A/N: I wrote this a day after being banned from the computer. Yeah. You know I was in a really bad mood.

Warnings: I shall not tell. D

Disclaimer: I don't own them, and I'm sure we'd all be very scared if I did.

Summary: the thing he loved most was not a book, wasn't God, and wasn't music. It was Crowley—and now he's gone.

Crumpled Memories

Aziraphale smiled to himself as he pulled out the silver box that held his most precious possessions. They were not, as most would expect, the rarest of books to have ever existed. Most of them, in fact, weren't books at all. They were merely tiny trinkets that most people would think were useless to have.

But most of them didn't understand the value of Crowley.

One top of the pile were the original keys to Crowley's Bentley. The demon had been furious for years before he'd realized that Aziraphale really hadn't stolen the keys. It had been Crowley that had actually given the keys to Aziraphale in a drunken lapse of intelligence. Then he was just sulky, but only at himself. He'd decided to get new keys soon after, rather than demand Aziraphale return the originals.

Next to them was a vibrant blood red rose from the Garden of Eden. It had been Eve's at one point. But Crowley, wanting revenge on the first woman for stepping on his tail, had cut the perfect rose from its stem with his fangs. Then, finding himself without a use for it, the demon had slithered up to Aziraphale and practically forced him to take it. The angel had worn it behind his ear for days.

There were several lids from bottles of wine that he and Crowley had shared (One of them had a rather crude picture of Agnes exploding at the stake on it—the demon had found the story of her death amusing). He had the first quill Crowley had ever used to write with on Earth, and the first quill he had ever used himself (because Crowley had put it through a jar of ink and refused to take it back out). Flat at the bottom was the piece of paper Aziraphale had written the Arrangement on one day when he was bored.

And, most important of all, was a tiny bit of paper that was crumpled in a corner. With shaking hands, Aziraphale picked it up and gently began to straighten it out. He had kept it crumpled for years because that's how he had found it, crumpled up and stuck in between two of the books on one of his bookshelves. Crowley had apparently been writing in his shop (why, Aziraphale never found out), and had probably balled it up and thrown it across the room, angry at what he had written on it. Then, in his rush to leave before Aziraphale came back and found him, he had forgotten to find it and take it with him.

Aziraphale's eyes filled with tears as he stared at the simple message on it. Two names, with a heart in between. The angel gently traced the horns on the letter "c" in Crowley's name, and the halo over the "a" that began his own. Then he wiped away the one tear that had begun rolling its way down his face and balled the paper back up. A scowl forced its way onto his face. In his mind, he was once again seeing the terror on Crowley's face as he'd told Aziraphale about the message from Hell and how Hastur had accused him of being in love with Aziraphale, how Crowley was going to be punished along with all the souls of Hell. He recalled in great detail the feeling of kissing Crowley—for the first and last time—in hopes of getting him to stop panicking. He knew he had told Crowley to run away and try defecting.

But by that time, it had been too late. Hastur had come to enact his revenge on Crowley, and Aziraphale had been absolutely powerless to stop it from happening—partly from shock, mostly from fear.

Crowley had been in Hell for a year now. In that time, Aziraphale had pulled out a lot of his dusty memories—the stories about knights in shining armor, white horses, and true love. And as he sat thinking, certain old adages about life and people unraveled themselves for him. Ever so slowly, the smile returned in full.

The say that Hell's true fury is found in the actions of a woman scorned. Well, heaven's fury is found in this one angel, for he alone of them is heartbroken, vengeful, and full of hate.

Aziraphale carefully pulled out the antique sword that he had kept hidden for years, even from Crowley. With one disinterested glare down at it, it burst into flames.

Duke Hastur—and every demon that got in the way of him saving his friend—was going to die.