Work Text:
He really is getting sick of this.
There aren’t even any humans to greet him on this occasion, as he slams into the stone floor, wings still splayed and ruffled from his descent. The demon jerks at his arrival, pulling against the ethereal ropes and chains that bind him in place.
Oh, what have they done to him this time?
Aziraphale pulls his wings in, the limbs rippling back into the ethereal realm even as he folds his corporation into the mortal plane. Crowley blinks multiple times in the direction of his landing, sharp and rapid movements as he keens lowly. “Be at peace,” he soothes as he kneels at the edge of the runic bindings, feeling their cruel pulse as the demon shudders at the recognition of his voice, “I am here, Crowley.”
He presses his fingers against the edge of the circle, sending a simple, forceful command through the carved bindings. Release the demon to me. The circle bends, warps. Stone returns to the shape it once held, runes obliterated, forgotten in the flex of time. Crowley falls limp, heaving for breath, scraping at his face until he barks a weak sound of laughter, eyes focusing on Aziraphale finally. Bright and alert as they once were.
“Show me,” Aziraphale requests quietly and Crowley allows his fingers to fall against his forehead. Darkness swims in the memory that the demon presents, warped voices that carry no significance. Aziraphale focuses and feels for the tremor of the humans souls, the distinct vibrations that form their beings. It will not be easy, but he believes he could trace them with this.
He offers the demon his hand, pulls Crowley into his chest and wraps his arms around the weakened being. It takes effort to shift them both to his current sanctuary without the physical movement of flight but he knows his home well enough and he does not begrudge the energy it drains from him. Tension flees from the demon as soon as the wards slip over them; a grounding command that will neither prevent the demon leaving of his own will, nor allow him to be summoned while Aziraphale’s hold on him persists.
“Stay safe,” Aziraphale murmurs, laying the demon gently down, “I will be back as soon as I have dealt with this.” Crowley allows himself to be manipulated willingly, curling in on himself within Aziraphale’s abode while the angel leaves.
It takes longer than he would prefer yet he manages eventually to locate the offenders and retrieve their store of knowledge. Crowley will not be summoned by such a spell again, at least not from this tome or from the lost memories of the amnesiac humans. It is dangerous, for such occult magic to be left in the hands of humanity as is; they are lucky it is only Crowley they corralled.
The demon in question stirs as he returns, sealing the knowledge from prying eyes. They share wine and stories, make no further mention of the binding sigils of the cavern or the grounding runes that hold Crowley to this current place.
And when, in several years time, the aftermath of an occult summoning ripples within the ethereal current, Aziraphale flies to his side again.
On this occasion, there are humans present. On this occasion, Crowley is screaming. The demons wings are spread wide, held taut by the rules that bind him as the demon kneels with forearms pressed to the ground. His solid golden eyes bore into Aziraphale as he folds himself into the mortal plane, feeling the thundering power of the consecrated grounds leaching into him. He spreads his wings and screams his fury and ensures no such summon ever takes place again.
Crowley does not leave his sanctuary for several days after this experience. Aziraphale cannot blame him and does not raise this fact into verbal notice. The demon always relaxes when he breaches Aziraphale’s home and the angel never bars the way to him. It never needs said that Aziraphale will not strengthen the bind, never needs confirmed that he will not tie it around the demons throat while he shelters under Aziraphale’s wing. They each know it is true without words.
It happens again, a decade hence.
Aziraphale arrives with fury in his flight to find Crowley with wings spread wide. It is of his own volition, in this time, as he shelters a young one that has fled into his circle. The summoners are still adjusting to this unexpected change in their plans, Crowley’s bluff of his available power while within the circle enough to hold them until Aziraphale makes his entrance. He removes the guilty parties from their concern, breaks the circle and accepts Crowley’s explanation of the child as an intended sacrifice. They usher her home, Crowley shuddering and tense at his side, unwilling to leave her until she is restored to her anguished family. Crowley melts into his chest when the grounding of his home slips back upon him and he guides the poor demon to the welcoming fireplace.
And again.
This time it is a group of young men who did not expect their rite to work, yet now it has, are unwilling to waste the opportunities it presents. They cower when Aziraphale arrives, filling them with righteous fear of matters they do not understand, holy awe for creatures beyond their understanding, terror at the wrath of one who stands in defense of his eternal companion. Crowley’s eyes are alight with fear, his movements deliberate and controlled. Aziraphale cannot understand it, when previous summons have proven to be so much worse. The demon enlightens him after, in the safety of his sanctuary, to the danger of the uninformed. Those that summon with intent have purpose, hold knowledge. May harm, but never destroy until their goal is achieved. He understands then, why Crowley sought not to overtly frighten the summoners who did not understand what they had done. Humans are nothing if not afraid of the unknown, and will seek to defend themselves with whatever they can envision should they feel threatened. He tries not to imagine what they might have turned to in an effort to control this creature they had invoked, if Crowley had been left to their hands.
And again.
The believers are filled with misplaced worship and bloodthirsty malice. Aziraphale explodes into being in the midst of their exorcism, Crowley writhing and howling in planes both mortal and divine. His screams pierce Aziraphale’s soul and he unearths his retribution against those that cause them.
And again.
The cult is delirious, demanding that which Crowley cannot or will not give. The demon is snarling and foaming at the blessed artifacts inflicted upon him when Aziraphale dives with his wrath wreathing his wings.
And again.
Aziraphale crashes into this newest blasphemy, eyes aflame as he seeks his quarry. He finds Crowley curled and quiet in the hopelessly small summon, shivering. When he touches the demon he finds him wet, dripping in this dark, cold hole. Crowley is silent as he seeks the perpetrator in memories; finds a promise of destruction, feels a shower of water too damned with ill intent to remain holy. He carries the demon home, dries him with care as Crowley stares blankly into the crackling fire. He takes much more than the knowledge of occult beings from that human, when he finds them.
And again.
As he soars to the source of the occult ripple, he finds Crowley in flight, in combat. The demon latches on to another of his kind, screaming fury and pain as they both tumble through the sky. Aziraphale tears his way through the ether, brings his light to bear as he dives down upon them and the other demon claws itself free, flees his presence. Crowley gives chase, sigils of command painting his wings and Aziraphale tackles him from the sky. He screeches and claws at the angel as Aziraphale follows the threads of control back to their origin, dragging the demon with him.
The summoners concede control willingly, their intent fulfilled. They had summoned a demon to combat that which already tormented them and while Aziraphale cannot bring himself to hate them for simply trying to protect themselves he also cannot leave such knowledge in their minds. Crowley collapses against him when their strings are cut, heaving frantic, panicked breathes in his ear as he clutches at him. He does not relax, even when the grounding overtakes him.
And again.
They mean well, these humans. They try to coerce promises of health and safety for their loved ones in return for their own lives and souls. They mean well but a demon cannot give them what they ask for, especially within the binds they place upon him. Aziraphale comes upon them as they become frantic, as they push Crowley to grant what is beyond his grasp. While Aziraphale can feel the demons sorrow and regret he also knows as well as anyone what humans can do when they feel unfairly denied. He is glad he arrives in time to prevent such needless agonies.
And again.
He cannot pierce this veil, a shield against demons and angels alike. He batters against the defenses, resorts to pleading and begging with the summoner within when his assault fails and they do not respond to demands soaked with grace.
They eye him suspiciously from within their impenetrable home, finally bargain for his own gift of grace in return for the demons release. He feels sick at the sight of Crowley’s feathers clutched within their hands, does not want to consider what they could do with his own. They close the door on him and he panics, screeches concession until they return, plucks several feathers from his own trembling wings and places them at the base of their defenses. Pleads mercy for the creature they hold, a promise not to seek retribution.
They toss several flasks at his chest and he dutifully fills them with his own golden ichor even as his hands shake. Finally, they haul Crowley to the door of their fortified home, the demon meekly following their bidding, hands strapped behind his back with rope woven from purifying herbs of the land, a waterproof pouch of Holy Water perched taut between his jaws. His wings are pulled tight to his back, his whole form alight with terror as the witch orders Aziraphale back and breaks a hole in her own wards for long enough to push Crowley through.
He encases the terrified demon in his own wings as she collects the prizes he left her, incapable of wiping the knowledge of summons from the mind or material possessions of this human. She permits him to extract an agreement, of her own allowance, that she will release this particular demon in future if he becomes caught in her net again. It is all that he is capable of, all that he could do to secure her mercy for Crowley alone.
Another ripple passes over him as he tends to Crowley in his sanctuary, grounded in safety, and he knows she has cornered another to act as her source for arcane ingredients. He hugs the demon close, his own wings shivering in terror at the realisation that humans can hold far more power over him than he ever realised, that they could bar him from Crowley’s side should it ever please them. The demons fingers shiver over his lost feathers and he can only be thankful that the demons own were mostly left intact.
And again.
An ill-fated exorcism.
And again.
Demands that a cornered demon cannot fulfil.
And again.
Crowley, shuddering and keening and a human who tries to attack Aziraphale when he appears.
And again.
It is another witch. Aziraphale tests the boundaries, desperate for an entrance but the domicile is locked down tightly. He materialises before their home and begs an audience. When they open the door, the witch grins, their eyes alighting.
She was right, they muse and Aziraphale’s heart drops at his feet. “Please,” he croaks and they present their demands. He swears portions of his essence in return for the demon and once more finds himself presenting pieces of himself to a human. There is a moment he is almost convinced they are going to refuse him his reward, close the door upon him and keep the demon sealed from him for the rest of their mortal life.
Crowley is terrified once more, when they bring him out. They have bound him similar to the last occasion where Aziraphale had to beg for his life, only there are threads of blessed string tangled in his feathers and great patches are missing from his wings. Aziraphale would smite her from existence if he did not fear the mitigation of her runes and what she would do if she survived. He clutches Crowley to him and flees. Neither of them leave his sanctuary for months.
Time passes, the span of time between summons stretches.
And then.
Aziraphale stands outside of a witches home and begs. He has not bothered to hide his wings, knows the toll they will expect he pay. The witch that answers him is timid, on edge. She requests only one feather; specifies her intended use of it. A poultice for a spurned lover she nonetheless adores. He agrees readily, pleads with her to leave the demon unharmed.
When Crowley is sent out to him he is not bound as before but the strings of a compulsion puppet him. The demon shudders as they fall away when he passes the boundary, staggering to meet Aziraphale with fear in his eyes. Aziraphale pins the demon to him, wings encasing him. He leaves her more than she asks for, blesses her desperately in return for her mercy, knowing the blessings will not take until she steps beyond her home. He prays that, should she pass on the knowledge to summon a demon, to summon an angel by proxy, that she will also pass on this lesson. That mercy granted to the demon will be rewarded in kind.
There are tomes to summon an angel. Aziraphale holds them in his home. He was presented with them when Crowley came across the knowledge, gathering the original manuscripts and informants before the knowledge could spread.
He owes Crowley a great debt for this act. He only wishes he could return the act in full, but the knowledge is too widespread. He thinks, in his more cynical moments, that the demons spread the knowledge themselves. Crowley drunkenly confirms as much one quiet night as he tucks himself under Aziraphale’s wing, tracing new growth from feathers the angel had sacrificed for his freedom. A moment of madness, believing it would corrupt further humans to their master without thought of the consequences. Uncaring of the potential losses, never considering it could be used on the one disseminating the knowledge, until a rival added their names to the known list, added their essence to the pool of candidates. It is rare that somebody beyond Crowley is summoned, as the foremost demonic entity on the earth. On the few occasions it has occurred Aziraphale has shivered under the wave of power, Crowley pressing closer to him in panic until he realises the pull is not intended for him.
Years further on, another witch summons them.
Aziraphale stands outside and spreads his wings. The witch studies him. He offers pieces of himself for the demon, for use in her occult rituals. She asks a question none of the others before her have bothered.
“Why?”
He stares back at her, wings drooping in uncertainty. He wishes to brush her off but she holds the power here, she holds Crowley and he cannot risk her willingness to deal with him.
“I care,” he offers finally, “is that not enough?” As she straightens in the doorway he fans his wings back open in offer. “Please,” he pleads, “I have no one else. I have spent near six thousand years in company with him. He is the closest I can claim to a friend.”
She brings him Crowley. He leaves her pieces of himself. The demon can never forgive himself for what Aziraphale leaves willingly, but as long as he is around to scold and regretfully berate the angel for the loss, Aziraphale cannot bring himself to mind.
Summons come and go.
The Apocalypse arrives and then doesn’t.
Aziraphale finds himself outside of a home he recognizes and wants to weep. Anathema opens the door at his rippled pushing against the runes and startles to see him there.
“Let him go,” he pleads softly, the weight of countless summons pressing down on him, “Please, if we offended you in some way, I am sorry.” He opens his wings in silent invitation, a gentle miracle to make eyes other than those he wishes skate on past a sight they should not see.
Her eyes widen, understanding of some buried knowledge flaring behind her pupils. He waits.
“I didn’t realise,” she eventually shares, taut. In control. Of course she is, while she holds the demon. “Didn’t expect him in my circle, I can tell you that.”
“Let him go,” Aziraphale pleads again, weary of the worry he should not be feeling. The Apocalypse was averted, this should be their time of joy, of relief. He thought he would have longer, before either of them feared for the others existence again. “He isn’t a threat, if you would just release him to me. I am willing to bargain.” His wings fan slowly as his eyes close in grief. He is always willing to bargain.
She purses her lips, glancing behind her into the house. He wonders how Crowley reacted, when he realised who had lashed him to their will this time. He prays she did not take out her ire for the accident on the road, for the stolen, borrowed book of her ancestor. He was a fool, to think this would ever stop.
“Wait here,” she decides and he can do nothing else as she walks away. His heart twists and he hugs his own wings around himself as he prays. Crowley comes skittering out of the house, almost reaches the angel before he jumps back hissing. Aziraphale raises a hand, holds himself back from reaching against a barrier that will not admit him. Anathema appears back in the doorway and Crowley shrinks against a barrier that holds him captive in her land. This is cruelty of a different kind and he prays she is not intending to make him watch her recapture or harm Crowley while he can do nothing to stop it. He can see the strings of compulsion wrapped around the demon, ready to be pulled into action at her command, to perform puppetry as she wills. A needless show of power, when he has already conceded to a trade.
“I thought they only stopped you getting in,” she comments wryly as Crowley fails to breach her wards, shivering inches from Aziraphale’s protection. He doesn’t answer her mockery, only slinking as close to the barrier as he dares. It won’t matter, if she triggers her compulsion, if Aziraphale cannot reach him to disentangle the threads. She sweeps her skirt aside, stepping out from her doorway and Aziraphale feels the, “please,” rip from his throat as Crowley trembles. She watches them out of the side of her eye as she approaches a carved stone, protection bubbling around it. She reaches through a barrier they never could and hesitates.
Aziraphale backs away before she can ask, knowing the request from repetition after repetition. The stone deactivates as she presses her will onto it, her palm skimming its surface and Crowley trips past the opening, fleeing to Aziraphale’s side. He encases the demon as has become habit, his wings pressing against the demons back as he commands the threads of compulsive magic to loosen, to release, to vanish.
She did not request a boon of him but he will not risk her wrath. He leaves several feathers scattered at his feet before he pulls the demon from this place and hopes it is enough that she will not summon Crowley again.
The world continues to turn.
A group of teenagers, easily dealt with.
An old professor, driven by curiosity and taken with fear at the results.
A child, who stole from her fathers library and seeks whatever escape is available.
A village and a church and an exorcism that Aziraphale detests.
She summons him again.
Aziraphale stands outside her domicile, vibrating with rage. He would have answered, if she had contacted him some other way. Would have debased himself at her command, gifted her the bargain she failed to strike if she had only granted Crowley and himself their respect, the demon his right to freedom and safety. He spreads his wings in silent bargain, orders the gaze of others away and clenches his fists in fury he cannot give into. She does not come to the door no matter how loudly he pounds against the barrier.
He shoves down the urge to pace, swallows the desire to scream and curse. He is incapable of forcing her hand while she lurks within her runes, she knows this. Even if she allows Crowley free rein he still cannot reach him, cannot spirit the demon to safety unless she allows it; she knows this also.
He will not allow her mercy after this. He will haunt her every moment until she walks past her own protections. He will make her regret ever condemning him to this hopeless vigil a second time. He slams against the barriers and knows she feels it.
Another human cautiously opens the door and peeks out. He glares with the spectre of death at this male. “Anathema would like you to stop interrupting her,” he squeaks, staring at Aziraphale’s wings, “she says she’s trying to help.”
Aziraphale stares Newt down and arcs his wings. “She can help,” he growls, “by bringing Crowley to me.”
Newt ducks back inside and Aziraphale pulses against the barriers again. The human returns after several minutes, looking harried. “Bring me the demon,” he demands, terror building as time stretches without sight of the summoner or their captive.
“Look, I don’t understand it but she says this will help,” Newt tries to convince, “She said it was supposed to be an apology for last time and a thank you for the gift?”
“What is she doing?” Aziraphale begs, “He stood against his own kind for your world, leave him be.”
There is a power building within the house; it is muffled by the barriers but it is there. Aziraphale beats his wings furiously against the seal. Newt winces as his feathers flare and smoke.
“Please,” he cries, “this isn’t necessary! Bring him out; let me speak to her!”
The magic crescendos, swirling with promise and Newt disappears back into the house. Aziraphale is left to scream for mercy for a demon as his feathers singe. Surging magic shivers, on the edge of breaking and then it tightens and Aziraphale can only watch in horror as it spills back into the house and an ethereal scream splits the sky. The humans of the village pass by, unaware of the pain voiced at a level far beyond their own awareness. Aziraphale’s knees buckle and he claws at the path just beyond her garden gate, sobs of agony echoing up his own throat.
The door slams open and Anathema stares out at him, panting, soaked with sweat and exhaustion. He meets her gaze and feels steel in his veins.
“I will not forgive this,” he promises, his true self leaching into the world as the fading screams ring through his being. He sees her pale, sees the moment she understands that her vision has only ever shown her a fraction of what he is, even when she truly looked before. She has enough of the occult in her that he knows she heard the scream.
Newt appears behind her, dragging the demon which clings to him, barely able to keep his feet. Crowley hardly seems conscious, slipping to the grass in a kneel as Newt lowers him in front of Aziraphale, the humans gaze flicking warily between the demon and the angel gradually breaking through his illusion of humanity. Anathema stands trembling in the doorway, pinned by his fury even as he understands the impossibility of embracing the demon mere inches from him once again. Newt rises, glancing back to Anathema. When she does not answer him, the other human creeps over to the rock she once released them from and presses his hand against it. Without the will of a witch behind it, the agreement of the one who placed them, the wards tremble and only barely split. It is enough. Aziraphale darts through, snatches at the demon and throws himself backwards, twisting them both into incorporeal essence as he wings them back to his sanctuary.
There is something twisted through the demon, something new and foreign and unwelcoming and Aziraphale rages as he spins them both into being on the floor of his bookshop, his runes of protection, shelter and grounding crashing down around them. He fires extra energy into his protections, pours excessive grace into fuelling their purpose as he twines himself around the demon and wills him back to health.
Crowley lies cocooned in his wings as he comes back to consciousness, his grace aching from the strain he has placed on it. The demon groans, protesting as he rolls him free of his feathers and seeks the damage he remembers. The new magic is spun too tightly through his essence; to tear it out would be to endanger the demon himself. Crowley opens his eyes and croons at the look on his face. He presses against the demon, draws his attention to the magic that entangles him. Crowley sinks, his essence twisting as he studies himself, tugging at the magic, becoming frantic as it fails to release him. Aziraphale nudges him still, brushes tendrils against the strands as he seeks their purpose. Crowley follows his lead, spinning webs of thought as he thrashes the threads into a weave of understanding. As he approaches it, the demon slows, wonder leaching from him as he turns and writhes, presenting the threads in a new way to the angel.
“She grounded me,” Crowley whispers and Aziraphale pulls himself back to materiality with a start, pressing his ears into service. “She grounded me,” Crowley cackles, clutching at Aziraphale, “Permanently!” He curls his wing back around the demon, uncertain. “I can’t be summoned,” Crowley barks, pulling himself up to meet Aziraphale’s eye, “She – angel, she bound me to...to myself. I can’t...” The demons entire body shudders, his eyes glowing. “I can’t be summoned,” he repeats, a whisper; a secret between friends.
A gasp, a broken exhalation. Crowley buries his face in the angels collarbone and laughs. Hiccupping, shattered laughter.
They return, eventually. Of their own will, this time.
She peeks out of her doorway, wincing when she catches sight of them. Edging out carefully to confront them. Crowley greets her with joy and gratitude and Aziraphale presses close to the demon and defers judgement. She cautiously offers a truce and tea and when Aziraphale tenses, ethereal wings twitching, she quickly suggests a cafe in town. Neutral ground.
He doesn’t smite her, when she steps outside of her wards.
Crowley wouldn’t have approved.