#i also imagined archangel aziraphale with a golden third eye on his forehead

[legobiwan]

Whumptober #8 (stab wound)

TW: minor gore; power dynamics; Crowley swears a lot (but so do I)

Fandom: Good Omens (Crowley, Aziraphale, (references to Crowley/Aziraphale), Gabriel)

Notes: Honestly the stab wound bit is really an excuse to get to the rest of this, which is self-indulgent twaddle. Also, I am not Catholic nor did I really grow up religious, so excuse any inaccuracies. 

—–

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Aziraphale moans again, writhing in Crowley’s arms, golden ichor seeping from the wound in his abdomen, spilling onto the demon’s hands. It burns, Crowley’s skin smoldering with the holy lifeblood, but he pays it no mind.

He can feel Aziraphale slipping away, can see him dying, creamy skin turning to water, the embers of his once-rosy cheeks fading to a pathetic sizzle as Crowley grasps for a hand unable to return his desperate touch.

(He’s seen death before, has killed angels with his own hands. The knife was familiar, too familiar - the way his hand curled around the silver hilt, wrenching the blade from Aziraphale’s body. The First War, the Rebellion, he and Lucifer and all the others, spilling gold at every turn, sparing a single cold eye to the spirits they had laid to waste.)

(Self-defense, he would tell himself later, long limbs curled to his chest, acid creeping up the edges of his metaphysical form as each felled angel stared back at him, accusing, every visage melting into that familiar mop of blond-white curls and plump cheeks.)

(Hell’s tortures had evolved beyond the physical. Even the Serpent of Eden wasn’t above the mandated re-education sessions of the Damned. Physical torture could be endured. This, however had been something else, his greatest asset - his imagination - turned against him. Hell had finally figured out how to bring the snake to heel.)

Now, he would give anything to be back in the Pit, Beezlebub looming over him, Hastur grinning at their side. If this were punishment, again, for depriving the Lord of Hell of another soul, a demonic miracle he couldn’t talk his way out of, a fudged compliance report damning him a second, third, a hundredth time - he would endure it for eternity if meant the angel was safe.

Crowley pulls Aziraphale to his chest, long arms encircling the angel’s stout belly, thin fingers caressing the soft, woolen layer of sweater. He swallows the rising sob in his throat whole, like the serpent he is, burying his nose in Aziraphale’s shoulder.

It smells of pine and sulfur.

Please, I’ll do anything. Crowley trembles, his eyes squeezed shut against the inevitable onslaught of tears. He casts his pleas upwards, contravening every demonic instinct branded into his damned soul. She doesn’t listen. She never has.

But just this once…

Save him.

Desperation curdles in his chest. Aziraphale remains motionless, the sheen of sweat glistening in the reflection of the damned blade. Crowley lays a hand on the angel’s shoulder, digging into skin and muscle.

Nothing.

Crowley dips his head, trembling, fanged teeth finding that delicate patch between his own thumb and forefinger. He bites, hard, drawing blood from his own flesh, a sacrifice made willingly, even though he knows he can offer nothing that had not already been taken.

Answer me, please.

Only the dagger responds from its discarded spot on the ground, crackling with Hellfire, taunting him, laughing in return.

Damn you.

Crowley’s fist clenches against Aziraphale’s shirt. The fabric wrinkles, tight in his grasp, as if he can keep Aziraphale on this plane of existence by his own sheer determination, by dragging him bodily from the greedy arms obliteration.

“Do you hear me, God?” Yellow eyes snap open. “I said, DAMN YOU!”

Once again, Crowley draws on his occult power, pouring every bit of desperation, will, and imagination into the spell. Aziraphale’s wound remains unchanged, his waistcoast still slashed open at the third button, jacket peppered with golden stains.

“Gotta say, that’s not the strategy I would have gone with. Then again, you’re a demon. Heaven’s SoPs - Standard Operating Prayers - are probably out of your jurisdiction.”

Crowley goes rigid, almost preternaturally still save his tears, which succumb to gravity, winding down the sharp angles of his face.

Nononono. This wasn’t happening. Not now, not when he had offered the last part of himself up to an uncaring God, to a dispassionate universe, not when Aziraphale -

The leather shoes step forward, a quiet shuffle. The material gleams in the dying light, untouched by ash, by demonic brimstone, by the haze of sulfur. Crowley’s eyes travel up the perfectly pressed pants, just this side of grey, the soft, cashmere jacket, the violet scarf, matching those penetrating, condescending eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Crowley growls.

A smile, all the more insincere for how wide it is. Gabriel looks as if he has walked straight out of a stock photo session extolling the virtues of corporate synergy.

(Crowley would know. He received a minor commendation for that effort.)

Not that the archangel would have any idea. He looked down on Earth, on humanity, on any being who dared care for Her creations (creations She so easily cast aside).

Arms spread wide, hands, fingers all in alignment, Gabriel stands perfectly straight, chest forward, feet spread the ideal width.

(That had been another one of Crowley’s creations, Power Postures and You: How to Succeed in the Modern Workplace. The ideal width had not, in fact, ever been delineated and yet somehow Gabriel stood there, the utter wanker, unbothered by Hellflame, by the dying Angel in Crowley’s arms, feet spread the perfect amount.)

“I heard your prayer,” Gabriel shrugged. “Obviously.”

“I didn’t ask…you, anyone, I mean - “ Crowley spluttered, shaking his head back and forth in denial. 

Gabriel’s smile widens.

“Went straight to our call center. Priority. Don’t get many of those these days, especially from such a…” Gabriel cocks his head. “Unique source. Obviously, my team had it directed to my office.”

“Obviously,” Crowley breaths, hugging Aziraphale, protective, as a child would hold their favorite stuffed animal. (Remember when you and Aziraphale raised Warlock). The thought threatens new tears, and Crowley swallows over the urge to sob.

Gabriel looks from Crowley to Aziraphale and back, disgust flitting across his face as the demon brushes a stray curl from the angel’s face, soft and more gentle than any agent of Hell had a right to be. There’s no point in hiding his affection, in denying what is before Gabriel’s very eyes.

The archangel clears his throat. ”I’m here to make a deal.”

Crowley’s hand stills, fingers caught partway through Aziraphale’s hair. “A…a deal?” he asks, the question wound with suspicion.

“Don’t look so offended, Crowley.”

It’s the first time Gabriel has uttered his name. Hell, Crowley didn’t even know the Archangel knew his name. It doesn’t hurt, to have Gabriel say it (names hold power, but not that much power), but still, it tickles at his inner organs, a strange discomfort, a crack his the edifice of his boundaries. 

Gabriel looks pointedly at the fading angel in his arms.

“The Almighty made a deal with humanity - at the beginning. Well, close to the beginning. Your people had been…reassigned at that point.”

Crowley nods, not understanding. Was this supposed to be a bedtime story, a sermon, let us now read from the Gospel? He swallows his barbed commentary. 

“She,” Gabriel points upwards, enunciating his words slow and sure, as if Crowley were a child, “offers humanity the chance at redemption. And in return they give Her their worship and obedience.”

Gabriel folds his hands to his front, eyebrows raised as if to say, you dumbass, aren’t you following?

That wasn’t what it was supposed to be, was it? Crowley frowns. God wasn’t hawking indulgences on the street, didn’t promise absolution in the form of quid pro quo. It was supposed to be based in faith, except faith came very certain terms and conditions, mostly don’t ask questions, obey and don’t think hard about it and how far a leap is from there to -

“All beings offering prayer are given the same options.”

Crowley hisses at the accusation. “I wasn’t - “

“Please, save him,” Gabriel mocks, his face a grotesque parody of Crowley’s pain, his desperation.

A mockery of his love.

(Demons don’t love.)

(Demons can’t love.)

Crowley runs a gentle hand through Aziraphale’s curls. This demon loves this angel. “Can you?” Nearly inaudible, a faint whisper stolen from his inner mind. “Can you save him?”

Gabriel laughs, full and hearty. It’s as pleasant a sound as a fork dragged across a ceramic plate and the hand laid on the angel’s stomach curls, fingers digging into Aziraphale’s wound. The angel whispers a blood-curdling moan, more golden lifeblood spilling onto Crowley’s digits. 

“Of course we can save him! That’s what angels do!” Gabriel peers at Crowley through folded, disapproving brows, his hands flitting in a spastic, jazzy motion.

Crowley doubts Gabriel knows anything about jazz. (Aziraphale likes jazz, the smooth hiss of a brush dragged over a snare, the deep thrum of the pizzicato bass, the yearning of the saxophone under dim lights, a wordless confession as limbs slide dangerously close, a glissando of desire, a rim shot of lust and Crowley wraps a long arm around the angel’s shoulder and - )

“I mean, what do you think our purpose is?” Gabriel’s bright tenor shatters the memory. The angel slaps his own forehead with his palm. “Duh, Crowley!”

Crowley scowls, again burying his nose in Aziraphale’s neck. The angel’s skin has paled a few more shades, now nearly translucent.

“Thing thing is, I would just need….” Gabriel lets the sentence linger, angling his head towards Crowley, whose hand has now traveled clear through Aziarphale’s shoulder.

The angel doesn’t have much more time.

Crowley grits his teeth, despising himself for what he says next.

“What do you need?”

He doesn’t like this. Scratch that, he hates this, hates this stupid archangel who had condemned Aziraphale to death without  a trial, who is now his only hope, this soldier, this messenger of Her, a God who can’t even be bothered to check her own damned voicemail.

“A deal. Well, The Deal.”

Crowley catches his meaning immediately. “What, worship?” The demon almost laughs. This situation, if it weren’t so heartbreaking, is absurd. “Hate to break it to you, Gabe, but demons aren’t exactly equipped for that type of thing.”

(A lie, he’s worshipped Aziraphale for 6,000 years.)

“To be honest, Crowley, the worshipping part comes later. Humanity requires fear, fear of loss. Or punishment. Doubt that last one would do much to you, having spent so much time in Hell. Except…”

Makes a pointed look towards Aziraphale.

���The thing is, you need to give them incentive. Change the behavior first. Later, they’ll come to understand the why, come to embrace the meaning of it all, to truly believe.”

“You want - “

“Serve me. Serve Heaven. No, not like that,” Gabriel rolls his eyes at Crowley’s undisguised horror. “Just a few errands here and there, a little bit of corporate espionage to get the ol’ one-up on Beezy.”

Lies. Sweet lies - Heaven had never known any other kind (and isn’t that why Aziraphale stayed loyal for so long? For a gluttonous angel who indulged in eclairs and crepes and devil’s food cake, it seems a natural predisposition). But no matter how much honey Gabriel pours on top of his shit sundae, it’s still a shit sundae, and Crowley has never shared the angel’s sweet tooth.

Aziraphale goes an impossible shade paler, twitching in Crowley’s arms. It should have been over, minutes, perhaps hours ago. No death of an ethereal being should take this long (Crowley would know), but this is somehow different, a long heat of the universe, cooling degree by degree, the end inevitable, writ in the cosmos, but the journey -

This is a damned test. Crowley sucks in air between clenched teeth. Gabriel is doing something, something he is supposed to notice, supposed to take as a gesture of good faith (but what is faith to the faithless?), as a promise, as bait. 

He can save Aziraphale when Crowley (damned as he is) - can’t.

There are no other options. Say no and he loses the angel and inevitably himself. Sure, he’d try to raze Heaven on his way out, would march right up God’s front door and set fire to the whole place before succumbing happily to his own obliteration. 

But here - he can make a deal, The Deal. The will angel live. And an alive Aziraphale, no matter what price Crowley has to pay - is a far more acceptable than a dead Aziraphale.

“Fine.” Crowley mutters, his face still turned downwards.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t quite hear that.”

You fucking prick, you know exactly what I said.

The demon somehow manages to lift his gaze, looking straight into Gabriel’s fucking condescending twat-face. 

“Fine!” He doesn’t mean for it to come out like that, petulant and desperate. 

“Uhuhuh,” the archangel wags a finger, and just like that, Crowley wants to kill him. “Not like that.”

“Not like what, you fuck-bucket? I agreed to your stupid terms now save him!”

He’s yelling, losing control and fuck it he has no pride left, here on the floor, Gabriel towering over him in his weakest moment, all of Crowley’s vulnerabilities laid out like a sodding picnic (don’t think about those outings with Aziraphale, don’t think about sharing champagne and little sandwiches on the beach, hands linked together, sitting side by side on a tartan blanket - )

“You’re familiar with the Catholic Mass?”

“What kind of stupid question - “

“The host,” Gabriel interrupts, paying no heed to the demon’s outburst. “The chalice, the Communion?”

Crowley’s stomach drops.

Fuck.

Fuck this fucking archangel.

(Crowley bows to no one. He’ll pretend, he’ll ingratiate himself, give due deference with a smirk and an ironic gesture. After a few rounds in Hell, he may, on occasion, even be halfway genuine in those gestures.)

But this -

He can’t do this.

“Time’s running out, demon.”

The angel in his arms is a cloud. It’s wrong, so wrong - Aziraphale is gravlax in dill sauce, Châteauneuf-du-Pape, he is old books and older knowledge, he is weighty and thick and everything Crowley adores about him is drained away to practically nothing, a shadow of a shadow. 

He has to do this.

Swallowing the last of his pride, never letting go of what was left of Aziraphale’s metaphysical form, Crowley pulls his shins beneath him, gently resting the angel’s head above his knees, his back and shoulders flush with his thighs. He bows in supplication, his hands folded over Aziraphale’s forehead, a reminder of why he was about to do this.

(Genuflection, they called it. Adoration, respect. Crowley feels none of these emotions, only a sickness balled in his lower abdomen. He somehow manages not vomit as he submits himself to the archangel.)

“Please. Save him.”

Gabriel grins, wide and feral.

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