Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hello? Who's there?

The scene is set. A tidy kitchen, open plan and painted in cheerful yellow. On a stove, a pasta marinara bubbles to the tune of Dancing Queen whilst a dark-haired young woman shakes her hips in time to the beat and stirs the concoction with a wooden spoon. It's all very suburban dream. It's all very safe and joyful.

But then the phone rings.

There is no reason to be afraid. Eric had said he would call.

She snatches up the house phone on the second ring with a beaming smile on her face, expecting to hear the familiar fumbling stammer.

"Hello," she says brightly, "Muriel speaking."

"Hello Muriel, what's your favourite scary movie?" An electronic voice snarls down the line.

She giggles, she can't help it.

"Oh, I don't like scary movies. I like animated films and musicals."

She hangs up the phone.

Another room, one so much more cluttered than the last. Every surface is overflowing with books and knick-knacks, and every piece of furniture looks antique and well-loved. A blond man, as soft and cosy as the tartan housecoat that hugs his round belly, is slouched in a Chesterfield armchair, chuckling softly into the receiver of a rotary phone.

"Oh, Crowley-"

“But Angel," says the voice on the other end, warm and syrupy with affection, "I thought- I thought we could get dinner. Maybe- I dunno go into town, catch a show?”

“I’m so sorry, Crowley, but I have plans.”

“But-“

“I promised Muriel I’d pop over and keep her company. Between you and me, she’s waiting for that Eric chap to pluck up the courage to ask her out. Surely, you know what it’s like, the frustration of loving someone deeply and waiting with bated breath for them to catch the hint.”

Crowley's sigh gusts down the line like a summer breeze.

“Yeah. Yup, know that one.”

“My poor dear," Aziraphale coos. He tries not to let his own sorrow colour the tone of his voice. "Next time you’re waiting for a lady to call you back, I’ll be sure to hold your hand and keep you company whilst you wait. But in the meantime, I'm afraid I must away.”

“Yeah, alright. Can I call you tomorrow, Angel?”

“Of course you can, my dear. Have a lovely evening.”

Aziraphale hangs up the phone with a sigh. He takes a moment to untangle himself from the curly cord and place it carefully back on his desk. He tries not to allow the melancholy to creep in, for his battered heart to turn the joy of time spent with a friend into bitter resentment. He only has himself to blame for falling in love with his best friend. If only he had the restraint to put distance between them, but he can never stay away; instead, he is drawn back like a moth to a flame. He burns his fingers every time.

He places the rotary back in its place, trades his housecoat in for his usual beige overcoat and heads out of the front door into the evening air.

Aziraphale should have known something was wrong long before he stumbled through the front door.

On arrival, the street had been eerily quiet, though that may have been his imagination, a detail added in hindsight whilst waiting patiently for the ambulance. There had been a spray of something red and sticky on the kitchen window that had not gone unnoticed but had been unacknowledged. He watches it now, dripping onto the windowsill, no doubt poisoning Muriel's small selection of succulents whilst he cradles her heavy head in his lap. Even finding the front door left ajar had not clued him in; he had simply assumed her busy with meal preparation and had left it open as an invitation for him.

It hadn't been until the assailant — an average-sized person of indeterminate gender shrouded entirely in black — had shoulder barged him out of the way with enough force to push him into the blossoming flowerbed, that the penny had dropped.

Then he had panicked.

"Muriel!" he had cried out, leaping over the threshold and covering the short distance to her unconscious form at a run. He can't remember the last time he had run anywhere. He can't remember the last time his heart had felt like it would pound right out of his chest. He can't seem to keep his mind in the here and now, where it would be useful; his eyes keep darting around the room searching for something important that he might have missed and wondering why he hadn't noticed the clues that now seemed so obvious. Why hadn't he fought her assailant or tried to pick out some distinguishing mark? The more he thought about it, the fuzzier the memory became. He really was as useless as Gabriel said he was.

In the end, he calls Crowley. He sobs into his mobile phone, bloodied hands trembling as he clutches the cool lump of metal and glass to his ear and strokes his fingers through the loose strands of Muriel's hair.

"I'll be right there, Angel."

"Oh God, Crowley, there's so much blood."

She's covered in it. He's covered in it. He doesn't even think about the stains.

The video is already going viral. Crowley has watched it half a dozen times, and he can't seem to tear his eyes away.

A low-angled phone camera had caught the entire attack; fresh crimson spewed across the cream floor tiles and up over the primrose painted walls, the flash of a silver short-handled scythe cutting Muriel open like a knife through butter. She had screamed so hard her voice had broken. The faceless would-be killer, draped head to foot in black robes, had made sure to hold her steady in the centre of the frame as the blade sliced across her abdomen.

It won't be long before moderators take it down. He hopes it won't be long. Aziraphale should never have to see it, should never have to witness the way he stumbled into the room, face pale as a ghost and openly distraught at the sight of his cousin lying crumpled on the ground. He can never know that the whole world has seen him cry.

But what the viewers online, and hopefully Muriel's attacker, don't know is that Muriel isn't dead. Aziraphale had interrupted her assailant. He had called for help. He had saved her life by applying pressure to the wound. In Crowley's mind, that made Aziraphale a hero. Had he not already been deeply in love with the marshmallow of a man currently snuggled up against him, well, he would be quite smitten now.

Crowley tugs the sleeping Aziraphale closer, pressing his lips into the fuzzy blond curls that tickle his nose. Despite the volume of the hustle and bustle of the waiting room and the hardness of the flimsy plastic chairs, Aziraphale had managed to wriggle into Crowley's arms and cry himself asleep. No power of this Earth could ever convince Crowley to disturb him.

"She's awake!"

Aziraphale sits bolt upright with a start at the sound of his eldest brother's voice.

"Slowly now, Angel," Crowley murmurs from above him, his hands falling away from around his shoulders, leaving only cold air to shiver down his spine.

"What's happening?"

"Whilst you were having your little nap," Ron says tersely, "Muriel woke up."

Crowley practically growls at Ron's acerbic tone, but as irritated as Aziraphale almost always is with his brother, he chooses to silence his friend with a squeeze to his knee. Now is not the time for arguments, no matter how antagonistic Ron's tone had been.

"That's wonderful news," he replies, and he doesn't have to try hard to summon a genuine beaming smile. "Can we see her?"

"Why else would I have woken you?" Ron rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the other Harper family members. It appeared that quite a lot had occurred while Aziraphale had slept, and now the entire family is congregated in the waiting room. He tries not to feel the shame of it, to feel embarrassed that he had been napping through a crisis whilst everyone else was on hand to help. No one else had needed a nanny nap.

As if sensing his oncoming anxiety spiral, a comforting palm presses against the back of his hand, turning all his ungenerous thoughts into static.

"I'm sure she would love to see you," Crowley says. "You've always been her favourite. Why don't you pop in? I'll be right here."

Aziraphale has known Crowley for a long time. Ever since his old Citroen clapped out and Crowley had offered to fix it for the cost of the parts, simply because he enjoyed working on vintage cars. Their friendship had been forged over a series of mechanical failures until Crowley had admitted defeat and offered to help Aziraphale pick out a new car. Years have passed since then, with hundreds of nights out and nights in, lunches and shows, and shared confidences and commiserations. Aziraphale has always been grateful for his friendship with Crowley, for the kindness he dishes out without thought of reward, but never more so than right in this moment, when his strength is failing.

"You don't have to stay," Aziraphale says anyway, despite every part of him wanting to crush himself right up inside Crowley's ribcage and never come out.

"I'm not going anywhere, Angel. Of course I'll stay."

Crowley reaches out, takes his hand in both of his and squeezes his fingers.

"Like I'd leave you to deal with these vultures on your own." Crowley nods towards the small congregation of Aziraphale's family. Sometimes, it did feel like they circled like predators, sharp eyes searching for weakness before they struck with venomous words and sour expressions.

Seeing them all there, hearing their judgmental comments and the barbed words that were so often reserved for himself, Aziraphale could burst into tears all over again. Thank heavens for Crowley.

"Shall we get a move on?" Gabriel, the youngest of the brothers and yet the tallest and most irritating, calls out, grinning in that used car salesman way of his, painfully wide and painfully fake. Beside him, his wife, Michael, purses her lips but says nothing. Not that she needs to. She wears her displeasure clearly in her expression, for where Gabriel is all phoney joviality and pretence, she is shrewd and cold and not afraid to show it.

"Before hell freezes over," chimes in Aziraphale's only sister. Sandy is the worst. Despite being conventionally attractive, she always manages to behave in such a way that makes her ugly.

"Alright, alright," Aziraphale replies, trying to force his lips to twist upward and feign a familial affection that he just doesn't feel. "It's lovely to see you all; it's a shame about the circumstances."

"Yes, yes, let's get on," Ron grumbles and leads the way into Muriel's room. Aziraphale has just enough time to glance over his shoulder and share one last commiserating look with Crowley before he is ushered into a hospital room.

Seeing Muriel sitting up in bed, eating a pudding cup, is such a relief to Aziraphale that he barely notices his surroundings. The room is private, but still undeniably a hospital, sterile and humourless with machines that beep and flash in Aziraphale's peripheries. In the centre of it all, Muriel is a ray of sunshine, greeting Aziraphale with a smile that almost eclipses her pallid complexion and the dark circles under her eyes.

"Aziraphale!"

"How are you, my dear?" He replies kindly, rushing to her side so that he can sink to his knees by her bedside. He clasps her chilled hands in his.

"Me?" She asks, as if he could be concerned about anyone else at this minute, "I'm fine. Really, this is all a lot of fuss over nothing."

Aziraphale hesitates at the declaration; he had held her in his lap and watched blood spread like molasses over the kitchen floor.

"She's very lucky," says a new addition to the room, a woman in a white coat carrying a clipboard.

"I'm not sure 'lucky' is the word, Ms…?" Gabriel interjects.

"Evelyn Adams. Doctor Evelyn Adams. And lucky is exactly the word I would use. Aside from some bruising to the arm and neck, she has a shallow knife wound across the abdomen that is mostly superficial and only needed one layer of stitches."

"But there was so much blood!" Aziraphale argues. He doesn't think he'll ever forget the sight of it, or the sensation of it, warm and thick and oozing through his fingers.

"Marinara sauce. Miss Harper must have upturned a saucepan when she was attacked. Honestly, we were very relieved when we took her into surgery." Both Muriel and Doctor Adams giggle at this revelation, but Aziraphale can only feel stunned at the news. He had really believed she would die right there in his arms.

"So we came all this way for nothing?" Sandy grumbles under her breath, but deliberately loud enough for the room to hear.

But before anyone can answer, before even Ron could turn his thunderous expression on their only sister, the door bursts open.

Crowley hates hospitals.

At the tender age of twelve, he had seen his grandfather pass through a pair of swinging double doors and into surgery, never to return, and that had just been the start. Over the years, he had stood vigil as too many friends had made the same journey and been lost. Afterwards, he'd go home and scrub the stench of Dettol and latex off his skin until he drew blood. Even now, the smell makes him want to wretch. Really, he thinks, the only thing he likes about the hospital is the little shop. They're always so cheerful, like a little oasis of joy amidst all the despair. Had he not promised Aziraphale he would stay put, he'd search for one now, maybe buy the poor man a teddy bear to cuddle or a box of chocolates. Chocolate always puts a smile on Aziraphale's face, and besides, if he needs a cuddle, he can always ask Crowley.

"Where is she?" A familiar voice calls out, snapping Crowley from his woolgathering. He glances up from his sightless stare to catch sight of his young apprentice looking harried and out of breath, storming into the waiting area, flanked by two strangers.

"You could say thanks for the lift!" One of the strangers —a scruffy-looking scarecrow of a man with straw-like hair and hygiene problems— shouts after Eric as he barrels into the room and barely skids to a halt before he tumbles over a row of plastic chairs. Eric pays his companion no heed and only spares Crowley a brief grateful look when he nods towards the appropriate room.

"That's gratitude for ya." Grumbles the scarecrow's companion, a dark-skinned tank of a man dressed in a wrinkled leather trench coat.

"He's fucking lucky we didn't arrest him."

Crowley had been in enough trouble over the years to smell a cop a mile away. He did not have fond memories of the late 80s and early 90s and had learnt the hard way how to deal with men like this.

"Hi, guys," he says, trying to project nonchalance and not to shrink into his chair like a frightened teenager. He isn't exactly sure what they were doing with Eric, and he doesn't much like how they had spoken to him. The lad was too fucking nervous to be deserving of an arrest. Crowley is curious, though. Crowley is always curious.

The two policemen turn their focus onto Crowley, approaching him with the sort of confident swagger that comes with knowing they can do as they please without retribution.

"And who might you be?"

Crowley stands to meet them, thrusts out his hand to shake theirs and tries not to grimace as clammy palms squeeze his flesh.

"Anthony J. Crowley. Young Eric's boss. And who are you?"

"We'll ask the questions." The scarecrow replies.

"Odd for his boss to be here, don't you think, Hass?"

"Very odd."

"Not so odd," Crowley replies, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his too-tight jeans so that he doesn't submit to the desire to rub them clean on the denim.

"Why'd you say that?" Hass asks.

"Well, Eric is here to see Muriel. I'm a friend of the family, I introduced them, actually."

"You're telling me, a filthy mechanic," Crowley bristles at this; he's meticulous with cleanliness, "is buddies with millionaire philanthropist and CEO Metatron Harper?"

"Nah. His brother. Aziraphale."

"How'd you get here so fast, Crawly?" The leather-clad meat wall flanking the scarecrow demands.

Every instinct in Crowley's body screams at him not to talk to these guys. Cops couldn't be trusted at the best of times, and this pair reminded him of the kind of cops that kicked the shit out of queer kids when he was a lad. But he likes Muriel and loves Aziraphale; he'd do anything to help them find out who had hurt the girl and bring them to justice.

He shrugs.

"Aziraphale called me. He's the one who found her. So why are you bothering Eric?"

Hass snarls soundlessly, but his companion answers.

"It's always the love interest, innit?"

Of all the lazy fucking policing. A surge of fury so hot that Crowley has to clamp his teeth down on his tongue to refrain from biting back hits him so hard he is almost staggered by it. He wonders if they've even been to the crime scene.

At least they hadn't spoken to Aziraphale yet, he thinks. There's no way he's going to leave these arseholes alone with him if he can help it. But he also doesn't really want to be left alone with them himself either. Not right now, when he is likely to explode.

"I'm going to go have a look in the shop," Crowley says, and before they can argue, he turns on his heel and slinks away.

“Muriel!”

Aziraphale recognises the stranger immediately. Eric is the nice young chap that Crowley had introduced to Muriel some months back. The very person whom Muriel had been pining over when Aziraphale had agreed to join her for dinner that night.

Despite his irritation that Eric had left the poor girl hanging for so long, he immediately forgives him for his lollygagging when he sees the horrified expression on the poor lad's face. He rushes across the room, shouldering Aziraphale out of the way with a solid thump, almost knocking him clean off his feet for the second time that evening. Aziraphale scrambles out of his way, letting the newcomer take his rightful place at Muriel's bedside.

Muriel sparkles starlight-bright at the sight of her beau.

“Oh, Eric! You came!”

“Of course I came.”

Their hands find each other, fingers intertwining like lovers with an ease Aziraphale would associate with old married couples. Aziraphale feels almost jealous at the sight of it. If only he could take Crowley's hands so readily.

The pair obviously only have eyes for each other.

"Perhaps we should give them some space?" Aziraphale suggests to the room at large. Out of all of his siblings, it's only Ron who is paying attention to the situation. Sandy is scrolling through her phone whilst Michael and Gabriel quarrel quietly in the corner.

"But we're family!" Ron declares, as if he is the authority on who should and should not be allowed to stay at the bedside of a distant relative.

"As this isn't ICU, there is no requirement for visitors to be family," Doctor Adams says, "though we do request that there are only two per bed." Her eyebrows arch pointedly.

Gabriel rolls his eyes at the pronouncement, even though Michael is already tugging him toward the door.

"Well, I'm going to find something to eat," Aziraphale says, hoping that the suggestion might encourage the others out of the door.

"Of course you are." Gabriel quips, craning over his shoulder just so that he can drag his violet eyes over Aziraphale's protruding belly and smirk at him nastily.

Aziraphale tries to ignore the remark; instead, he looks for Crowley as he exits the room, hoping that perhaps he might join him for an expedition to the cafeteria. He would like to buy the man a cup of coffee at the very least, but to his dismay, his seat is empty. Instead, two strangers are hovering nearby.

"That one is so dim-witted," Ron grumbles in Aziraphale's general direction. The door hadn't even swung closed behind him before he started on his tirade.

"Did you know she left the front door unlocked? She had a crank call and didn't even call the police! It's almost as if she wanted-"

"Brother, really!"

"And you!" Ron stabs a finger at Aziraphale's chest, "panicking over a little bit of marinara sauce. The whole family dropped everything and came running for a scratch! You really need to stop and think before you act."

Aziraphale tries to keep his chin up high, tries not to notice how all his siblings are staring at him, sneering like he's the butt of the joke. It's impossible not to let the words puncture holes in his already tattered self-esteem. He sighs and deflates, his shoulders sagging as he prepares for further insults.

"And that boyfriend of hers. What were you thinking, introducing her to someone like him? He's a mechanic for heaven's sake!"

“Apprentice mechanic!” Sandy chimes in.

"Yes, an apprentice! At least your little boyfriend in the sunglasses is fully qualified. If you call an NVQ a qualification."

The whole family begins to chuckle. Aziraphale flinches.

"Now, now," Ron continues, "Don't be so sensitive. You're allowed your little fling-"

"He's not my-"

"-But even you must realise that people like them are not good enough for our family."

“I’m going to go get everyone some snacks.” Aziraphale interrupts.

“That’s right. Always thinking with your stomach.” Sandy jeers.

Ron swiftly turns his sharp glare on her.

"She who is without sin cast the first stone." Ron declares, his attention refocusing on a new target. Aziraphale is unrepentant in taking the opportunity to sneak away.

“Fuck you, I need a smoke,” Sandy snaps, before the head of their family can start anew.

This scene is like something out of a horror movie, which is convenient given the genre of this story. The carpark is subterranean, poorly lit with flickering fluorescent strip-lighting that casts long shadows that loom large between vehicles. A leggy blonde in a camel coat leans against a fire door, a no-smoking sign hanging just above her unfashionably large shoulder pad.

Sandy pays it no mind. She pulls a cigarette box from her inside pocket, lights one with a Zippo lighter and lifts it to her lips. She inhales deeply. Holds her breath for just a moment, luxuriating in the velvet texture of hot smoke and nicotine, enjoying the burn of it deep in her lungs, before she exhales with a long, smoky sigh.

She hates hospitals. The sick and infirm disgust her, and she really doesn't understand why Ron had summoned them all. In Sandy's opinion, Muriel barely counts as family. She doubts she would have come voluntarily even if it had been Ron himself who had been poked full of holes. She takes another drag, groaning with displeasure when her mobile phone rings and disturbs her five minutes of peace.

She fumbles with it for just a moment, prioritising a third puff of cigarette smoke over answering the call.

"What?" She snaps into the receiver.

"What's your favourite scary movie?" The caller asks. The voice sounds weird, like it's being pumped through an electronic scrambler.

Sandy just rolls her eyes.

"Look, buddy. I'm short on time. Cut-to-the-chase. What are you trying to sell me?"

"How about a look at your insides?"

Everything happens in a flash after that. Sandy doesn't see the dark figure lurking in the shadows; the flickering light masks its movement until it's right on top of her. She doesn't even have a chance to run before the sharp edge of a curved blade comes down on her. She fights back, of course, she does. She isn't one of these whimpering, pathetic babysitters from a slasher movie.

For several heart-pounding minutes, Sandy and her attacker struggle over a short-handled scythe. Even as the high heel of her shoe breaks and she stumbles to one knee, she thinks she'll win. But then the attacker is twisting away, and a kitchen knife appears in their other hand. It disappears into the folds of her clothing.

It doesn't hurt going in. It's an odd thought to have, really, but she would have thought it would hurt more. She just feels the frosty edge of the blade wedged somewhere that should be warm. But then it pulls out, and she begins to scream.

Aziraphale should be numb to it by now. The constant criticism, the lack of empathy, the general disdain for humanity. His family has always been rotten to the core, and he knows it. In truth, he is more affronted by their attitude toward Muriel and Crowley than their cruelty to himself, but Aziraphale had always forgiven easily when it came to his family. He can't help that he loves them.

Still, as he walks away, he feels defeated. Every conversation with his family ends with a retreat, and sometimes he thinks he leaves a little of himself behind with each withdrawal. If only Crowley had been there. He always feels that much stronger when Crowley stands beside him, like the other man funnels resolve from his heart directly into Aziraphale's veins. But despite his promise not to leave him on his own, Crowley is nowhere to be found. That hurts, too, if he is honest with himself, but he can hardly be angry. Crowley doesn't owe him anything, quite the contrary in fact.

Defeated and deflated, Aziraphale begins his search for a canteen or a little shop, anywhere he can fill his belly and chase away the blues with sugar and dopamine.

Some time later, he resigns himself to filling his arms from a row of vending machines instead.

"Angel!'

That voice, that pet name, it always helps Aziraphale forget his troubles, if only for a moment. He looks up and smiles at the approaching redhead.

“There you are!" Aziraphale greets him, standing to meet Crowley, who doubles his pace to join him in front of the lacklustre display of crisps and chocolate biscuits. "Where on Earth have you been?"

“Those cops weren't being particularly friendly, so I thought I'd make myself scarce for a bit. I didn't mean to abandon you. You alright?”

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be? I was with family." He doesn't sound convincing even to his own ears. Crowley arches an eyebrow. Sometimes Aziraphale forgets just how well Crowley knows him. He recognises every expression, every tone of voice. He has also spent many an evening listening to his complaints and cheering him up after particularly rough meetings with Gabriel or Ron. There's no reason to lie; Crowley sees right through him.

Aziraphale sighs.

"If you must know, it was dreadful. They heard Muriel was quite well and then decided to moan about their wasted trips."

"Of course they did." Crowley reaches for him, a brush of fingertips over his shoulder and down his arm. It was a barely-there touch, like the beat of butterfly wings, and yet Aziraphale can feel the warmth of it right down to his toes. How had he ever been upset with Crowley, even for a second?

“I do appreciate everything you do for me, Crowley. I’m not sure what I would have done without you here today.”

Something soft and complicated dances across Crowley's expression, but it's quickly schooled into a playful smirk.

"Oh shut up," he says, and then reaches for the enormous pile of goodies that Aziraphale had left abandoned in the bottom of the vending machine. "Let me help you with those."

Then, with arms full, they go together, back towards the waiting room.

The waiting room is a lot noisier than Crowley remembers it being. The tone of each voice is sharp and catty and not at all like the friendly family bickering Crowley knows from his sitcoms.

“What’s going on?” Crowley whispers to Aziraphale, his lips brushing the shell of Aziraphale's ear.

Aziraphale turns a slightly flushed face back to him.

"I don't rightly know," he replies.

Together, they approach the arguing Harper family, who appear to have formed a circle around the two police officers who had previously questioned Crowley. It is they who are the cause of the hubbub.

It's Gabriel who spots them first and summons the pair over with a terse flap of the hand.

“There you are! Where have you been?” His expression turns sour as he recognises Crowley. His violet eyes flash with annoyance. At his barked-out words, each Harper turns towards them, so Crowley is greeted with a full array of sneers and glares.

As if sensing the mood, Aziraphale takes a protective half step in front of Crowley.

“Getting snacks,” he replies. "As I told you."

"And you have been together the whole time?" The blond-haired policeman asks.

"I'm not sure what you're insinuating," Aziraphale says, still on the defensive, "but I don't believe it's any of your business."

"I'll make it my business. I'm DS Hastur, CID, and whilst you and your little boyfriend were off fraternising, there was another attack."

"There- what?" The news seems to knock the wind right out of Aziraphale. His head bows, his shoulders slump, and he takes a little stumbling step backwards. Crowley is ready for him, though, with an arm outstretched, ready to grip Aziraphale's shoulder and press comfort through his fingertips.

“Ms Sandy Harper stepped outside and was assaulted in the car park," Hastur continues.

“Is she alright?”

“No, Aziraphale, she is not alright," Ron snaps churlishly. "She’s been stabbed repeatedly in the guts.”

Aziraphale gasps at that, his arms going lax so that their contents fall and scatter across the floor. Crowley wants nothing more than to reach for him properly, to pull him against his chest and squeeze all the heartache from his body. But whilst he knows Aziraphale was happy to take comfort in his body under the guise of sleep, he knows there are different rules for here and now and in front of his family.

Crowley has never had the impression that there was much love lost between Aziraphale and Sandy. If Aziraphale's stories are true, she really is the worst kind of human. But despite that, she is still Aziraphale's sister, and Aziraphale is one of the softest, gentlest people Crowley knows. He will worry for her, and if she passes, he will grieve for her. Crowley loves him so very much for it.

“She's in surgery." Doctor Adams steps into the fray. "But I must prepare you for the worst. The prognosis is not good.”

“And Muriel-“ Aziraphale asks.

“There's nothing wrong with Muriel,” Gabriel complains. "She's just faking it for attention."

"I mean," Aziraphale says, his biting tone betraying his thinly veiled anger, "there hasn't been another attempt on her life?"

Each Harper sibling glances guiltily at the others before Ron intervenes once again.

"We're not babysitters, Aziraphale. We all had things to do, besides Eric is with her, and you insisted we give them space."

"And what about you?" Aziraphale turns his cold fury onto the police officers. Crowley has never felt prouder of Aziraphale than when he stands up for those he loves. The cherub of a man contains multitudes. He might be soft, but when it matters most, he has a core of steel.

"We're here to collect statements, that's all," Hastur says with a sneer. "Speaking of, where were you? Mighty odd that you vanished right when your sister was being poked full of holes."

"As I said-"

"And you were together the whole time?"

There's a moment of pause, a flash of uncertainty, where Aziraphale turns a silent, questioning look at Crowley that makes him want to cry. They weren't together the whole time, but surely Aziraphale couldn't think-

But the seeds of doubt have clearly already been planted, and though Aziraphale doesn't voice the question, his expression is clearly asking, 'where were you?'

Crowley thinks back to their meeting in the corridor. Aziraphale had asked, then, hadn't he, and Crowley hadn't rightly answered. It wasn't that he had been trying to deflect at the time; it just hadn't seemed important. He can almost see the memory unfolding before them, like an old film projector. He wonders if the grainy, flickering quality of the image would make Crowley's casual response seem furtive.

"Angel," he whispers, and the pleading note is all it takes for Aziraphale to find his resolve. He turns his frown on the policemen.

“You can’t possibly imagine that we had something to do with this?“ Aziraphale snaps.

“Well, you were the first on the scene when Miss Harper was attacked, were you not? And you appear to have no alibi for-" But Hastur's musings are cut off by a deliberate cough from the eldest Harper.

"Don't be so melodramatic." Ron snaps, "Of course, no one thinks you attacked Sandy. You’re family. Family don't hurt each other." He pauses, his expression turning sly. "But your little mechanic friend here. Where was he?”

“I hope you’re not implying-” But Aziraphale wilts under Ron's glare.

“Were you together the whole time?” Hastur asks again.

“Well, no-“

“For fuck's sake." Crowley snaps. "I was in the gift shop, and then I found Aziraphale by the vending machines on my way back. Where were you, Ronald?”

Crowley has it on good authority that Ron is, in fact, Metatron, and though he loathes his name, he hates being misnamed even more. Ron's glare turns furious.

“Speaking to the doctor, who I am sure will corroborate my story. Not that I need to answer to you.”

“And all your siblings? Crowley turns his own glare on Michael and Gabriel. Those two were awfully quiet, which was not unusual for Michael, but Gabriel usually had something to say.

“They were together.”

“Right. Convenient.”

“Which leaves you.”

Both policemen turn their gleeful expressions on Crowley then.

"Just come clean, Mr Crawly, and we can all go home early." Hastur's sidekick sneers.

"Has anyone actually seen your ID?" Crowley snaps back, feeling disheartened that nobody, not even Aziraphale, was speaking up for him.

"DS Hastur and DC Ligur, CID." The blond says, flashing a badge and a filthy grin.

"So, how about it?" Ligur asks. "You want to come down to the station?"

Crowley doesn't dignify that with an answer. He knows he's innocent in all this, but the thought that Aziraphale might doubt him cuts deeper than he can bear.

“I didn’t attack your sister, Aziraphale. You know I didn't.”

“N-no, no of- of course not," Aziraphale says, but his tone feels flimsy and he can't seem to look Crowley in the eye. "But-but this is a family matter."

"I should go then, should I?"

Aziraphale wrings his fingers, tugging and twisting at the signet ring on his little finger, the one that bore the family crest.

"Aziraphale?"

But Aziraphale says nothing.

"You heard him, Mr Crowley." Ron steps in, coming to stand at Aziraphale's shoulder, putting them on opposite sides. "This is a family matter, and you are not family."

"Right." Of course. Of course, they weren't family. Aziraphale had no idea how Crowley felt about him. It was just that, sometimes, Aziraphale would look at him with the softest expression, and Crowley would think that maybe, just maybe, they were on the same page. Maybe they were more than just friends.

Obviously not.

Crowley's heart plummets in his chest. He feels a little like he's dived off a cliff and left his stomach behind. He swallows hard, pushing down the pain of Aziraphale's uncertainty, harder and harder until it boils into anger.

“Fuck this. I’m gone,” he growls, turning on his heel to stomp away.

“Crowley!”

“Let him go, Aziraphale. We’ll be safer without him. We'll head over to Eden, where he can't get to us.”

Aziraphale wants nothing more than to brush off his brother and go after Crowley.

Crowley wasn't alone in knowing the other's every tone of voice. The hurt in his last was unbearable to hear, and it snapped Aziraphale out of his confusion. Of course, Crowley wasn't the attacker. Why would he even think that?

But his brother's hand drops onto his shoulder, heavy like a lead weight, and it's enough to halt him in his tracks. He glances over to him and then to Gabriel and Michael, each taking their place beside him, each staring at him expectantly. All are judging him. He squirms under their scrutiny.

His heart sinks. He's weak, he's soft, and he will always bow to family expectations.

What he wants to say, what he feels he needs to say, dies on his tongue.

"We should check on Muriel," he says instead. He can make it up to Crowley, he thinks. One day.

"That's right." Ron murmurs. "Let's put family first."

The eldest Harper turns to DS Hastur and DC Ligur.

"You'll be our protection, yes?"

"Well, we're just here to collect-"

"Yes," Hastur cuts through Ligur's refusal, "for a price."

"Very good," Ron replies. "Obviously, someone has it in for our family. We shall retreat to my country estate, where we shall all be quite safe."

Aziraphale can't help but bristle at the way Ron takes charge. He's driven away his best friend, and now he's manipulating the police into altering their investigation. It's so selfish to make plans without any thought for Muriel or Sandy.

The thought burbles up Aziraphale's larynx. Misery fermenting into fury.

"You don’t seem particularly upset about Sandy." Aziraphale retorts. "Are you sure we’re safe with you?”

“I know you’re upset, Aziraphale, so I am going to forgive you for your outburst. There is nothing we can do for Sandy here. But we can take Muriel home and out of harm's way. We wouldn’t want her a sitting goose for the murderer now, would we?”

“Murderer? No one’s dead.”

“Yet.”

That single word stuns them all into silence.

"I'll go speak to Muriel and Eric," Aziraphale mutters. "Let's see what they want to do."

"Not Eric. We can't trust outsiders."

Aziraphale wants to argue. He wants to fight and rail against his brother's authority. Instead, he gives a curt nod of agreement. Despite his compliance, Ron seems to sense his reluctance.

"No outsiders, Aziraphale. Eric is not welcome in my home."

But it isn't his home; it belongs to all of them. Ron might be the one who remains a semi-permanent resident, but their mother's will was clear. They each have a place there; they all have a home if they want it. But Ron has already turned his back on Aziraphale and is now barking orders to Gabriel and the police officers like he owns this place, too. Feeling heavier than he ever has, Aziraphale slips away into Muriel's room.

He's surprised to find her alone, book in hand and tiny moon-shaped glasses perched on the end of her nose.

"Are you alright, my dear?"

"I'm always alright when I have a book," she replies, glancing away from her page to smile kindly at Aziraphale.

"Where's Eric?"

"He went home. Visiting hours are over."

"Oh?" Aziraphale tugs awkwardly at the frayed edges of his waistcoat. He hadn't seen Eric leave, but he supposes they had all been distracted outside. "I'm sorry, my dear, we left you all by yourself."

"Everything is fine, Aziraphale, truly."

He tries to find comfort in her words, but he feels heartsore and adrift. He sinks down into the plastic chair that has appeared at her bedside, and after a few minutes of chit chat, explains Ron's plan.

"Oh, jolly good!" Muriel exclaims in giddy delight. "I haven't been to Eden House since I was a girl!"

Crowley's anger only takes him as far as the car park. Seeing the dank basement lit up with the swirling blue lights of police cars and the fluttering yellow tape of a crime scene cordon tosses a bucket of freezing water over Crowley's mood. He feels so very ashamed. Aziraphale has every right to be afraid, and though the thought that he might not trust him entirely after so many years of companionship hurts beyond words, Crowley can understand wanting to retreat with his family somewhere safe.

If he had a family of his own, he might do the same.

So he lets it all go. A fire that burns hot, burns bright and then burns out.

Crowley finds his way to his car, slips behind the wheel and heads home.

Chapter Text

Welcome to the Murder House

“Oi! Dipshit!”

Crowley groans with frustration. He's barely made it through the front door and kicked off his snakeskin boots before his annoying flatmate descends on him. He could really use a drink, a bath and not whatever Beez has in store for him.

"You seen the news?" they ask, still shouting from the other room.

“Hold on,” Crowley calls back. He taps out a quick text to Aziraphale, letting him know that he has made it home safely, and hopes that that news will assuage any concern Aziraphale might have and act in place of the apology he's certain he owes.

"There's been a murder! Can you believe it? Some bimbo's been stabbed in the gut like twenty-three times or some shit! Good thing they were already at the hospital," Beez says, cackling.

They appear in the doorway, clutching the TV remote to their chest with greasy fingers stained with orange powder. Crowley follows them back into the smoky living room and pauses to inhale the scent of freshly burnt weed. They've talked about this before. There's no smoking in the house, but Crowley is just too damned exhausted after everything that has happened tonight to play prison warden. Instead, he pops open the liquor cabinet and pours himself a generous glass of Beez's best whiskey in retaliation. They lock eyes for a moment, but when the expected tantrum does not arrive, Crowley throws himself down onto the dilapidated sofa with a huff, propping a foot up on a rickety coffee table inches from an ashtray where a cannabis cigarette is still smouldering.

"I know. I was there," Crowley says.

Beez's eyes bulge gleefully, and they bounce over the back of the sofa opposite and flop back down into their own seat. Their movements are like those of an excitable child, and much like a child, they snatch up an empty family-sized packet of cheesy Doritos, balls it up and lobs it at Crowley's head. They both watch as the packet swirls in slow motion over the table, spraying crumbs everywhere until it falls like a floating leaf into Crowley's lap.

"Thanks," he grumbles, tossing it back. Then, he reaches for the cigarette, lifts it to his lips, and takes a deep drag, which he chases with a burning gulp of Canadian whisky.

"Stop looking so glum! It's the first time anything interesting has ever happened around here! They said it's the second attack today!" Beez says snarkily before thrusting their cheese powder-coated fingers into their mouth.

"You don't have to look so cheerful about it. This is serious. There's a serial killer on the loose, and they seem to have it in for Aziraphale's lot."

Beez makes a long slurping noise, tongue swishing between their index and second fingers before releasing them from their lips with an audible pop.

"They're not a serial killer, they gotta knock off a few more for that title."

"And what would you know about it?"

Beez pauses to lick their palm and then shrugs.

"What don't I know about it? I've seen practically every slasher movie known to man, you know?

"This isn't a movie."

They shrug again.

"Don't mean they're not following the rules."

Crowley takes another drag of the spliff and tips back his head until it hits the threadbare cushion. He stares up at the peeling paintwork on the ceiling so that he doesn't have to continue watching his flatmate fellate their fingers. He tries to relax, letting the magic effect o CBD slowly unwind his tense muscles and ease his stress.

"Please, Beez. Whoever it is hurt Aziraphale's cousin and sister. I'm worried that he's in danger. They've all gone to some country estate to lock down until this is over, but it scares me that I can't be with him."

"Rookie mistake that is."

"What is?"

"Country estate is short-hand for Murder House, I'd say."

Crowley can practically hear the capital letters.

"Don't be stupid," he snaps, flashing a glare at Beez, but then immediately softens the blow by holding out the toke.

"Look," Beez replies, launching themself from their seat and over the coffee table only to sit on the arm of the chair rather than the spare seat. They lean in close, snatching the cigarette from Crowley's hands whilst also shoving their bare feet under Crowley's thighs. They keep poking him with their toes until he shuffles over to make room, and then they slide bonelessly down into his vacated space.

"There are certain tropes that occur in slasher movies," they say, "and certain rules you gotta follow if you want to survive."

"But this isn't-"

"Just listen. Okay, number one. You gotta be whiter than white and purer than pure. No drink, no drugs, definitely no sex."

Crowley stares pointedly down at the tumbler of amber liquid pressed between his palms and then flicks his eyes over to the half-finished spliff tucked between Bee's knuckles.

“Right," He says, "So we're already fucked."

"What's this we?" Beez takes another drag. "Look, classic slashers are purity propaganda. More modern audiences are wise to those rules, though, so being a bad boy with a heart of gold might just save your life. So bully for you."

"My heart is blacker than black."

"Of course it is. But sadly for you, playing that role means you might also be expected to make the sacrifice play. So your chance of survival is fifty-fifty."

Crowley rolls his eyes.

"I'm not an idiot, I ain't sacrificing myself." But he's already thinking about Aziraphale. He would. He totally would. He would do anything for that man, even stare death in the face and flick him the V's. He takes a long drink from his glass, hoping the burn will distract from the ache in his chest.

"Two. Love will set you free! But also, you should never trust a love interest."

“Aziraphale isn’t the killer!”

“Oh! Did I miss a special announcement? Are you two-" They make a lewd gesture with their fingers.

"No!" Crowley cuts in. "We’re just… We're just friends."

Beez's expression does nothing to hide what they think about that.

"This might be obvious, but women and black dudes die first. That's not really relevant to you. The exception is the lone survivor, they're almost always a woman or from a minority."

"All your rules have caveats and exceptions! They're useless!"

"Don't diss my movie knowledge! Do you want to survive or not?"

Crowley sighs. His head feels so heavy that he lowers his nearly empty glass to the coffee table, just so that he can rest his head in his hands. This is pointless. He doesn't even know where the house is.

"Basically," Beez continues, "the only fail-safe way to survive a modern-day slasher is to be gay."

Crowley looks up sharply.

"What if I'm bi?"

Beez stares at him, unblinking, for a long, drawn-out moment. Crowley had gone through hell as a young bisexual man alone in London during the 80s and 90s. It had taken everything from him, but eventually, he had crawled back into the closet, deciding it was safer to date women and blend into the crowd. Since then, he has never told anyone exactly who he is. Not even Aziraphale. Which is foolish, really. Aziraphale is out and proud and wouldn't have even blinked twice at the news. He might well have even welcomed it. Sometimes Crowley wonders if all those soft looks and the easy affection mean more than Aziraphale says. But Crowley has always been afraid of getting too close, as if retaining this one barrier between them would protect his fractured heart when Aziraphale eventually saw him for the rotten, broken mess that he is.

"I don't think Hollywood is that nuanced," Beez says at last. "If you're boning the leading man, you're probably fine."

"Well, we're not- I'm not," he sighs, the ache in his chest tightening around his throat, threatening to squeeze out tears.

"Fuck Crowley, stop it. Your boyfriend is the fucking fairy queen; he'll be fine."

"But what if he's not?" Because this isn't a movie. And as much as he might wish it, Aziraphale is not safe, and his family would do very little to protect him.

"He will be."

The chirp of Crowley's phone brings their conversation to an end, and Crowley scrambles to answer it.

"I'll go make us a cheese toastie," Beez says, prying themself from Crowley's side and stumbling from the room in a cloud of smoke.

Crowley pays them no mind; it's Aziraphale's smiling face pulsing on his screen, nothing else matters.

"Angel?" He answers, heart in his throat.

"Oh, Crowley, thank you for your text message." There is a note of relief in Aziraphale's voice that Crowley feels right down to his bones. He had half expected to hear the voice of a hospital receptionist, or worse, DS Hastur on the other end.

"Where are you, Angel, what's going on?"

"We're heading out to the country. Ron thought it best that we return to his country home. It has high walls and even higher gates."

"Right."

"There's room for all of us. We'll be safe there."

"Room for me?" Crowley asks uncertainly. Aziraphale's hesitation does nothing to ease his worry.

"Oh, Crowley, you heard what Ron said. Family only."

"Yes, but-"

"But I worry so much about you out there on your own. You're a sitting duck, aren't you?"

"It's not me I'm worried about, Angel." Crowley croaks, trying not to succumb to the emotion that is slowly drowning him. "I could come. Keep you safe."

"I'll be quite safe. I'm with family."

"I-I know- you can't possibly think that I-"

"Oh Darling, no, no, of course not. I'm so sorry I doubted you. My brother, you know how he is, he gets into my head and turns me around. Of course, of course you can come. I'm sure once you show up, Ron won't mind at all."

Crowley isn't sure of that one bit, but he fumbles for a notepad and pen so that he can take down the address and promises he will get there as soon as he can.

They hang up not long after that, after Crowley has passed on his condolences for Sandy and asked after Muriel. There's a moment of pause before he ends the call, where they both seem to hesitate, neither wanting to let go, but then the call disconnects and Crowley is left to stare down at a blank screen.

"You'll die if you go." Beez breaks him out of his reverie. They're leaning against the doorframe, nibbling on a cheese toastie. There's hot sauce dripping off their chin.

"For fuck's sake, find yourself a plate!" Crowley snaps.

"Crowley…"

"I have to go. I can't leave him there."

Beez sighs.

"I know," they say. "But the murderer is in that house, no question about it. You're walking right into the kill zone."

"Then come with me?"

"Fuck no. I might like you, Crowley, but I don't wanna die for you!"

The car ride to the estate is quiet and subdued. Only the rumble of tyres against country roads and the whir of the electric engine mutes the quiet breathing of five passengers. Aziraphale couldn't make conversation, even if he wanted to; the weight of Sandy's passing weighs too heavily on his mind. He wonders if they are all plagued with the same feeling of guilt, the sort of guilt that gnaws deep into the belly, or if only he had felt that moment of relief when the news had been delivered.

Sandy had never been easy to get along with; she was principled, yes, but in Aziraphale's opinion, often on the wrong side of history. They had never quite seen eye to eye from the moment he had come out as gay, and though she had never had an original thought of her own, she had taken every opportunity to pile on when one of his other siblings found fault in him.

He finds himself wishing for Crowley all over again. Family surrounds him, and yet their presence is of no comfort; all he wants is to feel the press of Crowley's slender form against him, too sharp hips and pointy chin pressed into his softness. What he would give to bury his nose in fire-bright hair and smell the scent of forest flowers and black tea that lingers down to the roots. He's never felt more secure than when he's wrapped in Crowley's embrace. Why has he never dared to tell him? But Crowley is out there somewhere in the dark, alone and at risk. And it's all his fault.

The Harper family residence is a looming Gothic monstrosity with spires that peer out over the surrounding woodland. Miles from civilisation and deep in the South Downs National Park, the house is only accessible from a single winding country road blocked by a great wrought iron fence that was erected during the 17th century. The mechanism has been modernised over the years, but the gate remains unchanged, and it is as unassailable as it ever was.

The house had once been an ideal getaway for the Harper family. With bedrooms aplenty and acres of gardens and wilderness to wander, the entire extended family would visit for long summers and cosy Christmases. Every one of them could fit under the same roof without the horrors of being stacked too closely on top of one another.

But that was before. Back when Aziraphale's mother was still alive, back when the kitchen always smelled like baking apples and fresh custard. Back when the house was a home, and every child felt loved. Now, the place feels to Aziraphale more like a mausoleum, lying empty but for the single Harper who retained residency; Ron spent his days squirrelled away in his study, whilst the rest of the house went to ruin.

The front doors creak as they swing open, and the marble floor echoes underfoot as the quintet makes its way inside the gloomy foyer. Without lights, only the silvery moon pierces the darkness, kissing the curves of a pair of gilded lions that stand guard before the grand staircase that dominates the space. The rest of the noble statues that still stand in formation around the room are covered with white dust sheets, floating like Halloween ghosts in the dark. Nothing is inviting or friendly about this place; the feelings of love that once blossomed from every surface have long since been extinguished. Aziraphale's skin crawls under the watchful eyes of generations of Harpers, staring sightlessly down at him from dusty canvases that adorn the walls.

Still, the house is an ideal location to hide from a potential serial killer, and though Aziraphale shivers at the chill in the stale air, he can’t help but agree with Ron’s evaluation. They will lock the doors and the gate tight and pass a quiet few days off the grid whilst the police investigate. They can each mourn their sister's passing without interfering with each other, and most importantly, Muriel can get some rest.

"I think I'll go right to bed," Muriel says, as if reading his mind.

"Alright," Ron replies. He gestures towards the grand staircase that sweeps up and around to the next floor. "Any bedroom on the left of the corridor is available for guests. The rooms on the right are family rooms; if you venture up into the attics, you'll only find the old servant quarters. I don't recommend you go up there."

She nods genially and then goes on her way, pausing only to peer at the imposing lions that snarl at any who venture upwards.

"Now then," Ron says in a business-like tone. He pulls off his leather gloves and hangs his hat and jacket inside a large coat closet, and then indicates that the others should do the same. His hands barely fumble as he searches for the light switch that ignites every candelabra in the room. They bathe the room in a warm, flickering glow; LEDs designed to appear like candlelight.

"I have work to do," Ron says. "Make yourself at home."

Without a second look, he disappears down a gloomy corridor, his words punctuated by a door slam.

"Right then," Gabriel chirps up, turning to Michael, "let me show you around."

"Do you think it's wise to split up?"

"Oh, button it, Aziraphale," Gabriel grumbles. "We wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for you. Now, if I remember, the family room is this way." He takes his wife by the hand and leads her down a different corridor, passing doors that Aziraphale remembers led to the library and formal dining room. How he wishes he could squirrel himself away amongst the books, but he firmly believes that they should stick together if they can.

Reluctantly, Aziraphale follows. He only wishes that Crowley would hurry up and get here.

They're just settling themselves in, with Gabriel and Michael primly sharing an antique chesterfield sofa whilst Aziraphale crouches before a struggling fire, poking at it with an iron poker, when the gong for the front door sounds.

"What on earth!" Gabriel jumps up. Despite his general calm demeanour, it is clear that he is still jumpy after the events of today.

"That will be Crowley," Aziraphale says, clambering to his feet.

"He can't come in here!" Gabriel snaps.

"Whyever not?"

It's Michael who speaks up then, cool and calm and emotionless.

"Aziraphale, please be reasonable. You can't know that he's not the killer."

Aziraphale inhales sharply, trying to resist the tug of anger. He reminds himself that they are afraid and that they have every right to feel that way. But he will not soon forget the look of total betrayal that sliced through Crowley’s expression when he had doubted just for a second, or the tremble in his voice when they had spoken later on the phone. It was obvious that he had hurt the dear man, and he wanted nothing more than to keep him safe and start repairing the damage he had wrought.

"How do I know you're not the killer?" Aziraphale asks her, trying to mimic her objective tone and failing miserably. She bristles under his accusation but says nothing. He isn't quite sure if she is deferring to his better judgement or simply biding her time, but he knows he is right on this. He is certain. He's known Crowley too long for him to have hidden secret sociopathic tendencies from him. He tries to silence the echo of his siblings' words and stands, straightens his waistcoat and tie and stomps back down the corridor toward the front door. Gabriel chases behind him like an overexcited puppy.

"Don't you dare let him in here."

"I'll do as I please."

"You'll kill us all."

It's past midnight by the time Crowley's Bentley pulls up in front of the gates of Eden Estate. They loom over him, jagged black silhouettes against the dark sky, an imposing sight for any who may wish to breach the estate's defences. Unfortunately for Crowley, no one seems to be manning the gates. At some point during the drive, the rain had started coming down in sheets, and so it is with a disgruntled grumble that Crowley steps out of his vehicle and dashes toward them, hoping against hope that there will be a working intercom. There is not. Instead, he finds a little black box with a flashing LED, the sort of device one might find on the inside of a garage door. It's a receiver for a remote control.

"Right," he grumbles to himself. "At least no one else can get in either."

He fishes his phone from his soggy pocket but is not surprised to find there is no signal, not even enough for an emergency call.

"Great… Excellent plan, fellas. Top notch."

Seething and now drenched down to the bone, Crowley begins his circuit around the crumbling stone wall that surrounds the estate. Thankfully, it doesn't take long for him to find what he's looking for: a conveniently located apple tree. Using the tree as an aid, he makes short work of climbing the wall and drops down with a messy plop on the other side, his feet sinking into ankle-deep mud. Grimacing at the squelch of his favourite boots, he makes a run for it across the grass to where he can see a car parked halfway up the driveway. It would be easy enough to sneak to the house, he thinks, but he decides it would be better to approach openly than give the police officers monitoring the situation the wrong idea.

The car is an ageing rust bucket, obviously not the property of Metatron Harper, so Crowley assumes it belongs to DS Hastur or DC Ligur. He doesn't want to give them any other reason to give him a hard time, so he approaches the car as casually as he can manage, preparing himself to turn on the charm despite appearing unexpectedly like a bedraggled stray cat. But as he gets closer, a suspicion that something is wrong niggles at the back of his mind. He can make out two figures sitting together in the car, heads bowed slightly together, lit only by the glow of the tiny orange map light. But neither of them is watching the house. Neither have they noticed him in their mirrors. Nor do they move to apprehend him or roll down their windows as he approaches. Feeling a twinge of uncertainty, he creeps closer, peering cautiously through the fogged-up passenger window.

No one inside moves.

He knocks on the glass.

Nothing.

That twinge of uncertainty grows into a gnawing doubt that twists his insides almost painfully. He takes a deep breath, urging his galloping heart to slow as his fingers find the cold, wet metal of the door handle.

He yanks it open.

Time stops, and then Crowley scrambles backwards from the car, falling to his knees so that he can vomit.

Beez had been right. The killer is here.

He takes off at a sprint, scraping his hands on the gravel in his haste to get on his feet. He runs away, leaving the car door open and the corpses of DS Hastur and DC Ligur to absorb the pelting rain.

Panting hard, he rings the bell, and then he's pounding on the door with his fists, screaming to be let in. He can hear muffled voices on the other side, the words inaudible through the thick wood, but the tone is clear. Two men are arguing.

"Please!" He shouts, "Aziraphale, it's me!"

The door flies open and falls inside, his knees hitting hard marble with a painful crunch, and he flops onto his back, breathing hard.

"Close it, close it, lock it quickly!"

Aziraphale does as he is told, his hands moving quickly and efficiently even as he glances over his shoulder at Crowley, his expression seeming more concerned than frightened.

"Crowley, what on earth?"

"The killer is here!" Crowley gasps.

"Don't talk rot," Gabriel snaps. "They can't possibly be."

"Tell that to Hastur and Ligur. Oh, wait, you can't. They're dead."

"And how would you know that? Look, Aziraphale, there's even blood on his hands." Gabriel shouts, his implication obvious. But despite his bravado, Gabriel doesn't come any closer, choosing to linger back against the wall. Aziraphale, on the other hand, crowds in close, pulling Crowley into a seated position so that he can press his hands to Crowley's shoulders and rub warmth back into his tepid flesh. He smiles down at him softly.

"You've had a shock, my dear, but we're quite safe inside. My Lord, you're freezing, let's get you warmed up, humm? We'll put you by the fire, and I'll call the police."

"The police are already here, Aziraphale," Gabriel says, but Aziraphale ignores him.

He helps Crowley to his feet and wraps a steadying arm around his waist, tucking Crowley against the side of his soft but sturdy body. Crowley has never felt so safe, even after the mad dash through the dark and the cold.

Aziraphale leads Crowley into a large sitting room, with multiple sofas and a fire crackling away in an ornate fireplace.

"Why don't you pop yourself down there?" Aziraphale says, indicating the shag pile rug in front of the fireplace. "I'll fetch you a blanket."

Gabriel lingers in the doorway, brow furrowing into a frown.

"Where's Michael?" He asks.

"I don't-" Aziraphale pauses, gazing around the empty room, as if Michael were simply hiding rather than gone.

"I swear to God if he's killed her!"

"Gabriel! He's been with us the entire time!"

"Hello, I can speak for myself." Crowley chimes in. He feels so small, curled up as he is on the rug, still shivering from the wet. The current of his life has often left Crowley feeling helpless, and so he is no stranger to trying to project a confidence he does not really feel. Fake it until you make it, that's always been Crowley's motto.

"You let your little friend in here, and now my wife is missing." Gabriel snarls, turning his righteous anger on Aziraphale, index finger jabbing at his face. Aziraphale flinches.

"Talk sense. She's probably just gone to bed!" Aziraphale says.

"Didn't kill anyone. Not a killer. Nor a little friend, thank you very much." Crowley snaps. "I've never had any complaints in the size department, I assure you!"

"I'm sure that's true, my dear."

"Don't you dare crack jokes whilst my wife is missing!" Gabriel lurches forward, hands reaching for the lapels of Crowley's jacket, but they grasp at thin air as Crowley scrambles backwards out of the way, colliding with Aziraphale's thick thighs, who had moved to intercept.

"Keep your hands off him." Aziraphale snaps. He has never looked quite so attractive to Crowley as he does in that moment, standing tall, looming over Crowley protectively with his hands on his plush hips and soft chin jutted outwards.

Crowley swallows hard.

"I think- I think I need a drink." Crowley stammers. He struggles to his feet and brushes invisible lint from his jeans.

"Aziraphale, want anything? Kitchen down there?" Crowley plays at nonchalance, but his hands are still trembling, his heart is still pounding. His world keeps swaying from one extreme to the other, and he can hardly keep his balance. He can only hope that whoever is responsible for all this is still out there and not in here. The front doors had been locked tight, though, and they would have surely noticed a broken window.

"Don't you dare go wandering off on your own!" Gabriel snarls.

"He is my friend, and I trust him. Yes, Crowley, the end of the corridor."

"I'll be right back."

Crowley darts out of the room before anyone can stop him, jogging down the gloomy corridor until he finds the kitchen. He slips inside and is relieved to find it empty. He supposes that once upon a time, this room would have been the centre of activity, full of cooks and serving staff, open fires and bubbling pans. It's almost eerie to find it so dark and still. Even more so when he spots a bottle of wine standing open on the central counter, condensation glittering in the moonlight that cascades in from the window of the servants' entrance. But there's no one in sight. The kitchen is huge and cluttered, full of shadows lurking in corners, any of which could just as easily be a person hiding as a bundle of saucepans hung haphazardly from the wall.

Christ, he thinks, pressing himself back against the kitchen door so that no one can come up behind him unseen. He can almost hear Beez in his head, laughing at his stupidity. He's gone and split the party. Surely never doing that should be one of their rules? But he had needed a moment to right himself. He feels like he's teetering on the edge of a panic attack, as the whirl of emotions threatens to overtake him. The fear, the panic, the relief, followed quickly by the stress of accusations and Aziraphale's ill-mannered family. All those feelings coalesce into a rapid pounding of his heart in his ears and an irrepressible tremor working its way up and down his body. What he needs is a glass of water. What he needs is a moment to breathe.

But right now his stomach feels weighted with lead.

"Hello?" He calls out, but of course, no one replies. A serial killer would hardly announce themself.

He peels himself off the door, taking a tentative step forward and then another and another until his toes connect with something soft.

He glances down at his feet. It shouldn't surprise him, not really. He had been waiting for something like this to happen.

"Well, fuck."

The two brothers stand toe to toe, nose to nose, glaring furiously at each other.

"Get out of my way, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale wants nothing more than to go after Crowley; he can't bear the thought that he is alone right now, not after everything that he has seen tonight. He wants to believe that they're safe inside, that wandering alone doesn't put Crowley at risk, but it's a gamble. Every second he leaves Crowley alone, he is gambling with his life. The thought makes him feel sick to the stomach. The realisation that the murderer might walk amongst them has started to take hold in the back of his mind. A niggling itch that won't be shaken. It's silly, really, he tells himself over and over. No one in this family is capable of that. But then the questions start to pour in from split seams. Where exactly had Michael gone? Why has no one seen Ron since they arrived? And Crowley? He refuses to suspect Crowley; he will be loyal. But it's true, Crowley didn't have an alibi for either attack, and now he's here, alone. And Michael is missing.

No! He won't allow himself to doubt. Not again.

With his chin held high, Aziraphale puffs up his chest and blocks the doorway. He won't leave until he knows Gabriel won't hurt Crowley.

"He needs a moment. Give him a moment," he says with as much authority as he can muster.

"Now. Aziraphale." Gabriel hisses between clenched teeth.

"I will not-" But Aziraphale doesn't get to the end of his sentence. Aziraphale has always had a few pounds on Gabriel, but where Gabriel is lean and muscled, Aziraphale is soft and plush. It is no effort at all for Gabriel to move him from his post. With rough hands, he grabs Aziraphale by the shoulders and turns them both until Aziraphale winds up stumbling backwards into the family room, and Gabriel has his back to the corridor.

"I am sorry, Aziraphale," he says and then darts out of the doorway and down the corridor after Crowley.

Aziraphale follows after him at a run but doesn't catch up before Gabriel throws open the kitchen door, and they stumble together through the doorway into a dark, empty kitchen.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale's blood freezes in his veins. For a moment, he fears the worst, that Crowley is gone, and he is alone.

But then Crowley's pale face appears from behind the centre counter, eyes blown with panic. There's a dark streak of something smeared across his forehead, a stark contrast to his pallid complexion. It can only be blood.

"Crowley!"

"It's- it's not what it looks like, I swear," he cries, his voice pitched higher than Aziraphale has ever heard it.

"What's the matter?"

Gabriel doesn't wait for an answer; he's already striding across the room, rounding the counter with three easy steps. And then he freezes in place, mouth falling wide with a strangled gasp. The moment hangs there suspended in air, a coin tossed, slowly turning as it prepares to drop. Aziraphale can hardly bear it.

"What did you do?" Gabriel asks. His usually brash voice turns quiet and sinister.

"I didn't do this!"

"You did!"

Gabriel grabs Crowley by the collar, hauling him to his feet so that he can shake him, and shake him, and shake him.

"Please," Crowley says, doing nothing to fight back but turning his stricken gaze on Aziraphale. "Please believe me. I found her like this. I was trying to help."

But the words barely break through the buzzing in Aziraphale's ears.

Her?

The cord snaps, and immobilisation switches to rapid transit. Aziraphale flies across the room to stand at his brother's side. To see.

And what a sight.

There, hidden from the view of the door by the centre counter, is Michael's bloody, lifeless body.

"Is she-" he can't finish this sentence. There is no love lost between Aziraphale and Michael, but Gabriel is his brother. And Michael is his wife. She's family. She was, at any rate.

"How?" He'll never know what the end of that sentence would be. How could you, perhaps? Or how did this happen? He isn't sure why his thoughts are turning accusatory. This is Crowley. Crowley is his friend.

Was.

"I didn't do this, I swear it, Aziraphale. I swear."

Gabriel hurls Crowley's slender body backwards, and he crumples like he's made of straw. He stumbles back against the kitchen sink, hands reaching desperately for traction but only finding recently washed crockery. Bowls and plates and cups fall to the ground with a crash, shattering on the tile.

Gabriel pays no attention; he drops to his knees amongst the debris, crawling over his wife to press his face into the deep recess of her neck. Her skin is so pale, darkened only by great strokes of crimson.

It's almost artistic. He thinks. Like thick oils on a blank canvas.

"Angel?" Crowley's pleading voice brings Aziraphale back to the present. He stares at the man whom he had hoped might love him one day. He catalogues the splashes of blood on his face and shirt. Notices how his hands seem stained black in the dim light of the moon.

He doesn't know what to think.

He can't think.

He can barely believe it.

"I didn't do this."

"Get out," Aziraphale says.

Crowley doesn't argue. He turns tail and flees. Right through the unlocked servants' entrance and out into the pouring rain.

Aziraphale has never known pain quite like this. He knows, knows, Crowley didn't do this. The moment the door had flown open, he had realised without a doubt that there was an imposter amongst them. But his tongue feels too big, his lips are too dry, and Crowley is long gone before he can force his mouth to work.

"Good riddance," Gabriel snarls.

He should really comfort his brother. He should do something, anything other than stand there dumbly with tears staining tracks over his cheeks, but the intense flash of resentment he feels makes it hard to care.

"I'll call for help," he murmurs and backs out of the room, heading towards the foyer where the main landline is stationed. He's just about to pick up the receiver when a noise stops him in his tracks. He frowns, pausing at the bottom of the stairs, certain that he had heard the patter of footsteps, the click of a door, voices down low.

Had Ron gone up to visit Muriel? Surely not.

If someone who shouldn't be is up there, they would be long gone before the police could reach them, he muses. He would have to go up himself.

Swallowing down the rock that had suddenly lodged in his throat and trying to soothe his galloping heart with deep gasping breaths, he edges up the stairs.

"One foot at a time, old boy," he murmurs to himself. "The element of surprise is in your favour."

He keeps muttering affirmations to himself, right up until he reaches the guest bathroom. The door has been left ajar, and inside he can hear two voices, whispering and giggling like children. One of them is Muriel. The other is-

"Eric! What on Earth are you doing here?" Aziraphale throws open the door and comes face to face with a pair of guilty-looking faces.

"I'm so sorry, Aziraphale," Muriel says, a pleading note in her voice. "I couldn't bear the thought of him being out there on his own. So I invited him over."

"Right. Of course." Aziraphale glances from one worried expression to another, taking in the wider scene as he does so. His cousin and her beau, as innocent as they are young, and yet, what were they doing alone in the bathroom together? He doesn't want to make accusations; he's already made that mistake today and feels nothing but regret. And hadn't he done the exact same thing? Hadn't he called Crowley over so that he could feel safer and calmer about the situation? Another pang of guilt punches him right in the gut, and he relents. He doesn't feel inclined to drive someone else he loves away. But something isn't quite right about this situation. He can taste it.

"What's happening here?" He asks, trying to keep the suspicious note from his voice.

"Oh!" Muriel blushes a little but does not cringe away from the question. "It's nothing really. I was just a little overexcited to see him, and I popped a stitch… in my excitement."

"Alright," he sighs, suddenly so very tired of everything. "Might I suggest you find your way back to bed?"

"Of course, cousin."

"And Eric?"

The young man looks up, eyebrows raised in surprise at being addressed.

"I suggest you make yourself scarce. Neither Ron nor Gabriel will be pleased by your presence."

"Alright."

The two scurry off together, Eric supporting Muriel a little as they squeeze through the doorway as one.

"Erm, Eric?" Aziraphale calls after the retreating pair. "Stay together, won't you? I'm not entirely sure this house hasn't been compromised."

"Right you are!" He grins. "I won't let her out of my sight."

Time slithers by, slow like treacle.

Slow like congealing blood.

It may have been minutes, or it may have been hours, Gabriel has no way of knowing. All he knows is that when the initial fog of grief lifts, he finds himself in an empty kitchen, alone but for the corpse of his wife, who is bearing the brunt of his weight.

"Aziraphale?" he croaks.

There is no reply.

Awkwardly, he drags himself to his feet. The cold tile has turned his joints brittle, and they creak and groan as they are wrangled into a standing position.

"Idiot man, leaving me alone with a murderer," he grumbles. But Gabriel is no fool; he checks the lock of the servant entrance and is dismayed to find that it is still open. No one, most notably Aziraphale, had thought to lock it after that infernal mechanic had left.

To his left, a door slams.

It is the only warning he receives.

He swirls around towards the sound and is hit full in the chest by the weight of another person. He stumbles back into the centre counter, disoriented by the strange direction from which his assailant came. The pair tussle for a moment, rolling around on a floor covered in broken china. Sharp edges stab tiny holes in Gabriel's back, but he ignores the prickles of pain and instead concentrates on the blade that is hovering over his throat. It takes Gabriel a few moments to regain his composure, but when he does, he is quickly able to overpower his attacker and knock the knife from their hands to the floor.

He wastes no time scrambling to his feet and takes off at a run, ignoring the ache in his chest from the impact and the burn of exertion.

If he can just make it to the front door, he thinks, he can borrow Ron's car and drive for help.

He picks up his pace, grinning madly as the great double doors get closer.

But then, like magic or a demonic miracle if such a thing exists, the attacker appears in front of him, blocking his way.

He skids to a halt, panic setting his heart ablaze.

"How on earth?"

But his faceless attacker only laughs. They flash their knife — a curved, short-handled scythe — letting the cold silver catch the warm glow from the candelabra. It's a stalemate of a sort. Two figures frozen, each waiting for the other to make the next move. But what Gabriel fails to recognise in his grief and panic is that a second assailant is creeping up behind him.

Gabriel screams at the slash of a blade across his back. It tears through the fabric of his favourite suit and nicks the skin beneath.

"You bastard!" he shouts. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, he searches for a third option.

He turns and runs.

Straight up the stairs.

Aziraphale hadn't meant to fall asleep.

It was late —or perhaps more accurately, it was early— by the time he had slipped into his childhood bedroom. He had only meant to sit down for a minute. All he wanted was one minute of peace before he picked up the phone and called the police. A chance to feel everything all at once and then clamp it down for what was to come. He hadn't expected to be so entirely engulfed by his emotions, for the comforting nostalgia of his old life and a simpler time to provide a safe place for it all to erupt from him like molten lava. But that one moment had turned into a heaving, bawling fit, a complete breakdown of all his resolve, and soon he was crying himself to sleep.

Like a toddler, he thought unkindly, as he rubbed sleep from his eyes.

The grandmother clock on the mantle had not been wound for a good many years and had long since stopped ticking. Time had slipped by unnoticed, dolloping another great spoonful of guilt and shame onto Aziraphale's already wobbling pile. He had left them to save themselves. He had left Crowley to save himself. He had slept whilst Crowley was out there being hunted through the storm.

Aziraphale shuffles to the edge of the bed and swings his legs around so that his feet touch the plush carpet. All he needs to do is reach for the phone and call for help. He can do that. He's not so useless that he can't manage a phone call.

His fingertips are just brushing the cool surface of the Bakelite handset when he hears the creak of a nearby floorboard. It's close, but not so close as to be in the room.

He freezes, listening hard, waiting for the sound to come again.

Another creak.

It's undeniable this time.

It's the unmistakable sound of a footstep. But it's not coming from the landing.

It's inside the walls.

"What the-" he mutters to himself.

The icy hand of dread squeezes at the nape of his neck and tickles down his spine.

The killer isn't a phantom but someone using the servant corridors. Corridors that have not been used formally for years, although they had been a great addition to their childhood games of hide and seek. Who would even know that those passageways exist, but someone from the Harper family? Certainly not Crowley — not that he needed that reassurance.

Aziraphale crosses the room, pressing his ear to the wall and holds his breath.

The footsteps cease. There's a person frozen on the other side, and Aziraphale wonders if they stood with their ear pressed against the brickwork, imagining that they could hear Aziraphale's breath, like he's imagining theirs.

"Easy now, Aziraphale," he says. "You're not helping anyone if you go to pieces."

He pushes back away from the wall, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves. He'd call the police, and he'd find Crowley, and then they would run from this place.

The phone begins to ring.

The sudden sharp burst of sound makes Aziraphale jump out of his skin. He stares at the device whilst his brain catches up with a turn of events, and then, unthinking, he dashes across the room and snatches up the receiver.

"Crowley?" He calls out breathlessly.

"Hello, Aziraphale." It's not Crowley. It's not a voice he recognises. It barely sounds human.

"Who-who is this?" Aziraphale asks, swallowing down his pounding heart.

"Ah, ah, ah. Now that would be telling."

"Yes, it would. Are you the one who killed Michael and Sandy?"

"If you want me to answer your questions, you'll have to answer one of mine." The voice is sharp and metallic, but the amusement is clear in their sing-song tone.

"What sort of question?"

"What's your favourite scary movie?"

"I do NOT have time for this rot!" Aziraphale snaps. "What is it that you want?"

"That's where you're wrong. You have all night, Aziraphale; it's Crowley that's running out of time."

Crowley! He tries not to play his hand all at once. He can't let the caller know how spooked he is.

“Wh-why should I believe you?”

“Come to the window.”

Aziraphale picks up the phone base and tugs the cables until they unwind enough, allowing him the distance to stretch the cord across the double bed to the bay window.

“What am I-oh.” Oh no.

Aziraphale can hardly breathe.

Down below, on the perfectly manicured lawn, Crowley is tied to a garden chair, his head tipped back so that they are looking directly into each other's eyes. Crowley's bulge wide, terrified, mirroring back everything that Aziraphale is feeling right now.

“Let me speak to him," Aziraphale says, trying to make it sound like a command rather than a plea. "I need to know he’s ok.” 

A faceless figure swathed in billowing black fabric steps into Aziraphale's eye line and presses a cordless phone against Crowley’s cheek.

“Angel?” Crowley croaks, his voice sounding weak.

“Yes, Crowley, it’s me.”

“You’re alive,” Crowley sighs, and his body seems to slump, like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

“And you? How are you?” Aziraphale tries to keep the note of panic from his tone, well aware that Crowley will pick up on it.

“Oh, you know… I’ve been better.”

“Are you hurt?”

“NYeah,” a pause and a hiss, “don’t worry about me. Just run, Aziraphale. Save yourself. Be careful, there’s t-”

But Aziraphale doesn't catch the end of that sentence, as the phone is snatched away from Crowley's face. 

“This is how it’s going to work," the intruder says. "We're going to play a little game of hide and seek." As if to emphasise the point, the figure dances away into the shadows, black blending into black, lost amongst the foliage.

"As you're probably aware, you and your little boyfriend here are trapped in this house of horrors with me. The gate is locked, and there is no way back over the wall. But you know as well as I that there is a remote that opens the gate. If you find the remote and hand it over, you can both walk out of here alive."

The intruder pauses, letting Aziraphale digest this information. But before Aziraphale can open his mouth to voice his objections, the killer speaks again.

"You're wondering why you would give me the remote. Well, I'm going to hold Crowley as collateral. If you run, he dies. If you call the police, he dies. If I find it or you first, you both die. I'll give you a ten-second head start.” 

The phone disconnects with a click, and Aziraphale is left with only the dial tone for company. 

Luckily, he knows exactly where the remote is kept. 

Aziraphale doesn't even pause to think. He drops the receiver on the bed, leaving it to whine in objection. He crosses the room at a run, flying across the landing and down the stairs without even trying to hide himself. He's going to make the most of the next ten seconds, and then, well, he doesn't recall the attacker being particularly large. He can only hope his speed and weight will work to his advantage. He tries not to think about it. He tries not to allow fear to slither inside his heart and slow his step. He needs to do this. For Crowley.

What Aziraphale knows, and hopes the attacker does not, is that Ron keeps the remote for the gate on his person. But Aziraphale isn't certain whether Ron is the monster that is responsible for all this. Thinking about it now, he does exhibit some psychopathic tendencies. But lucky for Aziraphale, there is a second unit. The butler used to keep it on a hook in the cupboard under the stairs before he was released from his duties. Aziraphale can only hope the spare remains.

Aziraphale practically falls over himself as he takes the last three steps in one leap. He slides around the corner, using the bannister to pivot, and falls to his knees in front of the under-stairs cupboards.

"Oh, thank you, Lord!" He gasps under his breath as his stocky fingers find the knobbly sliver of plastic that hangs from a hook just out of view. He has it; all he has to do is stow it somewhere for the killer to find.

His mind whirs with possibility. Crowley is tied to a chair under his bedroom window, and the killer is surely somewhere between him and Aziraphale. If he could just lure them away, he could circle back and rescue Crowley.

Aziraphale scrambles to his feet, jogging down the hallway towards the furthest point in the house away from Crowley. The kitchens. And as luck would have it, the kitchen has an easy exit.

He knows now that the killer has found the servant corridors, that they are lurking inside the walls, ready to pop out of any one of the obscured doorways. They're watching him. They're following him. But he also wagers that they want this remote far more than they want to fight him. Why else would they have called him?

It's an assumption — a dangerous one —but it forms the cornerstone of his plan.

He slips inside the kitchen, making sure to flick on the lights to strip away any possibility of black clad strangers hiding in the shadows. Keeping his eyes on the servant door, he makes his deposit on the counter, right next to the bottle of wine. If they are not watching him right now, and he is certain that they are lingering behind the door, peering through the keyhole, then he has to summon them somehow. He reaches for the almost forgotten rope that hangs near the door and rings the antique servant bell. It's an announcement, a declaration of "here I am, I've done as you asked."

Aziraphale doesn't wait to find out how close the killer is. He bolts out the back door into the pouring rain.

Crowley's body aches all over, and that's not the worst of it. The rain has soaked through the thin layers of his clothing so that his skin feels cold and clammy. He tries to resist a shiver, knowing that to succumb to the cold would exacerbate the slash wound that has opened up his belly. That aches too, a bone-deep agonising burn, but nowhere near as bad as the electric-sharp jolt he would get should he move even a millimetre. He hangs his head backwards against the hard edge of the garden chair and allows the rain to pour into his eyes, washing away his anguish.

God, he hopes Aziraphale has run far away. He'd gladly die out here if it meant that his beautiful bastard had escaped.

Making the sacrifice play, he thinks and then damns Beez a thousand times over as his snigger wrenches at the coagulating stomach wound.

"Crowley!"

Crowley snaps his head up a little too fast and hisses through his teeth. Aziraphale is in a sorry state. His usual fluffy curls are soaked flat against his skull, turning a dull caramel colour rather than the brilliant shock of platinum blond. His bowtie is all askew, and his shirt is untucked. He looks positively debauched.

"Oh, Angel, what are you doing?" He grumbles as his best friend approaches. Aziraphale sinks to his knees in the mud, surely ruining his usually pristine beige trousers in the process. He starts tugging at the knots binding Crowley's wrists.

"I've come to rescue you," Aziraphale says, and gives Crowley a look, the kind that just screams, I have been so clever, and I need to tell you before I pop. Who was Crowley to disappoint?

"What did you do?"

"I did exactly as they asked. I found the remote and then called them from the kitchen."

"You did what?"

Crowley's hand falls free and hangs uselessly at his side as the circulation returns to his numb fingers. Aziraphale shifts his weight over so that he can attack the knots restraining his other hand.

"Don't worry, I swapped it." Aziraphale pauses for only a second to turn his sun-beam smile on Crowley and then returns to the task at hand. Crowley blinks rapidly, his vision swims, and his brain feels sluggish. He wonders if it's the cold, the sleep deprivation or the loss of blood that's affecting his intellect. Why not all three?

"Swapped it?" He asks, feeling like he's three steps behind Aziraphale and not enjoying that experience.

"Yes, I wasn't sure if I was being watched, so I palmed the remote and swapped it with my spare shop key."

"Aziraphale!"

"Don't worry, the kitchen is right at the other side of the house, we can be gone before they even realise that I have the remote."

Crowley's jaw drops, his heart sinking in his chest. Aziraphale looks so smug, so utterly pleased with himself. It's not an expression Aziraphale wears often, and it looks so good on him. Crowley hates that he's going to have to burst his bubble.

"And what about the other one?" He whispers.

"The other what, dear?" Aziraphale asks, tugging Crowley's other hand free and taking it between his own to rub warmth into the frozen fingers.

"The other killer, Aziraphale!"

"The other-"

"WATCH OUT!"

Everything happens so fast. Crowley's chair tumbles, and he hits the ground sideways, knocking the wind from his lungs. He struggles to his knees, panting hard and clutching his belly. Aziraphale is on his back in the mud, a figure straddling his chest, knife held high. The other killer. The one that had tied Crowley up, the one that had called Aziraphale. The one that had hidden in the bushes whilst they radioed their companion.

"Aziraphale!" Crowley gasps, choking on hot bile and panic as moonlight flashes off the sharp edge of a knife. Crowley doesn't think. The thought of losing Aziraphale like this, right now, fills his meandering thoughts with static. He lurches forward, pain be damned, and throws himself onto the back of Aziraphale's attacker.

The dead weight of his body tears the attacker away from Aziraphale and into the soft mud. Crowley uses his momentum to roll onto his back, clutching the killer close to his chest, arms clamped across their chest, fingers tightening around their throat. He wraps the long length of his legs around their hips, holding them fast. He bites back a scream as the killer squirms against him, fighting to get free. In a panic, they strike backwards with the knife again and again, tearing at Crowley's clothes and slashing at his ribs. He feels the sharp sting of flesh sliced open, the dull agony of metal striking bone, but the knife doesn't strike true. Crowley has never harmed anyone in his life, but animal instinct takes over. He squeezes the killer's throat, digging his nails into the flesh. The killer's movements become more frantic, fighting for breath now instead of just fighting. Their struggles become weaker and more manic until eventually the knife is fumbled. It falls, plopping into the mud.

On hands and knees, Aziraphale crawls forwards, finding the handle with outstretched fingers. He doesn't pause for breath. As swift as a viper, he strikes.

The attacker falls limp, the dead weight momentarily crushes Crowley's fragile form before Aziraphale hauls them off him and deposits them on the ground. For a moment, Crowley and his attacker lie side by side. He turns his head. He's lying nose to nose with his friend and apprentice, Eric.

"Fuck…"

Aziraphale's soggy and mud-streaked face comes into view, peering at him with concern.

"Crowley?"

"You idiot," Crowley snaps, "You should have left me."

"What rot," Aziraphale says, shaking his head." We need to go. Now. Can you stand?"

Crowley shakes his head. It takes a moment to think through the biting cold, but slowly he begins to feel out his injuries. He has taken shallow wounds to his thigh, his shoulder, and his ribs. They're likely superficial, he thinks, but still painful. But the slash across his belly screams at him to lie still and accept his fate. He cranes his neck, eyes searching for the long and exposed driveway. His Bentley is parked on the other side of the gate.

It might as well be on the moon.

I won't make it," he admits. "Leave me. You have to go for help."

"I'm not leaving you out here. You'll freeze."

"Aziraphale!"

But he's wearing that look. That stubborn pout and steel flashes in his eyes. There will be no convincing him now.

"I'll take you inside, hide you somewhere."

"Aziraphale…" He tries to argue, but it's no good. Aziraphale is already hauling him up onto his feet and then up again over his shoulders in a fireman's hold.

"Jesus Christ, Aziraphale!" He cries out.

"Will you be quiet?"

Some time later, Crowley and Aziraphale have burrowed themselves deep into the back of the coat closet, bundled up together, they listen for the creaking of floorboards as a predator moves from room to room, searching for them. They have pulled moth-eaten hand-knit jumpers over their damp, muddy clothes and wrapped themselves in old fur coats. Aziraphale attempts to slow the flow of blood from Crowley's abdomen with the fleece lining of a jacket, pressed into the wound.

Crowley has lost so much blood. His mind is wallowing in a pool of molasses, every thought slow like treacle. He's given up on insisting Aziraphale leave him, and instead, he focuses on pressing his ear against the firmness of Aziraphale's chest, listening to the man's heartbeat and the steady flow of air in and out of his lungs. If he is to die here, he would rather spend his last few hours on this earth curled up in the arms of the man he loves in this strange nest that they had built. It's selfish, and he knows it. The longer they remain, the more likely they'll be found and the lower Aziraphale's odds of survival become. But Aziraphale knows all this, and Aziraphale has chosen to stay. Crowley just doesn't have the strength for an argument any longer.

"How did you know there were two of them?" Aziraphale asks quietly, after the killer's light footfalls have reached the landing above them. Crowley, who had been sinking deeper and deeper towards unconsciousness, snaps awake. He blinks rapidly, trying to force his mushy brain to work.

"Hummm?" He manages in lieu of words.

"You knew there were two of them."

"Oh," Crowley tries to untangle his thoughts. It's like trying to wade waist-deep through a quagmire, but he forces himself forward, step by step.

"I, er, stormed out?" He recalls. "Into the rain."

"Yes, you did. I accused you of- Crowley, I'm so sorry."

"I know. I know. And I'm sorry too. I wasn't really going to leave you. I was hurt, but I came to my senses. I was just walking back around to the front of the house. I was going to ring the doorbell. And then-" he pauses, trying to make sense of a memory that didn't seem like it was right. "Then Gabriel fell right out of the sky."

"He did what?!"

Crowley shuffles around, trying to sit up a little better, as if the change in position might wake him up enough to think properly.

"I think- I think he'd been thrown from an attic window. There was glass everywhere."

"Oh my! Was he…" Aziraphale's voice falters.

"Was he what, Angel?"

"Dead?"

"Oh." Crowley hesitates again, thinking, "I would think so. He hit the ground pretty hard."

Aziraphale looks away sharply, and a shudder works its way down his body. Crowley reaches for him, takes his hands in his and squeezes gently.

"If it helps, I think he was dead already. He wouldn't have felt a thing."

"I don't know if it does, but thank you." Aziraphale murmurs.

Crowley aches for him. He loathes all of Aziraphale's family; they are each awful in their own way and often take their frustrations out on Aziraphale. But his friend is soft in the best possible way and would forgive his family anything. In a way, it was both Aziraphale's greatest strength and greatest flaw. He loved completely and unconditionally. Crowley only wished he could save him from the pain that so often wrought.

"Anyway," Crowley says, trying to pull Aziraphale away from a pit of grief that would undoubtedly swallow him whole. "I was so busy gawping. I didn't really notice the door open until I was being pushed onto the ground. That's when I realised. Whoever pushed Gabriel couldn't have made it downstairs that fast."

Aziraphale blinks away his tears before he turns his attention back to Crowley. He doesn't let go of his hands.

"So why did they tie you up? Why didn't they just kill you? Not that I'm not grateful-"

"I don't know. They seemed to panic. They were using this walkie-talkie thingy…"

Wooziness starts to tug at Crowley's consciousness again. His thoughts are becoming slower and less defined. Aziraphale seems to sense him slipping and pulls him back toward his chest, cradling him in his arms. Their breaths slow. The world becomes a muffled, distant place.

"I really think… You should go… Angel." Crowley slurs.

"I'm not leaving you to die alone. We've talked about this."

"I can't keep you here. Take my Bentley. Drive into town. Get help. I'll hold on."

"You won't, though, will you? You'll curl up and be gone, and you'll be all alone." Aziraphale's voice falters, and Crowley understands then, right down to his bones, that he too is loved unconditionally, and he's about to break his best friend's heart.

"We all die alone, Aziraphale," he says. "I love you too much to let you die here with me."

"You… love me?"

"Course I do, you idiot," the words burst from his chest with a laughing sigh. He really can't recall why he's never just said those words before. Why did he hold them locked within the cage of his chest, nourished with Aziraphale's careful attention until he was just about ready to burst? Why had he been so afraid? Aziraphale deserved to be told every single day.

He's missed his chance now.

"How could I not? You're my angel," he pauses, swallowing against the fear that threatens to steal his resolve.

"Do you?" Crowley can't finish the question, but he knows from the stutter of breath against his cheek that Aziraphale understands. He forces himself to sit up again, to look into Aziraphale's tearful eyes. Damn death and his icy fingers, trying to tug him under.

"Aziraphale?"

"I have always loved you. I just never thought you could reciprocate."

"Not reciprocate? Angel, you’re my everything!"

"I-But- You're-"

"What?"

"You date women!" Aziraphale sounds so scandalised by the notion that it's hard not to laugh in his face.

"Yeah, because bisexuals don't exist." Crowley rolls his eyes and almost cracks a smile.

"Oh!" A series of expressions so complicated that even Crowley can not follow them flicker across Aziraphale's face.

"Oh fuck!" Aziraphale hisses.

"What?"

"We are not going to die here today. I am going to take you home and have my wicked way with you, like we should have been doing for years." He falters. "With your permission, of course."

"Of course."

"Right. Stay here. Don't make a sound." Aziraphale says as he untangles himself and crawls toward the closet door. "I promise. I will be back for you."

"Alright." Crowley almost believes him. Hope is a dangerous thing. It can be a light in the dark, guiding you forward. But hope can not sustain a man; it does not feed a man, keep him warm or stem his bleeding. Crowley hopes that this will all work out, that in a few short hours, he and Aziraphale will be safe and in a soft, cosy bed together. But fear also snaps at hope's heels. Crowley is afraid. He's afraid that Aziraphale will leave, and one of them will die. Which is why he stops him, just for a moment.

"Angel," he calls out softly. "Kiss me."

There is no darkness so deep that the brightness of Aziraphale's smile could not pierce it. He beams down at Crowley, his expression soft, tears streaming down his apple pink cheeks.

"Of course." He murmurs against Crowley's lips, and then the connection is made. Warm and gentle and tasting a little like pie. It's not a lightning bolt from the heavens or fireworks exploding behind his eyes. It's better because it's real. Just flesh on flesh, powered by love.

Aziraphale hums into the kiss.

"You have no idea how long I have waited to do that." He whispers. He's still close, Crowley can feel the gush of his hot breath against his cheek.

"I think I do."

"This isn't a goodbye." Aziraphale insists.

"I know."

"Don't you dare die on me."

And like an avenging angel, Aziraphale bursts out of the closet. Crowley can only hope he will have the strength to follow.

Aziraphale is furious. Not at Crowley, not really. At himself mostly. At this whole ridiculous situation. He storms through the house, not caring about the noise he's making or how obviously obvious his route is. He makes it to the kitchen in one piece and immediately starts hauling on the bell rope like he's chiming out the church bells at Christmas.

"I know you're watching me!" He calls out. "Come out! Show yourself. I have something you want."

A barely visible servant's door opens in the wall, revealing a faceless figure shrouded in black robes.

"Let's trade," Aziraphale says. He has no time for preamble, no patience for whatever game this person wants to play. "I'll give you the remote for the gate if you allow Crowley and I to walk away."

"I'm sorry, Aziraphale." The figure replies, voice still disguised by some kind of device. "You weren't supposed to be here. But you know our identities now. I can't let you go."

"I don't know your identity!" Aziraphale argues. "And Eric is dead."

"Not so dead."

Aziraphale flinches at the unexpected familiar voice from behind him. He whirls around to face Eric.

"I killed you!" He gasps.

Eric shrugs and pulls open his robe, revealing a thick white stab vest underneath.

"Thought it would be safer," he says. "Though I think you broke my ribs."

"Oh, I'm awfully sorry." Aziraphale snaps back sarcastically.

The pair in black skirt around the edge of the room, giving Aziraphale a wide berth as they make their way to each other. There is something about the way the unnamed assailant approaches Eric, hand outstretched, fingers reaching, that reminds Aziraphale of the hospital, of sitting at a bedside as two lovers reached for each other. It seems so long ago now; it's hard to believe that it was only earlier that evening.

"Muriel?" He breathes.

"Yes, Aziraphale." The shorter of the pair turns back towards him, and she pulls down her hood to reveal those soft brown eyes and a shy smile.

"But why?"

"You of all people must understand," she says. "This whole family is toxic. They're bullies. Look at the way they treat me and the way they treat you. It makes me so sad to see it, to watch how you offer them your love over and over, and they throw it back in your face. They did the same to me, you know. They pushed me out, like I was nothing. Made fun of me for being simple or dim. They're just horrible, horrible people. For the longest time, I didn't know any better. I just thought that's what families were like. Meeting Eric made me realise I deserved better, and they deserved to die."

"But who are you to make that judgement?"

"Why shouldn't the wronged party choose their fate?"

"And me? What did I do to you other than be your friend?"

"Please believe me, you weren't supposed to be here. We set it up so everyone would be at the hospital. We knew they would reject Crowley; that was obvious enough. We just thought with things being as they were, you'd go home with him. Then we'd deal with the rest of them. I had no idea you'd turn on him so easily. I could never turn on Eric like that."

The whole of Aziraphale's world slips and slides under his feet. He needs to sit down before he falls to his knees. He stumbles forward to grab the edge of the counter. To steady himself.

"Is that why you didn't kill him? Crowley, that is?"

"He wasn't part of the plan," Eric pipes in. "And we working lads gotta stick together, you know? We're loyal. So I tied him up."

"Don't compare yourself to him! You're nothing alike. Crowley is kind and-and-" he loves me.

"Oh yeah? You really think so? I’d die to keep her safe. I’d kill for her. Just like Crowley would for you." 

And there it was. Eric loved Muriel enough to help her murder her entire family. Crowley loved Aziraphale enough to throw his broken, bleeding body at that same murderer to save Aziraphale. Aziraphale has been such a fool, placing his love in all the wrong places.

"If you don't mean Crowley harm, then let him go. Please. He's going to bleed to death."

"Come on, mate. You know we can't now. He'd turn us in. You both would."

Aziraphale thinks back to all those times he's turned a blind eye to his family's behaviour. To all the times he has offered his love and forgiveness when it had never been earned. Muriel has always been kinder than the rest. He has always thought her the best of them all. Perhaps he could offer his love one last time. Perhaps it would be enough to save Crowley's life. It's the least that he owed him.

"I forgive you," he says.

"What?" Eric asks, dumbfounded, but Muriel hushes him with a gentle pat to his arm. She steps forward, locking eyes with Aziraphale. They're shrewder than Aziraphale remembers.

"Do you mean it?" She asks.

"I forgive you. You're my family, the only family I have left. So yes, I forgive you, and I give you my word I won't tell a soul what happened here."

"And Crowley?"

"Like Eric said, he's loyal. He won't say a word if I ask him not to. Please just let us go."

Muriel offers him a hand to shake, and he takes it. The deal is done.

Aziraphale feels a little like he has made a deal with the devil.

Aziraphale floors the Bentley’s accelerator with more gusto than he has ever dared to apply. The ancient car lurches forward, away from the house of horrors and into the open countryside. To freedom.

The first chirping notes of the dawn song join the rumble of the engine, and as they drive away from a dark cloud of despair, the sky before them comes alive with great slashes of milky pink and pale blue. Aziraphale doesn’t think he has ever seen anything quite so beautiful, other than the man sleeping fitfully in the passenger seat beside him. He is all gangly limbs tucked up under his chin, pallid, waxy skin and hollowed out eyes, cheeks smeared in blood and mud and wrapped in a bundle of moulting fur coats, but Aziraphale could liken his beauty to any of God’s creations and never find him wanting.   

In a few hours, the police would be crawling all over the estate. They would find the bodies of each of Aziraphale’s siblings, including Ron, who had expired in his office from a single cut to the throat. The final investigation would be lengthy but shoddy, and no one would ever uncover the identity of the secret assailants or question how Aziraphale and Crowley staggered out of the gates to their freedom. No one would ever argue the validity of their story, and later, Aziraphale would be labelled a hero for pulling Crowley from the building.

It's not a title he likes, but he bears its weight for Muriel.

No one would tell Aziraphale directly, but he would read in the news that a pile of incriminating documents had been found neatly stacked and labelled next to Ron's corpse. It would turn out that he had been in league with local organised crime gangs all along and that he was using his standing to lobby the government in their favour. It would be those documents that would lead to the case being closed and labelled as an unsolved gang crime.

It would be no surprise to anyone that a short while later, Muriel and Eric would fly off on a much-needed holiday. Only Aziraphale would notice that they never came back. He would forget to mention it to anyone. He was a man of his word after all.

Aziraphale would learn a lesson in not putting off until tomorrow. He would politely ignore Crowley’s arguments and take him to his home from the hospital. He would change his dressings and help him bathe, bring him nutritious meals and cups of tea, and generally fuss and hover until Crowley could take no more of it. 

They would argue then, and Crowley would go home to his own flat for the first time, only to panic and call Aziraphale as soon as he put down his bags. It’s a good thing, too, because Aziraphale would spend the entire evening jumping at shadows. They would decide then that they never wish to sleep apart again, and Aziraphale would spend the rest of the night pulling his least favourite cardigans from his wardrobe to make space for Crowley’s suits. 

Crowley would arrive the next morning with a bulging suitcase and a backseat full of plants, and Aziraphale would think then that this is the happiest he could ever be.

A week later, Crowley would prove him wrong when he awkwardly got down on bended knee in front of the duck pond in St James' Park and proposed marriage. 

Of course, Aziraphale would say yes.