Lips forming the name just as Aziraphale spoke it, Crowley sank to his knees, heavy with shock. Michael - the commander of the Host, the finest warrior that Heaven had, the expeller of Lucifer himself - had just Fallen because of a misguided love for a manipulative healer. His arms hung limply at his sides, and he sat, head bowed with the weight of the knowledge. With Michael fighting for Hell, given his abilities and six millennia's worth of knowledge of how Heaven's army functioned, would that be all that Hell needed to win the war once and for all? And how had Raphael escaped the sword with all the sins he'd committed lately?

Crowley reached blindly for Aziraphale and gathered what he could reach into his arms, which turned out to be the angel's knees, but he held onto them like a drowning man to the last life preserver.

"Angel," he whispered. It was all he could think of to say.