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It began with the feathers. Aziraphale’s wings had begun to itch. This wasn’t unheard of, of course. Angels moulted under extreme duress. With his nervous mind that meant that Aziraphale moulted about once a century once his anxieties had built up to a breaking point. So when he noticed beautiful white feathers strewn across his bookshop, he thought nothing of it. He simply gathered them up and placed them in a lock box. Wouldn’t want divinity falling into the wrong hands, as it were. It was on the third day that the molting feathers began to change.
Aziraphale was dutifully sweeping up his feathers from the floor when one in particular caught his eye. He plucked it out of the pile and held it up to the light. The feather faded from radiant white to a dull grey and settled at pitch black. His blood ran cold. He knew what it meant. He was Falling. His grip on the feather slackened and it slipped between his fingers. Aziraphale watched as the darkened object floated gently to the ground.
He dashed to the other side of the room, his fingers hovering just above the dial on his rotary phone when he forced himself to still. He shouldn’t call Crowley. It would just worry him, and Aziraphale would never forgive himself if his Fall brought Crowley’s trauma to light. The demon never talked about his Fall and Aziraphale had never pushed him. In a moment of selfish fear he almost wished he had pressed for more information just to know what he was about to go through. Instead, he turned his back on the phone and went to make himself a cup of tea. It was going to be a long and painful night.
As Aziraphale sipped at his darjeeling he wondered what his Fallen form would be. Obviously he knew of the others. Crowley was a serpent. A beautiful serpent to be sure, but a serpent nonetheless. Hastur was a toad, Ligur a lizard. Beelzebub was a fly and Dagon some monstrous sort of fish. What animal would Aziraphale become? Would he grow scales or sharp teeth? Would his eyes change? What exactly was the nature of the beast within him?
The answer came sooner than he expected. The final transformation began with the itching in his wings. It was stronger now, the sort of itch that is so deep it can’t be reached without peeling the flesh away. A bone itch. Shudders wracked his body and his blackened feathers fell to the ground like ash. Aziraphale ran to the mirror, twisting about to see what was happening. A soft cry escaped his lips as he caught sight of his reflection.
His wings were featherless. They looked smaller without his white feathers, almost fragile. The newly exposed skin was shimmering. No, not shimmering, Aziraphale realized with dread. They were vanishing. What had once been opaque flesh and hollow bone was warping, retwisting itself into iridescent silver broken with veins of black. Insect wings. Wrong.
Aziraphale scrambled away, knocking over a bottle of ink in his haste. He righted it, brushing the black stain from his skin. It didn’t wipe away. He frantically scrubbed at his hands, trying in vain to remove the black pattern. It grew, crawling up his arms in thick black bands. A glance to the mirror confirmed that the inky blots marred his face as well. A thick line dropped from his brows down the bridge of his nose. A sob choked Aziraphale’s throat. What was he becoming?
His vision fractured. Aziraphale dropped to his knees and screamed. His hands cupped his eyes, trying in vain to shelter his face from the excruciating pain. It seemed as though his eyes were tearing apart. Tears streaked hot down his cheeks, or maybe it was blood. He couldn’t tell. Whatever it was Aziraphale knew it was hot and tasted of salt. The pain in his skull was like a hot poker had been jabbed into his eye socket and then twisted around as if stirring a heavy stew. Aziraphale had been on earth for over six thousand years and he had never known pain like this. His entire being just felt raw and sick and painful and wrong.
When he finally could open his eyes again a gasp escaped Aziraphale’s lips. His sight was still just as fractured. Crawling on hands and knees Aziraphale crept closer to the mirror, the glass bringing the truth of it before him. His eyes were still that shade of pale blue that Crowley seemed to love so much, but they weren’t human eyes anymore. Aziraphale’s eyes could see so much more, now. Compound eyes, that’s what his entomology books had called it. Insect eyes.
It may have just been a trick of the light, but Aziraphale swore his hair was less platinum and more yellow than it had been earlier. He hummed softly to himself and blinked in surprise when the noise he heard was more of a buzz. Two of his curls seemed to be blackening and growing from his hairline before they stretched far longer and he saw that they weren’t strands of hair at all. They were antennae.
Aziraphale finally understood. His old friend the bumblebee had evidently made more of an impact on him than he had previously imagined. After all, the bumblebee is a creature fairly beloved by humanity. What Aziraphale had become was much, much worse than that.
Something in him shifted, his true north bending as he got to his feet. With a trembling hand, he smoothed down his waistcoat. Appraising his reflection in the mirror, Aziraphale frowned. Something was wrong.
“What I need,” Aziraphale said out loud. “Is a new suit. I’ve had this one for over a century now. I think it is high time I updated my attire.” After all, he had someone he wanted to impress. He tugged the bow tie around his neck off, letting the tartan fabric fall to the ground in a pool. With a click of his heels Aziraphale turned away from the mirror and strode out the door.
When Crowley got a cryptic call from Aziraphale on his answering machine to visit the bookshop he was near panic. His angel sounded entirely too calm. Aziraphale was an anxious being at heart, so Crowley was used to a certain nervous quiver in his voice whenever they spoke. Crowley had never driven to Soho so quickly. As he pulled up he launched himself out of the car and through the bookshop door as fast as his feet could carry him.
“Aziraphale? Where are you?” he screamed as horrible memories of the bookstore in flames burned in his mind. Please not again. I can’t lose you again.
“I’m here, Crowley.” Again that cold calm voice chilled Crowley to the core. He could see the angel’s shadow against the wall in the back room. Slowly the demon slunk to the doorway.
“Aziraphale, you idiot. You worried me-” his jaw snapped shut. The man standing before him didn’t look like his angel.
His suit was a stunning bespoke thing: elegant black pinstripes over a bright yellow waistcoat with a golden pocket watch chain. The shirt underneath was a stunning black silk and where Crowley was used to seeing Aziraphale’s tartan bow tie he now wore a rich cravat. The shoulders of his long jacket curved upwards in a slight point. His shoes were polished to a shine and every item he wore dripped with expense and was a far cry from his usual well-loved appearance.
What stopped Crowley dead in his tracks however wasn’t the sudden new wardrobe or Aziraphale’s new color palette. It was his face. Black lines smudged across his brow and down his nose almost like ink that had soaked into his skin to stain it perfectly. From his temples long black antennae twitched as if in bemusement at the demon’s reaction.
“Angel,” Crowley breathed. “Your eyes...” Aziraphale raised a hand to gesture to the eyes that were pale blue from corner to corner. He didn’t have irises anymore. Instead it looked as if there were clusters of tiny bubbles that had filled his eye sockets.
“Oh, this? Yes, at first I found it rather unsettling but one does get used to it.” He smiled, and Crowley shuddered. “You’d think that you of all people would understand having unusual eyes, Crowley.”
“On myself, maybe. Not on you.” The demon hazarded a step forward. “What happened to you, angel?”
“Isn’t it obvious, Crowley? I Fell.” The room spun around him. Crowley staggered away from Aziraphale until his knees hit something and he collapsed back into a chair.
“No,” he breathed. Aziraphale held out his arms and spun in a slow circle, showing off every inch of his reinvented self. Crowley now saw the insect wings that had replaced Aziraphale’s feathered ones.
“Well? What do you think?”
“Aziraphale, you’ve Fallen. I’m so sorry angel.”
“I’m not an angel anymore, dear. I’m like you now.”
“You shouldn't be a demon. Something’s wrong.”
“It’s never been more right! I finally feel powerful, Crowley. This is who I am. I’ve come into my power and I understand why you rebelled. God doesn’t care. I lost faith in Her a long time ago. It was only a matter of time before I Fell. Before I changed into this.” He fixed Crowley with that nauseating stare that seemed to peer through flesh and bone. His voice grew taunting. “Come on, Crowley. Say it. Say what I am.” The demon shuddered and looked up at the thing that had once been his gentle and loving best friend.
“You’re a demon, Aziraphale.”
The newborn demon grinned at him. His smile held too much malice.
“And I am going to have so much fun!”