never even heard of the place before then, definitely never had an occasion to come here. And after, it became but a small denominator in his conscious.

He breathes in through his nose. The air smells damp, pungent, bitterly sweet, like freshly cut grass mixed with steer manure. The realism of it shocks him. The park hadn’t smelt like this. It hadn’t felt like this either. It had felt real, yes, but he chalks that up to how often he’s been there. This feels hyper-real, beyond three-dimensional.

So real that logic dictates it can’t be.

He knows he isn’t in Tadfield. He’s lying in bed with Crowley. As he drifted away, he could have sworn he felt Crowley kiss the back of his neck. He’d held on to that feeing, made it his anchor in the hopes that it would keep him from wandering too far. That is reality, not this. Aziraphale doesn’t have lovely dreams when he sleeps. He doesn’t need lovely dreams. He has a lovely life, a lovely future.

Or is he wrong? Is it the other way around?

He doesn’t know and that frightens him. It had been so clear before, so solid.

How does he decide?

Trying to sort it out is causing a pain between his eyes and in his chest.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, figuring that getting to the bottom of one mystery might help him unravel the other.

“I’ve come to make you an offer, Angel of the Easzzztern Gate,” Beelzebub purrs with false sincerity. “An offer you’d be ridiculouszzz to refuszzze.”

Aziraphale stands defiant, his sword lowered but ready to draw if needed. “Try me.”

Beelzebub starts slowly, metering their words, the way one would when speaking to someone inferior to them. “I would very much like for you to come work for uszzz.”

Aziraphale’s eyes pop like overheated kernels of corn. “Work for you where?”

“Why, downstairszzz, of course. In Hell.”

Aziraphale chuckles but it’s not born of humor. It’s a nervous, incredulous sputter. “Are you … are you serious? What makes you think I would ever agree to such a preposterous thing?”

“Think about it, Azzziraphale.” Beelzebub takes a casual step toward him, not minding at all the large blade in the angel’s hand. They don’t even spare it a glance, and that makes Aziraphale wary. “You do realizzze you’ve been working for our szzzide all along.”

“I …” Aziraphale’s voice trembles, Beelzebub’s statement hitting at the root of his deepest fear “… n-no, I haven’t.”

“Yeszzz, you have. I know it, Satan knowszzz it, and Gabriel knowszzz it, so the Almighty must know it by now. That’szzz why I’m here. To invite you to take the next step. Make it official.”

“O … official?”

“Fall, Azzziraphale,” Beelzebub says, the closest thing to a smile Aziraphale has ever seen on their face nudging up the corners of their mouth, “and become one of uszzz.”

Aziraphale’s head twists on his neck. “What? No! I … I can’t do that! I’m an angel! I was put on Earth to do good!”

“But you also tempt. You’ve been doing it for Crowley. You do szzzome tempting, and he doeszzz some blessing. You know …” They lift a finger to the side of their nose and wink “Your Arrangement?”

Aziraphale’s hands shake, the sword he’s clutching vibrating in his grasp. “How … how do you know about that?”

“Demonszzz are a hive mind. For the most part, what Crowley knowszzz, we know aszzz well.”

Aziraphale feels a sudden unsinkable cold pass through him as 6000 years of secrets he thought they’d been hiding expertly cross the demon’s eyes and settle in the cruel twist of their smile.

“And in regardszzz to you, angel …” Beelzebub lowers their voice along with their eyes, looking at Aziraphale through stunted lashes “… I know quite a lot.”

“What … what do you know?”

“Join uszzz and I’ll tell you.”

“I … I can’t.”

“Yeszzz, you can,” they press, annoyed the way they had been with Adam. Adam had stared them down with collected calm, the wisdom of ages by his side. But Aziraphale doesn’t have Adam’s calm, and he doesn’t have backup. “Think of it. You’d have power, Azzziraphale. More power than they grant you upstairszzz. And reszzzpect. You and the traitor …” Beelzebub pinches their lips together and recovers “… I mean, the demon Crowley, could work in concert. You could still do …” They stop again, swallow hard, skewered by the next words they speak “… good deedszzz, just with an evil twiszzzt. The way you have been already. No need to make too large a change. That should szzzuit your needszzz.”

“Not too large a change?” Aziraphale chokes. “You want me to become a demon! A … a Fallen angel! That sounds like a rather large change to me!”

“Crowley must have told you about hiszzz Fall, hmm?” Beelzebub nods knowingly, theorizing the reason behind Aziraphale’s hesitation. “How devastating it waszzz for him? Fell szzztraight from Heaven, he did. He waszzz one of the Almighty’s favoriteszzz, too.”

“Sauntered vaguely downward is how he puts it,” Aziraphale corrects. He feels the need. He doesn’t like Beelzebub talking on Crowley’s behalf.

“You’re already on your way though, aren’t you? You’ve been inching down gradually over the centurieszzz. For you, it’d be more like a skip than a Fall.”

“Why are you making me this offer? What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” they say, but behind their dead eyes, something shrewd lurks. Calculating. To put it bluntly … Evil. “Hell needszzz numberszzz. Face it, you’re a mediocre angel at beszzzt, Azzziraphale. But you’d be a Duke in Hell. Higher in rank than Crowley. He’d answer to you.”

“What makes you think he’d listen to me?” Aziraphale says with an honest to God laugh this time. “He barely listened to you.”

“I can make certain of it. I’ll keep him under constant szzzurveillance. In chainszzz, if you prefer.” That thought, the image they’re building in their head of Crowley under lock and key, makes them grin so wide it splits their face in two. “Think about it.”

“I don’t need to think about it! What you’re proposing is literally unthinkable!” Aziraphale lifts his sword threateningly but it doesn’t ignite. Because Aziraphale isn’t being entirely honest. The thought of Falling isn’t as abhorrent to him as it once was. He’s thought about Falling once or twice.

So he can be with Crowley with no complications.

Beelzebub drops all pretense of pleasantry the second those words pass Aziraphale’s lips. “We will have him back, angel. We will have the traitor in our rankszzz once more, and then you’ll never szzzee him again. Never, ever, ever szzzeee him again. But if you Fall, the two of you can be together forever. Beszzzt to decide quickly. I’m not a patient demon.”

“No! I won’t join you!” Aziraphale yells, his sword finally bursting into a pillar of orange flame. “And neither will he! He won’t serve under Hell’s thumb again!”

Beelzebub shakes their head, the expression in their eyes murderous. “You have made the wrong decision, Azzziraphale. And now, you will suffer the consequenceszzz.”

Beelzebub snaps their fingers. Aziraphale anticipates, snaps his fingers to counter, but it’s not as easy deflecting a Prince of Hell, he discovers, as it is Crowley. Beelzebub doesn’t budge but Aziraphale flies backward, hitting the rust-infected wall of a munition’s paddock some hundred feet behind him.

“If you refuszzze to Fall on your own …” He hears Beelzebub’s voice follow him as he soars up and gets flung, hitting the same wall a second time and leaving a dent “… then I will make you Fall!”

He flies up again, climbing higher and higher. He balls his fists, braces his form, and tries to stop himself. He’s powerful enough to slow down but not to stop. He soars up above the clouds then stops short, hovering miles in the air. There he floats, trapped inside some other entity’s power, praying that another angel, or maybe even God, has intervened. But a second later, he free falls, the air underneath him battering his back, causing it to bend like a bow. When he lands, instead of impacting the metal shed, he hits the asphalt with a dizzying thud, skidding across the ground like a stone on the water.

“You could have had everything, Azzziraphale!” Beelzebub bellows. “Everything you’ve ever wanted! Power! Reszzzpect! That diszzzhonored, traitorous demon for your own! But now, you’re going to Hell a priszzzoner! No! A szzzlave!”

“Over … my … discorporated … body …” Aziraphale groans, wondering briefly (when his mind stops reeling and everything makes sense again) how in the world his body hasn’t given out on him already.

He’s tossed across the tarmac and lands on his stomach, the rebound forcing his face to hit after. He can’t see himself, but he knows he’s bruised badly. One eye socket and his nose might be broken. He may be missing some teeth. Nothing he can’t fix but still. His sword, knocked from his grasp, bounces away, then shatters into a hundred pieces, its fire going out in each one as it separates from the whole. Aziraphale could miracle it back together in a snap, but what good would it do? Beelzebub is too fast for him, too powerful. Aziraphale rises to his knees, determined to get to his feet, but a pair of black derbies and fishnet socks comes up on him and kicks him to the ground.

“Over your diszzzcorporated body, you say?” Beelzebub snorts. “Aszzz you wish.”

Aziraphale peers up at his tormentor. Through swelling lids he sees Beelzebub transform, confronting Aziraphale in their true demon form – boil-ridden flesh dripping from their face as shimmery black skin pushes to the surface; liquid eyes, round and black, soulless to their depths, grow and segment, becoming a brilliant blood red; spindly arms sprout from their sides, thin translucent wings from their back. Their lips purse and stretch forming a long proboscis, which emits a dreadful slurping when they breathe in. The buzzing that surrounds them increases ten-fold when they beat those wings. Aziraphale throws his hands over his ears to keep his mortal eardrums from bursting.

“Aszzz the humanszzz szzzay …��� Beelzebub buzzes, their voice ringing with a high-pitched whine that makes Aziraphale’s head pulse “… szzzeee you in Hell!”

They put a foot to the small of his back and shove down, forcing him through the cement quicker than he can react. Through layers and layers of rock he’s driven. A violent, air-sucking heat forms around him, creating a vacuum that pulls him through the Earth, straight to its core. The churning, broiling magma blinds him. His hair sizzles, his skin burns, his clothes disintegrate. His screams, his prayers, his calls to God and the angels for help, his pleas to Crowley, go unheard. Unanswered.

Deep inside his soul, he seethes with anger, a hatred to rival the molten iron that’s begun to envelope him. He feels his human form meld with the metal in a vulgar flesh and blood soup, but he has yet to discorporate, yet to return to Earth, or to Heaven. His bones and muscles render down to molecules and float away, but his consciousness remains, confused as to his fate until he realizes this is it. This is where he’ll be remanded - the core of the Earth his prison.

One place Crowley might never think to look for him, and where God, apparently, is content to see him rot.

***

When Aziraphale wakes, he’s no longer lying on the mattress, but sprawled on the marble floor. He scrambles to his feet before he even registers that he has a corporeal form again. His heel hits a wet spot and he nearly falls backward, but he stops himself before his feet catch air.

“Wha---what … what’s happening? Where am I?” he mutters, his brain taking longer to catch on before his body, which finds the edge of the mattress and sits. Shivering with cold after having been a primordial stew for the past who knows how long, Aziraphale takes a moment to reset and rewind, starting with the simple and working up from there.

“Where … where am I?” he mumbles, staring at his reflection in the polished floor, his eyes burning blue. “I’m at Crowley’s flat,” he answers himself. “In his bedroom.” He swallows, relaxing after that correct response. “What am I doing? Well, I’m supposed to be getting some sleep.” He looks up at the ceiling and chuckles. “Good job I’m doing with that one, huh?” He says it louder than necessary, hoping Crowley will answer, ask him if he’s had a nightmare. This time, he’ll say yes. He’ll climb into his demon’s arms and tell him everything. This was the straw that broke the camel’s back – Aziraphale sees it. This is where his other dreams were leading him. It’s one thing to have doubts about his relationship with Crowley. Those are easily fixable. All he need do is look at Crowley, catch him staring at him over his morning coffee, go out of his way to hold Aziraphale’s door open for him, drive him to the latest estate auction in search of his fifteenth copy of the same first edition, take him to lunch at his favorite restaurant.

All he has to do is tell Crowley he loves him, and hear Crowley tell him he loves him back like a reflex, no thought required, and those doubts will go away.

But doubts about his purpose on this planet, about who he is, who he’s been all along – for that he needs guidance. He’d kneel down and pray about it, but if these past few nights have proved anything it’s that the Almighty doesn’t seem too concerned with his nightmares or his doubts.

But Crowley doesn’t answer, doesn’t chuff, doesn’t snore, and Aziraphale sighs. Let the poor boy sleep, he scolds himself. The nightmare is over. Aziraphale has no wish to go back to sleep so it won’t be returning tonight. No need to wake him up. They have all day ahead of them. He can talk to him then.

Aziraphale climbs underneath the comforter, shimmying back in search of Crowley’s body. He doesn’t get too far when his frazzled brain comes up with a masterful idea. He’ll sneak over his wily serpent and retrieve his book. Won’t it ruffle Crowley’s scales to wake up and find Aziraphale has stolen his book back? But Aziraphale won’t let the boy seethe for long. He’ll cross the divide, offer up his nightmare in apology for defying his fiend’s wishes.

Then they’ll go from there.

He slides back out of the bed, deciding the best course of action would be to tiptoe around the end instead of climbing over Crowley and risk waking him up. He peeks over his shoulder to make sure he’s still asleep.

But the demon lump that should be snoozing by his side isn’t there.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale pats Crowley’s side of the bed, checking to see if he didn’t become a snake unintentionally while snatching a few z’s. It’s rare, but it has been known to happen.

He feels nothing but bunched blanket and the mattress.

“Crowley?” He hops out of bed and searches the flat, leading with his mind, his powers extending to every wall, every room, every conceivable crevice. But the angel can’t detect him – not a thought, not a hair of him, not the signature his power leaves behind, not his smell.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale races from the bedroom to the bathroom, then down the hall to the office, his aura a blinding beam guiding him. “Crowley … Crowley … Crowley!!”

Aziraphale checks every closet, which he admits is asinine, but then he checks them twice. He looks out the window and spots Crowley’s Bentley parked by the curb, waiting patiently for its owner. As a last, desperate resort, Aziraphale tries summoning him, reciting the demonic spell Crowley taught him that should only be used in case of an emergency. It’ll bring me back from anywhere in this plane, Crowley had told him. But be careful. It will attract demon attention so only use it when you have no other choice.

Aziraphale never has till now.

Aziraphale recites it repetitively, playing Russian Roulette each time he does, but it doesn’t bring Crowley back.

Which means his demon isn’t simply gone from the flat, or Earth.

He’s gone from their dimension entirely.