Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Loved. That’s how the bookshop felt. That was how it always felt, but that feeling had gotten so much stronger in the few short months since the apoca-not. It helped, Aziraphale thought, that Crowley was around so often. Oh, he knew, of course, that the demon didn’t feel love the same way he did. They’d all had that capacity torn from them in the Fall, or so the archangels said. But Aziraphale knew that Crowley felt… safe. In the bookshop. He would even say at peace. His contentment rolled off of him in waves as he sat, half-sprawled, in his usual position on the worn tartan couch. Seeing him there, seeing him there so often, well. It’s no wonder the shop felt more loved. Aziraphale loved it more every time Crowley turned up out of the blue with a new bottle of alcohol or some random book he’d found and demanded the angel share it with him.

It wasn’t everything Aziraphale had ever wanted. Namely because the only thing he truly desired was entirely beyond his reach. But it was enough. Enough to have Crowley like this, long limbs at impossible angles, draped all over his furniture, his bookshop, and his life. And if his heart broke a little more every time he caught one of those too-fond smiles out of the corner of his eye, knowing it could never mean what he wanted it to? Well then, what of it? The warmth, the companionship, it was always almost enough to glue it all back together. Aziraphale’s heart was a fragile thing, but somehow Crowley always managed to keep it in one piece.

He wondered, sometimes, if he would have been able to survive, if things had been reversed. If he’d been the one reaching out in friendship over and over again for the past six thousand years, only to have Crowley back away and reject him out of fear. Aziraphale didn’t know if he could ever apologize enough for all the pain he had caused his friend, and the only solace he had was that at least it had only ever been friendship. He couldn’t even imagine what it would have done to the demon, if each and every time he had reached out - only to be pushed away yet again - he had done it out of love.

But that was all in the past. Aziraphale had promised himself, hadn’t he, that he would never turn away from Crowley like that again. It didn’t make up for everything he had done, but at least it was a start. And Crowley seemed to accept it, at any rate. That night, after dinner at the Ritz, he had accepted Aziraphale’s tearful apologies with grace the angel hadn’t ever expected a demon to possess. He hadn’t laughed at him, or needled him about it. Hadn’t tried to make him feel worse about everything. He had just… smiled. And said there was nothing to forgive. That they’d been afraid, both of them. And now they didn’t have to be any more. There had been a pause then, almost as if he was waiting for something, and Aziraphale had taken his hands and promised he would never deny their friendship again. It must have been what he had needed to hear, because he’d laughed and said “I’ll hold you to that, Angel.” And that had been that.

At least, it had been. Until one warm night in early June, one of the first truly warm days of summer, when Crowley had come to the bookshop with a bottle of expensive whiskey and wondered if Aziraphale might want to join him for a drink or two. That had been three hours ago, and so far they had only drunk half the bottle. It was a nice night. An easy night, the angel thought, with the silence lying comfortably between them. They were warm, they were comfortable, they were safe, and they were together. He didn’t dare wish for anything more. It was a wish he knew would always be denied.

“Angel,” Crowley asked quietly, around midnight. Something in his voice made Aziraphale look up from the book in his lap. “D’you… d’you ever think, now that we’re free and all…” his words were quiet, careful. “Do you ever think about… love?”

Aziraphale took a second to process the question, fear shooting sharp down his spine. Had he been found out? “About love, dear boy?” he asked carefully. “What about it?”

Crowley took a deep breath. Oh no, Aziraphale thought, the silence suddenly feeling a lot like dread. He’s figured it out. He knows. He knows, and he’s going to leave. His stomach sank until it felt like the pit of it was somewhere beneath his shoes. He couldn’t look up from the floor, too afraid to see the expression on the demon’s face.

“I mean. Uh. Loving someone. Like humans do. Like - like those romance books you read. Have you… ever thought about it?” Crowley asked, swirling the whiskey in his glass, sounding for all the world like the question was just out of idle curiosity.

Oh, the angel almost sighed. Oh thank Hea- Somebody. He doesn’t know. “No,” he said, almost too quickly. “No, never. I’m an angel. We do general love - not specific, you know.”

Something seemed to shudder in the room, but Aziraphale was familiar enough with the feeling of his own heart breaking that he barely spared it a thought. He didn’t care how many times he had to break his own heart like this, loving a demon that could never love him back. He’d take all the pain in the universe, if it meant he got to keep Crowley by his side.

“I see.” Crowley’s voice caught, and Aziraphale frowned.

“Are you okay, dear? You’re not getting sick, are you? Can you get sick?”

Crowley laughed, though the sound was bitter. “No, Angel. Not getting sick.” He sighed, and stood. “Well, I should probably be off. Got to… water my plants and all that.”

“Oh, but, do you have to?” Aziraphale didn’t want the night to end. Evenings with Crowley always ended too soon.

“’Fraid so. I’ve got a very picky orchid that just isn’t quite cutting it. Might have to do something drastic, just to teach it who’s boss.” He smiled, but for the first time since the failed apocalypse, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You take care, alright, Aziraphale?”

“Crowley-” Aziraphale stood, unsettled by the sudden shift in their routine. Before he could reach out and grab him, the demon was gone.

Chapter Text

It was early the next morning, dawn just barely touching the sky, when the world changed. It happened without warning, like the shattering of a light bulb. A power that had been there since the beginning suddenly went out, leaving nothing behind but darkness and the fading echo of what light had once been. The earth shuddered and cried out, protesting the loss. Great gouts of magma shot from the ground as a long-dormant volcano shuddered to life and ancient fault-lines shifted, sending buildings tumbling down.

In his shop, Aziraphale jerked to awareness, falling from his chair and dropping his book to the floor. He cried out, calling Crowley’s name in desperate panic. Calling for protection. For the comforting presence he could feel always wrapped around him, even when his demon was far away. The presence that spelled safety, and comfort, and home. It had been with him for so very long now, constant as the northern star. And now, so suddenly his terrified mind refused to understand what had happened, that presence was gone.

“No.” Aziraphale sat up, throwing his senses wide, searching, seeking, all the way to the edge of the world. “Crowley!” His frantic cry, amplified by his angelic power, rippled through the minds of every being with even the slightest occult sensitivity. Miles away, Anathema sat up in bed and reached for her lover when she felt the new absence in the world. Down the street from Jasmine Cottage, Adam Young tumbled from his covers, reaching out himself with what remained of his power. What he found was so terrible he fled from it, running to climb into bed with his parents like he hadn’t since he’d been very small.

“No,” the angel said again, his voice small and lost amongst the stacks of lonely books. “No.” He pushed himself up with trembling hands, climbed to his feet, and didn’t stop running until he stood outside the door to Crowley’s Mayfair flat.

“Crowley!” He banged his fist on the door, though some part of him knew already that the demon was not there to hear. “Crowley! Open up!” There was something… Wrong. With the flat. Not just an absence of the demon, but the fading Presence of something else. Terrified, Aziraphale did the only thing he could think to do, and miracled the door open.

As soon as he did, he wished he hadn’t. Waves upon waves of malevolence emanated from deep within the flat, almost bowling him over with the force of it. Hopelessness. Heartbreak. Terror. A bestial, all-consuming sort of pain. All riding on a tide of evil that poured out the open door like a river breaking through a dam. In moments it was gone, flowing further away, out into the rest of the world. The angel steadied himself, taking a deep breath. And then, already dreading what he would (or wouldn’t) find, he stepped inside.

“Crowley,” he called again, into the silent flat. “My dear, are you here?” It was a foolish question. He knew the answer already. Had known it even before his book had hit the floor back in his shop. And yet, he needed to ask it. To satisfy some feeble shred of hope in him insisting that maybe, if he just called loud enough, the demon would hear him.

“He izzz not.” Beelzebub appeared in the doorway to Crowley’s study. For just a moment, their expression was infinitely sad. Then their eyes fell on the distraught angel, and something that might have been pity crossed their face before being replaced by a detached sort of scorn.

“What have you done with him?” Aziraphale demanded, voice hard. He cast about, searching for something, anything, he could use as a weapon. If this demon had hurt Crowley -

“I?” The Prince of Hell asked sharply. “I have done nothing.”

“Your people then.” Anger burned through his veins, chasing out the fear. “Where is he? Where have they taken him?”

Beelzebub sneered at his rage, buzzing with anger of their own. “As if you care. He was ourzz. A demon. Not worthy of your regard.”

The angel’s eyes flashed, the smell of ozone filling the air around him. “I swear to you, if he’s been harmed, then I’ll - I’ll destroy whoever is responsible.”

At his words, pity returned to the face of the Prince of Hell and settled there. They ignored his threat, instead reaching into the pocket of their jacket and bringing forth a thin white envelope. Aziraphale could see Crowley’s familiar spidery scrawl across the front, spelling out his name.

“Here,” Beelzebub said, shoving it at the angel. “He had three last requestzz.”

Aziraphale’s heart stopped beating. His anger deserted him as quickly as it had come, fleeing from the sudden roaring in his ears.

“Last requests?” he whispered, staring at the envelope in his hands.

“Move what izz left to prevent unnezzesary destruction.” The buzzing in the prince’s voice came thicker as they quoted. “Give thizz letter to my angel. Do not seek vengeance. It izz not hizz fault.” They met Aziraphale’s eyes. “We will honor theze requestzz. We are not heartlezz. But do not break hizz replacement, or you will find that Hell hazz much to offer thoze that we hate.”

With that, Beelzebub began to sink down through the floor before the stunned and speechless angel. “Oh,” they added, just before their head sunk beneath the dark stone. “You may keep thizz apartment. The emotional rezzidue makes it unsuitable for another to inhabit.” And then, they were gone.

“What?” Aziraphale asked of the empty room. “I don’t…” he looked down at the envelope. At his name, scrawled across the front. “I don’t understand.” But he did. He did understand, all too well.

The couch was mere steps away, but it took all his remaining strength to get there. He collapsed on it, like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut. Around him, the apartment swam with emotions. Love, he could sense. His own, probably, from all of the times he’d sat on this very couch with his demon. The shadow of laughter in the walls from late-night talks. Satisfaction and joy, directed at the plants, at how they grew for Crowley. But also anger. Hatred. Loathing. Fear. Agony. Sorrow. Pain. Something terrible had happened here, and all Aziraphale knew was that Crowley was gone.

At length, when the sun was high in the sky, its rays coming through the window to fall across his face, Aziraphale remembered the letter. His hands shook as he opened it, gently pulling the flap from the seal where Crowley had licked it closed. Inside was a single sheet of paper, the writing even more messy than usual - as if it had been written in a dreadful hurry.

Angel, it read.

First, don ’t go into my bedroom until you’ve had it cleansed. Get book-girl to do it, or an exorcist. It’ll be too dangerous for you to go in there, by the time you read this. Don’t even look until it’s been cleaned up. Got it? Good. Now. Really first thing - I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t leave you if I had any choice in the matter, but it happens that I don’t. I’m not sure I ever did.

It's not anyone’s fault, what’s happening. I need you to know that. It’s not Hell. It’s not Heaven. It’s not me, or you, or anyone. It just is. Ineffable, right? No, don’t look at me like that. I mean it. Not anyone’s fault. Would have happened thousands of years ago, without you around. It was bound to happen eventually. It’s just luck it’s now, when there won’t be any collateral damage.

Now. Next thing - whatever happens, whatever you learn, whatever you think you know, don ’t come looking for me. If you care even half as much about me as you say, you’ll stay well away. By now, I’m dead. Will be dead. Whatever. Dead, alright? Gone. Nothing left to even find. Don’t even think about it.

Third - the Bentley's yours now. Take care of her, alright? I love that car. I guess everything in my flat is. Hell isn’t going to want it, so you might as well. The good alcohol’s in the safe behind the Mona Lisa. Don’t drink it all in one go.

Not much time left now. One last thing. Take care of yourself. I lo You've been a good friend. You’ll be alright. Few years, and you won’t even remember what I looked like. Hopefully my replacement won’t be too hard for you to deal with.

There was no farewell. No sign-off. The letter ended there, in a smear of ink and something that looked suspiciously like tear stains. Crowley’s sigil glowed faintly below the words, but when Aziraphale touched it he could sense only an echo of the power it should have held.

“No.” The word cut through the silence like an explosion. “No. I refuse to accept this. Crowley, you bastard. How dare you do this to me.” The anger was back, raging up his spine like a flashover as he surged to his feet. The door to Crowley’s bedroom was just down the hall. Crowley didn’t want him to go in there? Tough.

 “If you don’t want me in your room, you’d best come stop me,” Aziraphale called, daring his demon to come. No one did.

He hesitated at the door. The fear and pain were strongest here, almost tangible. He let his hand hover over the handle, the external fear stoking his own. And then his anger flared white-hot, and he shoved the door open.

Inside, it was a mess. He’d never been in Crowley’s bedroom before, but he knew it wouldn’t normally have looked like this. Scraps of black fabric littered the floor. Torn clothes, bedsheets, and the debris of pillows were strewn about like so much flotsam after a storm. What looked like great claws had taken chunks from the wooden frame of the bed, the dresser, even the concrete walls. Worse, black feathers, enough to cover a large pair of wings, lay abandoned among the debris. There was no blood, but somehow that was even worse. Blood, or the sludge of demon-tainted holy water, would have been more final. Proof that Crowley was gone. But this… whatever had ultimately happened to his demon, it hadn’t happened here. Aziraphale’s heart ached, thinking of Crowley fighting, desperate to escape some unknown foe, maybe trying to get to him, to the safety of the bookshop, only to be taken by… something. A hoard of demons, perhaps.

He took a step forward, over the threshold, and immediately realized his mistake. And the reason for Crowley’s warning. Soul-crushing sadness and spine-numbing fear crashed over him. Depression greater than anything he had ever felt. Six thousand years of heartbreak and pain. The kind of depression that would drive someone to sleep for days. Or decades. It washed over him in waves, drowning him, flooding his senses, beating against his soul with the same terrible strength of an ocean grinding a mountain down to sand.

Stepping through that doorway was like all having of his anxiety brought to life and amplified a thousand times. Every little worry, every insult he almost believed, every time he’d felt not good enough, multiplied and squared and then multiplied again, and all shot through with a yawning sense of loss. He couldn’t even begin imagine what might have caused Crowley’s bedroom to become such a vortex of sorrow and pain.

Worthless, it said in his own voice. Helpless. Stupid angel, thinking you could hold him here. Thinking he would stay for you, when he was so much more. He’s gone and it’s your fault. Every time he reached out to you, what did you do? You pushed him away. Told him he wasn’t good enough. Chose anything else over him. You never deserved him. It’s only a wonder he didn’t leave you sooner. You -

“No.” He wrenched his mind away from the agony, stumbling backwards into the hall. “That’s not true! I did the best I could.” But… had he? Had he, really?

Something crunched underfoot. He looked down. There, on the ground, were a pair of round black sunglasses. He’d crushed one of the lenses without realizing. A sob rose up in his throat. His anger was gone - fled the moment he’d seen the state of Crowley’s room. It had left him alone, here in this dark, empty tomb, with nothing but his own guilt and sorrow. The sound he made next couldn’t even be called a sob. It was too small and broken for that. He knelt down, there in the doorway, and scooped up the mangled bit of metal. He tried a miracle, to fix the broken glass. All he succeeded in doing was vanishing it completely.

“No…” he sat down, hard, on the cold stone floor, staring at the empty room beyond. “No. Please.” He couldn’t say to whom he prayed, but he prayed all the same.

Chapter Text

“Aziraphale.” A voice called to him, distant, almost impossible to hear through the thoughts he could not block out. One thought. One fact. Loud and insistent, impossible to ignore. Dead. Crowley is dead. An infinity loop of grief echoing in his mind. He sat where he had fallen on the floor outside of Crowley’s bedroom, dry eyed and staring at the broken frames in his hands.

A solid presence appeared at his side, familiar, warm, and wholly unwelcome. “Aziraphale. I’m so sorry.”

He blinked dully, focusing with difficulty on Anathema’s worried face. She knelt down beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Are you… alright?” she asked awkwardly.

Alright? He wondered, scrunching his brow. What an odd question. He opened his mouth, but the words were lost under the tide of Dead. Crowley is dead.

Anathema hugged him, throwing her arms around his shoulders and pulling him close. It was that closeness that broke him open. That warmth of another body against his own. He sobbed, a great, heaving sob, and clung to her like a drowning man reaching for the one thing that might pull him from the water.

“There, shh, shh, it’s-” she didn’t say it would be alright. He appreciated that. It wouldn’t be alright. Nothing would be alright again.

She took him back to the bookshop, she and Newt. Together they got him onto the couch and wrapped him into a blanket before Newt vanished into his small kitchen to make a cup of cocoa. Aziraphale pressed his hand to the worn fabric, the last thing in this shop that had touched Crowley before he died.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Anathema asked carefully, kneeling on the rug at his feet. The angel frowned, his eyes glassy with shock and a heartbreakingly lost expression on his face. He knew what he needed to say, but the words seemed so far away.

“Aziraphale. What happened?” She gripped his arm, trying to get his attention.

The words took a long time to form. “I… I don’t know.”

“You know something,” Anathema insisted. “Tell me that. Tell me… tell me when was the last time you saw Crowley?”

Aziraphale shivered, drawing the blanket closer. Without the comforting presence of his demon wrapped around him, the world felt so much colder. “I… last night. Here.”

“What happened?”

He shook his head. It was so hard to remember. To think. What had happened? All his thoughts kept running into the one that overwhelmed all the others. Crowley is dead.

“Aziraphale,” Anathema snapped. “Tell me what happened.”

“Hey,” Newt chided her softly. “Give him some time. He’s just lost his…” he frowned, searching for a word that could encapsulate the relationship between the angel and the demon. “His… partner.” He tried to pass Aziraphale a cup of cocoa, but the angel just stared at it dumbly, turning Crowley’s glasses over and over again in his hands. Anathema sighed and took the cup instead, placing it on the table beside the couch.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s hard,” she said. “But we need to know what happened. If the world is going to end again-”

“It’s not,” Aziraphale knew that much, at least. “Not the whole world. Just- just mine.”

Newt sat down in Aziraphale’s chair, watching his lover and the angel with worried eyes. “Is it Heaven? Did they do it?”

“No.” Aziraphale shook his head.

“How do you know?” Anathema demanded.

The angel closed his eyes. “Crowley-” he forced down a sob after the beloved name. “Crowley told me.” One shaking hand pulled the letter from its place in his suit pocket. He looked at the familiar handwriting, but his eyes just wouldn’t make sense of the letters. They were just shapes. Shapes that made sounds that made words that mad sentences that all said the same thing. Crowley was dead.

The humans left him on the couch while they read the letter, Anathema sitting on the edge of the chair and leaning over Newt, sharing his space like it was also hers and hers belonged to him. Aziraphale stared into space, looking at the world around him without really seeing it. It didn’t matter, really. Nothing would ever matter quite as much again.

A part of him rebelled at that thought. He knew Crowley wouldn’t want him to mourn like this. His demon would tell him to buck it up, get over it, and move on - just like they always did when the humans they had grown attached to had passed on. But that was humans. They were expected to die. But not them. Not Crowley.

Give me some time, my dear, he told the ghost of Crowley in his mind. Just a little time to fall apart.

It wouldn’t always hurt like this, he knew. And that, perhaps, was a fact even more cruel than the loss itself. He would heal, eventually. It might take another six thousand years, but he would recover. He would move on. Collect more books. Eat in extraordinary restaurants. Live the life that they had both fought so hard for. It just didn’t seem fair. He hadn’t ever expected he would have to do it alone.

“Aziraphale,” a voice called. He looked up, half expecting to see Crowley standing there at his side like always. But it was only Newt, offering him back Crowley’s final letter.

“Thank you, dear boy,” he said, then shuddered. He’d called Crowley dear boy sometimes too. But with Crowley it had always meant something else. Something a lot closer to my love.

“Um.” Newt bit his lip, but forged ahead at Anathema’s encouraging nod. “What did you and Crowley talk about last night? Do you remember?”

Aziraphale frowned, and shook his head. It had all been just words. Nothing that really meant anything. Just sounds, just noise. A way to reassure each other that they were real. That they were there.

“He…” there was so much fog in his mind. It made it so very hard to think. “He asked me… if I thought about love.”

Anathema sat up straighter. “He asked you about love?”

The angel nodded. “Yes… yes. I remember now. He asked me what I thought about it. If I… if I wanted to love, like a human does. And I thought he’d found out. Realized my secret. But he hadn’t. He just wanted to know what I thought.”

“And what did you tell him?” she wanted to know. When he didn’t answer right away, she leaned forward. “Aziraphale. What did you tell him?”

Aziraphale shook his head sadly. “I lied to him. I always accused him of lying, but in the end I was the one that lied.”

“What did you lie about?” Anathema asked him, insistent.

The angel paused, trying to think through the fog. “I…”

“You told him you don’t love, didn’t you?” Newt asked, prompting them both to look at him in surprise. He shrugged when they stared. “Makes sense to me,” he said. “I know if someone I was in love with asked me that question, and I didn’t know if they loved me, I’d lie about it. Safer that way.” He gave Anathema a small, awkward smile that said he knew he didn’t have to lie about it to her.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, remembering the expression on Crowley’s face after he’d spoken. “I told him I couldn’t. That… that I was an angel, so I didn’t have the capacity.” Crowley’s expression had twisted, crumpling, and for just a second the light in those beautiful yellow eyes had dimmed. But then Aziraphale had blinked, and the expression was gone. He still didn’t understand what it had meant.

“Ah.” Anathema was frowning at her hands, her fingers moving slightly like she was turning the pages of a book. “I think…” she froze. “Oh. Shit.”

Newt reached up and caught her as she nearly toppled off the arm of the chair.

“Shit. I’m sorry. Shit.” She took a few deep breaths, steadying herself.

“What?” the former witch-finder asked, when she had regained her balance.

Instead of answering him, she looked at the angel. “Aziraphale,” she said slowly. “How powerful of an angel was Crowley, before he Fell?”

Aziraphale blinked, trying to make sense of that. “How powerful was…”

“How powerful of an angel was Crowley?” Anathema repeated. “Please, it’s important.”

“I…” He’d never asked, had he? It was just one of those things they never talked about. “I don’t know.” He’d known Crowley must have been powerful, but it hadn’t ever really mattered, had it? The demon had always made sure his temptations had been within Aziraphale’s power to thwart.

“Ok, let’s try another track. What angels have the power to stop time?”

Thinking of Heaven hurt too. He’d lost Heaven just as much as he’d lost his demon. He had chosen Earth, and Crowley, over his former brethren. But Anathema was watching him with wide, anxious eyes, so he pushed through the pain and the fog. “I… only the First Sphere,” he said after a moment. “Seraphim. Cherubim. Thrones.” Oh. So Crowley must have been of the First Sphere. He’d never said.

“And of those three groups, how many are demons now?”

“I don’t-” There were so many demons. And none of them had ever been as important as Crowley. He hadn’t cared who they used to be.

“That you know of. How many?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Satan, obviously. Maybe Beelzebub, though I think they were a Dominion.”

“And what about the rest of them that Fell?” Anathema stood, moving to stand behind Newt’s chair and leaning on the back. “It can’t have just been two.”

“Does it matter?” Aziraphale couldn’t see that it did. He couldn’t see anything mattering just then.

“It does,” she snapped. “What happened to those more powerful demons? Why don’t we hear about any of them?”

“They…” he blinked, and a new kind of horror found a home in the pit of his stomach. “They were lost. They Fell from so high up that their essence shattered.” He’d seen the aftermath of some of those Falls. The mess of destruction left behind when the loss of God’s Love destroyed the fragile balance inside the mind of so powerful a being. It looked very much like the disaster he had found in Crowley’s bedroom.

“So why didn’t Crowley?” Anathema wondered. Aziraphale stared at her, mutely horrified by the implications of what she was asking.

“Maybe he didn’t Fall as quickly?” Newt suggested. “If he had more time to adjust…”

Aziraphale scrubbed at suddenly watering eyes with the back of his hand. “He… he always did say he didn’t so much Fall, as ‘saunter vaguely downward.’”

Anathema nodded. “Maybe his Fall was gradual enough to keep him from shattering. And then, once he was on Earth, he had a lot to hold on to. Maybe everything was enough to keep whatever destroyed the others at bay, but not cancel it out entirely. Until… Armageddon, maybe?”

“But that was months ago. Almost a year, now. If he held it together for so long, why would this happen now?” Newt wondered aloud. Anathema shrugged.

“I don’t know. But I think Agnes did. In the back of the book, there was a note. More of a message really, from her to me. ‘Know ye this, Anathema. When the Serpent of the First Sphere completes his Fall, go to the bookshop which sells no books. There shall the angel understand all that he has lost.’”

“But what does that even mean?” Aziraphale sniffed, feeling more tears leak out of the corners of his eyes. He knew what he had lost. He’d lost Crowley. There wasn’t anything worse than that.

“What was he feeling last night?” Newt asked, the abrupt topic switch throwing the angel off for a moment before he realized what the young man had asked.

“He- oh, I think he was happy,” Aziraphale told them. “At least, until he left. He… he felt safe.” He could still remember it, how Crowley had felt warm and happy, the contentment rolling off of him to fill the room.

“Just that?” Anathema frowned, staring at him. “Just happy and safe? You didn’t feel anything else from him?”

“No.” He’d never feel that warmth again, watching Crowley slouch lower and lower on the couch, lazily joking and taking long drinks straight from the bottle. “Just… just that.”

“And what about now?” Anathema gestured to the store around them. “You can sense residual emotions on a place, right? Can you feel anything of Crowley now?”

Aziraphale shook his head, but under her unflinching stare he sighed and closed his eyes, reaching out with his mind. He could feel Newt and Anathema, their concern hot and thick in the air. He could feel the strong emotions that sometimes cam with his books - joy and sadness, laughter and loss, every emotion under the sun attached to words that had meant something important to someone, once. He could feel his own love, permeating the shop. Love for this place - his home, and his books, and the demon that had been part of it all for almost longer than he could remember. And he could feel heartbreak. Each and every time his own heart had shattered a little, knowing Crowley did not return his love.

“Nothing.”

“There can’t be nothing,” Anathema insisted. “Try again.”

“There’s nothing,” Aziraphale snapped, frustrated and distraught. “I don’t know what you’re expecting me to find, but it isn’t here. There’s just me. My life. My love. My heartbreak.” Just him. The way it would always be, from now on.

“All yours?” Newt asked him, frowning. “Nothing else?”

“No. Nothing. Nothing at all.” He reached out again, senses heightened with a flare of anger, just to prove there wasn’t anything there. Except… “Wait..” Under the love. Under the heartbreak. There was something else. Something so familiar he didn’t even have to reach for it. “What… what is this?”

It was warm. A current of emotion. Strong emotion. Love, so much a part of this place he had taken for granted it belonged to him. But it didn’t. It did not originate in his own heart. He followed it, feeling out the source of the emotion, and found - Pain/Wrong/Unloved/Unlovable/Not-me/Not-enough/Not-his. Heartbreak. The last thread of hope, snapping in half. And on the other side, the fading echo of -

“Crowley. Oh my dear.” Crowley’s love. And Crowley’s heartbreak. “Oh, Crowley. What have I done?”

Chapter Text

“What have I done?” Aziraphale asked, horrified. Now that he’d felt it, he couldn’t stop feeling it. Crowley’s love, warm and comforting, so familiar it had been all but indistinguishable from his own general ambiance. And his heartbreak. That same love, tangled together in a loss of hope so complete it was overwhelming. And at the heart of it, at the place where Crowley’s hope had shattered, was the damning echo of his own words. No, never. I’m an angel. We do general love - not specific, you know.

“No. Oh, Crowley, I didn’t mean it. I never meant it. You never said-” He broke off in a sob, burying his face in his hands.

Anathema stood from where she knelt at his side, giving Newt a meaningful look. “Stay with him,” she ordered, before disappearing into the stacks deep inside the bookshop. Newt nodded and reached out tentatively to rub a hand up and down the angel’s back in soothing circles.

A short time later, she returned, carefully holding an ancient book in both hands. Aziraphale didn’t even look up. He stared down at his hands clasped over his knees, so very terribly aware of the heartbreak around him. How could he have missed it? Now that he could sense it, it didn’t feel like his own at all. It was too sharp, too fresh, and missing his own tired resignation.

“Here.” Anathema held the thick volume directly under his nose. “Aziraphale.”

“Hmm?” He blinked at it, not registering what it was for a moment. “Ah. What did you find?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t speak Italian. But this is the book we need.”

Newt squinted at the title, but was no more able to read it than his love. “How did you know?”

Anathema flipped it open, revealing several loose sheets of paper that had been pressed between the pages. “Crowley told me,” she said in a soft voice. “I think he knew what was coming, and left us clues so Aziraphale could understand.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale reached out and took the book from her hands. Holding it, he could feel Crowley’s emotions attached to the pages. He hadn’t been desperate yet, but the sour tang of fear still tainted the old binding. There was resignation there too, and worry, and love. And just a hint of that same, comforting presence that had always wrapped around Aziraphale though he had not truly known its source. Gingerly he removed the letter and unfolded it to reveal words in that oh-so-familiar handwriting.

Angel, it read.

I knew you wouldn ’t leave well enough alone. Always hungry for more information. That’s one of the things I like about you. You’re not stuck up and full of self-denial like those pricks upstairs.

“Oh, my dear…” The gentle teasing set off a dull throbbing pain in Aziraphale’s chest. He would never again get to see the way Crowley grinned when poking at him. Or hear his laugh when he’d struck a nerve. Aziraphale wiped wet eyes with his sleeve, afraid even a drop of water would ruin the centuries-old letter.

If you ’re reading this, then something has happened to me. And I’m sorry, but that’s the end of it. You’ll find some of your answers in this book, but don’t believe everything you read. If what I suspect is going to happen has, there won’t be any coming back.

I can ’t give you all the answers you’re going to want, I’m afraid. I have no idea what will finally be the push that makes me go supernova. It would have to be something big. An upheaval in the nature of Hell, perhaps. Or something that would cause severe emotional turmoil. I can feel the pressure building even now, like it has for thousands of years. I want to believe I can hold out against it forever, but I remember the Fall of my brothers. I remember what it looks like when a Throne loses control of their power.

You didn ’t see them, Angel. Bright wheels of fire and eyes, crashing down to Earth in a blaze of light, screaming as their minds broke from the loss of Her love. The explosions when their control gave out, destroying everything for miles. And the abominations that remained, when it was all done. My first task on Earth, even before Eden, was to hunt them down. Destroy them, if I could not contain them. So I did. There was nothing left of the person they had once been. Their foundation was gone, and all that remained was a rabid beast killing everything it touched.

I never want you to have to deal with that. So I ’ve made arrangements. Beelzebub will take care of everything when the time comes, in exchange for a few small favors now. Stay out of their way, they know what they are doing. They worked with me, those first few years, bringing down the monsters that remained of my fellow fallen Thrones. They know as well as I do that there is no good ending for those like us.

Don ’t go looking for my monster, Angel, if it even still remains. It isn’t me. It will not recognize you. It won’t recognize anyone.

I ’m sorry I can’t give you better closure. I just want you to know - you have made my time on Earth far better than I deserve.

Yours, always.

-A. Crowley.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale held the letter close to his chest, careful not to tear the fragile paper. This letter had to be at least a couple centuries old, if not older. It hurt the angel, somewhere deep inside, to realize that Crowley had been dealing with this for so long, all on his own. “My dear. I wish you had told me.”

“He probably didn’t want to worry you,” Newt told him quietly. “It’s not like there was anything you could have done.”

Aziraphale sniffed, trying not to start crying again. “I could have been there for him. I should have been there for him.” And the worst part? The very worst part? Was that he would never be able to make it up to him. To apologize for how absolutely blind he must have been, to miss something this big. For leaving him to face this all on his own. For not being strong enough to be someone Crowley could trust to stand at his back and hold him together.

He turns back to the letter, running his eyes over the familiar spidery scrawl. With it there in his hand, he could almost hear Crowley speaking to him. Almost see that fond, teasing look on his face when he wrote that first line. Almost hear the way his voice could go soft and gentle when speaking of difficult things.

 Almost imagine what it might have been like to hear him whisper yours, always, in his ear.

“Something big would cause this, huh?” Anathema asked, leaning over Aziraphale’s shoulder to read Crowley’s words. “What does he mean by big, though?”

“Upheaval in the nature of Hell…” Aziraphale muttered, re-reading that paragraph. “Like Armageddon suddenly being called off. Heaven and Hell both having to change how they saw themselves in relation to the Ineffable Plan instead of the Great one.”

“And then on top of that, the two of you cutting yourselves free of Heaven and Hell. Having to figure out for yourselves what you’re meant to do now,” Anathema added. “After nearly losing everything. That’s more than enough to send anybody insane.”

Newt nodded. “Yeah. And then, when Aziraphale rejected him, it must have been that last bit too much. He was scared it would push him over the edge, so he… made arrangements.”

“And that’s why Beelzebub was in his flat…” Aziraphale whispered, feeling more tears spill from the corners of his eyes. “’Taking care of everything’.”

Newt rescued the book before it could tumble from his lap, catching it up and starting at the page Crowley’s letter had marked.

“What does this say?” he asked, squinting at a drawing that looked very much like a diagram of a prison.

“Mm?” Aziraphale turned his attention to the book, grateful for the distraction from the grief welling up inside him. And the voice inside that chanted Your fault. You lied. You caused this. Over and over and over again.

He took the ancient volume back, tracing the words on the page with careful fingers. It was very old. Late fourteenth century, at least. Beautifully illuminated, with precise diagrams to illustrate the point of the passage. The wording, in the same delicate handwriting as his first edition of Dante’s Divine Comedy, detailed the creatures kept within the lowest circles of Hell.

“Here.” Newt pointed to the drawing he’d been looking at before. “What does this say?”

“It says…” Aziraphale squinted, then took out his reading glasses and put them on. He could, of course, miracle his vision better. But he’d always enjoyed the little human things, like needing glasses. Plus, seeing him use them never failed to cause Crowley to roll his eyes and offer to fix it for him, if he didn’t think he could do it himself.

“It says ‘Here lie imprisoned those who fell too far, and lost themselves on impact.” Beneath the diagram was an explanation of what happened when an angel Fell from the First Sphere. How the loss of their connection to God, coupled with the height of the fall, drove them insane. It also detailed efforts by several unnamed demonic entities to round up and kill or imprison what remained, to keep them from doing more harm to not only the mortal world but also their own forces.

Newt frowned. “Anathema, did Agnes say anything else about this?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. There was just a handwritten note underneath. I always assumed one of my relatives had written it. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“What did it say?”

“Rebuild the foundation.” She shrugged. “I have no idea what that means.”

“Rebuild the foundation…” Aziraphale stopped, an electric jolt shooting through him. He scanned Crowley’s letter. There. Their foundation was gone, and all that remained was a rabid beast. It was an impossible thought. A bright ray of hope that exploded in his mind, like that bomb Crowley had dropped on a church in 1941. Aziraphale latched onto it like a lifeline.

“Rebuild the foundation!” He shouted. “And here,” he turned the book, showing them the illustration, his whole body shaking as he tried to contain his growing hope. “It says they imprisoned the Fallen. And here, in Crowley’s letter. ‘Don’t go looking for my monster.’ Crowley isn’t dead! Whatever happened didn’t kill him, he’s just lost, like the other First Sphere demons.” He looked up, eyes wide wide and excited, the fog of grief burning away in the light of this last, desperate chance. He deliberately ignored the voice in the back of his head that whispered what if he’s too far gone to bring back?

“Crowley said not to go looking for him though,” Newt pointed out, not knowing how hard Aziraphale was trying to forget that fact. “He was very clear in his letters. Whatever’s left of him won’t recognize us.”

“But there is something left. There must be.” Aziraphale shifted so they could all see the book in his lap. “See here? It lists the names of all the Thrones that fell, and each one of them are contained in a cell above Tartarus. You can see their sigils on each door.” He traced the old symbols slowly. Names he’d known long ago, though he had never understood what had happened to the ones they belonged to. “Adramelec. Asmodai. Leviathan. Berith. Verrine. Gressil. Soneillon. And…” His fingers pause on the final sigil, the serpentine twists as familiar as the lines and curves of his own name. “Crowley.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s alive,” Anathema told him. “We don’t know what his ‘precautions’ mean. He could have asked Beelzebub to destroy him, for all we know.”

“He didn’t,” he snapped, as much at her as at his own doubt. He couldn’t afford to give in to it. He would not let himself fail Crowley yet again, when it could be within his power to bring him back.

Anathema looked at him with pity in her gaze. “Okay then, say you’re right. Say he’s still alive, imprisoned somewhere in Hell. Say we somehow manage to get into Hell, find these prisons, and figure out which one holds Crowley. What happens then? He already told us we can’t bring him back.”

Aziraphale lifted his head and met her eyes. Something in that ancient gaze forced her to step back. She was used to thinking of Aziraphale as a soft, kind man. But he was a warrior too, a soldier of Heaven. There was steel at his core. That steel showed in his face now, hard and determined. He might not have been strong enough to prevent Crowley’s shattering, but he would be damned for all eternity if he wasn’t strong enough to save him now.

“I rebuild his foundation,” he said simply. “I must at least try. I owe him that.”

Anathema frowned at him, but he stared right back, refusing to back down. Now that he’d found something to hope for, he would not let that go. If Crowley could be saved, if he could bring him home, then he would. And he would not consider any alternative.

“Alright,” she agreed at last, unable to refuse that hopeful determination in his eyes. “But how do we even get there? It’s not like we can just walk in the front door and demand they take us to Crowley. Especially not you.” She nodded pointedly at Aziraphale. “They’ll probably have orders to kill angels on sight.”

“Ah-” A new voice said, causing them all to turn abruptly to the door. “I think I can help with that.”

Adam Young stood in the doorway to Aziraphale’s shop, carrying a bag that looked like it had been hastily packed.

“Adam?” Anathema asked, surprised. “How did you- What are you doing here?”

“I came to help,” he told her blandly, as if the answer was perfectly obvious. Then he pushed past her, walking right up to Aziraphale.

“Mr. Aziraphale,” he said. “I saw what happened to Mr. Crowley. I’m awful sorry. But I think I can get you down to where he is.”

“Then he is still alive?” Aziraphale asked, hoping this boy, with the remains of his connection to Hell, could sense something his own power could not. Could give him proof that he was right to hope.

Adam shrugged. “I don’t know if you can call it that. But I think you can save him.”

Chapter Text

Adam, it turned out, had kept a back way into Hell after the apocalypse was over. Compared to the grand escalators Aziraphale knew Crowley usually used to report to his head office, it wasn’t much. It was just a hole in the base of a long-dead tree out in the middle of Hogback Woods, with a misspelled-sign in childish lettering that read “Enterance To Hell”. Aziraphale didn’t mind. He could feel the stink of hell rising from the hole. Whatever it looked like, it was a way in. And that was all he needed.

“It’s alright,” Adam reassured them. “I know it doesn’t look like much. It used to be just a hole we’d pretend was the way to Hell. But then when I changed things, it kind of became real.” He tossed a rock into the hole, and, instead of the expected dull thump they heard what sounded like a series of bangs as it bounced down a set of stairs. “I was going to put it back to normal with everything else, but I sort of figured I should keep it. You know, just in case something happened and we had to go down there to stop them starting another war.”

“Adam…” Newt frowned at a smaller sign tacked to a pole beside the tree that read “Keepe OUt”. “What if someone found this?”

The former Antichrist grinned at him, completely unconcerned. “They can’t, that’s the best part! See that?” He pointed to a ring of stones that encircled the small clearing around the dead tree. “I had the rest of the Them help me put it up. Nobody can get in here without my help.”

“And what if something from… down there,” Aziraphale pointed at the ground beneath his feet, “came out here?” He couldn’t sense any demonic presence outside of the hole, but that didn’t mean nothing had ever made it’s way out into the light. Just that if something had, it hadn’t been recently.

“Oh.” Adam stared at the hole, absently chewing on his lower lip. “I guess I didn’t think about that.” He shrugged. “I suppose, I could close it… after we get Mr. Crowley back, of course.”

Aziraphale nodded, frustrated with himself. “Yes, of course. We can continue this discussion after we get Crowley back.” Crowley needed him. Crowley needed him now. He didn’t have time to stand here arguing about the safety of an entrance to Hell in Tadfield. He should have gone right in the moment they arrived, instead of letting himself get distracted like this. He adjusted his bowtie and started toward the tree.

“Wait,” Adam called. “Anathema, Newt, you guys should stay here. I don’t think Hell is a good place for regular humans.”

Anathema scowled, possibly offended at being called a ‘regular human’. “I don’t like the idea of you two going down there on your own,” she said. “What if you need us?”

“I think,” Aziraphale said, shifting impatiently at another delay. “That if we get into that much trouble, your presence will not make that much of a difference either way, I’m afraid.” There was not much a human, even one so talented as Anathema, could do against a demon in its home territory, after all.

Newt placed a hand on Anathema’s shoulder, turning her to look at him. “They’re right. You and I won’t be much help down there.”

“You should stand guard,” Adam said brightly. “Make sure nothing gets out while we’re down there.”

“I don’t like it…” Anathema sighed, but Aziraphale could tell she was considering their words. He looked from her to the entrance to Hell, wanting badly to just go and leave all three humans behind.

“Fine,” Anathema said, just as he was about to start out. “But you’d better come back. Or we’re going in after you.”

“We will,” Aziraphale promised. “With Crowley.” He would not consider any other option.

Adam led the way down into the old tree, which quickly turned into a long, dark stairway. It was slow going, making their way down the steep steps without a single light to see by. The boy tried to use the flashlight from his phone, but found that no matter how bright a light he made, it illuminated nothing. Eventually, after what felt like hours of climbing, they spilled out into an almost as dark, dirty hallway. It smelled of sewage, and when Aziraphale accidentally let his hand brush the wall it came away coated in a slime of a disturbing greenish-brown color. They had reached Hell.

“This is Hell?” Adam asked, wrinkling his nose at a poster reading “DO NOT LICK THE WALLS”.

“I suppose it must be.” Aziraphale could feel a low-grade level of malevolence filling the air around them, distributing an indescribable feeling of vague unease and a dull spreading horror that he remembered all too well from the first time he’d been here, when he’d been wearing Crowley’s body. He’d been disgusted by it then, unable to bear the thought of Crowley, his bright, vibrant demon, ever having to return to this dark, depressing place. To think that Crowley would allow himself to be locked up here for eternity… well. He simply would not allow it.

“You said the cells are nearest the center?” Adam turned his frown on the hallway, looking in first one direction, and then the other. Behind them, the doorway into the secret tunnel closed. A sign affixed to it read “Out of Order - Forever”. Aziraphale made a note of it, and tried to memorize its position so they could find it when they needed to return. It was very likely that they would have to leave in a hurry, after all.

“I did. Just above Tartarus, if the book is to be believed.” Aziraphale checked the copy of the map he had made from Crowley’s book. The cells they wanted were somewhere very close to the lowest circle of Hell. He paused then, reaching out with his senses, trying to find the source of the malevolence in the air. There, slightly more to the left than the hallway went, it felt… thicker. More terrible. He tried to sense Crowley too, but encountered only the faintest, faded echo.

“This way,” he said, and led Adam deeper into Hell. Each step they took brought them closer to the center, deeper into the thick miasma of despair that emanated from the source. The young boy bravely matched pace with the angel, though Aziraphale could see that he struggled at times with the nature of this place. Sometimes they passed demons walking the halls, looking lost or frightened. None paid them any attention. Perhaps they just didn’t notice Aziraphale was an angel, or perhaps Adam’s infernal aura was enough to shield them both from detection. Whatever the reason, Aziraphale was grateful. Hell itself was bad enough, without having to deal with any of its denizens.

Their luck ran out about halfway down. They came to the end of a hall, and found one of the ‘disposable’ demons guarding a door. He looked bored, lounging against the filthy wall and polishing his nails on his dark shirt, squarely in the way of where Aziraphale needed to go. Both his senses and his map told him the way forward was through that door, and the demon did not seem inclined to move. They could wait, he supposed, and see if the demon left. But Crowley needed him now.

“Ahem.” Aziraphale coughed as they approached, drawing the demon’s attention. “Excuse me. Is this the way to Tartarus?”

The demon blinked up at him, scowling, before his eyes widened in surprise and not an insubstantial amount of fear. “You’re not demons!”

Internally, Aziraphale winced. Part of him had hoped that whatever had kept other demons from noticing them would work on this one as well. He should have known they would not be that lucky. Outwardly, he tugged on his jacked to straighten it and glared at the disposable demon. “No. We are not. I am an angel. And this boy is the former Antichrist, the son of Satan. We are, as I said, looking for Tartarus. Would you be son kind as to point us in the right direction?”

The demon looked at them both, eyes darting from one to the other as he pressed his back against the door. “I- uh, I really don’t think I can do that. I- I should… should call someone. Beelzebub. Oh, no, they don’t like to be bothered. Uh. Dagon, then. I should- I should call Dagon.” He reached for a phone that was embedded in the wall beside him.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Adam said quietly.

“What?” the demon asked, hand hovering in the air above the receiver.

“No, I really wouldn’t,” the boy went on. “You see, I’m the son of Satan, your leader, right?”

“I- um. Ah, yes. I can see that.” The demon’s gaze flickered over Adam, who had done… something with his aura, making it writhe with dark power.

“And you wouldn’t want me to tell my father you made me unhappy, would you?” he asked calmly.

The demon considered it. “Um. No. No, I really wouldn’t. But, see, I’m not supposed to let anyone through this door, son of Satan or no. So- so if it’s all the same to you, if you could just… turn around, we could forget this ever happened?”

Adam shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. My friend and I need to get to Tartarus. I assume the way down is through that door. If you don’t let us in, I am going to be very unhappy with you.”

“I’d listen to him, if I were you,” Aziraphale added. “You really don’t want to see what happened to the last person who didn’t do what he wanted.”

The demon gulped, glancing at Adam, then Aziraphale, and then to the phone as if weighing his options. Aziraphale glared at the phone and it fell, breaking into pieces at his feet.

“You’re going to let us through,” Adam said, taking a step forward. The disposable demon squeaked and tried to press himself further against the wall. “And you’re going to take us to Mr. Crowley. Now.”

“I- I- I- really can’t do that,” the demon stuttered. “I have or- orders. From Lord Dagon herself. No one gets through to the- the cells. Es- especially not nosy angels.”

Adam glared at him. “And I’m ordering you to take us down. If you do that, I won’t tell my dad. Whose orders are more important? Some Lord? Or the son of your King?”

The guard hesitated still, frozen with indecision. And the last of Aziraphale’s patience evaporated.

“I’m afraid we really don’t have time for this,” he said, pulling a flask from an inner pocket in his jacket. It was empty, but the demon did not have to know that. “Adam, stand back please. Can’t have you getting splashed.”

“Splashed?” the demon’s voice shot up several octaves, and he stared in fear at the flask in Aziraphale’s hands.

“Holy Water,” the angel told him. “Right from the source. I am sorry, but we really can’t be delayed any longer, you see. If you won’t let us through, then I really only have one other option.” He began to unscrew the cap.

“Wait!” the demon cried. “Wait, just- just wait.”

Aziraphale removed his hand from the cap and waited, ready at any moment to continue removing the cap.

“You could just take us down,” Adam suggested. “That way you’re not technically letting us through unguarded, but we still get what we want. And when we’re done, Mr. Aziraphale will even fix your phone for you. It’ll be like nothing ever happened. And Dagon never even needs to know.”

“If I do… you won’t let the angel use that Holy Water?” the demon asked the boy hopefully.

“I won’t,” Adam agreed. “Mr. Aziraphale, please put it away for now.”

“Fine, but I’m keeping it where I can reach it,” Aziraphale told them, tucking the flask back into its pocket. “If you so much as think about changing your mind…” he let the threat go unsaid. With it safely out of sight, the disposable demon visibly relaxed.

“Alright,” he agreed. “I’ll take you down. But Dagon doesn’t hear about this.”

“Not a word from us,” Adam promised. Aziraphale nodded. And the disposable demon removed a large ring of keys from his belt, and with it, opened the door.

He led them down further even than Aziraphale had expected they would have to go. Down one long, empty hallway. It had no branches. They saw no other entrances or exits. It was just one endless corridor of slimy brick, slowly descending down into the darkest pits of Hell. It took longer, even, than the first half of their trip before they reached the first doorway. A thick metal thing at least six inches thick, and reinforced with steel bars. Something behind it screamed as they passed, bashing against the walls of its cell. Their guide slunk a little closer to the furthest wall, doing his best to keep well away from the creatures imprisoned in this place.

After that, they passed more doors. Far more than Aziraphale had been expecting, given the illustrations in Crowley’s book. Each one was thick and wide, barred tight to keep whatever was behind it inside. He scanned each one, noting the sigil embossed into the steel, hoping each time to see the familiar serpentine lines of Crowley’s name.

Eventually, they reached the end of the hall. Beyond it the floor dropped off into nothing. Into the darkness of Tartarus, the deepest pit of Hell. They could feel the icy wind that rose from it, wafting down the corridor carrying waves of helplessness and despair. The very last door, made of new, shiny metal. Burned into the steel, Aziraphale finally found the sigil he had been searching for.

“And here we are,” their guide said. “Serpent of Eden. The last of the Great Ones to give in after their Fall.” He gestured to the final door, standing as far back from it as it was possible to get.

The door itself was thicker, even, than the doors they had passed down the hall, held in place by six huge metal bars. Something inside slammed against it, and foot-thick steel buckled. From beyond the door, there came a feral howl.

The demon gestured to a view slit, set just at eye level within the door. “I don’t know what you want to see,” he said. “But have a look. Faster you’re done, the faster we’re gone.” Under his breath he muttered “I really fucking hate this place.” He was sweating, though the hallway was ice cold.

Cautiously, Aziraphale approached the door. It buckled again, huge dents appearing in the metal. The malevolence rolling out from behind it was nearly overwhelming, but there was something else there, something he could almost feel… Aziraphale hesitated only a second before reaching out and swiftly lifting the flap above the view slit.

Inside was… beyond description. A nightmare incarnate. To a human mind - one that did not break on sight - it would look like nothing so much as a roiling mass of flames and inky black darkness, studded with thousands upon thousands of eyes. Each serpentine eye was red-rimmed gold, slit pupiled, blinking and moving independently of its fellows. Mouths appeared and disappeared within the mass, bearing sharp teeth that snapped at nothing. The thing in the cell resembled Crowley about as well as a slug resembles the sun - which is to say, not at all. But still there was that something. A feeling. Familiarity. A tiny shred of a connection that pulled at the core of Aziraphale.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered, and each one of those thousands of eyes turned to focus on the door. The fire flared at the sound of the angel’s voice, rising higher with a crackling roar. The whole mass of it surged forward, flattening against the door until tendrils of dark matter pushed out through the slot, reaching for Aziraphale. One brushed against his face, and the angel bit back a scream as HURT/HEARTBREAK/PAIN/LOVE/AGONY washed over him. The creature recoiled, keening as if burned from a thousand mouths. It flowed back from the door, washing up against the far wall and leaving feet of clear space within the cell.

It’s scared, Aziraphale realized, watching all of those eyes staring, unblinking, at the door. It was hard to reconcile his bright, beautiful demon with this insane, infernal thing. But he could feel it, when the creature had touched him. He could feel it in his bones. Crowley was somewhere in there, under the madness and the chaotic infernal power pulsing through the creature that was all that remained of his friend. All he had to do was gather the pieces, and rebuild his broken foundation.

“Open the door,” Aziraphale ordered, pressing a hand to the cold metal.

“Are you crazy?” their guide demanded, turning pale at the thought. “No! I’m in enough trouble as it is!”

“Open. The. Door.” The angel repeated, unable to look away from the mass of flames and eyes inside. If he squinted he could almost make out rings, like the interlocking circles of fire that made up the bodies of the thrones.

Adam went to a wheel set in the wall. With a great deal of rusty screeching, it slowly began to turn. One by one, the bars started to slide back from their place across the door.

“No!” the disposable demon protested, but he was too frozen by fear to make a move. Adam and Aziraphale both ignored him.

“Close the door after me,” the angel told the boy. “Don’t let anyone else in.”

Adam nodded. “I won’t.”

The last of the bars slid free. The creature howled. The door creaked open. And Aziraphale stepped inside.

Chapter Text

The door shut behind him with an ominous thud, and Aziraphale was alone with the creature that had once been Crowley. It hesitated only a moment before it surged forward, rising over him like an enormous wave and crashing down with all the force of a nuclear explosion. Aziraphale had just enough time to throw up a barrier - a shield of pure white Heavenly light that barely held the creature off. It pressed down upon him, raging, flooding his senses with ANGER/PAIN/HATE/FURY.

Aziraphale pressed back, sending out his own pulse of positive emotions - AFFECTION/CARE/HOPE/JOY.

When it connected, the creature screamed in pain, recoiling from the angel. The sound was primal, feral, without any hint of intelligence to it.

“Crowley, stop!” Aziraphale commanded, relaxing his shield. The creature surged forward again, still screaming its rage and pain. The force was almost enough to overwhelm him. A weaker angel, or one that had been unprepared for what he would find, would have been destroyed. Again, Aziraphale sent out a pulse of love. And again, the creature screamed and recoiled.

“Crowley!” the angel called to him. “Crowley, wake up! It’s me!”

The creature’s next assault was worse. It fell on Aziraphale in a flood of darkness echoing of RAGE/PAIN/DESPAIR/LOSS, burning through his Heavenly shield like acid. It burned where it touched him, leaving him with angry red marks on his skin.

Aziraphale pushed back against the darkness with all the light he possessed, lashing out with Holy fire filled with COMPASSION/PEACE/DEVOTION. The creature cried out, doubling down in its attack, overwhelming the angel’s senses with a cacophony of every terrible, negative emotion.

He gasped, faltering, his shield failing under the onslaught. Heavenly emotions weren’t working. Not even the touch of Heaven’s light against the creature’s infernal essence could break through the mindless rage inside.

“It’s me!” Aziraphale cried desperately, hoping something in the creature remembered enough to recognize him. “It’s Aziraphale!”

The creature bore down harder, shredding his shield and engulfing him in darkness and flame. He was drowning in a sea of rage and hate, tossed about in a tidal wave of infernal fire. ANGER/AGONY/RAGE/HEARTBREAK beat at him from all directions, disorienting him until he could no longer remember which way was up. His entire body was on fire, and he could do nothing to escape it.

“CROWLEY!” He tried to should into the chaos. “It’s Aziraphale! Remember! You know me!”

RAGE/DESPERATION/LOSS/ANGER/AGONY flooded his senses as the darkness surrounding him squeezed tight enough to break bones. He could sense no recognition in the creature. Nothing at all of Crowley in the endless madness of its thoughts. It flowed around him, engulfing him, until he could see nothing but darkness, sense nothing but pain.

Crowley was right, Aziraphale thought as the darkness began to overtake his mind. There isn’t enough of him left to remember. This creature, this being of rage and pain, this was all that was left of his demon. There would be no bringing him back from this. Aziraphale had failed Crowley once again. And now he was going to die here, exactly as Crowley had feared he would. Something in him rebelled at the thought.

“NO.” He refused to give in. Crowley was still in here. He could feel him, sense him deep within the darkness. If he could just reach him… remind him of who he was… Aziraphale sent out a call into the essence surrounding him. Crowley’s name, carried on a pulse of pure power and all of Aziraphale’s love.

The creature froze, quivering, no longer trying to crush him into pieces.

The angel pushed outward again. Not, this time, with the general Love of Heaven, but with his very own, specific love. A flare of power filled with laughter/warm golden eyes/an arm around his shoulders/cold nights spend warm in the bookshop/a demon on a ratty tartan couch/’angel’ , spoken low and quiet, meaning so much more than just his type of being/wine shared straight from the bottle/fingers tangled together as they stand against the end of the world/love six centuries old and growing stronger every day.

WORTHLESS/FORGOTTEN/BROKEN/UNWORTHY echoed out from the creature surrounding him. It shuddered, torn, drawn towards Aziraphale’s light but also burned by it.

“No, my dear one, not you,” Aziraphale told it from within the darkness. “Never you.” He sent out more light, bathing the creature in Beloved/Cherished/Precious/Worthy.

UNFORGIVEN/UNWANTED/ALONE. This time the crash of emotions was hesitant, slower, and noticeably weaker than before.

Forgiven/Wanted/Loved, Aziraphale pulsed back, filling the darkness with the swell of joy he felt seeing Crowley smile, the sweet warmth that settled in his chest when watching Crowley sprawl across his sofa, the urge he could never escape to grab Crowley by the hand and pull him closer, to shelter him beneath his wings from any chance of harm.

The creature hissed like water poured on a fire. Tendrils of darkness and flame beat feebly at Aziraphale’s shield of light.

AGONY/UNLOVED, pulsed faintly from within the darkness.

MINE, Aziraphale sent back to it, filling the darkness with memories of every time he had looked at Crowley and known how lucky he was to have the demon in his life. Of every moment of every day when he knew just how much he loved his demon. LOVED.

All at once, the creature retreated from him, releasing him from its grip. It scrambled back against the farthest wall, piling on top of itself in its effort to get away. Aziraphale stepped forward and it scrambled back, higher, all swirling flame and eyes. As the angel moved further inward, the creature could climb the wall no higher. It flowed out to the sides, always keeping a circle of space around Aziraphale, until all four walls were nothing but roiling blackness, flames, eyes, and mouths. A perfect circle remained clear around him - a radius of six feet from the angel at any given point. Every single golden eye was focused inward, tracking his movements, wide with fear and a soul-deep pain.

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale said quietly, his voice the only sound in the echoing chamber. “My poor, poor dear. What have I done to you?”

The creature hissed from all its mouths, a sound like a thousand snakes in an echo chamber. It tried to pull back further, widening the circle around the angel by a few bare inches.

“It’s alright. I won’t hurt you.” Aziraphale kept his voice soft, soothing, like he was trying to calm a wild animal. He took a step forward, and a high-pitched keening rose from the creature - though it didn’t seem to come from any of its mouths.

“Okay. Okay, it’s alright.” He stepped back into the center of the clear space, and the keening stopped. “See? It’s perfectly safe.” Carefully, making no sudden movements, he sat in the center of the circle. He would have to wait for the demon to come to him, just like he had for the past six thousand years. Only this time, he would not hold a line between them. There would be no stepping back if Crowley got too close now. There was no ‘too close’ when it came to Crowley, not anymore. There never really had been. There had just been Aziraphale’s fear, and the disapproval of Heaven.

He watched the creature as he waited, taking slow, deep breaths to keep himself calm and centered. It was true that he did not need to breathe, but the feeling of air filling his lungs had always been soothing to him. Crowley, too, had always seemed to appreciate the human mechanisms of their bodies. Aziraphale could remember listening to him complain about how he always had to stop his heart when he went to Hell, and how he didn’t feel right until he could start it back up again.

There had been a day when Aziraphale had met him by chance, just outside the entrance they used to report to their respective headquarters. He’d noticed, as they’d walked together, that Crowley wasn’t breathing. Nor, when he listened for it, could he hear the demon’s heart. It wasn’t until they had reached the shop, and he had invited Crowley inside, that his sensitive ears picked out the telltale beat of Crowley’s heart. Crowley had stood still then, in the center of Aziraphale’s home, and had taken a long, deep breath. His first free breath of air since departing for Hell. He’d shrugged when he caught Aziraphale staring, and said he’d just wanted to smell something clean. And then he had made jokes about books and dust, annoying the angel enough that he forgot all about the fact that Crowley had waited to breathe after getting back from Hell. That he’d wanted that first breath of air to be from Aziraphale’s shop.

Aziraphale promised himself that Crowley would be free and breathing, heart beating once again. He would return to the bookshop, and Aziraphale was never, ever letting him go again.

He continued to breath. Slow. Steady. In and out. In and out. As he did so, he noticed a strange motion start within the creature. A sort of rhythmic rising and dimming of its flames. He frowned, and forgot for a moment to exhale. The rhythm stopped. And then he let out his breath, and the flames dimmed. He inhaled, and they grew brighter. Curious, he held his breath again. And the fires remained consistently bright. At his exhale, they dimmed again, stayed dim until he breathed in again.

He’s breathing with me, Aziraphale realized, staring at the thousands of serpentine eyes that watched his every move. With each slow, steady breath, the fires dimmed a little more. And each time they rose again, they were less bright. Slowly, the eyes started to close. At first it was just one or two, but soon all but a single pair were shut, leaving two bright eyes focused on the angel’s face. The fires faded almost entirely, until they were just barely flickering above the darkness.

Aziraphale forced himself to remain still, to keep his breathing even and slow. He could not risk moving and breaking this spell that had come over them. A deep humming noise echoed around him suddenly and he jumped. Immediately the humming vanished and the fires shot up again as the creature opened all of its eyes.

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale said quietly. “You’re alright.” He wasn’t entirely sure who he was reassuring - the creature, or himself. He continued to breathe steadily, and slowly the creature fell back into mimicking his rhythm. This time, he was prepared when the humming started. It rose up and wrapped around him, warm and comforting like the purr of a cat.

They stayed like that for some time - how long, Aziraphale did not know. Long enough that he had to remind his legs not to cramp, and the cold of the cell started to seep into his bones. Slowly, ever so slowly, with two eyes always on his face, the creature began to move closer. Aziraphale had to hold himself still for fear that the slightest movement could send the creature running again. He could only wait and breathe, letting it come to him.

Something cold pressed against his leg, and he looked down to see a single tendril of darkness extending from the creature. This time, it did not burn him where it touched. It did not try to overwhelm him with negative emotions. It rested briefly on his knee before extending further, up his leg, until it encountered his bare hand resting on his thigh. Carefully, light as a feather, it prodded at his fingers, working its way up one finger and down the next, feeling out the shape of his hand. It hissed when it found his ring, pulling back, and Aziraphale could see the harsh burn of frostbite where the darkness had touched angelic gold.

“Wait,” he said as the creature began to retreat. “Wait, look.” He removed the ring, the symbol of his place in Heaven, and shoved it deep into a pocket of his coat. “See?” he held out his hand again to the creature. “It’s gone. You’re safe now.”

The humming around him increased in volume, and the creature extended a tendril of itself again. This time it wrapped around his hand, coiling itself about his fingers before flowing further up his arm. He watched as it stuck the tip of its tendril in his pockets (avoiding the one with the ring), and wrapped a tiny string of itself around the buttons of his vest.

“Do you remember me?” Aziraphale asked, looking up at those two bright eyes that still watched him from the darkness. “Do you know me, my dear?”

He received no reply. He wasn’t even certain the creature was capable of understanding his words enough to form one. It just continued to hum as it flowed down his other arm to inspect that hand, twining around his wrist and then slithering up the inside of his sleeve.

As the creature explored his body, Aziraphale reached out with his mind. Sending his thoughts out to reach into the creature and see if anything of Crowley remained. All he could sense from it now was a childlike curiosity, tempered by centuries worth of fear and pain. That chaotic rush of emotions from before was still there, hidden now beneath the surface but still as strong. There was absolutely no order to it, no thoughts he could sense, no words, nothing to indicate a higher understanding.

The creature’s ‘arm’ poked out from the collar of his shirt, and began to feel its way across his face. When he touched it, his fingers could almost feel the pattern of Crowley’s scales beneath the oily darkness. It hummed louder as he rubbed a hand along it, vibrating a little with the sound.

“Is there anything of Crowley left in you?” Aziraphale asked it, sorrow and fear leaking into his voice. What if he was fooling himself, thinking he could still sense his demon? What if Anathema had been right? What if he had come all this way, only to find Crowley was too far gone to bring back?

The creature hissed, squeezing gently where it had wrapped its coils around the angel, reacting to his pain. And there, for just a second, Aziraphale sensed a bright flare of concern rising up from the core of it, before being washed away in the turbulence of all the other chaotic emotions it contained. He followed that flare, chasing it, his thoughts diving deep into the chaotic center through all of those negative feelings it had weaponized to throw at him before. They threatened to overwhelm him again, burning against his essence with infernal power. He gritted his teeth, reaching deeper, searching for that thread of concern. The anger and pain around him boiled, threatening to burn him away from the strength of it. But… something stopped it, holding those negative emotions back, providing him a clear path down to the demon’s core.

The creature, he realized. It could sense him moving through its essence, and was doing its best to protect him from itself. The same way that Crowley had, making his deal with Beelzebub so Aziraphale would be safe from the creature he became.

At last, Aziraphale pushed through to the core of the creature. And encountered walls of glass. He circled, trying to find a break in them, a way to get in to its heart. There was nothing. Just a solid barrier, held without conscious thought or effort against any and all intrusion. Beyond it, he could barely sense anything at all. Just fault-lines and broken pieces of the soul that had once been housed within.

“Can you let me in, my dear?” Aziraphale asked softly, pressing against the walls of its core.

Fear rippled through the creature, icy cold terror pulsing out from its heart.

“I can heal you!” the angel told it, projecting his intent. “I can bring you back!”

The creature shook with the chaos of its emotions, its fear and rage and pain. From within the core, Aziraphale caught one fleeting thought, more a feeling than a question.

Why?

Aziraphale sent out a wave of comfort, and very specific love. “Because I will not let you go when I have the power to save you,” he told it. “Because you are Crowley, and you are important to me.” He took a deep breath, and prepared to make an admission had never before been able to say out loud. “But most of all because I love you.”

The humming stopped. The fires flared. And every single eye came open. For one awful moment, everything went completely still. And then the core of the creature opened. And it rose up, crashing over Aziraphale once again, surrounding him with darkness and flame.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale woke up in a dark room. At least, he assumed it was a room, though he could not make out any discernible walls. He sat up slowly, rubbing a sore spot on the back of his head.

“Oh dear,” he muttered, frowning at the vast emptiness around him. “Where am I?” He remembered leaving his bookshop with Adam, Anathema, and Newt. Entering Hell. Locating the cell. And then… Crowley.

“Crowley!” He jumped to his feet, searching the room for the demon, or at least, failing that, the eyes and flames of the creature. He could feel him there, all around him, but faint, like an echo in the dark. Where…?

Several hundred eyes opened in a pool of darkness before him, and the creature heaved itself up into a more serpentine shape.

“Crowley. There you are.” He sighed with relief and leaned down, holding out a hand to the creature. It coiled first around his arm and then slithered up higher, coming to rest draped about his shoulders like a terrifying shawl. “There now,” he patted it carefully in a spot without eyes, and received a contented hum in response. “That’s better isn’t it? Now… where are we?”

He could still feel that echo of Crowley all around him. It wasn’t coming from the creature at all, but somewhere else. The darkness pulsed with the memory of him, like a container that was recently emptied, still holding the faint residue of what had once been. All the way out to the very edges of his senses, where he could just feel a swirling maelstrom of emotions.

Crowley’s core, Aziraphale realized. This is where Crowley’s soul should be. It felt… wrong. So very, very wrong. He knew what Crowley’s soul should feel like. The brightness of it, vibrant with color and life. This place should be glowing with the light of his soul, not empty and dark like an abandoned church.

He called a ball of light into being in his hand, hoping to return some light to this place. It was a futile hope. The light illuminated Aziraphale well enough but it could not penetrate the darkness of the empty core. The creature thrummed against his shoulders and dropped to the floor. There it let its fires rise, the light of them casting a dim glow far farther than Aziraphale’s bright light.

Something glittered on the ground before them, reflecting the creature’s flames. Aziraphale knelt to find a piece of metal - cold and hard, like the heart of a dead star. It warmed to his touch, heating in his hands until he could just as well have been holding a cup of hot cocoa. He held it up to his face, and found and endless void where there should have been reflection. But inside the void, there were glimmers of light. Tiny hints of something deeper hidden within. He probed it with his power and for one moment it flared bright, sending out the feeling of Crowley’s laugh - mischievous, bold, and full of joy.

Aziraphale nearly dropped the shard, staring at it in shock. This was no abandoned scrap of metal. This was a shard of Crowley’s soul. A precious piece of Crowley’s very being, made of the strongest of starsteel, shattered here into pieces like brittle glass.

The creature bumped against his legs, lifting some of its eyes to look at what the angel held. Aziraphale lowered his hand, angling it so the creature could examine the hints of color and shape that played across the smooth metal.

“This is part of you,” he told it. “Of my Crowley.” He ran his fingers over the smooth surface, wondering if he would ever get to hear Crowley’s wonderful laugh ever again.

Another reflection in the light of the creature’s flames caught his eyes. Another shard of Crowley’s soul. This time, when he picked it up he saw a flash of scarlet hair and the fleeting glimmer of a bright golden eye. When he held it against the first shard the broken edges fit together like pieces in a puzzle. If he could just find the rest…

Rebuild the foundation, Aziraphale thought. Locate the other pieces of Crowley’s soul and put them back together. He looked down at the creature, which was looking back up at him with wide, wary eyes.

“I promise,” he told it. “I promise you I will bring you - bring Crowley - back to me.” He would hunt forever if had to, here in this house of Crowley’s soul. He would search until he found every last shard, every single broken piece of Crowley’s soul that had been left here, strewn about his core like so many leaves in a storm.

And so he began his task, searching the ground for the tell-tale glint of starsteel in the dim light of the creature’s flames. Curious, the creature followed behind. It tracked his movements with its many eyes, watching as he knelt down to pick up first one shard, and then another. It hummed when he located one, vibrating against his leg for a moment and lifting some of its eyes up to examine the new shard. Strangely, he was not unsettled by its presence. It was part of Crowley, after all.

He paused once, at a deep patch of inky darkness. Was that a shard in there? He couldn’t quite tell. As he considered it, the creature slithered forward. It reached out with one careful tendril of fire, probing the unyielding darkness. Aziraphale watched it, and found hope in its curiosity. Curiosity had always been one of Crowley’s defining characteristics, and to see it in the creature… well. It was proof enough that the demon he loved was still there somewhere. That he would be able to bring him back.

Something in the pool started to glow. A bright light cutting through the darkness. The creature skittered back, hissing like a frightened cat. Aziraphale stepped forward and found a shard, mirror-smooth and bright. It continued to glow for a few seconds more - just long enough for him to grab it from the pool, before the light faded into darkness once again. When he held it up, Aziraphale saw a flash of color and got the fleeting impression the the radio in the Bentley - the one that turned all music to Queen after a time.

At his side, the creature hummed, vibrating in whirling bands of fire and eyes. When the angel looked at it it spun around, racing off to a distant corner of this place that had held Crowley’s soul. A moment later, a warm glow shone out from that forgotten corner, and the creature scurried away. Aziraphale followed it, snatching up the shard of Crowley’s soul before it faded again. A few feet away the creature illuminated another shard, and then another, racing around the vast, empty plane and filling it with the light from hundreds of pieces of Crowley’s soul.

And so Aziraphale continued to search out the shards, following behind the creature as it went, scooping glowing starsteel off the ground and collecting them together. Periodically he would return to a place in the center, where he had begun to amass a small pile of shards. He would add his collection to the pile, freeing his hands to gather more. The creature avoided the pile, circling it carefully, never getting close enough to touch. Sometimes it would get distracted, and wander off on its own to curl into a writing ball of flames. Aziraphale learned quickly not to disturb it, or it would lash out with limbs made of darkness, shoving him back before running away to the most distant edge of Crowley’s core. It never tried to push him out, however, though he was certain it could have. Never tried to force him to go away. All he had to do was let it be, continue the search on his own, and it would soon return to his side.

Slowly, with patience and diligence, the pile of shards grew to a vast size. Aziraphale carefully placed his latest load on top and looked around, ready to follow the creature to the next piece of Crowley it could find. Instead, he found it whirling in place next to him, eyes watching him almost expectantly.

“Is that all of them, them?” the angel asked, and got a rhythmic thrum in response. When he took a step away from the pile the creature whined and circled, trying to herd him back.

“Alright, alright,” he told it. “I understand.” He sat beside the pile on the floor. The creature settled at his back, the cool fire a pleasant sensation against his skin.

Now, the question was where to begin. The pile of shards was massive, far larger than he had at first expected. But then again, who is to say how large a soul must be? It was overwhelming. He had no idea where to even start.

“Any ideas?” he asked the creature, which crackled and snapped like new wood on a fire. “Right then.” He wished Crowley was there with him. His Crowley, whole and bright and vibrant. Not this strange creature that was all fire and eyes and not much more. Crowley had never seemed daunted by large tasks. He had barely even seemed to blink at the apocalypse before he was plotting out how to prevent it. Aziraphale had always been far worse at beginnings. At taking that first step out into the dark. It had ever and always been the demon at his side, cajoling, bargaining, drawing him out with clever words and quick smiles. It had never been hard to keep pace with him, or even to take the lead in his own right, once they’d gotten started. But it had always been Crowley to make that first move, to take that first step, that first breath, that first fall. And the one time he had truly needed Aziraphale to be the one to make that jump, to take the risk for them both, Aziraphale had failed him.

It was his own fault that Crowley wasn’t here to show him how to begin this time. He would just have to muddle through on his own. What would you do, my dear? He thought, trying to imagine how his demon might start. In his mind, he could picture Crowley laughing at him, looking up at him from the couch in the bookshop and shaking his head fondly. Begin at the beginning, Angel. Where else?

“Begin at the beginning.” He took a deep breath. “Rebuild your foundation.” But where was the beginning of Crowley? Eden? No, that wasn’t right. Eden was their beginning, not Crowley’s alone. But Aziraphale hadn’t known him in Heaven. He didn’t know how the angel Crowley had been had gotten his start. He would have to begin elsewhere. What was Crowley, at his core? What made him Crowley and not anyone else?

Aziraphale started with color. Crowley had always been color to him. Bright bold reds and dark sable black, eyes the color of the sun and quicksilver smiles like pure white starlight. He was fire to Aziraphale’s water, always moving, ever changing, vibrant as life itself. Light and sound and motion. The way the gold of his eyes would seem to glow in the moonlight, entrancing, pulling Aziraphale in. The crimson of his lips, so dark and tempting, as quick to curve in a smile as a frown.

Before Aziraphale, shards within the pile began to glow. For each color or thought that flashed through his mind, a shard was illuminated in soft golden light. When he reached for them they easily fit together with his first two, more puzzle pieces coming together to form the frame of a rectangle. Reds and golds shot through with black and grey, colors winding together to form a simple pattern of ropes and vines along an edge of polished metal. Aziraphale sat amid the scattered pieces, fitting them into place with careful hands. Rebuilding Crowley’s soul piece by piece, each memory bringing forth more of him to restore.

Who am I? the soul-shards seemed to ask, pulsing with color and light. Remember me. Remind me of myself.

And so Aziraphale remembered.

He remembered Eden. Sun-bright eyes that lingered on the humans as they left. A dark form huddled under his wing for protection from the rain. Words of comfort from the last source he would have expected.

He remembered the Great Flood. Carmine hair bound back from his face in a braid. The way his voice rose in indignation, questioning God’s decision to murder innocents for the crimes of their fathers. Dark wings folding around him as the water rose. Don’t look, Angel. Don’t listen.

He remembered Golgotha. The ancient sadness in dark xanthoxenite eyes. Secrets hidden there, stories the demon would never tell. But Aziraphale could guess what they were. Could find the pieces of the picture and patch it all together with the demon he knew. The demon that tempted the Son of God, not out of malice but out of pity. Desperation to save him from suffering he never deserved. He remembered Crowley’s face as they brought the body down from the cross. A careful mask of indifference that had cracked and bled around the edges until Aziraphale turned and led him away.

He remembered Rome. Dark glasses hiding away that beautiful gaze. Sarcastic smiles and bitter words that melted into melancholy silence as the night wore on. A question, whispered into the near-empty wine bottle. What’s the point of all this, Angel? Of Heaven and Hell and the rest of it? What are we even doing here? Aziraphale had had no answer for him, but he hadn’t seemed to mind.

He remembered Camelot. The tales of the Black Knight who murdered and pillaged, but never seemed to harm innocents. An enemy that had become less a foe than a friend. An offer of partnership. A hand extended again and again until he finally found an argument Aziraphale could accept.

He remembered London. The Globe. Crowley standing at his side, grinning with pride. A miracle given freely, pulling in crowds to see a show. A wide, proud smile that turned to something softer and more private as he glanced at the angel at his side.

He remembered Paris. A timely rescue from an unlikely source. A hand on his back, guiding him away from the prison. Shadowed eyes and a muttered admission. I threw out the commendation. Why? Because this… this isn’t my work, Angel. And even if it were, it’s nothing at all to be proud of.

He remembers standing by the water in St. James’s Park. A short note in a familiar spidery scrawl. He hadn’t known, then, the fear Crowley was fighting. He hadn’t understood why he would need so dangerous a weapon. He understands now, all too well.

He remembers almost a century without the demon. Visiting an empty flat only to find him in a sleep so deep he could not be awakened. Long hair spread across the pillows, growing longer each time he visited. A face that looked so much softer in sleep, sometimes contorting with fear or pain, only to smooth out again with a brief touch and soothing words. Showing up one day to find him gone, with not even a note to explain where he went.

He remembers the church in 1941. The blitz. A demon mincing down the aisle on burning feet just to save him from himself. A moment’s hesitation when he worried Aziraphale wouldn’t like his new name. A little demonic miracle of my own. His books. His precious books, handed back as if saving them had been nothing at all. But even more precious was the life in front of him, vibrant and whole.

He remembers sitting in the Bentley some decades later, a thermos of Holy Water in his hands. Confusion in that familiar voice. The relief on his face, for just a moment, as he took the thermos and learned what was inside. The sadness in him when he offered him a ride. Anywhere you want to go.

He remembers raising Warlock. Gentle hands cradling the child. Unsettling lullabies sung with love. Bright laughter in the park as he chased the child around. Pride in glittering golden eyes as the boy succeeded in some task. Private anger at absent parents, who left their child to the rearing of another until they needed to show him off. Petty misfortunes that befell the child’s parents when they failed to live up to his ideas of what a parent was supposed to be.

He remembers the apocalypse. Those dark, frightening days where Crowley was his only constant. Sitting beside him, watching the joy in his face as his car reached impossible speeds. Paint removed from his jacket with just a touch of demonic power. Miracled guns that do not kill. Desperation and anger in his eyes as he holds Aziraphale against the wall and defies the truth that is the goodness in his heart. The pain in his voice as he stands under a bandstand and reminds Aziraphale of his one, certain truth. Unforgivable. That’s what I am. An offer to run away together, to the stars.

He remembers that final confrontation, on the day the world was to end. The grief in his voice when he thought Aziraphale was dead. The pain that echoed from him as he fell to his knees, watching his beloved car burn to the ground. Facing down the end of the world with nothing more than a bit of metal in his hands. Stopping time because Aziraphale threatened to never speak to him again. An offer to be their own side.

He remembers Hell. Changing places. Wearing that familiar body, undressing it carefully and seeing all his scars. The unfamiliar firmness in his own blue eyes as Crowley took his place and punishment in Heaven. The relief in those eyes when Crowley found him safe and whole. The way he had refused to look away from him all night. A cautious shrug when asked why. The admission it took great effort to coax out. It’s just… I keep thinking, if I look away, you’ll be gone when I turn back.

He remembers a year of peace and freedom. Long nights in the bookshop. Crowley sprawled out like a starfish on the couch, lazily drinking straight from the bottle. Bright gold eyes glowing with mischief and laughter. Watching Crowley tend his plants. Snatches of song hummed under his breath between threats to the plants as he worked. The warmth of him, a steady constant at his side.

Crowley was all that and more. He was gentle hands and harsh words, a study in contradictions. A stark empty flat and a lush green garden. A quick temper hiding away the kindness at his core. Coins glued to the ground instead of temptations that cost lives. Miracles worked freely to save a friend. Crowley was scarred and broken in many places, carrying with him all the pain of Falling and losing God’s love, but he still had such capacity to care. He was brave and funny and bright. He was the Serpent of Eden. But more importantly, he was Aziraphale’s friend. He -

Aziraphale reached for another shard and found only air. He had used the last piece. He blinked, shaking himself free of the memories.

In his hands he held a mirror, framed in a simple pattern of vines. It was much smaller than the size of the pile of shards would have led him to believe, easily able to be carried in one hand. Vines looped out at each side, forming handles that allowed him to grip it comfortably. On the mirror itself there were nine circles, etched in thin lines. Two at each corner, and a ninth at the very center. Aziraphale frowned at it, touching the edges of the center circle. What did they mean? Had he somehow missed a few pieces? Had he done it wrong?

A cold presence at his back reminded him of the creature, which had extended several of its eyes up over his shoulder to look into the mirror. He held it up, and saw both himself and the creature reflected in its smooth surface. And then it began to glow a bright, eye-searing white. Before he could do much more than reach for the creature, the world tilted forward and he found himself falling into the light.

Chapter Text

He landed hard in a puff of sand. Blinking in the suddenly bright light, Aziraphale sat up hoping very much that this landing-on-his-ass thing wasn’t about to become a habit. The creature squirmed around his arm, wriggling up from where it had landed at his side, half buried in the sand. It shut all but one eye tight against the light and tried to burrow into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“There now, it’s alright,” the angel said, drawing the creature up until it could curl itself around his neck, much like Crowley sometimes did when he took on the smallest version of his serpentine form. “We’re in one piece at least, though where we are is a bit of another question.” Before him, as far as his eyes could see, was a vast desert. Nothing but blue sky, the occasional cloud, and miles upon miles of sand. Next to him, the mirror glinted on the ground, reflecting the sun in the open sky. Oddly, when he picked it up it failed to show his own reflection. Instead he saw only the creature, and, behind him, a solid sandstone wall.

He turned then and stared. The shadow of the great wall fell just short of the toe of his shoes, expanding out until it reached the base of an enormous structure many thousands of feet high. Aziraphale looked up. And up. And higher still, until his eyes fell on a distant walkway high above. He knew that walkway. Just as he knew the elaborate structure a few meters down the wall. It was the Western Gate to Eden, directly opposite the place he had once been set to guard. This, somehow, was the Garden of Eden. Which meant that this desert was not just any desert. It was the sands of Creation itself.

The Western Gate stood firmly closed, locked as tight as it ever had been. There was no sign of its guardian, nor anyone else either. Aziraphale approached the wall, and found the outer stair right where he expected it. He had half assumed the whole thing would vanish like a mirage, but the stone was rough and warm under his hand and held firm when he cautiously leaned against it.

Around his neck the creature whined. When he glanced at it, he saw it reaching up towards the top of the wall.

“You want to go up?” he asked it, and got a whine in response.

“Alright then. Up is as good a direction as any, I suppose.” And if he reached the top, he might be able to get a better view of where they were. Carefully, he put one foot on the first step - still afraid the whole thing would vanish beneath him. It didn’t, so he took another. The creature hummed, vibrating, and staring ahead with several dozen eyes.

At the top, the stairs flattened out into the long familiar walkway that encircled Eden. It looked just as it had that day over six thousand years ago, when he and Crowley had stood upon this very stone and watched the first rain begin to fall. Remembering that day, Aziraphale felt his wings twitch in that place between worlds where he hid them away with the other, more frightful aspects of his appearance. It had been so long since he’d truly had a chance to stretch them, and that bit at the end of the world didn’t count. He’d been too preoccupied then to really pay much attention to them. He unfurled them now, calling them into being with a thought. The relief was immediate, in that marvelous and slightly uncomfortable way like standing up after having been seated for far too long a time.

“Oh, that does feel better,” he sighed to the creature, flapping his wings gently to dislodge stray feathers. The creature stretched out a tendril and plucked a floating feather from the air, bringing it close to one golden eye to examine.

Aziraphale himself turned to examine the view. On one side of the wall was the desert, just as he remembered it. Vast, endless, and empty. Occasional movement in the distance suggested the beasts that had been released by the war still roamed the sands. He shuddered, and hoped they did not find a way to climb the wall. He had no sword now to fend them off with, after all. Nothing with which to protect the creature, or the mirror that was all that remained of Crowley’s soul.

Putting that thought out of his mind, he turned again to the other side of the wall. And there was Eden, in all its glory. It was just as beautiful as it had once been, before God had removed it from the earth. Vibrant greens and deep earthy browns, broken by the occasional bright pop of color from every type of flower under the sun. Birds of every sort flitted within the branches, singing a counterpoint to the soft babbling of a waterfall Aziraphale could hear even from this great height. It was, as it had always been, magnificent. The loss of Eden had been the hardest blow for Heaven at the end of the war. It was ironic that he found it again now, here, in the last remains of Crowley’s shattered soul.

“What now?” he asked the creature, when he felt he had stared enough for now at the beauty spread out below him. It rippled in what might have been a shrug, blinking at him with several sets of eyes. It still held his feather in one tendril, waving it slowly in the air behind his left shoulder.

“The was your idea,” Aziraphale reminded it. “You wanted to come up here.”

The creature hummed, then pointed with the feather, further down the wall.

“You want to go that way?” he asked, and it hummed in response.

“Alright then.” Aziraphale resettled it securely across his shoulders, and set off down the wall. Eventually he passed the Northern Gate, and found it just as solidly shut as the West. The creature showed no interest in it, or descending down to either side, so he continued on. As he did so, he thought. This couldn’t possibly be the real world. For one, his connection to the universe felt… muted here. Like it was filtered through a barrier like sunlight through water. For another, Eden was gone. Not just moved, but gone, completely erased from all existence. Aziraphale and Crowley had both been there when it happened. They had watched as God struck down the walls and scattered the plants and animals across the world. To find it intact… well, he had fallen through the mirror. This, then, must be deep within Crowley’s soul. Some remote, hidden part that had survived the shattering. Or perhaps it was part of all he had just put back together. It would be impossible to tell. What worried him was that, aside from the plants and animals, it was empty. He half expected Crowley to show up like he had that first day, slithering up the wall as a gigantic snake. But no. What was left of Crowley was already here with him, a patch of darkness and cool flame riding across his shoulders.

“I don’t suppose you have any hints for what to do next?” he asked the creature, as they were nearing the Eastern Gate. “I can walk around this wall all day, I suppose, but I doubt that will get us anywhere.”

The creature just blinked at him with six sets of eyes, then turned them all to look forward.

“Yes, very helpful, thank you.”

It hummed happily.

“Right.” It occurred to him that he was talking to something barely more sentient than your average house-cat, but as far as conversation partners went, he had had far worse.

Closer to the Eastern Gate, Aziraphale saw movement on the wall for the first time. Someone was sitting there, just above the gate, staring out at the ocean of sand. Someone with very familiar jet-black wings and ember-red hair. Heart in his mouth, Aziraphale hurried towards the figure, hardly daring to breath. It had to be Crowley. There was no mistaking him. He was even wearing the same clothing he had been that last night in the bookshop - his customary black trousers and jacket, with a soft dark grey shirt underneath. Around Aziraphale’s neck, the creature began to vibrate so fast it produced an audible sound.

At the noise the figure looked up. And Aziraphale staggered back, flaring out his wings in alarm.

Staring at him from the familiar lines of Crowley’s face were eyes of a deep warm brown with a very human round pupil.

“Hello,” Crowley said cheerfully, making no move to stand from his place on the wall. “I don’t suppose you’re the new presence I felt here, are you?” Those strange, wrong eyes held no recognition and all Aziraphale could sense from him was an overwhelming sense of curiosity.

“I, ah, well,” he stammered, trying to find his words beneath his shock. Even when it had seemed vital, Crowley had never been able to change his eyes. Height, weight, sex, coloring, all were malleable to the demon and he changed them at the merest whim. But never once had Aziraphale seen him change his eyes. They were, he said, the mark of his Fall from Grace. ‘A ‘parting gift’ from a god who would no longer see him’ had been his exact words. Seeing them now so changed, it felt to Aziraphale as if the world had tilted off its axis. It was just a small thing, compared to everything else he had endured so far, but somehow it felt far worse.

“Cat got your tongue?” Crowley asked, watching him with those wide brown eyes.

“Ah, no, I just- I wasn’t expecting…” he gestured helplessly to the demon, unable to find the right thing to say. Crowley’s brow furrowed in puzzlement, but then his eyes fell on the creature, and his face took on an expression of curious delight.

“Hello, what are you?” he asked, jumping up and coming closer, circling Aziraphale and the creature. “You are remarkable,” he mused, leaning well into Aziraphale’s personal space to get a closer look at the creature’s flames. “Does it burn you?”

It took the angel a moment to realize what Crowley had asked, distracted by the nearness and the fact that the scent of him was different here - campfire and earth in place of his usual forge-fire and sage.

“Oh. Ah, no,” he said quickly. “That is, it doesn’t burn exactly. Its flames are actually quite cold.” 

“Fascinating,” Crowley leaned to the side, trying to see the creature at another angle. “Is it yours? What is it?”

“No, it’s, um - wait, Crowley…” Aziraphale tried to turn to see him as he circled, now thrown off more by his odd behavior than his eyes. At the name, the demon stopped and frowned, peering up at the angel now instead of the creature.

“Crowley?” he asked, drawing out the syllables as if examining each one. “Is that his name them?”

“Whose?” Aziraphale frowned at him, putting a hand on the creature’s back and allowing the cool feeling of the darkness under his fingers to steady him.

Crowley shrugged, gesturing to the world around them. “His. Mine. Whoever all this is a part of.”

“You mean you don’t know?” Aziraphale blinked in surprise.

The demon shook his head, smiling a little helplessly. “Nah. I mean, ‘s not all me, is it? I’m just an aspect of him, from what I can work out. I tried to find out more, but the big guy in the center really doesn’t like it when you ask him questions.”

“An aspect?” Aziraphale echoed, ignoring the rest of that confusing sentence. The demon before him certainly looked like Crowley, except for the eyes. But now that he had a chance to catch his breath and really look at him, he could tell something more was wrong that just those eyes and his scent. This… ‘aspect’ certainly felt like Crowley, but he wasn’t acting like him at all. There was no restraint to his movements. He carried himself like he didn’t even really notice what his body was doing, letting every thought that passed into his mind play across his face, his expression ever shifting and changing, as mercurial as the sea. He lacked Crowley’s carefully crafted air of unconcern, the way he moved with such precision even as he put in extra effort to make it look effortless and almost lazy. The way he guarded his expression so carefully, at least until they were alone and he could relax for a time.

“Yup,” the aspect said, popping the p. “An aspect. A singular part of a greater whole.”

“And… do you know me?” Aziraphale feared the answer, but he could not keep the question from spilling out.

The aspect looked at him for a long time, scanning his face carefully with those unfamiliar brown eyes. At last, he sighed and shook his head.

“No. Though I feel as if I should. Why is that?”

“Oh.” He tried not to be disappointed. He’d known, going in, that this was going to be hard. But having a piece of Crowley - one that looked and felt so much like his demon - not recognize him… it hurt. Just as if Crowley himself had forgotten his name. It was a pain worse, even, than when he’d finally realized that Heaven did not care about him.

On his shoulder, the creature let out a sharp whistle and a series of hums.

“Huh.” The aspect’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “This one says your name is Aziraphale. And that I’m to stop upsetting you… am I upsetting you?”

“It- it knows me?” Aziraphale asked. He hadn’t thought the creature capable of remembering him at all. To know that it did soothed some of the ache from the aspect not recognizing him. “You can understand it?”

The aspect of Crowley shrugged, leaning in closer to the creature again. “Guess so. You can’t?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I can’t even sense feelings from it anymore.” The creature hummed under his ear.

“Interesting,” the aspect muttered, gently untangling one of the creature’s tendrils from the top button on Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “What are you doing with it, anyway?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, remembering the cold cell filled with darkness and fire and eyes. “I was… I am trying to bring back my - my friend. This creature is all that was left of him.”

“So you are from the outside!” The aspect’s face lit with interest. “I had wondered. The sky was all broken before, sort of like the shards of a mirror. Then it sort of… fixed itself. I came up here to get a better look. I suppose that was you?”

“Maybe?” Aziraphale frowned, gazing into the reflectionless mirror in his hands. “I did put the shards of Crowley’s soul back together, at least. Or… I think I did anyway.”

“Can I see that?” the aspect asked, taking it from the angel and bringing it up so close to his face his breath left a fog on the metal. For him, it showed a reflection. Crowley, just as Aziraphale remembered him, with those wonderful serpentine eyes.

“Hmm… yeah,” the aspect tilted it to different angles, looking at the way it reflected Crowley’s face back at him. “It looks like a mirror, but it feels like something else.” He lifted it up and flipped it over, looking at the back of it before turning it on its side and examining the circles etched into the front. “Nine, hmm? One for each of us, and then the big guy…?” He held it up to the sun, watching the light bounce off of it. In the air, it reflected the stones of the wall and the forest down below.

“Tell me,” he asked then, not looking at Aziraphale. “What happened here? On this wall?”

“What?” the angel paused, thrown off by the seemingly incongruous question.

“What happened here?” the aspect repeated. “I can feel that it’s an important place. Somewhere I should know. Why?”

“It, well, it was where we met,” Aziraphale told him. “Crowley and I. Where we really spoke for the first time.” He turned to look out over the desert, the way he had that day so many centuries ago. “He stood under my wing when the very first rain began to fall.”

As he spoke, the mirror flashed, and an image of the two of them - Crowley sheltering under Aziraphale’s wing - formed within the glass. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

“He could have killed you then,” the aspect mused, staring at the now-empty reflection.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale frowned, confused.

“Yes. You were defenseless, without even a flaming sword to protect you. He could have destroyed you without a second thought. Why didn’t he?”

“He…” he stopped, really considering his answer. Why hadn’t Crowley killed him that day? They weren’t friends then; they had barely even known each other. It would have been very much within both of their supposed natures to attempt to destroy the other. And yet, Crowley hadn’t even seemed to consider the idea.

“He was…” he had asked Crowley that same question, that night in Rome after the oysters, when they’d both been pleasantly drunk on expensive wine. I was curious, Crowley had admitted. Who was this angel who would give away his sword? Why would he do that? Was it a trick? Were you trying to lull me into a false sense of security so you could strike when my guard was down? Or were you really that stupid, to give away a weapon of God to someone She had just banished? I had to know.

But if I really was trying to trick you, you put yourself in danger coming up to me like that, Aziraphale had pointed out. Crowley had just shrugged. And yet you didn’t kill me, was all he said. And here we are.

“He was curious,” Aziraphale said at last. “He wanted to understand why I had given away my sword.”

“And when that curiosity was sated?” the aspect wanted to know. “Why did he not just kill you then?”

The angel shook his head. He had no answer to that. “I don’t know.”

“Here.” The aspect dropped the mirror back into his hands. “Think about it,” he said. “It’s something to ponder, at least.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “I do suppose it is.”

The aspect nodded. “Good. Then I think you’ll do alright.”

Aziraphale looked at him, confused. “What?”

Those strange brown eyes met his own in a steady gaze, and he found himself unable to look away. “What am I?” the aspect asked.

“What?” Aziraphale repeated.

“Name me. I am a part of your Crowley. Tell me which part.”

“You… you want to know which aspect of Crowley you are?” the angel asked, still confused.

“Yes,” he agreed. On Aziraphale’s shoulder, the creature hummed. “I am one of eight. To be returned to where I belong, I must know which part I am. Only then will I be able to see where I fit with all the others.”

Aziraphale considered him. The way those wide brown eyes never seemed to stop taking in the world around him. He was bright, vibrant, full of questions. He reminded Aziraphale of the way Crowley could get sometimes, when he would be seized by a drive to find an answer to something. How he never just wanted to know the answer, but the whys and the hows of it as well. Aziraphale blinked, and realized suddenly that he didn’t even really need to think about it. He knew which part of Crowley this aspect was already. In fact, he was certain of it.

“Curiosity,” he said firmly. “You are Crowley’s curiosity.”

The aspect of Curiosity grinned at him. “That I am. Thank you.” He lifted the mirror in Aziraphale’s hands, allowing it to pick up his reflection once more. If flashed, bright enough that the angel was forced to cover his eyes and turn away. When the glow faded, he was alone with the creature once again.

“That was…” he shook his head, trying to clear the afterimage of that bright flash from his vision. Quickly he brought up the mirror, worried that something might have happened to it. It appeared the same as it had been before, with one addition. In the upper left-hand corner, one of the circles had been filled in with a symbol Aziraphale recognized. It read ‘Curiosity’ in Enochian, the language of angels.

Chapter Text

“Well then,” Aziraphale said faintly, staring at the place Curiosity had been just a moment before. “I suppose that means we’re going to have to go find these other aspects.” He glanced at the mirror, and at the eight empty circles that remained. “I do hope there’s only eight more.” He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. Or how much deeper he could go, before he lost himself here in Crowley’s soul, and would be unable to find his way back up again. He would do it though. He would do whatever he had to, to ensure Crowley returned to him.

Around his neck, the creature hummed. It still held the feather it had picked up before, and gestured with it now, pointing down, into Eden.

“You think we should go there?” Aziraphale asked it, and it squeezed him gently in response.

“Alright.” He looked over the edge, down the mile-long drop into the Garden. “Let’s find a way down.” He set off, towards the Southern Gate, looking for the stairs into Eden.

Unfortunately, when he had made a full circle of the wall and found nothing, Aziraphale was forced to come to a very unpleasant conclusion. There were four staircases leading down from this height. And all four were on the outside. There were no stairs into Eden from the wall. He would have to fly down.

“Right.” He walked up to the edge, inching forward until his toes hung out over empty air. “Just like riding a bicycle.” The creature vibrated comfortingly, and pointed down again with the feather. Briefly, Aziraphale wondered if it seemed a little larger now. Then he put the thought out of his mind. If it was, there wasn’t really anything he could do about that. He took a deep breath. He hadn’t flown in a very long time. On Earth, he had never had a need to. Now, though, looking at the long drop down to Eden, he rather wished he had made time to practice more.

“We really should have built an elevator or something,” he muttered. “This is ridiculous.” He was an angel. He shouldn’t fear flying. And yet, that long stretch of empty space between the top of the wall and the ground was utterly terrifying.

“I wonder if Crowley felt like this, before he fell?” he mused. He could imagine it all too well. His bright demon, dressed in white, with glittering gold in his hair and bright white wings spread wide, looking down from Heaven with frightened brown eyes. A fall from so great a height must have seemed a thousand times worse than this, and Aziraphale knew what awaited him on the ground. Had Crowley known, when he fell, what would happen? Had he seen his brothers and sisters cast down and driven mad by the loss of Grace? Or had he simply jumped, and found a way to catch himself on the way down?

Around his neck, the creature whined and pointed down once more.

“Yes, quite right,” Aziraphale told it. “Nothing for it but to jump.” He took a deep breath, and stepped off the wall.

The first few moments were as bad as he had feared, tumbling uncontrolled through the air with the wind rushing past his ears as the ground loomed closer at an alarming rate.

And then, his wings caught the air and instinct kicked in. He flared his wings, and suddenly he was soaring. It felt amazing. The freedom, the adrenaline, the pure joy of it all. Aziraphale had forgotten how good it felt to fly like this, with the wind in his hair and the sun warm on his back. Around his neck the creature whistled and chirped, waving is feather in the air.

“You like this too, don’t you?” Aziraphale asked it, the wind ripping the words from his mouth almost as he spoke them. Still, the creature seemed to hear because it squeezed him gently and gave the hum he was beginning to think of as its affirmative.

“When this is over,” he told it, “I’m going to take Crowley flying.” He had a feeling that Crowley had flown far more often and more recently than he, but there was just something so much more romantic about the idea of flying together. If Crowley would still have him, after all of this, it would make a fine date.

Landing, it turned out, was the most difficult part of the whole thing. He was able to get his feet under him, but he’d forgotten how to regulate his speed at the end and hit the ground with more force than he intended, causing him to stumble forward and fall, landing in a heap in the dirt. The creature keened, thrown from his body by the force of the fall. It rolled up into a ball and hissed as it came to rest, spitting dirt from several mouths.

“Ouch.” Aziraphale rubbed his arm where he had banged it on a rock. It was bleeding a little, and would certainly bruise, though the damage could have been much worse. “Not the best landing, was it?” he asked the creature, who hissed and whirled in a circle. When he extended his hand to it, it swatted his fingers with a tendril of fire and rolled away.

“Alright then, suit yourself.” He brushed himself off, standing and looking around. Eden was just as beautiful as he remembered it. He could hear a thousand different types of birds singing, while the air carried the fragrant scent of a hundred kinds of flower. The shade under the trees was pleasant, not too cool or too hot, and a refreshing breeze blew through the branches and rustled the leaves. Aziraphale had admired its beauty long before, when he had known little else to compare. Now, he was nearly overcome by it. It truly was a paradise.

“How could we ever have left this place?” he wondered aloud, staring in amazement at the vibrant green surrounding them.

The creature hummed, and rolled down a path leading away from the wall. Aziraphale followed it, still marveling at the beauty around him. When he held out his hand to the creature, it refused, instead opting to flow along the ground at his side like an undulating patch of shadow.

They walked for what seemed like hours, trudging through the endless jungle. The sun did not move from its place overhead, though it had been some time since they had landed here. Aziraphale’s own internal sense of time was thrown off, and he was unable to tell how long it had been since he had spoken to Curiosity on the wall. At last, as his feet were starting to tire, the sound of raised voices cut through the air. Aziraphale looked up, startled, and hurried off down a path that led towards the sound. It spilled out into a small clearing where, in the center, he found two more aspects of Crowley’s soul. Neither one noticed him at first, as they continued what was clearly an argument.

One of the aspects was shouting. He looked much like Crowley as Aziraphale had known him in those early days after Eden, dressed in black robes with his hair in long tumbles of ember-red curls. His eyes, Aziraphale was relieved to see, were a familiar serpentine gold. There was only one difference between this aspect and the true Crowley in appearance - this one wore gold dusted across his face like constellations - the mark of an angel inscribed on his skin.

His companion, too, looked very much like Crowley, though this time he was dressed almost exactly as he had appeared when they stood before the cross at Golgotha. It was the color of his robes that was different. Instead of the dark black garments Crowley had worn that day, this aspect was dressed in a blinding white. He was speaking softly with the angry aspect, his voice so low it did not carry to where Aziraphale was standing.

It was the aspect in white that first noticed the angel, holding up a hand to stall the other’s shouts and turning to face Aziraphale and the creature.

“Hello,” he said, and Aziraphale’s heart sank. This aspect had about as much recognition in his eyes as Curiosity. Aziraphale refused to consider what it might mean, that the pieces of Crowley’s soul did not remember him.

“What the Heaven is he doing here?” the black-robed aspect demanded, scowling at Aziraphale. “Angels don’t belong here.”

“But here he is,” his companion said gently. “I take it you’re the one Curiosity sensed repairing the pieces of our soul?”

“I am.” Aziraphale nodded.

“Useless,” the gold-painted aspect snapped. “You’ll never finish the job.”

His companion fixed him with a disappointed stare - one Aziraphale knew well from long years of associating with Crowley. “Be kind,” he admonished. “He’s clearly doing his best.”

The darker aspect growled. “Not in my job description,” he snapped. “And it’s true. Not sure why he’s even bothering to try in the first place.”

“I’m bothering,” Aziraphale shot back, “Because Crowley is important to me.”

“Sure,” the aspect sneered. “Until you give up on us, just like everyone else.”

“Hush,” the white-robed aspect told him, giving him a firm look. He glowered at them both and leaned back against a tree, crossing his arms and glaring. His counterpart sighed, and approached Aziraphale.

“I think it would be best if we spoke alone,” he said quietly. “Will you walk with me?”

At Aziraphale’s nod, he led them down another path out of the clearing, opposite the direction they had come. The dark-robed aspect watched them go, scowling until they passed a bend in the path and Aziraphale could no longer see him.

“You’ll have to forgive him,” his companion said, noticing the direction of his gaze. “His nature makes him… volatile.”

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale assured him. “Crowley can be like that at times. I’ve learned not to take it personally.”

“Very wise,” the aspect observed. Then he frowned, looking a little embarrassed. “I am sorry, I should know your name I’m sure, but those memories lie with another aspect of our personality.”

The angel looked down at his feet, trying very hard not to let it hurt him that the aspect didn’t already know. “It’s Aziraphale.”

The aspect smiled, that same achingly familiar smile Crowley would sometimes give him when he didn’t think Aziraphale was looking - soft and fond and gentle. “Aziraphale,” he said. “Thank you, for what you’re trying to do.”

At his feet, the creature whined, whirling in place. “Ah, I’m sorry,” the aspect turned and knelt down to address it. “And you are?” he asked, offering a hand. The creature flowed up his arm, draping across his shoulders like a rather unsettling scarf. The aspect listened carefully for some time, though all Aziraphale could hear was its customary hum. He watched in fascination as the aspect spoke gently to the creature, addressing it with as much respect and kindness as he had Aziraphale. The being before him both was and was not at all like his Crowley. In a way, he was Crowley with all the hard edges worn away. Softer. With all of the gentleness Aziraphale knew existed hidden deep within his friend brought out into the light.

“I see,” the aspect mused as the creature’s humming intensified. “That must have been difficult.” The creature hissed, and the aspect looked up in alarm. “He is?” He turned to Aziraphale. “This one says you’re injured.”

Aziraphale had all but forgotten about the scrape on his arm. “It’s nothing, really,” he assured his companions. “Just a scrape. Landing, you know.”

“Hmm.” The aspect gave him the same look Crowley did when he didn’t believe something Aziraphale had said. “Show me?” Before the angel could protest, the aspect reached out and gently took hold of his arm, turning it so he could see the scrape.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I see. You’re right, it isn’t bad. Still, no sense in letting it stay like this.” He breathed out on the broken skin, and Aziraphale’s arm healed as it had never been injured at all.

“Oh!” Aziraphale touched the place where the injury was, finding it not even the slightest bit tender. “Thank you.” He was nearly certain that, if the aspect on the wall had been Curiosity, then this was the aspect of Crowley’s Compassion. His kindness. That little bit of niceness he tried so hard to deny he kept hidden deep down inside.

The aspect of Compassion grinned. “Well, it was the least I could do.” He then tilted his head to the side, giving Aziraphale a searching look. “Are you injured anywhere else?”

“No,” he shook his head. He had a few other bruises from the landing, but nothing that truly needed attention.

“Are you sure?” the aspect was watching with those wonderfully familiar eyes. “It must have been hard to get this far. If there’s anything you need…” He let the sentence hang in the air, an unspoken offer.

Aziraphale shook his head again, swallowing down the sudden urge to cry. “I’m fine, truly. I just… I wasn’t expecting how much effort this would be.”

Compassion waved a hand, and two chairs appeared at the side of the path for them - both made of the same old fabric as the couch in the back room of Aziraphale’s bookshop. He sat down and gestured for Aziraphale to do the same while the creature flowed down to curl up in his lap like a rather large cat.

“Tell me about it,” he said.

There was something in his voice, something so warm and comforting, that Aziraphale couldn’t help but respond to it. Seeing this aspect, someone so very like and yet also terribly unlike his demon, it magnified all of the pain and fear inside him that he had done so well to ignore until this point. To his horror, he felt a sob rise up in his throat and tears began to leak from his eyes. He collapsed into the chair and covered his face with his hands.

“Here now, what’s this?” the aspect reached out, gently resting his own hand on the angel’s shoulder. Aziraphale choked on a sob and shook his head, frantically trying to get himself back under control. Compassion rubbed soothing circles over his shoulder and back. “It’s alright,” he said gently. “Cry as much as you need.”

In his lap, the creature hummed in distress and flowed over until it could pour itself through the air between them and pool on Aziraphale’s knees. At that, the dam broke. And the whole terrible story spilled from his lips - from Crowley’s question in the shop up until finding Curiosity and then jumping off the wall.

“I - I got this far, but I don’t know what to do now,” he finally concluded, scrubbing at his face with the sleeve of his jacket. “I found the pieces of his soul, but when I put them back together I just ended up here, wherever here is, and now I find you, but you’re not really my Crowley, just like that aspect on the wall wasn’t really him either, and I… I don’t understand any of this at all. And every time I seem to be getting somewhere, everything changes on me. I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever get anywhere at all.”

Compassion squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. “What you’ve done so far is remarkable. Impossible, even. You should not have been able to even reach this point. That you have says something very important about you, and your connection to us. I have no doubt you will succeed.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale sniffed, feeling a great deal better. Perhaps all he had needed was someone to listen. It wasn’t as good as having Crowley back, but even talking to this piece of him was enough to ease away some of his fear and pain. “I know I’m being silly. I didn’t expect it to be easy, after all. I just…”

“No one has ever been able to heal the broken pieces of a demon before,” the aspect said softly. “There was no book you could read, no advice you could have gotten, that would have prepared you for what you found in that cell. That you were able to calm this creature is far beyond anything anyone could have expected.”

“I don’t think I could have,” Aziraphale admitted. “If I didn’t know Crowley as well… If I didn’t love him as much as I do.”

“And that is why you will succeed,” Compassion said. “But…” he sighed. “I am sorry to tell you that it will get harder from here. Curiosity was simple. You soothed the cracks in him by answering his questions. The rest of us will not be so easy.”

The creature whined, curling into a ball in Aziraphale’s lap. “What do you mean?” the angel asked, afraid to hear the answer, but needing to know.

“This,” the aspect gestured to the forest around them. “This is the deepest part of Crowley’s soul. Once you rebuilt the cornerstone - the mirror - once that was hole again, you should have reached him here. Sleeping, perhaps, or hidden, but whole.”

“But?” Aziraphale prompted when he fell silent.

“But something went wrong. The initial shattering that should have broken him when he fell from Heaven… didn’t. Somehow, despite the cracks running through the very core of him, your Crowley was able to hold himself together. His willpower must have been…” he shook his head in amazement. “I am a piece of him, and even so I can’t imagine how he did it. But while he held on and forged his connection with you, the broken pieces of his soul were all rubbing together, friction breaking off a little more over time, cracks widening under the pressure, until finally he shattered completely. When he did, the larger pieces fell further, deeper down into the remains of his being.

“What you used to create your mirror were the smaller pieces. The bits that shattered easily, or had edges that weren’t so worn down by the friction that you couldn’t put them back together. What remains here are the largest shards, the ones that held together the longest. Those with rough, worn down edges that won’t so easily fit back into the places we belong. Pieces with cracks still running through us. You will need to find those cracks and heal them, or else the being you bring back will have open wounds within his soul. And those wounds will fester, until eventually they kill him. And that death will be one from which he will not return.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale took a minute to digest that new information. “So just naming you won’t be enough?”

“No.” The aspect shook his head. “You’ll need to find the remaining cracks, and heal them.”

“But I don’t see any cracks in you,” Aziraphale said. Try as he might, he couldn’t find anything particularly wrong with Compassion, aside from the fact that he was obviously only a piece of his demon

“No?” the aspect smiled. “Then tell me, what am I?”

“You’re Compassion,” Aziraphale told him. “Kindness.”

Compassion nodded, a wry smile twisting his lips. “And what kind of demon has compassion?”

“Why should that matter?” Aziraphale wanted to know.

The aspect laughed and sighed, glancing away. “Because I am not meant to exist. I should have been destroyed, ripped away when your Crowley’s Grace was taken from him.”

“Why? Why shouldn’t a demon have compassion?” Aziraphale demanded. Perhaps it was because Crowley had been his first and deepest experience with a demon, but he had assumed all demons had redeeming aspects about them, just as many angels clearly had sins.

Compassion met his eyes then, and Aziraphale saw the pain and the darkness deep inside the beautiful sunlit gold. “Because,” he said simply, “it hurts.”

And there was the crack. Aziraphale could sense it now, a soul-deep ache that cut through the aspect like fire.

“It… hurts?” Aziraphale echoed, not certain he understood.

“Yes.” Compassion looked down, to the creature in Aziraphale’s lap, which was watching him with dozens of curious eyes. “Demons can sense pain,” he explained. “In the same way that angels can sense love. Can you imagine that? Sensing all that pain and sorrow out in the world, and knowing it was your job to cause more?”

The creature whined, vibrating against Aziraphale’s legs. The angel stared in silent horror at the implications of his words. Suddenly, several painful encounters with the demon made so much more sense. Those times he’d found him, sloshed out of his mind and railing against the world at large. The way he cringed when Aziraphale asked him if any large negative event was his fault. That strange expression of guilt and defiance on his face whenever Aziraphale caught him doing something good. And the way he insisted so vehemently that he was not nice, or kind, or good in any way. How had he never noticed? He had been so blind. So very, very blind, for so very, very long.

“No,” he said eventually, when he finally managed to control his guilt. “I doubt I could ever think of something even close to what that must be like.”  He had so very many memories of Crowley. And in none of them had he ever found the demon doing something to directly harm another. Causing chaos, yes, he was very good at that. He took delight in chaos. But there was never any outright malice in his actions. Silence fell between them, heavy with thought, and guilt, and memory.

“Do you… do you remember the Great Flood?” Aziraphale asked suddenly.

“No.” Compassion tilted his head, watching Aziraphale with interest. “I do not hold those memories. Why?”

In the angel’s hands the mirror began to fill with color, the vague shape of a memory forming within the glass. Aziraphale knew what it was long before it came into focus. The wooden lines of the ark, the dim yellow light of a lantern, and Crowley, black wings mantled over a frightened group of human children. It had been then, on the ark in the middle of the greatest flood in all of history, that Aziraphale had first come to understand how deep compassion ran within his friend.

“Our jobs,” Aziraphale told him. “Yours and mine, were to watch what had happened and nothing more. No interfering in the Great Plan, though God was set to drown thousands of people. You were… you were upset that She would kill children, and protested when I told you I could not interfere. We… fought. I said some things to you that were… less than kind. You left. The next time I saw you again, we were on the ark. You had stolen seven children, and hid them away in a room deep within the ship. You wouldn’t let me in at first. You were convinced I’d make you throw them overboard. And when you finally let me in, you kept watching me. It was clear you did not trust me to leave the children alone. So I asked you - ‘why save them?” Why did you keep them when you knew you weren’t supposed to? And you just shrugged and said ‘Well, I couldn’t just let them die. They’re kids. They haven’t had the time to sin yet.’

“And the thing was, you knew what Hell would do to you, if they caught you breaking the rules. You knew what Heaven would do if they caught you saving children God had ordered drowned. And yet, you did it anyway. You felt those children’s pain, their fear, their desperation. And instead of ignoring it, as I did, you chose to save the ones you could. You chose - and you continued to choose - to do the kind thing, rather than what was easy or expected of you. The world is a better, brighter, and happier place because you, Crowley, are in it.”

He leaned forward then, and took Compassion’s hands in his, looking deep into eyes the color of sunlight. “I have never known you to deliberately cause pain, my dear. You are not needlessly cruel. You find ways around it, to do your job without making the world a more miserable place to be. You cause chaos and frustration because it gives the humans a choice. They can choose to be miserable, or to rise above it. Learn from it. Be better than they were. And if they don’t, it isn’t your fault. It’s just humans. Doing what humans do. And that pain would have existed whether or not you happened to interfere. And for some, like those children on the ark, their lives are better for your presence in it.”

“So I should just bear it?” the aspect asked. “Just… take the pain, because it helps someone else, despite what it does to me?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, I didn’t say that. You see, I didn’t know what it cost you, back then. But I do now. And I promise you this. When the pain you bear becomes too much, I will be here for you. Let me shoulder it, for a time. We can retreat from the world. Go someplace quiet, where you can rest for a while. And then, when you are ready, we can return.”

“And if I’m never ready?”

“Then we never return.”

“And if my pain is too much for you?” Compassion asked, pulling his hands back and looking away. “What then? I won’t become a burden on you.”

Aziraphale reached out and gently turned Compassion’s head until he could see his eyes again. “Then we lean on others to support us. I did not get this far on my own, you know. Anathema and Newton brought me hope that I could save you. And Adam got me to you. We do not exist in a vacuum, my dear. You are not now, nor will you ever be, alone. I will not allow it to be so.”

Compassion searched his face, looking for something in his expression that would give the lie to his confident words. Aziraphale simply smiled, allowing his hand to fall back down to stroke the creature in his lap. It hummed contentedly, vibrating under his fingers. And then the aspect closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath.

“I will not make it easy on you,” he said softly. “Your Crowley, he will not so easily admit to his pain. There will be Pride in the way. And Fear. How will you help him, if he will not allow you to see how deep the pain goes?”

“That’s why we’re here, is it not?” Aziraphale asked, feeling his own guilt and pain rise up inside, choking him. “I failed him. Repeatedly and inexcusably. I failed to notice the pain he was in. Or to even consider that he could be in such pain. I know better now. I will not let this happen again.” The creature reached out and curled around Aziraphale’s arm, squeezing it and vibrating comfortingly.

“You are worth every effort, my dear,” the angel added quietly, speaking half to Compassion and half to near-feral being in his lap. “You will never be a burden to me. But it is your choice to make. I would take all your pain from you if I could, but I know that I can’t. I can only offer to be here to support you for the rest of our lives.”

Compassion opened his eyes. And he smiled. “I may not have his memories, but I can feel it in my core. It has always been easier for him to bear this pain when you are near.” The image in the mirror changed, showing Aziraphale another angle. Crowley, in that little room on the ark, watching Aziraphale while the angel’s back was turned to take care of one of the children. The expression on his face was something very much like relief.

“I will stay with him,” Aziraphale promised. “Until the end of the universe, and beyond if at all possible.” Wrapped around his arm, the creature hummed.

“Then I will return to the whole.” Compassion stood, then leaned down to put both hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders. “You have a hard road ahead. But I believe you can do it.” He looked at the creature, whose humming intensified. “Take care of him.”

The creature hummed its affirmative. And Compassion smiled. “Very good.”

Then the mirror flashed with that same bright light that had absorbed Curiosity. When it faded, the glass was clear and reflection-less again. The aspect himself was gone. And the lower left-hand corner of the mirror now bore Compassion’s sigil.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale returned down the path to the clearing in which he had found Compassion. He half expected that other, angry aspect to have vanished while they spoke, but there he was. Still dressed in the same robes Crowley had worn in Eden, with the gold of Heaven dusted across his skin. He was leaning against a tree with his arms crossed, glaring at Aziraphale as the angel came around a bend in the path, the creature riding draped across his shoulders.

“Took you long enough,” the aspect sneered. “Did that goody-two-shoes tell you all about what a mess you landed in?”

“He did.” Aziraphale could feel the anger radiating off of this aspect of Crowley, hot and hard and heavy.

“And I expect you’re looking for a way out?” the aspect asked, scowling. He stood and stalked into the center of the clearing, where the sunlight glinted off of the gold in his skin. “You’re here to ask me how to get back up, aren’t you? Well, surprise, I have no idea. You’re just gonna have to help yourself, like you angels always do.”

The creature hissed around Aziraphale’s neck, its fire flaring as it stared down the angry aspect.

“And what would you know?” the aspect snapped. “You’re just a dumb animal. Instinct and nothing more.”

“It’s been invaluable to me in getting this far,” Aziraphale told him, lifting a hand to stroke the creature, which had started vibrating so hard he feared it might fly apart.

The aspect laughed, harsh and guttural, like nails on glass. “Sure. Sure. Defend that, why don’t you? A monster out of nightmares, and you’re wearing it like a scarf. Do you have any idea what that thing could do if it got out?”

Aziraphale shuddered, remembering the creature as it had been in the cell, an insane mass of negative emotion, attacking anything that came near it with all of its pain. He didn’t even want to imagine the kind of damage such a creature could do, if it had not been contained.

The angry aspect rolled his eyes. “Fucking typical. You have no clue the consequences of your actions, do you? Just like all angels, off living in your own ideal world where everything’s sunshine and rainbows while some of us are struggling just to keep alive without falling apart.”

“That’s not fair,” Aziraphale cried, stung. “I’m not- I- I’ve never-” He wanted to protest, but a voice inside pinched at him, preventing him from speaking. You didn’t think before you lied to him, did you? it asked. You just lied to protect yourself, and Crowley suffered because of it.

The aspect exhaled a violent huff of air and spun on his heel, walking away from Aziraphale. “Whatever. Go on then. Find a way out, if you can. Leave us alone.”

Aziraphale hesitated for just a moment. Then he strengthened his resolve and stood straight and firm in the center of the clearing. “No.”

“No?” the aspect demanded, whirling to face him. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“No, I’m not leaving.” He met angry gold eyes and held his gaze. “I mean to return Crowley to himself, and I’m not leaving until I do.”

“Why?” the aspect snapped, harsh and cold. “What could a demon be to an angel?”

What could a demon be to an angel? That was the question, wasn’t it? He was an enemy and nothing more, if you looked at it from Heaven’s point of view. And yet, he had never really looked at Crowley in that way. They had never been enemies, as such. Merely…. Pieces on opposite sides of a giant chess match. Pieces whose roles had become so intertwined and interchangeable over time that they sometimes took on each other’s moves. But even that was really the wrong way to look at it.

“It’s not like that,” he told the aspect. “It’s not, we’re not ‘an angel and a demon’. That’s just, as Crowley would say, ‘our job description’. And it isn’t even really that anymore. We’re just two supernatural entities that happen to care very much about each other.”

“Care?” the aspect scoffed, but he seemed unable to look away from Aziraphale’s steady gaze.

Aziraphale found himself smiling faintly, remembering how hard Crowley had argued to get him to accept this very thing. And now here he was, their roles reversed. The irony was not lost on him. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Crowley is my dearest friend.” It felt odd, saying that to someone who was both so like and unlike his Crowley. This aspect felt… harder. Certainly angrier. Where Compassion had been like Crowley with the edges filed away, this aspect was all edges and sharp corners, with none of the gentleness he had come to know within his friend.

“There is not one being in this entire universe that I care for more,” the angel added. “I suspect I could not have gotten to this place if that were not the case.”

“And you think I would believe that?” the aspect growled. “You positively stink of Heaven. And I can smell the guilt on you from here. All this,” he waved his hands in the air, indicating the garden around them, the creature on Aziraphale’s shoulders, and the mirror in Aziraphale’s hands. “This is your fault, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale looked down. “Yes,” he admitted in a small voice. “I was… thoughtless, like you said. I didn’t notice how much pain Crowley was in. If I had…” he shook his head and gritted his teeth. “But he’s to blame as well. He knows I’d help him, if he asked. All he had to do was tell me.”

“And what expectation did he have that you would?” the aspect demanded. “Did he even know how much you supposedly care about him?”

“I…” No. The answer was no, Crowley hadn’t known. Aziraphale had kept it to himself for thousands of years, expecting the demon just to infer from the fact that he didn’t leave that he liked being around him. Hell, he’d flat-out told Crowley he didn’t like him that evening under the bandstand. He’d caused his friend so much pain, and he hadn’t even realized until it was too late. The knowledge cut at him deep inside, like knives in his heart, but he had no one to blame but himself.

“I should have been more honest with him,” he admitted. “I expected he would understand without my saying so. I was wrong. I won’t make that mistake again.”

The aspect laughed at him. “You won’t get the chance again. Your demon is gone. All you’ve got left is that thing,” he pointed to the creature. “And some bits of a soul. You’ll never succeed in putting us all back together, and the sooner you accept that the better it’ll be.”

Aziraphale glared at him. “I will not. I refuse. Yes, I should have done better. I should have told him how much he means to me. But I absolutely will not give up on him now. I will put him back together.”

“Oh you will, will you?” the aspect sneered. “Sure, right up until it’s too much effort and you give up. Until you decide that I’m really not worth all this and fuck off back to Heaven where you belong.”

The angel took a long, steadying breath. He had never seen Crowley this angry before. Perhaps it was because his rage was usually tempered by other emotions, or perhaps he simply had better control over himself, but Aziraphale had never thought to see him like this - vibrating with barely contained anger and snapping like a wild animal.

“You don’t remember me,” he told him. “So I don’t expect you to know this. But I do not just give up on things once I’ve started them. I do not give up on people. I have never, not once, given up on Crowley. And I certainly don’t intend to start now. My place, ‘where I belong’, as you put it, is not in Heaven. It’s on Earth, at Crowley’s side. Just as his is at mine. It has been for the past six thousand years, and will be for however long we both exist.”

The aspect stalked forward, leaning in to glare into his eyes. “You say that, and maybe, just maybe I can believe you mean it. But then tell me this, angel. You hold his soul in your hands. Everything he is is right here.” He grabbed the mirror from Aziraphale, holding it up and scowling at its empty depths. “Are you really going to put us back together just the way we were?”

In the glass, an image formed. Crowley, face contorted in anger, screaming at his houseplants.

Aziraphale blinked in surprise at the question. “What? Yes! Of course I am!”

“Really?” the aspect lifted an eyebrow. “When it would be so easy for you to just… scratch in a little change?” He drew one sharp nail down the glass inside an empty circle. “Write out the bits you don’t like and replace them with something else?”

The image in the mirror changed, becoming clouded and faded. The expression on mirror-Crowley’s face went eerily blank.

“No.” Aziraphale snatched the mirror back, scrubbing frantically at the scratch. “No. I like Crowley just how he is. I would never try to make him into something else.” He saw with relief that the scratch had vanished under his fingers. The image of Crowley yelling returned for just a moment, and then disappeared entirely.

“No?” the aspect asked, stalking closer, forcing Aziraphale to take a step back. And then another. And another. “Not even to calm that demonic temper?” His voice was quiet, even, almost emotionless. He took another step. Aziraphale could feel a tree at his back now. “Or remove that pesky stubbornness?” He leaned in, bracing a hand on a branch above the angel’s head. “Or how about that forbidden curiosity, that got him cast out in the first place?” He kept moving forward, until Aziraphale was pressed against the tree, no more than an inch between them.

“No,” he repeated. “That would be wrong.”

The aspect laughed, harsh and bitter. “Sure, sure. Admit it, though. There are parts of him you don’t like. Things that annoy you, hurt you, even anger you. Wouldn’t you like to get rid of them? Make him into the perfect companion? Someone worthy of an angel’s company?”

Pain flared hot within the anger the angel could sense flowing from the aspect, ancient and terrible. This was an old, old hurt. How long, Aziraphale wondered, had Crowley felt like this? How many times had he told himself he wasn’t worthy of Aziraphale’s companionship? And how many times had Aziraphale let him feel that way, because it was easier than admitting that Heaven might have been wrong? Well, that could not, would not continue.

Aziraphale looked up into those angry golden eyes, and brought a hand up to cradle the aspect’s face. “My dear,” he said softly. “You are, and have always been, worthy. I was a fool for not seeing it from the very start. And while you can do some things that upset me, I am certainly guilty of more than a few faults of my own. No one of us is ever perfect. Your faults are a part of you. To remove them would not only be the gravest of violations, it would make you less than you are. I would never do such a thing, even if you were to request it.”

The aspect stayed silent, breathing heavily and staring at Aziraphale as if entranced. Around his neck, the creature vibrated and let out a low buzzing hum.

“You can’t just… cherry-pick the pieces of a person,” the angel continued. “Decide ‘I like them this way, but not that’. That’s not how people work. And even when you say things that hurt me, or make me angry, I still love you. Just as I love you when you drive that infernal car far too fast, or when you ask me uncomfortable questions I don’t want to answer. Which is also just as much as I love you when you make me laugh, or take me to dinner, or do all those wonderful things you do. So no, to answer your question. I will not be leaving out pieces of your soul. I will put you back together exactly as you were, faults and all.”

“Then name me,” the aspect growled. “Tell me, what part of that soul am I?”

That was simple. He knew this one already. “Rage,” he said. “You are Crowley’s anger. And you are as vital to him as his Compassion and his Curiosity.”

Rage leaned in, so close now their foreheads were almost touching. “You would return me to his soul?” he demanded, voice barely above a whisper. “Knowing what I am? That I am an aspect of sin?”

“I would.” Aziraphale told him calmly, and watched those familiar eyes widen in surprise. Rage pulled back, stepping away, and Aziraphale followed, reaching out and taking up his hand. “It’s as I said.” He stroked the back of Rage’s hand with his thumb and guided it down to press his fingers to the mirror, holding them there in the empty circle beside Compassion. “To remove you from him would make him less than he is. I do not love Crowley in spite of his rage. I love him because of it, and every other aspect of his soul.”

“You mean that,” Rage said, wonder in his voice.

“I do. And I am so very, very sorry for all times I made you feel like I didn’t. You have every right to be angry, my dear. At me, at Heaven, at God, and anyone and everyone else that has hurt you. I can only beg your forgiveness for my actions, and hope that I can do enough to earn it.”

Rage sighed, the tension falling from his body. “You have it, angel.” He smiled, a genuine smile. “I think it must be hard for me to stay mad at you for long.” His free hand came up to grip the metal frame of the mirror. “Good luck,” he said as it flashed. “Give that asshole in the center a good kick for me when you see him.” And then, he dissolved into a bright stream of light. When his eyes cleared, Aziraphale saw the sigil for Rage now etched into the glass beside the circle for Compassion.

Chapter Text

“Well. That was…” Aziraphale shook his head, running a hand along the smooth back of the creature draped across his shoulders. Already he was starting to feel a bit used up and wrung out, and he still had six more empty circles to fill.

The creature buzzed under his ear comfortingly, curling around his shoulders and squeezing gently like it was giving him a hug.

“Thank you, dear,” he told it, scratching a patch of darkness, and was rewarded by its purr-like hum. “I do hope your other aspects aren’t quite so… intense.” Rage had left him shaken, his guilt weighing heavily on his heart. He had gotten things so very wrong, for so very long. And while Crowley could, and should have said something, that Aziraphale didn’t notice was on the angel and the angel alone.

“Well, no help for it now,” he said, shaking himself out of that line of thought. He could wallow in his own guilt later, when Crowley was safe and whole once more. “Let’s get going, hmm?”

There were three paths out of the clearing. The first, Aziraphale had taken from the wall. He knew what lay in that direction. Another, he had taken with Compassion. And while he had not followed it to its end, it didn’t feel quite right to return down it. So instead, he took the third path, which led in the opposite direction. It was nearly identical to the other two, though this one had a small stream running along its length.

As he walked, Aziraphale glanced up to check the position of the sun. As he had suspected, it still hadn’t moved. This place, wherever it was, existed in a point outside of time. Back in the physical realm, years could be passing with each blink. Or it could be that no time at all had passed, and he and Crowley would return just as Adam finished closing the door to the cell. Aziraphale worried about the boy, but he supposed Adam was probably in a better position than he himself would have been, being the former son of Satan.

“I do hope he’ll be alright,” he told the creature. “I worry if we take too long, Anathema and Newton might decide not to wait and come in to get us, though I don’t believe they can withstand the infernal nature of Hell for very long. And poor Adam, bless the lad. All alone out there, with only that demon for company. What if someone discovers him down there, without me around to protect him?” He stuck his hand in his pocket, turning the ring around and around in his fingers as he started to worry. “I should never have let him come with me. What was I thinking, bringing a child into Hell of all places? I- ouch!” His hand flew up to his ear, which stung. His fingers came away with a few drops of blood.

On his shoulder the creature hissed, baring a mouth full of needle-sharp fangs

“You bit me! What was that for?” Aziraphale demanded. The creature hissed again and jabbed a tendril of darkness up at the sun.

“What? I don’t understand.” He frowned, massaging his ear and feeling rather like he wanted to cry. First Crowley went and died on him, then he followed him to Hell, was attacked by a monster made of negative emotions, had to locate thousands of shards of Crowley’s soul, and then he had to confront several aspects of Crowley’s soul that both were and were not his demon, and now the creature he’d begun to trust completely went and bit him.

Twelve golden eyes rolled at him, exactly as Crowley would have done when exasperated. Then it draped itself over his shoulder and dropped tendrils into his waistcoat pocket, drawing out his pocket watch. It held the device up to his face, tapped once on the casing, then jabbed the tendril up at the sky once more. Then it hissed and stared at him expectantly. He blinked, noticing that the clock had frozen some time ago and the second hand was no longer steadily ticking on.

“Are you… are you trying to tell me time isn’t passing outside?” Aziraphale asked hesitantly. It hummed happily. “And you bit me… to stop me feeling sorry for myself?” Another hum. “Ah. I am sorry my dear. I suppose I got a little too wrapped up inside my own head there for a moment.”

This time the creature made a sound that was almost an “Uh-huh.” The angel laughed. “Just like Crowley. He never can tolerate when I start to get like that.”

The creature hummed, and resumed its perch wrapped around his shoulders. It was large enough he could wear it like a short cape - albeit a very strange cape. It watched him with several eyes, while many others roamed across its’ surface, looking out at the world around them with the same curiosity with which the aspect of Curiosity had looked at it.

Thinking about Curiosity, Aziraphale glanced at the clear surface of the mirror. Three of the nine circles were now filled, Enochian symbols marking off the individual aspects of Crowley’s personality. Six more to go. He wondered about those six, particularly the largest circle, right in the center. What aspect went there? And what other aspects of Crowley would he come across? He continued on, lost in thought, until the creature hissed and tugged back on his shoulders. He stopped, looking around, and saw a bright bronze coin lying in the path almost under his feet.

“What?” He frowned, leaning down and reaching out, before quickly drawing his hand back. He’d seen such coins before, but not for a very long time. The metal was pounded very thin, so as to be nearly worthless. Usually there would be an engraving of a god on the face, though this one only held a squiggle that could, possibly, have been a snake. Still, it was unmistakably an obol - a coin used by Greek and Roman peoples, to be placed in the mouth of a corpse in order to pay for their passage into the afterlife. Some cultures simply used coins of the lowest denomination, while others created coins like this specifically for funeral rites. At one time Crowley had amassed quite a collection of the things.

“Don’t suppose you could pick that up for me, could you?” a familiar, cheerful voice said, and Aziraphale, startled, turned to peer into the trees off to the side of the path where the voice had come from.

“Crowley?” He squinted, trying to see in the dim shadows beneath the trees. There, up in the branches of a large Anisoptera, he could just make out a figure watching him.

“Nope!” the new aspect said, swinging down from a branch to land just beside the path. He grinned at Aziraphale, laughing at the expression on the angel’s face. He spread pure white wings wide and then folded them tight against his back, a few loose feathers floating to the ground around him. The angel knew him almost immediately. There was only one aspect he could be, wearing that same gleeful expression Aziraphale had seen thousands of times over the years. Mischief.

The creature hummed, vibrating, and Mischief glanced at it and laughed. “Well. That would be with you. I can’t wait to see what the big guy does with it. He’s gonna be so mad.” He laughed again.

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale wanted to know.

Mischief just shrugged, chuckling. “You’ll see,” he told him, then looked pointedly at the coin on the ground. “So, are you gonna pick that up?”

The angel sniffed, frowning at it in distaste. “No, I think not.”

The aspect put on a wide-eyed, pleading expression. “Please? I have to have something to pay the ferryman, don’t I?”

“No, you don’t.” Aziraphale gingerly stepped over the coin, moving closer to Mischief. “For one thing, you and I both know that myth is, in fact, highly inaccurate considering that Azrael does not require payment, nor is there a ferry, or even a river that must be crossed. And for another, you aren’t dead.”

“No?” Mischief tilted his head to the side, peering at him with bright golden eyes. “It certainly feels like it.”

“No,” Aziraphale told him firmly. “You are most certainly not.”

Mischief sniffed. “Pity. If I was, I might have a way out of this place, at least. Are you sure you don’t want to pick up that coin?”

The creature hummed and vibrated, flailing a few tendrils in Mischief’s direction. Aziraphale shook his head. “No, I’m not going to. I imagine you’ve gone and stuck it to the ground somehow, haven’t you?”

The aspect sighed gustily. “Fine. Be that way then. Don’t mind me, I’m just over here dying of boredom.” He snapped his fingers, and the coin appeared back in his hand.

“You can’t die of boredom,” Aziraphale informed him, distinctly remembering having this conversation with Crowley at least sixteen times in the past six thousand years. His demon did love his dramatics.

Mischief laughed, tossing the coin lightly and catching it a few times. “Maybe real people can’t, but I sure can. What do you think happens to bits of people that don’t get used anymore? They fade and die, that’s what.”

“That can’t be right,” Aziraphale said, feeling a sharp spike of fear. What if he was too late to save part of Crowley?

The aspect stopped and tilted his head looking at Aziraphale curiously. “Can’t it? Haven’t you ever seen someone who used to be kind get so hardened it’s hard to find any compassion left in them at all?”

Like Gabriel, Aziraphale thought, though he wouldn’t say as much out loud. Gabriel and the other archangels had become so obsessed with the Great Plan that they’d let the kindness and compassion within themselves die away. It was a sobering thought.

Mischief turned away, considering the height of the branch he had been perched on. “Think I could swing on that?” he asked, pointing at a thick vine that hung down just above the branch.

Aziraphale blinked, thrown off by the abrupt shift, and examined the vine. “It’s possible,” he concluded, “though I wouldn’t advise-”

“Brilliant!” Mischief shot him a grin and reached for the tree.

I’ve got to get him back to the whole, Aziraphale thought, suddenly afraid the aspect was going to leave. He really didn’t want to have to chase him through the jungle. “Wait!” He reached out without thinking, gripping Mischief by the shoulder.

“Eh?” the aspect turned back, looking down at the hand on his shoulder, then back up at Aziraphale inquiringly.

“Ah, that is,” he dropped his hand to his side. “If you’re that bored, I could always put you back with the rest of Crowley’s soul.” He raised the mirror, while the creature hummed against his back.

Mischief narrowed his eyes at the mirror. “And why would you do that?”

“Because you’re a part of him, and I want to bring him back,” the angel answered truthfully.

The aspect frowned. “And why would I want that?” he asked.

“I-” Aziraphale paused, confused. “Why wouldn’t you want that?”

Mischief made a face. “Do you know how boring it is in there? It’s dull out here, and at least here I have the garden to play with. No thank you. I’m perfectly happy where I’m at.”

“But…” he cast around for an argument. “But you can’t be whole again, unless all of you is put back together.”

“Sure, and then it gets even more boring. I heard what you said to Rage. We’re not a demon any more. And with Compassion and Curiosity running the show, how often do you think I get to come out, now that there’s no excuse?”

The angel shook his head. “I can’t possibly imagine Crowley giving up on mischief. He practically lives for causing trouble.” In his hands, the mirror changed to show an image of Crowley slouched on a bench in the park, laughing brightly as confused ducks try to eat some bread, only to find nothing there and the piece they were looking for floating a few inches away.

Mischief laughed, taking the mirror and examining it. “Oh, that one’s always good. More fun with drunk people though. They make the most amusing faces when they go to grab a drink and see it sitting an inch to the left.”

“Better than when you hid one from each pair of all my socks,” Aziraphale pouted, remembering how upset he’d been when he found he didn’t have a single matching sock. He’d had to miracle himself a new pair just so he could go force Crowley to give them all back. It had taken a serious amount of alcohol and a few choice threats they both knew he’d never follow through on, before he’d gotten him to return them all.

Mischief giggled, then sighed, handing the mirror back. “I suppose I won’t have an excuse to do things like that anymore if you put us back together.”

“I don’t see why,” Aziraphale told him. “I’m certainly not going to stop blessing people who deserve it. I don’t expect Crowley to stop causing trouble just because he’s not ordered to anymore.”

“No?” the aspect tilted his head, looking at him carefully. “And you wouldn’t be upset with him for, say, taking down all Wi-Fi service in London?”

“Well, provided nobody died because of it, I don’t suppose I would. He’s never been one to maliciously cause harm to people, and I don’t expect him to start now.” He gave the aspect a small half-smile. “Oh, I suppose I make noises about being disappointed in him. But he, rightfully, points out that I’m still doing blessings, and we bicker a bit before moving on to other things. He knows I don’t mean it, and I know he knows, and doesn’t mean what he says about my blessings, so it’s really all a game between us. Do you see?”

“Huh.” Mischief considered his words. “Well, I guess that makes sense. But tell me this, then, angel. Does Crowley know that?”

“I - what?” Aziraphale’s grip on the mirror tightened, and the creature buzzed in his ear.

“Does Crowley know you see it as a game?” Mischief asked again. “Or is he testing a line? Pushing and pushing to see how far will finally be too far?”

“Does he…?” Aziraphale turned the words over in his mind, wondering. Did Crowley know it was all a front? He had assumed he did, but they’d never outright spoken about it. That would rather have defeated the rules of their little game. But what if he didn’t? What if Aziraphale hadn’t been clear enough, and all this time Crowley thought he truly disapproved, what if-

The creature hissed, and he looked up to see Mischief smirking at him.

“He knows, angel,” Mischief told him. “Though sometimes he forgets it.”

“Do you have his memories, then?” Aziraphale asked, surprised. None of the other three aspects had had any.

Mischief shrugged. “That would be telling.”

Aziraphale fixed him with a look he often found himself giving Crowley - one that was equal parts fondness and frustration. “My dear.”

At that, the aspect cackled. “Sure, fine. Bits and pieces, mostly. Nothing concrete.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Then…” he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He couldn’t feel any pain in Mischief, or at least, nothing clear like he had with Rage and Compassion. He didn’t know what he needed to do to get him to return to the larger part of Crowley’s soul. “Will you let me put you back with the rest of Crowley?”

Mischief hesitated. “I… don’t know.” For an instant, his face reflected uncertainty. Then his usual smirk returned. “I don’t want to be too bored in there, you know?”

Around Aziraphale’s neck, the creature hummed, eyes focused on the aspect. When he looked at it, it jabbed a tendril insistently at the mirror.

Mischief’s mouth dropped open. “You… really?”

The creature dropped from Aziraphale’s shoulders and flowed across the ground until it stopped, whirling in place directly in front of Mischief. It hummed again and hissed, waving several tendrils in the direction of Aziraphale and the mirror.

The aspect dropped down to kneel before it, bringing his face level with the top row of the creature’s eyes. “And what if you decide you don’t want me anymore?” he asked. “I’m a demonic aspect, after all.”

The creature hissed, jabbing a tendril at the white wings of the aspect. Then, from somewhere within itself, it produced Aziraphale’s white feather and held it up, humming insistently.

“And Rage had the gold. And the others all have something. Can’t say I think it means anything at all.”

Every single eye on the creature rolled, and it hummed louder, waving its feather.

“You mean it.” Mischief looked up at Aziraphale. “It says I should return. That… that Crowley needs me to be part of him.”

“Was that ever in doubt?” Aziraphale asked. “Mischief is as vital to Crowley’s personality as Compassion and Curiosity. I think, perhaps, more vital than Rage.”

Mischief froze for a moment, and then a barrier Aziraphale hadn’t even noticed was in him came crashing down in a burst of pain. He fell back, sitting on the ground and blinking up at the angel. “I always thought… he thought I was a defect,” he said in a small voice. “Not quite vicious enough to be truly demonic, but not exactly good either.”

“No.” Aziraphale knelt down beside him in the dirt. “I don’t suppose you really are a demonic trait. But that’s because Crowley chose to be that way. He could have chosen to nurture violence or hate within himself. But he did not. I can guarantee that, no matter what the remaining aspects of his personality are, those are not contained within his soul. It was his choice to turn to chaos and mischief, rather than murder and corruption. It is a choice to be proud of - not because it is ‘less evil’, but because it was his, and making that choice is a big part of the person he has become.”

The creature flowed up until it was pooled in Mischief’s lap, where it stayed, humming and making a few gestures toward Aziraphale and the mirror.

“What’s it saying?” the angel asked.

Mischief shook his head in wonder. “It’s saying if I don’t return, it would make you sad. And that part of my job is making sure you aren’t sad, so I really should just listen to you and let myself be absorbed back into the whole.”

“Well,” Aziraphale smiled at him. “It isn’t wrong. Crowley’s sense mischief is one of the many reasons why I love him.”

Mischief’s eyes grew wide. “Oh.” Then he laughed. “Well. At least I know I won’t be bored if you stick around.”

The creature hummed happily, and tugged on the mirror. Aziraphale held it out, offering it up to the aspect. Mischief looked into the clear surface, and took a deep breath.

“Well,” he said. “Guess I’d better let you get to the rest of us, huh.” He flipped the obol from earlier into the air and then tossed it to Aziraphale, who caught it. “Time to pay the ferryman.” He winked. And then, abruptly, he disappeared into the mirror in a wave of white light, leaving only the symbol for mischief etched into the top right corner of the mirror.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale started walking again, the creature flowing along beside him at knee height. As he did so, he contemplated the coin Mischief had thrown him. One side had a squiggle that looked vaguely like a snake, or like Crowley’s tattoo. The other side held a pair of wings - one etched into the gold, the other raised out of it, providing a contrast reminiscent of light and dark. “I wonder…” he tried to chip the gold with a fingernail, and didn’t make a dent. Then he sniffed it, and frowned.

“What do you think?” he asked the creature, which buzzed at him in confusion. “I think…” he reached into his pocket, and brought out his ring. The creature hissed, drawing back from Aziraphale at the sight of it.

“Don’t worry,” he told it. “I’m not going to let it touch you.” He held the coin up to the ring. And there, he could feel it. The coin was made of gold laced with infernal power, just as his ring was forged with ethereal light. “Hmm.” His frown deepened. “I shouldn’t be able to touch this,” he observed, examining his fingers. The wounds he should have felt the instant infernal metal touched his skin were not there. “Why isn’t it burning me?”

“It’s because you’re inside a demon’s soul,” a voice said, causing Aziraphale to jump. An aspect of Crowley lounged against a tree several feet ahead, watching him approach with eyes more brown than gold. Aziraphale hadn’t even noticed him until he spoke.

“You’re protected,” he said, standing and coming closer. The creature hummed, and he nodded gesturing to it. “That one there shouldn’t exist, but it’s the reason you can stand here at all. Its presence keeps you safe from the infernal nature of our soul, and protects you from things like that coin. Now me, on the other hand…”

Before Aziraphale could react, the aspect leaned over and snatched the celestial ring from his hand. He grinned at the angel’s frightened expression, and slipped the ring on his own finger. “See that? I’m protected by your will.” He took off the ring and dropped it back into Aziraphale’s hand. “This is a place of soul, and will, and being. It only exists because my will to survive was so strong. And you’re only here because your desire to save me is equally as strong. It’s all rather fascinating, isn’t it?”

“I, ah-” Aziraphale blinked at him, thrown off by his abrupt manner as much as his words or the eyes he could now see were just as human - or angelic - as Curiosity’s.

The aspect laughed. “Well now. Aren’t you glad to see me? You’re supposed to be looking for me, you know. I think I did very well holding myself together as much as I have. Only eight pieces, really. Well, and the big guy, but he doesn’t really count.” He took the mirror from Aziraphale’s hands and tapped the five remaining circles, one after the other.

“Give that back.” Aziraphale snatched the mirror from him, while the creature chattered and buzzed - seeming to reprimand him for his rudeness.

“Ah, apologies. I haven’t even introduced myself, have I?” He sketched a quick bow and shot the angel a cocky grin. “Pride, at your service.”

“Pride! I should have known.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Just like Crowley to have Pride as one of his main aspects.”

“Well, he is a demon. You can’t expect him to have only the one real sin. Rage is well enough as the seven deadlies go, but we have always been partial to Pride.” Pride grinned. “Come on then, let me show you more of what I’ve made here. I heard you talking to Rage. You’re trying to put us back together. You should see a little more of what you’re repairing before you finish.”

He turned, beckoning Aziraphale to follow. “Bring your friend there. It’s just as important as the rest of us. It should have a chance to see the beauty of Eden.”

“Well.” Aziraphale looked between the creature and Pride’s retreating back, before shrugging at hurrying to catch up with the aspect.

“Wouldn’t it have seen Eden when Crowley was really there?” he asked, hoping to learn a bit more about his strange companion. “It is also part of you, is it not?”

Pride laughed and shook his head. “Nah. That poor thing didn’t exist back then. Or else it was just a tiny little spark. Sure it’s a part of us, but not all of us were around at Creation, yeah?” He smiled smugly, clearly proud of his ability to add bits to his personality. “Show me an angel -yourself excepted, of course - who can say that!”

“Of- of course.” Aziraphale frowned. Himself excepted? He was fairly certain he was still at his core the same angel he had been back in Eden. Angels weren’t built to change as easily as humans, after all. Perhaps some of his personality had shifted, but he doubted he had changed enough to have created any additional aspects. Before he had a chance to ask any questions however, Pride pushed through some greenery hanging above the path, then stopped.

“And here we are!” He spun, throwing out his arms to indicate the entirety of a large clearing within the forest. Aziraphale stopped, and gasped in wonder. While there was no part of Eden that was not beautiful, this particular clearing was… spectacular. Trees and bushes had been artfully placed amid hundreds of brilliant flowers. The stream that had been faithfully flowing beside the path bubbled in tiny waterfalls into a series of rock pools along one side of the clearing, while the other was bordered by the greenest grass Aziraphale had ever seen.

“Oh, Crowley, it’s beautiful!” Aziraphale stared in awe. It really was the most beautiful piece of Eden he had ever seen, and he had spent years before the war in Heaven guarding the garden, walking its paths until he knew it like he knew the back of his hand.

“Yeah.” Pride grinned. “I did do a good job, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Aziraphale agreed. “Very much so.” The creature at his side hummed in agreement.

“Well then, we should enjoy it while it lasts.” The edge of his grin turned a little ragged, and the light in those too-human eyes dimmed for a moment before he shook it off and gestured, presenting Aziraphale with a beautiful little garden table, set with an ornate china tea set. The kettle was steaming, and a moment later it was joined by a plate of small sandwiches and cakes.

“Oh, I shouldn’t…” Aziraphale’s stomach rumbled, reminding him that even if time was paused outside, he had still been expending a great deal of effort for some time here inside Crowley’s soul. And he hadn’t had anything at all to eat since that night in the bookshop. That had been two days ago now, though it felt like an age had passed since then.

Pride laughed. “Well, you should. Or would you dare tell Pride his offering isn’t good enough?”

Aziraphale grinned, and seated himself at the table. “Anything Crowley gives me is more than good enough,” he said.

“Is it now?” Pride asked, an odd look crossing his face.

“Well, of course!” Aziraphale told him. “Crowley has always taken such good care of me. And he has excellent taste, though I do question some of his musical choices.”

“I see.” That odd look shifts into something like disbelief before Pride replaces it with a genial smile. “Well, aren’t you going to have some tea?” He sits down at the table opposite Aziraphale, and lifts the kettle, indicating the cup in front of the angel.

“Oh, yes please.” Aziraphale watches as he pours, trying to decide what that fleeting expression had meant.

Pride sets the kettle down, and puts a few cakes and sandwiches on a small plate, which he hands to the angel. He watches in silence as Aziraphale digs in, just like Crowley always did when they ate together. On rare occasions Aziraphale has been able to tempt him to a few bites of something or other, but he almost always seemed content with just a coffee or alcohol.

“This is quite good,” he praised the aspect after a few moments in which he tried a small bite of everything on his plate. “Really, I hadn’t realized you were such a good cook.”

“Miracled food, angel,” the aspect said, grinning. “There’s not exactly a kitchen here, is there?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale frowned at the cakes, then shrugged, deciding it doesn’t matter. He was hungry, and even if wasn’t truly real, it did taste good. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t hurt. Though perhaps you could learn to cook when we get back home. I have been wanting to take a few cooking classes. We could take them together. I’m sure you’d do well.”

“Yeah?” Pride asked, “You think?”

“I know.” He looked up from his plate to see Pride still watching him. Those eyes were highly unnerving. Just as he had with Curiosity, he found himself missing Crowley’s normal eyes.

“What?” Pride asked, frowning. “Not good?”

“Oh no, no, it’s not that. I was just… wondering.” He took a quick sip of tea to hide his discomfort.

“Wondering?” Pride prompted.

“About your eyes. They’re not exactly… I mean to say, they’re quite nice, but they aren’t really Crowley’s eyes, are they?”

“Hmm?” Pride frowned. “Ah, right. He has serpents’ eyes. Pity, that. I was always quite proud of my eyes as an angel. The color is quite striking, don’t you think?”

He leaned forward so that Aziraphale could see them better. They were rather beautiful - a deep amber-brown that seemed to sparkle in the sunlight with threads of a brighter gold shot through them closer to the center. Still, he found himself wishing for the bright yellow-gold that never failed to remind him of the molten gold of the sun.

“They are rather nice,” he admitted. “Still, I miss your usual eyes. They seem more… you.”

Pride blinked in surprise. “Huh.”

“What?” Aziraphale asked.

“It’s just… I’d have thought you’d prefer me like this. I almost look like I did before I… well. Before you knew me.”

The angel shook his head. “Not at all. I love you any way you choose to appear, my dear, but I must admit I’m rather partial to your normal eyes.”

“Oh.” Pride still seemed surprised.

“Oh yes. You hide them away so often, but I do so love when you let me see your eyes.” He smiled, trying to convey how very much he meant his words. He knew Crowley was sometimes insecure about his more demonic aspects. He rarely showed it, but Aziraphale could tell in any case.

“You mean that.” The expression on Pride’s face shifted again, becoming something almost vulnerable and a little scared.

“I do. Really, Crowley should be proud of them. They’re very unique, and so expressive. They fit him very well.”

“And…” Pride hesitated for a moment, before asking “what else does he have to be proud of?”

“I… beg your pardon?” Aziraphale frowned, confused.

“I am not a very good demon,” Pride explained. “Just as I was never very good as an angel. If I return, what do I have to be proud of? An empty flat and commendations I didn’t earn?”

“You-” Aziraphale stopped, considering his words. He couldn’t risk saying the wrong thing here. “We stopped the end of the world. That’s certainly something to be proud of.”

“Only by messing up every step of the way,” Pride countered. “That’s hardly noteworthy.”

“Fair enough. Though I would point out that our screw ups rather directly caused the events that prevented the Apocalypse.”

The aspect laughed at him. “So I should be proud of my failure then?”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Aziraphale sighed. “I guess it’s not really.”

“Then what else do I have? What should I be proud of?” Pride wanted to know.

“You, well, you’ve got a very nice garden,” Aziraphale told him. “And you are quite proud of that infernal death trap you call a car, among other things. Not to mention all the mischief you get up to.”

“And you?” Pride asked, leaning back and attempting to act as if he didn’t care what he was saying. The way his eyes stayed locked on Aziraphale’s face, however, was proof enough this was important to him. “Can you find anything to be proud of in a demon?”

Aziraphale frowned, not sure what he meant by that. “I’m always proud of Crowley. He’s always been an excellent adversary.”

“Ah, and there we are,” Pride said, nodding. “An adversary. But you have said to several of us aspects now that you love him. One does not profess love of an adversary. I wonder, what will you ask of him, if he returns to you? What do you desire in a partner that you can be proud to claim? You told Rage you don’t believe either of you are still the infernal or divine agents you once were. So what will you expect of your no-longer-a-demon? What will you do, when he acts in ways you don’t approve?”

“Well…” the angel considered his response. “I suppose I would be upset if he gives in to his more… demonic nature. Oh! But that doesn’t mean I’m not proud of him in other ways!”

“So you expect him to become an angel again, is that it?” Pride watched his face with those strange too-human - too-angelic - eyes, seeming just a bit… lost.

Aziraphale paused to consider that. Was that what he expected? The answer was no, not really. But he did expect him to be… what? Less demonic? Stop causing chaos because it wasn’t his job anymore? No, that wasn’t it either. He had told Mischief he valued Crowley’s ability to cause chaos after all, and that was the truth. He may not always approve of upsetting people, but he loved watching how excited Crowley got over his pranks. No, what he expected was that Crowley wouldn’t further Hell’s agenda. But was that really fair, when he himself hadn’t stopped acting entirely as an agent of Heaven?

“If he stays at your side, angel, how much of himself will you ask him to set aside? I don’t have his memories, any more than Rage or Compassion did. But I know angels. How many times do you look at him and try to see the angel he used to be? You asked about my eyes. They are the marks of the Throne I once was. It left traces like this all over me when I fell. Pieces remain in all of us aspects, except - well. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? How much of it is really left?”

On the table, the clear glass of the mirror changed to reflect that day in Tadfield Manor, when Crowley had gotten so angry when Aziraphale called him nice. Unnoticed by Pride or the angel, the creature hummed, watching the exchange with wide eyes.

“I, well, I suppose, ah,” Aziraphale stammered, trying to find some sort of reply.

Pride laughed, but there was no joy in it. “Well. I guess you’ll have to judge that for yourself, if you get that far. But ask yourself this - do you want to see him return to Heaven?”

“No,” Aziraphale told him firmly, not even needing to consider it. “I- I might daydream about Crowley becoming an angel again. I’ll admit that. It’s not something I’m proud of. I know he would hate that idea. And, yes, sometimes I do look for traces of the angel he used to be. But only because it’s always so easy to see. I don’t need your eyes to be angelic, or your wings to be white, or- or any of that, to see it. In some ways, Crowley is more angelic than I. But I have no illusions. Crowley is a demon, and, despite the pain in him, he does not regret falling. And, well, it might be silly of me, perhaps, but I do not think I would love him as much if he did become an angel again, because that would mean he had lost that conviction. That is something he very much can, and should be proud of.”

He smiled then, realizing what he needed to say. What Crowley’s Pride needed to hear. He leaned across the table, and took Pride’s hand in his.  At his side, the creature hummed. “I may not have been able to say it before, but I am not ashamed to love him. I have never been. Afraid? Yes, very much so. Afraid of what Heaven would do to him, if they ever found out. Of what Hell might do if they found out. And even what Crowley himself would do, if he discovered the depth of my feelings. But I have never been ashamed of him. And I never will be. If, after all of this, he will still have me, I will proudly call him my partner, or my lover. Perhaps even, eventually, my husband.”

Pride smiled, that lost look fading from his eyes. “Then perhaps returning will not be such a bad thing.” He laid his free hand on the mirror, which shifted to show an image of the two of them dining at the Ritz. And the look in Crowley’s eyes as he watched Aziraphale from across the table. It was the same look in Pride’s eyes now. “I, too, would be proud to call you mine.”

Light flashed from the mirror. And moments later, Aziraphale was left staring across the table at empty air. The creature buzzed, flowing up into Pride’s vacated chair and extending a tendril of eyes to examine the mirror even as the angel shook his head to clear the spots from his vision. Etched into the glass beside Curiosity’s sigil was the Enochian symbol for Pride. More than half the circles were filled.

“We’re almost there,” he told the creature. “Just four more now.” It hummed agreement, then reached out with a tendril of darkness, and snatched a cake off of Aziraphale’s plate.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale felt the next aspect before he saw it. Waves upon waves of crushing fear, rolling out from under the thick vegetation lining the path. The creature whined when it felt it, climbing up to wrap around his torso, where it shivered and hummed, every single eye shut tight.

The feeling got thicker the closer they came to it, until he felt as if he were wading through a river of fear and pain. At its source, he found a sight that nearly broke his heart. Crowley’s familiar form lay huddled under the bushes, long limbs knotted with tension as small whimpers escaped his lips. The aspect was curled on his side with his legs drawn up to his chest, eyes and jaw clenched tight against the terror rolling out from him in waves. He looked as if he were terrified of the entire world.

“Here now, what’s this?” Aziraphale knelt down, reaching out to touch the aspect on the shoulder, needing badly to pull him close and reassure him that he was safe - that nothing was going to happen. That Aziraphale would never let anything bad happen to him ever again.

At his touch the aspect shot up and scuttled backwards, crying out in fright and throwing his hands up over his face.

“Shh, shh, it’s alright,” the angel said soothingly. “It’s just me. It’s Aziraphale. You’re safe.”

“GET AWAY!” the aspect - Fear, Aziraphale thought it must be - shouted.

“It’s alright, my dear,” Aziraphale told him again, keeping his voice soft and gentle though he ached in sympathy for his friend. He had never seen Crowley so afraid. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

“No!” He kept his eyes clenched tight, trying to crawl deeper into the bush. “No, go away. You can’t be here.”

The aspect rumbled in displeasure, dropping down from Aziraphale’s shoulders and flowing across the ground to poke at Fear with one dark tendril. Fear screamed, drawing his legs tighter to his chest and tried to squirm away.

“Now, really, it’s just trying to help,” Aziraphale scolded as the aspect whirled and hummed, still shivering. “You can’t hide under a bush forever, you know, my dear.”

The aspect didn’t reply, he just curled further in on himself. Aziraphale could see his lips moving and inched closer until he could hear the words the aspect was muttering.

“No no no don’t remember that. Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t remember. Don’t remember. Don’t shatter. Don’t shatter. Don’t think. God, please. NO. No. Don’t think. Don’t remember.”

“Oh, dear one,” Aziraphale murmured, heart breaking again for his friend. He sat down slowly beside the aspect, just close enough to hear his whispered mutterings. “It’s alright. I’m here now, there’s no need to fear.”

The aspect’s breath hitched, a shudder seemed to go through him, and his monologue changed. “No. Not real. Can’t be. Can’t be him. Don’t believe it. You’re not enough. He wouldn’t be here. Not for you. Don’t be stupid. Don’t remember. Don’t think. Don’t think. He’s not real. There’s nothing there. Don’t remember. Don’t shatter.” Aziraphale closed his eyes against his own pain, recognizing just how effective his years of lies had been. His fault. All of this was his own fault. If not entirely, then at least a significant part. He had let Crowley believe he wasn’t important to Aziraphale. That, if he were ever in danger, Aziraphale would not care enough to come to his rescue.

The creature whirled on the ground beside them, staring between Aziraphale and the aspect, strangely silent, as if waiting to see what he would do.

Aziraphale reached out slowly, and gently rested a hand on the aspect’s exposed ankle. Though his clothing was all in shades of white, he was dressed as he had been that day in the late 1800’s, when they had stood together in the park and Crowley had asked for Holy Water. He must have been almost as scared then, though Aziraphale had not realized it at the time. His skin under Aziraphale’s fingers was rough and cold, and the angel could feel the tiny tremors running through his body, shivering in time with the creature that whirled at his side.

“It’s me, my dear,” Aziraphale said softly. “I’m really here. I promise.”

The aspect cringed and clapped his hands over his ears. “No no no. Not real. Can’t be. Can’t be here. Not safe. Don’t remember. He’s not real. Can’t protect him if he’s real.”

Aziraphale frowned. There, beneath the fear, there was a flash of… something else. But it was gone again almost as quickly as it had come.

The creature hummed, gesturing at Fear with several tendrils. The angel nodded, and squeezed the ankle under his hand. “You don’t need to protect me, Crowley. I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself.”

“Yes I do,” Fear hissed through gritted teeth. “Can’t even tell what’s a lost cause when you see it.”

“You’re not a lost cause, Crowley, and you know it,” Aziraphale said sternly. “Just a little more, and I’ll have you put back together again.” He glanced at the mirror, and the four empty circles on it, and prayed he was nearly done.

That other feeling flashed again through the pain and the fear, so quickly Aziraphale thought he must have imagined it. Fear shook his head, yanking his ankle out of the angel’s grip.

“You’re not real,” he insisted. “You’re just a hallucination before everything goes to pieces. Beelzebub will be here any second to take me away, and then you’ll be safe from me forever.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes against the surge of pain those words brought up in him.  Safe from me forever. As if that was something Aziraphale might desire. “I would far rather risk my life to be with you,” he said carefully, “than live in peace without you. A life without you in it would be very bleak indeed.”

“Don’t be daft,” Fear shot back, still refusing to look at him. “What am I to you? Just another demon.”

“My dear, that is a lie and you know it.”

“Is it?” Fear demanded. “Is it really?” He tried to curl further in on himself, but there was nowhere else to go. “Fuck. Listen to me. Arguing with a hallucination. Crowley you idiot, you’re just making it worse on yourself. Stop this. Don’t remember him. Remembering him will only make it worse.”

“I am not a hallucination,” Aziraphale snapped. “I have come too far to let you believe that now.” Fear cringed at his words, shaking his head against the dirt.

“Dear one,” Aziraphale continued in a softer tone, rubbing gentle circles into his leg with careful fingers. “Please. Believe in me. I am here. I will always be here.”

“No,” the aspect insisted. “No, you can’t be here. If you’re here then I failed.”

The creature whined, and for a moment Aziraphale felt that other emotion again, just out of his grasp and hidden beneath the fear. Then it faded away, leaving him wondering if he’d really felt it at all.

“Failed at what, my dear?” the angel asked him. “Why would my being here mean you failed?”

At last, Fear opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Aziraphale. “When I shatter,” he said bleakly, “it will destroy everything around me. If you are here, it means I will destroy you too.”

Ah. So that was the problem. “And where do you think we are?” Aziraphale asked him, gesturing to the bush the aspect was currently cowering beneath.

Fear looked at him like he was insane. “My flat. Mayfair. Where else?”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale squeezed his ankle gently. “My dear, you haven’t been in your flat in days.”

The aspect’s eyes widened. “But-” He stopped, starting to push himself up into a sitting position, and hit his head on a branch. “Where-?” He slid out from under the bush, looking around in shock.

“Physically, we’re in Hell,” the angel told him softly. “This is… inside your soul, I suppose.”

“What?” Fear stared at him. “You- no.” He shook his head, “If I’m in Hell, then this has to be a hallucination. I shouldn’t even be able to string two thoughts together, let alone… do whatever this is.”

“You weren’t, at first,” Aziraphale said, moving his hand up to rest just below the aspect’s knee. He was solid and comforting under Aziraphale’s fingers, reassuringly real no matter the fact that this place could not be on the physical plane. “You… you did a wonderful job protecting me before you shattered, my dear. You got yourself away and kept me safe. I didn’t even know what had happened until after you were gone, and then I’m ashamed to say I lost some time wallowing in despair before Anathema and Newton arrived and helped me work out what had happened to you.” He didn’t want to remember that crushing weight of despair and hopelessness that had settled over him when he had realized Crowley was gone. If their human friends had not arrived when they did… well. He’s lucky they came, and luckier still that Anathema insisted upon understanding what had happened.

“It was Adam that found a way to get me to you, bless the boy. He came with me, down to the cell where Beelzebub put you. And… there you were.”

“No.” Fear gripped his arm, hard enough to bruise, and there was pure terror in those beautiful golden eyes. “No. Angel, tell me you didn’t go in that cell.”

Aziraphale covered the aspect’s hand with his own. “It’s alright, my dear. I’m fine. See? I’m right here. Safe.” The creature hummed, flowing up to drape across Aziraphale’s lap. It was still shivering, though it seemed less tense than before.

“You were right,” Aziraphale continued. “What remained was quite monstrous. But it was still you. You let me in, once you realized it was me. And, well, here I am.”

“Did I…” Fear wouldn’t look him in the eyes, instead focusing his gaze on the way Aziraphale’s fingers pressed against the cloth of his trousers. “Did I hurt you?”

Aziraphale thought about those first few frantic moments, when the creature in the cell threw all of its worst emotions over him, broadcasting its pain and terror in the only way it really could. It had burned, yes. The pain had been unimaginable. But in the end, that pain had not been anywhere near as bad as the pain of facing a life without Crowley by his side.

“No,” he said firmly. “You didn’t hurt me, Crowley. I’m quite safe.”

“But I didn’t protect you,” Fear said in a small voice. “You put yourself in danger, and this time I couldn’t save you.”

Aziraphale shook his head, squeezing Crowley’s knee. “I think, my dear,” he said, “that it is high time I started to protect you.”

“But…” Fear frowned, shaking his head. “But if you protect me, then who protects you?”

“Why… you do, of course,” Aziraphale told him, surprised. “We protect each other.”

“And who…” the aspect took a deep breath, and looked up, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes as he spoke. “Who protects you from me?”

The creature whirled and hissed like wet wood on a fire, backing away from both Aziraphale and the aspect.

“I don’t need protecting from you.” Aziraphale had never been more certain of anything in his entire existence. “I never have. And I highly doubt I ever will.”

Fear laughed, the sound bitter and broken, like shattering glass. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

The angel scowled at him. “I do. I know precisely what I’m saying. You have never hurt me, Crowley. Not even when it was expected of you. I certainly don’t believe you would start now.”

The aspect blinked. Then tried a smile. It was a ghastly expression, twisting his face and making him look like nothing more than an animated corpse. “You want to know what I fear most, angel?” he asked.

“I -” Aziraphale paused, thrown off by the abrupt switch. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Then look.” Fear put his hand over top Aziraphale’s. The creature whined, rushing down Aziraphale’s arm. But it was too late. The angel’s vision greyed out around the edges, and then everything went black.

Suddenly, he was looking at himself, standing against a backdrop of nothing - an endless void. As Aziraphale watched, his double’s expression changed, lighting up, his lips forming Crowley’s name. And then he screamed, doubling over in pain. His clear blue eyes flared with hellfire and turned the same lightless black of the void. His wings flared out behind him, bright feathers catching alight and burning, crumbling to dust. The double screamed again, hands twisting as wicked claws sprung from his fingertips. When his wings completely burned away, the double arched his back and cried out, clawing at the air as a new pair of bat-like, scaled wings burst from his skin. Transformation complete, the double stood, panting, the shreds of his once-fine suit bearing strips of sallow, scale-dotted skin. Then he looked up, staring straight at Aziraphale with those lightless eyes, and snarled through a mouth full of fangs.

YOUR FAULT, the demon-Aziraphale snarled. YOU MADE ME FALL, CROWLEY. It charged forward. Aziraphale braced himself for the attack, preparing himself to feel those wicked claws shredding his flesh. But then the creature was there, larger, almost the size of a man. It spread itself out between Aziraphale and the demon-double, screeching in a thousand high-pitched voices. The angel clapped his hands over his ears to block out the sound, and - he was back in the garden. Slowly, he lowered his hands down, careful not to touch the aspect again. The creature whirled and chittered, scolding them both, before rolling back from them and settling there, staring balefully at Fear.

“That’s what I fear, angel,” the aspect said quietly. “That’s what I see, every time I close my eyes and try to sleep. I will be your downfall. One day, She will cause you to Fall. And it will be all my fault.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale took a moment to breathe, shaken to his core by the terrifying vision. It had been so real. So vivid. And old, too, he could sense. This was an ancient fear, one Crowley had carried with him for far too long. “I… I see.”

“You should go now,” Fear told him, pointing up at the clear, blue sky. “Leave me here, before it’s too late for you.”

Aziraphale sucked in a deep breath, then met Fear’s eyes and shook his head. “No. I won’t leave you.”

“But -” the aspect started to protest, but the angel raised a hand to silence him.

“No. If the cost of your companionship is my place in Heaven, then that is a cost I will gladly pay.”

Fear cringed, folding his legs and hugging them against his chest. “You can’t,” he said, sounding anguished. “Please. You can’t.” The creature whined, whirling faster in the dirt.

“I believe that’s my choice to make,” Aziraphale told him. “And I believe that you are more than worth Falling for.”

The aspect curled tighter around his knees, hunching his shoulders and turning away from the angel. “No. No, no no. Crowley, you idiot. Fuck.”

Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulders, and felt him tense beneath it. “I said you are worth Falling for,” he continued. “Not that I would Fall. I won’t, you know. I promise you, I won’t.”

“You… what?” Fear looked at him, surprised. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can.” He tried to project his certainty. “I have not always been the best angel, as you well know. There are a whole host of transgressions God could use to cast me down. But I don’t think She will. It would have happened long ago, if She was going to do it. And even if it did, if for some reason I were to Fall, it would not be because of you. Loving you is not a sin, Crowley.”

“But I tempted you. I - I got you to go against Her Great Plan.”

“But not the Ineffable Plan,” the angel reminded him. “And I rather think she set us together for a reason. We are, after all, our own side now. Us, and all the humans.”

“But what if-” Fear started to say. Aziraphale interrupted him with a raised hand.

“No buts. I believe that if God did not want us to come together, She would not have gone out of Her way to place us both in the Garden at the same time. And even if it weren’t Her will, what I feel for you… it does not belong to Heaven or Hell. Our love belongs only to ourselves, and no one else. God cannot cast me down for that. And I will not be afraid of it. Not anymore.”

“You won’t be afraid…” the aspect echoed. And the fear rolling off of him settled and stilled, that other emotion flaring bright again, too quickly for Aziraphale to catch it. “But what about me? I’m a demon. What if I lose control? What if I -”

Aziraphale gently put a hand against his jaw, the simple gesture startling him into silence.

“You have already Fallen as far as any demon could. When I found you in that cell, you were nothing more than a mindless mass of power and pain. And even then, you knew me. You trusted me. Even mindless and driven mad with pain, you stopped yourself from destroying me. If you did not hurt me then, I don’t believe you ever will.”

The aspect took a deep breath, and Aziraphale felt the fear around them pull back. And there, in the center of the fear, was that flash of something once again. This time, he recognized it. The aspect used that something to reach out, and reel in the fear, locking it back within himself.

“You’re not Fear!” he exclaimed, sitting up straight.

“Come again?” the aspect frowned at him, and the fear retreated a little more.

How could I be so blind? Aziraphale thought, staring at him with wide eyes. It was so clear now, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized it before. ‘You’re not Fear,” he repeated. “I felt the fear in you, so much of it I couldn’t see… I thought you had to be Crowley’s fear. But that’s not right. Fear isn’t one of Crowley’s core aspects. I know he has had cause to be very afraid, for a very long time now. But that fear has never been a part of who he is. Courage, on the other hand…”

“That’s ridiculous,” the aspect told him, laughing bitterly. “Me? Courage? That’s insane. Angel, you can feel the fear in me.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, my dear.” He reached out, and rested a hand on the aspect’s arm. “The presence of fear does not, in itself, mean the absence of courage. Courage, true courage, is to be afraid. And then to carry on, despite that fear.” At his side, the creature whirled and hummed, coming closer to peer into the mirror, which shifted to show an image of Crowley as he had been that awful day in Tadfield - dirty, bruised, and desperately afraid. But standing. Standing, and finding the courage to continue to stand against Satan himself.

The aspect scoffed. “And what moron told you that bit of rubbish?”

Aziraphale smiled, remembering one dark night in his gardener’s cottage on the Dowling estate. “You did,” he said. “It was, oh… four or five years ago now. Armageddon was getting close, and I found myself becoming unbearably frightened of what was coming. What would happen if we failed, or worse, what would happen if we succeeded? I’d gone against orders before, but never on quite that scale, and I was afraid of what Gabriel would do when he found I had directly disobeyed him. I knew what we were doing was the right thing, of course, I never really doubted that, but I was scared. I wasn’t going to say as much, but somehow you - Crowley - picked up on it anyway.”

He looked down, at his hand on the aspect’s arm, and remembered the way Crowley had leaned towards him across the small table in his cottage, reaching out, almost as if wanted to rest a hand atop Aziraphale’s. He’d stopped just short of doing it, instead placing his palm flat on the table as he looked Aziraphale in the eyes. Angel, he’d said, unusually earnest. I know you’re scared. But we can do this. I just need you to be brave for a while longer.

“He asked me to be brave, and I said I didn’t think I had it in me.”

Don’t be daft, Crowley had said. You’re the bravest person I know.

That can’t be right. You’re the brave one. I’m always afraid, Aziraphale had countered. Crowley had laughed.

And yet I’ve never once seen you ready to give up. Tell me, who is more courageous - the man who feels no fear, or the one who is terrified, but carries on anyway? Aziraphale had had no answer, so Crowley had continued. Me? The worst thing that can happen has already been done. It doesn’t take courage to disobey when you’ve already experienced the worst. You, though, you’re worried about Heaven, about those winged dicks you report to. If you make the wrong choice, upset the wrong person, you could be punished. You could Fall. And yet, you push through that fear to still do what you think is right.  He had put his hand gently on top of Aziraphale’s then, just briefly, before retreating back into his own space and leaning back in his chair. You have more courage in you than you know, angel. Trust me on that.

Aziraphale smiled at the memory, at how warm that brief touch had felt, how he’d imagined he could still feel it hours later. “He told me I had courage because I did what I thought was right, despite my fear.” Then he sighed, and shook his head. “He claimed he didn’t have fear. That the worst thing that could happen to him already has. I believed him then, but I shouldn’t have.”

“He’s always been afraid,” Courage said. “Afraid of punishment in Hell, afraid of shattering, afraid of losing you.”

“And yet,” Aziraphale told him, “you carried on. Your worst fear is of causing me to Fall. But you stayed by my side, because you know how much I need you.”

“Selfishness,” the aspect replied. “It was pure selfishness. I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving you, despite knowing what it could mean.”

Aziraphale ignored him. “You were afraid to shatter. You saw what the Fall did to the other Thrones, and you feared what it would do to you. But you didn’t give up. You held yourself together, in spite of that fear, for six thousand years.”

“Self-preservation,” Courage countered. “If I didn’t hold together, well, then what I was afraid of would happen, wouldn’t it?”

“You were afraid of what would happen, if Hell found out you were trying to thwart the apocalypse,” Aziraphale continued. “And yet, you had me help you raise Warlock to be neutral, in defiance of the will of both God and Satan, because you knew it was right.”

“Only because the outcome if I didn’t was worse,” the aspect muttered. Aziraphale chuckled.

“Yes, well. You were also afraid of losing me. Not just to a Fall, but because I couldn’t stand to be with you. And yet you still tried to ask me if I would love you. You were willing to bear your heart to me, if only for the chance of my returning your feelings. And it was only my lie that caused you to give in to that fear and turn away.”

“Your - your lie?” Courage asked, looking at him in shock.

“Yes,” the angel nodded. “My lie. I told you I could not love specifically. I said it, because I was afraid too. Terrified of losing you, because I had to go and fall in love. So I acted the coward and hid, telling you it was impossible. In doing so, I confirmed your fear, and became the cause of my own.”

“Your own?”

“My greatest fear,” Aziraphale said. “Was, and is, losing you.”

“Oh.” Courage watched his face with wide eyes.

“Yes.” The angel took his hand in his. “I will not live a life without you, my dear. Not if it is within my power to keep you at my side.”

The creature hummed, wrapping a tendril of darkness around the angel’s arm and flowing down until it covered their joined hands.

“Yeah,” Courage agreed, giving it a small grin. “You’re right. I guess I don’t need to be afraid of losing him now, do I?”

“Never,” Aziraphale swears to him. “Never ever.”

That earns him a fleeting smile, before the aspect’s face clouds again. “Still,” he says. “There is so much fear in me. How can I be what you say?”

The creature buzzed and hummed, while Aziraphale leaned forward and turned his face until he was looking the angel in the eyes. “You once told me I was the bravest person you know. I never told you that I have always thought the same was true of you. It takes more courage than I have ever had to look at your creator and ask Her ‘why’. To see the imperfection in her work, the imbalance, and demand to know why she would do it that way. It takes even more to continue on, when everything you were is ripped away and your mind is perilously close to shattering. And more still to constantly try your very best to do what you think is right, despite everyone around telling you you are wrong. Without you by my side, these past six thousand years, I doubt I would have had the courage to continue on myself. But you were always there for me when I needed you. You never let me give in to my own fear, just as you have never given in to yours.”

“Angel, I -” Courage paused, then smiled, like sun breaking through the clouds. “You’re right. We’re both here today, despite our fear.”

Aziraphale nodded, and the creature hummed in agreement. He knew Crowley would have regained his courage in time, with or without Aziraphale’s intervention here. All he needed was a little help in the right direction.

“I’ve been trying so hard to hold my memories back,” the aspect continued. “Keep them in, so I don’t remember. But that’s… that’s the wrong approach. Yes, they hold all the things I’m afraid of. But they also hold all of the reasons why I keep going anyway.” He sighed, and Aziraphale felt something change in the world around them. The creature buzzed, wrapping tighter around the angel, then hummed contentedly.

The aspect sighed again, and smiled at the angel. “I am afraid, still,” he said quietly. “I don’t know if you will succeed. If you will be able to save me. Or if the broken pieces at the heart of me will be too much for you.” He touched the large circle in the center of the mirror. “If this can even be healed, in any meaningful way. But -” he looked back up and met Aziraphale’s eyes. “I won’t let that fear rule me, or hold either of us back.”

“I will save you,” Aziraphale promised. “I won’t allow it to be otherwise.”

Courage gently squeezed his hand in his. “I believe in you.”

The mirror flashed. And Aziraphale and the creature were alone once again. And one more circle was filled on the mirror, the sigil for Courage etched into the glass as if had been there from the start.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale took a moment to simply sit in silence after Courage’s departure. The overwhelming sense of fear that had been flowing from the aspect had taken quite a lot out of him. He had never imagined that Crowley - his brave, wonderful Crowley, could have been living with that much fear inside him for so long.

“I truly was blind, wasn’t I?” Aziraphale asked the creature, which draped across his lap and hummed. “I must do better. Crowley deserves better.”

The creature reached up with a tendril of darkness and batted lightly at his cheek. When he glanced down, he saw twelve sets of eyes looking up at him in concern.

“I’m alright, dear one,” he reassured it. “Just… tired.” And he was. Very tired. He felt as if he’d been running all-out for hours - that kind of whole-body exhaustion that makes your limbs feel made of lead.

The creature hummed sympathetically. It covered his legs like a large blanket, draping over his knees to pool around him on the ground. Aziraphale frowned. He could have sworn it was smaller before, barely the size of a shawl when stretched out like this. It blinked at him from its many eyes, cool fires dancing over his skin. It felt wonderful, like a cooling mist on a hot summer day.

Aziraphale yawned. He really was exhausted. He wasn’t sure he’d have enough energy to make it to whichever aspect of Crowley lay in wait in the center. He hadn’t slept at all since a quick nap sometime around the early 1800’s, but when he made it out of here he thought rather he’d sleep for a week.

Bright light drew his eyes back down to the creature in his lap. Its flames rose, licking the air as high as the angel’s nose. They didn’t burn at all, but he was forced to look away as they grew so bright it hurt his eyes. The creature’s hum changed, rising and falling urgently with the brightness of the flames.

“What’s wrong?” Fear shot through him. What if he’d taken too long? What if this was Crowley dying? He covered his eyes with his hands, wincing and trying to look through his fingers into the searing light. And then, as abruptly as it had started, it stopped. The light seemed to… fall, washing over Aziraphale before retreating back into the creature in his lap. As it went, a strange feeling took its place - a sort of tingling, like all his molecules were shaking individually. It faded just as quickly as the light had, leaving behind a renewed well of energy.

“Did you…” the angel stared at the creature, which buzzed happily and pulled itself into a whirling ball in his lap. “Did you just share some of your energy with me?”

It buzzed, making a sort of shrugging motion. Something in its many eyes seemed smugly pleased.

“I… thank you.” He gave it a gentle scratching on a clear patch of darkness, causing it to close its eyes and hum. “I do hope Crowley won’t need that energy to return, but I am grateful.” He felt so very much better. Good enough he felt he could keep going indefinitely.

The creature whirled and rolled off his lap, forming a body that looked roughly like a many-legged wolf. It paced a few feet down the path and turned back to look at him expectantly.

“I - yes, alright. I’m coming.” He pushed himself off the ground and stretched, feeling the renewed energy flowing through his body. It truly was remarkable.

He paused when he reached the creature. The last time it had walked beside him like this, it had not quite reached his knees. Now it stood tall enough that its ‘head’ was above the middle of his thigh. “You are larger,” he observed, surprised. The creature hummed and made a sort of shrug. “Are you… getting larger because I’ve put more of Crowley back together?” When they’d started, it had been the size of a small cat. By the time he’d encountered Rage, it had been large enough he could wear it as a short cape. And now this.

The creature buzzed, bumping against his legs. However much larger it had become, it still could not speak in words he could understand. Though he had to admit it seemed more intelligent as well - a far cry from the creature made of rage and pain he had first encountered in the cell.

It whined at him, allowing a mouth to form and gently taking a part of his coat between its teeth. Capable of speech or not, it still could communicate fairly effectively when it wanted to.

“Yes, yes, I know. Let’s keep going.” Aziraphale followed the creature down the path.

The first sign of the next aspect was the singing. Too low to make out words, it rose and fell in a beautiful melody Aziraphale had not heard before. The voice was unmistakably Crowley’s. Aziraphale crept nearer, loath to startle the aspect and interrupt his singing. He’d always known Crowley could sing - he’d been a starsmith, after all, and the language of creation was song. But he’d never heard him do so. He’d asked why, once, and gotten a blank stare and a shrug. He’d known better than to push further then, not with the slightly manic look in his friend’s eyes. Now, though, his voice rang through Eden, sure and strong, getting louder the closer he came to the singer. At his side, the aspect vibrated in time with the melody, its lower buzz providing a gentle harmony.

Eventually, Aziraphale made it through to a new clearing beside a deep pool in the stream. Unlike Pride’s carefully crafted garden, this clearing was left wild and untamed. The new aspect sat in the center on a fallen tree, his back to the path. His hair was long, as it had been in Mesopotamia, with gold dust glittering in the deep scarlet locks. This close, Aziraphale could finally make out the words of his song - ancient, powerful words. Enochian - the language of angels. Words he recognized, though he himself had never taken part in the singing. The song of creation.

“Oh!” he gasped as he recognized it. At the sound, the song stopped and the aspect turned to face him.

“Aziraphale!” the aspect cried, that familiar face lighting with pleased recognition for the first time in far too long.

“You remember me?” The question slipped out before he could stop it. He’d become used to the aspects not truly recognizing him, enough so that he had started to wonder if Crowley would remember him when all of this was over. But the aspect nodded, beckoning him closer.

“Yeah, angel” he said, gesturing to a stump next to his log for the angel to sit. “Once Courage released our memories, we - well, all of us that are left now - remembered you.”

“And what aspect are you?” he asked, taking the offered seat. He knew not all the aspects themselves knew what they were at first, but it was worth a try.

The aspect laughed. “Of course you’d ask. I’m Creation. Or, I suppose you could say Imagination, or Creativity.”

“Really?” Aziraphale asked in surprise. He’d known Crowley had a strong imagination, but he hadn’t expected it to be an actual aspect here.

“Yup.” Creation nodded, using his left hand to prod something he held in the right. “Or, at least I’m what’s left of your Crowley’s Creation.” Flames sparked under his fingers, flaring brightly.

Aziraphale leaned closer, looking to see a golden ball of light in his right hand. The flames he added whirled around the light rather like the creature, turning from dark orange to sunny yellow-gold.

“What are you doing?”

The aspect adjusted his hands, giving Aziraphale a clearer look at what was inside them. “I’m making a star,” he explained. “It was… it was what I used to do. My job in Heaven. I oversaw the creation of the stars.”

Aziraphale had known that, of course, but he had known it academically, like you know whales are large but don’t truly realize what that means until you’re right next to one. “You did say you’d built the stars,” he said. “I hadn’t realized…” Creation was pulling power from somewhere deep inside him, turning celestial and infernal energy alike into the gasses and plasma that formed a star.

“This will be the last star I ever make,” Creation said sadly, deft fingers twirling around the golden fire.

“What?” Aziraphale asked, watching the flames, entranced. “Why?”

“When I Fell, I lost my connection to the heart of Creation.” He kept his eyes on the fire in his hands, carefully avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes. “This last bit of star-stuff was hidden deep in my soul. It took this shattering for me to be able to draw it out, and shape it into something real.”

“And once it’s gone… there’s no way for you to get more?” the angel wanted to know.

Creation shook his head. “None. The connection is burned shut. I will never create again.” The creature hummed sadly at his words, winding itself, snakelike, between the two of them.

“That’s not true!” Aziraphale’s voice was firm. “Not at all. You create beautiful gardens! And some of the most exquisite plants. I know you didn’t want me to know about them, so I never brought it up, but truly, your plants outshine many even here in Eden.”

The aspect gave him a dry chuckle. “Plants aren’t the same, angel. I can’t sing them into being, or hang them in the sky.”

“No…” he admitted slowly. “But… that doesn’t make them any less important. The stars are beautiful, but they aren’t all there is of beauty in the world. Would you say painter has any more or less value than a sculptor or an architect?”

Creation blinked, then frowned. “No, of course not.”

“Then why would growing plants be less an act of creation than forming a star?”

Fire flared and swirled around the aspect’s fingers as he considered Aziraphale’s words. “I… huh. I guess I never thought about it like that.”

“Then perhaps you should,” Aziraphale said. “Just because you lost the ability to create the stars does not mean you lost all ability to create. You still have that creativity - that imagination - in you, your presence here as an aspect of Crowley’s soul proves that much.”

“I got lucky,” the aspect said quietly. “I must be the only demon in the world that retained my imagination when I Fell.”

Aziraphale shuddered, imagining more demons who were as creative as his Crowley. “Very lucky, and luckier still it was you and not someone else. Can you imagine the damage if someone like Hastur started getting creative?”

Creation laughed. “That toad hasn’t had an imaginative thought a day in his life. If we ever need a sign that it’s truly the end of the world, it’d be Hastur having an original idea.”

“Well,” Aziraphale laughed with him. “Let’s hope that never happens then. I’ve had more than enough of the end of the world for now.”

“Yeah. I’m glad that’s over now.” The aspect twirled a pinch of fire around the ball of light in his hand, drawing it up and over his fingers, letting the flames dance across his palms, seemingly lost in thought. “I… yeah.”

“We’re safe now, dear boy,” the angel reminded him. “It is over. And whatever comes next won’t happen for a very long time. We have a chance to be ourselves now, without having to answer to either side. You have all the time in the world to find something else you love to create, if your plants aren’t enough. You were quite good at sword-smithing, that time you posed as one to come pester me when I was acting as a knight for the king. And I seem to remember you as an excellent jeweler, those years you had that little shop. You told me it was a project to tempt people into buying things they couldn’t afford and coveting things that weren’t theirs, but I think you did it because you like the art itself.”

The aspect snorted. “You sound just like Leonardo. He kept saying “Antonio, you have the soul of an artist”, all the while shoving a canvas at me and asking me to paint this or draw that. Or worse - trying to get me to sing!”

Aziraphale smiled, recalling days spent in the artist’s workshop, watching Crowley and Leonardo try to outdo each other. In truth, he had been a little jealous of the easy friendship that had grown between the two men - the bond formed by their shared love of art and the act of creation. “He was right,” he said. “You do have the soul of an artist.” Then he frowned, thinking about the rest of his words. “But why don’t you sing? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you.”

Creation shrugged. “’S not the same. I don’t… I used to be able to harmonize with myself. A thousand different voices. Now it’s just one. It sounds… wrong.”

“Oh, but, you still have a lovely voice,” Aziraphale told him. “I would love to hear more of it.”

The aspect shook his head. “I only ever sang when I was creating the stars. There won’t be any reason to after this.”

“Not even because you like music?” the angel wanted to know. “I know I’d like it, if you’d sing for me.”

Creation blinked, hands pausing for a second before continuing to mold the star. “I don’t know, angel. It still sounds weird to me.”

“I could sing with you,” Aziraphale offered. “I’m not very good, really, but I do enjoy it. If having a second voice would help, I’d be happy to.”

The aspect looked up at him, surprised. “You would?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Of course.”

That earned him a small smile. “Then maybe I will.” He turned back to the star. And then his face fell. “Or maybe not. It doesn’t look like there’s enough of Creation left in me, after all.” He held up the dimly glowing ball of light, which, without the external fire framing it, barely lit his palm. “I don’t have enough material to finish. It won’t even make a halfway decent gas planet like this.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale hated to see that look on his face. “What do you need?”

“Metal,” Creation answered. “It fuels the process, so I can draw out the elements I need. I thought… I’d had my connection to creation open when I Fell. It got cut off like everything else, but I thought perhaps I’d stored enough to finish this last star, but clearly I was wrong.”

The creature buzzed, a low, defeated sort of hum at their feet. Aziraphale frowned, trying to think of what he could do to help. “Oh!” His pocket watch was gold-plated, but made of several different types of metal inside. He pulled it from his vest pocket and offered it up to the aspect. “Would this help?”

Creation shook his head, gently folding Aziraphale’s fingers back over the watch and pushing his hand away. “Thanks, angel, but it has to be celestial, or at least imbued with divine or infernal power.”

“Ah…” he sighed, slipping the watch back into his pocket. Out of habit, his fingers found his ring and began rolling it around in his hand. “Oh!” he said again, with more excitement. “What about this?” He drew out the ring and offered it. “It’s divine gold, forged with ethereal light.”

The aspect considered it, a strange look on his face. “Angel…” then he shook his head. “No, it still wouldn’t be quite enough.”

The creature whined, extending a dark tendril to pat at Aziraphale’s pants pocket. It buzzed and hummed when they both looked at it, pointing insistently.

“What is it?” Aziraphale frowned, putting the mirror down to pat both of his pockets. “There’s nothing in there. Just… oh.” He felt something there, a hard, round object. Mischief’s coin. “You’re right, thank you dear!” Taking it out, he could see it wasn’t much larger than his ring. But perhaps both together? He placed it in his palm next to the ring.

“It’s infernal metal, I’m afraid, but it has the same feeling of power. Would both of these be enough?”

Creation stared at him, still wearing that strange look on his face. “Angel,” he said slowly. “I… I can’t take this.”

“Would it be enough?” Aziraphale asked again. The ring was his connection to Heaven, his symbol of divine favor, but he’d turned his back on Heaven, hadn’t he? Heaven had failed to live up to his expectations of it. Had failed the world, and had failed him. He’d continued to wear the ring these past few months out of habit rather than any real loyalty to the entity it represented. He rather thought God would understand if he chose to give it away, especially if doing so would help his friend.

“I… yes, I think it would.”

“Then take it.” Aziraphale took Creation’s free hand and dropped both the ring and the coin into it. When the aspect continued to hesitate, he folded his fingers over the items and stepped away. “I’m not on their side any longer, remember? It’s us - you and I, on our own side.”

“You still follow God though, this is as much Her symbol as Heaven’s,” Creation protested.

Aziraphale shook his head. “I don’t need their symbol to prove my belief in Her. I do God’s work because I believe it is right, not because a bunch of stuck up archangels gave me a golden ring. Just as you cause mischief, not because you were ordered to by Satan, but because chaos is a critical factor in self-determination.”

Creation shook his head, offering the ring back to Aziraphale. “Still, it’s important to you. I can’t take it just because I want to build a star.”

The angel raised his empty hands, palm out, and took another step back. “It’s mine to do what I wish with. And what I want is for you to use it in your last star.”

“I…” Creation looked about to argue further, then saw the determined look on Aziraphale’s face. “Alright.” He looked the angel in the eye, expression doing more to convey his gratitude than his words ever could. “Angel, thank you.”

“Anything of mine is yours, my dear,” Aziraphale told him gently, returning to his place at his side. “I mean that. Whatever you need, you have only to ask.”

“Thank you,” the aspect said again. “I… it’s the same for me. I hope you know that. Anything you need.”

“I know,” Aziraphale leaned against his side briefly, allowing the brief touch to comfort them both. “We’re on our own side now.”

“Yeah.”

Creation called flames into his palm, heating them until the metal of the ring and the coin melted and pooled together in his hand. Like this, it was indistinguishable which was ethereal and which was infernal - it was all the same cherry-red.

“My body can’t handle this temperature any more, out there in the real world,” Creation told him, feeding the metal slowly into the ball of light that would become his star. “But in here, it’s still a matter of willpower over physical limits. I’m not going to burn up, because my will is strong enough to keep it from happening. I couldn’t have done this just a few hours ago, before you returned Courage and Rage and Pride.” He gave Aziraphale a brief smile. “All of us aspects interact together, melting to form the whole, just like these two types of metal can melt together to form one bright star. Courage and Pride influence willpower. Rage gives it strength. Compassion gives it stability. I take that willpower, and with Curiosity, turn it into imagination. Imagination, that lets me create…. This.”

He held up a brightly burning orb of light. The difference, with just that little bit of metal, was remarkable. It shone in his hands like a miniature sun hanging an inch or two above his fingers, spinning under its own power.

“This is the last star I’ll ever make. And it only exists because of you.”

“Oh, Crowley, it’s beautiful.” Aziraphale stared at it, entranced by the shifting fires that burned across its surface. “Truly, I don’t think I’ve seen one more magnificent.” The divine and infernal metals had been used to fuel Crowley’s power as he gathered helium and hydrogen and set it alight, forming the ball of plasma that now warmed the air around his hand. When hung in the sky, that tiny sphere would grow, expanding until it encompassed a space even larger than the sun. Red and orange fire danced within the light, rising and falling in waves.

“It is, isn’t it?” Creation said, a bit of pride creeping into his voice. “And you know what? I know the perfect place for it.” He closed his hands over the new star. It flared bright inside them, until his hands began to glow as well. Aziraphale could see the bones inside them, illuminated from behind by the light. A brighter flare caused him to cringe, looking away. And then it faded. He blinked the spots from his eyes, watching the glow in Creation’s hands begin to dim, returning first to the glow of the star, then fading further, and further, until no light escaped from between his palms.

“There.” He grinned, and opened his hands. In place of the star, he held two shining silver rings. An intricate design of overlapping feathers made up the bands, meeting at a string of metal coiled like a snake in a halo around the head of the ring. In the center, where there should have been a stone, there was the star. Condensed even further and split in two - one for each ring, each star was about the size of Aziraphale’s smallest fingernail and as bright as the light of Sirius as seen from Earth, burning within a coating of the clearest crystal.

“It never would have made it into the sky. They don’t let just anyone hang stars anymore,” Creation said as the angel stared in awe at the beautiful rings. “But I thought, since you gave up your ring, it might be nice to have a replacement. A symbol of our side.”

“A symbol of our own side,” Aziraphale repeated. “Yes, I think it’s an excellent idea.” At his side, the creature hummed happily.

“Here,” Creation took his hand, and then, first looking to him for permission, slid one of the rings onto his right ring finger. The metal was cool to the touch, but warmed quickly to the temperature of his hand. “How does it feel?”

“It feels wonderful,” Aziraphale twisted the ring around his finger and found it slid easily, though not so easily he worried it would fall off. The band was just the right width for his fingers, not too wide and not too narrow. It looked as if it had been made for his hand, which, he realized, it had been.

“Good.” Creation looked at his own ring, sliding it on and off his fingers. “I didn’t do too bad, huh?”

Aziraphale laughed, caressing his ring. “You did beautifully.” The part of him that loved indulgent things luxuriated in the feeling of it on his finger. He had owned many beautiful things over the years, but this, here, was better than all of them. Because Crowley - even if only a piece of Crowley - had made it. And he had made it for him. His old ring had been mass-produced. The same ring, given to every single Principality. It hadn’t ever fit exactly right, always just a tad bit too small, forcing him to wear it on his smallest finger instead of the ring finger where it truly belonged. This one though, this one fit snugly against his palm on his ring finger, loose enough not to constrict but not so loose it might come off. Examining it, it looked as though his hand had always been meant to wear it.

“Well,” Creation shrugged, trying not to look too pleased at the praise. “It does look better on your hand than anywhere else I could have put it.”

Aziraphale frowned at him, sensing the hurt that still festered deep inside him at the loss of his ability to craft the stars. “You know, dear,” he said gently, “you truly do have talent as a jeweler, if you don’t wish to keep up with your plants. You could open a shop in that little space next to mine, just like you did in the 1700’s. I know it’s not stars, but there’s always gemstones.  Though, I must say, I think your plants, and the gardens you create, feel more… you. And you do work wonders with them. What you did in Babylon is still talked about - the humans call it a wonder of the ancient world. Just because you cannot create stars any more, it does not mean you are any less an artist. You still have the ability to create other things.”

Creation sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I know. But it… it still hurts. Like I lost part of myself.”

The angel nodded. “You did, in a way. You lost something that was very important to you. And you can’t ever get it back. But that doesn’t mean you lost everything. You’re still you, you still have that creativity you used to build the stars. It’s like a painter who has lost his sight. He can no longer create in the way he was accustomed to, and he’ll always have lost that piece of himself. But he can find new ways to create. Sculpture, perhaps, or song - methods that do not require the sight that he lost. Do you see? He can still make things of worth, he just has to find a different path than he had before.”

“That’s well and good, but painting isn’t anything like building a star,” Creation countered. “It’s not - angel, I held the very forces of Creation in my hands and channeled them through my very soul. You can’t imagine the feeling. It was like - like being one with the universe, and the universe is one with you. I can’t explain better than that. It was… I could see everything, hear everything, from the individual beat of a hummingbird’s wings to the roaring of the interstellar winds. And I knew I could shape that however I wanted. The whole of creation, and that force was mine to command. Plants and jewelry… they just can’t compare.”

“And so, too, would the blind painter speak of his work. Blending light and color, a line here, a touch there, and whole worlds came to life under his fingers. The experience is gone, but your memory of it remains. They can’t ever take that away from you. And while you won’t ever find a way to feel that same way you did when forging a star, you can find new sensations that are just as fulfilling. Or are you going to tell me you don’t get lost in it just the same when you work in your gardens?”

“I…” Creation hesitated, thinking.

Aziraphale pressed on. “If it was the feeling of power you wanted, you could have had that a thousand different ways over the years. You’re a demon, you are vastly more powerful than the humans around us. But if that were the case, you would have taken a different path on Earth, using your power over the humans just because you could. No,” he shook his head. “I know you. It wasn’t the power of it that you loved - it was being able to lose yourself so deeply in the act of creating that you forgot everything around you. The ability to focus on just that, and nothing else, and watch the results of your labor take shape before your eyes.”

The aspect turned away. “Maybe so. But nothing I’ve done since has let me just lose myself in the art of it. I don’t think it’s possible anymore.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale closed his eyes, realizing what must have kept Crowley from immersing himself in his plants the same way he had with the stars. “And when,” he asked carefully, “was the last time you felt safe enough to ignore your surroundings completely?”

Creation turned back to him, surprised. “Oh.”

“My dear boy, you even sleep with one eye cracked, just in case something sneaks up on you. I imagine you’re afraid to lose yourself in anything, for fear someone will attack just as you let your guard down.”

The aspect shrugged. “Maybe, but that doesn’t get us anywhere. There’s always going to be danger around, especially now that we’ve cut ourselves off from our respective sides. Any one of them could decide to attack, at any time.”

Aziraphale took his hands in his, feeling a soft clink when their rings touched . “Dear one,” he said, looking into Creation’s bright golden eyes. “I am a Principality. It is my entire purpose to guide and protect. Allow me the honor of protecting you now. I will gladly keep watch while you work. Perhaps we can find a little place in the country - a nice cottage with a large garden you can transform. Someplace that belongs only to us. We can shield it with our power so no one else can come uninvited, and I will be there to protect you, just as you will watch over me. Then, you can finally give yourself over to the act of creation once again. We’ll see if you can find that same sense of satisfaction from your plants. And if not, well, there’s a whole world of art forms we can try. And we have nothing but time. We can find the thing that fulfills you like creating stars once did. It won’t ever be the same - how could it? But I think we can find something just as good.”

“I… you…” to his surprise, tears welled up in Creation’s eyes, though he did his best not to let them fall. “You’d do that?”

“Of course,” He squeezed Creation’s hands in his. “It might not work right away, but I’m willing to try if you are.”

“That’s… I mean… thank you, angel.” Creation sniffed, relieved tears spilling over and trickling down his cheeks.

“Are you?” Aziraphale asked him. “Are you willing to try?”

“I - yes,” Creation nodded, freeing a hand to wipe at his wet eyes. “Satan, yes. Of course.”

Unnoticed by either of them, the creature wrapped its tendrils around the mirror Aziraphale had absently set down and peered into its depths. The clear glass produced an image not of many eyes and flames, but of Crowley, sitting peacefully in his flat, carefully re-potting a plant. The creature touched the glass with a thin strand of darkness, and the image rippled. When it steadied the Crowley in the picture wore a silver ring on his left hand, and just on the edge of the frame an image of Aziraphale watched over him as he worked.

Aziraphale released Creation’s hand, pulling out his own handkerchief to gently wipe away the aspect’s tears. “I may not be able to give you back the stars,” he said. “But I can and will help you to find other ways to have that experience of creation.”

“Thank you.” Creation smiled through his tears. “You’ve given me hope, at least. Where I had none before.” He chuckled then, reaching down and picking up the mirror that the creature offered him. “You’re quite the artist yourself,” he said, brushing a hand over his own empty circle. “Repairing the damage to my soul like this. You’re not erasing the cracks - there isn’t anything that could. But you’re filling them in. It’s like… have you heard of Kintsugi? Repairing broken things with gold?” From his fingers, gold flowed, filling in the circles and sigils for Curiosity, then Compassion, Rage, Mischief, Pride, and finally Courage. He paused at the empty circle beside Mischief, filling in the ring but stopping short of drawing his own sign. “You don’t erase the damage, but you change it, make it into something else - something that binds the broken pieces back into the whole.”

The angel shook his head. “No, I’m only helping you along. You’re doing the healing yourself.”

Creation chuckled. “Well, let’s just call it a 50/50 job then. It’s still more than I ever hoped for.”

“I won’t lose you,” Aziraphale told him seriously. “Not if it’s in my power to bring you back.”

“Then I guess it’s time for me to go back to the whole.” Creation handed Aziraphale the mirror. “Let you get on to the last two pieces.” He hesitated, then pulled his ring from his finger. “Could you keep this for me, for now? I have no idea if it can survive the reconstruction, and I really like it.”

Aziraphale accepted it, placing it carefully into his vest pocket next to his watch. “Of course. I’ll give it back once you’re whole again.”

Creation gave him another gentle, relieved smile. “Thanks, angel. I owe you one.”

“You owe me rather a lot more than one,” Aziraphale told him with a grin. “But, as I believe I owe you roughly the same amount, I’d say we can call it even.”

The aspect laughed. And then he disappeared in a blast of starlight, leaving behind the sigil of Creation etched in gold on the mirror’s surface. Only two circles remained - one in the lower right-hand corner, and the largest circle in the center of the glass. At Aziraphale’s side, the creature hummed and whirled, a ball of darkness and fire that slowly grew just a bit more as the light faded away.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale sighed as the last of the light faded from the mirror, and turned to the creature. “Just two more left,” he observed. “Curiosity, Compassion, Rage, Mischief, Pride, Courage, and Creation… I wonder what is left?”

The creature hummed and whirled happily, rings of darkness interlocking and turning together like an impossibly complex gyroscope.

“I don’t suppose you could give me any hints, could you?” he asked it. “I must admit, I’m rather worried about whichever aspect is represented by the large circle in the center. Several of your other aspects have mentioned him now, with varying degrees of warning, and I wouldn’t mind at least a little more information.”

The creature buzzed and expanded, rising higher than his head with rings widening and fire flaring as  dozens of eyes opened all over its body. It held that form for several seconds, before collapsing back down to the waist-high demonic gyroscope and humming.

“That…” Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of it. “I suppose that was you giving me a hint. I’m not sure I understand, but thank you.”

In reply, it simply hummed and rolled away down the path, stopping just before it vanished into the trees to turn and wait for the angel to catch up.

They were very close to the center of Eden now. Aziraphale remembered this area well. He had spent many, many hours walking these paths, guarding the Tree from the infernal influences of Hell. He hadn’t ever imagined he would see it again, but as he followed the creature further into the jungle he became more and more certain that that was exactly where they were going. Eventually the creature fell back to roll along at his side, buzzing and humming comfortingly as they walked.

Finally, when he was starting to wonder if they were going in circles, the path let out into a large clearing. It was, as it had ever been, the most beautiful part of the garden. A meadow of wildflowers stretched out before him, while the stream that wound beside the path formed a series of natural pools before disappearing underground. And in the center, there it was. The Tree of Knowledge. Exactly as he remembered it, lush and green, branches dripping with bright red apples.

Aziraphale stepped over a place where the stream crossed the path, entering the clearing, and suddenly there it was. That warm and welcoming presence that had always and ever spelled comfort, and safety, and  home. The presence that had vanished so abruptly, the moment Crowley’s soul had shattered into pieces. Its return was the most wonderful feeling in the world. Like stepping into a warm shower, it flowed over him, warming and calming him, as it always had before. Only this time, this time, he knew what it meant. Feeling it anew like this, he saw what he never had before. Perhaps it was because it had come upon him gradually, that first few hundred years. Or perhaps it was because he had become so used to it, before he realized what love of the specific kind really was. But that was exactly what it was. Love. Very, very specific love. Crowley’s love. For Aziraphale.

“Oh, my dear,” he said softly, closing his eyes against the overwhelming mix of joy and sorrow. Joy, because Crowley loved him. Sorrow, because he had been so very, very blind to it, and had caused his demon immeasurable pain.

The creature hummed, rubbing up against him like a large cat. Then it rolled away, leading him around the clearing, following the path of the stream until the place where they had entered was completely hidden by the branches of the Tree. And there, at its base stood Crowley, or at least, one of the two remaining aspects of him. He had his back to the path, charcoal wings spread wide as he stared up into the foliage.

“You can’t stay up there forever,” the aspect said, addressing someone or something that Aziraphale could not see. Something shifted in the branches, retreating deeper into the leaves.

“Fine then,” the aspect told it. “Ignore me. You’re just making all of this worse on yourself.” When nothing replied he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Bloody bastard,” he muttered, turning to walk away.  Aziraphale stared, strongly reminded of that moment, decades ago, when he’d finally allowed himself to put a name to the emotions he’d been feeling for centuries. This was Crowley, exactly as he had been that night in 1941 when he’d walked into a church to save Aziraphale from himself. Or, well, almost. He wasn’t wearing the hat at all, and none of the aspects had been wearing Crowley’s usual glasses. Something else was different too, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

At his side, the creature emitted a happy hum and surged forward to meet the aspect, rolling up his legs and winding around him like a snake. Aziraphale tried not to feel jealous - he had rather gotten used to having the creature close by, if not on him than at least up against his side.

“Woah, hey there!” the aspect laughed, startled, looking down at the way the creature encircled his body. “There you are! I had wondered where you had gotten to. I could have used your help with Itself over there.”

The creature buzzed, extending a tendril towards Aziraphale. The aspect’s eyes found the angel. And then his whole face lit up in a brilliant smile.

“Angel! Aziraphale!” he cried, and there was another relief. Creation remembering him had eased much of his worry, but two aspects remembering him now was proof. Crowley had not forgotten him.

“Hello, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, smiling in return. It was hard not to, when the aspect was looking at him like he was the most wonderful thing in all existence.

The aspect came to a halt just a few steps away - close enough Aziraphale could reach out and touch. “You came,” he said, a look of wonder in his eyes.

“Of course I did,” the angel told him. “You’re far too important to me.”

The aspect’s smile changed, turning into something softer and far more intimate. “Thank you. Really, Angel. I owe you, well, everything.”

“Just come out of this alive, and I’ll call it even,” Aziraphale said.

The aspect laughed. “I’ll try my best. That you’ve made it this far bodes well, at least.” Then his expression turned serious. “But I know how hard it must have been to reach me, here in the center. You’ve healed so many broken pieces of me already, and it can’t have been anything like easy. How are you doing?”

“Me?” Aziraphale looked up, thrown off by the question. “I - I’m fine, dear boy. You’re the one we should be worried about.”

The aspect rested his hands on his hips, his gaze sweeping over Aziraphale from head to toe. “Uh-huh. And how is he really?” He asked, turning to the creature. It buzzed and hummed, gesturing wildly with a few tendrils. The aspect inclined his head to it, listening seriously.

“Mm. Uh-huh. I thought as much.” He shook his head, turning back to Aziraphale. “You haven’t taken any time to care for yourself since I shattered, have you?”

“Well - well, there wasn’t time!” Aziraphale protested. “I didn’t know how long I had to save you.”

“There’s time now,” the aspect said firmly, snapping his fingers until a replica of the chair and couch in Aziraphale’s bookshop appeared there on the grass. “I’m in no danger of breaking further, and the big guy can’t do any more damage while we wait.” He dropped down onto the couch, exactly as Crowley always did - long limbs sprawled at impossible angles. The creature hissed in annoyance and dropped away from him, collapsing into its gyroscope form of whirling darkness and spinning beside the empty chair.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh, which earned him an indignant glare from the creature.

“I’m sorry, dear,” he told it. “I don’t mean to laugh at you.”

The aspect chuckled. “It does act like an offended cat at times, doesn’t it?”

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked him, remembering Pride’s words. “Pride told me it wasn’t a part of Crowley until after he Fell.”

The aspect looked down. “I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t?” The angel wanted to know. “Or won’t?”

“Can’t.” The aspect glared at the Tree behind them. “That one won’t permit it.” He scowled, a hint of a growl in his voice. “It’s probably the only part of me that really frightens it. But it still has enough power over me to lock my words.” Then he shook his head, and turned that glare on Aziraphale. “But we’re going to talk about you now, Angel. You don’t get out of this conversation that easily.”

“I…” Aziraphale knew that look. It was the one that said Crowley was determined and would not give up until he got what he wanted. He sighed and took the empty chair, placing the mirror carefully on a little table that had appeared conveniently next to it. “Alright, my dear.”

“Did Beelzebub give you my letter?” the aspect asked, once he was seated. “I asked them to do it right away, but you never know with the Princes. They like to do things in their own time.”

“They did,” Aziraphale confirmed, swallowing back the pain that rose in him at the mention of that final goodbye. “I… when I felt what happened, I tried to find you. They were still in your flat when I arrived.”

“Ah.” The aspect nodded. “Good. That’s good. Though I’m sorry you felt that. I did my best to contain it, once I knew what was happening, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold it all back. You didn’t go into my room, did you?”

Aziraphale nodded sheepishly. “I did, right after I read the letter. I think I was half hoping you’d come yell at me for trying it.”

The aspect’s face drained of color. “What? You - I know what the residue of a shattered demon feels like. Any sane creature should have been stuck in that pit of misery for days before it dissipated. How in Hell’s name did you get out of that?”

The angel shrugged. “It was uncomfortable, sure. But it wasn’t that much worse than, well, some of the things I think about myself. It’s not correct, of course. I know that much. But I’m used to reminding myself of that. It just took a little more effort to get out of your room, that’s all.”

“Angel…” The aspect stood, expression betraying great distress.

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale told him. “Truly, my dear. I’m fine.”

“May I?” the aspect asked, extending a hand. Unsure of what he wanted, nevertheless Aziraphale nodded, trusting him implicitly. The aspect sat carefully on the arm of the chair, reaching out with both hands to cradle Aziraphale’s face. Then he leaned in, until his forehead pressed against the angel’s. He inhaled, and Aziraphale felt himself breathe with him, inhaling on his next exhale, exhaling on his next inhale. Deep, steady breaths. The creature thrummed, the rhythmic sound filling the air. Aziraphale could feel him there, that warm, beloved presence, brushing against his mind and examining his soul.

“Oh, Angel,” he  whispered, horrified by whatever it was he saw. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s alright, dear boy,” Aziraphale tried to reassure him. “It’s not so terrible. I’m still in one piece after all.”

“Are you?” the aspect asked, face tight with anguish. He winced, his fingers gripping at Aziraphale’s hair, but he did not pull away. “So many tiny cracks. Little bits of pain, chipping away at your foundation.” He took a deep breath, and Aziraphale felt something shift in the connection between them as he tried to move in closer to examine the cracks on his soul.

His hands moved, one sliding through his hair to cradle the back of his head. The other, gently tracing invisible lines down the side of his face. Aziraphale held his breath, both needing to hear what he was going to say, and dreading it.

“Anxiety. You worry that you aren’t good enough for Heaven, even though they are the ones that aren’t good enough for you. Anger. At God, who continues to let bad things happen while working towards some unknowable plan.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes tight against the pain of having his own insecurities spoken aloud. This aspect of Crowley was looking into his heart, and finding everything wrong with it.

 “You’re afraid your faith is crumbling. And guilty that it isn’t, after everything that happened at Armageddon. But your faith is in God, not in Heaven, and those are two very different things.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said quietly. “But for so long, I thought they were one and the same.”

“I know you did.” The aspect’s voice was gentle, careful in a way Crowley only allowed himself to be on rare occasions. Usually, occasions that involved comforting Aziraphale. “You want Heaven to be better than it is. And it hurts you, to know that it isn’t. That it won’t even try.”

How did I miss this? Aziraphale wondered again, reveling in the feel of Crowley’s callused fingers on his skin. How had it taken him so long to see what had always been right there in front of his face?

“Guilt,” the aspect said, tracing now a line down Aziraphale’s throat. “For the greed you feel when presented with a rare book. For enjoying food and wine, and all the delights Earth has to offer.”

The words brought up another wave of pain. “It really isn’t angelic of me,” Aziraphale whispered, ashamed.

“Bullshit,” the aspect told him firmly. “You are how God made you. Depriving yourself of the things that bring you joy won’t make you any more or less angelic. It’s all in your actions. What you do for people. And you’re a far sight more of an angel in that than any of those jerks upstairs.”

His breath hitched, his hand pausing on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “So much fear,” he murmured. “All wound up tight inside of you, hacking away at your mind."

“I manage well enough,” Aziraphale said, bringing up his hands to cradle the aspect’s face and gently smoothing his thumb over the harsh lines at the corners of his eyes. “And I’ve always had you. When my anxiety starts to get the best of me, somehow you’re always there, and without even meaning to, you make everything so much better.” However much pain he was in, Crowley had always been there, getting him out of his own head, dragging him out into the world, and reminding him day after day that he was more than his own insecurities.

He opened his eyes. This close, it was like staring into pools of molten gold. “These cracks are so thin they’re almost nonexistent. If I wasn’t looking for them, I’d never have seen them. You’ve done an amazing job holding yourself together - far better than I ever did. But it means there’s no gap big enough for me to get in and do what you’re doing for me now. I can’t enter the core of you, to heal you from the inside out.”

“That’s alright, my dear,” Aziraphale hastened to reassure him. “I’ll just have to go about it the long way. I don’t mind.” It would be better now, in any case. Now that he knew he didn’t need to shatter his own heart, again and again each time he wished Crowley would love him.

The aspect leaned back, looking deep into his eyes. “We, Angel. Don’t think I’ll just sit there and ignore this. You’ll have me to help, for as long as you want me.”

“Always,” Aziraphale said, almost overwhelmed by the depth of the emotion he could see in those sunlight eyes.

The aspect shifted, dropping his arm until he could press his warm palm over Aziraphale’s heart. “Here,” he said, voice shaking. “This is the worst of it. Heartbreak.” There was a tremor in his voice, and an echoing flare of pain in Aziraphale’s mind. He could remember the feeling of his own heart shattering, again and again. Every time he reminded himself Crowley couldn’t love him. How much damage had his willful blindness done to the both of them, over the years?

“Over and over again,” the aspect’s fingers traced lines over the fabric of his shirt. “The same cracks expanding out and healing over - but not all the way. Just enough that each time it happens, they extend out just a little bit farther. Oh, Angel-”

“It’s alright, my dear.” Aziraphale covered the aspect’s trembling hand with his own. “I’m here. I’m not in any danger of shattering.” The pain he felt was only a phantom, easily banished in the overwhelming sense of warmth and comfort emanating from the aspect before him.

The aspect shook his head. “It isn’t alright. This is my fault. If I’d realized… if I knew what being around me was doing to you, I would have…” he trailed off, unwilling, perhaps, to voice just what he would have done.

“You would have left?” Aziraphale asked, and the aspect cringed. “I would not have allowed any such thing,” he said firmly, grip tightening over the aspect’s hand. “If you had disappeared on me, I would have sought you out.” He would have. He couldn’t imagine not having Crowley in his life, even when it hurt him to be so close and not be able to touch.

“But you- I can feel it. The cracks in your heart. It must have been agony for you. Again and again, for all those years.”

“It was my own choice,” the angel told him. “My own decision. The pain I felt, believing you did not feel the same love I feel for you was - and will always be - preferable to not having you in my life. And, besides,” he gently caressed the aspect’s cheek, smiling softly at the look of wonder in his eyes. “I know better now.”

“You - you do?”

Aziraphale nodded. “I felt your own heartbreak, my dear. I could feel it in my shop, where I’d lied to you out of my own cowardice and fear. And again when I found the creature you became, locked in that dark cell.” Then he smiled, pressing down on the hand over his heart, sure the aspect could feel the steady, rhythmic beat. “But that’s not all I could feel. It must have come on so gradually I didn’t notice it, not until it was gone. But your love is around me all the time. Comforting, warm, safe.” He could feel it in his blood and in his bones. Where once there had been doubt and pain, now there was only certainty. The return of that warm presence, here at the heart of Crowley’s core, just confirmed what he’d already realized.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” he asked. “You’re the aspect of Love.”

“I - yes. I am. How…?”

“How did I know?” Aziraphale asked. The aspect nodded. “Because I felt Crowley’s love evaporate from around me, the moment he shattered. I only started to feel it again when I came to you.”

“Angel,” Love whispered, with far too much emotion contained within the quiet sound.

The angel smiled for him. “I think you know, don’t you? How much I love you?”

“Yes, I think I do.” Love’s eyes flicked to his lips, then back up to meet his gaze. “I won’t-” he stopped, swallowed, then started again. “I won’t break your heart again, Angel. I swear it.”

“I believe you.” He was so close. It would take only a small shift of his head, and he could kiss him. He’d never wanted anything more.

“Wait,” the aspect’s hand pressed back on his chest, a gentle warning.

“Why?” He sounded petulant, annoyed at being denied something he knew they both wanted.

“Because,” the aspect explained gently. “I want my - Crowley’s - first kiss to be when he’s whole. Not just one shard of a demon. I think we both deserve that much.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale pouted. He wasn’t proud of it, but he did. “I… understand.” He did. He wanted his first kiss with Crowley to be when he was whole too. But it was hard, with the aspect right there, looking and feeling so much like the real thing.

“Wait.” His mind caught on Love’s words. “His first kiss?”

Love laughed. “Well, yeah. It’s only ever been you, Angel. I never really saw a point to it, if it wasn’t you.”

“Oh, but…” Aziraphale sat back, stunned at the implications. “But… six thousand years?” He’d had lovers before - brief encounters with humans he had grown particularly fond of over the years. He’d always just assumed Crowley had too.

The aspect shrugged. “It took a while, for me to grow strong enough to want it,” he said. “And by then, I knew there was only one person I would ever really want it with.”

Aziraphale frowned, confused.”Grow strong enough?” Something occurred to him, and he leaned back, looking at the aspect again. And there it was. The thing he’d thought was off about him before, after seeing so many aspects with white clothes or wings, or gold dusted across their face or hair.

“Oh!” He exclaimed. “You don’t have any angelic markings on you.”

Love nodded. “I wasn’t a part of the Throne. Love, in its specific form, isn’t exactly an ‘angelic’ emotion. Your lot really go in for Compassion, and loving all things. But specific love?” He shook his head. “Nah. We learned that on Earth, both of us.”

“I- we…” he realized with shock that Love was right. He hadn’t felt this sort of specific love until after he’d been stationed on Earth. “You’re right.”

“When the Throne Fell,” the aspect told him, “it was because one of his core aspects shattered completely. The one piece of his soul that had been holding him together, despite the way the rest of him was starting to go to pieces. I am what grew up to take its place. I held him together, myself and our friend here.” He nodded towards the creature, which buzzed happily. “For as long as we could.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked down. “Then it really is my fault you shattered. If I hadn’t lied-”

“No.” Love cut him off firmly. “Not at all. I did a stupid thing. Instead of anchoring myself in as many places as I could, I hung everything on the hope that you’d return my love. I could have bound myself more to the world. To other things I love, like my car, and my plants. Even our human friends, though that’s always dangerous when they age and die. I could have had many anchor points, ones that would hold me up should one fall down. Instead, I hung it all on one. And when you lied, even though I could feel the lie in your words, it was enough. Just enough that the whole precarious balancing act I’d been doing with my soul came crashing down.”

“But I-”

“Yes,” the aspect said, cutting Aziraphale off again before he could start to blame himself. “You lied. But that lie was only a contributing factor. Not the cause. I’d been on the edge of shattering since, oh… the 1300’s, perhaps? But I had a good idea of who and what I was and what I was supposed to do. And then, Armageddon didn’t happen. And suddenly I wasn’t on that side any more. We were our own side. And that… it was more than I could deal with on my own. The sudden change highlighted all of my insecurities. For the first time in a long while, I had to really examine who I was and what I was meant to do. And the further we got from that day, the worse it was. I couldn’t wrap my head around it all. But I was too blessed stubborn to ask for your help.

“That’s why I shattered, Angel. It wasn’t just you lying to me. It was the whole mess of it all, from the day I Fell right up until the moment I couldn’t hold together any more. It was because my pride and my fear kept me from asking for the help I knew I needed. Or even letting you know I was anything other than fine.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, reaching out and taking his hands. “You must know, you can come to me for anything.”

“Yeah. I know, Angel. I’ll try not to be so stubborn again.” Love smiled. “I think that was why I left you that note. Part of me knew you’d come for me, if you could. I hoped you wouldn’t, but I always knew you would.”

Aziraphale frowned. “You hoped I wouldn’t come? Why?”

The aspect’s eyes widened in surprise. “Because it’s dangerous.” Beside them, the creature buzzed angrily. “Hush,” he told it. “You know the risks as well as I do. I’m not not grateful, but I never wanted him in danger.” He turned back to Aziraphale, face solemn. “I would far rather have died, knowing you’re safe, than have you risk your life to save mine.”

The angel blinked back a twinge of hurt at that. “I think,” he said, rather stiffly, “that I would far rather have died trying to save you, than remain safe in my bookshop knowing I might have saved you and didn’t bother to try.”

The creature hummed in approval. The aspect rocked back, looking stricken. “No, no that’s not what I meant. Angel,” he shook his head, frustrated with himself.  “I knew you’d come. Look at me, Aziraphale.,” He pulled a hand from the angel’s grasp, and lifted it to his face, gently guiding his gaze back to meet his own. “I knew you’d come.”

“But you didn’t want me to come,” he said, hating the way his voice sounded so small uncertain.

The aspect sighed. “Angel. I didn’t want anyone to come. No-” He held up a hand when Aziraphale protested. “I didn’t want anyone risking their life for me. Knowing you might still come, even after my warnings, scared me almost out of my mind - even as it gave me hope that I wasn’t a completely lost cause.” He smiled sadly. “I would die for you, Angel, a thousand times. But the very last thing I would ever want, is you dying for me. I couldn’t live in a world where you weren’t in it.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. “Did you ever think,” he said carefully. “That perhaps I don’t want you dying for me, either?”

Love looked away. It was answer enough. Aziraphale swallowed back his guilt. Six thousand years, and he had failed spectacularly at showing his demon just how important to him he was.

“Your life-” the aspect started, but Aziraphale cut him off.

“Is not more important than yours.” He paused, reigning in his anger and fear. Every single time he had spoken without thinking, he had said something to hurt Crowley - widening the cracks within his soul. He could not risk being so rash now.

“My dear.” With effort, the angel kept his voice quiet, gentle. “You are not expendable. You are not replaceable. You are not a burden, or an unwanted obligation. You are, as you have always been, more important to me than you will ever know.” He looked into those beautiful sunlight eyes, and squeezed his hands tightly. “You said you couldn’t live in a world without me. But I have had to live in a world without you. It was only a few hours, but it was the worst few hours of my life. I cannot - will not - go through that again.”

“Then we’ve only really got one option,” the aspect said with a smile. “Since I won’t let you die for me, and you won’t let me die for you, we’re just going to have to live for each other instead.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale grinned at him,suddenly feeling much lighter. “I suppose we must, then, mustn’t we?”

The creature hummed, extending tendrils to encircle both of them, binding their joined hands together with vibrating darkness.

“I think,” Love said, after a moment of quiet companionship, “that you have everything you need to face the last part of all of this. To finish putting me back together.” He leaned across Aziraphale with his free hand, and picked up the mirror.

“You really have done an astonishing job.” He tapped each of the sigils, which flashed briefly at his touch. “Seven aspects healed. And,” he grinned, “The eighth strengthened.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. “Something I couldn’t do in six thousand years.”

“I’m glad to do it, dear.” Aziraphale watched as he traced the final smaller circle, gold following filling in where his finger passed. “Just please, come to me first if you start to feel yourself shattering again. I do not want to go through this again.”

Love gave him a quick grin. “Agreed.” His finger came to a stop on the large circle in the center. “You’ll need to be careful with this one,” he said. “It isn’t what it looks like on the surface.” Then he winced, hand going to his head as if pained. “Ow ow ow. Right. Bastard.” He glared at the Tree.

“Don’t force it,” the angel said quickly. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”

Love met his eyes, expression conveying far more trust than Aziraphale had any right to expect. “I know you will.” He squeezed his hand. “I’ll see you on the other side.” Then, with one fingernail, he etched the sigil of Love into the empty smaller circle. Light blazed from the mirror. And then, he was gone. Behind Aziraphale and the creature, something rustled in the tree.

Chapter Text

A sound came from the Tree behind him. Aziraphale turned, still blinking away the spots from the blaze of light that had sent Love back to the whole. Something massive dropped from the branches and charged, screaming in a thousand different voices. Before he could register what was happening, the creature surged forward. It met the oncoming force in an almighty crash, splashes of fire and darkness spraying into the air with gold shards and white feathers. The thing from the tree screeched and snarled, attacking in a blur of white and gold. The creature kept it back, furious buzzing only just audible under the screams of the attacker. They rolled to the side, crashing into the couch Love had conjured. Aziraphale jumped out of the way, throwing himself backwards just in time to escape a large gout of fire that roared over his head.

The buzzing of the creature got louder, filling the clearing with the sound of thousands of angry bees. It rose up, towering over the newcomer in gigantic bands of fire and darkness, blocking it from reaching the angel. Each time the attacker tried to move around it, the creature would flow into place like an enormous black wave, stretching wider and wider as it attempted to shield Aziraphale. The attacker threw fire against the creature. Aziraphale covered his ears, cringing away from the terrible sound as it screeched in pain. It surged forward throwing fire of its own, and the attacker screamed like a whole host of beings crying out in agony. He could not see what it was over the creature-shield guarding him. It attacked again, a confusing blur of color and fire and screams.

The attacker cried out, breaking away. The creature pulled in closer to Aziraphale, creating a wide band of darkness that circled him in a protective barrier. It buzzed angrily, all eyes focused outward, on the thing that had dropped from the Tree. This time, it rose only chest-high, allowing Aziraphale to see the what had attacked him. He almost wished he hadn’t. From his experience with the other aspects, he had expected another version of Crowley in his preferred human form. He’d been prepared to see him wounded or sick, or even broken and half-mad from the shattering. He had entertained the idea that he would find Crowley’s giant serpent form. He’d even been prepared for the final aspect to take on that same monstrous form he’d found in the cell. This though, this was so much worse than he could ever have imagined.

It was said that the Thrones were among the most beautiful of God’s creations. Aziraphale could remember seeing them, from time to time, as he stood watch over the Garden. Great interlocking golden wheels of fire and eyes, shining with the radiance of Her love. Each one sang with the voices of a whole choir, praising Her with every note and falling silent only to listen to Her wisdom. He had been in awe of them, then, fearful of drawing the attention of so very many eyes. Only once had he been subject to the full force of a Throne’s gaze. Right before the War began. It had come to the Garden to see the humans, the newest of Her creations. Aziraphale had been watching them, curious about these strange new creatures, wanting badly to know why they were so special to Her. Then, It had appeared in a blaze of glory. The humans cried out and shielded their eyes, their fragile bodies unable to bear Heavenly light so close. Aziraphale had stepped between them and the Throne, raising his wings to shield them from its power. Without thinking, he ordered it to leave them. A thousand bright amber eyes had focused on him in that instant. He remembered feeling so insignificant, so small and powerless, compared to that magnificent and wonderful being. Those eyes held him there, paralyzed with fear and painful sort of adoration. If it had wanted to, it could have struck him from the earth without a second thought. But if it destroyed him, removing him as a shield from the humans, its presence would destroy them. So he gripped the hilt of his sword tight in his hand and again demanded, in a shaking voice, that it leave. It had blinked then, and uttered a single, wordless hum. Then, it had disappeared.

That Throne had been beyond beautiful, cloaked in Her love as it was, but what he remembered most about it were the eyes. Beautiful amber eyes, like pools of warm golden honey. Each one alive and bright with intelligence and curiosity. The sight of them was burned into his memory.

Before him now, though, was something that might, once, have been a Throne. Its body was the same - great wheels of golden fire, ever in motion even when it was at rest. Hellfire rose and fell around it, a mockery of the divine light it once had shed. It cried out in a hundred voices, but where once those voices had been pure and bright, now they were hoarse, tortured and raw, like nails on glass. But the worst, oh, the worst were its eyes. Or rather, the empty scratched-out holes where its eyes used to be. A thousand gaping, burned-out sockets, weeping bloody tears that stained the gold of its wheels a dark crimson-red.

Aziraphale gasped in horror as the reality of what he was seeing sunk in. This was no shard of Crowley, no aspect or emotion he could heal with simple words. This, pacing back and forth in a line before him like a half-mad tiger in a cage, was the remnant of Crowley’s divinity. The very last piece of the Throne that remained after his Fall.

As if sensing his thoughts, the Throne paused, turning its attention to Aziraphale. He couldn’t say how he knew, when there was no physical way to tell. But somehow, he could feel every inch of its being focused on him. Its wheels whirled in place like a mad gyroscope, and it hissed like a hot tea kettle on the stove.

“GET OUT.” Hearing it speak was even worse than hearing it scream. He could hear at least a hundred distinct voices, each one ravaged and broken as if they’d screamed so loud, and for so long, that it had turned their vocal chords to so much broken string.

“Oh, my dear.” Every fiber of his being wanted to run from the ruined creature before him. This was what happened to angels who questioned God, who turned from Her light. This is what could happen to him, at any time, if She decided his actions went against Her commands. It terrified him. He could imagine no worse fate, than to have Her Love so violently ripped away from him. And yet, he pitied it, too. His heart ached for the poor, tortured thing. He couldn’t imagine the pain the Throne must feel, knowing that damnation would go on and on forever, its wounds still as fresh now as they had been the day it Fell. “I’m so sorry.”

“I SAID GET OUT.”

“No.” Aziraphale glared at the Throne, though he had to order his knees not to shake at the sound of those raw, tortured voices. “I will not.”

The creature buzzed a warning as the Throne got too close. The Throne’s tea-kettle hiss intensified, but it backed away. “YOU HAVE NO NEED TO BE HERE,” it said. “GO. BEFORE THIS PATHETIC HUSK OF A DEMON FINALLY COLLAPSES AND DIES.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Aziraphale said firmly, grateful for the barrier of the creature between them. There was something about the Throne that felt far more dangerous than even the mad thing he had found in the cell what felt like ages ago. Even then, he hadn’t truly believed something that had once been part of Crowley would hurt him. But this? He got the feeling that, given the chance, the Throne would crush him without a second thought.

“YOU WON’T?” Somehow, the Throne’s laugh was worse than it’s scream. Like a thousand saw-blades biting into concrete. “AND HOW DO YOU INTEND TO STOP IT?”

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to look at the gaping holes that once were eyes. “I’ve nearly got you put back together. You’re the last piece. With you, Crowley’s foundation will be whole again.”

“AND WHY WOULD I WANT THAT?”

The creature hissed, berating the Throne in a series of buzzes and hums, fires flaring around its body as it continued to encircle Aziraphale.

“PATHETIC,” the Throne sneered. “I HUNG THE STARS. I COMMANDED LEGIONS. MY POWER WAS SECOND ONLY TO GOD. WHAT IS THE LIFE OF A CRAWLING DEMON COMPARED TO THAT?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said slowly. “Maybe it isn’t as grand as all that. But Crowley has friends - people who care about him because of who he is, and not just what he can do for them. He has things he loves, things that no one can take away. And he has me.”

It laughed, like the sound of a car crashing into a brick wall. “YOU? WHAT DIFFERENCE COULD YOU POSSIBLY MAKE?”

Aziraphale swallowed back the surge of hurt that came from those words. He’d wondered that himself, many times over the past six thousand years. But if the past few days had taught him anything, it was that Crowley needed him just as much as he needed Crowley. And a lot of that came from one place - love. They were their own side, and not even cruel words from this wounded, dying piece from the darkest part of Crowley’s soul could change that.

“Because I love him. And he loves me.”

The creature hummed, a few eyes opening close to Aziraphale and blinking at him before rolling back to its other side to keep an eye on the Throne. The Throne laughed again with the sound of a subway car derailing at the platform.

“AND WHY SHOULD THAT MATTER TO ME? I AM A THRONE. I EXISTED IN GOD’S LOVE. YOU DO NOT COMPARE.”

At that, the creature screeched, surging forward to attack the Throne again. The Throne tried to pass it, lunging for Aziraphale with a tendril of fire, but the creature wrapped tentacles of darkness around one of its wheels and yanked, throwing it backwards and into the Tree. It roared, turning on the creature, flames shooting out from its empty eyes.

Aziraphale looked around for something, anything, he could use to stop them. He didn’t know what would happen if the creature destroyed the Throne, but he didn’t think he wanted to find out. As horrible as it was, it was still a piece of Crowley. There was nothing. Just the mirror, an overturned chair, and the splintered remains of the couch Love had conjured - destroyed when the Throne crashed into it in its initial attack. But then he saw a flash of light. The flames of the Throne and the creature flashing off something metal beneath the broken wood. Aziraphale dove for it, freeing the length of steel from the debris in one swift motion. He was pointing it at the Throne before he even registered what it was. His sword. Miraculously here, just where and when he needed it.

“STOP!” he shouted, advancing on the whirling mass of darkness and fire that was the creature and the Throne. They froze, turning to look at him - a thousand unblinking golden eyes, and a thousand burned-out empty pits. It was like that day in the true Eden, so long ago, when he stood between a Throne and the first humans with nothing but his sword in his hands. They both towered above him, the mad golden gyroscope of the Throne bound tightly by the darkness of the creature’s tentacles. The force of their attention would have flattened him even eleven years ago. But he’d been through the end of the world since then, and worse - far worse, the death of Crowley. He refused to allow himself to be intimidated when Crowley needed him here.

“Stop it, both of you!” he demanded. “You’re both a part of Crowley. I’m not letting you destroy each other.”

“AND WHAT,” the Throne asked scornfully, “DO YOU INTEND TO DO WITH THAT WEAPON, LITTLE ANGEL?”

“Whatever I must.” He held it out, point first, and watched it burst into holy flames. He would not hesitate to subdue the Throne, even if that meant inflicting more damage. He would not let it harm the creature, even if it was the large piece at the center of Crowley’s soul.

The Throne recoiled from the heat of the flames, hissing in anger. The creature held it tight, refusing to release it to attack Aziraphale again.

“FOOLISH CHILD,” it growled, staring sightlessly at him with those terrible empty eyes. “DO YOU THINK YOUR DEMON WILL THANK YOU FOR THIS?”

Aziraphale stared into the void where its eyes should have been, and refused to let himself be afraid. “I’m not doing this for thanks. I’m doing it because I do not want to be without him.”

The Throne laughed harshly, like a thousand violins playing horribly out of tune. “AND WHY IS YOUR COMFORT WORTH THE PAIN OF THAT EXISTENCE? WOULD IT NOT BE KINDER, TO LET HIM GO? TO STOP THE ENDLESS AGONY?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I don’t believe it’s as bad as all that. Crowley has always been good at finding the joy to balance out the pain. There are things he has that are more than worth living for.”

The Throne scoffed, straining against the tight hold the creature kept on it. “AND WHAT, THEN ARE THOSE?” it asked. “YOU CAN’T POSSIBLY MEAN YOURSELF.”

The angel swallowed back the hurt at that, strengthening himself with the memory of Love, of the way Love had looked at him, the way Crowley’s love had settled in around him. He could feel it still, warm and comforting, giving lie to the Throne’s cruel words.

“He has many things,” Aziraphale told it. “Not the least of which is a world where he gets to decide who he is, instead of always being what someone else expects of him.”

“WHO HE IS?” Those awful empty eyes stared at him. “DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHO HE IS?”

The creature hissed, straining against the pull of the Throne as it tried to break free.

“I should think so,” the angel said calmly. “I did just spend quite some time putting his aspects back together again, after all.”

“HIS ASPECTS.” The Throne laughed, this time sounding like the screeching of a thousand rusted trumpets at full volume. Aziraphale cringed, covering his ears and flinching away from the abrasive sound. The creature cried out, digging into the ground to steady itself. The Throne rolled forward a few inches closer to the angel.

“AND DO YOU KNOW WHY HE SHATTERED?” it demanded, tears of blood dripping from the vacant eye sockets. “DID HE TRUST YOU ENOUGH TO TELL YOU THAT?”

Aziraphale could tell it did not mean their conversation in the bookshop, or Armageddon, or even the slow pull of years that had put so much presser on his slowly cracking soul. It meant what had happened before all that. What had caused Crowley to Fall in the first place.

“We haven’t discussed it,” he said shortly. “Though I do know he asked questions, which of course is forbidden.”

The interlocking rings of the Throne whirled in the creature’s grasp, and it gave of a low, thoughtful hum. “I WONDER,” it said, as softly as its many voices could be. “WHY HE NEVER TOLD YOU?”

Crowley loves me, Aziraphale reminded himself, locking his knees and forbidding them to tremble under the pressure of that terrible regard. He trusts me. And I trust him. “It never came up. I didn’t want to be insensitive.”

It sneered at him. It should have been impossible for something without facial features of any kind, but there it was. The distinct feeling of being sneered at. “THEN I SHALL ENLIGHTEN YOU.”

The throne made a sharp gesture, and a glowing illusion of each of Crowley’s aspects appeared between them. Each one was frozen, their expressions clear as the aspect they embodied. Curiosity, peering out at him with bright too-human eyes. Compassion in his white robe, smiling kindly. Rage, face twisted in anger, his expression highlighted by the glitter of gold dust on his skin. Mischief, laughing brightly, white wings flared out behind him for balance. Pride, a smug, pleased expression in his bright angelic eyes. Courage, dressed all in white, gripping a broken piece of iron and staring straight ahead with gritted teeth. Creation, gold in his hair and the fire of a new star in his hands. And there, at the end, where he would have expected to see Love, smiling at him, a hand held out for him to take. One final aspect, that held none of demonic attributes Crowley wore like badges of honor. An angel down to the core, he stood tall, robed in white with gold dusting his hair and skin, white wings folded tight against his back as he stared up into the sky with a look of complete adoration.

“HIS SHATTERING STARTED LONG AGO,” the Throne said in its deep, cacophonous voice. “BEFORE EDEN. BEFORE TIME ITSELF BEGAN.”

It gestured again, and the shade of Curiosity stepped forward. “QUESTIONS. SO VERY MANY QUESTIONS. QUESTIONS WITHOUT ANSWERS, PAVING THE WAY FOR UNCERTAINTY. OPENING HIS HEART TO FEAR.” It lashed out with a limb made of fire, crashing it down on the shadow aspect. Curiosity shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, a star-burst pattern of glass shards littering the ground. Aziraphale gasped, stepping back in shock at the sudden explosion, reflexively gripping his sword tighter. Unnoticed in his other hand, the ghost of a crack shot out across the mirror, starting from Curiosity’s sigil.

The Throne moved on, that arm of fire shooting out again to nudge Compassion from the line. “NEXT BROKE COMPASSION. WHEN CURIOSITY ASKED ‘WHY’ AND GOD DECLARED IT WAS HER WILL. WHY DID THE HUMANS HAVE TO BE TESTED?” It’s voice rose in mockery as it asked the question, it’s wheels spinning wildly in the creature’s grasp. “WHY MUST THEY SUFFER AND BE FORCED FROM HER LIGHT?” It laughed cruelly, the sound once more that of out-of-tune violins. “THE PATHETIC THING COULDN’T UNDERSTAND WHY SHE WOULD ALLOW SUCH SUFFERING.”

Again, the arm of fire came crashing down, this time swiping through Compassion and setting the scattered shards aflame. Within the mirror, a new fissure appeared. Larger and deeper, it reached out towards the center from the symbol for Compassion.

“RAGE.” The Throne shoved the next aspect from the line. “AN ASPECT NO ANGEL SHOULD HAVE. AND YET, IT GREW IN HIM FROM THE MOMENT CURIOSITY BEGAN TO CRACK. IT SHOOK THE FOUNDATION OF HIS SOUL, AND BEGAN TO BURN AWAY AT THE HEART OF HIM.”

This time, the explosion was far more violent, throwing shards with enough force that Aziraphale flinched and covered his face. In the mirror, more cracks appeared within the circle for Rage, blending with and widening the fissures from Compassion and Curiosity. The whole left side of the mirror was now a spiderweb of cracks and chips.

The creature hissed, straining still as the Throne tried to roll to the side. Blood from the Throne’s tears was staining it’s many arms, but all its eyes were focused on Aziraphale.

“MISCHIEF.” At the Throne’s command, the shade of Mischief stepped forward. “DISGUSTING THING,” the Throne sneered. “AN ABERRATION. A FLAW THAT SOMEHOW WORKED ITS WAY INTO HER DESIGN. HE HAD TO CRUSH IT. DESTROY IT, BEFORE IT DESTROYED HIM. HE WAS TOO WEAK TO DO IT PROPERLY, AND THE SHARDS OF IT REMAIN.”

Aziraphale was prepared for the explosion this time, watching in horror as the Throne smashed down on it with far more force than before. The blow crashed through Mischief’s head, all the way down to his feet, and left a smoldering hole in the earth. The pieces of shattered aspect flew out at Aziraphale. If they’d been anything more than illusion, he would have been covered in hundreds of tiny cuts from the aspect shards.  And now the right side of the mirror began to crack, fissures shooting out out from the center of Mischief’s sigil.

“PRIDE.” The Throne slashed a thin tendril of fire through Pride’s eyes, causing the image to waver like a candle flame. “PRIDE BLINDED HIM. HE WAS SO CERTAIN SHE WOULD NEVER TURN AWAY FROM HIM. HE COULD NOT SEE THE TRUTH, THAT HE WAS WORTH NOTHING TO HER.”  It held the flame there, watching Pride slowly start to burn around it until, instead of exploding, the whole aspect went up in a pillar of flames. Its words hung like frostbite in the air. Aziraphale had never before felt anything like it. So much pain, and anger, and fear. When he reached out with his power, trying to get a better sense of it, all he could feel was a whirling miasma of negative emotions. And deep beneath that, a burning undercurrent of doubt and despair.

He glanced at the mirror, and gasped in horror. Two thirds of it now were covered in cracks and fissures, and they were all slowly growing deeper. He ran his hands over it, trying in vain to stop them, but they were underneath the surface - he couldn’t even feel them under his fingers.

“Stop!” he cried, as the Throne started to move to the next aspect. “Stop, wait!” He held up the mirror, frantically shoving his power into it, giving it all his memories of Crowley. The creature buzzed and hissed, growing larger as it fought to contain the Throne.

The Throne laughed, like nails on glass. “DON’T BOTHER,” it sneered. “SO FRAGILE A CORNER STONE, IT WOULD NOT HAVE HELD FOR MUCH LONGER ANYWAY. HE IS NOT STRONG ENOUGH TO HOLD HIMSELF TOGETHER.”

“Then I will,” Aziraphale snapped at it. “I will hold him together when he needs it, until he can stand on his own again. Just as he has always done for me.”

“YOU?” That caused another terrible laugh. “YOU CAN BARELY HOLD YOURSELF TOGETHER.”

“I…” It was right. He could barely hold himself together on a good day. He knew he was a terrible angel. He didn’t deserve Crowley. How could he hope to hold Crowley together when it was Aziraphale’s lie that had brought them to this point in the first place?

The creature hissed, its whole body shaking with the effort of containing the Throne. Wheels of gold and fire shook and whirled, fighting the creature’s hold with everything it had.

“YOU’RE PATHETIC,” the Throne cried. “YOU CANNOT EVEN BE TRUSTED TO TELL THE TRUTH.”

Aziraphale gripped his sword and the mirror tight, forcing himself to look into those empty, scratched-out eyes. It’s wrong, he told himself firmly, like he always did when fighting against the darkest parts of his own mind. I can do this. I will do this.

“I was wrong,” he admitted. “I should never have lied. I won’t make that mistake again. Crowley is too important to me for that.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

“YOU HAVE ALREADY FAILED,” the Throne said, whirling and straining against the creature. “HE IS SHATTERED. BROKEN. WORTHLESS. YOU CANNOT SAVE HIM.”

“I can, and I will.” He would accept no other outcome. He glared at the Throne, this ruined, bleeding wreck of an angel. This was his last challenge. He had to calm it. To return it to the whole. To heal the cracks that were forming, deeper and wider inside the mirror with every work it spoke. “Crowley - you - are worthy of every effort. I promise you. I will not fail you again.”

“RAAH!” The Throne lunged at him, breaking free of the creature’s hold. It barreled towards Aziraphale, who could only brace himself for the attack. He didn’t know how long he would be able to stand against the Throne, but he would try.

The creature surged forward, impossibly faster than the Throne. It whipped around him, forming a barrier to protect the angel. It rammed into it, screaming, stretching the creature, pulling at its surface until, with a mighty rip, it split the creature in two.

The creature cried out as it fell, bleeding darkness into the grass. Aziraphale might have screamed. He wasn’t sure. What he was sure of was the strength in his arms, and the heat of the holy flames that flared bright along his blade. He had been built as a protector, a warrior, and in moments like this that strength burned deep within his bones. The Throne turned to attack the fallen creature, limbs of flame manifesting to tear at its darkness. But Aziraphale was suddenly there, standing above the creature, blocking the Throne with his sword. The fiery limbs crashed down onto his blade, but he held firm, slashing through them like air and watching them disappear into the ether. The heat of the clash seared the air, burning both Aziraphale and the Throne. In his other hand, a large crack appeared in the mirror, straight through the circle at its center.

The Throne screamed its rage, rearing back to attack him again.

“No.” He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. The simple, soft-spoken word cut through the air as sharp as his sword had severed the Throne’s flames from its body. It froze, and he advanced, bringing the sword closer to its golden body, watching the wheels start to blister and burn from the heat of so holy a light. Whatever this thing was, it was not immune to Heavenly fire.

“You cannot have him,” he said, still quiet but firm. Awkwardly, still holding the sword and the mirror, he reached down with one hand and gathered the injured creature into his arms. It was hemorrhaging darkness now from both shredded halves, but it buzzed weekly as he picked it up, as if to reassure him it was still alive. The dark ‘blood’ flowed down his arms and chest, coating his jacket and hands. It felt cool on his skin, more like water than blood. Specks of it hit his face as it moved, writhing in pain in his arms. He could taste it in his mouth, a strange mix of spice and charcoal on his tongue.

“Shh,” he told it gently. “Just a moment. I have you.”

Keeping one eye on the Throne, who circled them just out of range of the sword, he bent to gather the other half of the creature. It was difficult - it had grown so much since he’d last picked it up, but he was able to drape it across his shoulders and press both halves together. They blended seamlessly in his hands, making it whole once again. Aziraphale sighed in relief, and the creature gave him a faint hum. He positioned it carefully, letting it wrap weak tendrils around his arms and waist, cradling most of its central mass in one arm while the other kept the blade pointed at the Throne. Several of its eyes turned to the mirror as, unnoticed by the angel, the crack through the central circle disappeared.

The Throne growled at him, not daring to come closer. “USELESS,” it said. “THAT THING WILL DIE LIKE THE REST OF HIM SOON. YOU ARE ONLY PROLONGING HIS DEMISE.”

The creature blinked feebly at him, but buzzed - a low sound that sounded almost like that’s wrong.

“I know,” he reassured it, idly stroking the inky skin. Strangely, holding the creature like this, he felt calmer, more sure that he could do this than he had been moments before.

To the Throne, he simply said “You were telling me why you Fell. Please continue.” He had to hear this, he knew. It might be the key to this whole thing. He tried not to look at the mirror, the crazy spiderweb of cracks and fissures that were spreading further across its surface. The only way to fix it, would be to heal the Throne.

It growled, low and menacing, like hundreds of hellhounds preparing to attack. But it rolled back to the line of aspect shadows.

“COURAGE,” it said, in that awful voice, and the shade of Courage stepped forward. “YOU THINK YOU HAVE COURAGE,” it sneered at Aziraphale, but flinched away when he brandished his blade. “YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT COURAGE IS.”

The creature buzzed, and Aziraphale almost caught an impression of the words wrong again within that familiar sound.

“THIS PIECE HELD STRONG UNTIL THE START OF THE WAR. UNTIL HE SAW WHAT HE WOULD BECOME. IT TERRIFIED HIM, TO SEE HIS BROTHERS CAST OUT, TO BECOME NOTHING MORE THAN MINDLESS SCREAMING HUSKS, KILLING EVERYTHING THEY TOUCHED IN THEIR PAIN. THE FEAR CONSUMED HIM.” The Throne lit a fire in the grass at Courage’s feet, watching it burn up the frozen aspect’s legs and torso, until it consumed him utterly. When the fire went out, all that remained was a small pile of ashes. And another large series of cracks in the mirror Aziraphale held.

The Throne moved on, rolling to rest behind Creation. “CREATION CANNOT EXIST WHERE THERE IS FEAR,” it said. “AND SO IT, TOO, CAME APART.” Instead of fire or an explosion, this time Creation simply crumbled into dust. In Aziraphale’s arms, the creature gripped the mirror, watching with bright yellow eyes as yet more cracks shot out from Creation’s circle.

“BUT STILL,” the Throne continued, “HE DID NOT FALL. ONE LAST PIECE OF HIM, THE BEST AND MOST IMPORTANT PART, REMAINED.” Limbs of fire shot out from the golden wheels. But this time they did not attack. Gently, as if reaching for a lover, they caressed the aspect’s face. “FAITH.”  Its voice grew softer, more like the thunder of a train across iron tracks than the tortured screams of the damned. “SO BRIGHT, HE WAS, EVEN AS ALL ELSE SHATTERED. BEAUTIFUL. RADIANT IN HIS LOVE OF HER. HE TRIED SO HARD TO BE WHAT SHE WANTED. HE BELIEVED IN HER, FAR LONGER THAN ANY OTHER THAT FELL.”

Those terrible hollow eyes turned back to Aziraphale and the creature. “HE BELIEVED SO MUCH, EVEN AS HE BEGAN TO BURN. FOOLISH CHILD.”

It fell silent, and somehow that was even worse than the cacophony of voices. It stretched between them, heavy with that strange miasma of pain and fear and doubt that the angel could sense from the Throne. At last, Aziraphale could bear it no more.

“Then what,” he asked, wincing as his voice broke the silence. “What caused him to Fall, if he still believed in God that much?” His heart ached, imagining the turmoil Crowley must have gone through, wanting so badly to believe but also watching as everything else collapsed around him.

The Throne gave another of it’s awful laughs. “ISN’T IT OBVIOUS?” it asked, tone mocking him for his ignorance. “HE ASKED ONE FINAL QUESTION. AND IT SHATTERED HIM TO PIECES.”

“And what,” Aziraphale asked carefully, “was the question?” In his arms, the creature hummed.

“WHY ALLOW THE WAR TO HAPPEN AT ALL?” the Throne said, scornful, though the angel couldn’t be sure if it was scornful of the question, or that he even had to ask what it was.

“And… the answer?”

Fires flared about the Throne and it surged forward, rolling as close as it dared to Aziraphale and looming over him. “NOTHING!” it boomed, its multitude of voices shaking the Garden with the force of its cry. The aspect of Faith exploded, far more violently than the others had, shooting illusory shards across the clearing in a shower of sparks.

“SHE DID NOT DEEM HIM WORTHY OF A RESPONSE,” the Throne laughed, fires flaring.

In Aziraphale’s hands, the mirror cracked. Fissures shot out across the glass, jagged lines tearing apart the circles and breaking the sigils into pieces.

“No!” he gasped trying in vain to hold them all together. “No no no no no.”

“USELESS!” The Throne screamed, the sound making him flinch. The movement upset the mirror, and the shards spilled out onto the grass. “HE WAS ONCE ONE OF HER BRIGHTEST STARS, BUT NOW WHAT HAS HE BECOME?”

“No, oh no,” Aziraphale dropped to his knees, scrabbling to pick up the pieces and slot them back together. Only one shard remained in the frame. The central circle. It appeared largely untouched.

The Throne laughed at him, like a thousand forks scraping down the sides of a thousand glass bottles. “SEE? YOUR EFFORTS ARE FUTILE! YOU CANNOT SAVE SO TAINTED A THING AS THIS DEMON.”

The quiet hum of the creature sounded in his ear, as if to say you can do this.

“They are not futile,” Aziraphale told the Throne. “I put the pieces together before. I can do it again.” He collected several large shards, cutting his hands on the sharp glass as he picked them from the grass. Ignoring the Throne’s laugh, he slowly fit them back into the metal frame. There was Curiosity’s circle. Compassion. Rage. Mischief. Pride. Courage. Creation. Love. Broken circles, chipped sigils, but still recognizable for what they were.

The Throne attacked with a large arm of fire. Aziraphale reacted only just in time, bringing the sword up to block it. The mirror tilted in his hand, spilling the shards. The creature hissed, catching up as many pieces as it could while Aziraphale brandished his weapon, forcing the Throne back.

“WHY BOTHER?” it asked him, circling. “WHY TRY? HE WILL ONLY SHATTER AGAIN IN TIME.”

“Then I will put him back together again. I will not let him go.” Aziraphale watched it circle, sword at the ready. The creature carefully took the mirror from his hands, replacing the shards it could find within the frame. Was this Throne really the broken aspect of Crowley’s faith? The remnant of his divinity? How could he hope to calm it, when he couldn’t understand the root of its pain?

“YOU CANNOT COMPLETE THIS TASK,” it said, unknowingly echoing his thoughts. “YOU WILL NEVER RETURN ME TO THE WHOLE.” The Throne was so different from the other aspects of his Crowley. There was nothing of that warm, vibrant being in this broken angel weeping blood into the dirt of Eden. He could not hear anything of Crowley in those raw, tortured voices. No quicksilver smiles or sunlight eyes. No wry humor, or the ever present optimism he’d fallen in love with. Nothing familiar he could latch on to, to draw out and sooth the raw pain outside. It was just… anger, but beneath that anger, was a thick dark current of despair.  

The creature buzzed and hummed in his ear, squeezing his shoulders gently and vibrating comfortingly around him.

What was it Love had said, there at the end? It isn’t what it seems. Did he mean the Throne? And if so, how was he to figure out what it was?

The Throne darted inward, testing Aziraphale’s reflexes. The angel easily blocked its attack, still trying to understand how to solve this. He didn’t want to hurt the Throne if he could help it, but that was looking more and more inevitable.

“LEAVE THIS PATHETIC HUSK TO DIE,” the Throne ordered. “GO BACK TO HEAVEN WHERE YOU BELONG.”

The creature buzzed for him, and once again he thought maybe he could catch a meaning to its sounds. You’re doing well. Keep going.

The creature felt far more like Crowley than the Throne did. He didn’t think it was just the shade of an angel compared to the shadow of a demon. The creature was just… so much more than the broken monster in front of him. More like Crowley. More real. More like the other aspects.

“It isn’t what it seems,” he murmured, looking between the creature wrapped around his shoulders, and the Throne, circling them with raging fire.

“YOU CAN’T SAVE HIM,” the Throne taunted. He ignored it, instead, going over all his interactions with the creature since diving into Crowley’s soul. How it guided him. Protected him. Helped him along the path. Its strongest reactions had come when he started to give in to despair, like when it had bitten him to break him out of the spiral of worry he had begun to fall into.

The creature buzzed a counterpoint to the Throne’s cries. A comforting sound he imagined meant Yes, you can. As it had from the very beginning, it gave him hope.

“You’re not part of Crowley,” he said, eyes wide with the revelation.

“WHAT DID YOU SAY?” The Throne screamed, fires flaring higher than ever.

“You are not part of Crowley,” he repeated, looking at the sigils in the broken glass of the mirror. Carefully, he selected a shard with a pointed end, placing it against the glass in the large central circle. “Or, rather, you are not one of his core aspects. Nor are you the largest part of him. You’re just the largest crack in his foundation.” The sharp edges of the shard cut his hand, dripping blood onto the broken mirror.

“I AM ALL THAT IS LEFT OF THE ANGEL HE WAS,” the Throne growled.

“No,” Aziraphale said quietly. “You’re not.” He pressed his shard into the glass of the large circle, drawing a familiar sigil.

“Curiosity,” he read, the new lines filling with crimson from the cuts in his hand. “It was part of him in Heaven, just as it is part of him now.” When every section of the sigil had turned red, the lines flashed. In the upper left-hand corner, the circle for Curiosity reformed in clear, smooth glass.

“Compassion.” Below Curiosity in the large circle, Aziraphale etched the sigil for Compassion. He allowed parts of it to overlap with Curiosity, and the creature, watching the movement of his hands with a thousand bright eyes, hummed in approval. “Compassion has always been one of the largest parts of him. Even as a demon, he has never let that piece of him die.” Again, once complete, the sigil flashed. And in the lower of the left corner of the mirror, the circle for Compassion reformed itself.

“STOP,” the Throne warned, fires flaring. Aziraphale pointed his sword at it, letting the creature support the mirror for him to continue to draw.

Beside Compassion, he etched in another sigil. “Rage.” As he wrote, he considered Crowley’s anger. It had never been the largest piece of him, and certainly it must have grown stronger after his Fall. But it had been a part of him in Heaven all the same. “Rage,” he said gently, “is not confined only to demons. I know even archangels who experience it from time to time.” He looked up at met the void of the Throne’s missing eyes. “You are, in part, created by that very anger, are you not?” The completed sigil flashed, and next to Compassion, the circle for Rage was repaired.

The Throne thrashed, not daring to come closer while Aziraphale still held the sword. “YOU WILL REGRET THIS,” it threatened, many voices crying out in a fearful wail.

The angel ignored it. Across from Curiosity, he etched Mischief into the circle. “Mischief,” he said, over the wailing of the Throne. “As it has always been, Mischief is an integral part of Crowley. It is not an aberration, or a flaw. He was designed with the itch to cause chaos, and to deny that would be to deny a part of himself.” Another crimson flash, and the sigil in the upper right corner reappeared.

Aziraphale moved his glass shard to the place between Curiosity and Mischief, etching around and over the dark red lines. “Pride,” he said, the curling shape of the sigil extending out to mingle with Rage and Compassion. “And why not? He deserves to be proud of his accomplishments, of who and what he is. He always has. He is worth far more than he believes, and if it takes another six thousand years I will show him that.” The sigil for Pride melted into place in the corner beside Curiosity.

The Throne screamed, rolling in a large circle around them, trying to attack Aziraphale from behind. The angel followed it with his sword, never allowing it from his sight. “PATHETIC,” it said. “YOUR WORDS MEAN NOTHING. HE IS STILL BROKEN. YOU WILL NOT HEAL HIM.”

The creature buzzed and hummed, squeezing his shoulders lightly as it adjusted the mirror for him to write. “That’s alright,” he told it, ignoring the Throne’s tantrum. “We’ll heal each other, if it comes to it. Together.”

He smiled as he etched the next symbol, though the shard was now biting deep into the flesh of his hand. “Courage,” he said. “I don’t think his Courage ever truly shattered. He just needed someone to remind him of how strong he really is.” The sigil flashed crimson, and the circle for courage remade itself next to the place where Love had been.

“FOOLISH ANGEL. YOU CANNOT SUCCEED WHERE OTHERS MORE WORTHY HAVE TRIED AND FAILED. YOU CANNOT BRING A DEMON BACK ONCE IT HAS SHATTERED.”

Aziraphale continued to ignore it, though it began to hiss like a hundred boiling teakettles. There was just enough space in the central circle beside Mischief for the next sigil. “Creation.” Drops of blood hit the glass as his hand moved across the mirror, running into the cracks between each shard. It felt like his hand was on fire, but he would not stop. Not until Crowley was whole again and back at his side once more.

“You’re right,” he told the Throne, ignoring the way it rolled violently around the clearing, shooting bursts of flame into the sky. It was trying to intimidate him. But he had seen an eleven-year-old boy stand up to Satan himself. And if Adam could face down the King of Hell without flinching, then so too could Aziraphale face this mad and broken thing that had taken root in Crowley’s soul. “Creation cannot live where there is fear. But that does not mean it is gone. It can go dormant for a while. The creator can lose their method of creating. But the imagination remains. And Crowley’s imagination is more rich, more vibrant, than anyone else I have ever known - angel or demon.” He completed the sigil with clean lines, though his hand was starting to shake from the pain.

“YOU CANNOT ERASE ME FROM HIS SOUL,” the Throne growled, coming to rest before Aziraphale and staring at him with those empty eyes.

“I can,” the angel said firmly. “And I will. You are what caused him to shatter. My actions may have fed you. Armageddon may have made you stronger. But I will not allow you to cast a shadow over his heart any more.”

“IF YOU ERASE ME, YOU WILL NEVER GET HIM BACK.”

Aziraphale paused, and the creature buzzed in concern. That was a worry. It had been part of Crowley’s soul for so long. If he cast out the dark miasma of pain and doubt from his mind, would he be the same?

The creature hummed, vibrating against his neck and shoulders. A few of its eyes flickered to his face in concern, and he smiled and shook his head at the folly of his thoughts. Of course Crowley would be the same. His pain did not define him. It only held him back from the happiness he had always, always deserved.

“I think you’ll find that he’ll be just fine without you,” he told the Throne. And drew the next sigil.

“Love,” he said, and the creature buzzed in harmony with the word. “Love grew up in place of the Faith that was destroyed in his Fall.” And the small circle containing the sigil for Love reappeared in its corner as if it had never been broken.

“LOVE,” the Throne scoffed. “A SIMPLE, WORTHLESS EMOTION. A DEMON HAS NO NEED OF LOVE.”

“We all have need of Love,” Aziraphale said firmly, tracing the way the lines of all eight sigils overlapped in the center of the circle. Crimson blood from his hand began to bubble in the cracks, rushing to fill each and every break within the glass. Aziraphale didn’t know what adding his blood to the mirror would mean for Crowley, but it seemed to be the right thing to do. “Love - not just romantic love, but all love. Platonic. Familial. Love of self. Love of others. It is the most human of emotions. And, I believe, the most beautiful of all God’s creations.” He smiled, touching his bleeding hand to the ring Crowley had made for him. “We are both blessed, that She saw fit to place us on Earth, where we could allow it to grow within us. And now, now it defines us in so many ways.”

He shook his head at the Throne, raging as it was, dressed in the gold and white of Heaven, yes, but it held nothing at all of the divine. “You don’t know anything about love. And that, more than anything proves you are not an aspect of Crowley.” He took a step towards the Throne, and watched it back away.

“YOU ARE NOT STRONGER THAN ME,” the Throne cried, but its cries felt weak, the sound not so loud or cacophonous as before.

“No,” Aziraphale agreed. “I’m not. But I don’t have to be.” He glanced at the creature, wrapped around him like a very strange, overlarge cloak. It blinked back at him, and began to hum. Rhythmically, loud and then soft, loud and then soft. The sound surrounded him, lending him the creature’s strength. He could feel the words in the hum. Go on. I’m here. I’m with you.

He dropped his sword, taking the mirror up in one hand and gripping the shard tight in the other. The Throne hissed, swiping at him with tendrils of fire, but the creature shielded him, batting away its increasingly frantic attacks.

“You see,” he told the Throne, “the final, most important aspect of Crowley has been with me all along.”

“NO! STOP!” It shrieked, rolling away, racing for the Tree of Knowledge, as if that would save it.

“I should have noticed sooner,” Aziraphale said, more to the creature than the Throne. “It makes quite a bit of sense. After all, between the two of us, Crowley really is the optimist.”

The creature continued to hum, but he thought he could also hear its laugh.

Aziraphale stood in the center of the clearing, watching the Throne try and fail to climb back up into the branches of the Tree. With his shard of glass, he began to trace the sigil in the very center of the mirror. Lines of light followed to, glowing where overlapping lines of scarlet connected the final sigil to all the others.

“You do not belong here!” he shouted at the Throne. “You aren’t a Throne at all. Or even a real piece of Crowley’s soul.”

“THEN WHAT AM I?” it snarled, whirling, as the gold of its wheels started to tarnish and grow black.

“You are Doubt,” Aziraphale said, taking a step closer. “Fear.” Another step. It hissed and snapped, but did not move to attack or run away. “Pain.” He stepped over the illusory shards of the aspects, and they dissolved into the grass as if they had never been. “Despair.”

“DAMN YOU!”

“You are the rot in his core. The largest crack in his soul, that spawned all the others. And I will not tolerate your presence here another minute.”

As he drew, the crimson in the cracks began to boil over, golden light breaking through and burning away the blood. It blazed from each and every chip in the glass, racing down the fissures and cracks like lightening, leaving nothing but smooth, clear glass in its wake. Where it hit a circle flooded into the curves, branching out to glow softly from the shapes etched into the mirror’s surface. Curiosity. Compassion. Rage. Mischief. Pride. Courage. Creation. Love. And there, in the center, the final sigil. The one final aspect that had remained, even when the rest of Crowley had crumbled into pieces.

“YOU CAN’T BANISH ME!” the Throne roared, fires flaring hot enough that the angel could feel it on his face.

“Maybe not alone,” the angel said, and the humming of the creature grew louder. “But Crowley has always been stronger than you. And I have the source of that strength right here.” He drew one last line in the glass, and the whole mirror blazed with light.

“Hope,” Aziraphale cried, naming the creature at last. It squeezed him tightly in its coils, and uttered a low, pleased hum.

The mirror grew hot in his hands, burning him, cauterizing the deep cuts in his palm. He dropped it, leaping back as it began to pulse with red and gold light. The creature disappeared from around his shoulders in a shower of sparks, flowing into the mirror to rejoin the whole, completing the final corner stone of Crowley’s foundation.

Images flashed in the light. Crowley in Eden, starting at him with curiosity. Crowley, sheltering children in the ark. Screaming at his plants. Teasing the ducks in the park. The pride in his eyes as he watched Aziraphale after the end of the world. Crowley standing at the airfield, ready to face down Satan with nothing but a piece of scrap metal in his hands. Crowley in his workroom, carefully working on his garden. Crowley, sprawled out on the sofa in the bookshop, watching him with love, painfully clear on his face. And one final image, Crowley, looking up at Aziraphale with hope in his eyes.

The light went out. And Aziraphale was left alone in the clearing, facing the insane Throne. It howled its rage, surging forward, over the mirror, screaming as it came. Aziraphale stumbled back, panicking, searching for his sword. There, behind him. On the ground. He scrambled for it. The Throne was gaining. He wouldn’t make it in time.

“No, wait-” he cried out, suddenly terrified. The sound was drowned out by the roar of the Throne. His grasping fingers just missed the hilt of his sword. He turned, fell, and looked up to see the Throne barreling towards him.

“STOP!”

They both froze. A third voice echoed across the clearing. “Leave him alone.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed. He watched as his demon - and it was, undeniably, his demon, whole and complete once more - appeared from behind the Throne. He looked tired, like a man who was only just recovered from a long illness. But he was real, and so gloriously alive.

“Hey, angel,” he said, smiling the smile that was just for Aziraphale. Then his jaw tightened and get turned to glare at the Throne. “You will not harm him,” Crowley growled, low and dangerous. “I forbid it.”

“YOU WILL NOT BE RID OF ME FOREVER,” the Throne screamed, fires flaring, but it did not attack. It appeared frozen in place, as if Crowley’s gaze had locked it there completely.

The demon shrugged. “Eh. Maybe. Maybe not. But you won’t get the better of me again.”

“YOU WILL DIE IN A PIT OF DESPAIR!” it wailed. “YOU WILL PERISH IN A HELL OF YOUR OWN MAKING!”

“No,” he told it. “I really don’t think I will.”

He looked at Aziraphale then, at the sword that had finally found its way into his hand. “Can I borrow that?”

“Oh,” the angel stared at it, forgetting how he had picked it up. “Yes. Of course.” He held it out, but to his surprise, Crowley took his whole hand, pulling him to his feet.

“I don’t think I can quite manage it alone,” he murmured. “It’s taking most of what I’ve got just to keep it over there. Will you help?”

Aziraphale smiled at him. “Yes, of course, dear boy. Of course.”

He gave the angel a quick grin. “On three then. One,” the turned, and Aziraphale’s eyes went wide as he saw the Throne moving to attack them.

“Two,” Crowley gripped his fingers tightly over the sword, turning them both to the side. His body pressed against Aziraphale’s back, warm, and solid, and comforting.

“Three.” They thrust out and up, spearing several of the Throne’s interlocking wheels.

The Throne howled in agony. Fire from the sword flared up, igniting the golden rings. The Throne’s flames rose, growing hotter and hotter with the added Holy fire. The Throne screamed.

“DOWN!” Crowley tackled him, throwing Aziraphale into the grass and covering him with his body. At the very last second he threw out a shield of Hellfire, blocking both flame and shrapnel from hitting them as the Throne exploded.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Aziraphale blinked spots from his eyes, staring at the place where the Throne had been. His sword lay atop the scorched grass, the only remnant of the Throne’s existence.

Slowly, he became aware of a warm weight on his chest. He looked down, to find Crowley sprawled across him where he had fallen before the blast.

“Well, that was fun,” the demon muttered, slowly collecting his limbs and moving into a sitting position. “You ok, angel?”

“Ok?” Aziraphale squeaked, watching him with wide eyes. “I- yes, of course I’m ok. You- you’re alright!” And then, to his embarrassment, he threw himself into the demon’s arms and began to sob.

“Hey, hey, it’s ok,” Crowley gathered him close, pulling him into his lap carefully. “You’re alright. I’m here. I’m here. You did brilliantly.”

“You- you were dead,” Aziraphale sobbed into his shirt. “You were - you were just gone, and I thought - I thought I’d lost you forever.”

“I know. I know,” he said, wrapping his arms around the angel and rubbing his back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to leave you.”

“You - you utter bastard,” Aziraphale accused, thumping a fist weakly against his shoulder. “How could you do that?”

“It’s not like I had a choice. You know that.” Crowley caught the flailing fist with his free hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, effectively silencing him. “There,” he smiled warmly, dropping the angel’s hand to his lap. “That’s better.”

Aziraphale stared at him. At that familiar, beloved face, he had seen so many times before. His eyes danced with mischief, and his smile was warm and wide and so, achingly familiar. He’d been so very afraid that he would never see this face again. Haltingly, he reached up, and brushed his fingers across Crowley’s cheekbones. The demon hummed, leaning into the caress, closing his eyes like a contented cat as Aziraphale cradled his face in his hands, hard-pressed to believe this was real.

“You’re really real,” Aziraphale said, breathless with wonder.

“Mm, I think so,” Crowley said, nuzzling into his hand. “This feels too good for me to be an illusion.”

Aziraphale gave a strangled half-laugh, half sob, curling his fingers in soft scarlet hair. “You bastard. Don’t you dare ever do this to me again.”

“Won’t,” Crowley said, cracking an eye open and grinning at him. “If you tell me you love me.”

“You wily serpent, of course I love you,” Aziraphale told him, laughing and crying at the same time. “I should think that was obvious at this point. And if I haven’t said it enough, to each and every one of your aspects in one way or another, I’ll say it again. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Crowley stared at him, stunned, and then his face broke into a joyful smile, so wide it might have cracked his face in half. “You do,” he said, still a little incredulous. “Just as much as I love you.” Aziraphale could feel the joy and love rolling off of him in waves. He leaned in, and Aziraphale tilted his face forward, expectant, and closed his eyes. He could feel the demon’s warm breath on his face, closer than they had ever let themselves get before.

“Angel, I-” Crowley stopped hesitant. Aziraphale sighed with impatience, and pulled his head down, leaning forward and capturing his lips with his own. Crowley froze for just a second, surprise jolting through them and turning quickly to pleasure. He pulled Aziraphale closer to him, until he was entirely in the demon’s lap. Aziraphale hummed in pleasure and wrapped his legs around the demon’s waist, holding him so tightly nothing in the entire world could tear them apart. The world around them shrunk down to just this little pocket of the universe. Just them. Two bodies. Heat and breath and motion. Warm skin against warm skin, the blood singing in their veins. Emotions leaked between them, love echoing love, until it became impossible to tell which one a feeling belonged to.

“Never,” Aziraphale gasped, barely lifting his lips from Crowley’s to form the words. “Never letting you go again.”

“What?” Crowley chuckled, his fingers digging into the angel’s shoulders he was holding him so tight. “Gonna tie me up? Chain me to your bed?”

The angel laughed. “Don’t tempt me. I just might.”

“Oh, you know me, angel,” he grinned, kissing Aziraphale lightly on the nose. “Always up for a good temptation.”

Aziraphale pulled away just a few inches, laughing and shaking his head. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Demon,” Crowley pointed out, laughing too.

“My demon,” Aziraphale corrected.

“My angel.”

“Yes,” he agreed, sighing, and resting his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “Your angel.”

Crowley held him like that for some time, long enough for a muscle in his legs to start to cramp up. He winced, untangling himself from the demon, and looked up to find fresh tear tracks on Crowley’s face.

“My dear, what-?” he brushed the tears away with careful fingers.

“Sorry,” Crowley reached up, scrubbing at his eyes. “Sorry, I don’t-”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale caught his wrists, gently pushing his arms down. “Crowley, it’s alright. What’s wrong?”

“I was -” he looked away, down to where Aziraphale’s hand rested on his wrist, Creation’s ring glittering on his finger. “I thought I was dead for sure. Worse than dead. I was-”

“You very nearly were,” the angel acknowledged, and Crowley winced, stifling a sob.

“I knew, I knew before it happened what it would do to me. I thought I was prepared for it, but when I felt it all go to pieces, I just…” He shook his head, more tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

“It’s okay, dear one,” Aziraphale promised, pulling close again, but this time bringing Crowley’s head down to rest against his shoulder. “You’re okay now. I promise. I won’t let it happen again.”

“It’s not that.” Crowley’s voice was thick with tears. “Not- not really.”

“Then what is it?”

“I just…” he sobbed again, pressing his face into the soft fabric of Aziraphale’s coat. “I keep thinking. I wasn’t ever going to get to see you again. I’d just be gone, and you’d be there, all alone.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale kissed the top of his head. “You did give me quite a scare, my dear. But it’s over now. We’re both here. Both alive.”

“Yeah,” Crowley sniffed, leaning back and rubbing at his eyes. “Yeah,” he said again. “And that’s- thank you, Aziraphale. For believing in me. Even when I couldn’t believe in myself.”

The angel smiled, and caressed his cheek, smoothing away the last of his tears. “It wasn’t very hard, dear,” he said. “You do it all the time for me.”

Crowley had no answer to that, so he simply kissed him again.

The next time they came apart, though, Crowley sighed. “As much as I love having you in my lap,” he said, gently patting Aziraphale’s backside and making the angel jump. “I’m afraid we should probably get back to the real world soon. Didn’t you tell… oh, I can’t remember which piece of me. One of ‘em at any rate. Didn’t you tell me Adam came down to Hell with you?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale bolted upright, staring at Crowley in horror, having forgotten entirely that they weren’t actually back on Earth. “Oh, I’d completely forgotten. I just left him out there at the door to your cell. Oh,” he wrung his hands together, twisting Crowley’s ring around his finger. “And poor Anathema and Newton are up there watching the entrance for who knows how long!”

The demon grabbed him by the shoulders giving him a gentle shake until he stopped speaking. “It’s fine, it’s, well, it’s probably fine. Time passes weird here. Most likely, up there, it’s only been a few minutes. No guarantees about how long it’s been back on Earth though, Hell Time likes to fuck with reality. We could be back before we left, or it could be six months. Won’t know until we’re out.”

“Oh-” Aziraphale started to worry again, until he caught sight of the grin on Crowley’s face. “Oh, you- you old serpent. Don’t do that to me. One of these days you’ll give my corporation a heart attack, and then where will you be?”

“Miracling it better so you don’t have to ask Heaven for a new one, I suppose.” He grinned, then stood, offering Aziraphale a hand up.

“Well.” The angel huffed, but took the offered hand and let him pull him to his feet.

Crowley laughed at him, then walked over to the mirror and grabbed it off the ground.

“Huh,” he said, examining it.

“What?” Aziraphale asked, coming to stand at his side.

“It’s pretty,” Crowley told him, running his fingers over the twisting vines. “You made this?”

The angel shrugged, not entirely sure. “It just sort of… happened. When I got to your core, I found the creature - hope - and a few thousand shards of metal and glass. So I just… remembered you, and put the pieces back together from that.”

Crowley turned it over in his hands, examining the smooth metal back. “I guess I thought, well, I’m not sure what I thought my cornerstone might look like. I knew it was shattering, but I didn’t think much about the form. Guess I expected a concrete block or something.”

Aziraphale snorted, picturing himself carrying around a large brick as he walked around Eden. “That would have been heavy, and awkward to carry around down here, dear.”

The demon shot him a look. “I didn’t say it made sense,” he said defensively.

Aziraphale chuckled. “Dear boy, after what we’ve been through today, I’d be very surprised if either of us were in a fit state to make sense.”

“Ah.” Crowley sobered, staring down at the mirror in his hands. “About that…”

The angel felt a twinge of worry. “What?”

Crowley took a deep breath. “I, um, I’m going to need you to do one more thing for me, angel. I’m sorry. I hate to ask, but…”

Aziraphale gently placed his hands over the demons’, waiting until he looked up and met his eyes. “Don’t apologize for needing something, my dear. You know I’ll gladly give it to you. Whatever you ask.”

Crowley blinked, looking stunned. Then he shook his head, and took another deep breath. “I, ah. When we go back up there,” he pointed vaguely towards the sky, “I’m going to have to rebuild my physical form. I know it’s a lot to ask on top of everything you’ve already done, but I’m going to need you to get me out of Hell. I probably won’t be strong enough to even really stand on my own, let alone get us out past who knows how many demons.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale told him warmly. “I didn’t know how I’d find you, when I had Adam lead me down here. I was prepared to carry you out over my shoulder if need be. I won’t have you spending another minute in this place that you don’t have to.”

“Thanks, angel. I’ll make it up to you.”

The angel smiled.”I’m sure you will, my dear.”

Crowley nodded, then sighed. “I suppose we’d best get on with it then.”

“Do you…” Aziraphale inspected his face, noting the lines of tension around his eyes and the tightness of his jaw. “Do you need any help? I could…” in truth he wasn’t sure what he could do to help with this final step, but he wanted to make the offer.

The demon shook his head. “Nah. I’ve got to do this. Did it once before, just after I Fell. It’s just… hard is all. Painful. And kind of messy for a bit, before all the bits get put back in the right place. Well. Nothing for it but to just rip off the bandaid.” He offered Aziraphale the mirror. “You should probably head up first. This,” he gestured to the Garden all around them, “is going to all go away in a minute.”

“Alright. If you’re sure.” He took the mirror from his hands.

“Just - don’t worry if it takes a minute,” Crowley warned him. “There’s a lot of pieces I still need to put back in place. But it won’t be long. I promise.”

He nodded. He didn’t like the sound of that, but if Crowley said it would be alright, he would have to trust him on that. It was Crowley’s soul, after all. “Just so long as you come back,” he said.

“I promise.”

It was enough.

He reached for his power, ready to return to the physical world, then paused, a thought striking him. “Will you… remember? Everything that happened?”

Crowley shrugged. “Maybe? Can’t say I’ve met anyone who got rebuilt from the inside out like this. Could be I’ll remember everything. Or it could be I’ll forget everything that happened after I got back to my flat the other night. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Oh.” He fought back his disappointment. He didn’t want Crowley to forget their kiss.

As if he knew what Aziraphale was thinking, Crowley grinned. “I think I’ll remember though. Pretty sure I’m not about to forget my first kiss.”

“Well, just in case,” Aziraphale grabbed him by the jacket and pulled him close for one more lingering kiss.

When they broke apart, they were both panting. Crowley’s hair was mussed from where Aziraphale had buried his fingers in it, and it took all of his self control to refrain from diving right back in.

Crowley must have been having similar thoughts because he stepped back, pressing the mirror to Aziraphale’s chest. “We’ll have all the time in the world for that later,” he said.

Reluctantly, Aziraphale agreed. “Alright.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll… see you on the other side, then?”

The demon reached out, grabbing the hand the bore his ring. “It’s a promise,” he said, kissing Aziraphale’s fingers just above the ring.

“Good luck.” Aziraphale’s fingers gripped the edges of the mirror tightly, and he took one more look at the beauty around them. “Don’t take too long,” he warned. “Or else I’ll be forced to come back in to get you.”

Crowley laughed. “Get going, angel. The sooner you’re gone, the sooner I can start. And the sooner I’ll see you again. Alright?”

“Alright.” He paused, and then added, “I love you.”

Crowley’s eyes widened, and his face broke out into a wide grin. “I love you too, angel. Now get moving.”

Aziraphale nodded, and looked into the mirror. For the first time since he’d finished putting it together, it showed him his reflection. Then it blazed with light, and he was falling. Falling up, up, up and out, faster than he could have imagined possible. In seconds, he slammed back into the dark, dirty cell, landing hard on his rear. Crowley’s monstrous form pulled away from him, hissing, and he stared at it in dismay.

“Crowley?” he asked, forgetting that the demon had warned it would take some time. “Are you… are you in there?”

A thousand eyes watched him, reminding him of the creature. The creature, which had been all that remained after Crowley shattered. Just his Hope, his belief that somehow, after everything, it would all turn out alright. He sat still, watching the mindless beast watching him.

Time stretched, seeming endless.

And then, the beast began to writhe, tendrils of darkness flinging out and pulling in. Eyes opening and closing, mouths gnashing teeth and disappearing into darkness. Its fires flared, brighter and brighter, until Aziraphale was forced to cover his eyes.

When he opened them again, the flames were gone, and he watched in shock as the dark, liquid form of the beast in the cell gathered together, forming wide bands. Soon it hung in the air before him, a mad gyroscope that reminded him of the form of the Throne, though this creature was black as midnight, and still had all of its eyes. It blinked at him for several long seconds, just hanging there quietly.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked tentatively. The demon shuddered, closing all of its eyes. And then it seemed to twist in on itself, darkness bubbling as it grew more and more compact, taking on a smaller and smaller form, until the familiar outlines of Crowley’s preferred shape began to form. Color drained into him, like paint in a waterfall. The greys and blacks of his clothes. The pale tones of his flesh. The scarlet of his hair. Even the silver of his glasses. It felt rather like watching someone fill up a jar with sand, only in this case it was Crowley and color.

And then, it was over. Crowley gasped, taking in that first deep breath of air.His eyes opened wide behind the glasses, and Aziraphale lunged forward just in time. He caught him as Crowley fell against his shoulder, weak as an overcooked noodle.

“Angel?” he asked, grasping at him with weak hands.

“Here, love,” Aziraphale said pulling him close. “I’m right here.”

Crowley was warm in his arms. It was that warmth that convinced him this was real.

“Angel,” Crowley sighed, and passed out against his shoulder.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale lifted Crowley into his arms, reassured by the solid warmth of him against his chest. He looked exhausted, too-pale, with deep purple bags under his eyes. He weighed so little, Aziraphale needed hardly any of his angelic strength to carry him. But his presence was there, wrapped around the angel once more. That comforting, warm feeling of safety and home. The feeling of being loved.

“I have you, my dear,” the angel told the unconscious demon. “You’re alright now.”

Crowley groaned, curling tighter against Aziraphale’s chest. His hands gripped the fabric of his jacket as he pressed his face against the angel’s shoulder. Aziraphale sighed in relief. Not unconscious, then, just very tired. He’d probably sleep for a week once they got home.

Home. To get back, they’d need to go through Hell. Aziraphale glanced at the heavy steel door Adam had shut behind him at the start of all this. There was no telling what they would find out there. Thoughts of Beelzebub and an army flitted through his mind, and he flexed his hand, missing the sword that had only existed in Crowley’s imagination.

“Can you wake up for me a little, dear?” the angel asked, keeping his voice quiet. “I may have to defend us soon.”

The demon groaned again, opening bleary eyes behind his glasses. “Tired,” he mumbled. “M’ body’s… mush.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said patiently. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. But I need at least one hand free. Do you think you can stand if I support you?”

Crowley considered it for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah… probably.”

Aziraphale helped him to stand, draping his arm around the angel’s shoulders so that most of his weight was on Aziraphale and not legs as trembly and weak as a new fawn’s.

“Forgot what it’s like in a new body,” Crowley mumbled as they made their slow way over to the door. “Everything feels like… like new shoes. All tight and… itchy.”

Aziraphale patted his arm. “That’s alright, you’ll have plenty of time to break it in once we’re back on Earth.”

The demon laughed and wiggled his eyebrows at him. “Break it in, hmm?”

“Not like that!” Aziraphale protested, then paused, blushing. “Well, maybe like that. But only if you want.”

“Mm.” Crowley hummed. “Maybe, once my bones stop feeling like noodles.”

“You poor thing. I’m sorry I can’t just carry you, but I don’t know what’s outside.” Aziraphale wished he could just miracle them back to Earth, but there was Adam to think of, and he had no idea if one even could miracle themselves out of Hell. It was a chancy business doing it out of Heaven - it was why he’d always used the elevator. From what Crowley had said, he rather expected Hell was the same.

“’S why I told you to stay away,” Crowley muttered. “’S not safe.” He sighed, letting more of his weight sag against Aziraphale. “’M gonna be properly angry with you later,” he mumbled. “When ’m not so tired. Bloody stupid thing to do, coming down here.”

“You would have done the same for me,” Aziraphale reminded him. He suspected they would have to talk about this later, about all of it. The lies, the letters, and everything that had happened since that night when Crowley asked if he thought about love. There were many conversations to be had there. But it could all wait until they were safe once again.

“Wouldn’t,” the demon told him, but they both knew it was a lie.

Looking out the view slot in the door, Aziraphale couldn’t make out any movement. He frowned, wishing his field of vision wasn’t so limited. Anything could be hiding there, just out of sight.

“Adam?” he called, raising his free hand to bang on the door. “We’re alright. You can open the door now.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Aziraphale,” a bright voice called from somewhere down the hall. A moment later, Adam moved into view and reached for the lever that kept the door closed.

“Wait.” The buzz in that voice was unmistakable. Beelzebub was there. “They can mimic voices. It could be a trick.”

They waited as the prince approached the door. “Stand back,” they ordered, and Aziraphale moved away. Beelzebub peered into the cell, their eyes widening when they saw not the mindless monster that had been there when he entered, but instead Crowley, safe and whole, supported by the angel but very much alive.

“Hey boss,” Crowley said, giving them a cheeky grin and a small wave. “Care to let us out?”

“That iz impozzible!” Beelzebub stared. “Your soul wazz shattered.”

Crowley leaned heavily against Aziraphale, but his voice held no trace of his exhaustion. “Turns out,” he said, “all you need to save a shattered demon is somebody who knows them well enough to dive into their soul, put together their cornerstone, and then go piece by piece through the broken shards of their soul and heal them from the inside out. Who knew?”

Beelzebub’s astonished gaze turned to Aziraphale. “You did this?”

Aziraphale glared, remembering the prince’s threats when he had encountered them in Crowley’s flat. “I did. Now let us out. I’m taking him home. You swore to leave him alone after Armageddon. You can’t keep him here against his will.”

“Open it!” Beelzebub snapped, stepping back as the door swung open, their eyes not leaving the pair in the cell.

“That’s better.” Aziraphale shifted Crowley until they could walk together. Slowly they moved through the door. There was a small card table set up in the hall, with seats for three. The disposable demon sat there, looking shell-shocked with a hand of cards in front of him. Adam’s jacket was draped over another chair, a hand of cards face-down on the table. Beelzebub still held their cards, forgotten in one hand as they continued to stare.

“I don’t understand,” they buzzed, looking from Crowley, to Aziraphale, to the empty cell. “It should not be possible.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “It turns out it is.” He turned away from the prince, looking for Adam. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Adam said, as if they were talking about leaving a restaurant or a movie theater rather than Hell. “I was about to win for the tenth time anyway.” He went to the table and flipped over his cards, revealing a royal flush. Then he grinned at the disposable demon. “See you, Eric.”

The demon nodded, though his eyes were still on Crowley, who was leaning against Aziraphale and trying to pretend he wasn’t too weak to walk on his own.

Aziraphale watched Beelzebub, prepared for the prince to try to keep them there.

Beelzebub in turn stared at the both of them. The angel could feel them looking not just at their physical bodies, but also their true forms. Searching for any hint that this was a trick.

“Did the creature you locked in that cell have any sort of intelligence?” Aziraphale snapped, wanting badly to just go home. “Was it in any way capable of pretending to be the real Crowley?”

The prince shook their head. “It wazz not. But you may be.”

“And why would I do that?” Aziraphale asked, offended. “What could possibly make me want to release something like that on the earth? The destruction alone…” he didn’t even want to think about the kind of damage Crowley’s monster could have done, if it had been allowed to roam freely.

“You love him,” Beelzebub said, as if that would be enough. As if Aziraphale would betray every one of his principles and put the planet he cared for in danger just for love.

“I wouldn’t do that,” He snapped. “Not even for Crowley.”

The prince just looked at him. “Wouldn’t you?”

Aziraphale bristled, readying a biting retort, then deflated. It wasn’t so far-fetched an idea. He had known humans who had been willing to do nearly as much, for much less. What if he hadn’t been able to put Crowley back together so neatly? Would he have thought that perhaps, with more time, he could have succeeded? He would have brought the monster home, kept it in his flat, and tried for as long as it took to get his demon to return to him. And if he wasn’t careful enough, or strong enough, to keep it locked in… the outcome of that would have been unthinkable. But it was not outside the realm of possibility.

“Oh, for-” Crowley growled, and tried to take a step forward, only for his recently-reconstructed legs to give out on him, forcing him to lean against Aziraphale once more. “Look,” he said tiredly. “Do you remember what you asked me, six thousand years ago?”

Beelzebub nodded. “I do.”

“You asked me if there was hope for us. I didn’t have an answer then, but I do now.”

Aziraphale watched Beelzebub’s face, imagining the prince as they must have been six thousand years before. Newly Fallen, broken and raw, terrified of becoming the same mindless creatures they had just been forced to hunt down and destroy. He had never expected to have sympathy for a demon that wasn’t Crowley, but now he wondered. How many of them were crumbling apart inside, afraid of losing themselves but unable to stop it? And how many angels were suffering the same way? The War had broken all of them, in one way or another.

“And what,” the prince of Hell asked carefully, “iz your answer?”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale and smiled. “There’s always hope. We just have to look for it.”

Beelzebub stared hard at the both of them for some time, their face unreadable. At last, they nodded. “Very well. You may go.”

“Thank somebody,” Crowley muttered under his breath.

Aziraphale turned to leave, but Crowley stood still a moment longer, looking at the prince. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For what you did before. For getting me out of London before I did any real damage.”

“Don’t mention it.” The buzz was thicker in Beelzebub’s voice. “Juszt remember your end of the bargain.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley flapped a weak hand in their general direction. “Be there when you shatter. I got it. But-” he glanced down the hall, to where a very worried-looking Dagon was approaching with an equally annoyed Gabriel, and grinned. “I really don’t think you’ll need it.” He gave the newcomers a cheeky little wave, then turned back to Aziraphale.

“Come on, angel, let’s go home.”

“Gladly.” Aziraphale wrapped his arm around Crowley’s waist and looked for Adam, who was waiting for them. It was time to go, before Gabriel could get any closer. He had no doubt the archangel would keep them there indefinitely if he could.

“C’mon, kid,” the demon said, ruffling Adam’s hair affectionately. The boy laughed, sliding in under Crowley’s other arm and helping Aziraphale to support him.

No one stopped them as they made their way back up through Hell. The putrid halls were empty as they passed through, though sometimes Aziraphale got the distinct feeling of being watched. He was glad no one stopped them. With each step, he felt more and more exhausted - worn out by everything he had just been through. Crowley sagged against him, using both Aziraphale and Adam for support just to keep upright. Eventually, they found the door that hid their entrance, and emerged into the early morning light.

Anathema sat upright when they climbed out of the tree, the book she had been reading falling to the ground as she jerked awake. Newton, asleep on her shoulder, fell backwards with a startled cry. He blinked up at them blearily, rubbing at his eyes.

“Aziraphale! Crowley!” Anathema jumped up, catching Crowley as the demon stumbled forward and finally collapsed. Newt was only a few seconds behind her, catching Aziraphale as he, too collapsed.

“They’re alright,” Adam assured them. “Just tired, I think. Mr. Aziraphale had to put Mr. Crowley’s soul back together.”

Aziraphale yawned, too tired to do anything more than let Newt support him. Now that they were free of Hell, he felt like a puppet with it’s strings cut. Without the adrenalin to keep his human corporation going, it was all but impossible to make it move.

“How long- ” he asked, watching Crowley, who couldn’t even muster the strength to sit up with Anathema’s help. “How long were we gone?”

“Four years,” Anathema said seriously.

“What?!” That gave him enough of a jolt that he could sit up. “Four years?”

Newt sighed and rolled his eyes while his lover laughed. “Relax. It was more like fifteen hours. You left yesterday afternoon, and it’s only -” he checked his watch. “Seven am.” He looked at Adam. “We told your parents you were with Anathema in London, but you should call them. They were worried.”

Adam nodded, pulling out his phone.

“We need to close the gate,” Anathema reminded him. “We really don’t need demons finding it and getting loose right now.”

“I’ll get it.” Crowley allowed Anathema to help him sit up and waved his hand in the direction of the tree. With a sucking sound, the tree seemed to bend around the hollow, then it bulged outward from the base until, with a faint pop, the hole disappeared and they were left looking at rough bark and a perfectly round trunk.

“’S not good for the tree, leaving it with a hole like that,” Crowley said, then promptly collapsed back against Anathema.

“Right.” Newt and Anathema traded looks. “Lets get you both somewhere to rest.”

It took all three humans to get the exhausted angel and demon into Newt’s car. Aziraphale refused to have Crowley out of his sight so they settled on loading the both of them into the back seat of Dick Turpin with Adam, while Anathema sat up front and Newt drove.

“Where to?” Newt asked, once they were all finally settled in the car. “We don’t really have a spare bed, but you’re welcome to stay with us at Jasmine Cottage, or…”

“Home,” Crowley said quietly, his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, too tired to even form a full sentence.

“I know you’d like to be back in your flat, dearest,” Aziraphale told him. “But I’m not sure either of us is in any condition to climb those stairs right now.”

“No,” the demon shook his head. “Home. Bookshop.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale couldn’t help the soft feeling that spread through him, warming him from inside at the realization that Crowley thought of his bookshop as home. “Yes, of course dear. That’s an excellent idea.”

They dropped Adam off at home. Aziraphale reached out and took his hand, before he could get out of the car.

“I don’t know how I can ever thank you,” he said. “Without you, Crowley might still be… well. I owe you - all three of you -” he looked at Newt and Anathema. “Everything. If there’s any way I can repay you-”

Adam shrugged, looking uncomfortable at the praise. “I didn’t do much. You’d have found a way in without me.”

“He’s right,” Crowley said, giving the boy an exhausted smile. “We both owe you, kid. And you two.”

Anathema nodded, as if she expected the thanks, while Newt grinned, not seeming to mind either way.

“No,” Adam shook his head. “You were there when I needed you. This was just me returning the favor.”

Aziraphale started to protest, but Crowley just nodded.

“You’re a good kid, Adam Young.”

Adam grinned. “You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Crowley.” Then, before any of them could say anything else, he noticed someone coming down the street.

“Oh, that’s Pepper!” He opened the car door and scrambled out, calling after his friend.

Before closing the door, Aziraphale made a complicated hand gesture. Four new bicycles suddenly lined up against the fence, each in the style preferred by one of the Them. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had the energy for at the moment. Something small, to thank Adam for what he’d done for them.

“Kid’s getting one hell of a birthday present this year,” Crowley mumbled, letting his head fall back down to the angel’s shoulder. “Maybe… a new car.”

“You can’t give a twelve-year-old a car, dear,” Aziraphale tried to tell him, but his demon had already fallen back to sleep.

By the time they reached London, both Crowley and Aziraphale were deeply asleep. They didn’t even wake when Newt and Anathema carried them, one by one, into the bookshop - which miraculously opened for them, though Aziraphale had been sure to lock it when they left. They settled them both on the couch in the shop’s back room, which had miraculously grown large enough for both angel and demon to stretch out on it. Anathema collected pillows from the chair for them, while Newt tucked them in carefully with a warm blanket. By the time they left, both man-shaped beings were curled together, Crowley’s head on Aziraphale’s chest, while the angel held him close and tangled their legs together. Both were sleeping peacefully.

Neither human was surprised when, upon their return to Jasmine Cottage, they found a beautifully re-done kitchen, and an extremely comfortable new bed in their shared bedroom. There would be time for more thanks later. When they were recovered, Aziraphale and Crowley would visit, and say and do all the things they needed to in gratitude for what Anathema and Newt had done. For now, though, the humans would let their friends rest. And if they spent a little more time than normal simply holding each other, and being grateful that the other was still in their lives? Well, that’s nobody’s business but their own.

Later, much later, after the sun had set, then risen, and set again, Aziraphale awoke in his bookshop. For one awful moment, he feared the past few days had been a dream. That he would open his eyes, and Crowley would still be gone. Then he felt the warm weight on his chest. Heard the deep, even breaths in his ear. Warm hands clutched at the fabric of his waistcoat, and long legs were wrapped around his. He opened his eyes to a field of vision obstructed by a mass of red hair.

“Crowley,” he realized, the name a soft prayer on his lips. His demon didn’t stir, except to, impossibly, snuggle closer. Aziraphale lay there like that for some time, reveling in the solid reality of the demon in his arms. There was, he thought, no better feeling in the world than this. To be together, and safe, wrapped up in each other and sheltered from the outside world.

Eventually, though, he sat up, moving until he could sit with his feet on the floor, and Crowley’s head in his lap. Obediently, the couch shrunk back to its normal size, but Crowley grumbled in his sleep, making a face at the loss of warmth and shifting until he could throw his arms around the angel’s waist. Aziraphale smiled fondly down at him, desperately glad that he was here, and safe, and real.

Seeing that the demon seemed completely un-inclined to wake soon, he summoned a cup of cocoa and a book to the table beside the couch and settled in. As time passed, he found his hand drifting down to rest on Crowley’s arm, or tangle his fingers in his hair. Anything, to reassure himself that he was still there. His steady breath was a welcome sound, proof of life in the silent room. At some point his glasses had fallen from his face, and Aziraphale picked them up, folding them and depositing them carefully within reach if he should wake and want them. He didn’t even twitch. When Aziraphale extended a bit of his external senses into Crowley’s consciousness, he found him so deeply asleep he wasn’t even dreaming.

“Probably for the best, my dear,” he said softly, pulling back and gently running his thumb along the demon’s jawline. “After what you’ve just been through, I can’t imagine your dreams would be pleasant.” His own had been tainted by fear, running down endless hallways of Hell or Heaven, searching for Crowley and never finding him. He suspected it would be a very long time before those nightmares would leave him. But they would be worth it, if every time he could wake up to Crowley at his side.

At last, when the sun was high in the sky once more, Crowley groaned and shifted, turning onto his back and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale told him, putting his book down and letting his hand fall to rest on the top of his demon’s head. “Did you sleep well?”

“Mm, yeah,” Crowley yawned. “Better than I have in a long time, actually.” He blinked, surprised at his own words. “I-” he stopped, frowning. “How’d I get here?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s heart sank. Had he forgotten? “What do you remember?”

Crowley’s frown deepened and he wrinkled his brow in thought. “I was… here. Then I went home, and-!” He sat up suddenly, startled. “Angel! You can’t - I can’t be here. I have to leave, it’s not safe-”

“Calm down, dear,” Aziraphale caught his hands, steadying him as he almost fell from the couch, “It’s alright. You’re not in danger any more. You won’t shatter again.”

“I- what?” He froze, staring at the angel’s face. “I…” He shook his head. “I don’t…”

Aziraphale took a deep, steadying breath, squeezing his hands gently. “You’re safe,” he said. “Try to remember. What happened after you left here?”

“I…” he shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “I was… Beelzebub came. Took me to Hell. And then…” his eyes widened. “You were there!” He turned, reaching for Aziraphale’s hand, suddenly frantic. He sighed when his fingers found the band with the glittering star-stone. “That was… all of that, it was real?”

The angel hated the uncertainty in his voice, and vowed once more to do everything in his power to ensure Crowley never had to doubt his affections again. Carefully, he reached into a pocket, and pulled out the matching ring, offering it to his demon.

“It was all real.”

“Then…” Crowley took the ring in trembling fingers, sliding into place on his hand. Both rings flashed brightly as it settled before fading, leaving them blinking away spots in the dim shop. “Oh.” The demon smiled. “That is real.” He looked back up, meeting Aziraphale’s concerned gaze.

“You love me,” he said, still smiling.

“And you love me,” Aziraphale nodded. “Yes.” Somehow, he was still surprised when Crowley leaned forward, and pulled him into a kiss.

Later, much later, when they were comfortably settled on the sofa once more with Crowley’s head in Aziraphale’s lap, the angel decided to voice a question that had been nagging at him for some time.

“Can I ask you something, dear one?” Aziraphale asked, running his fingers through Crowley’s hair.

“Shoot.” The demon grinned at him, making a gesture like shooting a gun up into the air.

“Haha, very funny,” Aziraphale gave him a dry laugh.

Crowley grinned. “I try.”

Aziraphale swatted him lightly on the arm, laughing as he groaned like the angel had stabbed him through the heart. He waited until the demon was calm before speaking again, “I do have something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

His face fell, and he sighed. “I know that look. It’s about your… adventure through my soul, isn’t it?”

The angel nodded. “It is, but if you’d rather not talk about it…”

“No, no,” he waved his hands in a ‘go on’ gesture. “You’re the one that had to take a walk through crazy town. Least I can do is answer your burning questions.”

“I would hardly call it ‘crazy town’,” Aziraphale said, grinning a little at the face Crowley made when he said imitated his pronunciation of ‘crazy town’. “But I was wondering…”

“Yes?” Crowley prompted, when he paused to find the right words.

“Why Eden?”

The demon considered his question. “Well…” he said, after a moment. “I suppose because of Hope. It was born there, after all.”

Aziraphale blinked at him, surprised. “It was?”

“Mm, yeah.” Crowley smiled. “You know when it was?”

“No,” the angel shook his head. “When?”

Crowley stretched, slouching to sprawl more fully across the tattered tartan couch and the angel’s lap. “It was -” he yawned. “It was when I first saw you, up there on the wall. You were something different. An angel that didn’t just do as he was told. You cared. And when I saw you’d given the humans your sword… well.” He yawned again, closing his eyes in pleasure as Aziraphale started massaging his scalp. “I figured, if somebody like you existed, it wasn’t all a lost cause.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale couldn’t help the warm feeling of pleasure that coursed through him at the words. “I didn’t know.”

“Course not.” The demon was practically boneless in his lap, contentment rolling off him in waves. “I didn’t tell you.”

“Well.” Aziraphale kissed him on the forehead. “I know now. And I’m glad.” He hesitated then, the words he wanted to say stalling on his tongue as they always did. But… he didn’t want to be ruled by fear anymore, his voice silenced by the terror of revealing too much, of being known. He’d made that mistake once, and he refused to do so again.

“You give me hope too,” he said. “When you’re here, I can’t help but feel that no matter how bad it gets, it will all come out right in the end. When you- when you disappeared, I, well, I knew something bad had happened almost right away. Do you know why?”

Crowley cracked an eye open to look at his face. “The screaming of the universe from a power shattering didn’t give it away?” he asked with a grin.

Aziraphale chuckled. “No, dear. Though that was rather disconcerting. No, I knew because I can feel you. Your presence in the world.” He could feel it now, warm, and safe, feeling of home. “You feel like… like a warm fire, all around me. It’s - I don’t know that I can really describe it, but it makes me feel safe.”

“Oh.” Crowley turned his face into Aziraphale’s stomach to hide the small, pleased smile that spread across his lips. He mumbled something, into the fabric of the angel’s shirt.

“What’s that, dear?” Aziraphale asked, leaning down.

“You make me feel safe too,” Crowley repeated, blushing furiously.

“Do I?” Aziraphale smiled. “I’m glad.”

Crowley took a deep breath, then looked up and met the angel’s eyes. “I love you,” he said clearly. “More than anything.”

For a moment, Aziraphale’s heart stilled. But this time, it did not break. That feeling of heartbreak that had for so long made its home in him was gone, banished as if it had never been.

“I love you too, dear one,” he replied. “Now, and always.”

There were many things they still had to talk about. Six thousand years of hurt and heartbreak could not be smoothed away in a few days, no matter how extraordinary. But they were whole, and they were together. And that, more than anything, was proof that they could face whatever lay ahead. And so, when Aziraphale leaned down Crowley rose to meet him, coming together in a kiss that said all the things they had both been holding back for so long. And the feeling of love in the bookshop grew, until even non-magical beings could sense its strength.