Chapter Text
The sound Crowley hated most wasn't that of celestial trumpets. It was the click.
The dry, metallic sound of silver collars snapping against their brothers' necks. Since the Great Judgment had ended with the overwhelming victory of the Heavenly Hosts, Earth was no longer a playground. It was a kennel. Hell had been sealed, and the remaining demons—the "useless tools," as Archangel Michael called them—had been turned into property.
Crowley was hiding in the back of an abandoned pub, his breath short, his pupils so narrow they were just black threads against the vibrant yellow of his eyes. He sensed her presence. The scent of ozone and expensive incense. Michael.
“Get out of here, Anthony,” Michael’s voice echoed, cold and devoid of any mercy. “You’ve been lucky for too long. Your special ‘friendship’ won’t protect you today. The Supreme Archangel Gabriel has decreed that all unclaimed individuals must be processed by sunset.”
Through a crack in the wall, Crowley glimpsed the glint of metal in Michael's hands. It wasn't an ordinary collar; it was engraved with Enochian runes that would drain his will, transforming the "Obstacle" into an obedient beast of burden.
He wouldn't be an animal. He wouldn't belong to Michael.
With a desperate growl, Crowley didn't fight. He did the only thing a master survivor demon knew how to do: he became smoke and shadow, slipping through the cracks in the floorboards.
"Get behind him!" Michael ordered the guards.
Crowley ran. Not to what remained of the fissures of Hell, but to the only place that still smelled of old paper, jasmine tea, and... safety.
The bell at the AZ Fell & Co. bookstore rang so loudly that it almost fell off the door.
Aziraphale was polishing a rare volume of poetry, trying to ignore the weight of the new world order on his shoulders. He wore the immaculate white uniform required by the new regime.
When he looked up, his face turned pale.
Crowley stumbled inside, knocking over a stack of books. He was disheveled, his designer suit torn, and the terror on his face was something Aziraphale had never seen in six thousand years—not even before holy water.
" Angel..." Crowley's voice faltered, a broken whisper. "Angel, please."
Before Aziraphale could take a step, the door swung open again with a blinding burst of light. Michael stood in the doorway, clutching the silver collar like a death sentence.
"Step aside, Aziraphale," Michael said, his eyes gleaming with terrifying authority. "This specimen is escaping the record. I'm taking it for reconditioning."
Crowley crawled across the floor, gripping the hem of Aziraphale's trousers, his fingers trembling.
"Don't let her..." Crowley pleaded, his eyes fixed on Aziraphale's. "Please, Aziraphale. I'd rather you destroy me. Erase me. But don't let her put that thing in me."
Aziraphale felt a glacial chill run through him. He looked at Michael, then at the trembling creature at his feet. The angel straightened his back, and a flame he didn't even know he possessed burned in his chest.
"He's not running away from the record, Archangel Michael," said Aziraphale, his voice gaining a firmness that surprised them both.
Michael frowned. "What did you say?"
Aziraphale placed a protective hand on Crowley's shoulder, feeling the demon shudder under his touch.
"Crowley already has an owner. He is... mine."