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[flaming-michael.livejournal.com]

Date: August 4th, 1999, mid afternoon Setting: Soho, London Status: Private, Michael, Crowley, Aziraphale Summary: Righteous, sadistic, all one and the same...

Michael glanced around guiltily. He still hadn't gotten the hang of being back on earth, and the 20th century just seemed to complicate things. He'd seen people with pieces of medal stuck through totally arbitrary pieces of their face, but he, an arch angel, a patron saint, a smiter of the unrighteous, couldn't manage to go two steps down the street without gathering a small crowd. After spending a good twenty minutes stepping outside, freaking out and running inside again, repeat ad nausium, he'd finally just imitated the attire of the nearest human male, slammed a hat over his (slightly glowing) long blonde hair, and made a dash for it.

Who knew shining white togas and golden sandlas would cause such a fuss?

But anyway, he had a job to do, and damn- er, bugge- er, and blowed if he was going to let a few mortals get in his way of doing it. The demon Crowley, nee Crawly's flat was just up ahead.

Getting into places is no trouble for an Angel. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, panting and sneaking furtive glances out the window, muttering to himself about 'flaming swords' and 'he who is without sin', when it hit him - he'd forgotten the holy water.

(The priest he summoned to him to hurriedly bless a few buckets of tap water later thought it was a dream. "My brothers," he said the next morning, "Last night I was visited by the Angel Michael, and he was shining with the light of heaven...though why he was wearing a Van Halen shirt and leather pants must surely be one of the mysteries of God.")

"Ok," Michael said to himself as he paced through the stylishly appointed flat, "Ok ok, we're back in business, yea, and I shall get on with the smiting verily," The buckets were hoisted and, rather unceromoniously, thrown against the walls. And the couch. And the shower. And (Michael took rather more pleasure then needed at this) the bed. However, he stepped up when it came to the pot plants. Holding his Angelic hands over the lot of them, he spoke the Words, and gave them sentience - and a holy water pistol each. "Take vengeance, my brothers," he whispered in what would have been, were he not an angel, a rather sadistic tone of voice.

And then, after every surface in every room had been doused, he fled.

 

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[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

The Bentley ground to a halt outside of Crowley's building. Driving through downtown London in an open car in partial demonic form with an injured angel having a nervous breakdown in the passenger seat is not a circumstance known for its calming properties. However, once he had parked, Crowley took a moment to pull himself together. Resting his hands and head on the steering wheel and taking a deep breath, Crowley first adjusted his wings, which he had earlier winched in too hastily. When his shoulder blades were more comfortable, he leaned back into the seat and concentrated. His features softened subtly, his eyes dimmed, teeth returned to their normal state and his sunglasses re-materialized on his nose. Then he repaired his ripped clothing and sighed with relief.

His ablutions done, he turned his attention back to Aziraphale. The angel's eyes were fever bright, his trousers were burned and shredded, the edges of the wound in his calf were turning slightly green, and he appeared to be in shock.

As he stepped out of the car, gathered up Aziraphale, and proceeded to carry him to his flat, Crowley tried to remember what it was you did for people in shock. He seemed to remember something about offering liquids. Well that wasn't a problem. He needed some liquids himself. Oh, but not alcohol. For the one in shock anyway. The one treating the one in shock would need alcohol to avoid shock himself. By this point, Crowley had started on the stairs. Aziraphale's eyes were closed and his head lolled on Crowley's shoulder. Crowley wondered how else he could treat the angel. Something about keeping him cool, wasn't it? No warm, definitely warm. And he did have more holy water in the safe. That might help. Perhaps a damp flannel for his forehead? He had to keep him awake at any rate for some important reason or other.

They had finally reached Crowley's door, which was fortunate as Crowley's strength was flagging. Making a final effort, he hoisted the angel up once more to prevent him from slipping, kicked in the door that he hadn't noticed was slightly open, and carried Aziraphale over the threshold like a newlywed. He managed to take five steps into the flat before taking a deep breath, screaming in pain, dropping the angel and collapsing to the floor.

[ineffable-angel.livejournal.com]

The screaming woke him up.

It wasn't a really pleasant way to snap out of trauma-induced shock, a tiny infintessimal little piece of his mind told him calmly. The dropping didn't help either. Aziraphale, however, was feeling very not-calm when he could see Crowley's writhing form on the floor next to him. He reached for him immediately, gathering the shaking body to him and lifting him off the floor. He tugged Crowley into his lap, one hand firmly on his head, holding it flush against his chest protectively. He stroked Crowley's hair, murmuring soothing things and ignoring his leg, which still burned deeply and was giving him shocks of unholy heat up and down his leg in a truly unpleasant manner.

And then he noticed the halo.

Oh, no. His legs were drenched. Water, like acid, was scattered about him, soaking Crowley's flat... the floors, the walls, the furniture. He looked around him, feeling his aura improve and start to make his skin glow, showing the harmed parts of it look black and sickly against the luminescent light.

He realized he still held Crowley tightly, rocking him as one would a small child. "Crowley," he whispered, and was horrified to hear the secondary, heavenly echo in his voice. "Crowley," he whispered again, and his wings ripped open and pushed him upwards, as he held Crowley with one hand and tore off the wet clothes with the other, halting the acidic burn. "Come on, demon," he muttered, eyes still bright with shock and fever and now tears. "Talk to me."

[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

The pain was unbelievable. White hot knives pierced his lungs, his skin was boiling, and every nerve ending shrieked in agony. Crowley stopped breathing.

He felt himself being lifted from the ground and cried out again before being enveloped in softness. His clothes, which had fortunately blocked the worst of the holy water from coming in direct contact with his skin were ripped off and tossed aside revealing red, inflamed skin on his chest and back. The palms of his hands were melted, blistered, and bleeding from their contact with the carpet when he had used them to break his fall. Curling up into a fetal position, Crowley began to shake violently and fall into his own pain.

Then he heard his name. Someone was calling him. Someone important. He followed the sound of the voice back to the surface of his consciousness and pried one eye open to look. Aziraphale's halo was blindingly bright and he squeezed his eyes shut again. In a broken whisper, he managed to say, "Angel, help!" before he passed out.

[ineffable-angel.livejournal.com]

Aziraphale felt him become deadweight, and ripped off the last of the wet clothes feverishly. He used his wings to give them extra momentum, and and limped to the door from which they entered. He collapsed in the hallway, holding Crowley on his lap.

"Crowley," he whispered, holding him on his lap and rocking him, surrounded by feathers. His cheek had burned in the fire, and Crowley's skin had blistered from the water.

Why? he wondered.

[barking-draco.livejournal.com]

Draco apparated to the Roosevelt Memorial and glanced around. There wasn't anyone familiar nearby. There were, however, Muggles. Draco masterfully suppressed the urge to get out his weapon of mass destruction wand, and started wandering around. Still no sign of Crowley.

Bugger.

After looking around, he pulled out his wand and performed a quick location spell. The wand swiveled, and pointed towards a building from which faint screams could be heard. Draco shrugged. "Well, he is a demon," he said to himself, and started to walk.

He reached the building and followed his wand up the stairs. "Figures he'd live on the top floor, the flash bastard." The wand led him to the door, just as two entities burst out of it. One of them had large wings, and he was dragging the other, who appeared to be both Crowley and severely burned. Draco had no time to angst, since the one with the wings immediately urgently gestured for him to help. After casting a Concealment charm on everyone, Draco helped hoist the unconscious demon, and they made their way downstairs.

[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

Crowley came to outside his building with the heat of the summer afternoon beating down on his naked body. He hissed in pain as two pairs of hands tightened on his raw and tortured arms to prevent him from falling. Wait. Two pairs?

His head lolled to the right and caught a glimpse of Aziraphale looking particularly angelic, slightly dazed, and very concerned. Lolling to the left he saw - Draco Malfoy? It was Draco. And somehow the brat was managing to look excited, disgusted, depressed, and bored at the same time. Belatedly, Crowley remembered inviting the kid over to talk about a demonic internship. It seemed like a lifetime ago but it had really only been the day before. Then he spotted the Bentley parked across the street.

In a ragged whisper through cracked lips, he managed to spit out, "Car."

Aziraphale and Draco did their best to support Crowley as they all walked to the car. Crowley leaned against the body of the car and tried to analyze the situation, although his head was pounding and his thoughts were fuzzy.

Okay, so what did they know? Hastur and Ligur had tried to destroy Aziraphale and someone else had come after Crowley. Since Heaven and Hell could clearly find them in London, it was a liability to stay. They would have to get somewhere safe in order to regroup and heal. Was there anyone neutral that could help them? He remembered a face. A cherubic face with blond curls. He couldn't go to an angel for help. The bastards would just finish off what they'd started in his flat. He shook his head. That wasn't right. Not an angel. He remembered the face again. It was the face of a boy. Young. Adam!

Aziraphale was also resting against the car. He and Draco were watching Crowley. Unwilling to break his train of thought, they looked at each other inscrutably and returned their eyes to the demon.

Okay, Crowley decided, they'd go find Adam and crave a boon of interception. How would they get there, though? He mentally checked their list of assets and liabilities. Liabilities: He was naked, exhausted, and couldn't use his hands. Aziraphale was in shock, also exhausted, and couldn't use his left leg. The kid was an idiot and didn't know how to drive. Assets: The Bentley. He put two and two together.

In a rough, pained rasp, he grunted out, "Me, driver, pedals. Angel, passenger, steer. Kid, back, gear shift."

Draco and Aziraphale looked at each other again with raised eyebrows and complied, helping Crowley into the car first before taking their own seats. (Draco was stuffed into a small luggage storage area behind the passenger seat.) As the engine roared to life, Aziraphale desperately grabbed the steering wheel, Crowley depressed the clutch, and Draco tugged the lever into first gear at Crowley's urging. Then Crowley let up on the clutch, pressed down on the gas, and they were off.