Alright, listen: I'm not proud of this. I'm not proud of the fact that my muse is a sadist and took something as soft and wholesome as these two idiots and thought "they're cute, make 'em bloody." Yet here we are. I've been wondering what might happen if anyone in Heaven or Hell were to find out about the switch and, well, this happened. It'll get better in the end, I swear, but for the time being there's going to be blood and violence.

The good thing is you guys are here to join me for it! Hope you all enjoy!

A/N: I own nothing

The other shoe drops with all the grace and finesse of the Hindenburg.

It's a cold, drizzly Thursday afternoon and the local weather reports are calling for an uptick in the rain starting around 6pm. The sky outside is the kind of slate grey that promises an all-night soaker and this was the time of year when even a few inches of rain could lead to the streets and sidewalks flooding with very little effort. There was already a pretty impressive puddle next to the front door and if it got even a little deeper it would happily trickle past the threshold.

As such, a certain angel was busy shuffling the books around in his shop, plucking a few dusty, tattered tomes from the floor and moving them to the higher ground of shelves and tabletops. He's been caught off guard by the rain before and it's usually his books that suffer the consequences. Dry cleaning a wet jacket is one thing but trying to salvage a waterlogged papyrus manuscript is a different story altogether.

There had been exactly one customer earlier in the day, a tiny Russian woman who didn't look a day younger than 153 and she had obviously stumbled into the bookshop thinking it was something else. Aziraphale knows the basics of Russian and was able to communicate with her well enough to explain that no, my dear lady, this is not a consignment shop and many, if not all, of these books are not for sale. The woman just flashed a big, toothless grin and patted him on the arm as she passed by him, playfully chiding him on his accent.

Aziraphale didn't have the heart to ask her to leave, especially with it being so cold and dreary outside, so he sat behind the counter and watched as she tottered her way around the shop, admiring the books and muttering quietly to herself every once in a while when she came across one that she found particularly interesting. She stopped at one point, her attention directed to him, and asked, quite politely, if he sold any kind of cookbook that she might be able to purchase for her grandniece who was expecting her first child and couldn't cook to save her own life, poor thing.

In spite of having absolutely nothing of the sort, Aziraphale smiled, dug around in one of the empty shelves behind the register and produced a brand new, never before published cookbook chocked full of impossibly easy-to-follow recipes and seven full chapters devoted to cooking and making baby food, introductory foods for toddlers and small children, as well as a handy chart for growth stages and nutritional needs.

It was exactly the kind of book the woman was looking for and no one needed to know it hadn't existed until exactly forty-six seconds ago. She offered another toothless grin, thanked him profusely, and scribbled down the recipe for Russian tea on a napkin sitting next to the cash register. Then she waved, tucked her new book under her arm, and hobbled back outside with an umbrella she suddenly located in her bag that hadn't been there before.

(Aziraphale doesn't count the umbrella or the book as miracles, not really. Just a happy coincidence, that's all).

The rest of the afternoon had passed by without customer or incident and the angel didn't feel bad at flipping the sign on the door at half-past four even though this was one of the few days he would have stayed open until six had the weather cooperated. Still, he had other plans that evening and closing a little earlier would give him time to make it across town before the rain picked up.

Crowley wasn't expecting him until around 6:30 so it wouldn't do to arrive too early but he could at least leave early enough to stop by a pick up a bottle of their favorite red on the way over.

The demon was in charge of dinner tonight, he'd been tinkering around with some recipes he'd found online and finally felt comfortable enough to attempt one of them. He hasn't tried to cook anything since the Great Toast Incident of 2004 but online food blogs now offer easy-to-follow videos to accompany the recipe itself and he felt confident enough in his ability to watch a video and replicate it that he was willing to attempt cooking dinner for he and Aziraphale.

It was sweet, really, how nervous he became when he proposed the angel come over for a romantic evening and the promise to cook him a meal he would never forget. Aziraphale would have been happy to join him for a bowl of cereal and a glass of tap water but Crowley was trying to impress him without outright saying so and so the angel smiled and accepted and pretended to not see the wash of triumph across the demon's features when he said yes.

This thing between them was still relatively new even though it shouldn't have been. They've known each other since the literal dawn of time but the actual ins and outs of courtship and dating were still uncharted territory for both of them. They didn't know what to call it at first and as such there had been a bit of experimentation with what the actual definition of their relationship was.

Aziraphale had once, shyly yet enthusiastically, proclaimed that they were 'going steady' when a woman spotted them on a park bench together and Crowley had very calmly and professionally slithered off the bench onto the pavement below like all his bones had suddenly vacated his body. He stayed down there for several minutes thereafter, much to his concerned angel's distress, because a) no one said 'going steady' anymore, angel, for Hell's sake, b) Aziraphale was impossibly proud and excited to claim Crowley as his date and it did all sorts of weird things to the space in his chest where his heart should be and finally, c) he couldn't feel his legs because his blood pressure bottomed out the exact second Aziraphale made it clear they were dating.

Whatever it was, dating/courting/going steady, they had been doing it for over a year now and they were both still getting used to the idea of being together without having to hide it. It didn't matter how many times they had to remind themselves that Heaven and Hell didn't care anymore, they were essentially disavowed and left to their own devices. There were still a lot of stolen glances and brief touches and just outright pining that could easily be remedied if it wasn't so deeply ingrained as a habit after six thousand years.

But they were both happy to take it slow, going through all the motions and milestones of dating and enjoying the new freedoms they could experience without their respective superiors breathing down their necks anymore. There were no more assignments, no more missions, it was just the two of them and the world that hadn't been destroyed. And it was nice.

As much as it may have initially pained Aziraphale to admit, it was nice to not have anything to do for once. He no longer had to worry about reports or paperwork, stale and stoic meetings with Gabriel and the other angels. Heaven was leaving him alone and, in an odd way, he was glad for it. Now he could focus on books and his shop and, best of all, he could focus on Crowley. He'd lived in denial for centuries, never daring to dream, hope, or even imagine a life with the demon and now, without fear of interference, he could finally pursue that.

He smiles and hums quietly to himself as he rearranges the books in his shop, scooping a few off the floor and relocating them to a more secure location. He's excited for the evening, excited to see Crowley, but also a tad worried that he might be facing water damage by the end of the night. He thinks he might need to pop upstairs and bring down the basket of ratty towels and the mop he kept for just this occasion and set them up near the front door, just in case. At least that way he could create a barrier of towels against the door to keep some of the water out should the sidewalks flood.

He turns and makes his way toward the back door of the shop, setting down a few books as he walks, and his fingers are less than an inch away from the doorknob when there's a sudden, sharp sucking sound like a piece of plastic getting caught in a vacuum cleaner. The noise is quick, there one second and then gone the next, and it's like the very fabric of reality had been ripped apart just long enough for something to step through.

Aziraphale turns back to see what the source of the noise was and freezes.

There's a man standing in his shop or at least something that bears a passing resemblance of a man. The thing in his shop resembles a human the same way a scarecrow out in a cornfield might resemble a human; the shape is there as well as the general physical features, but it's all wrong and spits in the face of the real thing. The thing in his shop looks like this; questionably human, with it's awkward posture and slouched shoulders and clothes that haven't been washed in at least nineteen years. He has pale hair that hangs against his scalp in thick, dirty clumps, and black eyes that seem to absorb every ounce of light in the room. He grins and it's an ugly expression, all malice and sharp, jagged teeth.

"You must be the angel," the man drawls, the words coming out like they were covered in barbed wire and hydrochloric acid. "So nice to finally meet you."

Aziraphale feels a prickle of fear dance across his skin. A demon; that would explain the not-quite-rightness of this particular individual. He's dealt with other demons only briefly, trying to maintain at least a good three hundred mile distance between him and the nearest one at any given time. Crowley doesn't count, of course, because Crowley wouldn't try to gleefully murder him with hellfire at the slightest opportunity.

"I, uh, I don't believe we've met," Aziraphale stammers, trying to buy himself a bit of time. He knows who this is, he remembers seeing him in Hell when he switched places with Crowley, but no one else was supposed to know about that.

Hastur, if he remembers correctly, one of the Dukes of Hell.

"Is there-," Aziraphale begins, hating the way his voice trembles just slightly as he speaks. He clears his throat and tries again. "Is there something I can help you with?" His eyes dart around the room as he speaks, desperate to find something he could use to protect himself. What he wouldn't give for his flaming sword right about now…

"Oh yes," Hastur tells him with a small nod and a smirk that hangs from the gallows. "I've been doing some research recently on a very particular topic, one that's so narrow I figured that maybe I should drop by a bookshop and get some expert advice."

He crosses through the bookshop like a shark gliding through the water. One dirty hand comes up to swipe an entire shelf of ancient, priceless books onto the floor. Aziraphale winces in spite of himself; he'd be much more irritated about the callous treatment of the books if he wasn't terrified. The demon in his shop is eyeing him the same way a starving animal eyes its next meal and right now his gaze is fixed on Aziraphale.

"You see," he says, knocking another stack of books onto the floor. "I'm very curious to see what these books might recommend as the proper punishment for a demon or, in this case," he says, indicating Aziraphale with one filthy hand. "An angel, who has tricked Hell and made a mockery of it. I would think the punishment would be quite severe given those circumstances."

Aziraphale opens his mouth to say something but no words come out. It's not because he doesn't have anything to say but rather because the Hastur's filthy hand is now clamped around his throat and squeezing it closed.

"Wouldn't you agree?" Hastur asks, smirking as Aziraphale struggles against him. He gasps on instinct, choking and struggling against the hand at his throat, but it's like trying to slip out of a steel vise. He belatedly realizes his feet are no longer touching the ground and his shoes knock against the wall behind him uselessly.

"That was a good trick you pulled," Hastur praises, pulling Aziraphale in close enough to smell the rancid odor rolling off his skin. This close the frog on his head looks less like an actual animal and more like a lump of decayed and rotting flesh haphazardly molded into something vaguely frog-shaped. A streak of something, oily and black, seeps from Hastur's hairline and it smells like decomposing flesh on a hot, balmy day.

"Fooled a lot of us, me included," he continues, his knuckles grinding into Aziraphale's throat. "You even had Beelz goin' which is no small accomplishment."

He laughs, loud and abrasive like broken glass in a garbage disposal, and suddenly Aziraphale is airborne. His back crashes into one of the pillars in the center of the shop, the thick beams splitting up the middle and showering him with plaster. He crumples at the base dazed and coughing, and for a few seconds all Aziraphale can do is gasp and wheeze and try to remember what it felt like to draw a deep breath. His reprieve is short-lived, however, and suddenly Hastur is looming over him again, grinning down at him with sadistic glee.

"So who's idea was it?" the demon demands, cackling in a way that indicates he's more than a little unhinged at this point. He grabs a handful of Aziraphale's jacket and hauls him back to his feet before sinking one closed fist into the angel's midsection. Aziraphale chokes and crumples again, earning a solid kick to the ribs on the way down.

"Was it yours?" Hastur asks, crouching down and snaking his dirty fingers through the angel's hair to yank his head back. "I mean, I'm really curious now. Were you the mastermind behind it all or was it that bastard Crowley?"

He doesn't wait for an answer and slams the angel's head into the pillar, plaster digging into his scalp and showering them both in a rain of white dust. Another heavy boot catches him in the ribs again and there's a dull crunch as bones splinter and break on contact.

"My money's on Crowley. Damn snake was always too smooth and treacherous. Can't trust him as far as you can throw him, s'what I always say." Hastur looks down again, a razor-blade grin cutting his features. "Let's see if the same holds for you." He grabs Aziraphale again and lifts him over his head effortlessly, tossing him across the room like a ragdoll.

This time Aziraphale collides with a bookshelf, the wood splintering and dumping the contents of its shelves on top of the angel who has landed in a graceless heap on the floor. Aziraphale groans and coughs, dragging one arm across his torso to protect his broken ribs. He coughs and spits out a mouthful of blood, the splatter glossy and bright across the hardwood. His body may be more durable than a human's but it can still take a beating, one which Hastur seemed all too happy to give.

"Well would you look at that," Hastur laughs, skipping back over toward him with the dead-eyed grin of a serial killer. "I've always to see an angel fly," he says, twisting his hands in the angel's jacket and lifting him all the way up above his head. He holds him there for a second or so and then body slams him back onto the floor. The hardwood splits and a large, thick splinter impales itself through the fleshy part of Aziraphale's side.

"Looks like you didn't fly that far this time," Hastur dropping to one knee next to the injured angel and gripping him by the throat again. He squeezes, hard, and the angel grips his wrist weakly, desperately trying to break free from his grip. "Let's try again, shall we?"

Again Aziraphale is airborne, crashing into a glass display case closest to the front register. The case explodes, showering him with glass, and he can feel it slicing into his hands and cutting through the fabric of his jacket. Blood, hot and wet, begins to coat his skin beneath his clothes and seep through the fabric. Hastur is going to kill him before this is all over with and Aziraphale can only think of one thing that might buy him a few seconds of time to get away.

The demon in question is stalking back toward him and it takes a lot of effort but Aziraphale manages to lift himself just enough to wave one arm, the motion swiping away the rug in the middle of the shop. It knocks Hastur's feet out from under him and he falls heavily onto the holy symbols and sigils etched into the hardwood. It's not activated but that doesn't matter, holy symbols are still holy.

The air suddenly fills with the smell of seared, rotting flesh and Hastur screams in a mixture of rage and pain as the symbols he landed on burn through his clothing and brand the skin beneath. He leaps up, frantically patting at charred flesh and fabric, and levels the battered angel with a murderous gaze.

"Heaven won't save you now," he growls, stalking across the room and twisting his hands into Aziraphale's coat again. "You know, I've always wondered what it'd feel like to kill an angel," he says, although it's unclear if he's speaking to himself or Aziraphale. "Maybe I'll get a commendation for it."

He smirks, white teeth standing out starkly against blood-red gums. "Only one way to find out, right?"

Aziraphale doesn't have time to react or think or even brace himself. He's thrown again but this time his head clips the pointed corner of the front desk next to the register and all he sees are stars. Not the bright, beautiful stars that Crowley helped create; no, these were stars that sear the retinas and leave white-out blotches in your vision. They were the stars that crackle in the very particles of the air itself the split second before a nuclear weapon detonates. They were the stars that are just a little too close to a black hole, the stars that give way to singularity events, the stars that go supernova.

He hears something crack and he thinks it might be the sound of his head striking the hardwood but after that it doesn't matter.

After that everything goes dark.

Sorry for the cliffhanger but I promise to update soon!

Thanks for reading guys! :D