#aziraphae

Crowley’s jaw clenches; his lips spasm - and then he’s rolling his shoulders, straightening up.

“Yeah s’not so bad,” he says, voice tight. 

On Aziraphale’s back, Beelzebub has begun to shake. 

“Here - Crowley.”

With Beelzebub supported by Crowley, Aziraphale pushes aside a pew. The stone floor is unbroken - and it’s clean enough, Aziraphale thinks, kicking aside dirt and leaves.

Outside, Hell Hounds whimper and snarl.

He doesn’t have a knife, but he doesn’t need one. The pews are ancient, falling apart from age and the elements. Sliding his hand over a jagged edge of wood, he yanks back, easily slicing a jagged gash in the flesh of his palm.

Crowley winces, pulling down his glasses as he watches the golden blood pool in Aziraphale’s palm. 

When Aziraphale bends, tracing out the symbols with his fingers, he's aware of Crowley shifting, hopping from one foot to the other. In his arms, Beelzebub is pale and sweating. The demon lord, panting, has begun to writhe.

“Almost there,” Aziraphale mutters, fumbling to scrawl out a long series of runes.

“It’s okay,” Crowley says, strained. “Take your time. Do it right.”

Beelzebub, gasping for air, violently yanks at their tie. “Yeah. Ignore that. Hurry the fuck up.”

The growling outside is, impossibly, even closer.

The Hell Hounds should not have been able to make it this far. At this rate, they might survive long enough to break through the door.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale calls, unwilling to look up from a circle half complete.

“Er, yeah. I’ll, uh, brace the door.”

As Aziraphale traces the last lines of the golden circle, there is a groan, then a crash as something heavy settles against the door.

Panting, Crowley says, tremulous, “That’ll-” a deep breath, “That’ll slow ‘em down.”

“Almost done,” Aziraphale chants, “Almost done. Hold on, dear.”

Kneeling at the edge of the circle, Aziraphale opens his hand. From his palm, golden blood flows. 

His fingers are drenched; positioning them over the bottom-most sigil, he watches as the blood pours from the tips of his fingers into the thick lines traced onto stone. As the blood flows, spilling and spreading throughout the design, slowly, slowly, the runes awake with a flickering, ethereal glow.

Bracing his hand, Aziraphale bends as his blood pours, uninterrupted from his palm to the circle. 

It is nearly done. Soon, he thinks, dazed. Soon, there will be enough.

Steeling himself, he pictures the angel in question, and speaks. 

“Archangel Gabriel, Messenger of the Lord - I, Aziraphale, Principality, Former Guardian of the Eastern Gate,” Aziraphale says, and draws in a short breath, “I summon thee.”

The circle, glowing brighter, pulsates with light. Wincing, Aziraphale steadies his hand as the blood pours, unrestrained from his palm. The circle is swallowing it up, demanding more.

Aziraphale hunches over, straining to hold his hand steady.

Any moment, Gabriel should come. There is plenty of blood in the circle, he thinks. He’s lost track of how much he’s lost - but there must be enough. 

The circle is swimming in his vision and a sharp buzzing fills his ears. 

Aziraphale sways.

“Wait.” Beelzebub’s voice is sharp and distant - as though Aziraphale is beneath water and they are atop the surface, shouting down at him from above.

But that can’t be right. Why would a demon be looking down on him? Aziraphale thinks, dazed.

“Let me down - Crowley, move!” Beelzebub is shouting. “Gabriel - that dick. Break the angel from the circle, now! That bitch of an archangel is trying to kill him.”

And then there are two sets of hands on him. Aziraphale’s palm is extended, blood pouring out, and he watches, distantly concerned as Crowley, and then Beelzebub wrench at his arm. It is immobile - immovable. Blood spills, relentless. 

“Aziraphale, shit.”

Crowley is at Aziraphale’s back, one arm wrapped around him, the other tugging roughly at his extended hand.

“Pull him free,” Beelzebub commands, “I’ll break the damn summoning.”

And then there is a horrible, wrenching pressure. Crowley is muttering, hot breath brushing Aziraphale’s neck. Something in his arm pops. Still, his hand doesn’t budge. And then Crowley is violently cursing, and the room is spinning - black spots dance in Aziraphale’s vision. 

He has the distant, awful realization that Crowley may be watching him die.

As Aziraphale slumps, sinking into Crowley’s shaking arms, he watches Beelzebub, hands crackling with flame strike at the circle.

Aziraphale blinks, and when he opens his eyes, Beelzebub has fallen to a knee. One hand is braced against the ground, and the skin is bubbling, melting from their fingers. 

Screaming in fury, the demon lord strikes out at the circle again, and when the flames sputter and die against the ethereal light, Beelzebub, shuddering, sinks down. On the ground, the demon screeches, back arching to escape the searing stone.

Aziraphale reaches out - or, tries to. His one hand is stuck to the circle, and the other won’t obey him. 

Crowley is over him, under him - everywhere. Aziraphale can feel him, hear him, smell him. Crowley’s hand is on his wrist, his fingers futilely trying to stem the flow of blood where it is being drawn from his palm. The demon is shaking, and Aziraphale has his second horrifying realization - Crowley, kneeling on consecrated ground to hold Aziraphale, must be burning up beneath him.

“Crowley - Crowley,” Aziraphale slurs. Go, he tries to say. Leave me. Please.

Writhing on the floor, Beelzebub claws at their neck - at their face. Old gashes, freshly opened, leak dark blood. Trickling between grooves in stone, it seeps into the sigils, polluting ethereal gold.

The summoning circle flickers once, and then the runes ignite with a white, holy light. The air is humming, vibrating with pressure. As the pressure grows - heavy and terrible - the hum morphs into a piercing whine and - 

Blindingly white light floods the circle, and a glowing creature strikes down, shaking the foundations of the church.

When Gabriel steps out of the circle, angel and demon blood smears beneath his black leather shoes.

“Okay, what the fuck,” Gabriel snaps. 

Violet eyes, sharp and glowing, shift to the church door. Shuddering and nearly buckling in, it cracks, the horrific baying of Hell Hounds cacophonous behind it.

Aziraphale, blinking groggily, is vaguely aware of Crowley hissing in triumph as Aziraphale’s arm pulls loose of the circle. There is immediate, forceful pressure on the pulsing wound.

Beelzebub, shoes scraping ineffectually against stone, lifts a shaking hand and points a single finger at Gabriel. 

“Gab - Gabriel. Get us... out of here,” they croak, shuddering. 

Gabriel starts, head whipping toward the voice.

Panting, Beelzebub chokes out, “you - you owe me, you dick,” before immediately slumping back, words disintegrating into an anguished shriek as they thrash against holy stone.

Gabriel is stumbling forward, reaching a hand out - when the door buckles in. Hell Hounds, igniting as they step into the church, shriek and snap, baying painfully - madly, as they charge into the room.

Gabriel lifts a staying hand, white wings materializing at his back. The dogs, blocked by a golden, ethereal shield, throw themselves at the obstacle, snarling and snapping. 

The first layer of the golden shield cracks.

Stepping back, Gabriel looks around, taking stock of the angel and demons littering the floor - and claps his hands.

- - -

Crowley opens his eyes to white.

Scrambling, he finds himself in a sitting room. And Aziraphale - 

Aziraphale is beside him, limp and lifeless on the floor. 

Flinging himself up, he grabs for the angel. 

Aziraphale is cold - pale. His palm is still wrapped with the inner lining of Crowley’s jacket, but the wound is bleeding, golden blood leaking through. 

Crowley is dizzy, the burned skin of his legs screaming as he cups beneath Aziraphale’s jaw.

“Aziraphale, angel,” Crowley, mutters, fingers fumbling, tracing cold skin. “Come on. You can heal yourself. You’re an angel - it’s - it’s your thing. Aziraphale. Please - angel-”

“He’s lost too much blood. Can’t do much of anything now,” Gabriel mutters.

Crowley whips around.

Gabriel is standing, arms folded, frowning down at Beelzebub. 

The demon lord is unconscious, breathing dangerously slowly as the white couch stains a deep red beneath them.

“Gabriel.” Crowley says, spitting his name like a curse.

Violet eyes flick up. 

“Aziraphale will die, demon. An angel can’t lose that much blood and survive it.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Injured and clutching Aziraphale, who is dying, in his arms, Crowley...

Attacks Gabriel - the archangel has healing powers, and Crowley will be damned, again, if he doesn’t force Gabriel to use them to somehow, somehow save Aziraphale. 

Begs Gabriel to save Aziraphale - because Crowley will give anything, anything and everything to save Aziraphale’s life.

Bargains with Gabriel - Crowley knows Gabriel didn’t show up for Aziraphale and Crowley. He and Beelzebub have history - or something. Crowley will help Beelzebub, but only if Gabriel helps Aziraphale.

Crowley, desperate, attempts to use his own demonic tricks to save Aziraphale’s life.

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