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the very 'first' 'night' of the rest of their 'deaths'

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It was dark, and quiet. The Apocalypse averted. An angel and demon in new glasses, sat on a bench in front of an old church, the demon on the left and the angel on the right. They shared a bottle of wine together that was hidden in a brown paper bag.

"It's all worked out for the best, though." Azirafell assured, taking a mouthful of alcohol from the bottle. "Just imagine how awful it might have been if we'd been at all competent." Joked the demon with a sneer, passing over the bottle of wine to the angel, looking to him gently, as if he was a God in his own right.

Taking a sharp intake of air to disagree, Crowley stammered, "ngk, point taken." He took a sip as well, "'least we lived." He fiddled with a piece of charred paper, the very same one he caught out in the air field.

"What is that?" Azirafell asked, leaning over, his fingers interlaced over his stomach.

Crowley reached his hand across to him, and gave it to the demon, "fell outta Agnes Nutter's book." He explained.

Azirafell looked over it, When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choofe your faces wisely, "'for soon enough you will be playing with fire'?" He read out, feeling delighted to have even held and read a few of the prophecies. "So this is the final one of Agnes' prophecies?" He asked, waving the paper lightly, as he looked to the angel, both amazed and astonished. What on earth could that mean?

"Yep."

"And Adam... is human again?" Asked the demon, voice gentle and curious.

"Believe so, yeah."

A white mail van came driving over, having a delivery to pick up, and he drove past the angel and demon, barely seeing them, as if his eyes scanned over the,. It skidded to a sudden stop just a little way away, with a loud tyre screech.

"Angel..." Started Azirafell, looking to his husband who looked back, giving the wine back, "what if the Almighty planned it like this all along?" He questioned, "from the very Beginning?"

"Could've." Shrugged Crowley, slouching. "I wouldn't put it past Her." He reached out again, and took hold of the wine, drinking it again, a confused frown on his face. God... She didn't help prevent Armageddon, but she didn't really help cause it. She doesn't talk to anyone, and when it came down to it, it was Azirafell who was with him to the end, Azirafell who drove through a fiery mess of the M25 to get to him, Azirafell who stopped time, Azirafell who covered for the small Antichrist.

(That had gone a little like this...

Mr. Young paused, as Azirafell moved forward, Flaming Sword lowered, and with a tempting smile on his lips, all kind and soft, said, "ah, Mr. Young? I'm so sorry, it appears our game of Armageddidn't went a little out out hand." He held out a hand, "Azirafell... Azirafell Z. Fell-Crowley."

Mr. Young took his hand and shook, "and, you're at the Air Base because?!" He asked in outrage, panicked for his son and his friends. I mean; talking to strangers?! Running onto land that would get him killed?!

"I'm afraid dear sir, that was me as well. See, I know a few of these fine darlings here, and they let us on the grounds." Azirafell lied. Why blame a child, when an adult smoothly convinced them? He'd still be punished of course! But, not as much as he originally ought to have been punished.

"And, that sword is...?" Asked Mr. Young, glowering at the Flaming Sword.

That had stumped the demon, what could he say about that? That was until Crowley sauntered up next to him, "m'husband the magician, they were interested in a little magic." He stuck out his hand, "Anthony J. Fell-Crowley.")

Azirafell smiled as if in deep thought, "from what I remember, we were never on what one might call speaking terms. She certainly wasn't one for straight answers. In fact, She'd never answer at all. She would just smile, as if She knew something that you didn't."

"Duh," smirked Crowley. "What'd be the point?"

A car door shut from not too far away, and a man came over wearing a brown uniform, and brown cap. Lesley, he held a clipboard and asked, "you got the, um...?"

"Yeah, didn't want them fallin' into the wrong hands." Crowley explained, and picked up the box, handing it over. Azirafell watched him, and looked between the human and the box.

Lesley looked through the box, checking the items, scales, a crown... "Uh, excuse me, gents. There's, uh... there's meant to be a sword in here." He said suspiciously, and confused, pointing to the box.

"Oh. There is." Crowley agreed confused and worried, sharing a look with Azirafell, who swiftly looked to him.

Azirafell frowned, and suddenly flushed a bright red, and stood up, "oops, I was sitting on it..." He picked up the no longer Flaming Sword, his fingers clenching around the handle. "Sorry." He really didn't want to let it go, but he knew he had to, whatever part of his angelic life owned this, was burned away with his memories, and he gave it to Lesley. He might be able to set it aflame with black fire, but... well, that's not the Flaming Sword he knew...

Lesley let out a smile and chuckle, "good thing you were here, really." He nodded, picking up the things

Crowley brightened up, and Azirafell looked to him, sitting. Crowley began brushing off invisible dirt from his shoulders, "fin'lly, someone sees our par' in savin' the—"

Lesley cut the angel off, and held out a clipboard, "I need someone to sign for it."

Azirafell's head turned from Lesley to the angel.

Immediately, Crowley's face fell, "oh, right." 'Of course, don't be silly...' He glanced to a smirking Azirafell.

Azirafell reached out to sign for the package, he raised his index finger to his lips and and scratched his finger against his larger lower teeth. He signed the paper, but for the first time in ages, signed it as A. Z. Fell-Crowley, they agreed to join their last names when they got married, all for Crowley's sake.

"Do you believe in life after death?" Asked Lesley, not batting an eye to Azirafell after the day he's had.

"I have to." Admitted Crowley, and he took the clipboard, pulling out his pen and also signing his name, Anthony J. Fell-Crowley.

"Yeah." Chuckled Lesley, as he was handed the clipboard back. "If I was to tell my wife what happened to me today, she wouldn't believe me." He picked up the package, tucking the pen into his upper pocket, a smile on his face thinking about his wife. "And I wouldn't blame her." Lesley moved off, and placed the package in the van.

A small blue bus drove down the small road, now that Azirafell no longer had a car, and neither were up for a good drive in the Bentley, and that would require a too big a miracle, they had to wait for the circular, bumpy buses.

"There it is." Crowley smiled, pointing to the bus, but the frowned confused. "It says 'Oxford'..."

Azirafell sipped more wine, "correct, but he will drive to London anyway." He assured, chewing his lower jaw, "he just won't understand why."

"I should get 'im t' take me to the plant shop." Crowley said, looking to the front of him.

Suddenly, Azirafell turned and looked to him, back straighter than usual, "it burned down, remember?" His voice was so soft, and gentle, so incredibly tender, that for a second you could forget the fact the demon was in fact a demon. He sounded just as sad as Crowley felt. Speaking of Crowley, the angel looked down, as golden tears brimmed his eyes, and so, Azirafell said gently, "you can stay at my place, if you like?"

Crowley shook his head, licking his top lip, "my side wouldn't like that." He reminded the demon, ringing his hands together. His voice sounded so sad, and defeated, so small.

"You don't have a side anymore." Azirafell said, and Crowley blinked at the realisation. "Neither of us do. We're on our own side." Azirafell smiled, "just like Agnes said, we are going to have to choose our faces wisely."

Crowley looked to the demon, and stared, his eyes wide, as if he had just seen something incredibly divine, and Godly. Azirafell saw, and flushed a bright red, "what, my dear?"

Six thousand years, and the demon truly worshipped him like a God... and, maybe it was time Crowley started doing the same. They only had each other now, and while God might not be angry at him, he is angry with Her, "I worship you, Azirafell." He stared at him, as if the demon was his God, and now staring at him, lurking in the darkness, no longer dirty, and demonic and sinful, Azirafell well and truly is his God.

Azirafell went scarlet, "Crowley!" He looked to the sky quickly, checking She didn't hear, but nothing happened. The angel didn't Fall. She didn't yell. Nothing. Still flushing, he shyly stuck his hand out, and the bus pulled over. Crowley kept staring at him, thinking with a small smile.

They climbed on the bus, and sat in the dirty front seats, and automatically, Crowley took Azirafell's hand in his. The demon squeezed gently, and softly, and the angel squeezed back.

"Azirafell?"

"Yes?" Asked the demon, instantly. He felt shy. Sex was one thing, but to be worshipped, like a God was different. And, no, not a Fake God like he did with the Humans over a thousand years ago, but in fact, a Real God, who deserved nothing but Love and Holy Attention, or Unholy in his case. He's never been worshipped before, not like how Crowley was intending to worship him.

Crowley looked up to the damp roof of the bus, as if looking to Heaven, and he noted the circular buses really are the worst, but what could you do? Somethings are just terrible. "Can I run to you?" He asked, "are you true to me?"

Azirafell cupped the angels cheek, and made him turn his head, "I'll do unto you as you do to me... where's this coming from?" He asked, worried, his eyes cautious.

"Think about it darling, someone has t' burn." Crowley whispered, pressing his cheek into the demons palm. "They're not gonna be happy we stopped 'em with logic... they... they make examples outta bad angels..." He mumbled nervously.

"It would be better me than you who gets burned, right?" Asked Azirafell, and the two fell silent, letting that hang in the air.

"Right..."

 

 

SUNDAY

THE VERY FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF THEIR LIVES

 

Adam had rebooted reality.

He had changed the past and changed the present.

So on Sunday, people woke to find a world that was almost, but not entirely, the one that they used to inhabit. Although people who were dead were now alive. And things that were broken had now been miraculously restored.

 

Crowley stood outside the plant shop, it was good as new and he ignored the sick, sinking feeling in his stomach. He walked in, and traced his perfectly soft and manicured fingernails over the desks, and he twirled the goat necklace on his neck. The couple came to an agreement to wear their necklaces on show, they are on their side, they worship each other, it was only appropriate.

He paused, and stared at a shelf of Dendrophylax Lindenii's (or Ghost Orchids, whichever you prefer). They weren't the style of the shop, but they were nice, he's sure. The only thing he could say, with a scowl was, "those are new." He looked around again, and decided, with a fix of his tartan scarf, that things certainly were off.

 

 

Azirafell sauntered out the bookshop, tripping slightly, and paused to a slow stop. There, on the side of the road parked up, was the black 1929 Mercedes-Benz SSK, not a scratch on her, all shiny and new. It truly looked brilliant! He slowly smiled, all kind and soft, and he stepped forward, fixing his black waistcoat, and white tartan tie, and called out for a taxi, getting in the back seat.

 

 

St James's Park was comparatively quiet. The ducks, who were experts in realpolitik as seen from the bread end, put it down to a decrease in world tension. However, there were a lot of people in offices trying to figure out what happened to the computers yesterday, and where Atlantis had disappeared to.

A brass band played Queen's 'Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon' in the park, as the mostly deserted park, was filled with quiet chatter. A member of the MI9 was trying to recruit someone who, to their later mutual embarrassment, would turn out to also be a member of the M19.

"As far as the British government is concerned, the apparent appearance of the legendary monster the Kraken was a mass hallucination." Said one man, reading over the newspaper as some rain fell down with a quiet and gentle patter.

"There were a number of mass hallucinations in our country too." Said the other, with an accent as he bit a sandwich and read his paper.

"Yes, only this one ate our trade delegation."

And there was also Crowley and Azirafell.

"A strawberry lolly, and a vanilla with a flake, please." Asked Azirafell, pulling out money and handing it over to the man behind a red, wooden ice cream stand, that had an umbrella up.

"How is the car?" Asked Crowley, slouching slightly.

"Not a scratch." Assured Azirafell, hands behind his back as the food was prepared, watching as Crowley strolled around him, eyeing him up and down. "How's the plant shop?"

"Not a soot mark." Crowley said, tensely. "Not a plant burned." He answered, strolling around his husband with a sway. "Everything is back just the way it was."

Azirafell reached out, and took the vanilla ice cream, handing it over to Crowley, who was now on the opposite side of him. He took his own strawberry lolly, and gave the man behind the stand a nice, yet still dull smile.

"You heard from your department yet?" Asked Crowley, tense, as he glanced around warily.

Shaking his head, Azirafell asked, "your people?"

"Nothing." He responded in a whisper, shaking his head and looking like he had just sucked a lemon.

The man behind the counter shut the case with a quiet thud.

Azirafell opened and closed his mouth, lips pursed, as he took his husbands spare hand, "do you know what happened yesterday?" He asked, leaning in slightly.

"Well, I understand some of it." Crowley replied, squeezing his husbands hand. "But some of it..." He trailed off, as if he was heaving, "well, it's just a little bit too—"

A dark hoarse, rumbled voice sounded from afar, INEFFABLE. Death stood, with his scythe raised and was feeding the ducks.

Azirafell stared at Death, and mumbled, gesturing with his lolly, "oh, that- that's funny, seein' 'im 'ere. That's meant t' be bad luck." He stammered out.

Death vanished into black smoke, gone again, as the ducks flew about in fear.

Stammering, Azirafell turned to his side, "it's meant to be bad..." There was no Crowley, nothing, and he wondered in fear when he lost the hand he was holding before. He spun around frantically, confused and worried, and suddenly he paused.

There was Crowley, white tape over his mouth, hands bound with white rope and was being dragged back by two angels. His hazel eyes were wide and he was mumbling and yelling behind the gag. (What was being said was, "Azirafell run! Run now!")

Sandalphon and Uriel stood in front of the scene, shielding Azirafell from Crowley.

"Renegade angels all tied up with strings." Uriel said, in an outfit of a white shirt and beige dungarees.

Sandalphon, like the slime that it is, smiled, a sick twisted smile, "these are a few of our favourite things."

The two turned, loosing their twisted smiles as they went off after the shuffling and helpless Crowley.

'Damn everything!' Azirafell thought in panic and worry. He threw his lolly, and pointed, "stop! Stop them!" His eyes wide, and he ran forward, stumbling as he did.

"What's wrong, love?!" Screeched a voice of what looked like a Korean woman. She raised a crowbar, and slammed against the white haired beings head, and watched in satisfaction as Azirafell fell down with a pain filled grunt. No, who was thought to be a lovely Korean woman, was in fact Hastur in disguise and he spat out, "oh, bad luck, dear."

Azirafell looked up, eyes squinting behind his glasses, and looked around with groans, three demons surrounded him watching with hateful glares, and he grunted out, and groaned in pain, everything spinning, "it's not a problem. It's... ngk..." He fell down, unconscious and in pain, limp.

 

 

Heaven was bright and sterile, and he gently moved his thin and narrow wrists, the ring glistening in the light. He was bound to a white chair, with pure white rope done up with a miracle, the goat necklace on show, and he stared ahead, blankly, ignoring the feeling he got from the place. It was like being at the beach in bare feet...

("I'll wash your feet again, less blasphemous now, huh?"

"Oh, hush!")

"Ah!" Came a deep, and overly friendly, and clearly fake voice, "Raphael."

He didn't give Gabriel the satisfaction of looking over, and he stared at Uriel and Sandalphon, hiding disgust for the Archangel.

Gabriel slammed his hand on his shoulder, and said evilly, "so glad you could join us." He moved in front of him.

("They'll use... Raphael... you know? And, when they do, correct them.")

"It's Crowley." He said, and finally looked to the Archangels purple eyes, "you could've just sent a message, you do have my number." He offered, a tense smile on his angular face, "I mean, papping in and kidnapping me, in the middle 'f the day."

"Call it what it was: an extraordinary rendition." Gabriel said, his arms out and hands out. "Now, have we heard from our new associate?" He questioned, finger pointed, looking over to Sandalphon and Uriel, who stood just a bit from the Archangel.

"He's on his way." Uriel answered.

Gabriel smiled, and shook his hands in clenched triumph, "he's on his way."

("You will want to punch him, but don't."

"I won't hurt him, I promise!")

Gabriel's smile was sickeningly joyful, as if he had won the lottery, or had won the final battle between Heaven and Hell.

("Sarcasm is a must..."

"Sarcasm, right.")

He sent the Archangel a soft, yet usual serpent-like smile, eyebrows softly raised. "So, four of us." He said, in fake thought, "rubber of bridge? Barbershop quartet?"

Gabriel ignored him, but that scowl was easy to see, "I think you're going to like this." He said, hands clasp like he was praying as he walked up to him, "I really do."

("Be kind, be friendly.")

He gave a look of soft interest.

"And I bet you didn't see this one coming." Gabriel smirked, now bending down to be at height level with him, praying hands pointed to him.

His smile was gentle, as if being friendly, eyebrows raising kindly, 'dear boy, you have no idea...' He thought, fighting off a malicious smirk.

 

 

He stared up at them, ignoring the glares sent his way from demons behind the glass, as Hastur continued his biased case, "...and the murderer of a fellow demon, a crime I saw with my own eyes!"

("I ah... may have killed Ligur with the Holy Water you gave me..."

"You wot?!"

"I had to! They were going to kill me!")

"Actually, from what I recall, you was there to do the actual..." He raised his bound hands, and slid them across his pale neck.

"Silenzzzze!"

"Is there anything I can say in my defence, darlings?" Questioned the white haired demon, looking at them, smiling all sexual. It was as if he was offering sex as a way of freedom, even though he was being charged for sexual flirting as well.

Hastur scowled, "that's a very good question, Azira."

"Objection!" Dagon argued, and the white haired demon looked to her annoyed, his lower jaw chewing nothing. "It's a stupid question, there is nothing you can say or do, Traitor, as you've done it all."

"Objection sustained!" Beelzebub called, their voice in a bored drawl. "Creatures of Hell," drawled Beelzebub, bored. This was more of a theatrics then it was a fair and proper trial, but what could he expect? It was Hell. He looked behind him, back straight and proper as usual, and his eyebrows raised. "You have heard the evidence against the demon known as Azira. What is your verdict?" Called Lord Beelzebub, resting their elbows on their legs,leaning forward.

("They'll call guilty."

"No matter what?"

"No matter what...")

"Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!" They chanted, thumping their fists into the air, as did Dagon, her sharp teeth on display as she cheered with them.

"Do you have anything to szzzzay before we take our vengeance on you?" Asked Beelzebub, as he turned around to face them, a subtle panic on his face.

What if they had read this wrong? What if this was all a shot in the dark, going off of a theory they had had? If that's the case, then they're fucked...

("And, if we're wrong?"

"Then I shall find you, I have before haven't I?")

"What's it to be?" He questioned, nervously, looking around at them with a shrug. "An eternity in the deepest pit?" He asked, before he could stop himself. He needed to be reassured, reassured this was happening, and they hadn't just jumped to a conclusion.

"No, we're going to do something even worse." Assured Hastur, a dark, evil smirk on his face. "Letting the punishment fit the crime."

There was a ding from the hallway. Heels clicked frown down the dark, flickering hallway suddenly, and he turned. He squinted, and grew confused. There, coming down the hallway was a man, in heels, ginger hair pulled up and in white clothing, with large bell sleeves, he was holding a large, clear jug of water so it seemed, and he moved to the tub.

"The Archangel Michael?" He questioned, looking to Beelzebub in confusion. "That's unlikely."

"Cooperation with our old enemies." Dagon smirked, her teeth sharp as she looked all too pleased with herself. As if nobody had ever thought about that before, to team up with the enemy, for an angel and a demon to work together.

He held back an evil, angelic grin, 'y'haven't a clue.'

"Well, wank-wings, you brought the stuff?" Questioned Hastur.

("I swear angel, Ligur and Hastur were a thing, he'll be wanting revenge..."

"I would too if someone killed you.")

"I did." He answered, and held out the vase of liquid for them. Michael kept his face stern, and tense, not showing his disgust and anger, "I'll be back to collect it."

"No," Hastur denied quickly, tense as he leaned back. A rather funny sight. He sucked his teeth, "I think perhaps you ought to do the honours. It's..." He glared down at the white haired being on trail, "I've seen what that stuff can do."

Archangel Michael stared at them all, blank. He raised his hands, mimicking that of Jesus on the cross, and poured the contents of the jug into the tub, and it splashed, and sloshed. The demons behind the glass recoiled, and some even had the decency to look horrified, and they yelled and grunted in fear, recoiling in terror.

He stared, he kept staring, blankly, at least he hoped it was blank. Sadly, he knew he was probably grimacing. He stare at the tub, and... is that? Surely not, but even if it is, 'we were right.'

 

 

"You don't get this view down in the basement." Said a lower level demon, and... not Crowley, and certainly not the Archangel of Healing Raphael, but Azirafell-as-Crowley, didn't look up and instead stared at Gabriel, not giving him the satisfaction. He only glanced when the demon was in his side view.

It was an incredibly low demon, one of them Disposable Demons (Eric or Legion if you prefer), (to be fair, he always liked them, they were very nice and kind. Hilarious in a way, and the least threatening of demons.) He marched up to a ring of white brimstone's, put there by Sandalphon and Uriel ("ask questions."), (when asked, it simply said, "barbeque.") and threw down a bunch of black powder from a cauldron. The white stones lit up, and it went up in flames, a tornado like fire of ribbon and string, and Azirafell stared.

("They won't give you a trial..."

"But it's Heaven, why would—... right, no trial...")

He swallowed back a lump in his throat, feeling the heat light up Crowley's face, as he thought back to the plant shop, the fire, his husband dead, and he tried to hide how he tensed up. He stared it up and down, and he tightened his hands into fists, he could feel the darkness squirming off of it, and he stared, "that's Hellfire." That's how they planned to get rid of Crowley, with Hellfire, to let him shrivel up and burn to death, into a pile of nothing, to a pile of ash. At least they were right...

"The hell-iest of Hell..." Assured Sandalphon.

"Can I, can I ask a favour? Can I hit him?" Asked Eric, looking to Azirafell, who looked even more unimpressed. "I've always wanted to hit an Archangel." He explained, looking to Uriel and Sandalphon.

"Go for it." Sandalphon agreed.

Eric nodded, chest hammering in excitement, and his gaze fell onto Azirafell-as-Crowley, who stared unimpressed. He could take the hit, and he would smile all kindly, but he would fucking kill him when he's back to being plain old Azirafell. He moved in front of the demon disguised as an Archangel, and got ready, in a stance, fist pulled back.

Azirafell stared, and let his lips pull up into a small, kind smile just as Crowley would, fighting back a sneer of anger.

Eric stared, thrown off, but it didn't stop him. He pulled his fist back, and slammed it forward, harshly. Gold blood fell from Crowley's corporation lips, and Azirafell just kept smiling. Eric smirked, and looked to them, "I should be going back." 

 

 

The being staring at Archangel Michael emptying a jug of water into the bathtub was not Azirafell, certainly not Azira, The original Principality, but was in fact Crowley-as-Azirafell. He swallowed back the lump forming in his throat, he could feel the waves of holiness coming off of it, and all he could see was himself, giving his husband that thermos of Holy Water, a suicide pill.

The jug was empty, the bathtub was filled.

"That's Holy Water." Crowley said, this was the way Azirafell was to die? With this?... of course, 'punishment fits the crime', of course Hastur wants revenge, why wouldn't he?

"The holiest, yes." Assured Michael, his soft and angelic voice crisp and clear.

"Uh, it's not that we don't trust you Michael," Crowley looked back, "but obviously we don't trust you." Beelzebub sneered, and they leaned on the arm of their chair. They watched as Archangel Michael left, taking the jug with him. "Hastur, test it."

"Hmm." Hastur hummed, and walked down the steps.

Surely not... the demon wouldn't sacrifice himself, just a drop of that water would be enough to kill him! Crowley turned to Hastur as the demon walked past Azirafell's corporation. He moved to the small Hell Usher, and picked up the now struggling and panicking being. The angel stayed silent, though he desperately wanted to call out, to tell him to stop and that the Usher did nothing wrong, but he couldn't. No, that would give everything away! But, it did make him feel sick.

"What the Hell do you think you're doing?" Asked the Usher, as it dropped the goat staff, "oh, ow!" It yelped, it's tail being pulled. With a content sigh and hum, Hastur hovered the Usher over the water, and it tensed up in terror and fear, "no. No, no, no. What have I done?!" It called out, and Crowley stared, the horror in his... well, Azirafell's eyes, well hidden behind the glasses. "No, no! Please!" Begged the Usher.

"Wrong place. Wrong time." Hastur said, as he lowered the demon in.

"Please!" It was dropped, "please! No!" It tried to leave, to escape, but it was too late, as it set on fire, screaming as it turning to sludge, it melted away into nothing. It vanished, as if it never existed.

Crowley felt red, bloody tears brim the waterline, and he blinked furiously. No! He's not crying! Demons don't cry, or at least, aren't supposed to. And, if one tear dropped and they saw, it would be known he wasn't demonic. To know this is what would have happened to his husband had they not switched, to know that was Azirafell's intended fate... those... those bastards!

"Demon Azira," sighed Beelzebub, and Crowley turned to them. "I sentence you to extinction by Holy Water. Have you anything to say?"

At first Crowley was going to say no, but then remembered, "um, yes... this is my favourite jacket, and I have kept it in tip-top condition for over one hundred and eighty years now, I would hate to get it wet." He smirked, his voice deep and slutty with the word 'wet', and he licked his lips hungrily, "would you mind if I take it off?" He asked, eyes locked with Hastur, who gave a disgusted shiver.

 

 

"So, with one act of treason, you averted the War." Gabriel said, his lips pulled into a disgusted, large frown, as he shook his head.

Azirafell shrugged, slouched in his seat, a smile still planted the lips, "well, the greater good—"

"Don't talk to me about the greater good, sunshine." Snapped Gabriel, cutting the demon off, and Azirafell slowly frowned, "I'm the Archangel fucking Gabriel. The greater good was we were finally going to settle things with the opposition once and for all."

'And, there you go... not so different now, are we dear?' Azirafell thought, swallowing back anger, because how dare they treat his angel this way?! He wore a smile, a smile that disguised his ever growing anger. Well, he was trying to smile, but he could feel it turn into a blank look. He was nervous and angry now.

Uriel walked over, the golden specks on her face, Azirafell noted, seemed to be infused with her skin. What he would give to reach out, and pull of each damned speck, he'd enjoy watching her bleed. The demon wasn't... violent, much... at times... wrathful at times? Yes. Gluttonous? Absolutely! But, to picture himself torturing a person, and taking pleasure in it? No, that wasn't him... much...

She bent down, and pulled the ropes loose with a quick miracle, "up."

Azirafell-as-Crowley stood up, well he slunk up, much like a snake would and he rolled his wrists, checking them for rope burns. Nothing. He looked between the fire, and ignored the hammering in his chest, the awful reminder of the plant shop, that these bastards had killed him... how could he walk in? How could he—? No, he has to, for Crowley, to get the angel out of this. He fixed the tartan scarf he was wearing.

"Could I tempt you to change y'mind?" He asked with a watery smile, as Crowley would have done, he looked to Gabriel, Sandalphon and Uriel. They glared, not moving or changing as they waited. He frowned in confusion, "we're meant to be the good guys, for Heaven's sake!"

"Well, for Heaven's sake," Gabriel said, hands out. "We are meant to make examples out of Traitors. So..." He gestured to the swirling cylinder of fire, "into the flames." He clasped his hands together again.

They stood and watched him. With a tense sigh, Azirafell sauntered up to the wall of fire, keeping the fear and panic attack well hidden staring into the flames. He smiled to them, "great knowin' y'all." His smile turned gracious and forgiving just like how Crowley would have done, "we should catch up with drink, at some point."

"Shut your stupid mouth and die already." Gabriel said, with a wide, heavily sarcastic smile on his lips. That wide smile dropped, gone and replaced with a look of anger.

Azirafell scowled in fury, the smile gone, unable to fully keep the act of 'kind, forgiving angel Crowley'. He he leaned on one foot more than the other, and with one final look to the Archangel's, sauntered into the flames as asked. 'Why did I promise the angel I wouldn't hurt them?' He thought, and as he stepped in, as he saw Gabriel grimace in discomfort as if he was the one to die! An idea stuck him, 'I can scare you...'

 

 

It was as if they were in perfect unison with each other, as if they could read each others minds. In unison, they came up with an idea, a plan. They smirked, and decided, if they were trying to kill their beloved, and possibly not leave them alone, then they might as well, 'fear him...'

 

 

Demons behind the glass window screamed and recoiled in terror and fear. Water splashed on the grimy glass again, and it seemed to steam and bubble under it's touch, and it dripped down the glass. It was sizzling, like bacon in oil. The Holy Water burning the evil's of Hell.

Hastur felt sick with fear and terror, and looked like he swallowed something nice. Beelzebub had coiled up in their throne, knees up and was stunned into silence. Dagon was hiding behind the Lord and the throne, her eyes wide in shock.

There Crowley-as-Azirafell was in the bathtub his feet on either edge of the tub, practically naked besides the black vest, underwear and knee high socks the demon wore, and he dragged his finger around the clear, rippling water. It truly was refreshing to be away from all that evil, and take a nice Holy bath. He looked at them, Azirafell's eyes were just a goats, nothing at all small or human, the entire white of the eye gone. "I don't suppose that anywhere in the Nine Circles of Hell there's such a thing as a rubber duck?" He questioned.

He got no response, as he flicked another drop at the window of peeping demon, who flew back in fear with a screech. He leaned up to look at the Lords and Duke.

"No?" Pouted the angel, as he relaxed in the bathtub, "finally, treason will seize us!" He smirked, coldly as he gestured to himself, throwing himself up, as the water flew everywhere from the force, and he flung his handful of water at the demons in the room. He watched in satisfaction as Hastur and Dagon jumped away, stumbling over themselves, and Lord Beelzebub pressed their back into the seat, curled up in a ball of terror.

'Fear him!' He thought in his head, loud and clear.

 

 

The Hellfire was truly... not Heavenly or Hell-ly, but Earthly. It coiled around Azirafell-as-Crowley, at it melted away the burns that the cleanness of Heaven gave him, and he rolled his shoulders with a pleasant, relaxing hum, his muscles easing. He cracked his neck with three loud sickening cracks. He looked up to nervous looking Archangels, who kept glancing to each other, tense and nerved, they then stared at him, as if this was the most horrifying thing to exist... and it wasn't. 'Not yet...' Thought the demon, as a sickeningly evil smile fell upon his lips

Azirafell scrunched Crowley's nose up, and wore a broad, serpent-like, twisted and evil smile, and let out a loud snake hiss, spitting venom and Hellfire at them, a blast of it shooting at them. He felt immense joy, as he watched Uriel, Gabriel and Sandalphon skip backwards, falling over themselves, with Sandalphon and Gabriel practically in each others arms. He smiled at them, eyes angry.

"By any chance, in the Nine Sphere's of Heaven, d'you have a sun reflector?" Asked Azirafell, with glowering eyes, as he was slinking around the small circle tauntingly, "I could really use a tan for the beach."

Gabriel stared at Azirafell-as-Crowley, and pointed nervously, "it may be worse than we thought." Sandalphon look to him, worried and Uriel rung her tie in fear.

Azirafell smirked and said, "ev'ry Judas once loved a Jesus!" He yelled, flinging his arms out in an 'embrace me' gesture. He laughed, as the Hellfire flew at the Archangel's feet again, just to scare them, 'fear him!'

 

 

Crowley-as-Azirafell hummed the tune of Mozart's 'Requiem, K. 626: Sequentia. Dies Irae', and he waved his hands, flicking the water about, and around onto the ground, wall and window, completely and utterly relaxed. He kept humming as he listened to what they were saying. Demons behind the glass whimpered in fear, moving away.

"He's gone native." Buzzed Beelzebub, watching Azirafell's body with a blank look of fear. Dagon looked to them in horror. They kept staring at Azirafell's corporation in terror, "he isn't one of uzzzz anymore."

Crowley picked up handfuls of water, and again, threw it at the window of demons, who all screamed and backed up in terror, and he flung more at the window, flicking his fingers, and they screamed. This was fun.

 

 

"W-what is he?" Uriel asked, shaking her head in confused fear.

Gabriel let out a puff of air, shaking his head, and Sandalphon sneered in fear, watching.

Azirafell-as-Crowley gave them all an incredibly friendly, yet evil smile, "y'worst nightmare. If I can stand Hellfire, who knows what I can do?" He challenged with a sniff, an wicked look falling upon his face. He remembers one thing, angels don't have animal halves besides one... he hissed, and curled in on himself, and suddenly, in place of a the body, was a large white snake, with hazel serpent eyes.

He relished how Gabriel shook in fear, and how Sandalphon gripped Gabriel's arm, and how Uriel nearly fell to her knees.

"SSSSo, you're probably thinking, 'If he can do thissss, I wonder what elsssse he can do?'" Hissed Azirafell, making his serpent speech more exaggerated. "And very, very ssssoon, you're all going to get the chancccce to find out." He warned, voice dead with a cocky shake of his head.

It didn't seem like anyone wanted to challenge that, luckily. And, Azirafell wore a dark smile on his face, letting the fangs glisten in the fire.

There was a ding, and heavy footed boots from behind the Hellfire twister, and everyone looked to the noise. There stood the Disposable Demon, Eric or Legion, holding a bowl for the Hellfire, and called out with a grin, "just 'ere for the—" He faltered in his steps, face one of horror, "oh, Satan!" He saw Crowley's body as a snake, coiled there, with a very kind smile on his face.

Azirafell knew that Crowley wouldn't blame this low level demon, (but the demon would), so to maintain appearances he transformed back into Crowley's body, and greeted, "Eric! Dude! Do us a quick demonic intervention, will you?" He held out a hand out, "I need some moisturiser for my tan!" And, oh Someone... he held back a giggle. The demon was doing it!

Eric shakily held out a hand, and there, in his hands was a bottle of moisturiser, and he shook holding it out, and the demon happily took it. He poked his head through the fire, looking between the Archangels and lower demon, and said, "I think you should leave me alone, huh? And, leave my husband Azirafell alone, yeah?"

Slowly, Gabriel nodded a frown on his face, Sandalphon and Uriel fearfully nodded, and Azirafell looked to Eric, who nodded as well, shakily, swallowing.

"Right." He said, voice low and he smiled, scrunching his nose up in a twitch, just the way Crowley does.

 

 

Crowley leaned his body over the bathtub and he smiled, "you're probably curious a-baa-out what else I am capable of. And soon, you're a-baa-out to find out, my dears." He baa-ed out, as he took a handful of water and drank a bit of the water, and licked his lips with exaggerated movements. He remembered what Adam said, and let Azirafell's goat horns metamorphosis from his head, but bigger then what the demon ever shows. "There is a reason Satan wants me," he reasoned, letting out a fake moan.

"He's bluffing." Sneered Hastur, as he moved forward, swallowing. (At this moment in time, he's realising the toy water gun with water in, probably did hold Holy Water, and he could have died, (though you know it didn't).) "We can take him!" He grumbled out, eyeing the horns warily, only Satan had actual horns, and Hell's Usher didn't count, they were spikes.

Beelzebub looked positively sick, and they looked everywhere. Dagon too felt ill, but was trying to hide it, unlike the Lord who getting more and more fearful.

"One demon against the rest of Hell? What's he going to do?" Hastur shakily questioned.

"Shut it!" Snapped Beelzebub, glaring at Hastur and they stood. "Get him out of here, this'll cause a riot." They grumbled, as they walked to the middle of the room, but stayed away from Crowley-as-Azirafell in the tub, they leaned up, looking over the tub, and looked to the demons, trying to give off that everything was fine. Dagon moved to Hastur, to hide behind him. Beelzebub called, "what are you all looking at? Nothing to see! Nothing to see here!"

Crowley flicked more water at the window of demons, encouraging them to flee, and so they scattered about with fearful yells, disappearing in terror. That got them moving quicker.

A ding of an elevator sounded, and they turned to the noise of clicking heels, Crowley turned in the tub. There stood Michael, a smile on his face, as he turned to Beelzebub, "I came to bring back the—" He turned to the tub, his smile falling and pausing in horror. "Oh, Lord." He gasped out, frozen.

Beelzebub glanced back to Crowley-as-Azirafell in fear.

"Michael! My dear boy!" Greeted Crowley in a very Azirafell way, and flourished a hand out. "Oh, use a quick miracle, I need a baa-ath towel!"

Michael reached out, oh Someone's sake! He was actually miracle-ing a towel! He walked over, looking flabbergasted, and shakily held it out for him. Crowley gripped it, relishing how he kept a distance, and he smiled evilly, 'no more two sides huh? Can't now that a demon withstands Holy Water!'

He leaned over the bathtub, elegantly holding the towel and looked at them all pointedly, with a kind yet twisted smile, "I think it would be better for everyone if my husband, Crowley, and I were to be left alone in the future. Don't you?" He asked, his eyes soft at the temptation as he nodded. He made sure that no suspicion arose with adding his name in the mix, it was more of a 'hurt my things, I'll kill you' thing, and they knew that.

Beelzebub stared at him, and they nodded. Dagon nodded in shock and fear, as did Hastur who looked like he sucked a lemon. And finally, he looked to Archangel Michael, and he stiffly nodded to the agreement.

"Splendid." Smiled the angel, and wiggled, doing that wiggle he adores his demon for.

 

 

Berkeley Square was quiet that afternoon, and it was still sunny out, and the air cool and crisp. An angel and a demon sat on a bench in the middle of the garden.

"Do y'think they'll leave us alone now?" Asked Azirafell, slouched, half way down the seat, with one arm across the back of the bench, his voice a bit deeper.

"At a guess, they'll pretend it never happened." Replied Crowley, back straight and hands clasped over his stomach on his lap, his voice a bit higher and he sounded posh.

"Hmm." Hummed Azirafell, "mine too... that's bureaucracy I guess..." He looked around, "anyone lookin'?" He questioned, nervously and tense.

Crowley placed the tips of his fingers to his temple, and sighed, "nobody." He looked to Azirafell, his eyes soft, "shall we swap back?"

 

It was just like Agnes had told them.

 

Azirafell leaned up with an equally soft smile, and planted his lips against Crowley's, and Crowley's hand's went to his waist, holding him close, gently.

 

They were playing with fire and would need to choose their faces wisely.

 

A black light came from ones lips, and the other ones lips were white, and it washed over them, morphing and phasing, like a line and cover, like a blanket, as to not draw attention to them, and they phased from one to the other being.

 

And so they had.

 

Opening their eyes, they smiled. Azirafell was now Crowley, and Crowley was now Azirafell, back to their normal clothing. Swapping positions had been the best decision, and prophecy the two had ever had, and seen. Azirafell shook his body out, and Crowley stretched his hand.

Azirafell sighed, as he took the angel's hand, gently rubbing his thumb over the soft knuckles.

Crowley tugged at his new tartan scarf, and asked, "a tartan scarf. Really?" He seemed secretly fond.

"Tartan is stylish!" Defended Azirafell, who messed with his white bow tie, "and white, my dear?" He asked, not at all upset.

"It's nice, white suits you!" Crowley grinned, reaching up, and letting his index finger curl a strand of Azirafell's locks.

"So, Agnes Nutter's last prophecy was on the money." Smiled Azirafell, feeling Crowley's fingers gently tighten around his hand.

Crowley grinned, "I asked them for a rubber duck..." Azirafell looked to the angel in shock, and saw how utterly delighted Crowley was. His angel looked to him, "and made the Archangel Michael miracle me a towel!"

Azirafell let out a loud laugh, that sounded somewhat like a goat and threw his head back, while Crowley cackled like a snake, the two wearing bright smiles on their faces.

"They'll leave us alone..." smiled Azirafell, "for a bit." His smile softened to a tired frown. "If you ask me, both sides are going to use this as breathing space." He offered looking to his angel. "A chance to morally re-arm, and get the defences up. Get ready for the big one."

Crowley frowned, and looked to his demon, "I thought that was the big one?"

"I'm not sure. For my money, the really big one..." Azirafell looked around the park, to people who wandered the streets innocently, oblivious to the dangers around them, "is all of Us against all of Them."

"Wot?" Crowley followed Azirafell's eyes, "Heaven and Hell against... Humanity?" He fell silent in thought, confused and worried.

"Right. We should go, and leave the garden." Azirafell said, turning to the angel, wanting him to calm down.

Crowley looked to him, and grinned, leaning into the corner of the bench, "let me tempt you to a spot of lunch?"

Azirafell grinned, as if he was back on that Wall, back in the Garden, "temptation accomplished." He chuckled patting his knees, and the two got up.

They began walking down the grass, Crowley sauntering and Azirafell strolling, smiling with soft eyes.

"Hmm... what about The Ritz, darling?" Hummed Crowley, his arm going around the demons waist. "I think a table for two has just miraculously come free."

Azirafell smiled, and let out a pleasant, and giddy, "ah...!"

 

 

The Ritz was fancy, and bright, blooming with people, couples young and old, all genders, and all ethnicity's. And one angel and one demon. A pianist in a black dress, played a familiar song on a white piano, Vera Lynn's, 'A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square'.

A waiter poured a glass of champagne for Crowley, and the angel smiled in thanks softly. The waiter moved to Azirafell, who had yet to stop watching Crowley with soft eyes, and poured the demon a glass of champagne too.

Crowley picked up his glass, "I like to think none of this would have worked out..." Azirafell looked over to him, as the waiter walked away. "...if you weren't, at heart, just a little bit a good person."

Azirafell could take being a good person, he liked that. He smiled, "and if you weren't, deep down, just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing."

Crowley smiled, and flushed lightly as he looked down shyly, he liked that, being a bastard.

The demon raised his glass, and said with a soft smile, "cheers..." he stared at his angel, "to the world."

"To the world." The angel replied with an equally soft smile, staring at his demon, nearly choking up.

The two clinked glasses, the glasses ringing out, and sipped their champagne slowly, still smiling, as their serpent and goat, marriage necklaces glistened in the light.

 

Perhaps the recent exertions had had some fallout in the nature of reality, because while they were eating, for the first time ever, a nightingale actually did sing in Berkeley Square.
Nobody heard it over the noise of the traffic, but it was there right enough.

 

 

"That certain night, the night we met,
There was magic abroad in the air,
There were angels dining at the Ritz
And A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square"