Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

HE IS A MONSTER.

Lucifer turned to look at his companion, who was sitting on the edge of the canyon.  They had been stargazing together moments before, but Lucifer had started to move off to attend to his duty.

Lucifer waited for an explanation, but none was forthcoming.

I’M TERRIFIED OF HIM, Time elaborated.  I’M NOT SCARED OF ANYTHING, EXCEPT HIM.

Lucifer knelt by his companion, distressed to see someone he cared about so much upset like this.  It was not the first time it had happened.

WHY?  Lucifer finally asked.

BECAUSE I CAN SEE HOW TIME ENDS, said Time.  IT IS VIOLENT.

Lucifer watched the stars in the sky.  It was time for them to be put away so the sun could come up.  But when Lucifer spread his wings and disappeared into the sky, it was not to raise the sun as he customarily did.  He was headed back to Heaven.

Thousands and thousands of years later, twisted by rage and fear and pain into the second-cruelest tyrant the universe had ever known, Satan would hardly remember why he had even hated God in the first place.  Very few of the fallen angels do.

But Time would remember that conversation with crystal clarity.  And six-thousand years later, he sat at that same cliff watching the sun rise, and he wondered who was making it move.

I can see the end of time….This beautiful world upon which you raise the sun each day…Do you think it is beautiful? Do you think I am beautiful?  Do you think we are not worth saving?  I can see how Time will end.  He will destroy it all.

Time sat on the edge of the Grand Canyon watching the sunrise.  He held between his fingers a photo of Adam and Noah, making funny faces at the camera.  It hurt to look at them.

His water clock started to leak, dripping down onto the dusty ground at his feet.

Tick tock tick tock tick tock…

A constant ticking pervaded the air around Time, as it always did.  He closed his eyes and focused on some part deep within himself, a space he had never accessed before, and strummed one of the fabrics of reality.  The ticking halted briefly, and there was the sound of a spring straining.  And then the ticking started going backwards.

Tock tick tock tick tock tick…

Chapter Text

HERE

The usual suspects:

Metatron (The Voice of God)

Mykas (Former Sword of Heaven, Bearer of Divine Wrath, Bringer of Justice, Force of Good Against the Darkness, etc.)

Uriel (Keeper of the Divine Aura)

Raphael (Bearer of Divine Healing)

DEATH (Death)

TIME (Time)

SPACE (Space)

Victoria (The newest and feistiest of the archangels)

Angelo (An exasperated angel)

Aziraphale (An angel, and part-time rare book dealer)

Kyleth (An angel)

Paula (An angel)

Ramial (An angel)

Olivia (An angel)

Vincent (A father)

Hurit (A mother)

Beth (A woman)

Adam (Former antichrist and current useless but supportive defender of Earth)

Dog (Satanic hellhound and cat-worrier)

Noah (An Antichrist and King of Hell; the adversary, destroyer of kings, angel of the bottomless pit, great beast that is called dragon, prince of this world, father of lies, spawn of Satan and lord of darkness)

Maltha (A Fallen angel and princess of Hell; former bearer of Divine healing, currently hell’s only practicing healer)

Mammon (A Fallen angel and Princess of Hell)

Beelzebub (A Fallen angel and Prince of Hell)

Dagon (A Fallen angel and Prince of Hell)

Jezebel (A fallen angel and duke of hell)

Crowley (An angel who did not so much Fall as Saunter Vaguely downwards)

Oryss (A fallen angel)

Botis (A fallen angel)

Abraxas (A fallen angel)

Adramelech (A fashionable fallen angel)

Yulera (A fallen angel, and even more part-time rare book dealer)

Lyra (A demon skilled in magic; the official magician of the infernal court)

And various other friendly, unnamed imps.

The Recently ex-deceased:

God (God)

Gabriel (Co-overseer of divine affairs on Earth)

Satan (A Fallen Angel; the Adversary)

Kabata (Former co-overseer of divine affairs on Earth, current busybody and general Ne’er-do-well)

Agares (A Fallen angel and Princess of Hell)

Hastur (A fallen angel and very bitter duke of hell)

Kris (A warrior)

THERE

God (God?)

Metatron (The Voice of God)

Gabriel (Co-overseer of Divine Affairs on Earth)

Camael (Co-overseer of Divine Affairs on Earth)

Agatha (Keeper of the Divine Grace)

Miriam (Bearer of the Divine Healing)

Kris (The Sword of Heaven)

LIGHT (Lucifer)

Aziraphale (An angel, and part-time rare book dealer)

Angelo (An Angel)

Hastaphael (An angel)

Satan (A Fallen Angel; the Adversary)

Mykas (Attack Dog of the Queen of Hell)

Vycra (Head of the Infernal Royal Guard)

Botis (A demon)

Ramikale (A demon)  

Chapter Text

Force equals mass times acceleration.  This law of nature, elegant in its simplicity, the undeniable truth that big things go boom when they go fast, had been applied to everything from bullets to cannon balls to fists, from swords and rapiers and daggers and automobiles and rockets, trebuchets and boulders.

And it was currently being applied to a ball of polished stone rolling very fast, over and over, logo whizzing in and out of view in turn, down an aisle of slick wood.

Olivia’s bowling ball smacked straight into the lead pin with the force of something launched from a cannon, striking the formation with military precision. It sent the whole thing collapsing into an explosion of pins, which jiggled on the floor against each other as the arm came down to sweep them away.

From behind her, Oryss erupted into a cheer, accidentally knocking over her basket of nachos.

Olivia turned around, snapping her fingers and holding her arms aloft. “And that’s how it’s done, folks.”

“Wow,” said Crowley.  “I’ve never seen anyone bowl a perfect game before.”  He still hadn’t.  He hadn’t been watching Olivia bowl; he had been too busy setting everyone’s nicknames on the outdated computer system the bowling alley used to keep score.  Currently the lineup on their game was Snake Charmer Suprem,* King Puddinghead, Turkey Master, and Nachofingers.

*Not a typo.  There was a character limit.

“Marvelously done, dear girl,” said Aziraphale.

The bar moved down to highlight Nachofingers.  “You’re up, babe,” said Olivia, slapping Oryss on the back.

Oryss took a moment to use some hand-sanitizer before retrieving her bowling ball, sighting down it like a deadly weapon and flinging it with an air of utmost seriousness.

It plopped into the gutter, missing the pins entirely.

“Can we please play with the gutter rails up?” Oryss whined.

“Come on, you still have another shot,” said Crowley.  “I’m sure you’ll get a spare.”

Pouting, Oryss retrieved another bowling ball and rolled it down the lane, knocking over a measly two or three pins.

“You’re not even using the same ball each time!” Olivia said.  “How are you going to really feel it out, you know?  You’ve got to get the feel of the ball.”

“I feel like I’m going to smack you,” said Oryss.

They played one more game, much to the dismay of Aziraphale, who had mostly spent the last one chiding Crowley for changing the names on the displays of the lanes around them to silly things.  At Oryss’s insistence, they played with the gutter rails up this time. This resulted in the discovery that Oryss’s bowling strategy was mostly to just bounce the ball off the rails a bunch of times and hope it eventually rolled near the pins.

Olivia absolutely demolished the competition, and Crowley handed over the fiver he had promised her upon hearing the claim that she could get two perfect games in a row.

“Well, that was a lovely time,” said Aziraphale, letting the door to the bowling alley swing closed behind him.  

“How did you get so good at this?” said Crowley.

“I’ve had a lot of spare time since Heaven collapsed,” said Olivia. “Since we’re all basically unemployed now.  Finally feel like I have time for a hobby.  Haven’t you been doing anything different?  Now that Hell’s not breathing down your neck making sure you’re productive.”

I’ve never been productive in my life, Crowley thought, except maybe that one time with the M25.  And Manchester.  “Mostly just been watching Netflix.”

“Lazy.”

“I’ve earned it.”

Olivia shrugged.

“What would you prefer to do next?” said Aziraphale.  “You’re the guests after all.  It’s not every day you visit London, so we can do whatever you like.”

“There’s a stationery shop around the corner I wanted to check out,” said Olivia.

“A stationery shop?” said Aziraphale.

Olivia turned towards Crowley, and said with a painfully unsubtle wink, “Yep! I think you’d really like it, Aziraphale!  Oryss and Crowley would find it dreadful, though.”

Crowley winced and gave her a thumbs-up.

“Mmm-hmmm,” said Aziraphale.  “…All right, then.”

They walked down the sidewalk.  A familiar figure came whizzing towards them, with long brown hair streaming behind him.

“Why, it’s Adramelech!” said Aziraphale.

Adramelech rolled past them at top speed on a pair of rollerblades, gesturing grandly and beaming.  “Hi, Aziraphale!”

He whizzed away.  Sylvia appeared in his wake, struggling to stay upright on a pair of pink roller skates. “Hi, Aziraphale!”

“I didn’t realise you were in London!” said Aziraphale.

“Watch out, Botis is right behind me,” she said, rolling away.

“Huh—”

Aziraphale flinched backwards as Botis appeared, grinding along the guard rail beside them on a skateboard.  “Hello, sir!  See you later!”

“Uh,” said Aziraphale.

Finally, Kyleth came last in line.  She was jogging, the only one not outfitted with wheels.

“Kyleth, I didn’t know you were all in town,” said Aziraphale.  “What’s going on?”

“Just going on vacation!” said Kyleth cheerily, with an exaggerated wink at Crowley.

“All of you at once?  There’s a lot of familiar faces who normally live quite far away.”

“We have time to travel now,” said Kyleth.  “Anyway, see you!”

Oryss and Olivia continued on once the sidewalk was clear.  Aziraphale stood bewildered.  He pulled at Crowley’s sleeve.  “Crowley, dear, let me talk to you.”

Crowley stuck his hands in his pockets.  “Sure, sure.”

“It seems like an awful lot of our friends are in town all at once, without notice.”

“Yep,” said Crowley.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say it looked like you were planning a surprise of some sort.”

Crowley pursed his lips.  “Good thing you do know better, then.  Shall we?”

Aziraphale looked hesitantly at Crowley’s proffered arm.  “Crowley, I—”

“Nothing going on.”

“This is because I made that comment about getting married, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale had made a comment a few weeks ago about how he had always fantasised about marrying Crowley.  The angel had immediately backpedaled, saying how since marriage was a sacrament of the church it only made sense Crowley wouldn’t like it, and how any event traditionally taking place in a church would surely feel inappropriate and uncomfortable for Crowley.  But Crowley had seen the desire on his face, and the flush of silly, embarrassed joy at the thought.

“Look,” said Aziraphale.  “I—I want you to be comfortable more than anything.  I would never wish for anything you didn’t want too, and—”

“I know, angel.”

“It would only be a token gesture at this point, anyway.  It isn’t necessary.”

“Few of the nice things in life are truly necessary.”

“It’s not as though—”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t have them.”

Nevertheless, Aziraphale’s face creased in worry.  “I would never ask you to do this just for me, Crowley, you know that, right?  Nothing so ceremonial and trite could change our relationship after everything we’ve been through together.”

“We have no reason to be afraid of a wedding now,” said Crowley.  “We’re surrounded by people who care about us, and everyone who hated us is gone.  The world is gentler now.”

“What a strange world we live in now,” said Aziraphale quietly.  “That an angel and a demon can get married, and invite both archangels and archdemons to the wedding without fear of repercussions.”

“An unfamiliar and foreign place and time,” said Crowley, offering his arm for Aziraphale to take.  In the distance, Olivia and Oryss beckoned them to come on.  “Shall we go off into the unknown, then?”

Aziraphale took his arm, and they strolled away.

“And besides,” said Crowley, a twinkle in his eye, “there’s nothing happening anyway.  We’re just out for a day of shopping with our friends from out of town.”

Aziraphale gave a wry smile.  “All right.”

“Here it is!” said Olivia, pointing excitedly to a shopfront that had very small windows such that anyone inside couldn’t see the sidewalk.  “Can’t you just smell the…paper?”

“It looks lovely,” said Aziraphale, obediently entering the shop.

Crowley waited till Aziraphale and Olivia had both disappeared into the shop, then he and Oryss ran off.

“First the jewelry shop,” said Crowley, “then the catering, then the flowers.”

“All right,” said Oryss.  “Olivia has a list of at least five shops she could drag Aziraphale through, so we should have at least two or three hours.”  She clapped her hands.  “Thank you so much for letting me be a bridesmaid, Crowley, I know the maid of honour normally helps with choosing the food and decorations and stuff but—”

“Yes, well, I think we both know Maltha wouldn’t be very naturally talented at picking out this sort of thing,” said Crowley.  “Though she would certainly try.”

Oryss giggled, bouncing a little.  “I can’t wait to see all the pretty flowers and try the different cakes—”

“All right, well, remember we’re only picking out things for the engagement party right now, not the wedding itself.  We’re not getting a wedding cake yet.”

Oryss nodded, but still bounced with excitement.

The jeweler’s was the first stop.  They spent an entire one of their two to three hours in the shop, and Oryss was considerably less happy coming out than she had been going in.

“Rubbish,” Crowley muttered.  

“None of them?” she said, frustrated.  “Really?  None of them?”

“It has to be perfect,” said Crowley.  “I don’t want to propose to Aziraphale with just any old ring.  It needs to be…special. Like he is.”

Oryss wanted to tell him that while Aziraphale was nice, he wasn’t nearly special enough that none of the rings in the finest jewelry shop in London were good enough for him.  But she thought better of it.  “Okay. That’s fine.  We can come back to this later.  Let’s go focus on the catering for now.”

They spent the second hour of their two to three hours at the catering shop, and they both walked out just as unhappy, but this time it was Oryss glowering.

“Come on, Oryss.”

“Out of all the things you Brits stole from Africa, you think you could have at least stolen some decent food.”

“It’s not that bad.”

Oryss twisted her face.

“Do you want to cook, then?”

Oryss seemed to seriously consider it for a moment, and Crowley rushed to add, “That was rhetoric.  I don’t expect you to cook for ninety-six people.”

“Why is it you care so much about what Aziraphale wears on his finger but not what he eats?  He likes eating.  I don’t think he’s ever expressed much interest in jewelry.”

“It’s—It’s—symbolic of—nevermind.  Look, it’s a picnic.  We’ll be at a park.  We just need some finger foods.”

“Let’s come back to this, too,” said Oryss, who had an unfortunate habit of simply pushing difficult things off to think about at a later time, when she was older and wiser.

“All right.  Flowers are next.”

Oryss licked her lips.

“Oh, so that food isn’t good enough, but flowers are acceptable catering?”

“Don’t knock it till you try it.  Ahh!”

This last bit was prompted by the sudden appearance of a hellish figure towering over them, stepping out of a swarm of flies.  Oryss and Crowley both jumped a little, then relaxed.

“Oh, h-hi, Beelzebub,” said Crowley.

“What brings you up here?” said Oryss.

Beelzebub held a small package with a note attached to it.  “King Noah haz zent me up to deliver thiz,” he buzzed. “He regretz greatly that he will be unable to attend the event to which you kindly invited him, and zent thiz in hiz ztead.”

“Oh,” said Crowley.  “That’s all right.  I know he’s busy.  Does he still intend to come to the wedding itself, though?”

“Yez, he haz zworn to attend.”

“All right.”

Beelzebub handed him the package.

“Thanks.”

Beelzebub inclined his head, then stepped back and faded into the shadows.

“Huh,” said Crowley, hefting the package in his hand.  “I think that’s the first time Beelzebub has addressed me respectfully without putting up a fuss.”

“I’ve heard the archdemons are all getting along well with Noah’s new rules,” said Oryss.  “Even Dagon.”

Crowley grimaced.  Dagon had been the one to deliver him to Satan for torture, and Crowley had never had any pleasant interactions with him.  Regardless of how much Noah reformed Hell’s higher-ups, he still felt just a little uneasy around them.

Not that he had much reason to, though.  He trusted Noah’s judgement absolutely.  He had grown up to be far wiser than Crowley could have imagined.

But still.

“I wonder what’s inside it!” said Oryss, looking like she wanted to tear the package open herself.

Crowley carefully removed the note and read it.

Crowley,

I’m so delighted to hear of your and Aziraphale’s engagement.  Forgive me for not attending the engagement party, but I’m needed down here.  I will be at the wedding, come Hell or high water. In the meantime, please accept this. I think you will like them, but don’t feel obligated to use them if you have already found a suitable ring.  I found them in Hell’s treasury and thought of you; use them however you wish.  They also have a special enchantment on them called the Lover’s Charm. When you activate it, no matter the distance separating you, you’ll know you’re with each other.  The charm takes twelve hours to charge up but otherwise can be used however you want.  Enjoy.

-King Noah, Lord of etc. etc.

Crowley suppressed his excitement at the word ring and dutifully read the rest of the letter before unwrapping the gift wrap.

The package was a satchel containing two velvet ring boxes.  The black one opened to reveal a handsome silver ring set with onyx and, in the center, a deep red garnet.  The white one contained a gold ring garnished with diamonds and a clear sky-blue lapis lazuli.  They both had an occult sigil of some sort set in the base, pulsing very faintly with a minor charm.

Crowley’s eyes began to water.

“Crowley?” said Oryss.  “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, choked up.  “Just glad I didn’t settle for that diamond back in the shop.”

****************************

“You didn’t say ‘Uno.’”

Uriel’s eyes drifted uncomprehendingly towards Beth’s hand, which tapped the deck of cards sitting on the coffee table.  “What?”

Beth sighed.  “You have one card left, but you didn’t say ‘Uno.’”

Uriel looked at her card, which was very clearly and visibly to everyone in the room a green six.  “Why do I have to say ‘Uno’?”

“That’s the law of the land here in Beth’s house,” said Maltha.  She was stretched languidly out on the carpet with her chin on the coffee table, looking morosely at her enormous stack of cards.  She knew vaguely this meant she was losing, but she wasn’t entirely sure how.

“It’s just the rule of the game,” said Beth.  “When you have one card left, if you don’t say ‘Uno,’ another player can make you take two cards.”

Uriel furrowed her brow.  “And what if I refuse?”

Beth hid her expression with the meat of her hand.  “Then that’s cheating.  Look, just take two cards.  I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it if we play a few more rounds.”

Uriel took two cards.

“All right,” said Beth. “My turn.”

She put down a reverse card.

“Now it’s your turn again, Uriel.”

“I just went,” Uriel cried.  “I thought it was my turn after Maltha!”

“I just played a reverse card,” Beth explained.  “So now we’re going the other way.”

“Um,” said Uriel.  “Okay.”  She put down a card.

“You can’t play that.  Your card has to be either the same colour, or the same number as this one.”

Uriel put a six on top of the proffered nine, upside-down.

“I guess that counts,” said Beth.  “Now Maltha goes.”

“I thought it was your turn to go,” said Maltha tiredly.

“I played a—Look, it’s your turn, okay?”

Maltha drew a card.  Then she drew another.  Then another.

“I’m not sure you understand the point of the game,” said Beth.  “You’re supposed to get rid of all your cards.”

“But why?” said Maltha.  “I have the biggest stack.  I’ve hoarded more resources.  I have the most power.”

Beth put her deck down and sighed.  “Why this?  Why is it Uno?  I have yet to meet a single angel or demon that can play Uno properly.  We’re not even using any house rules.”

“The thing about saying ‘Uno’ is a house rule,” said Maltha.

“That’s not a house rule.”

“But it’s the rule in your house.”

Aggravated, Beth made a motion like she were going to strangle Maltha. She was interrupted by the intercom buzzing.

Beth walked over and pushed the button for the intercom.  “Yoo-hoo,” came the voice from the tinny speaker.  “It’s Adramelech, just dropping by for a quick chat.”

“Hey!” said Beth.  “Come on up.”

“You have a package here; I’ll bring it up for you.”

“Thanks!”

Beth went and unlocked the door, and Adramelech came in gesturing grandly. “Beth, darling, I—Oh, I really must be going, would you look at the time.”

The shift in tone was sudden and prompted by Adramelech noticing Uriel sitting on the sofa.  Adramelech pulled a U-turn back out the front door.

“Adramelech, wait,” said Beth, pulling his arm.  “You just got here.  Don’t be silly.”

She took the package from him and set it on the counter.  “Ah-ha-ha, of course,” Adramelech said, masking his unhappiness very poorly.

“Do you not want to be here with Uriel here?” said Beth.

Adramelech didn’t answer, pursing his lip.

“She’s changed,” said Maltha.

“So I’ve heard,” Adramelech said sourly.

“She’s right, you know,” said Beth.  “You should give her a chance.”

The shimmering feathers on Adramelech’s head rose.

Uriel stood, smoothing out her dress.  “Adramelech, was it?”

Adramelech nodded.

“I shall apologise to you.”

“What for?”

“I owe every demon an apology.”

“Ah,” said Adramelech.  “Thanks. But, well, listen, I know it’s on good authority that you’ve turned over a new leaf.  But all the same, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not hang around you.”

Uriel deflated.  “Oh.”

Beth looked supremely disappointed.  Adramelech winced and backed towards the door.

“I suppose that’s fair,” said Uriel.  “I wish you well.”

“Thanks,” said Adramelech coldly.  “We can talk on the phone later, Beth.”

He exited.  “Hmph,” said Beth, shutting the door behind him.  “What an utter killjoy.”

“He is slow to trust,” said Maltha.  “As a general rule.  I do not blame him.  It’s a healthy fear, even though most demons seems to be growing out of it since Noah took the throne.”

Beth nodded.  “Yeah. Like poor Crowley, he’s always been an anxious mess, but he seems like he’s doing really well now.”

Maltha nodded.

“Oh, the package,” said Beth.  “It must be the cufflinks.”

“Cufflinks?” said Uriel.

“I ordered them online,” said Beth, tearing the package open.  “They’re adorable—shaped like little angel wings. I got a pair for Aziraphale and one for Crowley.  I know they said not to bring presents to the engagement party, but I figured, eh, I could give it to them at the wedding at least.”

Uriel looked up sharply.  “Engagement party?”

“You knew Aziraphale and Crowley were getting engaged,” said Maltha. “Didn’t you?  That’s why everyone’s in town.”

“Well, yes, but….”  She twiddled her thumbs.  “I didn’t know there was a party.”

Beth grimaced.  “Oh. They didn’t invite you, then…?”

“No.”

Maltha shuffled her cards.  Beth cleared her throat.

“I don’t suppose I blame them,” said Uriel.  “Though it’d be a lie to say I’m not disappointed.”

“I thought with Maltha’s reports on how well you were doing, surely they’d invite you,” said Beth.  “But I guess not.  I’m sorry.”

“Would it still be polite to get a gift?”

“I suppose,” said Maltha.

“Hmm,” said Uriel.  She reached into her purse sitting on the floor; it was a cream-coloured shoulder bag, which Beth had got her, and in which she kept a number of interesting things she thought would be fun.  It was Maltha who had given her the assignment to fill it with things that were purely for enjoyment, and so it was now filled with odd knickknacks one didn’t usually find in purses.

Her hands ran along one such item, which was purple, and long, and thin, and pointed.

**************************************

“Thanks again, Oryss.”

She pulled back from their hug, patting him on the back.  “Of course.  Just let me know if you need anything else.  I’ll be in town until the Tuesday after the party.”

“Great.”

She exited with a tinkle of the shop bell.  That left Crowley to hide his purchases, and to especially stash the rings somewhere where Aziraphale wouldn’t see them.  

He held the two ring boxes, one in each hand.  Part of him wanted to simply keep them in his pocket so he didn’t have to let go of them.

But that wouldn’t do.  He had to find somewhere to keep them where Aziraphale couldn’t find them.

Still holding the two boxes, brow furrowed in concentration, he marched out into the shop.

“Hello.”

Crowley jumped straight into the air, dropping both boxes, at the voice. “Oh, ah…”  He ran his hands nervously down the front of his suit. “Oh.”

Uriel had come into the shop, staring at him with her hands crossed in front of her.  He was a little alarmed by the huge spikes in her hands, until he realised they were large knitting needles.  They were neon purple and still had a bit of yarn spun around them.

Crowley knelt and retrieved the two velvet boxes from the floor.  “Oh, um, hi, Uriel…”

“I heard about your plan to propose,” said Uriel, with unsettling quietness.

Crowley was still on his knees to scoop up the white box from under the counter, leaving Uriel to loom over him.  It made him uncomfortable, and he stood and brushed himself off as soon as he realised.  “Yeah?” he said, with a tinge of nervousness.

Uriel held out a misshapen piece of fabric.  “I made this for you.”

It was a hat, Crowley realised.  A frankly rather shoddily-constructed and ugly hat, but a knitted hat nonetheless.

“As a congratulations gift,” said Uriel.

“Oh, th-thanks,” said Crowley, taking the hat.  The fabric felt like it wouldn’t be very comfortable on his head, but he pulled it on anyway.  He suspected he looked ridiculous.  “Did you make it yourself?”

The needles in Uriel’s hands clacked against each other.  “Yes.  Maltha suggested I should take up a hobby.  To relieve tension.”

“How long have you been working at it, then?”

Uriel looked at the needles with an unreadable expression.  “Four years.  I haven’t gotten any better at it.”

“Oh,” said Crowley.

They both just stood there for a moment.

“How’s Metatron?” Crowley asked.

“They and I do not talk much anymore,” said Uriel, sounding very subdued. “They mostly stay in Heaven.”

“Ah.  Um…so how are you doing, then?”

“Not bad,” said Uriel.  “Questioning is still scary, but it’s more manageable now.  Maltha and I have spent a lot of time together.  She is a very good friend.  Beth, too, which I didn’t expect from a human.”

They stood in awkward silence again.  Crowley cleared his throat.  “Um, not to be rude, but I was kind of…I was in the middle of…”

“Oh, right,” said Uriel.  “I just came to give you the hat.  I hope you enjoy it.”

“Thanks, I will.”  The coat closet would, at least.

The bell tinkled as Uriel opened the shop door.  She turned back to him briefly.  “I wish you and Aziraphale all the happiness in the world.  You deserve it.”

“Thanks,” said Crowley, almost shocked by such sentiment from Uriel, of all people.  “Oh, um…”

“Yes?”

“Is anyone teaching you how to knit, or…?”

“No, I’m mostly working by myself.”

Crowley dug in the section of the bookshop where Aziraphale filed his arts and crafts books, pulling out a basic knitting book with very large and clear illustrations.  “Here, this might help you.  You can have it. Aziraphale will never know it’s gone.”

Uriel took it, her facial expression remaining melancholy. “Thanks, Crowley.”

She left him alone in the bookshop, and Crowley watched through the shopfront as she descended the stairs to catch the tube.

Aziraphale appeared in the window in font of his nose, looking unsettled. He cracked the door open.  “Is everything all right?  I just saw Uriel leaving.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley.  “Nothing to worry about.  She was just offering her congratulations.”  He almost said condolences, based on her tone, though she didn’t appear to bear them any ill will.

Aziraphale shut the door behind him.  “She’s not nearly as horrible as she used to be.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley.  He suddenly had a realisation and moved to swipe the two ring boxes, sitting out on the counter, out of Aziraphale’s line of sight.

“What’s that?” said Aziraphale.

“Nothing at all,” said Crowley.

“Not rings, is it?”

“Of course not,” said Crowley.  He was a good liar as a rule, but not even Aziraphale swallowed this one.

“Interesting, because those boxes had the jeweler’s logo on them.”

“Hmm, weird for a box that doesn’t have a ring in it.”

“Indeed.”

“What would I even have a ring for?”

“Some human cultures, including the one we currently live in, use them as matrimonial symbols.”

“Mmm,” said Crowley.  “Interesting. I’ll write that down in case I need to use it in the future.”

Aziraphale smiled and kissed him on the cheek.  “You old silly.”

Crowley beamed.  “Hey, you don’t have anything planned for Saturday, do you?”

Aziraphale shrugged.  “No.”

“Yes, you do now.”

Aziraphale grinned.  “It’s a date, then.”

Chapter Text

“Why don’t you go to the shop and pick out a bottle of wine, angel?”

Aziraphale, who had just happened to walk near the coat rack, looked like he had been caught illicitly trespassing near the exit and was being kicked out.  “Oh, all right.”

“Go on, then.”

“You don’t want that sauvignon blanc in the cabinet?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“All right, then, let’s go.”

“Mmm, no, I’ll stay here.  You go on.”

“Ah…” said Aziraphale.  “All right. What shall I pick out?”

“Whatever you like,” said Crowley.

“Okay,” said Aziraphale.  “Um. I’ll just walk over and be back in a few minutes then, shall I?”

“Yes, yes.  Go on, shoo,” said Crowley, waving him away.

Bemused, Aziraphale exited.  A figure in a grey sweatshirt, which had been loitering outside the shop, gave Crowley a thumbs-up as it walked past the shopfront and started tailing the angel.

That would be Botis.  His job was to follow Aziraphale to the store and make sure he stayed there until the preparations were finished at St. James’.

And so many preparations there were. Ninety-six people.  They had tried to keep it small, but, well, they just had so very many friends now.

Ramial came out of the woodwork to ambush Crowley as soon as he exited the shop.  “Crowley!”

“Yes, yes,” he said, preoccupied, prying her arms off his shoulders. “Let’s go!  There’s no time to waste!”

Ramial took the passenger’s seat in the Bentley, and the tires screeched as Crowley hit the gas, roaring off into the street even faster than he usually did.  If poor Aziraphale on the sidewalk didn’t see the Bentley blow past him, he probably heard it.  This party was the worst-kept secret in England.

Ramial white-knuckled the passenger’s handle the same way Aziraphale always did.  Angels always were scared of a little speed, but Crowley never crashed, so what was the big deal?

Crowley parked his car illegally on the grass at the park, changing the text on the “NO PARKING” sign with a flick of his wrist.

“Hurry!” he said, sprinting up the grassy hill to the pavilion.  “We don’t have a lot of time!”

“Crowley!” Ramial said, struggling to catch up.  “Wait!  We don’t have to rush.”

Mykas and Angelo were already at the pavilion, tossing a Frisbee back and forth in the lawn beside it.  Raphael and Victoria were there, too, sitting side-by-side on the picnic table.  “Hi, Crowley!” Raphael said, waving.

“Come on, let’s get started!” Crowley said.  “The catering will be here any minute!”

“You said over text the catering was scheduled to arrive at twelve-thirty,” said Angelo.  “That gives us half an hour.”

Crowley grabbed the ends of the table Victoria and Raphael were sitting on, pulling it ineffectually.  “Help me move this.”

“Move it where?”

“I don’t know.  There’s not enough space here.”

Victoria and Raphael stood, and Crowley started dragging the table aimlessly.

“Crowley,” said Victoria, squeezing his shoulder and forcing him to stop. “Relax.”

Crowley un-tensed his shoulders.  “I’m just so—Everything has to be perfect.”

“It’s just Aziraphale,” she said.  “It doesn’t have to be perfect.  It’s not a big deal.”

Crowley kneaded his hands.  If this wasn’t a big deal, why was he so nervous?  “No, you’re right.  Sorry.”

Ramial hugged him.  “Come on, let us do the heavy lifting.  You’ve already done enough.”

Crowley continued to fuss over the way the picnic tables were arranged despite everyone’s best efforts.  Victoria and Raphael moved them like Jenga blocks this way and that until he was satisfied.  The weather, at least, he didn’t have to worry about; originally rain had been scheduled, but now it was cooperating due to several malicious glares from several archdemons and archangels.

The catering arrived shortly after that, and several servers in spiffy uniforms laid out their trays of hors d’oeuvres, fancy sandwiches, cocktail snacks on toothpicks, and several gallon containers of lemonade, tea, and the like, one of which was hot cocoa.

They had checked several times to make sure he had meant to order hot cocoa when the weather was quite so hot out.  Oryss had urged him to reconsider that decision, but he had stubbornly insisted that hot cocoa was Aziraphale’s favourite, so they had to have barrels of it.

The guests started arriving after that.  Maltha and Beth were just early enough to not be expected to help setting up, showing up in Beth’s ill-treated car that she could not be convinced to part with.  She emerged from it like a bug scuttling out from under a counter.  The garbage that fell out behind her didn’t help the image at all.

Humans always did seem to change quite fast, but Beth seemed the same as she ever was.  She had started to accumulate wrinkles and grey hair, but she wore it well.  Beside her, Maltha gingerly stepped out, kicking fast-food wrappers back into the car.  For the first time, Beth actually looked older than Maltha, though you wouldn’t guess it by the way Beth bounded up to offer Crowley an early wedding present. Crowley set it aside to open at a later date, much to her disappointment.

Adam and Dog came next, out of a taxi cab Dog surely shouldn’t have been allowed in.  He had aged a little less gracefully than Beth and, despite Maltha’s repeated offers to fix him into a new, young corporation, unlike Beth he insisted on using this one without supernatural intervention “until it wore out,” which seemed to be precariously approaching.

Dog sprinted out to jump on Crowley, tail wagging fiercely.  “Good boy,” said Crowley, rubbing his muzzle, where grey hairs had started to crop up.

Adam paid the cab driver, then hobbled over on his cane.  “Crowley,” he said, embracing the demon warmly.

Dog had gone up to sniff Mykas.

“Good to see you again,” said Adam.  He looked around at Maltha and the others.  “Haven’t seen you in forever.  Damn.  You really don’t age, do you?”

“You could choose not to age if you regained access to your powers,” said Crowley.  “I’m sure King Noah would help you out.”

Adam waved dismissively.  “Change is part of the human experience.  Wouldn’t be the same without it.”

This made Crowley feel a little guilty for wishing away his aging, but not enough to be convinced to give old age a try.  He shook his head.

Dog tried to take Mykas’s Frisbee, which he did not let go of.

“Tempting sometimes when this stupid hip starts acting up, though,” said Adam, hauling himself over to a picnic table and sitting down.  “Ever since that skateboarding accident. Dog!  Dog, knock it off!”

Dog and Mykas had started chasing each other around the pavilion. They both slunk away at the yell.

Yulera arrived next, managing to show up on time for something for once.  She had a duck under each arm, which were quacking indignantly.

Crowley motored forward to intercept her before she could reach Maltha, who was clearly her intended target.  “Put them back where you found them.”

The ducks squirmed to try and escape Yulera’s grasp.  “But you said Aziraphale likes the ducks,” she said.

“He likes them in the pond,” said Crowley.  “Don’t touch them.”

Yulera scowled and moved off.  

Then starting trickling in the ones who made up the majority of the guest list: the demonic field agents who had broken away from Hell after Satan’s death to become Aziraphale’s Legion, and their angelic counterparts, most of whom had flown in from other parts of the world.  Crowley greeted them all by name.  Memorising them had been quite a feat.

“Kyleth.  Oryss and Olivia!  Abraxas, Paula.  Adramelech, Sylvia.  Lirach, Devi. Velor.  Garmil.  Rosia, Rava. ….Naruto.”

What preparations were left to be completed flew by in a flash with so many hands.  Adramelech skittered off to check on Botis distracting Aziraphale at the shop.  As the last guests arrived, Crowley began to bounce around the pavilion, touching all the preparations as though to make sure they were really there.

Damn.  If this wasn’t a big deal, why was he so nervous?

“Honey,” said Oryss, physically pulling him away.  “It’s just Aziraphale.”

Of course it was just Aziraphale.  Aziraphale would be delighted by the efforts, even if not everything was perfect.

Adramelech touched down, his jeweled wings flashing in the sunlight as he folded them in.  “Aziraphale is still at the shop!  But Botis reports he’s getting antsy.”

“Crowley, go,” said Maltha.

He turned to look at her.  She, and everyone behind her, were smiling so widely, sharing his excitement, and it warmed the cockles of whatever demonic equivalent of a heart he let himself imagine he had.

“Are you sure?” he said.  “Do we need—”

“We can handle it,” said Oryss, giving him a little push.

“Okay.”  Crowley started to jog to the Bentley, excitement rushing through him.  Then, he stopped.  “Oh, but…”

“What?” said Beth.

“If we, ah…take a while to get here from the shop…don’t come get us.”

Someone behind Beth wolf-whistled.  He flushed.

“Go get him,” said Ramial.

“I’ll go tell Aziraphale to leave the shop!” said Beth, popping up excitedly.

Crowley dashed towards the Bentley, friends’ hands reaching out to slap him and voices whispering slightly inappropriate comments.

He hopped into the Bentley and slammed the gas, peeling out and roaring down the street; the pedestrians and other motorists rearranged themselves to be out of his way, because they knew what was good for them.

The Bentley skidded into a parking spot in front of the bookshop sideways, tires smoking.  He slammed the door and skittered into the bookshop.  The shop seemed unnaturally quiet after the park, and compared to the electric energy flushing his system.  He left the lights dimmed and used a miracle to summon a basket of rose petals.

He made sure the shop sign was turned to Closed—silly, really, it always was—and started at the front door where Aziraphale always came in, laying a trail of rose petals through the shop, back behind the counter into the back room, up the stairs, then into the upstairs bedroom.  He scattered the remainder of the basket across the bed.  Then he turned out all the lights and summoned some candles, placing them strategically around the bedroom.

He ran his hands up and down himself, trying to locate the ring boxes, and eventually found them in his breast pocket, exactly where they had been the last thirty-thousand times he had nervously brushed his hand against them. He took the white box out, then looked at the bed.

Now this part he hadn’t thought out.  Should he sit on the bed?  Should he lie on it?  Should he try to strike a sexy pose or would that be…silly?  Should he just stand there?  Should he take his shirt off?

He eventually settled on leaving his good suit on and sitting on the bed with the ring box on his lap.  He waited. And waited.

The shop they had sent Aziraphale to was only a quick walk away. Surely he should be arriving more quickly than this?  Why was he taking forever to get here?  It left Crowley stewing in a mess of anxiety and second-guessing his decisions.  He ended up changing his tie and lying on the bed instead, then put the ring box on the dresser, then hid it under the pillow, then put it back in his pocket.

Finally, the bell on the door jingled as it was pushed open.  Crowley resisted the urge to call out Aziraphale’s name and beckon him upstairs.  That was what the rose petals were for, of course.  It wouldn’t have been as romantic otherwise.

He heard footsteps climbing up the stairs.

The thing about living with someone for a long time is that you become attuned to the sounds they make as they move about the house, in subconscious and highly accurate ways.  And Crowley was able to tell it was not Aziraphale coming up the stairs by the creak of the floorboards.

Well, he was glad he had decided not to get undressed, then.  He sat upright and alert.  “Hello?”  Had someone at the park ignored his instructions not to come to the shop?

Hairs on the back of Crowley’s neck raised in alarm.  Duke Hastur stood in the doorway, staring at him.

***********************

You can only spend so long looking at wine before you start to get antsy.  “Botis, exactly how long do I have to stay here?”

The figure at the end of the aisle, draped in a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, turned slightly away from Aziraphale and did not answer.

“Botis?”

“Who’s Botis?” said the figure.  “Nobody here by that name, sir.”

“Botis, I know they sent you here to make sure I didn’t leave.”

“I’m just a regular human shopper, dallying over what wine to purchase, just the same as you, sir.”

“Botis.”

A very pale hand reached out and plucked a bottle of wine off the shelf, turning it over.  “Ah, yes, a fine vintage.”

Aziraphale sighed.  “It’s been almost forty-five minutes.  How much longer?”

“You haven’t picked out your wine yet.”

That much was true, at least.  Aziraphale had gotten bored and moved into the bakery section of the store to kill time.  When he had come back to the wines and started looking again, he had changed his mind at least a dozen times, because when you’re forced to just wait aimlessly you have little else to do but start double-guessing yourself.

“If I pick something out, may I leave?”

“Nobody’s stopping you!”

Aziraphale plucked a bottle off the shelf arbitrarily and moved to exit the aisle.  Botis shifted to block his way.  “You’re picking that one?” he said, with a tut-tut in his voice.

Aziraphale replaced it and picked up another one.  Botis offered no comment, but when Aziraphale tried to exit, he moved so that his shopping cart was blocking the entire aisle.

“Come on, Botis,” said Aziraphale.

“Oh, sorry, I’m just so absent-minded.  I’m trying to pick a wine, you see, and I can’t decide.  I know you’ve already told me your opinions about every kind in this aisle, but will you explain it to me again?  I didn’t quite get it all the first time.”

Aziraphale sighed.  The shop door chimed to herald a new arrival, and Aziraphale peeked over the shelf to see Beth scampering into the store.  She pulled Botis’s hood aside to whisper into his ear rapidly, and Botis smiled and nodded.

“I suddenly don’t feel like drinking at all!” Botis announced, replacing the bottles he had been holding back onto the shelf.  He turned and winked at Aziraphale.  “Later, stranger.”

Botis and Beth exited the shop together, running off to who-knows-where as fast as possible.

Aziraphale suddenly realised that he still hadn’t picked out a wine, despite being forced to shop for it for so long.  He honestly didn’t even care at this point.  He plucked up a bottle that had held his interest for a while and made his way to the checkout counter.  

“Find everything okay?” the cashier asked as she scanned his bottle.

“Just fine, thank you,” he said, then added, “They’re planning a bit of a surprise for me, I think.”

“Hope you have fun with that.”

A chirp from the entrance heralded another entry, accompanied by the sound of the door banging against the wall as though opened with great force.  The cashier paused and looked sharply towards the entrance.

Aziraphale took his bottle and turned around.  There was a huge woman standing in the door, looking angrily at Aziraphale and huffing.  She had green hair.

“Er, hello?” said Aziraphale.

“You, principality!” she shrieked.

“Who might you be?”

“I am Agares, the future Queen of Hell, and I am about to avenge my fallen master.”

*****************

“You—You can’t be here.  You’re dead.”

Hastur leered at Crowley from the doorway, rubbing rose petals between his finger tips.  “Aw, Crowley, I didn’t know you felt this way about me.”

“I saw Maltha behead you with my own eyes.  You’re dead.  You can’t be here.”

Hastur stalked towards him.  Crowley shrunk back.  “This has to be a bad dream.  How are you—?”

“Afraid I don’t know that myself,” said Hastur, and the bed dipped as he clambered onto it.  “But I’m not one to question a freebie like being brought back to life.  Now here’s what I am wondering…”

Hastur lunged forward, closing his hands around Crowley’s throat, and slammed back into the headboard.  “Should I kill you right here?  Or should I just discorporate you?”

Crowley began to thrash about as Hastur’s hands tightened on his windpipe, choking him.  “Or should I take you down to Hell and play with you a little while first?” said Hastur.  “Which do you think would upset Maltha most?  And that angel of yours?”

Crowley planted his feet on Hastur’s chest in an attempt to pry him off, pushing mightily.  But the duke’s grip was vicelike and it felt like he was crushing Crowley’s voicebox. “So many possibilities.  How about some holy water?  I’m sure we could get some for the occasion.  You could go out just the same way as Ligur.  Maybe that’ll be enough to get it through your thick skull what exactly you did.”

A creak of floorboards hinted at the possibility of someone coming up the stairs.

“With everyone occupied with the war, I doubt anyone will have time to come looking for you,” said Hastur.  “Isn’t that delightful?”

Heavy hoofbeats sounded outside the bedroom door.  Crowley started to see spots.

From behind Hastur’s sneering visage, a second head leaned into Crowley’s field of view, one with curling horns and red eyes.

Hastur finally noticed the newcomer and took a surprised step away from Crowley, releasing him.  Crowley sucked in a breath and coughed mightily.

“Oh, Lord Kabata, sir,” squeaked Hastur.  “I-I didn’t know you were here, too, or I would have—”

“What were you doing?” said Kabata with a flick of his ear.

“Oh, just—just—”  He rolled his fists, as though he wanted to give Kabata a friendly punch on the arm but thought better of it.  “You know, having a go at him.”

Crowley, still wheezing, looking from Hastur to Kabata and back again. Kabata returned his look, then looked at Hastur.  Hastur looked between the two of them.

Kabata took a step back, lowered his head, and lunged, ramming his horns full-speed into Hastur’s midsection.  Hastur’s breath left him in a ragged gasp, and he slammed against the wall, where Kabata rammed into him again, this time audibly cracking ribs. When Hastur fell to the floor, Kabata drew up to his full height and brought a hoof down, stomping Hastur’s arm and probably breaking a few more bones.

Hastur scrambled away as soon as he was physically able, which was after Kabata had gotten in a few more kicks.  The bell on the door tinkled faintly, announcing his departure from the premises.

Kabata stood there breathing heavily.  Crowley sat on the bed uncomprehendingly trying to process what was happening.

“Are you all right?” said Kabata, extending a hand.

Crowley did not take it and remained where he was on the bed. “Um…Thanks?”

Kabata dropped his hand when Crowley did not respond.  “You’re welcome.  Maybe we can consider us even now…assuming you actually kept your promise to me before I died.”

“You—You’re dead.”

“Was, apparently.”

“How are you here?”

The bed creaked as Kabata sat on it.  “I was hoping you would know that.”

***********

Kabata ended up fleeing as soon as Crowley announced his intentions to go back to the park, where everyone else was.  Fleeing was not unwise, in Crowley’s opinion.  It would avoid a confrontation with Maltha and whatever other forces decided to take issue with him.  Crowley told him Yulera’s bookshop was just across the street, and Kabata assured him he would visit it, and then left in the opposite direction, with no apparent inclination to do so.

Crowley sped over to St. James’s with the same haste with which he had left before, but this time out of sheer panic and confusion rather than excitement.

How could two dead demons come back to life?  Humans coming back to life was unusual but not impossible—human souls still existed somewhere in Heaven or Hell or trapped on Earth as wandering ghosts, and they could be pulled back into bodies if given the right encouragement.  But in that rare event when angels and demons died, they went—where?

Common consensus had been nowhere; they just disappeared, were destroyed. Crowley was rethinking that viewpoint now.  The only time anything like this had ever happened, that he could think of, was when Noah had used his antichrist powers to bring back to life Crowley and the other demons Michael had slain when Noah was eleven.  So it was definitely possible, but this had never happened outside of a cataclysmic event involving an antichrist.

And it hardly seemed likely that Noah would bring Kabata and Hastur, of all people, back to life, and then just turn them loose to wreak havoc. Following Maltha’s example, Noah had carefully guarded all the demons—no matter their rank—that gave him trouble, and didn’t let them out of the dungeons, or out of Hell, until he was sure they were reformed.

Noah would have known how to handle the situation to avoid something like this happening.  But there hardly seemed any other possibility.  Who else could have done this?

Death.  Maybe some of the other foundation angels. That’s what made Noah so powerful—he had access to some of the abilities of foundation angels, with fewer restrictions on how to use them.  They would have to talk to Noah soon.

His train of thought ended as he screeched up to the pavilion.  A few partygoers cheered and waved happily, until they saw him get out of the vehicle alone and sprint up.

“What’s wrong?” said Maltha.

Crowley doubled over, panting, then straightened up and looked around.  “Shite…Did anyone go get Aziraphale?”

Chapter Text

Noah rubbed his temples.  On some days the crown felt heavier than others, and today was a heavy day.  He tented his hands, examining the human soul supplicating before him on the red carpet.  “Okay.  Go ahead, again.  You want to…?”

“Go up to Heaven.”

“You know as well as everyone in Hell that human souls are not allowed to leave Hell for any purpose.”

The dead human’s lip quavered, and he didn’t meet the king’s eyes.  “I know, my lord, but I was hoping you could make an exception.  You see, my…my wife died recently, and—”

“Have you filed a report with the Infernal Office of Family Location? It’s on the second layer.”

“Yes, Lord.  They informed me she was not down here.  I really need to see her.  I need to apologise…”

The dead human absolutely refused to leave until he was physically dragged out by one of the attendants.  Noah removed himself from the throne to confer with the court.

“I understand I said we needed to hear grievances,” he said in a low voice to Dagon, “but we can’t keep doing this with dead humans.  They all want the same thing, regardless of how much we’ve improved Hell.”

Dagon’s throat pouch expanded and contracted with an amphibian breath. “You know better than all of us humans are fickle creatures.  They get restless, sire, even in the absence of torture.”

From Noah’s other side, Beelzebub buzzed, “It’z only natural for them to get rezztlezz in Hell.  You can provide them with comfort, but it’z ztill a dingy cave.  They are inclined to be unhappy with it, though perzonally I cannot fathom why.”

“Right, you’re right,” said Noah.  “All right.  Something’s got to change.  We already decided human souls can’t go back up to Earth because that would upset things up there; I’m not going to change that.  But is there any reason why we couldn’t let them go up to Heaven?”

Behind Noah, Jezebel began to flip through some sheets she had on a clipboard.  “The sheer amount of work it would take to organise screening every human and approving their transportation, not to mention transporting them through the ethereal plane on Earth to reach the celestial plane…”

Noah frowned.

“Perhaps we could arrange to have free movement between Heaven and Hell?” croaked Dagon.  “We would only need to establish a tunnel of some sort.”

“I hardly think the Metatron would be amenable to zuch a zuggestion,” Beelzebub said.

Dagon’s eyes retracted back into his head and re-emerged with a blink. “The Metatron seems to take little interest in what is and isn’t allowed nowadays.  Victoria and Raphael seem to be more interested in such matters in the current standing, though it’s hardly proper.”

“Doesn’t have to be proper,” said Noah.  “Nothing we really do is proper.  My concern is that we have such a mixture down here in Hell.  We would want to allow humans such as our guest today, who was only here for adultery, to go apologise to his wife.  But we also have serial killers and rapists and things down here.  We shouldn’t treat them all the same.”

“Perhaps we could arrange them based on crime, and have certain restrictions for each group,” suggested Jezebel.

Noah massaged his temples again.  “Bloody Hell, that’s what the nine layers were for…We need to think of a way to do this without just making Hell exactly like it used to be.”

Jezebel, Dagon, and Beelzebub looked at each other among wringing hands, flipping paperwork, and lost mumbles of half-formed ideas.  Their new master was much kinder than their old, but he was hard to please in entirely new and different ways, and sometimes demanded creativity in their thinking they simply did not possess.  

“With all due respect, sire,” said Dagon, “Without the inherent cruelty this place used to have, under your rule Hell would never go back to the way it used to be.”

Noah smiled.  “You have no idea how reassuring that is.”  He sighed again.  “But I don’t know if anyone kept track of why everyone was down here, anyway…And some of them have been here so long they hardly remember what they were like when they were alive.  They might not even remember…  We need to have another meeting with the full court to discuss this.”

Dagon and Beelzebub looked at each other crestfallen.  Jezebel voiced their thoughts:  “Even Aziraphale and Crowley?”

“Yes, even Aziraphale and Crowley,” said Noah.  Aziraphale and Crowley were technically members of the advisory court, but they were in positions Noah had only been able to convince them to accept by promising their responsibilities would be absolutely minimal to the point of non-existence.  “I know getting them down here for anything other than a party is always an ordeal, but we need their expertise.”

Jezebel looked disheartened.  “I’ll start sending out the letters.  It always takes at least three before they start responding.”

“Send one to Beth first,” said Noah.  “She’ll make sure Maltha sees it, and Maltha will pressure Crowley to check his infernal mail for once.”

Jezebel bowed her head.  “Yes, sire.”

Noah sighed.  Things down in Hell would be a lot easier if the crew that stayed topside on Earth were here to help him run things on a regular basis, but it wouldn’t be right to expect that of them.  So he was stuck with the ones who wanted to hang out in Hell, which required…a certain personality.

….Still, the topside crew could be a little more cooperative about helping out when called upon.

Noah slouched in the throne, running his ring-laden hands up his face.  Full court sessions were a nightmare to coordinate. It was like wrangling cats.  No one behaved unless it was an emergency. But they were the only way things actually got done around here.

Noah was so deep in thought he didn’t even notice an imp scuttling up to the throne until he was bending down to whisper in the King’s ear.

Noah’s frown deepened upon hearing the message.  “I thought we were done with open invites.”

“You are, Lord, but Mammon insists this one was urgent.”

“All, right, then, bring them in.”

Noah sighed and arranged his crown and lordly regalements so he would look proper, and waited to see who could have convinced Mammon they were important enough to rearrange the king’s schedule.

The doors at the far end of the audience chamber boomed open, and a small demon sprinted in at top speed, looking absolutely panicked.  Noah stood in alarm.

Crowley skidded to a stop just in front of the throne, hands on his knees, panting.  Then, he seemed to catch himself and knelt briefly, then stood back up and looked Noah in the eyes.  “We have a problem.”

********************

The first thing Gabriel did upon finding himself inexplicably blessed once again with life and sentience was go to his office.  It was in complete disarray, exactly as he suspected it would be. It looked like nobody had been here in years.  A layer of dust had accumulated over all his important documents.

Muttering with disgust, he set about organising the contents of his desk, shaking out the occasional folder that was too heavily laden with dust to continue.  He found his list of targets he had been in the process of telling Kris to execute when the fighting had broken out.  That was the last thing he remembered.

Who knew how long ago that had been.  Upon taking back his position, Gabriel would first have to order an investigation into how exactly he was here.

Not that he was complaining.  But it might be prudent to make sure it, whatever it was, was permanent, lest he suddenly keel over when it wore off.  The Antichrist was the only one he could think of who might do something like this; Death very rarely made exceptions, and almost never for anyone other than humans.  But he found it hard to believe any antichrist would want him alive.

“Sir?”

He looked up to see Kris standing in the doorway, hand on his sword, looking just as confused as Gabriel felt.

“Good to see you,” said Gabriel.  “Do you know how you’re here?  You were dead, right?”

Kris gave a vague shrug.

“That’s what I thought,” said Gabriel.  “We’ll get to the bottom of this soon enough.  Where is the Metatron?”

“I don’t know, sir, I tried to find you first thing.”

“Good work.  We’ll find them…just as soon as I finish putting this in order.”

Kris sat in the chair opposite Gabriel’s desk for a solid half an hour, waiting patiently while the archangel fussed about everything within reach, organising it until it met whatever invisible rules of satisfaction he kept in his head.  “All right. You stay here, I’ll be right back.”

Metatron would be in the inner sanctum of Heaven, Gabriel knew.  You could build a house on the foundation that Uriel and Metatron both refused to leave the innermost layers of Heaven unless necessary.  Not even the sudden absence of God could change that.

He checked the Judgement Hall first—that’s where Uriel usually was, since that’s where the Book of Life was kept.  But it was empty.  Even the Book itself was gone, which was alarming.

He backtracked and made his way into the Hall of the Throne.

The antechamber also empty, but it looked like it had been torn apart in a great fight and never put back together.  Dust faintly layered broken decorations littering the floor, and the red carpet leading to the door was torn up.  Huge claw marks now adorned the walls.  Gabriel shuddered, having a very good guess at exactly what creature had left them.  The claws were the same ones that had torn him limb from limb on the steps of Heaven’s clerical division.

Gabriel tread carefully through the antechamber, approaching the Throne Room. It was open, revealing the Throne was painfully, obviously empty, and Gabriel’s heart sank.  The other archangels hadn’t been able to keep the secret about God’s absence while he was away?

Well, given the raiding party he had seen just before his death—it looked like they had made it much further than he expected—who knows what could have happened.

Gabriel heard a voice faintly echoing out from the Throne room and drew closer.

“I’ll throw you into the Pit, Metatron,” chimed the voice, and Gabriel recognised it as the voice of the Metatron itself.  “You’d better obey!  Are you sitting?  Sitting?  More hot irons!  This is better than Hell somehow, remember that!”

Gabriel peeked his head into the room and saw the Metatron sitting on the Throne, barely taking up even a portion of its huge, empty surface.  They were gesturing and shouting grandly, as though mimicking the Almighty.  

“Metatron,” said Gabriel.

Metatron was so startled that they slipped and fell off the Throne, tumbling to land gracelessly at the foot.  “Wh—Gabriel?!”

“Yes,” said Gabriel.  “I’m back. Somehow.”

Metatron dusted themselves off and peered at Gabriel disapprovingly. “Hmmmm.”

“Do you know how this is possible?”

“No, but I don’t like it one bit.  Is this what a nightmare is?”

Gabriel laughed.  Metatron smacked Gabriel with as much strength as they could muster, which was not a lot, really.

Gabriel took a step back.  “Get out of here!” said Metatron.  “I can’t stand your face!”

“What has gotten into you?” said Gabriel.  “What were you doing in here, on the Throne?  He may be gone, but that does not mean we can desecrate His holy—”

Gabriel broke off under a fresh assault of mildly threatening slaps from Metatron.  “We can do whatever we please, thank you very much!  We’ve been doing just fine without you around to boss everyone about!”

Gabriel tried to either extract information from, or talk some sense into the Metatron, but neither venture was successful.  He eventually settled on the idea of fleeing Metatron before they remembered how to actually inflict injuries, and finding Uriel instead.  Surely she would take his side in all this.

He investigated Heaven like a bloodhound and found that everything was in total disarray.  The human souls were wandering freely wherever they pleased.   Hardly any angels were around.  Those who recognised him were not happy to see him.

The most egregious breach of protocol was when he found a demon in one of the choir rooms, strumming a harp.  Gabriel managed to discorporate it, but it was able to get away before he could fully smite it.  The angel accompanying it seemed extremely distressed by this, but Gabriel wrung her out for allowing such a creature into the Heavenly Kingdom.  He got quite a lot of back-talk, which was absolutely unprecedented.*  He made note of the angel’s name and resolved to discipline her properly later, once order was restored again.

*Except for Aziraphale, but he didn’t count.

And he eventually discovered a surprising fact: Uriel was not in Heaven.  It seemed unlikely, but Gabriel could not avoid the conclusion for much longer.

Well, no matter.  After six-thousand years, the archangels had ways of finding each other, even in a place as big as Earth.  He was going to get to the bottom of this.

******************

“I wish we had gone with a search party instead.”

Maltha stopped scanning the horizon of St. James’ to look at Beth. “Hm?”

Beth kicked a pillar of the pavilion.  “This sucks.  I’m so worried about Aziraphale.  Anything could have happened to him.”

“We needn’t panic yet,” said Maltha.  She counted on her fingers.  “There’s only two resurrections we know about, Hastur and Kabata.  We don’t know that there are more.”

“There could be more.”

Maltha privately thought there probably were more, but she was trying her hand at being optimistic and was unfortunately finding herself not very good at it.  “With so many people looking, I’m sure we’ll find Aziraphale in no time.”

A figure with black wings rapidly increased in size in the sky. Victoria, and she had donned her armor. She folded her wings and trotted back towards Maltha, standing on a bench near where the party had been set up, the catering and decorations abandoned.

“Any word?” said Maltha.

“We’ve just finished a cursory sweep of London,” Victoria reported.  “No sign of him.  Crowley’s gone down to Hell to ask Noah for help.  The field agents are going to do a more thorough search of Great Britain, starting with the shop and working outwards.  He couldn’t have gotten too far.”

Beth wrung her hands.  “And can we—”

“I still think it’s best you and Maltha stay here in case Aziraphale shows up again.  Botis and Kyleth are at the shop.  We don’t know what’s happening, and with Mykas on his way down to Hell, it’s a good idea to keep an archdemon in London in case we need to deal with someone.”

Maltha lowered herself onto the bench, sitting on her hands.  “Right…”

“You really should get a cell phone,” said Beth.  “Angelo has one.”

Victoria gave her a dirty look.  “Sending a letter is perfectly fine and timely.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll be in contact,” said Victoria, spreading her wings and taking off.

Maltha watched the archangel disappear into the city.  Beth sprawled out on the bench next to her.  “I feel so useless.”

Maltha was quiet.

“Everything okay?  You seem weird.”

“I haven’t fought in a long time,” said Maltha.  “It’s been years.”

“You afraid you forgot how?”

Maltha twiddled her thumbs.  “No. I’m just not very happy about the prospect of having to again.”

Beth squinted at another approaching figure beating its wings in the sky to approach.  “Better get ready, though.  Who’s that?”

“Seems to be an archangel,” said Maltha.  She stood and materialised her staff, giving it a few swings to loosen up.

Beth got her cell phone out in case she needed to call someone.

“Oh, it’s just Uriel,” said Maltha.

Uriel touched down and walked up the park trail.  She came over and sat down on the bench next to Beth without a word, shuffling her shoulder bag onto her lap.

“Any news?” said Beth.

Uriel’s hands disappeared into her bag and reappeared with her knitting needles a moment later.  “I heard something happened, so I wanted to come help.”

“Ah,” said Beth.  “I’m not really sure how you can help.  Maybe we should call Angelo?  He’s good at that kind of stuff.”

Maltha didn’t respond, doing some practice staff work in the air.

“You’re very good,” said Uriel, who had no idea how to use a staff and, consequently, to whom all staff work looked good.

“Thanks,” said Maltha.

“I’ll just stay here and help you with whatever you’re doing to help, Maltha,” said Uriel.  “What job did they assign you?”

“We’re supposed to wait in London in case we’re needed.  Everyone else is looking for Aziraphale.”

“Oh.”  Uriel arranged her knitting on her lap.  “I’ll help you wait, then.”  She propped open a book on how to knit against Beth’s thigh.

Beth sighed and put her phone away.  “What are you making now?”

“Another hat.”

“Oh.  How did the last turn out?”

“Not very good.”

“This one looks better, though.”

“Not really.”

“…Yeah.”  She leaned over to study the way Uriel’s fingers moved against the needles and cloth. “It seems like you’re getting a little better at the techniques, though.”

Uriel’s hands continued to work, and her tone was absolutely matter-of-fact. “I’m no better than I was when I started.”

Beth squinted at the knitting book, trying to superimpose the illustrations in the book over Uriel’s tools, determined to help somehow.  “It looks like you need to loop the left hook around the right one, here, like this.”

“That’s what I’m doing now.”

“Oh.”

Whoosh whoosh whoosh went Maltha’s staff.

“You’ll get better at it eventually, I’m sure.  You have all the time in the world.”

“I gave Crowley that last hat I made.”

“Yeah? What did he say?”

“He pretended to like it, which is more than I expected.  I hope I put him more at-ease.”

“I’m sure you did,” said Beth, patting Uriel’s hand.

Maltha’s hands froze mid-air.  Her eyes rolled up to look at the sky, where the Heavens had parted, indicating an arrival from the celestial sphere.

“Hmm,” said Maltha distastefully.

The archangel Gabriel fluttered down, landing on the pavilion and dislodging a few roof tiles.  The warrior angel Kris followed, drawing his sword.

Maltha pivoted to face them without changing her stance.

“Erm,” said Beth.  “Weren’t you dead?”  She turned to Maltha.  “That one was dead, right?”

“Uriel,” said Gabriel, beckoning with his hand.  “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Uriel furrowed her brow.  She did not even look up at Gabriel, still focussed on her knitting.  “Where are we going?”

Gabriel stared at her for a moment.  Maltha raised her staff up at him and shook it in a mildly threatening way.

“What are you doing?” said Gabriel.

“I’m knitting,” said Uriel.

Now Gabriel looked befuddled.  He spread his wings and leapt down, drifting to a stop in front of the bench where Uriel sat.  Kris followed, taking on a fighting stance and trying to menace Maltha, who turned to face him.

“Don’t think you can beat me,” said Maltha in a warning tone.

“Three against one?” said  Gabriel. “You’re fierce, Maltha, but I doubt you want to face down me, Uriel, and Kris just for the sake of keeping Uriel prisoner.”

Maltha’s gaze shifted from Kris to Gabriel then to Uriel.

“Now hold on a minute,” snapped Beth.  “Uriel’s not on your side.”

Gabriel scoffed at her.  “Humans. Uriel, come on, let’s get out of here while we can.”

Uriel finally stopped her knitting and looked at him.  “And go where?”

“Away from this archdemon.”

Maltha’s grip tightened on her staff.

“Where is it that’s so important to go right now, though?”

“What’s gotten into you?” said Gabriel.  “They’re holding you prisoner, aren’t they?  You want to go back to Heaven, don’t you?”

Uriel didn’t answer.

Gabriel leaned over Uriel, who shrunk back into the bench, and examined her needlework without comment.  Uriel met his eyes, as though waiting for him to say something.

“They’re making you…sew garments?” said Gabriel, sounding completely lost.  “The Queen of Hell takes the Keeper of the Divine Aura hostage and she makes her do manual labor?”

Uriel looked down at her lap, as though Gabriel’s comment completely upended her worldview.

“She’s been free to leave whenever she wants,” said Beth, sounding like she wanted to throw a fit.  “You absolute asshole.  Leave us alone.”

“Where’s the Book of Life?” Gabriel demanded.  “What’s going on?  How long was I away?”

“I hid the Book of Life,” said Uriel.  “I didn’t want anyone to mess with it while I wasn’t around.  It’s safe.”

Gabriel’s eyes swept her up and down like a hawk.  “And you moved the most holy relic and abandoned your post why?  To come down here and—?”

Uriel’s needles clacked against each other.  “I could make you a hat, if you want one, Gabriel.”

Gabriel swiped his hand and knocked Uriel’s work out of her hands, spilling the yarn on the ground.  “Stop that,” he shouted.  “It’s unbecoming of the most holy servant of God!”

Uriel looked down at her yarn in the dirt, then back up to Gabriel.

“You’ll come back up to Heaven with me, and we’ll have a little talk about what exactly is going on,” said Gabriel.  “Kris, hold this archdemon off and meet us in Heaven later.”

With one fluid motion, Maltha pushed Beth back, knocking her flat on her arse, and simultaneously brought her staff up to block Kris’s sword.

“I really would prefer not to kill you,” said Maltha sourly.  “Come on now, we can have a nice chat instead.”

Gabriel looked at Uriel, as though expecting outrage and support that failed to materialise.  Uriel busily retrieved her things from the ground, her knees in the dirt.

Gabriel reached down and roughly hauled Uriel to her feet.  “Are you seeing this?  Let’s go!”

Maltha watched this out of the corner of her eye, worrying, and hissed when Kris landed a blow on her left shoulder, slicing it open.  “Fine, then.”

“I’m very busy, Gabriel,” said Uriel.  “Please leave me alone.”

“Who do you think you are,” Maltha snarled.  “We brought the Heavenly Kingdom to its knees, and you think you can just walk in here and win with only a power to help you?”

Kris scowled at her.

“Your name was Kris, wasn’t it?”

Their weapons clashed.  “Yes.”

“Dead then, weren’t you?”

“Seems I was brought back for the purpose of engaging you in co—”

“It was decapitation last time, wasn’t it?”

Maltha lobbed her staff like a baseball bat and knocked Kris’s head clean off his body.

For the first time in the encounter, Gabriel’s anger melted to fear.  He pulled Uriel by the arm away from Maltha.

“Let go of me,” Uriel said, digging her heels in.

Gabriel turned back, as though he hadn’t expected resistance, panicked eyes going from Uriel to Maltha and back again.  “Let’s go!”

“I’m busy!”

“Busy with what?”

“Knitting!”

“Forget the bloody yarn!”

Uriel’s face finally snapped into that expression of rage every angel in Creation had learned to fear.  “I chose this, Gabriel.  I may not be good at it, but I chose it, and you won’t take that away from me.”

“They’ve done something to you,” said Gabriel.  “We’ll find out exactly what once we get out of here.  Let’s go.”

“I said let go of me!” Uriel shrieked, finally breaking Gabriel’s grasp and shoving him backwards.  “You have the audacity to try and tell me what to do after I’ve finally decided for myself?”

Gabriel stumbled backwards, fear evident on his face as Uriel’s wings flared out in a display usually only reserved for demons incurring her wrath.

“You try to take my free will away just as I’ve finally learned to make use of it?”

Gabriel held his hands out, and his mouth tried to form words, but nothing came out.

“Things have changed, Gabriel, and you’ll not put them back to the way they were.  Get out of my sight.”

Gabriel did not move.

“Fine, then.”

Uriel lifted her hands and swiped them outwards over Gabriel’s body. Gabriel gasped as his wings ripped out of his back, seemingly without his consent.

Uriel clenched her fists, and Gabriel’s wings went stiff.  His eyes widened.

“U-Uriel, wait,” said Beth, while Maltha said, “You’re not going to—”

Uriel jerked her hands outwards in a ripping motion, and simultaneously Gabriel’s wings severed from his body, spraying blood on the pavilion behind him. Gabriel let out a pained shriek as a huge chunk of his aura came off with the wings.

Gabriel’s sandy-brown wings were engulfed in holy fire by the time they hit the ground.  Uriel stood over them with her hands still out, reflection of the flames dancing wickedly in her eyes.

Gabriel turned and staggered away, tripping over himself, trailing red pools over the grass from the huge bloody streaks on his back.

The holy fire sizzled out, leaving two piles of ashes on the ground surrounded by blackened grass. Uriel lowered her hands and clasped them in front of her.  Maltha and Beth stood where they were, looking at her with newfound fear.

Uriel watched until Gabriel had disappeared further into the park, out of sight.  Then, she knelt, picked her yarn up off the ground and brushed the dirt off it.  She took her seat on the bench and resumed.  The needles clacking against each other was the only sound other than the sizzling of the feathers on the ground.

*********************

“There!  There, I saw him!”

The image in the scrying ball collapsed into static.  Crowley crowded up against it desperately.  “I saw him.”

Lyra roughly pulled him away from the table littered with magic tools. “Please give me room to work.”

Crowley kneaded at the tablecloth.  “Hurry, I saw him.”

“Lyra is working as fast as she can,” said Noah magnanimously.  “Be patient.”

Crowley rubbed his hands together and paced.

“He is somewhere in the fourth layer of Hell,” said Lyra, rubbing her hands over the scrying ball.  “But there is something very powerful blocking my magic and making it difficult to tell exactly where.”

“We’ve received word that Mykas and Angelo are coming down,” said Noah. “With Mykas’s nose, we should be able to sniff Aziraphale out right quick.  Hm?”

He hmed as he was handed a letter by an imp.  He ripped it open and scanned it.

“Ah,” said King Noah.  “It appears as though Gabriel and Kris are both back as well.”

Crowley went absolutely ballistic.  “Does Gabriel have Aziraphale?  Did Gabriel come down to Hell?  Is Gabriel working with Kabata?”

Noah put up a hand.  “Crowley. Calm yourself.  I’m sorry, but I have no idea as of yet.  I didn’t bring Duke Hastur or Kabata back to life, and I certainly didn’t bring Gabriel back to life.  We’ll find out soon, though, one way or the other.”

Crowley turned back to Lyra, who had covered the table where she was working in incense smoke, which wafted in a ghostly way around her hands.  “If Gabriel is loose, we have to find Aziraphale right away.”

“Don’t worry about Gabriel, if the contents of Maltha’s letter are anything to judge by.”

Crowley shifted from foot to foot, antsy.  “I saw him.  You’re close.”

“Do you have any more of Aziraphale’s feathers?” said Lyra.  “That would help me increase the power of the spell.”

Crowley and Aziraphale had a big jar of each other’s feathers at home; they had arranged this a while back as gifts to each other.  Crowley snapped his fingers to summon Aziraphale’s to himself, then handed it to her.  She dumped about three-quarters of it into the cauldron in front of her, stirring it with one hand and waving the other over the scrying ball.

The crystal ball cracked, belching black smoke, and the image therein disappeared.

“Damn it!” Crowley shouted.

Lyra steadied herself with one hand on either end of the table.

“What’s the verdict, Lyra?” said Noah.

“He is somewhere in the fourth layer,” she reported.  “That is all the information I can gather through the interference.”

“Then we’ll send out search parties to sweep the fourth layer,” said Noah.

The words had hardly left his mouth before Crowley dashed from the room.

“Crowley, wait here until Mykas arrives!” Noah called.

But Crowley did not listen.  He had no gods or masters any longer, and he did what he wanted without thought now.

Mammon, lounging in the antechamber of the ninth layer, gave a piggish low and trundled to follow him up and out.

“We should wait and go as a group,” said Mammon.

“We have no time to lose,” said Crowley, clambering out into the eighth layer.

A group of familiar demons which had been lounging around recognised his eagerness and followed him up to the fourth layer.

Crowley led the pack, his gaggle of followers fanning out behind him, half trying to convince him to wait, half poking in cracks and crevices to look for Aziraphale themselves.

Crowley kept the ring-box in his pocket, caressing it worriedly.  In the span of a few minutes it had turned from a gift into a desperate good luck charm.  He white-knuckled it like a rosary and scoured the fourth layer, straining his senses to the max for any sign of that familiar aura.

Crowley proceeded with the greatest speed and enthusiasm out of anyone in the group.  It was no great surprise, then, that Crowley was the first one to find Aziraphale. Crowley sprinted towards the source of aura, faint but distinct, but stopped when he heard voices, indistinct. They sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place them.

They seemed to be coming from behind a rocky outcropping near the entrance to the fourth layer, and they grew louder as he approached.

“I do not know, my Lord, though it goes without saying I am…overjoyed at seeing you again.  I had intended on bringing this angel down to the ninth layer…”

He crouched onto all fours and crept forward.  

“Of course,” said the second voice.  “I would expect no less from you.  Good work.  This pathetic creature was the one responsible....Well, we’ll make an example out of him, won’t we?”

Primal fear prickled his neck as Crowley finally recognised the second voice. It was the voice of his long-dead tormenter.

Crowley managed to override his instincts to bolt, instead peeking around the rock.

Satan was there, looking just as he had on that fateful day he had tortured Crowley and met his end for it, down to the bloodied tools hanging off his belt. He was facing the rock where Crowley was; in front of him, facing away from Crowley, was a woman with green hair, and he finally recognised her too: Agares, the archdemon who most fiercely contended for Satan’s throne before Maltha swooped in and stole it.  In her right hand was an orb covered with pulsing sigils and emanating magic static; that would have been the device trying to mask their location.  That made sense in a way—Agares had been the one to uncover the angel dust spell; she had always been a bit more into spellwork than Satan.

And Aziraphale was there, all right.  He was facedown on the ground in between them, alive but looking quite worse for the wear.

Electric fear surged through Crowley.  Even all these years later, he still remembered in vivid detail what Satan had done to him, and to everyone he got his sadistic hands on.  The smart thing to do would be to go back and get help. But he bent with revulsion at the thought of leaving Aziraphale, his angel, his angel, in the clutches of Satan to be subjected to the same torment he had been through for even a single minute.  

But help was so close by.  There had been about a dozen demons tailing him.  Mykas was coming down.  Mammon wasn’t far behind.  Surely, surely if he left for just a moment…

Aziraphale, face bloodied, slowly raised his head and met Crowley’s eyes. His face mirrored a desperation he had never seen on Aziraphale before.

He couldn’t.  He couldn’t leave and risk coming back to find them gone.  Crowley hadn’t felt fear like this in decades.  The world was supposed to be gentler now.

Well, he’d be twice-damned if he let it go back to the way it had been before.

Crowley darted out from behind the rock, hoping to slither as quietly as he could.  But of course Satan saw him; Crowley was directly in his line of sight.  Satan’s eyes swiveled to follow him, and Agares, sensing his shift in attention, pivoted and also locked onto Crowley.

“What’s this?” said Satan, almost genially.

Aziraphale reached a hand up as Crowley drew near; Crowley took it and hefted Aziraphale up.

Satan circled around like a shark.  “You were the one I was torturing right before I died.  That was the last thing I remember.”

Crowley, trembling, started to drag Aziraphale away.  

“You sure have grown bold,” said Satan.  “How long was I away?”

Agares stepped in front of Crowley to block his path.  “I’ll take care of this, lord.”  She hooked the magical orb onto her belt and cracked her knuckles, sneering at them.  “This should be fun.”

Satan held out a hand.  “No, no, allow me.”

Crowley’s shaking redoubled as Satan drew near, towering over him.  Memories of the last time they had seen each other grew in Crowley’s mind, overwhelming his thoughts like static.

“Kneel,” said Satan.  His hand sprouted a set of wicked, dragon-like talons as he spoke.

Crowley slowly lowered Aziraphale to the ground, hunching over him protectively.

“Maybe you’ve forgotten exactly who your master is,” said Satan.

“I have no master,” said Crowley.

Satan’s eyes flared on him.  “Is that so?”

Crowley stood back up, knees weak, and materialised his healing staff.  Both Satan and Agares let out hearty laughs.

“You think you’re like Maltha?” said Agares.  “You’re pathetic.  You intend to face us down yourself?”

Satan locked eyes with Crowley and leaned in.  Crowley felt that force demanding obedience down to his very bones, burning into him with that gaze, the same gaze that had the power to command the very sun itself to rise.

Crowley’s legs buckled out from under him.  He went down, but he did not look away.  He held his staff out to shield Aziraphale.

“No one else will save you,” said Satan.  “The only one who cares about you is right here with you.”

Crowley glanced down at Aziraphale, then back up at Satan.  That taunt, which at one point would have been so successful in utterly breaking him, snapped Crowley back into reality. And he smiled.

“That’s what you think.”

And he took a deep breath and yelled at the top of his lungs.  “Over here! I found him!”

Satan and Agares looked a little shocked and glanced at each other.

“Who do you think will come help you?” said Satan.  “You’re nobody.”

All the same, he waved Agares to go stand by the rocks from which Crowley had appeared.

Sweating, Crowley forced himself to his feet.  His hands shook on his staff, but he managed to keep the tremble out of his voice.  “Things have changed a lot since you’ve been gone.”

“Lord, I think someone’s coming,” said Agares, sounding a little alarmed.

Crowley smiled.  “And you’re in for a nasty shock if you think you can force it back to the way it was.”

Satan reached a hand out to grab Crowley, but Crowley forced his aura outwards, using his staff as a conduit, and struck like a scorpion.

Satan hissed in pain and drew his arm back, clutching it, looking outraged.

Agares assumed a fighting stance and materialised a sword.  “Lord!” she said, sounding on the verge of panic. When Crowley heard the clacking of clawed feet on stone, he understood why.

Mykas came barreling around the corner, snarling and growling.  Agares immediately realised she was massively outclassed, but not with enough reaction time to get out of the way.

“Is that—?” Satan gasped.  “No, it can’t be-”

Agares had been torn up and knocked to the floor in a matter of moments. Mykas raised his head to lock eyes with Satan, blood-soaked muzzle crunched in a snarl, still crushing Agares’s windpipe.

“Michael?” said Satan.

“Run,” Crowley whispered.  He didn’t know why he did so.  It probably wasn’t out of genuine compassion.

Satan stepped back from Mykas, then whirled around and fled.

That was why, Crowley decided.  He’d wanted to see Satan run from someone for a change.

Mykas bounded forward to give chase, but then he caught sight of Aziraphale lying injured on the ground and veered towards him instead.  “Are you both okay?”

“I’m all right,” said Aziraphale distantly into the dirt.

“You’re bloody not all right,” said Crowley, laughing tearfully.  “You look like shit.”

“Fortunately we have a healer close at hand, then,” said Mykas, prodding Crowley with his nose.

Crowley suddenly became aware of himself and turned Aziraphale over, resting his head on his lap.  He started pouring healing energy into the angel’s battered body.

“You bloody idiot,” said Crowley.

“You’re the one who sent me to the store to pick out wine for almost an hour,” said Aziraphale.

Neither of them said their words with any real malice.  They were both almost faint with relief.

Footsteps from behind the outcropping heralded the imminent arrival of the rest of the search party, and friendly faces poured in to crowd around them.

“Been a while since we’ve had to do this, hasn’t it, Crowley?” said Aziraphale, putting a hand on Crowley’s hand while it worked on Aziraphale’s injury.

“Yeah,” said Crowley.  The smile faded from his face.  “But it’s still too damn soon.”

But they were together, and they were safe.

Chapter Text

Art by @petimetrek  (Link)

Satan, showing his true colors, left Agares on the verge of death at Mykas’s feet without a second thought or any attempt at all to retrieve her.

Maltha did heal her, only begrudgingly so, and after Aziraphale told her it was quite all right to do so.  Agares could be heard heaping verbal abuse upon her in the process, and the final examination ended with Maltha throwing her hands up and saying, “Well, she won’t die, so I’m done here.”

Unfortunately, Agares seemed to have no insight into the recent resurrections; she didn’t even know how she was here.  She had no concept of how much time had passed.  That was pretty much all the information they could get out of her.

After that, Noah had Agares thrown in the Pit.  This had been the standard protocol for any demon, no matter the rank, who refused to stop causing trouble.  Which, given the several-hour-long session Noah had with her that ended with Noah coming out looking frazzled and frustrated, she definitely did.

The Pit was a sort of maximum-security prison because it was a simple dimension hole from which nobody could really get out unless summoned by someone on the other side.  They hadn’t needed to use it in years, and none of them were very happy to have to open it back up.

Crowley and Aziraphale, once again reunited in safety, realised grimly upon their decision to go back up to Earth that their stressful spate of time needing bodyguards had returned along with the mysterious new arrivals.

There wasn’t really anyone around to ask.  Mykas had tracked Satan down to the infernal stables, where the imp manning the barn reported Satan had stolen a hellhorse and taken off in the direction of Earth and was probably long gone by now.  So they had decided all available hands should start scouring Earth for his whereabouts before he could get much further and do any more damage.

Noah was pretty much the only one remaining in the ninth layer, so Crowley very meekly approached and asked if anyone would be free to escort him and Aziraphale back up to Earth.  Noah scrambled to fulfill his request, and a few minutes later Victoria was by their side, taking them back up to Earth under the safety of her wings.

Crowley had honestly expected Noah to try and convince him to stay in Hell, but he was glad they were free to go.  That meant he could finish healing Aziraphale in the comfort and privacy of the bookshop’s back room, where Aziraphale lay on the sofa with wings out.

“What should we do with the food and decorations and stuff?”

Crowley, straddling Aziraphale’s ample posterior to position himself, looked at Adramelech, who stood in the shop with the look of a puppy that had just been kicked.

Victoria stood guard at the entrance to the back room.  Crowley leaned over to address her.  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance we might still have the party…?”

Victoria turned away, unable to look him in the face.  “Everyone is scrambling.  The higher-ups are having a strategic meeting to decide what should be done about the new arrivals.  I expect everyone will be busy investigating and trying to find Satan before he can hole up somewhere.”

Crowley sighed and massaged Aziraphale’s shoulders sadly.  “Thanks, Adramelech.  Take the decorations down and box them up.  We might be able to re-use them.  As for the food, no need to let it go to waste.  Distribute it around for everyone to take with them.  I expect with everyone so busy, nobody will really have interest in cooking.  It might prove useful.”

Adramelech nodded morosely.  “I’ll bring a basket back here for you and Aziraphale.”

“Thank you, dear boy,” said Aziraphale.  “It is much appreciated.  You and Sylvia be careful, now.”

Adramelech slunk out.

Crowley sighed, his hands kneading Aziraphale’s flesh.  “I keep telling myself things could be worse.”

“They could be,” said Aziraphale.  “We could have not gotten to sample the baskets of gourmet food Adramelech is going to bring us.”

Crowley squeezed his shoulders, laughing despite the circumstances.  “I meant more like, luckily you aren’t too badly beaten up.”

“I kept my wings mostly drawn in during the whole ordeal,” said Aziraphale.

“Mmm.”  Crowley combed his fingers through Aziraphale’s feathers, at this point more preening them just for comfort than anything.

Aziraphale laid his face down into the pillow and said something too quietly to hear.

“What did you say, angel?”

Aziraphale folded his wings and rolled over, arm slung over his face.  “I thought we were done with this.”

Crowley set his hands in lap.  “Yeah…me too.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“This really isn’t fair,” said Crowley.

“Yeah,” said Aziraphale.  

“Well, luckily this time we’ve got almost the entire world on our side,” said Crowley.  “We won’t go down without a fight.”

“We won’t go down at all,” said Aziraphale.  “Everyone has really, truly come to appreciate the way the world is now.  It can never go back to the way it was before, not even with the return of Gabriel and Satan or even God H—”

Crowley and Aziraphale locked eyes, fearful.

“You don’t think…?” said Crowley.

“Somebody, I hope not…” said Aziraphale.

Crowley sprawled out on the bed next to Aziraphale, laughing grimly.  “If so, we’ll be the first to go, I’m sure of it.”

Aziraphale twiddled his thumbs.  “I suppose we ought to postpone the engagement to a later time, then.”

Crowley no longer had the good humour to pretend the engagement hadn’t been about to happen.  “Yeah…”

Crowley kneaded the bedspread, staring at the ceiling.  The damn world always got in the way.

“No,” he said, sitting up.  “Fuck that.”  He dug in his pocket and withdrew the two ring boxes.  “It’s not how I wanted it to happen, but this is happening, damn it.”

“Crowley…”

Crowley opened the white ring box and presented the gold ring to Aziraphale. “Aziraphale, will you marry me?”

Crowley’s face was red and very, very serious.  Aziraphale laughed, caressing Crowley’s cheek.  “Of course I will.”

His hand moved to the ring.  “This is beautiful, Crowley…”

“Compliments of the infernal treasury.  Hold out your hand.”

Aziraphale allowed Crowley to slip the ring onto his finger. Aziraphale hid his face in his other hand, admiring the way the light sparkled in the beautiful lapis lazuli gemstone.

The angel looked like he might faint.  “Crowley, this is wonderful.  I see it has something etched into it…?”

“It has a partner,” said Crowley, cracking open the black ring box. He showed Aziraphale the silver and onyx ring, sliding it up his own finger.  “They’re enchanted.”

“To do what?”

Crowley scrutinised the spellwork wrought into the silver on his finger.  “Not sure…Noah was a bit vague.  ‘No matter the distance separating you, you’ll know you’re with each other.’  We can use the charm once every twelve hours.”

Aziraphale rubbed the blue stone on his ring.  The sigil glowed faintly.  Crowley gasped as he felt a tendril of Aziraphale’s aura through his hand.

“Did you feel that?” said Aziraphale.

Crowley did.  It was just a flash, an impression of the angel, the warm love, the tenderness he felt. It was like holding his hand.

“This is—This is—Angel, are you crying?”

“No,” said Aziraphale, crying.

The glow faded and with it, the extra caress of his partner.  Crowley rubbed the red gem on his finger, thinking it was probably the best gift he had ever gotten.

“This is wonderful,” said Crowley.  “We’ll always know we’re with each other, even…even if we get separated like that again.”

“I want to be with you forever,” said Aziraphale.  “I feel like—No matter where we are—where we’ve been, all throughout history—whenever we’re together…being together feels like home.  Home is wherever you are.  Home is wherever we’re both together.”

Crowley nuzzled his forehead, and Aziraphale wrapped an arm around his shoulder.

“We’ll get out of this together,” said Crowley.  “No matter what.  We’ll spend forever together, wherever it is.”

“I would like nothing more than that.”

Crowley’s hands felt very warm in Aziraphale’s own.  Crowley had always felt very warm, as though he had hellfire flickering under his skin, despite him always complaining about being cold.

They both sat up at the sound of Victoria’s booted footsteps coming up the stairs.  “We’ve got company,” she said, poking her head into the room.

Aziraphale wiped his face quickly.  “Bloody Hell,” said Crowley, jumping off the bed and putting his shoes on. “Who?”

“Archdemon,” said Victoria.  “Don’t know which one.  They’re still a ways off, but approaching rapidly.”

“What should we do?” said Crowley.

“Wait in the back room while I see who it is,” said Victoria.  “They might not be hostile, but judging by the aura it’s not Maltha.”

Aziraphale and Crowley hunkered down on the sofa in the back room while Victoria went out into the shop proper.  She returned a moment later and stuck her head into the back room.  “It’s Kabata.  He’s not trying to get into the shop.  He’s eyeing up the shop next door.”

“Yulera’s shop,” said Aziraphale softly.

“I don’t think he intends us any harm,” said Crowley.

The three of them came out into the main shop and glanced out the front window. Kabata could be seen lurking on the street corner, facing Yulera’s shop.  Yulera was visible in the shop front, engrossed in a huge volume that took up her whole desk.  There was nobody else in the shop—unsurprising, considering not even the wear of the years had convinced her to stop making her shop even more unwelcoming to humans than Aziraphale’s.

“Do you trust this guy?” said Victoria.  “Should we let him in if he tries to come in?”

“I trust him not to attack us, at least,” said Crowley.  “Why don’t you wait upstairs?”

Victoria was only convinced to do so once Crowley told her about his last encounter with Kabata.  Her aura was still faintly detectable from upstairs, a reminder of their protection, but not so much so that it would feel like she was dominating the room like she would be if she were there.

After a few minutes of ambling on the sidewalk, Kabata turned away from Yulera’s shop and approached Aziraphale’s.  He met their eyes for a moment before opening the door and sticking his head in.

He didn’t say anything.  Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“May I come in?” said Kabata.

“Seems you already have,” said Aziraphale.

Kabata’s hooves tapped the floorboards as he stepped in and closed the door behind him.  He wrung his hands.

“Why have you come here?” said Crowley.

“I…need some advice.”

Crowley waited for him to elaborate.  The archdemon lowered his head and turned back to face Yulera’s shop. “How can I be someone worthy of her love?”

Now this was something they hadn’t been prepared for.  They tried to use the same track they had done with Uriel, but with Victoria upstairs breathing down their necks, and with the way Kabata kept distractedly glancing out the shopfront to the display next door, they were afraid to take too long.  They eventually settled for trying to give Kabata relationship advice and sending him off with the suggestion he plan a picnic for Yulera, which would be a lovely activity for their reunion.  Crowley conveniently had access to a large supply of leftover gourmet picnic food, so he offloaded a decent feast into a picnic basket and gave it to Kabata, who scuttled out the door looking like he had a plan.

Victoria came down a few moments later to ask how it went.

“All right, I suppose,” said Crowley.  “I guess we’ll find out.”

“He went to the park to set up a picnic,” said Aziraphale.  “I suspect he’ll be back in a few minutes to invite Yulera to join him.”

Victoria went back upstairs, assuring them she’d watch from the upper floor windows and swoop in if anything went wrong.

Kabata returned as predicted, twenty minutes later.  He hovered in front of Aziraphale’s shop for a moment before turning and walking towards Yulera’s shop.

“Here we go,” said Crowley.

Kabata tapped the door, realised it was unlocked, then pushed it open.  He disappeared briefly, then became visible through the shopfront as he approached Yulera.

Yulera’s head jerked up, and her eyes widened in surprise.  

Kabata extended his arms, mouth moving in silent speech neither of them could decipher.

Yulera slithered over the counter and approached him, tail twitching. Her face extended into a great smile, then as he continued talking, faded into a frown.

“Uh-oh,” said Aziraphale.

Yulera pivoted, grabbed a huge atlas off her desk, and hurled it at him. He turned in time so that it only hit his shoulder, but a slew of weighty dictionaries soon followed.  Yulera’s voice could be heard shouting muffled through the glass as Kabata fled.

The chime of Aziraphale’s shop door sounded, and Kabata came in, looking frazzled.

“What happened?” said Crowley.

Kabata flicked an ear, absolutely stone-faced.  “She realised I was bad for her.”

********************

With no wings, Gabriel had no way to get back into Heaven to try and right anything.

There was one field station within walking distance of St. James’ park. He managed to reach it, walking uneasily, robe soaked with blood, and made the unpleasant discovery that nobody at the field station was happy to see him in the slightest.  It was severely under-staffed, with only a single healing angel there loitering with a warrior companion, and they both laughed in his face when he tried to give him commands.

He also made the discovery that when Uriel ripped his wings off, she had also removed a decent portion of his archangel powers.  He was operating on about the level of a clerical power.  He couldn’t force the healers there to help him when, to his astonishment, they flat-out refused to do so.

Gabriel was familiar with Earth, of course; he had been an Overseer of Divine Affairs on Earth at one point. But he had never lived there, and as a consequence there was nowhere on Earth he felt safe and comfortable running to besides the field stations.

So now, his one resource exhausted, he had nowhere to go.  Maybe, possibly he could go back to St. James’ and see if Uriel was still there, if he could talk some sense into her.  Maybe he could throw himself on Maltha’s mercy. Maybe—

Maybe nothing.  The world seemed perfectly happy to have him dead.

Yet he still went back to the park.  There seemed little else to do.  His sandaled feet dragged tiredly through the grass, every movement labored at this point.  He stopped, swaying unsteadily on his feet.

The park was a nice place to die, at least.  The grass was soft.  Water bubbled quietly.  Ducks quacked.

There weren’t any humans in the park, which seemed odd, but there was one picnicker, and Gabriel’s heart sunk as he recognised him.

Kabata was sitting cross-legged on a checkered blanket, eating from an enormous picnic basket alone.  He spied Gabriel, put down one of his sandwiches, and patted the spot next to him.

Gabriel, knowing he had no chance of getting away in this state if the archdemon decided to throw his weight around, complied and took a seat on the blanket.

“You look like shit,” said Kabata.  “What happened to you?”

“Uriel got temperamental with me,” said Gabriel.  

Kabata grunted and swallowed the rest of his sandwich.  Gabriel idly reached into the picnic basket and removed part of a sub.

“I’m going to die again, I suppose,” he said.

Kabata’s small tail flicked.  “You’re not going to die, you huge baby.  Angels of lesser ranks have survived greater injuries with less help.”

“Nobody has ever had an injury like mine,” Gabriel snapped.  “In case you didn’t notice, I lost my fucking wings.”

Kabata shook a bug off his leg.

“How am I supposed to do anything like this?  How can I enforce the Heavenly order?”

“Gabriel, do you want some advice?”

Gabriel unwrapped the sandwich, half tempted to actually eat it.

“Give up,” said Kabata.

Gabriel looked over at him.  The archdemon took another bite of food.

“But what about the Heavenly order?” said Gabriel.

“Fuck the Heavenly order,” said Kabata, muffled through his mouthful of food.  “You’re alive, and you’re free, and that’s the best anyone like us can get.”

“You want me to admit you were right,” said Gabriel hotly.  “That we would be better off without God running things, leaving everyone and everything to their own devices.  To free will…”

He trailed off as he spoke, anger fading.

Kabata gestured up to the clear blue sky.  Birds tweeted.  A duck wandered up and eyed Gabriel hopefully.

Gabriel took a bite out of the sandwich.  After a moment, he said, “Okay, you were right.  But you didn’t have to be such a prick about it.”

Kabata flicked an ear.  “Fair.”

They both threw some of their bread to the ducks.

“You can stay with me, I guess,” said Kabata.  “But don’t expect hugs or anything.”

Gabriel drew his knees up to his chest.  “You and I haven’t spent time together in decades.”

“Yes, but before that, we did work together for nearly six millennia. Running things on Earth.”

“Before you fell.”

“Before you sentenced me to fall.”

Gabriel glowered.

“Do you want me to help you or not?  Clearly you don’t have much to go on.”

“You won’t turn me over to them?” said Gabriel.  “Surely they would execute me again.”

Kabata shrugged.  “You might be surprised at how little anyone in this new order gives a shit about you if you’re minding your own business.  I know that was always hard for you to do, though.”

Gabriel took another sandwich.  “Minding your own business, huh?  And what is ‘my own business’?”

Kabata looked at him.

“What’s your own business?  What are your goals?  What are you doing now that you’ve ‘given up’?”

Kabata lay back on the blanket, looking up at the clouds.  He spread his arms out wide.  “Just…existing.  Just doing whatever I feel like.  It rather agrees with me.”

“Yeah?”

Kabata squinted up at the clouds, as though in suspicion.  “…yeah.”

Chapter Text

Despite almost the entirety of Hell and a decent chunk of Heaven scrambling about like a hive-mind of ants to locate Satan or any of the other troublemakers, they turned up mostly empty-handed.  It seemed Satan had decided he would quite like to stay hidden for now.  Not his usual modus operandi, but he wasn’t so stupid he couldn’t see when he was clearly outnumbered and outgunned, and he was powerful enough to accomplish a disappearing act when he wanted to.

They did spot Hastur, briefly, in the stratosphere above the Atlantic Ocean, but he was gone by the time the scout managed to come back with reinforcements to confront him.  They speculated he had likely joined up with Satan, who had always been his primary loyalty, besides Ligur.

They also caught sight of Gabriel with Kabata, of all people, lurking outside of Heaven’s gate, of all places.  That pair made themselves difficult to find, too.  But with Maltha’s report about what exactly Uriel had done to Gabriel, and Crowley’s report of Kabata’s seemingly ambivalent attitude about everything nowadays, they didn’t seem to be the likely source of any further trouble.  Still...one had to wonder what they were up to.

In the wake of these efforts, Metatron called for a meeting.  Calling for a meeting was really all that was left of Metatron’s power, but everyone was unusually eager to confer, given the circumstances.  The Metatron left it to Noah’s discretion exactly who should come, but they made it quite clear they intended to have a discussion about what course of actions they should take.

Crowley and Aziraphale were invited, of course.  They were still preoccupied with their rings, truth be told. They activated the charm every twelve hours like clockwork, blushing and giggling to each other upon feelings its effects, hugging in close to each other.

Victoria rolled her eyes whenever they did this.  Nevertheless, she refrained from commenting and escorted them up to Heaven with the utmost professionalism.

They arrived in Heaven without giving much thought to what security measures would await them.  No one had guarded the pearly gate in years, except to keep dead humans from wandering out, which they already seemed disinclined to do.  And there hadn’t been anything in Heaven harmful to demons in a while, not since they drained the holy water fountains.  Demons didn’t generally prefer to hang out there, but it wasn’t unusual to find some up here, especially when they had some business with the Victoria or Raphael.

Aziraphale and Crowley found Maltha waiting for them at the entrance, smoking a cigarette.  She ground it out as they approached.  “Good to see you again.”

Their escort appeared behind them, breaching the cloudy entrance to Heaven. “No trouble,” Victoria said.  “It was smooth sailing getting up here.”

Maltha nodded.  “Metatron is in the Judgement Hall.”

The statement didn’t alarm any of them.  The Judgement Hall hadn’t been used for its intended purpose since Michael’s fall.  They mostly used it for hosting large meetings when the occasion arose, simply because it had a lot of space and seating intended for such thing.

“Noah should be arriving shortly,” said Maltha as they set off.  “I don’t know who else is coming. I told Uriel she should probably come, but she wasn’t sure if she’d be joining us.”

“Why the hell not?” said Victoria, stormily.  “We need all hands on deck.”

Maltha shrugged.  “Probably because Mykas is coming.”

Victoria crossed her arms.  “Fine, I guess, but we have bigger things to worry about.”

“I’m sure she’s already worrying about them.”

“I’m not sure she is.  She needs to get with the program.”

“Then you can tell her that if and when she shows up.”

Victoria scowled.  She was extremely cranky because of this whole situation.  She hadn’t slept, and she was one of the angels who had let herself get used to sleeping occasionally.  “Let’s just get this over with.”

They entered the antechamber for the Judgement Hall.  The Metatron’s voice could be heard cursing loudly from within, and there was the sound of papers spilling and ripping.

Maltha rushed forwards and threw the doors open.  Metatron was the only one in the room; they had a large stack of papers on their section of the bench and were ripping sheets up in an incredibly frustrated way.

“Metatron!” said Maltha.

Metatron paused mid-rip to look at Maltha.  “Oh.  Hello. Thank you for coming.”

Maltha came in and took a seat in front of the dais.  Metatron seemed to lose steam and started shuffling the bits of torn paper into a neat pile.

“What’s that you’ve got?” said Crowley, sitting next to Maltha.

“It’s Gabriel’s paperwork,” said Metatron.  “Since he was spotted lurking outside Heaven with Kabata, I thought he might crash the meeting.  So I brought out the paperwork, because he always took care of that sort of thing.”

“Oh,” said Crowley.

“Then why did you, ah…rip it up?” said Aziraphale.

“Because I remembered that I hate him,” said Metatron.

Victoria positioned herself behind the bench where she could keep an eye on everyone.  The door creaked open and Raphael tiptoed in, trying to avoid drawing everyone’s attention but failing.

“Come in, come in,” said Metatron.  

Raphael moved to shut the door behind him, but another attendant was coming in behind him.

“Oh, Azrael,” said Metatron.  “I…ah…didn’t expect you to show up.”

His biker boots clomped on the red carpet as Death strode in.  He removed his helmet, revealing a grinning skull.  THIS IS VERY MUCH MY BUSINESS.

“Right…” said Maltha.

“What’s your take on what’s happening?” said Crowley.

Death held up a hand.  LET US WAIT UNTIL WE ARE ALL HERE, SO I DO NOT HAVE TO REPEAT MYSELF OVER AND OVER.

An arrival on Hellhorse could be heard outside, the beat of hooves and jangle of bridles.  Crowley tensed as he remembered Satan had last been seen fleeing on Hellhorse, but when the door pushed open it only revealed Noah.  He had none of the usual escort that jostled about him in Hell, and he had foregone the usual crown and cape and come dressed in simple riding clothes. The way he carried himself spoke of his intention to manage the situation with all the kingly wisdom and fortitude the years of training and love from his upbringing had graced him with, to take action and get down to business.

“I came as soon as I could,” said Noah, removing his gloves.

“Thank you for coming,” said Metatron.

Noah scooted past Aziraphale to sit at the bench, facing Metatron. “Angelo is bringing Mykas.  They should be here shortly.”  

Angelo was indeed there shortly, Mykas trotting in behind him and honing in on a seat at the bench in front of the dais.  He was dressed in his battle armor, with his enormous sword swinging at his belt, and he propped his feet up on the bench irreverently.  Angelo slapped his dirty boot as he scooted past him to get a chair.

“Are we all here?” said Maltha.

Metatron looked at the faces who had gathered:  Aziraphale, Crowley, Victoria, Maltha, Raphael, Azrael, Noah, Mykas, and Angelo.  A motley crew, for sure, and one that would never have been able to meet in the old order. But if anyone could come up with a plan, it was this group.

“Is Uriel coming?” said Metatron.

Mykas’s nostrils flared.  “She better not.  I’d hardly trust someone like her with the fate of the new order.”

“Uriel could make important contributions,” said Maltha.  “She’s really been developing her critical thinking skills.”

“Mmm-hmm,” said Mykas.  “Sure.”

“Regardless,” said Metatron.  “We can start without her.”

Maltha nodded in assent.

“This meeting is hereby in session.”  Metatron flung the papers off their section of the desk with an angry gesture.  “And our official proclamation is that we do not like this one bit.”

“Have you had a run-in with Gabriel?” said Angelo.

“Yes,” said Metatron.  “He’s back, and I don’t know how, and I don’t like it one bit.”

“I assume you got our message?” said Noah.

“Yes,” said Metatron.  “But as long as Gabriel is alive, regardless of what Uriel’s done to him, he poses a threat.”

“I don’t know,” said Noah.  “Maybe we can win him over now that he’s been knocked down a peg.”

“Killing him would be easier,” said Mykas.

“We can figure out how to deal with Gabriel after the immediate crisis is resolved,” said Maltha.

“Maltha’s right,” said Victoria.  “Gabriel will have to be dealt with, but Satan is the much bigger threat right now.”

“All right,” said Crowley, counting on his fingers.  “Who all do we know has come back from the dead?  Gabriel, Hastur, Kris, Satan, Agares, and Kabata. Is that it?”

Death sat stormily with his arms crossed.  Everyone looked at him out of the corner of their eye, but he didn’t comment.

“That’s all we know about right now,” said Raphael.  “I think.”

“I’ve already been asked this several times and no, I’m not responsible for it,” said Noah.  “And neither is Adam.  I’ve talked with him extensively about whether or not he still has supernatural powers, and he’s adamant he doesn’t.  And even if either of us were going to bring anyone back to life, that lot would have been pretty low on the list.”

“I think I speak for everyone,” said Mykas, “on Earth, and up in Heaven and down in Hell, that everyone, when pushed, is going to side with us and with the way things are now, rather than wanting to go back to the old order.”

“He’s right,” said Angelo.  “Even those who didn’t want to admit they liked the new way of things up until now will drop the charade when faced with the possibility of going back to the way things were.”

“Then we are in agreement,” said Metatron.  “This can’t be allowed to stand.  We need them out of the way again.  We need to figure out what’s happened so that we can reverse it.”

Crowley noticed the manic way the Metatron’s hands worked at a scrap of paper on the desk.  They were more scared than they were letting on.

Aziraphale drummed his fingers on the table.  “We could simply reverse it by killing them again.”

Noah and Metatron looked at each other uncomfortably.

“Maybe,” said Victoria.  “But there’s no guarantee they wouldn’t just come back again unless we take care of whatever caused this in the first place.”

Raphael leaned back and crossed his arms.  “So let’s brainstorm as to all the possible ways this could happen.”

They all took on looks of exaggerated thoughtfulness.  They were, in reality, waiting for Death to inevitably give his input, without any of them having to directly ask him.

Maltha was the first to speak:  “It sounds like one of the foundation angels has misbehaved.”

All heads turned towards Death, whose toothy visage did not shift even a millimeter.

I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE EITHER, said Death, AND WHOEVER DID THIS HAS GRAVELY OVERSTEPPED THEIR BOUNDARIES AND BYPASSED MY AUTHORITY.  IT IS AN INSULT COMING FROM AN ANTICHRIST, BUT FROM ANOTHER ANGEL IT IS UNFORGIVABLE. I WILL HAVE WORDS FOR THE CULPRIT WHENEVER WE DISCOVER THEM.   THEY HAVE DONE SERIOUS DAMAGE.

“Damage?” said Noah.

Death looked as upset as it was possible to with no facial muscles.  WHEN AN ANTICHRIST BRINGS SOMEONE BACK TO LIFE—WELL, THAT IS NOT PREFERABLE, BUT IT AT LEAST LEAVES THE FABRIC OF REALITY IN TACT.

“What?” said Crowley, nearly falling out of his chair.

THE FOUNDATION ANGELS ARE ALL IN A FUSS, said Death.  THEY CAN ALL FEEL IT.  WHOEVER DID THIS HAS NOT DONE IT CAREFULLY, AND THE FOUNDATIONS OF THE UNIVERSE HAVE STARTED TO FRAY.  WE MAY BE ABLE TO FIX IT, BUT SOMETHING MUST BE DONE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.

“What do you mean?” said Mykas, brow furrowed.

“It’s like this,” said Metatron.  “The foundation angels are given special access to the mechanisms that make the basic laws of the universe work, with the intention of having them keep everything running smoothly.  It has never happened before, but there is theoretically nothing stopping a foundation angel from seizing the mechanism of the universe and using them for things they weren’t intended for.  Even Satan never dared to touch them for anything like that; he knew the fabric of the universe might begin to unravel if the foundation angels abused their authority like that.”

THE FOUNDATION ANGELS ARE GENERALLY UNINCLINED TO DO SO, said Death. THERE IS LITTLE WE DESIRE IN THE SAME WAY LESSER ANGELS DO.

Metatron coughed on the phrase “lesser angels.”

WE ARE A RELIC FROM A TIME WHEN ANGELS ACTUALLY DID THEIR JOBS.

Aziraphale, Victoria, Raphael, Metatron, and Angelo all turned red and found various items in the room suddenly very interesting to look at.

MAYBE YOU SHOULD CONSIDER THAT YOUR BLATANT DISREGARD FOR THE ORDER MAY HAVE CONSEQUENCES.  IF THE FOUNDATION ANGELS DID NOT CARRY OUT THEIR DUTIES, THE UNIVERSE WOULD COLLAPSE. ONE COULD ARGUE IT HARDLY SEEMS FAIR THE FOUNDATION ANGELS ARE BOUND TO SERVE FOREVER, WHILE EVERYONE ELSE GALLIVANTS ABOUT WITH FREE WILL.

“Well what do you want us to do about it?” said Victoria crankily.  “It’s not our fault.”

Death’s faceless visage of a skull very slowly turned towards her.  She shifted in her seat in an unsettled way.

I DO NOT EXPECT YOU TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT, said Death, voice flat. I AM MERELY POINTING OUT HOW FORTUNATE IT IS THAT THE FOUNDATION ANGELS GENERALLY DESIRE NOTHING ELSE OTHER THAN TO SEE THE NATURAL ORDER OF PHYSICS RUN LIKE A WELL-OILED MACHINE, TO TAKE PLEASURE IN THE COMPLEX MACHINATIONS OF THE UNIVERSE.

“I think what Death is saying,” said Noah politely, “is that it’s a little remarkable something like this hasn’t happened already.  It’s a testament to the discipline the foundation angels have.”

If it were possible, Death looked a little bit pleased.

“And I think, therefore,” said Noah, “that whoever did this might be even more dangerous than Satan.  It could be catastrophic if the foundation angels started using their powers however they wanted.”

CONVENIENT THAT YOU SUPPORT ENFORCING THE NATURAL ORDER WHEN IT BENEFITS YOU, said Death.  EVEN IF IT INVOLVES FORCING OTHER ANGELS TO FALL IN LINE.  ISN’T THAT WHAT YOU REJECTED WHEN YOU ABANDONED THE INEFFABLE PLAN?

“Azrael!” Victoria snapped.  “I don’t know what you want us to do.  We’re trying our best to make the world safer for everyone, but we’re not omnipotent like God was.  We didn’t set it up like this.”

“Death, aren’t you mad at whoever did this?” said Aziraphale snippily. “Why are you defending them?”

“Please, please,” said Noah, waving them both down.  “Everyone, it’s all right.  We didn’t come here to fight.  We came to plan.  I’m sure we can simply talk to whoever did this and find out what’s going on.  We’ll think of something that will make everyone happy.  Now.”  He tented his fingers.  “Which of the foundation angels would have the power to do something like this?  Azrael?  Please help us out.”

Death’s leather jacket crinkled as he crossed his arms.  THEORETICALLY, ALL OF THE FOUNDATION ANGELS HAVE ACCESS TO THE MECHANICS TO DO THIS, BUT THEY WERE NEVER INTENDED TO BE USED LIKE THIS, AND FEW ARE POWERFUL ENOUGH TO USE THEM.  THE LIST IS SHORT.  LUCIFER, BUT FOR OBVIOUS REASONS I DOUBT IT WAS HIM.  MOTHER EARTH.  TIME.  SPACE.  THE OCEAN.  MAYBE THE MAN IN THE MOON, IF HE WAS FEELING PARTICULARLY CHEEKY.

Maltha sat back, tapping the table.  “Okay, so out of all those capable, who would have the motivation to try and set things back to the old order?”

Her question hung unanswered in the air.

“All right, let’s look at it this way,” said Crowley, scooting forward to try and take the center of attention.  “Let’s think about those who came back.”  He counted on his fingers.  “Hastur, Agares, Satan, Kabata, Gabriel, Kris.  What do all these people have in common?”

“Hmm,” hummed Metatron.  “Nothing, as far as is immediately obvious.”

“No, that’s not true,” said Aziraphale.  “They all died fairly recently.  In the events leading up to and during the second rebellion.  I think Satan’s death is the oldest one on the list, and that started everything.”

“What about God?” said Mykas.

The thought oppressively blanked the room.

The doors to the hall boomed open.  All heads whipped towards it in panic, as though they might have been caught doing something not allowed.

Uriel slid into the room, pushing the door shut behind her.  Everyone exhaled a breath of relief.  Except for Mykas, who merely crossed his arms sourly.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Uriel.  “I wasn’t sure if I should come.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Mykas grumbled.

Uriel stood with her hands clasped together in front of her.

“Come in and sit down,” said Maltha.  “The meeting is already well under way.”

“I came up because I had an idea,” said Uriel, striding into the room.

“Get lost,” Mykas said.

Uriel stopped in her tracks.

“Sit down,” said Maltha.  “Hurry up.”

Uriel jostled past everyone on the dais to sit next to Maltha.  Mykas glowered at her, arms crossed.

“We don’t have time for this, Mykas,” said Maltha.  “Uriel, tell us what you were going to say.”

“Here’s my question,” said Uriel.  “Have any humans come back to life?  Or was it only angels and demons?”

NO HUMANS, said Death.  I COUNTED MULTIPLE TIMES TO ENSURE THAT.

Uriel nodded.  “And was there…anyone else?”

“We were just entertaining that possibility,” said Metatron.  “The thing is, we cannot know if God was resurrected or not because we do not know that He was dead.  I was the last one to see Him, and I merely came upon an empty throne.  I do not know where He has gone.”

I DO, said Death.

All eyes turned to him.  He grinned.  He could make no other expression.

“Did you…reap God?” said Metatron.

YES, said Death.

The room was filled with gasps.

“But how is that possible?” said Aziraphale.  “He made you.  He was more powerful than any of us.”

DEATH IS NOT A MATTER OF POWER, said Death.  I DO NOT OVERPOWER ANYONE TO REAP THEM.  I MERELY GUIDE THEM TO WHATEVER AWAITS THEM.

“And where did you…guide Him?” said Maltha.

Death tapped his fingers.  I ADMIT IT WAS MY TRICKIEST CASE.  I GUIDED HIM TO THE SAME PATH ANGELS AND DEMONS TAKE WHEN THEY DISAPPEAR FROM THIS WORLD.

Metatron shook in their chair.

“So it’s possible He’s back too?” said Crowley.  “Why hasn’t He shown up, then?”

“Mysterious ways,” muttered Uriel.  She raised her head.  “Why does He do anything?  He told us not to question it, but that was just because there wasn’t a reason, was there?”

Metatron grimaced.

Uriel stood.  “There just wasn’t a reason for any of it. I don’t know why He did what He did, but He abused us all and made us believe that’s what love is supposed to be like.  I don’t know why He brought beings like us into existence, just to throw them around like garbage.  I wouldn’t be surprised if He hadn’t shown up yet because He was just toying with us, seeing what we were up to without Him.”

The hair on the back of Uriel’s neck stood up as she felt something she hadn’t in a long time.

Everyone else seemed to hear it too, based on the looks on their faces.

Uriel whirled around.

“Is that…?” said Metatron.

The ground under them began to rumble.

“No,” said Metatron.

“The demons,” said Raphael.  “They’ll burn up.”

Maltha’s eyes widened.  Crowley stood frozen to the spot, disbelief overwhelming him.

Death’s grin remained as indifferent as ever.

“He’s coming?” said Mykas.

“It can’t be,” said Metatron, but the door to the hall drew open with the sound of a great wind.

“They’ll burn up,” Raphael repeated.  “Somebody.”

Uriel pivoted back to look at Maltha, who met her eyes and Uriel saw for the first time: Maltha was truly at a loss for what to do, and had no way to avert the disaster that was about to unfold.

“Get behind me,” Uriel said, voice suddenly hard with resolve.

The doors of the Judgement Hall flew open amidst the howling of a raging storm, golden, angry light pulsing into the hall and swirling around them, pouring Heavenly aura into the room.

Crowley and Maltha, quickly identifying their most likely source of survival, dived behind Uriel.  Noah reflexively followed, dragging Mykas with him.

Uriel pivoted and extended her arms, and her aura surged outwards and wrapped around the demons in a protective bubble so thick it shimmered translucent in the air.  The incoming wave of burning holy energy glanced off the newly materialised shield with a sound like a hammer coming down on metal, whinging off with a shower of sparks and an ear-splitting bong.

Everyone flinched back, except for Uriel herself, whose arms trembled with the effort of staying extended.

“Wh-what?” Uriel gasped.  Tendrils of that fiery aura snaked forwards to curl around her.

Uriel squeezed her eyes shut and kept her arms out.  “Don’t.”

“Favourite daughter?  More like favourite plaything.”  Metatron stepped forwards with an accusatory finger pointed outwards, face burning with anger nobody had seen in years.

The pressure withdrew from Uriel, and the shifting golden light coalesced in front of Metatron with a rumbling growl that shook the room.

“Uriel is right,” Metatron thundered.  “You’ve never treated any of us like children.  We’re not your children, we’re your toys.  Or your food.  I don’t know, but definitely not your children!”

The light pulsed furiously.  Metatron didn’t back down.

“And you keep us all in line by not letting us think—”

A vine lashed out from the holy aura and solidified into an iron-like rod, smashing into Metatron and flinging them out of the Judgement Hall like a golf ball being teed off.

Uriel’s eyes were wide open now, open and fixed on the floor in front of her, on Crowley’s feet within the bubble she was struggling to keep up.  Aziraphale saw that her wavering concentration was the only thing keeping those with infernal blood in the room from burning up and bolted for her, whispering, “Don’t look at Him. Just focus.”

Uriel nodded, sweating.

The Divine voice boomed again, rumbling with anger.

Aziraphale let out a panicked gasp as he felt an enormous aural hand close around him, pinning his arms and wings to his body and hefting him off the ground.

“Aziraphale!” cried Crowley’s muffled voice, accompanied by a chorus of similar exclamations from the group gathered.

Aziraphale squirmed, trying to avoid looking directly at that blinding light as it surged around him.

“It deserved ruining,” Aziraphale spat.

The light pulsed contemplatively.

Aziraphale let out another pained breath as he felt a probe ram into his head, tearing out the answer to the question just asked.  

“No!” said Aziraphale.  “No, no…”

Another appendage reached out, heading straight for Crowley.  It wrapped like a snake around the bubble protecting him.

“Mercy,” said Aziraphale.

Uriel gasped as the section of the protective bubble around Crowley withdrew, and the tentacle seized him, constricting.

Crowley did not even have time to scream.  He was a blur of motion as he was flung upwards, then disappeared.

“Wh—” said Aziraphale.  “What—What did you do to him?  Where did he go?”

“You coward!” Mykas snarled.  “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size!”

“Don’t!” Angelo yelled.  “You’ll get yourself killed!”

But Mykas was already in the process of dashing forwards, savagely but far too slow to save Crowley.

He burst into flames the second he crossed Uriel’s protective barrier, going down among unearthly howling.  His red eyes burned with hatred from between the sizzling skin on his face, his mouth crunched in a bloody snarl, hell-bent on murder as he dragged his rapidly disintegrating form forwards.

Panting, straining, Uriel hauled her aura back over Mykas, and the flames went out.

Aziraphale struggled again to free himself.  “What did you do?  Where did Crowley go?”

God ignored him, his squirming not even enough to merit His attention.  The tendrils came around Uriel again, brushing her gently, and she stumbled slightly to keep her footing.

Uriel took in huge, ragged breaths.  

“Maltha?” said Noah, sounding again like a scared little boy.  “What should I do?”

Maltha’s eyes flew around the scene, absolutely at a loss.

“I...” said Uriel, sweat dripping down her face.

“Uriel,” said Malta, and the two of them locked eyes, but neither could form words.

“But--Why?” said Uriel.

A huge hand wrapped around Uriel, yanking her away with a pained yelp, and the bubble went down.

Maltha exploded into a cacophony of hisses as she was enveloped in Divine aura, like a hellish kettle whistling, keening a warbled cry as she collapsed to the ground, burning.  Noah stayed on his feet for a second longer, but his skin started to smoke, his knees locked up, and he fell to the ground seizing.

Death watched impassively, readying his scythe.

The doors to the Judgement Hall banging open was barely audible over the screaming, but everyone heard it all right, accompanied by the tack tack tack of hoofed feet on a hard floor.

“I told you I’d get you, you bastard!”

Kabata sprinted across the red carpet, streaking into the Judgement Hall like a vengeful comet, wings flared.  In his right hand he held a short-sword, a weapon with occult sigils carved along its length.

Kabata began to scream in an infernal language at the top of his lungs, running his hand along the length of the blade tracing the designs with each word. They began to glow under his hand.

God’s ethereal essence swirled to face him.  A torrent of supernatural energy burst into Kabata’s weapon, being channeled by the sigils, and the blade started to vibrate.

God reached out a fist to smite him.

Kabata leapt into the air to meet Him, pumping his wings, taking the sword in both hands and throwing all his weight into the force of the jump.

The blade sparked as it swam through the thick air, pulsing with dark energy, and sunk square into the solid part of the aura extending to meet him.   An other-worldly ripping sound tore through the air, and the ground shook with a cry of pain that everyone in the room—no, everyone in Heaven—felt down to their bones.

Kabata’s skin started to smoke.  He pumped his wings until the short sword had forced itself into the center of that swirling mass, the blade throwing off sparks as though put up against a grinding wheel, and used the force of his weight combined with the downward motion of his wings to tear the weapon down along the entire length of the manifested presence.

Uriel and Aziraphale both screamed in pain as the hands holding them squeezed and spasmed, then both broke free as the grip slackened. Aziraphale shouted something to those on the ground, but the roaring was so loud it rendered it inaudible.

The Divine aura spiked and pulsed and retracted wildly, as though in death throes.

Kabata forced the blade in so deep he was elbow-deep in yellow light.  All the skin had peeled back from his forearms, and his flesh dissolved with a sizzling bubble of red tissue.

The outraged howling began to peter out into pained moans.  Kabata pulled the blade out with what was left of his hands and jammed it back in, motions growing weaker, muttering a string of pained curses.

The golden light exploded outwards and funneled up towards the ceiling, snaking out of the building through the cracks between the bricks in the Judgement Hall, leaving a golden puddle of ooze on the red carpet and covering Kabata. The sound finally faded, leaving them all in silence with ears ringing.

“Ha,” said Kabata, wobbling.  “Ha.  Fucker.  I said I’d…Fu…”  His knees gave out from under him and he collapsed face-down onto the floor, the short sword rolling out of his hand.

As soon as Aziraphale was free, he fluttered about the rafters looking for Crowley but found nothing.  “Did anyone see where Crowley went?”

Angelo swooped onto Mykas immediately, clutching him.  “Raphael!”

Raphael sprinted at the injured in the room, zeroing in on Mykas first, who lay completely still on the ground.  “He’s still alive, but just barely.  We might be able to save him if we hurry.”

“Maltha’s not moving,” said Victoria, pushing Uriel out of the way and kneeling.  “Fuck. Maltha?  Maltha!”

Aziraphale continued to flitter around the ceiling.  “What happened to Crowley?  Did anyone see?”

“Where’s Metatron?” said Raphael, scanning the room rapidly. “Victoria, go find Metatron.”  By his ankle, Noah began to moan and his limbs roved about aimlessly.  “Uriel, Angelo, Aziraphale, go to the infirmary and tell them to get all available healers in here right now.”  He leaned over Kabata, who was immobile and bleeding out.  “Now.”

Victoria, Uriel, and Angelo took off.  Aziraphale swooped down.  “What about Crowley?”

Raphael, one hand each in Maltha’s and Mykas’s wounds, barked, “I’m a little busy right now.  Go find him.”

Aziraphale wrung his hands and returned his attention towards the ceiling where Crowley had vanished.  He covered every square inch of the roof, then checked the outside of the building for good measure, but there was no sign of Crowley at all.

Stomach sinking, despair growing, he remained kneeling on the roof, palms down on the tiles, as he saw a small battalion of healers rushing in beneath him.  He stood, trying to contain his tears.

A lone figure walked out of the Judgement Hall against the flurry of activity.

Aziraphale swooped down upon Death like a predatory bird.  “Did you reap Crowley?  Bring him back,” Aziraphale demanded, because the past few decades of defying the natural order of things had made him forget to even pretend to care about it.

Death’s visor slid down, replacing his skeletal visage with a reflection of Aziraphale’s own tight, panicked expression.  I HAVEN’T TOUCHED HIM.  NOW IF YOU’LL EXCUSE ME, I HAVE A RATHER UNCONVENTIONAL JOB I HAVE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO DO.  AGAIN.

His starry wings spread wide and he lifted off into the sky, following where the swirl of light that indicated God’s wounded presence where it had disappeared, scythe at the ready.

Aziraphale watched him go, staring up into the sky in despair.  He wrung his hands, feeling his fingers brush against the golden ring there.  Through blurred vision, he could see the sigil remain unlit.

Chapter Text

In the aftermath of this disastrous meeting, Raphael made the rather unpleasant discovery that not only had Maltha never been given medical treatment by anyone else in her entire life, but that she didn’t care for the experience one bit.  She vented her frustrated at anyone who had the misfortune of being nearby; the first thing she did upon regaining consciousness was to mercilessly criticise the way Raphael had treated her.  When he tried to fix his dressings according to her directions, she did nothing but snap at him.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Maltha huffed, slapping Raphael’s hands away.  “I’ll do it.”

She leaned forwards and tried her best to re-wrap the bandages around her burns despite the obvious pain it was causing her.  Raphael sighed.  “Come on. Just let me do it.  Give me some credit.”

“No,” Maltha said.  “Go see to one of your other patients, if you haven’t already killed them all with your incompetence.  It’s a wonder the entire host hasn’t gone extinct under your care.”

Raphael closed the door of Maltha’s room in the infirmary behind him to protect passersby in the hallway from her jilted gaze and cranky commentary. He slid the little window in the door closed, too, for good measure, because Maltha didn’t seem to care about anything not in her direct line of sight at the moment.

She would be in a bad mood for a long time.  Understandably so, considering how close to death she had come, and the extent of her injuries.  All the patients under Raphael’s care right now were unique and would require specialised treatment, but the best treatment for Maltha seemed to be to slide the materials she would need under the door and let her sort it out herself.

The next patient was Kabata.  It turned out that the reason he hadn’t burned up to the point of immobilisaton, like the other demons in the room, was that he had drunk half a jug of angel dust before coming up, which had provided him with some level of protection. When asked to explain where he had gotten it from, he revealed that it was leftover from the siege of Heaven.  He had not been able to force himself to drink the entire jug of the foul concoction and had stashed the rest for later use, which had remained undisturbed in the intervening years.

Raphael told him he probably would have burned had he actually needed the angel dust during the siege of Heaven.  Kabata told him he obviously hadn’t needed it, so maybe Raphael should mind his own business.  Raphael had then made a show of getting ready to leave, which had prompted Kabata to glower and say Raphael didn’t need to go so far minding his own business that he couldn’t attend to his wounds.

While he worked, Raphael thanked Kabata for killing God, because it had saved their lives and ultimately the entire new order.  Kabata fidgeted uncomfortably and snapped at Raphael to mind his own business.  Raphael reassured him he was trying to be nice.  Kabata still eyed him with suspicion.

When pressed as to how exactly he had managed the feat for which Raphael was grateful, Kabata revealed that the weapon he had brought, which had been swiftly taken off of him, was literally called “The God-Killing Knife.” It was an artifact thought lost to time, not seen in millennia, which had been the subject of a number of secret missions from both Heaven and Hell.  It was even more powerful than both the Shiv of Kali and the Golden Dagger of Meggido combined, and both sides had been after it to see the exact extent of what it could do.  Despite the absolute uniqueness of the spellwork on its blade and the rumours about it, nobody had thought the title had been literal.

Despite the name, Kabata insisted vehemently at every opportunity that the God-Killing Knife was a short-sword and not a knife.

When pressed, Kabata admitted he had taken it from Yulera, who collected a number of things she had no idea the value of in her infernal hoard tucked away in a forgotten corner of Hell.  This tracked with the last reported sighting of the God-Killing Knife, which had been in 3560 BC when the archdemon Asmodeus had brought it down to present to Satan, only to find it inconveniently missing from her bag upon trying to do so.

They were beginning to think “Lost to time” really just meant “Lost to Yulera’s grubby, kleptomaniac hands.”  Raphael thought it might be worth talking to Yulera to see what else she had in her hoard, which she had moved to a new location whenever Aziraphale and Crowley had found it to keep it secret.  There might be other things of use in there.  Not for Raphael, of course.  But for someone, surely.

In spite of the Herculean feat Kabata had just completed for the good of the new order, he received few thanks.  Those who were inclined to try had their Thank yous rebuffed with a flurry of threats and insults, and most scurried away under his burning glare before even working up the courage to talk to him.

He was not a pleasant conversation partner.  He had a guarded, antagonistic attitude towards everyone trying to help him, and the medical staff could tell he was trying to judge how hard it would be to escape the infirmary.  Raphael could only stand so many Mind your own businesses before he decided to quit.  He didn’t bother to ask how Kabata had known about their meeting despite not receiving an invitation, figuring a ne’er-do-weller such as him simply made it a habit of being up to no good and snooping.

The infirmary wasn’t meant for holding people against their will and Kabata would definitely be able to break out as soon as he made up his mind to, but Raphael locked the door when he left all the same.  Kabata was unpleasant, but he might not really be an enemy anymore, and he probably didn’t mean anyone any genuine harm.  Between the two of them, Maltha was probably the bigger terror to the staff.

Raphael’s third patient was much more grateful than the first two.  Mykas spent about five straight minutes licking Raphael’s face while Raphael stood in unsure silence before Angelo explained that was how Mykas showed affection now.  Mykas shared a card Angelo had been helping him make, which said Thank You Raphael in overly messy scrawl, with a picture of Mykas and Raphael holding hands.  Raphael thanked him for the card and reassured him he would hang it up somewhere.

Mykas had been exposed to the divine aura for the longest and, consequently, was very severely burned, but he was of a strong constitution and made a quick recovery under Raphael’s hands.  And he was far easier to work with, so the nurses flocked to him over any of the other patients.  The worst they got from him was the occasional sniff in odd places.

Raphael’s fourth patient was not doing quite as well.  Victoria had scraped Metatron off the pavement where they had landed about half a kilometer away from the Judgement Hall, all but splattered into paste by the sledgehammer blow that had been delivered to them. They were alive, but just barely, and Raphael couldn’t tell when they would awake, if ever.

Metatron had been placed in a small pool of holy water, long black hair floating out behind them, and had been assigned three healers to see to them at all times in shifts.  It might be enough to save their life.

Raphael’s last patient was an antichrist, which he had never treated before. The fact that Noah had burned in God’s presence was a sign of his infernal blood and good enough evidence of what might happen if Raphael tried to treat him like an angel, so he used the same makeshift techniques he cobbled together to try and treat the other demons. Noah was the first to regain consciousness out of lot and did not seem as severely injured as the others—perhaps his nature of not being entirely of demon blood, the result of his mixed heritage, had provided him some protection.

It did make Raphael wonder who exactly Noah’s other parent was, but it was more idle curiosity than anything.  At any rate, Noah was the first to declare himself well enough to leave, offering that he was extremely busy in Hell and he had been away long enough over Raphael’s protests that he should stay in the infirmary longer.

Noah lingered just long enough to have a conversation with Uriel that Raphael couldn’t help overhearing, during which he thanked her for saving his life. Upon seeing Uriel’s surprise at being thanked, Noah said he thought someone ought to acknowledge what was probably the first time she had ever done something so selfless, just in case nobody else was going to do it.  Then he left, bidding everyone farewell and heading back down to Hell.

Kabata was the second to leave.  Despite the precautions, Kabata broke out and disappeared as soon as he was well enough to walk.  No one was particularly bothered by this, in truth, because he seemed at worst a nuisance at this point, not intending any real harm for anybody, his one blood-quest fulfilled at last.  He did, unfortunately, manage to swipe the God-Killing Knife back for himself before heading out, which was a pity because they would all have felt a lot better having it around.

Maltha was the third to leave, again before Raphael discharged her, but he knew better than to try and overrule her.  He was somewhat surprised to see Maltha thank Uriel as well, and even give her a peck on the cheek.  Maybe it was true that even the most wretched among them weren’t beyond hope.

Contrary to everyone else, Mykas stayed for as long as Raphael asked him, wagging his tail furiously and pouncing on Raphael each time he came in, seemingly delighted to be the center of attention and doted on.

Raphael eventually had to convince him to leave once it was clear he was perfectly healthy, leaving the Metatron as the only patient left in the healing ward, to be attended to day and night.  Raphael was hopeful, since Metatron was stable at the very least.

There was one patient, however, that Raphael could not help…

“I’ve covered everything between the Judgement Hall and the Hall of the Throne,” Aziraphale reported as Raphael washed blood off his hands.  “No sign of him.  I flew as high as I could go.  I’m going to search up to Heaven’s gates.  Ramial is double-checking the areas I’ve already covered.”

“All right,” said Raphael.

Aziraphale wrung his hands.  Raphael wanted to reassure him that he was sure Crowley was all right, but he was a bad liar.

“There’s still no update from Noah?” said Aziraphale.

“Noah sent an update that Hell has—”

“Did he mention Crowley?”

“Yes, apparently Mammon is coordinating searches through Hell for him.”

“He’s not going to be in Hell,” snapped Aziraphale.  “Why would he be in Hell?”

“I don’t know!” Raphael said, throwing his arms up.  “I don’t know where he is, Aziraphale!  What do you want me to say?”

A hand appeared on Aziraphale’s arm, and Victoria leaned in to speak to him in a low voice.  “Calm down, Aziraphale.  We are doing everything we can.  Raphael is doing his best.”

Aziraphale made a visible attempt to relax, but it didn’t quite work.

“I’ll start organising search parties on Earth,” said Victoria.  “If he’s here somewhere, we’ll find him.”

“Aziraphale, you need to consider the possibility that Crowley died,” said Raphael.

“He can’t be dead!” Aziraphale said tightly.

“Aziraphale,” said Raphael, with a firm hand on the lesser angel’s shoulder. “If Crowley is dead, there’s an easy fix.  We can have Noah bring him back to life.  He’s done it before.”

Aziraphale wrenched his arm out of Raphael’s grasp, refusing to be comforted. “I know that,” Aziraphale muttered.  He wrapped his arms around himself.  “Crowley can’t be dead because Azrael said he didn’t reap Crowley.  Crowley didn’t die.  So he still has to be here somewhere.”

Victoria and Raphael looked at each other hesitantly.

“Maybe we should talk to Azrael to clarify…” Victoria suggested haltingly.

Aziraphale, face stormy, exited the room with wings spread, intending to resume the search.

******************************

The days wore on and still there was no sign of Crowley.  Aziraphale developed dark bags under his eyes, never stopping the search to sleep or eat.  He scoured every inch of Heaven and, finding nothing, repeated the procedure in Hell despite Mammon’s reassurances that search parties had already covered the ground under his inspection.

When they left the infirmary, Maltha, Mykas, and Noah set out helping with the search.  But even with their resources combined, there was no sign of Crowley in Heaven or Hell.

Contrary to conception among humans, Earth is actually vastly larger than even Heaven and Hell combined in terms of sheer surface area.  Aziraphale knew the odds of him finding any clues there were slim, yet there seemed little alternative.

Aziraphale started in London and worked his way out in a spiral fashion. A lot of times he ended up circling aimlessly in the sky, wings keeping him aloft on air currents, trying to absolve himself of all thought, trying desperately not to think of what he would do if he couldn’t find anything, of how long the search would last.

Crowley wasn’t dead.  Crowley was still alive.  Somewhere.

All he could think about was when Crowley had moved Heaven and Earth to find him when he was in the clutches of Satan.  All he could think about was how badly he had wanted to see Crowley, how scared he had been to be separated from their friends, and about how Crowley must be feeling the exact same way right now.  And Aziraphale could do nothing about it; he was helpless, useless as the ring on his finger that refused to activate even under the constant rubbing and activation of the Lover’s Charm.

It was in the middle of one particularly intense session of aimless drifting one day that a piece of mail materialised from a cloud above him and smacked him in the face.  It had Noah’s seal on it.

He peeled the letter off himself and opened it.  

Aziraphale,

I’m back on my feet down in Hell. I’ve diverted the search parties that were set after Satan to search for Crowley instead.  I’ve heard word that Mykas and Maltha have also left the infirmary and are joining the search.

I hope you’re doing well.  You weren’t answering mail at the shop, so I figured you had lost track of time looking for Crowley out there.  Be sure to come home every once in a while OK?  If only so we can contact you more easily.  I had to have Lyra do a scrying spell just to send this letter.

I’ve tried to use my powers to summon Crowley’s location, but couldn’t find anything.  I’ve never had an attempt to seek information through my Antichrist powers fail in such a way.  I am having Lyra prepare a scrying spell, but I doubt it will work.  It is much less powerful magic.

Our thoughts are with you and Crowley.  Please keep us updated.

-Noah King of Hell, Son of Satan, Lord of Darkness etc.

Aziraphale mustered up his willpower to teleport and materialised directly into his office in his bookshop.  He grabbed his parchment and pen set with shaking hands and wrote a response to Noah, throwing it down.  He received the reply a few minutes later:

I’ve already tried bringing Crowley back to life the way I did when Michael killed him.  It didn’t work.  I’m sorry, Aziraphale.  He’s not dead.  He’s just…gone.

*******************************

Azrael’s phrasing of the way he reaps—I guide them to whatever awaits them—seemed to imply to Aziraphale that you did not stop existing when you died.  That you continued to exist, in some way, in some form, in some place, in a way nobody else knew about.  The same way human souls continued to exist and were physically located in Heaven and Hell after death, where live humans couldn’t access them, except a dead demon or angel—or God, perhaps—didn’t go there.  Discorporation—the death of the body—sent you either to Heaven or Hell.  But the death of the soul?  It sent you…where?

Noah had been able to bring Crowley back to life.  He had brought him from wherever he had been.  He hadn’t constructed a new Crowley, or turned back the clock, or something.  He had moved him back into the realm of the living.

God hadn’t killed Crowley.  He had put him, physically, somewhere else, somewhere other than where celestial and infernal beings traditionally went when they died, wherever that was.

Noah didn’t seem to know where it was.  He couldn’t vocalise how his antichrist powers worked, and he couldn’t reach Crowley, wherever he was.

And Death didn’t know where this could be either, upon pressing.  It took Aziraphale a full day to corner Azrael, who reported Victoria had given him the same interrogation and he was getting quite tired of it.  Whatever had happened to Crowley was squarely outside his jurisdiction, and he wasn’t interested in investigating it, so would Aziraphale please leave so he could get back to his job?

He didn’t ask Death to confirm God’s state of existence.  He was afraid of the answer he would get, either way, and Death didn’t seem particularly keen on asking questions.  He was still grouchy about one of the angels under him misbehaving, and he couldn’t get any of them to fess up.

Aziraphale searched Earth without stopping.  He received word that Metatron had finally regained consciousness, but Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to care unless they offered up any useful contribution.  He received a letter from Angelo that Mykas kept sniffing Crowley’s trail down, only to end up at the bookshop each time.  Aziraphale crumpled up that letter and left fall miles below to the ground.

He perched on top of a mountain and watched the sun rise with his knees drawn up to his chest, feeling more alone than he ever had despite the concerned letters piling up in his un-checked mailbox back home.  The ring on his hand felt heavier than ever, and he found himself clutching it without realising.

He rubbed it to activate the charm at least once an hour.  But the ring stayed unlit, dead to the world.  Whatever was separating them, it was greater than distance.

*******************************

It might have continued on this way forever, had not a certain foundation angel been caught doing something very strange in Heaven’s Judgement Hall.

It is true that foundation angels, in general, care for little else than their jobs.  Nothing makes them happier than seeing the natural order of physics run like a well-oiled machine.

But, like the rest of the angels in existence, they too could develop kinks, quirks, personalities, likes and dislikes.

Wants.  Needs.  Embarrassments.

And Noah had just learned about one in particular, which turned out to be very germane indeed.

“There he is,” said Noah, waving for Lyra to back up.

The court magician, sitting among a nest of spell ingredients on the throne room floor, rolled the scrying ball according to his directions.

The image in the ball panned back to Aziraphale, sitting morosely at a restaurant with a stack of sushi in front of him.  Noah chucked the parchment he was holding into the portal Lyra had constructed for this exact purpose.

In the scrying ball, the letter materialised directly on top of Aziraphale’s head.  He seemed not to notice it for a moment before slowly reaching up to pat his head, then retrieved it and unfurled it.

“We wouldn’t have to do this if you would check your damn mail like I asked you to,” said Noah.

Aziraphale’s face snapped into an expression of intense interest, and Noah guessed which part of the letter he must have been reading.

“He should be down soon,” said Noah.  “Thank you, Lyra, you’re dismissed.”

The King of Hell turned away from Lyra as she packed up her things, back towards the two angels sitting at the ornate meeting table.  One of them looked very shame-faced indeed.

“Time,” said Noah.  “I hope you have a good defense ready, because you’re really going to get it.”

Time slunk lower in his seat.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Victoria.”

Standing behind the table with her arms crossed, looking stormy, Victoria nodded.

“And Space,” said Noah.  “You’re not in trouble, but I really do wish you would have told us about this sooner. We’ve been wasting time looking on our own.  You and Time both work together to—”

TIME AND I ARE INEXTRICABLY LINKED, said the second foundation angel, a long being with hollow eyes and fingers like the branches of willow trees.  WHAT ONE DOES CONCERNS THE OTHER GREATLY.  TOGETHER WE HOLD ALL FOUR DIMENSIONS OF THE UNIVERSE UP, UPON WHICH THE OTHER FOUNDATION ANGELS MAY—

Noah cut her off with a wave.  Space tended to do this, he had noticed.  She sort of…spaced out of the conversation and rambled.  It was understandable, considering Space had no real conception of where she was at given moment, or to whom she was talking.

NOT THAT ONE, said Space to someone not present.  THE RED ONE.  ARE YOU A FOOL?

WHAT WAS THAT? said Time.

“She wasn’t talking to you,” said Noah desperately, “she was with someone else on—”

I WAS JUST SAYING THAT THE RED ONE WAS BETTER, said Space.  SURELY IT’S NOT THAT DIFFICULT.

WHAT ARE YOU BABBLING ABOUT NOW?  CAN’T YOU KEEP ANYTHING STRAIGHT?

Noah cringed and waved his hands to try and separate them.

OH DO BE QUIET.  YOU’RE THE ONE WHO CAUSED ALL THIS TROUBLE.

WE BOTH KNOW THIS MEETING WILL TAKE FAR TOO LONG.

OH DO WE?

“Be quiet!” Victoria yelled.

They both craned their necks to look at her looming over them fearfully.

“My esteemed guests,” said Noah, clapping his hands, waving Victoria to step away from them.  “Please, I think we’ve all said there is to say before Aziraphale gets here.”

ISN’T HE ALREADY HERE?  said Space.

HE’S NOT ARRIVING UNTIL 14:52.06, said Time.  THOUGH, OF COURSE, FROM MY PERSPECTIVE, HE HAS ALREADY ARRIVED AND LEFT.

The doors of the throne room swung open, and Mammon nosed them to the side so Aziraphale could pass through.  He made a beeline for Noah, waving the letter.  “I got your—”

“Aziraphale, you’ve already met Time,” said Noah, gesturing to the table. “It turns out he’s responsible for the whole debacle of deaths being reversed.”

Aziraphale stopped, infuriated gaze locking onto the foundation angel. “And why would he do that, pray tell?”

Time stared off at the empty table, expression unreadable.

“So, you know that Time was close with Lucifer,” said Noah.  “And that when Time found out about Satan’s death, he—”

“I remember,” Aziraphale interrupted.

I MISSED HIM, said Time feebly.

“Time thought he could perform a resurrection by using his power to set back one very specific flow of time—namely, supernatural beings who had died recently.”

PLEASE DON’T TELL DEATH, said Time.  HE’LL…WELL, KILL ME.

“So you just brought back everyone between now and Satan without a thought to the consequences?” Aziraphale exploded.  

I’M SORRY.  I DIDN’T MEAN FOR ALL THIS TO HAPPEN.

“Well, it did happen,” said Aziraphale.  “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Time slunk down in his seat even further.

Aziraphale walked over and kicked the legs of the table with a string of curses.  Space looked up to the roof sharply as though something had caught her attention there.

WHAT IS IT? said Time.

IT’S RAINING, said Space.

“The damage has been done,” said Noah.  “And I don’t think it’s a good idea for Time to try and turn it back, because tampering with the flow of time—”

IS SOMETHING THAT SHOULD NOT EVER BE DONE, Space said.  I CAN FEEL THE THREADS OF THE FOUR DIMENSIONS FRAYING UNDER THE WEIGHT OF THIS POOR DECISION.

Noah grimaced.

IT SHOULD BE FINE UNLESS WE STRAIN IT FURTHER, said Space.  WHICH IS ABSOLUTELY NOT JUSTIFIED UNDER ANY BUT THE MOST EXTREME CIRCUMSTANCES.  ESPECIALLY NOT BECAUSE YOU…MISS SOMEONE.

The hands on the clocks that served for Time’s eyes whirred around with the sound of grinding gears.

I WAS JUST IN THE PROCESS OF REPAIRING ALL THE DAMAGE TO THE FABRIC OF SPACE-TIME THIS HAS DONE WHEN I WAS INTERRUPTED AND BROUGHT DOWN HERE.  This was said with considerable irritation towards Victoria.

Aziraphale ignored this.  “Okay, so then where’s Crowley?  You said in the letter you have an idea of where he is.”

“Right,” said Noah, taking a seat at the table and tenting his fingers. “This is going to be a little difficult to explain…  Space said she felt a disturbance right around the time God did…whatever that was to Crowley.”

I FELT SOMETHING EXITING OUR DIMENSION, said Space.

“That must have been Crowley!” said Aziraphale.  “Where did he end up then?  Is he…floating in outer space?”

Space crossed her arms.  NO.

“Oh.”

“There’s….Space explained it like this, Aziraphale.  Just outside the confines of our world…of the boundaries she controls, there’s a solid wall none of us can get through.  She felt Crowley cross that wall."

NONE OF US CAN, said Space.  BUT SOMEONE WITH POWER ON THE SCALE THAT GOD HAD COULD MANAGE IT.

Aziraphale’s face began to fall.  “Surely there must be some way to get him out.”

“That’s the problem, Aziraphale,” said Noah.  “He’s over it, somewhere, but we don’t know where. On the other side of this wall, there’s—”

ANOTHER WORLD, Space said.

Aziraphale stood stock still, struggling to process what he was being told. “What?”

I DO NOT KNOW MUCH OF THE MULTIVERSE, said Space.  BUT WE ARE CONFINED IN OUR OWN LITTLE CORNER OF IT WITHOUT INTERVENTION FROM A HIGHER POWER, SUCH AS THE ONE THAT MADE THE WALLS IN THE FIRST PLACE.

Aziraphale furrowed his brow.  “Like a parallel dimension?  A mirror universe?”

Space shook her head.  NO, NOT MIRROR.  THERE IS NO WAY TO KNOW HOW SIMILAR OR DIFFERENT THEY ARE.  BUT THERE ARE MANY POCKETS OF SPACE LIKE OURS, ARRANGED SIDE-BY-SIDE, SEPARATED BY WALLS.

“Space says that she believes the factions of the multiverse are arranged so that more similar ones are clustered together.  So they would get more bizarre and different the further out from ours you went, but the ones next door are probably similar to ours.  So, likely that Crowley could survive whichever one he was dropped into.”

THIS IS ALL CONJECTURE, OF COURSE, said Space.  NOT EVEN I KNOW FOR CERTAIN.

Aziraphale clenched his fists.  “So he’s probably alive.”

“Hopefully,” said Noah.

“I still don’t really understand this,” said Victoria.  “It makes no sense that God would build a dimension next door and never go there.  …right?”

Space tapped the side of her head.  YOU ARE ASSUMING BOTH THAT HE MADE IT, AND THAT HE NEVER WENT THERE.  THE RED ONE!

“The red one what?” said Victoria.

BRING YOUR UMBRELLA.  THINK OF IT LIKE THIS…OUR UNIVERSE WAS A HOUSE BUILT BY GOD, AND WE ARE ANTS LIVING ON THE FLOOR.  WE CAN POPULATE THE FLOOR, AND WE CAN CLIMB THE WALLS, BUT BY NO MEANS CAN WE MOVE ABOUT AS FREELY AS HIM, AND WE CAN’T PROPERLY UNDERSTAND NOR TRAVEL TO CERTAIN PARTS OF THE HOUSE.  WE ARE SIMPLY ON TOO SMALL OF A SCALE.  VANILLA PLEASE.

Aziraphale massaged his temples.  “So is Crowley alive or not?”

VANILLA? said Space.  THE MACHINE IS BROKEN.  CONTINUING THIS ANALOGY, GOD PLUCKED CROWLEY OFF THE FLOOR AND TOSSED HIM OUT THE WINDOW, WHERE HE LANDED IN THE NEIGHBOURS’ HOUSE.  WHO KNOWS WHAT IT IS LIKE OVER THERE?  THE FURNITURE IS LIKELY ARRANGED DIFFERENTLY.

“We have to go get him,” said Aziraphale.  “If there’s even a chance he could still be alive, we have to try.”

Space reared up, steaming.  WERE YOU NOT LISTENING?  THE FABRIC OF REALITY HAS BEEN TORN BY TIME’S FOOLISH ACTIONS, AND WE CANNOT STRAIN IT FURTHER, ESPECIALLY FOR SOMETHING AS PETTY AS MISSING SOMEONE.

“Surely the situation isn’t so dire that one small exception can’t be made.”

Time’s unsettling clock eyes ticked on Aziraphale.  SO WHAT YOU’RE SAYING IS, THE THOUGHT OF NEVER SEEING HIM AGAIN MAKES YOU FEEL SO HORRIBLE YOU WOULD REND THE FABRIC OF SPACE-TIME TO FIX IT, HEEDLESS OF THE CONSEQUENCES?  IS THAT NOT WHAT YOU JUST BERATED ME FOR?

Aziraphale turned bright red.  “This is different!”

HOW?

Aziraphale spluttered and looked to Noah for help.  Noah grimaced.

THE RED ONE, Space erupted.  YOU FOOL. YOU IDIOT.

“I don’t see why Crowley and I should be punished for Time’s mistake,” said Aziraphale.  “This is unfair.”

BRING YOUR UMBRELLA, said Space.  I’M SORRY, AZIRAPHALE, BUT DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT WILL HAPPEN IF WE ALLOW SPACE-TIME TO UNRAVEL?  THE TRAIN IS LATE, IDIOT.

“Erm, well…”

THE PHYSICAL LAWS GOVERNING THE UNIVERSE WILL BEGIN TO BEND.  WE WILL SEE WORSE THAN A FEW DEMONS COMING BACK TO LIFE.  THE FOUNDATION ANGELS CANNOT WORK IF THE TOOLS THEY NEED ARE RENDERED NONFUNCTIONAL. BRING THE UMBRELLA.

“Aziraphale, come here for a moment,” said Noah, gesturing to the corner of the room.

Aziraphale walked over and Noah bent over him, huddling their heads together so they could talk in private.  “Aziraphale, you might not like this situation, but I have a possible solution. It’s…not ideal, but it would avoid having to strain the foundations any further, and it could be a backup if we can’t find Crowley, or...or the worst has happened.”

“What’s that?”

“I can’t resurrect Crowley, but I could make a copy of him.”

Aziraphale stared at Noah.

“He wouldn’t be exactly the same, of course, but it’s not outside the bounds of what my powers can do.  He would be however close to the original as I could get him—”

Aziraphale hid his face in his hands.

“—And he needn’t even remember what happened.  He would never know.”

Aziraphale considered it for just a moment.  He wasn’t proud of that, but he was that desperate.  But when he slowly moved his hands away from his face, his eyes caught the ring Crowley had so lovingly placed on his finger.  The etched sigil still lay darkened under his fingertips.

He had gotten it right after Crowley had just braved Hell and high waters and Satan himself to retrieve Aziraphale when Aziraphale needed help the most.  And all Aziraphale could remember is how scared he had been when he had been taken, and how much he had wished to see Crowley.

And when he had been lying there in Satan’s hands, unsure of what would happen to him, all he could think about was how much he wanted to see Crowley, and how relieved he would be when Crowley found him…

“No,” said Aziraphale.  “Absolutely not.  If Crowley is still out there, we have to help him.  To do anything else would be the height of selfishness.”

Noah took a deep breath.  “Okay.”

He patted Aziraphale on the back and turned back, spreading his arms towards Space and Time.  “We need you to help us.  There must be some way to get into this other world without doing any more harm.”

YOU COULD GO THROUGH THE HOLE GOD MADE, said Time.

Space spun around slapped Time.  THEY WOULD NOT HAVE KNOWN ABOUT THAT IF YOU HADN’T TOLD THEM.

Time rubbed his face.

“What’s this?” said Aziraphale.

GOD TORE A SMALL HOLE IN THE FABRIC OF REALITY TO THROW CROWLEY OUT OF, said Time.

THAT’S WHAT I WAS FIXING IN THE JUDGEMENT HALL, said Space.  BEFORE VICTORIA DRAGGED ME AWAY FROM IT.  

“I really wish you would have told us about this sooner, Space,” said Noah.  “Come on. I think you’re the only one who can see it.  We wouldn’t have found it if Victoria hadn’t seen you repairing it.”

I’VE BEEN FIXING TIME’S MISTAKES, said Space, sounding outraged. AND YOU BERATE ME FOR NOT BRINGING A SPATIAL REND TO YOUR ATTENTION?  HOW MUCH DO YOU PLAN TO ASK OF ME?  I DO NOT DO FAVOURS FOR ANYONE!

“Is the spatial rend still big enough for someone to get through?” said Noah.

Space crossed her arms sourly.  YES, BUT UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES WILL I ALLOW ANYONE TO TRAVEL THROUGH IT.  IT MUST BE CLOSED IMMEDIATELY TO AVERT FURTHER DISASTER.

“How fast can it be repaired?”

AS FAST AS POSSIBLE.

“Space, how long is it going to take?”

Space didn’t answer.

“Space…how long?”

THREE DAYS MORE AT THE EARLIEST, said Space.  BUT SENDING SOMEONE THROUGH IT WILL STRAIN IT.

“How much?”

ANY FURTHER AMOUNT IS INTOLERABLE.

“Come on, Space…you have to meet us halfway.  Surely there must be some wiggle room here?”

Space sat silently for a moment.

“How many people can we get through it, and for how long, before it has to be closed?”

THE RED ONE! Space shrieked.  FOR FUCK’S SAKE.  TEN.

“Ten?” said Aziraphale.

THE STRAIN ON THE FABRIC OF REALITY WOULD BE NEGLIGIBLE IF TEN PEOPLE PASSED THROUGH IT.  OR, IF YOU PREFER, FIVE PEOPLE EXITING AND THEN RE-ENTERING.

Noah slapped the table.  “Great.  So it looks like we’ve got an expedition to plan.”

“Five,” said Aziraphale.  “Is that really all?”

Space glowered.  MAYBE SIX AT A STRETCH.  THIRTEEN, IF YOU LEAVE AS A GROUP OF SIX AND RETURN WITH SEVEN.  THAT IS PERMISSIBLE.  GRAB THE UMBRELLA.  

 “Thank you,” said Aziraphale.  “Thank you, thank you.”

“We’ll get him back,” said Victoria.  “The multiverse, or whatever it is, be damned.”

BUT I MUST EMPHASIZE NO MORE THAN THAT, said Space.  ANY MORE WILL CAUSE MORE THAN MINIMAL DAMAGE.  AND WAITING ANY LONGER WILL CAUSE MORE THAN MINIMAL DAMAGE.  AND IF YOU’RE NOT BACK IN TIME, I’M CLOSING THE RIFT ANYWAY.

Victoria and Aziraphale looked at each other.  Aziraphale fidgeted with his ring.  “Guess we’d better hurry, then.”

Chapter Text

“Come on, Adramelech!”

Sylvia banged on her companion’s bedroom door once more.  His reassurances that he only needed five more minutes, which had been coming steadily every ten minutes, did little to quell her restlessness. “What’s taking so long?”

The door swung open, revealing a shirtless Adramelech holding up two different tops, one white and one red.  “Which of these do you think I should wear?”

“I think it doesn’t matter even one iota which one.”

Adramelech turned the two blouses towards himself and frowned doubtfully.

“Is this what’s been taking you so long in there?  Picking a shirt?”

“I just don’t know what the weather is supposed to be like,” said Adramelech.

“We’re going to be in the car the whole time.”

“Just help me decide.”

“Fine, the white one.”

Sylvia waited by the door tapping her foot impatiently as Adramelech slipped the shirt on and did up the various ties and accouterments it had.

“Now I’m ready,” said Adramelech, floofing his hair out.  “Does it look like it’s going to rain?  Maybe we sh—”

Sylvia seized the hand that was ambling towards the umbrella.  “Doesn’t matter, let’s go.”

That turned out to be a mistake, because it started pouring on the way over and they ended up having to park three blocks away from the bookshop. Sylvia noted Crowley’s Bentley was parked out front.  Her heart broke imagining how much pain looking at it every day must have been causing Aziraphale.  

The door was locked.

“I knew coming over as a surprise was a mistake,” said Sylvia.  

Adramelech twisted his hand to miracle the door open.  “Come on, he needs our emotional support, and he wouldn’t answer his messages.  Not like we have much choice.”

“Botis said he and Kyleth were coming, right?”

“Yeah.”

They discovered that Botis was actually already there when Adramelech tiptoed through the bookshelves, only to be body-slammed by a familiarly massive weight.

“Ah!” Adramelech said as he went down, and any further protests were smothered by the floor.

“Fiendish burglar, I’ll—Oh, it’s just you.”

The weight lifted, and Adramelech stood and dusted himself off.  Botis stood nearby looking sheepish.  “Thought you were an intruder.”

Adramelech squatted to collect an earring that had come loose and rolled onto the floor, giving Botis a dirty look.  “At least you weren’t wearing your armor, I guess.  Where’s Aziraphale?”

“We don’t know,” said Kyleth’s voice from the next room.  “But he’s got twenty minutes before the pizza gets here, so he better hurry up.”

Adramelech and Sylvia settled onto the sofa in the back room, where Kyleth was already lounging.  

“Should we just wait here?” said Kyleth.  “Would he mind us just hanging out on his sofa.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” said Sylvia.  “Probably.  I’m sure he’ll appreciate having someone to be there for him.  From what I hear, nobody’s been able to really talk to him.  He keeps pushing everyone away.”

“Time to be proactive!” said Adramelech, clenching his fists.

“Right!”

The clock ticked in the room.

“Guess we’ll just wait to be proactive, then,” said Adramelech, relaxing his posture and sprawling out on the ottoman.

They ended up playing a card game to pass the time.  About an hour later, they heard the sound of the door being jimmied open.

“Another intruder!” said Botis, perking up.  “Lord Aziraphale would have used his keys.”

He darted out of the room excitedly, only to be blasted back in a moment later by some great unseen force, tumbling over and hitting the wall.

“Oh, it’s just you, Botis,” said a familiar voice.

“Yes, Lord Maltha,” said Botis’s voice, muffled into the floor.

“Apologies.  I thought I was under attack.” Maltha ducked into the room.  Her eyes swept over the empty seats.  “Where is Aziraphale?”

Beth came in behind the archdemon.  “He called us over.”

“He’s not here,” said Sylvia.  “We’re not sure where he is.  We came over to surprise him.”

Maltha scoffed.  “Right.”

“It sounded pretty urgent,” said Beth.

Sylvia twiddled her thumbs.  “Seems rude to not be here, then.”

The bell on the door jingled again just then.  They all peeked out to see Uriel shaking the raindrops off herself.

“Come join us,” said Maltha.  “We’re waiting for Aziraphale.”

“He sent me a letter saying I needed to come over right away,” said Uriel. “He never asks me to come over.  I wonder what’s happened.”

“I assumed he had found Crowley, but I guess that’s not the case.”

Uriel took a seat in the back room next to Maltha.  Sylvia and Kyleth had never quite gotten over the awkwardness of failing to assassinate her enough to be comfortable in her presence, but Uriel politely declined to mention it, as she usually did when hanging around lesser angels.*

*Maltha had beaten the habit into her.

Ramial arrived a few minutes after that.  Her eyes were red as though she had been crying, but she greeted everyone normally and reported she had likewise been summoned hastily.

The final arrival came just after Ramial: Angelo’s voice could be heard in the lobby.

“Oh,” said Uriel, rubbing her arm.

“Aziraphale, where are you?” Mykas’s voice rang out.

Uriel closed her eyes.  “This would just be so much easier if we never had to be at the same place at the same time.”

Mykas’s snout poked into the room, then turned down into a frown. “What is she doing here?”

“Aziraphale called us all here with letters,” said Maltha.  “Including her.”

“I don’t want to hang out with Aziraphale if it means hanging out with her,” said Mykas.

“Mykas, we’re not ‘hanging out,’” said Angelo, appearing behind him and giving him a gentle push to try and get him in the room.  “We’re here for Aziraphale.  I don’t like her either, but can you tolerate it for just a few minutes until Aziraphale gets here?”

Mykas slithered over to the easy chair and sat, crossing his arms.  “Only if Uriel waits in the other room.”

They managed to placate Mykas by having Uriel wait out in the bookshop while everyone else sat around drinking the beer Botis had brought.  Maltha told Mykas that Uriel wasn’t nearly as horrid as she used to be, and that she’d developed a very good sense of interpersonal respect for demons.  Mykas told Maltha that he didn’t care, and nobody tried to press the issue any further.

Finally, the bell jingled again, and footsteps sounded towards the back room.

“Oh, Uriel, thank you for coming,” said Aziraphale’s voice.  “Where is everyone else?”

“We’re back here!” Maltha called out.

Aziraphale came back, with Victoria and Uriel at his elbows.  He looked around the back room, which was considerably more crowded than he had expected it to be.  “Thank you all for coming on such short notice.  I know where Crowley is, but he might be in danger and we need to find him right away.”

“Whatever we can do to help,” said Victoria.  “We’ll do it.  Just say the word.”

“Where is he, Aziraphale?” said Ramial.  “I—I don’t want to lose him again.”

Aziraphale wrung his hands, preoccupied, and looked around the room as though only noticing the uninvited guests for the first time.  “Kyleth, Botis, Adramelech, Sylvia, I need you to leave.”

“What?” said Botis, dismayed.  “Sir, please allow me to stay and help however I can!”

“Now,” snapped Aziraphale.  “Maltha, did you tell Beth what happened?”

“Yes,” said Maltha.

“Then she can stay.  Everyone else I didn’t call over needs to leave.”

“Aziraphale, let us help!” said Adramelech.

“Adramelech, we don’t have time to argue,” said Aziraphale.  “Please.”

The four of them muttered disappointedly and gathered their belongings. Aziraphale paced the room wringing his hands waiting for them.

They left without further comment, but their worried faces remained visible lingering outside the shop front.  That left only Aziraphale, Maltha, Beth, Victoria, Uriel, Mykas, Angelo, and Ramial in the back room, but there still weren’t enough seats for everyone.

Aziraphale ran his hands through his hair, talking to himself in a quiet voice.

“Aziraphale, talk to us,” said Maltha.  “Tell us where Crowley is.”

“Do you want me to tell them?” Victoria whispered.

Aziraphale took a seat at the table.  “He’s somewhere else.  Next door. The furniture is different.”

Angelo coughed.  Beth and Maltha looked at each other.

Aziraphale took a breath to steady himself.  “I know where we can go to get Crowley, but it’s going to be really dangerous.  He’s gone somewhere none of us have gone before.  There could be anything over there.  Can I ask you to help him?”

The other inhabitants of the room exchanged meaningful glances.

“Yes,” said Ramial.  “Wherever he is, I’ll go.  I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

“That’s why I chose you,” said Aziraphale.  “You held fast for six-thousand years to see him again. You’re dependable.  Mykas.”

Mykas’s ears perked up.

“You’re the most powerful warrior in Creation.  Victoria, you’re the second-most powerful.  You’re our best shot at getting back out alive.”

“Aziraphale, if I may,” Angelo interjected.  “If this is really going to be so dangerous, wouldn’t Noah be a logical choice to go with us?  He’s currently the most powerful supernatural entity in the universe, if my assessment of the situation is correct.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath.  “I thought the same thing, but Noah refused.  He gave me his blessing to do this however I feel is best, but he said he can’t abandon his kingdom.  Especially not now, since Satan is back.”

“Yes,” said Maltha.  “If Noah left, there is a chance Satan would use the opportunity to seize the throne. He hasn’t shown his face since we last saw him, but I’m sure he’s lurking and looking for an opportunity.   Noah needs to stay here and keep the new order in tact, or it may fall and undo all our hard work.”

Aziraphale saw the logic in the decision, but his thoughts on the matter were clear to everyone by his incredibly blanched face.

“Victoria and Mykas together make a force nobody in our universe short of Noah himself could hope to withstand,” said Aziraphale.  “Add Maltha into the mix…”

“I’ll go,” said Maltha.  “Of course I’ll go.”

“I’ll explain the details later, but six of us can go through,” said Aziraphale, and counted on his fingers.  “Me, Ramial, Mykas, Victoria, Maltha.  And…”

Aziraphale looked up to Uriel, who was still hovering in the doorway.

“Her?” said Mykas. “Aziraphale, you can’t be serious. We can’t trust her with something as important as Crowley’s well-being.”

“You don’t have to like her, but Uriel’s powers are absolutely unique among angels or demons.  Can you set aside the past for long enough to work alongside her until Crowley is safe?”

“You can’t have both of us,” said Mykas.  “You have to pick.  I’m not going with her.”

Aziraphale’s face took on a pained expression.

“And besides.”  Mykas’s face crunched in a snarl.  “It doesn’t matter what I think, because I doubt Uriel is willing to risk herself for the sake of a demon.”

“I will,” said Uriel quietly.  “I’ll go.”

Mykas narrowed his eyes at her.

“I want to be a good person, and a good person would help Crowley.”

Mykas looked at her with hatred, like he would rather she just decided to be difficult.  “I can’t believe you all trust her with this.  It wasn’t that long ago we were all trying to kill her.  That she was the biggest threat to all of us.”

“Mykas, she’s had so much personal growth since then,” said Maltha.  “She’s really changed.  Really.  She was also a victim, remember that.”

“That doesn’t excuse anything she did.”

“No, it doesn’t, but I’m not asking you to excuse it.”

“What is wrong with you all?” said Mykas.  “Why is this even something we’re considering?  You want to take Uriel with us and trust her.  When it comes down to the wire, she’ll abandon us if it means saving herself.”

“It won’t come down to that,” said Uriel.  “I’ll make sure we all get back safely.”

“She saved our lives,” said Maltha.  “Does that count for nothing?”

“Please stop fighting,” said Ramial tearfully.

“Ramial is right,” said Victoria.  “We have more important things to worry about right now.”

“No!” said Angelo.  “I’m sorry, but no!  None of you have made any attempt to understand Mykas’s feelings!  Yes, it’s tactically the best decision, but that doesn’t change the fact that she has a long history of—  You can’t just tell us to get over it!”

“I’m not telling you to ‘just get over it’!” Maltha yelled.  “I’m just asking you to be practical!”

Maltha and Mykas stood nose to nose, scowling at each other.

“Woah, woah, okay,” said Beth, inserting her arms between them and trying to push them apart.  “Let’s just chill, okay?”

Mykas slapped her arm aside.  “No!  I’m done being told to ‘just chill.’”

“Are you done being stupid, too?” said Maltha.

Mykas’s face exploded into a potent expression of rage.  “You don’t get to call me stupid!   None of you—nobody ever gets to fucking call me stupid, again—”

“Mykas,” said Aziraphale.  “Please—”

“When she and Gabriel spent six-thousand years acting like I was too stupid to make my own decisions—”

He stopped when Angelo put his hand on his arm.  “Dear.”

Mykas turned and buried his face in Angelo’s shoulder bitterly.

“I’m sorry,” said Uriel.  “I don’t know what you want me to do.”

“I don’t know either,” Mykas wept.  “Why do I have decide that?”

“I’m sorry, too,” said Maltha.  “I shouldn’t have called you stupid.  I was just…She saved both our lives, Mykas.  She didn’t have to.  It would have been easier for her if she let us burn up.”

“Why don’t you and Angelo go talk about it in private?” suggested Beth.

“That’s a good idea,” said Angelo.  “Come on, honey.”

Mykas and Angelo left the back room and went out into the bookshop, hiding themselves among the shelves.

Uriel sat on the couch and hugged her arms around herself.  Maltha sighed and sat next to her.  “I guess this is only natural because I’ve spent the intervening years being Uriel’s friend, and he’s just spent it hating her.”

Tears brimmed over in Uriel’s eyes.  “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Aziraphale wearily.  He didn’t have the energy to figure out whose fault it was.

“I’ve just…”  The tears spilled over.  “I’ve been trying so hard, and been being so nice to everyone, and they still won’t accept me, and I guess I understand why, but it still hurts…”

Aziraphale handed her a handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes.

Mykas’s and Angelo’s voices could be heard indistinctly from the bookshop for the next few minutes, interspersed with the occasional raised voice from Mykas.  Aziraphale paced, a pit forming in his stomach, wishing they could just get on with it already.

They came back in.  Both of them had red eyes as though they had been crying.  “All right,” said Mykas.  “I’ll do it.  But not for Uriel.  I’ll do it for Crowley.  I shouldn’t punish him for Uriel’s mistakes, and he needs me.  And besides, if I really think she’d betray us, instead of just not wanting to be around her, it would make the most sense for me to be there and make sure she behaves.  And.”   He turned to her and said, very begrudgingly, “Thank you for saving my life.”

“You’re welcome,” said Uriel.  “I was…glad to be able to finally do something right.”

“Okay,” said Angelo.

“Okay,” said Aziraphale.  “Thank you.”  He sat in the easy chair.  “Thank all of you.  This isn’t going to be easy, but if we work together, I think we can do it.”

“Agreed,” said Victoria.  “And we’d better start getting ready to leave, because time is running short.”

“So where exactly are we going?” said Maltha.

“Into the Unknown.”

*********************

Aziraphale really would have liked to have the God-killing Knife, but Kabata hadn’t been inclined to appear.  He would even settle for the Golden Dagger of Meggido, or any sort of supernatural artifact that could serve as a weapon, but unfortunately they were in short supply and digging one up could take up precious time they couldn’t waste.

So they had to make do with the armaments they had.  The last few times Aziraphale had found it necessary to don his armor, Crowley had always been there to help him put it on.  His hands felt heavy tying the knots on his breastplate.

Beside him, Mykas was armored up with professional speed by Angelo, who had done this many, many times by now.

“Okay,” said Angelo, tying a knapsack to him.  “I know you can handle yourself, but be careful.  I can’t be there to help you, so you have to listen to the group, OK?”

“Okay,” said Mykas, licking him happily.  “I love you.”

“I love you too, but are you listening?  You have to do what the other people in the group say.  I won’t be there to strategise with you.”

“I love you.”

“But are you listening?”

On Aziraphale’s other side, Beth helped Maltha into her armor with inexpert hands, clumsily tying knots which Maltha then tactfully re-did when she wasn’t looking.

“See you later, babe,” said Beth, standing on tip-toe to give her a kiss on the cheek.  “I’ll be waiting right here for you to come back.”

Maltha glanced around the Judgment Hall.  “Here?  It seems like an uncomfortable place to spend three whole days.”

“Well, I just mean, in Heaven.  You know.  I’ll probably go visit Penny again.”

Maltha kissed her forehead.  “Excellent. I don’t want you worrying about me.”

Ramial wore the same leather armor that allowed some amount of speed and flexibility that Crowley usually wore, so she had been able to outfit herself with relative ease.  She was now in the process of helping Victoria, who was donning considerably more intimidating armor, looking like a living tank.

“You all look so fearsome,” said Raphael, who had been doting on them like parental supervision.  “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“I think we’ve got everything,” said Victoria, kicking the knapsack by her foot.  “We’ve got supplies…There’s no way to tell what we might actually need, but…we’ve anticipated as best as we can.”

Aziraphale morosely stopped trying to tie the knot that had eluded him for the past three minutes.  He gazed over at Uriel, who watched them armor themselves in a detached way.  She was still in only the toga that she always wore.

“Aren’t you going to put on any armor?” said Aziraphale.

“No,” said Uriel.

“Are you sure?” said Raphael.  “I’m sure we’d have something that fits you.”

“I don’t really wear armor,” said Uriel.

Mykas gave a hearty laugh.  “That’s why I was able to cut your leg off when we tried to kill you.”

Uriel turned red.

“You can wear something like mine,” said Ramial.

Uriel shook her head.

“This isn’t something you can decide for yourself,” said Angelo.  “It’s a group decision.  If you get hurt, everyone else will have to spread your resources thin to accommodate you.”

“I don’t wear armor,” said Uriel.  “I’m not a combatant.”

“You were a combatant when you tried to fill me full of arrows,” Mykas said.

Uriel crossed her arms.  “I’m not good at it.”

Victoria hooked her sword’s scabbard onto her belt.  “Uriel and I were just in the armory fitting her.  And she’s right.  You can’t just fight in armor with no experience.  We’ve all trained with armor and she hasn’t.  It’s too late to learn how to wear armor and maneuver and fight in it.  It’s too restricting, and she’ll be much more useful when she can move around naturally.”

Mykas huffed.

“We can just work with it,” said Victoria, slipping her pack onto her back, between her wings on her shoulder-blades.

Aziraphale felt a warm hand on his back, under his armor, and saw Ramial genially helping him with the accursed knot.  “Here, let me help you.”

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale.  He was horrified to hear his voice crack.

“He usually did this, didn’t he?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“We’ll get him back.”

Aziraphale rubbed the ring on his finger.  It stayed unlit.

“All right, people!” said Victoria, clapping her hands.  “Everyone ready?”

They positioned themselves, spreading their wings.  “No matter what Space says, I’ll keep the portal open till you’re back,” said Raphael.  “Er, I’ll try at least.  But try to get back before the three-day window, OK?”

“We will,” said Mykas.

“Take note of what time it is when you arrive,” said Angelo.

Victoria and Mykas both showed them they had digital watches on their wrists; Aziraphale flashed his pocket-watch, and Ramial held up a sand-timer.

“All right,” said Raphael.  “Good luck.”

Raphael, Beth, and Angelo stepped back.  

The rift in space, which was invisible to pretty much everyone except Space, had been marked by a simple light spell as soon as they had been able to coerce its location out of her.  The red ring glowed like an LED light hovering in the air; it was six feet in diameter and a perfect circle.  The expedition party took off and hovered in front of it.

“All right,” said Victoria.  “Uriel, we have no idea what’s on the other side of this thing, so you go first and set up a protective barrier.  If by some chance we come out in the middle of Divine presence, we don’t want the demons to burn.”

“All right,” said Uriel, rolling up her sleeves.  “Let’s do this.”

Uriel went in first.  She flapped cautiously towards the red ring, then retracted her wings and dove in. She disappeared as though being swallowed up by some unseen monster, with no special effects.  It was unsettlingly casual how easily she stepped out of the world.

“Okay,” said Victoria nervously.  “Mykas, you next.”

Mykas went next, then Victoria, then Maltha.  Aziraphale flapped staring at it for a second longer, feeling surreal, outside his body, unsure if this could really be happening.

“Let’s go,” said Ramial behind him.

Aziraphale nodded mutely.  And he pumped himself forward, into the unknown.

Chapter Text

“Fuck!  Shite! Fuck!  Fuck!”

Anyone within a mile of Crowley would have been able to hear the stream of curses pouring from his mouth.  But he was up in the stratosphere and plummeting like a comet, yelling into the empty sky.

He tumbled head over heels, utterly disoriented, his vision a blur. He burned all over.

He hadn’t burned like this since he Fell.  He registered dimly it was the same pain as Falling, God’s presence burning you to Hell, the same pain as the time he had been in Heaven under the protection of angel dust that had rubbed off.

It was at this point that he made the connection that Falling hurt so much because you had just become a demon, but were still in Heaven and in contact with the Divine Aura until you nose-dived out of it into Hell.

And what he felt right now was a little like that, except God had been right there, and touching him at that.

Crowley had no idea how he had survived, or where he was at the moment. The stinging sensation of God’s holy aura had been overpowering for a single, terrifying, painful moment, then it had just…disappeared.

Maybe he was in the process of dying.  Somebody, he hurt all over.  It was fading, though, as he got further from the source.  Or maybe as he just continued on with dying.

But no, that couldn’t be right, because he could still feel things.  Over the dwindling stinging in his demonic core, he felt the wind rushing past him.  He wasn’t Falling, just falling.

Priority number one was to stop this free-fall that had consumed him somehow. He could almost feel the atmosphere’s friction rubbing him like a comet at terminal velocity.  His vision started to return, fading back in to show him a view of the earth spinning beneath his feet, a whir of land and trees alternating with a clear purple sky—

Wait, the sky was purple.  Why was the sky purple?

Crowley phased his wings into existence and tried to snap them open, but they shrieked in pain as he moved them.  He grit his teeth and steadied himself, splaying out like a skydiver.

A second glance confirmed that the sky was indeed purple.  Despite the direness of the situation, Crowley couldn’t help but stare upwards at it for a few moments.  His tie flapping up and hitting him in the face jarred his attention back to the situation.

Crowley tried easing his wings open slowly and had a bit more success. In the end, he was able to slow his fall enough to look at the ground below him and determine where he was.

Somebody, he was so high up.  He had barely noticed the air was too thin to breathe.  For a moment, he could’ve sworn he could see the curvature of the Earth.  A huge carpet of rugged waves hurtled towards him as he fell, and he realised he needed to take evasive action or land in the ocean.

He didn’t know exactly where he was, but he was able to steer himself so he would land in what he thought was Great Britain, at least.

He landed heavily in a tangle of trees, snapping branches beneath him and thumping into a carpet of pine needles in the dirt.

He just lay there with his wings askew beneath him, spread out looking up at the sky.

It was purple?

Crowley groaned, feeling the aches from the descent racking his body on top of the burns the Divine Aura had inflicted.  His hand worked its way down his shirt and unbuttoned it to assess the damage. There was a huge hand-print of red, blistered skin wrapped around his midsection where he had been grabbed, but other than that the damage seemed to be minimal.

Thank somebody.  That could have ended very differently.

His fingers worked at a patch of raw skin on his face, and he miracled a burn salve into existence and applied it to himself.

“God,” he moaned.  “Fuck. Damn.”

A winged figure flickered across the sky, too fast for him to see who it was. Crowley collected himself and managed to get to his feet, teetering over to a tree for support.

He was still trying to catch his breath when a strange little angel appeared in the tree above him.  They had a spacey look in their eyes.

“Hello?” said Crowley.

WHERE DID YOU COME FROM? said the angel, cocking their head.  STRANGE, STRANGE.

“Um,” said Crowley.  “Space? Is that you?”

I SHOULD GO FIX THE HOLE, they said, then flitted away up into the sky.

Crowley plopped back down on the ground, exhaustedly putting his head to his knees.  He ended up sitting there for a few minutes to gather up his will to move, then set off towards where London should be if his rudimentary navigation during free-fall had been accurate.

********************

Crowley healed some of his more debilitating injuries on his own, but to save his energy he left some of them for the more thorough recovery session he anticipated once he was reunited with Aziraphale, Maltha, and the rest.

Somebody, he hoped they had escaped from the Judgement Room alive.  He had no idea what had happened.  He had to get back to them ASAP.  But going back up to Heaven was absolutely out of the question with how he had left it.

There should be somebody in London, he thought, if he could just meet up with someone to make contact, and he could decide where to go from there.  Last he heard, Botis and Kyleth were still in the hotel across town.  They might be his best bet.  At the very least, Kyleth could peek her head into Heaven and see if it was safe.

Crowley stopped in the middle of this train of thought, legs dangling and hovering in the air.  Surely this was where London was, right?  He had been there millions of times.  He had let his wings fly him there based on muscle memory.

Crowley had never gotten lost before, not in Great Britain, his home.

He flew up higher into the sky to orient himself to try and counter his sinking stomach.  Had he hurt his head somehow?

The M25 was gone.  London wasn’t where it was supposed to be.  And was Mayfair…in Ireland?

Crowley shook his head, but he traced his path around the bodies of water and confirmed that, yes, this big ol’ island under him was indeed the UK.  Frustrated, Crowley swooped lower over a large city, scanning it for familiar landmarks.

Okay, there was Big Ben.  That was a start.  Crowley alighted on the hour hand of the clock, the machinations of the clockwork rumbling behind him.

Wait, what did the clock say?  He turned back to look at it.

Big Ben only had six numbers on it.  One through six, spread out evenly over the face as though it constituted a whole day.  And in Arabic numerals, not roman.  Also, the clock face was a completely different colour.  Also, it wasn’t Big Ben at all, just some other iconic clock tower soaring above the city heights, some new and completely foreign clock tower Crowley had never seen in the hundreds of years he had lived in Great Britain.  He stared at it, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

The bell rumbled, and Crowley leapt off before the hour hand turned and the bell deafened him.

“Okay,” said Crowley, wringing his hands.  “I must have hit my head a bit in the fall.  No matter.  Should clear up soon.”

That purple sky felt all too real, though.  He felt like he just needed one thing to orient himself.  If he could just find Aziraphale….or anyone.

Crowley rubbed the silver ring on his finger, trying to activate the charm. It stayed unlit.

He frowned.  When had he used it last?  Surely it had been longer than 12 hours by now?

Crowley pushed down the pit in his stomach, swooping down to what he thought might be familiar territory.  He drifted for a while up in the stratosphere, shading his eyes with his hands and peering down below.

There, a patch of green nestled among the grid-work of the city.  It looked weirdly like St. James’s park, considering it definitely wasn’t.  And there, oh sweet someone, sitting on a bench by the pond—

Aziraphale.  Crowley dove straight towards him like a parched man after water.

The angel’s attention pricked up as Crowley approached, folding in his wings and jogging over, panting.  “Aziraphale!  Thank f— Whew, I thought I would never find you.”

Aziraphale’s stare on him was hard.  He hadn’t gotten up from the bench.

Crowley doubled over with his hands on his thighs.  “Are you okay?  Are Maltha and Noah okay?  What happened?”

“You…” said Aziraphale.  “You’re dead.”

Crowley straightened up.  “Ah…Nope…Gotta say, Aziraphale, I expected a bit more of a warm welcome…”

Aziraphale stood up, eyeing him critically.  “You’re dead.  How are you…?  I killed you.”

“A little concern?  Anything?  Wait, did you say you…?”

Aziraphale drew his sword.  Crowley held his hands out and backed up.  “W-wait, Aziraphale, it’s me. Crowley.”  It was at this point that Crowley notice the gold ring, which he had so lovingly slid up the finger of Aziraphale’s sword hand, was nowhere to be seen on the hand gripping the weapon pointed at him.

“Stay right where you are,” said Aziraphale, bringing the point of his sword up into Crowley’s chest.  Crowley held his hands up higher.  “You won’t make any sudden movements if you value your life.”

Crowley’s despairing eyes swept up Aziraphale’s weapon into the angel’s face. “Angel, I…”

Aziraphale materialised a communication device of some sort; it looked rather like an ethereal flip phone, which he snapped open.  “I need to speak to Azrael right away,” he said into it.

“Aziraphale, it’s me, Crowley.”

“I’m aware,” Aziraphale snapped.  “My demonic nemesis I vanquished centuries ago, somehow come back from the dead to haunt me.”

“What?” said Crowley, his heart growing heavy and threatening to break.

“I’m sure the warrior on patrol heard the disturbance and is en route, so don’t think of trying anything.  We’ll get to the bottom of this, serpent.”

A few humans had gathered nearby, gawking at Aziraphale’s weapon. Aziraphale dispelled them with a miracle-laden suggestion they head home and forget what they had seen.

“Can—Can I talk to—”  Crowley swallowed.  Something was terribly wrong.  Aziraphale was acting like a proper angelic asshole.  Who would Crowley have a chance of getting to who might help?  “Can you call Raphael on that thing?  Or Victoria?”

Aziraphale glowered at him.

“Anyone?  Any archangel?”

“Archangel?” said Aziraphale.

“Yes, archangel?” said Crowley.

They stared each other down.  Had Crowley been a cat, his tail would have been floofed out.

“Ah, here comes my backup,” said Aziraphale with a smug smile, and a pair of wingbeats sounded nearby.  “Looks like Hastaphael is on this route today.”

“…Who?”

Crowley nearly fainted when a second angel alighted by Aziraphale, likewise drawing his sword.  The newcomer was an angelic warrior, but the face, the aura….

“Hastur?” said Crowley, absolutely floored.  “Are you an angel?”

The warrior gave him an ugly sneer.  “What are you talking about, demon?”

“He’s not making an ounce of sense,” said Aziraphale.  “This is clearly an anomaly.  We ought to take him to Gabriel.”

“Where’s his Eye of Satan?” said the angel with Hastur’s face.

Crowley yelped nervously as the warrior angel roughly grabbed him and pulled his collar down, exposing his bare neck, then twisted his wrists to perform the same inspection.

“It’s always on the wrist or the neck,” said Aziraphale.

“I know,” the warrior growled.  “He dunt got one.”

“It was on his neck before.”

Crowley tried to lean away from the grabbing hands, but the warrior clamped a hand on his jaw and tilted Crowley’s head to peer at the other side of his neck.

“I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding,” said Crowley, voice muffled underneath the warrior’s hand.

“Doesn’t matter,” said the warrior.  “Only good demon is a dead demon.  Let’s run him through.”

“We should take him to Gabriel,” Aziraphale said.

“What for?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale snapped.  “This is clearly an anomaly, though!”

“We can file a report after we—huh?”

Another pair of wingbeats approached.

“He’s got backup,” the warrior growled, shoving Crowley away and raising his sword to the sky.

“I-I do?” said Crowley.

Crowley let out a grunt of surprise as Aziraphale tackled him, pinning him to the ground.  “Don’t think about going anywhere,” Aziraphale said.

A circle of grass nearby wilted and burnt with a sizzling sound, and a demonic warrior leapt out.  His wings flared as he barreled onto the scene, shouting and sword drawn back for a blow.

“Botis?” said Crowley.

“Unhand him!” Botis shouted, flapping his wings.  “Or face a solid pounding.”

The angel called Hastaphael waved at Aziraphale in a dismissive way. “Run him through.”

Crowley let out an eep and rolled out from under Aziraphale as Aziraphale retrieved his sword, still seeming conflicted.  Crowley hit a pair of armored legs and peered up to see Botis’s ugly but familiar visage sneering at him.  “Get out of here; I’ll find you later.”

That was all the permission Crowley needed; he leapt to his feet and sprinted away.  Botis seemed to be immensely enjoying the fight as his sword clanged loudly, audible even as Crowley lost sight of the park and was swallowed up by the streets of Not-London.

***********************

So, this was some sort of alternate timeline.  That was the only explanation for everything he had seen.

Crowley had no idea where—or when?—he was, what this strange place was, but clearly he was not in his own time and place.  The landscape was different, and none of his friends recognised him.

And based on Aziraphale’s reaction, it sounded like Crowley had existed in this place, except Aziraphale had killed him a while back, and therefore his appearance had been interpreted as an unexplained miraculous resurrection, the same kind they had just been working to solve when he had been thrown out of Heaven.

Had he time-travelled somehow?  Well, it couldn’t have been backwards, because the city had been modernised.  He had seen people with mobile phones on his mad dash out—Not any brands he recognised, though.  He had seen someone with what appeared to be an iPhone, but when he doubled back to look at it again, the icon on the back of the device had turned out to be a pineapple and not the signature apple with a bite out of it.

He had been responsible for that particular bit of iconography and he was curiously sad to see it go.

Surely he couldn’t have gone forward in time, either.  There would have had to be some serious changes in the intervening years for Aziraphale to hate Crowley enough to kill him, but accept Hastur, who was, oh yeah, still an angel here somehow.

If it wasn’t back or forwards, had he gone….sideways?

Damn.  What was so different about this place that not only did Aziraphale and Crowley not get along, but hated each other so much they actually killed one another?  Aziraphale and Crowley had never even made a habit of discorporating each other, let alone going at each other with holy water and aural weapons.

Crowley found it disturbing in the highest degree.  Clearly whatever God had done to him, he had been transported to some place where the capital W-War was still on.  And in a heightened state at that, if warriors were patrolling and appearing at field agents’ sides in seconds.

Crowley had never been defended by a demonic warrior before the ineffable plan had been turned on its head six-thousand years in.  Demonic warriors were there to have a go at angelic warriors, and angelic warriors were there to keep demonic warriors from having a go at angels that were not warriors and therefore not very good at defending themselves.  The angelic warriors mostly did their job by sitting around and making their presence clear as a deterrent, and not much else.

And they had just appeared to interfere with a quarrel between two field agents seconds after it broke out…?  

Crowley had sprinted away from Botis, Hastaphael, and Aziraphale until he was too far away to feel their auras.  Then he kept going for good measure, sure that if Botis wanted to find him again he would manage to somehow, considering he had no idea how Botis had found him in the first place.

He legged it out of this strange city that wasn’t London, not stopping until he was back in the forest, because the city unnerved him.

Panting heavily, Crowley leaned against a tree and dropped down.  He curled around himself.

This sucked, plain and simple.  He had thought God was going to kill him, but He had done something else different entirely, and he couldn’t figure out what.  Seeing Aziraphale want to kill him was worse, almost.  He didn’t like this one bit.  He hated it.

Where was his Aziraphale?  That must have been a different Aziraphale. Somehow.  And how was Botis here, but not Maltha?  Or any other of his friends?

Well, Botis’s loyalty must just be a constant no matter the universe.

He still ached from the wounds he hadn’t healed earlier.  He materialised his staff and started giving them some attention, but he was interrupted by the sound of wings drawing near.

Crowley stood up and stretched his legs as Botis touched down, sheathed sword jangling against his heavy armor.  “There you are.  Are you hurt?”

“A little,” said Crowley.  “But it’s not—”

He was cut off as Botis seized his arm, inspecting him.  “Hmm….These look like holy water burns,” said Botis, with a critical eye on the injuries he had been tending.  “You really need to be more careful.  If you just followed SOP for interacting with angels in the field, we wouldn’t be in this situation.  The rules are there for a reason.  What were you even trying to do?”

“To do?”

“Yeah, lollygagging around in that park with an angel nearby.”

“I was—I was trying to talk to Aziraphale.”

“Talk to him?”

“Y—Yes?  Botis, what’s going on?”

“What’s going on?” Botis echoed dimly.  He still had a hand on Crowley, and he began to sort of pat him down.  “Where’s your Eye of Satan?”

“Okay, what is that?”

Botis twisted Crowley’s wrists and examined his neck the same way the angels had.

“Please fill me in,” said Crowley. “I feel so lost right now.”

Botis blinked at him.

“Eye of Satan?”

Botis held his right hand out, wrist-up.  A tattoo of an eye stared back at Crowley, nestled among a lace of occult sigils.

“O—oh,” said Crowley.  “And that’s…?”

The ink on Botis’s skin writhed and pulsed.  The eye blinked and the pupil darted up to look at Crowley.

“Ah!” said Crowley, taking a step back.

“Botis, what’s going on?” said a disembodied voice, and the eye blinked again. “Who is that?”

“Demon I had to rescue from angelic warriors,” said Botis.  “He doesn’t have an Eye.”

“What?”

Botis’s gaze moved from the tattoo back up to Crowley, mustache bristling. “Wrists and neck are both blank. Unless you authorised him to have it somewhere else?”

“No,” said the voice.  “Bring him down as soon as you can so we can fix this.  What class is he?”

Crowley wrung his hands and stepped in, determined to take back some modicum of control over the situation.  “Field agent,” he reported.

Botis glared at him and said in a strained whisper, “Don’t be stupid.”  Then he looked back down at the tattoo, the pupil of which darted back and forth between the two of them as they talked.  “He’s a healer.”

“If he’s injured take him to field encampment 27, then bring him down to speak with me,” said the voice.

“Yes, Lord.”

The tattoo fell still.

“What—What the fuck was that?” said Crowley.

“That was our Lord Satan, and you forget yourself,” said Botis.  “Show some respect.”

Crowley felt dismay weighing down his heart.  “Oh.  Of course. I-I haven’t done anything, though.  Surely Satan is too busy to pay any attention to little old me.”

“Lord Satan always makes time to pay attention to details,” said Botis.  “Now, follow me.”

Now that was something Crowley hadn’t thought he would ever hear a demon say.  Satan was usually rather lackadaisical about the details—it’s why Crowley was able to get away with not actually doing his job.  Satan paying attention to you wasn’t a good sign.

“But, look, I haven’t done anything wrong,” said Crowley, trying painfully hard to keep the whimper out of his voice.

Botis looked at him strangely.  “I never said you did anything wrong.”

“Then why am I being…?”

“Punished?” said Botis.  “Nobody said you were being punished.  We merely need to present ourselves to Satan to correct an anomaly.”

The idea that you would be summoned to speak to Satan for any reason other than if you had done something to piss him off, and therefore were in for a bad time, was utterly foreign to Crowley.  He was having a very hard time wrapping his brain around it.

“What does Satan want to…?”

“We need to get you treated first, at any rate,” said Botis.  “We can’t have you walking about with burns like that.”

And treating injured demons in the field…?  Part of the entire reason why Hell was shite was because there weren’t any healers, and if you got hurt you just needed to deal with it yourself.

“What’s wrong?” said Botis.  “You seem confused.”

“Uh,” said Crowley.  “I—Uh, um…We’re going to field encampment…?”

“Twenty-seven, yes.  It’s over in this direction.”  Botis steered him by the arm.  “Come on, then.”

“Oh—Okay.  Um, hey Botis?  Thanks.”

Botis turned back and eyed him strangely.

“For saving me back there?  They were going to kill me.”

“Just doing my job.  You can trust me to do my job,” said Botis.  “After all, it’d be a funny old world if demons went around not trusting each other.”

******************

Crowley picked up rather quickly that this wasn’t his Botis, much to his disappointment.  Gone were the “sirs” and protective exclamations about Crowley’s safety and basically everything that had made Botis nice to have around.

It was the same way that Aziraphale hadn’t been his Aziraphale. He had no idea what that meant, the full extent of what was going on, but he was reasonably smart and able to tell that something was terribly amiss.

His earlier thoughts about being transposed in time or thrown into a parallel dimension had been half in jest, but he had no way of knowing how close he was to the truth.

Botis led him to a field encampment.  He didn’t like this version of Botis very much, so he was relieved at the thought that maybe Botis would leave him alone here.

The camp was hidden by a protective miracle to keep humans from stumbling into it—it appeared to be nestled in a fold of space-time that a simple teleportation miracle would straighten out.  There was a fence made of wooden slats, tents, a gate—the whole nine yards.  It looked remarkably like one of the angelic field camps that would occasionally be positioned in Heaven’s territory on Earth.  It was bigger, though.

And did they say this one was number twenty-seven?  Heaven probably had only a dozen or so of them scattered about the globe.  There wasn’t generally much need for them.

Botis escorted him via an overly firm grip on his arm to a tent with an icon of a green staff on it.  When he pulled the curtain aside to enter, Crowley saw the interior of the tent was dominated by medical cots and demons dressed in scrubs running about madly like ants.

Crowley’s eyes widened.  “Botis, is this…?”

“The infirmary, yes,” said Botis, trying to flag someone down.

“These are all infernal healers?”

“Yes,” said Botis distractedly.  “Ramikale, I need to speak with you.”

Crowley was too overwhelmed to take note of to whom Botis was motioning. There had to be at least half a dozen demonic healers in here.  Real healers, who were created as healing class, and fell as healing class.  He could tell just by looking at them and feeling their auras.

“Botis, who are these demons?” said Crowley, but Botis ignored him, as he had finally caught the attention of one of the medical demons.

Crowley was shocked when she pulled down the mask on her face, revealing the familiar visage of his friend Ramial, except her eyes glowed an infernal red. She had the same eye tattoo as Botis, but it was on her neck.  “What is it now, Botis?”

“I found this demon wandering about,” said Botis.  “He has no Eye—”

“No Eye?  That’s an anomaly.  Satan won’t be happy.”

“I know, so I’m taking him down to Hell, but first we need to treat his injuries.  If it’d be possible to put him at the front of the queue, that would expedite things for Lord Satan.”

“Sure.”  The healing demon hovered over Crowley as Botis spoke, pecking at him with a trained eye. “Holy water burns, it looks like.”

“Ramial?” said Crowley.  “Did you…?”

The healing demon gave him an annoyed look.  “Did you get into a fight?”

“Yeah,” said Botis.  “I caught him walking right up to a principality as though he wanted afternoon tea with ‘im.”

“You know very well you’re not supposed to engage angels directly,” said the healing demon.  “What did you hope to accomplish?”

“I was…” said Crowley, floundering.  “Ah…Just trying to talk to him.  What’s wrong with that?  Are you....Rami...”

Botis leaned in to whisper, “I don’t think he’s well, you know, mentally.”  The volume was enough for Crowley to hear if he hadn’t been so stunned.  Instead, he reached out a hand to stroke the medical demon’s cheek, thereby confirming Botis’s proclamation in the minds of everyone observing.

Botis left the tent, abandoning Crowley to the clutches of the healers, two more of which had come and started grabbing at him.  They all had the same eye tattoo on their necks, and the pupils thereof would occasionally flare to life and rove about before falling inanimate again as the nurses conducted their inspection of him.

“Very intense burns,” one noted, their voiced tinged with clinical, impersonal interest.  The three of them corralled him into a medical cot, and he lay on it uneasily.

“Must have been a direct hit,” said the other newcomer.

“Interesting shape the wound has taken,” said the original healer, stripping Crowley’s shirt off.  “Almost like a hand-print.”

This was enough to snap Crowley back into reality.  Should he try and hide the source of the wound?  Even if he told them, he wasn’t sure if they would believe him, especially since they were already convinced he was daft.

Did any of these demons know it was possible to get into Heaven?  Did any of them know about—Well, whatever phenomenon could have possibly shafted him into a place like this…?

His thoughts went back to the little angel he had seen upon first coming here.  They had mentioned something about a hole. An entrance Crowley had come through, perhaps?  Maybe he should try and find that place again, to see if there was any way of going back.

Back from where, he had no idea, though.

But part of Crowley wondered if he should be so quick to try and leave. He was surrounded by infernal healers.  These demons were equipped to understand him in a way even Aziraphale wasn’t.  Even Maltha.

“How did you get this wound?” said one of the healers, yanking his attention back to the situation at hand.

He looked at their cotton-clad face, mind drowning in so many layers of static he had no idea what to say.

“Was it holy water?” said a second, with an expectant look.

Crowley stuttered, then nodded.

“Told you,” said one.

“Hey…” he said as they began treating his wounds.  “You guys…how did you fall?  All three of you?  How many more of you are there?”

One of them gave him a dirty look.  The second simply shot up his eyebrows.  The third tutted and patted his head, assuring him they would treat his head injury as well.

Try as he might to connect with them, they treated him as a stranger, even the demon wearing Ramial’s face and aura.  Eventually he gave up and fell silent under their hands whizzing here and there and their chatter, speaking rapidly and efficiently at each other in a way only beings who have worked together seamlessly for thousands of years could accomplish.

They were faster than any healer he had ever seen.  They were faster, and better, than even Raphael.  Than Maltha.  And they had nowhere near the aural power of an archangel or archdemon.

He was on his feet again being shoved towards the exit of the tent in a matter of minutes.  He picked idly at the white cloth wrapping his wounds, trying to take it all in.

“Botis, we’re finished!” one of the healers hollered, disappearing back into the sea of beds and injured demons.  “He’s yours again.”

A shadow fell over Crowley, and he looked up from his bandages.  Botis was in front of him again.  “Now we shall go see our Lord Satan.  She’ll make sense of this.”

“Botis, I was thinking, before that maybe we—Wait, did you say she?”

“Of course.  Hell has always had a queen.”

Relief flooded Crowley.  The most likely candidate for Queen of Hell would, of course, be Maltha.

“You hit your head pretty hard, haven’t you?” said Botis.

“What’s the Queen’s name?”

“Satan, of course.”

“No, I mean—”  He broke off and took a breath.  The realisation was dawning on him that Maltha might not be the same.  It wouldn’t be his Maltha.  And it might not be Maltha at all.  If Ramial had fallen and Hastur hadn’t, who knew what side everyone was on in this place?

What side.  He hated the thought.  Two sides again.  He resolved to get out of here as soon as he could, his earlier waffling completely abandoned.  “Botis, before we go down to Hell, let’s make a stop back to…”

He paused with horror, realising he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to locate his point of entry again.  He’d thought it had been somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, but…

Botis tapped his foot impatiently.  “Back to where?”

Botis’s eye tattoo flared to life again, and the same voice from earlier snapped out, “Back to nowhere.  You’ll bring him down immediately as I commanded, Botis.”

“Yes, my Lord,” said Botis.  “I apologise.”

The tattoo became inanimate again.  Botis reached out and seized Crowley’s arm from where he had crept back away from the strange talking tattoo.  “Come on.  I’m sure this won’t take long.  Our Lord Satan is very efficient.”

Crowley grimaced at the thought, but he saw Botis’s hand resting on his sword hilt.  Surely Botis wouldn’t cut him down if he tried to run…?  But they all seemed dead set on having him meet Satan.

He squared his shoulders.  Well, he’d changed since the last time he’d seen Satan.  He’d faced Satan down and won.  And he’d probably be seeing Satan eventually one way or the other, so it’d probably be best to face it head-on.  He was already scheming his best schemes.

Chapter Text

Art by @petimetrek (link)

Hell was different.  There was no blood, no torture, no fire and brimstone.

But the strange thing was, it wasn’t better.  Everything was still underground, but the cave aesthetic had been replaced by sterile white walls.  And eyes, eyes everywhere; he felt that ever-present gaze on him from the necks and arms of his fellow demons, from eyes imprinted above doorways, from watchful sentinels at the enormous stone gates.  It was oppressive, the constant feeling of being scrutinized, being judged, of being directed and controlled.

The demons here were much, much more inclined to be helpful to one another because they seemed to work as a hive-mind.  It was staggering and horrifying in a way Crowley hadn’t expected. There was nowhere to hide in this Hell, nowhere to escape and scuttle away to be alone.  It was open, empty, and brightly-lit.  It was the polar opposite of what he was used to Hell being like, and Crowley had always thought that would make it better, but it didn’t.

Was this what Heaven had always been like for Aziraphale?  What was Heaven like here, if this is what Hell was?

Botis could tell vaguely that Crowley was unsettled as they entered the gates, but he had no idea why.  They were like ants from two different species meeting, sensing some level of familiarity and sameness between each other, but utterly uncomprehending as to what could be the cause of the ever-pervading sense of difference there was between them, trying to use their limited map of the world to guide their interactions with each other and failing to understand each other properly.

The gates of Hell boomed closed behind them, and Botis escorted him to an elevator cart.  Crowley had the horrifying realisation that the light emanating from the walls came from disembodied human souls shoved into compartments at intervals like a filing system, each one tagged sorted.

Crowley was understandably distracted.  He had already thought up a lie to try and dig his way out of this situation as fast as possible, but it was slipping out of his mind repeatedly as he tried to take everything in.

Botis held his arm out to an eye on the door of the elevator, and a red light shot out and scanned his tattoo like a bar code.  A pop-up display read ACCESS GRANTED TO NINTH LAYER.

The elevator doors slid open, and Botis corralled Crowley inside.  The doors shut, and the cart began to sink along with Crowley’s stomach.

The screen in the cart showed their current floor, which began to tick towards nine.  Crowley scrambled to secure his slippery lie, like he was chasing a fish on a dock that kept flopping about.  “Botis?”

“Yes?”

He desperately tried to think of what scrap of information he could glean that might arm him in the coming encounter.  “What was Satan’s—”

“Our Lord Satan.”

“What was Our Lord Satan’s angelic name? Before she fell?”

Botis’s lip peeled into a sneer.  “You forget yourself.  Do not speak with such impudence about our Lord.  Remember that she is always listening.”

Crowley zipped his lips.  The eye on Botis’s wrist flickered to life and made eye contact with him, staring straight through him.

He didn’t dare say anything else on the ride down.  It seemed like it took an eternity for the cart to reach the bottom floor.

The car finally jolted to a stop, and the doors slid open, revealing a chamber with hallways radiating off like spokes in a wheel.  It was reminiscent of the ninth layer of Hell with which he was familiar, but the elegant red carpet leading up to the throne room straight ahead was laid upon a marble white floor instead of the traditional stone-grey architecture that had always dominated Hell.

The whole place smacked of the way Heaven was, too bright, too sterile and bare.  The Satan he knew would have never built something like this.

The eye on Botis’s arm flared to life again, and the disembodied voice rang out, “Escort him to me, Botis, and stay for a few minutes.”

This time, Crowley could hear an echo of the voice faintly nearby, as though the speaker were physically present somewhere here.  It was coming from the throne room.

“Yes, lord,” Botis answered, and prodded Crowley to step forwards.

As Crowley did so, the doors to the throne room slid open, not a booming set of ornate, stone-carved monstrosities as they always had been, but a simple, functional blockade that opened nearly silently on greased hinges.

The red carpet ran up to the throne of Hell, which was a simple white pedestal.  On the left side of the throne was a demon wearing the face and aura of the archangel Victoria, a hardened, sneering simulacrum of Heaven’s most noble warrior. On the right of the throne was the archdemon Mykas in his most bestial form, a hunched over bear of a figure. He looked exactly as Crowley was used to him, except his body was knotted with the scars of a thousand battles which hadn’t been kind to him.  His left eye was clouded under a gnarled white tear that didn’t seem to have healed quite right, and a heavy metal collar kept him chained to the throne. Both of these archdemons had the eye tattoo on their necks.

And in the center, sitting cross-legged on the throne, was Satan. She was dressed in a plain white sash, which contrasted sharply with the ribbon of black hair tucked over one shoulder. In place of a crown, an eye sigil pulsing with occult energy sat atop her head, radiating power.

The space between her nose and forehead where her eyes should have been was smooth and unbroken.  Instead, the pair of silver wings spread out behind her was lined with eyes from joint to tip.  They were all lolling to the side in every which way, unfocused, until Crowley’s footsteps echoed in the chamber at which point all of the dozens of pupils snapped to him attentively.

“Fuck,” Crowley whispered, because now he had the answer to his earlier question.  The aura was unmistakable, even tainted as it was by the Fall.

Satan’s smile spread wide, too wide, and this visage of eyes and cruelty and blinding perfection said, “Welcome.  So good to finally see you with my own eyes.”  Said eyes fluttered and blinked rapidly as she fanned her wings slightly, spreading them wide to look at him fully.

“Uriel,” whispered Crowley.  “You?  But…How…?”  Now he regretted not running when he had the chance, Botis’s reaction be damned.  Uriel and Satan, combined into one.  Uriel as Satan, instead of Lucifer.  It was unthinkable.

Mykas leapt forward until he slammed into the limits of the chain around his neck, barking and growling madly, mouth foaming.  Crowley took a terrified step back.  Botis didn’t flinch.

“Heel,” Satan commanded, snapping her fingers.

Mykas, hackles still raised, mouth crunched in a snarl, slunk back to his spot beside the throne.  The archdemon who bore an uncanny resemblance to Victoria eyed Crowley curiously and critically.  

Satan unfolded her legs and stood on the pedestal, towering over Crowley, who at least had the sense to kneel.

She did not seem impressed by the unprompted display of supplication. With a small leap, wings extended, she drifted down to the floor in front of Crowley.  Even without the pedestal, she still stood head and shoulders above him.

“What a strange anomaly you are,” said Satan, exposing her mouth full of perfectly pointed, needle-like teeth.  “All of my demons have been marked since the very beginning.  You could not have fallen, could you?”

Crowley shook himself and dug up the lie he had thought up on the way down to put up some semblance of a passing story, finally catching the slippery thing. “Yes, Lord.”  He hadn’t addressed anyone as lord or master in decades, and it tasted foul on his tongue. But he swallowed it as a necessity. All he had to do was get through this so he could get back up to Earth, where he stood a better chance of getting away. “I’ve abandoned Heaven and fallen. I wish to join your ranks.”

Satan pivoted and gracefully sat herself back on the pedestal, legs crossed. She swiped the air in front of her, and a huge, huge book materialised, settling itself onto her lap.

Crowley gaped.  It was the Book of Life, turned infernal.

No, that wasn’t right.  Was it? The book pulsed with magical energy, sure, but it didn’t seem to have the gut-wrenching, reality-altering power that the true Book of Life had.

Crowley watched as Satan leafed through the Book.  “This represents a deviation from the usual Order,” said Satan. “Surely you must understand that.”

“Er, of course, lord,” said Crowley.

“So how do you explain yourself, then?” Satan demanded.  A quill appeared in her hand, and ink dabbled from the tip of its own accord.  She pressed it against the page, ready to write.

“Ah…” said Crowley.  “Um, upon what detail, exactly, would my master wish me to give further explanation?”

Archdemon Victoria snickered.

He felt Botis showering him with a hateful glare from the side.  “Don’t be stupid,” he growled.

Crowley sweated, wanting very badly not to be stupid, but having no real idea how to keep the charade going.  He felt the glares of Botis, Fallen Victoria, and Satan burning into him keenly.

Satan inclined her head.  Her wings fanned once, the eyes blinking out of sync with each other.  “No new demon has fallen in six-thousand years.  It is unprecedented for an angel to be kicked out after the rebellion.”

“Ah, yes,” said Crowley, palms moist.  That made sense, considering Uriel was the one who kicked people out.  Maybe nobody could touch the Book of Life up in Heaven anymore?

So then he had to spin up a lie to explain how he had fallen if he wanted to stick to the same story.

He was about to weave a tale of Heaven appointing a new Keeper of the Divine Aura before Satan interrupted him.  “Tell me, what was your name before you fell?”

Shite.  If he gave his real name, Satan might find out he hadn’t just recently Fallen as he’d said.  If he gave a fake name, he risked it not being in Satan’s book at all.  Either outcome had the potential to make everyone in the room angry at him.

He could give the name of an angel he knew hadn’t fallen yet in this universe.  It would be in the Book, but not recorded as already having fallen during the rebellion. “My name was Aziraphale.”

He was relieved that Satan seemed to swallow the lie, the pages of the Book whizzing past under a wave of her hand.  It snapped open to a certain page, which Satan scanned.

She inclined her head.  Crowley didn’t know why she kept doing that.  Eye contact was impossible.  “That’s very interesting, newcomer, because according to my notes, Aziraphale is a field agent class principality currently stationed in Great Britain.  While you were obviously a healing class angel.”

Crowley sweated.

“Did they change your class when they kicked you out?”

Crowley opened his dry mouth to answer.

“I’ll give you one more chance to tell the truth.”

Crowley swallowed.  “The truth is, my name before I Fell was Cralael.”

The pages of the Book whirred around again.  Uriel scanned another page, then sneered.

“Now that’s also interesting, because according to my notes, Cralael fell at the beginning of time, and was killed by his angelic counterpart—who, interestingly, happens to be named Aziraphale—several hundred years ago via holy water.”

Crowley let out a shaky breath.

“And yet here he stands before us, alive and well.”

Botis eyed him strangely.

Satan snapped the Book shut, and it disappeared under a wave of her hand. “You may leave us now, Botis.”

Botis bowed, turned on his heel, and exited quickly, leaving Crowley alone to face the three nightmares on the other end of the room.

Satan stood once again, hovering a few inches in the air.  “Your opportunity to tell me the truth has passed, little demon.  Vycra, hold him.”

Fallen Victoria—Vycra—marched forwards towards Crowley.  He backed up, holding his hands out.  “Now hold on a minute, we don’t have—"

He shut his mouth as Vycra grabbed his arm, yanking him down.  He tried to worm his way out of her grip, but he knew in his heart there was no way he could fight his way out of here.

Satan fluttered down to the ground.  “I shall pick the answers directly from your brain.  Lower your defenses so I may make the connection.”

Despite Vycra’s overwhelming aura right on top of him, Crowley managed to slam his aural defenses shut, as high as they would go.

“That was not a request,” Satan said.  Crowley felt a tendril of her aura reaching outwards, prickling the back of his neck.  It was the same aura he had felt when Uriel was on the verge of tearing his wings off.

What had always made Uriel worse than any of the other archangels was that she could just manipulate aura directly.

Crowley whimpered as his defenses lowered without his consent, exposing him.  Satan reached out and brushed a gentle finger on his forehead.  He felt the aural tendril creeping into his brain.

It stung a little, but not quite as much as when Camael had done it to him all those many years ago.  This Satan had a practiced hand, surgical in its precision.  Crowley gasped at how fast she came in and retreated.

Satan’s rows of eyes along her wings betrayed her bewilderment, rattling about like craft googly eyes in an earthquake, despite her impassive facial expression.  She lowered her hand from Crowley, folding her arms in front of her body.  “Hmmm….”

Crowley panted, sweating a little.

“Let him go, Vycra.”

Crowley felt himself deposited summarily on the floor.  He curled his legs under him as Vycra strode past him back to her place by the throne.

Satan strutted back to the simple pedestal that served as the throne and sat, petting Mykas on the head a few times.  “Now that was very interesting,” she said, voice low like a rumbling storm cloud.  “Do you care to explain what I just saw?”

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut.  He wasn’t entirely sure what she had seen, but it had definitely included his most recent memories about meeting God and falling from the sky for sure.  How much further back did she get?  Had she seen his love for Aziraphale?  All the way back to the beginning of time?

What would she do if she found out about the other universe?  If she reached it?  Did Crowley have to doom himself to keep it secret and protect his home?

“I’m waiting,” Satan growled.  “You have one opportunity.  Do not lie to me.”

He didn’t have much of a choice.  He shakily got to his feet, straightened his suit, and looked Satan in the face.

“I come from a better world,” Crowley said.  “One where angels and demons don’t have to fight anymore. There is no war.  We worked hard to make peace with each other.”

Vycra’s stare on him was hard.  Her face contained a frightening amount of hatred.  Or…jealousy?  “That’s absurd.  Angels and demons are hereditary enemies.  They’d never make peace.”

“It’s true,” Crowley said.  “Where I come from, Vycra, you’re still an angel, and Mykas—”

Mykas’s bestial face was still crunched to expose his massive teeth.  He wasn’t hearing a single thing Crowley said, he realised.

What a damn shame.

“Vycra is right,” said Satan.  “The natural order of the universe is such that angels and demons will always be diametrically opposed.  You’re still lying to me.  I want the real explanation.”

“You saw it,” said Crowley.  “In my head—you got snatches of Aziraphale, surely.  You—Satan—where I’m from, Uriel never fell—”

“That’s enough,” Satan snarled.  “If you won’t tell us the truth, I’ll have to decide on my own what to make of you.  I don’t know who you are, or what you are, or where you came from and how you got here, or if you’ve tricked me—”

“I’m not—”

“—and if so, how, but you are now under my control, and you will be silent unless I tell you to speak.”

Crowley clamped his mouth shut, tears threatening to well up in his eyes. This wasn’t going well at all.

Satan’s chest heaved with rage.  “You are a demon, and as such you belong to me, you are under my control, and all my servants must have a mark. Vycra, hold him.”

Vycra’s hands were gentler this time, probably because Crowley wasn’t desperately trying to fend her off.  Satan waved her hand and materialised a pointed implement, dripping with ink. “Since I am feeling generous today, I will even let you pick where on your body it will go.  You may choose from your neck or either wrist.”

She hovered over to him, dabbling the excess ink onto her own hand. Crowley’s eyes darted around her body and the room.  “Hold on a moment, can’t we—”

“If you do not pick, I will pick for you.”

“Wrist,” Crowley spluttered, thinking that body part would be easiest to lop off.  “Wrist, please.”

Satan peeled Crowley’s right arm off from his defensive posture and began to draw on his wrist.  The ink sizzled into his skin like a brand, but it was curiously painless.

The ink still glowed red hot when Satan removed the tattoo gun, leaving the crisp image of an eye on his skin.  The molten pupil began to move about in sync with one of the eyes on Uriel’s wing.

Crowley bit his lip.

“There we are,” said Satan, sounding curiously relieved.  “Now you are as you should be.”

“Um,” Crowley said.

Satan waved the implement away.  Her anger had all but dissipated instantly, her cool smile returning, at ease at being in control.  “I’ll make sense of what you are eventually, little demon.  I’ll have to think about this a little more.”

She stared at him with all dozens of her eyes, this time including the one on his wrist.

Crowley began, “Lord, if I may—"

“You may not,” said Satan.  “The time for your input has passed.”  Satan floated back over to the throne and sat on it primly.  “The only question that remains is what should be done with you.”

“Perhaps he could be employed in the field as a healer,” said Vycra. “Field post thirteen is short one healer.  It would even out the numbers.”

“Yes,” said Crowley.  “That’s an excellent idea.  I would be a great asset in the field.”

Satan stared at him, head tilted onto her first.  “How many times do I have to tell you to be quiet?  No.  You are an anomaly in the Order.”

Vycra looked at him with pity.

“You should be kept down here with the other anomalies.”

Crowley did not like the sound of that at all.  “I would be much more useful up on the surface.  I saw how many wounded there were up there.  Is where I came from really such a big deal?”

Satan’s face was mild now, as though she were relaxed due to the impending resolution of something troubling her.  “No…You shall stay down here, where I can control you.”

Vyra strode over and plucked out a handful of Crowley’s feathers.  “Ow!”

Satan swiped at the air, and a row of jars appeared, moving so fast as to be a blur, until it came to the end of the line.  The last one was labeled “Anomaly #392” and had a handful of green feathers in it.

Another jar appeared next to it, labeled “Anomaly #393,” and Satan took Crowley’s feathers from Vycra and deposited them into it.  She screwed the lid shut, then swiped to dismiss the collection.

“That is plenty of feathers for a summoning spell,” said Satan.  “This way, I may call you up from where you’ll be stored if I need you.  Otherwise, you’ll be safely quarantined from the order of Hell where you can’t mess things up.”

“Uhhhh,” said Crowley.

Satan crossed her hands, and a yawning black portal opened in front of the throne.

Crowley’s eyes widened.  “You’re going to throw me into the Pit?”

The Pit was where demons went when you needed them to be locked away forever. There was no escaping from the Pit without concerted effort from someone on the outside of it.  It was where the misbehaving archdemons under Maltha’s rule went when they refused to cooperate.  Even she disliked using it and only threw anyone in there as a last resort.

Crowley pivoted and made a break for the elevator.  Vyra was behind him immediately, yanking him back by the arm, pinning the limb behind him and forcing him to his knees.

“I said you shall speak only when spoken to,” said Satan.  “And yes, that is where all anomalies go.  You have no place here in this world, so you shall be kept separate from it.  But first you must be cataloged.”

Satan summoned the Book again, and she flipped it all the way to the end. She materialised a quill and began to write.  “Anomaly number three-hundred and ninety three.”

There was silence in the room for a few moments while Satan’s pen scratched on the paper.

“What is she doing?” Crowley said in a strained whisper.

“She is merely writing down all the details about you to reference later, if needed,” said Vycra.  “Since you’ll be in the Pit and not convenient to retrieve if we need to reference you.”

Crowley’s arm was still twisted behind his back, forcing him to look at the floor.  A few tears dripped from his face onto the white stone.  “I haven’t done anything.  This isn’t fair.”

“I wish life were fair, anomaly.”

“At least give me a trial.  We sometimes at least got a trial.  I don’t deserve this.  I don’t deserve punishment.”

“This isn’t punishment,” said Vycra, almost gently.  “It’s just where you belong.”

Crowley stared down into the gaping blackness of the Pit, heart wrenching. “No.  That’s not—”

“And I’m taking down a note that you simply will not be quiet,” said Satan, with an excessive motion of the quill.  “‘Continues to argue ad nauseum.  It really is quite counterproductive.”

“I belong…”  The arm Vycra didn’t have pinned behind his back was curled against his chest.  He extended it, looking at the silver ring there. “Aziraphale…  Home.”

“I’ll have to do some further investigation into this matter,” said Satan, snapping the book shut.  “But we’re done with you for now.  You are dismissed.  Vycra.”

“Please don’t do this,” Crowley wept.

“Sorry,” Vycra said.

She hauled Crowley up by the belt and tossed him into the abyss.

Chapter Text

The purple sky sat quiet and empty, except for one little angel making a sewing motion to try and repair a hole in the rip of the fabric of space-time.

Suddenly, the hole widened, and a figure was flung out.  It had silver wings and long brown hair.

Uriel righted herself, wings beating against the clouds, disoriented by the purple sky.

Her eyes fell onto this universe’s version of Space, who had returned to the rip and trying to mend it.

“What are you doing?” Uriel demanded.

I AM FIXING THIS HOLE, Space said.

“Well, stop it.  You’re going to mess everything up.”

Uriel swooped down and punted Space away from the hole.

“Oh, right,” said Uriel, “I’m supposed to—”

Uriel waved her hands to produce a protective bubble over the entrance. There didn’t appear to be anything harmful in the atmosphere, but you never know.

Mykas came out second, crashing into Uriel and sending them both tumbling.

“Watch it!”

“You watch it!”

The portal disgorged Victoria and Maltha next, then Aziraphale and Ramial.

“Good,” said Victoria.  “We all made it safely.”

They all hovered in the sky looking at each other for a few moments before Maltha finally acknowledged the elephant in the room:

“Why is the sky purple?”

“It must just be like that here,” said Aziraphale.  He eagerly palmed his ring, hoping it might light up now that they were on this side.  It stayed unlit.  He had figured it might; he had been exhausting the charm and it would need time to charge back up.

If they were quick about it, they might find Crowley before that. “Any sign of him?”

“No, but I did see who I can only assume is Space,” said Uriel.  “They were trying to fix the breach from this side.”

“Where did they go?”

“They flew away,” Uriel said evasively.

“Excuse me?” said Aziraphale, cupping his hands and shouting.  “Space?”

The foundation angel’s head popped up from behind a cloud.

“There you are, hello, ah, little fellow.”

Space fluttered out.

“Have you seen anyone else come through here?  Someone like us?”

Space nodded.

“A demon?  With dark hair and yellow eyes?  Red wings?”

HOW EXACTLY DO YOU KNOW THIS INTRUDER? said Space.

“He’s alive!”  Aziraphale almost wept.

“That’s him,” said Maltha.  “How long ago did he come through?”

UHHHHHDUNNO, said Space.  THAT’S TIME’S JOB, NOT MINE.  BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY, YOU NEED TO TURN AROUND.  IT IS DISRUPTIVE FOR YOU TO COME THROUGH HERE.

Maltha said, “We’ll be on our way quickly after we find him.  But we won’t leave before that.  So it is in your interest to tell us where he went, so we can expedite this process.”

YOU OUGHT TO LEAVE HIM AND GO BACK.  THIS IS UNORTHODOX.

“Please just tell us where he went,” Ramial begged.  “He’s probably scared and alone.  He doesn’t understand what’s happening.”

Space glowered.  LEAVE.

Mykas darted over and locked Space in a headlock.  The smaller angel yelped in surprise.  “Tell us which way he went or I’ll bite your head off.”

Space gestured frantically to the ground.

“Yes, but where?”

I DON’T KNOW! Space cried.  I DIDN’T LOOK!  I’VE BEEN HERE THE WHOLE TIME!  HE JUST WENT DOWN!

Mykas released Space, and the angel darted away frightfully.

“So we know he’s here,” Victoria.  “We just have to find him.”

Maltha said, “I’m excited to see what details will change or remain constant between universes.  Everyone take notes as we go along.”

Aziraphale gave Maltha a dirty look.

“We’re here to get Crowley,” said Mykas.

Maltha harrumphed and withdrew a notepad from her bag.  “Well, I’m taking notes.  No reason we can’t do both.”

“Maltha writes very fast,” Uriel offered lamely.  “She’s very good at taking notes.”

“No, Mykas is right.  We have to get in and get out,” said Victoria.  “We can’t dawdle just because we think it’s interesting.”

Maltha didn’t answer.  Her pen scratched at her notepad furiously.

“Are you listening?”

“Huh?” said Maltha, clicking her pen closed.  “Of course.  You’re right, Crowley probably would have headed for any familiar landmark.”

Victoria scratched her head.  “I didn’t say—”

“All right,” said Maltha.  “Where shall we start?”

“He probably would have tried to find Aziraphale,” said Ramial.  “I hope he didn’t try and go back up to Heaven.  There’s no telling what it’s like here.”

“Yes, yes, that’s a good start,” said Maltha.  “He’s smart enough that he’d stay away from Heaven for now.  Why don’t we try and see if Aziraphale’s Soho bookshop exists in this universe?  If he didn’t go to Heaven, he probably would have gone there.”

“If he did go to Heaven, we might be in trouble,” said Victoria. “Who knows what Heaven is like here.”

“He probably didn’t,” said Aziraphale.  “Let’s check the shop first.”

“Okay,” said Maltha. “Let’s go.”

Aziraphale squinted at the continents impossibly far below.  “Okay.  Soho should be…there, I think.”

They set off into this strange new universe.

The sky was purple.  They also discovered on closer inspection that the oceans had a strange red tint. They had to pull Maltha along because she refused to stop pausing at every little thing to take notes.

When they neared civilization, they paused to find a meeting point, a notable landmark they could meet up at if they got separated and couldn’t find each other.  They eventually picked a point near a strangely translocated Big Ben, which was a massive, towering stone church with stained glass windows and snarling gargoyles. Nobody was able to identify it, despite the fact that it must be a tourist attraction of some sort in this universe, so they decided to just call it the church.

They landed on the sloping roof of the church, perching among the ranks of gargoyles with wings out, to try and decide where to go.  Their aimless circling had so far failed to provide them any direction.  Aziraphale kept vehemently insisting he knew where Soho was, because he lived there, dammit, until Maltha overrode his protests and forced them to land and strategise.

“All right, everyone take a good look around and remember where this building is,” said Victoria.  “It’ll be our meeting point if we get separated.”

They all scanned the horizon for a few moments.

“All right,” said Aziraphale.  “Now we just need to find Soho.”

Mykas helpfully provided a comprehensive atlas that Angelo had packed him while worriedly fussing over his bags.  Unfortunately it turned out to be useless, as they quickly discovered the lay of the land was completely different.

“Soho should be to the east of here,” said Mykas, running his clawed hand over the pages.

“You’re holding it upside down,” Uriel pointed out.

Mykas flipped the volume over.  A centerfold fell out down to his feet.

“Should be west of here, then,” said Ramial helpfully.

“We have no way of knowing the relative locations of Mayfair and Soho have been preserved,” Maltha said.

“I’ll fly up to check and see,” said Victoria.

She dashed up in a puff of smoke.  Mykas flipped the atlas again.

“Here,” said Ramial, pointing, “we’re here, and this bit in London is different, but if you transpose it over here to by this lake we’re next to…”

“We don’t know that part of London is still next to this lake,” said Maltha.  “You’re basing this on all kinds of assumptions that we haven’t proven yet.”

“Well at least we’re trying!” Mykas said.

“I don’t see it!” Victoria shouted distantly.  “I think it’s just all scrambled.”

“Oh for Goodness sake!” Aziraphale yelled.  He ripped the atlas out of their hands and tossed it over the edge of the church.  “There, now we don’t have to worry about if the map is right or not!”

The rest of the group shuffled their feet and took on the look of children being chastised for being too loud by a frustrated father driving on a long car ride.

Victoria landed.  Aziraphale rubbed his temples.  “All right, why don’t we fan out.  We’ll regroup here in one hour.  If anyone finds it—”

He stopped as an angelic aura flickered on the periphery of his senses. He could tell by the alarmed faces around him everyone else felt it too.

“Someone’s here,” Uriel said.

Something moved in the very corner of Aziraphale’s peripheral vision. Mykas shot off after it like a hunting dog, barking madly.  The interloper had barely reached the edge of the roof before Mykas tackled them full force off the edge, tumbling off into the street below.

Aziraphale, Ramial, Victoria, Uriel, and Maltha swooped to follow. They touched down around Mykas hunched over his prey, who was pinned to the ground looking absolutely terrified, delicate white wings splayed out under them.  But Mykas’s tail was wagging.

“Look, guys!  It’s Angelo!” Mykas said jubilantly, tongue lolling.  “I found Angelo.”

This-universe-Angelo lay paralyzed with fear under the archdemon.

“He doesn’t know you’re not going to hurt him,” Maltha said.  “He doesn’t know you.  Here.”

She leaned down and dragged the poor little angel out from under Mykas’s enthusiastic paws, dusting him off and setting him upright.

“Ah…” gasped Angelo.  “Ah….Ah…”

Mykas nosed at his shoulder.  “You don’t recognise me, Angelo?”

“You’re—You’re Mykas, attack dog of the Queen of Hell,” stuttered Angelo. “Why—Why haven’t you torn me to bits?”

Mykas opened his mouth enthusiastically.  Maltha yanked his ear and trucked on over him, “I’m sure there are a number of things Mykas would like to explain to you, but unfortunately I’m afraid it’s all rather complicated and would take a number of hours to explain properly.”

“I don’t—I don’t understand,” Angelo stammered.  “Two archangels—two—I’ve never—you both fell—and two archdemons—You’re not fighting?”

“As I said,” said Maltha sweetly, “it would take quite a long time to explain, and time is unfortunately something we’re short on.”

“What do we do with him?” Aziraphale said grumpily.  “Based on his reaction to seeing us, I’m sure he’ll raise an alarm about us.  The last thing we need right now is Heaven getting in the way and mucking things up.”

Maltha clucked her tongue.  “If we merely discorporate him, he’ll be free to alert anyone, as you said.  I’m afraid we’ll have to kill him outright.”

“No!” said Mykas, clutching Angelo.  “We can’t do that!”

“Mykas, this is not the same Angelo,” Victoria said gently.

“I know that,” Mykas spat.  “I don’t care!”

“Stop, stop, stop,” said Uriel.  “We needn’t kill him.  He should be useful.”

“Please let me go,” Angelo whimpered.  “I’m just a field agent.  I’m not valuable.”

Maltha broke into a smile, as though she could suddenly see Uriel’s train of thought.  She patted Angelo’s head.  “On the contrary, I think you’re the most useful little guy we could have run into.”

***************************

Once they were able to get past this-world-Angelo’s bewilderment, they were able to coerce directions to Soho out of him.  They were also able to confirm that, yes, Aziraphale the principality did exist in this universe and, yes, he did have a bookshop.

To think otherwise would be absurd.  Aziraphale’s collection of books is as universally part of him as his name. To take that away would be to change who he was as a person on a fundamental level.  In fact, one of the factors constant across every iteration of the multiverse is that Aziraphale, in every incarnation of him that exists, collects books, or whatever equivalent exists.

But that’s a different story.

After locating Soho, the natural reaction was to be rid of Angelo and proceed as quickly as possible, but Maltha’s curiosity refused to be slated and she insisted on keeping him for a few more minutes to press him for information.

They found out they were in a mirror universe where Uriel had led the rebellion instead of Lucifer.  The names of the seven archangels here were Metatron, Gabriel, Camael, Agatha, Kris, Lucifer, and Miriam.

Hearing that she hadn’t fallen in this universe seemed to anger Maltha in a way that nobody else quite understood, but they convinced her to move on. Uriel did not participate in this discussion, quietly contemplating her existence in this universe with a disturbed look on her face, tilted away from the group as they struggled to get Maltha back on track.

The archdemons that existed were Satan (which, they figured at this point, was a title that befell whoever led the rebellion), Mykas, Vycra (who they were able to piece together was originally the archangel Victoria), Mammon, Ba’al Berith, Beelzebub, and (strangely) Kabata.

The presence of both Camael and his fallen form in this universe simultaneously (and yes, they confirmed simultaneously, as in Camael was operating in Heaven while Kabata carried on in Hell) threw them for a serious loop.  They spent about ten minutes arguing about it, musing over the possibility that maybe their Kabata had somehow managed to jump over and time travel, before Aziraphale tossed the issue aside and said it didn’t matter and they really needed to hurry up.

This also brought up the question of how exactly the war was scheduled to go on like it was with Michael already fallen here.  The entire kerfuffle back in their home universe about Michael had been about the fact that he was irreplaceable.

But the rules were different here, it seemed.  And given the presence of fallen Victoria as an archangel as well as the current archangel Kris, apparently he had been replaced twice. And for good reason:

The other piece of information they were able to suss out was the fact that not only was the war still on schedule in this universe, but it was in a heightened state, with angels and demons going at each other in the field far more frequently than they were used to.

Mykas made a pointed comment about it not being hard to see why. Maltha added, unobservant of how the conversation could affect Uriel, that Uriel’s obsession with order and everything’s proper place would have fueled Hell in this universe, which would be quite different than the Hell driven by Lucifer’s lackadaisical and hands-off approach to things.  Lucifer was more ambitious than Uriel, but he’d always lacked the drive and impulse-control to do things in a calculated and methodical way.

Uriel quietly added that Lucifer had always been more interested in the big-picture than the details like she had been.

Ramial, apparently being the only one to sense the discomfort the conversation had fallen into, steered them into trying to decide what to do with poor Angelo, who despite his best attempts hadn’t been able to piece together what the Hell was going on.

Maltha again suggested killing him.  Mykas, again, said he wouldn’t allow that.  Aziraphale and Ramial questioned whether it would really be so bad to simply let him go.  Victoria insisted that, yes, it would, because while they had significant firepower on their side, it would be best to avoid any conflicts for as long as possible, and Angelo would certainly raise an alarm over something this strange.

Mykas complained they couldn’t mistreat Angelo whatsoever, because he was an innocent bystander in all this.

“Well, I don’t know!” Victoria said, throwing her hands up.  “I don’t know what else to do, so if you have a better idea, go ahead and share it, Mykas!”

Mykas tapped his claw on his nose.  “Leave it to me.”

“What?”

“Give me the night with him and he’ll stay quiet.”

Forty-five minutes of arguing later, Mykas eventually won.  They figured Mykas could handle himself for one night while the rest of the group pressed on.  If they couldn’t find each other otherwise, they would meet back up at the church at sunup.

So they flew off, leaving Mykas with Angelo, who still looked absolutely terrified.  But even if some things were different, Mykas knew Angelo.

Four hours later, Mykas was flat on his back in the soft grass, wings spread, looking up at the stars.  Angelo was curled up on his chest, cheeks flush with alcohol, experiencing a mix of strange emotions he had never felt before.  Mykas’s armor lay stripped off and cast aside beside him.

Mykas sipped from his wine glass.  It was a new moon, the stars the only light, and his motions were just barely visible to Angelo in the dimness, the wine sloshing around like dark, colourless liquid.

“I’ve never been drunk before,” said Angelo.

Not looking down at the little angel cuddling him, Mykas’s face curled into a wry smile.  “It took me four-thousand years to convince you to try wine, you know.”

“In the other universe?”

“Yes.”

Angelo rubbed some of Mykas’s chest hair between his fingers.  “Where I’m a clerical agent.”

“Yes.”

“I would love that.  I hate being a field agent.”

Mykas ran his fingers through Angelo’s hair.  “It’s not so bad.”

“Once you’ve gotten used to it, I guess.”

The crickets chirped around them.

“You’re not happy,” said Mykas.

Angelo didn’t meet his eyes.  “Is anybody?”

“I am.”

Angelo rolled off him, feeling the grass beneath him, looking up into the sky. “And what made you happy?”

“You.”

Angelo gripped the grass as though he might fall off the planet.

“But I don’t think it would work out between us, here.  We…”  He lifted his hands up, grabbing emptily.  “We have no shared history.  We’re strangers.”

“We’re more than strangers,” said Angelo.  “I met you once before, and you tried to kill me.”

Tears welled in Mykas’s eyes.  “I wish I could take you with me, Angelo.”

“I wish you could, too.”

“The thing is.  The thing is… There’s so much to be said for just being with someone you’ve known for so long.  Just being around them is home.  Wherever the two of you are together is home.”

“But this isn’t your home,” said Angelo.

“No.”  Mykas rolled onto his side, looking Angelo in the eyes.  “Stay away from the me in this universe, Angelo. He’s not like me.  And if there’s something I can do to help you, I promise I’ll do it.”

Angelo reached out and took his hand.  “I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

“Nobody like me exists in this universe.”

“Nobody?”

“No, because I’m truly free.”  He leaned over and gave Angelo a kiss on the head.  “And I hope some day you will be too.”

He scooted over and started strapping his leg armor back on.  “You can keep the rest of that wine.  If anyone asks where you were, you can say you got too drunk to remember.”

“But that’s a lie,” said Angelo.

Mykas shrugged into his chest plate.  “Easier to believe than ‘The archdemon Mykas had a tender moment with me,’ isn’t it?”

He stood, swiping his tail so it poked free of his armor.  “And let’s just keep this between us, yeah?  I doubt reporting this would make you look very good anyway.”

Angelo sat up, cross-legged on their picnic blanket.  No, telling Gabriel he’d had a picnic with an archdemon would indeed not make him look very good.

“You could falsify your report, I guess.  But we both know you’re not as good of a liar as, say, Aziraphale.”

“I think tomorrow morning I’ll wake up with a hangover and think this has all been a dream,” said Angelo.

Mykas picked up his helmet, leaning down until he was face-to-face with Angelo.  “Maybe that’s for the best.  But keep this memory in your heart.  Remember there’s nothing wrong with chasing happiness.”

Angelo hiccupped.

“You’ll never fully understand this, but I love you, Angelo, and I hope you can find some version of happiness here.  Goodbye.”

Angelo watched him go ambivalently.  Then, he turned and saw to the rest of the wine bottle, thinking to himself alone.

Chapter Text

They left Mykas to his endeavors that night, figuring he could handle himself and Angelo for a few hours while the rest of the group pressed on.  They made plans to meet back up at the church at sunup if they couldn’t find each other otherwise.

Alternate-universe-Soho was their next stop, thanks to Angelo’s directions. They located Aziraphale’s bookshop, which had the same veneer of dust and unfriendliness as always.  The only difference, as far as they could tell, was this version’s hours of operation: Thursday from 6AM-7AM, instead of 5AM-6AM.

Quite generous of him to shift it closer to the morning rush hour.

The approach would be to try and finagle the information out of Aziraphale through trickery, before resorting to violence or intimidation.  To interview him about an incident, a run-in with a rogue demon.  They were just blindly guessing at how the interaction between Here Crowley and There Aziraphale may have gone; Angelo hadn’t known any details about Crowley’s whereabouts, but Aziraphale had likely at least seen him.  Crowley would have tried to find him first thing, and Crowley was resourceful enough to manage it, probably.  So There Aziraphale must at least know something of use.  So they had to talk to him.

There Aziraphale likely wouldn’t talk to a demon, so Maltha couldn’t do it, and Aziraphale himself certainly would raise an eyebrow.  Victoria and Uriel had both fallen in this timeline and as such, their presence would elicit more questions than answers.

That left only Ramial, poor shy, nervous Ramial, who opened the door to the shop with one trembling hand and an official-looking notepad in the other. “Excuse me?  Aziraphale?  I need to talk to you.”

The bookshop was so strikingly similar that Ramial could have forgotten she was in a world where the sky was purple had there not been windows. Stacks of books teetered everywhere, and the tip of Aziraphale’s curly hair appeared from behind one of the shelves. “We’re closed.  Didn’t you see the sign?”

“Erm, well I’m here on official business.”

Aziraphale’s disgruntled face rose up above the books.  He looked the same, except his pattern of freckles was slightly different.  “Oh.”

“Do you have a few minutes to speak with me?”

“I suppose,” said Aziraphale distastefully.  “Come into the back room, why don’t you.”

Ramial took a seat at Aziraphale’s card table in the back while he grumpily moved about in the kitchenette.  “Would you like some noll?”

Ramial glanced up at him under surprised eyebrows.  “Some what?”

“Oh, you probably wouldn’t know it,” said Aziraphale.  “If you haven’t been on Earth much.  It’s what we drink in Great Britain.  Noll and scones in the afternoon.”

Ramial bit back the You mean tea? that built in her throat.  That wouldn’t make any sense to say.  Maybe this was going to be harder than Ramial thought.  She really wasn’t built for subterfuge.  “Yes, of course, that’s why I didn’t know what it was.   Apologies.”

“Think nothing of it.”  Aziraphale took a seat across from her.  “What was it you needed to talk about?”

Ramial wrote on her notepad, which had been enchanted to communicate with the notepad that Maltha held.  Anything Ramial wrote on it, Maltha would see, and anything Maltha wrote on hers, Ramial would see.

Ramial wrote Crowley doesn’t appear to be in the shop.

“I’m afraid we’ve never met,” said Aziraphale.  “Or I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Of course,” said Ramial, extending a hand.  “My name is Ramial.  I’m stationed under—”

Oh, bother, that was an embarrassing lie to begin and not know how to finish.  She had almost said Raphael. Was that a good idea?  Raphael wasn’t an archangel here, but Miriam was. “—Miriam,” she finished, after an awkward pause.

Aziraphale removed a cup from the counter, pouring some steaming hot liquid into it that looked suspiciously like tea, but it didn’t smell quite right.  The scent was vaguely like hot shoe polish.  He sipped it.  “Mmm, yes, all healing-class angels are under Miriam’s domain.  But you’re specifically…?”

“Ah, in Heaven,” she said quickly, hoping Aziraphale wouldn’t ask for too many more details.  “Miriam sent me down to interview you.”

“Mmm,” said Aziraphale.  He resumed his seat.  “I assume this is about my most recent report.”

“Yes,” said Ramial.

“I’ve already filed special reports with both Camael and Gabriel,” said Aziraphale.  “Why would Miriam also take interest in this matter?”

Ramial bit her lip.  She scribbled on the notepad quickly, This isn’t going so well.

“We’re just interested in the potential medical applications of, the, ah, contents of the report,” Ramial bullshitted terribly.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at her.  Out of the corner of her eye, the words You can do this scratched out on her notepad.

She erased them quickly.  “All right, then,” said Aziraphale.  “I don’t quite understand it, but go ahead and interview me, then.”

“Right,” said Ramial, clicking her pen and frantically writing What do I say?????

Ask about his adversary the reply appeared.

“Is everything quite all right?” Aziraphale said, sounding annoyed.  “You seem rather nervous.”

“I—I’m sorry!” said Ramial.  “I’ve never been down to Earth before—it’s still a little scary to me.”

Now here was something that never failed to put Aziraphale in a good mood: someone making him feel experienced and wizened.  He leaned back in his chair, looking smug.  “Yes, it can be quite overwhelming at first.  But you get used to it when you’ve been here as long as I have.”

“I’m not even used to my corporation yet,” said Ramial.  “First one I ever had.”

“Mmm, yes, I can tell,” said Aziraphale.  “You’re obviously a little clumsy moving about in it still.”

Ramial, who had in fact been in the same corporation for the last 6,000 years because of her good maintenance practices for it, struggled to hide her offense.

“Okay, let’s get back on track,” said Ramial.  “I wanted to ask about your demonic adversary.”

Whether it was luck or Ramial’s own good thinking, that seemed to get Aziraphale talking without much more prompting.  “Oh, yes, what happened was very anomalous.  He’s been dead for hundreds of years, and then about—oh, what was it, two days ago?—he shows up in the park.  Acted very strange—he didn’t seem to understand what was going on. But I assume you’ve read the report.”

Ramial wrote all this down.  As Aziraphale finished the last sentence, the words Ask how he died appeared on the pad.

“Ah, I glanced over it,” said Ramial.  “But they didn’t give me much time to read it.  I read very slow, unfortunately.  Not like you, I’m sure.  I’m sure your reading speed is positively terrific.”

Aziraphale puffed up.  “Mmm, yes, I’m sure it is.”

“And Camael didn’t explain anything to me very well, said he was busy.”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale.  “He’s always doing that.”

“So could you refresh me on the basics?  Seeing as how I’m not as good at reading as you are.”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale magnanimously.  “Always happy to help out the less world-wise among Heaven’s ranks.”

Ramial could not help but think this version of Aziraphale was a rather large prick.  Then again, regular Aziraphale was also a prick.  She tapped her pencil.  “His name is Crowley, right?  How did he die?”

“Well, I killed him, of course,” said Aziraphale.  “A very clever trick with holy water.  I received a commendation for it.”

A prick it was, then.  Ramial struggled to hold back the tears that sprung unbidden to her eyes and wrote the newest revelation on the notepad.  “And did you manage to…?”

“Kill him again?  No, I’m afraid.  He managed to get away, thanks to the interference of a well-timed demonic warrior.”

He what?????? came the reply from the notepad.

Holy water, Ramial wrote.  But ours is still alive.

“Do you recall which demonic warrior?” said Ramial.

Aziraphale leaned back.  “Hmmm…I believe Hastaphael said his name was Botis.  Terribly ugly thing, he is.  Hastaphael hates the brute.  He’s killed many an angel in this territory.”

Ramial nodded and wrote this down, biting her lip and feeling her eyes threaten to leak.

Aziraphale clucked his tongue.  “Now why would Miriam need to know those sorts of details?”

Ramial scribbled with a trembling hand Can I please leave now?

“I had assumed Miriam would be more interested in the obvious implication of demonic resurrection….Are you quite all right?”

The word Yes appeared on the notepad. Ramial snapped it to her chest and stood at attention.  The tears finally broke through.  “Thank you for your time, excellent work,” she babbled, then spun on her heel and dashed out of the shop.

She bashed through the door, ran into the alley, spread her wings and leapt up, zooming into the eaves of a building nearby where everyone else had nested out of sight.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as hands reached out to pull her back to safety.  “I’m sorry,” she blubbered, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” cooed Maltha.  “You did just fine.”

“He’s such a prick,” she sobbed.  “He killed Crowley and wasn’t even sorry about it.”

Not even their Aziraphale found it appropriate to muster up a defense of this new version of him.

Victoria hugged her comfortingly.  “We got the information we needed, you don’t have to be sorry.”

“This world is horrible,” said Maltha.  I can’t wait to leave.”

“I dunno,” said Uriel.  “I don’t think it’s so bad.”

Maltha gave her a dirty look.

“What?  It’s organised. We’ll be able to track Crowley down by his paper trail.”

“And just because it’s organised, that makes it okay?” said Victoria.

“It’s not okay,” said Uriel.  “I’m just saying it would be less work to fix than ours was.”

“Whatever,” Maltha said.

“This is what would have happened if we had a Satan who was methodical and organised,” said Uriel.  “Instead of just sadistic and directionlessly cruel.”

“If you like it so much then why don’t you just stay here then?” Maltha snapped.

“Please stop fighting,” Ramial cried.  “I can’t take it.”

“Sorry,” said Maltha.

“Sorry,” said Uriel.

“Sorry,” said Victoria.

Uriel dabbed at Ramial’s eyes with a handkerchief wordlessly. Aziraphale wrung his hands.  “All right,” he said.  “So here’s what we’ve learned.  The Aziraphale that exists in this universe killed this universe’s Crowley a few centuries ago, permanently dead.”  He swallowed the lump in his throat.  “Then, our Crowley showed up a few days ago and ran into that Aziraphale, who assumed his nemesis had been resurrected and tried to kill him again.  There was a conflict involving two warriors named Botis and Hastaphael, and Crowley managed to get away and is still alive.  Is that what we can glean from what Ramial conveyed to us?”

Everyone around him nodded.  Ramial sniffled.

“So the next logical step is to track down either Hastaphael or Botis,” said Uriel.  “The demon is more likely to know where he ended up, since they presumably escaped together.”

“Right,” said Victoria.  She tapped her chin.  “Hmmm…We know that Mykas exists as a member of the Infernal court in this universe, so maybe we could leverage that to get Botis to tell us what we need to know. He wouldn’t talk to any of the angels, and Maltha doesn’t exist here.”

“Hmm, yes, but Mykas is currently occupied,” said Aziraphale. “Although if we can’t think of something else, we can pull him away from distracting Angelo.”

Maltha tapped her chin.  “We could call Botis through the infernal communication network and lie about our identity.  We don’t know what Mykas is like in this universe anyway, so impersonating him might be difficult.  I don’t know if our Mykas could manage it.”

“Fair point,” said Victoria, cringing.

“Let’s call Hell, then,” said Uriel.

“All right,” said Aziraphale.  “That’s good.  Whom shall we say we are?”

“A clerical demon trying to confirm the details of a case,” said Uriel. “If I’m Satan here, I’m positive Hell would have a lot of paperwork, even more than our universe.”

“All right,” said Aziraphale.  “That could work.  And if he gets suspicious, we could simply hang up, so it’s low-risk.”

“We don’t have the ingredients we’d need to construct an infernal communication sigil,” said Maltha.  “But it shouldn’t take too long to gather them in a city like this.”

“Blast,” said Aziraphale, “all the shops are different, though.  I don’t know where anything is.”  He peeked off the roof, where he saw his alternate-universe bookshop down at the end of the block.  “Except…I’m sure all the things we need are in my bookshop here.”

They all watched in silence as alternate-universe Aziraphale came out of the shop, looking around quizzically.

“He’s probably looking for Ramial,” said Maltha.  “He senses something isn’t right.”

The Aziraphale in the distance flared his wings, looking around uneasily.

“We could distract him to get him out of the shop for a while,” said Victoria.  “That would give us free access to it.”

“Or we could simply kill him,” said Maltha.

Aziraphale looked a bit queasy.

“What?  It would get him out of the way.  Even if we just discorporate him, we’ll only be here for three days, and Heaven might not give him a new body in time to come back down before then.”

“That’s, uh, not a bad idea, actually,” said Victoria.  “But, uh…”

“He kind of deserves it,” said Ramial, but she looked white-faced.

Maltha rolled her eyes.  “What weak stomachs you all have.”

She flicked her wrist.  In the distance, the light pole behind There-Aziraphale soundlessly toppled over, squishing him with a startled cry.

“There,” said Maltha.  “Now he’ll be gone for a few days, and he won’t know it was anything other than a strange accident.”

Still, the rest of them looked a bit uneasy.

Maltha led the way into the shop past Aziraphale’s empty corporation.  A gaggle of human bystanders had gathered by now, including one valiant individual fruitlessly attempting CPR, and they were able to slip into the shop one by one while everyone’s attention was diverted.

Ramial locked the door behind them and switched the shop sign to “closed.” Uriel shelved herself alongside the volumes in the reference section, sitting primly on top of the case and informing everyone she would be of no help here as she had no experience communicating with demons.  Aziraphale rolled his eyes and waded through the messy shop to the back room, guessing the ingredients would be kept in the same place here and home.  Victoria and Maltha followed Aziraphale, but Maltha veered off when her eye caught on a particularly interesting volume.  When Victoria tried to get her back on track, Maltha excitedly waved the volume at her marveling at some detail that was interestingly different in this universe than their home one.

While Victoria tried to wrestle Maltha away from the shelves, Aziraphale threw open the cabinet in the back room.  Rows of corked bottles stared back at him.

“The spell ingredients are all here!” he called out.

He threw the rug aside, got down on his hands and knees, and drew out the chalk circle.  Maltha eventually came in and helped.  Ramial also tried to help, but like Uriel she had no experience with occult sigils and provided mostly moral support.  Victoria told them she would keep watch at the front of the shop.

Aziraphale, Ramial, and Maltha crowded around the circle.  “I should do the talking,” said Maltha, eyeing the two little angels a little condescendingly.  “I have the most experience interacting with the infernal hierarchy.”

Aziraphale wrung his hands.  “Well, all right.  But remember, you’re a low-level clerical demon, not the queen.”

Maltha grimaced.  “That’s right.  All right.”

They activated the circle.  “This is Dagon, lord of the files,” buzzed the response.

“Hello,” said Maltha.  “I’m trying to reach Botis.  Can you transfer me to him?”

There was a grunt on the other end of the line.  “For what purpose, and whom shall I tell him is calling?”

“I’m just trying to finish up some paperwork and need to contact him to make sure I’ve got the details right.”

Dagon responded in a bored way, “all right.”

“You know how Satan likes those details,” Maltha added.

Dagon didn’t respond for a moment.  He sounded like he couldn’t possibly care less.  Then:

“Botis has been informed and instructed to get in contact right away.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The light in the circle pulsed for a few moments as the line went silent.

“All right,” said Aziraphale.  “We just need to find out where Crowley ended up, and go there, and we’ll have this sorted out even before the first day.”

“This is Botis speaking,” came a voice from the circle.  It was the same voice, but it had a cold edge to it their Botis never had.  It was awful.

“Hello,” said Maltha.  “I’m filling out some incident logs regarding the interaction you had with the angels Hastaphael and Aziraphale a few days ago.  Just wanted to make sure I got all the details right.”

“Of course,” said Botis.  “Didn’t manage to kill either of them, unfortunately.”

Maltha pretended like she was writing this down.  “Okay, that’s what it says here.  It says there was also another demon with you, right?”

“Yes, his name was Crowley.  Strange fellow.  Not sure what was up with him.”

“Strange in what way?”

“He had no Eye of Satan.”

Maltha, Aziraphale, and Ramial all bit back the desperate urge to ask what on Earth that was.  “Right,” Maltha said falteringly.  “Very strange.  There’s one detail missing I needed to confirm, what ended up happening to him?  I assume you got him to safety?”

“Yeah,” said Botis.  “As per the Queen’s orders, I took him to an outpost for medical treatment, then escorted him down to the ninth layer of Hell for inspection by the Queen herself.”

Aziraphale let out a shaky breath and put his head in his hands.

“I see,” said Maltha, her voice turning hard.  “Would you happen to know the outcome of the inspection?”

“Huh?”

“Was Crowley ever released, or did Satan detain him?”

“Oh, likely Satan detained him.  He was quite an anomaly.”  There was a suspicious pause on the line.  “Why would you need to know that?”

“It’s for the report,” Maltha said icily.

“I’m afraid that’s sensitive information,” said Botis.  “And I find it inappropriate that you would ask for it. Remember that our Lord Satan is always watching us.”

“Yes,” said Maltha, her hand beginning to sprout angry talons.  “And where exactly might you, personally, be, at this exact moment?”

“What?” said Botis.

“Physically speaking, I mean.  Your location.”

Aziraphale stomped on the chalk circle and ended the call.

Maltha stood up and raked her claws down the wall, tearing off a board and huffing violently.  “That fucking fuck—”

Ramial held up her hands.  “It’s all right—”

“He took Crowley the one place Crowley would be terrified to go, and where it’s hardest to get him out of.”

Aziraphale didn’t try to comfort her.  He was holding back his own tears.

“I hate this fucking universe,” Maltha growled.  “I hate everyone in it.  I hope it burns to the ground behind us.”

Aziraphale sat in the corner of the room with his knees curled up to his chest, taking a few moments to collect himself.  Maltha got down on her hands and knees and began making alterations to the circle on the floor, muttering to herself.

“What are you doing?” Ramial asked.

Maltha grunted, absolutely fuming, and Ramial didn’t have the courage to repeat her query.

The circles for contacting Heaven and Hell were surprisingly, or perhaps not that surprisingly, not very different from each other.  It only took a minute for Maltha to convert the infernal communication setup into one for contacting Heaven.

Her skin smoked slightly as she activated it, and she stepped back out of the circle.

“Operator,” a nasally voice answered.

“Transfer me to the healing ward,” Maltha barked into the circle.

Whether it was the authority in her voice or the simple efficiency of Heaven in this universe, but Maltha was transferred wordlessly within the second.

“Healing ward, this is Gareniel speaking,” said a chipper voice.

“I demanded to speak to the archangel Miriam immediately,” said Maltha.

“May I ask who is calling?” the poor angel gasped.

Maltha stepped forward, burned when she touched the circle, then stepped back and continued hollering into it.  “Just put me in contact with her immediately.”

The angel fearfully put her on hold to be transferred.

“Maltha,” said Ramial.  “What are you trying to do?”

Maltha bristled and ignored her.

“This is the archangel Miriam,” said a melodious voice from the circle.  “What is so urgent?”

Maltha went rigid, standing there in agonising silence.

“Hello?” said the voice.

“You fucking coward!” Maltha exploded.  “You watched them all fall and did nothing!”

The line conveyed a stunned pause.

“You should have followed them!  You should have died for them, if it came down to that!  You should have—”

“Who is this?” said Miriam.

“The ghost of Christmas past.  Your conscious.  I don’t know how you live with yourself.”

“What?” said Miriam, and for an archangel, she sounded very small indeed.

“This world is Hell and you did nothing. The people you love were—are—tortured and tormented and you continue to do nothing.”

“What would you have me do?” said Miriam.  “Fly up to God and challenge him to his face?”

Maltha seethed.

“What good would ever come of that?”

Maltha opened her mouth to yell, but Ramial had swiped the chalk circle away and cut the call off.

Maltha’s enraged gaze met Ramial’s compassionate eyes.  Maltha softened.  Ramial held out her hands.

Maltha trundled over to Ramial and put leaned onto the top of the smaller angel’s head.  Ramial hugged and patted her comfortingly.

“We’ll get him back,” Ramial said.  “I know we will.”

They drew apart as Victoria entered the room.  “We’ve got company.”

Aziraphale unfolded himself and stood up, alarmed.  “Who is it?”

“Warrior.  A power. If I had to guess, it’s probably Hastaphael.  He’s banging on the door shouting about how Heaven sent him, and whoever is inside needs to let him in.”

“What?” said Maltha.

Victoria, jaw clenched, looked pointedly at Maltha.  “It seems he got word something unusual was going on in Aziraphale’s shop, on account of the report Aziraphale just gave.”

Aziraphale began to shovel spell ingredients from the cabinet into his jacket pocket.  “Let’s go.  Our business lies in hell, not Heaven. We can avoid some upset by dodging Heaven for a bit longer.”

“There’s been an alert already?” said Maltha.  “They mobilised a response that fast?”

Victoria had the grudging expression of someone losing a good portion of the respect they had for a close friend.  “The rules are different here, Maltha.  You can’t just do whatever you want without consequences now.”

Chapter Text

The predominant thing about the Pit was that it was dark.  Crowley had no idea what it actually looked like, just that there was some hard surface there under his feet, stumbling along in absolute pitch-black.

It was also a number of other things.  Hot, for one.  All of Hell was hot, really, but here it was really the only tactile sensation you were given.  It was also large—Crowley had yet to encounter a wall.  He would occasionally bump into something he suspected was another body judging by the sounds of surprise the collision elicited—but maybe that was just himself, and the rapid footsteps from an unseen source pattering away from him was just him dissociating from this horrible situation.

Crowley had never felt so trapped and utterly alone.  Being in the Pit was, of course, unpleasant.  But the crushing weight in his chest was the sense of Loss.

Loss of the new order of free will they had worked so hard for.  All his friends he had worked so hard for.  He had been safe.  He had been happy.  He had been surrounded by people who cared about him. And it was all just gone, somehow, as though it had all been a dream from which he had been awoken back into this, the living nightmare of Hell and being a demon.

Maybe this was the real punishment.  Maybe the Fall had just been the start of God’s torture of him.  The Almighty had seen fit to give him everything he could possibly want, just for the pleasure of watching him writhe as it was all taken away, to make their absence ache.  This was true damnation.

Crowley clutched the ring on his hand, rubbing it.  His finger never left it for even a second.  It never glowed.  Everything was absolute pitch-dark.

Crowley had made some attempts to walk around and call out for the first few hours in the Pit, but after a while he simply curled up into a ball on the ground and lay there.  Like a depressed human who can’t work up the energy to complete simple self-care tasks like getting dressed, he no longer felt the need to sustain his human form, so he slumped into his basest state, a pile of red and black coils looping around each other like a dejected garden hose.  The only object he didn’t disappear with the transformation was his ring, which rested on his snout.

He couldn’t even see it, but the physical sensation of it against his scales provided the only modicum of comfort available: the reminder that someone, somewhere used to value him.  He felt like the piece of rubbish forever smushed into the corner of the kitchen because whoever had thrown it had missed the bin.  It was worse than any physical torture Satan could have inflicted on him.

There was the distinct possibility that someone might come and step on him with the way he was lying there, but he couldn’t care.  His tongue occasionally flicked out, providing him with strange smells, with the reminder of where he was, if the crushing darkness wasn’t enough.

He just lay there.  There was nothing else to do.  He lost track of time.  It was just a monotone of darkness.

Then, a miracle:  A light, incredibly bright to his unfocused eyes, glowed softly right in front of him. He would have squinted had he had eyelids.

Then he would have wept had he had tear ducts.  His ring was glowing.  He felt Aziraphale’s caress, faint but definitely there, reaching out to him.

“Asssssiraphale?  I’m here. I’m here.”

The glow faded.

Crowley coiled up around the ring, body shaking with tearless, animalistic sobs.  Aziraphale was here.  Aziraphale was looking for him.

Crowley ought to do something.  He had been given just a tiny flame of hope.  He could manage to slither at least.  Slithering, he could manage.

To where?  There was nowhere to go.  But he could so something, surely.  Something was better than nothing.

He morphed the ring into his body to be stored with the rest of his clothes and slithered off into the unknown.

*************************

In the end, Maltha simply blew a hole in the back of the bookshop for them to escape through.  Only afterwards did Aziraphale point out that they could have exited through the window in the upstairs flat, to which Maltha responded by storming out without answering him.

By the time they safely escaped the patrol that had been summoned to investigate, the sun was well below the horizon.  They decided to take the night to regroup with Mykas, rest, and brainstorm.

They went back to the church, nestling among the spires on the roof.  Holy ground had effects on demons, but they could safely sit on the roof.  So there they sat, waiting for Mykas and contemplating their situation.

Victoria paced around the edge of the roof, keeping watch in an aggravated way.  Uriel sat on the back of one of the stone statues, facing away from everyone else, watching the stars contemplatively.  Maltha practiced her staff work on a gargoyle which she was pretending was Satan.

Ramial came over and curled against Aziraphale, where he had seated himself on the slope of the roof tiles.  “This sucks,” she said.

Aziraphale nodded morosely.  He played with his ring on his finger, rubbing it to activate the charm, hoping that it had maybe finally charged up.

It glowed faintly in the darkness.  He could feel Crowley’s aura.  It was warm.  Missing him. And so, so scared.

Aziraphale palmed it, clutching it to his chest, weeping.  The glow had died by the time he drew his hand back and looked at the ring again.

“We have to do something,” Aziraphale said thickly.  “We…”

“Okay,” said Ramial.  “Let’s do something.”

“We have to plan,” said Victoria.

“Okay,” said Maltha.  “Then let’s plan.  So.  We know that Uriel is Satan in this universe, and that Satan has Crowley. We don’t know what she did with him, but she was likely the last one to have him and decide what to do with him.  Right?”

“Right,” said Victoria.  “What would she do with him?”

Victoria glanced at Uriel.  Uriel didn’t respond, still staring out at the sky.

The head snapped off the gargoyle Maltha had been playing with, chipping as it fell onto the tile work of the roof.  “I say we just storm Hell and kick ass until we reach Satan and demand his release.  Michael was able to do it in our universe, and here he has me and Victoria to back him up.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, unable to bear the thought of any plan that would require more waiting.  “Let’s do that.”

“Now hold on a minute,” said Victoria.  “I’m as much of a fan of direct action as anyone, but we don’t know what Hell is like here.  We don’t know anything about the layout.  And we don’t have any low-level demons with us that could slip in without drawing attention to scout it out.”

“Well, why does that matter?” said Ramial, who was a very sweet person, but no battle tactician.  “Don’t we have enough firepower that we could just…blast our way through?”

Uriel turned with a creaking of the tiles under her.  Everyone looked at her.

“If Satan knows what we’re here for, she might hurt Crowley or use him for leverage against us,” she said quietly.

Aziraphale put his head in his hands.

What was making this really difficult for all of them was the unpredictability.  All the angels and demons in their home universe had know each other for thousands of years.  They had all been created together.  After that long, you develop a sense of intimacy even with enemies, to guess with reasonable accuracy how they behave.  Taken out of that context, they all struggled to plan, treading water in a deep ocean of unknown factors and wrong assumptions.  They didn’t have the luxury of being confident anymore.

Maybe Satan would hurt Crowley if she knew they wanted him.   Maybe she would kill him for fun. Maybe she would be completely amicable and escort him up as soon as she heard someone was looking for him.  They had no way of knowing.  They were in unknown territory.

“Okay,” said Ramial, scooting closer to Maltha.  “What if we sneak it to break him out?”

“We have no idea where he’s being kept,” said Victoria.  “No way in Hell that would work.  It seems like they’re way more organised here than ours, so I don’t think they’ll have huge parts of Hell unguarded.”

“Um,” said Uriel.

“You have an idea?” said Maltha.

“Could we….Could we, perhaps, call Satan, explain the situation, and ask for Crowley back?”

“Stop being foolish,” Aziraphale snapped.  “This is no time for jokes.”

“No, well, wait…” said Maltha.

Victoria leaned against a gargoyle, thinking very hard, hand on her chin. “That…that could work, actually. That might be worth trying.”

Aziraphale furrowed his brow.

“Satan might think it worth handing him over to avoid a conflict.  We do have significant firepower on our side.  We could do some serious damage.”

They all looked at each other.

“That’s too simple,” said Ramial.  “…Right?  There must be some reason why that wouldn’t work.  …Right?”

Maltha palmed the cool stone of the statue next to her.  “The risk is that if we spell out our interest in Crowley without a backup plan, it would give away our advantage of surprise. She’ll know exactly what we’re after.  Mounting a full-frontal assault or a sneak attack after that would likely be impossible.”

“We’d face the same problem if we tried to bargain for him,” said Victoria.

“As soon as she knows she has something we want,” said Maltha.  “She’ll fortify her defences and keep him under lock and key.”

“We don’t know that,” said Victoria.  “We don’t know anything about her.  Why would she be so hell-bent on keeping him?  Why would she value him so much she’d want to thwart us?”

“I don’t know!” Maltha exploded, because she was not handling being out of her element very well.  “I’m just assuming that everyone in this horrible universe has it out for us!   Call me pessimistic I guess!”

Mykas chose this moment to arrive and regroup.  “Hey guys!” he said, bouncing happily in the air.  “How’s it going?”

The glowers his cheerful tone got was enough of an answer.  He slunk behind a gargoyle.  “I took care of Angelo.  He won’t give us away.  What’s the situation?”

“Satan has Crowley,” said Aziraphale flatly.  “We were just trying to strategise how to get him away from her.”

“Oh no,” said Mykas.

“All right,” said Victoria, counting on her fingers.  “Trying to take Crowley by force presents a risk to Crowley’s safety.  Trying to sneak in will probably fail and we’d fall back on taking him by force anyway.  Asking for him or bargaining for him gives away the element of surprise and consequently makes a second attempt much harder.”

“There must be some way,” Aziraphale moaned, biting his knuckle.

“We could try bargaining for him,” said Uriel.  “We haven’t eliminated that possibility yet.”

“Bargain with what?” said Ramial.  “We don’t have anything Satan wants.”

They looked around at each other.

“We can’t trade one of us for him, surely,” said Aziraphale.  “That’s robbing Peter to pay Paul.”

“We wouldn’t have to actually give her a prisoner,” said Maltha.  “We would only need to get far enough into the bargain to reveal where he is and get close to him.  We could demand the exchange take place on Earth instead of Hell, which would take away her leverage.  She doesn’t know we have two archangels and two archdemons, so we could likely overpower her.”

“That could work,” said Aziraphale, stroking his chin.  “But how would we spin this without arousing suspicion that something is off?”

“Mykas is part of the infernal court here,” said Maltha.  “We should be able to leverage that somehow.”

“Yeah!” said Mykas.  “I could be a spy.”

“We don’t know where Here Mykas is,” said Victoria.  “Or anything about him.  It would be really hard for you to impersonate him convincingly, and to make sure you’re never in the same place at the same time.”

Mykas sat back on his haunches, thinking very hard.  “What if we could cause a big scene, with enough fighting that Hell would have to call out the infernal guard?  Then when the real Mykas was away, I could go in and pretend to be him.”

Victoria tapped her chin.  “That’s risky.  That’s…dangerous.  Presumably it would be me that would do the fighting that would draw Mykas out, and I don’t know if I could win.”

“That would spread us too thin,” said Maltha.  “And it would be disastrous if it went wrong.”

“What if,” said Uriel.  “We offer a trade, but instead of offering up one of us, we offered her an object she would desire more than anything else, something she wouldn’t be able to turn down.”

“Like what?” said Ramial.

“Like… the Book of Life.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“I’m not sure what she would want it for,” said Uriel.  “I’m not sure what she could do with it, or if she could even touch it.  But it’s the entire reason for my existence.  I assume that she’s been separated from it here, that it’s still up in Heaven.  She must be aching for it, yearning for it.  Think of the way you aimlessly tried to fulfill your purpose for 6,000 years after falling, Maltha.  You tried so hard and built a parody of what you had in Heaven.”

Maltha’s face scrunched up.

“It’s what all the archdemons do, in their own ways.  If I had fallen, I would…I would want the Book of Life back most of all.  It has a power in it nobody understands fully, not even me.  It’s the most powerful magical artifact that exists.”

“Giving the Book of Life to Satan would be supremely unethical,” said Maltha.  “We have no idea what it would do.  How powerful it would make her.”

“We don’t even have it to give her,” said Mykas.

“We don’t need to have it,” said Aziraphale.  “Nor actually give it to her.  It’s just to lure her out into a position where we can better overpower her to snatch Crowley.  We can communicate with her and arrange a meeting without revealing the exact extent of our firepower, and leverage the element of  surprise.”

“Okay,” said Victoria.  “Okay, that might work.  But, assuming Heaven does still have the Book of Life, why would they would Crowley bad enough to trade the Book of Life for him, of all things?  No way they’d give it up so easily.  She wouldn’t buy it.”

“We can say he has information we need,” said Maltha.  “Satan probably already knows there’s something strange about him.  She knows he’s a special case.”

They hemmed and hawed about this.

“We could pretend to be renegades,” said Aziraphale.  “Someone who broke away from Heaven and stole the Book of Life.”

“This might work,” said Victoria.  “Might.  I still think we should try just asking for him first.”

They looked at each other hesitantly.

“I don’t have any better ideas,” said Victoria.  “Anyone else?”

“I don’t,” said Uriel.

“Me neither,” said Mykas.

“Maltha?” said Victoria.

Maltha grimaced and looked to Ramial, who shook her head.

“Then let’s get to it, I suppose,” said Aziraphale.

They found a patch of the roof flat enough to draw an infernal communication sigil on.  Between the six of them, it only took three minutes to construct it.

“Okay,” said Aziraphale.  “Uriel, you’ll probably have the most insight into Satan’s thought processes, so maybe you should do the talking.”

“All right,” said Uriel.  “Okay. I will.”

“Don’t mess this up,” Mykas growled.

Uriel knelt and palmed the sigil to activate it.

“Dagon, Lord of the files,” the bureaucratic voice rang out.

“Hello,” said Uriel.  “Please connect me to Satan.  I need to speak directly to her.”

There was an awkward pause.  “And whom shall I tell her is calling asking to speak directly to the Queen of Hell?”

“An archangel,” said Uriel.  “I assure you it’s quite important.”

Another pause.  “A what?”

“An archangel.”

“All right,” said Dagon.  This, and only this, was enough to rouse him from his state of boredom so that he sounded merely slightly impassive.

Uriel pumped her fist as the hold music played.  “All right.  All right, I can do this.”

“Who dares call me, Satan, Lord of Darkness?” said a voice dripping with venom. “What lowly worm, what insect from the Kingdom of Heaven dares speak to me?”

“You’re the only insect here, you utter imbecile,” Uriel snapped.  “You are speaking to the most sanctified member of the Host of the Most High, and you shall act like it.”

“I care nothing for the sanctification of blind sheep,” said Satan, with an audible sneer.  “I would first march up to Heaven and tear down the gates with my own hands than respect you.”

Everyone’s eyes bounced back and forth between Uriel and the circle as though it were an interesting tennis match.

Uriel took a deep breath.  “I suppose I should have expected hostility by calling you first,” said Uriel.  “But I didn’t call you to antagonise you.  You have something that I want.”

There was a very, very long pause on the line.  “I have something Heaven wants?” said Satan disbelievingly.

“Yes.”

“Hell is explicitly designed to hold all the damned creatures Heaven doesn’t want.”

“This is a special case.”  Uriel looked up to Maltha, who gestured for her to keep going.  “You see, well…I’m not actually a representative of Heaven.”

“…What?” said Satan.  “You are an angel, aren’t you?  Then what else could you be a representative of?”

“A certain faction, with considerable firepower, that’s loyal to neither Heaven nor Hell.”

Uriel looked up for more guidance as Satan sputtered to make sense of that.  Aziraphale and Victoria nodded their encouragement.

“An archangel who’s not loyal to Heaven?” said Satan.  “That’s unthinkable.”

“Regardless, that is of no concern to you,” said Uriel.  “I’m not interested in explaining all the details to you.  The simple fact is that you have something I want, which is of no particular value to you, but of great interest to us, and it would be best for all of us and avoid considerable trouble on your part to simply give it to us.”

“An interesting thing to say,” said Uriel.  “I don’t know what it is I have that interests you so much—”

“It is an anomalous demon, who fits into the ranks of neither Heaven nor Hell, a member of our faction that was brought to you recently.”

“Oh, him?”

“I see you know exactly to whom I am referring.”

Aziraphale perked up, face tight, fists clenched.

“Yes, I am familiar,” said Satan.  “You want me to just give him to you?  Why?”

“As I just said.  Because he is of no particular value to you, but of great interest to us, and releasing him would avoid considerable trouble on your part, as we are prepared to go to some lengths to recover him.”

“If you’re prepared to go to great lengths to recover him, then he must be of some objective value,” said Satan.  “I don’t know for what purpose you desire this demon, but I have a very hard time believing releasing any of my assets—no matter how negligible the supposed value—to a rival faction would be in any way beneficial to me.”

Uriel bit her lip.  Aziraphale’s face became stormy.  Maltha chewed on her knuckle.  Mykas’s face was twisted as though he smelled something foul.  Ramial looked like she wanted to cry.  Victoria’s eyes bounced around the roof as though the gargoyles might have a hint for her.

Uriel looked up at Maltha and mouthed, “There’s no way she’ll believe we want him for sentimental value and not something strategic.”

Maltha grimaced and nodded her agreement.

Uriel mouthed, “What do I say?”

Maintaining the same facial expression, Maltha held out her hands.

Uriel turned her attention back to the communication channel.  “Ah, yes, well… You’ve…You’ve made an assumption by believing we are a rival faction.  No, I assure you our interests do not align with Heaven’s.”

Everyone visibly relaxed.

“No, we are not acting in any official capacity as agents of Heaven.”

“Intriguing,” said Satan.  “Considering all rebel angels fell with me at the beginning of Time, and all factions not loyal to Heaven are loyal to me.  Yet you claim to represent some third side.  I assure you no such thing exists.”

“Um,” said Uriel.

“And furthermore, if you seek to pledge loyalty to me as rebel angels, calling me up with demands is the furthest you can get from ingratiating me from the start.”

“Look,” Uriel snapped.  “We’re not pledging loyalty to you, and we’re not trying to engage you in war.  We’re above the petty concerns of the fight between good and evil.  We have our own agenda.”

“Which is?”

“None of your business.”

Maltha cringed and made a “cut it out” motion across her neck.  “I mean,” said Uriel, easing back.  “I mean, ah, our agenda is still of the utmost secrecy, but I assure you refusing cooperation with us is by no means in your interest.  As I said, we have significant firepower on our side and are prepared to go to some lengths to secure this demon—”

“All demons belong to me,” said Satan.  “They always have been, and they always will be.  I fail to see what I would get out of defying that Order and releasing him simply because you want him.”

Plan A had failed.  That much became obvious to everyone as soon as Satan said that.  Victoria crossed her arms and shook her head.  Maltha gestured for Uriel to commence Plan B.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” said Uriel.  “Which is why we’re prepared to offer you something of some value.”

“And what could that be?”

“What your heart most desires….Uriel.”

Uriel smiled wickedly as Satan exploded into a hissing fit of shrieking static.  “How dare you!  You wretched scum!  You intolerable celestial mongrel!  When I’m done with you, you’ll be flayed and writhing in—”

“The Book of Life,” Uriel interrupted her.

There was a stunned silence.

“Have I caught your interest?”

“You expect me to believe you’ll trade the Book of Life for a lowly demon? And one whom, as you claim, supposedly has no significant value?”

“Yes,” said Uriel.  “As I said…our interests do not align with Heaven’s.”

There was a sniff on the other end of the line.  “I don’t want it.”

“You don’t want it?”

“I already have a Book of Life.  I don’t need Heaven’s.”

Uriel looked up sharply at the group, and they all paled at the thought that they had calculated wrong and the Book of Life wasn’t in Heaven here, but…

“She’s lying,” Maltha mouthed to Uriel.  It was obvious from the way Satan’s voice faltered with barely suppressed desire.

Uriel nodded and turned back down.  “You…already have one?”

“Yes.  Even Heaven should have heard by now about my Book of Life.”

“You…made a copy of it.”

There was silence on the line.

“…Or tried to.”

“Mine has everything anyone needs to run Hell,” said Satan.  “It’s just as good.”

Uriel set her chin on her hands.  “Come on, now, you don’t really believe that, do you?”

Silence.

“We have the real one.  Not a knock-off.”

Silence.

“Hello?”

“He must be extremely valuable,” hissed Satan.  “That, or the Book of Life is actually worthless, somehow.  Either way, there’s no way you would do this unless you came out on top.”

“We’re not with Heaven, and we have no interest in fighting you. It’d basically be a double-win for you, if you think about it.”

“Who are you?” Satan demanded.  “With whom, exactly, am I speaking?”

“Don’t ask too many questions,” Uriel said.  “Do we have a deal or not?  The Book of Life for the anomalous demon.”

A long pause.

“Hello?”

“I’ll send a representative up in exactly one hour,” said Uriel.  “We shall meet beforehand so I can confirm you actually have the Book of Life.”

Uriel’s smugness shattered instantly.  “Excuse me?”

“I want to see that you have the Book of Life, then I’ll agree to a meeting to exchange this demon for it at a later time.  Understand?”

“Bring—Bring him up with you.  We have no time to waste on formalities,” said Uriel.

“Absolutely not,” said Satan.  “I won’t believe a single word you’ve said to me today until I see you with my own Eyes and that you have the Book of Life.  Neither I nor this asset you desire shall leave the ninth circle of Hell one minute before that.  Understand?”

Uriel cringed, looking at the others around the circle.  Aziraphale and Ramial looked panicked.  Victoria grimaced and held out her hands helplessly. Mykas bit his lip.  Maltha’s reddened face was hidden behind a hand.

“All right,” said Uriel.  “Where shall we meet?”

Satan provided them with a location, and then Uriel broke the circle to sever communication before the final flurry of insults that would surely serve as a sign-off.

“Shite,” said Aziraphale.  “Fuck.”

“You made things worse,” Mykas growled.

“What do we do?” said Uriel.

“Surely we can ambush the representative,” said Ramial.

“That won’t accomplish anything because they’re not bringing Crowley,” Aziraphale snapped.  “They’re only going to let us near him once we’ve proven we have the Book.”

“We can fake it, surely,” said Victoria.  “Right?  Right?”

“She’ll know,” said Uriel.  “She’ll be able to tell if it’s anything less than the genuine article.  I’m sure of it.  You can’t copy the Book of Life; that was the whole point in convincing her that her copy wasn’t as good.”

“I don’t suppose you brought ours?” Victoria said hopefully.

Uriel bit her lip and shook her head.  

Maltha began, “Then the alternative is…” and trailed off.

“I can get it,” said Uriel.  “I know I can.  This is why you brought me.”

Maltha took a deep, deep breath.  “Then I guess we have one hour to steal the Book of Life.”

Chapter Text

Brothers, sisters, and siblings. The Lord works in mysterious ways. This letter is being delivered to announce the return of the archangel Uriel, the most Holy servant of the Most High, to reclaim her position in the Host.  Arrange a meeting for me with the utmost haste, as I shall be return within a quarter of an hour.

This was the message sent ahead to Heaven, expertly written in Aziraphale’s careful calligraphy and delivered with enough haste to preclude anyone asking questions before the messenger absconded away.  It was just ludicrous enough that it might get them to believe it.

If only they could have seen the flurry of activity that happened in the fifteen minutes following the letter’s reception.

Currently, Uriel was catching the tail-end of that flurry, standing outside the gates of Heaven and seeing the squad of angels mobilised to meet her. Victoria stood to her right, a pristine angelic sentinel in immaculate armor.  They both had their wings out.  They both, to an observer who had watched them fall 6,000 years ago, would be extremely intimidating.

Uriel had once watched a strange movie she didn’t entirely understand because she had heard Crowley liked the series quite a lot.  It was Mission Impossible, and she was humming the theme to herself now.

It had a universally empowering type of energy to it.

“Thirty-nine minutes left,” said Victoria, consulting her watch.  She rolled her sleeve back down to conceal it.

The gates creaked open.  A cluster of warrior angels fanned out into a semicircle around the gates, and the familiar figure of Gabriel emerged from behind them.  Kris, with a proper warrior archangel’s aura, followed behind him.

“Well, well, well,” said Gabriel, coming to a stop a dozen feet from Uriel.  “I thought for sure that message must have been deception of some kind, and yet here you are…  The prodigal daughter, back in her original state.”

The nice thing about Uriel, and what made her ideal for this particular errand, was that she had an impeccable sense of entitlement.  And to go along with it, a penchant for convincing people that just maybe anything she said wasn’t quite as ludicrous as it sounded, simply because of the absolute dead-set confidence that she was always right with which she spoke.  “A pleasure to see you, Gabriel,” said Uriel.

Gabriel’s eyes shifted over to Victoria.  “And I see the archdemon Vycra has returned to us as well.  This represents an interesting dilemma, though.  There haven’t been more than seven archangels since before the Fall.  This is an irregularity.”

“I’m aware,” said Uriel, striding forwards.

Kris moved his sword out to block her, but she knocked it aside with a sneer.  “Please.”

Victoria followed Uriel as she waded through the angels, pushing them aside, and none of them were brave enough to stop her.

Gabriel and Kris watched, flabbergasted, before Gabriel shook himself and jogged to catch up to her.  “Surely you must realise we can’t let you just walk in?” said Gabriel.  “Clearly you’re an angel and not a demon, but you’re still the Adversary.”

“I have God’s favour,” said Uriel.  “If you want proof, look to the fact that I am no longer Fallen.  I am here for a special Divine purpose, and you shall not keep me from it.”

“And exactly what purpose might that be?” said Kris.

Uriel ignored him and lifted into the air, hovering about a dozen feet up. Just enough to get a sense of Heaven’s layout.

“This is unprecedented,” said Gabriel to her feet.  “No angel has come back into God’s favour after falling from the Light.”

Uriel noted the layout was more or less the same as the Heaven she was used to, with the notable exception that the Judgement Hall and the Throne Room were arranged in a line, rather than side-by-side.  Would the Book of Life still be kept in the Judgement Hall?  Did they have anyone able to interact with it with Uriel gone?

“All will be made clear soon enough,” said Uriel, returning to the ground.  She confidently strode forward, Victoria marching at her side, the other angels swirling around them like flabbergasted tumbleweeds.  

“I assume you have called a meeting of the archangels in the Judgement Hall?” said Uriel.

“Yes,” said Gabriel, huffing with his jogging.  “Kris and I came to escort you there.”

“Excellent,” said Uriel.

She stopped, her feet thumping on the cloudy street.  Gabriel doubled over, panting.  “The Judgement Hall is over here,” Kris offered helpfully.

“Right,” said Uriel.  “I knew that, of course.”

Uriel changed course; the entourage of lesser angels followed them, whispering incredulously among themselves.

Victoria set the pace of the walk towards the Judgement Hall, walking much faster than anyone in Heaven ever did to eat up the hike as quickly as possible, forcing poor clerical angels to jog to keep up.  When they were near, Victoria trotted ahead to get the doors.  She leaned in to Uriel as she opened them and said in a low voice, “So far so good, just keep being completely insufferable. Twenty-nine minutes.”

Victoria pushed the enormous golden doors open, and they slid to the side and banged into the wall with a thundering boom.  Victoria strode in, sword clacking against her armor, with Uriel not far behind, robes fluttering.  Gabriel struggled to get ahead of them to take his seat, looking harried.

The remainder of the archangels were seated at their appropriates places on the bench, elevated and looking properly dignified.  Metatron and Camael looked more or less like she was used to, and didn’t merit much attention.  Agatha—the Archangel of Grace—known as Agares in their home universe: now there was a player she hadn’t considered very much.  She had short, ruffled green hair and a hard face filled with piercings. Next to her sat Miriam—baby-faced Miriam, a facsimile of Maltha, lacking all the maturity and battled-readiness and ferocity that marked Uriel’s friend, looking soft and scared.

And there in the center was Lucifer, with his cascades of blonde hair and disapproving, crossed arms.  His skin seemed translucent over a layer of liquid light inside him.

Victoria looked a little afraid of him.  Uriel had never been afraid of anybody.  She had never had the sense of smallness to feel it appropriate to be cowed by anyone, and she saw no reason to start now.

The Book of Life was conspicuously absent; in fact, the pedestal upon which it typically sat was non-existent here.

Kris and Gabriel rushed to take their places, bringing the number of other archangels they faced up to the full, proper seven.

LET US HEAR WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAY, said Lucifer.  GIVE US SOME CLARITY ON THIS HIGHLY UNUSUAL SITUATION.

Hearing Lucifer speak with his old voice sent a shiver through Uriel’s spine that fell just short of turning into some strong emotion.  She shook herself and noted with dissatisfaction her position: she was down in the dais where a soul to be judged would traditionally be held, where the archangels could lord over them.

Uriel tried not to smirk, but she was sure none of these archangels would have before seen the inappropriate behaviour she was about to display, and she was finally just wicked enough to feel good breaking the rules.

Uriel spread her wings and leapt up onto the bench, flapping to spring up and plant her feet directly into Gabriel’s paperwork.

“Excuse me!” the Metatron gasped.

“You’re excused,” said Uriel.  She strolled the length of the bench, putting one leg in front of the other languidly, savouring the upset on their faces.

“Speak your matter, demon,” demanded Camael.  “This is still a house of the lord, and you shall respect it as such.”

Uriel stopped in front of Camael and squatted to be face-to-face with him. She patted his cheek.  “I think you look better with a pair of horns, for the record,” she whispered.  “It suits you.”

Camael stared at her.

“I have been blessed with divine favour from our Father the Most High,” Uriel said, standing and breaking out her booming Voice of Heaven voice.  “He has raised me from the depths of Hell for a special purpose.”

She stopped in front of Metatron and let a note fall from her hand, then scooted it closer to him with her foot while making eye contact with Gabriel so he wouldn’t notice.

THEN REVEAL YOUR MISSION TO US, said Lucifer.

Metatron picked up the note and started to read it.

“I require the Book of Life,” said Uriel.  “I am our Father’s specially crafted servant, the only one who can properly manage it.”

Metatron went pale as a sheet.

Agatha crossed her arms.  “Satan, you expect to just walk in here and abscond with one of our most holy relics?”

“I am Satan no longer,” Uriel thundered.  “I am highly favoured among man, demons, and angels.”

“We shall see,” said Metatron.  “I shall take Satan—Uriel—to the Throne Room and let God pass judgement on her.”

The other archangels looked uneasy.  “Metatron, are you sure?” said Miriam.

“Yes,” said Metatron, standing.  “Let’s go.”

Metatron stood.  The other archangels gathered themselves to follow.  Metatron looked panicked and said, “No, I shall escort the Adversary to face her judgement alone.”

The other archangels looked at each other.

“But would it not be proper to have the Host there?” said Miriam.

“We are not one to question the Voice of God…” said Agatha.

“Then don’t,” said Metatron, hurrying out of the Judgement Hall, away from the questioning looks of the other archangels, and Uriel followed.  

Victoria caught her eye as she exited and flashed her watch, which read 23:56 and counting.

The Metatron did not say a word until they reached the Hall housing the Throne Room, opening the enormous doors to the antechamber and scurrying inside.

Uriel stepped in behind them, and they pushed the doors shut, then whirled around, waving the note Uriel had dropped for them, which read I know God is dying, and I’ll tell everyone unless you let me have the Book.  “How do you know about this?”

Uriel smiled.  The group had put their brains together and guessed that, based on the state of the war efforts here, Heaven was probably trying to accelerate the pace for the same reason their own Heaven had.  “It doesn’t matter how I know about it,” said Uriel.  “Where is the Book of Life kept?”

“Something very strange is going on,” said Metatron.  “I demand to know what.”

“You’ll get it back,” said Uriel.  “I just need to use it for a few days.  No harm will come to it.”

“You really expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t have time to elaborate.”

“I demand to know what’s going on.”

“I don’t have much time, Metatron.  I can’t sit down and explain it all to you.  I need it now.”

“Surely you don’t expect me to just give it to you?”

Uriel leaned in, scowling her best scowl.  “I’ll tell you exactly what’s going to happen, Metatron.  One of two things.  One, I’m going to walk out of here with the Book of Life, and you’ll get it back in a few days’ time, unharmed, and you can continue on your way as though nothing had happened and forget this anomaly.  Or two, we walk back to the meeting of archangels, I tell them all that not only is God not immortal, but He is currently dying, and the Metatron has been hiding it—”

Metatron opened their mouth to protest, but Uriel trucked on over them, “—and you get to watch the entirely Heavenly Kingdom dissolve into chaos, right when you’re on the cusp of war with Hell.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” said Metatron.  “I don’t know who—or what—or when you are, because you’re clearly not Satan, but you can’t be the old Uriel either—but you would get no benefit from that.  You wouldn’t dare do that.”

“I’m not invested in what happens to your Heaven.  I could watch it all burn and not shed a tear.  I’ve burned things I cared much, much more about without hesitation.”

Metatron shook.

“So what’ll it be?”

“The Book of Life is in there,” said Metatron, pointing a defeated finger at the closed doors demarcating the Throne Room.

“You keep the Book of Life in the Throne Room?” Uriel scoffed.

Metatron didn’t answer.

Uriel marched towards the door.

“Please remember it holds all of us,” said Metatron.  “Don’t let us burn.”

Metatron walked out as Uriel grabbed the handles.  Perhaps they just couldn’t bear watching her.

Uriel pulled the doors open.

Well, the Throne Room here was certainly bigger.  The Throne Room in her home universe could by no stretch of the imagination be called small, but this one was extended into a hall, and the foremost chamber of it contained the pedestal upon which the Book sat, bathed in holy light.

And there was God, that pillar of fire and light upon the Throne, surrounded by angels and wheels of fire and clouds.  He was pulsing painfully, dwindling, and Uriel felt his Divine Essence reach out to punish her for intruding but fall short, in His agony, in His death throes.

“What are you?” Uriel whispered. “What manner of Creature is this?”

A tendril reached out for her.

Uriel scurried forwards and lifted the Book of Life off the pedestal. “I just need to borrow this for a bit.”

She turned and dashed out as the room shook with a great roar.  She sprinted out of the chamber, then out of the hall, slamming the doors behind her.

She slowed to a nonchalant walk when she reached the Judgement Hall. Luckily, Victoria was standing by the door, and the warrior spotted her and slipped out.

“Where are you going?” said Gabriel’s voice faintly, sounding affronted.

“I’ve got it,” Uriel said, sounding giddy.  The volume took up practically her entire arm span and would have been impossible to miss.

“I see that,” said Victoria.  “And we’ve got sixteen minutes to spare.  Let’s blow this Popsicle stand.”

“Let’s what?”

“It’s just an expression.”

Uriel kept her pace and started walking towards the exit.  Victoria clomped behind her, a hand on her back pushing her along.  The sensation of the warm skin of Victoria’s hand through the sheer fabric of Uriel’s toga was oddly scintillating.  “Faster.”

Uriel broke into a jog, her little-exercised legs struggling to keep up with Victoria’s demanding pace.  

“The fastest I ever got to the gate from the Judgement Hall back home was four minutes,” said Victoria.  “Do you want to try and beat that?”

Uriel’s eyes swept the path in front of her unsurely.  “I suppose.”

Gabriel emerged from the Judgement Hall, looking at them hesitantly. The other archangels’ voices could be heard echoing behind him.

“You have a good grip on the Book?” said Victoria through the side of her mouth.

“Yes.  Why?”

Kris appeared behind Gabriel.  Victoria physically picked Uriel up, sprinting towards the gates.

Uriel probably should have been alarmed by the chase, but all she could seem to focus on was Victoria’s strong arms around her waist.

***************

“Come on, come on, come on,” said Aziraphale, checking his watch and shifting from foot to foot.

Aziraphale, they decided, should be the one they let Hell’s representative see, because he was the only angel they knew hadn’t fallen in this universe and that wouldn’t draw too many distracting questions.  For now, they were only trying to convince Satan to bring Crowley up to them, so they could wait until then to bring out the surprisingly large guns to get the jump on her. Keeping the exact extent of their firepower secret until then was essential if they hoped to catch her off-guard.

So for now it was just Aziraphale at the meeting spot.  The others were out of sight, but they were nearby enough that Hell’s representative would be able to tell someone else was here in case they got any funny ideas about mugging Aziraphale.

“The others” at this point, worrying, did not include Victoria and Uriel, because they still hadn’t returned with the Book of Life despite the countdown to the meeting pushing five minutes.  Aziraphale stood empty-handed in the middle of a field of withered grass feeling quite silly, somewhat like a child with no money accompanying a parent to the grocery store when the parent runs off to attend to some last-minute business, and the items on the conveyor belt are approaching perilously close to the point of payment.

He had the same enchanted notepad Ramial had used earlier, and he wrote on it, What should we do if they don’t show up???

After a moment he got a reply back as the words Look up appeared on the notepad.

Relief flushed his system as he did so and spotted Victoria and Uriel flying towards him, the latter of whom carried an enormous tome.  He ran over, spreading his arms.  “Quickly!  Quick!”

Uriel dropped the Book of Life into his arms.  He staggered under the weight, which nearly floored him.

“You take good care of that, now,” said Uriel.

“Yes, yes,” said Aziraphale.  “Go hide with the others.”

“Aziraphale, we got the Book,” said Victoria, “but Heaven wasn’t too happy about it.  We lost them over the southern hemisphere on the way down, but we need to be ready for them to show up.”

Aziraphale cut her off with a head-jerk towards the hiding spot.  “We’ll deal with that later, come on.”

The two archangels flew off to the hiding spot he indicated, just nearby enough for their auras to be felt, but far enough away not to be visible in that wide-open space.  That left Aziraphale once again alone in the field.

He shifted under the uncomfortable weight of the Book, wondering how Uriel carried it so effortlessly.  He set it gently on the ground between his legs, loathe to get the most precious book in the universe dirty, but unable to carry himself with any reasonable dexterity while holding it.

In his right hand, the notepad blossomed the words Here they come.  He felt it then, too: the aura of an unfamiliar archdemon drawing near.

“Show yourself!” Aziraphale shouted.

An archdemon rose up from the ground beneath the dry underbrush, without any aplomb, as though they had simply been lying down in the field and decided to stand up.

She was a warrior, Aziraphale immediately saw, and her aura was just similar enough to Victoria’s for him to be able to tell who it was.  “You must be the archdemon Vycra, I presume?”

The newcomer clomped through the weeds to come closer.  She looked so much like Victoria, it was strange—those angry orange eyes marked her, though.  As did the curious tattoo on her neck—it was an eye, with occult symbols intricately woven into its design.  “And with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking, angel?”

Aziraphale had always hated it when any demon other than Crowley called him angel.  They always said it with such malice and disdain, rather than Crowley’s affection, like they were different species entirely.  “Aziraphale, Principality of Great Britain,” said Aziraphale. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

“I’ve been sent up to confirm that you are in possession of the genuine Book of Life,” said Vycra.

“I am, as you can see,” said Aziraphale, both hands pointed to the Book on the ground beneath him.

The eye on Vycra’s neck flared to life.  Aziraphale had to suppress a step back in surprise as the pupil began to move around.  A new voice spoke out, “Vycra, let me see.  Turn to the side so I can see better.”

Vycra obediently pivoted, drawing aside her long black hair to expose the eye better.  The ink writhed under the enchantment, then went wide as if with surprise.  “That’s it!  That’s the real Book of Life!  I don’t believe it!”

“We weren’t lying,” Aziraphale said.  “As you can see.  Now to discuss the matter of the exchange—”

“Vycra, take it.”

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide.  “You can’t just take it.”

Vycra looked at Aziraphale hesitantly.  “My lord, I detect the presence of multiple archangels nearby, that would seem ill-advised.”

Aziraphale scribbled a warning on the notepad and immediately felt the auras of his companions hurtling towards him at lightning speed.

“Are you my servant or not?” Satan’s voice shrieked, and Vycra flinched at the proximity of the noise to her ears.  “Your master desires that Book.”

Vycra stood and leaned away from Aziraphale.  “My Lord, he has reinforcements.”

“All that stands between you and the Book of Life is one Principality right now. Cut him down and take it.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flew from Vycra’s tattoo to her face with terror.

Vycra let her hair fall.  “That would be unwise.”

“It certainly would,” Aziraphale added.

“Why?  Because you’d have to fight?” said Satan.  “I command you to retrieve that Book, regardless of personal injury to yourself.”

Vycra faced away from Aziraphale and spread her wings.  “I’m sure we’ll be in contact to negotiate,” she said over her shoulder.

“There will be consequences if you don’t do as I say!” Satan shrieked.

Vycra kicked off into the air, the wind from her wings buffeting into Aziraphale.  Just as she disappeared behind a cloud, Mykas arrived beside Aziraphale, panting.  “Are you okay?  Where did she go?”

Aziraphale stood there sweating, shaking with the realisation of how close to death he had just come.

He started as he felt hands on his shoulders, and Maltha leaning in with a calming voice.  “It’s okay. We’ve got you.”

“What happened?” said Victoria.

Aziraphale pushed his spectacles up his slick nose.  “I—I do believe we’ve proved to Satan we have something she wants.”

Chapter Text

Well, it’s all well and good to be hopeful.  Hope is the first step to solving your problems.  But unfortunately, the second step is usually some variation of actually doing something to solve your problem, avenues for which Crowley had precisely zero available.  

Crowley spent a good amount of time slithering forward in search of a way out of the Pit.  Then he had a good session of sniffing about and investigating, then a spate of time spent roving and wandering.

He had heat pits as a snake, of course, but they weren’t helpful.  The entire place was hot, glowing in his UV vision like a blazing supernova.  He had to turn it off after a while to avoid the sensory overload.

His tongue flicking out and tasting the air provided an overwhelming array of scents, all jumbled up on one another, an unread story with a thousand layers on top of one another like a hellish lasagna.  He occasionally caught scent of someone nearby, sensing a shift in the air, the vibration of footsteps against his scaly belly, snaking towards it in a predatory way, but unable to reach anyone before they ran off. He called out for them to wait, always, but they never did.  They moved at the edges of his periphery like the ghosts of timid rodents.

Crowley coiled up, considering changing back into his human form.  The forked tongue was useful for now, and there was something comforting about being in his original shape.

The soft tmp tmp tmp of footsteps sounded in the pitch-black.

“Hello?” said Crowley, periscoping up.  “Don’t run away!  Please!”

There was suddenly a bright light, the light of the innermost layer of Hell.  Crowley would have slammed his eyes shut had he had eyelids.

He felt a hand on him, clamping on his neck, and dragging him out.

The light of Hell’s throne room felt like the piercing brightness of Heaven after the darkness of the Pit; it took several moments for Crowley’s vision to adjust so he could see:

Satan was holding him, his coils looped around the length of her arm and squeezing as a panicked reflex.  Behind her was the archdemon Vycra; her face bore a gnarly set of fresh talon marks, and she looked chastised and cowed.

Crowley stood statue-still like a panicked deer as Satan lifted him up to meet his eyes.  “What’s so special about you?” she demanded.

He flicked his tongue out.

“You must know something,” said Satan.  “Some information they need.  Or some ability you’ve kept hidden from me.  Whatever it is, they can’t want you for anything good.”

Crowley’s muscular coils slid along her arm, pulsing with enough force to crush lesser beings to death.  He let out a hiss like a tea kettle.

“Maybe if you tell me, things will go a lot easier for you.”

“What are you talking about?” Crowley croaked.

“Someone wants you very, very badly,” she said.  “And I can’t imagine why.  But I intend to find out.”

********************************************

The group dawdled and bickered about what their next step should be while they waited to be contacted again by Hell.  Which finally happened about an hour later, a message to tell them to meet Satan in the same spot as before, at sunrise the next morning.

The delay was unnerving.  Their precious time in this universe before having to return was burning up.  Three days and two nights it had been, and at sunup when Satan wanted to meet they would begin eating into their third day. They were due back at 7PM, which meant that, if anything in this trade-off went wrong, they would only have about 12 hours to scrape up some alternate plan.

They sent down to Hell a very polite request to meet earlier, which was summarily and unambiguously rejected.

So they flocked together in the eaves of the church like bats huddled up, trying to get some anxious rest while they prepared themselves.

Uriel kept the Book of Life cradled in her wings.  Aziraphale caught her in the middle of the night reading it; it was open to Lucifer’s page, and she caressed it gently, as though comforting a lost loved one.

The morning of the third and final day in this universe came soon enough.

They had decided Aziraphale should appear again, but the previous encounter with Vycra made them hesitant to risk Aziraphale’s physical safety in the same way, so at least one of the higher-ranking members of the group would go with him.

If they all stood there waiting for Satan to show up, they figured Satan would probably suspect (rightly) that it was a trap, get suspicious, and call it off.  Seeing Uriel and Victoria would be a tip off that something very strange was happening and would probably shift the focus of the meeting towards the fact that their un-fallen doppelgangers somehow existed, and who knew how they would react to that?

Again, they were caught up in the unpredictability….They would have been able to have some kind of idea what to expect in their home universe, but this Satan was new, a different animal entirely.  And they had to figure out how to outsmart her, to double-cross and walk away with both Crowley and the Book of Life, unless they wanted to let this universe burn down behind them when they left.

But how to finagle it so they had the upper hand?  What if Satan brought four archdemons with her and matched their firepower?  What if this meeting turned into a battle?  What if she concocted up a way to thwart their attempts to keep both Crowley and the Book of Life, or worse, keep them both herself?  What if she got wind it was a trap and slaughtered Crowley before they could get him?

That led Aziraphale to visions of his beloved being slain as a consequence of their attempts to play dirty, and it sent spikes of anxiety through him. He was tempted to actually give over the Book of Life and let this universe fall to ruin as long as it meant he would get Crowley back safely.

But the others wouldn’t let him, because they at least had some sense of propriety remaining, and he was shocked to discover that was probably the only thing holding him back from such a selfish action.

They eventually decided it had to be Maltha to stand by Aziraphale and assure his safety.  It couldn’t be Victoria or Uriel, and Mykas would probably be troublesome as well. They decided the best course of action would be to mask Maltha’s aura with the angel dust spell.  This would obscure her identity and make it difficult to tell if she was an angel or a demon.  This would likely be better than being up-front about a demon and an angel working together, because that kind of thing was still scandalous and unheard of in this place, and the revelation would, again, draw an unpredictable response from Satan.

All they had to do was get Crowley close enough that they could grab him. Aziraphale would have the Book of Life, and Maltha would be next to him.  They would say whatever outlandish thing they had to in order to get Crowley within snatching distance.  Aziraphale would drop the Book, grab Crowley, and Maltha would fend off any resistance until Mykas, Victoria, Uriel, and Ramial arrived for backup.

They would, they assumed, be able to overpower Satan and whoever she brought as backup.  That was a big assumption.  And they only had to grab Crowley and the Book and then run away; they didn’t have to win the battle, just hold their own. It might, just might work.

Creating the angel dust for Maltha unfortunately required quite a good deal of feathers, which were taken from Aziraphale, Ramial, Victoria, and Uriel. Maltha healed the poor plucked sods because they had taken so many feathers it was doubtful they would be able to fly, but it was still a quite unpleasant experience.

They didn’t have all the ingredients they would need to make the drinkable version of the spell, so they hastily put together the dust version and sprinkled it on her.  They ended up needing to go back and make more, and even then it just barely covered her entirely.  The sun was rising by the time they finished and got into position.

The dead grass crunched under their feet as they took up position, the exact same place Aziraphale had stood last time.  The others were far enough away to not be felt, to preserve the element of surprise, and it unnerved Aziraphale that their backup was so far away.

But he had seen how fast Mykas was capable of moving.  And he had Maltha by his side now, and frankly, Aziraphale had been pretty thoroughly convinced by now of Maltha’s ability to get away with pretty much whatever she wanted, even moreso than him.  Aziraphale and Maltha both had flare guns, which they would set off to let the others know to rush over.

So there Aziraphale stood, the hefty Book of Life in his arms, with Maltha and her masked aura hovering behind his shoulder.  He didn’t dare pray; he didn’t know what might happen.

A towering inferno of flames and billowing white smoke erupted in the distance, and winged figures could be seen in the flames.

“Here we go,” said Maltha.

Leading the way was Vycra, bearing fresh wounds on her face, likely the result of talking back earlier.  Behind her, snuffling across the dry bracken was this universe’s version of the archdemon Mykas, a bearish figure crisscrossed with scars and looking incapable of more than the most bestial instincts.  A chain around his neck led to the hand of—

Satan.  She had a skeletal frame and awful, terrible wings full of eyes.  And in the other hand she held a sack, which writhed faintly.

Aziraphale eyed the sack hungrily, desperate.  He knew what was in it.  Despite the circumstances, he managed a small laugh.  “They just brought him in a pillow case.”

Satan stopped within shouting distance, Mykas on her right, Vycra to her left.  Satan, and two archdemons.  They might be able to win, if the others could get here quickly enough.  A sneer crossed Satan’s face.  “And who exactly might this be, principality?”

“An escort to ensure you play fair,” said Aziraphale darkly.  “Considering what you tried to pull last time.”

Satan’s faced crunched into hatred.  “What kind of angel is this?  What’s wrong with her aura?”

“Don’t worry about her,” said Aziraphale.  “Do you have him?”

Satan reached into the bag and pulled out a black and red snake, hand firmly behind his jaw and out of biting distance.  She dropped the sack and held him up, his thick body coiling around her arm.

The panic in his eyes and frantic movements of his serpentine body broke Aziraphale’s heart.  Crowley writhed and made eye contact with Aziraphale.  Still, he trembled.

Aziraphale thought that he needed a way to signal to Crowley that this was his Aziraphale, not the other one who had tried to kill him.  So he very subtly spread his fingers, lifting his ring-finger up slightly to draw Crowley’s attention to the golden band there.

Crowley’s eyes wheeled about in his head, and he snapped at Satan, trying to bite her hand.  It was unfortunately a futile gesture, but the renewed attempts at escape made Aziraphale think Crowley had gotten the message.

“This creature is what you want, isn’t it?” said Satan.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale.  “Let him go.”

“Not yet,” said Satan.  Crowley’s sides heaved, expelling a fearsome hiss.  “First, I demand an explanation.  Something very strange is going on.  Who is this ‘archangel’ next to you, and for what purpose do you demand this demon, that you would trade Heaven’s most holy artifact for him?”

Maltha’s hand grabbed the collar of Aziraphale’s shirt, and it was only then that he realised he had started forward to pummel Satan’s face in.  “Patience,” Maltha hissed.

“That is none of your concern,” Aziraphale yelled.  “You agreed to the trade, now let’s trade.”

All she had to do was put Crowley down, Aziraphale thought.  Just put him down, and he could slither far enough away for them to reach him before Satan could retrieve him.  As it was, she had a death grip on him, and there was no way to snatch him without risking retaliation.

Just put him down.

“Put him down,” Aziraphale said.  “And we’ll get on with it.”

Satan narrowed her eyes at him.

Vycra drew her sword, laying it across Crowley’s neck.  “Let me rephrase this,” said Satan.  “This demon must be of some considerable value to you, and I stand to lose nothing.  So if you wish to re—”

She was interrupted by an ear-splitting blast from a horn, and all heads looked up to see the sky parting, Heavenly warriors pouring out, led by Kris.

Maltha hissed.  From Satan’s side, Mykas barked and snarled viciously.

“Villain!” Kris’s voice boomed.  “I knew you were up to no good.  You intend to hand the Book of Life over to the Adversary.”

“I knew this was a trap,” Satan shrieked.  “Vycra, take him back down.  They won’t trick us out of our leverage so easily.”

This was the point at which Aziraphale dropped the Book of Life, which landed with an Earth-shaking thud to the gasps of all present, and sprinted with all his force to bridge the gap between them.  He had killed Satan once, and he was prepared to do it again, and now that he had Crowley in his sight he wouldn’t let him out of it again for anything.

The sky disgorged an impressive amount of angels.  Maltha set off the signal for their reinforcements to come and snatched the Book of Life of the ground.  Satan dropped Mykas’s chain, releasing him.  Aziraphale pumped his wings and rocketed at Satan, who was handing Crowley to Vycra.

Aziraphale drew his sword.

Vycra also drew hers.

Aziraphale’s lunge at Satan was easily deflected with a sneer and a wave of her arm, sending him careening into Vycra and landing heavily at her feet.

Vycra lifted her sword to ram Aziraphale through.

This diverted her attention away from the serpent in her hand, briefly, just long enough for him to twist and spit venom in her face.

It splattered on her cheek and hit her left eye.  She recoiled, screaming, but she dropped her sword instead of Crowley.  Whatever damnable reflex was responsible for it, she dropped her sword instead of him, holding onto him like her life depended on it.

Aziraphale stood to try and wrestle Crowley off of her, but she kicked him square in the chest and flung him back.  Crowley erupted into a stream of hisses, flicking venom everywhere, but she had pointed him away from her face by this point.

“I told you to take him and go,” Satan growled.

Vycra’s gaze—one good eye, one swamped with black, crawling venom—went from Satan to Aziraphale, then she turned and spread her wings.

“No!” Aziraphale shouted.

Vycra kicked off into the air, Crowley still coiled around her arm, zigzagging around the descending heavenly forces and veering out of their path. Aziraphale leapt up to follow, unsuccessfully trying to grab onto her ankles before she got out of reach.

Vycra was a much stronger flier than he was, and it was obvious from the moment she took off he wouldn’t be able to catch up to her, but that didn’t stop him from trying.  She rocketed up into a cloud bank out of sight, and Aziraphale followed, breaking through the mist.  The sounds of the freshly started battle below faded with distance.

Aziraphale exited the cloud into an empty sky, panting and wheeling around to try and find them.  There. He spotted the archdemon diving towards the ground, where a portal to the underworld had opened up to admit her.

“No you don’t!” said Aziraphale.  He tucked in his wings and dived.  He could faintly see the serpentine figure in Vycra’s grasp writhing and struggling as they plummeted.

The portal swallowed Vycra up.

Please, Aziraphale thought, stay open just two seconds longer.

It had begun to close by the time Aziraphale reached it, but he was able to tuck and roll to fit through it.

He hit something hard and felt his nose break, his vision filled with white blurs as he tumbled over.  He finally lay motionless on the ground for a moment, his head ringing, then sat up as quickly as he could, vision spinning.

He had made it through the portal, all right, into the infernal dimension, but he hadn’t made it past the gate.  In front of him loomed a massive white stone door patterned with an eye set into a cave wall, firmly closed.  The blood smear on it told Aziraphale he had collided face-first into it.

He wiped the blood with his sleeve, springing to his feet.  Vycra must have gone inside already, somehow. Aziraphale marched around, but the little antechamber was empty, and there was nowhere they could be hiding.

Aziraphale’s heart sank as his brain began to process the fact that he had failed.  He jogged around, looking vainly for some sign that he was wrong, but the only logical conclusion was that Vycra had gone in and someone had managed to close the gate with impeccable timing to lock him out.

He marched up to the door, huffing, and knocked on it.  The eye on the door shifted to look at him.

“Let me in!” he demanded.

The eye blinked.

“I demand you let me in.”

“No,” said a voice, and the eye closed.

Aziraphale beat at the gate and yelled till he was hoarse.  Then, he sunk dejectedly down into a siting position with his back against the gate.

Now this was a predicament, wasn’t it?  What was there left to do?  They were basically back to square one.  Aziraphale’s instinct was to march in and resort to force….but he couldn’t very well do that alone.  Could he?

Tears sprung to his eyes.

No, he couldn’t even get past the gates.  He had failed.  He was a failure.

Wait a minute.  Crowley was still in danger, and Aziraphale was sitting around crying?  When had that ever accomplished anything?  There would be time to feel miserable later.  For now, he had to put his anger aside and act smartly…something he hadn’t traditionally been very good at.

The first step would be to regroup…Except he had left the rest of his party in the middle of a huge battle with Heaven.  His mouth felt dry thinking about it.  Maybe there wouldn’t be anyone else to help him when he got back.

Surely they all had good enough survival instincts to get out of there alive?

Yes.  He had to trust them.  Now he just had to regroup with them.

Except…

This Hell did not have a static exit like the Hell in their home universe had. The antechamber he found himself in was just a smooth unbroken cave.  The only exit was the stone door behind him, which remained firmly shut.

“Oh bugger,” he said.

The only way to leave must be through the same kind of magic used to access it in the first place.  Aziraphale patted his pockets, trying to gauge whether or not he had the spell ingredients necessary to concoct such a ritual.

He thought again about the Heavenly armies pouring down onto Satan’s head. No way Hell would win that fight. Satan would probably be retreating soon, so he’d better hurry before she showed up.

Unless…?  Maybe he could hide and then when the gates opened, sneak in?  That seemed incredibly dangerous, and very foolish.  Maltha, or Mykas, or even Uriel would probably be able to figure out a way to get through the gates; the opportunity to get in wasn’t so rare he needed to risk going in alone.

He got out a piece of chalk and started drawing a circle he supposed might get him back up to Earth.  He laid out the ingredients in his pockets and frowned as he noticed he was short on the prerequisite amount of sulfur needed. Best to try it anyway.

Aziraphale mixed everything together and laid it out, lighting the candles and saying the incantation.  The candles fizzled out, but nothing happened.

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale.

A portal zoomed open in the wall.

“Ah, there we go,” said Aziraphale, paying no mind to the fact that it decidedly hadn’t come from his spell.

Maltha’s head peeked in.  She had a volley of fresh claw marks scored down her face and leading into her neck. “Aziraphale,” she hissed.  “Get out here.  Satan is coming.”

“Is everyone else here too?” said Aziraphale.  “They must’ve gotten not too far, I was thinking we could—”

“She called for reinforcements,” Maltha said tightly.  “You will die.  Get the fuck out here.”

Aziraphale, chastised, stepped out without further argument.

Maltha grabbed his belt to haul him out faster.  He found himself on the roof of the church they had convened at earlier.  The portal to Hell closed behind him.

In the distance, where the sky had been rent to produce Heaven’s armies, the two forces could be seen retreating to their respective strongholds. Satan’s escort had swelled to include an arm of cavalry mounted on Hellhorses, and Azirpahale could sense the presence of at least three archdemons that definitely hadn’t been there before.  The fiery hooves of the horses and the miscellaneous flames on the infantry glowed faintly in the darkness of the black gate swallowing them up.

Maltha was right, Aziraphale would have been trampled.  He tugged at his collar, sweating.  He looked to Maltha, who had plopped herself down tiredly on the roof shingles.  Besides the injury on her face, it looked like most of the feathers on her right wing had been torn off, as well as a few injuries to her arms and torso that had been partially healed.

He looked around.  Mykas was lying out, whining faintly under a crisscross of lacerations from holy weapons on his snout and all over his body.  Victoria had lost her left arm, which had been lopped off just above the elbow and cauterised with infernal fire, by the looks of it.  Poor Ramial was sitting on a pipe with a leg injury that looked like it would make her unable to stand.

Only Uriel, sitting on the edge of the roof with the Book of Life on her lap, was uninjured.

“What happened?” Aziraphale asked.

“They weren’t quite sure what to make of us,” said Victoria with a pained smile. “So we got attacked by both sides.”

Aziraphale sat down heavily, his head in his hands.

“I don’t suppose you managed to catch up to Vycra?” said Uriel.

“No, of course I didn’t,” Aziraphale snapped.  “Don’t be stupid.”

Uriel turned red.

“I see you managed to get away with your precious Book, though,” Aziraphale fumed.  “For all the good it does us.”

“Aziraphale, I gave the Book of Life to Uriel and told her to run to keep Heaven from getting it again,” said Maltha.  “It’s our best leverage over Satan right now.  She still clearly wants it.”

She was right, but that didn’t mean Aziraphale had to be polite.  He glowered without apologising.

“All right,” said Victoria, still breathing heavily.  “So that was a failure.  But we all made it out alive, and we’ve still got the Book, and there’s still time.  We’ve got…” She struggled to count on her fingers with only one hand.  “…eight hours left.”

“Eight hours…”  Aziraphale grappled with a hard dilemma:  if the time came and went, would he go back home and try to think of an alternate plan? …Or would he stay here in this universe, even if it meant being trapped, to try and get Crowley back?

Maltha exhaustedly leaned onto a gargoyle for support, running her hands up and down her injuries.  “All right. There’s no way around it.  I was really hoping there was, but there isn’t. The time for clever plans and bargaining is over.  We have to stop pissing around.”

“Full-frontal assault,” said Mykas.

Victoria nodded.  “Then let’s go.”

Chapter Text

Crowley was, once again, tossed into the Pit, this time without any ceremony. He was almost glad to go in this time, because Satan came back throwing an absolute royal fit, breaking things and abusing anyone within her reach which, unfortunately, included him as a captive.

The Pit was dark again.  But the blackness didn’t seem quite as crushing, the heat not as oppressive.

Aziraphale was here, his Aziraphale, and possibly others as well. They had gotten so close, they were so close to escaping this place.

All he had to do was get to them.  He just needed to find a way out.  Escape a hostile Hell.  He’d done it before.  He just had to do it again.

It sounded so simple when he thought about it like that.

Human form this time; it was essential he get down to business.  He stumbled through the Pit with renewed urgency, jogging and calling out.  “Hello? Hello?  Is anyone here?”

He heard faint footsteps retreating from him.

“Wait!” he shouted.  “Is there a way out of here?  Someone must know!”

He walked forward with arms out, grabbing, trying to make contact with someone, anyone.

And he bumped hard into something that burned him.

He hissed in agony and surprise, flinching back.  The source of the burning faded, but it lingered on his hands, a sear of Divine aura.  Like God’s presence.

There was some snippet of Divine aura in front of him.  Here.  In the Pit.

“What the Hell?” Crowley, reaching his hands out.  “Hello?  Who’s there?”

Silence.

“Hello?”

He felt the hollows of his bones vibrate, and his eyes contracted at the sudden bright light of a telltale circle that showed he was being summoned.

“Uh?” he said.

A meaty hand reached out and clamped on his face, over his mouth, muffling his startled cry, and pulled him out of the Pit.

He wriggled and clawed at his attacker, but the iron grip pushed him into the ground, and his world went over and over as he realised he was somewhere in Hell, but not the throne room.  He saw the figure of the archdemon Vycra kneeling over him, one hand over his mouth, the other snatching his wrist to cover his eye tattoo as quickly as possible.  She leaned in inches away from his face; he could see every detail in her fangs, in the veins of venom under the skin of her cheek and running up into her ruined eye, which was crumpled and blackened.

Then he realised she had also wrapped a cloth around her neck to block her own eye tattoo.  Satan couldn’t see whatever she was about to do.

“Don’t shout,” she mouthed, barely audible.  “Don’t do anything other than whisper.  We’re not supposed to be here.”

He nodded, daring to hope.

She still did not remove her hands, as though she were ready to toss him back at a moment’s notice.  “All that stuff you said about a different world, a better world, that was all true?  Not just some clever fabrication to trick Satan?”

He nodded.

“And those…that strange group…they were here to take you back, weren’t they?”

He nodded.

“Vycra, what’s going on?” said Satan’s muffled voice from near her neck. “I can’t see.”

Vycra took a shuddering breath.  “If I break you out of here and get you to them, will you take me with you?”

He looked deep into her eyes, searching for her motivation.  And he saw someone who was tired.  Just tired.  Someone who yearned for a softer world.

He nodded.

She finally removed her hand from his mouth.  “Don’t talk louder than this.  Any sound louder than this, she can hear.”  She took out a piece of cloth and slid it over Crowley’s arm, smoothly replacing her hand blocking the eye on his wrist, then tied it off.  “Don’t take that off.  If she doesn’t know what’s going on until we have a head start, we can make it.”

He nodded.

“Vycra, report.  What’s going on?”

“My apologies, Lord,” said Vycra.  “I was injured in the fight with that principality earlier, and the medics put a bandage on my neck.”

“What?” squawked Satan.  “Then take it off.”

Vycra took Crowley’s hand and helped him to his feet, moving as if underwater, slowly and fluidly.

“Hello?”

“Just one moment, my Lord.”

Vycra held Crowley’s hand to lead him, which felt oddly intimate, but likely she was afraid to let go of him.  Probably the same reason she had kept that death grip on him up on Earth: she thought of him as her lifeline into the other world.

Satan fell quiet.

Vycra slid the doors to this room open, revealing the antechamber of the ninth layer, with hallways radiating off in different directions. The door to the throne room was closed.

Vycra stepped out into the antechamber.  Satan stepped out of the door immediately opposite, with Mykas padding by her side.

“Ah,” said Vycra.

Mykas began to growl.  Satan extended a wing, the eyes along its length burning into her.  “And may I ask what exactly you’re doing?”

“M-my lord, I thought you were being attended to by medics.”

“Who found that I was perfectly healthy,” said Satan.  “And rather than answer my question, you only confirmed you were trying to do something behind my back.”

Vycra bit her lip.

“How am I supposed to conduct a war with Heaven when I can’t trust even my own Queensguard?”

“My lord, if you’ll just give me a moment to explain—”

“Go on then.”

Vycra’s mouth open and shut, unable to form words.

“That’s what I thought.”  Satan knelt and removed the chain from Mykas’s spiked collar, ruffling his scruff. Then, she made eye contact with Vycra and said, “Fetch.”

Like a quarterback, Vycra scooped Crowley up with one arm and sprinted towards the elevator.

Mykas lunged to follow, barking.

Vycra dove into the elevator and threw Crowley to the floor, whirling around to slam the elevator doors shut by hand, closing them just before Mykas could reach them.  The sound of him slamming into the doors was audible from inside, followed by a continuing series of muffled, bloodthirsty barks.

The elevator began to zoom upwards.  Vycra breathed heavily, her hands moving about her armor and her weapons in preparation.  “Okay, listen carefully.  I can’t beat Mykas in a one-on-one fight, and he’s faster than me, so we can’t win on open ground.”

They heard the sound of metal squealing as it bent below them, and the car shuddered ominously, but continued up.

“By my calculations we should have about twenty seconds before he breaches the cart—”

“—Because your last calculations were so accurate—”

“Shut up.”  She reached into her pocket and pressed a black feather into his hand.  “This is what you need to summon me if we get separated, and I already have yours.  I cleared out both of our feathers from Satan’s stock, so she can’t summon either of us.”

The snarling got louder, approaching from beneath them.

“I’m going to hit the stop button about halfway up, just before he can get to us, which should give us a head start.  No matter what, just keep going, understand?”

He nodded.

“The fifth layer is mostly clerical workers, so they shouldn’t bother you too much.  As soon as we stop, run off and cross to the other side.  There’s a stairwell.  Get up to Limbo and start working on opening the gate.  I’ll try to lose Mykas down in the lower layers.  He’ll definitely follow me over you.”

“Got it,” said Crowley.

The sound of talons scraping on the underside of the cart shrieked beneath them.

“I’m serious,” said Vycra.  “I’ve thrown away everything to help you.  Don’t leave me behind.”

“I won’t,” said Crowley.

The hatred on her face showed she clearly did not believe him, but she couldn’t think of an alternate plan in the few seconds they had till—

Ding.  The cart stopped at the fifth layer, and the doors slid open. She grabbed him by the belt and hurled him out, giving him a good speed boost with which to start his frantic dash across the open floor.

Behind him, the snarling suddenly got ten times louder as, with the sound of metal grudgingly wrenching back, Mykas breached the elevator cart. Vycra’s footsteps thumped loudly behind him for a few moments, then quickly faded as she peeled off.

Please follow her, Crowley silently begged.  He didn’t know what he’d do if she turned out to be wrong.  Please please please…

The tap-tap-tap of clawed feet on the hard floor was startlingly close for a moment, then veered off.

Crowley breathed a sigh of relief, allowed his adrenaline-drenched body to slow down just a little.

The fifth layer was, in fact, mostly clerical demons.  It looked remarkably like a human office made of cubicles.  The minor demons therein had all stood, peeking over the dividers at the commotion. Crowley continued to sprint through without comment.  A demon who had been retrieving a cup of coffee in a self-satisfied way strayed into his path without much thought, and Crowley knocked them over and continued his mad dash without answering the “Hey!” he elicited.

A warrior demon who looked like security stepped out into his path. Without missing a beat, Crowley materialised his healing staff.

The guard got a curious look on his face and held out a hand to stop him. “Now hold on just a mo—”

Crowley bashed the demon’s arm with his staff, funneling his aural powers into the motion and twisting the arm in an unnatural way, the bones snapping.

The very surprised demon staggered under the blow, and Crowley pushed him out of the way.

From somewhere far above, an earth-shaking explosion sounded, rattling the flickering electric lights above, knocking dust from the ceiling.  An alarm sounded, white emergency lights flashing on the wall.

“What was that?” came a cry from a scared office worker beside him.

“Just keep going,” Crowley said under his breath.  “No matter what.”

He saw the door to the stairwell.  It was quickly blocked by demons moving as a herd to the emergency exit therein.

“Get out of the way!” Crowley snarled, pushing and shoving his way through them.

“You’ll have to wait like everyone else,” someone chided him.

“It’s an emergency evacuation,” said another.  “We’re all going to the same place anyway.”

Crowley fought and wrestled his way through the crowed and blaring alarms, bursting into the stairwell and huffing as he scaled it.  The rest of the demons funneled downwards, apparently evacuating deeper into Hell.

Evacuating from what?

Just keep going.

Crowley held the railing and took the stairs two at a time, wheezing from the effort but determined to keep going.  He had to fight through a crowd of demons coming down from the fourth layer, but by the time he passed the door to the third layer it seemed clear.

Damn.  He just might make it.

Partway between the second and third layers he doubled over with his hands on his thighs, gasping in huge shaky breaths, then pushing himself to keep going one step at a time.  The alarm was the only sound now, echoing faintly in the stairwell.

The door to the fifth layer bashed open quite loudly below him.  He peered down to see Mykas, on all fours and soaked with blood, sniffing and looking around.

Crowley gasped.  “What? How—?”

Mykas locked onto him and lunged.

*******************

Maltha and Ramial would exhaust their healing powers trying to get everyone back in tip-top shape, so they had to triage and prioritise.  In the end, they decided to make do, and the extent of their limitations were as follows:

Maltha could fly, but only barely and would fall behind.  Mykas was walking with a limp and could only raise his sword arm halfway up on account of a shoulder injury.  Victoria’s missing arm meant she had to wield her greatsword one-handed, which was less than ideal, but she could manifest it smaller. Ramial couldn’t walk at all and had to be carried.  Aziraphale and Uriel were both relatively uninjured.  This was the full power of their raiding party, to storm an unfamiliar Hell and take it by force.

Hopefully.

They lined up to accommodate each other.  Ramial perched on Victoria’s back like a child being given a piggy-back ride; it also meant Victoria would have quick access to a healer.  But her hand- and foot-holds on Victoria’s wings meant if they needed to fly, Ramial would need to detach and fly on her own, which would leave her vulnerable since she would be unable to land and move about freely. Maltha paired up with Mykas, with the intention being that Maltha could continue to heal him as possible, while Mykas could assist her in flight if needed since Mykas was a strong flyer and had undamaged wings.

Uriel and Aziraphale were at the front of the formation, the uninjured leading the charge.  Uriel had strapped the Book of Life to her back between her wings, a back made for bearing that burden, and the golden, braided cover of the immense volume filled Aziraphale vision as he lined up behind her as they prepared the gate.

“Everybody ready?” yelled Maltha, the flame in her hand hovering inches above the black salt candles that would activate the spell.

Everyone gave their assent.  If this was not enough, then nothing would be, and they could at least say they had tried.

Maltha torched the candles and the portal yawned open, showing the impressive, impassive, and massive stone gates guarding Hell in this realm

Victoria knelt, summoning her aural weapon in its experimental form. She had learned this trick from Vincent, who had been the one to breach Heaven’s internal walls during the original siege all those years ago.

An enormous rocket-launcher, coursing with angelic power, dropped onto her shoulder.

“Ramial, I need you to pull the trigger,” said Victoria, bracing the massive weapon against her shoulder with her only hand.

Ramial’s trepidatious hand wormed its way onto the weapon.

“There’s going to be a lot of kick-back, so be prepared.”

“Right.”

Victoria sighted down the barrel.  The others shuffled further out of the way.

“Now.”

Ramial squeezed the trigger, and aural energy coursed through Victoria, shooting out as a huge blast of energy hurtling into the portal, which smashed squarely into the crack where the two gates joined together.

Maltha hurriedly closed the portal, cutting off the deafening roar and shower of stone.  She waited a few seconds to re-open it, revealing a crumbled heap where the right door had been, piled up against the cracked remains of the left door, debris and dust still falling from them.

“We’re in,” said Victoria.  “Let’s go.”

They piled in, closing the portal behind them.

The walls were embedded with stones that had exploded out from the collision; the smears of red and occasional disembodied limb hinted more than stone had been destroyed, but everyone avoided looking at them for too long.  Other than the newly smashed gates, the little space was quite empty.

“Rather unimpressive underworld entrance,” Uriel scoffed.

There were demons scrambling around in the rubble, and a row of warriors hustled out to try and confront them.  Mykas darted forwards and mowed them down.

“Mykas!” Aziraphale yelled over the defenders’ screams.  “You’re supposed to let Uriel go first!”

Maltha and Victoria hurried in to help, and they had demolished the security almost before Aziraphale could fuss over not doing it as planned.

They stepped over the remains of the gates into a plaza, empty because they had presumably just cut down everyone occupying it.  At the far end was an elevator, shut tight, along with a staircase marked for emergency use only.  A blaring alarm sounded from within, and an orange light spun to accompany it.

Victoria knocked it off the ceiling with her sword, bringing silence down upon them.  “Okay, I guess we either take the elevator or the stairs.”

“Stairs,” said Maltha.

“Elevator,” said Victoria.  “We can pry the doors open.  We can scale down the shaft and go straight to the ninth layer without running into anyone. Presumably the stairs are in use with the alarms going off.”

They hemmed and hawed.

“Elevator,” said Maltha.  “If we can get it open.”

They strolled forward.  An eye on top of the elevator scanned them, and a display next to it read ACCESS DENIED.

Mykas stuck his sword into the space between the doors and used it as a crowbar to pry them open.  He looked down into the dark, empty elevator shaft, cold wind blowing faintly against his nose.  “I can smell him!”

“You can smell Crowley?”

“Yes!”  Mykas disappeared down into the shaft, tail wagging.

Aziraphale called, “Wait you’re supposed to let—blast!”

Uriel dived down after Mykas, and Aziraphale spread his wings to follow a little more carefully, followed by Maltha, Victoria, and Ramial.

Mykas perched on top of an elevator car partway down, sniffing it intensely.  Aziraphale drifted down beside him.  “What is it?”

“I smell him,” Mykas barked, pawing at the cart.  “He was here recently.”

“How recently?”

“Just a few minutes ago.”

“He broke out somehow,” Aziraphale said, faint.  

Maltha unscrewed a panel beneath them.  “Come on, then.  Mykas, sniff him down.”

The panel removed to reveal the elevator car beneath them was partially destroyed; the floor had been torn out and was covered in claw marks.  Nobody commented, but they picked up their pace.

Mykas dropped into the car on all fours, snuffling at the ground.  He charged forwards, his injured leg hobbling in the air as he excitedly zoomed away with the other three.  “This way!”

They all swung in to follow him.  The trail led through a layer of Hell arranged like an office, but the desks and workstations all lay completely empty.  The alarm blaring was the only sound as they jogged across the open floor.

Mykas slowed.

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale said.

“There’s just a lot of scents,” he said.  He crisscrossed back and forth a little, then seemed to pick it back up closer to the far end.  “He’s here!” said Mykas excitedly, bashing into the stairwell quickly.

“Wait!” Aziraphale yelled as Mykas’s tail disappeared through the door.

Puffing but determined to be second to see Crowley, at least, Aziraphale reached the door and determinedly followed.

He looked up to see Crowley—his Crowley, his beloved, there, finally, at last—cowering in the corner of the stairwell.  Instead of climbing the stairs, Mykas simply hurled himself up over the railing and vaulted to reach him.  Tail wagging, he hugged Crowley and rubbed all over him, unintentionally smearing him with the blood of the warrior demons he had slain.  Poor Crowley looked like he expected to be torn to shreds any second.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried.

“A-Aziraphale?” Crowley echoed.

Aziraphale tried to duplicate Mykas’s maneuver to jump over the railing straight up, but ended up missing and smashing into the railing and falling awkwardly.

Maltha reached out and caught him as the rest of the group appeared in the door behind him.  “Come on now,” she said.

Crowley pushed at Mykas, who was still sitting on him panting and smiling widely.  “I found him! We got him!”

“Mykas?” said Crowley.

Mykas licked his face.  “I’m so happy to see you!”

Aziraphale righted himself and flailed his wings to get up there.  He pushed Mykas over and wrapped his arms around Crowley.

“Angel,” said Crowley, barely audible over the alarms.

“My dear,” said Aziraphale, tears welling in his eyes.

He pulled back to see that Crowley’s cheeks were already wet with tear tracks.  “I missed you,” the demon said.

“Likewise,” Aziraphale sobbed.

Maltha arrived, circling her arms around them both and squeezing. Ramial came last, hobbling over and adding herself to the dog pile.

Victoria took a position at the top of the stairs, Uriel at the bottom, keeping an eye out for anyone coming along.

“You guys look like shite,” said Crowley.  “What happened to you?”

“We kind of got the snot beat out of us,” Victoria said.

“Oh,” said Crowley.

He stood, being helped by Mykas in one hand and Aziraphale in the other. “Are you all right?” said Aziraphale.

“Yes,” said Crowley.  “Yes, I’m okay.”

“Then let’s go,” said Victoria.  “I’m ready to get the Hell out of here.”

Crowley bit his lip.  Now this was going to be a hard sell.  “We can’t leave yet.”

“What?” said Uriel.  “Whyever not?”

“There’s….Okay, so I was able to esca—”

“Someone’s coming up the stairs,” Uriel said, taking a guarded step back.

Mykas and Victoria rushed to stand beside her and block the stairwell.

A moment later the thumping of heavy footsteps coming towards them was audible.

“Identify yourself,” Victoria shouted.

The archdemon Vycra came around the corner, leaning heavily on the railing. She was covered in blood—her own by the looks of it.  She had been badly mauled, and huge chunks of skin were missing down her face and arms. Not to mention a few prominent stab wounds in her torso.

One hand clutching her midsection, she looked up at the group with foggy eyes, and sagged against the wall.

“Ah, speak of the devil,” said Crowley, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“You,” spat Maltha.

Vycra looked up at them, chest heaving, and slid down until she was seated on the ground.  Her face held betrayal—and utter defeat.  Her, the archdemon who had thrown everything away to get him out, now rescued by a group she clearly couldn’t overpower.  Crowley had no reason to hold his end of the bargain anymore.  

Vycra knew she was done for.  She thought, anyway.  Because she had never lived in a world that allowed anyone to be soft.  Receiving mercy was utterly foreign to her.

Crowley pushed his way past Maltha and Aziraphale, through Uriel and Victoria, holding out a hand.  “Wait.”

“This is that archdemon that held you captive when we tried to get you before,” said Aziraphale.  “Shall we kill her?”

“Guess you don’t need me any more, anomaly,” Vycra.

Crowley took a step down and turned to face the group.  “We have to take her with us.”

“What?” rasped Vycra.

“What?” everyone else exclaimed.

“Vycra is the reason I was able to escape.  She broke me out and helped me get this far.  We might have made it, too, even if you hadn’t come along.  All she wants in return is for us to take her with us.”

Maltha looked at him doubtfully.  “She might wreak havoc in our world.”

“No,” said Crowley.  “No, that’s not it.  She’s like us.  She just wants peace.”

Vycra looked up at him with disbelieving eyes.  She almost wanted to tell him to stop.

Aziraphale immediately saw the problem with it, and it seemed everyone else did to.

“We can only take you back, Crowley,” said Ramial quietly.

“But why?”

“Time said we can only take seven people back through where we came,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley, face falling, looked from Aziraphale to Vycra.  “What?”

“It’s a rend in the fabric of reality.  It’s unstable.  We were told we couldn’t bring back any more.”

Vycra leaned into the wall and closed her eyes.  Crowley stuttered.

Victoria huffed.  “Look, we can figure this out later.  We have to go.”

“Right…” said Crowley.

He knelt down and propped Vycra up with his shoulder under her arm. Maltha came over and got her other side.

“Are you sure?” Maltha whispered to him.

“Yes,” said Crowley.

“Maybe she’s actually evil,” said Maltha, clearly hoping for a tidy solution.  “She’ll probably betray us.”

Vycra, who definitely could hear everything being said, coughed.

Uriel led the way back up the stairs, and the procession of the tired and injured followed, with Crowley at the very center.

“He caught up to you, then?” Crowley whispered to Vycra.

Vycra’s body wracked with pained laughter.  “Good guess.  On the plus side, when he almost tore out my windpipe, he took off my tattoo.  Now the Big Bitch won’t be able to see where I am anymore.”

Crowley peered at Vycra’s neck and saw, indeed, the eye tattoo that had been on her neck was gone, replaced by a raw patch of tooth marks.

“I think I lost him long enough to give us enough time to get topside,” she said hoarsely.  “Satan can’t give him directions anymore, and I went through the evacuating crowd.  I know that many people throws off his scent tracking.”

“Good,” said Crowley.

They hauled themselves all the way up to the exit, the alarms blaring the whole time.  Uriel pushed the door open and held it while everyone else filed through.

“What the Hell happened to the gate?” Vycra said.

“I happened to it,” said Victoria. “Now let’s go.”

They stepped over the rubble, helping each other to compensate for lacks of mobility as needed, and stopped at the cave wall where they had entered.

“Okay, get us out of here, Aziraphale,” said Maltha.

Aziraphale was already on the ground chalking out the circle.  He did it in record time.  He didn’t remember the last time he had been so eager to get out of somewhere.

The portal opened.  They stepped through.  The portal closed, cutting off the light and chaos of Hell.

The air was crisp and cool and refreshing after the stifling heat of Hell, and the portal deposited them directly onto the street in front of the church that had been their meeting point.  They all visibly relaxed when the entrance to Hell closed.

“Sweet somebody,” said Aziraphale, hugging the building nearby. He felt like all his will to fight had been drained immediately, reverting back to the cocoa-drinking mild bookshop owner he had been before Crowley had been stolen from him.

“Okay,” said Maltha, panting and leaning against the church with one arm. “All right.  We did it.”

“We’re safe,” said Crowley, almost crying.  “I can’t believe it.”

“We did it!” said Ramial.  Her voice was jubilant, but she looked on the verge of collapse from adrenaline, supporting herself wholly on Victoria.

“We can’t stop,” said Victoria.  “We’re almost there.  Just a little more.”

“Hold on,” said Uriel.  “Before we go any further, we need to decide what to do with the Book of Life.  We can’t take it with us.”

“Right…” said Aziraphale.  “I suppose it would be proper.”

“We could just leave it in the church,” said Maltha.  “I’m sure Heaven would pick it back up quickly enough.  And it would keep Hell away from it.”

“All right,” said Uriel.  She waited for further commentary from anyone else, but none was forthcoming.  “Okay, I’ll go put it in.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Victoria, detaching Ramial from herself. “You shouldn’t go off alone.”

“I’ll go too,” said Mykas.

“I don’t think you can really go inside,” said Maltha.  “Being a demon.”

“I’ll keep watch outside the door.”

The two archangels went off, Mykas trotting behind them wagging his tail. Crowley and Maltha lay Vycra down on the cement, encouraging passersby to pay them no mind with a small miracle.

“It’s so strange to see him happy,” said Vycra softly.

“Erm, who?” said Aziraphale.

“Mykas.  I’ve never seen him wag his tail.  I’ve only ever heard him speak twice in my whole life.”

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other.

“This is a different Mykas,” said Crowley.

“And that’s me, isn’t it,” she continued.  “If I hadn’t fallen.  That’s what I could have been.”

“Er….I suppose.”

“She looks….happy.”

“She’s not you,” Aziraphale said.  “She has completely different experiences than you do.”

“I suppose so,” said Vycra.

Crowley patted her arm.  “There’s a lot about our world you’re going to have to get used to.  But it’ll be worth it, I promise.”

“Crowley, could I perhaps talk to you over there?” said Aziraphale, jerking his head.

Crowley frowned, but he left Ramial and Maltha to patch Vycra up half-heartedly with whatever was left of their meager energy and followed Aziraphale out of earshot, just around the corner and into the alley.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand.  “I missed you so much.”

“Me too,” said Crowley.

“We can’t take her back.  Space said if we strain the fabric of reality any more than we already have, it could have disastrous consequences.  She was very specific about the number of people who could go through it.”

Crowley, who hadn’t been there for the explanation about the fabric of reality, thought it sounded like a load of bollox.  “Surely just one more person wouldn’t do too much damage.”

Aziraphale hesitated.  “Well, Space said six or seven at most, but didn’t sound too thrilled about it…And we did have an empty spot coming in…  But if we don’t follow our instructions, we could do irreparable damage to our own world.”

“We can just try and see if anything happens.”

“You sound like me,” said Aziraphale amusedly.  “Trying to justify something to myself I know isn’t justifiable.”

Crowley sighed and looked down.  “I made a promise.  All she wants is to share what we already have so much of.  Peace and freedom.”

“I still don’t know…”

“Angel, I was in the Pit, and she pulled me out.  It probably wouldn’t have worked without her.  Look…”

Crowley turned his wrist over to show Aziraphale how Vycra had tied a blindfold around the horrid tattoo Satan had put on him, and as he did so he realised with horror it had come undone and slid down.  The tattoo was animate and looking at him.

“Interesting,” said Satan’s voice.  “I see by the street sign behind you you’re in front of the Craig Cathedral.”

Panicked, Crowley covered his wrist.

The ground beneath them trembled and grew hot.  “And for your information, there can never be peace.  And for creatures like you, there will certainly never be freedom.”

Mykas turned tail and ran as soon as he heard the screaming start; Victoria and Uriel, who had been inside the church debating the best place to put the Book down, abandoned their task upon hearing his barks and dashed out to follow.

Vycra was standing with Ramial’s help, but clearly not capable of doing much; Maltha had made some attempt to take action, but was currently lying facedown on the ground immobilised.  And there was Satan, wings spread wide, holding Crowley by the neck in her right hand and Aziraphale with her left.

Aziraphale and Crowley both had their faces screwed up in pain, limbs locked up, and Satan’s aura could be felt snaking out and around theirs, and around Maltha’s, coiling like a constrictor snake.

“Stop it!” Ramial shouted.  “You’re hurting them.”

Mykas tore towards Satan intent on violence, but stopped when an inky black portal opened in the ground beneath Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s feet.  “Nobody move,” said Satan.  

Mykas raised his hackles, but did not move.  Uriel and Victoria froze, but Victoria had her hand on her sword.

The only sound was Mykas’s low growling.

Satan’s critical eyes swept over their group, resting for particularly long on Uriel.

She dipped Aziraphale and Crowley down slightly.  Their feet disappeared into the darkness.

Everyone started forwards with a hand out, but Satan boomed, “I said Do not move, or they go in.”

“Put them down,” Mykas demanded.

“Do you know where this door goes?” said Satan, nodding at the black portal with that eyeless face.  “It is the Pit.  There is no getting out of the Pit once you are in it, unless I say so.  And I haven’t taken feathers from either of these two to use in the summoning ritual used to retrieve residents of the Pit.  So once they’re in there, they’re pretty much gone for good.”

Satan lowered them a few inches further, bringing the darkness up to their shins.  Crowley gave a pained hiss and clawed at Satan’s arm, but she let him writhe without acknowledging him.  “So you will do exactly as I say, or I’ll throw them in there.”

“Then tell us what the fuck you want and put them down,” Mykas snarled.

Satan’s eyes shifted to Mykas.  “I don’t know what you are, but my own attack dog will be here soon, so don’t get any funny ideas.  We’ll be swamped with my loyal subjects soon.”

Mykas peeled back his upper lip.

All her eyes snapped towards Uriel.  “Firstly, you—You strange creature, you anomaly.  You will give me the Book of Life.”

Uriel, who had the volume in her arms, hugged it to her chest.

“It is my birthright, and with it I will exercise my power over the Host as I see fit.  Give it to me.”

Uriel slowly walked towards Satan, her sandaled feet slapping morosely against the pavement.  She waited for anyone else on her side to offer her some guidance, anything, any input or opinion.

But nothing came.  Everyone was at a loss.  She would have to make this decision herself.

She stopped at the edge of the Pit Satan was hovering over, and saw the faces of pain and terror on Aziraphale and Crowley, and Maltha’s utter helplessness, and meekly extended her arms, holding the Book out.

Satan smiled a terrible smile.  “There, that wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

Uriel dropped the Book, which plummeted into the Pit, pages flapping.

Satan’s face instantly ignited into explosive rage.  Uriel smirked.  “Oops.”

Satan dove down after the Book.  Uriel grabbed Aziraphale and Crowley, snagging Crowley awkwardly by a wing and Aziraphale by an arm.  She jerked them out of Satan’s grasp as Satan dipped out of sight.

They landed on solid ground, panting.  Uriel looked down into the Pit, where Satan radiated the only source of light in that inky blackness, finally pouncing on the Book of Life, but looking up and perhaps realising the foolishness of her impulse to fetch it.

“You will suffer as I have suffered,” said Uriel softly.  “By finally reaping the consequences of your own actions.”

Satan erupted into an angry howl.  Uriel swiped her hands and closed the Pit, throwing them into sudden silence.

Uriel pivoted to face her companions.  They were all frozen in amazement.  Vycra was openly weeping.

Mykas dashed forwards and tackled Aziraphale, Crowley, and Uriel to the ground as a tangled pile of limbs, wagging his tail and licking them.

“We did it!  We did it!”

He froze with his tongue on Uriel’s cheek, seemed to realise what he was doing, and stood, taking a step back and clearing his throat into his hand.

Maltha stiffly retrieved herself from the ground, brushing dirt off herself. Uriel opened her mouth to say something, which Maltha cut off with, “Not a word.”

“Fuck,” said Victoria exhaustedly.  “We need to get moving, now.”

Aziraphale felt the presence of several archdemons drawing near.  He felt like weeping.  “Let’s go home.”

Maltha and Mykas paired up to assist Maltha’s injured flight.  The rest of them spread their wings.

Vycra sat dejectedly on the ground without moving.  Crowley came over and forced her to her feet.

“I don’t think we can take her with us, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, with as much gentleness as he could muster through his impatience.

“We can’t leave her here,” said Crowley stubbornly.

“It’s all right,” said Vycra.  “I should have known better than to hope anything could ever get better for me.”

Aziraphale’s face took on a pained expression.  Maltha and Victoria refused to make eye contact.  Ramial and Mykas kept their gazes studiously on the ground.

Uriel looked between them, bit her lip, and said, “I’ll stay here.  She can go instead of me.”

All eyes shot up to her.  “What?” said Vycra, with just the tiniest glimpse of hope.

Uriel held out her hands helplessly.  “Nobody in our universe likes me.  There’s nothing for me there.  I’ve already ruined that world for myself.”

Maltha opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

“Thank you,” said Uriel.  “Thank you, Maltha, for showing me what I could become if I worked at it.  I have an opportunity to start over here, where I haven’t already been horrible to everyone who exists.”

“But you—then we wouldn’t have a Keeper of the Book of Life,” said Aziraphale, struggling to process why the thought of Uriel leaving troubled him so much. Everything she was saying was true, of course, and Aziraphale had no great love for her—but her absence would be unprecedented.

“This universe already doesn’t have one,” said Uriel.  “And they’ve been okay.”

Barking could be heard growing closer.  “Fine,” said Victoria.  “But we need to move.”

Crowley, a spark of joy on his face, braced Vycra with his shoulder and helped her get into the air with Aziraphale on the other side.  Vycra’s face was blank, as though she still couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

Ramial nodded.  “Farewell, then.”

Mykas gave her a final, wordless glance before nosing at Maltha.  “Let’s go.”

“Are you sure?” said Maltha.

“Yes,” said Uriel.  “I think I might even be able to do some good in this world.  Hell will fall into chaos with Satan trapped in the Pit.  Maybe I can bring a bit of that free will into this world.”

Maltha held out her hand.  “Then good luck.”

Uriel took it.  “One more thing,” she whispered, leaning in.  “Something I’ve never told anyone.  Someone else from our universe should know it when I’m gone.”

The presence of the hostile archdemons was getting closer.  “Come on,” Mykas prompted.

Maltha tilted her ear to listen.  Uriel whispered something to her that not even Mykas could hear.

Maltha pulled back, pupils flaring in surprise.  Uriel smiled helplessly.

“Really?” said Maltha.

Uriel shrugged helplessly.

“We have to go,” said Mykas, tugging Maltha.

Maltha nodded.  “You were almost too much of a bastard to be worth liking,” she said.  “But it seems there was a spark of goodness in you. Goodbye.”

Maltha and Mykas took off, leaving Uriel alone in that empty field.

Uriel watched them fly into the sky until they were specks.  Then, she turned around to face the forces approaching her.  Mykas appeared stalking over the rooftops, dislodging roof tiles that clinked to the ground.  He leered over at her like a hawk, drooling and snarling.  Two more archdemons could be felt not far behind.

Uriel rolled up her sleeves.  “Okay, then.”

Chapter Text

Metatron had been making excellent progress with their physical therapy. They were now able to sit up unassisted and, if Raphael was there supporting them by the elbow, walk slowly. They still seemed rather vegetative, though, and hadn’t spoken yet, taking in the world through foggy, unfocused eyes.

Metatron might be the only angel to ever be smote directly by God and live to tell the tale, if they ever recovered enough to tell it.

Currently, Raphael was sitting with Metatron at a table laid out for a tea party in the Judgement Hall, under the rift in space through which his friends had disappeared a few days ago.  Raphael nibbled some teacakes and sipped from a white cup daintily.  Metatron stared off into Raphael’s shoulder absently.

“How are you feeling today?” said Raphael.

Metatron’s eyes drifted up to Raphael’s face.

“Do you want some tea?”

Metatron’s gaze drifted down to the cup of tea in front of them.  Raphael helpfully lifted his cup and demonstrated taking a sip.  He had already made sure Metatron’s tea was lukewarm so they wouldn’t burn themselves.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and without looking away from Metatron or setting down his teacup said, “No.”

Space threw herself onto the ground, rolling dramatically and wailing. BUT I’M ALMOST FINISHED.

“You can’t close it up until they come back through.”

I TOLD THEM I WOULD EVEN IF THEY WEREN’T BACK.

“Doesn’t matter.”

THEY KNEW THE RISK THEY WERE TAKING.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Space flickered towards the spatial rend.  Raphael stood up.  “I said don’t.  I’m sure they’ll be back any minute now.”

Space pouted.

“Do we have to have another talk with Noah?”

Space flitted away.

Raphael reseated himself.  Metatron hadn’t moved an inch, but was looking at their teacup.

“Go on,” Raphael encouraged.

With a sluggish hand, Metatron reached out and took the handle in a weak grip.

“Yes!” said Raphael.  “There you go!”

Suddenly, Raphael heard a faint screaming coming from above him, rapidly getting less faint.  He looked up to see the archangel Victoria, a bit worse for the wear and missing an arm, along with Ramial clinging to her like a monkey.  The two had come streaking out of the rift in space like a comet.

They smashed into the table, flinging silverware and dishes everywhere and dragging it a few feet as they ground to a halt.  They had dragged the table out from under the Metatron’s lifted cup, and Metatron now looked at where the table had been with a slightly confused look on their face.

“Goodness!” said Raphael.  “Are you all right?”

Aziraphale and Crowley came out next, dragging an unfamiliar-looking archdemon between them, and landed on top Raphael.

“Ah….excuse me,” said Raphael from underneath Aziraphale’s ample posterior.

Mykas and Maltha, arms linked, landed gracefully in Raphael’s field of vision—or at least he assumed that’s who they were, based on their feet.

CAN I CLOSE IT NOW? said Space.

“Yes,” said Maltha’s voice, and her feet disappeared from Raphael’s view. “That’s everyone who’s coming.”

Huffing, Raphael hefted Aziraphale off himself, and the lesser angel slid gracefully onto the ground where Crowley was sitting, rubbing his head.

Raphael stood, brushing himself off, then looked to the group, noting Uriel’s absence and the addition of a new archdemon.  “Ah…How was it?”

Victoria pried Ramial off herself.  “You have no idea.”

Above their heads, Space weaved a thread in and out of the fabric of reality, stitching it shut and sealing them safely off from the unknown.

************************

Mykas, Victoria, and Ramial all reported to the infirmary for treatment. Vycra came after some coercing, but she could barely stand, let alone run away, so she had little choice in the matter.

Maltha refused treatment this time.  Raphael had a suspicion that she would always refuse treatment as long as she could walk and talk well enough to verbalise scorn for Raphael’s methods. And Aziraphale and Crowley for once found themselves among the ranks of the uninjured, so they just hung about.

Raphael reported Satan had been spotted lurking around the edges of Limbo, but hadn’t made a proper appearance yet.  Everyone was on the defensive and as such, they decided it would be best for Aziraphale and Crowley to stay in Heaven until such a time as they could be escorted back down to Earth safely.

Aziraphale and Crowley hadn’t made it much of a habit of walking around Heaven—it had unpleasant memories for Aziraphale, and for Crowley after the novelty had worn off it became a painful reminder of everything he had been denied. However, on the occasion they found themselves there, there was a route they usually took—they strolled leisurely around the perimeter of the gates, passed the infirmary and the offices for Earthly affairs, and ended with a nice sit down in the courtyard in front of the fountains.  The fountains were empty now, which was a bit of a disappointment as they had always been quite pretty, but no one had felt like offering their own skin to test the hypothesis that holy water would no longer hurt demons.

Aziraphale sat on a bench staring at the empty fountains.  Perhaps he was wishing there were some ducks to feed. Crowley walked the length of the bone-dry edge, balancing on it with his arms out.

“Welcome home, dear,” Aziraphale told him.  “It wasn’t quite home without you.”

Crowley smiled at him.  “Home is wherever we’re together.”

“Still….I’d rather be together here than there.”

“Me too.  That place was….”  Crowley looked at his wrist.  “I really wish there was a way to get this tattoo off.  It won’t budge no matter what I try.  The spellwork in it has got its claws in me deep.  I’m about to just cut my hand off.”

“It doesn’t appear to be hurting anything right now,” said Aziraphale. “Right?”

“No…” said Crowley.  “It hasn’t come to life since we crossed over, and I really doubt their Satan can see through it…But still, I’d like to be rid of it.”

“Yes.  Perfectly understandable.  That Satan…even scarier than our own, if I may say so.”  Now that everything had safely worked out for Aziraphale, he found it in himself to retroactively care for the decisions they had made in the other world, since they were safely away from it and could do nothing further.  “I do hope she hasn’t managed to do anything with the Book of Life.”

“Yeah…”

“We took it from Heaven under the assumption they would get it back in a few days, and that’s probably not going to happen.”

“…Yeah.”

“Hopefully that doesn’t cause anything dreadful.”  Aziraphale tossed a rock.  “And I wonder how Uriel is doing.”

Crowley flopped down, dangling his legs.  “I want to be optimistic, but deep down I suspect she was simply torn to shreds a few minutes after we left.”

Aziraphale nodded morosely.  “She seemed sure it was the right thing to do, though.”

“She’s always been sure everything she does is the right thing to do.”

An archdemon could be seen approaching them in the distance.

“Not so much recently though,” said Aziraphale.  “She had been doing quite well.”

Crowley twiddled his thumbs.  “Yeah.  All the same, I don’t miss her.”

“I don’t think anyone does.”

Aziraphale raised his head to greet the new arrival.  “Except, perhaps, Maltha.  Speaking of…”

Maltha gave a wave.  Her wings were evidently all healed up, glossy and black trailing behind her. The wounds on her face were mostly gone, which was quite impressive considering how little time she’d had.

Crowley’s thoughts drifted back to those healers that had patched him up in the blink of an eye.  They would probably laugh if they saw what this universe considered impressive on that front.

“Maltha,” said Crowley.  “Can you please get this thing off my wrist?  I’ve tried everything I know, but it won’t budge.”

Maltha looked at the proffered wrist, touching it gingerly.  “That’s an awful lot of spellwork tangled up around you, Crowley.  I don’t know if I could get it off without hurting you.”

Crowley let his hand drop sourly.  “I really would prefer if there were another way besides just cutting my hand off, but it’s looking more and more like that’s the case.”

Maltha sighed, looking weary.  “We can ask Lyra to look at it.  Besides that, how is everyone doing today?”

Crowley took a seat on the bench next to Aziraphale.  “Better.”

“Same.”  She sighed and squeezed onto the bench next to Crowley.  “Seems like there’s always something.”

“You heard about Satan being spotted, then?” said Aziraphale.

Maltha slouched down, staring into the empty white sky.  “That bastard’ll stay clear of everyone if he knows what’s good for him.  Everyone’s been won over by now.  I doubt anyone is eager to support him. Except maybe Hastur.”

Aziraphale rolled a rock over in his hands.  “He’s become the next Uriel.  Knocked from his high-horse by reality, and realising what a loser he really is.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley.  “Honestly, I think even he would be scared of the version of Satan that exists next door.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Uriel’s probably gotten her ass kicked by now,” said Maltha, mirroring their thoughts earlier.

“We can always be optimistic,” said Aziraphale primly.

Maltha stretched out her clawed toes.  “She told me a secret nobody else in this universe knows before I left, and I don’t think she’d want for me to tell anyone else, but she’s not here any more, so fuck her.  Uriel invented the angel dust spell.”

Aziraphale whipped his head towards Maltha.  “What?”

“‘We all rebelled in our own little ways, back when we were all hurting from the host being torn in half.’  That’s what she told me.  Just after the rebellion, her heart ached for her siblings just like mine did, so she made the angel dust spell so they could come back into Heaven, but she was so scared of what she had made all she could do with it was bury it somewhere on Earth for someone else to find down the road.”

They contemplated this for a moment.

“It makes sense, in a way,” said Maltha.  “I should have guessed—as the only Aural class angel, she’d be the most likely one to be able to do that, but I wouldn’t have thought…”

“Makes me wonder what the other archangels have kept hidden from that time,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale turned to him.

“‘We all rebelled in our own little ways,’” he repeated.

“Speaking of archangel secrets,” said Maltha, “Uriel hid the Book of Life, and now nobody knows where it is.  She forgot to tell me that before we left.”

“Criminy,” said Crowley.  “We don’t even know anything about our own universe, let alone the one next door.”

“Next door…” murmured Maltha.  “How far does it go?”

Crowley picked at Aziraphale’s sleeve.

“That was ‘next door,’” said Maltha.  “And all things considered, it was actually really similar to our world.”

“Space said likely more similar ones are arranged next to each other,” said Aziraphale, with some attempt at helpfulness.

Maltha threw out her arms, as if to say Where to even begin with that.  “So there’s more, right?  How many? If you get far enough out, would you find one where angels and demons don’t exist at all?  Where humans don’t exist?  Where…”

“You’ll drive yourself mad with that line of thought,” said Aziraphale.

Maltha kicked her feet idly, groaning.  “But I wanna know.”

“The humans went to the moon because they wanted to know,” said Crowley. “Maybe we could do something similar. Have a journey into the far dimensions.”

“Reckon that’s what we just did,” said Maltha.  She stood, stretching.  “All right.  I suppose I’d better go see if Raphael needs any help, though somebody knows I’d rather just take you two back down to Earth.”

“We could just go,” Aziraphale said hopefully.

Maltha shook her head.  “No, I’ll go see if he needs any help.”

Maltha ambled back to the infirmary and Aziraphale and Crowley, being bored, followed along.  They passed Adramelech on the way, who strummed a harp to the delight of a few angels nearby.

“Hey, Aziraphale!” Adramelech called, waving.

“Hello!” Aziraphale returned.

They reached the infirmary.  Maltha almost ran smack into someone who was coming out.

It was Vycra.  Underneath her bandages, she was blushing guiltily, as though being caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to be doing.

Aziraphale noted she was walking with a crutch.  “It looks like Raphael isn’t quite finished with you yet,” he said, with a tut-tut.

Vycra looked down.

“Were you trying to sneak out?” said Crowley gently.

“Am I not free to leave?” snapped Vycra.  “You’re going to keep me prisoner here?”

“Is there something wrong?” said Maltha.  “Have you been mistreated?”

Disgruntled, Vycra shifted on her bad foot.  “Well, no, not yet—”

“Vycra,” said Crowley, tentatively putting a hand on her arm. “I meant what I said.  This universe is at peace.  You don’t have to be scared to stay in Heaven, and you don’t have to be scared of any of the angels.”

Vycra’s eyebrows shot up.  “I never said I was—”

“And you don’t have to pretend to be tough, either.  It’s OK to be vulnerable.”

Vycra refused to make eye contact.

“Where were you planning to go?” said Aziraphale.  “All by yourself?”

“I’ve survived through the worst by myself for six-thousand years,” said Vycra. “I’m sure I’d be fine.”

“I’m sure,” said Maltha.  “But you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

Vycra looked at her.

****************************

Maltha completely backtracked on her decision and decided she had had enough being selfless, and wanted to ditch Raphael.  They decided two archdemons were enough of a bodyguard that it was safe to go back down to Earth, so Aziraphale and Crowley led Maltha and Vycra into the bookshop.

Aziraphale told Vycra she could browse the books and relax, putting on the kettle in the back room.  Vycra didn’t respond to that and immediately pointed to the sofa and asked what it was.

“It’s just a sofa,” said Crowley.  “Have you never seen one before?”

“It’s like an easy chair, but very long,” said Vycra, bewildered.

“Do they not have those where you’re from?” said Maltha.

Vycra flopped down onto it.  “It’s like a bed, but not as flat.”

Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other.

“Cozy…”

“All right,” said Aziraphale.  “Make yourself comfortable.”

It was then that he noticed the letter sitting on the counter, sealed with the signet of the King of Hell.

Dear Aziraphale and Crowley,

I’ve heard of your safe return and am overjoyed at your success. I’m sure you and the others will have plenty of stories to tell about your experience, but I’ve been told a rough account of the events.  I understand there is a new archdemon in our world now, and I’d appreciate it if you could escort her down to meet me at the earliest convenience, if it’s possible. I wish to welcome her.  

I’m sure you have an escort with you at present—probably Maltha.  Please be sure to stay by her side as I would hate to see anything happen to you, some of my oldest friends, with the news of hostile forces returning.  

Please come down at your earliest convenience as I’d like to talk with you about something else, too.  I am planning another feast, more ambitious than ever before, and would like your help with it.  We can talk more about it later.  In the meantime, keep yourselves safe.  Hope to see you soon.

Noah, Son of Satan, Lord of Darkness, King of the Bottomless Pit, etc. etc.

“Uh, angel?” said Crowley, sounding unsure of himself.

Aziraphale assumed that Crowley had been reading over his shoulder, but Aziraphale looked up to see Crowley was eyeing up the front door.

Where two figures had appeared.

One of which had long, flowing blond hair and hateful, angry, infernal eyes like two pools of molten sulfur.

Satan.  With Hastur by his side.

Maltha’s feathers rustled as she extended her wings, one over Aziraphale, one over Crowley, and crossed her arms, locking eyes with Satan and scowling challengingly.

Satan inclined his head, looking at Crowley specifically.  Hastur had leaned over and was saying something into his ear, inaudible through the glass.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Crowley said.  “Not anymore.  This new order may be unprecedented, and it may be unknown and unpredictable, but it’s light-years better than anything you did.  And it’s not going to topple over just because you show up and get bloody pissy.”

Satan watched him speak.  Maybe he could hear him, or read his lips, Crowley couldn’t tell.  But Satan’s face darkened in a glower, and whether he was properly warded off by Maltha or by Crowley’s unprecedented fearless standing of his ground, Satan slunk away without even touching the shop door’s knob.

*******************************************

Yulera had made note of the presence of a new archdemon across the street with indifference, thinking that it was all well and good as long as she stayed away from Yulera’s shop.

Odd that a new archdemon would appear, but she didn’t really care.  She had heard about the weird stuff happening with the Foundation angels, but that didn’t really affect her.

She had just finished taking down the boards on the windows so she could clean them, and she was in the process of boarding them back up when the bell on the shopfront door swung open.

Yulera pouted and went to see who had entered.  It was Kabata.

Yulera looked down her nose at him.  “I thought I told you in no uncertain terms I didn’t need you anymore.”

“I know,” said Kabata.  “But I need something.”

“I don’t care!” said Yulera hotly.  “You can’t manipulate me anymore!”

“No, I mean…”  Kabata held out a bundle of papers in his right hand, the topmost of which appeared to be a shopping list.  “I need a book.”

“Oh.”

“Do you have—”

“Go buy it from Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale told me to come buy it from you.”

Yulera scuttled behind the counter and frowned.

“He said he didn’t have this one, but knows that you do.”

Yulera noted with distaste that a new section of books had appeared in her stock.  Aziraphale must have used a clandestine miracle to put them there for the sake of salvaging his own collection.

Well, that was fine, then.  More for her.

“What is it, then?”

“Do you have art and craft books?  Specifically knitting and crochet.”

Yulera narrowed her eyes.  Then she noticed the figure standing outside the shop, looking wary.  It was the archangel Gabriel.  Or should she say, former archangel Gabriel, because although he had never gotten a demotion in any official sense, the informal and quite painful one he had received had pretty much the same effect.

He had armfuls of yarn of every colour and a pair of neon purple knitting needles.

Yulera pointed to the corner where the aforementioned books were. “Over there.”

“Thanks.”

Kabata went over and browsed, his huge, clawed hands pawing weirdly through the thin volumes.  “Did you get an invitation to Noah’s celebratory feast?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going?”

“Are you?”

Kabata held up two books side by side, comparing.  “Not only did I get an invitation, but Noah also sent me and Gabriel a follow-up letter specifically asking us to go.”

“What?  Why?”

Kabata shrugged.  “Did you read why he’s having it?  If Gabriel wasn’t there, it would kind of defeat the purpose.”  He put one of the books back and brought the other to the counter.  “We don’t really want to, but I guess I could suffer through it.”

“That’ll be fifteen pounds,” said Yulera.

Kabata put a note on the counter.  “Keep the change.  I don’t need it.”

Yulera took the note.  “Neither do I.  None of us really need money.”

Kabata strolled to the entrance.  “Then I guess you won’t mind if I shoplift.”

He plucked the second book he had been eyeing up off the shelf and exited the building, walking off with Gabriel.  Yulera watched them go, pursing her lips and trying to decide whether or not she wanted to chase after them to retrieve the stolen volume.

**********************************

The thing about Agares was that she had always been more interested in spellcasting than Satan had been.  When contesting for Satan’s throne, she had been the one to decide the Angel Dust spell was a leg-up in the war, and the only one who had managed to recover it for her factions.  She had also been able to mostly block Lyra’s attempts to track her when searching for Aziraphale, and now that she was trapped in the Pit, Lyra could feel a near-constant bombardment of magic hitting the wall keeping the Pit sealed as Agares continually growled and rattled the bars of her confinement. 

Lyra had been the one to hone in on this and subsequently suggest to Noah the keystone through which they might work on Agares’s reformation. 

Agares’s aptitude for magic stemmed likely not from her intelligence, which was not overly abundant, but from her celestial charge before the fall.  Lyra was precisely the opposite; she had very little in the way of simmering raw power, but she was particularly skilled in magical applications. 

This is why Maltha had hired her to be the court magician all those years ago, despite her low rank, and why she continued to be kept on in Noah’s court, because Maltha was good at recognising intelligence in others and using it to plug her own weak spots.  Maltha liked to fancy herself a patron of magic, but she knew very little in practicality aside from the applications of her own natural tool set, which was not particularly inclined for things like sigil work, tracking spells, summoning rituals, and the like. 

This was what Lyra was really good at.  This is also why there is far more lore about demon-summoning and Satanic rituals and infernal glyphs on Earth than there are about summoning and binding angels, because Lyra had a bad habit of writing down her work and then losing track of it in the mortal realm.  

She held one such volume in her hands now, flipping through it lazily.  Her feet rested propped up on the table where she had all her spell ingredients, and the whole setup was sitting inside a large circle chalked on the stone floor of the throne room beneath her.  Agares stared at her from across the room with anger, unable to step across the magic-imbued line keeping her in the corner. 

Lyra had been sitting where she was for a good three hours.  They both refused to be the first one to speak, and were engaged in a game of chicken to see who would break the silence first. 

The answer turned out to be Agares.  “I give up.  What are you doing?” 

“She speaks!” Noah shouted, from way across the room where he was keeping an eye on things while engaged in other business. 

“Shut up!” Agares yelled.  “You whelp!  You utter—” 

“Since you asked so politely,” said Lyra.  “What I’m doing is trying to figure out why my tracking spell won’t work on you.” 

 Agares sat on the floor cross-legged.  “Hmph.  Why do you care?  You already know where I am.” 

“Of course,” said Lyra.  “But it’s for science, you see.  I’ve never had anyone block a tracking spell before, so I want to figure out how to works.” 

“But why do you care?” 

“That’s my job.” 

Agares crossed her arms, pouting.  “Hmph.  Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

“Yes, I would, actually.” 

Agares looked down her nose at her. 

This part had been Noah’s idea.  Because getting Agares to bond with Lyra would be a good first step to getting her to behave, and bonding over a shared interest was a good starting point.  And there are few things anyone loves to talk about over one’s own cleverness and aptitudes. 

Agares reached into her pocket slowly, then withdrew a rock and held it up.  It was green in colour and had a number of sigils along its length, which glowed faintly and pulsed with magic energy.  It floated about an inch off her palm when she opened her hand. 

Lyra’s eyes lit up.  “What is that?” 

“It’s something I made,” said Agares, preening. 

“Can I look at it?” said Lyra, reaching out with grabbing hands. 

“No!” said Agares, pulling it back to her body.  “It is one of my oldest belongings!  I shall not hand it over to anyone!” 

“Play nice, Agares,” said Noah, faintly in the distance, because the throne room was extremely large. 

“But it’s mine,” Agares wailed, clutching it to her chest. 

Noah stood, ready to intervene, when the doors of the throne room opened.  Mammon appeared, nosing them apart, escorting in four people: Crowley, Aziraphale, Maltha, and an archdemon nobody in the room had ever seen before. 

“Crowley!” said Noah, throwing his hands open and struggling to maintain his lordly dignity as he moved in for an embrace.  “It’s so good to see you safe and sound again.” 

Noah engulfed Crowley in a hug, and Crowley accepted a kiss on the cheek.  “And Aziraphale and Maltha, it’s good to see you return successfully.  And I suppose introductions are in order,” he said turning Vycra.  “I’ve been informed of what happened through letters, but it’s good to meet you in person.  Vycra, I presume?” 

Vycra looked so incredibly fearful it nearly broke Noah’s heart.  Clearly it had taken some convincing to get her to answer being summoned specifically. It was understandable, though, that she would have some misgivings about meeting the ruler of Hell given her background.

Vycra knelt and bowed her head.  Noah awkwardly patted her hair.  “Yes, yes.  You may stand.” 

“So you’re the ruler of Hell?” said Vycra, standing.  “The son of Satan?” 

“A son of Satan,” said Noah genially.  “I have a brother, but he spends most of his time on Earth.” 

Vycra’s eyes swept around the room.  “And this is the throne room?” 

“Yes.” 

“It’s a little…dark.” 

Noah laughed.  “You don’t have to stay down here if you don’t like it.  We want to make sure you have a place to go that’s comfortable for you.”

Vycra looked incredibly suspicious of this.

“Have you given any thought as to where you’d like to be?”

“Who is that?” said Vycra suspiciously, pointing to Agares.  “Why is she trapped?” 

“She was misbehaving,” said Noah.  “She’s in time-out until she’s ready to play nice.” 

“What do you mean?” said Vycra, sounding horrified. 

“She won’t cooperate with me, so we’re trying to win her over.  We’re taking small steps until we can trust her.  She just got out of the Pit, so this is an upgrade.” 

“You took her out of the Pit?” 

“Yes.” 

“You took someone….out of the Pit.” 

“Yes?  Is that okay?” 

“You did it just to give her a break from being in the Pit, though?  You aren’t bringing her up for something terrible—” 

She broke off as she felt Crowley’s hand on her elbow.  He gave her a reassuring nod. 

Vycra squared her shoulders.  “That is quite merciful of you.  Where I come from, Satan shows no mercy at all against dissenters.” 

“As it should be!” Agares shouted.  “It’s better that way.” 

Vycra looked straight through her.  “Why?” 

Agares opened her mouth, then closed it again, gaping like a fish, unable to come up with anything.  “Well, I don’t know!” she exploded.  “That’s just how it is!” 

“I made great sacrifices to come here,” said Vycra.  “Because I was told it’s better.  And so far, it seems to be true.” 

Agares shut her mouth.  She looked at Vycra very hard. 

“Here,” said Maltha, taking Vycra’s other elbow.  “Why don’t we go talk to them?” 

“You and Lyra be sure to set Agares straight when she tries to lie to Vycra,” said Noah, waving them on.  “Aziraphale, Crowley, I wanted to talk to you in private.” 

Maltha and Vycra moved off to the corner.  Aziraphale and Crowley stepped up as well.  “Actually, there was something I came down to ask about, too,” said Crowley.  He held out his left wrist, where the gnarly eye tattoo was still sunk in his flesh.  His only consolation was that it wasn’t moving, and presumably the Satan next door couldn’t see through it.  “I picked up a little…souvenir over there I’d really like to be rid of.  I’ve already talked to Maltha and Raphael healing it, but they said the spellwork was a little too strong and they weren’t confident they could get it off without hurting me.” 

“Hmmm,” said Noah, taking his arm gently. 

“We really would like to be rid of it without cutting off his arm, if possible,” said Aziraphale hopefully. 

“This is very interesting,” said Noah.  “Lyra!” 

Lyra’s head poked up from behind Maltha. 

“Leave your new friends for a minute and come over here, please.” 

Lyra bounded over, looking excited.  She zeroed in on the proffered sigil on Crowley’s arm without even being asked.  “What is that?” 

“A very powerful demon over there put it on me.  I’d really like it off, if you can manage it.  The spellwork is—” 

“—Very fascinating,” said Lyra, lifting her glasses and peering at it from inches away.  Magical energy still circled lazily in the sigil, having no exit, but it was very faint.  “Do I have to destroy it?  I would love to dissect it out.” 

“Er,” said Crowley.  “As long as it’s not on me, I don’t really care.” 

Lyra waved her hand and summoned an instrument that looked like a little trowel of some sort, or maybe a cake-serving spatula.  It had a red gemstone set in the handle with a peculiar sigil carved in the crystal, and Crowley watched as Lyra got the tip of her finger red-hot and used it to burn a series of magic symbols along the handle. 

Then, she traced her still-warm finger on Crowley’s wrist around the mark, which began to glow and slough off, as though being carried away by a gentle current of water.  She slid the little shovel under it and lifted it off. 

Crowley gave a sigh of relief, rubbing his now-bare wrist.  “Somebody, thank you.” 

“Be careful with that,” said Aziraphale.  “Its creator is a nasty piece of work.”  

“Oh-ho-ho,” said Lyra.  “Thank you.  I know what I’m doing this afternoon.”  Using one hand to shield the sigil on the spatula, she trotted back over to her work station. 

“What is that?” Agares gasped. 

“Maybe I’ll let you look at it if you’re nice to me,” Lyra sang. 

Noah smiled at her, then turned back to Aziraphale and Crowley.  “Glad that’s sorted.  Now, there was the matter I wanted to talk with you about, which is the feast I’m holding.”

“We’d be delighted to hear about it,” said Aziraphale. 

“I know the plans for your engagement got wrecked by all this mess, but I see you’re already wearing the rings, so presumably the engagement’s already happened, and, well…. I don’t know, have you thought about what you’ll be doing for the actual wedding yet?” 

Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other, then held hands.  “I don’t suppose so,” said Crowley.   

“I haven’t given it much thought yet, either,” said Aziraphale.  “The engagement seemed like a lot at the time.” 

“Here’s what I was thinking,” said Noah.  “Would you like me to marry you?  Or Adam?” 

“Dear boy, that would be lovely,” said Aziraphale.  “We would absolutely love your blessing, or your brother’s.” 

“Adam’s been telling me non-stop about how he got this accreditation online, and now he can legally perform weddings,” said Noah, rolling his eyes.  “He insists he’d be the proper one to marry you.” 

“Sure,” said Crowley, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand. 

“Okay, so the other thing—Well, where are you going to have it?  I was thinking that I wanted to have a banquet, and invite everyone—and I mean everyone.  I want to gather all my subjects and our heavenly allies as a show of solidarity.  To make sure everyone knows the new order isn’t going away just because Satan is back. Gathering together should put everyone at ease and make us feel united.”

“That sounds lovely,” said Aziraphale.

“This will be the first time Beelzebub and Dagon have interacted with angels since my reign began, but based on their behavior I believe they’ve been as thoroughly won over as even Mammon and Asmodeus.  Nobody will have to go back into the Pit as far as I can tell.”

“Then it sounds like it’ll be truly groundbreaking…Nothing quite like having the former ruling parties of Heaven and Hell dining peacefully together to show the world where we stand.”

“Yes,” said Noah, absolutely delighted. “Adam loves the idea.  And we were thinking, well….We could have your wedding ceremony there, if you’d like.”

Crowley’s eyes sparkled. 

“It wouldn’t exactly be traditional, but… Well, would you like that?” 

“Yes,” said Crowley instantly.  “That would be perfect.” 

“The symbolic significance of your union taking place at my banquet where—” 

“Dear boy,” said Aziraphale, eyes watering, “we’d be honoured, it’s perfectly lovely.”  

**********************************

Far away from the splendor of Hell’s throne room, in an undisclosed location somewhere in a seedy corner of the London countryside, two beings were squatting in a motel room.

They were squatting because even though they were using a room, they weren’t paying for it, because the owner of the establishment had been convinced to give them the keys for a room with a small miracle, and now he had a difficult time thinking about who was staying in room 102, the thought slipping out of his brain like water off a duck’s back.

Kabata had been the one to take care of that, because despite Kabata’s thousands of years of experience as an Overseer of Divine Affairs on Earth, he had never actually lived here, or spent much time here at all, really, and had nowhere to stay.  Neither Heaven nor Hell seemed like a particularly good place to hang around for the likes of him and Gabriel, so Earth would have to do, and if Earth had to do, so would some random joint until they could find something more permanent.

Which would likely take a while, mostly because neither Kabata nor Gabriel were working very hard on it.  Gabriel had mostly occupied himself with knitting and trepidatiously looking at Kabata out of the corner of his eye.  Kabata had mostly occupied himself with whatever nonsense occupied his attention at any given moment.

Currently, what occupied his attention was a row of paper, electronic devices, and dried herbs laid out in front of him. He tented his hands in front of his mouth, thinking very hard.

In the corner of the room, Gabriel made the latest of his attempts to try a special knot, and failed.  He looked up at Kabata.  “What are you doing?”

Kabata held up a hand.  “Shut up.”

Chastised, Gabriel looked down at his knitting.  Then, he looked back up.  “But what are you doing?”

Kabata narrowed his eyes at the implements.  “I’m trying to figure out what the deal is with smoking.”

Gabriel scratched his head.  “You just light with a lighter.”

“No, I…”  He massaged his temples.  “I remember when humans first discovered tobacco, and since then they haven’t been able to get enough of it.  Yet every time I try it, it’s horrible.  And Aziraphale has complained that Heaven shouldn’t be a non-smoking zone, so I’m trying to figure out why he liked it. And I’ve seen Maltha smoking with some evidence of enjoyment.  Clearly there’s something I’m missing.”

“It’s the nicotine,” said Gabriel.

“I know it’s the nicotine, you bloody idiot,” Kabata snapped. “I’m not a bloody idiot.  I know it’s the nicotine.  The nicotine is what makes it horrible.”

He picked up the first item in the line, which was a simple rolled cigarette. He lit it with a spark from his thumb, took a huge huff, and began coughing wretchedly.

“Blast,” said Kabata.

From outside, in the parking lot of the motel, the telltale hot hoof beats signaled the arrival of a Hellhorse.  Kabata hoped that maybe if he ignored it, the rider wouldn’t come bother him, a tad optimistically.  

This was one instance where ignoring the issue did not, in fact, make it go away.  Two pairs of footsteps approached the door to room 102.

Kabata put down the cigarette into the ashtray and picked up the next item, a fine cigar, and lit it with his pointer finger.  

There was no knock.  The door creaked open.  Satan stood there, with Hastur hiding slightly behind him, like an imp.

Gabriel shrank back a little.  Kabata looked at Satan tiredly and exhaled a billowing cloud of cigar smoke.

“So,” said Satan.  “My most loyal supporter, Hastur, tells me that you attacked him.  Is that true?”

Kabata put the cigar back in his mouth and talked around it.  “It is.”

“And may I ask why, exactly, you attacked my one remaining truly loyal supporter?”

Hastur sneered at Kabata like a tattletale.

“Do you smoke?” said Kabata.  “Surely Satan smokes.”

“What?” said Satan stormily.

The end of the cigar glowed as Kabata sucked from it.  “What’s the big deal with smoking?”

“Answers the question,” said Satan.

Kabata grimaced at the cigar and stubbed it out in the ashtray next to the cigarette.  “I attacked him,” he said, looking Satan directly in the eye, “because he’s annoying little prick that should be knocked down a peg every once in a while.”

“He’s a duke of Hell and should be treated with the respect becoming such—”

“He’s an annoying little prick.”

Satan set his jaw.  Hastur said, “I wouldn’t be so quick to talk big if I were you.  We could definitely kick your arse.”  He, of course, meant that Satan could kick Kabata’s arse, which was probably true, and he happened to be on the same team as Satan despite not really being capable of contributing much to the aforementioned arse-kicking.

Satan stepped into the room.  Hastur followed, closing the door behind him.  Satan circled the chair Kabata was seated in, removing his leather gloves and riding gear and putting them on the end table.  Hastur perched menacingly near Gabriel, who looked at him with hatred.

Satan reached down and picked up the cigar Kabata had discarded, reigniting it and taking a drag.  “So tell me, what the hell are you doing here in the middle of nowhere with Gabriel, of all people?”

Kabata shrugged.  “We’re both fucking losers that nobody likes, and we’ve got nobody better than each other to stick with.  We did work together for six-thousand years.”

“Yes, but he is an angel, and you are a demon.”

Kabata rolled his eyes.

“What the hell happened to you?” said Hastur to Gabriel.  “Your aura’s all funny.”

“That’s none of your business,” Gabriel snapped.

“He also got taken down a peg,” said Kabata.  He reached out and picked up the next tobacco item in his lineup, which was an e-cigarette.  It took him a moment to figure out how to insert the cartridge.  “So what exactly do you want?  I don’t think you care enough about Hastur to come crying to me about hurting his feelings.”

Hastur scowled.  Satan puffed the cigar appreciatively and did not deny the accusation.  “Well, you see Kabata, I find myself in the strange position of being without allies.  My kingdom has been usurped out from under me while I was gone.  The world’s changed quite a bit—you, for example…Interesting to see you as a demon.  This isn’t how I pictured you.”

Kabata took a puff of the vape and looked at him.

“So why don’t we kill Gabriel, and you, me, and Hastur can go about rebuilding the Kingdom of Darkness.  You haven’t been a demon for very long.  This could be your chance to get in on the ground floor.  Think of the possibilities!  You could be my new right hand man.  You could take Ba’al Berith’s place.”

“I had Ba’al Berith killed when I was an angel,” said Kabata.  “What makes you think I’d want that?”

Satan gestured around him.  “You’d rather sit around in a shitty motel room?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“What?!  Why?”

“Sloth suits me, I’ve found.  I’ve been ambitious for too long.”

Satan drew his sword, which was a fearsome, jagged thing.  “Then give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you right here and now, if you’re completely useless to me.”

Kabata groaned.  “Come on, man, I never did anything to you.”

“What is with everyone?” Satan yelled.  “Nobody gives a fuck about anything anymore!  Why does nobody want to help me?  Why isn’t everyone rushing to my side to be my right hand man anymore?”

Kabata fumbled and picked up an item in the line of smoking implements, which happened to be a marijuana blunt, because he had gotten a bit mixed up and hadn’t realised humans sometimes smoke things other than tobacco.  He lit it, took a drag, and held out his hand. “Gabriel, where’s the thing?”

Gabriel looked at him, baffled.  “The what?”

Kabata made a grabbing motion.  “The thing!  The fucking—” He took another quick drag on the blunt, because he found it made him feel quite a curious way, then got up and started tossing the cushions and blankets everywhere.  “The thing, where did I fucking put—oh, here it is.”

He turned out to have been sitting on it.  He pulled out the God-Killing Knife, leveling it at Satan in one hand and smoking the blunt in the other.

“Is that…?” Satan said, amazed.

“Yeah,” said Kabata.

“You have the God-Killing Knife?”

“For the last fucking time!” Kabata shouted.  “It’s not a knife!  It’s a short-sword!”

“You must be joking,” said Hastur.  “That little thing?”

“Listen!” Kabata fumed.  “Just because I was a fucking idiot that knew more about spellwork than how to use a forge in four-thousand BC—stop fucking laughing at me, Gabriel, I can see you laughing at me—doesn’t mean it’s not a short-sword, just because it came out shorter than I meant it to doesn’t mean it’s not a short-sword.  I designed it to be a short-sword, it’s bloody well a short-sword and not a knife!”

“You made that?”

“Yeah.”

“I tasked Agares with retrieving that artifact for me thousands of years ago! It’s been lost to history!”

“Turns out my ex-girlfriend squirreled it away.”

Satan furrowed his brow.  “And you’re…giving it to me to bargain for your life?”

Kabata coughed and sputtered, dropping the blunt.  “What?  No! I’m going to stab you with it!”

Satan slowly lowered his sword, looking at Kabata pensively.  “You made that?  In the beginning?”

“Yes.”

“But why?  You were loyal to Him.”

Kabata slowly lowered his weapon, then plopped onto the sofa, tapping it against his knee.  “I don’t know.  I had thought about joining the rebellion for a while.  I’m glad I didn’t.  I don’t hate being a demon, though.  I just wouldn’t want to be one under your command.”

Satan’s face spasmed with rage.  “If you’re not going to be a proper demon—You could at least kill Gabriel!”

“Hey man, let me ask you a question,” said Kabata, whose eyes had started to take on a glazed, far away expression.

“What?”

“What happened to the way you talk?”

“What?” Satan said stormily.

“You know, the way all the foundation angels talk.  You talked like that when you were Lucifer, but now you just talk normally.”

Satan sneered at him.

YOU KNOW, LIKE THIS, Kabata said.

“Shut the fuck up,” said Satan.  “You’re ridiculous.  You’re an insult of an archdemon.  You’re pathetic.  I’ll kill you right here and now.

“Go away, man,” said Kabata.  “It’s not worth it.  We both know it’s not worth it.”

Fist clenched tight, Satan slammed his sword back in its sheath.  He fumed under his breath for a moment, then started walking towards the door.

“Sire?” said Hastur.

“Come on,” said Satan grumpily.

Hastur unhappily removed himself.

Satan paused at the door, then turned back.  “By any chance did you get this?”  He lifted a piece of paper between his two fingers from his breast pocket. “This astoundingly arrogant invitation my spawn has sent out?”

“To Noah’s banquet?” said Kabata.

“Yes.”

“He invited you?”

“Yes.  He’s that brazen.”

Kabata scratched his chin.  “He sure is.”

“Are you going?”

Kabata shrugged halfheartedly.  “I guess so.  He was very clear he wanted both me and Gabriel to come.”

Satan tucked the invitation back into his pocket, looking stormy.  “Then I guess I’ll see you there.  Let me know if you have a change of heart between now and then.”

Kabata watched him go.  Neither Satan nor Hastur had the courtesy to shut the door behind them.  Kabata huffed in an annoyed way, slamming it shut, then coming back over and puffing on the blunt.  He had started to feel very funny.

But, like a lot of the changes in the world recently, it was different.  Unexpected, but not necessarily bad.

Chapter Text

Crowley straightened Aziraphale’s horrible tartan bow tie, which he hadn’t been able to convince him to change.

“If you’re going to wear that thing, you could at least put it on right,” said Crowley.

“Ah, I hadn’t noticed,” said Aziraphale.  “Thank you, dear.”

Crowley finished knotting his own tie, pulling it through for a full Windsor knot.  “Do you think everyone is coming?  From what I hear, the guest list is pretty extensive.”

“I’m afraid I can’t say,” said Aziraphale.  He gave him a kiss on the forehead.  “I trust Noah’s judgement, though.  He’s grown up to be quite wise.  Oh, you do look like splendid in that suit.”

Crowley did up his cuff links.  They were shaped like tiny angel wings, courtesy of Beth.  “This?  I wear this suit all the time.”

“I know, but oh…” Aziraphale breathed.

“Angel, what—”

He was cut off as Aziraphale dipped him into a kiss.  Crowley smiled all the way to his ears, so happy he could almost cry.

“I’m sorry we never got to have our proper engagement party,” said Crowley. He clasped their hands together so their rings touched.  “I’m sure everyone can probably guess it’s going to happen, but I’m glad everyone will be there to see us get married.”

Aziraphale rubbed his back.  “Even Gabriel and Kabata and them?”

Crowley leaned his head into Aziraphale’s shoulder.  “…Having them there is strangely validating, in a way.”

Aziraphale patted him.  “Let’s go, then.  It’s almost time.”

They had agreed to carpool with Beth and Maltha beforehand, so Crowley started the Bentley and drove to the location where Maltha specified, which turned out to be a posh apartment complex Beth certainly wouldn’t have been able to afford on her own.

The two were waiting out front on the sidewalk.  Maltha was in a tight, sequined black dress with opera gloves, looking like she could decapitate someone with her heels.  Beth had on a tuxedo she seemed quite fond of despite that it evidently did not fit her very well.

“I’ll drive,” said Beth excitedly as they exited the Bentley.

“No,” said Crowley and Maltha simultaneously.

“Come on, you two’ve been through a lot!” said Beth.  “Just sit back and relax.  We’ll take my car.”

Despite Crowley’s protests that driving did relax him, Beth was insistent on chauffeuring.  Maltha gave in eventually, which convinced Crowley it wasn’t worth fighting about any longer.

“Oh, geez, sorry,” said Beth, clambering into the driver’s seat of her beat up sedan.  “I forgot there was all that garbage in the back seat.”

Aziraphale respectfully stood to the side as Beth shoveled fast-food bags and discarded tissues out of the car.  Crowley’s eyes watered at the eventuality of riding in such an atrocious, rusty, neglected vehicle.  If cars had souls, Beth’s would be crying out for deliverance.

While Beth had her back turned, Crowley murmured reassurances to the Bentley that it wouldn’t end up like that.

“There we go,” said Beth, pushing the seat forward to give them more room.

The car ride over was bearable.  But Crowley was communicating with Aziraphale telepathically the entire time, complaining about Beth’s car.

Maltha broke in, I can hear you, you know.

Crowley froze.  Can Beth?

Maltha snorted.  “What’s up?” Beth asked.

“Nothing, dear,” Maltha said, while simultaneously thinking at Crowley, If you can teach a human telepathy, let me know how you did it.

They arrived at Adam’s house, which was a quiet little cottage with a yard big enough for Dog to run around in.  The mutt in question ran out to greet them enthusiastically as Beth cranked the parking brake.

“Good boy!” said Aziraphale, patting Dog’s head, mostly to try and get him to jump on someone else instead.  Dog went absolutely ballistic, unable to decide who to lick and tail whirring like a helicopter blade.

Adam hobbled out onto the porch.  “Come on in!” he shouted.  “It’s in the living room!”

They stepped in to see a portal leading directly to the ninth layer of Hell hovering in Adam’s living room.

“Arranged just for the occasion,” said Adam proudly.

Dagon and Beelezebub stood on either side of the entrance.  Now here was someone Crowley hadn’t faced down yet: Dagon had been the one to hand him over to Satan for torture, and Crowley hadn’t interacted with him at all since then.

He swallowed nervously as Dagon’s amphibian eyes swiveled towards him, blinking out-of-synch.  From beside him, Beelzebub buzzed, “Welcome.”

Dagon dipped his head.  “Hell is honoured by your presence.”

Maltha exchanged the superficial pleasantries before leading Beth in. Aziraphale held Crowley’s hand.

Dagon made eye contact.  “Hell is honoured by your presence, Mr Crowley.”

Crowley’s cheeks became flush as he entered Hell, and not because of the heat. “Did you hear—”

“Dagon?”

Crowley’s eyes sparkled.  That was the last person he could think of in this universe that had hated him, won over. The last flicker of anxiety died in his chest.

“Who cares what Dagon thinks, though?” said Maltha, strolling forward.

“See you down there!” Adam yelled after them.

Aziraphale waved a hand.  Crowley was still reeling, chest warm.

Botis met them at the entrance to Hell’s feast Hall.  The doors were propped open, and Crowley couldn’t help but notice the Hall seemed a lot bigger than it had before.

“So good to see you, sirs!” Botis cried, throwing his arms around Aziraphale and Crowley.

Aziraphale patted his arms.  “Yes, yes, good to see you, Botis.”

“How was the other world?” said Botis excitedly.  “I heard it was like a mirror universe.”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Aziraphale.

“Was I there?”

Crowley looked into Botis’s hopeful face.  “…No, actually, you weren’t there at all, Botis.”

Botis pouted.  “Drat.”

They went into the Hall to see that it had been rearranged to look like a fancy dining room, with many tables and an open bar, rather than a single long table.  And at the far end, at the head of the hall, there was a beautiful archway with red and cream-coloured flowers lacing its length.  It filled both Aziraphale and Crowley with a fuzzy feeling in their chests, guessing what it was for.

“Suppose we should find our assigned seats,” said Crowley, noting there were name cards set out.

“You’re near the front,” said Botis, preening.

Aziraphale and Crowley  found their places at a table near the front, next to the table with the ornate carved chair that probably indicated Noah’s seat.  The other seats at the table were reserved for Beth, Maltha, Mykas, and Angelo.

The dining hall was mostly empty, with a few guests here and there. Oryss and Olivia were among the first to arrive, looking quite beautiful in a sparkly blue dress and a tuxedo, respectively.  They rushed over to Crowley and Aziraphale, chattering about how excited they were and how lovely everything was.

Maltha and Beth took leave to wander around together before the feast, leaving Aziraphale and Crowley alone at their table to watch people trickle in. The rest of the Legion arrived slowly, sprinkled with dukes of Hell Aziraphale had only met a handful of times. Raphael came in, too, escorting Metatron.  Metatron seemed to be doing a little bit better, and had regained most of their gross motor control.  They seemed aware of what was going on around them and making decisions for themselves. They didn’t seem able to speak yet, which was ironic for the Voice of God, but you don’t need to be able to speak to have a good life, so that was all right.

Vincent and Hurit came in, too, with their two daughters, one of whom had a pair of glossy, grey wings on her back.  The human child had a purple bow in her hair, while the Nephilim had a bow on her wings.

That would surely be an interesting sibling rivalry.  Not to mention the pair of newborn twins Vincent and Hurit were holding one each of, who were both sprouting tiny stumps of jet-black wings.

Kabata and Gabriel arrived next, both looking very tired and worse for the wear, not amenable to socialising, but they sat in their assigned corner and watched everyone else without any apparent malice.  The musty smell of marijuana hung over Kabata like a cloud. His eyes were bloodshot, and he began to gnaw on the decorative fruit on the table apparently without realising it was made of foam.

Gabriel eyed Vincent with a certain amount of fear.  Vincent brought the oldest Nephilim child over to Gabriel. This ended up resulting in a shouting match, not between the two angels but between Gabriel and the girl, but eventually ended with Gabriel holding one of the babies and bouncing it on his knee.

Mykas came in during this altercation but mostly ignored it, going straight to his assigned seat with Angelo and asking for some pre-dinner wine.  He watched Gabriel and Kabata’s table with a detached look.

“Have you made peace with Gabriel yet?” said Aziraphale.

Mykas lifted his goblet to his mouth, eyes shining over the rim of the cup. “No.”

“Why don’t you now?”

Mykas put his cup down, smiling wryly.  “I don’t want to.  He has no power over me, I have no reason to be afraid of him, and I don’t want to be friends with him.  And I don’t think there’s anything I can do to make him more miserable than he already is. Once he learns to let go of the way things were, he’ll realise how shitty it was the way he treated me, then he’ll feel awful again.  He’s got a huge mountain in front of him to climb.  I don’t even want to kill him.  He’s just pathetic now.”

Crowley and Aziraphale both nodded.

Mykas turned his gaze away from Gabriel towards Vycra, who was standing against the wall by herself. Her assigned seat, at the table next to Victoria, Oryss, and Olivia, remained empty.  She hadn’t changed out of her armor, but she didn’t look afraid.  More like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

“I hope she gets used to it soon,” said Mykas.  “I know what it feels like to suddenly not have to be a warrior all the time, and it’s hard to let it go.”

“Maybe you and she could talk sometime,” said Crowley.

Mykas played with his fork.  “No…I think she’ll have much more to talk about with Victoria.”

Crowley watched Victoria from across the room.  She was talking to Jezebel, but definitely snatching glances at Vycra out of the corner of her eye occasionally.

Crowley felt a warm hand on his shoulder, and Noah leaned in to whisper to him. “I’m taking the next step in reforming Agares tonight.  She’s been confined to the first layer for a while and has been behaving herself, so I’m letting her come to the Feast.  Don’t worry, she’s not dangerous, and I’m keeping an eye on her.”

Crowley nodded.  

“There’s a lot of people here but I promise I’ll keep things under control. You two are absolutely safe and you will have your night, unless you change your mind.”

“We won’t change our mind,” said Aziraphale, patting Noah’s hand.  “This is perfect.”

Noah moved off.  And a few minutes later, Agares very hesitantly edged into the room, eyeing the angels in the room like they were pointing guns at her.  Being near Victoria definitely caused the most alarm for Agares, but after being in her periphery for a few minutes without incident, Agares settled down noticeably.

Lyra came in shortly after, and Agares pounced on her, their previous discussions about magic apparently having already sealed the deal on being real, actual, honest-to-goodness friends, which Agares had never had before.  She finally let Lyra hold the magical artifact she had used to block the tracking spell, and Lyra geeked out over it like it was a shiny new car.

Kabata saw this exchange and approached them with his sword.  They both looked at him with confusion before he held it out to them by the handle and clarified he was trying to show off his own spellwork, not attack them.

Agares and Lyra both erupted into a cloud of excited chatter, bombarding him with questions.

“Stay out of trouble, you three,” called Noah, passing them on the way to his place at the head of the table.  “The trouble trio.  Everyone, thank you for coming!  Please take your seats!  Dinner is about to begin.”

Maltha and Beth came back in just as the food was being served, skittering back to their seats and hastily wiping off the lipstick they had pressed on each other in some rather suggestive places.  Mammon pushed the door closed behind them and trundled over to her seat, smushing herself into her smallest form for politeness’ sake.

Noah clapped his hands, and the room died into silence.  “Let’s take a moment to thank the kitchen before we begin. I trust you have all been enjoying the wine and hors d’ oeuvres.”

Hoofbeats sounded muffled through the door.

Noah grimaced.  “All right. Okay.  Thank you for coming, everyone.  I think I shall need a moment.  Please stay seated and remain calm.”

The doors to the hall swung open again, and a figure on an enormous black horse strode in, hooves striking sparks.

Satan pulled the reigns of his Hellhorse up to stop it ten feet away from the outermost table.  The demons sitting there upturned their chairs with the speed they used to scuttle away.

Hastur slunk in behind him, glowering at the reception.

The room fell dead silent.  All eyes turned to the newcomer.

Satan tossed his head, pushing his flowing blond curls off his shoulder indignantly.  “Well, well, I finally come back down to my home, only to see this.”

Noah stood, opening his arms amicably.  “Welcome, father.”

Satan slid down the side of his horse, removing his riding gear, slipping off his leather gloves and curling them in his fist.  He reached into his coat and withdrew a letter.  “’Welcome, father’?  Really?  I know you’re my spawn, but you have unthinkable audacity.”

“I see you got my invitation,” said Noah, not letting the smile break on his face.  His voice echoed confidently through the dining hall, but everyone could hear the tenseness of his voice, and see the fact that his smile was stretched artificially thin.

Satan snapped the letter open and withdrew a pair of tiny spectacles, reading it daintily.  “I wish to use the Feast Hall and trappings in the ninth layer my father had previously used to strike terror and fear into his subjects for an open banquet.  We wish to usher in a new era of peace, and you, Father, are invited on the condition—”

“You turned the torture chambers into hotels suites,” Hastur grumbled. “Those was my favorite rooms.”

“—That you agree to become part of this new order—”

“You needn’t read further,” Noah said magnanimously.  “I know what I wrote, and I think everyone else can guess.”

Satan trucked on over him.  “Which means accepting that your place is not to rule, but to live in harmony with everyone you had previously terrorised, both angels and demons.”

“Show some respect,” Hastur said.

Satan dropped the letter.  “Where, exactly, do you get off telling me what to do?  My own spawn?  You mean to rule Hell in my place, and treat me as a subject?”

The question hung in the air for a bit.  Then, Adam laughed a deep, hearty laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Satan snarled.

“Your kids have been telling you what to do ever since we existed,” he said. “Just the same as you did to your own father.  What’s wrong with you?”

Satan’s frown darkened as Maltha began to giggle at the next table over. “You’re quite sad, my lord. I actually feel pity for you right now.”  She leaned back in her chair, one foot on the table and tilting the chair up onto two legs, and lifted her wine glass at him.

Satan’s face spasmed with a paroxysm of rage.  “You—”

“Not me,” said Maltha.  “Us, all of us.”

“How long was I away?” said Satan.  “That such impropriety is allowed to stand?  Who was the first to—Who did th—You,” he hissed, focus zeroing in on Crowley.  “This is your fault somehow, you little snake.  The traitor.”

The second he took a single step forward, half the dining hall got their feet with weapons drawn.

Startled, Satan took a step back.  He sneered at them.  “You all—you put lowly demons, traitors, and angels, and nephilim in position of honour in Hell’s banquet hall.  Look at yourselves.”

“Shut up.”

Crowley’s command echoed precariously through the hall, and with such authority all eyes in the room landed on him.

He started forwards.  Aziraphale reached out to pull him back, but Crowley waved him off, weaving through the dining hall towards Satan.

Satan’s face was locked in a toothy scowl.  “You’re lucky any archdemon even deigns to speak to you, lowly imp.  Know your—”

“Shut up!” Crowley screamed, throwing his arms in the air.  “Shut your stupid fucking mouth and stop saying such bloody foul, awful things!”

Crowley came to a stop toe-to-toe with Satan, who looked down his nose at Crowley, a solid two feet below him.  A few people behind him told him to back away, but he didn’t listen.

“You have a lot of nerve,” Hastur growled.

“I’m aware!” Crowley said.  “I’ve been told, and that’s just one of the many things I’m bloody sick of being told!”

He shoved a pointed finger right in Satan’s face, who went cross-eyed to look at it.  “I don’t have a lot of nerve.  I’m just sick and tired of being treated like a slave, like an object, like a piece of cattle to—”

“You don’t deserve the—”

“You treated me like I belonged to you.  Like I only existed for your benefit.”  Tears began to brim over in his eyes.  “Like you owned me and could do whatever you wanted to me, no matter how terrible it was.”

“I did own you,” said Satan. “And I still do.”

“You treat everyone like that!” Crowley exploded.  “Why are you like this?”

Crowley was cut off by Satan slapping him across the face with his leather glove, leaving a bright red mark.  Crowley heard several people gasp and say his name, followed by footsteps approaching him.

“Does a cog complain about being part of a machine?” Satan said.  “No, because that’s it’s place.  Your place is to be my servant.  It is my right to rule over demons however I see fit.”

Crowley cradled his cheek, looking at the floor.  He felt arms around him and saw Botis grabbing his elbow, and Aziraphale coming up from the other side.

“No,” said Crowley, elbowing away the attempts to remove him.  “I’m not afraid of you anymore.”  He stared Satan down.  “You can abuse me and say whatever horrid things you want to me, but it doesn’t change your position.”

“My position?” said Satan.

“You were only the ruler because you bullied everyone into letting you. Now that your support is gone, you have nothing.”

“It is my right.”

“You’re out.  Nobody wants you here anymore.  You’re a relic from a worse time that nobody wants to remember.”

Satan’s gaze swept up to all the hostile faces.  He turned back to Hastur, who quickly averted his gaze.

“Nonsense,” said Satan, though with considerably less confidence now. “I’m the only force with the will to go against Heaven, I’m the only one who stood up to God—”

“You’re just like Him,” Crowley said.

Satan looked like he had been punched in the gut.  “What did you say?”

“No one has ever had the courage to tell you that to your face, have they?” said Crowley, softer now.  “You’ve become just like God.”

“That’s not true,” said Satan, voice now tinged slightly with fear.

“Everything you hated about God is what you’ve become.”

“Shut up,” said Satan.

“You hated Him because he was cruel, and capricious, and unfair, and egotistical, and everyone was scared of Him but you’re worse than He is now.  You tried to take His place, but only succeeded in copying the worst parts of Him.

Satan did not respond.  He looked incredibly angry.  It was the anger of someone who knows in their heart the criticisms are true, and they get angry instead of accepting it.

Hissing with rage, he turned to the demonic court.  “Beelzebub, put him in his place.”

“I’m afraid I must concur with Lord Noah,” Beelzebub buzzed mildly.

“What?” Satan shrieked. “You—  Even you?!  My most loyal supporter?”

Crowley stepped back into the arms of his friends to let the natural consequences of Satan’s actions catch up to him.  He needn’t do anything more.

Beelzebub shrugged.  “He is a better ruler than you are.”

“Come on, Beelzebub,” said Satan savagely.  “Let’s ravage everything, kill, destroy.  No one can stop us.  Why are you kneeling to—”

“That sort of thing is no longer considered appropriate,” Beelzebub said dryly.

Satan clenched his jaw mightily.  “Beelzebub.  Dagon?”

Dagon crossed his arms.

Satan swung towards Dagon.  “Dagon, help me out here.”

Dagon’s throat pouch expanded and contracted, and his eyes sunk into his head and popped out again.  He did not so much as croak.

“Agares,” said Satan.

Agares looked around, panicked, and shook her head frantically.  Next to her, Kabata leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.  “She would trade her loyalty to you for next to nothing.  All I had to do was show her my sword, and she already likes me better than you.”

Agares turned bright red.

Satan scowled.  “Asmodeus?”

Asmodues pretended not to see him.

Looking desperately around the room for any last scrap of support he could get, he eyed up Mammon.  Mammon snorted and stared him down, and he turned away from her without bothering to try.

“This is what happens,” said Crowley.  “When you build your following through fear instead of love.”

LUCIFER, said a voice from behind them.

Satan looked over to see that Time had stood and called out to him.

“T…Time?” said Lucifer.

All the Foundations angels are, generally, pretty impassive, so the wobbly lip Time had was an extraordinary display of emotion.  I’VE MISSED YOU.

Satan’s face became slack and distant.

BUT I’VE MISSED LUCIFER, NOT SATAN.

“No,” whispered Satan.

YOU ARE NOT HIM.  YOU ARE CRUEL AND VIOLENT.

“I am Lucifer!” Satan thundered. “I am.”

YOU HAVE CHANGED.

“I did this for you,” Satan said, and it was his turn to have tears roll down his cheeks.  “And even you reject me?”

Time looked at him sadly.  I NEVER ASKED FOR ALL THIS.  I NEVER ASKED YOU TO BECOME AN ABUSIVE TYRANT.  YOU DID THAT ON YOUR OWN.

Satan reeled back a step.

“Don’t listen to him, sire,” said Hastur.  “Who cares what he thinks?”

“Who cares what Time thinks?” whimpered Satan.  “Time is…He’s…my…”

Satan burst into tears, dropping to his knees, chest heaving in big, ugly sobs. Crowley looked down at him.

“What was I supposed to do,” Satan gasped between shuddering breaths.  “What did you expect me to do when He did what He does?”

“We’ve all been hurt,” said Crowley quietly.  “We’ve all suffered just as much as you have.  It doesn’t mean you can turn around and dish out the same abuse without consequences.”

Satan looked up at him with watery eyes.  “What am I supposed to do?”

Crowley took a deep breath and knelt down to whisper to him.  “It’s not too late for you.  It’s never too late for anyone to make a change.  But they have to want it.”

Satan scrunched his face up, sniffling.

Mykas approached, holding his hand out.  “Brother.”

“M…Michael?” said Satan.

Mykas knelt, leaning in comfortingly, offering his hand.  “Brother.  It’s not too late to try this again.  Can we try this again?”

Satan looked at the proffered hand.

“Back before when we last fought, I said we could fix this by making everything go back to the way it was.  That’ll never happen, because everything has been kind of wrecked, and there’s no way to un-do that.  But the world is softer now.  We can teach you how to be soft by showing you the mercy you were never shown.  All you have to do is leave your old ways behind.”

Satan held out a trembling hand, then withdrew it.  “You cast me out,” he said bitterly.  “Last time you offered me your hand, it only ended in fire.”

Mykas lowered himself to the ground completely, sitting back on his haunches in front of Satan so they were eye-to-eye.  “Brother,” he said, six-thousand years of hurt and softness overflowing on his face.  “Brother, surely you must have realised by now that was Uriel, not me.”

Satan looked down at the floor tiles between his hands.

“I would never do that to you.  I would never give up on anyone I love.”

“I can’t,” said Satan.  “I can’t.  How can I?”

“Don’t be afraid,” said Mykas.  “This new way is different, and it’s unknown—uncharted territory, and that’s scary for all of us.  But I promise you it is so, so much better.  There’s room for you to grow and learn here, instead of everyone being ruled by fear.  So what do you say?”

Satan’s gaze went to Time behind Mykas.

“We can fix this.  It’s okay. I promise it’ll be okay.  It’s not too late.”

Satan nodded, then took Mykas’s hand.  Mykas pulled him into a hug, and Satan balled up into Mykas’s chest, weeping.

“I don’t bloody believe this,” Hastur muttered.

Mykas pulled Satan away, off to the corner, stroking his hair.

“Now hold on just a minute!” Hastur cried, in his temper tantrum sparked by being the last one in existence to have a problem with this.

“Let’s talk, Hastur,” said Noah, approaching him with mischievous joy in his eyes.  “Take a seat.”

A chair appeared behind Hastur.  Hastur opened his mouth to tell Noah to fuck off, caught Maltha’s facial expression behind him, remembered certain things, then thought better of it and sat down, grumbling the whole time.

“So what’s your problem?” Noah said, putting his hand under his chin.

Everyone in the hall laughed.  Hastur frowned and provided no answer.

“You’re like…You’re like a mangy old cat that hisses at everyone.”

“’m not a cat,” Hastur said, crossing his arms.

“No, I mean it.  What’s your problem?”

“I can see you laughing at me,” Hastur yelled with a pointed look at Crowley. “You snake!  You little creep!  Watch your back.”

Noah leaned down to block Hastur’s eye contact with Crowley.  “Nope.  Eyes on me.”

Hastur puffed out and said nothing.

“For example, why do you hate Crowley so much?”

“He’s a creep.  Dunt see why everyone else likes him so much.”

“You can tell me,” said Noah.  “You can whisper it to me, and I won’t tell anyone else.”

Hastur, lip quavering, leaned in towards Noah’s proffered ear.  “He killed Ligur,” he said, voice trembling.  “And Ligur was the only one who tolerated me, and nobody cares that he’s dead, and nobody ever cares, and I dunt see why it’s fair that he gets to overthrow the order when I worked hard and made sacrifices to keep myself safe and Ligur safe and, well, it bloody well doesn’t seem fair I had to deal with Satan for six-thousand years only to have everyone else get to take the easy way out—”

Hastur broke off.  People like Hastur did not, generally, cry, but he was currently as close as he could get, which was taking sort of deep, hitching breaths and looking quite upset.

“Is that all?” said Noah.

“Is that all?” Hastur cried.  “I thought you was all about taking people’s emotions seriously?  You think having Ligur taken is no—”

He looked around the piteous faces in the room and realised he had just shouted his secret answer aloud.

Noah gave a tinkling laugh.  “Aww, Hastur.”  He patted his head.  “No, I just mean, that part we can easily fix.”

“What?”

“I can just bring Ligur back to life.  The other stuff you’ll just have to get over.  But having Ligur back should help you with an attitude adjustment, right?”

“You’re yanking my chain,” said Hastur.  “Knock it off.”

“No joking.  I’ve worked with harder people.”

“You can’t be serious,” Hastur said, strained.  “You’d just—bring him back to life?  For me?  Just like that?”  His tone of voice indicated he couldn’t possibly let himself believe it and get his hopes up.

Noah’s eyes sparkled.  “Softer world.”  He turned around.  “Maltha, will you help me with something real quick?  I need to go talk to Death.”

*************************

NO.

Noah grimaced.  “Now, okay, see, last time I did this, I didn’t realise it would upset you.  So now I’m just giving you a courtesy warning I’m going to do it.”

Death crossed his arms.  SO ESSENTIALLY, YOU DIDN’T COME TO ASK MY PERMISSION?

Noah rubbed the back of his head.  “Er…yeah, pretty much.”

Death glowered as much as anyone without any facial tissue was able to glower.

“You said it doesn’t fray the fabric of reality when I do it!  It’s not like I’m doing what Time did, messing things up.”

Death did not look impressed.

“Sorry.  I know dead people are supposed to stay dead, and all this lately probably has been pretty disrespectful to you.  Promise I won’t do it willy-nilly.  Only when it’s really important.”

AND LIGUR, A LONG-DEAD DEMON NOBODY CARES ABOUT, IS “REALLY IMPORTANT”?

Noah rubbed his hands together, mustering up his diplomacy skills to try and make the best of a bad situation.

Meanwhile, one layer of Hell down, Maltha worked at the helm of the disused Infernal Corporation department, which was in effect much like a disturbing seamstress shop, with flesh instead of fabric.

Hastur stood between two work stations with sewing machines, looking unhappy being here alone with Maltha.  “And Noah wanted you to bring me here because…?”

“King Noah, if you please,” said Maltha, rapidly loading pincushions and pliers onto her work bench. “We’re far less formal about that now, but it would do you good to get into the habit of it.”

Hastur crossed his arms.  “’suppose.”

“I’m only doing this because he asked me to, so you could be a little more grateful.”  Maltha began to thread a needle with a tendon.  “And for your information, he asked me because I was the one who pioneered the corporation project in Heaven before angels or demons went to Earth, and consequently I’m most suited to whip up a corporation quickly while Noah talks to Azrael, so we can get this over with quickly and go back to dinner.”

“Hmph,” said Hastur.

“Now, what colour was his skin?” said Maltha.

“’bout that one,” said Hastur, pointing.

The sewing machine whirred and plinked as Maltha worked.  “So tell me, Hastur,” she said, holding a pin with her mouth.  “Why exactly you’re so egregiously unpleasant.”

Hastur frowned sourly.

“Why do you like torture, for instance?”

“Do you have any idea how hard my job woulda been if I didn’t like torture?” said Hastur.  “You were never expected to torture anyone.”

“Suppose I wasn’t,” said Maltha.

“It’d be impossible to be a demon without being sadistic.”

“Crowley isn’t sadistic, and he is a demon.”

“Yeah and he had an awful time of it, didn’t he.”

Maltha’s hands stopped, and she looked up to make eye contact with him. “Just a fair warning, Hastur.  I blew your head off once, and I’m not afraid to do it again.  We all deal with trauma in different ways, but you don’t have a license to be horrible anymore.”

“Hmph,” said Hastur, who had mostly become horrible in self-defense, and was struggling to process how he was expected to behave in a reality where being horrible would no longer aid him.  He watched Maltha’s hands being to work again.  She had already gotten impressively far.

“He was circumcised,” Hastur said.

Maltha’s hands froze, and she raised an eyebrow at him.  Hastur was basically incapable of being embarrassed, but he was currently experiencing whatever simulacrum of the emotion he could manage.

“All right,” said Maltha, grabbing a pair of scissors.

Hastur stood on tip-toe to peek over the workbench, which was just a little too tall for him.  “How come you do this stuff?  I thought you was all about healing and the like.”

Maltha pulled some locks of hair from a spinning wheel and began to thread them onto the scalp.  “What’s the difference when it comes down to it?  Healing a sword wound is essentially reconstruction.  Not much of a big leap to plain construction.”

“’Suppose.”

“Besides, it wasn’t just me. It was a joint project between me, Gabriel, and Camael, before they became insufferable pricks.”

“Sure,” said Hastur, who felt that trashtalking the archangels was much more familiar and comfortable territory.

“And I think Raphael did a pretty good job of it after I left.  You may have noticed Heaven’s corporation division is much more efficient than Hell’s.”

Hastur flicked idly at a nearby bonsai tree, which was sprouting eyes like olives.  “Suppose you could give him different colour eyes?  I never much cared for em.  Pale white like anything.  Didn’t care for em.”

“Too late,” Maltha said.  “Already picked them out, and they go bad once they’re harvested, don’t want to waste them.

“Hmmph.”

Footsteps accompanied by the jingle of kingly accoutrements sounded outside. “Okay,” said Noah, appearing in the door.  “I talked to Death.”

“He gave you his blessing?” said Maltha.

“Ah, no,” said Noah.  “But we’ll do it anyway.”

Maltha shrugged.  “All right. Let’s make it quick before he decides to do something, then.”

It didn’t take long to finish the body with Noah there, and in a snap he pulled Ligur from the void and pressed him into his new body.

“Ehr?” said Ligur, jerking.  He sat up. “Huh?  Where am I?”

“There you are,” said Noah, flourishing.  “You can have him on the condition that you behave yourself, Hastur.”

Hastur looked at Ligur with a detached look.

“Hastur?” said Ligur.  “Feel like I’ve missed something.  Are we still trying to get Crawley?”

Hastur set his jaw.

“Has the apocalypse already happened?!”

“You idiot,” said Hastur.  “You fat dumb idiot.  I hate your guts.”

Maltha rolled her eyes.  “You two really need to learn how to express affection like adults.”

Ligur scratched his head.  “Did we win, then?”

*******************************

The tone of the banquet gradually went back to the relaxed state it had been before Satan arrived.  Mykas sat with Satan in the corner, talking with him, Satan gradually becoming more and more responsive.  Various demons and angels could be seen occasionally snatching glances over towards him, scarcely able to believe what they were seeing.

Eventually, Mykas got up and led Satan out of the dining hall by the hand, and everyone truly relaxed.  Angelo excused himself and hustled after him.

After about an hour, Noah and Maltha came back with Hastur.  Ligur, in what appeared to be a freshly spun corporation, walked unsteadily behind them.

Noah approached Crowley and Aziraphale’s table.  “Hi, Crowley.”

“Hi.  How’d it go?”

“Pretty good, but we need to talk to you for a second.”

“Dunt see why,” Hastur said, glowering.  “This whole situation is bloody ridiculous.”

“I don’t see what’s so bad about it,” said Ligur.  “Seems all right to me.”

Hastur glared at him.

“Hastur has something to say to you.”

Hastur stepped forwards and muttered something unintelligible.

“Wrong,” said Noah.

“Maltha tried to make me do this,” said Hastur.  “Don’t see why you think you could.”

“Oh, come on, Hastur,” said Ligur, who seemed to be extremely tired from the ordeal of being dead.  “You always make such a big deal out of everything.”

Hastur clenched his jaw and said to Crowley, “I apologise.”

“For?” Noah prompted.

“For, hm.  For tryin’ to bring you down to Hell during the apocalypse and chasing you through the phone line.  And lying to Maltha and that whole thing.  And grabbin’ you to bring you down to Hell for torture.”

When he did not continue, Noah prompted, “And?”

“And for trying to kill you after that,” said Hastur.  “And for conspirin’ against you, and tryin’ to kill you when you came down to meet Maltha, and…”

He looked like he was struggling to recall the other entries on this enormous list.  “That stuff I said about you right before I died, I guess.”

“And?” said Noah.

“And for ruining your proposal,” said Hastur.  “And choking you.”

He glanced at Noah, checking if all his vile deeds have been crossed off the list.  Noah nodded.

“Okay,” said Crowley.  “Thanks for apologising.  I don’t really like you, but maybe I can forgive you.”

“What?” said Hastur.  “You what?”

“I’ll try to forgive you.”

“Forgive me?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re yanking my chain?”

“No.”

Hastur’s face screwed up in concentration.  Despite his best attempts, he could find nothing to complain about.

“I’m sorry too,” said Ligur.  “For, I dunno.  Being a bully.”

“Thanks for apologising.”

“All right,” said Noah, herding them away from their table.  “I think that’s quite enough.”

Aziraphale watched as Noah led them out of the dining hall, off to who-knows-where.  “Well, that was a pleasant surprise.”

Crowley fiddled with his napkin.  “Maybe now they’ll finally behave themselves.”

“Here’s hoping.”  Noah put one hand on Aziraphale’s back and one on Crowley’s.  Are you two ready then?”

Aziraphale sputtered.  “Let me just finish this glass of wine.”

“We’re ready,” said Crowley.

Noah strode back in and took his seat at the head table, observing the room. Everyone seemed quite relaxed after the disturbance, so he stood and tapped a fork on his wine glass.

“Attention, everyone.”

All eyes turned towards him.

“Thank you all for coming this evening.  I owe a lot to all of you.  But perhaps, most of all, I owe thanks to Aziraphale and Crowley.”

He turned towards them, lifting his wine glass.  “Some of my oldest friends.  They started it all, they were the first to…question.  To truly question, and rebel against an order that had been entrenched for six-thousand years.”

Aziraphale flushed.  

“The world now is peaceful.  Soft. And more forgiving.  We owe it to them.  And with that in mind, there’s something I want to do for them.  That we all can do for them.  Today, we will be witnesses.”

Botis immediately started crying and saying how beautiful it was.

Noah sat and gestured to Crowley, who stood nervously.  He fingered his ring and watched its counterpart on Aziraphale’s hand glow.

“Thank you,” said Crowley.  “It’s an honour.  For the longest time the bottommost layer of Hell was something to be feared, something only meant for suffering and darkness.  Truly, it’s an honour.  I’m so, so proud of the way everyone has worked together to make what we have now. Especially…”

He turned towards Aziraphale, taking his hand.  “Especially my angel.  It hasn’t been easy.  Nothing that lasts six-thousand years or more will be easy.  He’s made mistakes, and so have I, but we’ve both grown so much right alongside this universe as it grew.  He was the first angel to talk to me politely, to treat me as a person—I watched him guard that Eastern Gate and thought, ‘Hey, finally, here’s someone I can talk to….’  All this time later, we stopped the apocalypse.  Twice.  Three times? I don’t know.  Well, we tried to, anyway.”

This was met with a smattering of laughter.

“I don’t know where I would be today without him.  Probably still slithering around the Garden of Eden. And I know at this point it’s little more than ceremonial, but we’re going to make our final declaration that we belong together, that Heaven and Hell can find common ground on Earth, and that…”

“That we love each other,” Aziraphale finished for him.

Crowley nodded.  Everyone around him had wet eyes.  “So Aziraphale and I are getting married.”

Everyone in the room cheered and clapped.  Crowley had thought it might have been a stretch to ask for it, but even Beelzebub and Dagon clapped, even Gabriel, subdued and politely.

“And I’ll be performing the ceremony!” Adam announced, popping up. “I recently got my accreditation online, and I can legally marry people now!”

“Yes, yes,” said Noah, waving him on.  “Brother, please.”

“Watch yourself, or I’ll marry you to someone,” Adam threatened.

He bounced up to the archway, standing in front of it with his notes. Aziraphale and Crowley tenderly took each other’s hands and walked up.  The cheering still hadn’t died down.

They took their places facing each other in front of Adam, eyes brimming with tears, surrounded by people who cared about them, feeling absolutely overwhelmed by the tidal wave of love washing over them.

“We are gathered here today to witness the union of the Principality Aziraphale and AJ Crowley,” said Adam.  “If anyone has any objections, speak now or forever stuff it.”

The numerous hostile glares directed at fellow audience members indicated if anyone did have any objections, they better not speak now.

“Very well!” said Adam.  “It wouldn’t be accurate to call this union holy, as it’s decidedly un-holy in some ways…But it’s something better.  It’s unifying in a way neither Heaven or Hell can manage.  It’s very human in all the right ways.  Do either of you have something to say?”

“I do,” said Crowley.  He wiped his face on his sleeve, sniffling.  “Sorry.  I’ve got a notecard.”  He withdrew the notecard from his breast pocket, again wiping his eyes to get rid of the stubborn drops clinging to his lashes.

“Aziraphale,” he said.  “This is everything I have to tell you about love: nothing.  I think, for the longest time, you were convinced I couldn’t even feel love.”

Aziraphale put his hand to his face, very red.

“And for a while, I convinced myself I couldn’t, either, because it was easier.  Because I was so utterly alone, that it was least painful to just think it was better this way.  But we’re not alone now, none of us are.  And love is part of my life every day now, and so will marriage be, too.  This is everything I’ve learned about love and marriage, in my 6,000 years on this planet:  nothing.

Only that the world out there is complicated, and there are beasts in the night, and delight and pain, and the only thing that makes it okay, sometimes, is to reach out a hand in the darkness and find another hand to squeeze, and not to be alone.”

Crowley took his angel’s hand.  “It’s not the kisses, or never just the kisses: it’s what they mean.”

Tears started rolling down Aziraphale’s cheeks.  “Somebody’s got your back,” Crowley continued.  “Somebody knows your worst self and somehow doesn’t want to rescue you or send for the army to rescue them.  It’s not two broken halves becoming one.  It’s the light from a distant lighthouse bringing you both safely home…”

“Because home is wherever you are both together,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley nodded.  “So this is everything I have to tell you about love: nothing, like a book without pages or a forest without trees.  Because there are things you cannot know before you experience them.  Because no study can prepare you for the joy or the trials.”

He turned to face Maltha and Beth in the front row, and Oryss and Olivia behind them, clinging to each other and crying, and the faces of their many, many friends and loved ones in attendance.  “Because nobody else’s love is like yours, and it’s a road you can only learn by walking it, a dance you cannot be taught, not even by your Maker, not even by the forces of the universe that try to decide what’s good for you.  It’s a song that did not exist before you began, together, to sing.  And because in the darkness you will reach out a hand, not knowing for certain if someone else is even there.  And your hands will meet, and then neither of you will ever need to be alone again.  And that’s all I know about love.”

Botis sobbed dramatically on Kyleth’s shoulder.  Abraxas double-checked her camera to make sure she had been recording.

“That’s all any of us know about love,” said Aziraphale.  “That’s it’s not some grand, ineffable force none of us can understand.  It’s something we share, something we create together.  Something that makes the world a little better for everyone.  No one can define it for us, and no one can tell us it’s too scary or unknown to seize.  Because sometimes when the world is broken, heading off into the unknown is better than staying in a known, comfortable, broken world.”

“I’m sorry,” said Adam, blowing his nose.  “Sorry.  I’m doing the ceremony.  Right. Online accreditation.  Right.  I now pronounce you—”

Aziraphale and Crowley held hands and looked at him.

“Man and—man.  Husband and—demon.  Angel and demon.  Whatever!”

They leaned in and kissed, to more wild cheers.

A few minutes later, among the re-invigorated energy of the feast, the two of them safely lost and given privacy among the activity and buzz around them, Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s hand.  “You know, Crowley, we never talked about a honeymoon.”

“A honeymoon,” said Crowley.  “That’s right, we didn’t.”

“Would you like to have one?”

“Absolutely.”

“Where would you like to go?”

Crowley thought for a moment, watching Maltha pop a champagne bottle at Beth. “I think I’d like to take a road trip. There’s actually still a lot of sights I haven’t seen.”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe we could do some exploration?”

“Of Earth?”

“Of the stars.  I’ve never been there.”

Aziraphale smiled softly.  “Then off into the unknown we go.”