#there's a point further when even the antichrist bristles up

[beastsovrevelation]

Satan and Michael are siblings, alright?..

Neither sure pulls any punches.

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

When Love Must Die (chapter 3)

Tagging @armaggedidnt @oh-hamlet @foxyfoe-reblog @s3dgy @butttteeerrrrrr @swanheart69

Link to chapter 1 (masterlist)

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Chapter 3

 He sits quietly on the edge of the couch, cradling Aziraphale’s limp hand in his own, clinging to it while he still can.  Watches as the Witch Girl (Anathema, comes unbidden a begrudging correction from the depths of his exhausted mind) carefully places thick candles on intricate sigils drawn at various strategic points on the magic circle she had just finished tracing around the couch: one for Body, one for Soul, one for Poison, one for Cure, one for Dark, one for Light, and the last one in the very center by Crowley and Aziraphale’s joint hands – for Life.  Finishing touches for the ritual that is meant to save Aziraphale’s life while ending his own.

 “I have a… a favor to ask,” he says, voice hoarse from prolonged silence and the tension that fills the room, “of both of you.”

 He sees her falter slightly in her movements, feels the other human (Toad? Salamander? Oh, right, Newt!) tense behind him in anticipation. He scoffs, lips twisting into a bitter smirk.  

 “Nothing demonic,” he reassures them, just this side of sarcastic, “don’t worry.”

 The human girl looks uncomfortable now; fiddles nervously with the book of spells she had dug out earlier from under a pile of dust-coated occult tools and rubbish magazines. “That’s not what I…” She throws an awkward glance at the other human, as if asking for his support.  “I wasn’t…”

 Crowley raises his free hand, forestalling her further pitiful attempts at clarification.  Curls the fingers of his other hand tighter around Aziraphale’s.

 “If the ritual works…” He looks down at their joint hands, at the candle standing on the Life sigil beside them.  “Whoever did this to him, whoever’s behind this, they’re still gonna be out there, and I… I won’t be here to…”

 He trails off, tamping down on a wave of all-too-real fear that threatens to choke him.  Because there it is, isn’t it – the rub as the angel’s favorite bard called it.  If the ritual works, Aziraphale will live, but the threat to his life will still remain.  And the next time Crowley won’t be there to stop it.

 “We’ll look after him.”

 His head snaps up at Anathema’s unexpected pledge, wide eyes watching her with a mixture of shocked surprise and timid, disbelieving hope.

 “We will,” she asserts in response to his silent question, quiet but firm.  “Between a Witch and a Witchfinder,” she winks at the Newt guy over Crowley’s head, “I think we can handle it.  And if not…” She shrugs, giving him a small smile that is a bit too tight to be reassuring, although Crowley appreciates the effort nonetheless.  “If not, we’ve got a veritable Antichrist living next door, so…”

 “Lucky thing, that,” Crowley intones with an amused twitch of his lips. Then grows somber once more, adds, low and sincere, “Thank you.”

 She nods, lips pursed in sympathetic concern.  Lays the spells book open on a one-legged side table next to the couch; pulls out a small athame.  Looks back at him, hesitant. “Is there anything you want us to tell him for you or…?”

  “What, like my last will and testament?” He raises a mocking eyebrow at her, trying to keep his tone light despite the fact his heart twists sharply at the cruel reminder that this is it for him – no more quiet evenings at the bookshop, no more companionable strolls through the park, no more dinners at the Ritz.

 The girl, Anathema, just stares at him with that expression of unbearable knowing sympathy that makes Crowley’s skin itch.

He grits his teeth sharply, forcing down the urge to snarl at her.  Looks back at his angel’s face, almost translucently pale now. There is… so much he still wanted to say to him, so much of his thoughts, his feelings he still wanted, no needed to voice.  

 He can do none of that now.  Not here, not to these virtual strangers, not under these circumstances.  It’s too late.

 But there is one thing he could say, one message he could relay to his angel that would, perhaps, leave Zira with some fond memories of him, perhaps even make the angel smile when he thinks of him.

 “My plants,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing an unconscious line along the angel’s brow.  He stills as he realizes what he’s doing, pulls his hand away. Coughs sharply to clear his suddenly too tight throat.  “I have plants,” he tries again, voice inexplicably rough, “lots of plants. It…uh… it would be a shame if they all went to waste. Plus they get lonely without company, so… so if he wouldn’t mind stopping by to… to water them every once in a while…”

 He chances a glance at Anathema; cringes at the too-soft expression on the human’s face.  It makes him feel too open somehow, too vulnerable, too raw, and he bristles with sudden defensive anger.  “Make sure to tell him not to even think about being nice to them!” he snarls with exaggerated hostility, giving her his best glare.  “If I find out he’s been paying them compliments, I’m gonna come back and throttle him myself.”

 “Got it.” Her response comes with a soft, understanding smile, and Crowley has to stifle another urge to snap at her.

 “Let’s get this over with, shall we,” he growls out instead, forcing himself to relinquish his hold on Aziraphale’s hand, and holds out his hand to her as she steps closer.

 “Do you remember what I told you?” she asks as she gently grasps his proffered hand, the athame poised above his open palm.

 “Don’t let go, no matter what,” he repeats dutifully and manages not to hiss as she runs the blade across his palm, long and deep.

 She lets go of his hand, picks up Aziraphale’s.  “It’s important not to break the connection until the transfer is complete,” she reiterates, cutting an identical line across the angel’s palm.  “If even a little bit of the poison remains behind…”

 “The thing regrows and we’re back to square one.”

 “Precisely,” she nods and holds Aziraphale’s hand for Crowley to take.

 He does, wraps his fingers tightly around the unresponsive palm, their cuts pressing against one another, dark ichor mixing with gold.  “Don’t worry, Witch Girl,” he assures her with feigned lightheartedness, “I got this.”

 It turns out to be a much harder promise to keep than he realized.

 ***

Nothing happens at first, not until Anathema finishes reciting the last of the spell.  And even then all he feels is a slight tingle at the site of the cut, a tingle that slowly begins to intensify – a ribbon of liquid fire that lances up his arm with all the fluidity and speed of a black mamba, swiftly, instantly spreading across his entire body.  And then all he’s aware of is pain – searing, all-encompassing, roaring inferno of pain that tears through every particle of his being, rending, scorching, obliterating.

 Falling was a bit like that, he thinks dimly, as he struggles to maintain his ever-weakening hold on consciousness, to keep his weak traitorous burning fingers from unclasping from around the angel’s hand. Except with Falling he was only too happy to give in to the overwhelming, excruciating pain, to surrender to the darkness, to let go. He can’t do that now.  Not when Aziraphale’s life is at stake.

 So he grinds his teeth together, clamping down on a useless scream, imagines his fingers clench tightly into Aziraphale’s skin, and he hangs on.

 And when his consciousness splinters apart, tiny fragments swallowed up by the unforgiving darkness, and his tortured, broken body sinks to the floor with one final shuddered breath, his desperate grip lingers, sustained by the fading power of his demonic essence.

Until that, too, flickers out.

TBC