Chapter Text
July 2007
Crowley stared at the empty basket in his hand. "Complications, you say?"
"Yes," Ligur snarled. "You were supposed to deliver the Antichrist, but there has been some unexpected trouble. So, change of plans. You're coming Down with us."
"Well I don't think there's a need…"
"You're coming with us," Hastur hissed, leaning close to Crowley. "The Boss is waiting for you."
"The Boss? Ahhhhh, fine," Crowley waved the empty basket nonchalantly, trying to keep a cool appearance while internally freaking out. He didn’t want to see Boss, he didn’t want any part in this, and he didn't want the Apocalypse. He wanted to tell Aziraphale, but the angel got called off on a long assignment and he hadn't seen him since last autumn. "Lead the way," he said instead.
Hastur and Ligur sank into the ground and Crowley followed with disgust. This was one of his least preferable ways of travelling. Generally, he would rather chew off his own foot.
They arrived into a part of Hell he didn’t recognize. It was damp and smelly like the rest of the place, but a little less crowded. All the big names were there, though, starting with Satan himself and continuing with Beelzebub, Dagon, Asmodeus and so on. They were watching something on the ground. Crowley couldn’t see over the heads of those in front of him, and before he could shift to peek over Beelzebub's, Satan turned towards him.
Crowley usually managed to avoid this kind of confrontation. Only twice in all of history has he been submitted to Satan's direct stare. It's always been a most unpleasant experience.
"Ah, Crowley," Satan said with a dangerous undertone. He always spoke with a dangerous undertone. "You are supposed to deliver the Antichrist. But as you see, there has been a delay with the actual... delivery."
As Satan stepped away, Crowley could finally see what was lying on the cold ground.
It was… an angel.
A naked angel.
An angel with sunken, vacant eyes, biting his lips and clenching his fists in pain.
An angel with skin coated with grime, covered in numerous scars.
A sickly pale, bleeding angel with a bloated belly.
Aziraphale.
Aziraphale!
Only 6000 years of practice helped Crowley to keep a straight face.
"He's refuzzzing to let the Antichrist be born," Beelzebub said with an annoyed buzz.
Crowley watched in horror, hidden behind his sunglasses. Aziraphale looked very much… male. The stubborn bastard refused to change his corporation, willing to sacrifice himself to stop the Apocalypse. His body was covered in sweat from the pain and effort it took.
Through the buzz in his ears, Crowley heard Dagon's voice. "And we can’t just rip the child out, we could hurt it..." She sounded disappointed with such a limitation.
"So you must fulfill your role, Crowley," Satan hissed, and Crowley barely found the will to tear his gaze away from Aziraphale and look at him.
"H-How, your Majesty?"
A stream of images and instructions flooded Crowley’s mind. He hated when Satan did that, but now he was thankful for them, because somewhere between the images, he sensed a sliver of hope.
"Yes, your Lowness," he nodded eagerly. "I'll deliver him safely." He didn't specify whom.
Only then did he realize he's still holding the empty basket. He threw it away and rushed to the angel.