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Chapter Text

If the 19^th century hadn’t happened, the 6 months, 3 weeks and 4 days since Aziraphale chose Heaven over him would have been Crowley’s longest sleep.

But, both of those things did happen. The 1800s, and Aziraphale

 Aziraphale leaving.

Aziraphale tossing one final, agonising glance over his shoulder towards Crowley, foolishly hoping and leaning on the Bentley’s roof, before stepping into the elevator after the Metatron.

Crowley doesn’t want to try and count the number of times his subconscious replayed that day during his extended sleep. He’d crawled into the bed in his flat for the first time in years, tossed his sunglasses to the floor with a series of clacks and snaps that reverberated through every bone in his body, and tried to sleep away his heartbreak, but his mind wouldn’t let that happen. He dreamt of his hands, white knuckled in Aziraphale’s lapels. The tears in the angel’s eyes just before he walked out. I forgive you. Don’t bother.

He wouldn’t be surprised if, on a MRI scan of his brain, there was a dedicated spot to That Day. That Terrible, Very Bad Day.

The day his stupid human heart went too fast, made his mouth spew word after word, the words he thought he’d never say. But Nina and Maggie had flipped a switch he didn’t know he had, and then there he was, fully prepared to hand Aziraphale his idiotic heart on a plate, still raw and red and bleeding, and ask him for the same love in return.

But that didn’t happen, and Crowley is fine.

He is fine.

Sure, he had the second longest sleep of his life, woke up feeling the same levels of shitty as when he went to sleep, dreamt of fucking tartan bowties and handing Aziraphale more peas for the ducks, because he had chastised the angel about giving the ducks bread and Aziraphale had felt awful about the error. Aziraphale asking him to go back to Heaven. Aziraphale. Not just what happened, but what could have. What could have been if Aziraphale really meant that they were on ‘their side.’ Ridiculously alcoholic breakfasts at the Ritz, holding hands in St James’ park instead of sitting with a few inches between them on the bench. More, proper kisses. Kisses that weren’t angry and desperately poor substitutes for words he should have said decades ago.

‘You idiot,’ he had said. He had wanted to say more. ‘You idiot. Stupid, beautiful, lovely idiot, please don’t go. Please don’t make me choose. I love you impossibly, and it hurts. Fuck Heaven. You are heavenly enough for me. Please.’

But he didn’t say that. He kissed him, bitterly, then left, and then Aziraphale left too. Then Crowley slept, and dreamt, and woke up totally Fine.

That’s why he’s in front of the bookshop.

He sees Muriel inside it, tittering about with a book open in each hand. He can already tell, just from peeping through the windows, that they haven’t sold a single book. Whether that’s because Muriel doesn’t understand book selling, or all angels are simply sentimental, hoarding bastards, Crowley doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know a lot of things.

He knows Aziraphale isn’t here anymore, but the bookstore still is, and God, Satan, or whoever, it looks wrong without him.

He’s heard some humans describe the strange sensation of seeing a co-worker or classmate in their ordinary clothes and outside of their usual setting. Familiar and not bundled into one. He imagines this is that same feeling. Its hollow, yet still sits heavy in the pit of his chest. Tonnes of lead, dragging Crowley deeper into despair and regret.

He looks up at the sign.

A.Z Fell Books, minus A.Z Fell. Minus Aziraphale.

He shouldn’t be here.

He gets back into the Bentley, and it still smells like Aziraphale. The Angel took a road trip in the car, not a week before he vanished forever. The car has that distinctly Aziraphalean smell – old books, dusty parchment, tea, that fancy ink Aziraphale insisted on using in his journals, butterscotch. He hates and loves it all at once. Crowley stuffs the memories of the person who carried that smell back into a lockbox in his mind and padlocks it some twenty times, only for the locks to rust and crumble within an instant and the contents to spill back out, saturate his brain and leak out of the corner of his eyes.

He wipes his face with a frustrated growl, and tears through the streets of SoHo. He doesn’t touch the radio. He doesn’t trust the radio.

And his cursed body drags him back to that bookshop again the next morning at an ungodly hour. Every hour is ungodly without Aziraphale to share them with.

Crowley growls and shakes himself firmly. Stop thinking about him. He made his choice.

He pushes open the doors, and almost weeps at the sound of the damned bell. Aziraphale made Crowley install it, since he himself was too short and he didn’t want to risk damaging the nice hardwood floors with a step ladder. And Crowley hung it for him, grumbling something about not being a handyman while Aziraphale beamed.

“Oh, Mr Crowley!” chirps Muriel from behind a shelf. “I’ll be with you in just one moment.” There’s a scuffling sound, and then they come happily trotting into view. Crowley stuffs his hands into his pockets and does his best to appear nonchalant. He’s probably failed already, he hasn’t changed his clothes since That Day.

He takes in Muriel’s appearance, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Corduroy tan trousers, a cream checked waistcoat over a button up, and a baby blue cardigan. They’re beaming at him, too. His chest tightens, and he doesn’t even need to breathe.

They look like Aziraphale. Save for the black hair. Otherwise, they could be mistaken for siblings. Did they raid his wardrobe? Aziraphale had a cardigan exactly that colour. He let me borrow it during an especially cold winter.

“I haven’t seen you in awhile. Oh! Hang on, I’m a bookseller now.” The angel clears their throat. “What can I do for you? A cuppa? Or a book? Though, I should warn you, I don’t actually sell the books. I suppose that means I’m not technically a bookseller then?.” They laugh midsentence. “Mr Aziraphale never sold them either, did he? Suppose I’m keeping with tradition then.”

Muriel wanders away then, spotting a dusty pile of books. They tut and grab the yellow feather duster, hurrying over to the offending pile.

Crowley paces.

He takes his usual path through the shop, the muscle memory coming back easily despite his six month absence, avoiding the circular centre table and striding for Aziraphale’s old writing desk. Mindlessly, he adjusts the armchair to its proper position, and he slumps into it with a hefty sigh. Its all painfully nostalgic in a way Crowley wasn’t prepared for. He wasn’t expecting to lose Aziraphale, ever. He wasn’t, and still isn’t, prepared to deal with this. He feels heat prick at the corners of his eyes, and knows he shouldn’t have come here. Not yesterday, not today, and certainly never again after this.

He stands up from that chair after mere moments and he’s leaving again, without so much as a word to the angel who is not his Angel, inside his Angel’s bookshop.

Two weeks pass in an uncomfortable blink. Crowley marks the seventh month without Aziraphale by downing a bottle of wine and yelling at his plants. They look too much like how he feels inside. Withered, crumbling. He supposes it is his fault. For taking a six month nap, without any worry for his plants. For falling in love with an angel. He makes them promise not to tell anyone about that little display the next morning, despite them being ¾ the way to death and unable to speak.

He stops by the bookshop every day. 11:03am, on the dot, Crowley’s there. He doesn’t usually talk to Muriel, but they seem content enough to carry the conversation alone. They talk about some new editions they just ordered in, and branching out the store to carry some more modern books. He grunts, and they take that to be a supportive grunt.

Crowley hasn’t been strong enough to talk about Aziraphale yet, and Muriel seems to have picked up on that. They don’t mention him after that first day.

He spots Nina and Maggie one day, walking hand in hand past the shop, and his heart breaks anew. Remembering their words, their advice. Everything that led him to losing Aziraphale.

On a particularly boring Tuesday, Crowley pops by the shop only to find it completely devoid of angels. There’s a note on the centre table.

‘Dear Mr Crowley,

I have my quarterly angelic review today. Will probably be gone until the evening. Make yourself at home.

- Muriel

P.S. I bought your favourite tea. Its in the pantry for you.’

Crowley makes himself a cup, sinks into Aziraphale’s armchair, and definitely doesn’t miss him.

-=+=-

The Heavenly elevator – as clinically white as the rest of Heaven – opens into Archangel Aziraphale’s office with a clipped ‘ding.’ Muriel strides out confidently, a file tucked under their arm. They’re even humming a song, but they aren’t quite sure where they first heard it.

Aziraphale looks very different these days, but Muriel supposes that’s a good thing. His grey suit matches his grey hair, and his pale cufflinks match his pale skin. Matching is good. Muriel looks down at their colourful tartan socks. They probably should have remembered matching was good before they left.

Anyway.

They approach the Archangel’s desk and bow slightly.

“Archangel,” they say politely, extending their file. “I am here for my quarterly review, as requested.”

Aziraphale looks up from another stack of paperwork and accepts the extended documents. He flips through them, eyes scanning the pages quickly. The silence is only punctuated by the swoosh of paper and his occasional approving hum.

Then, he hands it back.

“Excellent work as always, Muriel,” he says with a smile. Not necessarily a kind smile, or a cruel smile. Just. A smile. “I’d expect nothing less from yourself. Anything else to report from the Earth?”

“Oh, no, not really. Things have been peaceful outside of my work,” Muriel tells him. “Oh! That’s right, I can’t believe I almost forgot.” The younger angel slaps their forehead comically, and Aziraphale raises an eyebrow.

“What?” he prompts.

“Your grumpy friend, My Crowley! I’ve started seeing him again, he stops by the shop everyday. He isn’t much for talking, but that’s fine. He enjoys chamomile tea, did you know that? Not that you didn’t know him well, of course you did! You-“

Aziraphale holds up a hand to stop the rambling angel.

“Muriel, my dear. I fear you have me confused for some other angel. I don’t have a ‘grumpy friend Crowley,’” he says, performing air quotes. “I’ve never known anyone by that name.”

Muriel frowns deeply. That can’t be right. Muriel was convinced that Mr Aziraphale and Mr Crowley were…friends, at the very least. Muriel’s never really had friends, so they aren’t 100% sure if that’s what they were.

“Of course you know him, he practically lived out of that bookshop with you,” they say, stepping forward every so slightly. They step back quickly after realising the error.

“You are mistaken,” Aziraphale says firmly, his eyes unnaturally sharp. “Please, Muriel, remember to focus on the tasks assigned to you, and not on these frivolous hypotheticals. Now, see yourself out. I am rather busy.”

Aziraphale puts on a pair of thin silver glasses and waves them away without another word. Muriel, as ordered, goes.

They’re confused as they step into the elevator, and confused when they step out again back on Earth.

Muriel knows that Aziraphale knows Mr Crowley. They watched the pair of them kiss before Aziraphale was assigned to the Archangel post, after all.

Whatever the case, Aziraphale must have a good reason for denying that painfully obvious connection. Muriel trusts in the Archangel, in his judgement.

They still mention it to Crowley, who they find in his usual patch of sunlight, sprawled out in the armchair and nursing an empty mug.

“I spoke with Mr Aziraphale today. He does my reviews,” they say as gently as possible. They can read the set of Mr Crowley’s shoulders now. He’s upset, likely biting his tongue to keep from showing it. Poor dear. He deserves to know what happened, even so. “I mentioned you were stopping by the shop again. He…didn’t seem to remember you. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Crowley grumbles, sliding to his feet with unearthly grace. “Thanks. For letting me know. I’ll get out of your hair now.”

And then he’s gone.

Muriel wishes briefly that he’d let them help him. They mightn’t be very good at this whole human emotion thing, but they can tell that he isn’t having very good emotions right now. And they know that humans aren’t equipped to deal with those Not Good Feelings on their own. But Mr Crowley barely talks to them, so they can’t do much. They just stare at the slamming door he just vanished through, and their chest hurts for him.

-=+=-

The name ‘Crowley’ has been circling Aziraphale’s head ever since Muriel mentioned it. He scanned his memory, and found only a few brief, infuriating interactions with a demon going by that name, many centuries ago, when he was still stationed on Earth. Why would Muriel even suggest that he was friends with that demon? Or someone who shared that name?

The unwillingness of this name to leave him alone bothered him. He could hardly focus on his paperwork, not for lack of trying. The Metatron needs these reports on the Heavenly Battalions as fast as possible, Aziraphale can’t be getting distracted from his task. He must prove himself worthy of the Archangel title, after the shameful behaviour of his predecessor. Gabriel’s easy betrayal of Heaven still makes his skin crawl.

So, he had gone to Uriel.

“Muriel mentioned something strange during their review today,” he mused, and the other Archangel had raised an eyebrow. “They brought up some kind of companionship between myself and a demon? I worry their imagination is running away with them. Spending too much time around those books, probably.”

Uriel’s shoulders relax, and they agree with him. They suggest he bring it up at Muriel’s next report, and he promises to do so. The Archangels part ways amicably in the white light of Heaven.

But still, that name stays at the forefront of Aziraphale’s mind. Along with the fuzzy, rough outline of a pair of golden eyes. It’s probably the strangest thing Aziraphale has experienced to date. He does his best to ignore the odd tugging in his gut, the suffocating loneliness of his empty office and the floating, disembodied eyes that seem content to circle his brain for the foreseeable future.

-=+=-

Crowley arrived back at his dark, almost completely lifeless flat that evening, after a detour to pick up several bottles of wine. He downed two of them within an hour, and sat on the floor of his plant room, pathetically blubbering his way through a teary waterfall and a third bottle.

How could Aziraphale just…do that? Deny their…whatever they were? Maybe Crowley truly meant nothing to him, maybe that’s why he left so easily. Maybe he moved on. Maybe he loves his new life. Crowley doubted that last one for a long time, but hearing what Muriel reported to him today…he doubts it a little less.

Maybe he never truly knew the angel, despite their 6,000+ years together.

He let his human body drag him into drunken unconscious, and dreamt of Aziraphale turning up outside his flat, declaring the last seven months to have been an awful mistake. Dreamt of Aziraphale sweeping him into a kiss, and whispering ‘I missed you’ and ‘I love you’ while Crowley wrapped all his long limbs around the angel, determined not to let go ever again.

But that could never happen, so he rose with the dawn and a sorer heart than he fell asleep with.

When he visited Muriel later that same day, he asked the question before he thought better of it.

“Can you take me up to Heaven with you?”

Of course, the answer was no. It had to be no. Muriel helped him once before, and was thoroughly chewed out by Saraqael for their troubles. They weren’t going to risk Saraqael’s ire again, not even for Mr Crowley.

He saw the answer coming a mile off, but selfishly asked the question anyway. He’s a demon, its in his nature.

He desperately wanted. Wanted to see if Aziraphale had moved on, or had simply forgotten him.

Forgotten…wait.

Crowley looks up from his mug of chamomile tea and stares straight ahead, at the final shelf Muriel has yet to reorganise from when Gabriel/Jim decided to order books based on first sentences’ first words’ first letters.

Weren’t the Archangels going to erase Gabriel’s memory for defying them?

He casts his eyes skyward, as a traitorous seed of hope starts to grow in his chest.

They were going to erase the previous Archangel’s memories for simply denying Armageddon 2.0. And Aziraphale was the reason that Armageddon 2.0 was even on the table. He was a traitor in the eyes of Heaven.

If that’s what they wanted to do to Gabriel…What was stopping them from doing the same to Aziraphale?

Chapter Text

Aziraphale steps into the elevator behind the Metatron, his eyes fixed on Crowley until the doors shut and wrench the pair apart. He fears it is forever.

He presses his fingers to his mouth again gently, finding himself to be shaking. Whether he's trying to burn Crowley's kiss into his memory or wipe it away, along with his guilt and regret and longing to go home, he doesn't know.

No matter how much he might want to, he can’t go back. Not now. Heaven needs him. And it’s nice to finally be needed by his former bosses. He wants desperately to go slam on the button for Earth, run to Crowley’s side and beg the once-demon for forgiveness. Wants to scream about how much of a mistake he just made. He’d apologise until his throat went hoarse. That’s what Crowley deserved, not him leaving and abandoning everything they had built together.

Being around his Crowley always filled his chest with an almost divine warmth, and he felt distinctly giddy whenever the demon was around. He remembers on multiple occasions, letting his eyes drift downwards from Crowley’s beautiful gold serpentine eyes to his mouth, and he remembers wondering what that would feel like. Kissing. He’d never been kissed before.

Crowley had kissed him, not ten minutes ago. It wasn’t how Aziraphale imagined it. In his head, they were in the Bentley, and it was 1941, and Crowley had just saved his books and his life. He leaned over the centre console once the Bentley was parked and kissed Crowley softly. His mouth would have been warm, and it would have been sweet.

The kiss he actually got was sad, and angry, and bitter. He didn’t know what to do with it. He was terrified to kiss back and do it wrong, but at the same time couldn’t bring himself to pull back. If that was all he got, he wasn’t going to waste it. He was surprised he didn’t start weeping during that. The kiss felt very final. He didn’t want it to be the first and final kiss that they ever shared. He wanted to drag Crowley back in and try again, do it better.

If he is truly being honest, he doesn’t want to go back up to Heaven.

But he can’t just turn around. He simply can’t. Heaven finally needs him. And he aches, deep in his bones, to be needed. He likes being useful. And if he can be useful to Heaven again, if Heaven truly appreciates what he can offer…He can’t pass up on this chance.

He drops his hand with a soft, heart-breaking sigh. He needs to stop thinking about Crowley. It’s a harder endeavour than he originally realised. Crowley has been a fixture in his life for upwards of 6,000 years. He’s been a source of constancy, familiarity and comfort. Crowley is what he knows. Crowley is the safest place he’s ever had. Crowley and the bookshop. Crowley and the Bentley. Crowley…and his life on Earth. Crowley is his life on Earth. Crowley is his heart. Crowley would have done anything for him, and he hates that he hasn’t been able to say the same. He would have made Crowley back into an Angel…but that would have destroyed the Crowley that he knows and loves…

Oh.

He loves Crowley, and he’s pretty sure that Crowley loves him too. And he broke Crowley’s heart.

Oh, Crowley…

What have I done?

He’s just about to turn and demand that the Metatron take him back to Earth…

When the elevator pings in Heaven, and Aziraphale straightens up his shoulders and inhaled sharply.

Enough of that emotional nonsense. It’s time to work. He has plans, and changes to make. Maybe he’d finally feel worthy of Crowley’s love by fixing Heaven’s flaws, by making it a place that Aziraphale can actually be proud to associate with.

The other Archangels were waiting for him. Uriel and Saraqael. Michael was, strangely enough, absent. They’re probably just busy, Michael always is.

Despite Aziraphale’s new status, he can’t help the nervous jitters that take over his whole body. They still absolutely terrify him. He’s reminded all too well of how Michael tried to kill ‘Crowley’ with holy water those years ago. He remembers the cruelty of these Archangels when they cornered him and threatened him with Falling.

Still, he smiles amicably and shakes their hands, accepting their clipped ‘Congratulations.’

Before the Metatron could guide him to his new office, Something stops Aziraphale in place.

Saraqael is holding something, some kind of angelic tablet. Maybe this was his? He tries to speak, but his tongue wouldn’t obey. He tries to move, but his body is cold.

What is..?

His vision goes whiter than the sharp lights of Heaven.

-=+=-

Aziraphale stands on the wall to garden of Eden and a wily serpent, with gold and black scales, slithers up beside him. The demon – Crawley – greets him with a quippy one liner. He asks if he made the right call with the flaming sword, and the demon suggests that an angel like he can do no wrong. It’s quite the relief. When the first storm hits, he raises his wing on instinct and lets the demon shelter underneath it nobody approaches him. He stands and stews over his call with the flaming sword, and covers his own head with a wing when the storm clouds rumble and start to pour. He feels strangely alone, as if…something was missing. Or someone. But, of course, nothing was.

When the Flood was scheduled, Aziraphale watched from behind a barricade of dried, felled sticks. The demon Crawley – no, Crowley – appeared at his side and asked why. The demon always did have an unfortunate habit of asking questions. He asked why the Flood was necessary, and seemed appalled at the thoughts of the Almighty sanctioning the deaths of innocent children. Aziraphale told him of the ‘rain bow,’ God’s promise not to drown everyone again. It didn’t seem to satisfy the demon. Another angel, a cherubim, was at his side. They asked him what would happen after the Flood, and he told them. A rain bow would be pasted in the sky as a promise from God to not do this again. The cherubim smiled, and said that was very kind of the Almighty. Aziraphale agreed.

He met a devout man named Job during his trials. God had made a bet with Satan that Job would remain ever loyal to God, even if all his worldly possessions were lost. Aziraphale had complete faith in Job’s face, even if he did flinch and look away whenever the demon, Crowley, of course it was him, turned Job’s children into lizards the rather large mansion collapsed, with Job’s children still inside. He was at the Archangels’ sides when Job received his divine reward, and applauded the couple. He stayed behind with Job’s family that night and had his first taste of human food – a bison leg. It was rather delicious. He thought to continue to explore what delicacies the Earth could offer in terms of cuisine.

Aziraphale witnessed the crucifixion of Christ with that same demon, Crowley. They talked about Crowley’s temptation of the Lord’s only son, and shared in their sympathy for his death. All Jesus had wanted was for people to be kind that same cherubim from the flood. The cherubim expressed sadness when watching Jesus’ fate, but Aziraphale assured the other angel that the Almighty had a plan, and that Jesus would find comfort once he returned to Heaven. It satisfied the cherubim, who then went away. It didn’t satisfy Aziraphale, as he watched Jesus’ suffering. It also didn’t satisfy Cr- oh. There was nobody else there. Of course there wasn’t.

In Rome, Aziraphale dined at Patroneus’ restaurant with Crowley, who unfortunately hates oysters alone, and seriously enjoyed his oysters. They are such a delight, he doesn’t know why more people don’t like them.

During the reign of King Arthur, he and Crowley complained about the invasive fog and damp in their armour, and called it a day without a single duel engaged in a fierce duel in a swampland, which ended with the side of good being victorious. The wily old serpent ran away with his tail between his legs and his precious black armour stained with mud.

Another of Aziraphale’s guilty pleasures, beyond food, was theatre. He adored the plays of Shakespeare, and simply couldn’t resist the chance to watch an early stages production of Hamlet. Unfortunately, this one looked almost guaranteed to be a flop. Crowley enlisted Aziraphale’s help performing a temptation up in Edinburgh, and in exchange, gifted Shakespeare the required divine inspiration to make Hamlet a true success. Aziraphale couldn’t bear letting such a gifted playwright fail, so he performed an itsy bitsy miracle to help the process along before heading to Edinburgh. He hates riding horseback. And so does…someone, probably. Surely others must be in agreement over how uncomfortable the whole thing is.

Aziraphale popped over the English Channel during the French Revolution for some ‘nibbles,’ as Crowley called them. Crowley saved him from having his head chopped off, and the pair went for crepes together. It was a delightful time in the end, and left Aziraphale with all kinds of strange feelings towards the demon. Nothing happened to Aziraphale during the French Revolution. No angel would be so frivolous and careless as to venture across the English Channel. No, he continued doing his work there in England, striving to counter the natural evils that the humans came up with.

Crowley asked Aziraphale for Holy Water. Seriously?! No, absolutely not. Aziraphale knew the risks associated with it, there was no way in Heaven or Hell that he was going to let Crowley have that. It could get Aziraphale into big trouble, yes, but…it could also completely destroy Crowley. His heart and his stupid feelings couldn’t allow that, he couldn’t let himself be the reason that Crowley ended up…gone. Blank.

Scotland, late 1800s, was an interesting time. So much grave robbing made Aziraphale feel rather queasy. He managed to intervene and prevent a young girl – Elspeth? – from body snatching one night, and went away feeling rather guilty, once Crowley and Dr Dalrymple made him realise that this was Elspeth’s only source of income, and the intentions behind it were noble. The Doctor was trying to properly educate his students, he didn’t have malicious intentions. The next night, after Elspeth’s friend passed away, they intervened to stop her taking her life. Crowley got drunk off his arse on laudanum, and Aziraphale gave Elspeth a sizeable chunk of money to keep her out of trouble. He helped the very intoxicated Crowley to walk, and greedily enjoyed having Crowley pressed up against his side, until Hell stole him away rather pleased with himself. He never gave that girl another thought after that night, he was simply chuffed to have prevented a young lady from pursuing a life of crime and shady dealings. Point to Heaven. However…he did feel rather cold, like he was missing someone pressed up beside him…How strange.

Aziraphale’s plan to dupe the idiot Nazi spies running around London was a complete and utter failure. He found himself the victim of a double agent, and thought for sure he was going to be discorporated. Until Crowley arrived. Dancing over the consecrated ground, in immeasurable pain, all for him. And Crowley rescued his books! Oh, oh heavens, Aziraphale is hopelessly in love with him. They performed on the West End that night – the bullet catch – a trick meant to be performed between two close confidants. After dealing with some more Nazi and Hellish shenanigans, they enjoyed a serene ‘date night’ back in Aziraphale’s bookshop was a success! His associates successfully took out the Nazi spies, and they went to the West End to watch the Ladies of Camelot in celebration. Was someone missing…? No, of course not. His bookshop didn’t feel any emptier and lonelier that evening than it had the evening before.

Crowley still wanted his holy water. Aziraphale found out through the grapevine that he was setting up a church robbery. He couldn’t let Crowley and his associates risk that kind of behaviour, so…He sucked in his pride and handed Crowley a thermos of holy water. His hands were shaking, and his heart was breaking with worry. “You go too fast for me, Crowley.” Blank.

The end of the world was fast approaching and Aziraphale worked with Crowley to stave off Armageddon worked against the demon Crowley, who selfishly wanted to prevent the Apocalypse from coming. That damned demon was a thorn in Aziraphale’s side every time he popped up. They got hammered together one night and agreed to work together to prevent the Antichrist from coming into his power were enemies, if not nemesis. Unfortunately, the Apocalypse was ultimately prevented, as Crowley and Aziraphale supported the young Antichrist, Adam, in reshaping reality and denouncing Satan as his father. Aziraphale was still commended for his efforts and loyalty to Heaven, and his bookstore was restored to former glory by Gabriel, as it had been destroyed during a fire.

Life was easy for almost 4 years until Gabriel turned up naked and memory free on Aziraphale’s doorstep. He sought Crowley nobody’s aid, and instead dedicated himself to restoring the Archangel’s memory himself. He stopped by a pub in Edinburgh that was enchanted to always play ‘Everyday’ by Buddy Holly, a song which Gabriel continually sang. The forces of Hell were soon at Aziraphale’s doorstep, attempting to apprehend Gabriel, but he fended them off with the help of Crowley, Nina and Maggie Archduke Beelzebub arrived before he needed to defend himself. Beelzebub called off the raid just as the forces of Heaven arrived to defend Aziraphale. They demanded he hand Gabriel over, but Beelzebub wouldn’t allow it, for some odd reason. Beelzebub summoned a fly from Aziraphale’s bookshop. It apparently contained Gabriel’s memories. It was then revealed, much to Aziraphale’s surprise, that Gabriel and Beelzebub were in fact a couple, in a rather similar situation to himself and Crowley horror, that Gabriel and Beelzebub were a couple. The two denounced their posts and vanished after Crowley suggested visiting Alpha Centauri together. The Metatron arrived and privately asked if Aziraphale was interested in taking up Gabriel’s now empty post in Heaven. He said yes.

And now here he was, shaking hands with his fellow Archangels, smiling brightly. He was rather glad to be home rather than working on Earth. It had been getting rather repetitive, this change should do him some good and allow him to do much more.

He is led to his new office space by the Metatron, who also supplied him with his new uniform. It was specifically tailored to fit him and a rather boring stone grey. He wonders briefly why he cannot keep his Earth clothes…Ah, that would be why. They are Earth clothes, not clothes befitting his new position: Supreme Archangel of All Heaven.

He changes his clothes with a snap of his fingers, and then manifests himself a desk and chair. The Metatron delivers him a stack of paperwork and apologises.

“This was on Gabriel’s To Do List before he disappeared,” he says, “It is a lot to dump on you all at once, I do apologise. But it needs doing.”

“Of course, I understand,” Aziraphale replies, politely accepting the rather daunting stack of documents, “I shall get stuck right in!”

“Excellent!” The Metatron gives Aziraphale a massive smile and a firm, encouraging pat on the shoulder. “I knew we made the right choice in appointing you, Aziraphale. You’ll do us all proud.”

The Metatron vanishes and leaves Aziraphale alone, overwhelmed but still beaming.

He was important, and being recognised for his talents. This was probably the best day ever.

Once the sun begins to set over the Earth, Aziraphale sets aside his paperwork. A headache is building behind his eyes, and after several hours straight of work, he decides its due time for a break. He rolls back his chair and strides over to the window, where he peers downwards. He is first met with steady white light, but then, his vision falters.

Curious. That’s the second time today…

Aziraphale’s limp body hits the floor.

There’s a demon standing in front of him. They’re in the bookshop. Who is this demon? How did he get in? The bookshop was meant to be impenetrable!

The demon is walking towards him. The demon’s hands are in his lapels. The demon is coming closer-!

Crowley’s mouth lands on his, furious and bitter and yet it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Wait…Crowley? Who in Heaven is Crowley? He’s a demon! And they’re kissing?

Crowley breaks away from him, and Aziraphale reawakens with a start.

What on Earth was that?

A demon kissed him?

How? When? More importantly, why?!

Aziraphale stands and tries to shake off his dizziness, but it seems determined to stick around.

Just like that name.

Crowley…

Chapter Text

Two months have slipped by since Muriel’s last angelic review, and Aziraphale has been plagued by that damn name ever since they mentioned it. He’s become frustrated and clipped when talking to other angels, prompting more than one to ask if he’s doing alright. He lied and told them yes. But he was, safe to say, Not Fine.

He barely slept anyway when he worked on Earth, but he has been abstaining from the practice entirely ever since Muriel’s review. He had tried to sleep that night, but found himself stuck in a dream about golden eyes, burning with love and fury, and a mouth pressed against his own. He recalls vaguely, from his first day in office, having that same vision. So, no more sleep.

He’s been speeding through the paperwork left behind by Gabriel for the last nine months, and he finally has a chance to consider the Second Coming. Or at least, he did have a chance.

Muriel appeared in his office just as he was about to open that file. But its not time for Muriel’s next review, they’re still a month early? Has something gone wrong on Earth?

“Mr Aziraphale, I don’t know if you fully remember, but there’s two human women that you tried to set up together awhile ago? Well, they certainly took longer than a few days to get together.” Muriel giggles, holding out a new set of files for Aziraphale. “But yes, they stopped by the shop today, and told me to thank Mr A.Z  Fell for helping set them up together. I’m assuming A.Z Fell is you-“

Muriel keeps chattering on even as Aziraphale’s ears ring. He takes their file and flips through it nonchalantly. He’s about to hand it back when a photo falls out of it. He picks ip up and frowns at what he sees.

It’s a black and white polaroid image of himself, dressed in a magicians uniform, holding a prop rifle. Next to him is…a man? No.

A demon. The same demon from his dreams. Crowley.

“Muriel, my dear?” Aziraphale interrupts their monologue, “I’m thinking about paying a visit to Earth. This…Crowley keeps catching my attention, but I can’t quite remember why. I should like to speak to him at some point.”

“Of course, Mr Archangel, whenever you want. He’s in the bookshop everyday, you just let me know when to expect you.”

-=+=-

In those two months, Crowley has stumbled upon a serious of revelations. He’s in his usual position in the bookshop, a mug in hand, buried in thought, when he comes to a few conclusions.

Aziraphale wasn’t offering to turn him back into an angel out of malice. He doubts Aziraphale is capable of malicious intent anyway. His Angel still views Heaven as the ultimate good, and being an angel as the ultimate goal. At the very least, Aziraphale didn’t hate him. He likely just didn’t fully comprehend that returning to Heaven would destroy Crowley – not physically, but mentally. Crowley would cease being himself, cease being the person who Aziraphale cares for, if not loves.

Aziraphale wasn’t ready to be a Them, is Crowley’s second realisation. He comes to this conclusion while watching Muriel panic about filling out their late paperwork and talking to themselves in hushed, scared tones, about what Michael would do if they found out, about how lucky they are that Archangel Aziraphale is kind and understanding.

Heaven still firmly has its toxic little claws sunk deep into most of the angels.

Aziraphale was always like that. He always felt that connection. He was always loyal to Heaven, and despite 6,000 years on earth, that loyalty never faded. It wavered, sure, but he always remained Heaven’s good little soldier. Aziraphale prided himself on his goodness and his angelic status. He was only recently cut off from Heaven’s grace, and he was left floundering. He didn’t know what to do with himself for a long while after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t. He might have loved Earth, but he loved Heaven more.

Heaven is abusive, Crowley knows that. He was cast out of favour long ago and has had millennia to unlearn all of Heaven’s bullshit. Aziraphale hasn’t. He only properly started deconstructing his beliefs in the last four years, and it wasn’t an easy process. Now, Heaven has come back, singing his praises and manipulating him right back into their clutches. Like a classic narcissistic parent, Aziraphale was the traumatised child.

Aziraphale needed his help to get free of Heaven, not his anger. He needed understanding, and patience, and compassion. Crowley didn’t know how to offer those things, and couldn’t see how badly Aziraphale needed them. He was stuck in his own head, believing that running away with Aziraphale was the best choice. He believed they were on the same page, without ever realising Aziraphale was still chapters behind him and struggling to catch up. He was frustrated and hurting, his mind screaming that Aziraphale doesn’t love him back because he isn’t good enough. But now he knows that those thoughts were nowhere near the truth.

And Aziraphale doesn’t remember Crowley anymore. He might never get a chance to apologise for misunderstanding Aziraphale’s intentions, apologise for getting angry with him, for letting their first damn kiss happen out of fury. Never get the chance to take Aziraphale to the Ritz again. Never be able to ask about this little cottage he recently saw listed for sale in South Downs. Never truly be able to tell Aziraphale that Crowley is in deeply, hopelessly in love with him, and has been for longer than he cares to remember.

No.

Fuck that.

Fuck losing the one person who made Eternity bearable.

Crowley was going to get Aziraphale back if it killed him, and he was going to help Aziraphale get free of Heaven. They both deserve happiness, and freedom. Why should they have to sacrifice what they have, what Crowley knows they have, because of Heaven?

Fuck Heaven, he’s getting his Angel back.

He always did enjoy rescuing Aziraphale.

Crowley’s got an ex Archangel and Archduke of Hell to visit.

It’s like he said – if Gabriel and Beelzebub get to run off together, why can’t he and Aziraphale?

He hopes, for the first time in who knows how long. He hopes Gabriel has some vague inkling on how to restore Aziraphale’s memories.

He climbs into his Bentley, lets out a faint growl, and slams his foot on the accelerator.

To Edinburgh.

-=+=-

Beelzebub and Gabriel actually look human. They’re pressed together in the corner of the pub that Gabriel enchanted to always play ‘Everyday.’ They could almost be described as ‘cuddling,’ directly side by side, Beelzebub’s head slowly falling onto Gabriel’s steady shoulder. Gabriel is actually wearing a hoodie. Granted, its still a boring grey, but at least it isn’t a suit. The pair are smiling quietly and talking between themselves, and Crowley’s blood is boiling.

Come on Crowley, count to ten like the humans do. Don’t do anything in a state of anger…

Fuck it.

I AM angry.

He snaps his fingers and vanishes the three immortal beings from the sight of the human patrons and stalks across the bar to them. He drags out the chair opposite the cuddling pair in their booth and collapses into it, purposefully loud.

The tender moment between Gabriel and Beelzebub shatters, and Crowley smirks. Good.

“Ah. Demon Crowley,” Gabriel says, keeping his voice a steady neutral despite the obvious annoyance on his face. Never play poker with Gabriel, he sucks at it. “What are you doing here?”

“Wanted to talk to you both,” Crowley snaps, scowling at them both behind his sunglasses. “Or rather, talk at you both. And you’re going to listen, otherwise I’m going to fucking explode.”

The couple share a confused glance, tinged at the edges with worry. Crowley hates it. Even if they don’t know it, they’re looking back at him with pity. His blood isn’t on fire anymore; it’s borderline acidic.

“How fucking dare you get the life I wanted,” he hisses, taking off his glasses now so they can see his scowl, his narrowed eyes. He’s practically smoking now with fury. “I tried for 6,000 damned years to carve out a life here on Earth away from Heaven and Hell’s bullshit. Aziraphale and I tried. We fought for our little bit of peace and quiet on this blasted planet. Then you two /bastards/ stroll in, disrupt both of our lives, and run into the sunset together, happy and in love and building the perfect fucking happy ending! Why do you two get that?! You tried very hard to kill he and I, I’m not sure if you remember.” He stares hard at Gabriel, and he watches the ex-Archangel recoil. “You told the one being I love in this god forsaken world to ‘shut his stupid mouth and die.’ Do you remember that? I wanted to kill you for that, and I would’ve enjoyed it.”

“Crowley,” Beelzebub snaps, but Crowley just glared at them too.

“You’re not my boss anymore, Beelzebub. You don’t get to tell me to stop.” Crowley fixes his attention back on to Gabriel.

“What have you two done to deserve this happiness? What did you do to earn what you have? Nothing. You don’t deserve this. We did. Aziraphale and I did. But thanks to you two fucking off to who knows where and abandoning your jobs, he is now up in Heaven. He left me to take up your post!” He’s panting heavily, baring his teeth at Gabriel. The Angel actually looks a bit afraid.

“Why do you get the happy ending I fought for? Why did you have to ruin mine?”

And then, the dam breaks. Crowley buries his face in his hands, releases a broken, hiccupping breath, and starts to sob.

Gabriel and Beelzebub exchange a concerned look before the angel reaches out and pats Crowley’s shoulder gently.

“I know it probably isn’t worth much to you, but I am sorry,” he murmurs to the crying, shaking demon. “And I understand now. I understand the pair of you. Why you were so determined to shake off Heaven and Hell for each other. Why you love the Earth so much. I should have said it sooner, and that was a mistake. I’m sorry for not telling you that I understand what you’re going through before.”

“Thanks,” Crowley croaks hoarsely. He manages to get himself under control after a few minutes and wipes his face. “Fuck, that was…ngh, embarrassing…” He straightens up and puts his glasses back on. They might hide his red eyes, but they do nothing to cover the tear tracks.

“I would ask you to forgive me for asking this, but we’re both still demons at the end of the day. What actually happened, Crowley? You seriously telling me that Aziraphale, who’s been running around breaking basically every rule about angelic-demonic interaction with you for the last 6,000 years, has left you?” Beelzebub asks, leaning back in their booth. “What happened?”

“Same thing that was gonna happen to Gabriel, I think,” Crowley says, his voice still a bit wet and cracked. “He doesn’t remember me anymore, least that’s what Muriel says. I think they took his memories.”

Gabriel gasps, and he looks simply horrified.

“Good God, that’s awful…” He murmurs, “I’m so sorry. Again.”

“‘s fine. So long as you tell me how to reverse it.”

“Reverse angelic memory loss?” Gabriel asks dumbly, and Crowley nods. “I’m sorry to say but…only a heavenly being can restore his memories now. All memories are stored in a Vault, and a certain level of clearance is needed to even get in, view someone’s memory status and restore them to their original state. I stored mine outside my body, they weren’t erased. But Aziraphale…he’d need another Archangel to restore them, or someone even higher up, like a Seraphim, which isn’t likely to happen, given that the other Archangels authorised their removal and the Seraphim don’t usually interact with the rest of us. I don’t think there’s anything you can do for him. I can look for a solution, but I can’t promise anything.”

Crowley nods silently, trying not to have another breakdown over the whole thing. There’s nothing he can do to help the one being he loves. Fucking hell.

“Thanks, Gabriel,” he murmurs finally and stands up. “I would say I’m sorry for yelling at you, but uh. I’m not. I needed to say all that, and you needed to hear it. Let me know if you find anything that could help him.” He unfreezes time in the pub on his way out the door. It slams behind him.

Gabriel and Beelzebub look at each other. The previous Archduke of Hell murmurs, “Poor guy…” and Gabriel nods sympathetically. Is it possible for an angel to feel guilty? In this moment, it certainly is. Gabriel feels an ache in his chest, just behind his ribs. He hadn’t truly realised the consequences of his actions until now. He doesn’t regret choosing Beelzebub, but…he wishes there was something else he could do for Crowley than simply giving him bad news.

“I hope things work out for those two,” Beelzebub says quietly, watching Crowley through the foggy, stained glass windows. “My old lot had bets placed on how long it would take them to finally get together, you know. Everyone could tell how much they meant to each other. It sucks that things ended this way between them.”

“I have faith,” Gabriel says with surprising confidence, “Those two haven’t met an issue that they would fix before. I’m sure they’ll figure something out. Crowley doesn’t seem like the type to simply give up on what he wants.”

“He’d rewrite fate if it meant keeping Aziraphale safe,” Beelzebub nods, then glances up at Gabriel. “Maybe we should pay the bookshop a visit soon. See if there’s anything we can do to help them.”

“Good idea,” Gabriel murmurs, wrapping his arm around his partner fondly. “Since when did you become so nice?”

“Oh shut it,” they hiss, and swat at his chest. His chuckles rumble under their fist, and neither of them can stop the smiles.

-=+=-

Back in Aziraphale’s bookshop, Crowley is Busy. He’s in the armchair again, feverishly flicking through book after book he miracles off the shelves and on to the desk in front of him. Of course Aziraphale had books on enchantments and miracles in here, but he was clever enough to keep them hidden away from the prying eyes of humans.

He’s already read through too many books with amnesia-based plotlines and felt brain cells dying with every medical inaccuracy. His problem isn’t medical, its magical, so they were practically no help. Maybe being back in the bookshop would jog his memory? Crowley is highly sceptical that would actually work, simply given the nature and intensity of the miracle that would have been used on him.

He supposes its worth a try, even if there are few results. He asked Muriel about it before they went to bed – the scrivener is quite fond of sleep, he’s learnt recently – and they promised to try. It was better than nothing.

Beyond that, he’s coming up empty on solutions that don’t involve going Upstairs. He’d like to avoid doing that for as long as possible, they could destroy him within a second for trespassing.

But Aziraphale is worth it.

Yes, he is.

Crowley resolves then, bathed in nighttime air and a yellowing streetlight’s glow, that as a last-ditch effort, he’ll go Upstairs. For Aziraphale, he’d risk anything.

And he means that. Anything.

-=+=-

If Crowley didn’t already know miracles existed, the fact that Muriel managed to get Aziraphale back down to Earth would have turned him into a believer. There’s a Supreme Archangel on the bookstore doorstep, how in fuck’s name did Muriel manage that?

Either way, he’s a confusing mix of excited and terrified. His heart is still raw and aching, but he is healing. He understands now, that Aziraphale didn’t reject him out of malice, but misunderstanding, and that his Angel needs help.

Aziraphale walks into the bookshop behind Muriel, scanning the shelves with a bittersweet curiosity. He looks so unsure of his footing, walking through his own shop at a much slower pace than he ever did. He looks alarmingly different, too.

He’s lost weight, Crowley realises despairingly. He hasn’t been eating. Sure, he doesn’t strictly need to eat, but Aziraphale loved food. And seeing him like this…hard, sharp grey edges rather than his usual self; soft, round, cream and tartan prints. He looks…capital ‘H’ Heavenly. Crowley hates it.

“Aziraphale…?” He whispers softly, coming in close to the Archangel. He seems to flinch, and looks up at Crowley with pure anxiety and fear in his eyes. It hurts.

“You’re…Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, reaching up with a hesitant hand. He withdraws it a few times before finally cupping Crowley’s cheek in his palm. His touch is cold, but Crowley leans into it anyway.

“So its true then,” Crowley murmurs, “You don’t remember me, do you?”

There’s tears in Aziraphale’s eyes as he shakes his head, before dropping his hand.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says gently, “I wish I could…” He turns to Muriel. “Why is my heart racing? I don’t think its meant to do that, is it meant to?”

Muriel gives Crowley a guilty smile over Aziraphale’s shoulder as they out, resting their hand on his arm. “It is, yes. Human hearts start racing faster when the person goes near someone they…love.”

Aziraphale’s head whips back around to look at Crowley, his eyes going wide and scared. Crowley’s heart clenches in his chest.

I’d rather you look at me like you hate me than you’re scared of me.

“Love…?” Aziraphale stammers, before his eyes go foggy and unfocused. He stares out the window, unable to look at either of his companions.

“I…Aziraphale?” Crowley approaches him again, but Aziraphale lurches backwards and into motion, striding towards the door with his head in his hands.

“This was a mistake, I shouldn’t have come here,” Aziraphale groans, “I’m so…confused, I can’t think straight…”

“I’m sorry,” Muriel mouths to Crowley as his face falls in agony. Muriel hurries after Aziraphale, and they vanish through the door again.

As quickly as it began, it was over. Aziraphale was gone. Again.

This was a bad idea.

Crowley sinks back into the armchair and tosses his sunglasses aside with a heavy, defeated sigh. So that didn’t work. His heart hurts all over again, but at least he knows now. The only way to bring his Aziraphale back…is Heaven.

-=+=-

Aziraphale is breathing heavily when he rushes out of the elevator once it stops in Heaven. His mind is buzzing a million miles a minute, and he can’t hear himself think.

Just being in that bookshop, the feelings it drew out of him, the hazy familiarity he felt around that demon…

He’s almost positive that something has happened to his memories. He resolves to visit the Vault once there is a break in his schedule.

Chapter Text

In the days following Aziraphale’s downright disastrous visit to the bookshop, he’s been haunted by daydreams. Not even avoiding sleep has saved him from these strange hallucinations. No, his body has now been routinely dragging him into a dream-like state against his will and forcing him to watch vision after vision, even though they make absolutely no sense.

These visions have kept him thoroughly distracted from his work. In one, he and the demon - Crowley, he chastised himself - were strolling through St James’ park together, an ice cream each, before Crowley took on the form of a large, black and gold snake. The snake launched at Aziraphale, jaw unhinged and wide, and Aziraphale awoke from his vision with a pounding heart and a layer of cold sweat over his whole body.

In another, he handed Crowley a blue tartan print thermos full of holy water. The bottom of the thermos gave out and dumped the water all over Crowley’s lap, and the shrieks as he discorporated made Aziraphale queasy and brought him to tears.

His memories have been tampered with, he’s certain of that fact now. But unfortunately, despite being the Supreme Archangel, he doesn’t actually know the way to the Vault.

So, he summons Muriel. He has a break in his schedule now, thanks to completing his paperwork a few days early. Something about the Second Coming. His mind has, unfortunately, been elsewhere recently. He’ll look back over those documents once he deals with his memory situation. He has time.

Muriel arrives in his office, just as requested.

“Aziraphale,” they greet him with a hesitant smile, “You asked to see me?”

“Yes, I did.” He takes off his thin glasses, sets them delicately on to his table, and looks up. “Thank you for being so punctual. I have a request.”

“Of course, anything!”

“Can you take me to the Vault?”

Muriel falters and their eyebrows shoot up into their hairline.

“The Vault?”

“Yes, my dear. The Vault. I regret to say that I don’t actually know where to find it…” He chuckles sheepishly, “And…I want to confirm the condition of my memories. Before you ask, no, I wouldn’t dare ask one of the other Archangels. I’m afraid…you’re the only one I can actually trust.”

“I see..” Muriel straightens up their posture, “Follow me, please. I can take you there.”

Aziraphale smiles, and rises from his desk. The two fall into step together. They pass by Michael on their walk, and Aziraphale exchanges a nod with the other Archangel. Michael returns it curtly.

The Vault, it seems, is just as painfully white and sterile as the rest of heaven. It’s stacked to the ceilings with filing cabinets, all white and silver of course. The memories of all angels, past and present, are stored in the one location. Their experiences are documented and used to deepen other angels’ understanding of how the world works. The existence of the Vault and its functions are part of the contract signed by every single angel.

Every angel has one drawer dedicated to hosting their memories. Depending on experiences, they may later receive a second. Aziraphale has one, which makes his whole predicament must easier. He finds his drawer and yanks it open, his hand trembling on the knob. As anticipated, his memory files are smoking with purple fumes.

He lets out a sigh, and pulls out his files. There’s six in total, one for every thousand years he served on Earth. They’re burning to the touch, and his fingers are tinged with violet ashes.

“So it’s true,” he murmurs reluctantly, “My memories…they’ve been corrupted.” The magical signature points, rather obviously, towards Uriel and Saraqael’s involvement.

“Muriel?” He calls, and the young angel scurries to his side. “Can you fetch me a copy of the Sentience and Free Will Guarantee? Then meet me in the Tribunal Lot.”

“You’re going to-?!”

“Yes. I’m going to bring this up with the Heavenly Tribunal. The Seraphim can’t ignore this, no matter how hands off they are in the daily operations of Heaven. Hurry now, my dear, we don’t have much time.”

Muriel scurries off to fetch a copy of Heavenly Policy, while Aziraphale lingers a few moments longer. He thumbs through his own memories, brow furrowing as the images before him are half blurred with static. He wonders distantly what could be so bad that his friends, the other Archangels had to change them. Of course they were his friends, they had to be. He can’t help but ask ‘Why?’ What has he done to deserve this fate?  An even more sickeningly thought rises, unbidden, to the surface of his mind; was anyone else in on this?

Certainly not Muriel. They were just as stunned as he was when he found his memories tampered with, and Muriel is much too kind and gentle to be capable of that level of betrayal.

He thinks back to the day he arrived.

The Metatron was all too happy to let Uriel and Saraqael mess around in his brain. His mouth sours.

He doesn’t remember seeing Michael there though. Can he trust Michael? They had no involvement with his memories, but still…he was always uncomfortable around Michael. In all their past interactions, however truly he remembers them, have been painfully practiced and strictly Business.

He steps outside the Vault, and-

Oh, speak of the Devil and they shall appear. Or rather, speak of the Archangel.

Michael greets him with a smile. Not cold or kind. Just a smile. Their eyes briefly land on the file under Aziraphale’s arm, before snapping back up to his face.

“Supreme Archangel,” they say politely, inclining their head to him. “I’m very pleased to hear that our plans for the Second Coming are to go ahead without error.”

“As am I,” Aziraphale says, “It’s been weighing on my mind for a quite awhile. Although, I ought go double check the details, just to be sure that we are all fully prepared.” He starts in the direction of his office, and Michael follows after him.

“I should come with you then. My memory escapes me,” they say, eyes again darting down to the file. Aziraphale holds it tighter, his knuckles whitening. “I can’t recall the exact date we’ve agreed upon.”

“Let us check then,” Aziraphale replies, nodding tersely in their direction. Michael smiles again. It still conveys no real emotion. Aziraphale’s nerves spark to life, and goosebumps break out across his skin.

The walk is painfully quiet, and Aziraphale makes an excited noise when they reach his office.

“You can look through my folders for the date of the Second Coming, if you wish.” Aziraphale keeps peeking around the corner, checking for Muriel’s return.

“I have to ask, Supreme Archangel, whose memories are you holding?” Michael asks, with their back turned to Aziraphale. He stiffens and moves the file further back behind himself.

“No point trying to hide it. I know what the Vault contains. Don’t you trust me?”

“O-of course I do, Michael,” he laughs nervously, “I, just…think this is rather sensitive information that I’d rather keep quiet.”

“Ah, I see.”

Michael sifts through some documents before humming. “Thank you, Supreme Archangel, this has been most helpful. You’ve withdrawn your own memories from the Vault, haven’t you?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. Michael grabs his wrist before he can make a break out the door.

“Did your little demon put you up to this? What was his name again? Something about snakes…Crawly?”

“I don’t know why you think this has anything to do with Crowley,” Aziraphale snaps before he can think better of it.

Shit.

Michael starts to grin and Aziraphale rips his wrist free in the moment of distraction, vanishing around the corner.

Muriel! Thank the Almighty!

“Muriel, my dear, perfect timing!” He calls out, looping his arm through theirs. He spins them around in a 180, leading them quickly towards the Tribunal Lot. “Come now, we must hurry.”

Muriel looks up at him, confused, before they hear footsteps. Glancing over their shoulder, they see Michael. Muriel catches on, swallows firmly, and nods, picking up the pace considerably.

Michael matches them.

They pass a small gaggle of angels who pay no mind to them.

Muriel passes Aziraphale the file of Heavenly policy.

“Are you sure about this?” Muriel asks him quietly.

“I am,” Aziraphale affirms. He glances over his shoulder once more to see Michael still firmly in pursuit. “We just need to get to the lot before Michael does. They mightn’t have been there when my memories were stolen, but…I don’t trust them either.”

Muriel nods.

“Keep going. I’ll distract them.”

“Muriel-!” Aziraphale tries to grab them, but they’ve already turned around and are skipping back to Michael. Aziraphale hardens his gaze and continues onwards to the Tribunal Lot.

Muriel starts asking Michael all kinds of questions, but Michael steps around them. Muriel keeps pace at Michael’s side, trying their best to be a distraction.

Aziraphale climbs up one brief flight of stairs and rounds a corner-

There it is!

“Aziraphale!” Michael calls, making sure the coast is clear before they run towards him, Muriel on their tail.

Aziraphale shoves open the doors before Michael can reach him-

Michael’s disappeared?

Muriel trots up to Aziraphale’s side, looking just as confused as Aziraphale is.

“Supreme Archangel?” Comes the booming voice of a Seraphim.

Aziraphale rights himself. He doesn’t have time to deal with Michael right now. He needs his memories.

“A-Ah! Honourable Seraphim, I come to you with an urgent request for trial…”

-=+=-

As the doors slam shut behind Aziraphale, a demon on Earth steps into the elevator and pushes the button for Heaven. His sunglasses betray no emotion, and his lanky body is tense all over. He is a man on a mission.

At the same time, an ethereal young man in a Hawaiian shirt and man bun steps on to the escalator to Heaven. He appears serene and casual all at once, and checks his battered wristwatch. He is ahead of schedule.

-=+=-

“-As I’m sure you can see, Council,” Aziraphale says, gesturing to the memory films suspended in mid-air, smoking with purple fumes, “My memories have indeed been tampered with by my fellow Archangels. Not one has been left untouched. This behaviour, I’m sure you will know, is in direct violation of the Sentience and Free Will Guarantee-“

“That policy only affects human beings, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale,” Uriel blurts out, shooting up from their chair.

Aziraphale fixes them with a glare and takes the document that Muriel hands to him.

“The Sentience and Free Will Guarantee,” he announces, opening the file to a certain page. The words appear above his head as he reads them aloud, “Section 3, primary clause. ‘All beings of the Almighty’s creation are guaranteed sentience and free will and are to remain free from manipulation, malevolent wills and memory distortion. No being shall be violated in such a way.’”

Aziraphale snaps the file shut and stares at the three other Archangels, quirking a single eyebrow.

“I’d certainly call this a violation, not just of this crucial heavenly policy but also of myself and my privacy. And, correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe you helped write this policy back in the day, Uriel. Such a shame that you violated your own rule.”

Aziraphale hands the document off to the assembled Seraphim. They cluster together, a mass of wings and halos and flowing white robes.

After a few minutes of mumbling, the Seraphim declare as one, “We find Uriel and Saraqael indeed guilty of violating the Sentience and Free Will Guarantee. Punishment shall be decided by the Supreme Archangel, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale smiles coldly and takes his place behind the smoky glass podium.

“I hereby block the usage of miracles by the guilty parties for 10 years, suspend them from the position of Archangel and assign them to the 37th class of scrivener for 500 years.”

Uriel launches to their feet again, already spluttering loud protests and objections. Aziraphale waves them back into their seat. A 10 year miracle ban isn’t even that harsh. 10 years are mere seconds to immortal angels. 500 years is a bit longer, sure, but a punishment must still be punishing, or else it is pointless.

The Seraphim turn to each other once again. The gathered crowd begins to disperse, assuming that to be the end of the proceedings, as Uriel and Saraqael exchange terrified glances. Their auras – once mighty and bright, slowly melt into much softer creams, before the pair shimmer out of existence. Even Aziraphale steps down off the stand and approaches Muriel, his eyes relieved, but still haunted at the edges. He knows this isn’t truly over yet, the nagging feeling in his gut tells him as much.

A Seraphim clears its throat, sufficiently regaining the attentions of all in attendance.

“Supreme Archangel Aziraphale,” booms one of the Seraphim, “We have elected to restore your memories to you, on one condition.”

Aziraphale looks up at the figures eagerly. His heart has begun hammering against his ribs, as if ready to explode out of his chest. He’ll do whatever it takes to finally feel like himself again.

“You are still a traitor to Heaven and the Almighty. Your involvement in preventing Armageddon cannot go unpunished. You will be returned to your Principality status and permanently exiled to the Earth, while retaining your position as our representative. Your reports will be collected by Muriel, every three months, as is standard. Do you accept these terms?”

The answer comes easy to his lips. “Yes.”

“Very well then.”

The Seraphim who spoke opens Aziraphale’s files, and the memory files shoot into the air. The purple Fumes slowly evaporate, and the memories shimmer with static as they clear up and become true. They then are absorbed back into Aziraphale’s mind, and a splitting headache erupts behind his eyes.

Crawley next to him on the wall of Eden. ‘That went down like a lead balloon.’

Crowley next to him during the Flood. ‘That unicorn’s making a break for it!’

Crowley saving Job’s goats and children from death. Crowley giving him his first ever taste of human food – ox rib. Crowley telling him that they are both on their own side, separate from Heaven and Hell. It gets lonely there, but they have each other.

Crowley next to him at the Crucifixion, sharing in sympathy together.

Crowley across from him in a Roman restaurant, spluttering. ‘These are terrible, angel, why do you eat them?!’

Crowley, parading about as the Black Knight. They called it a day and went home, too damp to care about duelling each other.

Crowley flipping a coin in the theatre. Aziraphale having to go to Edinburgh. Shared grumbling about horses. Crowley inspiring Hamlet as a gift to Aziraphale. Warmth bubbling in Aziraphale’s chest.

Crowley, in the Bastille, playfully teasing Aziraphale about his willingness to risk his life for crepes. The crepes they got in Paris that same day were definitely worth the risk.

Crowley asking him for Holy Water. Aziraphale’s fury and worry and indignation all firing up at once. He regrets calling their arrangement ‘fraternizing.’

Crowley convincing Aziraphale to help Elspeth and Morag in Scotland, then getting completely intoxicated on laudanum and stumbling against Aziraphale’s side.

Crowley saving his life from ‘a bunch of half-witted Nazi spies running around London.’ Crowley saving his books. Aziraphale knowing, with 100% certainty, that he is in love. Crowley, looking terrified behind a prop rifle, performing the bullet catch on the West End with him. How soft Crowley’s usually sharp cheekbones looked in the candlelight that evening.

Crowley setting up a sting to rob a church. Aziraphale went out of his mind with fear again, before reluctantly giving Crowley the Holy Water he had asked for. The surprise on Crowley’s face. Aziraphale’s discomfort and love, all mingling together. ‘You go too fast for me, Crowley.’ Or maybe Aziraphale just goes too slow for Crowley.

Crowley, proposing that they avert Armageddon together. Calling them ‘Godfathers.’ Aziraphale lying through his teeth, ‘I don’t even like you.’ Crowley’s begging for Aziraphale to run away with him, and his declaration from across the roof of the Bentley. ‘When I’m off in the stars, I won’t even think about you!’ That stranger on the street, asking about Aziraphale’s relationship problems. Being discorporated. The bookshop burning down. Crowley’s despair. Finding their way back together again. Standing hand in hand, supporting the Anti-Christ in reshaping reality and preventing the Apocalypse. He rather likes being on Their Side, and wishes he kissed Crowley at the Ritz.

Crowley arguing that Aziraphale really shouldn’t help Gabriel. Gabriel did try and kill him, after all. Crowley still held a grudge over that. ‘I thought we carved it out for ourselves,’ and ‘So did I.’ He took the Bentley on a road trip to Edinburgh and painted her yellow. Oh, Crowley was livid. It was hilarious. He and Crowley dancing in the bookshop. Probably the happiest he’s ever been. Fighting off a horde of demons trying to take Gabriel. Standing with Crowley, smiling at Crowley, as Gabriel and Beelzebub find their happily ever after.

Being offered the position as Supreme Archangel. Arguing with Crowley, angry this time. Saying things he didn’t mean and instantly regretted.

Crowley kissing him. Aziraphale floundering. Aziraphale leaving him behind for Heaven.

For Heaven.

For the same Heaven that just stole his memories-!

He goes dizzy and grips tight to the railing as he doubled over, his breathing hard and laboured. He can hardly focus on what is in front of him.

“Return to Earth now, Principality Aziraphale. The Second Coming must continue, uninterrupted by you or your demon, Crowley.”

Crowley!

Wait, the Second Coming? His head is all foggy, he can’t think clearly…

“I- Second Coming?” He manages to croak out, and the Seraphim nods.

“You yourself approved the plans, Aziraphale. The Almighty’s Son is set to return to Earth for judgment later today. Perhaps we will see you again once Paradise comes to the Earth. But it is time for you to leave. Remove yourself from Heaven, or we will do it for you.”

Yes. Yes, he will happily leave Heaven. He will take permanent exile over dealing with this…toxic, bureaucratic bullshit a second longer! Stealing his memories, isolating him from the person he loves, tossing out people who just ask questions…

Heaven isn’t good. Heaven has never been good. He hates how long this took him to realise. Heaven likes conformity. Heaven likes nativity. Heaven likes obedience. Heaven is not worth it. He deserves better than this.

He needs to see Crowley. Needs to say…oh, there’s so much he needs to say to Crowley. He needs to apologise for leaving, for foolishly believing Heaven could be saved by his efforts alone. Crowley needs to know he was right about all of this. Crowley needs to know that Aziraphale loves him, and that he’ll do anything to make up for lost time. He means that ‘anything,’ this time.

He turns to leave the stand, but he’s swaying on his feet. He probably won’t make it to the elevator on his own. He’s about to call to Muriel for help, when-

“I can help him,” comes the voice of the Archangel Michael, appearing seemingly from nowhere before wrapping a supportive arm around Aziraphale,” I will escort him to the elevator, but no further.” Alarm bells start ringing in Aziraphale’s head, making him groan as his headache worsens.

Don’t trust Michael…

“Very well, thank you Michael. We will discuss the matter of replacing the Supreme Archangel upon your return.”

The Seraphim waves the two of them off, and they converge into a huddle again.

Michael and Aziraphale stumble out of the Tribunal Lot, with Aziraphale becoming dizzier and more exhausted with every passing second. He’s swaying on his feet, headache pounding louder. His breathing becomes heaving, shuddering. He’s sweating, and confused.

They’re just approaching it when Michael suddenly changed course and starts to drag Aziraphale’s almost entirely limp form away.

He tries to protest and fight against Michael’s grasp. “Let go of me-“ he hisses, straining hard against the Archangel. His heart is in his throat now. He needs to get out of here…!

“Don’t try and fight me, Aziraphale,” Michael hisses, digging their nails into his wrists before bodily hauling him in the opposite direction of the elevator. “You’re too weak. 6,000 years worth of tainted memories must hurt to receive all at once?” Their voice is dripping with fake sympathy, and they sneer at him. “You and I both know that this has everything to do with that demon. You just can’t seem to leave him alone, even without remembering your history together.”

“You know, I don’t think just being exiled to Earth is punishment enough. Consorting with a demon? Preventing the Great Plan? Asking so many fucking questions?” Michael smiles and laughs. This time, it is sharp. Cruel. “No, no. I think its about time you Fell.”

Adrenaline courses through his body within and instant, and Aziraphale manages to wrench himself free from Michael. He starts to stagger blindly towards the elevator. If he can just…get in…he can go home. He can get Crowley…Crowley will help him, surely. Crowley always has…

Crowley…

Is here?!

Aziraphale must be dreaming, or hallucinating in his exhaustion.

“Aziraphale?!” Crowley yells from the just opening elevator, and he sprints towards the Archangel Michael, who just lunged for Aziraphale’s collapsing form. “Michael, get the fuck away from him. Aziraphale!”

Michael is blown back into a wall by a sharp demonic miracle, powered by Crowley’s burning fury and worry. He catches Aziraphale before he can collapse fully and guides them both to the floor, holding Aziraphale delicately. Reverently. Aziraphale opens his eyes.

Oh Crowley. He mouths Crowley’s name, whispers it weakly, as if anything louder will make the hallucination stop. His head is still spinning, spinning.

“Aziraphale..?” He repeats. Aziraphale’s shaking hand cups his face, and with what little strength he has, he lurches upwards and presses his lips against Crowley’s. Its says; I missed you. I love you. Forgive me. And responds with; You are safe, you are home. We are safe.

“I’m sorry for forgetting you, my Crowley…” Aziraphale murmurs deliriously as he slumps backwards and slips into unconscious without another fight. Tears rise in Crowley’s eyes as he clutches Aziraphale against his chest, confusion and relief and terror forming a nauseating cocktail inside his chest.

There’s a whole host of angels gathering around him now. Some are staring at Michael, who’s slumped against the far wall, knocked out. Others are staring at Aziraphale, sagged against Crowley’s chest, also knocked out. They’re probably thinking he’s responsible for this, that he’s just tried to kill two Archangels.

But there’s others still that aren’t staring at Crowley, but over his shoulder?

He’s about to ask what’s so fucking interesting, before he hears Someone take a long drink of something. Ice and liquid rattle against plastic, a befuddling prelude to a voice that Crowley hasn’t heard in 2,000 years.

“Hi, sorry, excuse me?” asks Jesus Christ, the Son of God himself, “I know I’m a bit early, but I’m going to need someone to explain what the fuck I just watched.”

Chapter Text

“Jesus Christ,” Crowley hisses, jerking his head around to look over his shoulder.

“Yeah, that’d be me,” Jesus says casually, sliding His sunglasses into the breast pocket of His Hawaiian shirt. He is certainly not what Crowley remembers, but 30 AD was a very long time ago. There’s palm trees swaying in the Miami breeze cross the Son of God’s chest, and a fanny pack around His hips, covered in badges. The progress flag, a battered old ‘Vote Obama’ election pin, a baby blue button reading ‘protect trans kids.’ A Planned Parenthood volunteer patch on the body of the bag.

“Oh, hey, I remember you!” Jesus chirps, ignoring the swaths of gawking doves in favour of kneeling down next to Crowley, “You’re Crowley, aren’t you? You kept trying to tempt me in that desert.”

“Yeah, uh. Sorry about all that?” Crowley tries awkwardly. His arms are starting to tingle underneath Aziraphale’s slumped body. “I didn’t mean-“

Jesus – Jesus – shushes him, as He reaches out to touch Aziraphale’s slightly damp forehead. “I can’t fault someone for just following orders, especially in…this kind of environment.” Jesus screws His nose up at the crowd of onlookers.

“And don’t worry about him,” He murmurs, His tone genuinely helping Crowley to unclench his jaw and his heartrate to stop rivalling a bullet train, “The Archangel – or, well, ex-Archangel now, isn’t it, Seraphim?” There is a vague confirming murmur from the back of the crowd. Jesus leans in closer, sharing a secret grin with Crowley. “Its such bureaucratic nonsense, huh? It’s such drivel, I can never keep up with all these changes…”

“You should see Hell,” Crowley grumbles, and Jesus snorts around a mouthful of His iced – Crowley tastes the air with his tongue briefly – iced matcha latte.

Somebody tries to speak, but Jesus holds up one finger, His nails painted for the damn Eras Tour, as He takes another long drink of His latte.

“So.” He looks around at the heavenly host. “Where are-“ He side-eyes the still very unconscious forms of Aziraphale and Michael, “the rest of your Archangels?”

“My Lord.”

There is a hot flash of fire, and it begins to take shape into a body. A tall, thin angel, with black tipped wings and long, Irish red curls. Beburos, an Archangel of the End of the World, looms over the rest of the Host.

Crowley couldn’t do anything but gawk against his terror.

“You are early,” Beburos, almost nine feet tall, hums, bending down to meet the Son of God’s eye. “We are missing some of our Brothers still, so we cannot proceed with the Second Coming just yet…”

“Let’s not go getting ahead of ourselves, buddy,” Jesus laughs – laughs in the face of an Apocalypse Angel. “See…there’s a couple things I want to clear up with everyone here before we even consider continuing with your plan.”

“Can anyone explain what causes an angel to Fall?” Jesus asks, and the angels all wince. “None of you? Wow, okay. Hey, Crowley? If you don’t mind me asking, what caused your Fall?”

Questions. He asked too many questions of Michael, of Gabriel, of the Metatron and the Almighty. He hadn’t even sided with Lucifer in his daddy issues fuelled rage, but his questions had been enough. He just wanted to watch his galaxies bloom. He didn’t want to destroy his babies, his stars and constellations… But that was too much to ask for.

“I asked questions, Lord,” Crowley finally responds, swallowing around a lump in the back of his throat.

“Not exactly a criminal offence, is it?” Jesus asks widely, scanning the sea of blank faces. “Really? That’s enough to justify Damning an angel? Nice to know how much you all care about each other.”

Jesus takes another long drink from His reusable mug.

“See, down on Earth, the humans tend to call that fascism. Forced social cohesion, extremely harsh punishments for perceived ‘dissenters’… Hmm. And you know? History doesn’t tend to like fascists very much. They aren’t looked back on fondly. Says a lot, I think, that ‘Heaven,’ the supposed paradise waiting at the end of a mortal life span…operates more like a fascist state than an eternal reward.”

Crowley grins. He knew there was a reason he’d liked that Jesus kid. Be nice to each other, that was all he wanted from humanity.

“What makes you all think you get to operate under a completely different set of moral standards? If we expect humans to follow my teachings, but my own angels don’t? What sort of Paradise is this we’re offering? What sort of double standards are we trying to hold people to?”

Jesus sets His drink down upon the glazed concrete floor, and He pulls a small notebook from his fanny pack.

“I’m just making sure I have my sources correct. Let’s see…yep. I gave the command that all creatures should be treated fairly, do unto others as you would have them do unto you, let he who is without sin cast the first stone… Yes, great! Okay!” Jesus claps the tiny book shut again. “Michael!”

The Archangel Michael is abruptly yanked into a sitting position by an unseen force. Jesus strides over to them, His sandals flopping loudly against the floor. Michael lets out a faint groan, before they notice exactly who has come.

“Michael, I have a question for you,” Jesus says, before Michael even has a chance to start. “Are you without sin, Michael?”

“I- lord?”

“I asked you a question, Archangel. Are you entirely free from sin?” When Michael cannot respond, simply gapes and stammers like a broken fish, Jesus straightens up and points at Aziraphale. “Then why were you trying to Damn one of my best angels? For what? For the crime of love?”

“Lord, he was consorting with a demon-“ Michael tries to protest.

“I do not care!”

That is the voice of a man who commands a global religion. Even Crowley shudders at Jesus’ tone, though he doubts he has anything to fear.

“I do not care if he is a demon. Aziraphale loved. Aziraphale loved him, and he loved the world. And that was my only wish. For people to love, and to take care of who and what they loved. I’m tempted to say that Aziraphale is the only one among you who actually listened to a single thing I said.” Jesus pinches the bridge of His nose, sighing harshly as He drifts back to the centre of his audience. Michael stands, and staggers slowly after Him.

“But, well, I suppose you lot are perfectly fine with ignoring or purposefully misunderstanding my words,” Jesus shrugs, “King James certainly thought it was fine to edit my words to be homophobic, why shouldn’t my own angels twist my words too? To care only about those who uphold the frankly bullshit standards being peddled out up here!”

Jesus snatches His latte from the floor and chugs the rest of it in silence, thousands of eyes glued to Him. A preacher indeed.

“But, what is even my point?” Jesus continues, gesturing vaguely through the air. “The Second Coming, and the subsequent end of the world, is cancelled.”

“What?!” roars the Metatron, shoving and storming his way through the flock of angels. “My Lord, you cannot be serious! This Plan has been carefully outlined by the Almighty itself, your own primogenitor! You cannot just-“

“But I just did,” Jesus grins, spinning on his flipflop to face the Metatron. Crowley could still taste the damned almond milk latte on his forked tongue. He hisses, on instinct, and draws the quiet Aziraphale tighter against his chest.

“My dear Metatron, I think you’ve forgotten exactly who I am.” Jesus pokes the Metatron directly in the knot of his pale blue tie. “The Second Coming cannot happen without me. But that’s not even the problem, not really. The Second Coming cannot happen without an adequate place for my children to rest.”

Jesus waves at their surroundings. Cold, headache bright, horror game office-like.

“This is no Heaven,” Jesus declares, gentle and sad. “I will not end the world with such a miserable afterlife waiting for them. After a lifetime of capitalism and bigotry, you expect my humans to be happy here? I’ve been in thousands of office buildings exactly like this, protesting to one stone hearted CEO after another, begging for scraps of decency for his workers. I will not send those same workers here. The sick children, with cancer rotting their bones or eyes from the minute they are born, will not spend eternity surrounded by hospital walls and the apathy of for-profit angels. The answer. Is. No.”

“My Lord, please, Judgement Day cannot wait,” says the still-looming Beburos.

“Oh, I didn’t say anything about cancelling Judgement Day. There’s just a new target,” Jesus says, tucking His hands neatly behind His back. “I will not Judge humanity today. There is too much nuance in the world, in my people, to be able to get through it all in one day. And there is no adequate place to put everyone once the Earth is gone. No, no. Before we even consider putting the end of the world back on the menu… I need to Judge Heaven.”

Michael, who had skittered over to hide behind the Metatron, began to look very, very nervous.

“We have some serious remodelling and re-education to do before we are ready to accept billions of humans,” Jesus explains. “My carpentry might be a little rusty, but I’m sure we’ll be able to build something actually beautiful up here. I know some great manual labourers are already in the afterlife, I’m sure they’d be thrilled for such a big commission.”

“You are being rash!” the Metatron snaps, drawing the eyes of the gathered angels towards himself again. “My Lord, I assure you, Heaven is perfectly operational and perfectly suited to accept the human souls as we are now. There is no need for your dramatics. You have spent too long around the humans, you will understand in time.”

Bells.

Big, sonorous church bells began to chime, with a harmony of lighter chimes, even the chirps of a few birds all fill the open, empty room. Jesus looks up, a yellow glow covering His face. From a sudden blue hole in the ceiling – the sky – a ghostly, cloudlike hand reaches down.

And, a voice.

“This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased. Listen to Him,” the Almighty says.

The room stills as the light fades, and Jesus slides His hands into the pockets in His brown shorts.

“It’s time we get to work,” Jesus says. “Muriel?”

The scrivener angel scampers forward from among the crowd. They bow, and shove their bright silver police hat back on to their head when it tries to escape.

“Help Crowley and Aziraphale back down to Earth, please. His exile is, unfortunately, still in effect, at least until I can figure out how to undo it,” Jesus commands. “And when you are back, I need you to gather every recording and scrivener angel you can find, and bring them to me.”

“Of course!” Muriel skids to their knees beside Crowley, as Jesus begins to dismiss the crowd, along with a very red, puffed up Metatron.

Muriel and Jesus both help Crowley to his feet, and Jesus loops one of Aziraphale’s arms around both of their shoulders.

“There we are. I wish I could do more, but 6000 years worth of memories takes a toll on a body even I cannot help with. He’ll be alright. Eventually.”

Jesus offers Crowley a regretful little smile, which he just about manages to return.

“Be back soon now, Muriel. You and I have a lot of work to do, and frankly, you’re the only one I trust,” Jesus murmurs, crouching down to Muriel’s ear. They beam.

“I’ll do my best, my Lord, sir!” They even salute to him.

Jesus flicks two fingers against His forehead, returning the salute fondly.

“Do not let Aziraphale worry about anything up here,” Jesus tells Crowley, “I’ve got it all handled. And it will be centuries at least until the next time we try to end the world, if we can even beat the humans to it…”

“I’ll keep him occupied,” Crowley promises, “We have…a lot to talk about.”

“Invite me to the wedding, when it finally happens.”

The angel, ex-Archangel and demon step into the elevator, with Jesus Himself waving a fond farewell after them. The start of a good joke, perhaps. Or something far more delicate.

Crowley stares at Aziraphale as they descend back to Earth. His heart is twisting, tighter even than Crowley could as a snake, almost to bursting. Aziraphale was beside him again. Unconscious, likely hurting…but he was here. Smelling of lemony cleaning products instead of Earl Grey tea and wool, wearing grey instead of brown, thinner than Crowley remembered, sporting a faint, fuzzy beard instead of being clean shaven…

He was different, that was for certain. Everything and nothing had changed between them. Crowley didn’t know what had happened to Aziraphale this past year, or how their next, very necessary conversation would go. They didn’t have the best track record for serious conversations. But Crowley did know two things.

That he was horrifically in love.

And that he would not let go of his angel again.

Chapter Text

Crowley could’ve sworn he heard the bookshop itself crying the night he brought Aziraphale home. The tables shook themselves free of dust as Muriel helped them up the front steps, and the shelves sorted each other back into Aziraphale’s preferred order as Crowley gently laid Aziraphale down in his unused bed and miracled away that horrific grey suit – instead replacing it with a pair of well-loved tartan pyjamas. Muriel had to hurry back to Heaven, and they apologised profusely for not being able to stay longer, but Crowley ushered them out before they could work themselves into a bigger tizzy.

It took three days for Aziraphale to stir even slightly, and Crowley – who had been keeping himself occupied with some new plants he purchased to replace his old ones – was stuck with guilt, like pins, when he noticed how relieved he was Aziraphale hadn’t properly woken yet. Just shuffled around and rolled over.

He didn’t feel ready for the next conversation they would have. He never would.

What would he even say? ‘I told you so?’

No.

Crowley could be petty, but he would never be cruel. Not to Aziraphale. He’d rather lose Aziraphale to Heaven forever than be genuinely mean to his angel.

Would a declaration be the best approach? ‘I’m jealous of every piece of food or glass of good wine you’ve made heart eyes at, been ready to let you consume pieces of me just to have you as enrapt with me as I am with you?’ Aziraphale was the Poet Laureate of the two of them, whereas Crowley would probably trip over a proclamation as romantic as that. Fall arse backwards into some nonsense babbling like, ‘So, angel, how does a spring wedding sound? You’d look so divine under a Japanese cherry blossom tree in April.’ He would blaspheme for Aziraphale; it was only appropriate. He’d risk a smiting every day for the chance to give Aziraphale all the sweet words he deserved.

He didn’t know what he’d say when Aziraphale woke up. Thankfully, it seemed he would have time to work out what to do next, with the angel still firmly asleep.

While he waited for Aziraphale to actually wake, Crowley managed to himself decently busy. He cooed at and threatened his new plants in equal measure, made trips to visit Nina and Maggie, drank his body weight in coffee and started looking at cottages in the countryside. To rent or to buy, he didn’t care. He needed a break from the city – a trip to the coast like the sick wife in a Victorian novel.

On day four of the waiting game, he impulse-bought a recipe book on Amazon, with next day delivery, and on day five, he began teaching himself how to pour an actual cocktail. They loved alcohol, and a few stiff drinks would probably help alleviate the inevitable tension after Aziraphale woke. It was on day five that Crowley learned that a Long Island Iced Tea, despite the name, contained no actual tea. He stared dejectedly at his many botched attempts at making a mojito, knowing his mint plant would never forgive him, and decided that he should hold off on his impromptu mixology career.

He cleaned up after himself, and left the book in Aziraphale’s kitchen, wedged shamefully between a tub of loose-leaf jasmine tea and a hand-thrown pottery vase containing one very traumatised mint plant.

On day six, sitting cross legged in the armchair beside Aziraphale’s bed, Crowley began to spiral. What did he do if Aziraphale just…never woke up? Would he just keep sitting here, never wasting away thanks to his corporeal form not technically requiring any sustenance? Would they find him here when they tried to end the world again? Holding a funeral vigil for Schrödinger’s angel? Both alive and dead, twin states of being in one soft, familiar body, laying flat and ready for his wake, in both senses of the word.

The mental whirlpool went on, and dragged Crowley under the current with it.

What if Aziraphale did wake up, but his memories hadn’t been restored? What would a factory settings angel do if they found a demon inside a heavenly outpost? Hovering, like humans think a mother hen does?

Aziraphale is the only angel Crowley would even consider dying against. But would it be his Aziraphale? Would those soulful eyes be the same without the memories behind them? He doubted they would look at him the same way Aziraphale used to. His death would not be merciful at the hands of an angel that wouldn’t remember to love him. To sheath his flaming sword gently in Crowley’s chest, and whisper an apology as Crowley slumped over. He’d apologise for getting blood on Aziraphale’s clothes, even if he was dying on the blade of the Principality he loved.

Crowley rubbed his face with his hand, but he could hardly feel it, through the salty, numbing fog of his thoughts.

He ended up back where he started, what felt like days ago now.

What happened when Aziraphale woke up? When Aziraphale did remember him?

There was something in Crowley’s chest, still caustic and battery acidic with anger, with hurt. Aziraphale had turned his back on Crowley, chosen Heaven over what they shared together. He didn’t know if he could ever forget how cold his body went when Aziraphale left. How his limbs had started to tremble, and didn’t stop until he curled up, rejected and despondent, in his too big, too empty apartment?

No, he could never forget that. And he didn’t become a demon for being particularly skilled at forgiveness, but…maybe in time, he could learn. He could try.

Aziraphale made him want to try.

There was no doubt in Crowley that he was still in love with Aziraphale. He had been for millennia. Since they had sheltered each other, years and realms apart, from star and rainfall. His immortal soul? Yeah, that belonged to one very unconscious angel. He would never be able to separate himself from Aziraphale. They were a package deal, as far as he was concerned. He would love Aziraphale, against the bitterness in his chest, against all reason. Even if Aziraphale didn’t love him back.

Should he tell him that? It would probably frighten the poor angel, after so long asleep and longer still without his memories.

Did he pretend like nothing had happened? Like he had never kissed Aziraphale? Like Aziraphale had never left?

No, that didn’t feel right. He made a point to avoid lying to Aziraphale as much as possible. Being disingenuous about everything that had happened – between them, in Heaven – wasn’t on the table. It wasn’t even in the restaurant, no, it was lying in a ditch outside of the cutlery supply warehouse.

Crowley’s spiral lasted for a full day, and before he knew it, day seven of the waiting day had begun.

And Aziraphale was starting to stir.

-=+=-

Crowley bolts up from the armchair he’d been calling home when Aziraphale starts to move. He drives straight up into the shelf above his head, curses, and stumbles over to his bedside. He flicks his wrist towards the days old glass of water on the cabinet, refreshing it. Aziraphale would need something non-dusty to drink after so long asleep.

Oh Somebody, Crowley had missed those eyes.

“Easy there,” Crowley murmurs, sliding one hand behind Aziraphale’s back, helping the angel to sit upright. Aziraphale let his head tip back into the headboard, groaning up at his ceiling. His eyes finally slide over to the demon.

“Crowley,” he croaks. He raises one arm, reaching out, and Crowley passes the glass of water into that outstretched hand. Aziraphale frowns at it, but he brings it to his lips and sips it. “Thank you.”

Crowley makes a garbled attempt at a casual grunt, and sits down on the edge of the bed.

“I mean it, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, his throat slightly less chalky now. “Thank you. I…I didn’t expect you to come for me again.”

“Course I did, angel,” Crowley says. He lifts his hand away, to miracle away the headache that was almost certainly building behind the angel’s eyes. “I always do.”

“You do,” the angel agrees. He takes another, longer, sip of his water.

Silence moves in, taking firmness and shape in between the pair. Until.

“But why?” Aziraphale asks. “You didn’t have to – I certainly didn’t deserve your help, not this time.”

Crowley turns. He removes his sunglasses, letting his yellow slit eyes drag over Aziraphale. But Aziraphale won’t look at him, suddenly enrapt with his half empty glass of water.

“Because- because I couldn’t let you be hurt, angel,” he says. “I’ve never been able to leave you alone when you needed help, have I? Nothing’s changed, not really. Why break the habit of 6,000 years, you know?” He tries to joke, to lighten the sickening tension Silence brought with it.

Even in the middle of heartbreak and betrayal…Crowley would always come for Aziraphale when he needed it. Crowley’s wasn’t sure there was such a thing as a ‘guardian demon,’ but he certainly felt like one. He would come, if Aziraphale called.

“I rather think we should break our habits,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley’s heart lurches six inches up into his throat.

Is he going to stick to his guns this time? Is everything finally over?

“I think it’s about time we talk. Properly.”

Oh, thank the butchered Heavens.

Aziraphale looks up at him finally, and Crowley’s own emotions look back at him from inside those eyes.

Crowley lets Aziraphale go first again. But he has faith this time will be different.

“I was wrong,” Aziraphale says, swallowing a lump in his throat. “About Heaven. I…I gave my faith to the wrong people. I believed it was Good, truly good. But I knew I made a mistake the second I stepped into that lift, Crowley, I…the only truly good thing I’d ever known was you. Not Heaven. And I know you don’t like being called that, my dear, but its true. You are the best thing I had. And I…I will not hold it against you if I have ruined everything.”

“I see now that…inviting you back to Heaven with me was an insult. Making you an angel again…it would have destroyed the you that I had fallen in love with. Just as…having my memories stolen destroyed who I was. I haven’t been me in months…because I could not remember you. Us. They forced me to forget us…and I don’t think I’ve ever been that miserable before.”

Aziraphale sets his glass of water aside and reaches out, resting his hand tentatively on Crowley’s knee. Crowley is so glad he doesn’t need to breathe, because he’s forgotten how to make his lungs work.

‘Fallen in love with.’

“I don’t want you to pity me, though, Crowley. Because I don’t deserve your pity, your compassion, not after what I did to you. I turned my back on everything we had…for a bureaucratic nightmare that hated everything I was, and needed to fundamentally change me to love me. If I have one regret, it is that I walked away from you. You did not deserve to be abandoned by another angel, Crowley. I…am so sorry.”

Crowley covers Aziraphale’s hand with his. He slides their fingers together, holding his hand. An action he had once feared would cause them both to spontaneously combust.

Aziraphale squeezes his hand. Crowley squeezes back.

“Demons aren’t built for forgiveness,” Crowley murmurs, half claggy with emotion. “But I won’t sit here and pretend I don’t want to forgive you, angel. I know what its like, trying to…break free from Heaven’s expectations. From the rules, from the systems you’ve known for thousands of years. It’s not easy to turn your back on that. I can’t even make myself be angry about that.”

Crowley would never be angry at someone so wonderful, and kind, for struggling to escape from a toxic system.

“I’m not going to lie to you though, angel,” Crowley continues, his throat trying to clam up around the next words rising up. He didn’t want to cause that sad look on Aziraphale’s face to get any worse. He didn’t want to be responsible for that, but…They had to go all in on honesty. For once.

“I was hurt. When you offered to make me an angel again, offered me a spot in heaven. When you chose them over me. I understand why you did it, but it still…still hurts, you know? But I’m working on it. I’m not at full forgiveness yet. I’m not going to give you some bullshit that everything is fine, and I’m not upset. Because that’s not fair, angel. I won’t do that to you. I don’t want to make you feel worse about everything that’s happened either. Just…we’ll work through this together, alright?”

“Yes, I…I understand, Crowley,” Aziraphale says quietly. He goes to say something else, but Crowley is quicker.

“But…while we’re talking about regrets…” He swipes his thumb over Aziraphale’s knuckles slowly. “I regret ruining our first kiss like that, angel.”

The angel’s eyes widen.

“I will forgive you for leaving eventually. But I’ll never forgive myself for making our first kiss so painful. Because…I love you more than I hate Heaven, angel.”

“I love you too, my dear fellow,” Aziraphale murmurs, closing his eyes as he turns into Crowley’s palm, nuzzling slightly against the warm skin.

Crowley could cry. Hope surges up inside him, battering against his ribs and intercostal muscles, and he forgets all about his bitterness.

“What would you say to a redo, angel?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale smiles, and they meet in the middle.

The kiss is slow, a careful sliding of lips together. A mingling, a coming together. A taste of home, a welcome back. Crowley sighs into it, sharing unnecessary but delightful breaths with his angel. Aziraphale squeezes the hand on his knee again, and Crowley smiles into the kiss like an idiot.

It’s the closest Crowley has been to true Heaven in thousands of years. He would Fall again, if it meant he could keep having this.

6,028 years later, in the Zodiac of Libra, the Earth is celebrating another birthday, and an angel and a demon are in love.