Chapter Text
“I’ve got an idea,”1 Gabriel says unhappily.
(1By this, he means that he stole the idea from a lower-ranking archangel who proposed it to him.)
Beelzebub glances at him with an expression of vaguely-annoyed boredom, before going back to staring at the traitors at the other end of St. James Park. It’s only been a year since the botched apocalypse. Crowley and Aziraphale are still… frolicking about on Earth, having faced no consequences for their horrible insolence.
When Gabriel suggested this meeting, this surveillance, Beelzebub had been reluctant, but the Archangel insisted he had something important to say.
“What is it, then?” Beelzebub asks now, impatient. Gabriel pulls a face like he regrets saying anything at all.
"Would Hell accept Aziraphale, if he Fell now?" he asks anyway. Surprised, Beelzebub looks at him directly for the first time today, noting the thoughtful almost-grimace on his face.
"Yes," ze answers honestly.2 "Is he going to?"
(2This does not mean that Aziraphale would be welcomed in Hell, or that any demon would show him kindness. Demons don't really go in for kindness, on the whole. Beelzebub's "yes" means only that, were he to Fall, Aziraphale would indeed be added to Hell's rosters and put to work.)
Gabriel’s almost-grimace becomes a gratifying full grimace.
"I’ve got an idea," he repeats. Then, "what if you take Aziraphale?"
Beelzebub scoffs.
"And have two nuisances on my handzzz, while you get to avoid the whole buzzzzziness?" ze asks, quite literally buzzing with annoyance.
"Well," starts Gabriel, wincing. Again, the grimace, and again, the regret. He starts speaking slowly, clearly forcing each word out against his better judgement. "Not exactly. We would… take… Crowley… off your hands… so to speak."
Beelzebub, ironically, takes exactly 0.666 minutes to process that statement, during which time Gabriel sits in uncomfortable silence and glares at where the traitors are feeding ducks across the park.
"You mean take him back ?" the Prince of Hell finally demands, completely incredulous. Gabriel nods once, the motion tight. It’s impossible. It’s unprecedented.3 It’s-- "Bullshit!" Gabriel raises a single, holier-than-thou eyebrow. "Demons can’t just go back up ," Beelzebub continues.
(3There are many Fallen angels one could ask, if one wanted an accurate account of the sensation. On the flipside, there are no Risen demons to ask about that particular sensation, because Heaven taking one of their Fallen back is, as Beelzebub correctly assumes, completely unprecedented.)
"Just because it hasn't happened , " Gabriel replies, a little defensive, "doesn’t mean it can’t ."
Beelzebub, a little gobsmacked, doesn’t say anything for another minute.
" Why ?" ze asks finally.
"Holy water and hellfire didn’t kill them," Gabriel says, his brow furrowing. "Aziraphale’s barely an angel anymore, anyway; no one wants to give him any tasks. I assume Crowley’s the same." Beelzebub nods, frowning. "The Almighty and-- well, your boss, haven’t exactly handled it. We’re both out of better options, other than just," he pulls a disgusted face, “letting them get away with it.”
"And you think either of them will be easier for our respective sides to control than the other?" ze asks, dubious. Gabriel makes a noncommittal sort of expression, which is less than reassuring.
"At the very least," he says, avoiding the question. "It’ll be a Punishment for both of them. And set a better example than their failed executions."
Well… that’s true enough, Beelzebub has to admit.
"The forces of Hell will consider your propozzzal," ze says. Gabriel smiles that smug bastard smile of his, clearly taking this as a yes, so Beelzebub makes sure to scowl at him extra aggressively before leaving.
▲⚭▽
Crowley gets the notice from Hell, first, telling him that he’s been taken off the books, that he’s no longer in their employ. This, in itself, is strange enough; he certainly doesn’t expect it to be the precursor to something even more bizarre. He waits suspiciously for further word-- it seems too nice, too convenient, for Hell to wait a year after the Notpocalypse and then just casually tell him in a letter that he isn’t, technically , one of their demons anymore.
The other shoe drops in the form of an envelope, pristine and white, sealed in gold wax and blood magic, addressed to Mx. Anthony J. Crowley . He pricks his thumb using an over-sharp letter opener, pressing the droplet of blood against the envelope’s seal, which dissolves in a small flash of light to reveal a transport sigil underneath, now activated and ready to take him, corporeal form and all, up to Heaven when its timer runs out. Dirty trick. Crowley curses violently, and opens the letter with slow, careful movements, half-expecting the thing to smite him somehow.
To the demon known as Crowley,
It is our profound pleasure to inform you that, as of noon today (British Summer Time), your status as a member of the Heavenly Host, as well as all benefits thereof, will be restored. This was not an opportunity granted lightly, but we believe it to be for the best. On arrival, please report to Uriel for assignment.
Sincerely,
Archangels Gabriel, Michael, Uriel
There are five additional signatures underneath, lesser archangels whose names are less familiar to him.
"You’ve got to be joking," Crowley mutters. But angels don’t really joke, as a general rule, and the signatures on the letter are the angels’ real, true names, sigils written in a language incomprehensible to humans.
He glances at the time on his phone, and finds that he’s slept the morning away. It’s already nearly a quarter ‘til noon. " Aghk, " he says with urgency.
Crowley’s first priority, after panicking alone in his apartment for just a moment, is telling Aziraphale about Heaven’s latest madness. So he gets in his Bentley and races over to the bookshop, arriving at exactly eleven fifty-one.
"Angel!" he calls, bursting in, slamming the door behind him with more force than necessary, and relocking it with a quick snap of his fingers. He sidesteps half-packed cardboard boxes and stacks of books not quite ready to be moved. "Aziraphale!"
"Crowley," comes the reply, soft and shaken, from the back room. Crowley goes, finding the angel at his desk, unsteady hands holding the edges of a letter, pristine and white.
"Angel," Crowley says, heart dropping, panic setting in again. "What is that?"
Aziraphale hands it to him, wordlessly.
To the Principality Aziraphale,
We regret to inform you that as of noon today (British Summer Time), your status as a member of the Heavenly Host, as well as all benefits thereof, will be revoked--
"What is this?" Crowley looks up, both letters falling from his hands. They can’t mean-- they wouldn’t-- and to say it in a letter --
"They’re casting me out," Aziraphale murmurs, smiling that soft, pained smile of his, the one Crowley knows all too well. "I’m going to Fall."
"No," Crowley says, fear and rage filling him. "They can’t-- "
"Crowley, my dear boy." Aziraphale won’t meet his eyes. "I think we both know they can ."
"No, no, no no no, no," Crowley repeats, shaking, pacing, thinking frantically, trying to come up with something, anything , any kind of plan. They’re moving in a week, for God-- for somebody’s sake. They have a cottage in the South Downs waiting for them. He thought they were free and clear, he thought they could be together, finally, be happy-- more fool me, Crowley thinks, angry, and only a little bit hysterical.
"At least-- at least I’ll still have you, my dear," Aziraphale says with a deep, steadying breath, and Crowley freezes. He barks a bitter laugh.
"Of coursssse," he hisses violently, going back to where his own letter lays discarded on the rug. "Of course that’sss why they’re doing thisssss."
"Crowley?" Aziraphale seems a little startled by the outburst, but takes the piece of paper Crowley thrusts at him. "‘ To the demon known as Crowley, ’" he begins to read aloud, then trails off, skimming the rest of the letter in stunned silence.
"They’re taking me back, jussst to make you face Hell alone," Crowley snarls, falling into a chair when his legs threaten to give out from under him. After a few moments, Aziraphale stands, leaving the letter on his desk and crossing the space until he’s right in front of the demon. Crowley looks up, then takes the hands being offered. Aziraphale pulls him up, pulls him close, into a tight and comfortable embrace, resting the bridge of his nose against the crook of Crowley’s neck, almost nuzzling against him. Crowley readily does the same, love and fear breaking his every wall down as he leans into the touch.
"You know, I rather thought… before , when I was discorporated, and first thought to find someone to possess… I assumed I’d Fall, then," Aziraphale says. "Angels aren’t meant to-- to do such things, after all. But I thought, well, demons can do it, so I’ll try it, and I’ll just have to see what that makes me."
"You were prepared to…" Crowley trails off, surprised. Aziraphale hums in confirmation.
"But then I didn’t." He laughs a little, strained. "And I’m… now I’m not prepared, anymore, because I thought I’d taken my worst risk, and it was over ."
Aziraphale is going to Fall, comes the horrible, traitorous thought. Crowley holds the angel tighter. Kind, loyal, lovely Aziraphale is going to Fall. And Crowley won’t even be waiting for him when it’s done.
"Angel, I--"
--The identical transport sigils on their letters activate in twin flashes of Heavenly light.
Somewhere in an empty bookshop, a clock chimes twelve.