Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Just remember I’ll have known that, deep down inside, you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking,” Crowley said, face taut as he gripped Aziraphale in one hand, his almighty weapon (a tire iron) in the other. Aziraphale smiled, squeezing his hand as Shadwell pushed past them, muttering some nonsense about using his finger. Grimacing, Crowley squeezed back, not lessening his grip as the ground boiled over and rose. As he watched the same scene, Aziraphale sighed, feeling the first bits of calm he had since this whole mess had started eleven years ago. It was with relief that he let out his wings, reveling in the feeling of the warm breeze - the last warm breeze, he noted, undismayed - in his feathers and Crowley’s hand in his. He would have laughed, had the red, steaming body of Satan himself not been ripping its way out of the Earth before them. But instead, he just smiled, glancing at Crowley ( dear lord, the boy had quite a bit of ash smudged on his face - not the best way to go ) and opening his mouth.

Then the world disappeared. Not in the way that the light turns off at night, and one is left momentarily blinded as their eyes adjust. Not in the way one goes unconscious, because, well, then Aziraphale couldn’t have thought that the world has disappeared. Instead, it was as if the world had literally disappeared; no sound, no light, no feeling of air brushing the back of one’s hand as they lift it slightly. He took a breath, and his lungs contracted in a perfect inhale and exhale, just without the air. Nothing was left; it was a perfect void.

Or it would have been, could he still not feel the cold, now vice-like grip of Crowley’s hand in his own.

His thoughts and motions felt timeless, moving with an odd choppy sensation like that he had existed in briefly before God had made the world, or time, or space. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his arm, gripping him tightly just above where its partner’s fingers were intertwined with his. He knew it must have moved, it hadn’t been there before (whatever before meant; he was starting to get dizzy imagining it), but it didn’t feel as if it did. The same when suddenly his free hand appeared on the grip, loosening the fingers and wrapping around them until he had both of Crowley’s ice block hands in his. It was surreal, dream-like, like he was half asleep and only just barely aware. Like his only existence was in the choppy, timeless frames of a storyboard, flicking without interval from scene to scene, in which neither he nor Crowley would dare bare contact for free letting go would mean to lose the other to the void as they ‘moved’. His hand back at his side. Crowley’s chest against his. A warmth against his neck, and then suddenly a head of hair under his chin and a nose just barely brushing the croak of his neck. He felt like he was being nuzzled, but couldn’t focus on the movement, couldn’t quite remember it taking place. They were existing, moving, embracing, but not really.

He felt bile appear involuntary in his throat, and then the next time he checked it was gone, so he must have swallowed it.

Finally, they stopped moving, held tightly together and not changing for what could have been moments, could have been millennia. Vaguely, Aziraphale thought it was neither because there was no time, but he couldn’t gather himself together enough to continue the thought. Feeling a pressure appear as Crowley pressed his nose into his throat, Aziraphale’s non-existent breath caught, and something in him started trying to gather where his body was, where Crowley’s was, how they were touching in ways they had never dared before, but that was ridiculous because they were nowhere, there was no space to be in, and gathering his own thoughts to form something so coherent was as futile as herding a dozen cats into a single basket.

So he gave up, giving into his doze and drifting in nothingness for no time at all.

Time restarted when the door opened.

It couldn’t have really been a door, voids like this one didn’t have doors. But it was door-like , at least, in Aziraphale’s opinion. But then again, his next opinion was that the void suddenly smelled like lemon drops, and that couldn’t have been true.

But something must have opened, or at least appeared, because now a square of light was flooding into their lightless abyss. Blinking blearily, Aziraphale heard someone groan. Under his chin, Crowley slowly retracted his head, completely yellow eyes squinting as he hissed at the square of light. Numb and dumbfounded, Aziraphale slowly untangled himself as they floated (through what? who knew) towards the light. He didn’t even have the energy to restrain the blush that crept up his cheeks as he separated his legs from Crowley’s, pulled his chest away a few inches, and submitted to Crowley pulling his head back out from where it had been nestled in the crook of his neck. Swallowing with his dry mouth, Aziraphale wetted his dry lips and glanced anxiously as Crowley, who thank G- S omeone was not looking his way, but rather still squinting into the light. Slowly, they drifted towards the opening, separating but never letting go of their hands, as if were they to let go the other would disappear, float back into the void never to be seen again. 

Eventually, he wasn’t sure when, Aziraphale was able to distinguish a figure in the square of light. It was a child, he thought with surprise, slouching with their hands tucked against their sides, probably slid into pockets, curls outlining a face that was still barely discernible and blocking out the light that should have streamed in above their shoulders.

As they got closer, Aziraphale saw a young child, maybe eleven or twelve years old, with blue eyes and curly golden-brown locks that didn’t look like they listened to a hairbrush. They wore an old, dull blue rain jacket over a grey shirt and a stripy yellow, grey, and light blue t-shirt. Light canvas pants were rolled up to the middle of their shins, leaving a bit of bare skin before cheerful blue and white socks took over. Slowly, the pair of them stopped, leaving their dark void and settling their feet into a new white world (that was, actually, if Aziraphale had thought about it, quite similar to the black void they had just left). Aziraphale looked down at the child, who looked the spitting image of Adam.

Clearing his throat, he said weakly, “Hello, dear girl. Could you-” he paused, grimacing slightly and glancing nervously at Crowley, only to find the snake wasn’t paying any attention, likely still blinded by the light. “Do you-” He gulped, searching for words.

She didn’t answer any of his unspoken questions. Instead, she asked, in a strong, young voice that also sounded just like Adam’s, if a bit higher, “Are you two the lovers?”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped, and though he wouldn’t admit it later he stared, shocked at the girl. Next to him, Crowley gave a little start, squinting his eyes at the child as if she was just starting to focus. “Ngk, whot?” He asked, sounding half asleep still, rubbing a hand across his face. “ ‘Ziraphale, what’s this kid on about?”

She asked again, not looking taken aback at all. “Are you two the lovers?”

“I- I don’t know what you mean,” Aziraphale finally spouted, feeling the urge to anxiously wring his hands again by not wanting to let go of Crowley. He felt his face heat up. “Erm, where-”

“You found them!” A voice, seemingly from across the voice sounded. Starting, Aziraphale and Crowley both turned to stare as a nearly identical child - golden hair, blue eyes, dull cyan jacket, canvas pants - came running up, their feet slapping loudly against an invisible floor.

The girl turned, watching the boy stopped, smiling in front of her, then turned to the two of them.

“I might have, they seem to be a bit drowsy still,” the girl frowned, but seemed relieved as Adam nodded with surety.

“These are the ones, the couple from the End,” he smiled at Aziraphale and Crowley, then stuck out a hand. “Hullo, remember me?”

Aziraphale stared at his hand, completely dumbstruck. It was Crowley, only just dropping his hand from his face, who made the first move, taking his empty right hand and pumping Adam’s up and down without hesitation. “So, what made the difference, kid?”

Adam’s smile didn’t fall as he let go of Crowley’s hand, though he did tilt his head to the side thoughtfully. “The difference?”

Crowley snorted. “Or is this truly our half-holiday, then, and you’re here to tell us time’s about to restart and we’ve all gotta get back to work?”

Adam shook his head. “No, my father is locked away. Like you two were.”

The girl next to him nodded. “He won’t be getting out until we’ve got everything set up again, don’t worry.”

“Get what set up?” Aziraphale asked nervously, finally finding his voice again.

She looked him dead in the eye, face serious, though a small light of mirth danced in her eyes. “The world.”

Chapter Text

As they walked through the void, Adam led them along as the girl explained.

“Mother saw what was happening, you know, that day the world ended. And she supposed that maybe it wasn’t the best idea to go ending everything. But she still didn’t know what to do with the world, so she froze it all, put things in those voids like you were in, and left it to me.”

Aziraphale shook his head, dazed. “I’m sorry, dear girl, could you backtrack? Who is your mother again?”

“And you? Who are you?” Crowley added, brow furrowed like he had a headache.

She glanced as them out of the corner of her eye before looking forward again. “Christ.”

Crowley stumbled, eyes going wide as he sputtered, “ Christ ? What do you mean, Christ?”

She shrugged. “Well, Jesus Christ, technically. But my older brother tends to go by Jesus, so I thought it was easier to be Christ.” A small smile appeared on her face. “Sometimes Adam calls me JC though.”

“Thought it was easier, without all the religious-y stuff attached to it,” Adam called over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, so you’re God’s daughter?” Aziraphale asked, looking nervous. “So then, erm, if you don’t mind me asking, where is She?”

“Gone,” Christ shrugged. “Made into me, I guess.”

Aziraphale stopped, visibly paling. “ What ?”

Next to him, Crowley froze too, but quickly recovered to squeeze his angel’s hand as he started to panic.

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, She can’t be gone . That’s- that’s impossible.” He looked around wildly, as he would be able to find some sign of her in the endless white ether. “No, I, I can still feel her. She’s there, somewhere. Where is Heaven?”

Christ regarded his panicked look blankly. “In a void, like you two were. We told you, everything was put up in storage.”

“ ‘Cept me,” Adam said proudly, stopping a few meters ahead of the little group and turning to face them. “I was there when JC appeared, ya know.”

Aziraphale shook his head, swaying slightly as Christ turned away from him and kept walking. Grimacing, Crowley didn’t even try to hide his stare as he walked close next to Aziraphale, letting him lean on him occasionally as he continued to reel in shock.

“You okay, angel?” He murmured, yellow eyes trained on the ethereal being.

Aziraphale nodded faintly, then changed his mind and shook his head before freezing his expression altogether and becoming a limp arm piece on Crowley’s side. Sighing, the demon held him close, following behind the children silently.

They walked a while through the void in silence, Adam occasionally mentioning something or another that had happened while they were in their void. Crowley tried not to think of it; the nausea-inducing feeling of floating in a timeless void, nor the way Aziraphale had felt so good curled around him.

Between Adam’s chatter and Christ’s (or JC’s) occasional responses, Crowley was able to piece together what had happened so far.

Apparently, God had miracled everything into voids (or ‘storage’ as the kids called it) before Satan could wreak his havoc, stopping the world mere moments after Adam had refused to end it. Then, erm, something happened, Crowley wasn’t entirely sure, but it started with JC’s appearance (he liked to think of it as happening with some glowing and floating, but maybe he had just watched too much human tv) and ended with her and Adam going from void to void, trying to make sense of things. Supposedly, he and Aziraphale were the fourth things to be brought back out, first the Them (because all young boys immediately look to their friends for help), then Anathema (because all young people always look to the only witch they know regarding supernatural matters) and by extension Newt, who’d been stored with her, and Jasmine Cottage, because humans weren’t very comfortable in a void. He huffed a bit learning that Dog had been out running about longer than him, but the matter was quickly ignored in favor of two much more important questions.

“Why?”

Christ looked back at him, stopping whatever she was saying to Adam.

“Why what?”

“Why did you bring us out?”

She shrugged. “You were the only other two supernatural people Adam knew-"

"Besides those weird people in suits who yelled at me," Adam interrupted, frowning.

"-And we need help," Christ finished.

“With what?” He asked, feeling like he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“Rebuilding the world,” she said, turning her back to him again and talking like he might have to a young child. 

“Right,” he said, trying to keep his voice light even as dread and - could it be? - hope? started climbing up his throat. Clearing it, he asked his second question.

“And, uh, do you know why God did this?”

“What do you mean?”

He frowned, then waved his hand at the white void as if the two children in front of him couldn't see it. “ This . Why go through all the trouble?”

Christ just shrugged. “We don’t know. We’ve never met her, and it’s not like she left a written plan lying about.”

“Right,” he said dryly, reflecting on the whole ‘it is written’ debate that had been one of his last interactions before the e- this . “Of course she didn’t.”

For a moment Christ regarded him silently before turning her head back around. Gulping, Crowley kept following them, looking around in the void occasionally for anything that might be another storage door or Jasmine Cottage. Sometimes he thought he could hear something that just might be someone’s voice or the sound of Earth, as if heard from far away, but never definitely. Twice he swore he saw the shadow of a doorframe out of the corner of his eye, but both times he saw nothing after he turned his head. Grumbling and disconcerted, he almost missed it when suddenly his feet his solid ground and the muffled sounds he might have been hearing solidified into certainty.

Nearly jumping out of his skin, Crowley paused outside of what looked to be an exact replica of the cottage he and Aziraphale had dropped the book girl off just a few days before. Looking back to where they had come from, he gaped to see not a white void but rather a genial road and the dense brush of a forest.

“It’s not real, don’t worry,” Adam piped up, walking back towards them. “That’s still on Earth. It just looks better to have it like this.”

Slowly, Crowley nodded, glancing briefly at Aziraphale to see if he was alright (he wasn’t, still looking numb and lost, but it wasn’t any worse than before they had been dropped from void to void to Earth-like illusion). Swallowing, he followed Adam and Christ into the cottage, only to be hit by a sudden barrage of noise.

“Adam, we’re out of jam!”

“Christ, this thing is hot- oh, no, not you JC, sorry.”

“Newt, what did you expect? Oh, hey kids.”

“Adam, did you find them yet?”

“Adam, I haven’t found anything yet. These books are rubbish.”

“Adam, tell Wensleydale that he’s not going to find anything in those rubbish books.”

“Oh, never mind, I found the jam. Now, where is a spoon…”

“The cupboard, Brian, same as the last one.”

“You made biscuits, Anathema?”

That last one was Adam, who immediately plunged into the flurry of children talking and moving. With a snap of his fingers, he vanished the pile of books surrounding Wensleydale, put a spoon in Brian’s hand, gave Newt an oven mitt to pull out the hot cookie tray with, and was plucking two biscuits off the tray - one of which he tossed to Christ, who chewed it thoughtfully.

Shaking his head, Crowley guided Aziraphale around the hubbub in the kitchen and into a sitting room, where they both collapsed heavily onto a couch.

Peering at them suspiciously, Pepper followed and stood, arms crossed, in front of them.

Crowley frowned at her. “What is it, kid?”

She sniffed. “It’s Pepper.”

“What is it, Pepper?”

“You tried to kill Adam.”

Crowley’s eyebrows raised, as if to say, ‘And?’.  Instead, he said, “He was trying to kill the world.”

She sniffed, not looking pleased.

He rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses, fully aware that though Pepper couldn’t see the gesture practically radiated from his body. “It’s not like we’re going to try again, k- Pepper. The world isn’t ending, is it?”

“No, it’s already over.”

He nodded. “That’s right. And I don’t know about you, but I think it would be nice to start it again. Right, angel?” He squeezed Aziraphale with the arm he had around his shoulders, looking at with a flash of worry.

Aziraphale nodded, eyes pointed at his hands but unfocused, and definitely not paying attention to their conversation.

Crowley felt his jaw tighten, but forced himself to look at Pepper unfazed. “See?”

She studied him for a moment, looking for all the world like a more aggressive Christ, before nodding and turning to join the rest of the children as they bustled around the table, snatching and munching on biscuits.

Next to him, Crowley saw Aziraphale shake his head.

“What was that, angel?”

“Christ and the Antichrist are bickering over the last biscuit,” Aziraphale said, sounding incredulous and exhausted.

Crowley hummed in acknowledgment, watching bemused as Adam gave up and handed the biscuit to Pepper, who split it with Christ and stuck her tongue out at the young Antichrist. “So they are,” he said, wrapping his hold tighter around Aziraphale.

Chapter Text

“So what do you need us to do, exactly?” Crowley asked, frowning across the table to Adam, who sat fidgeting in a seat between Christ and Anathema.

“We’re not exactly sure,” Anathema answered for him, frowning. “What we’ve figured out so far is that everything - like you two - has been stored in voids, and we can take them out and give them existence here.”

“But the voids are totally random,” Pepper piped up. “Like the entirety of Earth is in one, but us Them were in our own separate one, and one we found just had a bunch of ducks in it.”

“Ducks,” Crowley said dryly, raising his eyebrows. “God liked ducks enough to give ‘em their own void?”

Adam shrugged. “ ‘Parently. But we need to know how to put it back together.”

Sighing, Crowley dropped his head into his hands, trying to wrap his head around what was happening. “So, you kids are - literally - playing God?”

“Not playing,” Christ said, monotone. “Actually.” 

Staring at her for a moment, Crowley sighed. Wished for something strong to drink. “Alright, bully for you. You need my help with this because?”

“Because you and Aziraphale are the only people we know who were around the last time this happened,” Anathema said. “And though we’ve managed to figure out how to get things out of voids, and we know where some important things are, that’s really it.”

“We have no idea what we’re doing,” Newt interceded flatly, and it sounded like a statement he made often, though maybe now he said so with a certain more amount of fear.

“Okay, well, em,” seeking help, Crowley subconsciously glanced to Aziraphale, who was still staring at his hands back on the couch. Wincing, he said, “Well, for one, don’t bring any more angels out until you do know what you’re doing.”

“Why? Wouldn’t they be the most helpful?” Anathema said, pursing her lips and pointedly not looking at the incapacitated angel in the room.

Crowley shook his head. “Not without God they won’t. You,” he jabbed a finger at Christ, “how long have you been like this?”

“Like what?” Christ blinked at him, furrowing her brow.

“A kid. Did you grow or something, or have you just always been like that?”

“It hasn’t been long,” Adam insisted.

Anathema nodded. “Adam says he brought us out almost immediately, and my clock has only counted a week or so since then.”

“Hm, alright. I suppose it doesn’t really matter, but if you’re going to be ordering around Archangels you may want to look a little older. And, uh, less mortal-looking.”

“Order around angels?” For the first time, Christ seemed to be caught truly off guard. “Why would I be doing that?”

Crowley stared at her. “Who else? You’re God now, kid.”

Christ stared at him, blinking, too stoically impassive to be shocked but looking close. Leaving her to deal with it, he turned to Adam. “Have you found Him yet?”

“Satan?” Adam asked, then nodded before Crowley could answer. “Yup. We found him and Earth and some other important stuff pretty quickly.” He pointed to what looked like a closet door. “We put all the doors in there, so we know where to find them.”

Crowley nodded. “Good, good start. And Hell? Do you know where the demons are?”

“Why would we need to know about demons?” Anathema asked, shifting uncomfortably.

He raised an eyebrow. “Angels are going to be of no use,” he said, pointing back at Aziraphale. “Demons, however, will probably listen to their master’s son if He’s incapacitated - especially if it means they get to work on Earth without heavenly influence to counteract them.”

“Won’t that be a bad thing though?” Adam asked, curious. “They won’t, I don’t know, make Earth worse?”

“Not unless you want them to.” Crowley shrugged. “And trust me, humans can and will do things on their own that are way worse than anything Hell can come up with.”

“But still,” Anathema said, insistent, “why do we have to bring other demons into this at all? Can’t you help us?”

He frowned. “Not really. Aziraphale is obviously in no state to help, and anyway he was a cherubim so he didn't help much with the building. I was a Power originally, so I did a bit more creative work, but I didn’t really pay attention to Earth so much as that nebula you can barely see in the sky.”

“Do we need help at all?” Interrupted Pepper, coming over from somewhere to slouch down into an empty chair. “It can’t be that hard, can it? Just pull everything back out again, make sure it falls in the right place.”

Adam nodded, seeming to like that idea. “Yeah, She saved most things all together already.” Then his face brightened, looking excited. “Plus, we could tweak some things. Like create some more whales and get rid of nuclear power and stuff.”

Sucking in a breath, Crowley shook his head. “No, no, no, don’t do that. That…” he winced, “probably won’t end well.”

“All right then,” Adam said, crossing his arms. “So then what? We get out some demons who do know what to do, I order them around, and then they recreate the Earth?”

Crowley paused, but eventually nodded. “Sure. Of course, you,” he nodded again to Christ, “will have to deal with the angels.” Glancing back at Aziraphale, his eyes widened and smiling he looked straight at Adam and Christ over the rims of his sunglasses (when had those come back? Someone must have miracled them up). “And maybe while you’re at it, you two could get my friend and I acquitted?”

“Acquitted?” Christ furrowed her brow. “What did you do?”

He shrugged. “Tried to save the world. And uh,” he swallowed, mind flitting back briefly to how close he’d held Aziraphale in the void and then returning quickly before he could start to blush, “erm, being friends in the first place, I suppose.”

“Right,” Adam nodded. “You’re a demon, right? He’s an angel?”

Pepper gave him an odd look. “I thought demons couldn’t love. How’d that work out?”

Fuck , he thought, pushing his glasses up his face and using a hand to partially cover the blush he felt burning across his cheeks. “Ngk, not like we’re heartless .” He swallowed, removing hand as he felt himself gain some semblance of self-control back. Good L- Sa- somebody , he was glad Aziraphale wasn’t hearing this conversation (hopefull). “We can make friends,” he mumbled, looking at the table.

“Friends, right,” Pepper laughed, not really a girlish giggle but rather a harsh cackle that probably should have belonged to the one and only witch in the room.

“But sure, if that’s all you did,” Adam shrugged. “I’m sure Hell isn’t friendly about it.”

“That’s the understatement of the century,” Crowley muttered. Sighing and suddenly feeling very tired, he dropped his head into his hands.

Suddenly he jumped, feeling a hand fall onto his shoulder. Hissing, he glared up just to find Anathema looking at him, an uncomfortable amount of compassion in her eyes. “Why don’t you get some rest, this is a lot to take in.” She glanced at Aziraphale, frowning. “There’s a guest room upstairs. I only have one bed, but…”

He waved her hand away. “ ‘S fine, th- thanks .”

She smiled at him. “You’re welcome.”

Grunting he stood up, then shuffled over to Aziraphale to see if he could get him to move.

Blinking open his eyes, Aziraphale started, an only half-muffled cry pushing its way out of his throat before he could strangle it.

God is dead,  Neitzsche had one proclaimed.  God remains dead. And we have killed him. Muffling a sob behind his hand, Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut and turned onto his side, immediately burying his head into the pillow next to him.

How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? The Traitors, the Fallen? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives. Our lies, our fiery swords. Who will wipe this blood off us? Not Christ, not the Antichrist. What water is there to clean ourselves? None, it is all gone. Destroyed. Like the Plan. What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? None; who could, out there in the cold empty void where a world used to be? In Heaven at least they would sing, now there is no place for a choir to stand, and no angels left, and no lord to raise one’s voice to. Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? An angel, a demon, and a child? Against the Great - the Ineffable - Plan, which can no longer exist, for there is no planner? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it? But who could, who could ever fill that gap where She once resided? Not the daughter, never that child… 

With a shocked sob, he realized that his Grace was still there. But that was worse, somehow, he realized. That child, that thing, that wasn’t Her. Christ could never be Her, their Mother, their Planner, the Almighty. JC , Adam had called her. God was dead, Her only remains the faux Grace in his soul and an inhuman child.

He felt himself shaking, crying like he had never dared to cry before. But, as if it was another person, he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t control his own body. He didn’t try, but it would have been nice to know he at least could have.

Suddenly, the pillow next to him shifted, groaning. Faintly, he thought he heard his name, and then an inarticulate surprised sound, and suddenly there were arms wrapping around him, holding him, and he was crying his grief onto another person. That wasn’t how it should be, that wasn’t how an angel should act. But he couldn’t stop himself, and he didn’t try.

“Shhh, angel, it’s alright,” Crowley murmured, drawing circles on his back as he whispered into his hair. “It’s alright,” he repeated, but Aziraphale kept crying, clinging madly to Crowley’s shirt and sobbing into it.

God is dead. She is dead. We have killed Her.

But how could there be a world without a Creator? Why? How? how, how, how, how, how… 

There couldn’t be. No watch without a watchmaker.

Yet God was dead, they had killed Her. And he still existed, curled up crying in Crowley’s arms.

Oh…  

Slowly, sniffing, Aziraphale stopped crying. Forcing his breathing to even out, he felt Crowley’s arms relax around him. 

“Better, angel?” He asked softly, his own voice tired and husky.

Yes, Aziraphale tried to say. I’m alright, thank you, dear . But he couldn’t push the words out from his lips, couldn’t get himself to push Crowley away like his instincts - forged from years of hiding and fighting and fear - told him to. Instead, soft thing he was, he buried his face into Crowley’s chest. And shook his head. “No.” His whisper was so faint he didn’t think Crowley would hear, but he did, and he held him tighter for it.

“That’s right, that’s fine.”

Trying to swallow past the stone in his throat, Aziraphale shook his head again. “No, no, no it isn’t .” Feeling himself start to sob again, he stopped, focusing on timing his breath to the slow beating of Crowley’s heart. Why did it beat so slow? Was it because he was a snake? Was that a thing?

“She’s dead, Crowley.”

The demon stiffened, and distressed Aziraphale let out a squeak and within an instant, Crowley was once again soft, wrapped warmly around him. Just like in the void.

“No, She isn’t, angel. She can’t be.”

“She is.”

“She’s downstairs, planning the world out with Adam.”

“ No ,” Aziraphale shook his head insistently, pulling Crowley closer. “That isn’t Her.”

Crowley sighed, and Aziraphale could feel the warm breath on his hair. “Oh angel,” was all he said, tucking Aziraphale’s head closer to his chest and then letting out a long exhale. Neither slept, but they were silent as Crowley embraced him.

God is dead… and we have killed Her.

Chapter Text

At some time after that first conversation, Adam and JC started pulling things out of the void. First, they took out the Earth, and Crowley showed them how to stop time so that Earth didn’t start running without the rest of the pieces in place. They put Jasmine Cottage back, and let time continue on just for them there. While Earth was frozen, and neither Heaven nor Hell was out to order them around, Adam showed JC how to change Earth with her will, and before long Christ was changing things - making fossil fuel plants solar fields, planting forests into drying land, and putting more whales into the seas.

While she did that, the Antichrist went to work getting Hell out. Per Crowley’s suggestion, he brought out Beelzebub first - not the dark lord Himself - and explained. Like Crowley, they were surprisingly calm to hear that God was no longer and had changed into a young girl (-shaped being), and once Adam made it clear that only he and Christ had the power to release his father and the rest of Hell they were surprisingly ready to do as he said. At first, Adam wanted to change hell, “Make it better”, he said, but Crowley convinced him otherwise. “Only the worst go to Hell, those who deserve it and can not be saved,” he said, and Adam relented. So his father was released, talked down, and had no response to his Mother’s death. Hell was brought back into space (oh, yes, before they took out Earth they took out space as well, and the white void was flooded with the brightness of the sun and the stars again, somehow brighter against the dark than any seamless white light), and Crowley was acquitted with only a dark look from Hastur, much to his relief.

Once Christ was finished with Earth they went with Adam to start getting Heaven up and running again - the final piece of the puzzle. Like before, they were able to bring Gabriel out first. They thought he would be easier to deal with. “You’ve never met Gabriel,” Aziraphale said slowly - the only thing he’d said in what Anathema’s clock said was days - but he didn’t elaborate, so the children shrugged and assumed it was a grown-up problem.

When Gabriel was brought out, he screamed. Loud, high pitched, an awful like no angel that wasn't Fallen was ever supposed to scream. Terrified, the children took a step back and waited, falling onto Anathema’s couch and gripping hard on the pillows. Nobody else was in the building, so they had no one to turn to as they watched, wide-eyed, as what appeared to be a grown man in front of them stared at Christ and screamed.

The clock (unheard by their ears) ticked away, and then abruptly after some unknown amount of time he stopped, turning ghostly white and snapping his mouth shut. Shaking slightly, the children waited, and after a moment Christ stood up again and walked up to him.

“Gabriel,” she said softly. Hesitating, she put a hand to his chest and looked up at him. He just stared, eyes glazed over in fear. “Gabriel,” she repeated, “can you say something?” Her voice was nearly unsure, nearly childish, yet laid over that otherworldly and inhumane calm and blankness that she always had that made Gabriel stared at her like she was the most powerful thing in the world. Which, to be honest, she was.

“Gabriel,” she said, and her voice was firmer.

He swallowed. “W… Is… Lo-” his voice started to choke, and pausing he swallowed again, like he was working to reign it back in. “Mother?” he finally asked, eyes wide and soft, like a child seeing a parent they thought was dead.

But then the parent shook their head, and Gabriel’s face fell. “No,” Christ said. “Sister.” And she dropped her hand, taking a step away from him. “Mother is gone, Gabriel. And I need help to rebuild.”

Still looking terrified, Gabriel nodded. “Whatever you need.”

“Right,” Christ answered, furrowing her brow and glancing back at Adam. “Good…” the way she said it sounded almost like a question, or a question said in a voice that wasn't made for asking questions, and getting up uncertainly Adam stepped over to her and gave her a hug.

“How about we send him over to Beezelbub?” He offered.

She smiled. “They won’t kill each other?”

He shook his head. “No,” he looked Gabriel in the eye, who flinched away. “They got along fine at the End, if I remember. And it’s easier than us having to explain.”

Christ nodded. And so Heaven was debriefed.

Within what on in Jasmine Cottage was a few months (but in reality could have been a bit longer) the world was, suffice it to say, something that could be called normal.

Or at least, Crowley thought so, but that didn’t last long.

The day after they moved back, Crowley called Aziraphale, who didn’t pick up.

“Hey angel, I know you’re there,” he left a message. “You’re probably reading, but Adam mentioned he had that French place a few streets over add crepes to their menu. Thought that make you up for a spot of lunch, hm?”

After an hour, when the angel didn’t respond, he called again.

“Angel, if crepes were worth dying over a few centuries ago surely they’re worth putting down a book now. Come on.”

A half-hour later…

“Aziraphale, put down the bloody book. Or at least remember to take a break and I don’t know, take a stroll by the phone maybe?”

Fifteen minutes later, the bell on the front door of the bookshop rang, announcing the arrival of the frowning redhead. Nervous and a more than a little annoyed, Crowley called out, “Hey angel, what’s up?” over the front desk. Pausing he waited a moment for a response, and when there was none sauntered over to the back room.

“Aziraphale?” he asked, feeling slightly on edge. The last time he had been here, he’d been looking too, and… he shuddered at the memory.

But no, looking around, Crowley quickly spotted Aziraphale, slouching over his two-hundred-year-old desk.

“Hey,” he said, more sober now. Studying his friend anxiously, Crowley quickly came up behind him. Hesitating slightly first, he put a hand on his shoulder and the other on the back of the wheeled chair and rolled the angel slightly away from the desk and towards him. Crouching in front of the chair, Crowley tried to look up to see Aziraphale’s eyes, but the upper half of his face was shadowed by the blond curls he had let grow uncharacteristically long in the past few weeks. Trying to smile, Crowley resisted the urge to push those soft curls out of the way. “Angel, what’s up?”

Aziraphale didn’t respond, just shuddered slightly and gripped whatever it was in his hands with renewed vigor. Furrowing his brow, Crowley cautiously pried open a few fingers of Aziraphale’s vice-like grip, sighing in relief when the pale digits pulled back to reveal just an ordinary pocket watch (a very old watch, probably as old as the angel’s blasted coat, but besides that fact, nothing more).

“Watcha holdin’ onto this for?”

After waiting a moment, Crowley didn’t think Aziraphale was going to speak at all. Then suddenly, pulling his hands away, he croaked, “Have you ever heard of the Teleological Argument, Crowley?”

“Hm?” Crowley cocked an eyebrow, trying again to see Aziraphale’s eyes but to no avail. From what he could see of the angel’s face he was totally neutral and unexpressive - something he didn’t think he’d ever see on Aziraphale’s constantly changing face (whose many vibrant expressions he definitely had not taken the time to memorize). “Teleo-what?”

“The Teleological Argument,” Aziraphale repeated, loosening his grip on the watch slightly to allow him to turn it over in his fingers as he spoke. “You may know it as the watchmaker argument.”

“Oh,” Crowley said, grimacing. He knew where this was going now. Shouldn’t have expected anything but, he scolded himself. With a sigh, he quickly stood up and went to the back of Aziraphale’s chair, lifting the back legs slightly as a way of nudging the angel to stand up. Wordlessly, he complied, standing up and letting Crowley lead him away from the desk to the couch, clock still in hand. “Yes, may have heard of it once or twice - better than some of the other kooky ones, if I do say so myself.”

Vaguely, Aziraphale nodded, head still looking down at the watch he was slowly turning over in his hands. After a moment, he paused, then flicked the watch open, slowly winding it and then watching it tick. Pursing his lips, Crowley watched him do this, very nearly about to comment on the angel’s extremely old fashioned tastes.

Before he could, however, Aziraphale took in a sharp breath and snapped the watch shut, and after listening to it tick a few more seconds he buried it under his fingers, like that would muffle the noise. Noticing this, Crowley silently reached out and gently took the watch away, snapping his fingers to get it to stop as he put it down on the arm of the couch.

“Angel, what are you going on about?”

“A watch needs a watchmaker, Crowley,” his friend said simply as way of reply. “To make it, to fix it. To wind it.”

“Yes, ‘s how watches work…” Crowley replied hesitantly. “That’s the way for most things.”

Aziraphale nodded fervently, still looking down at the empty hands in his lap, like what Crowley had just said was the most grounding argument ever spoken in support for his point.

“The world needs that too, Crowley, that’s why we’re here. But- but it’s not like we can wind it, we can only watch and h- hope things go alright, nudge things here and there. When the watch runs down-”

“It’s not going to run down,” Crowley assured, comforting Aziraphale with a confidence Crowley didn’t really have about anything (except, possibly, the angel in front of him). “And we can fix it - what do you think we’ve been doing for the past six thousand years?”

“But Crowley, it will happen. And what is going to happen without  Her to wind it?”

“What, have you been listening to all that talk about that ‘heat death’ that the humans have been throwing around? That’s not going to happen, Aziraphale.”

“Not precisely,” Aziraphale insisted, and for the first time in days he looked up and met Crowley with wide, watery blue eyes. The sight caught Crowley off guard, and not for the first time the demon was thankful for his dark glasses. “But something like that! They’re right, the world can’t exist without God-”

“Yes it can,” Crowley insisted, gulping as he took off his sunglasses and looked his angel right in the eye. “You really think She’s been keeping track of things down here? Winding up the watch every couple of centuries? The watchmaker doesn’t have to be the one to wind the damn thing, angel. Any bloke will do.”

Staring at him and his odd metaphor, Aziraphale didn’t look any less distressed. Clearing his throat, Crowley looked away nervously, feeling his face heat up from his friend’s unusual stare. “Erm, yeah. Or something.” Grimacing, he shrugged, quickly snatching his sunglasses back to his face. “Not really great with the whole God justification thing… ya know, demons and all, godless, um…” he trailed off, stuttering, Aziraphale’s expression not changing at all. Finally, he quieted down, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck and looking for something to say.

There was a long, awkward moment, Aziraphale watching Crowley blankly and Crowley staring, red-faced, at the bookshelves. Then, to Crowley’s relief, Aziraphale sighed and turned away, dropping his head to look back down at his hands.

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” he mumbled, sounding for all the world like he was speaking around someone’s strangling hand. “There has never been a world without Her.”

“There has never been a lot of things, angel,” Crowley said uselessly.

“ God isn’t just another thing, Crowley,” the angel said tersely, but to Crowley’s relief, he didn’t look up and give him one of his stern looks.

“I know, angel, I know,” he sighed, squirming in his seat and watching helplessly as his friend drifted further and further away. Frowning, he gave it one last chance, trying, “have you tried talking to JC?”

“Don’t call her that,” Aziraphale flinched, one of the biggest movements he’d had that day.

“Angel, you do know what she is, right?” He hesitated before adding, “you can feel it?”

The angel’s answer was practically a hiss. “Yes, I can feel it, my Grace is the same as its always been.”

“Well, that’s good!” Crowley encouraged, trying to swing his mood around. “You can feel Her, so if you just see her you’ll-”

“ No ,” Aziraphale shook his head, and the movement sent a ripple effect out through his body that left him trembling. “She- she is a child, Crowley!”

“She is God.”

Crowley was surprised by the sureness in his voice, but he knew it. Everyone - Beelzebub, Gabriel, Adam - they all knew it. Everyone recognized their Creator. Why couldn’t Aziraphale? Crowley couldn’t begin to guess, and the angel gave him nothing to work with as he shook his head, quietly shaking in his place. Not knowing what to do (and nervous about what would happen if he embraced him as they had done in the void), Crowley awkwardly sat next to the angel for a while longer. After a while, he mumbled something about business - Hell had acquitted him, after all, putting him back in their service - and said he would check in again the next day. Maybe Aziraphale would have recovered by then, he hoped.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale didn’t change, however. At least, not in the way Crowley wanted him to. After giving him a day of space, the demon returned only to find him still there, exactly where he had left him, winding the pocket watch, watching it tick down, and winding it up again. Without a word, he had taken the watch away, putting it back down on Aziraphale’s desk and then dragging the angel out of the shop with him. He was mostly silent, however, the entire walk to the park, just watching the people mill about with a blank expression, and not commenting when Crowley sunk a duck (or brought it back up again out of uncharacteristic guilt). He even declined an ice cream when Crowley offered it, just shaking his head and looking away as Crowley gaped at him.

“You don’t want ice cream ?” The demon asked, already worried but now entirely aghast.

Aziraphale nodded again, not making eye contact with Crowley.

Shaking his head, Crowley said incredulously, “What has gotten into you? You’re going to tell me I can sell your books and deny you dinner at the Ritz next.”

“If you’d like to, my dear,” the angel shrugged, turning away and continuing down the path so that he didn’t have to see how Crowley visibly paled at the comment.

Hurrying after his angel, Crowley tried to damp down his panic. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he tried to shrug nonchalantly, saying simply, “I don’t really have a preference, angel. What would you like to do?” Though he’d never admit to it, Crowley would have hung on the edge of his seat if he’d been sitting for Aziraphale’s answer, as anxious as he was.

The angel’s response was short, monotone, and flipped Crowley’s stomach over. “I’m a bit tired, would it be alright to go home?”

Tired? You don’t get tired, not unless you feel like reading, Crowley wanted to shout, but he bit it back, nodding and looping his arm through Aziraphale’s to guide him down a forking path. “Of course. Let’s get you home.”

Crowley dropped the angel off at midday, leaving him alone with a book, and was back early the next morning. Finding his friend still reading, he leaned over the couch to look over his shoulder and make a comment, only to stare in silent shock as Aziraphale’s eyes ran over the first page of the same book from over twelve hours earlier.

“Angel…” Crowley started, standing up straight again and walking around to sit next to Aziraphale. “What is this?”

“What is what?” Aziraphale said primly, an unusual stiffness replacing the fatigue he had displayed the day before.

The demon grunted, waving his hand at the unturned pages of the book and the rest of the shop, gathering dust, the sign turned to closed - like it had been for at least four days (and even Aziraphale didn’t leave the store closed for so long at one time). “This,” he repeated lamely, wincing under Aziraphale’s sharp frown. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale responded sharply, looking away from Crowley and back to the book. Watching his eyes carefully, Crowley saw them start back at the top of the page.

“You’ve been reading that page for hours, angel,” Crowley deadpanned. “I know you, this isn’t nothing. Spit it out.”

“I will do no such thing,” Aziraphale snapped, suddenly slamming his book closed and standing up. “I’m fine, thank you very much.”

“I’m not dense, angel,” Crowley growled, standing up with him. “Just tell me what it is and I’ll fix it!”

“You can’t fix this, Crowley!” the angel replied, voice high and shrill, almost terrified but just as close to angry. Wrapping his arms around himself, he turned away, voice lowering as he added, “No one can fix this.”

Oh . Crowley almost slapped himself for missing it. But… “right, of course, nobody. But She-”

“ She is Dead!” Aziraphale fired back, shaking his head like it would cover up the trembling of the rest of his body. Frowning, Crowley ached to wrap his arms around him and settle him down, but fear wrapped tightly around his hand, keeping it by his side.

“She isn’t Dead, Aziraphale,” Crowley said dumbly. “Please, just go see Her and you’ll realize.”

“I’ve met Christ, Crowley,” Aziraphale said icily. “I think I would recognize the Almighty if she was staring me in the face.”

“Well apparently not, because you did, and you’re still crying over clocks!”

“I’m not crying over bloody clocks!” Aziraphale’s voice rose to a shout Crowley had never heard before. Eyes widening, he took a step back, but the angel had already wheeled around to advance upon him. “What do you want, Crowley? For me to be okay, and pretend the world is going to continue on like normal like the rest of you? Like Gabriel, like Beezelbub, pretend that child is her? Christ probably knows Adam’s silly games better than the workings of the universe She created! How can we expect her to run it?”

“Angel, God didn’t run things,” Crowley reminded him, holding up his hands defensively. “You know this as much as I do; She stepped back a long time ago.”

At this, Aziraphale deflated, and this was somehow worse than seeing him angry. Weakly, the angel hung his head, dropping himself back down onto the couch. “It isn’t the same for you,” he said softly, staring down at his hands. “You’re Fallen.”

Crowley stiffened, clenching his jaw. “Right,” he said stiffly, stuffing his hands in his pockets to hide how they were shaking. “Of course I am.” And with that he spun around on his heels, angrily slamming the door of the bookshop shut behind him.

It was surprisingly to both of them (them being Crowley and Christ/God, seeing as Aziraphale was only just barely conscious of the passage of time, and not nearly enough to be surprised by it; and of course, no one else was there to be surprised, seeing as both the angel and the demon in all their years had barely ever bothered to make other friends) when Crowley only spent three days sulking before returning to the bookshop. Still angry but by that time mostly worried, the demon screamed to a stop in the Bently in his usual fashion before sauntering (and if it was a little quicker and a little stiffer than usual he would never admit it) in and opening the door that he had not locked in his haste, and that Aziraphale had clearly forgotten existed.

He walked in, talked a bit with Aziraphale, yelled a bit more, got frustrated, and left.

Two days later, he tried again, and the same thing happened (though this time he managed to get Aziraphale to eat a few of the biscuits he brought from the nearby bakery beforehand).

When he came back later, he checked and the biscuits were sitting uneaten in the kitchen upstairs. As the days passed, they continued to argue a few times, each time more tired and with less steam than the last, and each time Crowley was sure it was the most animate Aziraphale ever got these days. Eventually, Aziraphale stopped protesting, just nodded along absentmindedly and stayed in the dim back corners of his shop, reshelving the books over and over. Each time he came over, Crowley forced him to eat, clean something, clean himself, or on one memorable occasion take a nap.

It was on one of these days that, absentmindedly reaching into the metaphysical plain to scratch his wing, Crowley realized something rather stupid. Glancing up from his phone, he looked over at Aziraphale over his sunglasses. “Angel,” he said, somewhat reproachfully, “you haven’t been preening your feathers, have you?”

From where he was leaning over a stack of books, Aziraphale shrugged, not looking at him.

Crowley frowned, standing up and walking over to the angel. “Aziraphale,” he said, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. At the contact, the angel jumped, giving Crowley a startled look before trying (and failing) for a weak smile.

“Yes, dear?”

Crowley nodded his head towards the space in between Aziraphale’s shoulder blades, where his wings would be if made physical. “Can I see them?”

“See what?”

Crowley sighed. “Your wings, angel.”

Aziraphale’s gaze dropped, looking guiltily down to the floor. “Oh,” he said weakly. “Those.”

Nodding stiffly, Crowley pulled him out of the cramped shelving area to give him space, gently rubbing circles on his back as if it would encourage the wings to pop out. Aziraphale hesitated, looking nervous, but didn’t pull away, and with a slight fluttering sound a pair of bright, pearlescent wings appeared on his back.

Breath catching, Crowley couldn’t stop himself from running a hand along Aziraphale’s wing as he stared in horror. “Oh, angel,” he breathed, ignoring the way Aziraphale flinched at his touch. Unsure about whether he should cry or scold the angel, Crowley ran his fingers up and down the feathers, aching to straighten them but unsure where to start, like someone on a battlefield is unsure who to start helping first. They were ragged and unkempt, some feathers stained, many hanging loose or tangled beyond repair. Half the time when Crowley touched something or made Aziraphale shift his wing the angel grimaced from the pain that was probably tightly wound feathers pulling at his skin.

But nothing was as horrifying as the primary feather that caught Crowley’s eye, growing healthily and snugly in the crook of Aziraphale’s left wing. Scorched black, the demon didn’t hesitate as he plucked it from his friend’s wing and slid it into hiding in his pocket.

Aziraphale, however, noticed, jumping slightly at the touch. “What was that ?” He squeaked, sounding like he wanted to be offended but was too jumpy to pull it off right.

“Hm?” Crowley looked up to where Aziraphale was craning his neck back, blinking away the red that had started to cloud his vision to smile reassuringly at the distraught angel. “Oh, just a loose primary. Nothing to worry about,” he lied, even as his stomach clenched sickeningly. “Now, when was the last time you cleaned these?” He frowned, running a hand down the wing and hastily straightening and plucking out of order feathers.

Shrugging, Aziraphale looked away. “Oh, I don’t know… I haven’t taken them out much since the end, you know…”

“No, I didn’t know,” Crowley said dryly. Though maybe I would have if you would just let me help you. “Move,” he ordered sharply, practically shoving Aziraphale down onto the couch.

“What are you doing?” the angel asked nervously, though he let Crowley sit him down sideways on the couch, his back to him.

“Preening you,” the demon replied gruffly, folding his legs underneath him as he faced Aziraphale’s back and got to work. Huffing, Aziraphale sounded like he wanted to protest, but as Crowley slowly started to untangle his feathers he relaxed, even hummed in pleasure occasionally like he hadn’t in days. Meanwhile, behind him, Crowley gritted his teeth, feeling as if the feather in his back pocket were burning away at him.

Chapter Text

The next day, after a good few hours spent setting Aziraphale’s wings straight, Crowley drove down to Tadfield, where Adam was still living only now joined by Christ at the edge of town in Jasmine Cottage.

Though maybe drove was the wrong verb to use. Screeched, or flew, might have done better. If there was a verb for specifically the way a meteorite moves across the ground as it tears through several kilometers a second before finally stopping with a boom then that would be the best word for Crowley’s form of locomotion. But alas, the English language is rarely that specific. As we can say it, though, Crowley 'screeched' to a halt in front of Jasmine Cottage late the next morning, sparks flying from the Bentley's wheels, and was out storming across the lawn to where the two children (slash immortal, all-powerful beings) were playing before the car had even cooled down.

“What issss thissss?” He hissed, his natural sibilance breaking out as he finally reached the pair, who were having a perfectly fine time teaching Dog to roll over, thank you very much. Crowley, of course, ignored this, instead holding Aziraphale’s black feather to their faces like a weapon and glaring at them over his sunglasses.

“What is what?” Adam asked, completely nonchalant and not even glancing up from where Dog was whining at him petulantly.

“Not you,” he snapped, looking right at Christ with his burning glare. “ Her . What in the world’s name is this?”

Blankly, Christ blinked at him, totally unfazed. “A feather,” she said, standing up from where she’d been crouching by Dog.

“For Chri- I know it’s a feather!” Crowley growled. “But why ? How ? You can’t do this to him, he’s the best bloody angel you got!”

Christ just shrugged, looking away and smiling slightly as Dog did a half roll on his back, but didn’t come up again. “You know he doesn’t have faith in me, Crowley. How could he stay an angel that way?”

“Of course he has faith, he’s just going through a rough patch,” Crowley whined, quickly growing tired of arguing with (though he knew better) what appeared to be an eleven-year-old child. “You know; you always know.”

“Yes, I know,” Christ said, turning her piercing stare on him. “And I know that he does not believe in me - he doesn’t think I am Her.”

“So?” Crowley’s voice grew higher, more pleading. “Just give him time, you can’t tell me that all of the angels are dealing with this so well. Please,” he added, when Christ just shook her head, looking away again, “you can’t do this to him. Falling, it would have broken him before. But now he’s already broken - you haven’t seen him! This- this would destroy him.”

“You underestimate him, Crowley,” Christ said softly, looking at him so kindly it hurt.

“You overestimate us all,” he grimaced, looking away.

Christ didn’t respond immediately, just looked back down at Dog and listened as Adam kept coaxing him to do tricks. He’d succeeded (once) in getting him to roll over, and was now trying ‘speak’; Dog didn’t seem inclined to do any more than whine for the piece of chicken the boy held pinched between his fingertips.

“I’ll give him some time,” she relented, finally, after a moment of heavy silence. Sighing in relief, Crowley nodded, and slouching from sudden fatigue he headed back to his car without another word.

Watching him go, Christ sighed as well, wondering sorrowfully about the angel he had once been.

Crowley returned to the bookshop the next day only to find the angel nowhere to be seen. Nervously, he hurried his way into the backroom, not even bothering to feign nonchalance this time. “Angel?” He called, eyes narrowing behind his glasses as his scan proved the backroom to be empty. “Aziraphale?”

Just as he started to feel panic creeping up on him, Crowley heard a shuffling sound from the top of the stairs (what was up there? he realized he didn’t know) and then Aziraphale appeared, a light smile on his face and his cream-colored clothes looking freshly ironed. Starting, Crowley stared up at him in shock, unable to even keep his jaw from falling open. “I’m up here, Crowley. Just making some tea.”

“Tea?” Crowley repeated, dumbfounded, but Aziraphale had already left the top of the staircase, presumably to go to some kitchen that, before this day, Crowley hadn’t actually known existed. Confused and refusing to give ground to the little light of hope that had started to burn annoyingly in his chest, Crowley was left with no choice but to follow him up the stairs.

The kitchen wasn’t hard to find, and when he entered the demon quickly pulled himself together and leaned nonchalantly against the doorway. Forcing his jaw closed, he gave a small smile. “What’s up, angel? Feeling better?”

Across the room, Aziraphale turned away from the kettle he had put on the stove to smile (for the second time in mere minutes!) at Crowley. “Much better, thank you,” he assured, face practically glowing as the kettle began to whistle. Turning back around, Aziraphale pulled out two mugs and took the kettle off, bringing all three to the little rickety table in the middle of the room. “Tea, dear?”

Crowley gulped, nodding and joining the angel at the table. “Sure, angel,” he affirmed, speaking slowly as he studied Aziraphale suspiciously. Happily, Aziraphale poured them both some tea, then brought over milk and sugar to put into his own. Humming happily, the angel stirred his tea like there was nothing out of the ordinary about this at all. Crowley watched this all nervously, giving half-hearted blows at his tea to cool it down.

“May I ask why?” Crowley said, trying to sound tactful when instead he wanted to grab Aziraphale and inspect him, make sure that this was the real one.

“Why what?” the angel replied absentmindedly, and at least this had stayed the same.

Sighing, Crowley added, “Why you’re so happy.”

Aziraphale shrugged, not meeting Crowley’s eyes. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just feeling a bit peppier today, is all.”

“Right,” Crowley replied dryly, frowning at Aziraphale, who continued to avoid his gaze. “So everything’s suddenly all tickety boo , is it now?”

Aziraphale huffed. “No need to be demeaning, dear boy. But,” smiling, the angel looked up and finally met Crowley’s gaze, “yes, actually I would say it is.”

Crowley stared at him suspiciously for a moment as Aziraphale went back to stirring his tea, but seeing no cracks in his new attitude gave up and gulped down the scalding hot liquid. “All right then,” he said curtly, watching closely as the angel hummed in response, taking small sips of his own drink. Raising an eyebrow, he smiled and added, “didn’t you forget something?”

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “Did I?” A pause. “Oh, oh yes I did!” And Crowley chuckled in humor and relief as the angel hurriedly got up and searched for the tin of biscuits that had been left untouched for weeks.

In practice, Aziraphale was many things he wasn’t in reality. For example, in reality, he was a principality older than Earth itself from the third choir of Heaven. In practice, however, he was a very, very British antique bookseller. In the same way, Aziraphale was in reality actually quite smart, but in practice he generally forgot that he had that intelligence in the same way he forgot that one time that no, he didn’t have to wait for Crowley to rescue him, he could have just miracled his way out of that church and left those pesky Nazis behind (but then again, where’s the fun in that?). And though this usually applied to Crowley as well, that didn’t make him blind. So of course he knew that Crowley had been watching him like a hawk since he’d come back to his senses and left the cramped and dusty confines of his own head.

It was a little disconcerting, actually. Before Aziraphale was dimly aware that Crowley worried about him, that he would check in every so often and do things to make sure he stayed happy. But it had always been something subtle, shrugged off, something that Aziraphale could willingly pretend that he didn’t notice. It was hard not to notice anymore, however, when the demon barely ever left his side, instead choosing to hover over him and fret no matter how much better Aziraphale insisted he was feeling.

It was getting more difficult though, to be so happy, as his wings refused to let up being pristine white.

Preening his wings for the fourth time in three days, Aziraphale frowned. Not a single black feather had appeared since that first one had, the day Crowley left for Tadfield (and no, Crowley did not think Aziraphale knew where he went, but if Crowley could track him to a church in the Blitz Aziraphale could just as easily track him to the Antichrist’s home town), and not once had he felt his Grace tremble again. It was almost as if he wasn’t Falling any longer, a concept that hurt his head even more than the idea that he may have a Grace without Her in the first place. But still, he had to admit that it was a relief seeing Crowley relaxing, so he didn’t let this confusion show. Instead, he followed Crowley along to lunches and the theater and walks in the park, sometimes even volunteering up things to do himself. He was Falling, he must be. Nothing else made sense, and believing in the alternative - that somehow his Grace was his own wretched manifestation and not an arm of the Almighty at all, or that she had finally taken off and abandoned them - couldn’t happen again. Falling was better, Falling made sense, and at least that way he could accept that She was gone.

But he couldn’t tell Crowley any of this, of course. If Crowley heard about the black feather he would surely have a heart attack - or the demonic equivalent of.

So, taking a deep breath, Aziraphale eyed the nice wine he’d just found and picked up the phone, humming as he dialed the demon’s mobile.

Chapter Text

The envelope was surprising (because, Crowley thought, who uses actual mail nowadays?), and burnt Crowley’s hand a bit when he picked it up, but it's thick cream envelope and elegant script address made a pleased smile appear on Aziraphale’s face, so Crowley grudgingly forgave it.

“What’s it for?” he asked, dropping it onto the desk with a wince and swinging around to lean on the back of the angel’s chair.

“Well, it says it’s from Adam…” Aziraphale started, frowning as he opened the envelope and started reading the card. Hanging over his shoulder, Crowley squinted but, between the dark tint of his glasses and the messy handwriting, quickly gave up on reading.

Silently, Aziraphale read it over, and Crowley let him study it with his lips pursed for a little longer than usual before nudging him, asking, “So? Care to tell me what it says?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, of course, sorry,” Aziraphale blinked, shaking his head. The demon sighed, and if anyone asked he would confirm that no , the sigh was not in any way fond. Sitting up straighter, the angel cleared his throat. “It’s about, erm, Christ … Adam is throwing her a birthday party.”

Crowley snorted. “Of course he is, the little hellspawn. What, does he want us to show up?”

Looking put out about it, the angel nodded, slowly turning around to face Crowley as the demon faked a grimace and went over to collapse on the couch.

“Well seems about right. Remember Warlock’s birthday parties? The begging and excitement beforehand were almost worse than the actual thing,” Crowley mused. It almost made him wish he’d invented the things. Looking back at Aziraphale, he frowned. “What, does the date coincide with some book auction or something, angel?”

Furrowing his brow, the angel’s eyes suddenly refocused on Crowley like he’d zoned out, and after a moment of thought he shook his head. “No, no. It’s nothing. Never mind.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, studying his friend’s nervous face. “I’m not dull, angel,” he frowned, sitting up straighter and preparing to get up and go to Aziraphale should he need to. He hesitated a second before he asked, however, “Is it that you don’t want to see the girl?”

Aziraphale gave a little gasp, relieving Crowley just a bit as he fell back into a commonly prim and offended expression. “Of course not, I would never! She’s, er…” the angel winced, “she’s a fine girl.”

“Yes, but she isn’t a girl,” Crowley pointed out, carefully, aware that he was inching towards forbidden territory. To his relief, however, Aziraphale just shrugged, focusing instead on avoiding eye contact as he fiddled with the corner of the letter envelope. Sighing, Crowley took a chance. “You know, she doesn’t act like much Her.”

Aziraphale nodded stiffly. “She never had a birthday party.”

Crowley snorted, shaking his head. “Not that , I suspect that’s all Adam’s doing. And anyway, I vaguely remember Her having some sort of parties up in Heaven, before, well, you know . No, it’s not that.”

“Pray tell then, Crowley,” Aziraphale sniffed, “if her current actions and form barely distance her from the Almighty, what?”

“I don’t know…” Crowley hummed, mockingly glaring at Aziraphale when he failed to suppress a roll of his eyes. “It’s something about her - you would get it if you had spent more time with her. Being around the Almighty, you remember, there was always this whimsical sense about her. She was very emotional,” Crowley grimaced, muttering, “sometimes to the point of murder…”

“Crowley! She absolutely wasn’t!” Aziraphale scolded him, crossing his arms and directing his best disappointed pout towards the demon.

Crowley snorted, frowning for real and gesturing jerkily with both hands at the bookshop around them, as if to indicate the world as a whole. “What do you call drowning the entirety of Mesopotamia just ‘cause they were getting a little snarky down there, then, hm?”

“That was- well…” Aziraphale trailed off, hands fluttering nervously in his lap before he sighed. “It wasn’t the best decision, I’ll admit.”

Triumphant, Crowley nodded. “Exactly. What I mean is that I can’t see Christ throwing any tantrums like that.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale pursed his lips, sniffing at the word ‘tantrums’ but not commenting on it. “And this is relevant to the girl’s party because?”

“Because, erm,” Crowley winced, eyes flicking back and forth around the bookshop like he would find something there to loop that (maybe a bit dangerous, given Aziraphale’s recent mental state) discussion back to the matter at hand. “Because, if you’re worried about being around her rest assured that she isn’t much like the Almighty.”

“Because she isn’t the Almighty, Crowley,” Aziraphale insisted, adding, “And I have no problem being around her, she’s just like any other child.”

“Right,” Crowley said dryly, watching - half worried, half amused - as Aziraphale got up and marched over to the nearest bookshelf.

“In fact,” the angel said, back to the demon, “I’m going to find the perfect present for her right now.” Humming thoughtfully he ran a finger over the spines of his books, occasionally pulling one out to glance at the cover before sliding it back in and moving on.

Crowley gaped at him. “You’re going to give her one of your books?”

“Why yes,” Aziraphale responded lightly, like it was nothing unusual. “There isn’t any better gift than a book you know, and I do own a bookshop.”

“Right, a shop ,” Crowley rolled his eyes, pointedly looking at the sign that had stayed turned to closed since the world had been rebuilt. Not that the angel could see.

“Oh, how about this one!” Aziraphale turned around, lifting up a gray, old looking book (though the latter wasn’t all that unique in that particular shop) for Crowley to see. “You know, I actually thought about this when I first met her…”

“‘The Gay Science’?” Crowley furrowed his brow, then let his eyes wander down to the author. He groaned. “Angel, Nietzsche, really?”

“What?” the angel said defensively, tucking the book protectively under his arm.

“The ‘God is dead’ guy? Don’t you think that might be a little too ironic?”

“Oh, I suppose…” Aziraphale sniffed, giving one last glance at the book before sliding it back into place on the shelf.

“How about one of those kids' books Adam added to your collection?

“I’ll check.” The voice was muffled as the angel quickly disappeared behind another row of bookshelves.

Chuckling to himself, Crowley called, “and add my name to the card, will you?”

He could practically hear the roll of Aziraphale’s eyes as he yelled back, “Oh, fine!” as displeased as he could without actually sounding annoyed.

They pulled up outside the Youngs’ house a few days later with a neatly wrapped (and age appropriate) package and a constant nervous hum that was only slightly exposed in them both. Opening the car door for the angel, Crowley studied the house with its cheerful balloons and children shouting in the back suspiciously, almost as if he expected Christ herself to walk out and threaten to Fell the angel again, before being jolted back to reality by Aziraphale clearing his throat. 

“Everything alright, dear?”

Glancing at the angel behind his glasses, Crowley nodded tersely. “ ‘Course. Let’s get on with it, shall we?” Swallowing, he offered his arm and was relieved when, with only a shy smile, Aziraphale took it, and together they walked down the driveway and through the open gate to the garden, where they were immediately accosted by the Them.

“Excuse me, but you two are late.”

“Oh, cut it out Pepper, you can’t say that to everybody who comes after 3.”

“Yes, I can, because they are late.”

“Azira, are you still sad? You look better!”

“Crowley, I need to see your car now . Thanks!” 

“Hold up, stop right there,” Crowley growled, letting go of Aziraphale to twist around in a way that no human body should be able to and grab Adam by the shoulder, effectively stopping the young antichrist in his tracks. “What are you going to touch my car for?”

Adam huffed, unperturbed by the death glare that Crowel somehow managed to express from behind his sunglasses. “I’m not going to touch it, just take pictures. I need to prove that it’s better than my dad’s car.”

Smirking, Crowley straightened up and stared (or, at least it looked like he was staring) at Adam for a few moments before nodding and letting him go. “Alright. Fine.”

Brightening, Adam nodded before rushing off, Brian somewhat confusedly in tow with Pepper and Wensleydale taking their time to bicker behind him. Shaking his head, Crowley sighed and turned back to Aziraphale.

“Dear, do you have any idea what just happened?” The angel said slowly, mouth slightly agape as he looked back to where the children had disappeared around the house.

“Absolutely no clue,” Crowley confirmed, chuckling and threading his arm back through Aziraphale’s.

Shaking their heads, the two of them made their way across the garden, deftly avoiding the other clumps of kids as well as most of the adults in the party before dropping their gift at a table (“Are you sure this is the right place, Crowley?”, “Of course it is, why else would there be so many ribbons?”) and settling in next to Next and Anathema, who were lingering at the sidelines, Next fiddling with a watch and Anathema sipping punch as she watched him, amused.

“Is he trying to break time now?” Crowley asked, smirking as the clock feebly started ticking two hours behind schedule before promptly shutting down again, to Newt’s frustration.

“No,” Anathema sighed. “But it’s better he break this than a smartphone.”

“True.”

“I’m right here you know,” Newt grumbled, looking gloomily from his girlfriend to his watch. Anathema just laughed, then peered curiously over at Aziraphale.

“Hey, ‘Zira, how’re you doing?”

Aziraphale blinked, startled by the nickname, before his face fell into a pout. “Oh, I’m perfectly fine, dear girl. I’m not a china doll - I don’t need another person fussing and trying to help me.”

Anathema raised her eyebrows, tempted to mention what he’d looked like the last time she’d seen him. But knowing better she just shrugged, smiling at him kindly and saying, “Okay, that’s good.”

The angel, however, didn’t seem assured. With a sniff he looked around, face visibly lighting up as he spotted something across the garden. “In fact,” he said, “I think Deirdre might need some help with the cake.”

“Of course she does,” Crowley rolled his eyes, trying and failing not to smile as Aziraphale determinedly started off towards the Young house, where Deirdre would suddenly find people had actually brought a lot more desserts than she’d anticipated.

The demon and witch watched him go, neither the slightest bit convinced. “How is he really?” Anathema asked, voice low to make sure nobody but Crowley could hear.

“He’s… something,” Crowley sighed, gritting his teeth. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Christ talking with Deirdre by the backdoor, nodding and slipping in after her, probably to help her and the angel bring out the dessert. “And if She knows what is bloody good for the Her She’ll make sure that something stays fine.”

Anathema eyed him warily, perfectly aware both of who ‘She’ was and the futility of such a statement. But she kept her mouth shut, handing the demon a drink and not saying a thing when she felt the miracle to spike it.

Inside the house Aziraphale hummed, eagerly looking over the wide array of sweets collected for the gathering (which may or may not have been miraculously increased by himself and the Antichrist running around in the yard). Picking up a few plates to take out, he turned around, starting and nearingly dropping a few as he almost ran over the girl at the end of the table.

“Goodness, sorry, I didn't think…” he swallowed, face heating as Christ studied him, head cocked to one side. “I didn’t see you there,” he finished, breathless and suddenly feeling the urge to dash out the door.

Unnervingly she just smiled at him, a little lifting of her lips and a nod and a teasing smile in her eyes. “Aziraphale,” she said, “it’s alright.”

“Right, right,” the angel nodded, “of course. Erm,” he gave a fleeting glance to the space between him and the door, halfway taken up by Christ as she leaned over the dessert table looking over the sweets. He could easily slide by her, really wanted to slide by her, yet something was telling him he ought to wait a moment.

Taking her time, Christ didn’t seem to notice his discomfort as she scanned a tray of biscuits and carefully picked one out, nibbling on the edge. “Oh, this is good,” she said, sounding bemused. “Try.” Picking up another one, she held it out to him, and suddenly he was able to carry both his trays in one hand. Biting his tongue, Aziraphale took it. Christ watched him eat it, blinking unfazed, and maybe a bit amused, as she finished her own biscuit. She didn’t ask if he liked it, but her face looked like she knew he had (and of course he did, it was a biscuit ).

Swallowing, Aziraphale forced a smile at her. “Thank you, dear girl. That was good.”

“Mhmm,” she nodded, eyes defocusing for a moment before seeming to look back at him. “Aziraphale.” She said it carefully, chewing it like he did a new food.

“Yes?” He asked it, cautious, feeling himself start to sweat from nerves.

“Nothing, just thinking.” She smiled at him with that unnerving smile again. “I’m starting to remember, you know.”

“Remember…?”

“You know. Before the End.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale agreed, suddenly becoming very focused on the wall and not thinking about whose memories the girl was receiving.

“And I remembered you.”

He started. “Pardon?” 

Christ’s face didn’t change at all, she only shrugged. “I was remembering what you were doing before the End, you know. And,” she frowned slightly at this, at least, “I’m sorry She didn’t pay much attention before, and instead hid and stopped talking to Heaven. But I wanted to give you a commendation for what you did.”

“A, a commendation?” Aziraphale blanched, scrambling to remember a) what he could have done to please Heaven - or, or whatever Christ was - and b) when the last time Gabriel had given him a commendation was.

“Yes,” Christ nodded, face resettling into its usual passivity. “For working with Crowley and trying to stop the End. You two were really the only ones following the plan - at least, plan A.”

“We were?” Aziraphale began to feel lightheaded. “Plan A?”  Was there a B?

“Oh yeah, She was fed up with the whole warring sides thing. Never meant for the Fall to happen in the first place. Plan A was-” suddenly Christ stopped, seeming to think a moment before shrugging and giving Aziraphale a small smile. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. I’ll let you find that out for yourself.”

“Right,” Aziraphale agreed, feeling lightheaded as Christ congratulated him, picked up a tray of biscuits, and then left. “A commendation,” he murmured, staring out the door after her. “Well.” Could she do that?  he wondered. And then, suddenly, thought a more panicked question, Does this mean I’m not Falling?

Chapter Text

Before the End, Aziraphale liked Heaven on principle. Of course he did, it was the Realm of the Almighty Herself, the home of all angels, and free of all the noise and humans and gross matter (and books and crepes and certain lovely demons) that made Earth so pesky. He had to like Heaven, so he did.

But, well, after he blatantly defied it in favor of siding with Crowley and four children and they tried to execute him on the grounds of being a traitor there really was no more need for any of that, was there? So, since the End, Aziraphale’s already low minute count in Heaven dropped straight down to zero. After all, he had books to read and existential crises to have. No time for false pleasantries - something that he, for one, was very comfortable with. As were all the other angels, a fact that was very clear without anybody needing to ask.

As a result of this, Aziraphale waited as long as he could before going up to Heaven. He really did; God (or rather, Christ) could attest to it. He even spent a good half hour wringing his hands with indecision before finally taking a step into the lobby, which he felt was just right for showing everyone how much he didn’t feel like going Upstairs (and had absolutely nothing to do with the actual fact that he had no idea whether or not he was actually going to go until the second before he stepped onto the escalator). Because of course he didn’t want to go, he had to. He had had no communication at all with Heaven since the restart and knew of nothing big that had changed. But God had left them, replaced Herself with a young girl who, as far as he knew, was living a pretty normal life on the mortal plane. That had to be affecting somebody other than him, surely?

Never had he thought he would be going up to Heaven to stop himself from going insane. “Yet here I am,” he murmured to himself, sighing and glancing regretfully down the shifting staircase at Earth as it quickly started to fade.

Straightening and fiddling anxiously with the sleeves of his coat Aziraphale got off the escalator and walked quickly over to the receptionist’s desk, trying to seem professional even as he started to blink rapidly at the blinding white of the Heavenly half of the lobby.

“Hello,” he said, swallowing and folding his hands behind his back to stop himself from wringing them.

“Good day,” they replied impassively, glancing up at him with a blank face from their phone (not an iPhone, or any Earthly phone, of course; Heaven had had the best technology possible since before the Garden - not that it made their surveillance abilities any better - so they needn't bother with human devices). “Name?”

“Ah, erm, the Principality Aziraphale.”

The angel raised their eyebrows. “And your business?”

“I would like to request a meeting with Gabriel.” He gave his best nervous smile, which, though looking equally as fake as Gabriel’s best had none of his confidence (though that confidence was also what exuded a good deal of his priggishness, so maybe that wasn't a bad thing).

“You want to request a meeting?” The angel looked like they wanted to snort, but instead, their eyebrows just climbed higher. “When did the Archangel ask for you?”

“Uh, no, he uh,” Aziraphale chuckled nervously, “he doesn’t actually know I’m coming. But I’d just like to have, um, a brief chat, you know. With him. Just quickly and then I’ll be off. Erm, is he busy?” Aziraphale gulped, doing his best to keep his hands relaxed behind him as the receptionist appeared nearly to lose their inner battle not to guffaw. Thankfully, though, they managed to restrain it to just a small smile.

“No, not at all. I’ll call in and tell him you’re coming.”

“Right,” Aziraphale nodded, remembering to smile again after a minute of forgetting. “Thank you.”

The receptionist nodded back, picking up the official office phone and saying a few words to it before putting it down again. “Alright, he’s ready.”

“Gre- good, thank you again,” Aziraphale hurried off, walking around the island desk and immediately banishing that interaction to the deepest recesses of his mind as he navigated his way through Heaven’s bright, winding halls.

Gabriel opened the door just as he was reaching for the handle, his wide grin and already slightly ticked off and suspicious gaze immediately unsettling whoever was unfortunate enough to have been on the other side of that door. Which, as Gabriel loudly greeted, was, “Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale immediately flinched, though he tried to cover it up with his own fake smile. “Gabriel, how great to see you again. How’s Heaven doing?”

“Oh, better than ever,” Gabriel grinned, turning around and walking back into the room to his desk. Sitting down, he waved in Aziraphale. “Don’t linger, Aziraphale, it’s creepy. Come in!”

“Right, of course.” Grimacing, Aziraphale walked into the office, making sure to keep the door open behind him. Pinching his hands together behind his back, he didn’t take a seat, and Gabriel didn’t offer one.

“So, what brings you here today? I don’t think I’m alone when I say I didn’t expect to see you here so soon.” Or at all - the clause hung unspoken in the air between them, both parties perfectly aware of its existence.

“Oh, nothing very important. I just had, erm, a few questions, I suppose.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows rose an inch. “Well, ask away then,” he said, his voice touch confused even as his hands spread out encouragingly.

Nodding, Aziraphale took a deep breath, already imagining the response he’d get. But it can’t just be me. Find out. So he did.

“When was the last time She spoke to you?”

Gabriel frowned, his brow furrowing in true confusion. “What do you mean?”

“The Almighty.” Aziraphale paused, swallowing. “When was the last time She spoke to Heaven directly - not just through Metatron.”

“Oh,” Gabriel chuckled awkwardly, retracting his hands and folding them neatly right in front of his chest. “Well the Almighty is very busy, you know, you can’t expect Her to be focused on our every move. You know that Aziraphale.”

“Yes, of course, I know that,” Aziraphale sighed, biting his tongue before he could say anything unseemly. “But still, you are - as you say - the Archangel fucking Gabriel-” Gabriel stiffened, jaw clenching, but Aziraphale refused to react, keeping his smile inward, “-and She is your only direct superior. No one is closer to Her than you. So I was just wondering when you last heard from Her.” Gabriel hesitated, eyeing him warily. Aziraphale dared to smile. “Don’t worry, I don’t exactly talk much with the other angels. I won’t be telling them anything.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Gabriel snapped, then paused like he was taking a moment to control himself. If Aziraphale hadn’t been so anxious about what the archangel was about to say he would have laughed. “It’s not like it's a secret,” Gabriel continued. “No one in Heaven has directly heard from Her since the death of Christ.”

Despite himself, Aziraphale gasped. “Two thousand years? Really?”

Gabriel nodded, looking peeved, and it was like he’d been dunked in cold water. 2000 years, and not a word. Suddenly his attempts to contact Her just before the End seemed even more pathetic, and his worries about her abandonment even more realistic.

“But that doesn’t matter,” Gabriel shrugged. “As I said, Heaven is better than ever. It's a shame you don’t spend more time up here Aziraphale, really,” he smiled again, his face seeming to say something less like a welcome and more like a threat, ‘Never come here again after today ’. “Christ has been very involved, helping to calm the angels and get everyone back on task. Since you derailed her old one, She’s even drafted a new Plan and sent it out as a memo to all the angels-” except, it seemed, Aziraphale, “-so everyone knows what they’re working for. It’s been very good for morale.”

“But hasn’t Christ been living on Earth, in, in Tadfield?” His mind flashed back to the party, where Christ had given him a commendation. He wondered if Gabriel knew about that, about ‘plan a’ and ‘plan b’ - whatever those were.

“Uh, yes,” Gabriel grimaced slightly like he was still uneasy with the fact. “But the antichrist must be controlled, you know. And She has been coming here often and calling most other times. Again, She’s been very involved.”

“I see…” Aziraphale nodded, glancing out the door to the angels milling up and down the hallway. Heaven certainly did seem less quiet than the last time he’d been there. “And, um, how are the angels taking to this?”

“What do you mean?”

Aziraphale directed his gaze back at Gabriel, who was studying him with some suspicion.

“I just, well, you know, it’s a big change, Christ being around and all that, a new plan, no war… And she’s, erm, she’s very different from the Almighty. Christ. And I know Downstairs wasn’t the greatest place to be after this whole thing so I was wondering-”

“Of course you know how Hell is doing,” Gabriel’s lip curled, and Aziraphale flinched. If he’d been down on Earth he probably would have cursed for the slip-up, but then again, that would probably do even more to convince Gabriel of how bad of an angel he was. “Well, you can stop listening to reports from that demon boyfriend of yours and projecting them onto Heaven, because I assure you that we are doing perfectly fine up here.” Standing up, Gabriel smiled coldly, and Aziraphale realized that this was most likely the end of the meeting. “So no need to worry your little head about it, alright Aziraphale?”

“Of course, I wasn’t worrying,” he tried for a fleeting smile, though it fell almost instantly as Gabriel rounded his desk and started to herd Aziraphale out the door. “Just, you know, wanted to check in.”

“Right,” Gabriel nodded, looking like he was focusing all his energy on stopping himself from rolling his eyes. “It was lovely to see you Aziraphale, but I’m afraid I have some business to attend to now.” Smiling, the archangel took his shoulder and roughly directed him out the doorway. Aziraphale just nodded, throat caught, letting himself be pushed out the door.

Only at the last second did he remember to ask his last question, at which point he stopped and caught Gabriel’s door with a hand, a move which surprised the angel enough for him to actually show it (if only for a few milliseconds). As usual, the expression quickly disappeared under a thick layer of annoyance.

“Yes, Aziraphale?” His voice was terse.

“I just have one more question.” Aziraphale took a deep breath, meeting Gabriel’s stern gaze head-on. The archangel took a step back, widening the part of the door slightly. “Do you,” he hesitated, glancing around to make sure no one was listening to them. There were only a few angels in the hall, but he dropped his voice anyway. “Do you really believe that she's Her?”

“That who's Her?” Gabriel snapped.

“Christ,” he whispered, breath catching at the end.

Gabriel frowned again, deep wrinkles appearing on his forehead and the sides of his face. “Of course.” He laughed, though it sounded even more forced than usual. “Where else would She be, Aziraphale? The Almighty would never abandon us. Not like some people.” He gave Aziraphale a pointed look, then slammed the door shut.

Now standing alone in the hallway, Aziraphale sighed. Could he really be the only one?

Like always, he left Heaven defeated, only now with the unhelpful addition of being overwhelmingly and completely confused.

Chapter Text

“You want to do what?”

Crowley peered at Aziraphale suspiciously from behind his glasses, quickly snapping shut his jaw before it could reveal his surprise.

Not that the angel was paying much attention to him. In fact, he and Aziraphale were currently conversing through a bookshelf, which certainly hid Crowley’s shock better than any pretending he could manage for himself.

“I said ,” Aziraphale tutted, “I think that it’s about time we pay Christ and Adam another visit.”

“And what on Earth makes you think that’s a good idea?”

“Well, think about it. Christ and the antichrist are currently two children hanging out together on Earth. Neither of them has any guidance from the higher-ups, neither of them fully understand how to use their powers…” Aziraphale walked out from behind a bookshelf, turning a book over in his hands. Glancing furtively at Crowley he continued, “I just think it may be helpful to check in on them once in a while, make sure the world wasn’t saved for nothing.”

“Okay…” Crowley frowned, watching the angel as he turned his back to him and reshelved the book on the near side of the shelf. “But angel,” he flashed his yellow eyes at Aziraphale over the rim of his glasses, “you hate Christ!”

“How many times do I have to tell you, I do not.” Aziraphale frowned, pouting and sitting down in his armchair across from Crowley.

“Don’t lie to me Aziraphale. Last time we saw her you were shaken for three days afterward, wouldn’t even come out to sushi with me. Sushi!” Crowley pointed a finger at him accusingly, as if he really cared about the sushi (he didn’t, he cared about Aziraphale eating sushi, but that’s not the point).

“I told you, it was a busy day at the shop,” Aziraphale looked away, swallowing slightly. Crowley narrowed his eyes.

“You’re a bad liar, angel.”

“Well, then, am I lying about this?” Aziraphale frowned sharply, glaring at Crowley. “I want to check in on the children, that’s all.”

“Hmpf,” Crowley grunted, actually sitting up so he could cross his arms and stare studiously at the angel. Aziraphale looked right back at him, holding his gaze steadily through his sunglasses. “Nkg, fine,” the demon conceded, slumping back down again. “Tomorrow?” 

Aziraphale immediately brightened, nodding and standing up. “Perfect. I’ll call Anathema and make arrangements.”

‘Arrangements’, it turned out, meant tea and biscuits with Christ and the Them in Jasmine Cottage, and then Aziraphale promptly shooing Crowley, Anathema, and all the children out into the garden to “train” while he stayed inside to, well, do something with Christ.

Crowley watched them through the window as they talked, eyes narrowed. Just as he’d expected, Aziraphale had immediately dropped his cheerful facade and was fiddling anxiously with one of Anathema’s saucers, spinning it around and around within the tight grip of his fingers and barely seeming to notice it as he talked, face tight and anxious, with the girl across from him. Crowley couldn’t see her face well, but Christ was sitting back in her chair just as relaxed and nonchalant as she had been when he’d left, occasionally shrugging at whatever Aziraphale was saying to her. The angel was frowning, a nervous and desperate look in his eye that Crowley recognized all too well from some of history’s worst moments, and it set the demon on edge. So much so that he didn’t even notice Anathema coming up until she was forcefully turning him away from the window.

“Hey, no spying,” she scolded, steering him away and not even glancing at the two figures behind the window (the gall!).

“I’m not spying,” Crowley snapped, glancing back through the window once (to annoy the witch, of course, not because he was worried) before grumpily following her across the garden. “And even if I was, I’m a demon, that’s what I do.”

“You’re also Aziraphale’s…” Anathema raised her eyebrows, pausing at the demon’s glare, “...friend, and that comes with a certain amount of trust, right?” Crowley grunted, shrugging. She continued, “Look, I get you’re worried for him, but you have to relax. He obviously wants to talk with Christ - isn’t that just what you’ve been trying to get him to do?”

“First of all, I’m not worried. Secondly, I…” Crowley frowned, glancing back at the window and finding himself coming up short. He had asked Aziraphale to talk to Christ, some time ago. “I did, and I know that. I just wasn't thinking they'd talk like this.”

“Without you, you mean?”

“No, that’s not-” Crowley stopped, scowling and letting slip a strangled groan before throwing his arms up in the air. “Maybe. Whatever. Oi, boy,” he turned around and shouted at Adam, pushing past Anathema, “the angel says you need some training, so get over here!”

Over the next few weeks, Aziraphale dragged Crowley every few days to Tadfield for “training sessions” (read: hushed conversations with Christ behind closed doors while Crowley ‘trained’ Adam somewhere else). Halfway through that first day, however, Crowley had found out that it was a bit difficult to teach Adam anything about his powers when he didn’t really understand them himself. So, after about an hour of trying to teach Adam how to do conventional miracles (which he succeeded at, somewhat, though he didn’t have to snap his fingers or draw energy up from either Heaven or Hell like normal beings did; rather, he just thought something up and it popped into existence somewhere nearby) and how to control them (which he could not do) Crowley gave up on the lesson and for the rest of the afternoon acted as a translator for Dog. The second day he didn’t even try, just moved far away from the window and Anathema’s glare and watched in amusement as she started lessons on witchcraft. These lessons, to everyone's surprise, eventually turned into a semi-successful routine in which Aziraphale and Crowley would arrive, the groups would split, and Crowley would play on his phone and watch the witch’s lessons for a few hours, critiquing her and her books where they got it wrong (which, to his frustration, was very rarely). It was actually almost enjoyable.

Except, of course, for the fact that whenever he tried to get up and sneak back into the kitchen to check on Aziraphale (which was about every half hour) Anathema would immediately think of a reason that she - a witch who had got on fine for years without him, might he emphasize - desperately needed his help in demonstrating some occult property and stop him in his tracks. In fact, it took three whole weeks of peppering Aziraphale and getting repeatedly snagged by Anathema before he managed to hear a peep of what was being discussed without him. (He even tried asking Christ, only to give up immediately after hearing some vague answer about doves and cliff tops that he had absolutely no time for.)

Anathema had taken the kids (and, because of a combination of boredom and obligation, Crowley as well) down to a creek in the woods to hunt for toads, and in a mad dash to catch one pathetically tiny creature Brian had fallen and scraped his knees. As the only other adult, the demon had been sent back to the cottage for first aid supplies while Anathema kept Brian from calling half the neighborhood over in his panic. And, even though he wasn’t one to like the sight of an injured kid, and he could definitely have miracled a kit over if he'd wanted to, Crowley took this as the perfect opportunity to do some eavesdropping (after all, he didn’t want the witch knowing he could simply teleport wherever he wanted, because errands sucked, so he needed something to fill the walking time with. And anyway Brian really wasn’t that hurt, he just had big lungs). So, popping into Jasmine Cottage, Crowley made sure to stay absolutely silent on the other side of the kitchen door before making his presence known and dashing in for the bandages.

In the kitchen, Aziraphale and Christ were still talking.

“What I don’t understand is how my Grace can still be intact.” It was the angel’s voice, hushed and tight, speaking in a tone that always managed to put Crowley on edge, not even considering the words it was speaking.

“Your Grace is an extension of Heaven’s power. Heaven is still there, and you’re still connected to it, therefore your Grace is still intact.” Christ’s voice was calm, nonchalant, not reacting as the legs of a chair screeched and the sound of pacing footsteps echoed across the room and through the door.

“So Grace isn’t an extension of the Almigh-” Aziraphale winced audibly, “-of your power?”

“No.” 

Crowley could also see Christ’s shrug from the irritation in the angel's voice. “ No ? You- you can’t just say no like that! I thought - everyone thinks - that Heaven is full of godly power! An extension of it! But you’re saying it isn’t?”

Someone took a sip of something, probably tea, then confirmed Crowley’s guess with the clink of china on a saucer. “Heaven’s power is no more my own than Hell’s, or Adam’s. I granted it to them, but it is not mine.”

Aziraphale took a long time to reply to that, and for a moment the only sound was the click of his heels against the floor. Crowley’s head hurt (though maybe that was because it had fallen with a soft thunk on the wooden door, not that anyone - or rather, any angel - in the room had noticed). When the angel spoke again, his voice was soft. “So if She were to disappear, go- go poof, then… my Grace would be exactly the same.”

“If Heaven and your relationship to it stayed the same, then yes.” Christ’s voice suddenly sounded cold to Crowley’s ears, oddly detached and emotionless next to Aziraphale’s rapid, panicked breathing. “But,” Christ added after a moment, and Crowley’s eyes flickered up in anticipation, as if they could look through the door, “that isn’t the case, Aziraphale. I’m right here.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale rasped, and with a hard, ungraceful thump Crowley heard him practically fall back into his seat. “But She isn’t. Who knows how long She’s been gone.”

“Aziraphale-”

“No, don’t try and fool me. The angels in Heaven may believe you but I don’t.” The angel’s voice had turned to a snap, and Crowley stiffened, slowly placing his hand on the doorknob. “I visited them, you know. I went to Heaven and I saw Gabriel and I asked him, ‘Do you really believe that that child is Her?’ And-” Aziraphale made some quick sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob - a perfect soundtrack, Crowley thought absently, to the sinking in his stomach. “-and do you know what he said? ‘Of course’. Like always, he thought I was being ridiculous! But I heard how he screamed when you first brought him out, and even though he won’t admit it I know he felt it too. She, you, something vital, is gone .”

“She did this,” Christ said, and for the first time her voice changed, though only to become firmer. “She froze time and put you all away, She turned Herself into me. I may not know everything yet but I’m getting there, and I promise you Aziraphale I’m not lying-”

“Maybe,” Aziraphale cut her off, then repeated, softer, “Maybe.”

There was silence. In some part of him Crowley knew that he should get going if he didn’t want Anathema to start getting suspicious, but the conversation had frozen him in place.

Quietly, after what felt like a long time, Christ asked, “Do you still want to Fall?”

“I-” the angel hesitated. Took a deep breath. “Y-”

“ Aziraphale!” Blood pounding in his ears, Crowley burst through the door, cutting Aziraphale off before he could finish his word and dashing - actually dashing , like he cared - across the little room to grab his arm and hoist him from the table.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale looked at him, paling in shock. “Why- what are you doing here? It’s still early, I thought-”

“Never mind, angel, I forgot, I have bussinesss back in London. We’re going back before you can make a big missstake.” He didn’t even notice the hiss coming out, so busy he was with trying to push Aziraphale out the door. 

“Wait,” Aziraphale stopped, planting his feet firm and giving Crowley a look that froze him - as if the demon would have been able to move the angel if he hadn’t wanted him to. Swallowing, he looked back at Christ. “Would you tell me the truth?”

“I am, Aziraphale.”

“No.” The angel paused, glancing furtively at Crowley. “The whole truth. Including right now and- and… Before.”

Christ’s gaze darkened, and she glanced frowning between the two of them. “I don’t think you want to know that.”

“I do,” Aziraphale insisted.

“Maybe,” Christ shrugged, and her calmness was back full force, like a blow. “You didn’t answer my question, though.”

“And he won’t,” Crowley snapped, snatching his friend’s wrists and pulling him swiftly out of the room before he could realize what was happening. Raging, he let go with one hand to slam the door shut and snap his fingers to miracle the first aid kit to Anathema. “We’re leaving,” he muttered to Aziraphale, and trembling the angel nodded and followed him mutely out of the house and into the car.

When Crowley didn’t start the Bentley, just gripped the steering wheel, Aziraphale finally glanced at him. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Enough.”

He started the car.

Chapter Text

They made it all the way back to London without speaking a word (not even about Crowley’s driving speed, something Aziraphale hadn’t neglected to remark on since his days of silence right after the restart, and no time before that). The Bentley screeched to a halt in front of Aziraphale’s bookshop and Crowley was out before it had fully stopped, leaving the car to park herself and Aziraphale to scramble behind him. Knowing it would regret it if it didn’t, the bookshop door unlocked itself for him and, with a snap of his fingers, a bottle of wine appeared on Aziraphale’s desk. And so it was that, in a few seamless motions, Crowley managed to get all the way from angry and sober in Jasmine Cottage to still angry but not so sober in the bookshop - all without stopping or speaking a word to the angel who mutely shuffled along behind him.

About halfway through the bottle of wine Aziraphale reached out, pulled it gently from Crowley’s grasp, and poured some into the glass that had started existing sometime ago in his palm. Taking a sip, he asked, “Does your business involve getting sloshed?”

“Oh shut it, angel.” The demon didn’t care that he’d snapped. “You have your blatant lies, I have mine.”

“Right then,” the angel replied stiffly. Without hesitation, he downed half his glass in a gulp just as Crowley was reaching forward to refill his again.

They made it through the rest of the bottle before Aziraphale spoke again, this time less confident and instead studiously peering at the floor. “Crowley,” his voice was trembling and infuriatingly soft, “why are you so angry?”

Crowley snorted, slamming his wine glass down on the table and then launching himself backward to sprawl against the couch and give himself the room he needed to gesture wildly. “Why am I angry?” He scoffed. “Why- I, I don’t even know what to say to that. Why do you think I’m angry, Aziraphale?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking,” the angel frowned. “Why do you have to be so difficult, Crowley? If anything I’m the one who should be angry at you for eavesdropping!”

“ Me? I’m the difficult one? Where have you been for the past bloody months?”

“I-”

“Because you haven’t been here,” Crowley cut him off, “you haven’t been with me, you haven’t even been giving a rat’s arse for your own self! No,” the demon stood up, gesturing sharply (maybe drunkenly, maybe angrily, likely both) with a thumb to his chest. “That has been my job, and yet you still won’t…”

“Won’t what, Crowley?” Aziraphale glared up at him as he trailed off, still sitting in his beloved armchair and holding a glass of wine, though he was no longer drinking it. Feeling like the wind had suddenly been knocked out of him, Crowley just shook his head and plopped back down onto the couch.

“You want to know why I’m angry, Aziraphale?” The demon’s voice was soft, almost a hiss, and hearing it Aziraphale gulped and put down his glass of wine. “I’m angry because you are still lying to me. Because you still won’t tell me what is happening. Because you’d rather-” he paused, taking a trembling breath, “-you’d rather Fall than let me help you.”

“Crowley, no, that’s not-”

“ Don’t . Don’t lie. Tell me the truth, angel.” Crowley leaned forward onto his knees and looked straight at Aziraphale over his sunglasses. The whites of his eyes had fully disappeared, the only sign other than his clenched hands of his anger that his languid body would reveal. “Christ’s question. You were about to say yes, weren’t you?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer, just looked away.

“Weren’t you?”

“Yes!” the angel started, snapping in response to the increase in volume of the demon’s voice.

A breath whistled painfully through Crowley’s teeth and he laid back on the couch. “Right.”

“What is so wrong with it?” Aziraphale said after a moment, giving Crowley a hurt expression that he knew would shut the demon up (the bastard). “You’re Fallen, after all. And… it would be less painful to Fall.”

“You clearly have no idea what Falling's like,” Crowley hissed. “Take it from me, angel, you do not want to Fall.”

Aziraphale flinched at the nickname, shaking his head. Swallowing loudly he leaned forward and took back his wine glass, knocking back what was left before looking Crowley squarely in the eye. “But I do want to, Crowley. I want to Fall. And y ou’re the reason I would say yes.”

Crowley sucked in a breath, staring at Aziraphale with wide eyes. When he spoke it was barely more than a strangled hiss, and probably anyone but Aziraphale would have found it impossible to understand him.

“No,” he croaked, shaking his head. He lept up again, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he paced back and forth in front of the couch and started pulling with a frustrated hand at his hair. “No! You, you can’t do this , Aziraphale. You can’t, ngk,” he grimaced, completely yellowed eyes darting around the room, “you can’t do this to me, hiding, and, and sneaking around, and don’t think I didn’t know about your trip to Heaven - I’m not dense, I can sense when you leave Earth! And then, then talking to Christ and acting like everything is fine- lying , that everything’s fine and that you’re feeling better and then suddenly saying you want to Fall - Fall , nobody wants to Fall, Aziraphale! - and that it’s, it’s…” he gulped, his gesticulating hands falling flat as he finally met Aziraphale’s gaze. “...it’s my fault.”

The angel gasped, his fluttering hands still for the first time as he stared at Crowley in shock. “No, no, that’s not what I mean at all, dear! Nothing is your fault, how could it be?” Smiling nervously, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to yet, Aziraphale stood up too, walking up to the demon and cupping his face in his hands. Surprised, Crowley started, staring at Aziraphale and not moving - neither away from or towards him - as he continued to speak. “If it is anyone’s fault it is mine, dear. Okay? For- for being so blind-” Crowley’s heart jumped as Aziraphale blushed and frowned, dropping his gaze to the ground though he was still standing close. But then he continued, dashing the minuscule (nonexistent, he would claim if asked) hope Crowley had of hearing the one thing he’d never dare to say. “I always thought I was serving Her, you know, enacting Her will, and that I was right and good by doing so. But you were right. She was never really there, Crowley, it was always just people like Gabriel and Michael calling the shots. And- and that’s why I’ve been going and talking with people, with Gabriel, with Christ, trying to figure out what the truth is, and they’ve all just been confirming what I should’ve known all along…”

“You talked with Gabriel?” Crowley said tightly, head spinning so that it seemed he could barely grasp anything Aziraphale had just said but that one little, surprising tidbit.

The angel nodded, looking rueful. “I did, when I went to Heaven. And you know what he told me? That no one has heard directly from Her in 2000 years.”

“Shit, angel-”

“I know.” Aziraphale’s eyes looked back up at his face, which his hands were still holding. “And then Christ told me my Grace doesn’t even come from Her, but from Heaven, just like how your power comes from Hell, and I realized that it really didn’t connect me to Her at all. It made me realize how right you were, Crowley, and how pretentious I’ve been all these years. I’m sorry.”

“Damn right,” he growled, and Aziraphale snorted. “But angel, you know She is here, right? She is here on Earth, right now, just a drive away.”

“I don’t care,” the angel shook his head. “She hasn’t really been here for thousands of years.”

“Okay, okay,” he put his hand over Azirphale’s, running his thumb over the angel’s. “But still, you don’t have to Fall for that.” He reddened, adding, “In fact, I’m pretty sure you won’t Fall, no matter what you’re thinking of her.” Aziraphale looked at him suspiciously, narrowing his eyes, so quickly Crowley continued, “And you don’t have to. Believe me, Aziraphale, I’m all for your revelation, but Falling, it’s… it’s hard. I don’t want you to go through that.”

Aziraphale didn’t respond at first, just paused and then reached one of his hands up to Crowley’s glasses. Slowly, a question in his gaze, he started pulling his sunglasses off, and then after Crowley nodded he folded them and put them on his desk. Gaze returning to him Aziraphale studied his (probably pretty ragged looking, by that point) eyes for a moment, and it was all Crowley could do not to blink, look away, or pull Aziraphale closer. “I will be fine, dearest. My Grace… all it does is tie me to Heaven. I don’t want that anymore. Falling will be…” he shrugged, gaze flickering downwards a moment before returning to meet Crowley’s with a small smile. “I will survive. I mean, you Fell, and you turned out better than any of the angels in Heaven.”

“All except one,” Crowley chuckled, grinning and momentarily forgetting what they were talking about at Aziraphale’s blush. Sobering quickly, though, he pulled his lips back downwards. “Still, I don’t like it.

“Could you trust me, then?” Aziraphale asked, looking at Crowley imploringly in that way he knew the demon could never resist.

And true to his expectations Crowley nodded, gulping, and leaned into Aziraphale’s palm. There was a long moment of silence. “You said I was right?” He whispered, breaking it and avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze.

The angel nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

He hated himself for it, but Crowley pulled away, stepping out of Aziraphale reach. He didn’t want to - he’d much rather celebrate the angel finally coming to his senses about Heaven - but he had to say it. “Then why didn’t you trust me with this?”

“What do you mean? Of course I trust you,” the angel frowned, brow wrinkling as he stared at Crowley.

The demon shook his head, feeling his stomach clench. “No, you didn’t. You snuck around, you told me everything was fine-”

“I just didn’t want to worry you-”

“But you suck at lying, angel!” Crowley shouted, then grimaced and quickly shut his mouth. He didn’t think he could stand it if the two of them went back to yelling at each other. More quietly, he continued to a shocked looking Aziraphale, “you suck at lying, at least to me. I knew something was wrong, you can’t hide that from me, but you insisted on hiding everything else so I couldn’t help you. That was way more worrying for me than literally any other decision you could have made. I mean, you didn’t even tell me that you were Falling! Come on, Aziraphale, you knew I would find out eventually yet you didn’t even ask me to help you through the worst of it!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I should have talked to you but-” Aziraphale froze, his fretting hands freezing where they’d been fidgeting nervously before. Eyes wide, he looked at Crowley in astonishment, and the demon squirmed under his gaze.

“What?” he snapped, scowling.

“I never told you I was Falling.”

“Yes,” Crowley threw up his hands, “that’s exactly the problem-”

“So how did you know?”

Then it was Crowley’s turn to freeze, to stare at Aziraphale’s suspicion like a deer into a pair of headlights. “Um…” he swallowed, grimacing and rubbing the back of his neck with one hand - the same hand that had held Aziraphale’s not moments before. “I, I found one of your feathers. A black one, the first one, while I was grooming your wings that time.”

The angel’s face went stony, holding that expression that had always amazed Crowley until suddenly he was the one under it. “And you didn’t say anything?!”

“Of course not! I didn’t want you to panic, and I didn’t think it would matter because as soon as I left I got Christ to call it off-”

“You what?! ”

Crowley paused, realizing what he’d just said. What Aziraphale had just been saying he wanted. Shit. The look on the angel’s face was slack jawed and shocked, but he could tell from the sharpness of his eyes that it wouldn’t remain so calm for long. Taking the chance to explain himself, Crowley held up his hands. “I just drove over and had a little chat with her, that’s all. You were still so…” he flinched at the steely look Aziraphale gave him, daring him to finish the sentence, “you weren’t yourself, you were confused, so all I did was ask her to, you know, put the Fall on pause. Give you a chance to come to your senses, feel better…” the demon trailed off again, gulping at the near murderous - and definitely unangelic - look Aziraphale was giving him. “I just wanted to protect you, angel,” he finished, dropping his hands in what he hoped was a submissive gesture.

Aziraphale didn’t answer at first, glaring first at him, then at the floor, working his jaw and discreetly hiding his clenched fists behind his back. Crowley watched him fearfully, taken aback by the so un-Aziraphale-like expression clouding his features. After an eternity of this (and that’s a lot, coming from an immortal being) Crowley sighed, exhausted from the tension. “Angel?” He asked, studying Aziraphale, who hadn’t looked at him in minutes.

Aziraphale shook his head, still not looking at Crowley. “Please leave.”

A shot of fear spiked through him, that exact same fear he always felt when Aziraphale had been about to get himself in trouble in the past, the kind of sixth sense that always drove him to come to his rescue. Yet this time he was already right there, and Aziraphale wanted him gone.

“Aziraphale, please-”

“Crowley, I need you to leave.”

“No, angel, please, I know what you want to do and I can’t just leave knowing that!”

But it was too late. Aziraphale shook his head, and as one hand fell limp at his side the other came up to Crowley’s shoulder and started firmly guiding him out into the front area of the bookshop, ignoring his frantic babbling to steer him towards the door. “Just wait a second, okay, let’s just stop yelling each other and we can talk about this-”

“No,” Aziraphale said firmly, shutting up the demon as he opened the door.

Bowing his head, Crowley walked into the doorway, pausing there just a moment to look at Aziraphale one last time, who was back to wringing his hands. “Please, just let me help.”

Aziraphale smiled sadly, shaking his head again as he moved to close the door. “I don’t think either of us trust each other enough for that.”

Then he closed the door on him, leaving Crowley alone to listen to his sixth sense’s alarm bells and the growing feeling of dread that came with them.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale watched Crowley go in silence, fiddling with his hands and trying (and failing) to swallow the rock choking his throat as the demon slunk into the Bentley and drove away. As soon as the car turned the corner he then turned around, grabbed his coat, and walked out the door as he put it on, only just remembering to snap his fingers and lock up the shop behind him. It wasn’t long before he had made it to the nearest bus stop and was settling down in his seat, still closing the last few buttons of his coat as London started to slide by. He had no idea where the bus was supposed to be going, but assumed it couldn’t be long until it stopped in Tadfield, and as such, the driver’s schedule quickly shuffled to accommodate the small village as its next stop.

That didn’t change the fact that it was at least an hour's drive to Tadfield - additional stops or none - so Aziraphale quickly found himself sitting alone on the bus, staring out the window, sharp-toothed thoughts nagging the edges of his conscious mind. I should have brought a book , he thought, having not even thought of it in his hast, but quickly his regret morphed into a kind of dark humour as he thought about what he’d just said. Yes, I should have brought a book while I waited to talk to Christ and ask her to Fell me. Maybe Paradise Lost would have been a good fit.  He chuckled at his own silent joke, ignoring the look he got from the woman sitting across the aisle.

He supposed that this was the time when he was supposed to be rethinking things. Crowley would want that at least, and thinking of the demon made Aziraphale wince. The fear on his face when Aziraphale had told him to leave… they both knew each other too well not to know what Aziraphale was about to do. And they both knew that, had Aziraphale given him the chance, Crowley would have done whatever he could to stop him.

And yet I said I didn’t trust him. But he did. He trusted him more than he trusted himself, most days, and just as much as he had trusted Her (if he was in an honest mood, he’d probably say he trusted Crowley even more) before the end, before he had met Christ. But that didn’t mean he wanted him to worry, nor that he had to tell the demon everything, Aziraphale reasoned. Those were reasonable secrets, those that simply maintained his own privacy - completely the same as the way Crowley never told him about the Fall or whatever he could remember prior to it (though Aziraphale doubted it was anything much, for as far as he knew none of the angels could remember more than a few flickerings from before, not including their discussions with and instructions from the Almighty). Crowley’s actions, however… Aziraphale felt his fists clench uncharacteristically, a reflex to the pang in his chest leftover from his cherubim days. He forced them to ease - they were useless without a demon in front of him to hit (and the desire to hit one) or a flaming sword to curl around. No, he had given up his warriordom thousands of years ago - in fact, he had given up that unseemly part of himself just as he was about to give up his Grace.

But that didn’t lax the hurt that insisted on accompanying Crowley’s words as he replayed in his head, and their force wasn’t something he could deflect by fiddling with his fingers or the cuffs of his sleeves as he often did. Just the way the demon had said it, rushing out, “I got Christ to call it off ”, standing right in front of Aziraphale and calling him confused and not himself , was as if Aziraphale had been broken in the aftermath of the end and it was Crowley’s job to keep him from hurting himself even more. The whole thing reminded him disturbingly of how Crowley had treated Warlock, watching the boy closely as he toddled around the gardens like the meerest trip would have broken him. It was Crowley that didn’t trust me, he thought bitterly, glaring out the window where countryside had just started to replace the crowded streets of London. Somewhere on the edge of a string, Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s presence, fluttering and pacing back and forth in his angst. He was probably in his flat yelling at his plants, and he could probably feel Aziraphale leaving London and heading towards Tadfield. Curiously, Aziraphale focused on the presence, saw its flickering red light in his inner eye as Crowley moved, and - to his surprise - didn’t start to leave his flat, even as the bus drew farther and farther away from the city.

Sighing, Aziraphale rubbed a hand down his face, because the thought prodding him in the side wasn’t even a realisation, really, just a return back to the norm. Of course , Crowley trusted him. They had known each other too long not to trust each other, not to understand and learn how to predict each one of their respective thoughts and decisions (why that was Aziraphale didn’t think much about, chalking it up to more time spent together, even though they had for most of history gone centuries without seeing each other while he had met Gabriel for an annual check-up nearly 6,000 times). Crowley did trust Aziraphale; he trusted him to finally choose the demon over Heaven now that She wasn’t in play, and watching the sun set over the countryside Aziraphale felt his own mood mirror it. 

Did that mean Crowley doesn’t want me to choose him?

Aziraphale dismissed that thought immediately but refused to go back to the idea that Crowley was just protecting him, feeling an odd sense of discomfort at the thought (he was supposed to be the protector, after all!). Instead, he simply concluded, It doesn’t matter what he wants. This is my decision. And he wanted to Fall; he’d been wanting to Fall for a while then.

Didn’t he?

Not for the first time, Aziraphale wished Crowley had told him more about his Fall. From the demon’s face when he asked he knew he hadn’t forgotten it, though sometimes when the angel heard his friend cry out in his sleep - in those occasional nights he slept over, usually drunk but increasingly less so, on the couch in the back room - he wished he had. Aziraphale knew it must be painful, but how painful? Gabriel was right (Aziraphale fought down the voice in his mind that protested at that, a voice that sounded suspiciously like a certain serpent), he had grown soft, and he shied at the idea of pain. But it couldn’t be worse than his demotion, he thought - if any, it was probably very similar, just another mutilation of his true form. And this time he had less of it to lose, and he would be expecting it. The Fall wouldn’t be so bad.

But did he want to leave Heaven?

Yes.

Aziraphale didn’t even need to say the word to himself to be sure of it. Heaven was not any more in the Almighty’s favor (if She still paid them enough attention to give favor) than the rest of the universe, it seemed; Christ had confirmed that. And he hadn’t had anyone among the angels for thousands of years, not since before the Fall, and his only memories of that time were such blurry leftover feelings of love and camaraderie that he wasn’t even sure they were real. The only person he had was right there, pacing in his flat on Earth, and he would forgive him eventually. Right? 

Gnawing on his lip, Aziraphale was jerked out of his thoughts by the stop of the bus shoving him forward just as the worry started to surface that no, maybe Crowley wouldn’t . The thought stung, freezing his mind in the time it took for him to stand, look to grab his things only to remember he had no things with him to gather, and then move to shuffle down the aisle.

He would, Aziraphale thought, stepping off the bus. He was the only one getting off, so he turned back and said aloud, “Could you wait just one moment, dear sir?” to the bus driver, who gave him a look but nodded stiffly. Smiling at him gratefully, Aziraphale turned back around to scan his gaze over the village. The world was just beginning to turn to twilight, and the dying sun insisted on tossing forward a few final rays to bathe the houses and lawns of the village, turning everything an orange-red or orange-brown or orange-green. It was beautiful, and under the weight of the sight and Adam’s immense love hanging in the air, Aziraphale felt almost crushed.

Do I want this? He gave himself one last chance to back out. Yes, he was ready to Fall. Yes, he was ready to leave Heaven behind. If anything, his biggest worry he found was probably getting Crowley’s forgiveness - which, seeing as the angel was doing it partly for and inspired by him, he would have found ironic had he not known how sensitive the demon was (a fact he would insist on, no matter how much Crowley protested). But he will come around, Aziraphale thought. He always does . And with that thought, he nodded to himself and turned back around to wave at the bus driver. “Alright, sorry for the wait, but you’re welcome to leave. Good night!”

The bus driver nodded again, looking down at his schedule and sighing as he began to wheel the bus back around the way he came. Staying to watch the bus leave, Aziraphale gave the man a quick blessing for his trouble and then turned around and started walking down the main road as soon as the bus disappeared.

From there it was a short walk to Jasmine Cottage (really, it was such a small village that it was a short walk anywhere), and as he turned the bend and caught sight of the building from behind the trees Aziraphale sighed in relief to see that Christ was alright out, looking at him from where she was leaning against the front gate. Good, he wouldn’t have to try and create an explanation that would fool (or more likely, fail to fool) Anathema for why he was back so soon.

Walking up he gave her a little wave, smiling, despite himself, as he would to a child. “Hello, dear girl,” Aziraphale said, and he was proud he sounded at least a little bit cheerful.

She nodded in return, face completely blank and unreadable, like it always was. “Hello.” 

Aziraphale stopped a few paces away from her, feeling awkward with both continuing with the pleasantries and bringing up the manner at hand. He wrung his hands, hesitating, and Christ was no help. She stared at him, waiting for him to start, though she undoubtedly already knew what was on his mind.

He decided to get on with it and voiced that sentiment. “I assume you know why I’m here?”

“Yes.” She nodded.

“So…” he swallowed, looking away to study the dirt road, which was turning an invariable dark brown in the evening light. Could you just cut out my Grace already? He thought to ask, but he didn’t say it. Couldn't.

“I need you to ask first.” She said it in a way that could have been comforting had her face shown any emotion.

“Right, of course,” Aziraphale nodded. “I understand you’ve been holding off on letting me, erm… Fall.”

“Yes.”

“So, could you- I mean, I would deeply appreciate it if…” he gulped, glancing up at her for a moment before finding that too hard and looking down again. “I would like to Fall, please.”

At first, she made no response, just stood there almost human-like, leaning against the bench, her elbows notched between the metal rods of the gate so that they supported her. She still dressed just like Adam, and her sharp eyes and curly golden hair could almost make one think she was him if it wasn’t for the blankness of her face, and the way she stood completely still, her gaze pinned to Aziraphale.

“Crowley wouldn’t like that,” she said finally, watching him closely.

Aziraphale nodded, somewhat startled. “Yes. I know.”

“Are you sure?”

“Did She ask all the angels who Fell the first time if they were sure, because I’d quite like to get this on with.” He heard his tone grow sharp, but for once he let it, for he shut himself up quickly anyway.

She shrugged, not seeming bothered. “No, I didn’t, but the Fall was a mistake.” Aziraphale gaped, but before he could even begin to question the ramifications of that statement, Christ continued, “You’re sure, though, so okay. It’ll start soon.”

“Soon? How soon?” Aziraphale’s hands fluttered at his waist; by this point he had lifted his gaze to study her nervously.

“When you’re ready,” Christ said simply. Then she stood up straight, waved him away, and turned around to open the gate and walk down the path to the welcoming lights of the cottage. “Good night, Principality.”

He nodded, heart pounding in his throat. “Good night.” She closed the door, and with a sigh, Aziraphale turned around and started walking back to the village center, where he was sure there would be a bus to pick him up.

Chapter Text

It started the moment he walked through the bookshop.

It actually wasn’t that bad, when it started. In fact, Aziraphale was surprised at how small the sensation began. It was just a little trembling, an uncomfortable itch somewhere deep in his true form, painful in that way that an itch you can’t scratch is. It felt like… well, he wasn’t exactly sure what it felt like. It felt like his Grace was trembling, maybe, like someone was shifting it to prepare it for something greater. Feeling it start Aziraphale paused in his doorway, slowly closing the door behind him and locking it, all of his attention focused on that little itch. The itch did not grow or change for three minutes - though it felt like much longer - and after the first few moments, the dread and anticipation started to become worse than the actual shift in his Grace. Aziraphale stood, waiting, by his door for all three minutes, not making a move.

Suddenly he felt his Grace jerk within his true form like someone was pulling roughly right at his heart, and he gasped and stumbled at the sudden pain. The itching gave way to a burning that he could feel spreading and scorching his noncorporeal form, a wildfire that built strength in the background of the regular rough jerks and stabbing pain at his Grace. Vision blurring, Aziraphale felt his knees collapse, letting his body fall to the ground on its hands and knees. Like a miracle - the human kind - some part of him gathered up the strength to lift his hand, and he watched it like through a tv screen as it snapped, shutting all the windows and closing the bolt on the door, in addition to the lock he’d already turned. He was vaguely aware then of forcing himself to stand and limping a few paces towards his armchair, only to fall back down to the floor immediately upon entering the backroom and not standing up. But Aziraphale barely noticed these things; the reality of the corporeal plane became the new itch, taking the backstage behind the near-blinding pain in his true form.

His Grace continued to jerk violently, as if in a fight, and each time it was thrust to the side he could feel a part of it ripping away from him, little by little, and the screaming of his true form every time that happened almost made the burning in the rest of him feel like a mild sunburn. But no, Falling couldn’t be compared to any kind of pain on this plain, he couldn’t even compare it to his demotion - it was infinitely worse. 

And longer. He lay there so long, he thought, curled up tightly in the fetal position - as if that was a position his body remembered from its past and thought would bring it some relief. He lay there so long, burning and bleeding from where his Grace was being ripped from him that his corporeal body - which wasn’t hurt at all in the process, aside from a few bruises from when he fell, lowercase - started to cramp and his leg fell asleep, and for a while Aziraphale was able to focus on that dull pain and almost distract himself from the rest of it. That didn’t last long, though, and soon after the rest of his body followed his leg and it was like being shifted from a waking nightmare to an infinitely more horrible one in slumber, where he couldn’t even escape to his thoughts but was thrall to whatever force was still tugging and twisting away at his Grace and, in doing so, possibly destroying the rest of him. That also lasted longer than he had any idea.

Sometime later he was aware that he was awake - though he didn’t remember waking up, at that point Aziraphale thought blearily that the only thing he would really remember at that point would be a change in the pain - and his wings were out, reflexively released and draped over him like they could protect him from his inner mutilation. Only they weren’t his wings, they were something else, someone else’s. He forced open his eyes, but after that it was no longer difficult to stare at them, unblinking, just stare until his eyes stung - a pain barely perceptible, really, against the rest of it - at the smoldering, blackened and featherless fans of flesh, smelling like someone burned at the stake only they kept burning with no fire, only a layer of searing embers scattered like dense patches of stars over the flesh necessary to keep gnawing away at what had once been a Heavenly white. He remembered his other wings, his second pair that he’d had when he had been a cherub, and he remembered them lying as bloody, glistening stumps of ivory feathers on the ground. How desperately he had wanted those wings back, wanted to grab them and stumble away and ask a healing angel if they would please, please just sew those two back on - he didn’t need his faces, nor the rest of him that they had cut away, just his wings please, please, oh please. For they had been his wings.

These wings he saw and he wanted to cut them off, peel off what was clearly just a mold infesting his true wings, the wings he’d had and (apart from that brief period of time right after the restart) taken care of since She’d created him. But he resisted the urge, gasping and clenching his fists until his nails drew blood to keep himself from touching the wings or hurting himself more. He couldn’t draw the strength to put them away, but he closed his eyes and let himself be enveloped by the pain again as it rose and fell. His Grace was mostly gone at that point, he could feel it struggling, every moment a fresh flash of agony, and something like flames licking ever more voraciously at his insides. Those filled up the empty space where his Grace used to be and bit at what remained with iron-hot, pinprick teeth. But it wasn’t getting worse, at that point; for hours more his Grace struggled to hang onto him, and each new release seemed to be getting harder and harder for the fiery grip trying to tear it away - as if his form was spending the last of itself on hanging on to those few threads of the delusion of Her.

In this struggle, at least, each flash of pain started coming farther and farther apart. Aziraphale knew it couldn’t last, he couldn’t hold on to his Grace for long (why was he trying? he wasn’t sure - he had chosen to Fall, after all - but it seemed to be some kind of subconscious response by his true form, and he would be lying if he said a part of him wasn’t shouting at him to keep fighting). But the convulsions had started to calm, and though the fire was still inexpressibly painful the sheer length of time at which it ate at him, never really doing more than burning the surface of his true form, allowed Aziraphale to slowly push it back into the background. Finally, after who knew how long (bright light was shining in through the windows, morning light, but after how many days he didn’t know) Aziraphale was able to form a coherent thought.

This is quite a bit harder than I imagined, I must say. He grimaced, and finally pulled in his still slowly smoldering wings. Think, he corrected himself, for his throat was sore and thirsty, and he didn’t have the strength to miracle himself some water or even crawl to where he’d left some cold tea, leftover from before his last trip to Tadfield with Crowley.

Crowley, he thought, guilt welling up in his corporation’s chest - one of the few parts of him that hadn’t hurt, up until that point at least. Crowley would be worried out of his mind. In fact, Aziraphale wouldn’t be surprised if the demon had felt him start to Fall, could feel him Falling still. The two could always feel each other’s presence, after all, so long as they were both on Earth. And Crowley’s presence had always felt different than that of the other angels. Stronger, for one - probably because of their closeness - but also definitely demonic (how did he know it was ‘demonic? he couldn’t be sure how, but he was sure in the same way he knew what something was sweet). Would Aziraphale’s presence start feeling that way to Crowley? Would he even be able to recognize Aziraphale at all, anymore?

For some reason, the thought disturbed him, and for the first time since he’d started Falling Aziraphale felt a pressure well up behind his eyes. How would he face his best friend after this? Would Crowley ever forgive him for this? He’d thought about it before and quickly dismissed the idea, but that was before he had started to Fall. Now… now he thought he might understand why Crowley had been so desperate, now that the fire was eating his own insides. How would he feel if Crowley were to ever walk willingly into such pain as this, pain that he didn’t truly understand? Oh, but Crowley’s Fall had been so much worse, a true Fall from Heaven in the literal as well as figurative sense. His corporeal form had burned in addition to his true form, he didn’t have any way to hide from the pain like Aziraphale did as he forced his true form to stand in the background behind the relative safety of his corporeal body. And the screams… Aziraphale had not screamed yet, but he’d heard Crowley screaming in his nightmares and was pretty sure the Fallen had screamed as they were sent down to Hell. That too would have made it so much worse.

I’m lucky , Aziraphale thought wearily, even as he curled in on himself more and felt his fingernails pierce the skin on his arms to allow him to weather a particularly bad ripping of his Grace. And if it was him Crowley would go anyway, if he didn’t know how bad it was. I would try to stop him, and he would do anything if he thought it was right. And I would forgive him, because… 

Suddenly, he couldn’t weather the pain any longer. Whatever had been fighting within him gave up, and as that last ounce of strength untensed his Grace was immediately ripped free and Aziraphale couldn’t think any longer, couldn’t see the blood on his hands or taste the icky thickness in his mouth or feel anything except the excruciatingly sheer emptiness hollowed out inside of him, the nothingness left behind where once had shown the light of God.

And he screamed. It was the only thing he could sense outside of the pain, and he had been right. It made it so much worse.

So much worse that he could feel himself losing consciousness, awareness of both his clenching corporeal body and his true form - still writhing and hissing as it burned - fading away. He didn’t struggle, and quickly as he felt the pain start to fade away along with his bodies he welcomed the darkness, whatever it meant, only just sensing the shaking and the splintering sound of wood as someone broke down the door and rushed over to him, wrapping him in a tight and trembling grip detectable by him for just one brief moment before he finally passed out.

Chapter Text

Of course, Crowley went back, what else was he going to do? He tracked Aziraphale’s presence restlessly for hours, pacing back and forth throughout his flat and tossing at least two barely yellowing plants outside to be trampled by the city foot traffic in his rage. It was hard, he wouldn’t deny it, and he outright got all the way to the roof and pulled out his wings when Aziraphale reached Jasmine Cottage, only pulling them back in and resigning himself to letting the angel Fall at the last minute. If it hadn’t been for the way Aziraphale looked at him as he left, so sad and disappointed , Crowley didn’t think he would have been able to do it. But he did; he stayed away. That was until Aziraphale began to Fall.

He felt it in his true form, in that corner of his oldest self where his link to Aziraphale had long ago taken up lodging. The line twisted and jerked, pulling at him so painfully he gasped and fumbled with his keys and glasses as he grabbed them on this way out the door. He was in the Bentley speeding towards the bookshop to the sound of Mozart’s “No One But You” blaring into his deaf ears within moments, and if he could barely navigate the road for the red crowding into his vision (a bit of it from the pain coming along his link to Aziraphale, but a lot just simple panic and some too vivid flashbacks to his own Fall) then anyone he crashed into should blame themselves for daring to step into the street. All in all, he stumbled into the door of the bookshop before the song was even over.

“Aziraphale!” he shouted, jiggling the locked doorknob with one hand and banging on the door with the other. For the first time, he found himself unable to miracle the door unlocked or even look into the shop, as all the curtains had been drawn tight. Growling, he hit harder until the door was all but leaping out of its frame, but it didn’t budge and nobody answered. “Bloody idiot,” he cursed, kicking the lower corner of the door, like it would do any good. “Angel!”

He kept that up for who knew how long, ignoring the odd and sometimes even frightened looks given to him by passersby, conscious only of the painful tugging and swinging of Aziraphale’s line as the angel’s true form writhed in agony. Eventually, however, he tired himself out, and it was clear that the angel wouldn’t open the door for anything. Limbs trembling from fear and exhaustion he slid his back down the door, sitting down hard on the bookshop’s front steps. Leaning his head back against the door, Crowley closed his eyes and resigned to wait.

He had no idea how long he waited there before he was jolted up by a scream.

Aziraphale had remained silent the entire time, not a sound leaving the shop throughout the entirety of the Fall, to Crowley’s surprise (he very vividly remembered him and everyone else screaming their wretched lungs out, after all). But that changed when Aziraphale Fell - really Fell, finally, after the long process of wrestling, got the last of his Grace removed from him. Crowley felt it, that moment when he officially became a demon, and at the exact same instant he heard it. And there was no scream as bone-chilling as Aziraphale’s scream, not to him, anyway.

Crowley was up in an instant, head ringing and vision blurring as he tried to force the door open and get to the source of the screaming. But it wouldn’t budge, and Aziraphale’s voice and the pain he broadcast along their shared line just grew louder. It was almost as bad as his own Fall, he thought as he pounded on the door. No, this is worse. Because this is Aziraphale. Flinching at the thought, he gave up on the door handle, and before he knew it the bookshop door was splintering in front of him and falling to the ground with its own shout of agony. 

Gasping, Crowley didn’t notice this, just lept over the broken wood and strode towards the back room where the screaming was coming from. As Crowley entered it started to quiet eerily, and for a moment in his panic, the demon had trouble pinpointing the source of the now just pained whimpers until he looked down.

Collapsed right in front of him, only just barely out of sight of the main shop, lay Aziraphale, moaning from where he was curled up on the floor in the fetal position and clearly barely conscious. In an instant, Crowley had dropped to his knees and, without thinking, pulled Aziraphale onto his lap.

“Aziraphale, hey,” he whispered, gathering his friend up in his arms so he could slowly uncurl him, prop his head onto his shoulder and maneuver the rest of him into a more comfortable position. He noticed the angel’s (former angel’s, technically, as if Crowley would ever think of him as anything but) hands with a grimace, and swallowed loudly as he flattened them, pulling Aziraphale’s nails away from the bloody holes they’d gouged in his palms. Snapping his fingers, he miracled the injuries away, then checked the rest of Aziraphale over for other hurts. Apart from some black feathers scattered over him, he appeared fine, and Crowley brushed these off with relief. That was good. The next part was less painful but longer and much, much bloodier. At least he doesn’t have to go through it while crawling out of a pool of sulfur , he thought, may just a little bit bitter.

Sure that Aziraphale had passed out, Crowley shifted him in his arms, careful not to wake him as he slowly maneuvered him until he could stand up easily without risk of dropping him. Aziraphale’s head still on his shoulder he walked over to the couch, miracled a dark blanket to cover it (knowing his friend he would be devastated if he came out of his daze only to learn he’d ruined his couch himself), and bent down to slide Aziraphale out of his arms and onto the more comfortable piece of furniture. To his surprise though, Aziraphale’s unconscious body flinched at this, one hand bunching around the fabric of Crowley’s shirt and the other even moving a few inches to grip his wrist, almost as if to say don’t leave me, not again.

“Ngk,” Crowley stuttered, blinking at the hand on his wrist, but he stopped attempting to put Aziraphale down and instead just sat himself, settling the former angel’s head in his lap and pulling his grip up where he could clasp his hand. Aziraphale relaxed then, whimpering only slightly and gripping their intertwined fingers. Despite himself, Crowley relaxed too. “Don’t worry, angel, the worst is over now.”

“I’m not an angel,” Aziraphale replied, his voice dry and raspy. Crowley didn’t reply at first, surprised. So he had been awake after all. But his friend’s eyes didn’t open, and his lips barely parted as he mumbled, “Not anymore.”

“Well…” Crowley shrugged, rubbing small circles into Aziraphale's hand with his thumb unconsciously. “You’re not a demon.”

“I’m not?” The question came out small, weak, and if it had been anyone except his angel saying it Crowley would have called it pitiful. But he remembered where he had been at this point in his own Fall, still screaming his lungs out, unable to do anything but crawl weakly out of the way as other, stronger demons who had recovered faster started fighting. That was how he’d gotten his name; Hastur had never seen any demon as pitiful as him so of course had to jeer about it. Yet Aziraphale was still holding his hand with strength.

So Crowley replied firmly, squeezing him back. “No. Not yet. You’re just not an angel any longer.” Neither angel nor demon, isn’t that something? Crowley thought. Looking down at Aziraphale, he nearly wished his friend could stay that way forever. Completely neutral, free of Heaven and Hell, and instead curled up peacefully in his lap.

Suddenly Aziraphale started coughing, loud and rasping, and in a way that shook his entire body. Reflexively he curled back into a fetal position, now only halfway in Crowley’s lap, gripping the demon’s hand like a lifeline as he hacked. In a matter of moments golden ichor began to drip from his lips, spattering across the blanket Crowley had draped over the couch and onto the wooden floor. Eyes wide, Crowley did his best to hold Aziraphale steady, rubbing circles into his back at the same time as he held his shoulders to keep him from falling off the couch.

He kept coughing for a while, but he spit out so little ichor Crowley could tell it would be a while yet. Then, at least for a moment, Aziraphale stopped coughing, shifting his energy to gasping and pushing himself as far away from the spilt ichor as he could (which, incidentally, was really just further into Crowley’s lap - not that he minded).

“What’s happening?” Aziraphale squeaked, staring at the ichor with shock. For the first time since Aziraphale had started talking about Falling Crowley recognized true fright on his features. He hadn’t expected this.

Crowley pulled him further into his arms, holding him tight.

“You need to get rid of your angelic essence so a demonic one can take its place,” he said softly, cringing. “It’ll be a while, it takes longer than losing your Grace. But,” he assured Aziraphale hurriedly, “it’s not as painful as that first part. You’ll have to cough everything up, and then it’s just a lot of sleeping as the rest of it grows.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, voice soft and already exhausted. Then, a little while later, “I didn’t realize that there was such a difference between angels and demons, you know. I always thought that, well… that Grace was it. We- they had it, and demons didn’t.”

Crowley nodded. “Most people do. Don’t worry, though,” he said, looked down at Aziraphale. His eyes were still closed, and he was breathing heavily. “None of these changes are big. They won’t change who you are.”

“I know, dear,” Aziraphale said, cracking a small smile. It was barely a quirk of the lips, but it relieved Crowley nonetheless. “I know.”

The demon nodded, and then Aziraphale started coughing again, body writhing as his true form started pushing out its very own essence. He coughed for a long time, hacking up enough ichor that the couch covering and the floor beneath it gleamed disgustingly glorious. Beneath him, Crowley could do nothing, just held him and reassured him and made halfhearted banter when the coughing stopped every few minutes. Then it would start again, and again, and again, and each time the flow of the golden blood just grew greater until, after countless rounds of coughing and probably hours or even a day in the world outside the bookshop, Crowley couldn’t get rid of the fear that maybe this wasn’t right, that surely Aziraphale couldn’t lose this much ichor, that Christ must have made a mistake or maybe his Grace had been pulled too roughly out of him or maybe, maybe Aziraphale was just too bloody good for even the base parts of him to accept to the growth of demonic essence, even with his Grace and angelic essence gone.

But then spots of black started dotting the gold, demonic blood floating in the dead angelicness like oil in water, and slowly the flow began to decrease. It’s almost over , Crowley thought, relieved. Rubbing sweat out of Aziraphale's face with a cloth he’d miracled up a while ago, he said this aloud, and the being before him visibly relaxed.

“How long has it been?”

“Honestly? No idea. Just hang in there, it won’t be long now.”

“And then I’ll be a demon.”

Crowley stiffened, opening his mouth to retort. But then Aziraphale started coughing again, and for the next few minutes, he held him as his body wrung itself dry in an attempt to force out more ichor, though increasingly the substance was more black than gold. 

Crowley waited until Aziraphale had relaxed again to continue, but he just didn’t have the energy to snap at that moment. So instead, all he said was, “Yeah,” with a softness that should never have been heard in a demon’s voice. “I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale started hacking before he could reply, and the fit was so long and wrenching and barely produced any ichor at all that by the end of it Crowley’s grip on him was more akin to iron shackles than comfort and Aziraphale’s hand - whose fingers had never untwined from his - had lost the strength to grip back completely. But then Aziraphale gave one last dry, ichorless cough that sounded like he was about to hack up his lungs and after a few minutes of no coughing, they both realized that that had been the last of it. Both of them stayed still, breathing heavily, and then Aziraphale dropped his head down onto Crowley’s knee and sighed.

“It’s over.”

Crowley nodded. “Yeah.” He snapped his fingers and the ichor all disappeared.

“I think I want to sleep. I’ve never wanted to sleep before.”

The demon smirked, looking down at Aziraphale, who for the first time shifted to lay on his back and meet his gaze. “Well who knows, maybe you’ll like it.”

“Do I have a choice?”

Crowley shrugged. “Technically. But I slept through this part myself, found it easier. And if you do stay awake I don’t think you’ll have the energy for anything.” He swallowed, eyes avoiding Aziraphale behind his glasses. “Your form has to grow the demonic parts now.”

“Ah, of course,” Aziraphale said, not looking away from him. He wasn’t surprised; Crowley had explained everything in bits in pieces once Aziraphale had already Fallen and there was no longer any way to save him. Crowley nodded, rubbed his friend’s hand between two of his.

“And you shouldn’t be sorry, dear.”

“Ngk, what?” Crowley blinked, glanced back at Aziraphale.

His calm, fatigued expression not changing Aziraphale reached upwards, slowly pulling off Crowley’s glasses. About halfway through, he raised an eyebrow at the demon, waiting for him to ask him to stop. Crowley did nothing, brain turning to mush and a blush raging across his face as he realized that, for the first time since they’d sat down together, Aziraphale was painless and lucid. But smiling shyly Aziraphale pulled off the glasses and set them down on the floor.

“You shouldn’t be sorry, my dear. I choose this, you know.”

For a moment Crowley just stared at him - the demon in his lap who still looked much too cherubic. He had sometimes wondered if angels were allowed to be as tempting as Aziraphale, but surely a demon couldn’t look as ethereal as this? Hearing his own thoughts Crowley grimaced, quickly looking away, though there was no way the ang- Aziraphale hadn’t noticed his red cheeks by that point. “That doesn’t mean you like it, though. And-” he hesitated, glancing nervously as Aziraphale before noticing how interesting the floor behind him was. “-and, well, you didn’t want this. Not really. So I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale studied him for a while, frowning. Finally, he sat up, and Crowley was again thankful that it was only his friend’s spiritual form that was still recovering, not his corporeal one as it had been in Crowley’s Fall. Shifting, Aziraphale arranged himself so that he was off Crowley’s lap (and no, the demon did not miss him), sitting right next to him lengthwise on the couch with his head turned towards the redhead. Instinctively, Crowley turned his own head to look at Aziraphale and his breath caught at how close they suddenly were - as if they hadn’t been clutching each other since Crowley arrived. He could have counted Aziraphale’s lashes, and to distract himself he actually started to.

Then Aziraphale took his hand and started to speak, and Crowley instantly lost count.

“But I did want this Crowley, please understand that-”

“If it wasn’t for Christ you never would have Fallen,” Crowley interrupted. “You wouldn’t have wanted to, and She never would have been able to find any justification for cutting off an angel as good as you.”

Aziraphale’s gaze softened, though the fondness wasn’t able to crowd out the sorrow in his eyes. “I would beg to differ.”

“You were the best angel they had,” Crowley insisted. “And, erm, I may be a bit biased…” swallowing he glanced quickly down at Aziraphale’s lips before catching himself ( no, no, nope, not there! ), “but you still are.”

“Thank you, Crowley, honestly,” Aziraphale smiled, “But we both know I wasn’t a good angel. No-” he held up a finger to silence Crowley’s open mouth, “-insist however you want, my dear, and maybe someday I’ll be able to accept that I’m as… as good as you let on-”

“Great, I say you’re great,” Crowley corrected sternly.

“Fine, as great,” Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but blushed nonetheless, “but that doesn’t change the fact that I wasn’t a good angel . And if I didn’t choose to, I do think that I would have Fallen eventually. And you know what, dear? I’m glad. You may not believe me, but I’m glad. I’m happy, really, because I don’t want to be tied like that to Heaven anymore. Do you understand?”

“No,” Crowley admitted honestly, furrowing his brow at Aziraphale. Playfully, he smirked, adding, “What have you done with my Aziraphale? blaspheming Heaven like that.”

The blond pinked pleasantly at the possessive pronoun, giving Crowley a small grin that made his stomach flip. Aloud, he feigned annoyance, scolding him, “Oh hush. I thought you’d like this new development.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows, leaning a hair closer to Aziraphale. “Oh yeah? And why is that?”

“Well, because it made me realize how foolish I was. You know, I never should have trusted them or stood by their side like that. That was cowardly. And I shouldn’t have kept Falling a secret from you either, dear, because we both know by now that the only person that’s ever really been there for me is you. And I…” Aziraphale faltered, leaning away slightly and letting his hand drop Crowley’s so that he could wring his hands nervously. “So I’m sorry, truly. I should be, not you. You’re the one that got me through this, Crowley.”

“Oh,” Crowley said simply, eyes wide, feeling like his brain had finally stopped moving. Aziraphale’s eyes were large and wet, staring his own hands with a mix of fear and guilt that made the demon’s stomach sick. Weakly, he smiled, and somehow his hands (not him - no, he would never have been able to) found the courage to raise up and cup Aziraphale’s face to gently guide his eyes up to meet his. “Well, you don’t be sorry either then, alright? We’re both blood idiots.”

Aziraphale snorted, almost laughing. “Yes, certainly. Idiots and, and cowards.”

Shaking his head Crowley frowned, and then before he could stop himself he leaned forward and kissed the tear off Aziraphale’s cheek. Before him, his friend froze, and when Crowley pulled back his blue eyes were wide. Blushing fiercely, Crowley dropped his hands but didn’t look away. “You don’t call my angel a coward, okay?” He said voice firm, and Aziraphale nodded dumbly.

Then he kissed him back, a quick graze on the lips that almost instantly deepened and definitely ruined Crowley’s ability to think straight for the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

“What happened after you Fell?”

“Hm?” Crowley furrowed his brow, slitting open one eye to look at Aziraphale, though not catching more than a headful of blond hair tucked under his chin. “Um… I was in Hell? What do you mean, angel?”

Aziraphale huffed. “You probably shouldn’t be calling me that anymore,” he scolded, squirming out of Crowley’s grip so that he could sit up. The demon whined, suddenly feeling an onrush of cold air as Aziraphale left his grip where he’d been sleeping for the past few days (a fact Crowley would not have known had Aziraphale not asked for the time and date as soon as he’d awoken, just a few minutes before). Still lying splayed down on the couch, Crowley held onto his partner’s hand, tugging him petulantly to come back. 

But the former angel just rolled his eyes and shot Crowley a fond look. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I think it’s best we have this conversation sitting up.”

“Fine,” Crowley grumbled, and began the slow process of nudging himself into a somewhat upright position - if one could call his normal splayed-limbed posture ‘upright’. “So what are you asking?”

Aziraphale hesitated, hands beginning to wring nervously before Crowley reached out and caught them (and subsequently shut down all other brain functions to contemplate the sheer miracle it was that he could do that, but that’s neither here nor there). Shooting Crowley a small smile, Aziraphale started, “Well, erm, when you became a demon, was there some kind of orientation? Acceptance paperwork? I- I remember when I was demoted to Principality, Gabriel had me go through this whole training regimen with the other third sphere angels that were being prepared for the job, and I had to do all this paperwork, one set for leaving the cherubim and the other for entering the principalities, and oh it was a whole mess.”

Crowley blinked at him, jaw agape, eyes for once revealed to be wide with the absence of his sunglasses.

“What?” Aziraphale furrowed his brow. The demon didn’t answer. “Crowley, dear, stop that and speak. You look like a fish. A- A very handsome fish, but a fish nonetheless.”

The blush invading his face Crowley shut his mouth with a snap, though otherwise, his expression didn’t change at all.

“What?” Aziraphale frowned, giving Crowley a pout whose insistence may have just outperformed the demon’s shock.

Finally, Crowley snorted, shaking his head and looking at Aziraphale with wide eyes and a slack face that may have portrayed surprise, may have portrayed mild amazement. “You-” he paused to stifle a laugh, much to Aziraphale’s consternation, “did you just ask if Hell had a welcome orientation?”

“Well,” Aziraphale huffed, cheeks pinkening, “not exactly… I mean yes, well technically, I guess that’s a bit similar to what I was going at. But what I mean is-”

“Angel, it’s Hell. When I Fell we all crawled out of a burning pit of sulfur as fast as we could, and if you were done growing your demon-bits you fought and either got a rank or got killed, and if you weren’t you hid and hoped your life would be spared and you’d be accepted as some common footsoldier. By the time I stepped out Lucifer and his Princes were all set and starting to whip people into line - literally, each prince got a line of Dukes and each Duke a line of subjects - and then we started building Dis. No warning, no instructions, because again - it was Hell. Why I got out of there as fast as I could, myself.”

Aziraphale’s eyes softened, and he gripped Crowley’s hands in his more tightly. “Oh, I’m sorry dear, I didn’t mean it like that. I know it must have been hard. But, well, Heaven and Hell are both much different from then, you know. They’re really quite bureaucratic the both of them, so I guess I just assumed…”

“That they would be more efficient?” Crowley raised an eyebrow. Looking sheepish, Aziraphale nodded. “Nope,” Crowley smirked, satisfyingly popping his ‘p’ and then sliding back down to his previous position lying down on the couch. “Don’t worry, angel, Hell won’t come. In fact, I’d be surprised if they even had the guts to show up and welcome you, they’ve barely been talking to me since I was acquitted - barely got one assignment.”

“Oh, so that’s how you managed to find that much time to hover over me,” Aziraphale teased.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I could have been the busiest I’ve ever been and I still would have been there, angel. You know that.”

Aziraphale smiled, red blooming on his face as he leaned forward and cautiously gave Crowley a quick peck on the nose. “I know,” he said, giggling at the expression that crossed over the demon’s face as he blushed.

Clearing his throat, Crowley sat up - all the better to run a hand through his hand and rub the back of his neck with embarrassment. “Well, anyway, y- you have nothing to worry about is, uh, is what I’m saying. Trying to say. Saying. Erm…” Aziraphale laughed harder, earning him a halfhearted glare from Crowley. “They won’t come, angel, ‘tis my po-”

A crash sounded from the front of the bookshop, cutting him off. The two beings in the back room started, Crowley’s jaw dropping as his gaze locked itself to the gap that led into the backroom, Aziraphale’s back stiffening to make him sit even more ramrod straight than usual.

Back in the front of the bookshop there was another, slightly quieter crash, cursing, and the sound of something heavy (timbers?) getting kicked around.

“Well that door didn’t last long,” Crowley muttered, not shifting his stare.

Hesitantly, Aziraphale nodded, murmuring, “I do think you spoke too soon, my dear.”

The two of them waited, statues collecting dust on Aziraphale’s couch as the footsteps took their time meandering over. Sniffing, Crowley caught a not-so-subtle whiff of sulfur and started inching his way to sit in front of Aziraphale, but he had been beaten to it, the former Principality having already squared his shoulders and shuffled to the side so that, when the intruder entered, Crowley couldn’t even see them. The move simultaneously irritated him and did something funny to his stomach, but being a good (bad?) demon he decided to focus on the latter and strained to look over the former angel.

But as soon as the stranger spoke he didn’t need to look over and see to know who they were.

“Traitorz,” Beelzebub’s flies buzzed in a way that (somehow, disturbingly) sounded like a thoughtful hum. Crowley stiffened, scrambling to sit up.

Still in front of him, Aziraphale nodded. “Beelzebub.”

Sitting up fully Crowley leaned forward, finally able to lean around Aziraphale to lock gazes with Beelzebub. The Prince glanced at him briefly, their flat blue eyes blinking before returning to Aziraphale. He sneered, fully aware of the thousands of other insect eyes the Prince had on him anyway. “Hello, m’Lord. To what do we owe this pleasure ?” He drawled, eyebrows raised cockily as he rested his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder. The blond gave him a warning look, but Crowley didn’t dare break his gaze from Beelzebub.

“Nothing, not you,” Beelzebub’s didn’t even flick to him this time. “Him.”

“M- me?” Aziraphale stiffened, wide eyes shifting flightily between Beelzebub and Crowley.

“Yezz, you,” Beelzebub rolled their eyes, and walking forward they stopped barely a few paces away from the couch and, snapping their fingers, summoned a stack of papers. “Demon,” their mouth disrupted their normally blank expression with a small upwards quirk of the lips at the word. Aziraphale gulped.

“Now, hold on a minute here,” Crowley stood up, shifting slightly in front of Aziraphale and putting a hand on his shoulder to keep him down (to his friend’s chagrin). “This isn’t necessary, is it? I mean, it's not as if you’re in need of more demons, or like you expect us to report to Hell. I certainly haven’t been. Aziraphale-” 

“Will you be keeping that name?” Beelzebub cut him off, still ignoring the increasingly nervous serpent.

Still sitting frozen, Aziraphale looked at them in shock. “Excuse me? What, whatever do you mean?”

“He will be. He’s not changing his name,” Crowley said firmly.

“It’s tradition to do zo upon your Fall,” Beelzebub implored, still looking at Aziraphale.

“That isn’t-”

“Be quiet, traitor!” Beelzebub snapped, flies whining loudly, and they looked at Crowley for the first time since they’d entered to give him a death glare. Despite himself, Crowley closed his mouth, though he did not move from where he was standing protectively over Aziraphale. Nodding, the prince returned their attention to the former angel. “The new one speakz for himzelf.”

“Yes, right,” Aziraphale swallowed, standing up from the couch. Firmly he motioned with his eyes for Crowley to step back, and looking unhappy about it the demon held up his hands in defeat and stepped away.

“No, I will not be changing my name, thank you,” he said primly, matching Beelzebub’s stare.

“Azz you wish,” the prince said flatly. Then, without preamble, they walked over to Aziraphale’s desk and dropped the papers there with a thud. “You will complete this az zoon az pozzible for our files, and then return to Hell with me for your assignment.”

“Now hang on a minute-” Crowley started, only to be cut off by Aziraphale’s raised hand. Wisely the demon shut up, staring at Aziraphale with equal anticipation and fear. Aziraphale may have been a demon (technically) now, but Crowley knew that look.

Beelzebub didn’t, however, and so seemed taken aback as Aziraphale said firmly, “No,” in a voice that could have fooled anyone who couldn’t see his demonic aura that yes, he had the backing of God in his statement.

The prince knew better, however, so their startlement didn’t last long. “It izz not your choice. You will come with me.”

“No, I will not.” Aziraphale’s voice rose and feeling the power rising up in his rage Crowley put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t, angel, your true form won’t do anything, here,” he said softly, carefully leaving out that he was more worried about how Aziraphale would react to his altered form than Beelzebub, who would likely just scoff and bring out theirs in a show Crowley had no interest in seeing.

Thankfully, Aziraphale relaxed under his hand, nodding and letting his power subside.

Beelzebub sneered at them both. “He iz no angel, not anymore. He haz no right to deny me.”

“True, but you have no right to go against me, not here.”

The three beings all started, Beelzebub wheeling around so that they could all face Adam as he walked it, who was absentmindedly picking at a splinter on his thumb as he spoke.

“You should really not tear down doors like that either,” the antichrist added, glancing up at Beelzebub before looking back down. “It’s dangerous, and not very nice.” Frowning in concentration, he finally picked out the splinter, then blinked and all the entities felt a rush of power go towards the front door that Beelzebub had torn down, and that now was undoubtedly put back together.

“Boy,” Beelzebub said, shifting uncomfortably. “You have no place here.”

“But I do,” Adam said, finally looking up at them and holding their gaze. “This is my Earth, and I don’t like it when you’re here.”

“Earth izn’t yourz,” the prince sneered. “You forzake that heritage when you ztopped Armageddon.”

“No, he didn’t. It’s his.” Christ said, disconcertingly appearing next to Adam. The demons all stared in shock, none having sensed her enter the room. Crowley could have sworn that the Almighty hadn’t originally been that subtle. Now, she studied Beelzebub thoughtfully, wholly unaware or uncaring about the demon lord’s surprise. “Actually, Bael, I’d say you’re the one trespassing here.”

“Bael? Who-” Beelzebub froze, small figure immediately stiffening like stone. Confused, Aziraphale glanced questioningly at Crowley, who just shrugged, mouthing, ‘Who knows’. Beelzebub and Christ seemed to know, and if Adam was unsure he didn’t show it.

“You will leave them alone,” he said firmly. “They belong to Earth.”

“They are demonz,” Beelzebub insisted, flies buzzing ever louder as they grew more and more desperate. “They belong to Hell.”

Shaking her head, Christ snapped her fingers. Behind them the stack of paperwork disappeared and Beelzebub jumped, their buzzing spiking for a moment as they whirled around to stare at Aziraphale and Crowley in shock.

“You didn’t.”

“I did,” Christ said, nodding. “There is nothing more you can do. They’re Earth’s now.”

Beelzebub scowled, gaze moving nervously between Christ and Adam on one side of the room and (a deeply confused) Aziraphale and Crowley on the other. “Fine,” they said finally, looking back at Christ. “He will not be happy.”

Christ shrugged. “He hasn’t been for over six thousand years. He doesn’t even remember who these two are, keeping them wouldn’t make a difference for him.”

Beelzebub hesitated, brow furrowing in tandem with Aziraphale and Crowley’s own confusion. But Christ didn’t elaborate, and finally the prince just nodded and sighed. Without another word, the floorboards beneath them started to boil and melt away and they sank into the earth. Within moments the floor was closed and seamless again and the prince was gone.

“What did you do?” Aziraphale asked quickly, eyes narrowing at Christ.

“Did you feel it?” She asked, face just as blank as before and wholly unconcerned with Aziraphale’s nerves.

“Yes! And it made Beelzebub give up,” the blond shook his head, face constantly shifting between looks of suspicion and relief. “You didn’t…” he glanced nervously at Crowley, who was standing next to him clammy and silent, “you didn’t make us Rise, did you?”

Christ shook her head. “No.” She glanced at Adam, who was frowning at her. “No, I didn’t,” she said more firmly to him. “I just hid your demonic auras. You don’t look or feel like demons to anyone else, now.”

“But, we’re still demons?” Aziraphale asked, voice tentative.

“Yes. This’ll just allow you to stay on Earth.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed in relief, a hand fluttering to his chest. “Oh thank you.”

“If you want Down Below off our backs why are we still demons then?” Crowley asked, voice taunt and a bit edgy.

Christ blinked at him. “Take away your demonhood? But then you would be angels.”

Crowley balked at the idea but quickly recovered to shake his head. “Not necessarily. And if we’re not of Heaven or Hell, why should we be demons?”

“Dearest,” Aziraphale looked at Crowley with wide eyes, “are you suggesting-”

“No,” Christ glared at Crowley. “You can’t be neutral.”

“Why not?” Crowley bit back. “You can do anything, you’re the bloody Almighty!”

“It’s never been done,” Christ said warningly. “To make you neutral I would have to…” she grimaced, and shook her head. “No. Such a being would be too dangerous.”

“Are you sure you’ve never done it before?” Adam asked, stepping back into the conversation. “You don’t have all your memories back, do you JJ? You could have done it.”

“I think I would remember that,” Christ replied, losing a bit of her cool as annoyance flashed across her face. “And even if I did, the being would not be on the same level as these two. It would be something too close to me.”

“It would be another God, you mean?” Aziraphale said softly, awed. Even Crowley shut up, jaw slack.

“Yes,” Christ said grimly. “Or almost. And such instability would be too dangerous. I’m sorry, Crowley, but this is all I can do.”

Aziraphale smiled thinly, glancing nervously at Crowley. “Well, thank you, dear girl. And thank you, Adam. This is wonderful. Isn’t it, Crowley?”

“Huh? Ngk, er, yeah, I guess. Thanks.” 

“Of course.” Christ nodded at them, then turned around and walked away. The bell above the bookshop door jingled as she went out, and soon her presence had completely disappeared.

“Well, I better go with her,” Adam mused, giving the two demons a little wave. “Bye guys, cool seeing you again!”

“Goodbye, Adam,” Aziraphale smiled back, relaxing for the first time since the whole ordeal had started. Noticing this Crowley smiled at him, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Yeah, thanks for your help kid.”

Adam nodded, and in a blur and the sound of sneakers on two-hundred-year floorboards he was off, leaving the bookshop door he’d fixed swinging behind him. Left behind in the backroom, alone for the first time in what felt like a century, the two beings collapsed together onto the couch.

“I think,” Aziraphale said after a moment, “that I owe you an ‘I told you so’.”

“You do, don’t you?” Crowley replied, feeling too dazed to counter with his usual witty banter (or half-sensed banter, depending on who you asked).

“I told you so.”

Crowley turned his head and gave Aziraphale an odd look. “You only say the first part, angel.” He smirked, “I don’t think you need to repeat the ‘I told you so’.”

“But then what would the point of the warning be?” Aziraphale furrowed his brow.

“It’s not a warning…” Crowley chuckled, and within a few moments, the chuckle had grown into a full-on laugh. Leaning into Aziraphale he soon found himself burying his head into the crook of the former angel’s neck. “You’ll never learn, will you, angel?”

“Hm, I suppose not,” Aziraphale hummed, smiling down at his demon and kissing him lightly on the top of the head. “And you’ll never stop calling me ‘angel’, will you, dearest?”

“Nope,” Crowley grinned, pulling back to give Aziraphale a long, chaste kiss. Aziraphale leaned into it, and as they pulled away Crowley rested his forehead against his angel’s, refusing to leave. “Never, angel.”