Good Omens: Infra-Black

“The Devil,” Aziraphale said simply.

Shadwell nodded, threw the gun down and pulled off his hat. “Ah reckoned so. In that case, I'm gonna use ma haid.”

Crowley wasn't listening. He was staring at the tire iron and wondering if he could get it to flame.

He felt eyes on him and looked up. Aziraphale was watching him, looking oddly serene in the bright white light of the sword. But then, he would be.

“Right,” Crowley said with a brittle smile. “Let's do this.”

Aziraphale nodded.

It was a good coat. Crowley felt a pang of regret as he let his wings unfold to the sky. Aziraphale's were fluffed up and messy in the way that came from being tucked in too long.

Despite himself, Crowley glanced back briefly at the Antichrist. The boy was standing still, blank-faced and terrified.

So much for a last-minute miracle, then.

Crowley stepped gingerly to stand beside Aziraphale. “Your wings are a mess,” he muttered.

Aziraphale smiled at him.

There was thunder, the way thunder might have sounded in the first days of Creation, amidst boiling seas and screaming winds. The cracks in the earth flared wide open. A pillar of yellow smoke rose, burning overwhelmingly hot and somehow dark at the same time, turning the air too acrid to breathe.

What might distantly be called a figure was standing in it.

“Right then,” Aziraphale was saying to himself, and suddenly he was moving, sword outstretched and wings flaring out – against all common sense, toward the figure. Suddenly Crowley wanted to scream at him, Aziraphale, you great bloody idiot, wait for me. He wondered if the angel hadn't bothered to coordinate because he'd assumed Crowley would follow.

He wondered why that was exactly what he was doing.

The figure swept them with an indifferent gaze.

There were no words, only a power lashing forth that burned the ground black beneath it, to clash against the thin, improbably puny arc of light in Aziraphale's hand. The angel's wings flashed gold from the strain, but against all odds, he held.

Crowley attacked from another angle. The blasted tire iron made a screeching sound as it tore through the flaming surface of the figure.

Lucifer swatted at him.

This must be what infra-black looks like, Crowley thought numbly some very blank moments later. He blinked up at the stormy sky. There were chips of pavement digging in against his sides and something wet running down his chest. His wings felt like a hot, splintering mess.

Bright movement caught his eye and he turned his head. Aziraphale more closely resembled a small fireball with wings by this point, tiny next to the pillar of incarnate yellow evil.

The angel's sword bit into Lucifer's side with a keening sound. Lucifer howled like a forest fire and lashed out and Crowley felt more than heard the angel's cry. Feathers went flying into the air.

So much for the wings, then.

Lucifer spun and the sword was wrenched free, went flying dozens of feet, out of reach.

“Shit,” Crowley hissed, grappling with the pavement that didn't seem to want to let him go. He struggled to his knees. He was too far away.

He'd never felt a more urgent need to be closer to death in his life.

As he stumbled towards the Adversary, he watched with a horrible sinking feeling as Aziraphale was yanked to the ground, pressed flat against it.

It occurred to him that his earlier assessment of having nothing more to lose had been a tad premature.

Aziraphale, you stupid goodie two-shoes bastard, he thought, mostly to give his mind something to do besides mute screaming. You didn't need to do this. It's not like you personally lost the Antichrist. You could've gotten away from all this, scot-free.

The Adversary readied the final blow, a lance of scorching energy gathering in his grasp. Crowley laughed shakily to himself.

This is it, then, he thought.

He broke into a shuffling run.

At the last moment, he stumbled to his knees, covered Aziraphale's body with his own, raised what was left of his mangled wings. It wouldn't be enough to stop the blow. It wouldn't even slow it down. But that wasn't the point, not really.

He caught Aziraphale's eyes, all serenity gone from them. But no surprise.

Good. He'd have been mightily pissed if he'd seen surprise in there.

Crowley closed his eyes against the angel's, even as he felt the incoming blow scorch away the last of his feathers.

My dear, the angel said.

Crowley smiled.

Yes.

Infra-black.

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....Yes, allow me to spit once more into your happy ending, and remind you of the one we would have had if anyone else had been at the wheel, someone with not enough experience and writing savvy to trust themselves with the risky step of having a kid with superpowers Fix Everything.