Title: What's in a Name
Author: Macx & Lara Bee
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: NC-17
Series: 1) Whole, 2) Gravitation, 3) Undeniable, 4) Warmth, 5) One Man's Demon, 6) Millennium, 7) Convergence, 8) Adjustment, 9) Consequences, 10) Mimicry, 11) Modification, 12) Incomplete, 13) London - Indiana, 14) An Angel and a Demon Walk Into a Bar, 15) And the World Still Turns
Summary: Beelzebub doesn't take the abduction of his archangel lightly. He employs Crowley and Aziraphale to find him and finds more than he ever expected.***
There were many bookshops in the City of London, even more in the Greater Area. There were the big chains and the small chains, the independent ones, the specialized ones, those who only had foreign books and newspapers, and those with a coffee shop in the back, or a coffee shop with a few books, then the second hand ones, or those who sold whatever was associated with books.
And there was a small bookshop in a side street off Oxford St. It was really tiny, wedged in between larger buildings, and the display was filled with mystical dragons, wizards, elves and beasts of an even more fantastic origin. There were a few action figures just for fun, too. The shop was filled top to bottom with old books and new books, heavy tomes, light reading, Encyclopaedias and novels, comic books and other more unusual volumes.
This tiny bookshop was frequented by a lot of teenagers, mostly those who giggled and pointed at specific sculptures or bought mystical figurines. Some had a penchant for crystals, others for amulets, the next for rings or cups or books or cards.
The owner knew them all.
And he knew the boy who walked in on this afternoon, looking through the shelves of mystery and magic books, browsing. It took the boy fifteen minutes to make his choice and he placed the old book with the loose sheets and cracked spine on the counter. The owner had bought it in a second hand antique market, off a young mother whose daughter had apparently spent her allowance on this 'trash'. Now a new teenager was buying it.
Cary Mitchell was seventeen, pimply, tall but not filling out, so it made him a gangly young man with a shock of curly, blond hair, and his wide eyes were always hidden behind glasses. He was a nice enough boy, but the owner knew that he had trouble at school, that none of the girls would go with him, that his parents were divorced, and that the mother worked all day. Typical modern society boy, he always thought. Poor thing.
Cary paid cash for the book, which wasn't really overpriced. The owner had paged through it and had laughed at the thing. It was quite obviously one of those fake magic books. Let the boy have fun with that.
* * *
Cary returned home, throwing his heavy school bag into one corner and going to his cluttered room. There were posters on every free wall space. Posters of mighty wizards and alluring women with pointy ears, or female warriors and awe-inspiring dragons. He had collector editions of movies and of trading cards, a shelf full of similar books like the one he had just bought, and there were boxes full of action figures, sculptures and crystals. His mother was complaining that he spent all his money of this 'trash', but he didn't care.
Sitting down on his bed with the black sheets, he opened his purchase and began to read.
* * *
Michael, archangel, His second in command, and lately a very busy angel in the sexual department, looked at the man sharing the bed with him and smiled. Beelzebub looked downright pleased, like a cat after a bowl of milk, cleaning its whiskers, close to burping with contentment. He watched the Prince of Hell stretch languidly. There was a purring rumble accompanying the action and Michael leaned over, catching the so very tempting mouth in a kiss.
"You're insatiable, angel," the demon murmured, nipping at his lower lip.
Hands that still had claws attached to their finger tips ran down his back and rested on his behind. Michael echoed the purr and rolled more completely onto his lover.
"So are you."
"I'm a demon. What's your excuse?"
"It's your fault."
Beelzebub answered the next nip with an aggressive kiss and rubbed a finger along the still slippery cleft, drawing a gasp. Michael had never felt so sore and despite healing abilities, there was a limit.
"I take the blame," the demon whispered and lodged onto a patch of creamy skin, leaving a very prominent mark.
Michael was ready to come here and now.
"Beel," he pleaded.
"One more time?" the other chuckled.
"This is going to kill me."
"I don't think so."
Michael had never known that an angel, an archangel, himself for that matter, could be so… debauched. So bad, so dirty, so needy, so wild, so unleashed… and more. A whole lot of it and more. Whenever he and Beelzebub met, the result was hot and wild and without limits. He could let go, wasn't judged, would never judge, and it was what he needed. It kept him sane, as of late. It made him release his stress, his worries, his anger. Yes, angels could feel anger.
He was convinced that it was the same for Beelzebub.
It was the reason why this worked.
It was the reason he always came back.
Rising from the bed, feeling his body twinge pleasurably, Michael walked into the tiny kitchen of the rented apartment. He needed a tea and his body needed to cool off.
Beelzebub sauntered after him, leaning against the wall, watching his lover.
"I take it you had a few stressful weeks?" he guessed with a grin.
Michael shot him a dark look. "What gave it away?" He waited for the water to boil.
Right now he wasn't into finesse. He just wanted tea, and a tea bag in a mug and hot water were just fine.
Beelzebub pushed away and joined him, his fingers tracing a glaring bite mark on the angel's shoulder, a sign of their passion. Michael sighed and leaned unconsciously into the caress.
"That," the demon said, voice soft, "and having you go down on me three times in a row. You were either starved or totally pissed off at someone."
"Make it both and we're getting somewhere. It's been… difficult lately. Things are not running smoothly. One day I'm going to do some very unangelic things to a few stiff, bureaucratic assholes."
Beelzebub chuckled. "I hear you." It wasn't like he didn't know the rigors of management.
The water started to boil and Michael filled two mugs, handing one to Beelzebub. He took it gratefully and both immortals sat down on the couch in the apartment's spacious main room.
Like many things, talking now belonged to their meetings, too. Mostly it was preceded by some very hot sex, as well as concluded by it. It felt good, Michael had decided a long time ago, to talk to someone who truly understood. The other archangels, while having management positions as well, didn't know what it meant to be the top dog, the one answerable only to Him, the one who stood between them and Him. Michael heard it from both sides, and it sometimes truly grated on his nerves.
Beelzebub was in the same position and they had discovered some interesting parallels.
There was a whisper of something brushing over Michael's senses and he stiffened. His eyes widened in surprise and shock, and the mug slid out of his suddenly nerveless fingers.
"Mike?" Beelzebub asked, confused.
"W-what…?" the archangel stuttered, eyes far away, mouth open.
Then something ran through him. It wasn't gentle or warm or very nice. It was harsh and cold and ripping into his very soul. His mouth opened into a scream as the Summons tore him apart, but no sound came out.
The last thing he saw were red eyes, equally wide, filled with shock, and then there was nothing.
Beelzebub knew about Summonings. Demons did them regularly when humans thought they wanted to play mage. They were fun, it was easy to play a role, and when the human was done committing his sins, the demon had his brownie points, so to speak.
But he had never felt something like this.
It was brutal and amateurish. Grabbing the archangel like a vice and tearing him out of this realm. He thought he heard Michael scream in terror and agony, then there was only empty space. It imploded softly.
Beelzebub dressed in a second. His senses scanned the room and he felt the magic evaporate, a quickly disappearing trail to where the angel had been taken. Without thinking he followed.
* * *
Somewhere in London, a boy was waiting for his wishes to be fulfilled. Cary had done everything by the book. Really. He had even drawn a Summoning Circle. He had bought the right candles already, he had darkened the room, he had showered and combed his hair and dressed nicely. He had waited for his mother to leave, then chanted the right words, beginning and ending with the name of the angel he wanted to call.
It had to be an angel.
Demons weren't his forte. Demons were devious creatures of Hell. He just wanted a few wishes fulfilled and Cary felt that an angel was more up to the job – without having to read the small print or worry about his soul.
But nothing happened.
For a moment it had felt as if he was really doing magic, but even a second Summoning didn't do the trick.
Disappointed, muttering about the stupid book, he threw the purchase into a corner of his cluttered room, opened the blinds, removed the circle, and aired the room.
What a waste of money.
Again.
* * *
It had been months now since the last demonic or celestial visit, and Anthony J. Crowley could do without, thank you very much. He was still chewing on the revelation that the Prince of Hell was doing the nasty with an archangel in the form of Michael. He didn't give it too much thought, but now and then it slipped into his waking mind, and even lengthy discussions with Aziraphale did little to solve the matter.
But life went on.
Until, six months after the fact had been presented to them, the door to the bookshop was flung open and the aura of a very displeased demon flooded into the small business. The only customer present froze, took one look at the new-arrival, and fled, unable to explain his nameless terror.
The 'nameless terror' shut the door behind himself and it locked, the sign suddenly said 'closed' and the blinds were down.
Aziraphale looked up from the newspaper he had been studying, showing little surprise. His expression was almost pleasant. Crowley's own expression made up for that, though. He was glaring at the more powerful demon, bristling, clearly telling Beelzebub that he was ready to kick some ass, even if it was the last one he'd ever kick.
"What can I do for you?" Aziraphale said politely, but his voice was cold. It was actually dripping icicles.
Red eyes glowed like tiny furnaces. Now that Crowley was looking at his ex-boss, he noticed that the Prince of Hell looked rather… bruised. Like he had been run over by a truck. Or something that could really do some damage to a demon.
"I have a job for you."
Aziraphale noticed the strain in the voice that had started to buzz slightly. It was like Crowley's hiss and it was a barometer to a demon's state of mind. Right now, this one was close to losing civility.
"Not taking it," Crowley replied furiously. "We're through with those jobs!"
Aziraphale barely saw Beelzebub move, but he saw the result. Crowley was suddenly pinned against the wall, a hand with very sharp and long claws around his neck, and a dark-winged, furious demon starting to choke him.
"You will do what I tell you, Crawly!" Beelzebub snarled and his aura was lashing out at everything.
Aziraphale winced a little, but he clenched his teeth and marched toward the violent display of a demonic struggle. Crowley's own wings were out, mashed against the wall, his claws buried in Beelzebub's forearm, which didn't seem to faze the more powerful demon the slightest, and he was snarling in defiance.
"The name," Crowley choked, "is Crowley!"
"I don't care what you call yourself, bastard!"
"Let go of him," Aziraphale commanded softly.
He was given a lethal glare, but he answered it with rigid determination.
"I said… let go."
"Will you take the job?" Beelzebub demanded.
"No!" Crowley managed.
Beelzebub's hand tightened around the lesser demon's throat and Crowley wheezed. By now blood was running down his neck where the sharp talons were buried in his flesh.
Aziraphale felt something inside of him wake at the sight of his lover's injury. Power tickled his senses and his eyes narrowed, a slightly silver sheen covering the blue orbs.
"This is the last time," he heard himself say. "Let go."
Beelzebub might have gotten a warning because of the power surge, but he was still surprised when something unholy but still divine ripped into him. Something cold buried in his side and he reacted by instinct, lashing out. He caught the ex-angel against one shoulder and he crashed into a shelf, but Aziraphale was on his feet immediately, his aura now sharp as a blade and his claws were out.
Beelzebub let go of Crowley, who sank to the ground, rubbing his throat.
That was the moment Aziraphale smiled all of a sudden. "Thank you. Now we can talk like civilized people." The silver sheen vanished and the claws retreated. "What is it you want?"
Beelzebub stared at him, apparently struck speechless for a second, then a dark smile graced his lips.
"You have changed, angel."
Aziraphale didn't answer, didn't fall for the taunt. "What do you want?" he repeated.
"You have to find someone for me."
"If it's a human, forget it," Crowley murmured, still rubbing his aching neck. The wounds had closed by now.
"It isn't," was the acid reply. "It's an angel."
Aziraphale tilted his head. "An angel?"
"Michael. He vanished."
"They do that from time to time," Crowley snapped. "Mostly to return to Heaven."
Beelzebub snarled again, bristling, and Aziraphale felt the fury coming off him in waves. Something was wrong here. Very wrong.
"He did not go back, Crawly. He was Summoned. And it took him somewhere I can't follow, and that isn't Heaven!"
Aziraphale looked even more thoughtful. Summoning an angel was hard work. It was either done by prayer or belief, sometimes helped along by an object that enhanced a human's wishes and hopes. There was also a third option, but that was highly unlikely. Summoning spells by magic were unheard of. What was also highly unlikely was someone managing the trick to Summon an archangel. Usually it was someone in the lower ranks. Their numbers were countless and one would respond.
But an archangel…? The most powerful of them? Michael?!
"I ran into an obstacle and it felt like a barrier strong enough to ward off even the strongest angel – or trap him."
"But why?" Aziraphale asked out loud.
"I don't care, angel. I want to know who committed this atrocity and I want to know where Michael has been banned to!" Beelzebub demanded.
Why? Aziraphale thought to himself. Michael was nothing to the Prince of Hell. There was no love, just lust. It was a mutual way to relieve stress, but nothing on an emotional scale.
Or was it?
Aziraphale felt a headache coming.
"So, what's the problem?" Crowley called. "It's not like you would care that an archangel has been banned. He's your fuck buddy, nothing else, right? A playth…"
He couldn't finish the sentence because he was pinned to the nearest shelf and being choked again.
"Shut up," Beelzebub hissed and there was the sick sound of someone's windpipe being crushed.
Aziraphale cleared his throat. "He has a point," he said evenly.
Beelzebub let go of Crowley, who fell to the ground again, and turned to look at the lower ex-angel. The Prince of Hell hissed menacingly and his black wings spread, crackling with power.
"You little…" he started.
Aziraphale's aura flared. "You want our help?" he asked, facing the irate demon. "Then stop trying to kill Crowley."
"The bastard either shuts up or I'll do it for him permanently."
Crowley, still on the floor, holding his crushed throat, shot daggers at the more powerful demon, but he was unable to talk.
"What makes you think we can find him if you can't?" Aziraphale wanted to know.
"Because of your status," Beelzebub growled. "Whoever Summoned and banned the angel, he managed to ward off demons, too. You're neither. Find him!"
Aziraphale detected a hint, a very tiny hint, of desperation there. Exchanging a look with Crowley, he discovered that his demon had noticed it, too.
"I will if you will," he said softly.
"Can't have someone Summoning the upper brass, hm?" Crowley croaked and his voice sounded creaky and rather painful.
Aziraphale gave him a smile.
"All right, all right. We'll give it a try," Crowley muttered, coughing. "No guarantees."
Beelzebub didn't comment on that, but Aziraphale could see that he was betting on a success.
"Where was he taken from?" the angel only asked.
* * *
Crowley let his eyes roam around the small but quite comfortable apartment, the shades balancing on the tip of his nose. He whistled.
"Nice little abode. The perfect love nest."
There was a low rumble, accompanied by the tell-tale buzz of a Prince of Hell close to losing the rather delicate control of his temper.
Aziraphale grabbed his lover's arm and gave him a stern look. "Stop it, dear," he only said softly.
Chastised, feeling like a little kid, Crowley sighed softly and decided to bite down the new comments. Only his angel could manage to make him feel this way. And to behave.
Aziraphale walked around the apartment and into the bedroom, eyes lingering only briefly on the unmade bed where clear signs of recent, rather intense activity could be seen, and then went into the kitchenette. Here he stopped and scanned.
The Summoning residue was clearly still there.
He stood on the exact same spot as Michael had been without even knowing that the archangel had been there, and soaked up the energy pattern. He was good at tracking energy readings as they had discovered a while ago when he had followed the trace of James Jones all over the place until it had led them to the human. Crowley just stood back and let his lover work.
"It's been a while," Aziraphale murmured, then raised his eyes to meet Beelzebub's. "He wasn't taken a few hours ago. This feels like… days."
The demon tried to glare him into submission, but Aziraphale refused to be intimidated. Finally Beelzebub growled, "Two days."
"You waited for two days?"
"No, I searched for him for two days!"
The aura spiked and claws flexed.
Aziraphale regarded the very upset being, again struck by how much this was affecting Beelzebub. A missing archangel and the Prince of Hell was about to lose his temper every other sentence?
He shoved that thought aside. For now, he had someone important to find.
It didn't take them long to trail after the thinning line of energy; out of the apartment, through the traffic, up and down the streets, until they ended up at Chelsea Bridge Road, outside the Chelsea Royal Hospital.
"This is where you ran into the wall?" Aziraphale asked.
Beelzebub nodded, his face a mask of barely controlled anger.
"I see. There is quite a strong road block, but I can still feel the lingering traces."
"Then follow it!" the demon demanded.
Crowley shot him a warning look. Beelzebub bared his fangs and Crowley took a few steps closer to Aziraphale, hissing softly. The angel sighed to himself. Demons posturing and threatening each other were quite distracting.
"You know," he said as he studied the energy lines only he could see, "this feels familiar."
"Why? Heaven lost some archangels before?" Crowley chuckled.
"Dear," Aziraphale just muttered. Translated it was a 'would you please stop being such an idiot and start behaving like a demon your age?'.
Crowley raised an eyebrow.
"No, it feels like back with James Jones."
The lower demon coughed. "What? The guy is dead!" he blurted.
"I know he is, dear. I killed him."
That got him a strange look from Beelzebub. Calculating red eyes were on the rather bland human form of the angel and Aziraphale met the malicious gaze coolly.
"But this feels like it comes from the same origin," he explains. "Jones used a similar magic."
"Craig!" Beelzebub hissed.
"What?" Crowley blurted.
"That bastard!"
"Uh, come again?" Aziraphale tried.
"It's Craig?" Crowley echoed. "The dumbass who wrote all the stupid novels?"
"Yes."
"But those novels have barely enough power to tickle a lower angel's little toe!"
Beelzebub snarled to himself, glaring at a hapless bush that withered and shrunk into a tiny amount of shivering leaves.
"He also wrote diaries!" the other demon finally spat. "Demonic diaries! And those contain power."
"But he's a lower demon! He can't do magic strong enough to ban an archangel, let alone write a book about it!"
Beelzebub frowned. "I know. And when I get my hands on the bastard, he'll tell me every little detail about those demonic diaries he planted all over this cursed planet!"
"Jones had one of them?" Aziraphale asked.
"Yes."
"And now a second one was used. Or is it the same?"
"It's not the same. The one from Jones was destroyed and Craig was demoted. I think this time, demotion is not enough." Red eyes burned with hatred and the promise of a long, slow death.
Crowley almost felt sorry for the poor bloke. Almost. Just almost.
"Let's go," Aziraphale broke the silence between them. "The trail is growing fainter and thinner. We have to hurry."
And so the unlikely alliance of a Prince of Hell, a demon and an ex-angel was on their way again.
* * *
"Oh great," Crowley moaned. "I just knew it. A church!"
The chase had led them through the whole of London until they had ended up in front of Temple Church.
"It had to be a church!"
"Quit whining, Crawly!" Beelzebub hissed, a hefty buzz in the hiss. "Is he here, angel?"
"The trail ends here. It's not just thinning and disappearing. It stops here. Maybe Michael wasn't truly banned but found refuge in this place?" he suggested.
"No," Beelzebub decided. "He was trapped. It was a Summoning and it caught him."
Crowley shot his former superior a strange look and exchanged a different kind of look with Aziraphale. But he kept his mouth shut.
"So now what? We can't walk in there and look for him."
Beelzebub's teeth gnashed and his red eyes were on Aziraphale. The angel shrugged and walked into the church.
*
He came back twenty minutes later, looking mystified.
"He's here. I know it. But I can't feel any trace of him."
Beelzebub hissed and paced up and down the front of the church. Finally he started to walk down the road, eyes on the House of God, intently looking for something. When he disappeared around one corner, Aziraphale and Crowley hurried after him.
Both found the Prince of Hell around the back of the fenced-in property, near one of the other houses, staring at what seemed to be a plaque of some kind.
Power thrummed around the demon. A lot of power. The few humans who were in the area automatically avoided coming within a large radius of the group by instinct.
Beelzebub stared at the seal, realization setting in.
A name.
A true name.
The true name of an angel.
Such absolute power.
His breath caught and he hadn't even been aware of breathing at all. Red eyes were like hypnotized, riveted to the seal, the only thing between him and his archangel. Clawed fingers twitched.
The seal as such was simple. No ornamentation, nothing fancy, just an oval piece of stone on a wall. For a human, it might be the work of a mason many centuries ago, but for someone who knew… for someone who was aware what it meant… Beelzebub was speechless.
Someone had found out the true name of this angel, the most powerful of the highest ones, and he had used it to ban the divine being. If the true name of an angel, His second in command, was in those diaries, the next question would be: how had Craig found out about it?
One of the oldest beliefs of humanity is that every being, be it animal, vegetable, or mineral, has an essence and a true name that contains and reflects its essence. One of the great principles of magic was that knowing the true name of something gives one power over that something.
Modern society scoffed these beliefs, but Beelzebub knew that there was a lot of truth there. Minerals and vegetables were safe, animals marginally so, but angels and demons were another matter.
All angels and demons protected their real names because knowing it gave the other complete power. The true name could be heard wherever the angel was, and the angel would follow the call.
Michael's name, now known to him, had been in that diary. Craig had known. What else was on these pages?!
Beelzebub whispered the name, felt the seal thrum with the power it contained, and it felt.. incredible. The clear, crisp writing was nothing but beautiful in his eyes, divine, strong, clean, pure, and eternal. Like Michael. Like the angel trapped in the sealed bubble. The true name was a mirror of the soul it belonged to, of the bearer, and this one was… breathtaking.
He felt the echoes shiver through him, caress him, touch him with such intimacy only the corporeal form of the angel had. The true name was total power; he had it now. He could call the angel at will, take him wherever he chose, and Michael had no choice but to come.
Beelzebub stroked over the seal and it sizzled, feeling his demonic energy and reacting accordingly.
A strong seal.
Like his angel.
"That's…"
The voice shook him out of his reverie and he turned to look at the ex-angel and the fallen one staring at the seal in surprise.
"That's…" Aziraphale stuttered again.
"Yes, it is," Beelzebub growled.
"But how… how can anyone… I mean…"
"I think the more pressing question is, how do we get him out of there?" Crowley interrupted his lover before Beelzebub could say something. "A true name seal is strong. We can't just, well, remove it."
"I can and I will," the Prince of Hell decided.
He believed in his power, his resources, and he knew he could hold out long enough to crack the horrible prison cell. A seal leeched the power of the one trying to break it, reflecting it back at him. If he overloaded it… yes, that might work.
Breaking a true name seal was close to suicidal. Beelzebub had known that when he had begun his task, he knew it would take a lot out of him. He hadn't believed it would be that much, this bad, so painful. All his nerve endings screamed with the abuse he was putting his body through, as hellish power churned through him, battered against the seal, tried to make it crack in one small place so he could use the crack to worm his way inside. Gritting his teeth he reached for the seal, felt it pulse and sizzle under his hands, and his claws buried in the hard material, trying to yank it off.
The true name was like acid, eating into his flesh. The magic behind the seal roared and lashed and whipped at him, but he bit back, hard and feral and angry, letting the rage at what had been done take over.
Nobody took what he considered his.
Nobody was allowed to treat the angel this way.
His angel.
He snarled and yanked hard.
Mine!
His bones creaked and his very soul shivered under the new assault, the defence, but he had found a place, a tiny crack in the seal, and he went at it with everything he had.
Mine!
Beelzebub wasn't the second highest demon in Hell for nothing. His powers were terrible, unequalled except by Lucifer himself, and his fury at the personal affront gave him what he needed.
Give him back to me!
The seal suddenly splintered under his fingers, the shards cutting into his flesh, but he didn't care. Feathers were ripped from his wings by more shards. He didn't mind.
There was a moment of total stillness, then the bubble exploded.
Something fell.
Something crashed gracelessly to the ground.
Beelzebub was on it with lightning speed and his bleeding, torn hands gathered the lifeless form into his arms. His blood clung to the unresponsive body, to the limp hair, and it was like war paint on the angelic face. The pale, deathlike face.
He hissed, his aura lashing around him, and fiery red eyes took in the unconscious celestial being.
Michael.
His archangel.
So silent, so weak, so broken.
*
Aziraphale hadn't moved the whole time the battle of Beelzebub against the true name seal had raged, but the moment it had broken under the assault, he was there, drawn to his fellow angel. Michael was in Beelzebub's arms, the demon kneeling on the ground and holding the angel like a precious possession. As he approached, the Prince of Hell turned his head, wings snapping in defence, and the aura flared.
Aziraphale winced at the spike, but he met the primal red eyes bravely.
"Leave," Beelzebub whispered, the voice barely human any more.
There wasn't just a buzz; there was more. There was an intense darkness, something purely primal, something that made no difference between friend or foe. It would protect; whatever the cost.
"He needs help," Aziraphale tried, but was cut off by a low, dark rumble that travelled down his spine and lodged deep within his soul.
"Zira, let's go." A hand touched his arm and he saw that Crowley had joined him.
"But…"
"We go," the demon insisted, eyes on the much stronger one of his kind.
Beelzebub rumbled softly, still holding the unconscious archangel. His claws were sharper than before, but not hurting the angel. They glinted with danger. The wings appeared to have an edge, no longer just soft feathers but… like metal. And Beelzebub's aura was downright feral.
"You need to take him someplace safe," Crowley addressed the Prince of Hell, keeping his whole posture submissive. "My place, how about it?"
The expression softened only ever-so slightly.
"We'll take care of the rest," Crowley added, still keeping a hold on Aziraphale.
"You better," Beelzebub hissed, baring impressive fangs. The sound of a million flies surrounded him.
"We will," Crowley promised, then tugged at the angel's arm to make him walk away.
There was a moment of hesitation, then Aziraphale did just as Crowley wanted. Beelzebub watched him with eagle eyes, then rose with Michael in his arms, the wings curling around the unlikely pair. Within a second he was gone.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale now protested. "We can't leave him alone with Michael! Michael's too weak to defend himself should Beelzebub want to hurt him!"
"He won't," the demon only said calmly.
"But…"
"Zira, he was ready to rip either of us to shreds if he wasn't allowed to leave, alone. Didn't you sense it?"
"Yes, but…"
"I know how he feels, angel. I really know it. He won't hurt Michael, believe me. He just did everything and more to get him out."
Aziraphale looked into the sincere, yellow eyes, and suddenly he smiled. "You know how he feels?" he murmured.
Crowley looked embarrassed, then shrugged. "We were in the same situation before. Well, not the same and not really similar, but you were hurt and what I felt… I would have attacked whoever stood in my way, Zira. So would he. He might not realize why he does it, but for now we should give him time to calm down."
The angel sighed explosively. "Do you know what you're saying, Crowley?" he demanded. "Beelzebub doesn't have the feelings we share! He doesn't love Michael. Michael is his Enemy and he is at his mercy!"
"Zira, angel…" Crowley cupped his face, made him meet the serious, intense snake eyes. "Before we had the Arrangement I found you, broken and bloody and very much at my mercy, too. I didn't kill you. I could have. I didn't."
"That was different!"
"Different how?"
"It was… we had known each other already…" Aziraphale argued.
"So do they! They've known each other even longer. And they're sleeping together." Crowley shook his head. "He might not love him, but his reaction is too protective for a demon who just wants to save his kill to claim it somewhere else."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes," he said firmly.
"If he does feel the same you did back then," Aziraphale added softly, "things are about to get interesting, you know?"
"I'm not giving that more than a passing thought right now. Let's go, Zira. We're not needed here."
"Okay. But I want to make sure he's all right later on, okay?" Aziraphale insisted.
Crowley nodded and smiled. "We will. For now, let's just get on with the rest of our job?"
Aziraphale agreed and they left the scene of the seal behind. There was nothing that showed what had happened here, and Aziraphale knew they still had another job to do.
When Michael had been taken, all his power had been leeched out of him through the wrong Summoning. Whoever had wanted to use the angel to fulfil his wishes, unknowingly almost destroying the celestial being. He had separated Michael from his magic, and this magic was now floating around somewhere. It had to be dispersed and that would be tedious and dangerous work. But necessary. Without the old magic disappearing, Michael could not recharge himself because the Summoning spell still leeched at him. It was a terrible dilemma, and they were the ones who would try and remedy the whole situation.
* * *
Beelzebub looked around Crowley's apartment and had to grudgingly admit that the lesser demon had taste and style. Everything was clean and he placed the unconscious, very much naked angel onto the silky sheets, the pale skin in stark contrast to the black cover.
Strangely enough, this flat appeared safe to him. It had been in use by another demon for long enough to make it acceptable for the Prince of Hell. No one would enter unannounced or would even try to approach. The place he and Michael had met in was too open, too strange still.
Michael hadn't moved, hadn't made a sound, and he looked… terrible. If he didn't know it any better, he wouldn't see this fragile form as an angel. There was barely any aura left and the energy lines running through the celestial body were withered, dried up in places, and barely pulsing in the centre.
It had been in the nick of time.
Really.
Beelzebub touched the cool skin, not liking how low the temperature of his lover was.
Michael still didn't move.
Concentrating on his own magic, he gathered some and let it flow into the angelic form, finding broken pathways and attempting to heal them. The result was horrifying and devastating in one.
Michael's eyes flew open, the blue pale and filled with only one emotion: agony. His mouth opened and he screamed out that agony. The slender form tried to twist away, movements weak and jerky, and then the wings materialized. One swiped at the stunned Prince of Hell, but it wasn't strong enough to do more than bump against his head.
Beelzebub tore his hand away, hissing sharply, and Michael curled up with a whimper, tears streaming down his face.
The angel was crying.
An archangel was crying.
His angel….
He gazed at his hand like it didn't belong to him. He hadn't given the fact that he was a demon and Michael an angel more than a passing thought when he had initiated the healing. All angels, fallen or not, could heal. His own body healed quickly due to his power. True, he had never tried to heal another demon, but he had been convinced that it would help…
A weak sob tore through the fragile form and Michael's wings quivered.
The wings.
Those beautiful, beautiful wings. They were a mess and Beelzebub touched the closest one with careful fingers. No healing energy passed between them.
Still, Michael moaned softly as if in pain. No, not pain. Fear. Fear of him. Fear of the one who had inadvertently hurt him.
Beelzebub caressed one greyish feather, took in the dishevelled, mutilated… mauled… state of the angelic appendages. It looked like someone had chewed them up and spit them out. There were a lot of dead ones, the others appearing weak, some broken, some bent at odd angles.
"Mike?" he whispered.
There was no answer aside from a whimper.
Beelzebub continued to stroke the suffering being until Michael finally slid off into sleep. Then he rose and grabbed the cover, drawing it over the curled up form. In the end he sat down in a chair and watched his lover sleep and recuperate while inside him, rage simmered. Rage directed at the human who had done this to the proud angel.
He knew he couldn't kill him. Demons didn't kill humans. But maybe he could make him pay some other way.
He growled softly to himself, clenching and unclenching sharp claws.
In the next room, a bunch of plants got their first good whiff of an intensely demonic aura. A shiver went through the leaves and stems and flowers.
The first ones started to edge closer to the window in the vain attempt to gain freedom. Others just resigned to their fate. And again others prepared to bloom and blossom like mad.
* * *
Aziraphale was like a bloodhound with a trail and he was following it with determination, oblivious to the world around him. He relied wholly on Crowley to keep him from harm, divert traffic, humans, buildings, whatever. And Crowley did. It was hard work and he was tiring quickly, but Aziraphale ploughed on. It wasn't until Crowley barely managed to keep a bus from running the angel over, his concentration by now rather frayed, that he grabbed his lover and stopped him.
"Take a break," he pleaded, sounding a bit breathless.
Aziraphale blinked at him, bringing himself out of his trance, and then his mouth formed an astonished 'o'.
"Dear," he managed, touching Crowley's pale features. "I didn't…"
He covered the hand with his own. "I know. And I know it's important to find the magic, but it won't work by having us miracling half of London to death."
Crowley felt the energy lines inside his body burn with the stress they had been under. There was only so much a demon could do non-stop without feeling the strain.
"Let's stop for a moment, okay?"
"But I was so close to the source," Aziraphale argued.
He frowned. "The source? The diary?!"
The angel nodded.
"Where?" he demanded.
Aziraphale looked around. "It's close. I can feel it."
They wandered a bit aimlessly up and down West Middle Lane. They had left the City of London a while ago and were now in a quieter area where there were mostly family homes. Aziraphale stopped in front of the house with the number 88.
"I think it's here."
Crowley had no scruples left. And politeness went out the window fast when it involved a Prince of Hell camping in his flat with a very weak archangel. And it was especially bad when aforementioned Prince had tried to choke the life out of him twice in a row.
So he just walked into the house, not caring whether there was someone home of not.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale called, but he followed.
Inside it was a typical family home. Well, not the happy family with mum, dad, 1.3 children and a dog. Or a cat. Maybe a few fish. This was a family home with probably only the mother, who worked, a teenage kid, and maybe, if they were lucky, two hamsters. Alternatively it could be guinea pigs, too.
As it was, Crowley found two bunnies, chewing on the wallpaper they could get to from their large, handmade cage. The kitchen was a mess, the dirty dishes still in the sink and the laundry was piling next to the washing machine. Aziraphale ignored the kitchen and the living room, and went straight upstairs, trailed by Crowley. They ended up in a kid's room, probably a son, that was stacked top to bottom with everything the sci-fi and fantasy fan needed.
"I think we found our Summoner," Crowley muttered and played with a scaly beast figure that made strange noises while it moved its plastic wings.
"Yes," Aziraphale murmured absently, then headed straight for a very cluttered corner and picked up an old, battered book.
"Is that it?" Crowley demanded.
The angel nodded. He held it out to his lover who took it gingerly.
The hand-writing was scrawly, with a lot of splotches. The paper was old and yellowing, most of the pages loose, and there were a few rather imaginative drawings, together with doodles and less understandable sketches.
"Craig," Crowley muttered.
Paging through it, he finally ended up on the correct page, ignoring most of the other stuff he had read. Michael's true name glared at them from the pages, together with a lot of wriggly drawings, something that looked like an enchantment, and promises of wishes fulfilled.
Crowley sneered in disgust. "What a moron," he only muttered and snapped the book shut.
He knew that by knowing Michael's true name, he now kept a secret that could destroy the archangel should he either give the name to a demon or use it himself.
He had no intention of doing either.
If there was one party in this whole game to worry about, it was Beelzebub.
"What do we do with this?" Aziraphale asked.
"Destroy it," was the immediate answer.
Aziraphale gave him a curious look. "It is a precious book."
"It's a cheap work, it has no use, and it's been written by Craig. The latter alone is reason enough to get rid of this thing once and for all!" the demon snarled emphatically.
"All right. I'll destroy it."
And it was a lot easier than expected. The book gave not much resistance and in the end it was a pile of ash that quickly disappeared. Crowley didn't feel any remorse.
"We should leave," Aziraphale said softly.
"What about the kid?"
"Yes, well, we should give him a bit of another interest, true," Aziraphale conceded, looking around the room. "This is… not right."
The demon chuckled. "I like the toys." He presented the winged beast. "Cute, eh?"
It got him a raised eyebrow and Crowley pouted.
"It is cute," he insisted.
"I'll erase the existence of the book and such nonsense as Summoning spells from his mind," the angel finally decided.
"Good. Leave the rest open. Not too much goodness in one day, okay? Leave some work for me, angel."
Aziraphale just waved his hand, ensuring that the mind of the young man would be altered accordingly when he came home, then the two immortals left the same way they had come.
Now for the much harder part: find the angelic power and disperse it before something unforeseen happened.
* * *
When he woke, Michael knew that something had happened to him. He could feel it, sense it, in every molecule of his body. His memories stirred, presenting him with little tid-bits that made no sense, and all the time his body continued feeling strange.
Weak.
Depleted.
Empty.
Painful.
Not right.
Blue eyes blinked open and squinted into the light streaming in through the window. Afternoon light, he mused faintly. Not a hotel room. Hotel rooms were different, felt different. This one felt… lived in. The sheets were warm and also cool, both sensations pleasant for the limp angel.
More memories came.
A Summoning. His real name. The sudden departure. The weird sensations. And then…
Nothingness.
Cold and black and infinite.
He gasped a little as that time replayed in his mind, the solitary confinement, the infinite darkness that had no light and was still light enough to see it in. The knowledge that he had been trapped in another dimension, a small bubble outside the realms, and that it had been sealed with his own name.
Someone had known his name.
Someone had kidnapped an archangel and imprisoned him.
But he was free now.
Moving weakly, Michael tried to get a bearing as to where he was, but the sudden blast of maliciously dark energy made him cry out faintly, collapse against the sheets and curl up.
Oh dear God… he thought desperately.
He knew that energy. He had felt it before, but never without all his shields down, being so incredibly weak and unprotected. It was a demon's aura, strong and ancient and very, very powerful. Slicing into his vulnerable soul.
The door opened and the owner of the aura strode in, radiating fury. Michael's wide eyes were on Beelzebub as he approached, trying so very desperately to scrounge up some kind of protection, some kind of defence, and in his feverish mind he screamed at the wild idea that he had fallen into a demonic trap. The Prince of Hell looked very demonic right now, his black wings out, looking as though they were made of metal and feathers in one, long claws at the ends of his fingers, and Michael thought he caught a hint of fangs.
The clothes reflected the state of mind, too. Black leather, heavy boots, metal clasps, studs, and there was a sharp tang to the whole demon. Something that only needed a bit more provocation and he would revert to primal once more.
"You're awake," the familiar tenor announced and the red eyes looked almost relieved, but the ferocity was unbroken.
"Beel," Michael whimpered. "Ngh!"
The weak angel was sharply reminded of why demons and angels didn't really have a relationship like theirs. He felt the same pain that had coursed through him before their barrier had been taken down by Him. It was like a sharp blow between the eyes and he felt his whole body starting to cramp.
The aura died down a little and he breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't know if the Prince of Hell had been aware of what he was doing, but apparently he was moderating his rage.
"Where…?" he rasped.
"You're safe, angel. Don't worry. We got you out."
"We?" Confusion reigned.
"The other two were there. I… hired them."
Michael blinked stupidly and Beelzebub evaded his quizzical look.
"What… happened?"
And the aura spiked again, making him push himself deeper into the pillow. Shitshitshitshit…
"Someone found another one of Craig's little diaries!" Beelzebub hissed. "And he used it for some idiotic Summoning. He picked the first best name and it was you. Took us three days to find you and some heavy firepower to get you out of that bubble."
The aura spiked more, darkness seemed to creep in on the edges, and Michael's soul cringed away.
"If I get my hands on that human… no, better. Craig. He'll be sorry he ever thought about writing these things!"
Clawed fingers clenched, then suddenly one hand lashed out and sliced through the wallpaper. Michael felt the blow as if he had been on the receiving end. He wrapped his arms around his middle, moaning soundlessly.
"His sorry hide will be mine! There will be no mercy this time! He has gone too far, writing these things, disclosing such dangerous information to humans!"
Michael tried to resist the need to scream in pain, but it was a futile effort. The cry escaped him unbidden and he curled up, shaking in agony.
"Mike?!"
"Stop…" the archangel pleaded, not caring how regal or divine he usually was. "Beel, please…"
There was a moment of silence, then Beelzebub cursed. The aura gave one last spike and Michael thought he saw darkness explode with a million bright stars among it, then there was only calmness. It was like a cool blanket, touching his frayed senses, making him whimper in relief.
"Mike?"
The voice was soft, worried, balm his senses, and he felt a gentle touch on his head. Fingers carded through his tousled hair, petting him, calming him. Michael grabbed for one of those hands, holding on tightly to the wrist, panting with the effort to push the pain away. His whole being trembled and he felt tears in his eyes.
"Your shields are down," Beelzebub whispered and he was aware of the demon's suddenly so much more warm and caressing presence next to him. He instinctively turned into that warmth, feeling the hard-muscled form with him. "I didn't realize it. You were completely drained. It's still draining you, keeping you from recovering with normal speed. Crowley and your angel are taking care of it."
The hand was now resting on his neck, massaging it. Michael murmured softly.
"You're more vulnerable than I thought."
He shivered, aware that there was a very powerful demon touching him, that this demon had him at his mercy, and that there was nothing he could do should Beelzebub decide that playtime was over and to score with his boss by taking out the highest of the archangels.
"You're safe here," Beelzebub repeated, his mouth very close to Michael's ear.
The angel opened his eyes, looking into the red ones of his counterpart. "Am I?" he rasped.
A smile curled those familiar lips. The fangs were still there, but no longer looked like they would tear out his throat.
"Yes."
"Demons lie," he choked out. "Perfect opportunity for you."
His mind was so rattled, so shaken, he was losing control of what he thought and said.
Beelzebub nodded. "Yes. I could hurt you very much right now, Mike. Very much." The touch was still gentle, warm, reassuring. "But I won't. I'm here to protect you. I didn't go through the trouble to get you back just to kill you, angel."
The truth shone in those demonic eyes and Michael stared at his Enemy in astonishment.
"Protect?" he echoed stupidly.
A tender caress ghosted over his face. "Yes. Sleep now. You're safe."
Safe. He was safe with a demon who would protect him. It sounded ludicrous, but it made so much sense.
Safe…
He felt himself relax, curl up closer to the familiar presence.
"Thank you," he whispered faintly as exhaustion claimed him again.
Beelzebub looked at the frail form in the large bed, took in the pale features, the haggard face, and sensed the heat coming off the very vulnerable angel. From too cool to feverish.
"Yes," he murmured to himself as he continued to caress Michael, "I could hurt you, angel. Very much. You are at my mercy, but you're safe. I promise this to you." He smiled faintly, dangerous claws so very careful and aware of the precious being he was touching. "You're safe."
In the other room, several plants were shaking with the effort to be beautiful and healthy and large and noteworthy. Their leaves were fantastic, those able to produce flowers did, and the tiny ones were making it to medium-sized in record time.
Not that the demon in the next room noticed.
But if he did, he better notice their beauty and not the slackers who had gotten used to a Crowley with a lot less temper and a rather mellowed aura.
Crowley's plants had never been suicidal. They were survivalists.
* * *
He didn't leave the angel's side. And he didn't allow Crowley anywhere near the vulnerable being, barely tolerating Aziraphale when he came. The lower angel had insisted to see Michael for himself, and Beelzebub had been hard pressed not to toss him out within two seconds of entering the bedroom. Everyone was a danger to Michael; every single being. The archangel couldn't defend himself and he slept a lot. When he was awake, he was radiating exhaustion.
He didn't give the look Aziraphale had given him after his short visit more than a passing thought. He didn't care what anyone thought. The angel didn't say anything, though.
It took Crowley and the ex-angel a few more days to locate the archangel's wayward power and disperse it, but not before a few unexplained events had occurred in the Greater area. Since the connection to young Cary had been broken the archangel’s magic had nothing to focus on anymore and was running free now. The UFO buffs had a field day, well night, by sighting a lot of unexplained light phenomena. In a large shopping mall the sprinkler system went haywire, making it impossible for people to shop. A young woman in Chelsea was suddenly the owner of a beautiful rose garden that had been nothing but withering bushes the night before. A church donation was miracled to be ten times the sum the congregation had actually collected after the sermon. There were over three dozen events in those days, ranging from miraculous to strange to dangerous, and by the time Aziraphale and Crowley dispersed the energy, it had gathered momentum and had turned into a relentlessly driving force that wasn't easily conquered.
With the end of the magic, Michael finally started to heal and replenish his constantly depleted reserves.
Beelzebub sat in a chair, red eyes on the peacefully sleeping angel. He studied the still so narrow and haggard face, the limp strands of hair falling into the closed eyes, the way the fingers would move sometimes. The wings had been retracted, but he knew that they would need a lot of tending to the moment the archangel was stronger. They had been abused beyond simple recovery.
But the energy lines were healthier. It was almost visible how the regeneration worked. In a few more days the damage would be gone, as if it had never happened, but Michael would forever remember it. That was something no one could take from him.
Beelzebub got up and moved over to the large bed, sliding into the empty spot beside the angel, and one hand came to rest on a slim shoulder.
Caressing it.
Sliding down the slender back.
Up again. Down. Gentle and reassuring.
Michael moved a little, murmuring sleepily.
"You're safe," Beelzebub said softly, something he had repeated quite often lately.
Michael sighed and moved closer to him. The demon smiled and anyone who saw him now would not believe their eyes. It was a soft smile, without maliciousness, without ferocity. It was reserved for moments like these – and Beelzebub didn't even know he was doing it.
He carded through the blond hair, smiling to himself. His fingers tickled over the warm neck, feeling vertebrae underneath the muscles, felt life and divinity. Michael was healing. He was going to be fine.
And for some reason, it made Beelzebub happy.
It was a reason he didn't want to think about too closely.
* * *
"Show me your wings," the demon requested softly.
Michael, still not quite strong enough to be up for a prolonged amount of time, looked at him. "W-why?"
"They're a mess. I want to check them."
He swallowed. Beelzebub knew he was asking a lot of the angel. A strong archangel had no problem releasing his wings for his demon lover to touch and stroke and caress them. Michael was powerful enough to deal out a few painful blows should Beelzebub abuse the privilege. But right now he was weak… very, very weak.
"I won't hurt you," the demon promised. "If I wanted that, there would have been multiple opportunities already."
Michael sighed and the pale face grew even paler when he summoned enough energy to unfurl the huge limbs. Beelzebub had to hold back a curse when he took in the still so ravaged feathers, when he saw how the wings quivered.
"Relax them, angel. Relax them."
The wings sagged and Michael started to tremble with the reaction to such an energy release.
Beelzebub approached his lover like he would a skittish beast, and when Michael didn't flinch away, he carefully touched one abused wing. There was a breathless moment as he felt the archangel fight down a shiver, then Michael relaxed again.
And the demon began to stroke over the grey feathers. He needed to get his lover used to his touch before he could continue with the grooming, and when the angel finally was relaxed enough, he seriously began the business.
It wasn't completely painful, but it also wasn't a total pleasure – for either side. Michael's fingers were clenched into the mattress and now and then he hissed in discomfort. Beelzebub knelt behind the divine being, something inside him curled up in shared pain. This was bad. Very, very bad. Terrible. And painful.
When he was finally done with removing the worst case feathers, some of them having blood clinging to their shafts, he ran a calming hand down the skin between the wing roots.
"Done," he whispered, leaning forward to nuzzle the soft skin.
The delightful, healthy and clean smell was barely there. Another sign of how bad the angel was off.
"But we have to do this again tomorrow. I want to see how far they heal until then."
"Okay," came the tremulous reply.
The wings quivered and tried to fold, but in the end the demon had to help his lover get he huge wings into the best position to let them disappear. Michael sagged with a soft moan and he pulled him into an embrace. Michael's eyes were closed, the face ghostly in its complexion, and Beelzebub didn't think about it as he pulled his lover to him, completely onto the bed, and wrapped them into the blankets. He also didn't think about the silent rage still burning inside him.
Craig would so suffer for this. He would wish he had never Fallen!
Michael made a soft noise of distress and Beelzebub clamped down his fluctuating aura. Now was not the time to think about this; now was time to help his lover recover.
* * *
Michael straddled the kitchen chair, feeling still so very weak. It wasn't something he was accustomed to. This wasn't him!
His arms were resting on the back of the chair, his chin on them, and his eyes were semi-closed as he let the sensations of a grooming wash over him. It wasn't the usual sort he was used to. Angels groomed their wings to get rid of old feathers and clean the healthy ones. This was more a matter of checking his damaged wings, see how far he had recovered by now.
It had been three days since his liberation, two of which he had spent sleeping a lot. Now that his power was returning and replenishing his starved form, he was awake a lot longer. And he noticed things.
Like the continued presence of his Enemy and lover. Beelzebub had been there throughout those days. Be it in bed with him, holding the angel, or just around. It was a grounding experience, having him close, having him there, and Michael inexplicably felt safe, but why was Beelzebub staying? For what reasons?
Fingers combed through the feathers of his left wing and found a dead one, removing it. It fluttered to the ground, grey and old. Michael looked mournfully at it. He knew he was in a dreadful state. He looked like something a butcher might pluck completely any minute. What was left of the feathered limbs was such a mess.
"Okay?" a voice whispered and a hand rubbed along the root, massaging it.
Normally this would have him writhe in pleasure. Right now his body was sluggish and not really made for receiving such tender caresses. It was comforting to be touched this way, relaxing.
"Yes," he murmured glumly.
Beelzebub planted a kiss onto his neck, rubbing soothing circles over his back, and Michael sighed.
"I feel so weak," he complained.
"It will pass."
"It's not something I'm used to."
"I guess."
Beelzebub continued his checks and Michael opened the wing when his lover coaxed him to do so. More feathers detached and he closed his eyes to the terrible sight.
"You'll be fine again in a few days," the demon soothed him.
"Beel?" he asked softly.
"Hm?"
"Why are you still here?"
There was a moment of hesitation, then Beelzebub stroked over the wing again. "Because."
"That's no answer."
"It's one as good as any."
Michael turned his head, lowering the wing to look at the demon. "You have no obligations," he pointed out. "If at all, Aziraphale might be the one to watch over me. I could also just return to Heaven and heal there."
"But you didn't."
No, he hadn't. There would be too much explaining waiting for him there, should he return in this terribly weak state.
Beelzebub leaned over his shoulder again, his hands deep in the formerly so splendid wings.
"Why are you still here, Mike?"
"Too much paperwork," the archangel replied honestly. "Too many people noticing. Too many questions. But it's not the same for you, Beel. You weren't trapped for almost three days and nearly depleted."
"No, it was you. Now shut up and let me take care of those horrible wings."
Michael did just that, enjoying the now more tender caresses, as the remaining feathers were cleaned, then his wings were pushed into a folded position.
"We do that again tomorrow," the demon told him.
Michael looked at the fallen angel, at his former comrade, now Enemy, and lover. He didn't understand why Beelzebub was staying, why he hadn't left. He had really no obligations.
Beelzebub leaned in and kissed him, their lips meeting in a gentle contact. Michael opened up and heard himself sigh in contentment. As much as he hated being so vulnerable in front of this being, he couldn't deny that having Beelzebub here, holding him, touching him, kissing… that it was wonderful.
It was… safe…
* * *
In a Japanese tea house, two beings sipped their tea, listening to the soft traditional music.
"That was close," one remarked thoughtfully.
The other, looking like his complete opposite with his dark hair and eyes, his Asian features and traditional garb, tilted his head.
"Yes, it was. And quite an outcome. Tell me, old chap, would you have saved him?"
The more European appearing man shrugged. "There was never any doubt that Michael would be saved."
"By a fallen one?"
It got him a smile. "It is all in the Plan."
The Asian huffed. "Your excuse for everything that works or fails. Get a new excuse."
"Ineffability?"
"Same old shoe. Doesn't fit most of the time."
"But very comfortable."
More tea was sipped.
"I do believe we have something special here," the European said after a while.
"Really? You said the same about the other two."
"These are not like Crowley and Aziraphale."
"Which is good."
"In a way. These two are different. Their existence is different. And their development will be, too."
The Asian played with his cup. "Ah yes, the greatest of these, eh?"
"I wouldn't say it's that far yet, and anyhow, you would know best that demons do not love, don't you?" A smirk played over the pale features.
It was answered by a grin. "Do I? Wanna bet on it?"
"I'm not a gambling person."
"Oh, but you are a player… So… are you on?"
* * *
Michael stretched his wings, felt the muscles respond, felt the energy and strength of his now completely healed body. He folded them again and turned, looking at his smiling companion. Beelzebub's aura was calm, balanced, and his red eyes radiated warmth. It was so… undemonic. And Michael had gotten used to it.
"I've to go," he said and approached the tall figure.
He was taken into an embrace and kissed softly. "I know. Take care."
It was confusing. Everything still was. The last week had been wonderful despite the lingering weakness, the memories of the pain, the long hours spent sleeping. Beelzebub had been there, continuously. For Michael, who had never had that much intense and intimate companionship until the day he had fallen into bed with this demon, the events were happening too fast, were making no sense, and left him in such a terribly unbalanced and confused state.
He was looking forward to Above, to feeling His Presence completely, to being on his own.
But he was also going to miss this, he knew.
Until they got together again, to relieve stress, to talk, to be lovers.
Fingers stroked over his wings and he briefly closed his eyes.
"I will," he answered. "And thanks."
Another kiss, this one with a bit more intensity. "My pleasure," Beelzebub purred.
The angel drew back and smiled. Something fizzed through him at the sight of his lover. Something intense.
Michael pulled himself together and initiated the jump.
Beelzebub watched his lover disappear and a strange kind of emotion settled deep inside him. He didn't recognize it, had never felt it like this before, and he ignored it.
The angel was whole again.
And he had to go, too.
* * *
Crowley walked into his flat and almost had to manifest a hacksaw because there was a jungle of plants greeting him, blooming wildly.
"What the fuck…?" he muttered.
The plants were all in perfect shape, lush and green and blooming like crazy. Usually they only did that when wholly threatened.
Which meant…
Yellow eyes fell onto the rather blatant claw marks in his walls and he groaned.
"Great! Bloody great! I need to redecorate! Probably air the whole place! And will you stop flowering!" he hissed at the hapless plants closest to him that was trying to show what a nice little plant it was, blooming yellow and pink like no specimen of its kind had ever done so before.
"Oh, how beautiful!"
Crowley turned to look at his angel caressing a deeply red flower that was quivering in joy at the gentle touch.
He snarled and stalked into the bedroom, expecting the worst.
As it was, the bed was made and he felt the residue of archangelic power.
"It's not that bad," Aziraphale remarked and ran inquisitive fingers over a very deep groove in the bedroom wall.
Crowley huffed. "Next time, they can ruin their own place," he muttered.
"I really do hope there won't be a similar next time, dear."
"You know what I mean," he snapped.
"Yes, I do. Now, shall I help?"
And with that the grooves disappeared.
Crowley just muttered uncomplimentary things to himself, then went back to the jungle that needed taking care of.
Blessed archangels!
He just hoped that Beelzebub would take care of Craig once and for all now. Because if something like this happened again, Crowley would vote for moving somewhere entirely else. He had had it with visits from the upper brass.
He really had.
* * *
Michael was back Above, in his office, among his fellow angels, and some gave him strange looks, while others were ignorant of everything like before. No one asked, though.
Thankfully.
And he knew that He knew. He knew everything.
Alone in his office, he opened his wings and gazed at the healthy, white feathers. None of the grey and damaged ones had remained. Beelzebub had done a good job and he had groomed them to perfection.
At the memory of his lover's touch, something shivered through him. Michael sighed and shook his head.
Hopeless.
He had started something that was by now developing a life of its own, and it was going faster and faster every time they met. Beelzebub… Beel… he was different than he had ever believed this relationship to be. It was so intense, so intimate, so wonderful and warm sometimes, so caring and even…
He pushed that thought aside.
He didn't need it right now.
Michael closed his eyes, evened out his aura, and balanced himself. He had work to do, things to take care of.
He was an archangel after all.
***
Next story in series - Who You Gonna Call?.