Take These Broken Wings And Learn To Fly

Chapter Two

"We could send a troupe to capture the fallen one." Uriel raised a meaningful eyebrow. "Hell doesn't care what happens with that one anymore. We could lock him away and no one would miss him. Use him to get Aziraphale to cooperate."

"Gabriel always said a little torture couldn't hurt if it's for the Greater Good." Michael shrugged, a little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Of course, he'd usually let Hell take care of these things for us, but it can't be too hard to get it done here."

The Metatron nodded grimly.

"And if all else fails, there's still the Book of Life."

Aziraphale slams said book closed with a little too much force to be subtle, his heart beating against his ribcage. He can feel the anger bubbling inside him again, making him careless in a way he cannot afford to be in such a critical moment.

Soon, it will all be over. He just needs to calm down and concentrate.

He opens the file, lets the book and all the information it holds flow inside, along with the plans for the Second Coming. Plans no one but himself has the authorisation to read in full. Perhaps Heaven being so hung up on bureaucracy and the hierarchy of power within has its upside after all. No one would have dared to take those plans without permission, not even the Archangels. And if Aziraphale has learned one thing about Heaven, it's that they're lost without a set manual of orders telling them what to do.

He closes the file, feels it start to glow with power as the lock snaps into place.

It's done.

He closes the door quietly behind him, tries to tread lightly as he hurries towards the elevator. The file is hidden away, buried beneath millions of its kind, and even if they were to find it, they would not be able to access it, he's made sure of that.

He passes his office - his former office, he should say - doesn't even spare it a glance. Everything was clean and white and empty there, nothing to show it belonged to him, nothing to go back for. There is nothing for him here, not anymore.

Maybe there never was.

All he needs now is-

Aziraphale flinches violently as the red alarm lights go off around him, sirens blasting down the halls.

He starts to run.

~oOo~

Aziraphale turns restlessly in his sleep.

Crowley sits, watches as the angel's mouth twitches, as he rolls onto his front, face smushed against the pillow. The bandages have rucked up slightly as he twists and turns, baring a reddened stretch of skin just below his open wounds, looking angry and inflamed.

Crowley doesn't think it's infected, thank someone, but it's not showing the improvement he'd hoped for either. If he just knew what happened, maybe whatever they used to cut his wings could tell Crowley more about how to treat it, or at least why it doesn't seem to be healing as it should.

He's been dying to ask Aziraphale about it - what had happened, what he had done to warrant this barbaric display of Heaven's worst intentions, how they had done it, who-

Crowley presses his teeth together so hard they ache, fingers locked in a death grip around his upper thighs as he feels his nails elongating into claws. Anger boils hot inside him every time his thoughts wander like this, but it's no use. His anger won't help Aziraphale right now.

Crowley's eyes snap up as the angel's head thrashes around, a deep line of distress etched between his brows.

"No", Aziraphale mumbles, a faint whimper escaping his parted lips. "No, please-"