Chapter Text
The large ginger cat lounged beside the dumpster, grooming his leg, half-sleeping on the warm early-autumn day.
His life had taken a turn for the better since settling into this particular alleyway. Plenty to eat, a dry place to sleep away the day. Not too many other cats, which was how he preferred things. And no humans bothering him.
At least, until now.
The tall pale figure appeared at the end of the alley, little paper bag in hand. “Oh, hello! Aren’t you a gorgeous thing?”
The cat immediately tensed, backing away. The figure didn’t feel exactly human, which was the only reason the cat hadn’t already run off. But it had two arms and an upright posture. That was close enough.
“Come here, let me look at you.” The figure crouched down, holding out a hand, baring its teeth the way humans do when they’re trying to act friendly. The cat hunkered down, tail protectively low along his body, and growled. “Oh, don’t you worry about me. I just think you –”
The hand got too close, and the cat swatted at it, preparing to use the distraction to dart into his fourth-favorite hiding place. But the figure seemed not to notice the razor-sharp claws.
“Well, alright. I’ll give you space. I thought I knew all the animals around here.” The figure rested a hand on its knee. “You haven’t been bothering the rats, have you? Only I have a bit of a truce with them, on account of my…my friend, you see. I don’t think he’d like it if you caused trouble. But a cat does have to eat.” The figure’s round face tilted to the side, apparently thinking.
The cat pulled back a few more steps, warily. It didn’t seem the not-human was going to attack, but a cat could never be sure about such things, especially with human-shaped beings. He could crawl beneath the dumpster easily enough, except that would mean turning his back on the figure in front of him. He’d learned the hard way to never turn his back on a human.
“I know! I have some nice cream back at my shop. And a bit of salmon. Would you like that? Perhaps mixed with some hardboiled egg? And a touch of sunflower oil, I think. Oh, yes, that sounds lovely, doesn’t it?”
The cat flinched away as the figure stood up, but it made no move to approach. With one last waggle of fingers and a gentle click, it retreated around the corner. He watched it go, preparing to slink away to the safety of the sewer grate.
Instead, the cat found himself following after, unsure of what drove him. Some natural curiosity, perhaps, or a desire for company that years on the street hadn’t quite chased out of him.
In any case, the cat thought that meal did sound rather lovely. Even though he didn’t understand a word of human language.
He watched from the mouth of the alley as the figure approached a red building where two streets crossed. It was a dangerous spot for a cat – lots of enormous human-powered machines running through at impossible speeds – but at the moment it seemed quiet. He took another tentative step forward.
The figure turned and waved cheerfully, pushing open the door. Then it turned, dropping its bag. Had it been a cat, its fur would have all stood on end.
Something in the air tingled.
A flash, like lightning from the clear sky –
--
Crowley was late and there would be an argument.
That was usually the way of things these days. Try to have a conversation, there would be an argument. Go out for sushi, have an argument. Meet up at the park, argument. He’d thought, after everything that had happened in Tadfield, not to mention that night at his flat, and the near-executions the next day – Crowley had really believed things would be different.
They were different, in a way. They seemed to argue even more.
Today, Aziraphale had suggested – out of nowhere – that they go for a drive and a picnic. Well, that sounded brilliant and all, but Crowley needed a little more information. Like where are we driving to and what do we eat at a picnic and why does this wine seller not have any proper vintages?
There’d been three lovely bottles of Sauvignon Blanc at the shop waiting for just such an occasion - not to mention a promising-looking Beaujolais that Crowley would have been happy to test - except that Aziraphale had gotten rid of all of them last month while “tidying up the back.” Some of Crowley’s favorite vintages had been lost in the uncharacteristic burst of cleaning, which had of course led to another argument, and now Crowley was just expected to replace them at a moment’s notice?
But Aziraphale hadn’t been interested in actually trying to actually help, just called up, made his demands, and by the by, I’ll be out of the shop for a few hours, take care of things, won’t you? As if Crowley had nothing better to do than spend the day googling picnic spots outside of London.
Well, actually, he didn’t have anything better to do. But still.
Now here he was, barreling down the road, swerving around drivers doing a mere forty-five, already half an hour later than when he was supposed to arrive. Aziraphale would almost certainly complain, oh don’t you know the best sunlight is at 3:38 in the afternoon or some other nonsense, as if it hadn’t been the same blasted sun every afternoon for six thousand years!
He spun the wheel, taking a corner so fast one of his tires left the road entirely, then downshifted and pulled up sharply in front of the shop. Cutting the engine, he took a moment to smooth his jacket and check his hair in the mirror. Then his eyes drifted to the reflection of the back seat.
“Oh, for Someone’s sake!” The basket had flipped over during the drive. He turned around and, sure enough, the glass containers were everywhere, across the seat and all over the floor. One wax-wrapped package had burst open, and the sandwiches had fallen to pieces, slices of deli meat everywhere he looked. Crackers, too, and no sign of the jar of dip.
“Just bloody perfect,” he grunted, adjusting his glasses and climbing out of the Bentley. He could miracle it all back into the basket, of course, but he’d need to know where it all was first, and that could take –
A bright orange cat darted between his legs, yowling furiously. Crowley barely managed to keep his feet under him, staggering against his car as the claw-tipped menace vanished down an alley. “Bloody nuisance,” he grumbled, standing up and adjusting his jacket again, hoping no one had seen.
No one had. The street was empty, which was already unlikely enough on a Saturday afternoon, and Aziraphale still hadn’t come out of the shop. Strange. Probably sulking already, or else lost in a book, a little smile stretching across his lips as if discovering the wit of Austen or Wilde for the first time.
Crowley caught a smile of his own starting to grow and fought it back. Get a grip, he told himself firmly, as he had on a regular basis for the better part of two thousand years. Soppy smile like that, it was embarrassing. Likely to give Aziraphale the wrong idea, or worse, the right one.
That was another argument they’d been dancing around, one that he had no interest in rehashing.
Setting his face to the detached expression that generally served him well, he shoved open the shop door. The wards were down - Aziraphale was expecting him; the physical doors were locked, but that never mattered to Crowley. “Angel!” A glance over at the desk and armchair. Not reading. Sulking it was then. “Alright, I’m here. Where are you hiding now?”
“Just – just a moment, please!” A thump from upstairs, followed by a pause.
“It’s your picnic we’re late for,” Crowley grumbled, but not loud enough for Aziraphale to hear him. He frowned, looking around. Something seemed off about the shop.
Nothing he could name, just a sense that the books on the tables weren’t quite stacked right. Too many drawers open on the desk. Was the little cupid figurine pointing in the wrong direction? Or had he just not remembered it right?
Something caught his eye about the rug in the doorway, an unexpected splash of color, perhaps. He crouched down to inspect it, but it was the same as always, deep reds and golds bleached pale by two centuries of sunlight. He was just starting to think he was paranoid, when his foot knocked against something. A paper shopping bag, just dropped on the floor, half under the nearest table.
That was odd. Aziraphale wasn’t the type to simply leave his shopping lying around, and he certainly didn’t let customers leave anything behind. Crowley reached over to pick it up.
“Oh, I’m so terribly sorry!” A rattle of feet on the wrought iron stairs, and Crowley forgot all about it. Aziraphale came running down, suit just a little more rumpled than usual, a nervous smile on his face. “I have had quite the day, believe me. Now, er, were you waiting long?” He glanced worriedly at the still-open door.
“Just got here,” Crowley said, deciding not to do the put-upon act this time, since Aziraphale was already in a state. Another glance towards the desk, tucked back in the east corner. It had almost registered what was wrong. “Have you redecorated again or something?”
Redecorating was Aziraphale’s newest obsession. Sometimes that meant coming in to find a few new angels sitting on the shelves, or a table moved into the line where Crowley preferred to walk. Other times it was rearranging everything in the kitchen cupboards, or pulling the Oscar Wilde first editions off the shelf and sorting them by the quality of the binding. Once it had meant ten new rugs, delivered on the same day, all vanished just as mysteriously the next.
“Have I? Er, a bit?” Aziraphale edged towards the door, moving a bit more stiffly than usual. “I’m terribly sorry, I…I thought I had locked this.”
“You did.” Crowley frowned as Aziraphale started to shut the door, then sort of hovered next to it. “Are you alright, Angel?”
Aziraphale’s jaw dropped just the smallest bit, working uncertainly. Then he smiled. “I’m…fine, yes. Absolutely…er.”
“Tickety-boo?”
“I suppose you could say that.” He turned the doorknob with one hand, glancing uncertainly at Crowley. “I…I don’t mean to be rude, but…ah…”
“You’re the one who called me.” He walked over to where the antique cash register sat on a table, leaning into the gap between the bookcase and the column. “I’m only here because – that’s what it is!” He spun back around, face a mix of triumph and surprise. Aziraphale flinched, pulling back slightly behind the door. “The sofa!”
He could usually see the corner of it from the entryway, but now it was missing entirely, replaced by a new bookcase, lying on its side.
In fact, Aziraphale’s whole office had been rearranged. The chess set was gone, too, as was the table Crowley always put his feet on. The desk had always faced the window, the chair usually rested at an angle for easy conversation. Now both were turned away towards a corner, private and forbidding.
“Ah, yes…I…thought it might be time for a bit of a change.”
“A bit of…Angel, that sofa has been there for two hundred years!” Crowley knew he shouldn’t be upset. He didn’t exactly consult Aziraphale on any of his own decorating schemes, a fact that had led to a few arguments of its own.
But that was his sofa. At least, that’s how he’d always thought of it, a little welcoming spot in Aziraphale’s shop. He’d settled onto it the first day the furniture had moved in, left his gloves on it countless times, to be sure he always had an excuse to come back around.
In 1941, he’d sat there while Aziraphale checked his feet for burns, fingers strangely gentle, no scolding at all. He’d spent the night when the angel said it was too dangerous driving during a bombing, even though the all-clear had been given, and he’d woken up the next morning on that sofa to find Aziraphale sitting in his armchair, reading, having watched over him the whole night.
Now it was gone. He didn’t have the first idea what to make of that.
“Has it? Two hundred years? Well. I suppose it is about time for a change, then.” Now there was something Crowley had never expected Aziraphale to say. “I’m…look, this is terribly embarrassing, but as I said I’ve had a bit of a strange day. Um. Why did I call you?”
“I don’t know. Something about it being the perfect day for a drive?”
“Did I? Oh that sounds charming.” Aziraphale glanced out the door, blinking at the Bentley as if he’d never seen it before. “I suppose that’s your car. It is very lovely. Ah. It would appear you have, er, some sort of salami all over the back seat.”
“The, ah, the picnic basket flipped over. And, yes, probably because I was driving too fast and not paying attention, you don’t need to start on that.” Crowley sighed. “Look, I’m not trying to pick a fight, Angel. I know I’m late. You don’t need to get all…” he waved his hand, “passive-aggressive or whatever. There’s still plenty of daylight.”
“No, I-I-I-I just don’t feel hungry anymore,” Aziraphale said, pushing the door shut.
“You…what?” Crowley tried to remember the last time Aziraphale had turned down an offer of food. He couldn’t think of a single example. “Are you feeling alright?” Crowley crossed the shop in three long strides, but Aziraphale stumbled backwards.
“Yes, I’m – I’m quite alright, er, my good fellow. Just…just a bit of a headache is all.”
“A headache?” Crowley reached for Aziraphale’s shoulder, but again the Angel avoided him, darting towards the center of the shop, and putting a column between them. “Why would you have a headache? That doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m…probably just…overdoing things, you know.” He lifted his hand to his forehead, rubbing it with an obvious wince. “Over tired. If we could reschedule our, er, our…”
“Oi.” Crowley leaned against the far side of the column, trying to drop his usual grating attitude. It wasn’t easy, but something had Aziraphale spooked. He lowered his voice, speaking as gently as he could. “Look. Whatever it is. You can tell me.”
“Can I?” Aziraphale’s hands tugged on his waistcoat, then adjusted his lapels. “I…I can trust you?”
It stung, of course, but the pain on Aziraphale’s face was always enough to make Crowley forget his own. “Angel. After everything we’ve been through.”
He’d asked the same thing, the day the world had failed to end. Standing in Crowley’s flat, holding each other’s hands as they prepared to switch corporations. That monumental task of maneuvering their physical bodies and their true bodies to pass each other without touching, lest their different natures destroy each other.
“Can I trust you?” Aziraphale had asked, manicured nails biting into the flesh of Crowley’s palm, eyes filled with confusion and loss. “I mean…I know I can but…can you just…say it out loud?”
He had. Perhaps he’d been weak, overwhelmed by the events of the day. Perhaps he’d been hopeful, thinking the words he said then would change things. They hadn’t, but he didn’t regret saying them.
Now he reached across and took Aziraphale’s hand. The angel flinched, but didn’t pull away. And Crowley repeated the words. “Yes. You can trust me. You can always trust me. Whatever comes next, however long we have, I’m here. At your side.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. “Now, will you stop messing around and tell me what’s wrong?”
Some of the stiffness seemed to go out of Aziraphale’s shoulders. He glanced to the side, nodding, blinking his eyes. When he reached up to adjust his bowtie, it was with only one hand. The other held tightly to Crowley’s, as if he were drowning.
“I…I…” He swallowed. “I’m terribly sorry, my dear fellow. I haven’t the first idea who you are.” Crowley started to pull away, but Aziraphale’s grip only tightened, until Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s heartbeat racing through his palm. “I don’t remember you. Or this shop. Or…or even my own name.” He began to tremble. “I…I woke up on the floor a short while ago, and I…I don’t remember anything at all!”
“But that’s…” Crowley’s hand shifted, and Aziraphale’s heartbeat pounded all the more furiously. “No. Wait.” He brought up his other hand, pressing two fingers against Aziraphale’s soft wrist. It took a moment, sliding across the veins until he found it: a pulse. Fluttery. Quick. Uneven.
Human.
Aziraphale was completely human.
--
The intruder appeared to be taking his pulse.
That didn’t make much sense. Nor did the way his brows lowered and his lips puckered. There was an anger in that expression, a fury that could level mountains, and the flat black glass covering his eyes made it all the more inhuman.
Of all the terrifying things that had happened this day, that expression was by far the worst.
Should I ask him to leave? I should. This is my shop, after all.
Was it, though? The intruder had certainly barged in as though he owned the place. He’d been afraid the man in the dark suit and glasses was some sort of criminal, or worse, landlord, especially when he walked near the till. Sharp edges and bitterness filled everything he said, and he moved like a dangerous animal about to strike.
He could be part of it. Whatever it was. If there was an it to be part of.
Or was he just paranoid? It was so hard to think around the pain in his head, sharp and piercing. It wasn’t his only pain. His back felt sore - wrenched, he supposed - and his fingers had a peculiar ache to them he couldn’t quite explain. He felt warm and nervous, and his anxiety only got worse as he realized he didn’t remember what he liked to do to relax.
He did say I could trust him. It felt true. It felt real, in a way that very little had this past hour. In spite of everything, the threatening scowls and dark clothes and car full of sliced meat, he wanted to trust this intruder.
Despite the fact that the man was, for some reason, still taking his pulse, and glaring at him as if he were sprouting extra heads.
“Well? What’s the diagnosis?”
“It’s…human…”
“Well that’s a relief.” He gently extracted his hand and attempted a smile. “I suppose you aren’t much of a doctor, are you? And I promise, I’m fine. I just…” He lifted a hand to rub his temple, as another shot of pain rippled across. “As I said. Headache.”
“You have a headache, and you lost your memory. You think there might be a connection?” The intruder caught his hand again, now inspecting the back side of it. “Your nails are chipped. When did this happen?” He ran a thumb across the jagged edge.
“It may surprise you to find that I don’t know.” He tugged his hand away more firmly this time. “It hardly seems relevant, though. Accidents happen.”
“What else? Does anything else hurt?” Rapid-fire questions, too quick for him to answer. “Are you tired? Hungry? You said no. Are you nauseous? What kind of headache?”
“Really, I’m quite well…despite…oh…” He tried to step back, but a wave of weakness struck him, shivering down his legs. He stumbled, reaching out for something to rest his weight on.
The intruder reacted immediately, looping one long arm around his shoulders, supporting him as he staggered. “Right. Let’s get you in a chair to start,” he said, rough edges of his voice not quite hiding something softer underneath. “Should be one just over here. Come along, Angel.”
Angel. He felt a tiny thrill at the endearment, a prickle up his bruised spine and down his arms, that brought a smile to his face, the first genuine smile he could remember. His head felt warm and light and fuzzy…
Oh, no, that wasn’t good at all.
The uncontrollable shake shot from his chest and stomach, as if he had suddenly been doused with icy water, and his legs gave out entirely.
A shout from the intruder, syllables, maybe words. He couldn’t make them out. Everything was light and shadow without shape. Hands tugged at his jacket, but he was only aware of them distantly, as if it were happening to someone else.
When his eyes fluttered open – he didn’t remember closing them – he was sitting in a soft, comfortable armchair. The cushions and pillows molded around him in a familiar way. He didn’t recognize them, nor the desk nearby cluttered with old books and papers covered in a neat calligraphic script, but the chair remembered him. It was comforting. Grounding.
And a little disconcerting. He could see the column they had been standing by, and it was clear on the other side of the shop. He certainly could not have walked so far in this state, but how else could he have gotten here? Carried by the thin, angry man with the glasses? Impossible.
The intruder…if that’s what he was…still hovered nearby, pacing, rubbing at his jaw, face twisted in obvious pain.
“Oh. ‘m sorry, dear boy,” he slurred, tongue still feeling a little slow, as he tried to shift higher in his chair. It pulled against his sore back, a jabbing pain, and he quickly sank back down. “Did you…pull a muscle, perhaps?” He could certainly sympathize with that.
“What? No. Shut up.” The intruder darted across the space, standing alarmingly close, long fingers reaching, hesitating, finally cupping his face. The rough pads of thumbs tugged at the skin under his eyes. “You feel…you’re burning up. Your eyes look fine, but…” Cool fingers brushed across his forehead, then pulled away as if scalded. “This isn’t…how could this happen?”
“I certainly have no…” He managed to sit a little straighter this time, waving the hands away as they returned. “Don’t fuss, I’m feeling better already.”
“Liar,” the other man muttered, grabbing for his hands, pressing them together, rubbing the backs. “Your head is hot, your hands are cold...I don’t know what any of this means…”
“Just a fever, I should think. And poor circulation. Can’t be unusual in a man my age.”
But the other man clenched his jaw, shaking his head. “Not true. You’re - you’re young and healthy and you don’t get sick!” He glanced down at the hands he was holding captive. “Your ring! You aren’t wearing it.”
“Oh? Is that unusual?”
“Yeah. You never take it off, even after...it must be in the shop.”
“Hmm,” he sighed, shivering again, feeling the heaviness of his eyes and mind. “Found a pair of glasses, you know. In my pocket. Don’t seem to need them.”
“Nah, you just wear those to look smart.” The other man pressed the back of a hand to his cheek again, making a sound of distress. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You know, I believe I could use a cup of tea. But I’m not sure…”
“I’m on it.” He was on his feet in an instant, circling behind the chair, leaning in from the other side. “Don’t - don’t go anywhere, don’t do anything. Just stay put.”
“Where on Earth would I go?” But the long black shape had already vanished into a back room. There was a clink of glass, the rush of water filling the kettle.
Well. It would appear this man knew his way around, at least. He was familiar with the kitchen. And it seemed that they knew each other. Knew each other quite well, in fact.
He gazed after the man, a suspicion growing in his sleep-slowed mind.
--
It took three minutes to boil the kettle, and three more to steep the tea. Crowley could have hurried it, but he needed the time to relax, to think everything through.
The fever had come from nowhere; that might explain why Aziraphale had collapsed. But what could have caused it?
Nothing natural. Angels didn’t get infections, and even a human couldn’t have picked one up in the few hours since they’d spoken.
Pushing away from the counter - there was only so long Crowley was willing to stare at a tea bag - he fussed over the table and chairs in the back. A new set - brought in a few weeks ago - much smaller than the original. In fact, one side of the round table had been folded down; and tucked against the wall like that there wasn’t room for two beings to sit comfortably. At least it gave Crowley more space to move past.
Not that he was going anywhere. Crowley paced across the back room, finally returning to pick up the tea. He noticed something on the ground, half under the small refrigerator, possibly kicked there by Crowley’s own foot.
He bent down and picked it up, staring at the object for a long moment before tucking it into his pocket. The tea should be ready by now.
Picking up the white mug that Aziraphale was particularly fond of, filled now with very strong tea, he hurried back into the main shop. “Right. Drink this, and I think we should talk about...”
Aziraphale was slumped in the chair, not moving.
The mug tumbled from his fingers, shattering on the ground.
Crowley darted forward, grabbing at Aziraphale’s collar, tugging the bow tie loose. “Aziraphale! Can you hear me? Breathe! Just keep breathing, I--”
“Oh. Dear f’low,” he mumbled, head shifting slightly. “M’ just asleep. So...tired…”
Weren’t you supposed to keep concussion patients awake? Or was that hypothermia? Both?
“Come on, open your eyes! Look at me!”
One blue eye slitted open, wandering across Crowley’s features to settle on the broken mug and tea spilled across the floor. “My carpet. Or...is it your carpet?” His hand raised to rub across his eyes. “Who’s shop is this?”
“Do I look like I own a bookshop?” Hesitating, Crowley placed a hand on Aziraphale’s forehead. Not as hot anymore, but still warm, and sticky with sweat. “Are you hot?”
“Cold. Need...is there a blanket?”
“Right here,” Crowley said, miracling one into existence and shaking it out over Aziraphale’s lap. “Better? Do you need a thicker one?”
“S’nice,” Aziraphale assured him, closing his eyes again. “You...looking out for me...darling?”
“Of course,” he muttered, tucking the sides of the blanket into the chair. Crowley rested his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders, checking him thoroughly for injuries. He sensed more this time - the scraped, jammed fingers, the enormous bruise across his back. He healed both quickly, bringing a little sigh of relief from the half-sleeping angel. But no matter how he searched, there was no sign of infection, or debilitation, or anything that could explain what had happened. Not even a bump on the head. Ordinary exhaustion, yes, but nothing more.
Aziraphale was, apparently, a perfectly healthy human.
“Why don’t you...try and sleep?” Crowley took his hands away and adjusted the blanket again. “I’m right here.”
“Just...few minutes…” he nodded his head, almost smiling. “D’you think...my memory’ll come back?”
“We can hope.”
Crowley waited another moment, but Aziraphale didn’t say a word, just breathed, deeply and heavily. Even snored a little.
Standing up, Crowley pulled the broken piece of feather out of his pocket. It wasn’t his or Aziraphale’s - it was dark brown, with a lighter patch, and just the very tip, no wider than his thumb.
Someone else had been here.
Twirling the broken piece of feather between his fingers, Crowley stepped into the center of the shop. He’d hoped there would be more - something large enough to get a sense if it was Heavenly or Hellish - but in that moment the shop looked bigger than it ever had before, a labyrinth of paper and shelves and corners where anything could be hiding.
He pulled his glasses off and looked around frantically. It was luck, perhaps, the sun coming through the skylight above at just the right angle, but he saw something glint at the base of a column, far in the back, opposite the door.
He crossed the floor and scooped it up - Aziraphale’s ring, bright gold seal slightly tarnished, blackened by something that felt suspiciously like the fires of Hell.
“No,” Crowley whispered, running his hands across the column, checking for damage. “No, no what did you bastards do?” He couldn’t see any sign of where the attack might have taken place. And Aziraphale’s fingers had been bruised, not burned.
Still, something had done this. Something that hadn’t been stopped by Aziraphale’s wards-
The wards that had been down when Crowley arrived.
Darting back to the door, he tugged it open, searching frantically for the lines of angelic power, so different from his own. There - and there - like thick, invisible cords wound around the building. He twisted his hands in them, trying to get a sense…
Aziraphale had started putting them up days after the Apocalypse had failed, bands of protection intended to keep out any power of Heaven or Hell. They were powerful, too, designed by the Guardian of the Eastern Gate himself with the help of some old books. He’d sworn that they would keep him utterly safe; current evidence suggested otherwise.
Crowley could feel them now. A tear, a gash, carved deep into the magic, right by the door. Another in front of the window, a third by the back door. Deep slashes, like claw marks, nearly severing the invisible protections at every point of entry.
Something had tried to get in. Something violent.
Crowley let the angelic power slip from his fingers, trying to keep them from trembling. He tucked the ring into his pocket, next to the feather, and crossed back to where Aziraphale slept in his chair.
He brushed his fingers across Aziraphale’s forehead, feeling his temperature again. Nearly thirty-eight degrees, cooler than before, but still too high. The angel shifted in his sleep, pressing against Crowley’s hand with a wordless murmur.
“I’ll fix this,” Crowley vowed, pushing sweat-soaked hair back from Aziraphale’s brow. “I don’t know what the Heaven happened, but I will fix it.”