Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You, the Archangel Gabriel, are on trial for inciting war between the two factions – Heaven and Hell, pitted against each other with the entirety of humanity left in the balance.”

Michael lifted his head, narrowing his eyes at Gabriel, flanked by several others. Clothed, as it were, in the sanctified power of Heaven. Gabriel knelt, flanked by those who kept him held down, watching as the Archangel before him sorted through various papers, the noise seeming to fill the endless room. “I have done nothing of the sort,” he gritted the words out, his teeth clenched tightly. “I have done as ordered.”

“And what proof of these orders do you have?” Michael tilted his head, studying Gabriel as though he truly had nothing to do with what had happened. “You have consorted with the Lord of the Flies, Prince of Hell, Lord Beelzebub. We have the proof of that, right here,” he tapped a neatly manicured finger to the paper.

Gabriel had seen the images they had captured of him and Beelzebub.

They had to have been taken in the moment he had been furious with the Anti-Christ, the child who was altering thousands of centuries of planning and orders and readying for battle. Beelzebub had stepped in and brushed him aside and that had been a fascinating moment. They had smiled, softly, and something about it had reminded Gabriel of…Something. A not-quite-there memory, the sense of something lost long ago.

“Gabriel?” Michael’s voice was soft, emotionless, and Gabriel really should have seen this coming.

He was a scapegoat.

Michael had been the ones behind the orders, supposedly sent directly from God, through the Metatron. The war that had been brewing had been Michael ordering the soldiers into position and now he, Gabriel, was going to take the fall for it.

Or, rather, the Fall.

This was not Aziraphale’s trial.

This was not an angel doomed to wander into Hellfire and somehow come out alive and well on the other side, breathing it out and laughing as he did. Gabriel had been the executioner in that instance and this was not that sort of a trial – Aziraphale had been slated for execution.

This was punishment.

If he had succeeded in making the child go to war, as he had been ordered, Gabriel would not be here right now. He would have been seen as a General in the war, the leader of the armies in some way, and he would have been applauded. Lauded. This was Michael…

This was Michael covering his ass, to borrow a phrase from humanity.

“Archangel Michael,” he lifted his chin. Might as well go with some dignity. “I have no proof of what I say. I cannot offer evidence up to support my claim.” Gabriel was starting to understand what had driven Aziraphale to protect humanity – even when they were screwing each other over, they still cared. They still demanded hope and happiness and safety from and for each other, even at the expense of others. This was Heaven, cold and distant and callous and he could, for the first time, see where Aziraphale had turned from them, though he had managed to retain his angelic status.

The anger building in his chest was probably where his next words came from.

“But you can go fuck yourself, because I only ever did what you told me to do.”

The agony of Falling was tempered by the look on Michael’s face as his words echoed through the room. His core felt like it was on fire, his hands curled against the holy ground he still knelt on, his wings a burnt black-and-cinder. He could feel Hellfire curling around his heart.

He wondered how many others had been set up to fail.

How many others had Fallen because Michael had taken control of the powers of Heaven and seen fit to call them his own.

“I sentence you, Gabriel, to Fall. Your Ethereal presence has been taken from you and you are, now and forever, a denizen of Hell,” Michael looked down his nose at Gabriel. “You are the Archangel Gabriel no longer.”

Gabriel swayed, in so much pain he couldn’t think, his hands clawing at the ground. Michael had rendered his wings useless, had taken from him something he had always been sort of proud of.

Which was why he couldn’t get the sentence, ‘And what are your back channels of information, exactly?’ out of his mouth to the room at large before he felt nothing below him. The whistle of air passing his face was terrifying without the ability to fly at the moment and he scrambled for purchase on something, anything, anything—

He landed.

Or, more specifically, he crashed to the ground and rebounded before slamming down once more, going still.

Thankfully, Gabriel blacked out after that.

When he woke up, he was on Earth.

He sat up slowly, wincing as the pain in his back made itself known. At least he still had his wings – he had seen trials, before, where the angel sentenced to Falling had lost their wings. He was still mostly whole, he thought, his hands trembling as he raised them in front of his face. Gabriel sat up slowly, nearly doubling over from the pain as he hissed air through his teeth. Part of losing that touch of Heaven was losing the ability to heal himself.

That was what he had always been told. He was in no state to test it for himself at the moment.

He curled his hands together over the back of his neck, as close to the roots of his wings as he could bear to touch. They ached, pained him to his core, but he still had them. He took a look around where he had landed, a noise in the distance making him suddenly aware of his surroundings.

England.

He recognized the trees, the buildings, the taste of the air. The sun had not yet risen, the barest hint of dawn peeking over the horizon. As he looked around, he even knew where he was in England. Aziraphale’s shop was nearby. Gabriel managed to get to his feet, shaking, trembling, ready to fall down again at any moment and he couldn’t handle that right now. Clutching at a tree and then a bench, he dropped into the seat. If any passed by, it would look more normal for him to be sat on a bench than splayed out on the ground.

This was the park Aziraphale had found him in, when he was jogging. He knew that path and he knew he was decently close to Aziraphale’s shop, which meant he could—

Could what?

He had Fallen. He had no authority over the other, anymore.

Aziraphale could, if he felt like it, execute him. He had insulted the angel and attempted to end the world the Principality had grown so fond of. He had insulted the child and the demon Aziraphale had forged a partnership with. He had threatened them, had screamed at them, had attempted to kill Aziraphale.

Falling had the effect of letting him see what he had done so wrong, it seemed.

Gabriel took a deep breath, his shoulders twitching, then took another. And another. The world still seemed to be spinning and he curled his hands through the slats of the bench. He didn’t know how long he sat there, curled over himself and feeling nauseous. When he finally managed to focus, he realized his usual outfit was no longer pastel lavender and grey, the soft colors he had preferred before.

His coat was slate-in-rain grey and his trousers were black.

His scarf was gone.

His shoes were the color of drying blood and seeing them at the ends of his legs was unsettling. He hadn’t chosen these colors, he hadn’t chosen the darkness of them. He had chosen the soft purple and silvered details of his other clothes.

Michael had never been able to resist getting the last word, when possible.

For a moment, the air filled with the scent of lavender, a phantom echo of a touch coming to rest on his cheek. Something about it was soothing, a moment of kindness in the middle of the possibility of his breaking down. Gabriel couldn’t stop himself leaning into the touch, nearly weeping when it disappeared, his eyes opening.

He hadn’t been aware of when he had closed them.

The sun was much higher in the sky, now, closer to mid-morning than dawn. There were others in the park, though it seemed the winter bite to the air was keeping some from arriving. Humans were dreadfully delicate, he remembered that.

Too much cold, too much heat, too much pressure, and they would break.

There was a ringing in his head now.

It almost obscured the sound of footsteps, of two voices getting closer and Gabriel would have just ignored them if he hadn’t caught the briefest moment of one of them sounding familiar.

“—just saying, Angel,” one of them scoffed. “Lucky to have gotten out of that alive, much less after having to do what we did. Holy Water and Hellfire.” That voice scoffed again and Gabriel rolled his head to one side, spotting a pair of snakeskin shoes coming towards him. Walking in time, next to them, was a pair of brown oxfords. Both of them were dawdling along, obviously spending time together and enjoying it.

“I know,” Aziraphale’s voice was amused when he spoke up, a small smile on his face. “But we survived and the world is still here. I hardly think it’s worth dwelling on what could have been, my dear.”

Gabriel knew who the other one was, then.

Crowley.

The demon Crowley.

“…I could have lost you, Angel,” Crowley stopped in his tracks, about fifteen feet from Gabriel, and reached out, faltering before his hand made contact with Aziraphale’s. “I thought I had, for a bit there.” He made a face, his discomfort obvious, but he continued on anyway. “I thought I’d lost you and everything lost meaning.” He said the words quickly, looking down and away as he did.

“…Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale, when Gabriel looked at his face, had wide eyes and the look of someone realizing just how deeply he was loved.

He didn’t want to interrupt the two of them, for all that he thought he needed a bit of help. The apocalypse-that-wasn’t had been less than a month ago, if one counted time in a human sort of way. Their trials had been less than two weeks ago.

He had threatened Aziraphale, had told him to walk into a fire and just die already.

He had put some of that sadness in Crowley’s voice.

Aziraphale could and likely would execute him on the spot, if only just for the way Crowley’s lips were pressed together. Gabriel hadn’t spent much time watching the two of them together, but he was certain of that, now.

Before he could make his choice to stand up and walk away, to figure things out on his own, however, Crowley spotted him.

The change in the demon was instant, the difference between night and day. His shoulders tensed, his aura flared, his eyebrows drew down and he bared his teeth in a small snarl. “Gabriel,” he stepped in front of Aziraphale, shielding the angel with his body.

How had Gabriel missed this, before?

Love.

Love.

It poured off the two of them like water, ready to drown anyone who stepped too close and too deep. Centuries of love, eons, and eras, spread between them. Friendship and romance and every sort of love that could be imagined. The willingness to step between a threat and the one you loved because that was what being in love was—

The willingness to die to protect those you loved.

Gabriel choked on his next breath, his hands still curled in the slats of the bench.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale stepped close to the demon, a hand on his shoulder. “One moment,” he stepped around him, his fingers trailing down the demon’s arm until they reached his hand. The touch lingered for a moment before Aziraphale let it drop. “Gabriel?” his gaze flicked quickly down, then back up, taking in the difference in Gabriel’s clothing. “What happened to you?”

Gabriel took another deep breath, finally uncurling his hands. His muscles were sore, his fingers cramped and pale. He looked up at Aziraphale, glanced at Crowley. The demon still looked like he wanted to place himself between them. “I…”

The phantom touch was back again, a hand on either of his cheeks and a forehead pressed against his own.

“I Fell,” Gabriel choked the words out.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale had never been so close to the aftermath of a Fall, before.

He had seen angels Fall, of course. It was hard not to, with the discontent that had been sown in Heaven. There was a reason, after all, that he had chosen to stay on Earth for most of his existence. Heaven had been so vast, so empty and cold, that he had become uncomfortable there. Earth had been full of interest, after all that fuss about the Garden. The poor lady had been expecting and what else could he have done besides give them what he could?

It still got to him, all these centuries later.

But he was getting quite off-topic.

He and Crowley had managed, between them, to gather Gabriel up from where he sat on the bench in St James Park. The Fallen angel had sagged down, his legs refusing to work, and he had hissed in pain when Crowley had jostled his shoulder.

Between the two of them, they had managed to get Gabriel back to Aziraphale’s shop without too much more fuss. He was currently on a sofa in Aziraphale’s backroom, curled up under a blanket. The edge of it was behind held by a white-knuckled fist, the Fallen angel apparently having a restless dream of some sort. Perhaps it was a nightmare, Aziraphale slipped his reading glasses on, pulling a book towards him as he sat in his chair. Crowley had refused to stay in the same room as Gabriel for the moment, citing a need to stay away or risk punching him.

As he slept, Gabriel kept making wounded little noises, like a frightened child would.

Aziraphale remembered Warlock, at an age where he had been young enough to make such noises as well. He had been a loud child, American through and through, but he slept quietly enough unless he had a nightmare.

He peered over the edges of his glasses, away from his book.

Gabriel looked…

Well.

Gabriel looked pathetic.

They hadn’t managed to get a single word about how he had Fallen. He hadn’t been able to explain it, hadn’t been able to voice whatever he had done that had been bad enough to earn his being stripped of his Ethereal status. Gabriel had been high-ranking, even among the Archangels.

Over time, Aziraphale supposed, he would begin to forget he had ever once been an angel.

That’s what happened to demons, after all.

The first spreading, reaching, rotten roots wormed their way into a Fallen angel’s soul. From there, urged on by the same, brand new and shining, free will that humans enjoyed, those roots…Well, they spread. They spread, they darkened, they found new soil to put down in. Gabriel would, in time, let his morality slide. He would darken his own soul with small acts, small misdeeds, and goings-on and he would become a fully-fledged demon.

The only reason Crowley hadn’t was because he hadn’t meant to Fall.

He had asked questions, too many questions it seemed, and he had not been condemned to Falling. There had been no sentencing, no Judgement – he had just…Sauntered, as he put it. Curiosity was not a trait favored amongst the angels. Crowley had shown too much and he had Fallen and with his Fall he had taken the memory of his once-name.

Who he had been had been erased in the wake of his Fall.

Like ripples across a pond when a raindrop hit the surface, eroding the memory of where the droplet had touched down.

Because that was what happened to the Fallen.

He had to wonder, as he stared at Gabriel asleep on his sofa, how long it would be before the forgetting happened. How long it would take to forget the threats and his name, his status, his title. How long did he have until he forget his brother-in-arms? He and Gabriel had never been too fond of each other – Gabriel too demanding, too overbearing, and Aziraphale too willing to follows orders until he hadn’t been any more.

But still.

Remembrance seemed like the kind thing, in this situation.

Duty had been empowering, for Gabriel. Being in charge had suited him, in some ways, even if he had let the power go to his head a bit. He was – had been – an Archangel.

A hand slid across his back, disrupting the path of his thoughts, and Aziraphale turned to look at Crowley with a smile on his face. “Hello again, my dear.” He paused, his eyes going wide, as he stared up at Crowley.

His sunglasses were off his face, tucked into the collar of his shirt.

His eyes were yellow, the color contained in a human way to just the irises, and they were narrowed as they stared at the sleeping Fallen on the sofa. “Has he woken up since we brought him in?” he asked after a second, half-perched on the arm of Aziraphale’s chair. His other hand was curled around the back of it, clutching tightly. His nails were sharper than usual, one of the only signs that he was anything other than perfectly ambivalent about the situation.

“Not once,” Aziraphale turned to look at Gabriel as well, frowning now. “Do you suppose he’ll be sought after?” he looked at Crowley again. “By Hell, I mean.”

“They do tend to claim the Fallen,” Crowley muttered.

Aziraphale nodded, pressing his cheek against the hand Crowley had on the back of his chair. “And I think Hell would rather have him than not, actually.” He sighed, his shoulders drooping. He was exhausted – he did not need sleep, but having it was nicer than not having it. Crowley had spoken about the virtues of sleep and the refreshing of the mind by it and Aziraphale had only given into the curiosity a couple of times over the centuries. Gabriel being here, so soon after they had thwarted the Plan, stopped Armageddon, was setting him on edge.

He had to wonder what it was that had Gabriel so distressed in his unconscious state.

X

“It’s the first sunlight,” came a voice to his left.

The light was warm on his face, his robes draped loosely over his arms. The empty world around them was soft and bright, delicate grass below their feet and a gentle wind twisting around them.

He turned to look at them, already smiling. “It’s lovely,” he said, feeling like he was acting out a script.

A show long since over, a play already closed out, a memory only to the actors.

Their hand touched his and when he looked at their face, all he could see was static. Their voice was familiar in some way, just as soft and gentle as the newly born world around them. He could see their hair shift across their shoulder as they turned their head towards his, a scent wafting off of them that he would later learn was the first growth of lavender in the world. They had run around in the first field of it, laughing, joyous as the new world bloomed around them.

He couldn’t see their face, couldn’t hear their name, couldn’t remember them.

He could remember panic, however, terror and panic and a loss that had seemed to carve a hole to the center of him. His heart torn out and lost in the rush.

A trial, much like the one he had gone through, attended by only a few.

He had not been one of the few.

He remembered pushing his way through and in, watching as they had Fallen. They had locked eyes with him as they Fell, as they dropped from Heaven and landed somewhere else and—

That had been the last time he had seen them.

But this, this is the first and he remembers how much brighter the light had seemed around them, bringing a glow to their eyes. He cannot remember the shape of their eyes, cannot remember them in any capacity besides them having been there beside him, but he remembers the effect they had on him. The feeling of floating in his chest, the happiness that had rooted like the first flowers.

“There is so much this world would do,” they chuckled as they spoke, their voice rasping at the edges – new bodies, after all. New experiences, new things to get used to, to know. “There is so much Hope in the foundations of this world!” they laughed, a bell-like sound that made his face go warm. They turned to him, taking both of his hands in theirs. “This world is going to be beautiful.” He remembered how their smile had made him feel, how sweet it had seemed, but he could not remember the shape of it.

“And we will watch over the people who are to come,” he answered at last. “And you will sow their hope and keep it alive.”

Their smile had only grown as they nodded.

As the sun rose above them, the sky coloring in new configurations, they had laughed again, looking up. Their hair had been picked up by the breeze, flowing around them and making a picture that had him enamored instantly. “The first sunrise! Gabriel, look at it!”

He had felt the first love of this new world and he had been struck so quickly that there had been no chance of him ever escaping it.

He felt their hands drop away from his and he jolted, throwing himself after them. Their name was on his tongue, unremembered and turned to ash—

Gabriel almost fell off of the surface he was on.

He was sat up, now, a blanket falling around his waist, his hand outstretched and tears burning his eyes as they ran down his cheeks. He shuddered and curled in on himself, sobbing as he dragged his hand back and clutched it to his chest. He felt so empty, so cold and alone, especially after remembering a love he’d had, once upon a time.

Between that loss and the loss of Heaven, Gabriel was ready to lay down and die.

“Gabriel?” Aziraphale’s voice was something of an anchor, the angel moving slowly closer with a mug of something hot in his hands. “I have some tea, if you’d like.”

Gabriel sat himself upright again, his too-empty hand dropping into his lap.

“Please,” he managed after a minute of silence.

He cupped his hands together when Aziraphale approached and settled the mug between them. It was the perfect temperature to hold, probably a small miracle on Aziraphale’s part. He took a deep breath, inhaling the chamomile-scented steam, then nodded. While a part of him wanted to have the scent of lavender in his nose, another part of him was screaming hysterically at the thought of that.

“What were you dreaming of?”

The question was soft, wasn’t intended to provoke any sort of gut-wrench, but it did.

Gabriel shook, his shoulders curling in and tears prickling at his eyes again. His hands tightened on the mug, the porcelain creaking under his grasp. “I don’t remember,” he whispered, gritting his teeth. “How long was I asleep?”

“Several hours,” Aziraphale dragged a chair over, settling into it primly. “We thought it best to let you sleep.”

“…We?”

“Crowley and I,” Aziraphale looked behind him. “He did not want to be here when you woke up, considering he is still distraught over your attempt to end my existence.”

Gabriel stared into his tea, his eyes going out of focus. “That makes sense,” he brought the mug to his lips, just holding it there. The press of warmth against his mouth was familiar, a jagged edge in his memory to go with all the others. “They took something from me,” he whispered. “Someone.” He looked up to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “Do you remember what I was like, before all of this existed?”

He gestured around them, encompassing the bookshop they were in, in a vague manner. In a more specific manner, he meant the entire world outside, the people and the cars and the buildings.

“Not…Specifically.” Aziraphale frowned, the space between his eyes wrinkling as he thought back. “I remember you were not always so…Focused.” He folded his hands in his lap. “But anything more than that is muddled. Something missing – I do not remember you ever being less than tight-laced. A General in a war to come.”

“That’s the problem with tight-lacing,” Crowley’s voice cut across the room, his head and shoulders angled around the door frame. “Sometimes the laces break.”

“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale turned to look at him, frowning.

“I’m torn,” Crowley stepped fully into the room. “If I stay here, I want to punch you. If I leave, I worry about leaving Aziraphale alone with you.” He peered over the edge of his sunglasses, his yellow eyes narrowed at Gabriel. “He might be willing to put it aside and forget, for the moment, that you tried to kill him, but I can’t.” he crossed his arms for a moment, looking rather awkward, before he uncrossed them and stuffed his hands into his pockets. From the way he stood, having a spine was optional and he had chosen not to have a physical one.

A metaphorical one, however, he had.

Gabriel looked up at him, blinking a couple of times. “I suppose I belong to Hell, now.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Angel,” Crowley sighed. “That’s the other reason I’m here.” He shifted and moved across the room, stopping next to Aziraphale. “Beelzebub contacted me. They want me to bring the newest Fallen angel directly to them – think they want to brag, just a bit. Or maybe punish him directly. Punishing us turned out to do nothing, after all. Hell wants to see someone suffer for the mistake and the war that didn’t happen.”

“I’ll go,” Gabriel looked for a place to set the mug down, letting out a breath slowly. This was it. He belonged to Hell, now, and he was due a meeting with the Prince of Hell. Lord Beelzebub.

In a fit of frustration, they had managed to get along, but now he would be under their rule.

“Probably best not to keep them waiting,” he pushed back the blanket, staring down at his clothes for a second. He had forgotten, somehow, the unwilling change in the colors. His shoes were next to the sofa, miracled off while he was unconscious in all likelihood. The darkness of them suited his new status, divorced him further from what he had Fallen from, but that did not mean he had to like them. He had chosen his softer colors—

(Like the scent of the first lavender—)

For a reason.

His brow wrinkled as he stood, that thought flowing away just as quickly as it had arrived. “Right,” Crowley gestured for him to go first, letting the demon pause to press a quick kiss against Aziraphale’s cheek. “Really best not to keep them waiting, you’re right.” He strolled out of the room.

Through the same process he had known for years, they were at the entryway of both sides – Up and Down.

He drifted towards Up for a moment before he stopped, a stifled sob trying to force itself out of his mouth. His entire body trembled as he stood before the entrance, staring up at the path he’d traveled since before there had been a single living creature on the ball of dirt that Crowley and Aziraphale had banded together to defend.

And now, he could never go home again.

Chapter Text

Gabriel was, for the first time Crowley could remember, quiet.

The Archangel, as he had been once, had always been something of a chatterbox. It seemed to be something of a trait for those in the higher positions. Either they talked your ear off or they said nothing as they stared you down like you were something disgusting on the bottom of their shoe.

He was grateful that Aziraphale hadn’t been either of those things.

But Gabriel…

Gabriel was silent.

Sure, there was the occasional whimper, a noise the newly Fallen quickly stifled with a clamping together of his lips. The gritting of his teeth. Stuffing a knuckle in his mouth and looking down at the ground they walked upon together. That was the usual routine for the Fallen, Crowley knew.

He had once walked this path and done the same.

Had he garnered enough respect from Hell, he would have been known as the Originator of Sin, the cause of humanity’s own Fall. The reason they had been cast from Paradise.

But all he had ever done, all he had ever encouraged, was the asking of questions.

‘Why must we follow orders?’ had been the biggest one. That had been followed by, ‘If you’ve put this in front of me, why should I not touch it?’

He had given those same questions to Adam and Eve.

“Why did you fall?” Crowley finally asked a question, looking over at Gabriel as he followed along, looking pained. Afraid. Terrified, if Crowley was being honest. “You seemed to be on a path of Good, of being Heaven’s favorite. You tried to execute Aziraphale.” He remembered wearing his Angel’s body, stepping into the fire and hoping that their desperate gamble would work in their favor, would pan out and keep them both alive. The fire had come so naturally to him, after so long as a part of Hell. “You, their favorite son.”

“Michael blamed me,” Gabriel said after a small eternity. “For the war. For inciting it. For the violence and the failure and the war itself – I was turned into a mascot for his shame, given the weight of it around my neck like a stone to drag me to the bottom of the ocean.”

“…He turned you into a scapegoat.”

“Yes.”

Hell was around them, now, finally having journeyed deep enough. It was, as always, cold. Dark, cramped, crowded – full of the sounds of the denizens, of their suffering and their screaming. His flat was not very lived in, he did not need to live in it, but it was full of life and light and open spaces. He had skylights and picture windows and a breeze that flowed through beautifully if he opened the right windows.

Aziraphale had once likened his flat to a gentler version of Heaven.

His shop was a little more like Hell, if Crowley were to be honest about that as well. There was something everywhere you looked, books on every surface, a dazzling array of colors and shapes and sounds. It was a softer, more pleasant version. It was, Crowley supposed, what happened when you were given the opposite and forced to endure it.

He had arranged his flat to mimic Heaven after an age spent in Hell and Aziraphale had closed off his spaces to escape the surrounding emptiness of that very same place.

The moment the two of them stepped into view, Crowley lifted his head up high and strolled through the crowd. The yelling was surrounding them, now, setting his every nerve on edge, and he turned his head to Gabriel, feeling a small wave of pity for the Fallen. “C’mon,” he urged quietly. Gabriel followed at his heels, keeping his head down and trying to ignore the way his wings, visible now, were hanging limply at his back. They were burned, bedraggled and ruined.

Crowley’s wings had always been black.

Gabriel’s wings had been attacked. The golden-brown color Crowley remembered them being, like a sparrow, was no more. “Tuck your wings in,” Crowley put a guiding hand on his shoulder. “You can’t hide them right now, that’s fine – they probably hurt – but tuck them in closer to yourself. This lot’ll grab fistfuls and pull if you don’t.” he kept them moving as he spoke, pushing Gabriel along. The Fallen did as he said, his shoulders drooping in a further attempt to make himself smaller.

Crowley dragged him through the crowd and to Beelzebub’s throne.

X

Hell was darker, colder and far more cramped, than he could have ever imagined.

Before his Fall, he had never set foot in Hell. He had never had a reason, had never wanted to and had never needed to. Michael had gone down before, had traveled into Hell to deliver the Holy Water that should have killed Crowley.

The demon walked at his side, a hand still on his shoulder as they approached a far less crowded room.

Gabriel recognized faces, here.

Dagon stood to one side of the throne, head held high, bright blue eyes narrowed. The smile on his face was malicious, cruelty waiting to spring forward. “And who have you brought to us, Crowley?” his laughter rang out across the room.

Sitting on their throne, Beelzebub turned to Dagon with narrowed eyes. The boils on their face shifted with the twist of their mouth. “The Archangel Gabriel,” they sat up a little, their eyes rolling from Gabriel to Crowley with an air of boredom. “This – this – is who has Fallen?” they sat up entirely, leaning forward in their seat and staring intently at Crowley.

“Yes,” Crowley tucked his hands into his pockets again. “He was found in the park.”

“Found by who?”

Crowley’s small smirk was almost enough to make Gabriel believe that the demon wasn’t actually afraid of Beelzebub. This was a demon who could take a bath in Holy Water and come out of the experience whole and undamaged. The fear of Beelzebub would have made Gabriel laugh in the face of that knowledge, almost any other day. This day, however, he was facing the Lord of Flies, Prince of Hell, and he had recently Fallen. “I think you already know the answer to that,” Crowley kept his head held up high.

On Dagon, it looked like posturing.

On Crowley, it looked natural.

Beelzebub’s nose wrinkled, their eyes flashing dangerously. “Fine.” They turned back to Gabriel. “It has been some time since an Archangel fell,” they tilted their head, standing up from their throne and approaching slowly. “I don’t remember the last one that did, but I remember Hell laughing.” They stopped in front of him, their eyes pinned to his face. “I don’t believe you would remember either. None of the Fallen ever do, after a certain point.”

He was going to forget.

That was what every Fallen did. They forgot. It was a tactic that was equal parts keeping Heaven and its methods safe and punishing those who had Fallen.

He didn’t think, personally, that anything would be more punishing than the memories that had surged forward, half-static and unremembered. The dream he had woken from in Aziraphale’s shop, reaching for someone who was no longer there, their name unremembered on the tip of his tongue. The only thing he remembered, concrete and sure, was the scent of burning feathers, their wings ripped from their body as they Fell.

He had come barging into their trial, held in secret, just in time to witness that.

“There are some memories that seem to have come back,” Gabriel cleared his throat, watching as Beelzebub took a step back. It seemed to be shock that drove them away – how many of the newly Fallen had the strength to speak to them, to direct comments to the Prince of Hell? How many of them found the ability to loosen their own tongues and speak up in the face of their new life? “And I was hoping to try to find someone, in all of this.”

“Find someone?” Beelzebub raised an eyebrow, meeting his eyes. Their eyes were dark, not a single ounce of softness in them. They hadn’t become the Prince of Hell through kindness. “Do you know who?”

“I don’t even remember their name,” Gabriel swallowed, his hands trembling. “I hope I’ll remember.” He glanced at Crowley, weighing his options for a moment. “I remember the scent of burning feathers. Of…Of lavender.” He looked at his feet, clasping his hands together. “The first sunrise.” He looked up again. “I don’t think these things will help me find someone who has been a demon for so long. They wouldn’t remember after all this time.”

“You remember them specifically in the context of the first sunrise?” Crowley turned to him, glancing at Beelzebub. “That was…A long time ago.”

“Yes,” Beelzebub’s hands were folded behind their back. “And Hell is not known for remembering the good things. The little things would be forgotten first. Scents and sunrises and kindness would be the first things to go, practically.” They turned to look at Dagon. “Get him a room. I want to question him before his memories fade completely. They’ll fade faster if he’s left among the others.” They turned on their heel, marching back towards their throne.

Dagon stepped off the dais, his upper lip curling back as he moved across the room to Gabriel. “Come along,” they made a point of not touching him, leaving space between them. It was a polar opposite to the way Crowley had moved him along – for all that Crowley did not like him, Gabriel could see the kindness that still streaked through him.

Perhaps it was what Aziraphale had seen.

The reason that two of them had betrayed their sides for each other – the reason they had defected and formed their own side.

He turned his focus inward as he walked, closing his mind off and thinking back to the dream. All he could remember was the soft slide of cloth, the whisper of their hair as it slid across their half-bared shoulder. They had adored the sunrise, he remembered that. There were impressions, the firm press of warm skin against his as their hand curled around his wrist, but nothing concrete. He remembered the extraneous details, the things that normally were forgotten quickly.

The sound of rain against a body of water.

A Fallen angel, dropping into Hell.

Dagon left him in a room and he sat down on the floor, his eyes closing as he dropped his head into his hands.

Lavender, his mind insisted. Lavender.

Chapter Text

If a demon told you that they remembered their descent into Hell, they were lying.

Only the newly Fallen remembered clearly enough to give those details.

There was one thing left over from the loss of their memories, Beelzebub knew. They were left with a core-deep certainty about why they had Fallen. Every demon, once an angel, remembered why they had Fallen. Crowley had asked questions, too many questions, to the wrong people. Hastur had disobeyed and snapped his leash, refusing to bow to the Archangels and their demands. Ligur had attacked a couple of angels when their backs had been turned, proving that he was dangerous and unsafe to keep around.

Dagon had sent their filing into chaos.

Often times, their reason for Falling had echoed into their new roles in Hell. Whoever they had been in Heaven was a mirror image of who they were in Hell.

Crowley, filled with curiosity, asking questions and figuring things out, had implemented several new tortures and devices to allow humanity to tarnish their own souls. To encourage it. He had done so well with the apple at the beginning, in the Garden, by getting them to question their own limits. The limits set upon them by those in charge.

Hastur, in Hell, had proven to be good at doing things in his own way, a guard dog kept on a breakaway leash that was encouraged to snap and snarl in the faces of those who misjudged.

Ligur was no longer a concern.

Dagon was the Lord of the Files and Beelzebub’s second in command.

Sitting in their throne, alone in the room for once, Beelzebub stared blankly at the wall.

Their wings had been taken from them so long ago.

That was the wrong place to start that thought. The proper place was something along the lines of how much they had forgotten, how little they remembered even compared to the other denizens of Hell. All they remembered, the reason for their Falling, was a single word: Corruption.

They had corrupted someone.

Someone important.

Heaven was not known for involving itself in petty matters – small things would often get ignored. Hell was guilty of the same, in all honesty. If it did not matter to the big picture, it was ignored. If Beelzebub, whoever they had been before, had corrupted someone unimportant…

They would still have Fallen, but it would have taken longer.

They would have been retained by Heaven until the consequences were too large to ignore.

But having their wings stripped from them was a consequence of what they had done. Something that was done, they thought, only to the worst offenders. There were few others who had their wings stripped from them, a handful of demons that resided in the lowest depths of Hell. Lucifer himself had suffered through them being torn off.

They didn’t think that Lucifer was the one that Gabriel remembered.

Slowly, they stood up from their throne, their feet on the ground feeling unsteady. Gabriel needed to be questioned before he forgot too much – Heaven’s influence on his powers would be fading quickly, soon enough, Beelzebub wanted the information the Fallen kept in his head. Heaven would be forgotten almost altogether, soon.

They left their throne room, reaching out their power and following the string of the new arrival’s power, plucking at it like a chord.

He was curled up in a corner, when they arrived.

“You owe Heaven nothing,” Beelzebub spoke up. “They have abandoned you, made you Fall. You are in Hell, now, because they cared nothing for you after a point.”

Gabriel looked up at them, his eyes dazed. Lost.

His hands clutched at the sides of his head. “You’re here to ask about Heaven’s defenses,” he muttered the words, distracted even as he spoke. “Right. I…” he frowned, glancing down at his lap, his gaze sliding to the floor. “They got into my head. They took memories away because they didn’t like them—” he gasped, his fingers turning into claws as he dug his nails into the sides of his head. “They took them—”

Crossing the room, Beelzebub stood over him and watched, keeping their face placid.

It had to hurt, what he was going through, but there was no room for pity in Hell.

Demons were not often struck with such a thing, but they had all been angels, once. The echo of their old selves was at the heart of them, easily ignored by some and remembered bitterly by others. Others were driven mad by the reminder and those were the ones who did not last long as Fallen. Usually, they did not make it, did not manage to become fully-fledged demons. Their core was too Angelic, even having Fallen, to become so.

They died off quickly enough.

Beelzebub themself had only had to watch a small handful pass. They were not common, but, they supposed, Gabriel had been full of Heaven’s wrath, the General of an entire army, loyal to the point of heralding the end of the world just because he had been asked to.

“And they will never give them back willingly,” Beelzebub told him.

Gabriel looked up at them, his eyes wide. There were tears streaming down his face, his body trembling. “I need to remember who they took from me.”

Oh, they were going to regret this.

X

Beelzebub’s face was close to his, now.

Their hands hesitated, for long enough that he had a passing thought of them strangling him, before sliding over his. “I’ve spent long enough dealing with what the angels send to me,” they murmured, crouching down in front of him. “I should be able to do this.”

Gabriel nodded.

Their hands were cool against his own, smaller and softer than he would have imagined. Their eyes half-closed as they hummed a note, settling on the floor with him. “I will also be looking at what is left of your memories of Heaven,” they told him. “That is the payment being taken for this. Nothing is ever done for free and you would be a fool to think otherwise.”

“Understandable,” Gabriel swallowed his nerves, letting his eyes drift closed.

“You need to remember,” Beelzebub’s voice was soft, for once, the buzzing of it almost comforting when they weren’t furious about Armageddon being canceled. The demons had probably been looking forward to stepping out from under the thumb of Heaven, to fighting back against those who had stripped them of their status, of their memories – being denied that, Gabriel thought, was enough to upset anyone.

His consciousness slipped away as he fell back into his memories.

The first sunset was just as beautiful as the first sunrise.

They were walking, together, along the shore of the first ocean. The water was cold against their feet, splashing up every now and then. Gabriel watched as they walked ahead of him, staring up at the sky with wonder in their eyes, the sweetest smile on their face. They had gotten to know each other, over the first day, and it had been lovely.

When they turned, he could see their face.

Wide, luminous eyes met his and that smile grew. Their hair, a soft sweep of dark over their shoulder, swayed in the wind that came off the ocean. “This world is going to be amazing,” they whispered as he caught up to them.

“And we will watch over it,” he smiled back at them.

They took his hands in their own, pulling him with them as they started walking again. “Of course we will,” they whispered. “They will be as children. We must guide them.”

There were no words, then, to describe the beauty of their face as they watched the colors spread across the sky once more.

“Gabriel!”

He had only a second to brace himself before they had thrown themself over his back, arms curling around his shoulders as their cheek pressed against his. “There you are.” They whispered, chuckling. The Garden was being planned, things were being put into motion. He turned and pulled them off of his back, settling them in his lap and laughing as they did.

“-------, I am glad you found me.” He nudged their foreheads together.

“Of course I would,” they pressed a kiss to his cheek, legs wrapping around his waist. They were so pleased with something that it practically shone through them, their wings twitching behind their back. “I found something I wanted to show you.”

Their hands twined through his and then they were both somewhere else, miracled there in a second.

‘Somewhere else’ was inside of a formation of rocks, stones studded in the top of the cave, like the stars at night. Gabriel had finished creating them with the help of Raphael, not too long ago, but these seemed to mimic those same formations. The imitation stars above them shone in the soft light that they had conjured to their hand. “Isn’t it beautiful?” they laughed.

He stared at them, taking in the happy flush on their face, the way their hair fell around their shoulders, the glimmering happiness in their eyes.

“It is, yes,” he found himself answering.

He could feel love, could feel it rising in his chest, spilling out of him. If they thought to feel for it, just for a moment, they would know of it.

But of course, they would.

They paused, hand curling closed as they turned to look at him. “Gabriel?” they paused, their nose wrinkling. “I…” they looked nervous, now, their other hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “Oh, Gabriel,” they cooed, pulling him closer. Their noses brushed together before they leaned up and sealed their mouths together, light still spilling from their other palm.

Above them, the stones still glimmered, the soft burbling of a nearby river filling their air as they pressed close to each other.

Their wings were practically entwined as they lay together, bare skin to bare skin.

They smiled at him, the soft movements of their silvery-grey wings almost distracting him from the beauty of their smile. The scent of lavender filled the air, emanating from their wings, their hair, their skin. “Gabriel,” they leaned in again, pressing their mouth against his for a moment, soft pecks of affection that seemed to feed his very soul.

“-------,” he answered with their name, though he could not hear the memory.

“I think I will like this new world very much,” they told him seriously, eyes full of something like mischief as they continued to smile at him. “If I can be with you at all times.”

He ran a hand up their back, feeling the shape of their body, the warmth of them under his palm. The grass around them was soft, their robes hanging carefully over a tree not too far away. There was no sin in what they had done – it was done in love, in care of each other, an extension of their affection. “If I could be with you at all times,” he admitted quietly. “It might still not be enough.”

They scratched gently at his scalp, brushing out his hair. It fell longer, in those days, though not the same length as some had worn.

“I think I may agree,” they whispered.

He rolled over onto his back, pulling them to rest on top of him as he continued to explore their body slowly.

“I sentence the Archangel ------- to Fall.”

Gabriel ran as he heard those words echoing, fear making his soul twist and scream as he sped his way towards the trial that very few had been told of. He made it to the room of Judgement just as Michael stood up, sword in hand, and approached ------- where they sat on the floor. They were bound, chains flickering with an odd light, as they looked up at Michael.

There was fear in their eyes.

“For the Corruption of another Archangel. For the temptation of another Archangel.” Michael raised his sword, face looking blank. Bored.

He was sentencing Gabriel’s lover and he looked bored.

Their name was suddenly clear in his memories—

He remembered, now—

Their name—

“RAMIEL!” he shoved his way through the small crowd, those few Michael had called to witness the sentencing of Ramiel and he was tossed to his knees.

Ramiel’s face was stained with tears as they looked at him, their bound hands reaching for him. Their wings were shuddering on their back and he realized he was wrong. It was not fear, nothing so mundane as that simple word implied. It was terror, pure and paralyzing, as they stared at him. ‘Go!’ they mouthed the word, fresh tears welling up in their eyes as they watched him.

“Bind him,” Michael’s fury was plain to see in his eyes, his hand clutched tightly around the hilt of his sword.

In an instant, the same chains that encircled Ramiel’s hands and wrists were around Gabriel’s, his own wings being held, pinioned, by those around him.

“Can you not see what you have done?” Michael pointed the tip of his sword at Gabriel, turning back to look at Ramiel. “You have so corrupted him, so tainted him, that he comes to your defense!” he stepped forward, his sword raised again.

Gabriel forced himself to watch as Ramiel’s wings were hacked off.

The silvery-grey feathers he so loved drifted to the ground, leaving behind bloody wounds in their back as Michael continued to mutilate them. Gabriel would not have a word for what had been done to his lover for several more centuries, but his modern consciousness had a word. Michael had mutilated Ramiel, hacked their wings from their back as they sobbed silently, unable to defend themself.

One of their feathers landed near Gabriel and he twitched forward, ignoring the pain in his own wings as those holding him kept him still. Before they could see it and stop him, he managed to slip the errant feather into his hands, tucking it up his sleeve.

“I sentence you, Archangel Ramiel, to Fall. Hell will have no mercy on your soul.”

He had watched as Ramiel had fallen.

He was screaming when he woke up.

Chapter Text

When Gabriel woke up, he was flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling of the room.

Beelzebub stood, not too far away, leaning against the wall. “Still alive, then?” they raised an eyebrow, their arms crossed over their chest. There was something about them, about the way they were holding themself, that told Gabriel they were being far more casual than they actually felt. He had unsettled the Prince of Hell – that was a new experience. He would, at a guess, say it was a new one for them as well. “You’ve proven useful enough to keep around.” They pushed off of the wall, standing over him.

A phantom heat surrounded his wrist, urging him to sit up. He did, slowly, pushing himself up and off the ground. “Good,” he met their eyes. “Rip Heaven apart. Michael is doing something he shouldn’t be doing.”

A soft brush against his hand distracted him, the memory of a feather—

Hidden away.

He dropped a hand to his waist, pushing the hem of his sweater up and out of the way. The colors did not matter so much, now. What mattered was the secret he had kept, the feather he had hidden. There—

A slight bump in the waistband of his trousers, a few errant stitches. Stitches that he had put there. Sewn into place, where he had put a hole in the fabric and then sewn it up afterward. Closing his eyes, he pressed the tips of his fingers into the stitching and took a deep breath. He was well aware of Beelzebub’s gaze and, perhaps, it wasn’t the smartest thing to be doing this in front of the demon, but he couldn’t make himself wait. He pushed himself, calling upon the slowly fading traces of Ethereal inside of himself.

One last, small miracle.

The stitching came undone and he slipped a finger inside the waistband, between the layers of fabric. There it was.

A feather.

The feather.

The only thing he had left of Ramiel.

“There are questions I want to ask Heaven,” he muttered, opening his eyes slowly. “I want to know what they did to them – where they sent…” he shook his head, lifting his chin. “I don’t know what sort of position I will have in Hell – the lowest, lower than the lowest, but I need to have revenge against Heaven.” He took a deep, slow, measured breath. There was Hellfire in his veins, now, the fury of Hell branded into his skin. “Against Michael.”

“Join the troops,” Beelzebub’s smirk was somehow inviting, like a small secret between the two of them. “The war that should have happened, the one that Crowley and Aziraphale put an end to—”

“They were right to do that, though,” Gabriel frowned, still stroking the hardened end of the feather in slow movements. “They were right. Humanity does not need to pay the price for the revenge against Heaven. No, don’t look at me like that,” he scoffed at them, shaking his head. His memories had shown him an enduring love that had grown from the very beginning, the love Ramiel had held for the world that had been grown around them, the future of the people that would soon populate it. He could do no harm to the ideals they had held – no further harm, at least. He had already done enough. “Humanity does not need to pay with its blood for what Heaven has done, for what Michael has done.”

Ramiel would have been ashamed of him.

He had done wrong against them, against the love they had held inside of them. They had once been so excited about humanity, so full of love for the possibilities.

They would have, if they had been around to witness it, been ashamed of what he had done. What he had said. There were people whose lives had been lost because he had followed the orders of Heaven. If he’d remembered Ramiel earlier, he would have Fallen much sooner – he would rather have Fallen than betray their ideals.

“What is it you’ve uncovered?” Beelzebub questioned after a minute of staring at him, searching his face for something. “What do you keep fiddling with?”

“A part of myself,” Gabriel looked down at them. Without really knowing why, he stuck a second finger into the hole in his waistband and pulled the feather out between the tips of his fingers. It came out easily, like it felt relief at finally being remembered. “Someone I loved,” he amended.

He paused, staring down at the feather. “Someone I love,” he amended again.

Because that was the truth of it.

Centuries had passed, eras and eons and ages, and he still loved so deeply that it had altered his core. His very soul. Down to the depths of him, the love he had always felt for Ramiel shone out like a light.

Like the first sunrise.

Michael had taken that love from him, stripped it out of him and turned him cold and hard, the perfect soldier. One who didn’t ask questions, one who just followed orders. He had become Heaven’s General, the one who would lead the others into battle. He held the last feather from Ramiel’s wings, like the cloth that had once pressed against the face of the man who had been killed out of fear. Ramiel had not been crucified, but they had been destroyed all the same. Gabriel doubted, for all the love they had carried within them, all the inherent goodness and kindness, that they had survived for long as a demon.

If at all.

“Hell wouldn’t have been kind to them,” he stared down at the silvery-grey feather, smoothing it out and staring at the light catching the shimmering tones in it. “Someone like that—” he looked up at Beelzebub. “Hell would have destroyed them, wouldn’t it?”

“If they hadn’t been able or willing to adapt,” Beelzebub sighed, rolling one shoulder up in an uncaring shrug. “Then, yes.” They nodded. “They would have been destroyed. Hell is not kind. Hell is not a reprieve, not a relief.” They met his eyes, their own narrowing. There was something about their face, something familiar for a moment.

It passed before he could pin it down.

“Hell has nothing on Heaven,” he hissed the words out, practically spat them. “Because I don’t think Michael is working on orders from God.”

Both of Beelzebub’s eyebrows shot up, the corners of their mouth turning down. “And why do you think that?”

Why did he think that?

“Well,” Gabriel clasped his fingers around the end of Ramiel’s feather, breathing out slowly. A smaller miracle than before, a bead and a lace. He clasped it around his neck, watching the feather drape over his heart. “If our Creator, our Father, had still been in charge, Ramiel would not have Fallen. She would have presided over their trial and realized what bullshit Michael’s charges were.” He sneered, glancing upward. “Michael accused them of tempting me, of corrupting me. Nothing so good, so beautiful, as the love we shared could have been labeled temptation. Corruption.” He snarled, a touch of Hellfire lighting up around his feet. “As if they would have—”

He jerked his head away, feeling the tears welling up in his eyes. “There was nothing corrupting about them in my existence. If anything, I corrupted them.”

Turning away from Beelzebub, he never noticed them going absolutely still.

X

Corruption?

They knew corruption. The slow and steady tainting of a soul, dragging it from the path of Good and Just and sending it spiraling into Hell.

The reason they had Fallen in the first place, after all.

Beelzebub couldn’t focus on what Gabriel was saying, after he said that. The person he had loved – Ramiel – had been accused of corrupting him. The feather had dragged at their memories, something familiar about it as well. Like they had seen it before, like it had been important at one point. It was an impossibility, of course. Gabriel had loved, still loved, the angel whose feather it had been. From how he was speaking of them, they would have been in the group of Fallen who had not lasted long in Hell.

One of those who had faded away, too Angelic at their core to survive without the protective grasp of Heaven.

They knew corruption.

They were an old hand at corruption. They could tempt anyone.

“If I could arrange your revenge against Michael, would you take it?” Beelzebub found their voice again, unable to look directly at Gabriel. He wore a feather from a Fallen angel’s wing, Hell’s influence slowly beginning to chase away the last vestiges of Heaven’s touch. He had, at best, two weeks before everyone, including him, forgot who he had been. A new name would be found, a new title, a role to be filled in Hell.

Those who had been highly regarded in Heaven, powerful and revered, were always the same in Hell.

Gabriel would, in all likelihood, become one of Beelzebub’s advisors, perhaps even their General. The same role he had filled in Heaven, echoed down below. He had been good in his position, ready for battle and willing to ride against the armies of Hell.

Between his newly-remembered love and the way he seemed to want for vengeance, Beelzebub was going to have to forget the way they had briefly gotten along.

The first time someone had spoken to them plainly, straightforward, since they had Fallen, as far back as they could remember.

In the middle of the Armageddon that Hadn’t, Gabriel and they had managed to get along. To work, however briefly, together. Towards a common goal. They had been hoping, quietly and in a part of their mind they would never admit to anyone else, for Gabriel to come speak with them. To have to come check in with them about the strange alliance that Crowley and the Principality had struck up. Heaven and Hell surely had to check in with each other in the event of something so strange.

They would have struck up a strange alliance of their own.

Beelzebub would have found out what Gabriel’s mouth felt like against theirs.

But with the way Gabriel was holding onto Ramiel’s feather, the way he was going on about them, Beelzebub was going to have to dash that small hope against the rocks.

It hadn’t had time to grow anyway.

So they told themself.

“I would,” Gabriel finally turned back to them, his eyes full of fire. His fists were clenched at his sides, his clothing darker than they remembered – he had been wearing the soft colors Heaven preferred. The feather dangling against his chest was an added touch, the mark of a Fallen who had loved and been loved. “I would take it in a heartbeat. But I am not going in there alone – I am not taking Heaven on alone.”

“Nor should you,” they managed to get the words to come out evenly, pushing back the hot prickling against the backs of their eyes. “To do so would be stupidity. Insanity. Death.” Beelzebub hummed, then smirked. If they had to pretend that it didn’t hurt, they would. Falling had hurt worse, they remembered that.

“Oh, I’m still going to storm Heaven,” Gabriel shook his head, righteous fury incarnate. For a moment, Beelzebub could see a halo around his head, shining golden light surrounding him. Even Fallen, he still carried the cloak of Heaven, though it would not be there for much longer. “I will just need others to come with me as I do. Earth, humanity, does not need to pay with its blood in a battle between the two factions.” He raised a hand, wiggling his fingers. “I know what I’m going to use the last of my Ethereal status for.”

“Oh?” Beelzebub watched him, pursing their lips. They weighed their options. “I can allow you to go with a group of others.”

Gabriel looked at them, then nodded slowly. “I’m going to put my fist in Michael’s face until I hear a crunching noise,” Gabriel’s next breath flared his nostrils, anger pulling at the corners of his mouth.

It was, unfairly, somewhat attractive to Beelzebub.

The fury of an Archangel, dressed in the clothing of a Fallen – someone they could touch – and presented to them. If they had their way, Gabriel would have been on their arm. Theirs. He would have been their face of war, their weapon. He would have been theirs.

But he wasn’t.

And he would never be.

“You make your plans,” they told him, moving towards the door of the room. “I will make mine. This room is yours for now – make use of it as you will. Tell me when you plan to go against Heaven.” Beelzebub stopped at the door, meeting Gabriel’s eyes. “You have, I would guess, less than two weeks before the last of your divinity is pulled from your core.”

They left before he could answer, making a direct course for their own rooms.

When they arrived there, Beelzebub dropped down onto their floor, their hands clutching over their heart. Their head thrown back, their tears finally welled up and fell.

The last bit of their hope was dying, after all.

Someone needed to mourn it.

Chapter Text

He needed to speak with Heaven.

Given what he had recently learned from Crowley, that was a much more difficult task than one might assume. If Michael was running the show, so to speak, then there was very little he could do to speak to those who might actually give him answers. Not unless he could circumvent the need to speak with Michael and Metatron entirely—

Hm.

Aziraphale stood up from his desk, pinching his lips together. There might be a way, in fact, that he could do just that. The oldest angels might be under Michael’s thumb, going along with Gabriel’s trial and his Fall, but some of them were friendly enough. Until he knew for certain what Michael was up to, what angels would be working with him, he had to tread carefully.

The other Archangels, surely, would be safe enough to contact?

Just to ask a simple question?

He worried at his bottom lip with his teeth, glancing down at the circle still etched into the floor of his shop. Michael wouldn’t dare, for the moment, sentence him to Fall. Not after the ordeal with the Holy Water and the Hellfire. The forces of Heaven and Hell were, to put it mildly, terrified of them both right now.

Crowley took delight in that fact.

Aziraphale moved around his shop, gathering candles and the small metal plates Crowley had brought him. He had insisted that Aziraphale, if he were to burn candles in the shop again, was to put the candles on the plates. It would keep them from being quite as dangerous. He had been about to laugh and brush the comment off when he’d seen the terror in Crowley’s eyes, the tense way he held his shoulders.

The Apocalypse-that-stopped had left traces of fear in Crowley and Aziraphale had smiled and agreed to his concerns.

The candles went on the plates.

He settled them around the circles and hesitated again. Who would be the best to contact?

Who might have escaped Michael’s plotting?

Metatron would be obligated to report back to the person in charge in Heaven and Michael was that person, right then. If he contacted Metatron, even with such worries as he had, then Michael would know soon after. Even if Michael was afraid of him at the moment, he was not certain that his fear would keep Aziraphale alive and well in the event of him finding out about the plot.

He thought of his flaming sword, thought of the others who wielded similar weapons—none of theirs flamed, but they were still the army of Heaven. They were still the warriors.

The Seraphim.

“Jegudiel,” he called to the circle. The power within it flared, tendrils of white moving like fabric underwater. “If you are available, please—I need to speak with you.”

There was no answer.

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale glanced to the door, frowning. Just in case…

He waved his hand, performing a small miracle to make certain it was locked. If Shadwell chose this moment to visit again, it would be perfectly dreadful timing. He and Madame Tracy had moved in together, somewhere else in England, and he couldn’t remember where right now, but it never hurt to be cautious.

He turned back to the circle, nearly shouting in surprise when he saw someone standing on the other side of it.

“Sorry,” they moved closer, marched towards him. “I was already down here when you called for me,” they came into the light from the window and Aziraphale could see them better.

They had a masculine face, with dark grey eyes and silver hair. “Jegudiel, I would assume,” Aziraphale sighed in relief when they nodded. “Am I to assume you’ve chosen a gender when you’re here?” he gestured at their body, noting the military-styled clothing.

“Male is easier to move around as,” Jegudiel answered, eyes studying Aziraphale’s face. “You wanted to speak with me.”

He stood there, spine so straight a ruler would have looked crooked, and he waited. The ‘Why did you call for me?’ was implied in the arch of his brow, his hands held in a military pose behind his back. The entirety of him was rather military, Aziraphale recognized. All stiff movements, sharp and ready to fight if necessary. He could hardly expect something different from an Archangel, one of the Seraphim. “There is something happening in Heaven,” he cleared his throat. “I wanted to ask you – well, any of the others would do as well, I suppose…”

“Aziraphale?”

“Oh, right, yes,” Aziraphale nodded. “Have you heard from our Father, lately? It’s only…I have not heard from Her since the Beginning. Not since…Well…” he shrugged.

Jegudiel frowned, his posture finally loosening as he thought over the question. “I have not heard from Her, personally, since the Garden.” He spoke up after a minute. “We receive orders through the Metatron, receive word on Her wants and such through him.”

“Oh, that’s very good then,” Aziraphale sighed. “I only wanted to know if you or any of the others had heard from Her directly.”

Something he couldn’t quite decipher flashed through Jegudiel’s eyes

He stayed silent, for another minute, before he tilted his head and met Aziraphale’s gaze. “This was a concern of yours?” he asked, his voice perfectly even. There was nothing to suggest that the question was anything more than simply asking. “I will ask the others as well—”

“Metatron will be obligated to report anything he is asked about to those higher up than him,” Aziraphale hummed, already turning to look at his books. Perhaps there was an answer there, something that might have trickled down into humanity’s awareness. It was a longshot but worth the look – he had a great many books, after all, and he had many different books of prophecy, though Agnes Nutter’s had been the only one with truth in the words.

There was research needing doing.

Turning, Aziraphale called out to Jegudiel before the other angel got too far away, both of them too used to how each class of angel moved to be offended at the brusque way their conversation had broken off. Principalities were distracted easily, especially when there were things that needed to be found out.

Seraphim were used to the flow of war, used to the harsh bite and snap of orders.

“Jegudiel,” Aziraphale had his reading glasses in hand as he spoke to the Archangel. “I…” he hesitated. “It’s only that…I wonder.” He hummed again, sticking the arm of his glasses between his teeth for a moment. In some unseen place, between the layers of reality, his wings twitched and fluttered, confusion and uncertainty warring inside of him. “Do you suppose this is all to Her plan?”

“If what you are saying is the truth,” Jegudiel seemed to measure the words before they came out. “Then I am uncertain that any of this is Her plan.”

He put a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “But I know you have an acquaintance,” a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth for a fraction of a second. Ever the soldier, however, it fled quickly. “An accomplice,” he teased. “And that the two of you have created your own sides. I trust that you will be safe with him, whatever the outcome of this happens to be.”

His other hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, now. “Be safe, Aziraphale,” Jegudiel ducked his head down so that their eyes met. “Be as safe as possible.”

Jegudiel drew away, glancing out the window. “I must confer with the others,” he spoke the words softly, taking a deep breath. “And I will do my best to keep you updated on what is happening.” He turned on his heel, the conversation well and truly over this time.

The bell above the door didn’t even ring as he left.

Turning back to his books, Aziraphale nodded. Placing his glasses on his nose, he got to work as quickly as he could.

X

Having a physical body was always something of a strange experience.

Jegudiel drew in a deep breath of the air around him, closing his eyes as he walked away from Aziraphale’s shop. The Principality was worried, concerned about something, he could tell just from the way he’d held himself when Jegudiel had arrived. The tense line of his shoulders, the way his spine was just a touch too straight for what Jegudiel knew of him.

He was worried about something.

And it was not the Armageddon that he had helped to avert.

Jegudiel had only heard of Aziraphale’s trial after it had been canceled, for some unknown reason. Those of Heaven, including the Seraphim and the other Principalities, had been unaware of the goings-on. A trial should have only taken place with the knowledge of the Seraphim – under their gaze was the only proper proceeding for such a thing. There was an order to Heaven, a way things were done.

Proper order kept chaos from taking root.

They had all been prepared for the war against Hell, with Earth as the battleground, and the stopping of it had been somewhat of a relief – but there was no proper notice for the stopping of it.

Jegudiel closed his eyes, taking several steps forward.

When he opened them again, he was in a small building with dark walls. There was a dim light above him. It was one of the few places he and the other Seraphim had agreed to meet when they were on Earth. Out of the way, stationed someplace where heat scorched the earth and humans could not survive. If they had been able to move through, they would have been stunned and concerned over the presence of a building, but they had never managed to make it to where it was.

“Annabiel,” he greeted her quietly, settling into the chair she nudged out for him.

“Jegudiel,” she nodded, scanning over the papers she held.

After the Armageddon-that-never-was, Annabiel had been tasked with studying the reports of every angel involved. Heaven consisted of almost never-ending paperwork for those in charge of anything. From the pile of papers by her elbow and the way she did not even lift her eyes from the ones she was looking through, Jegudiel knew she still had quite a ways to go. “I have spoken with Aziraphale,” Jegudiel spoke up again when she set the papers down and looked up at him.

“Is he well?” Annabiel studied Jegudiel’s face, her dark eyes wide. “Is what he is doing worth all of this?” she gestured at the papers.

“I think it may very well be,” Jegudiel put a hand on the papers she had set down, a report from the Quartermaster. He had complained of Aziraphale’s behavior, had said that Aziraphale had gone against orders to his face and ignored a telling-off. “He brought up an interesting point.”

“Oh?”

“It has to do with how our Father has not been heard from in some time.”

He had her complete attention, now.

Brushing her hair out of her face, Annabiel leaned forward in her seat, clasping her hands together on the table in front of her. “Jegudiel, our Father has been silent in our ears for centuries.” She scoffed, shaking her head. “She has better things to do than to speak with Her children.”

“She did not, once,” Jegudiel countered.

“She does now.”

“It may not be so,” he shook his head as well. “Annabiel – Aziraphale brings up a good point. We receive our orders through the Metatron. She has not spoken directly to us since the Garden. Not to us, Her battle-ready soldiers.” He took her hands in his, pleading. “We, Her Generals, Her army, have been ignored. Does that not strike you as an oddity?” he searched her eyes. “Annabiel, my sister-in-arms, we have been forgotten by our Father – She looks elsewhere, if She looks on anything at all.” He slapped a palm down on her paperwork, pushing it aside as he stood up. “Annabiel, She would not assign Her best to paperwork that could have been handled by many others – by any others!”

Aziraphale’s question had opened something in his mind.

If their Father truly was watching them still, why would She have done this?

Why was Her plan something so out-of-tune with what they knew of Her love?

Adam and Eve had been cast out and something had been wrong since the beginning, since the Garden. Aziraphale had seen something, seemed to know something, and Jegudiel wanted to know what it was. Wanted to know it as well.

Annabiel’s nails bit into his hand as she held it tightly in her grip.

Uncertainty rippled across her face, clenching her jaw. After a moment, however, determination chased it away and she nodded. “What do we need to do?”

“Summon the other Archangels,” Jegudiel looked towards the wall, where a circle similar to the one that Aziraphale’s shop hosted was. This one was, however, meant purely to summon the Seraphim and the Archangels. Their outpost was for sliding through the world, spectating and watching over it. Looking after it. “Get Balthazar back from wherever she is hiding right now, I suspect we may need her skills.”

The last time he had heard from their Father, he had been newly gifted a sword.

The stars had been placed only days before, though he could not remember the face of the angel who had done so. Gabriel, the newly Fallen – and that was another trial that had been held in half-secret, kept from the whole of Heaven – had helped with that as well.

It felt like some secrets were being kept.

Secrets kept from the Seraphim were dangerous things – they meant that those secrets were being held by the highest authorities. The Seraphim were allowed knowledge of most everything, kept in the loop as it were. Knowledge that passed them by was something only their Father should have been able to do. To be locked out of something as important as a trial, especially one that led to a Fallen…

Someone was hiding something.

If it was their Father, there was a tyrant at the head of existence.

If it was not their Father…

If the Tyrant was another, then the entirety of existence was in jeopardy.

If the Tyrant was Michael, they were all in danger.

Chapter Text

He was still able to hide away in the room Beelzebub had allowed him.

The denizens of Hell had not yet dared to enter it, had not dared to come closer than several paces outside the door. Truthfully, he was grateful for it. The fading Ethereality inside of him was losing power as time ticked away, exposure to more of Hell was simply going to make it fade faster. It was selfish of him, in so many ways, but he wanted to cling to the powers of Heaven for as long as possible.

Gabriel clutched his hands over his chest, staring at them.

His core was, as of yet, still unchanged from what it would become. As time went on, he would gain demonic traits, acquire an aspect of an animal.

He would rot from the inside.

Standing up from the bed, Gabriel paced around the room, his hand on the wall. Something to keep himself distracted, anything to focus on besides the problems he currently faced. If he had been less of an ass, he might have some allies right now. Aziraphale would, possibly, look up to him still.

There was a time when they had been close, though he could not remember it anymore. They had been new, then. Young.

Children, almost.

He could remember having friends, once, could remember allies and friends and angels he could rely on to back him up. Falling seemed to have jolted whatever was blocking the memories, nudged it aside until he could reach a hand through and tug gently at what lay behind it. He could remember Aziraphale following him, asking him questions. He could remember placing the stars in the skies with someone, though he could not remember their face.

He could remember affection, now, moments of kindness and caring between himself and others.

Michael had stripped his warmth out, had shattered him.

Had pieced the parts he wanted back together and formed the Gabriel that now stood. He had followed orders and taken on a personality he wanted to smack himself for. There had been kindness in him, once. An older version of him, long-gone, would have been ashamed of who he had become.

Maybe, if he tried, he could coax himself back.

Like a scared animal, hiding in a corner. Careful movements and soft voice and kindness could bring him back. Gabriel could become who he had been, once, could be himself again.

A knock at the door startled him out of his thoughts.

There were only two demons who would knock on the door and one of them only rarely did so. Crowley had come to visit a few times, to tell him—

Well.

To talk to him. At him, sometimes, babbling about something Aziraphale had said. A flower he had seen on Earth. The sunset.

The other possible visitor was Beelzebub.

They often came in and watched him, an eyebrow raised, before stepping forward and putting a hand on his forehead. The defenses of Heaven were going to fall apart before them and Gabriel honestly could not find it in himself to be sorry. Every time they looked through his memories, they would send him on a similar trip.

Every instance brought back more.

Ramiel was in every breath he took, every lungful of air, every beat of his heart. They had been rooted deep and Michael had erased so much to get rid of them.

He was going to rip the Archangel apart.

But, in the meantime, he answered the door and found both of his usual visitors standing there.

Beelzebub stood stiffly behind Crowley and, from what Gabriel could put together, it was because the two had not often worked together. From Crowley’s rambling, he knew it was that they just did not get along, both of them overly cautious around each other. Beelzebub was still on edge from watching a demon take a bath in Holy Water and come out of the experience alive. Crowley was still waiting on tenterhooks to know if he and Aziraphale were safe.

And that had been an interesting thing to know.

Crowley and Aziraphale had not simply been going against Heaven and Hell – their story was a love story that had begun in the Garden and had unfolded over the centuries. Excruciatingly slowly, but progressing nonetheless.

“Come with uzzz,” Beelzebub turned on their heel and started walking away, leaving Crowley to grimace and wave for Gabriel to follow.

He did.

He didn’t think he had much of a choice in the matter.

After a few minutes, they had arrived in another room, similar to Gabriel’s. It was a little larger, a little brighter, but otherwise very much the same. The biggest difference that Gabriel could see were two large splashes of something dark on the wall, almost forming an outline of someone.

Oh.

Oh.

Gabriel took a deep breath, glancing at Crowley. The demon’s shoulders were tensed, practically curled up around his ears as he tilted his head towards Gabriel. There was a moment between them similar to gazes meeting and knowing, immediately, that something important was happening. This was Beelzebub’s room.

The room they had inhabited after Falling.

This was private territory and being invited in meant that Beelzebub was trying their best to create privacy.

“Do you have a plan?” Beelzebub turned to him, as if they were pretending the importance wasn’t there. “For fighting back against Heaven. You’ve said that you believe the war that was averted was not the right way to go, but if you do not have a plan, then I must go back to that.”

“I go in,” Gabriel swallowed his nerves, glancing at Crowley. “I take whoever will come with me. Stealth. We sneak into Heaven, using one of the back ways of entering. We find the file room and the proper files. We track down our Fath—God Herself. We tell Her what is happening, we tell everyone what is happening. We alert Hell of what is happening. I am not saying there cannot be a war,” he paused, watching the slight widening of Beelzebub’s eyes. “But that war cannot involve humanity and their destruction. If there is to be a war, we do not involve those who are innocent in these matters.”

“So you do have something resembling a plan,” Crowley choked out the words. “Who would go with you?” he grimaced. “I would. I’m enough of an idiot to do that.” He sighed.

“Dagon has said that he would as well,” Beelzebub turned their head to look at Crowley. “Three demons and a Fallen against the entirety of Heaven. If something goes wrong…”

“And it might,” Gabriel allowed. “It is entirely likely – possible, actually – that it might all go wrong.”

“…But the truth is important,” Crowley looked up again, frowning. “If we don’t get the truth out to everyone, then it continues. Angels will Fall. Will continue to Fall if they so much as step a toe out of line – if they make Michael angry, who's to say he won’t make them Fall? Just for that.” He squared up his shoulders, looking at Gabriel. “We have proof in front of us of an Angel who just happened to get on the wrong side of things. Michael sentenced you for…What, exactly?”

“For being a warmonger. For being the one to incite the failed war between the two factions.” Gabriel clasped his hands together. “I would guess that there are many demons who were not supposed to Fall.”

“They just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or,” Crowley put a hand to his own chest, seeming unaware that he was doing so. “They asked too many questions. Knew too much. Were too curious. That sort of thing puts tyrants on edge – always has, always will. You can see it throughout human history. Someone trying to get away with a whole lot of things they should not get away with will, without hesitating, take out the dissenters. Silence the opposition. Make it clear that…” he cleared his throat, suddenly pale. “Make it clear that opposing what is happening will only end in death. It’s how coups succeed. How dictators stay in power.”

“Exactly,” Gabriel looked at Beelzebub.

They looked back at him, then nodded. “I will allow this to happen,” they spoke quietly. “But news of this does not reach Hell until we can confirm it. There will be riots.”

Both Gabriel and Crowley nodded.

Beelzebub turned away, moving towards the door. “I will inform Dagon that he is needed for this. He can find anything in any file system.”

As the Prince of Hell passed him, Gabriel caught a familiar scent.

“Wait,” Crowley turned to them, his mouth moving, but Gabriel did not hear the words he was saying.

There. That was it.

Earlier, he had noticed something about Beelzebub’s face, their eyes, their nose. The way it wrinkled when they thought about something, the soft blue of their eyes. They had looked familiar to him.

Now, watching them stare at Crowley as he attempted to explain something, it struck him.

Suddenly, without warning, clarity struck him. An arrow to his chest, a compass pointing North—

Ramiel.

Underneath the acrid scent of Hell, the brimstone and the fire and the faintly rotten cheese smell, he’d caught a small wave of lavender. It was the faintest scent of it, the slightest hint, but it was there. Ramiel had enjoyed sitting in the fields of it, fluttering their hands through the stalks and letting the wind carry the scent. The very beginning of the world had, at least to Gabriel, always smelled of lavender.

A tightness clutched in his throat.

They were Beelzebub, now, that was the only thing he could think. A demon far removed from who they had once been – even if he only looked at which side they were on now, they were still so different from before. There was no telling if they would welcome affection.

Because that was the heart of it.

Before he had remembered Ramiel, he had started to think of Beelzebub. They had been interesting, though furious and from the other side, during Armageddon. He had wanted to know more. He had thought about requesting meetings with them, about discussing the alliance between Aziraphale and Crowley. He had wanted to spend more time with them.

He would have taken as much as he was allowed.

“Wait,” he called after them, watching as they slowed. “Please, wait.”

When they turned to him, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t tell them. It would be forcing affection on someone who hadn’t had any in centuries – besides that, it was affection for a different part of them, a part that was gone now. It would earn him no favors and Beelzebub might well be offended and furious as a result. They had been Ramiel, once.

They were not, now.

Eons had passed with them in Hell, forging a new identity and sitting upon a throne. Ramiel was likely gone forever.

The small, growing affection for Beelzebub, however, was something he could nurture. He would have to do it carefully, would have to do it cautiously. They had seen him scream his fury, remember Ramiel and sob, had seen him break down over his missing lover.

“Are you going with me,” he gestured vaguely upward. “When I…?”

“Why would I miss a chance to see that idiocy?” Beelzebub smirked, their hands clasped behind their back.

For a moment, like an afterimage, he could see Ramiel standing before him. He wondered why he hadn’t realized it before. “Thank you,” he muttered, pushing down anything else he might have said. “I imagine I’ll need all the help I can get.”

“You will,” Beelzebub stared at him for a moment, like they wanted to say something else. “You’re going against Heaven. Despite many of them wanting revenge for what has been done, not a great deal many of those who dwell here will want to help you. I can think of, perhaps, at most, two who would choose to go into this with you. And that number includes the idiot, Crowley.” They shook their head, peering up at him from the slight-downward tilt of their head. “The other is, as I have said, Dagon.” They turned a small smirk on him. “He likes it when things get interesting.”

“Are you choosing to go into this with me or are you standing back as a bystander?” he watched them look him up and down, their eyebrows ticking upward just the slightest bit. They seemed to savor their next words for a minute, stepping back towards him.

“We will have to see,” their smug expression was, somehow, charming. Their eyes were the same color as a pair of his favorite trousers had been, that same silvery-blue the new morning sky had once been. “Give me a reason to help you,” they challenged. “Find me a reason to ride into a fight we may not win at your side, Gabriel.” The moved back across the room, gripping his chin in their sharp fingers, tugging his head down to look at them. “Or I will watch you get slaughtered and come back at a more opportune time.”

They walked away again and this time, he let them go. He needed a minute to get his thoughts unscrambled and back into some semblance of order—

Both halves of them, Ramiel and Beelzebub, were quite effective at stealing his heart.

He realized Crowley was staring at him, wide-eyed, and he cleared his throat, clapping his hands together awkwardly. “Well,” he gestured in the vague direction of his room. “I should go and, uh, plan. I have a raid of Heaven to plan and that’s going to be…Work.”

“What in the name of Heav—Hell—” Crowley spluttered. “What was THAT?”

“Right,” Gabriel cleared his throat again and threw his image to the wind, sprinting out of the room as fast as he could.

X

Gabriel’s plan was full of holes, comprised of idiocy, but it was the best they had.

Hell was, honestly, no match for Heaven. Beelzebub could admit that. They were a beaten-down cluster of malfunctions. Demons would not often risk their lives for something, Crowley standing against Lucifer himself had been an outlier. Demons were, often and as a whole, cowards.

It was something that had always bothered them.

Demons had been stripped of their angelic status and turned out into the dark and they had become cowards.

The entirety of Hell was afraid.

If Gabriel and Crowley were right, if Michael had taken over Heaven, that cowardice might have much to do with knowing they had become Fallen for upsetting the tyrant. If Michael had taken over, he had struck down so many simply because they had angered him. They might have said the wrong thing, supported the wrong angel—

Beelzebub’s nose wrinkled, though they did their best to continue looking impassive.

Their train of thought had derailed.

Because of Gabriel.

They had approached him, touched him, held him in some little way – it was something they could not stop thinking about. The feel of his skin against their palm, the heat of him. They had done their best to forget the small hope, the persistently-growing affection, but it seemed to have held on. Being that close to him, without him being unconscious and sorting through his memories, was heady and off-balancing.

They had almost tugged him down further so that they could have kissed him.

Ramiel, Beelzebub reminded themself, fixing their glare on the window that showed them the hordes of Hell.

Gabriel was in love with Ramiel.

Not them.

Would never be in love with them.

Their hands clenched tightly on the arms of their throne, a scowl twisting their mouth. There they sat, unloved and unsure of who they had been and envious of someone who was likely already dead. From Gabriel’s descriptions, Ramiel would not have survived Hell long enough to become a fully-fledged demon. They would have been soft, kind and sweet, everything Gabriel wanted.

Not Beelzebub.

They were nothing Gabriel wanted.

“Lord Beelzebub,” Dagon’s voice was almost soft as he strode into the room. “How was the meeting?”

“I’ll submit a report later,” they snapped at him, narrowing their eyes. “You can file the information away later, when I do not feel like killing you simply for being anywhere near me right now.”

Dagon held his clipboard up, a pen in his other hand, looking somewhat stunned.

Instead of saying something, however, he simply nodded. “Understood, Lord.” He turned away, moving back towards the door. “If I might say something, however?”

Beelzebub nodded after a moment of hesitance.

“You spend much time with the newly Fallen.” Dagon glanced towards the window. They were not being watched, at the moment. There was nothing entertaining enough to watch. “Be careful, Lord Beelzebub. It might not go unnoticed for much longer.” He tapped a nail against his clipboard. “The eyes of Hell are watching.”

Their spine went stiff as they watched Dagon leave again, nails digging into the arms of their throne. He was right – if Hell caught wind of what was happening, anything that might be construed as weakness, they were done for. Hell might be populated with cowards, but they were cowards who would riot and scream until the wrongs they felt were committed against them were righted. There was an odd brand of justice in Hell and they would adhere to their own rules.

Dagon was right.

They needed to be very careful about how much time they spent with Gabriel.

There was only so much they could do to keep the newly Fallen somewhat safe. Hell was not safety, not a safe haven, and protections could only go so far. The excuse of rifling through Gabriel’s memories would wear thin sooner than later and then they might be thrown to the jaws of the monsters roaming in the darkness.

That thought made them pause.

It was the phrasing of it, they decided as they turned it over in their mind. Hell’s nightmares had never been monsters to them, not for as long as they could remember—

Oh, but maybe that was the problem.

Heaven’s greatest trick, the worst con.

The Fallen forgot.

Beelzebub had not remembered anything from their Before in centuries. Everything had faded within a century of Falling, as far as they could tell. Any previous identity was wiped away, erased to make room for something new. Something much darker and twisted.

Because you did what you needed to do to survive.

Fight your way to the top, they remembered that much. Push others down so that you could survive, drench your hands in blood, in ichor, until you forgot what existence tasted like without it.

A part of them, newly reawakened, was quietly horrified at the thought.

That was what Hell was, they knew. Fighting for your own existence at the expense of others. Baring your teeth and ripping your way out if you had to. Humanity had created War, in some respects, but the seeds of her were sown by Heaven and Hell. A joint collaboration, if one allowed.

Beelzebub slouched down a little further in their throne, trying to ignore the sick twist of their insides.

These thoughts were coming from seemingly nowhere and there was nothing they could do to stop them. Like a burst dam, something they had managed to ignore for so long that they had managed to forget it entirely. Who they had been seemed to be waking up.

In everything that was happening, the world that was changing around them, they had to wonder.

If the Fallen were forced to forget…

Could they be allowed to remember?

Was there to be something like mercy allowed to them, to give them back a semblance of their previous life?

Beelzebub felt a flare of hope for the first time in a long, long life.

They wanted to remember.

Chapter Text

It started as a sensation of movement in his chest.

Raising his hands to his chest, Gabriel dared to look down, fearing what he would see—from the way it felt, something had to be sitting on him. When he looked, there was nothing there.

The feeling moved up, sharp pressure digging into his heart, pushing past and through.

Choking on a sob, Gabriel dropped to his knees, clawing at his chest as the sensations continued. It kept going, even as he made ripped at his skin, tried to dig into the flesh and pull out whatever it was. The movement inside of him grew quicker, something that felt like fingers sliding up his throat. He bent double, a hand chasing the feeling up and curling around his neck, squeezing for a moment before his entire body shuddered and twitched.

He ended up sprawled across the floor, choking on whatever it was.

When it finally managed to push its way out of his mouth, he coughed and choked around whatever it was and a low groan of horror.

The first things he could see were several legs, waving and twitching.

With a deep, hacking cough, the rest of the spider was out of him – it was the size of a rabbit or a small dog, big enough to fit inside his entire torso. From the time he had spent in Hell, so far, he knew what it was. What it would do, where it would perch.

He stared at it, backing away when it moved towards him.

“No—” he hissed in annoyance when his back hit a wall, annoyance turning to terror when he couldn’t move away. He was stuck to the wall, a quick glance revealing the spiderweb that was holding him in place. “No!” He pulled away as far as he could, practically hyperventilating as he tried to escape. The spider continued to advance on him, beginning to crawl up his legs.

“NO—”

“Wake UP!”

Gabriel almost fell to the floor as he managed to get his eyes open.

As it was, he ended up halfway out of the bed, his bent arm the only thing keeping his head from meeting the floor. It was dark, but it always was in Hell. The only lights were brought in by others, reprieves from the darkness few and far between.

Hell was dark and cramped and he hated it.

“You were having a nightmare,” the voice that had yelled for him to wake up was soft and curious, though he could not place it immediately. When he looked up, he was met with the sharp-toothed smile of Dagon, looking down at Gabriel from behind his clipboard. “And I would bet that I can tell you what sort of nightmare you were having.”

His smile fell, a little, and Gabriel managed to right himself without landing on the floor. “Every demon could tell you what nightmare you were having,” he said, his voice a little softer.

“What,” Gabriel felt his face twist with disgust. “Every demon ever has had—”

“We have a dream of our animalistic aspect,” Dagon interrupted him, a hand held up. His clipboard was held in a white-knuckled grip. “Some of us get the literal creature, some of us just end up with physical changes,” he chuckled, grinning wider again. “Piranhas are known for swarming and attacking, ripping apart—did you know that?” His teeth glinted in the faint light and Gabriel took a deep breath, leaning away from him.

“I did not,” Gabriel looked up at Dagon, keeping an eye on all of his limbs. He didn’t think Dagon would try anything, didn’t think the demon would attack him, but he wasn’t sure.

He was only useful to Hell for a short time, after all.

As long as they could pull the memories of what Heaven was defended with, what might be used against them, from his mind, he was useful. As time went by, however, he would become less and less useful until they finally decided he was a common enough problem, enough of a demon, to throw in with the rest.

“Is this the first time you’ve dreamt of your aspect?” Dagon lifted his clipboard, a pen held in his hand.

“Wait,” Gabriel frowned. “Are you really here to ask me about—”

“It’s what I do,” Dagon sat down on a stool next to the bed. Apparently, he had brought it in with him. “Lord of the Files. I record information and I keep it. All information is useful, all knowledge is important. There are those of us,” he chuckled, a grating and raspy sound, like an old door hinge that had rusted into place and was suddenly being moved. “There are those of us who agree that humanity was better off when Crowley tempted Eve into knowing the difference between Good and Evil.”

He directed his gaze down to his clipboard again. “Is this the first time you’ve dreamt of your aspect?” he asked for the second time.

“…Yes.”

“Alright,” he scrawled something on the paper, humming a discordant note. “Do you remember what creature your aspect is?”

“A spider,” Gabriel looked down at his hands, cupping them together in his lap. After a moment, he clasped them together so tightly it hurt, trying to forget the sensation of legs crawling up his throat. “I don’t know what kind.”

Dagon looked up at him, his eyebrows raised. “A spider?”

“Is that important?” Gabriel looked at Dagon,

He couldn’t think of anything beyond right then, that moment. He was too shaken – if this had been wartime, he would have removed himself from the field. Then, right then, he was not in his right mind. He almost didn’t hear it when Dagon spoke again and he did have to ask the demon to repeat himself.

“I said,” Dagon looked down at his clipboard once more. “That you seem to be more rattled than some others I have seen.

“I don’t know…” Gabriel shook his head. “It’s just…It was horrifying.”

“Welcome to Hell,” Dagon wheezed out a laugh. “Nothing here is meant for your amusement. Nothing here is meant to be kind. Nothing here is meant to be good.” His face went placid again. “That’s why it’s Hell.”

Gabriel watched him for a minute, then gestured at the bed. “You want to gather information,” he cleared his throat. “You can sit down while you do.”

Dagon raised both eyebrows, face still placid. “Be careful who you say that to.”

“I—”

Dagon sat, turning to him. “Now.” He marked something off on his papers. “Tell me more about what you’re experiencing.”

X

“He was having the nightmare,” Dagon reported as he walked into the room.

Beelzebub nodded, refusing to look at their second-in-command. Their own had been traumatic enough, what they could remember of it.

When they had sensed Gabriel’s sleep, the fluctuations of power around him and the small bursts of fear, they had sent Dagon to check on him. They could not have gone themself – the hordes of Hell would have whispered about the change in their schedule, the attendance to the newest Fallen. They could not be seen as giving any one being more attention – pity and compassion would be their ruin, if they allowed either.

So they had sent Dagon.

He wanted to know about the nightmares of a Fallen Archangel anyway.

“He’s having trouble adjusting to Hell, which is something that could be said of every newly Fallen,” Dagon lifted his clipboard, scanning his notes quickly. “He seemed to be having trouble piecing information together, though that faded as I spoke with him.” He tapped a finger against a sentence he had written, frowning. “He seemed unfocused for too long. Not in a normal way, as one would be after sleeping.”

“Abnormally tired?” Beelzebub looked at him, their mouth pulled into a frown.

“Exhausted,” Dagon corrected. “Drained.”

He saw the minuscule flash of fear at those words. Beelzebub was worried about Gabriel. If they had been somewhere else, aligned with something other than Hell, Dagon would have actively encouraged it.

Well…

Maybe he still could.

A tiny flash of compassion woke up inside of him and he almost smiled.

“One more thing…” Dagon looked up at them. “Lord Beelzebub, his animal aspect is a spider. He could not tell me what kind, only that it was a spider. He does not know them well enough to differentiate. We could have him describe it to Crowley and see if he might recognize it. He knows the species of Earth well enough.” He tapped a sharp nail against the paper he was looking at. “But he will have a spider.”

Beelzebub looked at him, their eyes narrowed. “Dagon.”

“I know you well enough. You trust me as much as you can, as much as a demon can or should,” he paused, searching Beelzebub’s face. “My lord Beelzebub, I have seen you ranting about the Archangel Gabriel before.”

“Dagon.”

Dagon held up his hands.

There was no trust in Hell, officially. Demons did not trust each other.

But one did not become Beelzebub’s second-in-command, the file-keeper of Hell, by betraying so easily. “You mentioned wanting to speak with him, once. About Crowley. And the angel – Aziraphale.” He forged on ahead when they didn’t even bother to glare at him for bringing those two up. “You wanted to know, from him, if there were any others who might be able to go down that same path. A demon survived Holy Water, lord, and I watched it happen in this very room. You watched it happen.”

“I did.”

“If nothing else, you mentioned wanting to debate how such a thing could happen,” Dagon reminded them. If he pushed too far, too hard, Beelzebub’s wrath would find an outlet in him. It hadn’t happened yet, though it had come close several times. They had always managed to stay their hand at the last minute, before.

He had a sliver of hope that such a thing would happen again.

Beelzebub was staring at the wall when Dagon looked up at them again. “Lord?” he hesitated, then continued on, trying to keep an eye on a steady path, despite the rockiest of terrains. “Has it not occurred to you, this entire time, what a victory this is to have handed to us? One of the highest-ranking angels, Fallen, without protection from Heaven.” If he had been kinder, he wouldn’t have said the next thing he did.

He was not kinder.

“We can pull his mind apart, see what secrets lie within it. A drooling mess is a small price to pay for the knowledge it would bring us.”

The reaction was like a match to a fuse.

Beelzebub leaped from their throne, their nose practically pressing against Dagon’s as they bared their teeth, sharper than usual. “Do not touch him,” they growled the words out, an underlying buzz making them almost unintelligible. “If you touch him, I will make you pay, Dagon, I will make you zzzuffer, I will zzzee to it that you burn—”

They stopped, a look of terror flashing across their face as they backed away.

It was too late, Dagon had seen it.

“You care for him,” he watched as they rearranged themself on their throne. “Like Crowley cares for an angel – so, too, do you.”

“Shut up, Dagon.” Their eyes narrowed on him, darkening and burning with rage. He stared back but dropped his gaze first. The crowd outside the window could not hear them but they could see them. Beelzebub looking away first would be seen as a sign of weakness and they would be torn from their throne, ripped apart and thrown to the hordes.

He kept his voice soft, wishing he could reassure. But this was Hell. There was no reassurance in Hell.

“We do not get many touches of happiness,” he spoke up when Beelzebub’s hands were clamped on the arms of their throne. “Hell has always been this way, will always be this way, and we have not seen a shred of happiness or a flash of joy. If…If you could find a spark of something kind, here…Here.” He peered up at them, his head still bowed. “It would be something worth chasing after.”

They did not answer him.

“And,” he continued. “Perhaps you knew each other before. We do not remember who we were before, one of the cruelties of Heaven. We know we were cast out though we only get the vaguest of words on the why and no memories of who we were.”

Beelzebub’s upper lip curled back again.

“Perhaps you knew each other before,” Dagon looked away again, making sure to tamp down on the smile he felt wanting to curl his lips. “He—”

“He still loves someone,” Beelzebub finally spoke again. “Someone else. Someone Fallen, who may have ceased to exist. Too much of an angelic touch inside of them to survive the transition into Hell.” Their fingers, clawed and thin, dug into the arms of their throne again. “The scent of lavender pervades his memories and he remembers the first sunrise with them.”

Dagon frowned.

Putting aside the bitterness in their voice, Dagon could think of several reasons to shoot down their argument.

He knew how old Beelzebub was.

One of the first Fallen. The very first had been Lucifer, of course, but they had been not too long after. They were, nearly, ancient. One of the first demons, one of the first Fallen. He could list off several reasons why Beelzebub as they had been and Gabriel could have known each other and that was not even verging into anything else. The suspicion he had, having seen how the two had gravitated towards each other, was that Gabriel had known Beelzebub before.

And that, perhaps, he had loved them in some way.

But Beelzebub was not in the mood to listen to him anymore. He could tell from the way they held themself, their shoulders rigid and their eyes narrowed, staring intently forward.

He stood up and began to walk away, taking their silence as a dismissal.

“His aspect is a spider,” Dagon paused at the door, his eyes on Beelzebub. “I wonder what it says in this situation, the spider and the fly meeting in Hell.”

“Shut up,” Beelzebub didn’t look up at him as he smirked.

They just continued to stare at their hands.

Chapter Text

When he stood up and paced around the room, Gabriel closed his eyes.

He had paced the same path so many times, now, that he knew where every dip in the wall was. Every odd step on the floor, every rise and fall of the ground. Hell, in the only form of kindness it was capable of, had left him in a blank room. He had to wonder how many had come before him, how many had lived and died in this room, Fallen and alone.

Would he end up like those who might have died?

He had been devout, an Archangel, one of Heaven’s greatest warriors. A General, the General – head of the forces of Heaven. He had been gearing up for the great war between the two factions for so long that not having that as an end goal was difficult.

Reconciling his forgotten past with his current reality was difficult as well.

Ramiel would have been disappointed in him. In everything he had done, really. From the moment they had left his side, he had begun disappointing them. He could half-remember, now, being told to forget them. Being locked away in a room much like this one and being told that it was his punishment for throwing himself in with such corruption.

Gabriel rubbed at his left eye, wincing at the painful feedback his body was sending from it.

It had been hurting since he had woken up, like sand had been poured into it and ground in. Painful, verging on excruciating, distracting and worrying.

The knock at the door was enough to distract him from that, as well.

When he opened it, Dagon stood on the other side, his hands curled around his clipboard. One eyebrow raised, he turned and walked away, not waiting to see if Gabriel was following. He did follow, there was nothing else to do. “Lord Beelzebub wishes to speak to you,” Dagon peered down his nose at Gabriel, glancing at his paperwork.

“Have they decided on anything?” Gabriel worried the inside of his cheek between his teeth for a moment. “In regards to me, I mean.”

“Not as far as I am aware.” Dagon stopped when they arrived at the doorway to Beelzebub’s throne room, gesturing for Gabriel to walk in. “But that may be the topic of discussion, for today.” He nudged at Gabriel’s shoulder, pushing him forward. “Best to go speak with them.”

Gabriel went.

Crowley was already standing in the room, his chin raised as he looked at Beelzebub. They were sat upon their throne, looking bored.

Gabriel saw Crowley glance at him, a minute turn of his head, before he turned back to Beelzebub.

Right.

The last time he had seen Crowley, he had been half-flirting with Beelzebub. Sort of. Was it flirting if he was not quite sure what he was doing and the one he was speaking to had no idea of what was happening? Looking at Beelzebub, Gabriel rubbed at his eye again, grimacing against the wave of pain.

His chest was clenched in a fist, it felt.

Like something sitting on his ribcage and refusing to let up. Crowley looked at him again, frowning this time, before he looked at Beelzebub and cleared his throat. “What I suppose I am asking is, are we really planning on going against Heaven like this? Really?” he made a noise in the back of his throat. “Really?” he gestured at Gabriel, shaking his head. “And that’s the plan, is it – we sneak in, grab some files that may or may not be there, and we sneak out again?”

“The files will be there,” Gabriel winced, his eye feeling like it was burning. “No matter what, Heaven documents everything. I have, personally, seen some of the less savory things we have done be documented and filed away. Even something like this would be…”

He rubbed at his eye again, grunting in pain as something sparked behind his eyelid.

“…Gabriel?” Crowley took a step towards him, he could hear the shuffle of the demon’s feet.

“Your eyes,” Beelzebub stood from their throne, moving down the steps and grasping Gabriel’s chin in their hand. “Your eyes have changed.”

They stopped, considering. “One of them has.”

Gabriel reached up and covered the one that had been hurting before, still shuddering as the spike of pain echoed through his entire body. Gasping, he felt himself swaying, his eyesight jittering. “How has it changed?” he felt a hand on his shoulder, supporting him, and it seemed to be the only thing keeping him upright. His stomach rolled, the floor feeling suddenly uneven beneath his feet. Like a ship lost in a storm, no anchor to be found and all moorings tossed loose –

Mixing metaphors, he thought distantly.

Thinking like a human.

Because that was what Falling did. It gave an angel the same free will as a human, gave them something like a human consciousness. That was how they could tarnish their own souls, could become demons.

His knees hit the ground, the sudden pain of it jarring his thoughts.

“Gabriel!” Crowley’s voice was distant, like the echo of far distant thunder, and he turned towards it as much as he could. He could still feel Beelzebub’s fingers digging into his chin, though he could not tell if they were still touching him or if the memory of their touch had been burned into his skin. They carried Hellfire within them, could they burn him with their touch?

Did he have enough of Heaven still, in his soul, for there to be something to burn?

Beelzebub had warned him that he only had two weeks, maybe less. Had their estimate been overly generous – had his time already run out? Heaven, the holiest of grounds, would be like acid on his skin if that was the case. Michael would get away with his plots for Gabriel being unable to return and drag him out.

Gabriel lifted his head, his eyes unfocused as he turned them on Beelzebub. “You look lovely,” he whispered.

They took a step back, genuine surprise flickering across their expression before they tamped down on it. “You’re going mad,” they told him, crouching down to curl their pointed fingers around his jaw once more. “Heaven is being driven from your core—Michael is tampering, I would say.” They sniffed, unimpressed. “I doubt he is the type to let something lie, especially when someone like Gabriel is involved. He could, if he found someone to believe him, upset Michael’s entire system.”

“Aziraphale could do something,” Crowley still had his hands on Gabriel’s shoulders, keeping him steady.

Beelzebub’s upper lip pulled back, exposing their sharp teeth, pulling at the edges of the blisters and boils. “And how do you suppose we get him to the Principality?” their hold on Gabriel’s chin softened for a moment, their thumb stroking his jaw for a fraction of a second. Too quick for anyone not directly involved and paying attention to see.

Crowley saw it.

“If we take Gabriel up to Aziraphale, he gets exposed to the energies of Earth. His last vestiges of divinity and the touches of Ethereality leave him, we get stuck with him as something useless in the endeavor he is planning.” Beelzebub narrowed their eyes at Crowley.

“We could always bring Aziraphale down here,” Crowley peered over his sunglasses at Beelzebub, watching them intently.

They shuddered, disgust clear on their face. “…Fine.” They muttered.

“He comes down, bolsters the remaining Ethereality, off he pops,” Crowley grinned at them. “Only has to be in Hell for a little while, in and out, off he goes again.”

“I already agreed, now stop talking before I regret everything about thizzz!” They stood, tossing Gabriel into Crowley’s side and stalking back to their throne, slouching into it. “Go contact your angel, get him down here.” They raised their chin, glaring at Crowley. “Do it. Now!”

“Fine, I’m going,” Crowley stood up. “I’ll just pop him into his room again on my way out. Leave him here, he’ll be influenced by the energies of Hell and it’ll fade even faster.”

Beelzebub didn’t voice their answer to that, simply nodded.

They watched as Crowley pulled Gabriel up and walked away with him half slung over his shoulder.

X

“You want me to do what?”

“I know, I know,” Crowley winced, taking a deep breath. “Angel, trust me, I know what I’m asking you. You didn’t see Gabriel, you didn’t see Beelzebub—” he stopped, scoffed, then shook his head. “Aziraphale, Beelzebub is worried. All I’m asking is that you come down and give a quick blessing. Just…Bolster the remaining dregs of Heaven inside of him. He is a fuel tank running on empty, aiming to storm into Heaven and take down someone who is taking over. There is a tyrant in Heaven and he is the one planning on how to get in and take him down.”

He could hear Aziraphale’s deep breath and he could practically see him.

His angel would be pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut tightly as if that would make the whole issue disappear. After that, he would tilt his head back, open his eyes, roll them upward, and sigh.

Right on schedule, Aziraphale spoke again. “Fine. Just a quick blessing.” A pause. “Is Gabriel alright, down there?”

“As well as he can be,” Crowley glanced down, thinking of the Fallen in Hell. “He was collapsing, last I saw him. I don’t know if he’ll make it. Some…Some don’t.” he looked away. “The loss of Heaven is too much for them, sometimes. If he makes it, makes the full transition from one faction to the other, then Hell will have a very powerful right hand of the Lord of Flies. I have no doubt that the two of them would be, well, terrifying.”

“He collapsed?” Aziraphale’s panic would have been almost humorous in any other situation.

“Yeah,” Crowley nodded, not caring the Aziraphale couldn’t see. “Well…” he stopped, thinking it over for a minute.

“Crowley?”

“I had to catch him, yeah, he collapsed, but that’s not…” he thought back. “Beelzebub looked concerned over him. Worried.”

Aziraphale’s hum of surprise was gratifying – it meant Crowley was not alone in his confusion. “How do you mean?”

“Worried. Just…I dunno, worried. Like I would have been in the same position, with you in Gabriel’s. Afraid, almost. Usually, when an angel Falls, Beelzebub is gloating. They make a point of greeting every new Fallen, y’know.” Crowley leaned against a random wall – no one was going to chase him off, they wouldn’t even register that he was there. “Gabriel has them off-balance.”

“That’s new, I would suppose.”

“Oh, definitely,” Crowley scoffed. “Beelzebub does not show concern for anyone, angel. And that’s the other thing.”

“What is?”

“Demons always have visions of what their animal aspect is going to be. Dreams, sometimes.” He half-smiled. It had nothing to do with the memory of finding out what his own would be and everything to do with remembering the first time he had met Aziraphale. That flaming sword, the beginning and almost-end of everything. “Gabriel has had his. He knows what creature he’s going to take on the aspects of.”

“Does he?” Aziraphale shifted in his desk chair, Crowley could hear it creaking. The little tap noise that followed was definitely his cocoa being set back down. “What is it?”

“A spider,” Crowley sighed. “The spider and the fly.”

“The spider and the—” Aziraphale startled, rocking forward in his seat. Crowley had heard him on the phone for ages, now, he knew what his angel sounded like, what each noise meant. “Beelzebub has a fly. Of course they do,” he took a small, quick breath. “Crowley, do you know what it means when a pair of aspects matches like that?”

“Not really. You?”

“It means that something deeper is happening here.” He had to be staring at the wall, from the silence on his end. Unblinking, his mouth partially open, his eyebrows drawn down as he thought something over. “I had not, perhaps, thought it over as much as I should have, but—” he paused, hesitating, before he spoke up again. “All demons start as angels.”

“Yeah?”

“Have we considered the possibility that Gabriel and Beelzebub knew each other before they were Beelzebub?”

Crowley had not, in fact, considered that as much as he ought to have. “That would explain a lot,” he muttered, putting the heel of his palm to his forehead and pressing it in hard enough to ache for a moment. “Memories cannot be entirely erased, not even with the power of Heaven backing the erasure.”

“And I cannot remember the Fallen,” Aziraphale muttered. “One of the strangest things…Oh.”

“Angel?”

“Oh, hold on.”

“…I’m holding?”

“I hadn’t even thought of…” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “The last time I spoke with Her. It was so long ago. I have not had any direct communication with Her since. No one has.” He laughed, self-deprecating and unsteady. “Crowley, the last time She communicated directly with any angel was when She asked me where I had misplaced my flaming sword.”

“That’s a long time,” Crowley tried to tamp down on the flare of rage in his chest. If She had chosen to abandon them for any reason, She could have done it later. Or sooner. Not built an entire world and then vanished into the back of beyond. “And?”

“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale’s voice was soft, promising soothing later. “If Her direct communication has dissolved, then I can only draw one conclusion. She has not been speaking to us. Crowley,” his voice took on a hysterical edge, wavering with panic. “Crowley, Metatron is in on Michael’s plans.”

Crowley took a deep breath.

He held it.

He counted to ten, then back down again.

“Fuck.” He hissed into his phone. He just barely resisted the urge to toss it to the ground and watch it shatter.

“I quite agree,” Aziraphale sounded less-than-politely horrified.

Crowley leaned against the wall, taking a slow, deep breath. In and out, sort his thoughts before speaking again. “If Metatron isn’t on the side of Good,” he began, hesitating as the sentence filled itself out in his mind. “The entirety of Heaven is in danger. The entire world might be in danger – Michael wanted the war to go on. You and I were almost killed for stopping it, angel.” He gripped his phone a little tighter, holding it closer to his face, pressed against his jaw. “Michael wanted the world to end and if…If Metatron is in on it, there are a great deal many things that are being manipulated.”

“Her orders are being altered,” Aziraphale whispered. “If they are even Hers to begin with.”

“Shit,” Crowley hissed the word out, rubbing at his temple, pinching the bridge of his nose as he took yet another deep breath. “God might not be running the show. Might not even be backstage—”

“We may all very well be in danger,” Aziraphale sounded despairing and Crowley knew what he would be doing. His right hand was holding the phone tightly, clenching it in a white-knuckled grip. His left would be fiddling with something on his desk – a pen, a pile of papers, blindly shuffling them maybe. His glasses would be sliding down his nose, worry causing him to forget to push them back up. The idea of it made Crowley want. Want to go to him, to pull him close and reassure him, soothe him and unruffle his appearance.

Aziraphale did so love looking neat and tidy.

His angel.

“Well,” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I ought to come help Gabriel as soon as possible, I suppose. I will talk to you soon, my dear.”

“Talk soon, angel.”

The call clicked off and Crowley slid his phone into his pocket, sighing so deep he half expected to sink into the earth.

Chapter Text

The entrance into Hell was exactly where he had always known it was.

Aziraphale paused at the escalator, clutching his hands in front of himself. There was nothing to be frightened of, he reassured himself. Crowley had passed along what needed to happen, Beelzebub knew he was coming, Gabriel needed the help. There would be no Hellfire waiting to swallow him, no bath of Holy Water for Crowley to be shoved into. This was not to be a second-go-around at their trials – he would be, as much as he possibly could be, safe.

Someone cleared their throat and Aziraphale looked up at them.

He had only run into him during Crowley’s trial, but he remembered Dagon. Dagon, who had bragged about being there to list anything the others might have forgotten about Crowley’s misdeeds.

Dagon, who had been set to watch Aziraphale’s demon die a painful death.

“I’ve heard about you,” he forced himself to say. “And I wish I could say that what I have heard is good.” He took a deep breath, glancing behind Dagon. “This is it, then. Gabriel is being forcefully drained of what little Ethereality he has left.”

“And he needs your help,” Dagon’s hands were clenched around a clipboard. “We wouldn’t have allowed Crowley to extend the invitation if we did not need you here.”

“There is also something I need to speak to Beelzebub about.” Aziraphale followed when Dagon gestured for him to, his hands still clenched together in front of him. He glanced guiltily at the escalator he usually took, forcing himself to ignore it. Heaven still had not asked him to report in, not since the failed execution that no one was supposed to talk about. If they called him in right now, he might not report in at all, not when there was so much unknown.

“What is it?”

“Another player in this whole scheme,” Aziraphale turned to Dagon, watched the glimmer of Hellfire play across the scales on his cheeks. For a moment, he thought he recognized the demon, thought he might have remembered him – but then the moment passed. “Metatron is likely involved.”

Dagon took a deep breath, clutching his clipboard close and closing his eyes. When he opened them, he looked exhausted. “Metatron might be on Michael’s side?”

“He conveys the word of our Father – She has not communicated directly with any of us since the Garden. He has been the one telling us what She has ordered.” Aziraphale watched the crowd of demons milling around in the distance, his hands white-knuckled as he kept them clenched together. “During my call with Crowley, I came to suspect that She is not the one in charge of Heaven right now, that Michael has usurped Her with the help of the Metatron and perhaps others.”

“…I do not remember much of Heaven,” Dagon muttered. “But isn’t there supposed to be an angel who prevents corruption within the hierarchy?”

Aziraphale almost laughed. “Yes, of course there is, Ra—” he stopped. Stared at Dagon for a moment as the thought flickered and flared and then vanished. “Sorry, what was I saying?” he looked down and away, trying to recall. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Dagon writing something on the papers he carried. “What are you doing?”

“You’re questioning what you’ve forgotten,” Dagon grinned at him, teeth sharp and eyes bright. “It triggered what appears to be a blocked memory. Of someone Fallen.” He finished scribbling, tucking his pen away again. “All knowledge is useful.”

“None of the angels have ever run into a knowledge block before,” Aziraphale argued.

“And how many of the feathery idiots would dare question it?” Dagon countered, reaching out and tugging almost gently at Aziraphale’s sleeve. “They would run into something forbidden and immediately back away because it went against their orders. You’ve been trained, conditioned, to forget some very important things. I would bet, also, that you’ve been made to ignore the gaps in your memories.”

Aziraphale followed after him, his jaw hanging open as the demon pulled him down a corridor. “Demons are hardly any less feathered.” He muttered. If Dagon heard him, the demon chose to ignore it, refused to answer the comment.

Hell was as he remembered it, cold and dark and cramped, but he barely noticed as he turned that thought over in his mind.

“Crowley,” Dagon coughed, clearing his throat. “I’ve brought something to you.”

Seeing his demon was such a relief Aziraphale almost laughed. He took Crowley’s hand, rubbing a thumb along his knuckles. They had begun their relationship recently, it was still so new, but he would protect it with everything he had in him. Dagon dropped his sleeve, gesturing to the door Crowley had been standing guard at.

“Gabriel is in there,” Dagon looked down at his papers. “This isn’t going to be pleasant.”

“I was prepared for that,” Aziraphale took a deep breath, still holding onto Crowley. “I’ve prepared myself for that since I learned of his Fall. I am meant to do what I can,” he glanced at Crowley, meeting his eyes behind his sunglasses. “But I do not know what I can do. There is only so much healing and bolstering that I can do.”

“Just do what you can,” Crowley reached out his other hand, gently adjusting Aziraphale’s bowtie. “Not asking for miracles, angel, just what you can do.”

“I will see what I can do,” Aziraphale moved to the door, regretfully letting go of Crowley’s hand.

Neither of the demons followed him.

When he walked through and in, he spotted Gabriel in the corner of the room. His hands were clutching at his hair, yanking at it periodically, and he was muttering something. “Gabriel?” Aziraphale called out to him quietly, gasping softly when Gabriel lifted his head.

One of his eyes was a dark pit, completely black.

No, not completely black. It caught the light when his head tilted, an eerie and almost menacing purple shine hiding in the back of it.

His nails scraped his skin as he dragged his hands down, claws having formed. “Aziraphale,” he gasped the name out, the one eye that still looked normal going unfocused. “Principality. In love with the demon Crowley,” he shuddered and twitched, slamming back against the wall. “Angel. Old friend. Little brother.” He shuddered again, sobbing. “Can’t hold on to the memories, can’t make them stay—”

Aziraphale practically ran across the room to him, dropping down to his knees in front of him. “Oh, this is much worse than they told me,” he whispered.

“Michael’s influence. Making me forget faster. Fall apart.” Gabriel’s grimace was pained. “Doesn’t want me to survive. Wants me dead.” His hands tugged faster, his head shaking wildly as he jammed his spine further into the wall. The tips of his fingers were an almost-bloodied red, his neck covered in scratches and red lines. “Wants me silent—”

“I’ve got you,” Aziraphale cupped his hands over Gabriel’s, pulling them gently away.

From the connection between them, something bubbled up in his memories – a feeling of safety, of happiness and peace, the kind he had not known since he was newly created. In shock, he dropped the connection.

“Too many memories,” Gabriel hissed out, shaking again. “Too much shoved behind a wall, taken away…”

Behind him, Aziraphale could sense Crowley, could tell he was being watched by both him and Dagon. Taking a fortifying deep breath, he nodded once and dove back in, laying his hands over Gabriel’s and twining their fingers together, pulling his new claws away from the sensitive flesh of his throat. “You can make it through this,” he whispered. He closed his eyes, letting the memories take over.

He didn’t know what he would be getting, but he would let it work itself through.

Share the burden.

He was New.

Newly created, the youngest so far, tagging along behind Gabriel wherever he went. Brothers, She had told them. Meant to be Brothers, look after him, Gabriel.

Gabriel had smiled at Her, at their Father, and nodded.

And Aziraphale had followed him.

He had shown Aziraphale so much, so far – the newest flowers, the very first ones, the plans for the stars that Raphael was supposed to put in the skies. Raphael himself had been very insistent they not see much of those, intent on perfecting them and placing them as carefully as possible. His eyes had glittered and the fall of hair over his shoulder had been lovely, artistic, and Gabriel had congratulated him.

Had introduced Aziraphale.

They had spent time talking over those same plans, Gabriel and Raphael discussing helping each other with their tasks.

Gabriel had made sure to include him.

He had seen Gabriel with someone, someone being held close.

When he told his big brother that, Gabriel had gone strangely quiet. “Do I need to…” Gabriel pinched his lips together. “Is that a problem?”

“It feels like love,” Aziraphale laughed. “Why would it be a problem?”

Gabriel’s face relaxed and he smiled back. “Their name is Ramiel,” he told Aziraphale. “And I love them with everything I can love them with. Every part of me that is available is for them – More beloved to me than my tasks, then the very reason for my existence. Aziraphale,” he laughed. “I am glad you know of this, because I have been wanting to tell so many things to you.”

“They make you happy,” Aziraphale’s smile grew, grasping his brother’s hands. “I am glad.”

The spark in Gabriel’s eyes told him so much.

His brother was so deeply in love that it would change the entirety of existence.

And so was he.

Raphael’s golden eyes were curious as he stared down the younger angel, Aziraphale could see that much.

“You’re Gabriel’s little brother,” the Archangel circled around Aziraphale, his black wings fluttering behind him as he moved. They seemed to trail stardust, the lines of gold across his cheeks seeming to shine in some unknown light. “I remember you. You wanted to see my stars.”

He chuckled, coming to stand in front of Aziraphale again. “Such a curious Principality,” he crooned the words, hands folded in front of him. “Guided by such kindness, by such…” he took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. Aziraphale couldn’t quite see his entire face in the memory, only a feature here and there, but he remembered the Archangel being lovely. “Such high regard for those who need help.” Raphael eventually settled on the words.

“Your creations are lovely,” Aziraphale managed to make himself say.

Raphael laughed, a nearly delicate sound, one hand pressed against his mouth. His fingers were graceful, curling under after a second. “My stars are beautiful,” he nodded, turning to look towards the ones he was working on right then. “These are Alpha Centauri,” he gestured for Aziraphale to follow him. “A binary star system – two orbiting each other so closely that they will appear to be one.”

His smile turned wry as he glanced sidelong at Aziraphale. “You—”

The memory fell apart.

Aziraphale fell deeper.

“I need to find them,” Gabriel’s voice was unsteady, his entire being shaking and quavering. His hands were trembling. “Ramiel said they would meet me today, they would not have lied about that, would not have brushed it off and not come!”

“I know!” Aziraphale caught his hands in his own, lacing their fingers together in an attempt to calm his brother down. Sometimes, Gabriel got so caught up in his panic that it was the only thing Aziraphale could do.

His palms against the backs of Gabriel’s hands, thumbs pressed into his palms, reaching out a spar of his own power and touching Gabriel’s core—

Just like he was doing now.

He could feel the last touch of Ethereality in his brother, the brother he had been made to forget.

Michael had twisted them apart, had forced them to separate and never be so close again. He had needed a General and a Soldier, not a set of brothers so close that Gabriel had taught Aziraphale how to fly.

With a deep breath, Aziraphale reached out and found the withered spark of Divinity, tugging gently at it until it came further out. Gabriel shuddered, nearly sobbing as he wrenched against Aziraphale’s hold.

If it had been any other angel in Aziraphale’s place, it would not have worked.

If it had been any other in Gabriel’s place, their core would not have responded.

Between them, like the brightest galaxy of stars, power flared and crackled, pouring into Gabriel. Like a dying plant in reverse, he seemed to come to life again, revived at the new energy. When his eyes opened, one of them was still black but the other was clear again, responsive to the space around him. Aziraphale’s head was spinning a little, but he could smile through the dizziness.

He could feel Gabriel’s Ethereality again.

“Well,” he nodded primly, still holding his Brother’s hands. “Hm.” He turned to the door, to Crowley. “Don’t panic, my dear.”

His eyes rolled back.

Aziraphale passed out.

X

Gabriel reacted without really thinking about it.

He managed to pull Aziraphale back up and keep him from hitting his head on the floor.

His brother ended up resting against his shoulder, unconscious and lax, and he looked down at him with eyes that still felt unbalanced. Crowley rushed into the room, dropping to his knees and skidding the last bit of the way until he almost overbalanced and fell on his side. Gabriel let him take Aziraphale, keeping a watchful eye on his little brother.

His brother.

He had treated him so cruelly.

Had told him to –

Gabriel felt like he was going to be sick, clamping a hand over his mouth. The worst part of it was that hadn’t been Michael. That had been his own reaction to something not going his way, to Aziraphale not going along with the plan he’d had. His own frustration and anger and he was disgusted with himself. He’d been annoyed with his own words, before, but now it was purely disgust and fury.

Michael had planted the seeds, certainly, but he had allowed it to grow.

“I need your help,” Gabriel looked up from his hands and addressed Crowley. “I know you’ve said you will help, I know you know my plans, but I need to get into Heaven and stop Michael from ever—” his voice cracked. “Ever. Doing this again.” His chest heaved, his hands clenching into nearly-painful fists.

The fury of an Archangel was still the fury of an Archangel, even when he was Fallen.

Footsteps approached and Dagon stepped into the room, followed by Beelzebub. They looked startled, their eyes narrowed as they took in the scene. “You’ve been stabilized,” they stared at Gabriel, hands clasped behind their back. “Perfect.”

“We take down Heaven’s tyrant now,” Gabriel lifted his chin, feeling the bolstered core flare within him. Aziraphale had saved him, he knew that. His little brother and him had once been close, unwilling to part for too long. He had protected him, taught him how to fly, trained him in his duties. Archangel Gabriel and Principality Aziraphale – a matched set, friends and brothers. Aziraphale had just saved his life. “Michael cannot be allowed to stay in control, not when this is the result.”

“You’ve recovered more memories, then?” Beelzebub stepped closer, walking in a half-circle in front of Gabriel. There was some amount of posturing they were having to do. “Useful, I would think.”

“You should have some hope,” Gabriel grinned, unable to resist.

They were looking at him with a spark in their eyes, something that said they were quietly pleased with him. He remembered that look, remembered seeing it after he’d helped arrange the landscape of the Beginning. They had been pleased with him then and they were pleased with him now. Beelzebub, Ramiel, it didn’t matter—

He was in love with both.

The softer, kinder Ramiel and the conniving, cunning Beelzebub. Light and dark, Heaven and Hell, he loved both so much it almost hurt.

“Hope?”

“Aziraphale remembers some things now too,” Gabriel laughed. “Michael cannot hide this, not when it’s so widespread. He cannot hope to keep this from getting out, not even with the Fall of those like myself – those who could spread the knowledge around.”

Beelzebub’s eyes practically lit up, a slow smile turning up the corners of their mouth.

“But he—” Gabriel stopped, his eyes going wide.

Oh.

Fuck.

“Sandalphon,” Gabriel looked up again, then turned to Crowley. “Sandalphon’s in on Michael’s plans, he has to be. Once…It was impossible to connect it, before, but now I have both sets of memories. Sandalphon was assigned to follow me around after Ramiel Fell. I think it may have been to keep an eye on me, keep me in check.” He brushed a hand back through his hair, narrowing his eyes as he thought about it, remembered every moment the angel had followed him around. “Michael wanted someone loyal to him to keep tabs on me.”

Crowley’s jaw dropped and he curled Aziraphale a little closer to his chest, brushing the angel’s hair out of his face. There was something about him, much like there had been with Beelzebub, but it was fainter. Like it had been important, but less so. Especially in comparison to Beelzebub.

But behind Crowley, like a haze, he could see three pairs of wings.

Which was interesting, because he knew Crowley only had one set. He had seen them during Armageddon-that-never-was.

Something about that tugged at his memories but he hadn’t gotten enough back yet.

“I will need all the help I can get in Heaven,” Gabriel lowered his voice, meeting Crowley’s gaze as much as he could. The sunglasses prevented it somewhat, but he did his best. “And I would ask you to convince Aziraphale to help. My behavior has entirely warranted his fury with me, I would not blame him for being angry.” He glanced down at his brother before looking up to Crowley again. “I will need his help.”

Crowley reached up and whipped his sunglasses off and Gabriel almost gasped as the memory fit itself back into place. “Are you joking—” he looked flabbergasted, ready to launch into a rant, but Gabriel could no longer hear him.

He knew that face, knew those features in combination. Scales replaced the stardust these days, slit pupils a thin black line, but the golden eyes and the red of his hair made his identity obvious enough to anyone who knew what they were looking for. For the first time in centuries, in hundreds and hundreds, in thousands of years, Gabriel was looking at someone he had thought long since lost.

His hold on Aziraphale was protective, gentle and caring, loving, and that might have been a clue itself.

Raphael stared back at him, unaware of himself.

Chapter Text

It had, surprisingly, taken very little time to talk Aziraphale into storming Heaven with them.

Mostly, his angel had already been ready to go the moment he had woken up. Something about remembering, about what he had remembered being important. Gabriel was his brother, he had said, even having Fallen.

Crowley almost laughed as they walked along.

Aziraphale was, even after all this time, something of a mystery to him. He had been in love since before the invention of the wheel, could list off every habit the angel had when it came to every hobby he had, but his angel was still just…A mystery. Forgiving Gabriel, even a little bit? After what had been done? It was a surprise. Crowley knew how angry Aziraphale had been about the trials, about how Michael had tried to have them both killed—

Well, that was a thought worth looking into later. Both of their trials had been egged on by Michael.

Michael had delivered the Holy Water and Michael had chosen the method of execution for Aziraphale. Michael had been the one with a contact in Hell. A backchannel, Gabriel had told him once. Michael had said he’d had a backchannel.

Shit.

Looking over the small crowd, Crowley felt the urge to start laughing and just…Not stop. They were about to go directly against Michael, the small and somewhat pathetic band of renegades that they were. Crowley, Aziraphale, Gabriel, Dagon, and surprisingly, Beelzebub themself. Three demons, a Fallen, and an angel who had helped to avert Armageddon. The other urge Crowley felt was the desire to track down several bottles of alcohol and down them all at once.

He ignored both urges.

“I haven’t used the back pathways into Heaven in some time,” Gabriel muttered as he led them through what seemed to be a blank space between the places. “But I know it’s around here somewhere…Ah,” he leaned into a void and disappeared.

His head popped back out a second later and he waved for them to follow.

They all stayed silent as they walked through, arriving in a distant part of Heaven that Crowley vaguely, somehow, recognized. It was an unbidden thing, the recognition of it, and he frowned at the one door that stood where they had arrived. Lonely, dark wood, and seeming like it had been ignored.

His hands itched as he stared at it and Crowley reached out to pluck softly at Aziraphale’s collar. “What’s that?” he asked.

Aziraphale stopped and stared at it as well, his eyes nearly round as he considered it. “I don’t recall,” he turned to look at Gabriel, who had paused and was looking at the both of them. “Gabriel?”

His entire body flinched as he stared at the door.

“Gabriel?” Aziraphale called his name again. “What’s wrong?”

Gabriel moved as if in a trance, towards the door. His hands were shaking as he reached for it, trembling even as they pressed against the wood. “The last time I was here…” he whispered. “I was here.” He looked down at the handle, one hand drifting towards it as if magnetized. Dagon glanced between Gabriel and Beelzebub, but made no move to stop the Fallen from what he was doing. He did shift himself between the two, however, when it looked like Beelzebub would. Gabriel, seemingly unaware of this, looked down at his fingers around the handle, his eyes glassy. “I was here,” he repeated.

He opened the door.

There were very few sights, throughout the entirety of history, that had made Crowley want to go sprinting off the deep end, screaming all the way down. Even fewer still that made him want to curl into the smallest shape he could possibly manage and just…Forget he’d ever been alive.

The Spanish Inquisition had been one of those.

The Holocaust had been another.

The room behind the door was…A contender.

It was full of angels.

They were hanging in the air, their eyes closed, with their halos exposed. Some of them seemed to be breaking apart, fractures in their faces, the tips of them fading into nothingness. Like someone had come along and simply erased bits of them. Or pushed them off an edge, made of glass and ready to shatter.

Crowley reached out blindly and grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, holding it tightly.

Like puppets on strings that had been put away, their feet dangled above the floor. Their heads hung limply, either unconscious, dead, or dying – Crowley didn’t know. He couldn’t see. Being a demon, he was cut off from the ranks of Heaven and he couldn’t feel it, either.

From Aziraphale’s gasping sob, stifled the second he’d let it out with a knuckle between his teeth, he could feel it and Crowley was lucky to not do so.

They stared into the room full of unconscious or dying angels with closed eyes, their mouths hanging open. Dagon had a hand cupped over his mouth, his eyes echoing the light of several halos at once. “This is awful,” he whispered. “What it this room?” the question seemed to be pulled from him, curiosity outweighing his horror. Even disgusted, he still sought knowledge. That was one of the few arenas he and Crowley could agree on.

Even Beelzebub, the one exposed to Hell for the longest, was aghast at the sight before them. Crowley almost felt the urge to reach over and push their jaw closed, but he was stuck in his horror.

An angel never really showed their halo.

If a halo was showing, it meant one of two things: either they were fighting for their life or they were about to die. Sometimes those two circumstances were the same thing – life or death wars happened. Angels died, slaughtered and thrown aside and broken until their shattered bodies turned into nothing more than dust. To have an entire room full of angels, eyes closed and halos exposed, meant that they were in danger.

In pain.

“We can’t…” Gabriel’s throat clicked as he swallowed, fear in his eyes. Something about it plucked at something within Crowley, something familiar but not. “We can’t leave them like this.”

“We have to,” Beelzebub glanced at him. “Information gathering. Not a rescue mission, not when it could risk our lives.”

They looked just as horrified as the Fallen at their side.

“I cannot just—” Aziraphale was shaking, his eyes tearing up as he shook his head gently. “Are these…Is this what happens to those who defy Michael?” he whispered the words, as if he didn’t want to say them any louder. Like saying them louder would make them worse. He looked at Gabriel and Crowley could read the question in his eyes. ‘Is this what happened to you?’ was practically a neon sign sprouting from his angel’s forehead. He didn’t ask it, however. Instead: “…Is that Raguel?”

Crowley turned to look where his angel was pointing, Aziraphale’s hand warm around his, clenching tightly in panic and terror.

He was right.

Off to one side, tucked into a corner within the seemingly endless expanse of the room, was Raguel. The justice-keeper of Heaven, the one who made sure everything balanced. Crowley knew who he was the same way he knew most things – the knowledge flitted through his mind from some deep part of himself, there and then gone. Raguel’s dark skin and silver hair was easy to spot amongst the crowd, his purely-white eyes closed. The silver freckles like constellations along his cheeks were dim.

From what Crowley knew, they usually glowed.

This was what happened to those who went against a tyrant, Crowley understood that.

His grip on Aziraphale’s hand tightened.

Had their ploy worked to keep Aziraphale from being in this room, from joining the ranks of those put away like old toys?

Had Gabriel’s Fall kept him from this same fate? Gabriel’s memories being unblocked by Beelzebub had unleashed a wave of some others – the Fallen had admitted to Crowley about remembering being shoved into a dark room for a while.

Temporary confinement.

After that was when the memory blocks had been put into place.

“Gabriel’s right,” he muttered. “We can’t leave them like this.” He shook his head when Beelzebub turned on him, a faintly startled buzz coming from them. “But we can’t help them right now. We’ll get caught, we’ll get killed,” he swallowed his nerves. “Or we’ll join them. Later. We can help them later – no one will help them if we get caught and Michael finds us here.”

Aziraphale turned to him, looking as if he were going to be sick. “Crowley,” he whispered.

“C’mon, angel,” Crowley tugged gently at their joined hands. “I know someplace we have to be. If Metatron’s involved, we have to get proof of it. We have to make certain we can prove it to others, if they ask. And they will ask. We also have to get to the File Room.”

“I can handle that,” Dagon finally spoke up, his eyes almost glassy as he continued to stare up at some of the silenced angels. One of them seemed to catch his eyes, his gaze lingering on her face.

“Good,” Gabriel nodded, turning away with obvious reluctance.

Crowley could not blame him.

Those were his siblings. Perhaps some of them had been asleep for so long he might not remember them, perhaps some of them had only been in there for so long. The problem was that he hadn’t known what had happened to them. They would have simply disappeared. Maybe Michael had erased memories with their disappearances, maybe he had told Heaven’s host that they were off on missions.

Maybe he simply hadn’t said anything at all.

“C’mon,” Crowley urged again. “We’ve got to go.”

They all followed him when he started to walk away, still holding Aziraphale’s hand. Everything Crowley remembered about Heaven was being called into question.

The Fallen did not remember much.

But he had always remembered more than most. He’d remembered the cold empty spaces, the vast expanses of white. Heaven was empty, judgment in full, and had never once been accepting or kind. That was what he remembered. His final impression of his first home had been cold and miserable and lonely.

And now there was an explanation for why.

Taking a deep breath, Crowley snapped his fingers, looking up with what might have been called fire in his eyes. “Sorry, everyone, little demonic miracle and all that,” he turned his head, the edges of his mouth twitching when he spotted the Metatron staring at them. He’d teleported the entire group of them. “I figured we needed to move things along a little faster. This is no longer an information-gathering mission.”

Gabriel nodded a couple of times, brushed off the front of his sweater, then lunged.

His hand was around Metatron’s throat before anything could be said.

“I need to know,” he snarled, “Exactly what Michael is planning!” his nostrils flared, his eyes narrowing. “Given that you seem to be in contact with him, we figure you might know—”

“The Fallen should not re-enter Heaven—”

“Oh, do shut up,” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He had told Crowley what had happened the last time he had contacted the Metatron, had explained in detail what had been said and what had been done. Just like how he had reacted to Michael when put into Crowley’s place, this was centuries of pent-up annoyance and anger. “We need some questions answered.”

Crowley could almost hear the polite end of that sentence, the one that Aziraphale had no doubt forced himself to leave off.

“Michael’s plans are his own, you cannot expect me to tell you—”

“I don’t give a damn about Michael’s privacy, I could honestly not care less! What has happened as a result of his plans is dangerous!” Gabriel practically roared the words. “I’ve lost someone, he took memories from me, and you should be wondering if he has done the same to you!”

“He would not!” Metatron put a hand to his chest, looking aghast at the very suggestion. “He has included me on them, I know what they are. Do you really think he would double-cross me so easily? Me, who gave him the ability to lock God—” he stopped cold, throwing his hands over his mouth. As if hoping none of them had heard it, he looked slowly around the group of them.

“You lot continue on,” Crowley stared at Metatron as he spoke, his hands curled into fists. “I think we can deal with this.”

Aziraphale nodded, narrowing his eyes at Metatron. “Oh, yes, I do be believe we can.” He glanced at Gabriel. “Make enough of a ruckus and the Archangels will come running to defend God’s sanctum, yes?” he smiled when Gabriel nodded.

“Come on,” Gabriel muttered, staying close to Beelzebub’s side. “We have to go find Michael.”

They nodded, following him after a moment of staring at Metatron.

Aziraphale smiled as he watched them leave. When he turned back to Metatron, however, he let his smile drop. “You were involved in Beelzebub’s fall, weren’t you?” he nodded, making sure his displeasure was visible on his face. He reached for the hand he knew was next to his, curling his fingers gently over Crowley’s. His demon’s fist softened at his touch, turning in his grasp and twining their fingers together. “In Crowley’s fall.”

Metatron looked horrified, now, his eyes wide as he stared at the point of connection between the two of them.

“You’re going to let us in there,” Crowley nodded towards the door. It was said kindly, a small smile was even on his lips, but there was no mistaking it for a suggestion. Behind him, Dagon stood up a little straighter and nodded.

“I am going to the filing room,” he said, as if he had just realized something very important. “Metatron and Michael were always very strict about keeping details.” His smile was vaguely unpleasant. “And I can find a file anywhere. Hell does not keep things as neat as Heaven does.” His teeth were sharp when his smile turned into a grin. “And I know who would be there.”

He detached from the group as well, heading in the opposite direction of where Gabriel and Beelzebub had gone.

Despite the smaller numbers, Metatron still looked awfully pale.

“I’ve had enough of Heaven interfering and attempting to intimidate,” Aziraphale stroked his thumb over the meaty part of Crowley’s hand, a small gesture meant to soothe. “You are going to let us in.”

“You can breathe Hellfire,” Metatron whimpered the words.

“Yes, so perhaps you ought to let me do what I am trying to do,” Aziraphale held his head up high, trying to embody confidence. At his side, Crowley nodded, pulling his sunglasses down his nose to peer over them, his eyes fully yellow, his slit pupils pinned directly on Metatron. “I’ve had enough of Michael’s bullying, his manipulations, his altering of orders and the changes to the way things are supposed to have gone – you know what it is I can do,” he gestured between himself and Crowley. “What it is we can do. You should let. Us. In.”

Metatron stepped back, his back against the door he was guarding. “This is the demon who can bathe in Holy Water.” He whispered.

“Yeah,” Crowley grinned. “You really should let us in.”

He lunged forward, grabbing Metatron by the shoulders and dragging him away from the door. “I don’t like being denied things I want,” Crowley hissed. “Especially not when Aziraphale wants them as well.” He crouched down, lowering Metatron to the floor, his hands curled in the collar of the angel’s shirt. “Aziraphale?”

The door opened slowly under his touch.

Inside the room, stretching out into the vastness above his head, was a garden.

Plants covered the walls, vines and flowers towering above him as he stepped inside. The air smelled wonderful, like the original Garden, and he had to smile. “Crowley?”

“Alright, how’s this for a ruckus?” Crowley dropped Metatron on the floor, racing into the room. Somewhere, an alarm rang out, shrieking and panicked. A demon had entered God’s sanctum – it couldn’t look good to those who were watching, to those who would be standing guard elsewhere. “A demon where he shouldn’t be,” he muttered, taking Aziraphale’s hand once more.

Together, they walked to the center of the room.

There, lying on the floor, cushioned by plants, cradled by the things she had created, was someone who could only be God. Her left hand was pressed flat to the floor, sending power into the plants, giving them life and the ability to grow. Her right arm was curled up under her head, like a person sleeping. Her face was relaxed, her hair twisted and wild around her.

“She looks like Eve,” Crowley spoke first.

“Eve looked like Her,” Aziraphale corrected. “The first humans were created in her image, after all.”

Crowley crouched down next to Her, hesitating for a minute before putting a hand on Her shoulder. He shook gently, like trying to wake a child from a dream. “Hey,” he muttered. “We need your help.”

Aziraphale could feel the approach of others, coming from down the hallway. “Crowley?”

“Just a minute, angel,” he paused, staring down at the sleeping face of God, then pulled Her left hand off of the floor. “We need you,” he whispered.

Her eyes opened slowly.

Sitting up, wobbling and unsteady, she looked around the room. “I have been asleep for too long,” she glanced up at Aziraphale, then smiled. “You’ve lost your sword,” she tried to stand up, nearly falling over before Crowley caught her, helping her to her feet. “You can say you haven’t, but I know better. Has it turned up yet?”

“Well,” Aziraphale hedged.

“Um,” Crowley glanced down at the floor.

“It has been quite some time, since then,” Aziraphale found his voice again. “The Garden is long since gone – though you’ve recreated it quite beautifully in here!” he gestured at the walls. “The trouble is—the trouble is that Michael has taken over Heaven, since you’ve been asleep in here. I suspect he’s the reason you’ve slept this long.”

“This is going to take forever—Look,” Crowley turned his head to look at her, clearing his throat. “Michael’s gone absolutely power-mad, stolen your position by pretending to receive orders from you through the Metatron, who is working with him. They tried to send us all into Armageddon and when that didn’t work, Michael blamed Gabriel, who then had a trial and Fell.”

“Michael—”

“And, and!” Crowley continued as if he hadn’t heard Her. “We’ve brought Beelzebub into Heaven! We stormed into Heaven with a couple of demons because what is happening isn’t, we believe, supposed to happen!”

She grasped his face with one hand, the other still clutching at his shoulder. “Who has Fallen besides Gabriel?” She looked wounded, like someone had taken a shot at Her heart. “Which of my children are no longer where they are supposed to be?”

“A great deal many,” Aziraphale stepped forward. “And—”

God was staring at Crowley, her eyes wide. “You Fell before I lost track,” she narrowed her eyes at him, trying to focus. “Oh,” it was a small sound, hurt and forced out of her. “Raphael.” She smoothed her thumb over his cheek. “The maker of the stars, the one who hung them in the sky.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead, not even having to lean up to do so. “What have they done to my children?”

“Too much,” came a new voice from the door. Jegudiel stood there, his arms held tightly at his sides, his sword in one hand.

The rest of the Seraphim stood behind him, staring in awe at the sight before them.

“We must stop what is to come,” God told them, her arm still looped over Crowley’s shoulder. “Or else we will lose some who must not be lost.”

Chapter Text

He had not, perhaps, chosen the best way of going about things.

Dagon looked around the file room, feeling almost comforted by the way it stretched out around him. For the first time in nearly as long as he could remember, he felt like he had managed to find something like coming home. He smiled as he passed the shelves near the door, slipping deeper into the maze-like room.

Heaven was meticulous about files, Michael even more so.

Anything he had done, even something as illicit as what seemed to be happening, would have been written down and filed away somewhere.

And since Dagon had set foot in Heaven, some things had come back to him.

“You’ve ruined everything!” Michael’s voice was loud, the thundering wrath of their Father but without the low rumble of Her steadiness. She was absent, lately, and he held in his hands the reason why. Michael and Metatron and a handful of others had locked Her away. “Razsiel, you dare defy the will of our Father?”

“I am not the one defying Her,” he clenched his hands around the files he held to his chest, his knuckles white as he held his ground, raising his head proudly. “And all will know, Michael.”

“Bind him,” Michael’s eyes were cold, frozen even, as he stared down his nose at Razsiel. “We have a trial to undergo. Those who defy our Father must Fall.” He turned, not even bothering to watch as Razsiel was pushed roughly to the ground, the files pulled from him as his hands were bound. His wings twitched as he was shuffled around. He waited until the right moment came.

When it came, he thrust his wings outward as hard as possible, sending those holding him reeling.

From there, it was a simple enough matter to leap towards the shelves, knocking one down and watching as they all fell. “If I am to Fall,” Razsiel turned his head towards Michael, who had turned to look at the chaos with furious disbelief in his eyes. “I will earn it.”

“So be it,” Michael pulled out his sword, advancing upon Razsiel. “I see no reason to hold your trial in the proper rooms, since it comes to this.”

He swung his sword, slicing a gash across Razsiel’s arm, catching his chin and snapping his head sideways. “Tell me, Michael,” Razsiel hissed, being forced to his knees. “Do you feel better, letting your wrath out on those who would call you brother?” he met Michael’s eyes. “Do your sins leave you when you take them out on others?”

“I sentence you to Fall,” Michael snarled. “To the depths of Hell.”

“Gladly,” Razsiel grinned.

He turned a corner, feeling the burning against his skin of Heaven’s energy. This had not been home in so long, had not been welcoming to him for eons, but he missed it even so. Dagon trailed his fingers against the books, the shelves feeling warm under his touch.

When he turned another corner and ran into someone, stopping mere inches from them, he chuckled. “Sandalphon,” he raised his eyebrows. “Did Michael really think you were worthy to replace me as the file-keeper?”

Sandalphon would have looked less surprised if he had been shot out of a cannon and through a burning hoop.

“Ra—” he cleared his throat, clutching the files he held to his chest. A quick glance at them told Dagon they were the ones he was looking for. “Dagon. A demon in Heaven.” He looked around, eyes wide. “A demon! In Heaven!”

“Oh, I know,” Dagon crooned, leaning into his space.

He slipped a deft hand to Sandalphon’s waist and pulled the dagger he wore away, twirling it delicately through his fingers. “Did you think this would protect you?” he chuckled again, snatching the files from the angel’s hands. “Did Michael tell you, convince you somehow, that this would all turn out nicely for you? That there would be no retribution from those he sentenced to Fall?” he yanked Sandalphon off his feet, dragging him to a wall. The files fell to the floor and scattered, but he paid them no mind – he could reorganize them later. “You’ve taken things that are not yours, you and Michael. Displaced some who were then mistreated.”

“Which demons did you bring—”

“I’ve brought no one,” Dagon shook his head, baring his teeth. He leaned in, intentionally threatening, and sniffed at Sandalphon’s throat. “I am not the mastermind of this plot.”

He hauled Sandalphon up higher and shoved the dagger through the material he wore, pinning him quite effectively.

“And you should have chosen your side more carefully,” Dagon turned away from Sandalphon to retrieve the files, shuffling them back into order quickly. It was all there—the reasoning for the Falls, the plots. Michael had always been meticulous with paperwork and removing Dagon – Razsiel – from the position of file-keeper had protected his worst secrets. Human blood and angelic ichor dripped from Michael’s hands and all of it was recorded in the files Dagon held. He had held this before, when the file itself was much thinner.

“Demon,” a voice came from behind him.

With a small sigh, Dagon turned and spotted a cluster of angels, all of them armed. “Oh,” he sneered. “Did I interrupt your day? It’s only—there is a tyrant in Heaven and I think everyone should know of him.”

“A tyrant.” one of them stepped forward, sheathing his sword as he did, like the words had sparked some sort of connection in his mind. “I have gotten news from Aziraphale, that something is not right, but I have not heard from him since.” He pushed his way to the front, pushed down swords as he moved. “I am Jegudiel,” he put a hand to his chest. “You—”

“I was Razsiel,” Dagon held up the files. “I Fell because Michael found me rifling through his secrets.”

He hesitated, then held them out. “I once promised him that all would know,” he watched as Jegudiel scanned the pages held out to him, his eyes going wide as he went. “And I have come to fulfill that promise. I do not remember much of my life before my Fall, but I remember my Fall. An improper trial, held in this very room. Michael did his best to get rid of me as quickly as possible.”

Sandalphon twitched, flailed, then managed to get a hand into his pocket—

One of the angels was standing in front of Dagon, her wings spread. The liquid Sandalphon had thrown at Dagon splashed harmlessly against them, not a single droplet hitting its target. “Annabiel,” she introduced as she smiled at him, just a touch of wariness in her eyes. Good. He would have thought her an idiot if she had trusted him at his word.

The others seemed to relax, after that.

The alarm in the air undid that in a moment and they all stood at attention. “That is the alarm at the quarters of our Father,” Annabiel raised her head, eyes wide.

“We have some questions to ask Her,” Jegudiel swept through the room, leaving Sandalphon pinned to the wall. “And some demons to protect, it seems.” He gestured at Dagon as the other angels followed him, keeping Dagon in the middle. A protective wall, in case any other Holy Water came his way. “If he is here, there are others.”

“Oh, there are,” Dagon nodded.

Angels protecting a demon.

The world was tilting strangely, again.

X

Jegudiel stared at Aziraphale.

In all honesty, he could not help himself. The Principality was working with three demons, a Fallen, and helping God Herself stay upright. The fabric of reality seemed to have twisted, Jegudiel thought. He exchanged a glance with Annabiel, then nodded. “If you could kindly fill us in,” he requested after a moment. “I would very much appreciate it.”

“I have misbehaving children,” She sighed.

The Metatron, gagged with what looked to be tape over his mouth, glared at Crowley. His hands were bound as well, though that seemed to be less of an issue than the tape keeping him held to the wall. “I managed a small miracle to keep him from running away or alerting Michael,” Crowley spoke up.

Aziraphale smiled. “And we’ve got three more running around Heaven, trying to help us untangle Michael’s plot.”

“Two,” Dagon spoke up from within the crowd of angels. Jegudiel had handed back the files, unsure of what might happen if they came across an angel involved in Michael’s plotting. They were, oddly, safer in the hands of the demon. “I’m right here.”

“Did you find the files?” Crowley had to stand on his toes to try to see Dagon past the wall of angels surrounding him.

Dagon looked blankly at Crowley for a moment. “Did I find the—No, I’m the File-Keeper and I couldn’t find the files.” He held them up so that Crowley and Aziraphale could see them and Jegudiel almost laughed at how offended he sounded. There was something so familiar about him, about the way he carried himself and the way he spoke.

Annabiel looked at him, a small smile on her lips.

“We are expecting another,” she said. “I contacted Balthazar and she should be here soon. She has been searching through Heaven, trying to find those who would pledge loyalty to Michael. We know there are some who are doing such a thing. She is finding the turncoats.”

“Finding betrayers was always her specialty,” Aziraphale murmured.

Their Father looked upon them all and Jegudiel felt a part of himself waking up. It was a part of himself that had not been awake in some time, sleeping for centuries. “I have been asleep for all this time,” She whispered, clutching at Crowley and Aziraphale’s shoulders. Her form was trembling, incapable of independent movement for the moment. “My children…” She was shaking, her hands clenched. “What has Michael done to the rest of my children?”

Jegudiel stepped forward, raising his chin when She looked at him. “How much are you aware of?” he kept his sword out, though he kept it pointed down. “When did you stop watching us?”

“I was forced away,” She met his eyes. “When the Garden was still around.”

Those words made him feel cold.

He looked around the room, seeing the plants for the first time, and realized that it was the truth. The plants growing around them were ancient, varieties that had not been seen since the Garden. Some of them had gone extinct since then. There was a patch of grass on the floor in the shape of Her. “Forced away?” he managed to get the words out through lips that seemed to have gone numb.

His entire being seemed to have gone numb.

“Metatron managed to cage Her,” Aziraphale helped Her a little, getting out from under Her arm and leaving Her with Crowley. “We have not been abandoned – She was locked away.”

He reached out and wrapped his hands around Jegudiel’s wrist, a point of warmth and contact. In the small burst of power, Jegudiel could see what Aziraphale had witnessed, what he had done. He had bolstered Gabriel’s core, he had looked into the corruption of Heaven. He had been looking into the vastness of Heaven and seen the threads of the nightmare that none of the others had caught. “We have a mission,” Jegudiel spoke again. The warmth of his brother’s hands seemed to fill him, giving back the hope that had been drained.

“Jegudiel?” Sealtiel spoke up from the back of the cluster, his two swords in hand.

“We need to find Gabriel,” Jegudiel looked to his fellows, his gaze lingering on each one. “Michael will want him dead. We must keep this from happening – his Fall was not ordained by the proper authorities. Many others were not, either. We’ve lost so many because Michael has been in power.”

“Beelzebub is with him,” Crowley spoke up again.

Jegudiel stopped.

He turned to the demon and stared at him. “You let the Prince of Hell, Lord of the Flies,” he paused, took a deep breath, then continued. “Into Heaven.”

“They wanted to help,” Crowley grinned. “At first it was about invading and restarting the war between the two factions, but then they got drawn into our side of things and now they’re just trying to help right the wrongs that have been committed by Michael.”

“And you believe that—”

“It might help, actually,” Crowley just kept going and Jegudiel could not make room for his own words. “That Gabriel and Beelzebub are being drawn towards each other. I’ve seen them flirting. At least, I assume it was flirting.” He stopped, hummed quietly, then nodded. “Could be.”

“Beelzebub was someone in Heaven, once,” Dagon offered. “We all were, but I believe that Beelzebub and Gabriel knew each other.”

Jegudiel almost wanted to refute that.

He almost wanted to deny that as a fact, wanted to ignore the possibility of it, but he vaguely remembered Gabriel having someone. Someone who had traveled at his side in the very Beginning, someone who had loved him. The memories were faint, like they wanted to be forgotten, but they were there. Gabriel had been seen, in love and affection. Someone had loved him and he had loved them back.

“…I,” Jegudiel took a moment to close his eyes and think. “Oh.”

“They were ripped away from each other,” Aziraphale added. “If they are who I believe they were, Beelzebub was trialed unfairly, unjustly, and taken away.”

It was an interesting thing, to find how reality had suddenly changed.

“We need to find Michael,” Jegudiel said, allowing his worldview to shift. “If he is as furious as I think he will be, he will try to slaughter them.”

Chapter Text

“Let me get this straight,” Beelzebub looked up at Gabriel as they walked together down the halls of Heaven.

“Go ahead,” Gabriel nodded, not looking at them.

Something about that made them want to grab his chin to redirect his gaze, but they were moving at a clipping pace – it might have injured him, even just a little. They didn’t want to do that. Something inside of them had shifted since they had arrived in Heaven. “Your plan is no longer to sneak in, grab some files, then sneak out again. Your plan is now, correct me if I’m wrong,” they paused trying to figure out how to put his new madness into words. “To find Michael and confront him. Alone.”

“Yes.” Gabriel nodded again, glancing at Beelzebub out of the corners of his eyes. “You’re not going into that sort of a situation with me.”

“…And why not?”

“Well,” Gabriel looked away again. “Firstly, I figured you would not want to. Secondly, because I won’t let you.”

Buzzing quietly for a second, Beelzebub reached up and yanked as hard as they could on the back of his coat. Gabriel was dragged to a halt, the air dragged out of him by the force they had used. While he was stunned, they grabbed the front of his sweater, dragging him down to their level. “What do you mean, ‘I won’t let you’? You’re an idiot if you think you can fight Michael alone.”

Gabriel stared down at them, his lips parted. Even when he was being an idiot, he was still unfairly attractive to them. “I’ve been remembering some things.” He said after a few seconds. “And some of them have to do with…Well.” He looked almost bashful. “I’ll have to tell you later, but the memories make me inclined to not want to let someone follow me into an almost suicidal fight. You’re right, I probably cannot take Michael on by myself.” He took a deep breath, cupping his hands around theirs, where they were still clenching a fist in his clothing. “But I am not risking someone else’s life, their very existence, by taking them into the fight that is about to happen.”

There was something about the way he said that.

Somehow, Beelzebub knew, though they weren’t sure how—

Somehow, they knew he meant them.

He spoke in a way that sounded like he meant it generally, but some part of them was urging them to take it personally. It was the part of themself that they had tried to silence centuries before, when they had been newly Fallen and unable to remember anything. “Still such an angel,” Beelzebub muttered, letting go of his sweater. The action left their hand cupped inside both of his.

“You should go back to the others,” Gabriel whispered, still leaning down and meeting their eyes.

“What, and miss watching Michael try to kill you?” Beelzebub tried to make it sound casual, make it sound like they would not have cared, but they couldn’t keep their voice even enough to make that work. There was a slight quaver that gave them away.

Gabriel smiled, bowing his head over Beelzebub’s hand. “There is a lot we need to talk about, later.” He said in the softest tone they had ever heard from him.

He pulled his hands away, stood up straight, then continued walking.

Beelzebub followed him.

“I am heading to Michael’s office,” Gabriel explained a few strides later, his hands clasped behind his back. “I need my sword back, if I am to fight him, and both he and it are in the same place.” He glanced at Beelzebub. “In all honesty, you should not be with me when I get there.”

“I am not leaving,” Beelzebub muttered.

“Then be careful.”

They arrived at Michael’s office together, Gabriel hesitating before he walked in. Michael was not inside.

Gabriel held himself stiffly in the center of the office, his hands clenching. “I think my core is failing again,” he muttered, moving one hand to his chest. Beelzebub had been ignoring the slight sting of Heaven against them, the smack of pain against their feet with every step. Gabriel, so new to being Fallen, so close to being a demon, seemed to be incapable of doing the same.

“It will get easier with time,” they told him. “You’ll get used to it.”

He looked at them with a small smile on his face. If Beelzebub was telling the truth, it was a nice smile, soft and kind.

It fell off his face and practically shattered, replaced by fear and panic. “Beelzebub, look—”

They were thrown backward, slamming into the floor.

Above them was Michael, the door of his office open and allowing several other angels to step inside. “Did you think it would be that easy?” he looked at Gabriel as he was surrounded. “That I wouldn’t know where you were, once you stepped into my quarters?”

Michael pressed his foot down into Beelzebub’s chest, smirking as he looked down at the Lord of Flies, the Prince of Hell. “You still don’t remember who you are,” he nearly preened as the attention of the entire room turned back to him.

Gabriel was being held down, his wrists tied together in front of him, chains soaked in Holy Water burning faint lines into his skin. His wings were being held back, clutched in the unforgiving and clawing grips of a couple of angels. “Let them go!” he shouted. “They haven’t done anything to you, not recently, and they only came with me because I asked for it!”

If Beelzebub could have done so without bringing harm to Gabriel, they would have thrown a wall of Hellfire at those holding their Fallen.

Gabriel was still, just slightly, too much of Heaven to survive such an attack.

“Oh, I really don’t think so,” Michael shook his head. “Don’t either of you remember, yet?” he gestured down at Beelzebub, across the room to Michael. “This is, barring the presence of those you’ve brought with you, somewhere you have both been before.” He held out an arm, his hand curling around the hilt of his sword as it materialized in his grip. “Gabriel, the Archangel who saw too much, who showed up too early to somewhere he wasn’t invited,” Michael pointed his sword at Gabriel, a light of madness in his eyes. “And then, of course,” he chuckled, aiming his sword down at Beelzebub’s throat. “Oh, of course, how could I forget you?”

He leaned down, his full weight on the foot he kept on Beelzebub’s chest. “Ramiel. Always making trouble wherever they went.”

Beelzebub’s eyes went wide and Gabriel thrashed against those who had a hold on him, sobbing in pain as they continued pulling on his wings. They were still damaged, still recently-injured – they were, in all likelihood, causing him immense amounts of pain.

“If you would kindly recall,” Michael smiled. “You are sitting less than ten feet from where I cut your wings from you.”

Gabriel snarled, throwing himself against the tight grasp of those holding him back. “No—” he shuddered when one of them put a foot into his lower back, putting him off balance and sending him toppling backward. “No, Beelze—Rami—LEAVE THEM ALONE!”

“How sweet,” Michael aimed the tip of his sword at Beelzebub’s throat, rolling his eyes. “Neither of you remembered, did you? But of course you were growing fond of each other again. Why wouldn’t you?” his smile turned into a scowl, the sword he held digging into Beelzebub’s throat. “The two of you never did know when to let it go. To let each other go. I had to have Ramiel Fall! They were distracting you, Gabriel! The war needed you, my plans needed you! But you, you had to go and fall in love!”

He punctuated each word with his sword sliding, ever so slightly, over Beelzebub’s throat.

“And then, when Crowley – Raphael, of all angels!—found that useless Aziraphale and the two of you were reconnected, I knew I had to act quickly!” Michael’s eyes were quite glittering with madness, at this point. “It would only be so long before you truly found each other again!”

Beelzebub looked up at him, their mind racing.

Several things.

Crowley had been Raphael. That was something they were going to have to look into, at a later point. Provided they survived this, of course.

They had never corrupted an Archangel – it had been Michael trying to rule Heaven in the place of God, having locked her away. Metatron’s earlier words were proof enough of that, but it always helped to have more proof.

They had been Ramiel.

The soft looks Gabriel had worn, the way he had remembered them, the fondness in his eyes when he spoke of them – it was all for them. Not them as they were now, but as they had once been. Ramiel had become Beelzebub and the greatest trick that Heaven ever played was forcing the Fallen to forget. Ramiel, the Archangel of Hope, they who spread Divine Visions, guide to the souls of the Faithful on their journey into Heaven. They had always felt the need to meet with the newly Fallen, and they had always been adept at memories, at pulling information out and sending it into someone’s mind. That had been them.

Gabriel’s love had been for them.

“I could stab you. It has been some time since this sword has slain a demon, after all,” Michael leaned down again, a vial appearing in his hand. “But I think we should see how well a demon reacts to Holy Water. The last time I tried to test it, Crowley proved to be immune – I wonder, is it the same for those who are starting to remember?” he dribbled some down the blade of his sword, watching as the drops raced down the metal. Beelzebub’s breath quickened in their throat, eyes pinned on the drops of Holy Water as they approached.

Their skin hissed when it made contact.

“NO!” Gabriel’s voice was filled with terror and Beelzebub didn’t want to see the tears they could hear. They knew their Fallen would be crying for them, reaching and struggling and unable to get to them.

“If I could get your attention, please,” Beelzebub shifted at the sound of Aziraphale’s voice, their eyes finding the Principality where he stood at the wall of the room. His hands were clasped together in front of himself. Behind him were the other Archangels, watching in horror as Michael stood up straight, his mouth open in shock, Dagon in the middle of them. Next to Aziraphale was Crowley, supporting someone that Beelzebub had not seen in…Some time.

God Herself was leaning on Crowley’s shoulder, Her eyes wide.

She pushed away from him, taking several steps closer to the tableau they made, a golden glow emanating from Her skin.

The first sunrise, Beelzebub thought.

“Let them go, Michael,” Her words were soft but strong, Her eyes narrowed as She looked upon Her child.

“I see all of my plans have been ruined,” Michael snarled, his hand tightening around the vial of Holy Water as he looked around the room. The other Archangels had stepped forward with God, pulling those holding Gabriel back and away, forcing them to sit down, leaving him sitting on the floor. Michael seemed to consider something, glancing down at Beelzebub, his heel digging into their sternum.

He upended the vial.

From where they were pinned, Beelzebub could see things happening all around them. It was like time had warped, going so slow as to not be moving anymore.

In a rush of burnt feathers, glowing embers and the flaring of a coat, Gabriel was above them, shoving Michael out of the way and ducking between the fall of Holy Water and Beelzebub. Time sped up again as it splashed across his back, sizzling as it burned into him. Not enough of Heaven’s touch remained to keep him safe from it.

His knees, against the holy ground, sizzled faintly.

He had used the last of his Ethereality to perform a miracle, it seemed. A miracle to save Beelzebub.

“You moron,” Beelzebub pushed off from the ground, their hands curling around the base of Gabriel’s ruined wings, their own skin bubbling and popping as they touched the liquid poison. “You idiot!”

Gabriel’s eyes were locked on their face, his hands trembling as he lifted them to Beelzebub’s cheek. “I love you,” he said, the wind stolen from the words by the pain dragging itself through his body. “Did you think I wouldn’t save you?” there were tears in his eyes and Beelzebub was shaking just as hard as him. Their hands smelled burnt, the skin of their palms feeling like it was liquifying. “Love you as Ramiel, love you as Beelzebub.” His thumb, shaking and unsteady, stroked across their cheek. “I’ve…Known…” his words were coming out slower, now.

“The both of you should sleep,” God’s voice was soft. Reassuring, in a way.

Her hands came to rest on their foreheads.

Beelzebub knew nothing, after that.

Chapter Text

“The dissenters were easy to find,” a new voice carried over the expanse of the room.

Jegudiel looked up at the new arrival, but everyone else mostly kept their eyes on Beelzebub and Gabriel. They were both unconscious, settled in the middle of the room. Dagon looked up as well, his hands clenching uselessly in his lap, curled on top of the files that proved Michael had been doing wrong. There were long lists of the Fallen, those who had been made to Fall because they had not aligned with Michael’s plans. He’d already found his name, listed next to his new name and title – Razsiel, File-Keeper of Heaven.

Dagon, File-Keeper of Hell.

He’d just made a direct switch. He couldn’t remember much about who he had been, not much had come back to him since the fragment about his own Fall. About the pathetic excuse for a trial he’d gone through.

Jegudiel had, apparently, talked to the new arrival while Dagon had looked away. He found this out when the Archangel put a hand on his shoulder, glancing down at the files he held. “This is Balthazar,” he introduced the angel standing at his side. “She is the one who has been going through the ranks and finding those who sided with Michael.” He took a deep breath. “It is not in our natures to trust each other, but would you let her look through the files with you?”

Dagon looked up at her, picking the files up in trembling hands.

Before, there hadn’t been time to think about it. He had always known he’d started as an angel – just about every demon had. He’d been able to push it away to retrieve the files, to deal with Sandalphon and make his way through Heaven. “Here,” he managed to say. “Take a look.”

Balthazar peered at him, studying him carefully. “Here,” she waved a hand, a table and some chairs appearing. A Miracle. “Let’s get you off the floor.” She braced her hands around his wrists, pulling him up gently and maneuvering him into one of the chairs. “Our Father is nullifying the aura of Heaven around the demons currently here – you shouldn’t be feeling any pain from that, anymore. Let’s make you comfortable entirely, though.” She waved her hand again, conjuring up a pot of tea and some mugs. “I don’t know what kind you would like, but it’ll be something warm to hold onto.”

Knowing who he had been was very different from being aware of having once been an angel.

Specific versus general, after all.

Dagon shivered, leaning into the table and dropping his face into his hands. The other angels, the ones who had guided him around, had gone off once more. Annabiel stood not too far away, as if keeping an eye on them, but the others had gone to see to the room of damaged angels.

The ones that had, it turned out, been ones that Michael could not simply make disappear.

Too important in the hierarchy of Heaven.

A mug of tea was nudged between his hands, Balthazar’s hands wrapping around his. “It’ll help,” she whispered. “Really.”

Leaning his face into the steam, Dagon shuddered. He’d been keeping everything under control, before this. Centuries in Hell, cold and cramped and dark and damp, he had been under his own control. Remembering who he had been, even for a second, had pulled at that control. “Does this ever get any easier?” he asked his own hands, trying to keep himself reined in.

“We’ll help you,” Balthazar promised quietly. “You just have to let us.”

Her hands were warm around his, keeping his hands trapped against the mug. It was comforting in some odd way, though even odder when Aziraphale and Crowley joined them at the table. Both of them hesitated before sitting down, Crowley pulling out a chair for his angel.

Aziraphale poured himself some tea, wrapping his hands around it and staring off into the distance. “A bit odd, this,” he muttered, unintentionally echoing Dagon’s thoughts. “Memories, I mean.” He gestured at his head with one hand.

“You recovered some as well,” Dagon blinked a couple of times, looking up at him. “When you helped Gabriel?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale nodded. “I imagine I will have to take some time to go through them, perhaps try to understand them, but…” he shrugged one shoulder, leaning into Crowley’s side. There was something distant in his eyes, some almost traumatized spark, but he seemed to be managing. “You carry on, as best you can. These circumstances are often unusual, though I do not believe there has ever been something like this, before.”

“You’d think we’d have heard about it if there were,” Crowley curled his hand around Aziraphale’s elbow.

“I’ve recovered some things of myself,” Dagon told them both, still cradled in the warmth of Balthazar’s hands. Slowly, he slipped one of his own out, reaching towards the files and flipping them open. The pages fluttered as he navigated through them, but settled as he ran his finger down a page. “Razsiel,” he held out his hand, offering it to both of them. “I was Razsiel.”

That was the missing piece of himself.

It was as if becoming a demon had meant losing himself. His name, his history, his entirety of existence, was written over with blank spaces and loss. Becoming a demon meant being stripped of your identity.

But he had been someone, before. He only had a name and a title, but that was more than he’d had before.

“Razsiel,” Aziraphale took his hand, a faint smile on his lips. “Good to meet you.”

Balthazar smiled at all of them. “The dissenters were easy to find,” she said again. “Because they were the ones carrying vials of Holy Water around. Anyone loyal to Michael has a vial on their person – I suspect in case of something such as this. If the demons were to become aware enough of what had been done, the forced Falls, they would have lashed out. The vials were to make certain that none of them would be able to spread the news that Michael was attempting to rule Heaven.”

“…What happened to him?” Dagon turned to her, letting Aziraphale’s hand go.

“Michael?” Balthazar turned to Annabiel. “Anna?”

“Our Father,” Annabiel strode over to the table, sitting down gracefully. Her hip was pressed against Balthazar’s, a smile on their faces as they settled in. “Had him bound and placed in a room to await Judgement. It will be his Final Judgement – the tyrant will be set to trial. Those he has harmed, those who still live, will be brought in to testify to his misbehaviors and abuses.” She reached over and put a hand on Dagon’s shoulder. “We will bring those who Fell unfairly in and they will be given their memories back.”

Warmth flooded his chest as he stared at her, his mouth agape.

It felt almost too good to be true. An offer of his memories back, the one responsible seen punished.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Tears welled up as he said those words, but no one mentioned it as they fell down his cheeks.

Struck by realization, Dagon leaned towards the files, flipping through them quickly. “Crowley,” he turned the files to the other demon, laying them flat and holding them still. “I found you in here,” he pointed, tapping the page with his thumb.

Crowley leaned forward.

He was silent and still for a minute, his sunglasses hiding his eyes and his mouth giving nothing away. “I…” he turned his head up towards Dagon, his mouth hanging open. “What?”

There, written on the page, plainly and for all of them to see—

Raphael, Creator of the Stars – Crawley (Anthony J. Crowley), Originator of Sin.

“I found you,” Dagon said again.

X

When they woke up, they were wrapped in something soft.

Opening their eyes, Beelzebub looked around and saw nothing but white – pillows and blankets, curled almost lovingly around them. For a moment, they laid there, trying to sort out their mind, before they sat up with a hiss, hands clawing at the blankets as the memories of what had happened set in.

Gabriel.

Gabriel had gotten in between Beelzebub and the fall of Holy Water that would have killed them for good. Gabriel, who no longer had the protections of Heaven—

Gabriel, their beautiful idiot who had loved them for so long.

They were alone in the room, the bed big enough for several to share it at once. Any bed in Heaven would be the same. Angels needed room for their wings, of course. Those words flickered across their mind without any real input from them, a memory dredged up from the deepest depths of their existence. They had been an angel, once, and knowing it was different from remembering it.

Beelzebub shuddered, a sob working its way up out of them, their entire body wracked with grief.

Waking up alone meant…

A knock on the door stole their attention, tears trailing down their cheeks as their emotions whipped around and became anger. “What?” they demanded, hands clenching in the blankets.

The door opened and God stepped in.

Her hair had been tamed, somewhat, though it was still long. It looked like a silhouette of wings behind Her back, glowing gently golden as she walked into the room. “I am glad you’re awake,” she moved towards them, stopping just shy of the edge of the bed. “There are some things I must speak with you about.” She gestured down. “May I sit?”

Narrowing their eyes at Her, Beelzebub nodded. “Yes.”

She sat.

They stared at each other for a minute and Beelzebub lifted their chin, trying not to show any fear in the presence of their Creator. Their Father.

“No one ever teaches an angel to rise,” She said after a minute. “I had intended to – what would existence be, without the ability to forgive and be forgiven? Michael halted a great deal many things I had intended. Loss cuts deep, especially the loss of those we love, and I can feel the holes in the Heavenly host where so many of my children should still be.” She reached a hand out to them, as if She intended to cup their cheek. “And I do still love you all, so much—”

They slapped Her hand away, snarling. “Then why could no one save Gabriel?” they demanded.

“Save him?”

“That’s why I woke up without him, isn’t it?” they looked down at their own hands, trembling, their tears spilling freely. There were raised ridges of scarring on their palms, where the Holy Water had touched them. “He died to save me and no one could stop it, no one could save him—” they put their head into their hands, their knees curling to their chest. “If you’d truly loved him, all of your children, you would have…You would have…”

Beelzebub curled up in the bed, sobbing.

Her hands gently pulled their head up, Her eyes meeting theirs. “Do you truly think I could not, would not, save my child? He sacrificed himself for love, for the sake of you,” she smiled. “And there was damage to repair.”

“…What?”

She just continued to smile, then shook Her head. It was oddly fond, like a parent should be, and She stood up slowly, taking their hands in Hers. “Come with me,” She moved back towards the door, gently but firmly giving them no choice. When they stepped through the doorway behind her, they were greeted with the sight of several Archangels crowded around Dagon as he went through a stack of files. He was pointing things out to them, muttering about the filing system of Heaven. “Dagon Fell because Michael caught him with the plans Metatron had slipped in – neither of them were happy about this and Dagon was cast out before he could alert others.”

As they passed by the group, Dagon looked up at Beelzebub and nodded.

“Crowley was cast out for being too close, for asking too many questions,” She hummed softly. “He would have noticed you being unfairly cast out immediately. The three of you were close.”

Aziraphale looked up as they approached, Crowley at his side. Both of them had their wings out, defensive, as they sat at the sides of a table. A unified front, a wall of protection.

A matched set.

“I gave them the task of watching over the one who was injured,” She still held Beelzebub’s hands, glancing sidelong at Crowley for a moment. “He has some healing to do, still, but it will be easier with Heaven’s influence inside of him once more. There will be a choice he has to make, as there is for several others, but he will heal. He will be safe.” She released their hands. “And he will be yours, if you would have him.”

On the table, between Crowley and Aziraphale, was Gabriel.

He had his cheek pressed to the surface he was laid out on, his wings draped lazily over his back. They were ruffled, missing a great deal many feathers, and riddled with holes, but they were still there. They had seen them before – the burnt feathers they remembered were no longer there. The damage from his Fall had been healed. She put a hand on their shoulder, urging them forward. “If we had left him to sleep in the same bed as you, he would have put pressure on the wounds,” She explained. “It would have only made them heal slower. I am sorry we could not have you wake up with him there, but this was the better solution.”

Beelzebub took a step forward, then another. And another.

In no time at all, they were at Gabriel’s side, brushing the short length of his hair off of his forehead. They stared at the scarring on his back, for a little while, before turning their gaze back to his face. His eyes were still closed, his breathing even – he looked exhausted. “And he will be safe?” they asked.

“Yes,” She promised.

“There is something I need to do,” they turned back to Her, taking a deep breath. “I need to speak with you.” They hesitated, watching Dagon watching them for a moment. “Alone.”

She held out Her hand and they took it.

When they looked around again, they were somewhere else, with Her standing at their side. “As I said earlier, I am sorry you woke up without him there.” She paused to stare at a blank spot on the wall that curved beside them, otherwise covered in plants, reaching out to brush Her fingers over it. A flower bloomed there, a sprig of lavender that bounced almost joyfully upward when she moved away.

“Did you mean it,” they asked Her, reaching up to brush their own fingers over the lavender. “When you said you meant for us to be able to Rise?”

Her eyes, dark and full of fathomless depths, turned to them.

It was like they were a child, somehow. In Her sight, they were a child, slightly misbehaved, and they were standing before Her and asking to be forgiven. She turned her gaze on the lavender beneath their fingers and smiled, a secret sort of smile. “Do you know one of the meanings of lavender?” She asked instead of answering.

“I do not remember any of the meanings,” they told Her.

“Lavender has a couple,” She nodded. “One of them is beautifully perfect for you – lavender signifies devotion.”

A wave of something hit them full force, their eyes closing from the strength of it.

They remembered.

The first fields of lavender, still so new, were before them.

They twitched their wings, excited, as they stepped into the lush purple growth, dragging their fingers through the flowers. Above them, around them, the world was still dark, still being designed – arranged, made perfect. Their Father was above, putting the final details in place.

Off to their left, something tugged at their awareness and their wings twitched again. There was someone there.

They approached, seeing Gabriel standing at the edge of a cliff, looking out over the world below.

“It’s the first sunlight,” they spoke up before he’d quite turned to look at them. He was quiet for a time, eyes wide as he took everything in.

“It’s lovely,” he said.

His eyes were not focused on the world around them. He had given them a smile, had attuned himself to them and they would have been happy with only that. He had given them so much more, however, had vowed to watch the people of the world with them, had said he would help them sow hope into everything.

Devotion had been born in their heart from that moment on.

Love had grown from that seed.

They had felt that love, trickling into their awareness.

Like the beginning of a river, Gabriel’s love for them had grown so quickly into something powerful, big enough to drown in if they let themself. They had shown him the growth of sparkling stones inside a cave, something they had created to mimic the stars he had helped Raphael put in the sky.

He had called it beautiful, in a way that implied he was not calling the stones beautiful.

That awestruck look on his face, the soft smile, had not been aimed upwards, after all. It had been for them, entirely so.

They hadn’t been able to help loving him.

The first time he touched them, it had felt like nothing else they had ever experienced.

Their body against his, pulling him close and holding him tight, moving with him and feeling his pleasure, their pleasure, had been the purest feeling in the world. There was no sin in their love, in the ways they expressed it.

Surely there could not be, not when it felt so wonderful.

Like they belonged with him in all ways.

“If I could be with you at all times,” he had admitted quietly. “It might still not be enough.”

Yes, they had thought. It would never be enough – several lifetimes, no matter how long, wouldn’t have been enough.

Michael’s trial, built on lies and terror and hatred—

They had been sobbing quietly throughout it, unable to escape whatever it was they were bound with.

“I sentence the Archangel Ramiel to Fall.” Michael proclaimed, holding his head up high. The room was filled with silence – their Father was not a witness to this, was not going to step in and stop what was being done to them. She had, it seemed, abandoned them.

There was very little worse than the fate that was to come—

And one of those things came to be.

Gabriel burst through the crowd, screaming their name, his eyes filled with fury and terror and it pulled at Ramiel’s heart, ripped it from their chest and shot it through with arrows. They were so distracted with his terror and their own that they barely heard what Michael said next, the accusation of corrupting another angel, of tempting them into sin—

Gabriel.

Gabriel sat on the floor, only a handful of paces away and yet they could not reach out to him, touch him—

Their chest heaved, a sob working out of them.

Ramiel’s tears burned their cheeks as they stared at him, their mouth moving almost without conscious effort. They wanted him to go, to run, to flee, to get as far from Michael as possible. They were reaching for him, straining against everything holding them in place. Those tears started fresh when Gabriel struggled against the angels holding him down, grabbing hold of his wings and pinioning him. They had him bound in the same way Ramiel was, those strange chains worked around his wrists.

Michael had blamed them, had spoken up, disgust in his voice. “Can you not see what you have done?”

He pointed his sword at Gabriel and Ramiel felt the stirrings of Wrath in their chest.

“You have so corrupted him, so tainted him, that he comes to your defense!” he stepped forward, his sword turning to point at Ramiel and all they could feel was relief. The threat was no longer aimed at Gabriel, Gabriel was safe.

They were not.

Through the entire process of Michael hacking at their wings, they could feel Gabriel’s eyes on them.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, pain burning down their back, it was over. Their wings were gone. Others who had Fallen before them had been allowed to keep them, though they changed with the Fall. They were not to be allowed to keep them and they knew it was because Michael was furious about something.

Through the last connection they had with their wings, their feathers, they could feel Gabriel’s hand wrap around one. They wanted to kiss him, press themself against him and hold him tight.

Their feather was secreted away, kept hidden by Gabriel’s quick hands.

“I sentence you, Archangel Ramiel, to Fall. Hell will have no mercy on your soul.”

And they Fell.

The very last thing they had seen of Heaven was Gabriel’s face, the sorrow in his eyes, the fury twisting his mouth.

Lord Beelzebub’s first thought, upon their meeting of the Archangel Gabriel, had been a quiet moment of shock—

‘He’s wearing lavender’, they had thought.

They stumbled and She caught them, easing them down to sit on the ground. “Careful,” she cautioned. “Remembering is never the easiest thing.”

“Lavender for devotion,” they muttered, clutching at Her arms. “Because of—”

“Because of you,” She nodded.

She reached up and cupped their cheeks. “Ramiel,” She smiled again. “Your devotion, your faith in him, your love, your hope—” She shook Her head, Her curls bouncing. “Humanity chases love, chases happiness, devotes themselves and helps communities grow, because you left your mark on their world. They have started to forget how to search for it, but you gave them that hope, that love-longing, that devotion.” She pressed a kiss to their forehead. “I meant it.”

She reached behind their back, tugging them close until they were pressed against Her. “I should have taught you to Rise,” She whispered. “So long ago.”

Her hand splayed across their back as She tapped into Her powers, dredging up the secret hopes, the wishes, and the half-thought prayers, that they had held all this time. Slowly, almost painfully, clutching at Her robes and closing their eyes, Ramiel extended their wings for the first time in several millennia.

“I love you and I would never truly leave you,” She whispered. “But I think you had best return to him, now.”

She pulled away and helped Ramiel to stand, off-balance and unused to the weight on their back.

“Hell won’t take me back,” Ramiel looked up at her, a flash of fear in their eyes.

“And I don’t think you want them to,” She spoke softly, looking at them with a fond smile. “I know you, Ramiel. I know what you prayed for, before you decided that prayers were for the weak and never changed anything. You wanted forgiveness. You wanted to come home. You wanted to come back to him.”

Ramiel hugged Her again, then turned. “I need to go back to him.”

“You do,” She laughed, guiding them back.

Gabriel was still asleep on the table but Aziraphale and Crowley had moved a short distance away. Ramiel approached once more, feeling their lips turn up on a smile. “I’ll be here when he wakes,” they told Her.

“And he will be unwilling to let you go, ever again.”

“That is fine with me,” Ramiel curled up in a chair next to Gabriel, clutching his hand between their own, a reversal of the way he had held their hand earlier. “As long as I am with him.”

Chapter Text

When Gabriel woke up, he hadn’t expected to actually do so.

His back ached, somewhat, and his head was pounding, but he was awake. His eyes felt heavy and his arms felt sluggish, but he was still alive. Considering the last thing he remembered was the last of his Ethereality draining rapidly in the presence of Michael and a fall of Holy Water soaking through his coat, he was a little surprised to be feeling anything.

There was a hand on his back.

He jolted, almost throwing himself off the surface he was on in his hurry to sit up and look around. Aziraphale and Crowley were having a conversation nearby that came to a halt when he moved. Both of them just stared at him, each with an eyebrow raised, and Aziraphale smiled. The room was full of others, some Gabriel recognized from the room Michael had used to hold him while messing with his memories. Others were the ones who followed Jegudiel’s lead – Annabiel and Balthazar were chatting in a corner, leaning into each other’s space.

A hand reached up and curled around his jaw.

Feeling a wave of fondness, Gabriel let himself be turned, expecting to come face to face with Beelzebub. The Prince of Hell would not have been happy about the turn of events, he decided. Of course he would be yelled at.

But when he met their eyes, their hand did not tighten on his jaw like he’d been getting used to.

They did not yell.

Instead, they looked at him with worry in their eyes and a small smile on their lips. A pair of wings extended from their back, twitching gently when he stared at them. The pleased expression on their face was entirely Ramiel and he could not have stopped himself from pulling them close, not for anything.

Their laughter caught in their throat, awkward and quiet, as their hands held onto him so tightly he knew they had been wanting to do the same.

“It is good that you’ve woken up,” they nudged their somewhat cold nose into his neck. “I would have had some words for you if you had not.” It was said like a joke, like they were trying to lighten the mood, but the end of it was cut off with a quiet sob. “You moron.”

And there was Beelzebub.

“You’ve got your memories back,” he nudged his nose against their cheek, curling a hand around the back of their head. The two halves of them were present. He still loved both.

“Yes,” The pulled away from him and met his eyes again. Ramiel’s smile was awkward as well, millennia spent in Hell having robbed it of its surety. There were small tears rolling down their cheeks and they brushed at them, leaning into his hands when he did it for them. His soul was practically singing, being this close to them again – Beelzebub had been near, had been almost constantly at his side, but they had not been in his arms. “I have no idea what we are going to do now,” they muttered, turning their head to kiss the center of his palm. “But I still mean it.”

They looked up at him, cheek cupped in his hand, and he took a moment to remember. 

Gabriel felt his cheeks flush and he nodded. “It still isn’t enough for me,” he nudged his forehead against theirs. “Ramiel or Beelzebub – the time I’ve had with you, the time I have gotten, it isn’t enough.”

Ramiel threw their arms around his neck, climbing into his lap and bracing their legs oddly when he tipped partially backward. They kept him upright, hands tracing across his back like they were checking for damage. “It never was,” they whispered the words into the space between them, holding him as close as possible. “Not for me – I would have Fallen a thousand times to keep you safe.” Ramiel moved their hands again, constantly moving them, finally seeming to settle for a second before continuing – cupping his cheeks, brushing down his shoulders, pushing his hair out of his face. Like they were afraid he would pull away and stop letting them. “Gabriel,” they almost stuttered on his name. “I love you,” they leaned in, hesitating before their lips could press against his.

“I love you,” Gabriel said it back to them because he could, now.

Because he had missed them so much it had torn something out of him.

He had missed them so much that Michael had locked him away until he could reliably rewrite his memories. Until Michael had made Raphael Fall because his friend had been distraught and then missing.

When he pressed his lips against theirs, it was like a crashing wave against the shore. Everything that had been pent up over the centuries came out at once, Ramiel’s talent with memories and sharing information giving him a show of what they had spoken with Her about. The memories they had gotten back. The first sunrise and the first sunset and the moments they had shared—

Their devotion, written so boldly in the foundations of the world.

Their hope.

The beginning of the world, scented with lavender and colored with gold, the two of them helping to create it and let it grow.

Gabriel wrapped an arm around their waist, holding them a little closer. “How are your hands?” he managed to ask. “I know they got soaked – no, let me see,” he caught one of their wrists, sliding his thumb gently over the heel of their palm. “Ramiel?”

Ramiel’s eyes were pinned on their palm, frowning at the scarring. “I—”

“I can heal it,” Gabriel offered quietly.

From their reaction, someone watching might have thought he’d told Ramiel he’d slap them. “No!” They cried out, jerking their hand back, curling their fingers over the scarring protectively. “I…” they sighed, shaking their head. “I want to explain it later,” Ramiel looked up again, their eyes almost begging him to understand.

“Alright,” Gabriel nodded. “What happened after I got hurt?”

“God Herself knocked you out,” Dagon’s voice was almost startling and when Gabriel and Ramiel both turned, he was watching them with eyebrows raised and his arms crossed over his chest. “And then She started healing the damage to your back before it could kill you.” Ramiel’s hands tightened on Gabriel’s back at that sentence. “She also healed the burn damage from your initial Fall, bolstered your core a little more permanently than Aziraphale could manage.” He gestured at Aziraphale, who had Crowley practically curled up in his lap, a hand carding through the demon’s hair. “Crowley is Raphael, which I suppose you knew already,” he smirked when Gabriel nodded. “This comes as a shock to him and to Aziraphale. Jegudiel and the other Archangels made sure I got back to those two without dying.”

“What about Michael?” Gabriel looked at Ramiel’s hand when it curled tightly in his sweater sleeve – he hadn’t realized he wasn’t wearing his coat anymore.

“I’ve been assured of him paying for what he has done,” Dagon lifted his head, looking near tears for a moment. The moment passed and he smiled. It was a real smile, for once, the kind that someone gives when they are so relieved they cannot think to hide it even for a moment. “Balthazar rounded up the ones who helped Michael, who supported him. She is arranging for a trial. Annabiel is calling the rest of the angels home. The ones who ran off to keep themselves safe from Michael and his scheming, even if they were unaware of the scheme.”

“Do you know who you were?” Ramiel spoke up, looking at their second-in-command.

“Razsiel,” Dagon’s smile was back again. He clasped his hands together, smiling so brightly he looked like an angel once more. It made sense, that name attached to him. The one who kept God’s secrets, guarded the secrets of the Universe itself. “And they thought that Sandalphon could replace me!”

“Not in any lifetime,” Gabriel laughed. “I don’t think anyone could.”

Dagon beamed.

X

Dagon had given them enough notes and information to find every single angel who had been unfairly Fallen.

Shifting the papers around once more, Jegudiel stopped.

There, under where his hand happened to land, was a name he had not seen in some time. Their Father had pulled the blocks out of their memories so that they could remember the missing, he actually knew the context for the name he was seeing now. Ianael, assigned to the moon, one of the Seraphim as they had once been. Their name tugged at his heart, pulled at the very soul of him.

He hadn’t even known they were missing – the smoothness of the stolen memories was enough to keep him from questioning.

Before, it had been.

Now…

Now he knew that name.

Now, he remembered them. They had preferred a female body, once that had been a concept the angels had known about. They had teased him and followed him and gone along with his orders. He should have remembered them, long before now.

He had loved them.

He thought they might have loved him.

Which brought up a question. One he desperately needed to ask. Balthazar and Annabiel stood nearby, joined by Elemiah. “How many of the unfairly Fallen were in love?” he choked the words out, his hands curling into tight fists on the tabletop. “How many of them were made to Fall because they were a distraction in Michael’s eyes?”

Annabiel stepped closer, leaning in to look at the pages. “Why do you—” her words broke off, her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open. “Oh.”

She put her hand on his shoulder, bracing him as if they were going into battle.

Balthazar moved to his other side, her hands wrapping around his wrist and holding tightly. Elemiah moved in front of him, pulling the files out from under his hands and looking at them. Her mouth curved into a frown and she turned her head. “Razsiel,” she called. It took a couple of times for Razsiel – Dagon – to turn his head and come towards them, but he did eventually. She showed him the page, the name Jegudiel had stumbled on. “Do you know how to find those who were in love?”

“That would require all of my memories,” Dagon – Razsiel – frowned as well, taking the files from her. “I am getting there, but I will need some more time.” His eyes softened as he looked up at Jegudiel. “We’ll find them,” he told him. “I think…” he cleared his throat. “No. I know they’re still alive.”

Part of why Razsiel had been such a good file-keeper was that he had always known everything.

Part of why he had Fallen.

Michael would not have stood for someone knowing every aspect of his plans, not when they were not involved and would have fought against him every step of the way.

“We need to bring every Fallen home again,” Jegudiel whispered.

“She will,” Razsiel gently laid the files on the table again. “She has promised a trial against Michael – every demon will remember themselves, many will get to speak against him.” He stepped closer, cupping his hands around Jegudiel’s cheeks, meeting his eyes. “We will find Ianael.” His voice was a whisper. “No matter where they are.”

Jegudiel nodded, reaching up with his free hand to hold one of Razsiel’s hands, nearly sobbing when the Fallen allowed it.

Much like the love between Gabriel and Ramiel, that was his missing piece.

Ianael was his matched set.

Michael had pulled apart those who had found someone to love, those who had managed to find something besides loneliness in the vastness of existence. Back before humanity, there had been nothing to live with. Just the empty expanses of Heaven, though Heaven had not always been so cold in its emptiness. Jegudiel clenched his hands, feeling Razsiel’s fingers go tight around his own. “They have been missing for so long,” he muttered. “I do not even know if they—”

“We will find them,” Razsiel said again. “We will find my sister and your love and we will get through this together.” His eyes were bright, a flash and flicker in them that still spoke of Hell. “Any that Michael did not approve of, any that would not follow him, would have been locked away or made to Fall.”

“Callous and unfair,” Jegudiel hissed the words out.

“And soon to be undone,” Razsiel soothed.

Annabiel moved closer, a hand coming to rest on his shoulder. Elemiah leaned into him, pulling him close. Balthazar pressed her mouth to the back of his hand, her eyes closing. Razsiel fidgeted for a moment, but continued holding his other hand. “We are here,” he whispered.

“All of us,” Annabiel spoke up.

“Did you think you would be left alone with your memories?” Balthazar scoffed.

Elemiah laughed. “If your answer is yes, then you clearly do not know us as well as you think. Sealtiel will be willing to stay at your side while we look for them – He is your oldest friend. He knows that something is wrong and he will be unwilling to walk away.”

Jegudiel shook, trembled like a leaf in a storm, as he nodded.

“Any of those in your command would be,” Elemiah laughed again, running her hand through his hair. Her eyes opened, a soft green color that shone brightly. “You mean a lot to us, brother.”

The tears tracking down his cheeks were hot, leaving trails that felt like scars.

He wondered, for a moment, how long he had been crying.

How long others had been crying as a result of Michael’s actions.

Those actions would be put to rights soon – he would see to it. No one would be missing their brothers, their sisters, their lovers, their loves, ever again. He would dismantle Michael’s system single-handedly if he had to.

From the way his sisters were looking at him, he would not be alone in that goal.

Not now, not ever.

Chapter Text

She had gathered them together again—

The little group of them that had entered Heaven with the intent to bring Michael down.

“The four of you have a choice to make,” She spoke softly, extending Her hands to them. “Do you wish to continue on in Hell or do you wish to return to Heaven?”

“I thought that choice was made for us,” Ramiel’s wings twitched behind them, their hand curled around Gabriel’s, white-knuckled.

“I returned your memories to you, returned your wings to you, gave you enough of a shield so that Heaven would no longer harm you,” She explained, smiling kindly at them. “But it is your choice. As it should have been in the Beginning. The original plan, my divine plan, had been to offer the darker side of things to my children. Keep things in balance, make certain that humanity was well watched over, no matter what they chose.” She shook Her head, her curls bouncing. “I wanted to give you that choice. Not have it stripped from you in a moment of fury, of Wrath. Not have your choice ripped from your hands for the sake of creating a different outcome.”

Her hands clenched into fists and they could all feel Her anger.

Michael had ruined so much. The lists of the dead, the Fallen who hadn’t survived, had stretched into the distance. So many names, so many gone.

If Aziraphale hadn’t had something else to focus on, he might have sat down and wept for the wave of grief that swept over him. Crowley stood at his side, however, like he had only a month before when they had been facing down Lucifer himself. He was not alone, he had things he had to do. His dear, his beloved, was with him.

He would not let his grief consume him.

Crowley’s hand was curled in his own, holding tightly just as he had before. They stood together, in this as they had before, and there was nothing that could stop them when they made up their minds. The two of them, with a good dose of help from others, had managed to avert the End of existence itself. They had argued for Her plan, for the ineffable plan that they had not even remembered at the time. Bigger, bolder letters and underlined indeed.

Dagon stepped forward, Her gaze falling to him.

“I already know my choice,” he turned his head up to her, his hands loose at his sides. “I don’t want to return to Hell. Not as it is.”

She nodded, listening closely when he opened his mouth again.

“I’ve been gone for so long,” Dagon took a deep breath. “When I stepped foot in Heaven once more, there was a small flood of memories. Most of them pertained to my Fall, the trial Michael held in the file room and kept secret. One of the few I regained was the memory of my sister – Gabriel has a little brother in Aziraphale, I was the little brother. She is one of the ones Michael locked away, unable to find a way to untangle her from the hierarchy of Heaven.” He smiled, nervous, as he nodded. “Ariel. I’ve missed her since my Fall, though I did not remember what it was I was missing. She protected me, both as a duty to her title and as her little brother.

“I’ve existed, all this time, with a hole in my heart and being incapable of remembering where I truly belonged.” Dagon looked at all of them and Aziraphale wanted to put a hand on his shoulder, reassure him in some way.

“I want to go home,” Dagon whispered, his hands shaking as he clasped them together in front of him. His entire body was shaking, actually, trembling in some combination of Her gaze and being in Heaven once more, along with having a moment to begin to process what had been discovered. “I’ve wanted to go home for so long—” he looked up at Her, his eyes watery, his pale skin even paler than usual. The scales that lay along his cheeks, the sharp teeth, his usual animalistic aspects – none of it made him look any less frightened. Terrified.  

Hopeful.

Oh, but hope could destroy someone, sometimes. If something was wanted badly enough, the hope of it burned.

Aziraphale watched as he turned his head up to Her again, jaw clenched tightly. “Please,” Dagon whispered. “Let me come home.” His hands were clenched so tightly together that his knuckles were white, his teeth bared as he bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Please.” He was shaking as he spoke.

“Yes,” She cupped his cheeks in Her hands, smiling beatifically. Her skin glowed golden, Her dark eyes meeting Dagon’s as she nodded. “Of course.” She brushed a hand through his hair, pulling the tail of it over his shoulder and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “There is to be no punishment for your choice. Michael is not the one making the decision, not anymore. Not ever again.”

Dagon’s entire body relaxed, curling into Her arms for a moment.

She looked at the rest of them, head tilted.

At his side, Crowley stood up a little straighter. “I,” he began, then pulled his bottom lip in between his teeth and working the flesh slowly. Her eyes turned to him and he looked away. When he looked back, he reached up and pulled off his sunglasses. “Do I have to make my choice right now?” he asked, his eyes entirely golden. “Or is it the kind of thing I can…Y’know, walk away, decide on after some debate, then come back to?”

“You may come back to it,” She smiled directly at him. “It is your decision.”

Aziraphale could hear that She had cut Herself off from saying a name, though he could not tell which one She would have addressed Crowley with. “My dear?” he reached over and tucked the tips of his fingers in Crowley’s trouser pocket. He almost jumped when Crowley turned to him, eyes wide, still chewing on his lip.

“I want to discuss it with you,” Crowley muttered. “And…And I’m not sure I want to do that with all of Heaven around me.”

“You are welcome back at any time,” She assured, still holding Dagon as he leaned into Her shoulder. “Heaven will not harm you, not anymore. Holy ground will not scorch you, you can live as you have, you can choose to become an angel again – though you are, by no means, obligated to do so.” She looked at Aziraphale. “You two can discuss what needs to be discussed and you can hold off on the decision for as long as you need to. I understand what Michael has done to you in my name, in Heaven’s name.” She shook her head. “And you will know that you are safe, no matter how long it takes. I will clear away all he has altered, fix what can be fixed.”

“Dagon,” Crowley cleared his throat, then nodded, letting out a stuttering breath. “Who was Ligur?”

Dagon wiped at his face, almost laughing when his hands didn’t brush over scales. “Barakiel.” He answered. “Ligur was Barakiel.” He did end up laughing after a moment. “I’m not even sure if that was from the files or from my memories.” There were tears on his face, though he was smiling. “Hastur was Omael, if you’re curious about that as well.”

Crowley nodded and Aziraphale tugged gently at his pocket, urging him to speak up. He was trying to get at something.

Something important.

“Yeah,” Crowley looked down at the ground. “But only one of those two is dead.” He looked up at Her, eyes wide. “I killed him. Is…Is there any way to bring him back?” he tucked his hands into his pockets, curling his left hand around Aziraphale’s fingers.

Even though Ligur and Hastur had been intending to kill him, Aziraphale knew that had weighed on him for some time.

“We will see what changes I can make,” She nodded. “There are many who are dead who should not be.” She stepped closer and put a hand on Crowley’s head. “But I will look into it immediately.” She had a dimple in her cheek when She smiled, Aziraphale noticed. Eve had once had the same one – Made in Her image, indeed.

Pulling Crowley with him when he seemed about to burst, Aziraphale pushed him gently into a corner, following and pressing them together.

“This is twice now you’ve helped save existence,” Aziraphale chuckled. “I’ve told you, time and again – a spark of goodness.”

“Shut it,” Crowley grumbled. “I’m not nice.”

“But you are good,” Aziraphale kissed his cheek. “And you did not deny that particular one.”

Crowley let his head thud against what passed for a wall, rolling his eyes.

X

When She turned to them, Dagon nodded and walked away.

He went to go sit with Balthazar and Annabiel, watching over the angels who were being healed.

She crouched down until She was sitting on the ground, gesturing for them to do the same. “You do not have to revert to being angels,” Her voice was soft, speaking to some part of them that had needed Her presence all these years.

That, more than anything else would have, convinced Ramiel to nod. They opened their mouth to say something, to tell Her their answer, when their idiot angel beat them to it.

“You don’t have to stay with me,” Gabriel looked at Ramiel.

Ramiel stared up at Gabriel, their mouth open as he looked down and away. He refused to meet their eyes, his hand loose in their grasp. Like a switch had been flipped, their mouth was set in a hard line, brows drawn down and eyes narrowed. “You’re a moron.” They reached up and flicked Gabriel’s forehead, making him jerk back. They almost laughed at the look on his face, would have laughed if they hadn’t been somewhat angry.

“What?”

“I said, you’re a moron!” Ramiel squeezed his hand gently, tilting their head and looking up at him. “I can choose Heaven or Hell. Right?” they looked at Her, an eyebrow raised.

“You can.” She nodded, a small smile on Her face. “Whatever you choose, you will have chosen it for yourself.”

“I choose Gabriel,” Ramiel squared their shoulders, standing up perfectly straight. Their wings twitched and fluttered behind them, like they were testing their movements. “I choose my absolute moron who refused to stop trying to find me. The one who wore the color he remembered as associated with me, the one who cursed Michael as he Fell because he knew Michael was being unfair.” They turned back to Gabriel with a choked off laugh, rusty from disuse. “I gave humanity devotion,” they spoke at a volume only he could hear. “I gave them the love that I had with you—I gave them the parts of myself that were intertwined with you.”

“Wait, does that mean you’re choosing Heaven?”

“It means,” Ramiel slid their hands up the sides of his neck, pulling his head down until their foreheads could touch. “That I am choosing you. Wherever you go, whatever you choose, I will follow.”

They could live with whatever he chose, as long as he was with them.

Even Hell, as they had experienced it, would be bearable with him at their side. They would survive anything, as long as they had him. Ramiel bumped their heads together, a soft reprimand. “If you were to choose Heaven or Hell or – Even Earth, living as humans, I would follow you,” they leaned into him. “I have missed you too much to allow you to be stuck as one thing and myself too far away. If you choose Heaven, I will follow you.”

“If you chose Hell,” Gabriel breathed the words out. “I would follow you.”

“You would be miserable,” Ramiel shook their head. “I saw how you reacted to it while you were there. You did not enjoy it.”

“An eternity of it wouldn’t be so bad if I had you,” Gabriel shrugged.

“So…Heaven?” Ramiel smiled.

“As long as it’s reformed,” Gabriel looked at Her, an eyebrow raised. “I choose Heaven, mostly so that I can—Well—” his cheeks flushed, an odd expression on his face. His next words came out mumbled but Ramiel thought they heard the sentence, “miracle anything they want” in there somewhere.

She stood up, covering Her mouth as Her shoulders shook, laughter tumbling out of her mouth. “That is a good idea,” She put Her hand on Ramiel’s cheek. “I do think they might deserve some caretaking after so long alone.” Her other hand came to rest on Gabriel’s cheek. “The two of you, if I have anything to say about it, will have your eternity together.” She kissed the tops of their heads and hummed a few notes as She moved towards the angels being healed. “And so will any others who want it.”

When Ramiel glanced in the direction She’d gestured, they saw Crowley with his arms wrapped around Aziraphale.

The lightness in their chest, the relief and the happiness, must have been what those two had felt after they’d kept existence from ending. Hope filled their being and they reached out for Gabriel’s hand, curling their fingers together. His smile was warm and bright.

Like sunlight, Ramiel thought.

Like the sunrise.

Chapter Text

It would take a while.

Rounding up all of the angels, recovering those who had Fallen unfairly. Several had, due to Michael’s unfair judgments, passed. They hadn’t been able to survive Hell, hadn’t adapted. The change had destroyed them, had made them fall apart.

They were slated to be brought back.

Dagon – Razsiel – adjusted his grip on his pen and glanced down at the list again, walking in front of those pulled out of Hell and lined up in Heaven. There were many, a fact that had practically injured Her when She had learned it. He had spent some time organizing the list into three categories – Those who had Fallen to Hell, those who had Fallen and failed to make the transition alive, those who had been Quarantined.

Giving a name to what Michael had done to those he considered too high-risk to remove had made Razsiel sick to his stomach. To his very soul, the core of him even.

Quarantined.

Such a deceptively calm word for what had been done.

If they had tried to remove some of them without Her, those ones would have been lost. Too damaged, too long spent under Michael’s rule. Razsiel pushed the memories away, trying not to be too concerned for Ariel. The angel of water, his big sister like Gabriel was Aziraphale’s big brother.

Water and piranhas. It was almost enough to make him laugh.

“Alright,” he muttered, shooing away the demon who looked at him oddly. “Next?”

Hastur stepped forward, his hands clenched awkwardly at his sides. It was a surprise to see him there, in Heaven. Of all the demons, Razsiel had thought he’d been one of those who had been happiest where he was. Hell had been a good fit for him – his aggression was allowed to run rampant, allowed to be naturally curbed instead of swung around like a weapon. The look on his face, however, told Razsiel he’d been wrong about his judgment of Hastur.

“You were Omael,” Razsiel told him. “The angel of species perpetuation. Your symbol was frogs and toads,” he scanned the files in his hands, almost laughing when he saw the cause of his Fall. “Oh, you pissed Michael off.”

“I…” Hastur frowned, his knuckles a bloodless sort of white as his fists clenched. “What did I do?”

Raising a hand, Razsiel reached up and brushed a thumb over his forehead. “Let’s find out.”

Their eyes closed and they dropped into the memory.

“Michael,” Hastur—Omael’s voice was thick with dread as he looked around the emptiness of Heaven. “Where have our brothers and sisters gone?”

Michael’s eyes darted up to look at him, a harsh sort of steel before they softened. “Omael,” he stood up from where he sat, sliding his sword away. “There is something I must bring up to you. I am certain you’ve noticed the way things are changing, the way the world is shaping itself.” He paused, tugging at the edges of his coat. There was something dark at the cuff of his sleeve, something that made Omael hesitate.

Seeing where his gaze was, Michael glanced down as well. “Hm.” He frowned. “It is unfortunate that this throws such a wrench in things.”

“Michael,” Omael stood his ground. “What is happening?”

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as a line of angels entered the area – Sandalphon and Uriel and Halon at the head of the pack. “I’ve been…Working on something,” Michael’s face twisted with something Omael couldn’t identify. It sent a shudder of fear down his spine, however. “An endeavor which would, in time, prove most fruitful for those who join me. You are, as of now, one of the more minor angels. I could change that.”

Minor?

“Minor?” Omael’s upper lip curled back. “Just because I’m not as important as you—”

“I meant no offense,” Michael held up a hand, smirking.

“…What do you mean, change it?”

“I mean,” Michael stepped closer, his arm held out. The movement revealed the spatter of darkness on his side, splashed across his coat and the sheath of his sword. “I will have the power to give you more power of your own, soon. A bigger job, a better title. All you would need to do is back me up when I ask it of you.”

The scent of angelic ichor flooded Omael’s senses, the dark stains on Michael’s clothing the only clue he needed.

“No,” he shook his head. “No.”

Michael’s face twisted angrily. “A pity.” He sneered, all humor dropping from his expression. “Then I suppose your trial is to be held now.”

He unsheathed his sword and held it to Omael’s throat. “You have defied the will of our Father,” he whispered. “And for that, I sentence you to Fall.”

The memory broke and Hastur stumbled back, his hands still clenched into fists. “Michael,” he snarled. “Michael—”

“I,” Razsiel blinked a couple of times, then shook his head. “Oh,” he picked up his pen in trembling fingers, scribbling down a few notes quickly. “He was right there,” he muttered. “You would have been able to reach him if you had just remembered—”

“He contacted Ligur,” Hastur snarled. “And used him for information.”

Razsiel paused. “What?”

“Back channels into Hell,” Hastur looked up at him, still half-crouched on the ground. “Michael made Ligur Fall and then, when it was convenient, he used him for information.” His eyes, black and almost hollow, were pinned on Dagon. “I heard something about a trial.”

“I take it you want a part in it?”

Hastur’s eyes glinted, Hellfire seeming to spark to life around his fingers. “Yes.”

X

“I don’t know what to choose,” Crowley’s voice echoed across the shop.

Aziraphale looked up to his love, nestling a bookmark gently between two pages. An interesting new find of his, he’d had trouble putting it down recently. He found he could do so easily when Crowley was in sight.

A sure sign of how much he loved him.

Crowley overrode his interest in his books. It was almost ridiculous, but he had been in love for some time – though not as long as Crowley had loved him. “My dear?” he stood up and moved across the shop, stopping a handful of paces away. Reachable, open to touch, but distanced in case Crowley wanted his space.

“I…” Crowley reached up and pulled his sunglasses off of his face. His eyes, golden and bright, the snakelike pupils Aziraphale somewhat adored, were narrowed as he stared at a point in the distance. “I’ve been offered a choice. For the first time in centuries.” He tucked his glasses away, crossing his arms over his chest. “And, angel, I just…I don’t know.”

“Would you like my opinion or my ear?” Aziraphale tucked his hands into his pockets.

“…A little of both, I think.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair, still not looking at Aziraphale. “I just—It’s a hard choice to make. I didn’t mean to Fall.” He choked on a laugh, looking distraught. His voice, when he spoke again, was almost hysterical. “And now I find out that I didn’t exactly Saunter all the way down – I was pushed. I would have noticed two of my best friends disappearing and Michael knew it and I was pushed.”

He took a deep breath, covering his eyes with one hand. “Angel—”

His voice broke on the endearment and Aziraphale stepped forward, resting a cautious hand on his shoulder. In a second, he had armfuls of demon, Crowley’s hands tangled in his hair, in the fabric of his waistcoat. His face was pushed into Aziraphale’s shoulder, blocking out everything else.

“My dear,” Aziraphale rubbed a soothing hand down his spine, feeling each nub of his vertebrae. He knew if he counted them, there would be more than there were in a human spine – as snakelike as Crowley was, he’d only roughly tried for human anatomy. “If you would like my opinion—Would you?” he waited until Crowley had nodded before continuing. “I would adore you either way. I find myself in a rather unusual position. I find myself in love with two different people.”

Crowley pulled away, his eyes wide and shocked, a sharp gasp wrenching itself out of him.

Aziraphale continued before he could say anything. “One of them is Anthony J. Crowley, the demon I made an Arrangement with. The one who worries so about candles burning in my shop and who takes me out to dine at the Ritz.” He cupped his cheek, running a thumb over the sharp angle of bone. “He is who I have known for centuries, had circled around and spoken with and grown inordinately fond of.” He nudged their foreheads together, taking a deep breath as he closed his eyes. “The other is someone I remembered when I went to help Gabriel.”

“Who’ve I got to fight for your affections, then?” Crowley’s voice was trembling as he spoke, his hands going tighter as they held Aziraphale’s waistcoat. It was supposed to be joking, but it came out almost frantic.

Aziraphale met his eyes, almost smiling. “He helped create the stars – hung them in the sky with Gabriel’s help. He created Alpha Centauri.”

“Hang on,” Crowley’s nose wrinkled. “I created Alpha Centauri.”

Aziraphale raised both eyebrows, waiting. Not that he was much better, but sometimes Crowley could be a little slow on the uptake. His beautiful, wonderful dear, who had spent so long in love with him that humans had not even invented the wheel yet when he had fallen in love. “Yes,” he said after a few minutes. He was not much better in getting the hint – he had somehow managed to spend so many centuries around Crowley without realizing that the love he had felt all that time was from the demon and was for him.

“Wait,” Crowley wiggling back a bit further and Aziraphale almost laughed. “Me?”

“Either half of you.” Aziraphale shrugged a shoulder. “Much like Gabriel with Ramiel, I find myself in love with every aspect of you. Whether you continue to exist as Crowley and Crowley alone or whether you choose to regain your memories as Raphael, I will be with you at every moment. Nothing,” he slid his hands into Crowley’s hair, bringing him close once more. “Nothing will take me from you. Or you from me, not if I can help it.”

Crowley allowed himself to be reeled back in, one hand sliding up to the back of Aziraphale’s neck. They stood there for some time, swaying gently as if dancing slowly to some unheard music.

“R.A. Crowley,” he muttered after a while.

“Pardon?”

Crowley chuckled, pulling back so that he could meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “Raphael Anthony Crowley. R.A. Crowley.” He kissed Aziraphale’s knuckles. “I’ll regain my memories. I…I remember having access to an entire workroom, a place to create my galaxies and my stars. I remember that much.” He looked a little wilted, but there was a spark of happiness in his eyes, warmth in the tilt of his smile. “And I think I remember – vaguely, even so – seeing this brilliant and bright young Principality.”

Aziraphale laughed, curling their hands together. “And I will never be away from you again,” he nudged their noses together.

“Good,” Crowley muttered.

They stood there, wrapped around each other, until the sun began to descend in the sky.

X

His hand was on their stomach.

Their back was pressed to his chest, their legs tangled with his, and he leaned his head down to press his nose against their neck. Jegudiel breathed in the scent of them, petrichor and atmosphere and he closed his eyes, pressing small kisses to their shoulder.

Ianael stirred in their rest, one of their hands coming up to brush his hair out of his face. “Your thinking is so loud sometimes,” they whispered.

He opened his eyes, a slow smile stretching across his face. “I still almost cannot believe you…And I…” Jegudiel stroked his thumb over their stomach, pouring more healing into the wound that might have killed them. Michael had been forced to attack them to keep them under control, wounded them in such a way as to have been almost a killing blow. If he had not put them into stasis, in Quarantine as those involved had taken to calling it, Ianael would have died.

When they had been pulled from the room, Ianael had collapsed against his chest, grasping the sides of his face with their hands.

They had looked terrified, a soul-deep sort of fear, before pulling him in for a kiss.

Several days later, this was where they were – Ianael was still healing, unable to see to any sort of duties until they were well again. They had used Ianael’s time of enforced rest to talk to each other, to bring to light things that had been hidden before. Before Jegudiel’s memories had been tampered with, before Ianael had been locked away with the others. The fondness for each other, the way they had circled around each other.

The fact that Jegudiel had been in love for so long.

The fact that Ianael had felt the same and neither had so much as spoken up about such a thing.

Sealtiel was currently leading the Seraphim in the recovery and protection of those being removed from Quarantine. He was also helping to arrange Michael’s trial – helping Razsiel to recover memories from those who had been locked away. The Host of Heaven had looked away for long enough, too long, damage had to be fixed before anything else.

“I loved you for so long that remembering anything before it is difficult,” Ianael turned, pressing their front against his. Jegudiel slid his hand up their spine, pressing them even closer. Like the pages of a book, together as they were meant to be.  

Jegudiel hesitated, his hand pressed against the exit side of their wound, now closed and healing but still tender. Ianael would not stand for hesitation, however, dragging his face down and pressing their lips together. “I have loved you since I knew enough of love to feel it for myself,” he whispered in between kisses. “Since our Father gave us that – you have been the one I have loved. Above myself, above our Father,” he tucked their hair back, behind their ear, nudging their faces together. “You have held my heart since I knew it was something I could give.”

Ianael laughed, kissing him again.

They were not human, they did not require breathing in any way. Their kisses could go on until a human would have had to breathe, their bodies could move until far past the point a human would have succumbed.

“The angel of responsibility and love,” Ianael laughed again when they pulled away. “Soldier and lover and my love.”

They smoothed their hands over his face, continuing to scatter small kisses over his cheeks and nose.

When they pulled back, their smile almost a little sheepish, Jegudiel sighed. “I have freckles now?”

“They are very cute freckles,” Ianael confirmed.  

Jegudiel planted his face in their neck, shaking with silent laughter as he held them close. The damage that had been done to them was not permanent. They would heal and recover and he would never let them go again. They would survive and he would be with them.

From the way their hands were curled tightly in the fabric of his shirt, they were unwilling to let go of him.

X

In a small corner of London, there was a house.

Not that the occupants knew just yet, but they were quite near Tadfield and would be subject to a young boy at their door someday soon.

The garden around the house was filled with lavender, pots of mint that were carefully contained, and several different types of fruit trees. Somehow, despite it not being the right season, the trees were already beginning to bear fruit. The dark slate roof was slanted just right to allow the sunrise to fill the generous window that took up a third of one side. One part of the roof was flattened, a set of chairs and a telescope settled on top. It was the sort of setup one would adore if one were fond of the stars.

The doorway onto the rooftop was at the top of some stairs from inside, the roof of the alcove it stood in bearing a perfect map of the stars as they were above.

It was a modestly sized home, but it was full of the love that came from the two inside.

Gabriel moved into the kitchen, hands full with a bowl of berries he had plucked from the bushes in the back garden, setting them down next to Ramiel and brushing the hair off the back of their neck. “How is your morning going?” he pressed a kiss to the newly revealed skin, smiling when Ramiel smiled at him, their eyes bright.

“Perfectly,” Ramiel plucked a berry from the bowl, holding it to their lips with a smug glint in their eyes, popping it into their mouth before reaching up and dragging Gabriel closer. Their kiss tasted of blackberry, all sweet and perfectly summer ripe. “Yours?”

Gabriel wrapped his hands around their back, sliding his palms up until he could feel the base of their wings, until he could feel those muscles twitching. After being out of use for so long, they were healing remarkably well. “Wonderfully,” he breathed the word out, leaning in for another kiss. They had chosen to live on Earth for a while, to see how the world had changed from what they both remembered. Heaven was being altered, the damage fixed, and they had been offered the chance to live a quiet life for a while before having to see to the trial of Michael.

They had only needed to speak for a minute before they had decided together.

Time to know each other, once more. Time to live peacefully and happily, calmly, before they needed to face down the nightmare once more.

Of course they had chosen it.

With a quick conversation between them and Aziraphale, they had settled on London as their new home. He wouldn’t mind seeing them some time, he had told them, and they had accepted it as a peacemaking attempt. They had been the terror at one point.

Neither of them wanted to be what Michael had made them into, anymore.

Lord Beelzebub had, officially, retired from Hell. There were others who would fill the space they had left behind, others who would take up the role of Bureaucrat and enforce a sort of order. Ramiel had returned to Heaven on the condition that Gabriel was there.

If Gabriel ever left Heaven, they would follow.

If Ramiel ever left Heaven, Gabriel would follow.

They had talked it out, given it some thought. Wherever they went, from here on out, they would go together.

Gabriel gently knocked their foreheads together, humming a few notes as he pulled Ramiel closer, pressing small kisses to whatever skin he could reach. They were growing their hair back out – it was brushing their neck, now. “I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you,” Ramiel laughed as they said the words, their eyes bright and happy.

Both of them were back where they belonged.

It had taken centuries and there was still a near-monumental amount of work to be done, but they had found each other again.

They would never let go.

Their love was no longer a heartache-filled dream, not the product of distant memories breaking through.