Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Serpent? You wanted to meet me here?"

The ground beneath Crowley's feet is a rusty red, and around him are stars and planets as far as the eye can see.

The view used to be beautiful. Eons ago, he would sit on this exact planet and admire the dancing lights, his umarred white wings spread out behind him. He would gaze into the sparkling void and feel alive in a way he never did around the other angels.

Now it's all dull. Dull, and empty, and numb. But Crowley is glad the numbness is there, because beneath the numbness lies a pain that is sharp, and cruel, and so, so loud. The numbness helps mute the pain's colors, but the pain is still there, consuming him from the inside out — and the numbness is its own sort of grief at times.

It's almost like a thick glass wall between him and somebody who wants him dead. It protects him, but the fear never goes away, and one day the wall will shatter and he will be a sitting duck.

("Ducks!" "What?" "Ducks! That's what water slides off of!" And Aziraphale gives him that soft, fond smile, and Crowley's heart is breaking breaking breaking—)

"So, was there a reason you called me here exactly?" comes the insipid drawl of the idiot beside him.

"Shut up, Gabriel," he snaps, not looking away from the eternal night sky.

The stars haven't changed at all, have they? No, they're the same as they were the day he made them. It's Crowley who's different. He swallows harshly, removing his sunglasses for just a second in order to scrub at his eyes.

"I need a favor — no, shut up, you owe me. I risked everything for you. I lost everything because of you. Well, everything that matters, which wasn't a lot in the first place, but it... it was enough."

The quiet, peaceful, fragile existence he and Aziraphale had shared. Walks in the park and late nights in the bookshop, testing the boundaries of their newfound freedom like giddy human teenagers, smiling so wide their cheeks hurt. Perfect, yet always hanging on by a thread. Aziraphale thought it was just Crowley being Crowley. 'Pessimistic', the angel had called it, and yet...

Well, Crowley always had a better grasp on reality than Aziraphale did. Why would this time have been any different?

But Aziraphale isn't here to do the apology dance for doubting him, and the apology dance may be stupid but it's theirs , and everything of theirs is precious and worth cherishing as far as Crowley is concerned.

No, was.

Everything of theirs was precious, was worth cherishing. Now those things are gone, forever, and Crowley is alone.

Maybe it's his curse. Just like Cain was cursed to wander his entire life, having nothing to call his own and no home to return to when his feet grew tired and weary. When he'd died, it was with a soft smile tugging at his cracked lips, tears streaming down his sunken cheeks.

"What favor?" Gabriel asks, raising an eyebrow like the condescending piece of shit he is. "You may not have noticed, but I'm not exactly an archangel anymore."

"That doesssn't matter. You've still got your powers, don't you? Demotions don't just take those away," Crowley snarls, pacing back and forth, kicking up red dust from the planet's surface. It hangs in the air around his boots for nary a moment before floating back down, slow and peaceful in its descent.

Gabriel watches him, lip curled and arms crossed, his expression dubious. "Right," he says slowly. "And you can't do this miracle yourself why exactly?"

"Becaussse I’m shit at memory spells. I’ll fuck it up, and probably discorporate myself, and for reasons so obvious that even you in your infinite idiocy should understand, I don’t exactly fancy an eternity of torture at the hands of Satan and his lackies!” His words quicken as he speaks, coming all out in a rush towards the end as his agitation spikes.

"Okay, wait, hold up. Did you just say memory spells?”

Crowley throws his hands up. “Yes! Are you not listening? Is that too complicated for your puny little archangel brain to comprehend?” He drags a hand down his face, takes a deep breath, and tries to compose himself. He is not going to have a mental breakdown in front of Archangel Fucking Gabriel. "Look. You’ve done it at least twice— with yourself, and before that, with…" He swallows harshly. "...with me, right?”

Gabriel winces. “Uh, yeah. You figured that out?”

“You figured that out,” Crowley mocks, scowling. “No shit! I thought it was just— just blunt force trauma from the Fall or something, but apparently Heaven’s in the habit of erasing archangel’s memories, and I… I tried to do a minor miracle, and it set off so many alarm bells that they sent a squad down to investigate. And… and I’ve never… I can stop time, Gabriel. I stopped time during Armageddon in order to talk to Adam. It’s the only reason we won, and… nhgggk, apparently, that’s not something most occult beings can do. Surprise, surprise. It requires too much power.” He closes his eyes, take a deep breath, then opens them and turns to Gabriel, looking the archangel dead in the eyes. “I was Raphael, wasn’t I.”

It’s not a question.

“Yeahhh,” Gabriel says, grimacing.

“And you erased my memories before I Fell.”

“Yeahhh.”

“Can you do it again?”

“Yeahhhhh— wait, I’m sorry, what?” Gabriel appears bewildered, and Crowley really wants to deck him now. Like, even more than before, which should be impossible but apparently isn't. “Why would I do that?”

“Becaussse I’m asking you to, and you owe me!”

Gabriel makes a face. “Okay, first of all, your pet angel would run me through with that flaming sword of his—”

“No, he won't. You don't have to worry about him. He made his choice, and it wasn't... it wasn't me," Crowley says, hating how his voice cracks at the end. He barrels on. "And, and no one will know that you’re involved, because no one will find me. Ever. They’ll just think that I fucked off to… nghhh, to wherever it is that demons fuck off to."

“Hell? Okay, yeah, not there— stop giving me that look, it was a reasonable guess. Now, what do you mean no one will find you?”

“I’m going to repeat the miracle that me and Azira— Az—,” Crowley’s voice cracks again, and he growls in frustration, “that me and the angel put on you. Also, I… I need one more thing.”

“You’re already asking a lot of me.”

“Yeah, I don’t give a fuck. Just…" He squeezes his eyes shut. It's now or never: either he spends eternity alone, following in Cain's footsteps and wandering endlessly with nowhere to go and no one to go home to, or... or this. "Just make me human.”

The words come out embarrassingly quiet, weighing unbearably heavy on his lips, and his heart races in his chest, his fists trembling by his sides. It's all he can do to keep his breath steady. Fuck, fuck, and one more time for emphasis— fuck! 

Once upon a time, Crowley was okay with being alone.

But he can't... he can't do this. He just can't. Every day is worse than the one before. It hurts too much, and there's no end to the pain in sight. The last dying ember of hope that Aziraphale had kept lit in his chest over the millenia died the moment the elevator doors closed.

Aziraphale was Crowley's reason.

Gabriel opens his mouth as if to speak, brows drawn, before he stops very suddenly.

Then Crowley hears it too. A loud buzzing in the otherwise dead-silent night.

It starts with one fly, and then another, and in the time it takes Crowley to blink, a thousand flies have materialized next to him in a vaguely human shape.

Crowley throws on a deeply bitter, sardonic smile.

“What izzz going on here?” Beelzebub asks, appearing through the flies besides Gabriel. Ze sees Crowley, who waves, his smile shifting into a grin with too many teeth. Ze scowls and does not wave back. “Crowley. What are you doing here?"

“Yes, yes, I’m so sssorry for interrupting your honeymoon or whatever.”

“Our what?” ze asks, frowning. Ze glances at Gabriel, who shrugs, seeming equally puzzled, and the whole exchange is so domestic that Crowley wants to barf.

“Look," Crowley says, rolling his eyes, "Gabriel's going to do me a favor. Then you’ll never see me again — I pinky promise.”

“Hold on, I did not agree to anything,” Gabriel protests, looking back and forth between Bee and Crowley. “Heaven would jump at an excuse to come after us.”

“I told you, they won’t know you were involved!”

Bee sighs, dragging a hand down their face in a perfect imitation of what Crowley had done earlier. “Let’s talk about this somewhere else, the stars are giving me a headache.”

Crowley glares. “What else is there to talk about?” he spits. “I’m not asking for anything outrageous, it won’t affect you whatsoever and, in case you somehow forgot, you owe me!”

“Not outrageous? You just asked me to erase all your memories and turn you human, how is that 'not outrageous'?"

Bee bristles, and Crowley gives Gabriel the fiercest glare he can muster, bracing himself for Bee’s reaction.

“...He wants what?”

“So let me get this straight,” Bee says much later, sprawled across a couch in their modest house on one of Alpha Centauri's nicer planets. “Your pet angel left you for heaven, so you want us to turn you human, erase all your memories, and make it so no one can ever find you again? Are you insane?”

Crowley scowls. “My initial idea was holy water, but I couldn’t… I couldn’t do that to him.”

“What the fuck,” Bee says. “What the actual fuck.”

“Hey, you tried to kill me less than a decade ago, and it didn’t seem to bother you that much then!”

“Falling in love changes a demon,” Bee says, sending an affectionate look in Gabriel’s direction, who squeezes zir hand gently and smiles in the same sickeningly sweet way.

Crowley sends them a murderous glare. “Shut the fuck up. Gabriel, you would rather Fall than lose Beelzebub, because you can’t imagine life without zir. Now, imagine that Beelzebub was your only friend for six–thousand years. The only one who ever had your back. The only one who didn’t literally want you dead.”

Gabriel frowns, then nods slowly. “I see your point.”

“Wait a minute,” Bee says, scowling and turning back to Crowley. “What do you mean your initial idea was holy water— you’re immune!”

“No he isn’t,” Gabriel says thoughtfully. “He and Aziraphale body swapped for the execution, that’s how he survived. He told me while I was Jim.”

Bee’s jaw drops. “Satan, that’s so obvious. How did I not think of that?”

“They’re good actors,” Gabriel says, shrugging. “I probably wouldn’t have figured it out if he hadn’t told me.”

“Fuck offff.” Ze’s grinning though, leaning back against the couch and stretching like a satisfied cat. “Nevermind, that’s off topic. Where were we, beloved? Right, Crowley’s favor.”

Crowley gags at the display of affection.

“This is the coward’s way out, you know,” Bee tells him, raising an eyebrow. “You could just wait out the heartache like us mostly sane occult beings do.”

“Six. Thousand. Years. He was the only one I had for six thousand years, and without him…”

“Y’know, the humans have a word for that?” Gabriel says. “I read it in one of Aziraphale’s books? It’s called codependency.”

“Kill yourself.”

“You know, you've said that before — but when I actually tried to jump out the window, you freaked out and made me hot chocolate.”

“Something I regret it everyday.”

“No you don’t. If I was dead, you couldn’t come here begging for a favor.”

“I’m not begging. Demons do not beg.”

Bee nods solemnly in agreement. “That’s right, we don’t.”

“Shut up, Beelzebub, no one asked you.”

“Don’t speak to my love that way!” Gabriel says, sounding offended.

Bee brings a hand to zir chest, smiling fondly at Gabriel, who smiles back.

Crowley sneers at both of them. “I’m fucking done here. Will you help me or not?”

Bee and Gabriel exchange a long look, then Gabriel sighs deeply. “Alright."

A heavy feeling settles deep in Crowley's chest.

Whether it's fear or relief, he doesn't know.

(It's probably a bit of both.)

Muriel hums happily as they work, basking in the soft rays of sun that peak through the bookshop's dusty curtains.

The bookshop is homey and warm and nothing like Muriel’s old office!

Is it bad that they’re happy about that?

Maybe — but then again, the Metatron did make them the steward of it. Which is sort of like giving them a blessing. And it's okay to be happy about blessings, because, well, they’re blessings!

It’s been a few weeks since Muriel took over. So far they’ve managed to arrange about half the books by color, and it’s taking a really long time — not that they're complaining! There's something very relaxing about organizing. Does that make them weird? Hm.

This is the first time in their very long existence that they’ve actually had anything to organize, and it’s become one of their favorite things to do— right after looking at tea and giving away books to customers.

Right now they’re reading from a very old copy of Children’s and Household Tales by the Brothers Grimm. It's written in German. It’s a bit scary, but very fun, especially the one with Cinderella. Muriel’s turning the last page when the chime over the door rings. They startle and glance up, sitting up straight in their plushy armchair.

In the doorway is a person they’ve never seen before. He’s wearing black skinny jeans and a leather jacket, sunglasses pushed up on his head, his hair a bright red and his melancholic eyes a deep brown.

Something about his expression is deeply sad.

Muriel frowns, suddenly feeling a bit sad themself. “Hullo, sir! How may I help you today? My name is Muriel, and I’m a human book seller who sells books!”

“Hi, uh…” The man shoves his hands in his pockets and glances around, appearing slightly confused. “I don’t… I don’t actually know why I’m here? I don’t read much.” He shakes his head, dragging a hand down his face, and turns to look back outside. “Sorry. I suppose, I dunno, I just felt like I should come? It felt weird that I’d lived in Soho all my life and never checked this place out. What’s your name again?”

“Muriel!" They beam. "What’s yours?”

The man wrinkles his nose, then shrugs. “Muriel’s a weird name, but y’know, I think I like it. I feel like I’ve heard it before. Maybe one of the kids I went to school with or something? I dunno, that was a long time ago. My name's Anthony.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you Anthony! Do you want some tea?”

In Heaven, alarm bells blare on and on and on.

Chapter Text

“So, what is it that you do?” Muriel asks, kicking their feet back and forth under the table. “Most adult humans have these things called ‘jobs’,  and mine is a bookseller, because I sell books.” They smile brightly at him.

Anthony shrugs a shoulder, vaguely uncomfortable. He’s got an itch on the back of his neck. Is he missing something? If he had to guess, he’d say it felt like deja vu, but he's never been here before so that’s impossible. “Nothing, at the moment. Unemployed.”

The chimes above the door ring loudly, as if someone threw the door open, and Anthony jumps in his seat. “Muriel!” someone calls, sounding anxious.

Muriel’s face brightens. “Oh!” They turn to Anthony, smiling brightly. “I’m so sorry! One moment, Anthony.”

They snap their fingers and when Anthony looks back at the table it’s to see a plate of warm biscuits that was definitely not there before. That… probably should make him wary, but he’s tired and quite honestly doesn’t have it in him to care. Worst case scenario is they’re poisoned, and Anthony doesn’t think he would mind that much if they were.

Muriel’s voice drifts back from the front of the store.  “Aziraphale! Hullo! ‘Long time, no see’— well, it’s technically only been a month, but that’s what the humans say when—”

“Apologies, dear Muriel,” the person interrupts, “but now is really not the time. Have you seen Crowley?”

“Your grumpy friend? No, unfortunately.”

“Fuck. So he hasn’t been here at all? Not even once? You’re absolutely certain?” The person’s voice cracks.

“Nope! Are you okay? Would you like some tea? I made some for myself and a customer, but I was only going to look at mine, so it’s okay if you drink it.”

“Crowley’s missing, now’s hardly the time for— for tea!”

Something uncomfortable twists in Anthony’s stomach. He’s always hated listening to people argue, it reminds him of— 

Of—

Of—

“Wait, Crowley’s missing?”

A sigh. “Not officially, no, but the alarms were set off, and it had Crowley written all over it. So I tried to find him, to m— to ensure he hadn’t gotten himself into too much trouble. And he’s gone. I’ve checked everywhere I can think of, but there’s nothing there.”

“Have you checked with Gabriel and Beelzebub?”

“Neither of them know anything. They quite rudely told me to go away and leave them to their peace when I asked.”

Beelzebub exhales slowly. “Well, that was… interesting.”

“Tell me about it. I really thought he’d figured it out for a second there— you don’t think he’d actually use his sword on me if he knew what I’d done, right?”

“No, he doesn’t have the stomach for it.” Ze smirks, examining zir dirty nails. “It was almost cute the way he was threatening you, though.”

“Uh, cute for you maybe! You weren’t the one being threatened!”

There’s a long pause, and Bee curls deeper into Gabriel’s side, peeking up at him. He’s gazing at the page but his eyes aren’t moving. “Penny for your thoughts, dearest?”

“Did we do the right thing?”

“He was quite literally asking for it,” ze drawls. “Also, this is Crowley we’re talking about. I’ve tried to kill him multiple times— and yet, despite my 98% success rate, he’s still out there. It’zzz ridiculous how many assassination attempts on him have failed due to sheer dumb luck.”

“Aww, you’re so cute when you pout.”

“I am not pouting. Demon’s don’t pout, we brood.”

“Whatever you say, love.”

Anthony  stays in the back until Muriel’s mysterious visitor is gone, sipping at his tea and trying very hard not to think about the apparent gap in his memory. Which… should probably concern him more, but right now he’s feeling lonely and miserable. He sighs, taking out his phone and flipping through the contacts.

Anthony: I’ve got the goods.

Beelzebub: wut

Anthony: The goods.

Beelzebub: tf.

Anthony: Just come over plz

Anthony: The goods are copious amounts of alcohol

Anthony: I’m sober atm and the vibes are awful

Anthony: Someone give me back the Funny Juice ™ before I explode

Beelzebub: call it that again and i will not hesitate to rip your tongue out.

Anthony: Are you coming over or not

Anthony: You can bring the asshole 

Anthony: I won’t try to throw him out a window again, I pinky promise

Beelzebub is typing…

Beelzebub is Offline

Anthony makes a face at his phone, still tuning out the conversation going on in the bookstore. He and Gabriel had been roommates in college, to the despair of everyone including themselves. Let’s just say they've never seen eye to eye.

Beelzebub is Online

Beelzebub: when do u want us over

Beelzebub: gabriel said yes btw

Anthony: I’ll be back at my flat in an hour or so

Anthony: But you can come over whenever 

Anthony: I honestly don’t give a fuck

Anthony: Just keep your idiot boyfriend away from the kitchen, I don’t want a repeat of the Toast Incident of 2012. One near death experience is more than enough

Read 10:30 AM

“Gabriel. Sweetheart, darling, love of my life. What memories did you give Crowley, exactly?”

“Oh! I used the ‘internet’ for inspiration, it’s this really cool invention that humans made. They use it to talk about their experiences, so I pulled some stuff from there, especially from these two really great sites ‘Wattpad’ and ‘Reddit’. Y’know, to flesh his memories out. Why?”

“...Nevermind.”

“Aziraphale?” Metatron says.

Aziraphale stiffens, quickly wiping tears from his eyes. No weakness, he reminds himself. Metatron believed in him, gave him the chance to make a difference. Aziraphale refuses to be ungrateful. He refuses to disappoint the only angel who ever had faith in him, the only one who saw something other than a pathetic traitor.

He takes a deep breath and turns around to face Metatron, smiling. “What may I do for you?”

Aziraphale’s office has two chairs— in those brief moments when he’d thought everything would be okay, he’d imagined himself and Crowley working together here, sitting side by side. Knees touching, Crowley’s eyes sparkling the way they had before the Fall. Hand in hand they’d make everything right again.

When Aziraphale returned to Heaven, he couldn’t help adding a second chair.

Just in case.

And now Crowley is gone, and it’s all his fault.

The flat Athony now lives in is large and expensive. There’s plants on every available surface— he’s always had a green thumb.

As kids, he and Zira would help in the community garden, laughing and playing in the dirt. Or rather, Anthony would play in the dirt. Zira never quite liked getting messy. 

His throat closes up, and he shakes his head, taking a shaky breath. In and out, in and out, in and out. He’s fine. Everything is fine, has always been fine, will always be fine. Nothing fazes him. Nothing bothers and nothing hurts because he’s Anthony and Anthony always keeps his cool.

Anthony doesn’t cry over his (definitely not love of his life) childhood best friend prioritizing his career over their relationship, if it could even be called that. They’d only kissed once, and it was the last time Anthony ever saw him. 

Anthony drags a hand down his face, sitting down on the floor. The couch is too far away.

Zira always thought he could make a difference if only he tried hard enough. He wanted to help people, no matter the personal cost. 

No matter who got hurt in the process. 

And if Anthony was in the splash zone, so be it— well, maybe that’s not quite fair. But the type of people Zira got involved with… they’d hurt both of them beyond measure, and Zira didn’t care. Because Zira, stupid loveable wonderful kind Zira, never let himself see the bad in people. Zira believed in good and bad.

And Anthony? Anthony has always been bad.

Anthony slams the heel of his hand against the floor. One, two, three, four; and it hurts— but it’s grounding. Physical pain has always been so much easier to deal with than emotional pain. It quiets his mind, even if the guilt rushes in soon after.

He’d told Zira he would stop doing stuff like that. But Zira was gone, so what did it matter? What did it matter if he slit his wrists and bled out in the bathtub, alone and friendless and so so cold?

The doorbell rings, and Anthony curses. He stands up, makes himself as presentable as possible, and strolls over to the front door with a careless swagger.

“Hi, Bee. Fuck you, Gabriel. Welcome to my humble abode,” Crowley drawls, opening the door for them. His sunglasses rest over his eyes, but he’s smirking— does it reach his eyes, though? Beelzebub doesn’t know, but if his texts were anything to go by, then probably not.

A ridiculous amount of bickering between Crowley and Gabriel later,  and the three of them are in the spacious living room.

Crowley is sitting on the floor with a bottle of whiskey, while Beelzebub is on the couch with a cup of something red and funny–smelling. Ze’s using Gabriel’s lap as a footrest, smirking cheekily at the slightly annoyed ex–archangel, who has yet to touch any sort of alcohol. Swirling the liquid around in zir cup, Bee gazes around the apartment.

Gabriel had really gone all out.

Apparently, Crowley believes himself to have inherited a great deal of money after his grandmother died. In reality Gabriel has just been miracling up ridiculous amounts of money on a whim, because zir boyfriend has no idea how human money works and has become significantly more sentimental since the two of them fell in love.

“I miss him,” Crowley slurs, halfway through the bottle.

Beelzebub can understand that— ze’d been frantic when Gabriel had disappeared, and seriously sympathized with how Aziraphale must be feeling at the moment. Not enough to help the newly appointed supreme angel though. No, Aziraphale and Crowley would have to fix things on their own.

“It’s like— it’s like, he’s all I ever had. Even after mum kicked me out—”

Beelzebub chokes on zir wine, shooting Gabriel an incredulous look. Gabriel makes a face. ‘I let his mind fill in some of the gaps’, he mouths. ‘Must’ve been the closest thing to the truth his human mind could comprehend.’

“—he still cared about me. He, he may have thought I was bad, but he still cared.”

“Yeah, your entire life revolved around him,” Beelzebub says bluntly, “and now you don’t know who you are without him. Spoiler alert though,” (a cool phrase they’d picked up from the TV in their house, which they watched during zir free time), “you can’t solely exist within a relationship. Me and Gabriel love each other, but we also have hobbies. For example, I still torture people on occasion, and he still fills out paperwork.”

“That’s true, I do,” Gabriel says. “Oddly enough, it’s really calming now that I don’t have to do it? Maybe you should try it sometime.”

Crowley gags. “Ew, you’re being serious? Bee, how the heaven did you end up with someone like him?”

“Cro— Anthony, you’re getting drunk on whiskey at eleven in the morning on a Tuesday. I don’t think you have much room to talk.”

“Rude,” Crowley grumbles. “And I do have hobbies. I like, uh, plants. And ducks. Ducks are really cool, have you seen any ducks lately? It’s like… woah.”

Beelzebub rolls zir eyes. “Alright, then go work in a plant nursery or something. Get your mind off him.”

Gabriel peers over at Beelzebub. “Can I taste some of your wine?”

“Sure,” Beelzebub says, shrugging and passing the glass to him.

The wine barely touches his lips before his face contorts and he spits it out. “How do you drink this? Crowl—”

Beelzebub’s eyes widen; ze elbows him in the side, hard.

“Ow! What was that f— oh. Oh. Right, Anthony, could I have some hot chocolate instead? No offense, but this is really gross.”

Crowley, who luckily appears to have missed Gabriel’s near slip up (alcohol does that to a person), shrugs. “Sure. It’s in the kitchen, but you gotta make it yourself.” He frowns. “Bee, can I have a hug? I’m sad.”

Beelzebub looks at him as if he’s grown a second head.

Actually, ze probably wouldn’t be this alarmed if Crowley had grown another head, as demons do tend to do that from time to time.

Demons do not ask each other for hugs. Or any other form of physical affection. Or verbal affection, or any type of affection in general.

Then again, demons don’t fall in love with angels, so ze doesn’t have much room to judge.

Gabriel is smirking, apparently taking a great deal of joy from the sight of zir suffering. Ze glares at him, then turns back to Crowley to refuse, but his eyes are just… sad. He looks like a kicked puppy. And Crowley did keep Gabriel safe when Heaven and Hell were trying to capture him, to the point of his own demise, so Beelzebub sort of does owe them.

Wincing, Bee opens their arms. The only person they’ve ever hugged is Gabriel, and they’d planned to keep it that way, but life never goes quite how one plans.

The hug is very awkward. Crowley goes limp in zir arms, and ends up falling asleep on them, to Beelzebub’s mortification and Gabriel’s amusement.

“Not a word,” ze says, glaring at him.

Aziraphale gazes at Metatron’s plans, frowning. “No, I’m quite afraid that I must disagree. This would be wrong.”

“Aziraphale, are you questioning me?’

Biting down on his tongue, Aziraphale shoves away the panic at Metatron’s disapproval and tries to ignore the twisting of his stomach. “Of course not. I… I think I’d like some time to review these before putting them in motion, however, if that would be alright? I want to make sure I commit all the details to memory.”

Metatron smiles at him warmly. “I’m very proud of you, Aziraphale. You’re doing just as well as I expected you would. Let’s keep it that way, alright? It would be very bad if you were to disappoint me, especially considering that I’m the only one who believes you can do this.”

Aziraphale nods and smiles, tapping the stack of papers against the desk to even out the edges. “Thank you, Metatron. I won’t let you down— I give you my word as an angel.”

“Wonderful! I’ll be back tomorrow, and we can discuss it then.”

Metatron leaves, and Aziraphale stares at the place he’d been standing only a moment before, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. He takes a deep breath and lets the smile fall from his face. Quickly, as if Metatron might be back any minute, Aziraphale picks up the phone and dials the number to the bookshop.

“Hullo, this is Muriel speaking! How may I help you?”

“It’s Aziraphale. Dear Muriel, I’m afraid I must ask a favor from you, if you are willing and able.”

“Me? Really?” Muriel exclaims, and this time Aziraphale’s smile is soft and genuine, if a little bit sad.

Aziraphale nods, forgetting momentarily that they can’t see him. “Ah, yes.”

“Of course! What is it? I promise I won’t let you down!”

Aziraphale frowns. “Muriel, you… you are aware that you’re allowed to tell me no, correct? You don’t have to worry about letting me down.”

“Oh, I’m not worried! I know you wouldn’t be mad, it’s just that, helping people is really fun and I like helping people. What do you need me to do?”

Sighing, Aziraphale lets the tension drain from his shoulders. “I need you to deliver a message to one of the demon ambassadors in America. Now, don’t worry, you will not be putting yourself in danger. I need you to leave a note under a very specific rock and cast a small miracle on it to alert the closest demon to its presence— don’t worry, dear Muriel, I’ll ensure you won’t get in trouble for it. Now, here is what I need the note to say…”

Chapter Text

The next morning is difficult.

Anthony has a bad hangover, and everything hurts. His friends leave soon after he wakes up. Gabriel offers no sympathy whatsoever, and Bee doesn’t do anything more than mumble half–hearted threats about what will happen if Anthony dares fall asleep on zir again.

(It’s odd, really, because Anthony doesn’t remember hearing the front door open. He knows it must’ve, because his friends didn’t just disappear into thin air— it’s probably just his hangover playing tricks on him.)

He gets halfway through watering his plants before giving up and crawling back under the covers to take a nap. His sleep is fitful, a series of fever dreams that rush one after another in no particular order but are each as vivid and disorienting and utterly bizarre.

Anthony awakes in a pool of sweat, gasping for air and heart beating as if he’d just ran a marathon.

The next half hour is spent in the shower trying to calm himself.

It’s a few days before Anthony leaves the house again.

He takes a walk — walks are good for mental health, right? — but doesn’t pay good enough attention to where he’s going, and ends up at The Park. His breath catches and his eyes sting with tears that he doesn’t let fall.

On the way back to his apartment, he passes the bookstore from the other day. It radiates comfort, and since his conversation with Muriel had ended on a good note, he decides to go inside. Maybe they’ll have more tea— that’s the reason they’re going in, obviously.

It’s definitely not because Anthony doesn’t want to be alone right now. Nope, that’s preposterous.

The chime rings loudly as he enters, and he winces, glancing around for the owner. Muriel is nowhere to be seen, so he wanders awkwardly over to one of the bookshelves— the books on it are varying shades of green. Huh. He’s never seen a bookshop organized like this before, and is honestly a bit surprised he hadn’t noticed the last time he’d been here. It feels very off.

Muriel stumbles into the room clutching a few books to their chest. They must not notice Anthony, because they set the stack of books on the desk and begin scribbling rapidly onto a piece of paper, ignoring him completely. Their expression twists into frustration — it’s a very odd look on them — and they promptly slash the pen across the words they’d just written.

“Having fun?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Muriel gasps and bolts upright, hand flying to cover the paper with the air of a schoolchild caught passing notes during class. It’s enough to almost make Anthony feel guilty.

Almost.

He sorts, traipsing over to the desk and sticking his hands in his pockets. “We’re jumpy today, it seems. Doing something interesting?”

“Nope! Only boring stuff here, heh!” Muriel laughs nervously and doesn’t remove their hand from where it’s covering the paper. “Boring, boring human stuff like, uh…”

Anthony raises an eyebrow. “Taxes?”

Muriel brightens and nods their head.

“Right,” he says slowly, examining them dubiously. 

(Should he tell them that no one does taxes this time of year?

No, they’re far too happy with the excuse, and Anthony doesn’t have it in him today to make Muriel panic over something that’s clearly stressing them out already.)

“I’m sorry, would you like some tea? It’s been a very long day.”

So it is that Anthony and Muriel find themselves sitting at the table once more, sipping tea. (Or, well, Anthony’s sipping tea. Muriel is simply gazing at it with a tired expression.)

After a few minutes of this, Anthony sighs and says, “Out with it, what’s bothering you?”

“What?” Muriel laughs nervously. Again. “It’s, it’s nothing really. I’m just…” Their smile falls and they sigh, biting their lip and rubbing a finger against the cup as if to comfort themself with the smoothness. “My old job was really great, but I spent all my time alone? It was lonely, and I didn’t like it, but I’m also not used to all the people around here. I get really tired sometimes. And then…”

They hesitate, shaking their head and glancing down at their tea. “I don’t know if I should tell you.”

“You don’t have to if it would make you uncomfortable,” Anthony says, shrugging.

“It’s not that, it’s just…” They trail off. “I happen to know this ang— human , very human human— oh, he’s actually the one who used to own this bookshop? Did you know him? Oh. Well, he’s the one who came by the other day. One of his friends is missing. And… and I knew his friend, and his friend was really nice to me, but… but everyone’s saying that his friend was a bad person and that it’s good that he’s gone.”

Anthony tilts his head. Something in his stomach twists painfully, but he ignores it, keeping their eyes on Muriel. “Why’s everyone saying he’s a bad person?”

“Because he…” Muriel shifts in their seat, averting their eyes under his intense gaze. “I don’t know. Except, except everyone says he is? And it’s really confusing. I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

“Do you want some advice?”

Muriel looks up hopefully and nods.

“The world, it isn’t… it isn’t black and white. The chances that your friend’s friend is completely bad are very, very low. I’ve met a lot of nasty people. A lot of them are down on their luck, and some are arrogant, and some just like hurting people for no apparent reason. Life is complicated. Very very few things fit into tiny little boxes.”

“Huh. I’d never thought of it like that before,” Muriel says, smiling. “Thank you, Anthony. You’ve been very nice to me.”

Ice runs through Anthony’s veins. The room suddenly feels very cold, and his breath catches in his throat. “No, I haven’t, ” he hears himself snap. “I’m not nice.”

His heart is thrumming in his chest. He wants out out out of the suffocating room. (Was it this small a minute ago?)

Muriel’s expression morphs into one of confusion. “Is calling someone nice an insult? They do it in the books all the time, and no one ever…”

“Ngk. It’s not an insult,” Anthony mumbles, stretching his legs out. He furtively slips his sunglasses back over his eyes from where they’d been resting on his forehead. “It’s… I don’t like being called that, because I’m not. Nice, that is.”

“But—”

Anthony glares at them with every ounce of coolness he can muster. “I’m. Not. Nice.”

Muriel looks about to cry; then they take a deep breath, and their face goes blank as they exhale. “Right. Sorry, then.”

Great, now Anthony feels guilty. The table, covered with old books, is a deep oak— old, poorly kept, with a scorch mark on the side where a candle had fallen over a century ago. He runs his thumb over the planks and sighs deeply, shrugging.

He belatedly mumbles a thank you for the tea and exits the shop with his head down. Muriel simply watches him go. The sky looks seconds away from opening up and letting down sheet upon sheet of rain, the air sticky and humid and gross. He grimaces.

What a shitty day, and it had only just begun.

As he makes his way home, he begins to sing quietly to himself without realizing it:

That’s the night, the night we met

There was magic abroad in the air

There were angels dining at the Ritz

And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square

In Heaven, a lonely angel sits in a lonely office with two chairs, the latter of which is gathering dust.

It’s been two weeks since Aziraphale left Crowley for this solitary life.

(“I think I understand way better than you do.”)

Aziraphale had forgotten what it was like to be completely and utterly alone— no one to trust and no one to turn to, no one to tease you over something inconsequential and ask you what’s wrong when you’re upset. It is with a growing dread that Aziraphale has come to realize that perhaps Metatron isn’t as unlike the other angels as he’d previously thought. 

He doesn’t voice this, of course. Quite the contrary: he spends most of the time shoving his suspicions away, desperate to ignore them.

And besides, who would he voice them to?

He sighs, flipping through file after file, not really paying attention.

Until one.

The Trial of Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate

His breath catches in his throat.

With a turn of the head to ensure no one was watching, Aziraphale gives in to his curiosity and opens it. (As Supreme Angel, he has authority to open basically everything now, which is very difficult to get used to.)

The first thing he sees are the pictures: an array of photographs from across the ages, documenting various of his rendezvous with… with…

Aziraphale clasps a hand over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut and repressing the sob that threatens to rip itself from his throat. His shoulders shake.

Oh, Crowley.

Where are you?

Composing himself takes far longer than Aziraphale would care to admit, but once he’s able to breathe normally again, he flips past the photos. A series of projections flip up around him— the same situation from varying angles. Aziraphale turns round and round, frowning. 

He sees himself — well, Crowley posing as himself — tied to a rolling chair in the middle of a sprawling white room, the lights bright and anxiety inducing. Gabriel approaches from behind and sets a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“Ah, Aziraphale, so glad you could join us.”

“You could have just sent a message. I mean, a kidnapping in broad daylight?”

“Call it what it was, an extraordinary rendition…”

This… this isn’t footage of a trial at all. Aziraphale watches, stomach twisting, as Gabriel continues to monologue. If Aziraphale had actually been there, he probably wouldn’t have registered it as cruel.

“Well, I think the greater good—”

“Don’t talk to me about the greater good, sunshine, I’m the Archangel fucking Gabriel.”

Aziraphale inhales sharply. Alright, that’s… no, this is ridiculous. Doesn’t Heaven have due process or something? Crowley had gotten a trial— albeit a rigged one, but a trial nonetheless. This is, this is wrong! They’re supposed to be the good guys!

“We’re meant to be the good guys, for Heaven’s sake!”

Startling, Aziraphale stumbles backwards, eyes fixed to the screen. 

“Well, for Heaven’s sake we’re meant to make examples of traitors, so… into the flame.”

He winces, watching himself further mouth off to Gabriel. Would he have faced his extinction with such dignity? Perhaps Crowley was upset, or perhaps… perhaps Crowley thinks more highly of Aziraphale than he should.

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already.”

And Gabriel… and Gabriel smiles.

Despite knowing that Crowley survives the flames, it’s terrifying watching him stroll in, And suddenly, Aziraphale understands why Crowley had seemed so downcast after they’d switched back. Crowley had always considered Aziraphale’s safety to be very important— far more important than Aziraphale himself considered it.

What he doesn’t understand is why Crowley never told him about this. 

It’s obvious from the way Aziraphale’s face contorted on the screen that Crowley was seriously distressed by Gabriel telling him to shut his stupid mouth and die, so why didn’t Crowley say anything? 

Even if Aziraphale wouldn’t have been surprised, he could’ve still provided comfort and a cup of tea for his upset friend.

On the screen, Crowley breathes hellfire at Gabriel— it stops just short of scorching the angel, even though Crowley likely could’ve wiped everyone in the room out if he’d wished.

Aziraphale bursts into half–laughs half–sobs. It’s such a Crowley thing to do, isn’t it?

Always toeing the line.

Always stopping just short of going too far.

God, Aziraphale misses him so, so much.

He has no idea how long he stands there, gazing at the screen— frozen on the final image, Gabriel’s terrified face. And… Aziraphale can’t help but thinking, Good, Gabriel deserves to be frightened after how distressed he made Crowley.

There’s a human expression that comes to mind. The one about how you never realize how much you love a person until they’re gone— Aziraphale quite honestly hadn’t begun to understand what it was referring to until he’d stepped into the elevator, watching as the doors closed and Crowley disappeared from sight.

He hadn’t understood it in its entirety until Crowley went missing and he’d realized that might’ve been the last he’d ever see of his… his friend.

For whatever reason, Crowley hadn’t wished to return to Heaven, and Aziraphale thinks he’s beginning to understand why. 

And yet, the question still remains: why didn’t Crowley just tell him this? If Crowley didn’t want to return to Heaven due to bad memories, then Aziraphale could’ve taken the position and simply worked with Crowley on Earth instead. 

There must be more to it than that. There has to be more to it than that.

But Aziraphale doesn’t understand, and it’s so frustrating he wants to cry.

In the back of the mind is the lingering fear that, by the time he does understand, it will be too late.

And perhaps it's too late already.

Chapter Text

After Anthony leaves, Muriel does a lot of thinking.

They close up the shop, curl up in their favorite of Aziraphale’s armchairs, and chew on the sleeve of their uniform. It’s just that, things had changed so quickly . Muriel had been used to having only their mind and their work to keep them company.

Muriel thinks and thinks and thinks.

They think about Crowley, and Aziraphale, and Anthony, and Gabriel, and Beelzebub.

And they realize that Anthony was right: they don’t know enough to make assumptions. Crowley was nice to Muriel, but that doesn’t mean he was nice to everyone. They know very little about Aziraphale either— a supposed traitor that they should despise, now apparently the supreme angel that should be looked to for guidance.

Everyone tells them what to think, but no one gives them any context.

So it is that Muriel finds themself sorting through Aziraphale’s diaries, only feeling the slightest bit guilty. Snooping is wrong, right?

But Crowley had snooped — Muriel had helped him snoop — and in doing so managed to stop a war before it ever began. So snooping must not be bad all the time, only sometimes. Right?

Muriel gnaws their bottom lip.

It can’t hurt. Muriel exhales slowly and composes themself, then plucks the oldest of the journals off the shelf and sits down cross–legged on the floor to read.

They read, and read, and read.

It takes them multiple days to go through just half of the journals— multiple days in which they stay seated on the floor, not getting up to make tea nor to open up the shop.

Muriel reads and reads and reads.

And as they read, they also learn.

They learn many things.

The most important thing they learn is that Aziraphale is quite possibly the worst angel to ever exist— at least, the worst by how the other angels would define it; for angels are not supposed to go around consorting with demons (except… Muriel had done that), or disobey direct orders, or allow themselves to be tempted, or lie (and hadn’t Muriel done that too when they told Saraquel that they’d arrested Crowley?).

…So Aziraphale might be the worst angel to ever exist, followed by Gabriel, then followed by Muriel. They’re not sure how they feel about being third on that list.

The second most important thing they learn is to always keep fire extinguishers in the shop.

The third and final most important thing is that, despite his long list of misdeeds, Crowley seems to have more of a moral compass than most humans do. He’s done a lot of bad, but most of it was mild inconveniences at best (with exception, of course, of the apple), and he’s also done a lot of good.

Possibly more good than Muriel’s ever done, trapped in their lonely little office Upstairs while humans suffered and killed and died.

Muriel sits in silence, listening to the crickets chirp outside.

Then, once the night has turned into morning, and the morning has turned into afternoon, and the afternoon has turned into evening, Muriel rises from the floor.

Muriel has a few calls to make.

Anthony scrolls through page after page on his laptop.

He technically doesn’t need a job, with his inheritance from his grandmother and all, but if he spends much longer in his flat he will quite literally go insane. Right as he’s about to give up, his phone rings. Unknown number— he frowns, but answers.

“Hullo, Anthony! Do you happen to have a moment?”

Anthony raises an eyebrow. “Muriel? How’d you get my number?”

“Oh! I didn’t need a number— I told the phone to call you, and it did!”

Something’s really off about Muriel — however, people have always thought something was really off about Anthony too (except for Zira), so that’s not saying much. Dragging a hand down his face, Anthony says, “...Right. Did you need something?”

“I did.” There’s some shuffling on the other side, muffled voices filtering through the speaker. “It’s just, you seemed really smart the other day, and I was wondering if you could help me with something?”

Well, it isn’t as if he has anything better to do. Shutting his laptop with a sigh, Anthony rolls over on his bed and begins to look around for his shoes. “Sure.”

“Great! How soon can you get here? It’s not urgent, but I’ve decided to hold a bit of a meeting.”

Anthony glances at his watch. “Eh, ten minutes–ish.”

“Great! Well, thank you in advance, I really appreciate it. I’ll see you then!”

Exactly ten minutes later Anthony saunters into the book shop, sunglasses lowered over his eyes. He follows the voices to the back of the shop. Muriel is talking animatedly to two middle–aged women: one is a plump lady with a big smile and blonde hair that falls to her shoulders, the other is rather tall with dark bags under her eyes and dark hair that falls halfway down her back.

The second one looks over at Anthony the second he walks in.

“Who’s that one?” she asks Muriel, causing Anthony to scowl. He’s right here!

Muriel whirls around, clapping their hands together at the sight of Anthony and bouncing on their toes, a large smile spreading across their face. “Anthony! Thank you for coming, I really appreciate it.” 

Muriel coughs, stepping back. “This is Maggie,” they gesture to the blonde woman, who smiles politely and waves, “and this is Nina.”

Nina raises an eyebrow at Anthony. “Charmed,” she says, clearly not charmed in the slightest.

Anthony crosses his arms and makes a face at her.

Hower, Nina doesn’t seem to give a shit, turning back to Muriel without a second glance. “Are you going to tell us what’s going on now? My shop won’t run itself, and I’ve got to start getting the pastries ready for tomorrow morning.”

Muriel sighs, eyes flickering to the door. They bite their bottom lip then nod decisively, turning back to the three of them, arms straightening at their sides.. “I don’t think we should wait for Aziraphale. I invited him, but he said he probably couldn’t make it.”

Leaning back against a bookshelf, Anthony gestures for them to go on.

“Short story short, Crowley’s missing and Aziraphale’s been promoted to Supreme Angel,” Muriel begins.

“Been promoted to what now?” Nina asks.

“Oh, right, sorry. Supreme Angel is like, the highest rank you can have while still being under the Metatron, who’s the only one who talks directly to God. Before I was appointed here, I was a scribe of the 37th order, which is the lowest you can get. Except, maybe there is a 38th order? I’m not sure if they created it solely as a punishment for Gabriel or if it’s an actual thing that exists, because no one tells me anything”

“Sorry, quick question?” Maggie says, raising her hand awkwardly. “If Aziraphale’s really powerful now, why isn’t he pulling rank to get people to look for Crowley? Isn’t that something the ‘Supreme Angel’ should be able to do?”

Muriel bites their lip— damn, someone really needs to get them a chew stim or something, because their bottom lip is really, really raw. Ouch.

“Well, Aziraphale isn’t… really supposed to do that. He hasn’t been Supreme Angel very long, and Metatron and all the other angels are saying it’s a good thing he’s gone, because he’s a demon and demons are ‘bad’.” Their eyes flicker to Anthony. “But…” They exhale, crossing their arms across their chest protectively. “But if I were missing, I’d want somebody to look for me. So I’m going to look for him.”

“And Aziraphale’s not allowed to search for him, but you are?” Nina asks.

“Well, I haven’t been ordered not to look for him, and nobody… nobody ever really pays attention to what I do, so I can get away with a lot more.” Muriel perks up a bit, giving a half–smile. “Also, I’m technically not breaking my orders? All Metatron instructed me to do was look over the bookshop, so as long as I’m doing that too, nobody’s going to care.”

“Right. So, is this a cult thing?” Anthony asks.

Muriel looks confused. “What’s a cult?”

“No, it’s not a ‘cult thing’,” Nina says, rolling her eyes. To Muriel, she says, “I’ll help, if that’s what you’re getting around to asking, though I don’t know how much I can do. Human, remember?”

“Oh, but humans are really amazing! You all make cool things, like the internet and books and paintings! And I’m… well, I don’t think I’ll be able to figure this out by myself, even if I have all the clues. I’ve never been the brightest.”

Nina’s harsh gaze softens. “Fine, we’ll help. For the record, ‘not the brightest’ doesn’t mean much in the long run. I’m sure there’s plenty of bright angels up in Heaven,” her tone suggests she finds this doubtful “but they aren’t the ones looking for Mr. Six–Shots–of–Espresso, now are they?”

Maggie nods, smiling softly at Muriel. “I’ll help too! Crowley’s always seemed a bit grumpy, but Mr. Fell has always been really enamored by him, and he was very brave when we were all in danger. He saved at least ten lives that night.”

“Thank you,” Muriel says, shoulders slumped in relief, before turning to gaze hopefully at Anthony. “What about you?”

Anthony should really say no. He barely knows Muriel, and from what he's heard today, they’re probably not the best person to get involved with. His life is plenty hard at the moment without any cults (yeah, what Nina said hadn’t done a lot to reassure him this was something otherwise).

And yet, maybe the distraction of a good mystery will help.

If nothing else, he’ll be making Muriel a little bit happier, and the bookseller (book giver–away?) seems to be in need of some happiness right about now. Besides, some of the stuff they’d mentioned about being ignored had really… hit a nerve.

So, against his better judgment, Anthony lifts a hand as if making a toast. “To getting your friend back,” he says, then mimics downing a shot. “Let’s do this.”

Nina snorts, sending him an appreciative glance. “Right.”

Muriel beams. “This is really great. I really, really appreciate it. Oh! Feel free to help yourself to any of these books— I’ve already read quite a few of them, and it’s the least I can do!”

“You don’t have to pay us back,” Maggie says, smiling softly at her. “We’re only doing what Mr. Fell would do for us.”

“Speak for yourself,” Nina grumbles. “All Mr. Fell ever did for me was meddle in my love life.” Her gaze falls back on Muriel, and she shrugs. “Maggie’s right though, you don’t have to pay us for our help.”

“Actually, you can do one thing for me,” Anthony says, ignoring the disapproving looks Maggie and Nina send him.

Muriel perks up. “What is it?”

“Explain what’s actually going on. You lost me at ‘Supreme Angel’.”

Nina says bluntly, “Muriel and Aziraphale are angels. Crowley was a demon, Heaven and Hell are real and nearly started a war here because Aziraphale blew up his halo defending us after demons tried to raid the shop searching for the Archangel Gabriel— the fugitive Aziraphale and Crowley were hiding here.”

Anthony blinks slowly, turning to Muriel. “I normally wouldn’t believe that, but there’s no way the plants here are staying alive without some sort of miracle. The soil’s far too dry.” With that he stands, making his way towards the front door. “Right, I need a drink. Ciao.”

His mind is spinning, trying to process everything that’s happened, and it’s giving him a headache. His brain isn’t meant to hold such information.

Anthony pulls open the front door, only to find himself face to face with someone he feels like he should recognize but doesn’t.

“Ah, hello,” the person says. His curly white hair practically seems to glow in the last rays of afternoon sun, and he somehow manages to appear elegant and put together despite his clearly tired eyes and wrinkled suit. He looks as if he just stepped out of a novel.

Has Anthony seen him before?

Mind screaming in pain, Anthony scrunches his eyes closed and shoves away the question with every ounce of willpower he has— it’s wrong, wrong, wrong. Make it stop, please, make it stop, this isn’t right, is he dying? He’s dying he’s dying make it stop—

“Are you quite alright? Do you—” the person begins, but Anthony shoves past him.

Rushing down the street, Anthony doesn’t pause until he’s rounded the corner, where he sinks to a sitting position and tries to breathe. In and out, in and out, in and out.

What the actual fuck?

Chapter Text

"Are you alright?" asks the person.

"Nnnnn yeah. Fine, just— migraine," Anthony says, because he has no idea how to describe what actually happened in a way that won't make the person think he's on drugs.

The person frowns. "That won't do. Nasty things, migraines," he says, then makes an odd motion with his hand.

The pain in Anthony's head subsides, and he gasps, rubbing at his temples. 

"Aziraphale?" Anthony says, the word forming easily at his lips as if he's said it a thousand times before.

The person frowns and steps backwards. "However did you know?"

Anthony snorts. "Muriel said you might be coming by, and the magic trick," he gestures to his head, which feels completely normal now, "was a dead giveaway."

"Ah." Aziraphale frowns, adjusting his white jacket. "How does Muriel know you, again?"

"They needed members for your boyfriend’s search party”

“The— pardon? What search party?”

“You don’t know about your boyfriend’s own search party?”

“I— look, I’ve been very busy and I’m doing my very best here.”

Anthony shrugs. “I’m just saying, seems like the type of thing you should be on top of. Since he’s missing and all.”

Aziraphale doesn’t have a response to that, leaning against the wall and allowing his eyes to flutter shut, the soft breeze ruffling his hair. “He wasn’t my boyfriend. I’m quite honestly not sure if we were friends— I do hope we were, but…” Aziraphale smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I have reason to suspect he may not have felt the same.”

“Nghh, I get that. Was broken up with, recently— chose his job over me. Dunno why I was so surprised. It wasn’t the first time, and just because I’d made sacrifices to be with him doesn’t mean…” Anthony shrugs, gazing off into the distance. What more is there to say? 

Aziraphale glances at him sympathetically. “Well, I’m very sorry about that. If it’s any condolence, I’ve met a lot of people who’ve been broken up with over the millenium—”

What?

Oh, right— Anthony had briefly forgotten he was talking to an angel.

“—and more often than not, they do find a wonderful partner later on in life. Don’t give up hope.”

Anthony makes a face. “Don’t think I’d want anyone else, honestly. I knew him since we were kids, and my life’s revolved around him for as long as I can remember. Probably would’ve offed myself ages ago if it weren’t for him.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets them. Blood rushes to his cheeks. He had not meant to say that— what is it about Aziraphale that makes Anthony so willing to spill his guts?

"Oh— oh, dear boy.” Great, and now Aziraphale looks concerned.

Shrugging uncomfortably, Anthony says, “It was a long time ago. ‘M in a better place now— very happy to be alive, I am.”

Unfortunately, Aziraphale does not seem convinced— if anything, his frown has deepened. “Well, if you ever need someone to talk to, Muriel is able to contact me at any time of day. Just ask them to put you through, and I promise I will give you a visit as soon as I’m able.”

“Alright,” Anthony says, knowing very well he’s never going to take Aziraphale up on that offer. He pauses. “Er, same goes for you. If you ever need anyone to listen, just drop by. Can’t promise I won’t be plastered, but…” Anthony shrugs, not sure where he’s going with this.

It’s a courtesy offer, after all. Aziraphale is an angel— he probably has much better people to talk to than a random asshole of a human he met on the street. 

A strange expression crosses Aziraphale’s face. “It’s much appreciated. Now, I do apologize, but I really must be going. Will you be alright on your own?”

Anthony internally groans— this, this right here? This is why he doesn’t open up to people. “You do know I’m not a child, right? I don’t need a— a babysitter.”

Aziraphale gives him a disapproving look. “Of course not, but there’s nothing wrong with needing assistance. It does not make you any less of an adult.”

“R– right.”

Aziraphale nods. “Have a nice night, young man.”

“Not a man,” Anthony mumbles— he doesn’t intend for the angel to hear, but Aziraphale stiffens and frowns again. Great. Angels aren’t transphobic, are they?

“I’m very sorry, I never asked your pronouns. Or your name, for that matter.”

“I— uh, they change. He/him right now I suppose, but I’m not a man. Not a woman either,” he says, shrugging awkwardly. “And it’s Anthony.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Well, goodnight Anthony. ”

The angel turns and walks back towards the bookshop.

Anthony watches him go with an odd sense of relief and… disappointment. It’s ridiculous to have grown fond of someone you’ve only known for a few minutes, but Anthony supposes he’s always been a bit clingy. It’s one of his worst traits.

He turns and heads back to his flat.

There’s a bottle of whiskey waiting for him and it’s not going to drink itself.

By the time Aziraphale returns to the bookshop, Nina and Maggie have retired to their respective flats, leaving Muriel alone on the large couch. They’re reading a book— Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen.

Crowley would find it funny.

To Aziraphale, it just hurts— he doesn’t want to remember those stories, doesn’t want to remember all those happy endings he’ll never have. “Hello, dear Muriel.”

Muriel startles, nearly dropping the book, and Aziraphale winces.

“Oh! Hullo, Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale sinks into the armchair across from them, basking in the nostalgia of returning home after a long day. (The only thing missing is Crowley). He exhales slowly as if to rid himself of the thought. “What’s this I hear about a search party?”

Muriel seems to shrink in on themself a little. “Um, I just… I thought it would be a good idea?” An odd expression crosses their face that Aziraphale can’t quite decipher; and with a confidence their body language does not portray, Muriel adds, “If I were missing, I’d want someone to look for me. So… so that’s what we’re doing.”

Aziraphale doesn’t have a response to that.

“Um… are you mad at me?” Muriel asks.

“Pardon?”

“Well, you’re doing that thing where you stare off into the distance and look like you want to smite someone, and I did mess up the assignment you gave me the other day—”

Aziraphale holds up his hand to stop them. “You did not mess it up.”

“But I got caught!” Muriel protests, looking rather upset. “And you got into trouble!”

“Yes, well, that was rather the plan. Metatron would be suspicious if I didn’t try to find a way around his orders— he knows me too well, I’m afraid. However, he seems to think I’ve been properly thwarted for the time being.”

Muriel’s eyes grow wide, and their expression flashes with guilt.

Aziraphale continues. “Fortunately, he seems to think you’re rather innocent, dear Muriel. Being underestimated can be a very good thing— he assumes you were just following orders and wouldn’t dare doing anything rebellious on your own.”

“Rebellious,” Muriel mumbles weakly.

“Which is what I’m counting on,” Aziraphale says. Seriously, he looks at them and says, “Muriel, I am asking you to take my position on Earth. And with that, I need you to learn to trust your own judgment— Heaven is good, but sometimes they can be… misguided, in their actions.

“ I am not asking you to turn against the Almighty. To the contrary, I advise you to spend time in prayer and ask for Her wisdom on this, but you must learn to discern right from wrong regardless of what someone else tells you. I must say, you’re doing rather admirably so far. Though I must admit, I had not expected you to consort with humans.

Aziraphale pauses here, brow furrowing. “Speaking of which, why does Anthony seem to think Crowley is my boyfriend?”

Muriel brightens. “Oh, I saw him kiss you! Also, if you don’t mind me saying, it was a bit obvious.”

“Right,” Aziraphale says, suddenly feeling very tired. He could explain to Muriel what had happened, but he quite honestly doesn’t have the energy— and how is he supposed to explain something to Muriel that he doesn’t quite understand himself? 

Best not to open that can of worms, as the humans say. 

A thought occurs to him. He frowns. “Sorry, change of subject—  where did you meet Anthony?”

“Oh, we had tea together! He’s very nice— oops, I’m not really supposed to call him that. Honestly, he reminds me a lot of Crowley? It’s just, he seemed really trustworthy, and also…” Muriel trails off, averting their eyes.

“He seemed lonely?” Aziraphale provides.

Muriel nods. Aziraphale’s heart warms— thank the Lord he has such a good replacement here in Soho.

“It was very kind of you to reach out to him, Muriel. I’m very proud of you.”

Their resulting smile is brighter than any star. As they leap up and place the Jane Austen book back on a bookshelf, Aziraphale notices something.

He swallows. “Muriel… Muriel, what happened to all the books I left on that shelf?”

Muriel clasps their hands behind their back and beams. “Oh! People really like them— they're a lot happier when I give them a ‘romance’ as opposed to a ‘nonfiction’. Well, most of the time— some people do want ‘nonfictions’, which I sort of understand, because there’s a lot of interesting human stuff in them.”

Aziraphale nearly has an aneurysm. “And… and my first edition copy of Sense and Sensibility?” he asks faintly.

“I gave it away!”

“You what?”

Completely missing the horror in Aziraphale’s tone, Muriel repeats excitedly, “I gave it away! The lady was really really happy to receive ‘such a thoughtful gift’ because her boyfriend had just broken up with her and she had a baby on the way— did you know babies grow in a human’s stomach? Everyone’s always told me they come from ribs! It’s really interesting— here, I think I have a book on it—”

Nevermind, Muriel is a terrible replacement and Aziraphale is dying inside.

Anthony wakes up in the middle of the night, gasping for air and dripping with sweat. His bedsheets are tangled around him, and he grapples for the light, trembling heavily.

He pulls out his phone.

Why am I suddenly having nightmares every night?

The results are all the same: stress, ptsd, mental health issues, new medication, etcetera. None of it is helpful.

He’s always had shitty mental health, but the nightmares are new. It wouldn’t be so bad if they weren’t so disorienting, shifting from one scene to another so quickly that Anthony’s unable to remember anything beyond flashes of color and heart–wrenching fear.

Color and fear and hatred and despair and a million other things he doesn’t know how to verbalize.

And yet the world keeps turning and the days keep passing, everything just how it should be.

Death would be preferable to this.

“Welcome to the first meeting of the FCA!” Muriel exclaims two days later, clasping their hands together. They’re standing ramrod–straight in front of a chalkboard in the middle of the bookshop. Anthony, Nina, and Maggie are sitting on the couches, their expressions portraying various levels of enthusiasm.

Anthony raises both an eyebrow and a hand. “The FCA?” he says dubiously

Muriel nods excitedly. “The Finding Crowley Association!”

“Why?” Crowley asks, internally groaning. He’s regretting every life decision that’s led him up to this point.

“Oh, well, I thought we should have a name! Human gatherings typically have names— like the Whickber Street Shopkeepers and Street Traders Association!”

Anthony tilts his head, giving them a look through his sunglasses. “This is a search party. Search parties don’t have names.”

Nina glares at Anthony, looks at the apple in her hand, makes a considering face, and proceeds to toss it at Anthony.

Anthony’s eyes widen. Rather than catch the incoming projectile, he throws himself off the chair, landing awkwardly on the floor. The apple hits the armchair and bounces off.

Everyone looks at him with confusion. 

He stiffens. Oh, shit. Better think of an excuse— luckily, one pops into his head with relative ease. With what he hopes isn’t an over the top level of incredulity, he stares at Nina. “Did you just propose?”

“What?” Maggie says, looking from Nina to Anthony with a confused expression.

Muriel brightens. “Oh, I know this one! In Ancient Greece, people would throw apples at their lover (or a random human) in order to propose— the ancient equivalent of engagement, if you will. If the person wanted to accept, they’d catch the apple!”

“I wasn’t proposing,” Nina says, “I was trying to make him shut up for once.”

“Oh, very mature,” says Anthony, picking himself up off the floor and sitting on the arm of the chair, not daring to touch the apple.

Something about apples makes him feel weird. Like someone’s prodding at his brain with a stick— he’d felt the same way when he’d passed the apple selection in the grocery store the other day, for some weird reason.

(It’s the same way he felt when he first saw Aziraphale, just on a much lesser scale.)

He hasn’t brought it up with anyone. What is he even supposed to say— so funny story, I developed a weird aversion to apples. No, don't worry about my mental health, I’m completely fine?

Yeah, not happening.

Bee would laugh him out of his own house— not to mention how funny Gabriel’s stupid arse would find it.

“Okay,” Muriel begins, flipping the chalkboard. “So, first things first, I think we should go over last month’s miracle record report.” They point to the tiny writing on the board. “The power expended on the miracle, the Earthly date and time, and the location of the miracle are marked here. However, not all of them have the miracle itself written down.”

Muriel bounces on their toes, gaze flickering to the side, and they tilt their head consideringly. “It’s really a bit of a design flaw that we can’t just know what the miracle was used for— us scriveners were usually the ones sent to record what the miracles were for, but there are so many of them, and not really enough of us.”

“So… Heaven’s understaffed?” Maggie asks hesitantly.

“Um… not really? It’s just, the higher level angels are often… busy.” Muriel clears their throat, turning back to the board. “What I think we should do first is go through the unrecorded miracles. It’s highly likely that we’ll find some connection between at least one of them and Crowley’s disappearance.”

Nina nods, raising an approving eyebrow. “Smart.”

“Right, so how are we supposed to check these?” Anthony asks.

Muriel flaps their hands, grinning. “I was getting to that! So, I’ve been reading a lot of detective novels—”

Nina and Maggie share a look, but Anthony just leans back and gazes at Muriel consideringly.

“—and normally what humans do is go around talking to people! So, the miracles we’re going to focus on are the ones in Soho, because that’s where Crowley was last seen. I can pop up to other places if they become relevant, but I was thinking that first we could go around interrogating people who might’ve witnessed these miracles?”

Maggie nods, smiling kindly. “That sounds like a very good idea, Muriel.”

Muriel beams. “I was thinking that we could go in pairs? I don’t think I’ll be much use on my own. People tend to find me… off–putting.”

“Because you’re an angel?” Nina asks.

“Heh. Maybe? I mean, the other angels found me off–putting too, so…”

“Right,” Anthony says. “Nina, you and Maggie go together. I’ll go with Muriel.” He holds out his fist for a fist bump, and Muriel looks at it oddly.

Right. If it was anyone else, Anthony would’ve been exasperated, but Muriel is the type of person you grow fond of without meaning to. “It’s like a high five, only with fists,” he explains, ignoring Nina’s smirk.

Muriel brightens. “Oh! So that’s what those humans were doing the other day— I get it!”

One fist bump later, the four members of the FCA (wait a minute, since when did Anthony start thinking of it like that? Goddammit, Muriel) split up into the pre-discussed pairs and begin their investigation.

That night, Anthony has trouble sleeping.

This is unusual— typically he’s great at falling asleep, just terrible at staying asleep.

The investigation had started off alright— Muriel and Anthony made a pretty good team, but mostly came upon dead ends. Humans aren’t too good at noticing miracles, even with Muriel using a few of their own to help improve their memories.

Nina and Maggie did come across a lead— however, it wasn’t really a good one.

Apparently, Crowley had arrived at the bar down the street at approximately 6pm on the day Aziraphale left for Heaven. He’d proceeded to drink himself silly. The miracle had come into play when the bartender tried to cut the demon off.

He’d suddenly been overcome with the strongest urge to keep serving Crowley shot after shot, and had done so until the demon passed out. Of course, the bartender apparently now feels extremely guilty about it, which annoys Anthony to no end.

It sounds like Crowley was an inconsiderate asshole.

(It’s definitely not that Anthony might do the same thing if he was in Crowley’s position, which upsets him to think about. It’s definitely not that Anthony really hates himself; and because Crowley reminds Anthony of himself, hates Crowley by extension.

Nope, definitely no projection going on here.)

Anthony huffs and rolls over, gazing at one of his plants. “Fuck you,” he growls at it, just because he can. “You’re pathetic, you know that? Can’t measure up to the others, not even after I’ve given you all this special attention— you’re lucky I haven’t put you through the shredder. Stupid little shit.”

The plant, being a plant, does not respond.

Chapter Text

It happens on a Tuesday.

At 3:29 A.M. British Standard Time on a very humid Tuesday, to be exact.

The polite knocking on his front door wakes Anthony from a fitful sleep. He gasps and sits bolt upright in his bed, heart pounding loudly in his ears, and instinctively reaches for his phone. It proclaims 3:29 A.M. in bright black letters— great, far too early to drink.

Another thirty seconds pass before the knock comes again, soft and polite, and Anthony realizes why he’d awoken in the first place. Why on Earth is someone at his door at three in the bloody morning? It better be an emergency, or Anthony might actually throw a plant at them.

Grumbling to himself, Anthony slides out of bed and trots over to the door, yanking it open to glare at the person.

Aziraphale stands there, looking quite miserable. Any rude words Anthony had been preparing to throw quickly slip away, replaced by an odd mixture of annoyance and concern.

The angel’s clothes are rumpled, his eyes red rimmed, his hair disheveled. He’s wringing his hands, and the expression he’s wearing is so full of despair that Anthony’s first instinct is to ask if somebody had died. Instead (because it seems doubtful that a literal angel would be so distraught over the death of a human) he says, “Ngk. Did you… want something, or…?”

“Oh? Oh, dear. No, I apologize, I simply recalled you saying when we last spoke that I could drop by anytime if I needed to talk, and well, I normally wouldn’t do something like this but C– Crowley isn’t, isn’t here, and Muriel wouldn’t understand and Nina doesn’t like me all to much and Maggie has enough on her plate and, well, you did offer—”

Anthony groans, holds his hand up to stop Aziraphale from talking, and attempts to process what’s going on. His mind is addled with sleep, and he’s still jumpy from the most recent bout of nightmares. “Yeah, yeah. Come in, I’ve got a bottle of booze somewhere—”

“Oh, oh really? Thank you so much, I know this is a bit unorthodox,” Aziraphale rambles.

Anthony scoffs, dragging his hand down his face, and promptly realizes that he’s forgotten his sunglasses. Fuck that. He slips into the kitchen and starts rummaging around for them. 

“I wouldn’ a offered if I didn’t mean it,” Anthony says— rather cocky of him to lie to an angel’s face, but said angel had just showed up at his apartment in the middle of the night, so who gives a shit. Certainly not Anthony. He finds his sunglasses, slipping them over his eyes.

Much better. A bit of the tension drains from his shoulders, and he turns back to Aziraphale, who is standing awkwardly by the front door.

Right. “So, is wine okay? I’ve, er, I’ve got some of the good stuff— wait, do angels drink?”

Aziraphale grimaces, a bit of a pause occurring before he responds. “I certainly do. However, I’ve only ever drunk with… with Crowley, and it feels quite wrong to do so without him. So, I think I’ll stay sober, if it’s quite the same to you.”

 Anthony shrugs. “Ngk, okay.” He pours himself a comically large glass, then lounges out on the couch, stretching like a cat. Aziraphale stiffly sits on the armchair opposite him.

The wine burns the back of Anthony’s throat. It’s comforting at this point, and gives him the liquid courage to say, “Are you gonna talk? I mean, not like you came here to watch me drink.” He raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says sheepishly, averting his eyes. “Yes, I suppose not. I just feel rather silly is all— I woke you up, didn’t I? I hadn’t realized how late it was on Earth, else I wouldn’t have come.”

“Who cares? Time is a construct, and it’s not like I have to be anywhere tomorrow. Unemployed, me.”

“Oh. Well regardless, you have my apologies.” There’s a long pause. “Have you— you wouldn’t by any chance have news about Crowley…?”

Anthony takes a sip of wine. “Nope. Though apparently he got blackout drunk after the… ngk, the whatever it was.”

“Heh, that does rather sound like him.” Grimacing, Aziraphale adds, “If I’m being entirely honest, I’m not sure a search party is the best idea, though I haven’t a clue how to break it to Muriel. They’re very excited about this. It’s just… it’s very possible he’s off somewhere to take a nap, and in that case I rather think it’s best to simply give him space.”

“He’s done that before, has he?”

Aziraphale averts his gaze, clenching his jaw. “This isn’t the first instance in which we’ve fought. Every time, he’ll disappear for a while afterwards— he… he has a habit of avoiding life’s trials at all costs.”

“Nghhh, that’s— that’s honestly really understandable. Avoiding stuff’s a lot easier than… well, than not avoiding it.”

“I still don’t understand it. The problem doesn’t simply go away because you can no longer see it! How can he insist we run away together, knowing that we have the chance to improve the lives of so, so many people? I know he cares, try as he might to deny it, because I’ve seen him risk literal torture time after time for humans who will be dead in a few decades.”

Slightly uncomfortable, Anthony refills his large glass of wine (he’s a quick drinker)  and tries to think of a response through the buzz of the alcohol. “I think,” he says carefully, “that maybe Crowley just… couldn’t do it anymore? I dunno him, obviously, but I’ve been in a similar position? Much lower stakes, of course, but it was still… just too much for me in the end.” He snaps his fingers, sitting up straight. “Burnout, that’s the word!”

“Burnout?” Aziraphale asks, frowning.

“It’s when you get really emotionally exhausted. And mentally. And physically, I think?” He shrugs. “Dunno much about it, but I worked in the medical field and there were a lot of us there who dealt with it.”

Aziraphale tilts his head. “You worked in the medical field?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Anthony says, then proceeds to down the entire glass of wine. “Sucked though, and I’m not going back. It was toxic as hell even without all the dying people. I needed out. That was, heh, that was what my final fight with Zira was about.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

He shrugs. “Quit for a reason, didn’t I? Dunno what I’m gonna do now— m’ friend Bee thinks I should do a plant nursery. They, uh, they grow baby plants for people to plant in their plant–thingees,” he slurs.

Aziraphale nods, but from the way his face is contorted with confusion, it’s very possible he’s just humoring Anthony.

…Yeah, maybe he’s had a bit too much wine.

“Perhaps, er, perhaps it would be best if you had some water instead?” Aziraphale says with the concern of a literal angel. Heh, angel.

Anthony snickers.

“...Right. Erm, so yes to the water then?” He twists his fingers, and suddenly he’s holding a glass of water, which he holds out to Anthony.

“No water.” Anthony says, batting it away.

“I really think it might be best if—”

“No water,” Anthony repeats. Some part of his mind is screaming that water is bad bad bad, but he’s not sober enough to think about what it might mean. It’s just that water is dangerous now, apparently. He gives Aziraphale his best glare, but the angel simply looks unimpressed.

“Very well; let it be your own funeral, as the humans say.” Aziraphale sets the glass of water down within Anthony’s reach on the coffee table. “However, it will be there should you change your mind. I do imagine you’ll have the most terrible hangover when you wake up.”

“I love hangovers,” Anthony says, just for the sake of being obstinate. “Best things in the world, hangovers.”

Aziraphale gives Anthony an exasperated look. “Of course they are, silly me. Well, definitely do not drink the water then.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Anthony says, grabbing the glass of water and almost missing the smug, self–satisfied look that crosses Aziraphale’s face as he chugs down the water like a dying man.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, still smirking, “I think it might be best if I let you get some rest now. I believe I need to speak to Muriel before I return to Heaven, and I’ve been gone long enough as it is. Thank you for everything, Anthony.”

“Bye,” Anthony says, waving awkwardly.

Aziraphale leaves through the door like a human would, though he could probably disappear in glitter if he wished to, which would be lame but admittedly also a bit cool. 

Anthony falls back asleep within five minutes of the angel leaving. 

The nightmares are still there, but they feel just a tad softer around the edges, and when Anthony awakes he somehow feels better rested than he has in a while.

(He does, however, have a raging hangover. Fuck that. Whoever invented hangovers fucking sucks).

The Almighty laughs. What Anthony doesn’t know, of course, is that Crowley was the one who invented hangovers — he even received a commendation for it. One of his proudest moments, as he’d bragged to Aziraphale one night while sprawled across the angels couch with a cheeky grin and luscious red curls that fell to his waist.

(Of all the hairstyles he’s had so far, that one is definitely Her favorite. However, She knows it will be bumped to second place when he discovers electric blue hair dye in a few months, and She’s quite looking forward to it.)

The thing about Crowley is that more often than not, he doesn’t think things through.

Of course, this led to the whimsical creations of things like nebulas and multi–colored galaxies — beautiful, but placed where the humans would never see them except through powerful telescopes. 

Had Crowley checked the plans first, then he would’ve known to create smaller — but just as beautiful — sights within Earth’s solar system.

Crowley also trusted too easily without thinking about the type of person he was trusting.

Not anymore, of course. Now, in the twenty–first century, he prides himself on trusting no one. Yet, he went on to make the same mistake: he fell in love with an angel, bared his heart to someone who wasn’t ready…

Yet.

Aziraphale will be ready one day, but not today.

So God waits, the edges of Her lips twisted into a smile — one of sympathy, but also eagerness, for Her ineffable plan plays out beautifully and She can’t wait to see the pieces fall into place in real time.

Aziraphale stands awkwardly in front of Metatron’s desk. He takes a deep breath in, lets it out, and puts on his best smile. It’s not lying— not really. It’s acting, simple as that. What was it that William had said all those years ago?

‘All the world’s a stage, all the men and women merely players.’

The nagging voice in the back of his mind reminds him that he’s very much taking the quote out of context — and if the voice sounds suspiciously like Crowley, well, that’s no one’s business but Aziraphale’s.

His talk with Anthony has left him feeling slightly stronger. Something about the human makes him feel at peace, as if he’s not just a stupid little cherub, but Aziraphale can’t place his finger on why this is. Perhaps it’s just that Anthony reminds him of Crowley?

Wait— but that makes it sound as though he’s trying to replace Crowley, and he isn’t.

He likes this new human, but he would trade Anthony in a heartbeat if it meant he could have his friend back. Crowley means everything to him. Crowley is his everything, and Aziraphale’s talk with Anthony gave him a bit of perspective on things.

Heaven needs to change. And if it’s going to change, he needs to bring up certain issues with Metatron.

So here he is. 

“Sir?” Aziraphale says politely.

Metatron looks up from his paperwork, smiling warmly at Aziraphale, which makes the angel feel warm and fuzzy inside. “Good morning, Aziraphale. What brings you here today?”

Right, stay calm. “I need to speak with you about certain issues that have been brought to my attention.”

Frowning, Metatron says, “Is that so? Do sit down. I value your opinion on things, and I trust that you wouldn’t bring it to me if it weren’t important. You’re a good angel like that.”

Aziraphale takes a seat, wringing his hands in his lap right out of Metatron’s view. “This is about Michael. I have concerns about her loyalties. You see, after the failed Armageddon, Hell attempted to execute Cr— Crowley with holy water. 

“While it appears that Crowley developed an immunity from spending too long on Earth, what concerns me is that Hell received the Holy Water directly from Michael, who brought down the water herself and appeared to be on good terms with the higher ups Down there.”

The Metatron frowns. Relief floods through Aziraphale, and a bit of the tension drains from his shoulders.

“Aziraphale, I know you’re very… fond of your demon, which is perfectly alright, but has it occurred to you that Crowley might’ve lied? It is in a demon’s nature, after all. You know better than to believe such a tall tale.”

Aziraphale’s mouth falls open. Even as Metatron says this, Aziraphale feels doubt trickle in— which is ridiculous! He was there when it happened. He saw it with his own — well, with Crowley’s own eyes! But Metatron is smart and intelligent, and he sounds so… so disappointed.

“I trust Crowley with my life,” Aziraphale says firmly, and to his own surprise, he means it. Even after the whole kiss fiasco. Even after Crowley abandoning him unceremoniously, even after whatever trick the wily old serpent (affectionate) had tried to play on him, what with confessing feelings he obviously didn’t have if he didn’t understand why Aziraphale needed to do this.

Still, Aziraphale trusts Crowley.

There is only one thing in the world Aziraphale doesn’t trust Crowley with, and that thing is Crowley himself.

“Oh, Aziraphale. This isn’t you being jealous, is it? You know that I don’t play favorites— I treat everyone fairly, but if I did have a favorite, it would be you. There’s no need to attempt to get Michael demoted.”

“Pardon?” Aziraphale says, bewildered. What on Heaven?

And rather than making Aziraphale feel proud, it causes his stomach to twist, a sick feeling threatening to overtake him. Metatron shouldn’t have favorites. Aziraphale doesn’t want to be his favorite; Aziraphale wants Metatron to judge everyone fairly and justly.

Metatron does judge everyone fairly and justly.

Right?

Right?

“Aziraphale, please don’t come to me with such tales again. You’re like a child to me, and it’s disappointing seeing you act in such a manner.”

“Of course. My apologies,” Aziraphale chokes out, because lying is what Aziraphale does best.

The world is crumbling around him, and Aziraphale has never wanted Crowley as much as he does right now. Crowley has never made him question whether something he experienced actually happened.

But… but maybe Metatron genuinely thinks that Aziraphale is just jealous? Maybe that’s a problem he’s experienced before with other angels, and so there’s a precedent that’s been set that Aziraphale doesn’t know about?

(Does he genuinely believe that, or is he just trying to convince himself?)                                                                                                                                  

He’s left with a string so tangled that he doesn’t even know where to start if he wants to untangle it, and he needs to untangle it, because this is wrong. This isn’t how things are supposed to work.

Maybe he’s been a fool.

But… but even so, what is he to do? He can’t disappoint Metatron, not after everything the angel has done for him.

What’s more important, though? Not disappointing someone, or doing what you know is right? the voice asks him, and for once, Aziraphale doesn’t have an answer.

He wishes Metatron a good day and retreats to the solace of his office.

How do you tell right from wrong when the two are so intertwined?

Aziraphale hates not knowing things — he prides himself on the knowledge he’s amassed over the millennia, all the books he’s read and people he’s spoken to.

But there’s no book to consult now; no person to speak to.

Aziraphale is well and truly alone.

Chapter Text

“Right. So this is our current timeline: Aziraphale and Crowley fight, Aziraphale leaves for Heaven at 11 AM, Crowley disappears for seven hours then shows up at the bar, gets ‘blackout drunk’, and leaves at 3 AM. Today I was thinking that three of you could go speak to Crowley’s old neighbors, while I investigate an unidentified miracle over in France,” Muriel says, beaming. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”

It is a hot Saturday afternoon in Soho. Fortunately, the bookshop has air conditioning and is climate controlled (Heaven forbid anything happen to the books, after all). 

Unfortunately, the four of them won’t be in the bookshop much longer.

Anthony hardly stepped foot in the bookshop before Muriel was ushering them out, assignment in hand, looking far too enthusiastic for such a hellish day.

“Could you two possibly let me do the talking?” Maggie asks. The three of them have boarded a street car, packed to the brim with sweaty kids and snotty adults — hey, it’s still better than the M25. “I just think that threatening them right off the bat might be not the best way to get information.”

Anthony looks at Maggie, and in a slightly amused voice, says, “Who said anything about talking to people?”

“Alright, what’s your bright idea then?” says Nina.

“No security footage?” Anthony places his hands on the front desk, leaning forward. “What do you mean ‘no security footage’? Those are cameras, aren’t they?”

The terrified clerk, a middle–aged man with thinning hair and a receding hairline, leans backward and laughs nervously. “There was a bit of an accident the other night. F– funny story, actually.”

“Do tell,” Anthony hisses. Great. He’d had a whole backstory ready— made up public access laws and everything! Maggie and Nina (who, having stuck to the original plan, are upstairs questioning Crowley’s neighbors) are going to be intolerably smug when they learn Anthony’s plan was thwarted.

“Well,” the man begins, fidgeting under Anthony’s glower, “a– a few weeks ago, the power went out, causing the system to reset and all the footage to be deleted. The cameras haven’t been working right since. We called someone from IT, but, w– well—”

“And none of the footage was backed up? Like, at all?” Anthony asks, disbelieving.

When the man shakes his head, Anthony groans loudly, dragging his hand down his face. “Great. Lovely.” He turns, crossing to exit the room with long, swaggering strides, when the man calls out.

“Hold up, y– you said you were here as a legal representative for A.J. Crowley, right?”

Anthony spins around on his heel and walks back over to the desk without missing a beat. “Unfortunately, yes.”

The man’s frown deepens, and though he still appears frightened, his expression has shifted to predominantly one of worry.. “Is he alright? He was a bit of a wild young lad — always reminded me a bit of my son, to be honest — but his bark was always bigger than his bite. And then there was all that funny b– business, what with the young lady,” he says these words with a thick air of disapproval, “taking his flat over out of, out of nowhere…”

“He went missing,” Anthony says curtly.

“He— oh. Oh dear.” The man pales several shades. “Oh, the poor boy. Do they have any idea what happened?”

Anthony sighs. “Not really, no. Can you tell me anything?”

“I’m afraid— I’m afraid not. He was in and out a lot, could be rude, would sometimes disappear for long periods of time, I suppose? I don’t know if that would be of any help— except that he does seem like the type of person to get into fights? Quite a temper, just like my son. I apologize that I can’t be of more help. Let me know if there are any updates? He was a piece of work, but didn’t deserve to have anything happen to him.”

Something uncomfortable twists in Anthony’s stomach— from what he’s heard, Crowley doesn’t seem like that nice (or likable) of a person. So why is this man concerned?

And what does he mean that Crowley didn’t deserve to have anything happen to him?

“Well, you didn’t know him that well,” Anthony points out, unreasonably annoyed.

The man, taken aback, flinches backward. “N– no, it’s true I didn’t. But there are things that no one deserves to happen to them.”

“...Right.” That’s true enough, but some assholes deserve what they have coming. If Crowley actually did just piss someone off, and Muriel’s going through all this trouble for nothing, then Anthony isn’t going to have a shred of sympathy for the dickwad. “I’ll keep you updated if anything happens.”

Anthony leaves without another glance backwards.

The three of them reconvene outside the building half an hour later.

Maggie speaks first. “So, we gathered that Crowley arrived back here at 6 AM — one of his neighbors was arriving home from work (she’s a security guard), and helped him into his flat. He was really, really drunk. She said he kept murmuring stuff about ‘stupid angels’ and coffee and shacks and flaming swords and halos and— and, well, a few other things. Something about Alpha Centaurs… something…?”

“Alpha Centauri?” Anthony asks.

Maggie nods, smiling brightly. “Yes, that.”

“We checked his flat too,” Nina says. “It was as empty as Muriel said it was.”

Anthony narrows his eyes. “Wait a minute, wasn’t it locked?”

Nina raises an eyebrow and gives Maggie a look. “Yeah, it was. Turns out someone knows how to pick locks. Had her own lock picking set and everything.”

Flushing, Maggie says, “Look, I may have gone through a phase in middle school where I learned semi–legal things in the hopes of impressing girls and then proceeded to never actually do any of them because I was a goody two shoes.”

Nina smirks, a fond look in her eyes. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Alpha Centauri?” Anthony repeats. “The triple star system?”

Shrugging, Maggie says, “I suppose?”

“Great, we have a lead for Muriel. I think they might’ve died inside if we came back empty handed,” says Nina. “What did you figure out, Anthony? How’d your scheme go?”

“The footage is all missing. Boom, caput, gone. Big blackout, or something. No backups.”

“Darn,” Maggie says.

Nina, who doesn’t look surprised — then again, when does she ever — says dryly, “You know, for some reason I’m not surprised.” 

Abruptly, her phone beeps, and an expression Anthony can’t decipher flashes across her face. She doesn’t so much as remove her phone from her pocket. Looking suddenly exhausted, Nina says, “Right, who wants to stop at my coffee shop? We’ve got wine and chamomile tea, and I don’t know about you two, but I’m done with existing at the moment.”

Anthony can drink to that.

They return to the coffee shop. Nina makes Maggie a tea (along with a raspberry pastry, both of which are ‘on the house’), and pours two glasses of wine for Anthony and herself. The artificial lighting inside the shop seems to grow ever brighter as the sun sets outside.

“Is Lindsey giving you trouble again?” Maggie asks.

Nina snorts, taking another sip from her glass. “Yes. They called me last night, wanting to talk about the trust issues I gave them. No matter how many times I tell them I didn’t cheat… it never seems to fucking matter. I’m always at fault. And yet, part of me still wants them back.”

Neither Anthony nor Maggie have a response to that, so this remark is followed by a long beat of pensive silence. Maggie tries a sip of her tea, only to wince— it’s still too hot, though Anthony could’ve told you that from the steam coming off it.

“Sometimes I’m angry, then other times I’m just sad. Like, I don’t understand what I did wrong.”

Anthony sighs. “Yeah, I can relate to that. Well, not the ‘not understanding what I did wrong’ thing, but my mum kicked me out at sixteen for hanging with the wrong people, and I still don’t know whether to be angry or to miss her. I do both, I guess.”

“That’s shitty,” Nina says. She gives Anthony a look of wry sympathy. “Do you want to talk about it? I clearly have nothing better to do.”

Anthony shrugs, gazing down into the purple depths of his wine, then downing the rest of the glass. (Well, that makes it sound overly dramatic — there was only a sip left anyway — but Anthony has always been a bit dramatic.) “Not much to talk about, is there?”

“...Well, the offer’s always open,” Nina says. “Except during rush hour. If you try to call me during rush hour for anything except an absolute emergency, they will never find your body.”

The edges of Anthony’s lips twitch upward into something like a smile. “Noted.”

Two days later, Aziraphale pops into the shop intending to speak to Muriel. He’s rather tired, and really did want to simply get them up to date, but when he walks into the shop it is to excited conversation drifting down from the back. Oh dear.

“—red herring? Damn,” Nina says, sounding disappointed.

“Well, not completely, is it?” Anthony replies. “Maybe he did pop up there, or at least try to, if that’s what he was thinking of at the t—” He stops talking, eyes on Aziraphale, and soon enough the three other pairs fall on the angel as well.

He’s had quite enough of people looking at him these days.

“Hello; I do hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he says by way of greeting. “Are you all, ah, having a meeting?”

It’s a nicety more than anything. Why else would Muriel, Anthony, Nina, and Maggie be sitting in the back room of the bookshop, surrounded by papers and files and markers and pens?

“Yup!” Muriel says, popping her ‘p’ in a manner that quite reminds Aziraphale of Crowley (and Anthony too, he supposes, though he associates it more heavily with Crowley. After all, he’s known Crowley since the Beginning, while Anthony’s only been around for a few decades.)

(A small part of him resents Anthony for behaving so like Crowley. It isn’t Anthony’s fault, of course, and resentment is a quite unangelic thing to feel, so Aziraphale does his best to ignore this unwelcome feeling.)

“We’re quite honestly getting nowhere,” Muriel admits, grinning sheepishly. There’s something nervous about their demeanor. “Sorry. We’ve checked the miracles, but haven’t gotten very far. He did go back to his flat the next morning? But that’s really all we know. Anthony tried to check the security footage, but it was all wiped out during a ‘blackout’ and nothing’s been working since.”

Their words sound recited, somehow, as if they’ve practiced saying them over and over. Aziraphale frowns.

“He was going on about Alpha Centauri,” Anthony begins. “Yes, Muriel, I know what you said, but it still feels important for some reason.”

It’s like a punch to the gut.

And Aziraphale takes it the way all good angels should take blows — impassively, unflinchingly, just as he’d been taught. (It’s less so due to his teachings at the moment. No, right now it’s more a thing that if Aziraphale showed his distress at every figurative punch, he’d never get anything done.

And Aziraphale has a lot to get done.)

 “I see. Well, I can go speak to the, ah, current occupants again,” Aziraphale says, frowning once more. “However, they’ve been most unhelpful, and I very much doubt that Crowley would have visited them. The three of them did not exactly get along.”

“Well, it’s worth a try,” Anthony grumbles. “As far as leads go, it’s the only place we know him to have mentioned.”

Muriel stiffens. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute!” Their eyes widen, and they scramble out of the armchair and up the stairs without a single word of explanation to the four others. Not thirty seconds later, they stumble back down, arms clutching a wrinkled piece of paper.

“Locations!” They exclaim, flapping a hand excitedly. “I was talking to Ligur—”

“Pardon?” Aziraphale interrupts, furrowing his brow. “Muriel, Ligur died years ago.”

“—and he was talking about the statue, and it makes sense that Crowley might’ve gone there, because—”

“Muriel!” Anthony calls, raising a hand like a child in class. “Muriel, none of us know what you’re talking about. Who’s Ligur, why is he dead, and what statue is Crowley at?”

Muriel makes a confused noise. “Ligur isn’t dead? Aziraphale had me go meet with him!”

“Pardon?” Aziraphale looks at them in alarm, because really? He most certainly would not have sent Muriel anywhere near such a— such a—

“Oh, oh, I think I know what you’re talking about,” Muriel says, a look of understanding crossing their face. “He was dead, but only for a little bit! The antichrist reset everything after the Armageddon that wasn’t, though it took Ligur a little while to find Hastur, and Hastur was really upset when Ligur found him. They’re both stationed in Florida now! I think they’re quite happy there, actually.”

“...That answers none of my questions,” Nina says, appearing well and truly annoyed. “Who is Ligur? In terms the three of us can understand, preferably, because right now you two might as well be speaking Latin.”

Anthony snorts. “I know some Latin from college, actually, and I still understand nothing about this conversation whatsoever. Except that Ligur should be dead but apparently isn’t.”

“Ligur was— is a Duke of Hell, if what Muriel is saying is true,” Aziraphale explains, sinking onto the sofa beside Anthony and resting his head in his hands. Oh, how he wishes Crowley were here to help him. Everything always seemed simpler with Crowley at his side. “Muriel, at what point did I— did I send you to see Ligur?”

“You said to deliver a message to one of the demon ambassadors in America?” Muriel replies. “The closest one to the dropoff point was Ligur, and he got in touch with me afterwards to say thank you!”

…Oh dear.

“Right,” Aziraphale says faintly. “And you never thought to tell me this… why?”

Muriel tilts their head, hesitating. “You never asked? I kind of assumed you already knew. Sorry, I didn’t…” They trail off.

Sighing, Aziraphale says, “No, this one’s on me. I should’ve elaborated more on my intentions.” He turns his gaze up to Muriel again. “He didn’t injure you, did he, my dear?”

“No! He was pretty nice, actually? He even gave me cookies, but I had to throw them away because there’s no food allowed in the bookshop.” Muriel sounds vaguely disappointed.

Anthony leans forward, eyebrows raised. “Are you sure he wasn’t trying to poison you? Never take food from strangers— it’s one of the main rules on Earth. Don’t they give you angels briefings or something? No? Seriously? That’s it, I’m making a powerpoint presentation. You,” he points to Muriel, “don’t take food from anybody you don’t know. Ever.”

“But I do know Ligur! He said hi to me and brought me cookies!” Muriel protests. “Also, he gave me this!” They hold up the crumpled paper. It has scribbly handwriting on it: large, messy letters which are somewhat obfuscated by Muriel’s hand.

“What does it say, Muriel?” Maggie asks, her voice cutting through the chaos.

Muriel, who had grown steadily more agitated, takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. They flap a hand by their side. “Um, some of the spelling is a bit off.”

“Read it the way it’s supposed to be written,” Maggie says gently.

“Alright, here goes:

Angel, it was good of you to tell us what was going on. Do so again in the future, or else. For future reference, the statue of the bastard Gabriel is much closer to your post, and will draw less attention. Don’t die— or do, we really don’t care.”

Muriel beams. “And— and I was just thinking, there was a miracle done right around there on the night that Crowley went missing, and it’s a place that Hell knows about! I hadn’t gotten around to checking it, because, well, it was so low on the Lazari scale, but it makes sense, doesn’t it?” they exclaim, looking very proud of themself.

“It’s… certainly worth checking out,” Aziraphale agrees tentatively. Should he be encouraging this?

Probably not; yet, they are quite enthusiastic…

And if Hell did do something to Crowley, then Aziraphale needs to know. He needs to know, he needs to, because Crowley has always been there for him. And, and even if Crowley hadn’t been, Aziraphale cares about his demonic counterpart. His team, the other half of his group of two, his… partner.

Even if Crowley walked away, in the end.

Aziraphale will never stop caring.

He freezes, his mind kicking into overdrive, and in that second everything else fades to background noise. There is only Aziraphale. Aziraphale, and the emptiness where Crowley should be but isn’t.

Oh.

Oh.

That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? Aziraphale will never stop caring, no matter what forces might drive him and Crowley apart.

No matter what.

Crowley is more important to him than approval and praise; more important to him than what anyone else may think, good or bad.

And at this moment, everything feels incredibly simple.

He looks up at Muriel. “Investigate,” he tells them, voice sounding odd even to his own ears. “If anything has happened to Crowley, then we need to know, now don’t we?”

Standing, he nods politely to the others, hands clasped in front of him. “I’m afraid I must return to Heaven now. Please, feel free to contact me with any updates.”

And so Aziraphale leaves the shop, his ears buzzing, everything feeling rather distant around him.

Metatron is right about… well, about most everything.

Not about Crowley.

In this matter — in just this matter — Aziraphale will allow himself a little bit of true disobedience. Even if it means going directly against orders. Bending rules, telling lies, it’s all easy— easier than it should be. But outright disobedience has always scared him.

In this matter, it doesn’t anymore.

Perhaps it should.

Chapter Text

Anthony: Bee

Anthony: Bee I think I might’ve accidentally joined a cult.

Beelzebub: lol

Anthony: I’m not joking.

Anthony: So there’s this one bookshop owner who’s also an angel, and they’ve started a search party for a missing demon, who apparently had a thing going on with the previous bookshop owner, who is also an angel and is now like the ceo of heaven and a total pushover.

Anthony: You can’t make this shit up.

 Beelzebub is typing…

Beelzebub is offline.

Anthony: Bee?

Anthony: Bee.

Anthony: Bee, I swear to Satan.

Beelzebub is online.

Beelzebub: u wut?!

Anthony: ?

Beelzebub: nvm

Anthony: Okay, that part was a joke. But not the cult thing; I’m being serious about that.

Beelzebub: out of curiosity, wuts the demons name

Anthony: Crowley. Why?

Beelzebub: huh.

Beelzebub: brb gotta talk to gabriel real quick

Anthony: Ew.

“Love, why did you send Crowley back to Soho?”

Gabriel frowns. “Uh, because it makes things more interesting? Duh.” He sends ze a fond look over his shoulder, flipping the pancake he’d been frying. It lands perfectly despite him not paying any attention to what he’s doing.

Perks of being an archangel.

Well, ex–archangel.

Beelzebub nods. “That is a good point, I suppose.”

Flipping the pancake onto a plate, Gabriel ponders how much things have changed in the past year. Before being Jim, Gabriel hadn’t dared sully his angelic form with gross material, but he’s since discovered why Aziraphale always consumed it with such gusto. 

And, well, gluttony seems rather mild compared to betraying Heaven in order to elope with a Duke of Hell.

“The miracle we did so that no one would be able to recognize him… how does that work, exactly?” Beelzebub peers curiously at his plate. “Also, may I have a bite?”

Gabriel grins. “Of course, sweetheart.” He offers them the fork, then clasps his hands in front of him, considering. “I directed the lazari to recreate the miracle Crowley and Aziraphale had placed on me, which blocked the mind from sending the neurological signals to essentially ‘connect the dots’ between a person and their past, true identity. It’s extremely complex.”

A mischievous smirk spreads across Beelzebub’s face as they hand him back the fork, chewing zir bite of pancake. 

“So it would be completely possible for the person to be in the same room as multiple people they used to know, acting and appearing nearly identically to their past self, and the others simply… wouldn’t realize?” ze asks. “No matter how obvious it was or how much time they spent together?”

Gabriel frowns thoughtfully, tilting his head. “Theoretically. Why?”

Giggling, Beelzebub hops up to sit on the counter and buries their face in their hands, shoulders shaking with laughter. “I’m glad Aziraphale and Crowley managed to escape their respective executions, love. You’ll never guess what they’ve gotten themselves into this time! Top tier entertainment.”

Anthony is not having a good time.

His brain keeps screaming at him, an endless stream of worthless useless unlovable unlovable unlo—

“Nghhh, shut up, will you?” he hisses to himself. He’s in his living room, surrounded by looming plants. Green stems and lively leaves stretch up from neat little pots, not a speck of dirt on the floor, because there isn’t allowed to be dirt on the floor. The sight triggers memories he would rather not revisit.

Anthony paces back and forth, raking his fingers through his hair.

He should grow his hair out a bit.

Yes, that’s a good idea. And… and possibly, possibly he could dye it? He shakes his head. He’s restless, is all. It’s like there’s a thousand volts of energy dancing through his system, wreaking havoc on his nerves and driving him near insane.

A soft, polite knocking — Aziraphale? — breaks Anthony out of his thoughts.

Oh good, a human! Er, human shaped being? 

The humanity of said ethereal being doesn’t really matter, Anthony is just in desperate need of a distraction. Anything to slow his racing mind.

He fetches his sunglasses and slips them on, then strolls over to the door — his strides lacking their usual swagger — and pulls it open.

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale says, exhaling slowly. “I was afraid I might’ve dropped in at a bad time.”

The angel, looking slightly frazzled, is not smiling this time — which is an improvement, to be honest. The fake polite smile he usually wears is, well, fake. Anthony, despite his love for lying, also really hates lying.

Yes, he’s a hypocrite.

Sue him.

“What’s wrong this time?”

Aziraphale blinks. “Well, nothing is really the matter, I suppose. I simply wanted to ask your opinion on something. Would it be alright if I came in?”

“Yeah, sure. Absolutely,” says Anthony, waving a hand. “I was bored anyway.”

“Well, it is quite a lovely afternoon. Would you perhaps like to speak elsewhere?” Aziraphale’s expression shifts. “I’m not asking you on a date, to be clear, simply suggesting that discussing matters elsewhere might be nice given the current weather.”

“Ngk, yeah. Don’t think either of us are ready for… y’know. I doubt Zira will ever change his mind,” Anthony snorts sadly, “stubborn bastard that he is, but… I want to be there for him. If he ever does change his mind.”

Aziraphale smiles, though his expression is rather melancholy. “Good to see that we’re on the same page then. Now, I do believe there’s an ice cream parlor down the road?”

There is, in fact, an ice cream parlor down the road. It’s a five minute walk there, and it truly is a lovely day. However, Anthony can’t seem to focus.

Zira would’ve loved this weather. Anthony glances up at the sun — wherever Zira is right now, at least they’re both seeing the same sun lighting up the clear blue sky. Unless it’s cloudy where Zira lives. Or Zira has spent so much time in his office trying to fix things that he hasn’t seen the light of day in weeks.

Anthony’s going to stop thinking now.

Thinking just seems to make everything worse, and Anthony can barely handle how bad it is right now.

Rather than healing, it’s as if he’s crumbling into more and more pieces with every passing day — ‘time heals all wounds’ is bullshit, it would seem.

Aziraphale is oddly quiet.

Anthony, who has never been the patient type, sticks his hands in his pockets and resolves to hold his tongue. Best not to admonish a literal angle — big fiery wings and eyes and all that.

“Do you think I deserve to Fall?”

What? Anthony blinks. Whatever he had expected Aziraphale to say, that certainly wasn’t it.

Aziraphale, despite being the one to say it, appears just as surprised as Anthony does. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me just there. That was not what I intended to speak to you about.”

Huffing, Anthony spins on his toes, walking backwards so he can face the angel. “It’s clearly bothering you.”

“Yes, well, be that as it may…” Aziraphale trails off, gesturing to the ice cream parlor. “Oh, would you look at that! We’re here already. Let’s go inside, shall we? They have the most splendid lemon sorbet…”

Anthony, the master of unsubtly changing topics, raises an eyebrow.

The two make their way inside. It’s a homely little place, run by a little old woman with a cane and two golden teeth. She brightens upon seeing Aziraphale. “If it isn’t my favorite customer! Mr. Fell, I daresay I haven’t seen you in over a month. What gives?” She briskly begins scooping up ice cream before Aziraphale can answer. “Chocolate cone with extra sprinkles as usual?”

Aziraphale nods, appearing slightly surprised. His cheeks are tinged pink. “I’ve been rather busy, I’m afraid — I got, ah, promoted.” He says it in the way that one might announce being laid off to their family — a layer of forced casualness over something deeply troubling.

“Oh! Well, congratulations! Consider this one on the house.”

Brightening, but clearly attempting to look as if he isn't, Aziraphale says, “I couldn’t possibly—”

The lady ignores him. “And you, young man? May I take your order”

Anthony raises his eyebrows. Young? Him? “Er— ngk, I’ll have the sssame thing as him.” He winces at his lisp, but the lady doesn’t comment on it. It always tends to come out when he’s agitated — it’s always the ‘s’, it is.

Two chocolate cones later, the lady is saying to Aziraphale, “— now, you really must come around more often! You brighten the whole place up, I swear, it’s as if the good Lord himself has blessed you. All of Soho has noticed your absence.”

“R– right,” Aziraphale says, appearing uncomfortable. “Have a good day, Mrs. Risker.”

The two of them exit the ice cream parlor. Aziraphale’s shoulders sag as they leave, and he lets out a deep breath, seemingly forgetting that he’s still with someone. It’s odd — Aziraphale always relaxes around Anthony, even though Anthony isn’t a nice person to be around.

This is purposeful. Anthony does not want people to like him — glass walls, a barrier of rudeness and sarcasm, keeping everyone at arm's length.

However, with Aziraphale behaving so… relaxed around him, it feels wrong to be rude. So biting his lip and glancing up at the sky, he asks, “You asked earlier if I thought you deserved to Fall.”

Aziraphale grimaces. “Ah, well, that’s quite unimportant—”

“No it isn’t. If it’s bothering you, then it doesn’t matter how ‘unimportant’ it is. Importance isn’t important anyway, and that’s what’s really important, you know?”

At Aziraphale’s blank stare, Anthony groans.

Why does communication have to be so difficult?

“S’like, s’like Muriel, right?” he tries, gesturing with his hands and nearly dropping his ice cream. He grimaces. “They get upset over things that don’t seem like a big deal to us, but we don’t dismiss their feelings because of it. Ngk, at least I don’t.”

A look of understanding flashes across Aziraphale’s face. “Ah. I suppose I do get what you mean.” He sighs. “It just— it all feels rather silly. I was promoted to Supreme Angel; so I must be somewhat decent at doing my job, but I just feel so… so inadequate.”

Aziraphale averts his eyes, pursing his lips.

Anthony watches him intently. He says nothing, sensing that Aziraphale isn’t finished.

“The other night, the strangest thought came to me,” the angel says softly. “It was that if Crowley asked me to Fall for him, I would consider it. I don’t know if I’d say yes — and of course, he’d never actually ask me to do so — but I’d… well, I don’t believe I’d dismiss the idea outright. And that I would consider it at all is confirmation enough that I don’t deserve my,” he gasps for air, suddenly crying.

Shit, shit, shit.

Anthony has no idea what to do. “Er,” he says, “I don’t… I don’t think considering your options is a bad thing?”

This just makes Aziraphale sob quietly, shoulders shaking. “Oh, but it is,” he whispers. “You don’t understand, Anthony, it truly, truly is.”

“Look, ngk, why don’t we sit down somewhere? Oh, look at that! Bench!” Anthony exclaims, gesturing towards a bench amidst a small patch of green grass. “C’mon, the ice cream’s gonna melt.”

Anthony leads Aziraphale over to the bench, taking both ice cream cones so that the crying angel doesn’t drop it. Aziraphale sinks down onto the bench and buries his face in his hands, sniffling.

Holding both cones in one hand — it takes a bit of finger acrobatics, but he manages it — Anthony awkwardly reaches over and pats Aziraphale’s shoulder. It’s a few minutes before the angel is able to compose himself enough to speak again.

“My sincerest apologies—”

“Don’t even start,” Anthony says sharply, then winces. He scratches his neck. “Er, you don’t have to apologize for feeling things. ‘M not that much of a prick that I’d get mad at you for crying — it’s perfectly natural, right?”

Aziraphale appears confused. “It’s a perfectly normal thing to admonish someone for crying — doing so is rude, after all, and quite unbecoming of an— an angel.”

“...I’m calling bullshit,” Anthony says after a long moment, looking Aziraphale up and down disapprovingly. “Who told you that? I’m not afraid to throw hands, you know. I can show them rude.”  It’s a poor attempt at lightening the mood; but somehow, by some miracle, it works.

Aziraphale’s laugh is shallow but genuine. He wipes his eyes, smiling wryly at Anthony. “Dear boy, you are much too willowy to even think about ‘throwing hands’ with anyone. I do believe that I’d end up having to rescue you, and that would quite defeat the purpose.”

“Rude!” Anthony exclaims, pretending to be offended. In reality, he’s quite pleased with himself. He sulkily lounges out on the bench, stretching outwards in a display of dramatics that would put Gabriel himself to shame.

Ew, Gabriel.

By an actual miracle, it turns out, their ice cream had not even begun to melt.

Smiling sadly, Aziraphale says, “It knows better. It wouldn’t dare melt — at least, that’s what my dear Crowley would say. He enjoys making inanimate objects tremble in fear. I think it makes him feel powerful — a small bit of control in an otherwise uncontrollable existence.”

“Are we getting philosophical now?” Anthony asks. “Because if we are, I’d like to say that tartan is a crime against humanity.” He glares pointedly (playfully) at Aziraphale’s tie, tilting his head and making a clicking sound with his teeth.

Aziraphale frowns indignantly. “Why, I’ll have you know that tartan is very sophisticated! Anyhow, it’s significantly more creative than all the black you wear.” There’s a glimmer of mischief in his eyes — oh, what a bastard.

“Black is in!” Anthony protests.

“Of course it is,” replies Aziraphale with a distinct air of smugness. “Which is why the only people you ever see wearing it are teenagers in their ‘emo’ phases.”

Anthony, for lack of better response, sticks his tongue out.

The bickering comes naturally. Aziraphale must’ve been in need of a good cry, because the angel seems significantly lighter than he did when he arrived at Anthony’s flat — he’s smiling, enjoying his ice cream and the nice day. Anthony wonders if he ever does stuff like this in Heaven.

He nearly asks, but immediately thinks better of it.

That’s probably a sore subject. Rather, Anthony and Aziraphale keep trading witty remarks until the day has grown significantly hotter and over an hour has passed. The sun is now directly over them in the sky.

“Oh, I’d almost forgotten,” Aziraphale says suddenly, frowning. The birds are chirping rather loudly in the playground, and a child’s laughter can be heard from a distance. It’s the best day that Anthony’s had since the breakup. Aziraphale clears his throat awkwardly. “I did come to ask you for advice on something, if you still wouldn’t mind…?”

Anthony gestures for Aziraphale to continue.

“So, I have a… shall we say, rogue colleague. She’s on extremely friendly terms with Hell, and—”

“Isn’t that kind of hypocritical? You know, since you and Crowley were such great friends and all.”

Aziraphale huffs. “Well, I’ll have you know that Crowley has never been a very good demon. He cares far too much about living things — more than the majority of angels do, in fact. I… I have always admired him for it.

“There was one time when he was given a permit to kill one of the Almighty’s favorites’ children and goats. He put on a huge show and talked very big talk, but at the end of the day he temporarily turned the children into geckos and the goats into birds instead. Didn’t have it in him to kill them.” Aziraphale purses his lips. “Michael, on the other hand, is consorting with the Head of Operations.”

“Okay?” Anthony asks, raising an eyebrow. “So? You’re the Supreme Angel or whatever it’s called, don’t you have the power to demote people.”

“...In general, yes. However, the Metatron doesn’t believe my claims, refuses to investigate; and ultimately what he says goes.”

Anthony scoffs. “Well, you’ll just have to collect evidence yourself then.”

“Oh. Oh! How did I not think of that? I really have been stupid, haven’t I?” Aziraphale says, looking temporarily furious with himself, but soon enough every trace of anger is hidden away behind a blank expression.

“Nah, you’re not stupid; you’re just tired,” says Anthony, tilting his head back and raising his eyebrows. “Rest a bit.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks flush. “You’re probably right. I’ve just been so busy these days— on that note, I best be going now! It really was lovely to speak with you, Anthony, and I appreciate you pointing out the obvious when I’m too dull to see it.”

There’s a flash of lightning, and Aziraphale is gone before Anthony has the chance to respond.

Wow. He shakes his head in amazement. Odd as the angel was, Anthony did feel more at rest whenever he was around. Must be an angelic thing.

And— huh. Interesting. His mind has stopped racing, and he’s content to sit on the bench by himself for a few minutes before returning to his flat, heart no longer racing and fingers no longer trembling with nervous energy.

Anthony wouldn’t mind doing something like that with Aziraphale again.

Chapter Text

Anthony dreams of stars.

It's the first good dream he's had in a while, with vivid colors swirling around him in a blur and, as if far, far away, a distorted yet familiar sounding voice.

He's at peace, and he's giggling — giggling — and making a joke. There's a lightness in his chest that's foreign to him, and he smiles in his sleep.

It's a good dream.

Exhaling slowly through his mouth, Aziraphale brushes nonexistent dirt off of his suit and knocks on the door of the rundown house. He keeps having to shift his weight from side to side, because whenever he stays still too long his feet begin sinking into the grotesque black mud.

Aziraphale loves nature — he really does — but swamps are a bit much, don’t you think? Really, it smells horrendous out here. And his shoes are going to be ruined after this!

He can imagine Crowley rolling his eyes, giving Aziraphale a smirk, and drawling, ‘Why’d you wear such fancy shoes here anyway? C’mon, they’re demons, did you think they’d be living in a pristine little palace?’

Aziraphale steels himself and knocks gently but firmly on the old door.

He waits for a few minutes, hears loud grumbling inside, but no one comes to answer the door. Pursing his lips, he shakes his head and knocks again. Aziraphale is prepared to wait as long as he has to. He is, after all, just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.

Sometimes, being just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing means parking yourself on someone’s doorstep and refusing to leave until you’ve gotten answers.

After a good twenty minutes of intermittent knocking, the door swings open to reveal too very pissed off demons.

Aziraphale doesn’t so much as flinch. “First of all, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t attempt to poison my replacement,” he says sternly, drawing himself up to his full height.

Hastur, who has ‘subtly’ placed himself in between Ligur and the angel, sneers at him. “Or what?”

Just for a moment, Aziraphale allows a dash of his angelic divinity to shimmer around him. Both of the demons flinch backward, Hastur’s gaze downright murderous, Ligur just looking annoyed.

Aziraphale smiles pleasantly and clasps his hands in front of him. “Oh, I’m sure it won’t come to that. May I come in?”

“No,” Ligur sneers, but neither of them appear panicked or defensive, nor did either of them glance behind them into the house, which is what Azirpahale was really looking out for. Alright then, Crowley is almost certainly not tied up in one of their back rooms then.

Good to know.

“Very well,” Aziraphale says, “I suppose we can have our conversation standing here, then.”

“Why are you here, angel?” Hastur demands, his face contorted with a look of utter hatred.

Aziraphale doesn’t flinch, but it’s a close thing. No on e is allowed to call him angel — no one but Crowley, that is. Anger flares in his chest, and he clenches his fists. With a deep breath, he manages to calm himself, giving the two demons a deadly smile. “Have you seen Crowley recently, per chance?”

Ligur raises a brow. “No?”

“If he comes around here, he’ll be dead before he can say ‘murderous intent’,” Hastur snarls, leaning against the doorframe, “and you can tell him I said that.”

…Huh. They really don’t know what’s going on.

“As I’m sure you're both aware, I was recently appointed to Supreme Archangel in the wake of Gabriel’s, uh, marital endeavor. As such, I have the power to make both your lives very miserable.” He meets Hastur’s gaze and holds it. “Alternatively, I can ensure that no angel, demon, or divine being of any sort comes within a hundred mile radius of this house. You could have assurance of safety,” he turns his stare to Ligur, who raises an eyebrow, “and assurance that no one would dare interfere with any dastardly deeds — within reason, of course.”

“What’s the catch?” Hastur asks, and Ligur gives his demonic partner a look of confusion.

Aziraphale smiles. “Well, I have it on good sources that Michael has been keeping in touch with downstairs. It would be such a shame if evidence of such a thing were to come to light… for example, undeniable transcripts of certain phone calls?”

Ligur gives Aziraphale a deadpan look and opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by Hastur.

“That’s all? We give you evidence of Archangel Michael being a traitor, and we’ll have the protection of the Supreme Angel himself?” The demon laughs an ugly laugh. “You’re playing a dangerous game, angel.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of what game I’m playing.” Aziraphale lifts his eyebrows innocently, gaze flickering to Ligur. “Do you?” he asks pleasantly.

Ligur tilts his head to look at Hastur, who is gazing at Aziraphale with a look of mild puzzlement. 

“I think,” Ligur says, “that the two of us need to discuss this in private, first.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Of course. I’ll be here waiting once you’ve made your decision.”

The door is slammed in his face, and he sighs and scratches at a mosquito bite, slapping another of the despicable bugs away from his arm. He is perfectly prepared to wait however long it takes for the demons to make their decision — however, he really does hope they make it sooner than later, because he technically isn’t supposed to be on Earth at the moment.

There used to be a thrill that came with bending the rules.

However, bending the rules used to mean things like eating gross matter and going to the theater with Crowley, both of which were fun and exciting and made him feel alive.

This isn’t about enjoyment.

Aziraphale needs to fix things, and that will never happen at the rate things are currently moving. Something needs to give.

Something needs to give, no matter the cost.

And if that ‘something’ is the lower ranking angels’ faith in their superiors, than so be it. Making decisions for yourself every once in a while is a good thing — or at the very least, questioning why you’re being told to make the decision that you are.

Still, Aziraphale is nervous. He’s not sure he’ll be able to go through with this. Half of his mind is screaming at him to stop stop stop what do you think you’re doing are you insane this is wrong don’t don’t don’t!

The other half — the part that is numb and simmers with a fury that threatens to go off at random moments — tells him that you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. And biblically, well…

For all that is secret will eventually be brought out into the open, and everything that is concealed will be brought to light and made known to all. (Luke 8:17)

The Almighty has spoken, hasn’t She?

Aziraphale will prove to Metatron that he isn’t lying, not about this. Additionally, he can’t bring himself to sympathize with Michael no matter how hard he tries. She chose this. She chose to consort with Hell at the detriment of Heaven, chose to help attempt to erase Crowley from existence, chose to do evil for evil’s sake.

And Aziraphale will not stand for it.

Heaven will not stand for it — not if Aziraphale has anything to say about it, and surely, surely the Metatron will agree with him. It’s just a matter of collecting the right evidence.

The door swings back open, and Aziraphale snaps back to attention.

Ligur appears disgruntled. Hastur, a determined expression on his face, is holding a phone. He shoves it in Aziraphale’s direction.

“You better keep your word,” Ligur says cooly. “Or you won’t enjoy what happens next.”

Aziraphale takes the demonic phone and slips it carefully into his pocket, knowing that all the evidence rests in that one small box. He has no doubt that past communications must’ve been saved on it. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, and with one last smug smile, turns to leave.

There’s a thin whistle of air.

Rolling his eyes, Aziraphale turns back and miraculously catches the thrown knife by the hilt seconds before it would’ve dug into his chest. “Now, really,” he scolds, “you’ll have to try harder than that if you truly wish to take me out, but I suspect you already know that.”

Ligur smirks, and Hastur gives Aziraphale a shit eating grin. “Just keeping you on your toes.”

With a huff and another roll of his eyes, Aziraphale teleports away, leaving a small ethereal blessing around the house as divine revenge. Tomorrow when the demons awake, their house will be surrounded by a field of thriving flowers, each smelling more heavenly than Heaven itself.

Payback, as the humans say, is a bitch.

Anthony dramatically gestures to the screen behind him. It displays the title screen of a powerpoint, which read, ‘How To Human (For Dummies)’. “Welcome to this very special meeting of the FCA,” he says.

On the couch, Muriel gazes intensely at the screen, their expression determined. Nina is resting her head in her hands, and Maggie is doing her best to muffle her laughter.

“Ssshut up,” Anthony scolds her, but there’s no real heat behind his words and he’s wearing a playful smirk. “This is important. Okay, lesson number one—”

He clicks the control, and the screen moves on to the next slide. “Street Smarts.”

Nina looks up at that. “You’re kidding me. You— oh my God.” 

“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted— Street Smarts can be broken up into a few parts. The first? Never, ever talk to an adult you don’t know,” Anthony says. “Street Smarts!”

He clicks to the next slide. “So, us humans have this fun hobby where we like to kill other people for stupid reasons. Not very smart if you ask me, but what do I know? So, other humans sometimes do this thing where they assault people in the streets, beat them up, and rob them. We call this ‘mugging’.”

When he says ‘mugging’, he clicks to the next slide, which is just a large celebrating emoji.

“So,” Anthony continues, now in full on college professor mode, “should you ever find yourself in a situation like this, feel free to stab them.”

Muriel gasps. “I can’t just stab a human! I’ll get into trouble!”

“Woah woah woah,” Nina says, holding up a hand, “that is definitely not part of Street Smarts. Unless John Mulaney did some secret extra production that I don’t know about?” Her words are sarcastic.

Anthony scowls. “I took some creative liberties. Besides, what use would Muriel have for money binder clip thingees? They’re a literal angel!” 

“What would Aziraphale think if he learned that you were telling Muriel to stab people?” Maggie scolds, leaning back into the couch and crossing her arms, raising her eyebrows at Anthony. 

“Fine,” Anthony huffs. To Muriel, he says, “Don’t stab anyone, just miracle them unconscious. If it’s you or them, then you should always choose you, got it?”

Looking relieved, Muriel nods. “Yes. That’s good, because I really don’t want to stab anyone.”

“Aren’t you angels literal warriors?” Nina asks.

Muriel grimaces, shaking their head, and worries their bottom lip. “I mean… most of us are. I’m just a scribe though. Thirty seventh order…. Heh.” They shake their head, then smile. “I like it a lot better here — the bookshop is really nice, and I’ve read almost half the books.”

There’s a long pause in which everyone averts their eyes, lost in their own heads, before Anthony coughs loudly and gestures awkwardly back to his powerpoint. “Right. Next up: don’t get into cars with strangers, no matter how nice they look. Don’t accept food from anyone you don’t know — unless you’re in a restaurant, in which case it’s okay. Uh…” He flips through the powerpoint slides, frowning. “Shit, these are out of order. Ngk.”

He flips to the last slide. “You know what, we’ll just end here: don’t trust anyone, unless you’re absolutely certain that they have your best interests in mind, and even then you should still be wary.”

Maggie frowns, raising a hand. “That seems like a very cynical thing to tell them.”

Scowling, Anthony says, “It’s good advice.”

“Not really. If you go through life never trusting anyone, than you get really depressed and paranoid and bottle everything up,” says Maggie.

Nina sighs, tapping her fingers on her leg. “I think it’s a mixed bag. There isn’t really a right answer, just trade offs. Not trusting anyone keeps you safe, sure, but it also keeps you from really living. And if you’re not really living, than what’s the point?”

The bookshop falls silent again.

“Ngk, yeah. Suppose you’re right,” Anthony mutters. He sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Right, does anyone want to go to the bar? I feel like getting drunk.”

Maggie hesitates. “Sorry, I don’t really like bars,” she mumbles.

“That’s fine,” Anthony says, waving a hand. “I know it isn’t for anyone. What about you, Nina? Muriel?”

Muriel hunches in on themself. “Um, is it going to be loud? I don’t really like loud places.”

“Yeah, you probably shouldn’t come then,” Anthony says, drumming his fingers on his arm. “Nina?”

Shrugging, Nina stands, throwing her purse strap over her shoulder. “I’ll go with you. You’re not a half bad drinking partner, and I could really use something as well. It’s been a long week — I swear, some of the people around here are so damn entitled…”

Chapter Text

Nina slides into a seat across from Anthony, who is lounging out with one arm thrown over the back of the chair. His sunglasses completely cover his eyes. They dim the already pretty dim room, making it so Anthony has to squint in order to see what’s going on around him.

He’s nursing a glass of Talisker Whiskey. Upon seeing him order his, Nina (who never had any before) had gone out on a limb and gotten Talisker as well. She seems to like it well enough, though she looks like she’d have gone for anything alcoholic at the moment.

“So, mind sharing why you want Muriel to go around stabbing people?” Nina asks, raising an eyebrow and leaning back in her seat.

Anthony smirks. “What, you don’t think Muriel’s earned the right to a bit of stabby stabby after all they’ve had to put up with?”

Looking unimpressed, Nina replies, “If you’re going to evade the question, at least put a bit more effort into it.”

“Fine. Muriel is like — ngk, they’re like a puppy. And that puppy’s been kicked, and obviously you can’t turn back time and make it so they were never kicked, but you can keep them from getting kicked again in the future.”

Nina nods, a look of understanding flashing across her face. “Ah. So you see a younger version of yourself in Muriel, which is making you extremely protective of them.”

“Shut up,” Anthony says with a groan, throwing his head back to stare at the ceiling. The wooden planks are slightly rotted — huh, that’s definitely a safety hazard. Or not, since Aziraphale wouldn’t let it — this was one of Crowley’s favorite places to drink (asides from the bookshop, of course).

Anthony frowns. Wait, when exactly did that come up in conversation with the angel? He can’t remember them ever having discussed it, but they must have, because there’s no way that Anthony could’ve known that tidbit of information unless Aziraphale had told him.

“No offense, but what is it about Muriel that reminds you of yourself?” Nina asks.
“They’re sunshine incarnate, and you’re an alcoholic goth with a pessimistic streak wider than the English Channel.”

“Sorry, my tragic backstory isn’t unlocked until you reach level 22 of friendship,” Anthony says, smiling false apologetically, then holds out his hand. “For 50 euros and your firstborn child, you can skip to that level instantaneously — today only!”

Looking Anthony dead in the eye, Nina pulls out her wallet and removes 50 euros worth of monopoly money, placing them in his hand as he gapes at her.

“Were you just carrying these around?” he asks.

Nina snorts, slipping her wallet back into her pocket, and shakes her head. “Maggie made me play Monopoly with her earlier, and she accidentally left those in the cafe. Now, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait on my firstborn.”

“Fuck you,” Anthony says, flabberghasted. “That’s not how this works.”

“Oh? And when exactly did you specify that in the rules?” Nina asks, smirking and downing the rest of her whiskey. “How about we trade? I’ll tell you mine, you’ll tell me yours, and we’ll never speak of this again under penalty of certain death.”

Anthony considers this for all of three seconds before shrugging. “Bet.” 

“So, I’ve got five sisters, and — lucky me — I ended up smack dab in the middle,” Nina begins casually. “Our parents died when I was twelve, and since my oldest sister Amanda had just turned eighteen and we had no other close relatives, she got custody over all four of us. Obviously, she spent most of her time working. 

“The second oldest, Katelyn, had just turned fifteen and ended up doing most of the work caring for the two younger ones — she made them lunch, kept the house clean, and took up a part time job. She quit soccer and nearly ended up dropping out of school, but Amanda explained the situation to Katelyn’s teachers and they let her switch to doing school online.

“Now, my two younger sisters are actually twins. Lisa and Ellie are four years younger than me, and Katelyn basically raised them single handedly. By the time I was sixteen, I was so attention starved that I made some really shitty decisions. That’s when I met Lindsey.”

Anthony raises an eyebrow and lifts a hand as if in class. “How old are you again?”

“Thirty–two.”

“You two were together for over a decade then?”

“Unfortunately. Anyway, all Lindsey had to do was remember my name and ask for my number, and I was head over heels for them. Like I said, I did some really stupid shit, but somehow managed to graduate with decent enough grades. I got an apartment with Lindsey, got my bachelors in business management, then opened up ‘Give Me Coffee Or Give Me Death’. 

“I was really proud. I remember the day I signed the papers, and I was so fucking happy — then Lindsey told me it was going to crash and burn, and that I was stupid to think I could actually pull it off. ‘Course, they later denied saying anything of the sort.”

Anthony scoffs, drumming his fingers against the table. “Shows what they know. Lindsey sounds like a real piece of work if you ask me. Not the good kind of work, obviously. You know, the kind of work where it’s like, c’mon, you had one fucking job—”

“I was in the middle of a story, you know,” Nina says, but she’s grinning, a wry smile that makes Anthony relax further into his seat. He isn’t good with people, but apparently this is one friendship he might actually be able to maintain. 

After all, if Nina’s willing to tolerate his rambling, then she already gets along better with Anthony than 99% of the population. “Sorry, continue,” Anthony says graciously, smirking in a way that suggests that he’s actually not sorry at all.

Nina rolls her eyes. “So, at first Lindsey was really nice, right? They told me that I was perfect, that I was so much easier to be around than other girls, and they were always bringing me little gifts that I absolutely adored. Coffee, mostly, but occasionally they’d buy me this really expensive jewelry.

“Of course, it wasn’t selfless on their part. It’s possible that they genuinely thought they were doing it out of love, but really, it was just another stupid manipulation tactic. Whenever I’d try to confront them about anything, they’d bring up how ungrateful I was and how generous they were for buying someone as undeserving as I was expensive, pretty things. It really fucked with my head.”

Anthony nods sympathetically, then leans forward. “Have you considered murder?”

“Fuck off.”

“Look, all I’m saying is that you’d never have to worry about them again, right?”

Nina snorts, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous, you know?”

“I know,” Anthony says smugly.

Nina sits up a bit straighter, a gleam in her eyes, and she smirks at Anthony. “Right, I’ve told you my sob story. Now it’s your turn — spill.”

Anthony groans loudly, dragging his hand down his face. “You’re worse than Zira,” he grumbles, forcing his heart not to tank at the mention of the stupid, stupid angel — not a real angel, of course, but… Zira would always be an angel in his heart.

And now he’s supposed to talk about his feelings. Gross.

With a dramatic sigh that the situation certainly doesn’t call for, Anthony begins to tell his ‘sob story’. “So, growing up it was just me and my mum, and the kid across the street with curly hair so blonde it looked white, like the soft snow on a chilly January morning…”

At that moment, Aziraphale is settling down at his desk. The paperwork has all been shoved unceremoniously to the sides, and the plain wood of the desk (painted white to match the aesthetic, of course, and oh does Aziraphale hate the color white… well, no, he doesn’t hate it, because angels don’t hate) is hard and sturdy.

He sets the phone atop the wood and peers down at it as if it holds the answers to the universe within its small white frame.

Exhaling slowly, he tries to calm his breathing. In his mind's eye, Aziraphale sees Crowley lounging out on the nonexistent chair opposite him — just as he’d imagined it when he’d accepted the Metatron’s offer. Aziraphale at the head of operations, and Crowley as his second in command.

Heh. The idea is rather romantic — of course, the thought only causes the gnawing self loathing to burrow deeper into Aziraphale’s chest like a parasite he can’t seem to rid himself of.

Aziraphale shakes his head, exhales once more, then presses the power button on the phone.

He almost expects the alarm bells to go off, and then the Metatron would come and Aziraphale would be tossed from the highest point, falling into boiling sulfur that would fill his lungs and drown him drown him drown him—

Gasping, Aziraphale hits his forehead with the heel of his hand. Stop it, he scolds himself, now thoroughly shaken up. One step at a time. As Crowley used to say, ‘I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it.’

The phone turns on with a loud ping.

Aziraphale cringes, glancing all around, but no one comes to seize him. He’s safe… for now, at least.

The phone has a password, but as Supreme Angel, Aziraphale is quickly able to override it. (He may have some practice demanding objects to do as they’re told — just one more thing he’d learned from Crowley).

He goes to open the text message, but his fingers hesitate, and instead he clicks on the video calling feature. Sure enough, it has past calls recorded — all the evidence Aziraphale would need to get Michael demoted. 

Of course Aziraphale sees the irony in all this. However, Aziraphale is consorting with demons to try and make things better for everyone, while Michael had only been doing it for selfish gain… so it’s two totally different things, right?

He can practically see Crowley smirking and saying, ‘Oh, angel, you don’t really believe that, do you?’

“Shut up. You’re not here, so you don’t get to tell me what to do,” Aziraphale says, pursing his lips… alright, this is just becoming pathetic. He needs to pull himself together already.

Aziraphale clicks on the most recent recorded video call — it’s from two months post the apocalypse that wasn’t.

Ligur is in a dirty room with drabby lighting, while Michael is put together, lipstick and all — the contrast really is damning.

Curtly, Michael says, “Ligur.”

“Michael.”

“Have you received any updates?”

Snorting, Ligur shakes his head. “They still think I’m dead, and Hastur is supposedly ‘off corrupting the humans’ somewhere. The clingy motherfucker hasn’t left our room in weeks.”

Michael narrows her eyes. “Well, Gabriel has been completely useless in this whole ordeal. We’re thinking of demoting him if he doesn’t pull his act together soon.”

“That’s a thing you can do?”

“Well, why wouldn’t it be?”

“You’d think angels would be more loyal,” Ligur murmurs, his gaze uncomfortably intense.

Huffing, Michael rolls her eyes like an annoyed mother, and the camera shifts a bit. “I amn’t about to tattle to Hell, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Ligur hums, not blinking. “You’re lying,” he says. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t frown, just keeps staring until even Aziraphale is shifting uncomfortably. “I’m no longer useful, so you’re going to tell the Metatron that I’m alive the moment you get off the phone.”

“You know me so well.”

“Fuck you, Michael.”

There’s a long pause in which Michael sneers, and Aziraphale feels a pang of annoyance, then something twists in his chest — a nagging feeling that Aziraphale knows by now shouldn’t be ignored. 

Wait, the Metatron knows that Ligur is alive, must know that Michael was in cahoots with Ligur, which means— Aziraphale’s blood runs cold. With a sick feeling, Aziraphale forces himself to keep his eyes on the screen.

“Well, perhaps I’m doing you a favor. After the Second Coming, your precious little life will be dust — better they find out now then while they’re getting destroyed. Consider it a mercy.”

The phone call ends, leaving Aziraphale gazing at his own horrified reflection looking back at him from the dark screen.

Second Coming?

He swallows harshly, rubbing his eyes.

Fuck.

Bile threatens its way up his esophagus, but Aziraphale shoves it back down — he doesn’t have fucking time to be sick right now. His stupid, stupid corporation should know that.

Aziraphale slips the phone into his pocket with trembling fingers. His expression as he stands is determined, his face pale and a haunted expression lingering in his light blue eyes, and this time a new emotion rises behind the screaming anxiety —

Anger.

The Metatron has some explaining to do. Aziraphale clings onto the hope, however slim, that there might be some explanation.

And yet… Aziraphale can no longer deny the likeliness that the Metatron isn’t as innocent as he’d been led to believe. As much as Aziraphale hates confrontation, he hates not knowing even more.

Perhaps he owes Crowley an apology.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale walks down the blindingly bright hall towards the Metatron’s office. Of course, he could’ve traveled there in an instant with nary a thought (honestly, his new powers sort of scare him) but he needs the time to think, and he’s also a master of prolonging the inevitable.

Questions are bouncing around his mind so quickly that he’s unable to consider any of them individually.

For courage, Aziraphale closes his eyes and imagines Crowley holding his hand and walking beside him. Everything is going to be okay.

“Everything is always all right in the end — and if it isn’t all right, then it’s not the end.”

Exhaling slowly, Aziraphale clenches and unclenches his fists, turning the last corner — and there it is. The door, fancy and elegant, which had been locked for millenia.

 (Why did the Metatron choose now of all times to open his doors and put things to rights? Aziraphale had told himself that it was because the Almighty had told the Metatron not to, because She knew it would work itself out, but there’s no proof of that having been what happened. Had Aziraphale just been finding excuses?)

Aziraphale approaches the door. He can hear the sound of his heart beating, of his shallow breaths, and—

And voices coming from within the office. Aziraphale falls deathly still, the angelic phone weighing heavy in his pocket. Holding his breath, he quietly makes the last few steps forward and, with a quick glance around to make sure no one is watching, presses an ear against the door.

“—more careful, Michael. I know you’re disgruntled at being passed by, but everything will come in due time as long as you obey. Now, our nosy little problem has yet to find any evidence, and is too frightened at the prospect of messing up to actually do anything about it,” the Metatron is saying, “but that doesn’t mean that he won’t collect the evidence should you place it on his lap like a fool. Walking into Hell rather than handing off the Holy Water was asking for trouble.”

The last bit of uncertainty drains from Aziraphale’s mind, taking the rest of Aziraphale’s emotions with it. Fury, shame, fear — it all slowly fades out, leaving Aziraphale feeling numb and empty. He should be upset, shouldn’t he? So why is it that exhaustion is the only thing that his heart now contains?

“I still don’t understand why it had to be him,” Michael says.

Through the door, Aziraphale can feel Metatron sigh — they’ve clearly been through this several times already. “My explanation has not changed. He’s the perfect figurehead, and moreso, is easily molded into the symbol we need him to be. He’s well liked by the general angelic population, and having him in power lifts morale and reaffirms the faith the lower ranking angels have in their superiors.”

Aziraphale gazes down at his hands, not blinking, his expression blank. Beneath the thick blanket of numbness a fiery anger burns and burns, and the blanket cannot fully smother the flames no matter how hard it tries.

The blanket does succeed in making the anger feel very far away though. It’s sort of detached — as if it isn’t really happening, as if it's the remnants of a memory long forgotten rather than a reaction to a current ordeal that he’s struggling to endure.

Michael grunts, then begins, “Still—”

“Enough, Michael,” the Metatron interrupts, the gentleness suddenly absent from his voice. And then, as quickly as it had disappeared, it returns. “I’ve a lot of work to do in preparation for the Second Coming, as you well know, so perhaps it's time for you to return to your office and do the work I delegated to you.”

 Time to go.

Aziraphale closes his eyes, and with a sudden confidence — or perhaps it’s just the harsh absence of fear — he miracles himself away. Not back to his office though. 

No, it’s his fault that this is happening — perhaps not directly, but he played his part, even if that part was one of an overpowered pawn in an ineffable game.

He doesn’t care what he might have to do to fix it. Not anymore.

Crowley is gone, and the bookshop is gone, and Aziraphale somehow feels both impossibly free and more weighed down than ever before. There are chains formed of every mistake he’s made forcing him to haul a hundred thousand regrets at his heel, and he’s pulling the weight all alone. There’s no one to turn to.

If only he could at least apologize — if not for Crowley’s sake, than for his own.

But he’d lost that chance.

One awful moment of confusion and frustration and desperation, one cutting ‘I forgive you’, and Aziraphale had set everything that mattered to him aflame. It’s all gone now — ashes of something that once, ashes of something that will never be again.

Aziraphale reappears by the offices reserved for lower ranking angels. It’s borderline inhumane to keep them isolated like this, though he hadn’t fully realized the implications until recently. 

How strange to think that he’d actually gotten lucky.

Well, here goes nothing. Hopefully, the Metatron was telling the truth about Aziraphale being ‘well liked by most of the angelic population’, otherwise this is going to go very badly. Then again, what is the worst that could possibly happen? Falling? Dying? Destruction?

He has nothing to lose anymore except his faith in the Almighty, and that is something that no one can take away from him, come Hellfire or Holy Water, Hell or Heaven — and should this be part of Her ineffable plan, then everything will turn out fine, regardless of whether Aziraphale is still alive to see it.

Calling a meeting turns out to be quite an ordeal. The lower ranking angels practically never leave their offices, let alone interact with one another, and some are enthusiastic while others are overwhelmed, and still others appear confused and wary.

“It is quite nice to see all of you,” he says. “Now, I apologize for how abrupt this is, but there will be a lot of changes occurring around here in the new future and I wanted to ensure that you were all properly briefed. Now, first of all, I believe I owe you an apology on behalf of upper management.”

The crowd erupts into murmurs and confused, nervous side glances that Aziraphale chooses to ignore.

“The way you’ve been treated is, quite frankly, abysmal. Every single one of you has equal value to th— us archangels in the Almighty’s eyes. You are not lesser. I would like to make that very clear before I begin speaking here today, because I know first hand how small being belittled can make someone feel. You did not deserve this, and for that, I apologize.

“Effective immediately, there will be a suggestion box —”

Brilliant stars reflected in brilliant eyes, fluffy red hair and a blinding smile, confusion and hurt and love.

“— that everyone is welcome to add their input to, and I shall be reading them myself and giving them my full consideration. Additionally, I believe this area is due a redesigning. I have no idea why they designed it this way, but isolation has extremely negative effects on one's mental health — be thee angel, human, or demon.”

‘I won’t be forgiven! Not ever!’

“As such, while you shall each have an individual office to retreat to should you wish, there will also be a communal area which you are free to move your work areas to.”

‘I forgive you.’

Aziraphale closes his eyes briefly and apologizes to the angel that Crowley was and the demon that Crowley is. He apologizes for all the hurt and pain he caused, indirectly and directly, accidentally and purposefully, and he knows Crowley can’t hear him, but Aziraphale also swears to do better. He refuses to sit back again while others struggle.

He opens his eyes.

The lower ranking angels, about fifteen hundred in total, have fallen completely silent. You could hear a pin drop (and if Crowley were here he’d probably have dropped a pin just to spite Aziraphale, then looked up with that brilliant smirk and a wiggle of his eyebrows, and Aziraphale would smother a smile and laugh with a disapproving Look™, and Crowley’s smirk would grow wider because he’d know that Aziraphale found his antics just as amusing as he did.)

“Does anyone have any questions?” Aziraphale asks. When the room remains silent and no one moves, he frowns and says, “I swear upon my halo that I’m not trying to trick you — in fact, I’m ordering you to ask for clarification should you need or want it, so any blame would fall on my shoulders rather than yours.”

One angel, a short one with dark skin, dark hair, and… well, angelic features (pardon the irony) raises a hand and nervously asks, “What happened to Muriel?” Her voice is very small, and she’s fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.

Aziraphale smiles warmly at her. “Muriel is stationed in London taking care of my bookshop and acting as the angelic diplomat to Earth in London. The last I checked, they had discovered the wonderful world of Jane Austen — ah, a human writer who was involved in quite a few heists back in the 1900s, but who’s most remembered for her brilliant romance novels.”

“Bit eccentric, isn’t he?” one angel near the front murmurs to the angel next to him, probably not intending for Aziraphale to hear.

Aziraphale does hear though, and he looks directly at the angel who spoke and, with a twinkle in his eye, smiles and winks, then looks away as if nothing had happened. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the angel’s mouth drop open while the neighboring angel is muffling laughter.

Another angel raises their hand. “What happened to Gabriel?” they ask, eyes narrowed.

Aziraphale frowns. “They didn’t even tell you about that? Goodness gracious, you’d think that at the very least… nevermind. Gabriel has retired to Alpha Centauri with his, ah, lover.”

“Gabriel? Mr. Perfect has a lover?” one angel blurts out. Upon seemingly realizing that he’d said that out loud, he flushes, shoulders hunching slightly under the weight of so many surprised gazes.

Aziraphale sighs. “Yes, and he’s quite insufferable about it. The two of them act like an old married couple — if an old married couple did paperwork and tortured people for fun, that is — and he’s distanced himself completely from Heaven under threat of being erased from the Book of Life.” 

There are gasps, and some of the angels are glancing nervously about, a look of terror on their faces.

“Do not be afraid,” Aziraphale assures. “The Metatron didn’t allow them to go through with it — though he did have ulterior motives — however, no harm will come to any of you under my protection. I swear it.”

He’ll die before he breaks that promise.

One angel in the far back raises a hand, and Aziraphale’s heart stops — for a second, he could swear he was looking at Crowley, but the angel’s eyes are brown and their hair is just the wrong shade of red, and they’re holding themself stiffly whereas Crowley’s limbs were always flailing about with abandon. “Yes?” Aziraphale says kindly, putting on his best smile and praying that none of them see through it.

“You said that there would be a lot of new changes,” the angel says, gazing at Aziraphale with intensity. “What new changes? Why? Do they include upper management? Did something happen? What do you mean that the Metatron had ulterior motives? Who did Gabriel fall in love with, and why have you been dancing around the subject?”

Azirphale exhales slowly.

It’s not Crowley, he reminds himself, but his heart still twinges painfully. Asking questions indeed.

“Yes, the changes will include upper management. It has been brought to my attention that there is significant corruption amongst the higher ranking angels — yes, I do have evidence, which we can discuss another time — and the highest ranking angel, I have the power to ensure that actions are taken against such things. 

“Ideally, Heaven should not be a bureaucracy. Changes cannot happen all at once, but I hope that you all can join me in creating a better Heaven — one in which everyone is listened to, regardless of rank. As for who Gabriel fell in love with…” Aziraphale grimaces. “Well, let’s just say that Hell is down a Duke.”

The crowd erupts in exclamatory questions and gasps of both dismay and wonder, and Aziraphale has to wait a good few minutes for everyone to calm down enough for him to be heard. “Now, I’m afraid I have other work to attend to… unless there are any more questions that don’t have to do with Gabriel and Beelzebub’s love life?”

No hands go up.

Aziraphale smiles. “I do hope you all have a wonderful rest of the day.” With that, he disappears in a flash of lightning, appearing back in his office and collapsing at his desk. The smile instantly drops, and his breaths come heavily. Focus, he commands himself. Stop being so weak.

He falls asleep at his desk, his arms folded and his head resting on them, completely exhausted from the day's events.

“Look, all I’m saying is that the angel — not you, Muriel, the other one — keeps coming here in the middle of the night to stand outside the bookshop, looking melancholy, and it’s like, c’mon Aziraphale, I know you have it bad but honestly,” Nina says, rolling her eyes.

Anthony makes a face. “And how do you know this? Is your shop open 24/7 now?”

“Mind your own damn business, Mr. Stabbing People is Good, Actually,” Nina says, taking a long sip of coffee. “Sleep is for the weak.”

Muriel frowns, tilting their head, and looks to Anthony and Maggie for help. Quietly, they say, “Don’t all humans need to sleep?”

“You’re absolutely right, Muriel,” Anthony says, “but Nina here has this lovely little thing called untreated insomnia.”

“Shut your goddamn mouth Anthony or I swear to God I’ll —”

“You’ll what?” Anthony sneers playfully, brown eyes glimmering with mischief in the artificial light of the bookshop. His sunglasses lay forgotten on the coffee table. “Serve me decaf? I’m shaking in my snake skin boots.”

Maggie sets her knitting down and sighs, though the corners of her mouth are twitching upwards with apparent amusement. “Be nice, Anthony.”

“I’m never nice — not a word, Muriel.”

Muriel, who had opened their mouth to protest, quickly closes it and looks back down at their book.

It isn’t a meeting day, so they aren’t going through clues, but all of them had gravitated toward the bookshop regardless. Muriel is reading, Maggie is knitting, Anthony is complaining, and Nina is regretting all her life decisions. It’s an average Wednesday for the four friends. The only one missing from the bookshop is Aziraphale, who none of them have seen in over a week.

Finally, Muriel sighs and closes their book. “Are we going to talk about the giraffe in the room?”

“Elephant, Muriel,” Anthony corrects. “It’s the elephant in the room, not the giraffe — couldn’t fit a giraffe in here, those buggers have really really long necks, oodles and oodles long. Then again, I don’t think that you could fit an elephant in here either—”

“Anthony,” Nina says, raising an eyebrow. “You’re comically far from the point.”

Maggie sighs again. “We don’t know for a fact that something is wrong. He’s the Supreme Angel now, so he likely has a lot of work to do.”

“Right, so he doesn’t have time to come talk to us, but he has time to stare at the bookshop like a lovesick homosexual at what the actual fuck o’clock?” Nina says, then glares at her coffee cup, which is completely empty except for a few dregs at the bottom.

Anthony slinks further down in his chair, resting his feet on the coffee table. “If you're worried, Muriel, then why don’t you just call him? Can’t you do that?”

Flushing, Muriel averts their eyes, laughing nervously. “I mean, theoretically? But I don’t want to push my luck. People tend to find me a bit much, and he’s the only angel who sort of likes me, so…”

All four of them are silent after that, lost in their thoughts.

Anthony honestly sort of wants to deck Aziraphale for leaving them all in the dark. At the very least, the angel should tell Muriel what’s going on, even if he’s too high and mighty to associate with three mere mortals. (Beneath the anger is a worry that Anthony refuses to acknowledge. He doesn’t worry about people, because only nice people worry about other people, and Anthony isn’t nice nor selfless.)

(No, Anthony is perfectly content with the idea that Aziraphale might be in trouble, which has nothing to do with why his eyes fly to the door every time someone walks past only to sink away disappointedly when it’s not Aziraphale he sees.)

(Nevermind that he finds himself praying, actually praying , that Aziraphale shows up soon — if only so they know he’s not dead in a ditch somewhere, or whatever the angelic equivalent is.)

(Stupid angels.)

(Anthony is not worried.)

Chapter Text

“Muriel’s been worried about you.”

Aziraphale doesn’t move, gaze still fixed on the bookshop, expression unreadable. “Have they now?”

“Yeah. Kind of rude, if you ask me, leaving them in the dark like that,” Anthony says. He swirls Nina’s keychain around his finger, raising an eyebrow as he steps onto the sidewalk next to Aziraphale. After a long pause, he adds, “Ngk… Nina let me stake out in the coffee shop.”

Aziraphale hums in acknowledgement. The streetlamps cast shadows across every surface, their bulbs dancing with swarms of moths

“What is it that you’re thinking about? Nina says you’ve been doing this every few nights, but there isn’t much to look at, is there?”

Sighing, Aziraphale shakes his head and finally shifts his gaze to Anthony. He has a far away, empty look in his eyes. “I’ve been wondering what would’ve happened if I’d said no to the Metatron that day. And… well, whenever we fought in the past, Crowley would occasionally come stand out here in the middle of the night. I think he was always trying to find the courage to knock, but never did. I suppose I was hoping he might show up one of these nights.”

“Has he?”

“No.”

Anthony tilts his head, letting his own gaze wander to the dark windows of the bookshop. He hesitates “Well, is there any point in staying here much longer? Tonight, I mean.”

Sighing, Aziraphale smiles bitterly and says, “I suppose not, but I don’t really want to go back to Heaven quite yet, and checking on my bookshop is a believable enough excuse to get me away for a few hours.”

“That’s good. Great, actually, since the train ride will take a few hours at the very least.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes. “What train ride?”

“Well, originally all five of us were going to go, but then Nina and Maggie decided to have a date night and Muriel,” Anthony jerks a thumb behind him in the direction of the coffee shop, “fell asleep waiting for you, and I’m not about to wake them up. Don’t worry, I left them a note,” Anthony says with a smirk, purposefully ignoring Aziraphale’s question. “C’mon, it leaves in a half hour. We can take the bus.”

“Anthony,” Aziraphale appears visibly annoyed now, “what train? Where are we going and why?”

“Edinburgh, of course. Where else?” Anthony says, rolling his eyes as if Aziraphale were being purposefully obtuse and fighting back a smile at the angel’s disapproving Look™. “ 

“...I could simply miracle us there in seconds.”

Anthony makes an offended noise in the back of his throat, shaking his head. “No, you’ll like the train. C’mon, do you really have anything better to do?”

“Of course I do!” Azirapahle protests, but it’s a weak protest, and Anthony grins. Victory.

He tilts his head back, raising both his eyebrows. “Y’know, I hear train food is rather good these days.”

“...Oh, alright. Why Edinburgh though?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?”

“I — what?”

Something’s wrong with Aziraphale.  He falls asleep less than five minutes into the train ride and stays that way until Anthony wakes him up five hours later, and even then Aziraphale still has deep bags under his eyes and moves just a tad slower than normal. It’s concerning to say the least.

After they get off the train, Anthony jumps in front of Aziraphale and begins to walk backwards down the street, gesturing with his hands as he explains the statue of Gabriel and the miracle the night of Crowley's disappearance.

"Ah, that does ring a bell," Aziraphale says, appearing amused by Anthony's antics. "I believe I remember you four discussing it at one of your meetings."

"Right, yes, forgot you were there. Say, why have you been avoiding us? Busy with your side, or—"

Aziraphale stops walking, his hazel eyes darkening with a sudden fierceness. "Heaven is not my side."

 Blinking, Anthony makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat, but then again, doesn't he know what that's like? Hadn't he once experienced the exact same thing, once? He winces, giving Aziraphale a look of sympathy. "Disillusioned, are you?"

"Yes.” Aziraphale doesn’t say anything beyond that, and Anthony drops the subject, the two navigating the rest of the busy streets to the cemetery in silence. 

Honestly, if Anthony were anyone else he’d probably have cowered away from the terse angel. Aziraphale’s demeanor screams ‘leave me alone’, but Anthony’s never been one to listen to what people tell him, so he strolls beside the angel with an air of false confidence that’s always acted as his crutch.

Unsurprisingly, the cemetery is vacant. The headstones are old and crumbling, moss creeping up their unkempt sides, with most announcing a date of death sometime between the 16th and 19th century. Poor old sods. Anthony’s muscles relax, and his swagger comes easier than it had before.

“I spent a lot of time in places like this as a teenager,” Anthony says, then freezes as something brushes against his leg. Slowly, he turns his gaze downwards.

The ‘something’ in question is a mangy black cat so skinny that Anthony could count its ribs. Anthony glares down at it, but it continues to gaze up at him with hopeful eyes. “If you’re looking for food, there’s a butcher's shop down the street there.”

It meows at him, tilting its head. 

Anthony scowls. “Do I look like a cat cafeteria to you? No, now shoo.”

The cat does not shoo; Aziraphale snorts, eyes glimmering with amusement, causing Anthony a burst of both annoyance and fondness. Hmph. He communicates this with a deadly glare in the angel's direction, but Aziraphale only holds up his hands in mock surrender.

“You’re still smiling. Stop smiling, this isn’t funny,” Anthony commands. If he’d used such a tone with Muriel, they’d have cowered and instantly apologized. (Not that Anthony would ever use such a tone with Muriel).

But Aziraphale just smirks like the absolute bastard he is, then pointedly turns his gaze down to the cat, who is in the process of lounging out on top of Anthony’s foot — it's practically asking to be kicked. Stupid thing.

“Don’t you dare,” Aziraphale says with an affronted look, and how is it that the angel is able to read his expressions so easily? Most people find Anthony very hard to figure out. Heaven, even Anthony can’t figure Anthony out most of the time.

Now thoroughly irritated, Anthony rolls his eyes. “Right, I guess we can just forget all our plans and wait for the mangy little leech to finish its nap. Not like we had things to get done, after all. I’m perfectly happy to stand here for the rest of the day.”

“Oh, isn’t that lovely?” Aziraphale says, eyes shining with mischief. “I’m so glad to hear it. Shall I leave you here and carry out our original plans, or wait here with you so you don’t get lonely?”

Has Anthony mentioned how much of an absolute bastard Aziraphale is?

“Fuck you,” Anthony hisses through gritted teeth, once more glaring down at the cat. “Just get it off already, will you?”

There’s a tinkering of a wind chime in the distance, and Aziraphale’s smiles sweetly, kneeling down and scooping up the cat in his arms. Grime from the cat's matted fur smears across Aziraphale’s suit, turning fancy white fabric a dull muddy brown. The cat purrs and rubs its head against Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale smiles fondly down at it, then looks up at Anthony, a smug expression on his face that Anthony couldn’t forget if he tried.  “All you had to do was ask, you know.”

“Fuck you.”

Aziraphale gasps and covers the cat's ears. “In front of the children? Anthony!"

“The cat’s heard worse, living on the streets. Haven’t you?” he asks the cat. Funnily enough, his opinion of the cat has improved significantly since it stopped treating him like a pillow. The cat gazes up at him and meows.

…Why does the cat remind him of Zira?

Nope, nuh uh, absolutely not. He is not dealing with this today. Right, moving on.

"You know, I do believe that Crowley always wanted a cat," Aziraphale murmurs, gazing softly at the stray. "It never took long for him to warm up to the furry rascals, and he always got this look in his eyes… but I think he was worried about what Hell might do if they found out he'd started taking in strays, so he never let himself get too attached."

Suddenly, Aziraphale jerks his head up to stare at Anthony with wide eyes.

Anthony, recognizing the look, takes a step backwards and growls. “No. No, absolutely not.”

“Oh, but you have such a nice apartment, and I’m sure this sweet thing wouldn’t cause too much trouble!” Sod it all to Heaven, Aziraphale’s puppy eyes are just as persuasive as Zira’s. 

Not one to give in so easily however, Anthony tilts his head back and gives Aziraphale an incredulous look. “I can barely take care of myself, angel, and you expect me to take proper care of a stray? Are you insane?”

Aziraphale freezes. An odd look passes over his face, and he gazes intensely at Anthony, who shifts his weight from foot to foot and stares back awkwardly. Is this what it feels like to be a bug under a microscope? 

“You— you called me angel,” Aziraphale says finally, averting his eyes and scratching the purring cat behind its ears.

Anthony makes a face. “You are an angel — like, a literal angel — aren’t you? Besides, Aziraphale is a bit of a mouthful to say while drinking. I can— er, I can stop, if it makes you uncomfortable.”

A haze passes over Aziraphale’s eyes, and he blinks, frowning. “No, it’s perfectly alright. I thought— oh nevermind.”

Anthony raises a skeptical eyebrow, waiting patiently with crossed arms and finally Aziraphale sighs.

“Well, for a moment I thought… oh dear. There was something important, and now— well, now I can’t remember.” Aziraphale’s face is scrunched up with frustration, something confused flickering across his face, then he shakes his head and sighs. “I apologize. My memory has been quite subpar these days, I’m afraid.”

…Huh, that’s odd.

“...Alright.” Anthony starts walking again, and Aziraphale follows, gaze still distant as if he’s deep in thought. The cat, little bastard that it is, starts chewing on the lapel of Aziraphale’s suit.

The graveyard is eerily silent.

Dead grass crunches under Anthony’s snakeskin boots, the slightly cool wind biting at his face, and he keeps having to push wisps of his hair — which has grown quite a bit in the past month — out of his eyes so that he can see where he’s going. The further into the cemetery they go, the older the gravestones appear.

The graveyard stretches across quite a few acres of land. At first the statue is just a tiny blob in the distance, obscured by a thin, low hanging fog, but the closer that Anthony and Aziraphale get the more apparent it is that something is wrong with it.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs admonishingly, eyes narrowing. “Really… I swear, he’s the most overdramatic entity to ever exist.”

Anthony snorts. “I think that might be a bit of an understatement.”

The statue’s face is warped and disfigured, the clear indentation of a fist visible in the marred stone.

“Well, at least we know what the miracle was for,” says Anthony.

Narrowing his eyes, Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, he wouldn’t need to use a miracle for something like this. His corporation’s strength is simply far greater than any humans — he probably didn’t even break his fist. Therefore, there must be something else… hmm.”

Something is nagging Anthony. He closes his eyes, and for some reason… well, there’s a group of trees by the edge of the graveyard, and there might be something important there. A hunch?

“C’mon, let’s go search over there,” Anthony says, nodding his head in the direction of the trees, their branches shaking in the wind, leaves slipping from the boughs and drifting away in the unforgiving breeze. There’s something wrong.

The problem is, Anthony hasn’t a clue why he thinks this. He chews at the inside of his cheek, forcing his demeanor to stay relaxed and nonchalant.

Aziraphale nods. “It’s worth a look around, I suppose. I don’t believe there’s anything else to find here.” With a last, too long glance at the statue, Aziraphale reluctantly turns  and begins the walk towards the trees.

Anthony exhales slowly — good, he doesn’t have to explain himself. He trots after Aziraphale (and that blessed cat, which Aziraphale still hasn’t set down), barely resisting the urge to glance back over his shoulder. No one is following you, idiot. Settle down. This isn’t your old neighborhood , no one is out to get you, you’re your own person now. Calm the fuck down.

Up close, it’s apparent that the trees are in the early stages of decaying, creeping slowly towards death as surely as all the mortals buried in the graveyard had been.

As surely as Anthony is.

Exhaling slowly, he quietly walks at Aziraphale’s heel, the only source of light coming from the cloud-covered sky above. Anthony sees a flash of black, and abruptly halts in his tracks. He creeps over and pushes the leaves aside so he can get a better look.

It’s a Bentley.

With trembling fingers — why is he trembling? — Anthony starts walking towards it. Briefly, he considers getting Aziraphale, but some part of him is so intent on getting to the old car that he can’t bring himself to even say the angel’s name.

A sharp pain shoots through his mind. The dead grass is covered in dew, which seeps through his skinny jeans and wets his knees — wait, since when has he been on the ground? What—

The pain becomes unbearable. Anthony curls in on himself, face buried in his hands, and begins to mumble… something. His brain is so, so foggy and it hurts worse than any bullet ever could. Shit, what the hell is going on? The words are spilling from his mouth like water from a leaky faucet, only where did the water come from because the faucet isn’t attached to anything?

His mind is burning, burning, burning.

In the — a g — ede— wi — led ba— gave it awa — wha– — app — cursed to c — help—

Burning, burning, burning.

This is worse than all of his dreams combined.

And then just as suddenly as it started, it ends.

Anthony stays there on the ground, shaky and sweaty and with tears wetting his cheeks. A drop of something wet falls on his neck, the beginnings of a rainstorm, as if the sky is crying for him. What was that?

There’s the crunching of dried grass, footsteps, and then, “Anthony? Where did you go, I was just — oh! Oh dear, are you quite alright?”

Shaking his head — then wincing as it throbs painfully — Anthony whispers, “I don’t feel well. I — I…. I can’t, I don’t, there’s something…”

“Oh dear, let’s get you back to the bookshop.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft and comforting, causing a wave of security to wash over Anthony like a soothing balm.

Anthony is vaguely aware of the cat being placed down next to him, a firm hand on his shoulder, the world twisting and bending and morphing around him, and then there’s something soft and comfy under him and he allows his eyes to fall closed.

He’s safe now.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale hadn’t seen Anthony collapse. One moment he’d been searching through the trees, making a grim joke that he thought Anthony might like, only there was no response. No laugh, no groan at the bad punchline, nothing. Only silence.

(Aziraphale doesn’t like the quiet — it’s why he always had a record playing in the shop and why he so enjoyed listening to Crowley talk.)

He’d turned around at that point, an odd feeling in his chest. Something was wrong.

By the time he’d found Anthony, the man was curled on the dewy grass, trembling and mumbling something inaudible, an almost rhythmic lilt to his distorted words. 

Then Aziraphale had seen the Bentley. For a moment, the world stopped  spinning — Crowley wouldn’t just leave the Bentley sitting around in the middle of nowhere. That — that would be so very out of the ordinary for him. Crowley loves his Bentley, he wouldn’t — he’d never just abandon it for no reason.

He wouldn’t.

Part of him wanted to ignore Anthony and search the Bentley for something, anything that might give him some hint of what had happened. But… but Crowley wouldn’t want that. Crowley would want Aziraphale to take care of the humans around him — would want Aziraphale to be the symbol of goodness that Heaven never was.

So Aziraphale turned his back to the Bentley. He’d set the cat on the ground, knelt down, and scooped Anthony into his arms. Then, in a flash of lightning, he miracled the three of them back to the bookshop.

After lying Anthony down on the couch, Aziraphale had given Maggie, Nina, and Muriel a quick briefing on what had happened. Then he’d placed a hand on Muriel’s shoulder, and the bookshop was no more.

The two angels stand now in the cemetery clearing.

Beams of the late morning sun peaking through the clouds glint off the Bentley’s shiny black surface, and Muriel fidgets with the edges of their sleeves, confused and hesitant.

Aziraphale exhales slowly and strides over to the Bentley. He lays a hand on her cool hood, closes his eyes, and focuses on its energy. It reeks of sad upset confused upset lonely sad uncertain panicked lonely lonely lonely — Aziraphale’s frown deepens. He pats the Bentley in what is hopefully a comforting motion, then removes his hand and unlocks the doors with a quick miracle.

(If he turns it yellow, will Crowley come back to scold him, grumbling and pouting like he had that day?)

“Wasn’t this Mr. Crowley’s car?” Muriel asks, following him around to the door that opens to the driver’s seat. They’re gazing at it with a solemn expression that Aziraphale isn’t used to seeing on them.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says simply — because what else is there to say? That Crowley loves the Bentley almost as much as he loves the nebulas and the stars, almost as much as he’d loved creating galaxies at his fingertips? (Almost as much as he’d loved Aziraphale?)

He opens the driver’s seat door. The inside of the Bentley is immaculate as always, but the plants in the back are wilted, their leaves dropping downwards like they’ve given up. Crowley would never have allowed that.

Aziraphale’s stomach sinks, and he forces himself to breathe, because he’s of no use to anyone if he panics, and if something did happen to Crowley (or if Crowley did something stupid) then Aziraphale needs to be able to think rationally.

Maybe Muriel was right about something being wrong.

This isn’t like one of Crowley’s usual naps, during which his plants would stay in tip-top shape, the soil moist no matter how much time passed, because they all knew that Crowley would be coming back.

So what does it mean that they’re in such bad shape?

Muriel, not seeming to notice Aziraphale’s sorry state, runs their hands over the leather seats with wide eyes and a curious expression. “These feel really nice!” they exclaim, and for a moment Aziraphale forgets to be afraid. He laughs, and only someone who knew him as well as Crowley did would notice the despairing nature of it. Crowley knew him even better than he knew himself.

There’s a few bottles of wine in the back, along with a book on stars.

Otherwise, there’s nothing of interest. Heart twisting with an odd mixture of disappointment and relief — which is better, no news or bad news? — Aziraphale takes a step back away from the car.

With a wave of his hand, Aziraphale attempts to miracle the Bentley to the front of the bookshop.

Nothing happens.

Ah, that explains what Crowley’s miracle that night had been — no one is able to move it, not through physical means and not by occult or ethereal means.

Tilting his head so that Muriel can’t see his face, Aziraphale rests his forehead against the Bentley and allows his expression to crumple. “All is alright,” he murmurs to the car with a conviction that he doesn’t have. “Everything is tickety-boo, I promise. We’ll find him.”

They will.

They have to.

“Um, Mr. Fell?” Muriel asks, yanking Aziraphale out of his thoughts.

He forces his expression to return to something more neutral, then turns back to them, never removing his hand from the Bentley’s surface. “Yes, Muriel?”

Muriel exhales slowly, averting their eyes. “I — um, I received a letter earlier today from Danielle. She… erm, she said that you’d talked to them, and that you were changing a lot of things? And that you’d told her that I was on Earth and, well, the two of us were never really friends — we didn’t see each other enough to be friends — but we were friendly enough, I suppose?

“Erm, I think that she thinks we’re friends?” Muriel exhales slowly, fiddling furiously with the edge of her sleeve. “And… well, she said that she wants to visit me, but that she’s afraid to ask you. Is that… would it be okay if she came to visit? And, and what changes are you making? Am I allowed to ask?”

Aziraphale’s face falls. “Oh goodness, I haven’t told you? Oh dear, I suppose I haven’t — I meant to tell you, but it quite slipped my mind — not that that’s an excuse. Yes, you are allowed to ask. That’s one of the changes, actually. Why don’t we go discuss this somewhere a bit more, ah, comfortable?”

Anthony fades in and out of consciousness several times. Once or twice, he hears people talking and moving around, but he keeps falling back asleep before he can process what’s being said. The blanket atop him is thick and warm, and he’s exhausted.

The final time Anthony awakes, it is dark inside the bookshop. He blinks, frowning, because Muriel never turns the lights off. It’s slightly unsettling.

He climbs to his feet, wincing as his back protests, and folds the blanket before padding off through the bookshop in search of people. Then he pauses, eyes narrowing. Why is he barefoot? Why is he in pajamas that he most certainly doesn’t own?

Oh, right. Anthony blinks slowly, peering down at his hands. The cemetery, the cat, the… Bentley. 

The memories.

Because they are memories; he’s sure of that now. Whatever bits and pieces of the past had raced through his head when he saw the Bentley that morning, whatever flashes keep appearing in his sleep, they’re undeniably connected. They feel the same. 

He doesn’t know how to explain it, but they do.

While most of the flashes are incongruent, like words and broken sentences slipping through a radio’s roaring static, one particular image in his recent vision had finally stuck around just long enough for Anthony to process what he was seeing.

Aziraphale, but not the Aziraphale that Anthony knows. 

The Aziraphale from the vision was frozen as if on the screen of a broken TV. His eyes were lively and glimmering with mischief, something undeniably light about his demeanor, and he was wearing a genuine smile — not like the small smile’s Anthony’s gotten out of Aziraphale, but an actual grin t hat reached the angel’s hazel eyes and made him look truly alive.

It’s as if the Aziraphale that Anthony knows is a washed out version of the one in the vision.

Additionally, the Aziraphale was dressed like a pompous ass from 18th century France, and his hands were chained together. From what Anthony could remember, it had looked as if Aziraphale was in some sort of prison cell.

Anthony doesn’t know how he knows this, but he does somehow know that the vision was real… that if he asks Aziraphale about the French Revolution, the vision will slip neatly into whatever absurd story the angel sees fit to tell.

None of this makes sense.

Then again, two of his friends are literal angels, so he should’ve expected something like this. Anthony pauses, drumming his fingers against the table next to him.

Sod it all, the dreams started right after he first met Muriel! Shit, shit, shit.

“Mr. Stabbing People is Good, Actually — finally decided to join the land of the living, I see,” Nina says, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised, leaning against the doorframe.

Anthony startles, leaping backwards. “How long have you been standing there?” he demands.

“Long enough to tell that something is bothering you. So, spit it out. Aziraphale said you’d collapsed — what’s going on?” She narrows her eyes. “You’re not on drugs, are you?”

Scowling, Anthony drags a hand down his face. “Yes, totally. Let’s go with that. I was high off my ass, on— on—”

“Lexapro?”

“Yeah, that,” Anthony says, nodding.

Nina gives him a deadpan look. “You can’t get high on Lexapro, it's an antidepressant. If you’re going to lie, at least make it a half decent lie, that way we can brush it off and never have to talk about it again.”

That hits like a slap to the face, and Anthony clenches his jaw so tightly it hurts, eyes burning with suppressed tears — damn it, where are his sunglasses? Better question, why is he so upset right now? It isn’t just Nina’s comment, though that would’ve hurt even on a good day.

He takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly. “Right. In that case, let’s just pretend this never happened. I’m fine.” There’s a bite to his tone that he hadn’t intended, and he winces, but it’s too late — Nina’s definitely registered it.

She gives him a long, searching look. 

“What?” he finally snaps.

Nina exhales slowly, then looks him dead in the eyes. “Sorry.”

He blinks. “Ngk?”

“I make jokes because it’s easier for me to process my emotions that way.” She sighs, leaning further against the doorframe and lifting her gaze to the ceiling. “Something about feeling less vulnerable, etcetera etcetera. I shouldn’t have said what I said, and I clearly hurt you; therefore, I’m sorry.”

Anthony can’t remember the last time anyone apologized to him — except for Muriel, but that doesn’t count, because they apologize for everything. Once, he’d actually heard them murmuring apologies to a chair after stumbling into it while carrying a tray of tea.

“Hello? Earth to Mr. Stabbing People is Good, Actually? You’re not going to collapse again, are you?” Nina asks, eyebrows raised, looking him up and down.

Blinking, Anthony shakes his head. His chest is oddly tight, and he — for some bizarre, bizarre reason — finds himself actually wanting to tell her what happened, visions and dreams and all. But how would he even go about doing so?

Nina would probably believe him. She knows about Heaven and Hell, angels and demons, Aziraphale and Crowley and Muriel and all the weird things that go along with them.

Anthony opens his mouth to tell her the truth. Only the words get caught in his throat, and so he closes his mouth and drums his fingers against his arm instead, averting his eyes. Why is this so hard? C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, he can do this. It’s only a few words.

I think Crowley’s been sending me his memories somehow.

“Nina? Nina, you’ve been gone a long — oh! Anthony, you’re up!” Maggie exclaims, smiling sympathetically, and at once Anthony feels both relieved and… upset.

He had his chance, and now it’s gone.

Nina meets his eyes. ‘Tell me later,’ she mouths, and Anthony subtly nods — whether or not to tell Nina the truth is now a problem for future Anthony.

“Hey, Maggie,” he says, leaning back against the table. “Where is everyone?”

Chapter Text

“Anthony, if you don’t tell me what the fuck’s going on, I swear to God I’m going to deck you,” Nina growls, the cemetery grass crunching loudly beneath her and Anthony’s feet.

Anthony’s walking on his toes, a nervous habit that he’s had for as long as he can remember. He turns around and starts walking backwards, careful not to trip over any gravestones, so that he can face Nina as he talks. “Alright, so, there’s… well… ngk,” he grumbles in frustration.

Why is this so hard to say?

It’s just him and Nina. A day has passed since Anthony collapsed, and Aziraphale is off doing fuck know’s what, while Muriel and Maggie are back at the bookshop. Anthony’s been procrastinating telling Nina his reason for coming here, but he can’t procrastinate forever.

Unfortunately.

“The Bentley’s down this way,” he says vaguely, jerking his thumb behind him.

Nina narrows her eyes. “Yeah, I got that from the cemetery. What I don’t understand is why we’re looking for it when Aziraphale and Muriel already searched it for clues — also, stop walking backwards. I don’t want to have to bring you to the hospital because you tripped and cracked your skull open, Mr. Stabbing People is Good, Actually. It’s bad enough that I had to close the cafe today.”

“Right, yeah, thanks for that,” Anthony says. He sighs and turns on his heel so that he’s no longer walking backwards, grimacing and dragging a hand down his face. “So… ngk. Erm, I don’t — hnnngh, can I just show you?”

Nina sighs. “You know what? Go ahead, it’s not like this day can get any weirder.”

The walk is a lot shorter than Anthony remembers — though that may just be because he’s now dreading getting to the Bentley, for more than one reason. Nina’s going to think he’s insane. Also, what does it mean for Anthony if Crowley really is sending him memories?

What then?

“I’m probably not going to collapse this time,” he says, smiling wryly. “But if I do, tell Muriel that I think they’re pretty great, yeah?”

Nina gives him a deadpan look. “If you die, I’ll actually kill you.”

“Do I look like I would care if you did?”

Squinting at him, Nina says, “I genuinely cannot tell whether you’re joking.”

“That makes two of us — I’d say that I’m seeing a therapist, but that would be a lie.”

“...Is this a cry for help?”

“No,” Anthony denies, then gestures to the trees. “Right, this way.”

The rest of the walk is done in silence — mostly because Anthony is too nervous to talk. He’s trudging through the familiar looming trees, just like he’d done only two days prior before he collapsed, except this time he has Nina with him instead of Aziraphale. It’s deja vú in the most literal way possible, and it makes his stomach twist into knots.

He exhales slowly as they approach the clearing. “Right, there it is.”

The Bentley appears lonely in the secluded clearing, and even though cars aren’t living things, Anthony’s chest tightens upon seeing it. Poor thing. Its black surface appears dull, and though it’s otherwise in perfect condition, there’s something off about it that Anthony can’t put his finger on.

He walks towards it, closing his eyes, and thinks back to the stream of memories — thinks back to the dreams, to he brief glimpse of what must’ve been the inside of the car — and allows his instincts to take over. He walks around to the driver’s seat, Nina a step behind him.

“Oh, I remember this old thing,” she says, frowning. “I can’t imagine what would cause Mr. Six Shots of Espresso to leave it behind — with the way he fawned over it, you would think it was his kid or something. You know how Muriel’s been treating Fish? Yeah, that’s the way Crowley treated his car.”

‘Fish’ is the name Muriel had decided on for the cat they’d found in the cemetery the other day.

Anthony hums, reaching out to brush his fingers against the door handle. He’d been betting on the fact that Aziraphale would’ve forgotten to lock the car, considering that the angel would’ve never had to — an assumption that seems rather silly now that he’s actually here.

His fingers grasp the handle. He pulls, and the door swings outwards.

…Anthony needs to stop doubting his intuition. Whatever’s going on here is bigger than he can comprehend, so there’s no point in trying to logic his way through it.

He sits down on the driver’s seat and forces his mind to go blank. 

“Anthony?”

“Shut up, I’m trying to think. Hnggh,” Anthony groans, resting his forehead on the steering wheel. It had been such a brief glimpse… he shoots upwards, his sunglasses nearly falling off his face. “The back of the car.”

“What about it?” Nina deadpans. “Is this the part where you finally explain, or…?”

Anthony jumps out of the seat and moves purposefully around it, flinging open the back hatch. The back of the car holds empty wine bottles, a book on stars, and two dead plants. He shoves the bottles and fallen leaves away — and there it is. A sliver of a hinge.

“I — um…” Anthony’s fingers hover over it, but he pulls back, turning to Nina. “I… fuck.”

“How did you know that was there?” Nina asks, gesturing to the hinge.

The thing about confiding in people is that you’re never quite ready to. Doing things on your own can seem so much easier, even if you really do need help — even if you know you need help. Logically, Anthony knows he can’t figure this out on his own. He needs a second perspective.

And Nina wants to help. 

This shouldn’t be so fucking hard — but his breathes are quickening, and his chest is so tight.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Anthony looks at her.

Nina is leaning against the side of the car, arms crossed, and her expression is unreadable. “I have no idea what the hell is going on with you,” she begins bluntly, “but I’m not going to abandon you for it, if that’s what’s worrying you. I can’t promise to be super soft and supportive — that’s Maggie’s gig, not mine — but I’m not going to mock you, or leave, or whatever it is that your brain is going on about right now.”

For a moment, Anthony sits frozen. And then, “I’ve been having these visions, of sorts, and I think they’re Crowley’s memories.”

There’s a long moment of silence. The wind sifts through the tree branches, creating an odd rattling noise, and Anthony can hear his heart pounding in his chest. His eyes never leave Nina’s face.

Finally, she says, “Huh. I don’t know what I was expecting you to say, but it wasn’t that.”

Anthony glares at her.

“Alright, so what makes you think that?” She says, raising an eyebrow, but she doesn’t seem to be criticizing him. Her expression is deadpan — but with Nina that’s not indicative of anything, he reminds himself.

Swallowing harshly, Anthony turns and gestures to the hinge. “I… I’ve been having these dreams ever since I met Muriel? They’re extremely vivid, and most of them are nightmares, and I can never quite remember them clearly once I wake up.

“And— and then when I first saw Aziraphale, my head… it sort of went boom, exploded, like… ngk.” Anthony sighs, leaning backwards. “Like a normal headache except ten times worse. I’ve never had migraines before, Nina. I legitimately thought I was dying. And after that, the dreams got — they got worse, somehow.”

Nina nods slowly. “What happened here that made you collapse?”

Biting his lip, Anthony glances at the book of stars next to him. “I saw the Bentley, and it was like something was pulling me towards it. Aziraphale was still in the forest. And I… I was saying something, I think? I heard something too, but it was warped. And — and I saw a lot of things, and I can’t remember them all, but they were slightly slower than the dreams. 

“One of the things I saw… it was Aziraphale, Nina. But he looked like he was in some weird rich person getup from the French Revolution, and he was in chains, and he was smiling at me — er, at Crowley. He was smiling at Crowley. I’ve been seeing the… visions… from first person.”

Nina nods. “Yeah, I’ve heard that story. Aziraphale popped into France for some crepes dressed like royalty, got arrested, and Crowley popped in to save him. It checks out.” She gestures to the hinge again, raising an eyebrow. “So what’s this about?”

Anthony frowns, fingers brushing against it, then he grips it and pulls.

It gives, opening up to a hideaway space just like Anthony had seen a glimpse of in the nightmare. Inside lies a tartan flask and a few crumpled pieces of paper. He looks up at Nina, and the two of them engage in a brief staring contest.

Then, upon an unspoken mutual agreement, Anthony reaches into the hideaway space and pulls out one of the crumpled balls of paper. He presses it flat and lays it so that both he and Nina can read it.

Together, in heavy, increasingly anxious silence, the two of them read all five pieces of paper. One is mostly illegible, stained with what appears to be whiskey from one of the many discarded bottles. Anthony almost wishes that the others were illegible as well.

His heart beats quicker and quicker, and his stomach churns. 

Gaze unusually serious, Nina glances up at Anthony and says, “We need to show these to Aziraphale.”

“But…” Anthony chews on his bottom lip. “I mean, what if it makes him worry?”

Nina gives him an odd look. “He should be worried. I don’t know if you’re trying to protect him or something, but whatever’s going on here, he needs to have all the information. At the very least, he deserves to know. And, after all,” she gives him a humorless smile, her expression dark, “most of these are addressed to him. We’re just the messengers.”

At that very moment, Aziraphale happened to be in Heaven, meeting an unpleasant person in an unpleasant situation, his mind entirely on the Bentley and what it might mean for Crowley. He could care less about the Metatron right now.

Be civil, he reminds himself, plastering a smile onto his face. You can’t help anyone if you’re dead.

“Ah, Aziraphale. Do sit down; I have a select few things to speak with you about, specifically your… little visits to Earth lately,” the Metatron says, raising his eyebrows and gesturing to the seat across from him.

The Metatron’s office is just as sterile as the rest of Heaven, with white everything. There are no windows — in fact, there don’t seem to be walls either. It’s as if the nothingness stretches out in all directions.

Aziraphale clenches his jaw, but forces his smile to remain polite and optimistic.

‘Nosy little problem,’ the voice in his head taunts. It’s pathetic that you ever believed him — it’s no wonder Crowley left you; you’re far too dull, far too naive, far too… you.

“Ah, yes. You see,” Aziraphale lies easily, lowering himself into the chair, “in order for me to determine what courses are… optimal, I must have an understanding of Earth’s current events.” He folds his hands on his laps and smiles.

The Metatron furrows his brows, giving Aziraphale the confused look of a patient parent trying to figure out what a child is going on about… and it’s fake.

It’s so obviously fake that Aziraphale could kick himself for not seeing it sooner.

“Aziraphale, you are aware that we have multiple operatives on Earth for that exact reason, correct?”

Aziraphale meets the Metatron’s gaze and holds it unblinkingly, his chest tightening. Why is it that, even after all he’s learned, he still wants to make the Metatron proud of him? 

Why does he still want the Metatron to smile and tell him how good of a job he’s doing?

What is wrong with him?

“Why, yes. However, I’ve found that there’s nothing quite like a first-hand view of things, don’t you agree?” Aziraphale says cheerily. 

The Metatron sighs, linking his fingers together on the desk and leaning forward slightly. “As Supreme Archangel, you have responsibilities that cannot be neglected for the sake of social calls.”

Aziraphale bites his tongue. He takes a deep breath, smiles a cool smile, and says, “Crowley’s missing. Who exactly would I be having these ‘social calls’ with if not him?”

The Metatron’s eyes narrow for the briefest second, and Aziraphale can practically see the cogs turning in his head. “I don’t appreciate the attitude, Aziraphale. Are you feeling alright today? This isn’t like you.”

Swallowing, Aziraphale averts his eyes (if only so that the Metatron won’t see the anger burning bright within them). “I’m simply peachy. However, I don’t appreciate being accused of… what is it that you’re accusing me of? Visiting Earth in order to avoid my Heavenly duties?”

How dare the Metatron accuse him of something that he’s most certainly doing. Honestly, the nerve.

(Crowley would find Aziraphale’s unrighteous indignation hilarious. He’d laugh and smile that dorky smile of his, a smug gleam in those golden eyes… or perhaps he’d deck the Metatron. Who knows, really.)

“Is that not what’s been occurring? Aziraphale, half of the paperwork you’ve turned in over the past week is completely blank, and another quarter are void of your signature.”

“Right, that reminds me,” Aziraphale says, sitting up a little straighter. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”

Chapter Text

The Metatron raises his eyebrows. “Do you now?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, purposefully ignoring the condescending tone. “The paperwork is quite pointless, and I am of the firm belief that if the Second Coming is going to change the Earth so drastically, then keeping records of past occurrences is a waste of everyone’s time.”

“. . . That is an interesting perspective,” the Metatron says. His tone has lost the condescending lilt, replaced by a hint of curiosity. He’s studying Aziraphale, who meets his gaze and does not back down.

“I have a proposition for you: rather than having the lower ranks spend their time filling out meaningless forms, we have them aid in the preparation for the Second Coming.”

Careful, Aziraphale reminds himself, the Metatron must be the one to propose it. Smile, defer to him, be a good little soldier. You’re good at that, aren’t you? 

The voice in his head is bitter.

“Hm,” the Metatron hums, rubbing his bearded chin and raising his bushy eyebrows. “I suppose we could use more scouts on the ground, taking note of the best possible locations for. . . Heavenly intervention.”

Hook, line, sinker.

Aziraphale smiles.

The Metatron nods to himself. “Very well. Why don’t you take charge of this little experiment? Consider it a way to prove yourself and make me proud — I believe in you, of course, but you haven’t given the others much reason to consider you anything besides a failed principality.”

. . . Fuck.

This is ten times more complicated if Aziraphale is expected to be the one giving orders, because then any actions they take will fall on his shoulders. His goal was just to get the lower angel’s out of Heaven’s perfectly controlled environment and put them in a position to realize the world wasn’t the way they’d been taught to believe.

This can still turn out alright though. Aziraphale simply needs to keep his hand close to his chest, play the right cards, and not destroy Earth in the process.

Simple.

“Excellent,” Aziraphale exclaims with an excitement he doesn’t feel, smiling brightly up at Metatron. “I won’t let you down, sir.”

Liar.

Aziraphale has only been back in his office for a few moments when his phone starts ringing on the desk. He frowns, glancing at the name — Muriel — before picking it up and answering, putting it to his ear. “Um — Mr. Fell?” their voice cracks.

Instantly on alert, Aziraphale says, “Yes? Muriel, what’s wrong?”

“Can — can you please come? Anthony and Nina went back to the Bentley, and they found . . . can you just please come? Now? It’s — I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t urgent, and I’m sorry for bothering you — ”

“You’re not a bother. Where are you?”

Muriel sniffles, and there’s some shuffling on the other end. “Anthony and Nina are in the coffee shop, I think Nina wanted to talk to him alone? But they’re the ones with the. . . the letters.”

Alarm bells start clanging in Aziraphale’s mind. His heart jumps to his throat, and he haphazardly tosses the file he was carrying onto the desk, the papers scattering out across it. “I’ll be down in five minutes.”

The sky is dark when Aziraphale steps out of the elevator. Instinctively, he turns his gaze to the place where the street meets the sidewalk. 

It’s vacant, and though Aziraphale had expected as much, the observation still smothers out a tiny bit of hope that he hadn’t thought he had.

A heavy silence rests over Soho that night, broken only by the occasional rustling of wind against the sparsely placed trees.

(“Hear that?”

“I don’t hear anything.” 

“That’s the point. No nightingales.”)

Aziraphale crosses over to the café in long strides. The artificial lights are bright and harsh, spilling through the windows onto the old concrete sidewalks. There’s a chill in the air that nips at Aziraphale’s cheeks.

No one appears to be inside the café, but when Aziraphale tries the door, it opens. From the back drifts the faint sound of two voices. Then the bell above Aziraphale rings, and the voices stop.

“Oh. Aziraphale,” Nina says, poking her head out from the back of the café. “We’ll be with you in a sec.”

This in itself puts Aziraphale on edge, as Nina rarely calls anyone by their actual name. He stands awkwardly in front of the door. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait long, 

“Sit,” Nina says, gesturing to one of the tables. “We don’t need you fainting.”

Aziraphale sits — though technically angels can’t faint, every word that leaves Nina’s mouth is causing his anxiety to spike just a little bit higher. In her hands are a stack of papers which she sets onto the table.

Nina gives him a look completely devoid of emotion. “Read the one on top first. I think he wrote that one after sobering up, because it’s the only one that’s coherent. It… explains things.”

“And don’t panic,” Anthony says, drumming his fingers against the edge of the table. He seems even more jittery than normal. “They were crumpled up and hidden, so it– it doesn’t seem like he went through with it.”

“Went through with — what?” Aziraphale asks, voice shaky. What does that even mean?

“Just read it,” says Nina. “We’ll give you your privacy, just shout if you need us. Anthony, you can help me with tomorrow morning’s pastries — the dough needs to be baked, and..:”

Her voice drifts off as she and Anthony cross to the back rooms where the kitchen must be. Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale catches a glimpse of Anthony’s trembling hands.

— 

Angel,

Do you remember the day we met? You were standing on the garden wall, white robe flowing in the gentle breeze, with a peaceful demeanor so unlike the other  angels I’d met.

If I’m being honest, I was a wreck that day. I dunno how well I hid it. I approached you because I was lonely; and the only real risk was discorporation, which didn’t scare me.

You were dorky and naïve and worried about the humans — in short, you were unlike anyone I had ever met. I left that conversation with a renewed hope and a warmth in my chest. 

Somehow, I’d been lucky enough to get stuck on Earth with the type of angel who gives away his flaming sword to humans and shields a demon from the rain without expecting anything in return.

It hurts to think about.

If I could go back in time to that day knowing what I do now, knowing that by befriending you I was submitting myself to a pain even worse than when I Fell, would I do everything differently? This is a question that I’ve asked myself countless times over the past few days.

I wouldn’t change a thing, Aziraphale. I’d do it all over again, despite knowing that it was only gonna hurt, because the way you laughed and the way you smiled made me feel alive again.

Like maybe existence wasn’t so bad after all.

You were my only friend, my group of two, my partner.

When I tried to tell you that blessed day, I tripped over my words and everything went wrong. You weren’t understanding what I was saying (to be fair, I didn’t say it very well) and so I resorted to actions like I always do.

Words have never been my strong suit.

 I did the one thing that I knew couldn’t possibly be misunderstood — I kissed you, even though kissing has never been something that interested me, and you kissed me back.

There’s one question I have for you, one which I’ll never hear the answer to: When you kissed me for those precious few seconds, did you pretend you were kissing the version of me from before I Fell?

Because that angel is dead. He died the moment he Fell into nothingness, screaming and begging for help, flames engulfing his wings and charring them black. He died the moment he realized that no one was coming to save him.

That’s not something that you can change with a flick of your pretty little hand — and moreover, that isn’t something I want. 

Raphael served Heaven and Crawly served Hell, but my name is Crowley and I have no master. 

Crowley is the name I chose for myself. It was my first taste of real freedom, of autonomy, and I fell in love with it as surely as I fell in love with you.

I worked so, so fucking hard to rebuild myself piece by broken piece — and Aziraphale? 

Up until a few days ago, I was proud of who I’d become.

But I’m not good enough. 

I’m never good enough.

Not for Heaven, not for Her, and not for you.

I’m thinking of doing something stupid. Please don’t be mad. You deserve to know, since as Supreme Angel you’ll feel it whenever I die. A demon dousing themself in holy water is sure to cause a blip in things. 

I’m really sorry, Aziraphale.

This isn’t your fault. I’ve been tired for a very long time, and I just don’t see the point in trying anymore. I want to sleep. I want to take a nap and never have to wake up.

Please don’t blame yourse

I’m really sorry, and I just want you to know that there’s nothing you could’ve d

If you blame yourself, I’ll come back to life just to kick your ass, so

Don’t be sad, this is for the best.I ruin everything I

This is my decision, and you’re not allowed to blame yourself for it. The holy water is from a nearby church. I wouldn’t use yours for something like this, and besides, I used it all up on Ligur.

Also, you’d blame yourself. That’s not allowed.

The last thing I want is to hurt you.

I’m leaving the Bentley outside the bookshop for Muriel. Tell them to take good care of her, but not to be too nice. I don’t want her getting spoiled. Nina can have the plants for her shop, and if she doesn’t want them then give them to Maggie.

I don’t have anything to give you. Material objects aren’t allowed in Heaven anyway, so I suppose it’s not much of a loss on your end.

Good luck.

Forever yours,

Crowley

—

Muriel, I leave all my Queens CDs to you, as well as the book in my trunk and the Bentley. Take good care of them.

– A.J. Crowley

—

Aziraphale I’m sorry I’m sorry please come back don’t hate me I’m sorry I’m sorry don’t fucking listen to him he’s a fucking liar please come back I don’t want to die just make it all stop I don’t want to be here anymore please Aziraphale —

—

I love you I’m sorry I kissed you please don’t be mad I’m going to do something dumb but it isn’t your fault I hope your happy in Heaven and I hope you have a good rest of your life don’t hate me I know it won’t matter soon but I don’t want you to hate me there’s no nightingales but there were there were nightingales so what went wrong what did I do please I don’t want to change myself for you why amn’t I enough I just want to be enough but I also want be free why do I have to chose it’s not fair why can’t it be fair I’m so tired —

—

Aziraphale, I’m s— — — —  — — —k — — —atron — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — bad idea and I shouldn’t have assumed  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — forgi  — — — — — — — in —

—

While Aziraphale is reading, Anthony sets about making a hot chocolate.

It’s not a completely selfless act. If Anthony doesn’t do something with his hands, he’s literally going to implode. Boom.

Ten minutes later, Anthony brings Aziraphale the cup of hot chocolate and sets it on the table, then slides into the seat across from Aziraphale. Nina leans against the wall and crosses her arms.

“Look, a lot of people write suicide notes and then never go through with it,” Anthony says, sunglasses firmly in place. Tap tap tap go his fingers against the tabletop. Tap tap tap, tap tap tap, tap tap tap. “And, ngghh, he crumpled ‘em up, didn’t he? I severely doubt he ever wanted anyone to read them.”

Nina’s gaze is dark. “Well, he shouldn’t have gone missing then.”

“That isn’t fair,” Anthony snarls, sitting up straight. “You have no idea what happened — “

“Then enlighten me,” she says, leaning forward and slamming her cup onto the table. A bit of coffee sloshes over the edge. “You’re in his head, aren’t you? Explain what’s going on.”

Aziraphale speaks, voice heavy. “Pardon?” There’s something vacant about his expression. A small part of Anthony wants to wave a hand in front of Aziraphale’s face just to see if he’d get a response, but that part is drowned out by the cacophony of Anthony’s racing thoughts.

Tap tap tap, tap tap tap, tap tap tap.

Fuck Nina for putting him in a position where he can’t deflect — or do literally anything except share his. . . theory. Anthony hasn’t figured out a way to word it that doesn’t make him sound like he should be in a psych ward.

. . . Perhaps that’s a bad way to describe his dilemma.

“I — well, hnghhhhh,” Anthony pops his knuckles one by one, then leaps from his chair, startling both Nina and Aziraphale, and begins to pace around the tables and chairs. “Dreams are a thing everyone gets, right? Right. Uh. Probably making a big deal about this, but. . .”

In this stilted manner, Anthony tells Aziraphale what he’d told Nina the day before.

Or, well, Anthony tries to.

He’s only halfway through explaining when Aziraphale starts to shake, sobbing silently, and Anthony trails off, sending Nina a desperate look.

‘What did I say?’ he mouths.

Nina shakes her head, gesturing to the letters. ‘Delayed reaction,’ she mouths back. ‘Give him a minute to process.’

It’s over an hour before Aziraphale stops crying.

Chapter Text

Drip, drip, drip.

Outside the bookshop, the rain drizzles. The dark clouds accumulate above Soho as if nothing has happened. The Earth remains on its axis, spinning, spinning, spinning.

It spins and spins as if nothing is wrong.

The severity of the circumstances grounds Aziraphale, rooting his feet firmly to the ground, and for the first time in a long time everything feels terribly, unbearably real.

Anthony left two days ago.

If not for that, Aziraphale would probably be interrogating the poor human, so maybe it’s for the best that he isn’t here — but the anxiety twists inside Aziraphale’s chest, and every moment spent stagnant feels like a poison seeping into the veins of his corporation and killing him from the inside out.

It’s been three days since Aziraphale read the notes and three days since he’s last been to Heaven.

No one has come after him — the Metatron probably assumes that he’s busy with his new project, which is probably for the best, because right now Aziraphale is furious enough that he might actually destroy the Metatron if he had the chance,

It’s easier to be angry with others than with yourself.

Aziraphale, being the multitasker that he is, manages to do both simultaneously — but that’s a whole other non-issue, and not at all relevant to the situation at hand.

Anthony has been thinking.

Yes, yes, he knows it’s a dangerous habit. However, there isn’t much else to do when one is alone in a spacious, neat apartment, with only their plants for company.

After the meeting with Aziraphale, Anthony tried to call Bee. Ze hadn’t answered, and Anthony gazed at the screen for a long time before setting his phone down on the couch. He clicked the power button. In the space of a blink, darkness flooded the screen.

He left it on. When Nina tried calling him, he didn’t answer, but did text, ‘im fine, just need some time alone rn. its a lot.’

Three days have passed since then. Honestly, Anthony is a bit surprised Nina hasn’t come to drag him out of his apartment, but she’s overwhelmed too. It makes sense that she’d need space after… well, after whatever that fuckfest was.

She’d mentioned calling her sisters, a haunted look in her eyes.

Anthony wonders if she’s called them yet. He wonders if she’ll muster the courage to do so, wearing her eternal shield of impassivity, or if she’ll put it off again and again.

No, she’ll probably call — if she hasn’t already, that is.

The thing is, Nina is brave. Not as brave as Maggie, maybe, but brave nonetheless.

Anthony isn’t brave. He’s never claimed to be. 

He’s written plenty of his own notes over the years, contingency plans and distressed vents. Most were only ever intended for his own eyes. He’s a coward; he loves to run, but he’s never been able to bring himself to take that final step.

He wanted to.

Oh, how he fucking wanted to.

It’s been raining. 

Anthony rubs his eyes, pacing his apartment. He picks up his phone, gazes at it, then sets it down once more.

It hurts. Does Zira know that Anthony is okay?

The last the two of them had spoken was when Anthony had walked out, tears brimming in his eyes — he’d been wearing his sunglasses, which had felt so wrong after years of bearing his soul to Zira — leaving for what he’d thought would be the last time.

Anthony had changed his phone number after the argument. He’d completely broken contact, and now his stomach churns, because Zira has likely been worried about him.

What had he been thinking?

He’d been furious, and broken, and numb; he’d wanted Zira to hurt. Had that been it?

Maybe. Maybe not.

He exhales slowly — right, right, this is fine.

Anthony picks up his phone again and googles which bus routes to take to get to Zira’s apartment.

Half an hour later, Anthony is on the bus. He sets his watch for thirty-four minutes, then rests his head against the window, gazing at the rain as it falls softly against the pavement. His watch will go off around the time that he needs to start paying attention to bus stops.

For now, he closes his eyes and tries to shove down the nausea creeping up his throat.

What do you even say?

The rain comes down a bit heavier, to the point where the windshield wiper is working double duty to keep a visible path of sight for the bus driver, and Anthony closes his eyes. 

He listens as the barrage of the rain soaks the roads outside, carrying a biting chill on its shoulders.

By the time the alarm on his watch goes off, the rain has once more receded into a light drizzle. 

This pattern has become all too familiar. It’s been going on for the past few days, and everytime Anthony thinks the rain’s finally going to stop for good, it gets heavier again. Go figure.

He can’t control the rain.

He can, however, control what he does next.

Anthony shoves his hands in his pockets to hide the way they’re shaking.

The sidewalks have cracks in them, leading down to an apartment complex, and Anthony realizes too late how ridiculous he must look — oh well, no one will care. It’s not as if this area has wealthy residents who would be concerned about a strange dripping wet person walking past their doors.

People mind their own business around here.

Despite having lived here for years, the walk to his and Zira’s old apartment feels unfamiliar — had that plant been there before? That oddly shaped crack in the sidewalk, or that patch of mud where nothing appears to have grown in ages? The old oak tree with a dick carved into the wood?

It’s only been a few months, and yet Anthony feels so out of place.

Like a stranger in a foreign land.

It takes four minutes of walking to bring Anthony to Zira’s apartment. He stands there, gazing at the chipped number on the red door with peeling paint. The wind rustles the branches of the oak tree. 

Anthony pulls a hand from his pocket, reaches out, and knocks three times.

The door opens.

It is not Zira who stands there, but a short elderly lady with an unimpressed expression and a sweater covered in cat fur.

Anthony’s stomach drops.

“No, I am not interested in buying anything, I already know Jesus, and I voted three days ago so there’s no need for any of that nonsense. Is there anything I missed?” the lady asks bluntly. From behind her leg, a cat peeks out that looks a lot like Fish only with orange fur and a tear in its ear.

Mouth suddenly feeling very dry, Anthony gazes at her through the protection of his sunglasses. “I — erm, I actually. . .” He clears his throat. “How long have you lived in this apartment?” he says, gesturing towards the apartment in question.

She gives him a strange look. “Nearly three years now, lad.”

“Ngk.” There’s a buzzing sound in Anthony’s ears that’s getting louder and louder; he lets out a shuddering breath, his dripping wet clothes sticking to his skin, the rain pounding out a melancholic tune against the awning.

She has to be lying.

That’s the obvious conclusion, right? 

Anthony’s stomach twists, and he takes a furtive step backwards, away from the lady. The cat nudges the lady’s heel and meows loudly.

“Is there anything I may assist you with?” the lady asks curtly.

Wordlessly, Anthony shakes his head. The door closes, and Anthony gazes at it, heart pounding in his chest. He takes a deep, shaky breath. Then he turns and walks back to the bus stop.

Anthony pulls out his phone, only to realize that it had died at some point. He curses under his breath and slips the useless thing back into his pocket.

“Hey, erm — is there a library nearby?” Anthony asks the bus driver.

The bus driver looks Anthony up and down, glaring at the water that Anthony is dripping all over the place. “Yeah, it’s a few blocks down from the next stop. Might want to dry off first, though. They ain’t gonna let you anywhere near the books lookin’ like that. Ever heard of an umbrella, lad?”

Anthony musters up a petty smile. “Not really my style.”

In the end, Anthony decides to just head home. It’ll take longer, but his laptop will probably work better than the library computers anyway, and he’s seriously going to get hypothermia if he doesn’t warm up and get into some dry clothes soon.

The rest of the bus ride passes in a blur. He returns to his apartment, rubbing at his eyes, and unlocks it with a trembling hand. His teeth are chattering.

He takes a shower and throws a pair of pajamas on, then sits on the floor with his laptop. 

His fingers hover above the keyboard. After a few moments of hesitation, he opens instagram and types in Zira’s username. 

Nothing comes up. 

Anthony’s expression is blank; his chest feels empty, and he swallows harshly before typing in Zira’s legal name.

Also nothing.

Alright. Alright, this is fine.

(There’s a sinking suspicion in his chest that’s growing heavier with every passing moment.)

Anthony tries twitter (X?) next, then tumblr, then youtube — nothing, nothing, and (big surprise) nothing.

He exhales shakily. The rain pounds against the flat’s roof, creating a soothing white noise, and with how dark it is outside, Anthony can almost believe that nothing exists outside the walls of his flat.

His own little corner of the universe.

Everything is fine.

Pieces of the puzzle are falling into place, and Anthony doesn’t like the picture they’re creating.

(“How much trouble could I get in just for asking a few questions?”)

(Fire, burning burning burning, charred feathers and sulfur burns, smoke in his lungs, please make it stop please please he can’t take this anymore—) 

Anthony pulls up the website for the hospital he used to work at — where Zira should, theoretically, be working right now. The head nurse isn’t Zira. In fact, there’s no trace of Zira or Anthony having ever worked there at all.

Is Anthony going crazy?

Is this just some stupid dream that his sleep deprived mind cooked up?

He doesn’t know if he can trust his own memories, and that, more than anything, terrifies him.

Because if one can’t trust their own mind, then can they really trust anything at all?

There’s something wet on his fingers. Anthony blinks, looking down, only to see a raw patch of skin on his wrist. 

He doesn’t remember scratching it open, but there’s blood beneath his fingernails. The throbbing pain hits him all at once.

It’s grounding. It’s grounding, and it makes him sick to his stomach.

He wants Zira to hold him and to smile and tell him that everything’s all right — but does Zira even exist? Or is it… is it…

Anthony scrambles up off the floor, yanking his black pajama sleeve down to cover the raw skin of his wrist. He wipes the tears from his eyes. Forcing a pair of shoes on his feet, Anthony doesn’t so much as bother to grab his phone or wallet, pulling his coat on as an afterthought.

He races out of his apartment, barely remembering to lock the door behind him.

Anthony speed walks to the bookshop in a haze. It’s stopped raining, but the dark streets are covered in puddles of water that glimmer in the streetlights. The moon is blotted out by a thick covering of heavy clouds.

He can’t see the stars.

Logically, he knows they’re there. However, there’s an out of sight out of mind aspect to existence that Anthony’s always struggled with, and he feels more alone than ever now.

If Anthony (Crowley?) really did make the stars, then it makes sense that their apparent absence would make him feel more alone than ever.

He passes a diner, a bakery, and the ice cream shop Aziraphale had taken him too.

His mind is fuzzy. It’s difficult to think straight, which only makes the entire situation feel even less real.

“—not that big a deal.”

“You weren’t there. You didn’t see it — you didn’t have to live through that, and I hope you never have to,” a second familiar voice says. “I could give less of a shit that they’re going after traitors three and four, but you know that we won’t be far behind. I won’t lose you again.”

“Careful, people might think you’re going soft.”

Anthony rounds the corner and freezes in his tracks.

The two people have their backs to him, but there’s a swirl of something in his mind — he can’t recall their names, but he knows them.

Goon number one is a short, vaguely human shaped being with an oddly shaped lizard (chameleon?) resting on his head like a poorly made imitation of  a hat. He has dark skin, short black hair, and is wearing a tight trench coat that’s an abomination to fashion and should not be allowed to exist.

Unfortunately, it does.

The second person is taller, though not quite as tall as Anthony, and his fashion choices are the polar opposite of goon number one. He has thinning fluffy white hair and is wearing a lighter trench coat that sort of looks like a bathrobe.

There’s a maggot squirming out of a hole in his neck.

Anthony takes a step backwards, trying not to vomit.

Holy shit.

Goddamnit, now isn’t the time for this. He needs to get to the bookshop, needs to talk to Aziraphale, and needs to figure out what the hell is going on.

He’s scared of the answers he might find, but he needs them nonetheless.

He needs them like fish need water; he needs them like birds need space to stretch their wings and like rats need a sovereign leader to succeed in their side quest of world domination.

“I wanted to be the one to kill him, you know,” maggot dude says quietly, “and then he survived the holy water, and they let him off the hook. I hated him, and I hated Hell, and I hated myself for letting you walk in first.”

“I’m right here, Hastur.” The chameleon person’s tone is gruff.

“What I’m saying, Ligur, is that I won’t lose you again,” Hastur hisses, voice cracking. “Crowley’s pet angel is now one of the most powerful angels in Heaven now. What’s more, I’ve heard that he’s got the lower ranking angels riled up — more and more of them are losing faith in Heaven, and if we play our cards right, then we can get under his protection as well. He’s territorial. Protects his own.”

Ligur sighs. Gruffly, he says, “So what’s your plan?”

“My grudge is against Crowley, not Aziraphale. As long as Crowley stays away, I think we should ally ourselves with Aziraphale — and if Crowley comes back, we can always kill him and in doing so ‘prove’ our allegiance to Hell. I don’t think he’ll come back though. Always a coward, that one, slithering off like the filth he is.”

Anthony swallows harshly, taking a step backward.

Unfortunately, the sidewalk is still wet, and Anthony’s shoe can’t find traction. There’s a moment of fear — he’s completely lost his balance — before he manages to get his feet under him, bracing himself against the building. 

Good news: he didn’t fall and he isn’t wet.

Bad news: Hastur and Ligur are both gazing straight at him, and Hastur looks wary. No, not wary, annoyed. Well, maybe a bit of both — but it doesn’t matter, because Hastur is lifting his hand as if to snap.

(Human flesh disintegrating, hoarse laughter, maggots pouring from the body, no evidence, Crowley grimaces and backs up, glad that Hastur doesn’t dare kill him. Satan likes him too much — )

“Aziraphale will be upset if you do that,” Anthony blurts out.

It isn’t even a lie, because Aziraphale would certainly be upset… but Aziraphale wouldn’t ever know. Oh, he’s fucked.

Ligur pauses, narrowing his eyes. “You were with the angel that day in the graveyard.”

Anthony can work with that. He shrugs nonchalantly, throwing on a casual grin. “Yep,” he says, popping the ‘p’. “And he’s got a miracle set up to let him know if anything happens to me — it would be such a pity if it notified him that my heart stopped and he found out you two were responsible. Really, really bad — well, for you guys anyways.”

He tries to exude the confident, powerful vibes that Aziraphale always seems to give off.

‘Take no shit,’ Nina would say.

Well, it’s a bit hard when you’re a human (or at least, functionally human) who just got caught eavesdropping on two demons. But he’s been the underdog before.

This is fine. Totally fine.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Hastur says with a sneer, a maggot shaped thing writhing underneath the skin of his neck.

Lovely.

Chapter Text

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in a hostage situation before. It was not on my BINGO card for this year, that’s for sure.”

“It’s not a hostage situation unless we threaten to hurt you if the angel doesn’t do what we want, and that’s not what we’re doing. Now be quiet,” Hastur says, hand gripping Anthony’s upper arm. He looks so done.

Anthony would feel smug about having managed to annoy him, but it’s kind of hard to feel smug when someone is treating you like a goddamn chess piece.

There is one small comfort here: ultimately, Anthony does have control of the situation. Hastur is clearly temperamental — it would be easy for Anthony to goad the demon into killing him, which would piss Aziraphale off, therefore ruining the demons’ plans.

Even if they hid the body, Aziraphale would still be suspicious.

As satisfying as screwing someone over from beyond the grave would be, Anthony can’t die.

Not yet.

There are too many unanswered questions, too many loose ends, too many things left unsaid.

When he sleeps, he wants it to be peaceful.

So little of his life has been peaceful — this is true even if all of Anthony’s memories are fake, because Crowley’s are just as rough around the edges. There are so many parallels that Anthony feels stupid for not noticing it sooner.

The bookshop lights are on.

It always comes back to the bookshop, doesn’t it?

Puddles splash beneath Anthony’s feet with every step, and he takes great pleasure in subtly kicking up the water to get the hems of Ligur’s pants wet. Petty revenge is the best revenge.

Anthony can’t see anything but books through the windows, and if he drags his feet, well… he might want answers, but answers aren’t always kind. Sometimes answers hurt. Sometimes they dig their claws deep into the muscle of your ankle and don’t let go, sentencing you to a lifetime of painful half-steps.

“We’ll go first,” Hastur says to Ligur, his grip on Anthony’s arm tightening in a silent threat, and Anthony’s mind races with half-finished plans. If he just had a little more time to think…

Ligur gives Hastur an exasperated look, but does step aside.

The bookshop is many things.

It is a safehouse and a painful memory. It is where the FCA held their meetings, where Anthony gave Muriel a powerpoint presentation on survival, where Aziraphale brought Anthony after he collapsed in the graveyard.

It is other things too.

(There is fire tearing through the shelves, burning burning burning, shouting and smoke and sweat trickling down his forehead, no no please no this has to be a dream, a book — why is the book relevant? Anthony can’t remember — and a pain that leaves his chest desolate. It hurts, please make it stop, please.)

(Fingers running through his hair, warm smiles, a soft laugh, home —)

(A bottle of wine, fond bickering, a plant on the windowsill —)

(Hot chocolate —)

(Betrayal and pain and anger and despair and glass walls—)

(...)

(...)

(...?)

Hastur pulls the door open. A bell jingles.

Anthony looks down, raising an eyebrow. There, as if it had been waiting for them all along, sits a magnificent creature of majesty and terror in the form of a black cat that gazes up at them with narrow eyes, ears flattening against the back of its head.

Fish hisses.

Aw, cats are such good judges of character… wait, no, Fish liked Anthony.

Cats must only be good judges of character 89.76% of the time.

“Nice kitty,” Hastur grumbles, trying to take a step forward. Fish takes a step backward, then turns around, racing into the shop and disappearing amongst the shelves.

Smart little coward, Anthony thinks, equally fond and annoyed.

The three of them barely make it inside the bookshop before Muriel appears. Their eyes widen, Fish clambering over to place itself defensively in front of them, and they loudly say, “Um, Aziraphale? We have guests.”

Aziraphale appears in one of the doorways at a speed that shouldn’t be physically possible.

However, Aziraphale is an angel, and angels don’t care about physics. Kind of rude in Anthony’s opinion — they are there for a reason, y’know.

“Hiya, Aziraphale!” Anthony says, a sweet grin on his face with slightly too many teeth. “Long time no see.”

Hastur shoves Anthony towards the two angels and the cat. “Found this one poking his nose in places he shouldn’t — luckily we were in the area, or he would’ve been killed.”

To his credit, Hastur really is a good liar. 

Aziraphale appears wary, catching Anthony from face planting into the carpet and then immediately checking him over for injuries, but not outright dubious. C’mon, shouldn’t Aziraphale’s bullshit meter be a bit higher than that?

Aziraphale is gently holding his shoulder, worried hazel eyes looking him over. 

Anthony doesn’t pull away — if anything, he leans subtly into the touch. If Hastur and Ligur weren’t there, Anthony actually might’ve hugged him.

Ngk. Well.

Look, it’s been a long few days okay?

Nothing like figuring out your whole life is literally a lie to make you desperate for something sturdy and sure. 

Some sort of anchor so the waves can’t sweep you away, dragging you underwater like you never mattered at all.

“Are you quite alright?” Aziraphale murmurs, low enough that the others don’t hear.

Anthony smirks. Loud enough that the others can hear him, he says, “Well, I almost got cut in half by a magic elevator, but those two lovely folks over there — what did you say your names were? Brutus and…?”

Bewildered, Hastur says, “Neither of us are named Brutus? We’re Hastur and Ligur.”

Aziraphale stiffens.

Smiling sweetly, Anthony says, “Ah, right. Must’ve misheard you — anyway, there would’ve been loads of blood and stuff if they weren’t involved. Very nice of them to have saved me.”

Hastur growls. 

Besides Anthony, Muriel awkwardly shifts from foot to foot, wringing their hands. “Tea,” they exclaim.

Anthony blinks; everyone turns to look at them.

They flush. “Um, let’s have tea. It’s a human thing — customary, you know — and I’m just going to go put the water on to… to boil.”

“Excellent idea, Muriel,” says Aziraphale, his gaze still firmly on Hastur and Ligur. “Take Anthony with you, would you please? The rest of us will be back in a minute.”

(“Can I watch?”)

Anthony blinks, shaking away the memory that both is and isn’t his own.

“Yessir,” Muriel says, kneeling to scoop Fish up into their arms. “Coming, Anthony?”

He nods, following them back around the bookshelves and attempting to shove down the sudden wave of exhaustion.

When they get to the back room, Muriel stops, turns around, and gives him a look of genuine concern. “Are you alright? You left really suddenly the other day, and Nina said we should give you space. I wanted to check on you, but Aziraphale was breaking down, and I didn’t want to leave him alone either.”

“Ngk, I’m fine. Totally fine.”

“Really? Because, because you were being really sweet back there, and you only act sweet like that when you’re messing with someone, or if you’re angry but don’t want to say it.” Muriel squeezes Fish a little tighter, not looking Anthony in the eyes. “You’re not angry with me, are you?”

Oh fuck.

“No, Muriel. Even if I was, you’re impossible to stay mad at,” Anthony assures them. He takes his sunglasses off, keeping them in his hand as he leans back against one of the cabinets and crosses his arms. “Something’s wrong — really, really wrong — but it’s got nothing to do with you.”

Muriel hesitates. “What’s wrong? Is it,” their voice becomes very small, “does it have something to do with Crowley?”

Fuck.

"It's going to be okay. We're going to find him, and — and it's going to be okay. And you'll be okay too. We're all going to be okay," Muriel says with conviction.

Fish squirms in their arms, and Muriel sets it down. They have tiny wisps of dark fur covering the surface of their soft beige sweater.

The cat purrs, and Muriel smiles a tired smile. Their dark curls have grown in their time on Earth, developing a bit more of a lively bounce even as Muriel themself has grown more and more tired.

Anthony hates that they don't smile very much anymore.

Anthony hates that he's a large part of the reason they don't smile anymore — none of this would've happened had Crowley gone through with his plans instead of chickening out like a blessed coward.

But…

But it wasn’t Crowley not killing himself that got all of them into this mess, was it?

Like yes, that would’ve solved stuff and was possibly the best option, but at the end of the day it wasn’t the lack of action that landed Anthony where he is now.

No, it was — however he did it, whoever he got to help, whatever his plans were — him giving himself amnesia and fucking off to Earth. Stupid.

He hates himself. He really, really hates himself, and he hates his stupid brain, and he hates this whole blessed world.

Why couldn’t the Almighty have let him die during the Fall? Isn’t She supposed to be merciful?

(“The plan, it’s — it’s ineffable.”)

“Anthony?”

Mouth dry, Anthony licks his lips and opens his mouth as if to say something.

No words come.

He closes his mouth and looks away, nodding sharply.

And that’s when the shouting begins.

Many things happen in the next minute:

Firstly, Anthony and Muriel share an alarmed look that means, approximately, ‘Should we go in there and see what’s going on? Or would our best bet be to make like Fish and hide on top of the refrigerator, extremely confident that no one can see us because we can’t see them? Fake it till we make it?’

Or at least, that’s what Anthony thinks the look means.

That’s what he’s trying to communicate.

Secondly, something shatters — it sounds almost like a glass hitting a wall, followed by a moment of complete silence.

(It is this silence more than anything that makes Anthony’s heart leap to his throat.)

Thirdly, a very distinct, very not-Hastur, not-Ligur, not-Aziraphale voice says, “Oh great, there’s more of you.”

The voice is decidedly juvenile. It sounds bored and annoyed, but there’s an undertone of something else there that Anthony can’t quite pinpoint. Anxiety? Anger?

Hope?

Regardless, the voice is familiar; however, like so many things these days, Anthony is unable to recall any specifics. If/when Anthony gets all his memories back, he is going to be immensely grateful for a clear head.

Fourthly, Anthony quickly makes his way back to the front of the store, Muriel hot on his heel.

Upon reaching the front of the store, Anthony halts in his tracks.

His mouth goes very dry.

Whereas less than ten minutes ago there had been three beings, there are now seven (plus him and Muriel, which makes nine).

Two are teenagers.

The other two are the two people Anthony has been wanting to see since he realized that Anthony never was, and they also happen to be the only people in the shop who appear utterly calm and nonplussed.

Beelzebub is chilling next to Gabriel, zir hand in his. Ze is covered in blood.

Gabriel is also covered in blood. It’s quite disturbing, really, but Gabriel doesn’t appear fazed.

In contrast, Aziraphale is gripping one of the shelves, looking like he wants nothing more than to drink three bottles of wine (angels have a ridiculously high tolerance), get blackout drunk, and never deal with any of them ever again.

One of the teenagers is on the shorter side. He has a small bit of stubble, has wavy brown hair, holds himself confidently but not arrogantly, and is holding a gun.

Like, an actual gun. 

Keep in mind, this is the U.K. — it’s not like in the United States where you can walk into a Walmart and walk out ten minutes later with a rifle.

This kid definitely did not get the gun by legal means, but he’s holding it lax by his side like he doesn’t care who sees it.

Haseth he no survival instincts?

(Alright, maybe Anthony is being a bit of a hypocrite there.)

The second teenager is standing close to the first — they clearly know each other — and is on the goth side of the spectrum. 

They have dark hair that falls limply to their shoulders, two silver snake bite lip piercings, and an eyebrow piercing. They’re glaring at everyoneIn one hand, they awkwardly grip a pipe, as if to use it like a dagger.

An actual, literal pipe.

Both teenagers are wearing pajamas.

In the back of the shop, the tea kettle whistles. No one pays it any mind.

Chapter Text

Anthony’s stomach twists. His breathing increases in speed, and it takes all his effort to keep his demeanor calm.

Shit, his sunglasses are still in his hand. He quickly slips them back on.

Why can’t anything in his life be easy?

Aziraphale snaps, and the tea kettle stops whistling.

“Oh, hullo Beelzebub! Hullo Archangel Gabriel!” Muriel exclaims, waving awkwardly. They turn their gaze to the two teenagers. “Um, who are they?”

“Who is anyone really?” the one with the gun says. “Identity is fleeting. We’re constantly changing — who we think we are doesn’t last, and the person we deny we are is often the very person we become.”

The goth one snickers.

Aziraphale winces, looking over at Muriel. “That one is the former antichrist, Adam Young,” Aziraphale says, gesturing to the one with the gun, “and that one is Warlock Dowing.”

“How do you know my name?” Warlock demands, eyes narrowing, and something about them is very familiar. Anthony just can’t remember why…

Aziraphale grimaces. “Right, let’s change the subject.”

“Hold on, have we met before?” says Warlock, and something uneasy shifts in Anthony’s chest.

Adam, who doesn’t appear to have been listening to the conversation so much as looking around the bookshop, suddenly says, “Where’s the other one?”

No one says anything.

Anthony keeps his expression blank, forcing himself not to look over at Gabriel and Bee.

“What other one?” Warlock asks Adam.

“Aziraphale is the angel I told you about,” Adam explains, his eyes wandering across the shop, “the one who helped us stop Armageddon. His demon isn’t here though, which is odd, because the two were practically attached at the hip. So where is he?”

This question is posed directly to Aziraphale, who’s jaw tightens visibly as he averts his eyes. He swallows harshly, gazing at the ground, and doesn’t answer.

Anthony allows his gaze to flicker over to Gabriel and Bee — who are staring at him.

Their eyes meet. It is very awkward, and Anthony’s stomach plummets, and he panics.

“Ngk, er — who are they?” he blurts out, turning expectantly to Muriel for an answer.

(The best thing to do if you ever find yourself in a hole is to keep digging.)

Muriel blinks. “Oh, right. Um, that’s Archangel Gabriel and Duke of Hell Beelzebub. They’re… friends? I think.” They mumble the last bit, twisting on the spot and wringing their hands.

Across the room, Beelzebub raises zir eyebrows.

“Right, hi guys. I’m Anthony. I would offer you my hand, but you’re dripping blood everywhere, and this is a new jacket,” Anthony drawls, willing them not to say anything — he needs to talk to them, but not here, not in front of everyone. “Also, stay away from the books, would you? Blood is bad for them.”

Improv is more fun when you’re not two seconds away from a panic attack.

Everything is so complicated — Anthony wishes he had a red string board, with everything lined out for him to see, and time to think it all through. But he doesn’t. Fuck that, honestly. Conspiracy boards are so underrated.

“I know you,” Warlock blurts out, gazing at Aziraphale with an alarmed expression. “Holy shit. Holy fucking shit, you’re Brother Francis! What the fuck? What the actual fuck?” A strangled laugh rips itself from their throat, and Adam rests a hand on their shoulder, his brows furrowing in concern.

(“Hold on, why do you get to be the gardener?”

“Well, I just thought, you’re so much better with kids than I am —”

“I am not good with kids. I’m a demon; demon’s aren’t good. Ngk, it’s just that kids are really easy to tempt. That’s all. That’s all it is, angel.”)

“Look, Warlock, now is really not the time —”

“God, I didn’t even realize. Wow. I’m really fucking stupid; I thought it was just Nanny, but I guess not!” Warlock snaps, blood rushing to their cheeks. They pause, taking a deep breath, then exhale slowly.

Poor kid.

“I like that one,” Ligur says thoughtfully, his intense gaze resting on Warlock.

“We’re getting off topic,” Hastur snaps. He looks murderous — but then again, Hastur always looks murderous, so this isn’t particularly alarming. It’s Hastur’s signature look at this point. 

Huh, is it a coincidence that Hastur and homicide both start with the letter ‘h’?

Gabriel shrugs. “I think we’re pretty on topic, honestly.”

“What’s the topic?” Muriel pipes up, which Anthony is grateful for, because he doesn’t know what the fuck is going on either.

“World war three,” says Warlock.

“The second coming,” says Gabriel.

“Alliances,” says Hastur.

The air is thick with tension. Beelzebub and Gabriel are still dripping blood everywhere, there’s shattered glass on the floor (it seems that either Ligur or Hastur had hurled a mug in Gabriel’s direction), and the ‘explanation’ has left Anthony with more questions than before.

“World war three,” he deadpans, subconsciously crossing his arms across his chest. “Care to explain? Anyone?”

Adam looks thoughtful. “Does it count as a world war if none of the countries involved are in opposition with one another?” After an awkward pause, he adds, “That was a genuine question, by the way.”

“I don’t believe there’s a precedent there,” Aziraphale says, sounding as exhausted as he looks. “But for fuck’s sake, what occurred that caused you to believe there will be another world war?”

“Aziraphale, I didn’t know you swore!” teases Beelzebub, smirking with approval, to which Aziraphale scowls something fierce.

“My best friend is missing,” he spits. “You two showed up uninvited, covered in blood, with nothing but the Antichrist, the child Crowley and I basically raised as our own, and extremely vague premonitions about the end of the world. So pardon me if I don’t care for pleasantries at the moment.”

Oh wow.

That’s… erm, that’s a side of Aziraphale that Anthony’s pretty sure he’s never seen, not even as Crowley — or at least, not to such an extreme degree.

Everyone has a breaking point.

Some are just quicker to bend, quicker to adapt, quicker to survive.

But no one can bend forever.

Eventually, something always gives.

Anthony just wishes that something in this situation wasn’t his angel.

Ngk, not his angel of course. Aziraphale is his own being and can do whatever he wants.

“Wait. Wait, wait, back up,” Warlock says, eyes wide with alarm. “Nanny Ashtoreth was Crowley?”

Adam raises an eyebrow. “Wait, he was your Nanny? But he was, like, a huge dork. You always described Nanny Ashtoreth as being really cool and suave and stuff. Crowley got called a traitor and his reply was, ‘That’s not a very nice word.’” He says this last bit in a poor imitation of Anthony’s — er, Crowley’s voice.

“She was cool! Is! Argh, I dunno, she always seemed cool! I was a little kid!” Warlock exclaims, clearly agitated, waiving the pipe around as they speak.

Bee raises zir brows. “Wait, why were you and Aziraphale raising a human child?”

Under his breath, Aziraphale mumbles something, heat rushing to his cheeks.

“What was that?” Bee asks, smirking again.

“I said, we thought he was the Antichrist. Clearly, there was a bit of a mix up,” snaps Aziraphale. His cheeks are red, and he’s giving Bee a look that dares zir to make fun of the two of them.

Bee raises zir hands in mock surrender, still smirking. 

“Well, where is she?” Warlock demands, looking around, shrugging Adam’s hand off their shoulder.

The annoyance drains from Aziraphale’s face in an instance. He closes his eyes, crosses his arms, and sighs deeply. He looks weary. “We don’t know,” Aziraphale says softly. “I’m very sorry, child.”

Bee and Gabriel’s gazes weigh heavy on Anthony. He swallows, a sinking feeling in his chest.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” shouts Warlock, and oh fuck, the kid’s eyes are glistening with tears. “You’re kidding me, you’re fucking kidding me. I finally find her again, and she isn’t even here!”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale repeats. He does look genuinely apologetic, but moreso, he appears as upset as Warlock. As distressed.

And Crowley… Crowley did that to the two of them.

He caused this.

It was his choice that led to this fucked up situation, and he hadn’t meant to hurt anyone, but he had.

The words form on his tongue before he can think better of it.

“Archangel Gabriel, Duke of the Flies or whatever, I need to speak to you guys. Alone.” His tone is unusually serious despite the lightness of his words.

Aziraphale’s expression morphs into one of confusion, as does Muriel’s.

For a second, no one speaks.

Then Bee nods slowly, the smirk gone from zir face, and Gabriel gives the others his signature polite Gabriel smile ™.

“We’ll be back in a minute,” Gabriel says; then, to Aziraphale, “Do you mind if we borrow your back room?”

Aziraphale blinks. “Not at all.” 

“Hold on,” Adam says, appearing unimpressed. “You two are going to leave us alone with a bunch of strangers? That’s child neglect, you know.”

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “You have a gun, sunshine. You’ll be fine. Also, you two chose to come along — if anything happens, it’s your own fault.”

The back room is exactly how it was when Anthony and Muriel had left it ten minutes prior, except that now Fish is sprawled across the table taking a nap. It meows at Anthony when he walks in.

“Alright, Anthony.” Gabriel claps his hands together. “What do you know?”

Anthony scowls, leaning against  the fridge. The only person in the room that he isn’t currently mad at is Fish. Fish isn’t a filthy little liar (admittedly, this is likely only because Fish is incapable of human speech, but still).

Raising his gaze to the ceiling, Anthony says in a dull tone, “You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?”

“Not exactly,” Bee drawls. “I think it was more of a ‘fuck around, find out’ sort of deal. For him, anyway. So, did you get your memories back?”

Anthony shrugs. “I mean, kind of? Not really. It’s more like little blips here and there, mostly in my dreams, and I keep remembering… stuff. Things that I shouldn’t be able to remember, because they aren’t — well, I guess they are my memories, but…”

“Huh. That’s interesting,” says Gabriel, walking over to the cabinet and taking out a packet of hot chocolate as if he owns the place. The water on the stove is still hot. “That never happened with your Raphael memories, but I guess I stored those differently.”

Anthony stiffens. “Erm, I’ve been getting those too,” he mumbles, scratching absently at the wound on his wrist through the fabric of his coat.

“Wait, really?” asks Bee.

Scowling, Anthony gives zir a deadpan look. “That’s what I said, didn’t I?”

“Someone’s grumpy,” ze says, raising both eyebrows, and Anthony is overcome with the strong urge to wipe the smirk off their face by physical means. Which is to say, he very much wants to punch zir.

He doesn’t. In general, it’s a bad idea to attack people who could easily overpower you. It’s also a bad idea to attack people who you’re asking for help. Bee is, unfortunately, both of those things.

Otherwise, Anthony totally would’ve punched zir.

“Huh, that’s interesting,” Gabriel says, a thoughtful look on his face as he stirs his hot cocoa.

Fucking asshole. That’s Aziraphale’s hot chocolate — he can get his bloody hands away from it.

“Wash your fucking hands,” Anthony snaps. “You’re getting blood everywhere.”

“Blood is the least of our problems, sunshine,” says Gabriel, but despite this, he does go wash his hands. “Huh, you know, you getting back Raphael’s memories makes sense. I stored those in a file in Heaven, but I suppose your other memories could’ve drawn them out.”

“Like a magnet?” asks Anthony.

Gabriel shrugs, taking a sip from his mug. 

(Jim has a mug in his hands, is smiling a wide, genuine smile, gazing down at the shiny angel wings —)

“Where did you, er, ‘store’ Crowley’s memories?” Anthony scratches a little harder at his wrist. He wants the memories to stop — they’re distracting, and the feelings that come with them makes him dizzy.

“Oh, I didn’t,” Gabriel says vaguely, because apparently he’s incapable of explaining things like a normal person.

“You didn’t,” deadpans Anthony. “Where are they then?”

Gabriel shrugs. “Yes? You said you didn’t want them back, ever, so I just sort of…” he waves absently, shrugging again. “...set them free. Makes sense that some of them have found their way back to you, I suppose. Not my original intention, but hey, it seems to have worked out fine.”

“Nothing about this situation is fine,” Anthony grumbles, glad for his sunglasses. The last thing he’d want would be for Bee or Gabriel to see the way his eyes are getting moist. Why can’t this all just be over already?

(The worst part is that he has no one to blame but himself.)

“Right, I…” Anthony swallows harshly, averting his eyes. “I need you to… to…”

The words are so hard to say, though they have no right to be.

‘He has a habit of avoiding life’s trials at all costs,’ Aziraphale had said to Anthony. The words are a lot more piercing now that he knows they’re about him. But it’s the truth, isn’t it?

He bites his bottom lip. 

It would be so, so easy to run away from this. To drop the subject, tell Gabriel and Bee to forget it, and go back out there like nothing’s wrong. To continue in his original plan and stay mortal until he dies, no one the wiser.

Aziraphale would never know.

Everyone’s going to hate him once they realize he’s been under their noses all along, hanging out with them as someone who never really existed, benefitting from kindness he didn’t deserve. Does it count as lying if you thought it was true?

Aziraphale’s going to be furious.

Muriel’s going to realize that they were wrong about him and want nothing to do with him anymore.

Nina’s never going to forgive him.

Maggie’s going to be upset with him, and it’ll be justified.

He’s a fucking parasite, and holy fuck, how did he ever think this would be a good idea?

…Wait a goddamn minute.

Anthony glares daggers at Gabriel, gritting his teeth so hard it hurts. “This wasn’t the plan,” he say.

Shifting uncomfortably, Gabriel winces, taking a very long sip of cocoa. “Alright, in my defense, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“I’m going to kill you once I get my powers back.”

Bee rolls zir eyes, giving him an unimpressed look. “Sure you will, Anthony.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Anthony demands.

“It means that you’ve said that a gazillion times, and never once have you actually gone through with it. He was your brother once, wasn’t he, Raphael?”

“...I’m going to kill both of you,” Anthony grumbles, his throat tight.

Does he really want to do this?

He thinks of Aziraphale sobbing his eyes out over Crowley’s suicide notes. 

He thinks of Warlock, demanding to see their old Nanny, distressed over the prospect of her not being there.

He thinks of Muriel, who decided to create a search party for someone they barely knew.

Twenty minutes ago, Muriel had told him that everything was going to turn out okay. Their expression was full of determination, and Anthony’s stomach twists painfully — they had meant what they said,

Would they still believe that if they knew the truth?

Yes, the voice in his head says, surprising him. It doesn’t sound like it usually does — and moreso, the voice says that as if there isn’t a doubt in the world. Yes, they would.

Anthony isn’t in the habit of trusting the voice in his head. Usually, the voice is cruel and malicious and thinks he’s better off dead.

Maybe… maybe this time, he can make an exception.

He swallows harshly once more.

“I need you to set everything back to normal,” Anthony blurts out. His heart is pounding in his chest, the sound resonating in his ears. “I need… I need to fix things.”

The Almighty smiles.

Chapter Text

Gabriel has gone very still. “That would be a very bad idea. For us, that is,” he clarifies, making a face. “You see, I don’t know if you remember, but your boyfriend has this flaming sword of his? And being impaled isn’t really a preferred pastime of mine.”

Anthony coughs awkwardly and averts his gaze, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Nghhh, nah, I — uh, I think he’ll be too relieved to see me to… y'know,” he mumbles, waving his hand vaguely, uncomfortable at his own insinuation that Aziraphale missed him.

Which… objectively, it’s backed by tons of evidence.

(There’s a twinge of hope in his chest beneath the whirlwind of heavy, conflicting emotions.)

“Besides, you two can just, ngk, ditch afterwards, or whatever,” Anthony finishes lamely.

Bee gives him a strange look. “No? We can’t? What, do you think we came here and kidnapped the antichrist for fun?”

“Technically not kidnapping,” Gabriel says, holding up a finger. “Accidental child acquisition.”

Ignoring him, Bee says, “Look, Heaven is full of little bitches who want to start Armageddon 2.0, and they thought eliminating Gabriel and I would be beneficial for their plans.”

Anthony peers at zir through his sunglasses. “Right, right, and this has to do with the antichrist how exactly?”

“I’m getting there,” ze says, rolling zir eyes. “So, we got an ‘anonymous tip’ from Heaven that they were sending calvary after us. Thought it was a joke at first, but my love seemed to think it was a genuine warning, and I trust him with my life —”

Anthony gags.

“— so I helped him set wards up.” Ze shrugs, wiping blood from their brow. “Three guesses as to how that went.”

Gabriel sets his empty mug of cocoa on the counter and holds up his hands. There’s an odd look on his face, just a smidge of some unspecified emotion that Anthony can’t decipher. “Bad news, we don’t really have a home to go back to.” His tone is light — too light for his words, in a way that sounds unusually false. “Good news, we got the entire calvary to go on a wild goose chase. Bad news, there were too many of them for us to kill. So we thought, who would be powerful enough to kill them?”

“Dunno if you remember,” Bee says to Anthony, “but last time Armageddon nearly happened, the antichrist defeated Lucifer by disowning himself. It was very annoying at the time, but it worked out for the best in the end.” Ze gives Gabriel a look of pure adoration.

“Unfortunately, the antichrist seems to have given up his powers?” Gabriel says, throwing his hands up. “Like, who does that? …Oh, right, you do.” He raises his eyebrows in Anthony’s direction. For some reason, it doesn’t feel like one of Gabriel’s typical smug statements.

Anthony flips him off, thoroughly unamused.

“Anyway,” Bee continues, “imagine our surprise when we hunted down the antichrist, only to find that Heaven had beaten us to it. They’re in an ‘eliminating threats’ mood, it would seem.”

“Lovely,” deadpans Anthony.

In response, Gabriel gives Anthony that terrible condescending smile of his, and something in Anthony’s chest twists with a familiar fury. “Yeah, sunshine, it really is. I wonder if they’re going to go after your angel next?”

(Fire climbing bookshelves, anguish in his chest, Aziraphale isn’t here, no no no! Somebody, this is all his fault, and now Aziraphale is gone and the world is ending and nothing is worth it and — )

Bee’s face twists with confusion, then settles into a look of understanding. Ze grimaces at Gabriel, then returns zir attention to Anthony, whose hands have balled into fists. 

Oh, Anthony realizes suddenly. Gabriel’s genuinely upset about this whole situation.

That… that makes sense.

Anthony knows all too well what it’s like to have your happily-ever-after ripped from your fingertips, gone in the blink of an eye, leaving you fumbling at nothing and gazing at your hands in shock.

The difference is, Anthony had always known that it was too good to be true.

Gabriel had expected it to last.

Welcome to the real world, Anthony thinks but doesn’t say, because to do so would be cruel. Like rubbing salt in a wound.

“So,” Bee continues, smiling a smile that looks more like another grimace, “turns out the antichrist’s parents were out of town, and his friend was staying over, and they ended up barricading themselves in the basement. Apparently, angels don’t know how basements work.”

“Except Aziraphale, probably— then again, he hasn’t really been a model angel, now has he?” Gabriel says with a tight lipped smile.

Anthony narrows his eyes, leaning forward. “Aziraphale is the best angel Heaven has ever had.”

“Well, you’d say that, wouldn’t you?” Gabriel smirks, something dark in his eye. Anthony recognizes it — it’s the look he sees whenever he accidentally glances at himself in the mirror. It’s anger and self-destructiveness and frustration all wrapped into one. “After all, you’ve been head over heels for him since day one — really, that’s kind of pathetic, don’t you think? Falling in love with someone who’ll never love you back?”

Bee’s eyes go wide with alarm. “Gabriel!” ze hisses.

Flinching back as if struck, Anthony takes a deep breath, and then another. Blood is rushing in his ears.

He’s never been more grateful for his sunglasses, his fragile glass walls, hiding the way that his eyes are glistening with angry tears.

To Beelzebub, Anthony says, “Why exactly are you two here?” His throat is tight. So is his chest. Talking is difficult, but Anthony forces the words out anyway.

Bee closes zir eyes and exhales slowly, crossing zir arms defensively across zir chest. “Honestly? We discorporated the group of angels trying to get to the antichrist. I think they knew he didn’t have his powers, because there weren’t very many of them. But… look, Crowley, the calvary they sent after us was armed with holy water and hellfire.”

Face carefully blank, Anthony listens — if only for Bee’s sake. The two of them have never been friends. However, during his time as Anthony, ze was there for him. Maybe they are friends now, in some weird, fucked up way.

“They were trying to destroy us,” Bee continues. “We need some level of assistance, because the two of us aren’t strong enough to hold them off on our own. The antichrist is terrified, and, um…” Bee trails off, which is confusing, because ze’s never at a loss for words.

“The forces of Heaven are mounting an attack,” Gabriel says bluntly. “We were just the beginning — they’re disposing of obvious threats, and then they’re strategically going after points across the Earth.”

“Right,” Anthony says dully, scratching at his wrist again. “And how exactly do you know this?”

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “The ‘anonymous tipster’ from Heaven. Duh. Keep up, won’t you?”

“That’s enough,” Bee says quietly. “We’re not here to fight.”

“And you trust them?” Anthony says, looking solely at Bee. “If you don’t know who it is, then how do you know they’re telling the truth?”

Bee purses zir lips. “They were right about Heaven going after us.”

“And what if they were just trying to gain your trust?” Anthony asks, very tired now, hurt still swirling in his chest over Gabriel’s earlier words. He’d just wanted his fucking memories back.

“That’s possible,” Bee acknowledges, “and I’d tend to agree with you, but honestly? I think we’re better safe than sorry at this point.” There’s a moment of silence, and then ze gags, making a face. “Ew. Did I really just say that?”

It’s a decent attempt to lighten the mood. Anthony doesn’t laugh.

(“Don’t talk to me about ‘the greater good’, sunshine — I’m the Archangel Fucking Gabriel.”)

“What’s your plan?” Anthony asks Bee, desperately shoving the memories away.

Bee sighs. “Honestly, we were kind of hoping you’d have one.”

“Well, you're out of luck there. Or maybe not. Maybe Aziraphale has a plan. I, um — shit, sorry, my head’s a bit of a mess right no —”

“Alright, I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m trying to think here. Would you please shut up?” Gabriel snaps.

And Anthony…

Anthony…

(“Shut your stupid mouth and die already.” 

A column of fire, twisting higher and higher, bright and deadly and cruel. Crowley wants to grab Gabriel and throw him into the fire. 

But Aziraphale wouldn’t do that, and Aziraphale’s life is on the line here, and Crowley probably couldn’t go through with it anyway. 

His hands are shaking; he’s so angry. 

Gabriel doesn’t have a right to talk to his angel like that.”)

Anthony lips twist into a snarl and he lunges before he can think better of it. (Perhaps he’s been spending too much time with Maggie “I taunt demons who are trying to kill me” of the Record Shop.)

This is, in hindsight, perhaps not the smartest option. However, ex-archangel and demon alike are too surprised to react. (Crowley would never have done such a thing.) As such, Anthony’s fist connects with Gabriel’s nose. There’s an immensely satisfying crack.

Anthony goes to swing again, but Bee rips him off of Gabriel with surprisingly strong hands and the next thing Anthony knows he’s blinking up at the ceiling and regretting all his life decisions. Ow.

So much for Bee being his friend.

The thud of Anthony’s head slamming against the floor apparently draws attention from the others, because the next thing Anthony realizes through the dizzy haze is that multiple people are crowding around the doorway to the backroom. 

Aziraphale glares murderously at Bee and Gabriel, kneeling down next to Anthony. “Care to explain what just happened?” he demands.

Hands cradling his bleeding nose, Gabriel huffs indignantly. “I’m the one bleeding, yet you assume it was our fault?”

Anthony wishes he had a blanket and a pillow. Granted, the floor isn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, but a nap would save him the embarrassment of having to explain that he decided to fistfight a celestial being while in a very human form.

“Clearly,” Aziraphale snaps. Eyes blazing, he repeats, “What happened?”

Honestly, his voice is really hot when he talks like that.

“He attacked me, sunshine ” Gabriel says, indignant.

“I don’t care who started it,” Aziraphale grits out — and Anthony grins dopily up at the beautiful angel, ignoring the odd throbbing in his head. “ What happened?”

Bee bites zir bottom lip, then points a finger at Gabriel. “He was being antagonistic.”

A look of betrayal crosses Gabriel’s face. 

Anthony tries to sit up, only for the throbbing to spike into a sharp, stabbing pain. Hissing, he winces and forgoes that line of action. Okay, the floor is comfortable enough. He’ll just live there now. No biggie.

Since when was Aziraphale so blurry?

That’s odd, but not worth the pain that thinking too hard causes.

“Anthony? Dear boy, are you alright?”

“Pretty angel,” Anthony slurs. His voice sounds odd to his ears, and he reaches up and boops Aziraphale’s nose. The angel blinks down at him in surprise.

Anthony giggles, because aww, those hazel eyes are really really cute.

Aziraphale’s expression shifts from surprise to concern. “There’s a flashlight in the drawer under the register. One of you retrieve it, now please,” he orders.

There’s the sound of footsteps, and Anthony drifts for a minute. Or two, or three? Maybe a few days, or maybe only a few seconds. Time is hard for some reason.

The next thing he knows, there’s a very bright light in his eyes.

He hisses in protest. 

Where are his sunglasses? Oh, shit, they must’ve fallen off when Bee shoved him.

“Yes, he definitely has a concussion,” Aziraphale says, and Anthony whines, because he doesn’t want a concussion. Concussions suck.

“Gift receipt?” Anthony requests. When no one responds, he clarifies, “For the concussion. Wanna return it. C’n I get the gift receipt now please?”

Sighing deeply, Aziraphale says, “If you’re asking me to heal you, then yes, of course.”

Well, Anthony hadn’t been asking Aziraphale to heal him, he’d been asking for the gift receipt. Duh.

But healing works too, he supposes.

He nods. The sharp pain spikes again, and he whines, tears welling up in his eyes. 

“Shh, it’s alright, dear boy. I’ll have you fixed up in a jiffy.”

Suddenly, Anthony remembers something. “Wait,” he mumbles, putting a hand up and nearly hitting Aziraphale in the face, which he feels very bad about. He wasn’t trying to hit the angel.

However, Aziraphale is very nice, so he only gently grabs Anthony’s wrist and lays it back down.

“What is it, dear boy?”

“C’n you do my memories too?” Anthony requests, squinting up at the angel’s blurry face. “Don’ wan’ Gabriel t’ do it, he’s mean. Kinda need them back though.”

There’s a long pause in which no one speaks.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, his eerie calm voice a stark contrast to his gentle tone from a moment prior, “what is it that Anthony is referring to? I’m assuming that this has something to do with why he wished to speak with you in the first place?” He pauses, blanching. “Does this have something to do with Crowley?”

Anthony squints up at Aziraphale again, this time in thoughtfulness rather than trying-to-see-ness. How did he know?

Oh, right. He still thinks that Anthony’s just been getting Crowley’s memories.

Oh wait fuck fuck fuck backtrack he should not have asked Aziraphale to do it — in Anthony’s defense, his brain is super fuzzy, and… and…

What had he been thinking about?

He scrunches up his nose, trying to remember.

Something about Crowley?

“ — not my place to explain,” Gabriel is saying; and huh, Anthony must’ve zoned out for a bit because what are they even talking about?

Aziraphale sighs. “Very well.”

Soft fingers brush Anthony’s forehead, and he tries to lean up into the touch like Fish would, but his eyelids are fluttering closed of their own accord and everything drifts away into darkness.

“Dream of whatever you like best,” a comforting voice says.

Then there is nothing.

Anthony dreams of an alcoholic breakfast at the Ritz that never was. Anthony dreams of a cottage in South Downs and lazy afternoons sprawled across the couch with his angel. Anthony dreams, Anthony dreams, Anthony dreams.

Waking up is one of the most painful things he’s ever done.

The anguish of dreams crashing all around him brings with it an all too familiar sense of loss — like Aziraphale is leaving all over again.

(“Oh, Crowley. Nothing lasts forever.”)

Anthony presses his face into the soft couch cushion and tries to ignore the silent tears leaking down his cheeks. He holds his breath, lungs burning, because if he breathes then he will start to sob.

His shoulders are trembling

“Anthony?” Aziraphale says.

Anthony startles, bolting upright and wiping furiously at his eyes, forcing himself to compartmentalize.

Aziraphale is here. Anthony can’t show his emotions.

(“I don’t think you understand what I’m offering you.”)

His expression goes blank, the emotions becoming distant. The blanket of emptiness rests over his shoulders like a strangling hug, just a little too tight, comforting even as it drains the life from your lungs.. Everything feels very far away.

He’s gotten good at ignoring everything and drifting off into the nothingness.

Nothing is real. Nothing is real, nothing is real, nothing is real.

The mantra — the lie — that has gotten him through so many days. It’ll get him through this one too.

“Hi, Aziraphale,” he says, doing his best to smile cheekily — except his voice cracks, so he’s not fooling anyone.. His heart pounds in his chest. “What — um, what happened?”

“You tried to fight Gabriel,” Aziraphale says with a small, sad smile. “Beelzebub threw you off him — however, ze forgot to tune down zir, ah, demonic strength. I do believe ze feels bad about giving you a concussion, by the way. I have no idea how you earned zir favor, and I’m not sure I’d like to know, but ze does seem to genuinely care about your wellbeing.”

Aziraphale sobers, looking down at Anthony. “Dear boy, why did you ask to speak with them alone?”

Tightening his grip on the thin blanket, Anthony tries in vain to keep his breathing slow and steady. “Don’t be mad.” His voice sounds odd even to his own ears.

Oh Somebody, he’s actually going to do this.

Fuck.

“I, um, I —”

“Anthony?” Aziraphale’s brows are creased with concern, and he’s leaning forward, hand hesitantly coming to rest on Anthony’s shoulder. “Dear boy, you’re trembling.”

“I did something, nghh, I did something stupid,” Anthony blurts out. “Like, really really stupid. Ngk, I — I— like, quite possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve done a lot of stupid things. You — you have to promise not to hate me.”

His voice is very small.

Aziraphale looks downright alarmed now, his grip tightening protectively on Anthony’s shoulder. “Anthony. Anthony, what did you do?”

Anthony squeezes his eyes shut.

“After I — after I fought with, with Zira. A few months ago. I, um, I was going to kill myself I — I think. And, um, then I realized that was  a bad idea. B– because Zira would, he would know. And he would be upset.

“So, so I came up with a plan? A really really stupid plan, but, ngk, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I w-went to see two, um, two people. Not really friends; not really enemies. They owed me a favor.”

Anthony takes a deep, shaky breath, unable to look Aziraphale in the eye.

The room feels both too large and too small.

“I asked them to… ngghhhh, I asked them to remove my memories, and, and make me human, and drop me off at a random spot on Earth so I could die and no one would know.” Anthony’s speaking very quickly now, nearly tripping over his words. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut. “I — I— I—”

He gasps for air, leaning forward and clutching at his arms. Of all fucking times to hyperventilate.

“Th– they didn’t, they didn’t do what I — what I asked. Um, um, they — they dropped me off here. Anthony — Anthony never existed. He isn’t, I’m not —”

There are tears racing down his cheeks, and he doesn’t have his sunglasses, and he’s terrified to open his eyes for fear of what he might see. His lungs are demanding air that won’t come.

He’s so, so scared.

He hates being scared. 

It’s the feeling of freefalling thousands of feet, of anticipating pain, of the ground rushing inevitably closer.

Of squeezing your eyes shut and crying out to God for mercy.

Of screaming ‘why?’ over and over till your throat is raw and aching, but never receiving and answer.

Only silence.

Silence, silence, silence.

Anthony doesn’t want to be afraid anymore.

“M-my name, I’m not — I’m, I’m… I had a name? It’s not my name anymore, and then — then they gave me another, and it didn’t fit. I wanted to be — I needed to b- be free. For once. So, so I chose my name and… and…” Anthony forces his eyes open, vision blurry from tears, gazing up at Aziraphale.

The angel’s eyes are wide with fear and confusion and…

And the faintest hints of recognition. Like when you’re trying to remember a word, and it’s on the tip of your tongue.

Aziraphale’s hand is still on Anthony’s shoulder. It gives him the last bit of courage he needs to choke the words out, bottom lip quivering, breaths still coming too fast.

“M-my name, it’s Crowley. It’s — it’s me, angel. I’m — I’m so sorry. Please don’t hate me.”

For a second, there is nothing.

Anthony’s heart drops.

Then Aziraphale’s eyes clear, like mist trickling away after the rain, and he gasps as if hit. The sound is pained. When he speaks, his voice is tentative and broken. “Crowley?”

Across the street, Nina drops the coffee she’s carrying. It spills all over the freshly mopped floor. Her eyes are wide, and she gazes down at the mess with unseeing eyes.

Months-worth of memories are shifting within her mind.

As if from far away (though in reality it’s only a few feet), Nina hears the clank of a chair flying backwards with how quickly someone stood. Racing footsteps echo across the linoleum tile, the door flies open, and Muriel races back across the street to the bookshop at an inhuman speed.

Far Above, the Metatron dispatches soldiers, a pleased, good-natured smile upon his face. He is going to win this war — it’s almost time for Aziraphale’s part, and he turns on his heel and heads towards Aziraphale’s office.

Aziraphale isn’t there.

The Metatron’s smile slowly fades. He pulls out his Heavenly phone from his pristine coat pocket, clicking on Aziraphale’s contact, getting ready to scold the ridiculous angel for straying from his station — he’s likely down with the lower level angels, attempting to foster unity.

Annoying, but useful for the Metatron in the long run.

The phone rings, then rings again, then rings again.

The Metatron’s brow furrows, and he frowns. Aziraphale always picks up by the third ring.

The call goes to voicemail.

This was not part of the plan, and if there’s anything the Metatron despises beyond measure, it is disruptions to his plans.

There is a reason Raphael fell, after all.

Always asking those damned fool questions. Always so irritatingly curious, sticking his nose in places it didn’t belong — finding out things he wasn’t supposed to find.

Disruptions, the Metatron had learned, must be adequately dealt with in a timely manner.

No matter the cost.

Chapter Text

Yes, Aziraphale knows the world may be ending.

He knows things are about to become even more of a shitshow than they already are, and that his attention is needed elsewhere — however, duty is the last thing he cares about right now.

Currently, he’s ignoring the ringing of his phone. Answering it would require Aziraphale to let go of Crowley, and  he isn’t about to do that. In fact, he might just hug Crowley forever.

Stupid, stupid, ridiculous demon.

“‘Ziraphale,” Crowley wheezes into Aziraphale’s shoulder, wriggling a bit, “too tight, can’t breathe —”

Aziraphale loosens his grip, but only slightly, his face pressed against the crook of Crowley’s neck. Who cares if Crowley can feel the warm tears streaming down Aziraphale’s cheeks? No one could fault him for crying right now, not after everything.

It has been such a long few months.

He’s lost Crowley, over and over and over again, in a myriad of painful ways. 

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything. There are no words that could possibly encompass the tsunami of revelations and regrets crashing over him right now,  forcefully washing away everything else and leaving only pain in its place.

But Crowley is here.

He’s warm; he’s real — he’s breathing, his chest moving up and down, the rapid beating of his heart such a relief after those God-awful notes.

“Angel, I still don’t — erm, my memories are a bit out of whack right now. Any idea how to fix that? I was asking Gabriel, but nghhh, clearly we didn’t get to that part,” Anthony mumbles. 

Aziraphale exhales slowly, pulling away just an inch to wipe at his eyes, then nods. “Right. Right, yes, your memories.” Thankfully, his voice only cracks a little bit. “How, um, how did you go about removing them?”

Wrinkling his nose, Crowley squints at the wall, clearly trying to remember. “He — I asked him to remove my memories, but he went for more of a ‘fuck around and find out’ method. Um, that is, he ‘set my memories free’ — ngk, whatever that means — and gave me fake ones. Nghhh, I’m pretty sure he let my subconscious fill in the blanks for certain things.”

There’s a noise from the front of the shop. 

Crowley’s gaze shoots up, but Aziraphale snaps his fingers, locking the door and completely blocking out the noise without ever turning his head in that direction. “Continue, my dear.”

The demon blinks at him with wide eyes, and oh—

They’re a dull brown.

It’s so wrong that Aziraphale nearly flinches away. Crowley’s eyes aren’t brown, they’re gold.

They’re supposed to be gold.

Yet it’s so clearly Crowley, down to the way he tilts his head in thought — barely enough to be noticeable — and laughs with a snicker, walking with an unusual sway to his hips despite six-thousand years of having a corporeal form.

But… Crowley’s signature goofy smile is missing, same as his golden irises. How few times had Aziraphale seen Anthony smile?

“I, um. Ngk. I think, er, I dunno. Wasn’t really thinking at all, I guess,” he mumbles. “You sure we shouldn’t check what’s going on out there? That sounded like a shout.”

“Crowley, dearest, I don’t give a fuck about anyone or anything but you right now,” Aziraphale says, voice cracking. He squeezes Crowley’s hand tighter. “I’ve, I’ve had a lot of time to think in the past few months. I — I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for not listening to you, and I’m sorry—”

Crowley shakes his head, and Aziraphale’s heart drops.

“Don’t apologize. Please. I can’t forgive you right now — um, partially because I can’t completely remember what happened, and partially because… because…” Crowley pulls his hands away, burying his face in them, trying to get his breathing under control.

When Crowley’s hands leave his, Aziraphale flinches back.

Right, that’s… understandable.

The warm, seemingly endless tears stream faster down Aziraphale’s cheeks.

To make everything worse, the loss of contact causes Aziraphale’s brain to send up warning flares — it isn’t real, this isn’t real, none of this is happening.

Aziraphale balls his hands into fists, letting his nails dig into the skin of his palm. 

But then Crowley wipes his eyes, wipes his hands on his sleeves, sniffles, and…

And hesitantly lays a hand out, palm up. He looks lost.

Heart breaking, Aziraphale reaches out and takes it, careful not to squeeze too tight.

“Are we going to be okay?” Crowley asks softly.

Aziraphale swallows, throat painfully tight. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, we will be, dear. I promise.”

They’re going to be okay.

They will be.

There’s another moment of silence, and then Aziraphale’s heart twists painfully in his chest.

In his mind’s eye, he sees the notes — everything Crowley had spilled out onto paper with the intention of falling asleep and never waking up.

“Why?” Aziraphale asks, voice small. 

So much in one short word.

There’s no need for elaboration; they both know what Aziraphale is referring to.

Swallowing harshly, Crowley averts his eyes, and in a soft voice, says, “‘M tired, Aziraphale. I never know where I stand with you. You were my reason, and without you, I… I dunno. Nothing seemed worth it anymore. 

“Eternity is a long time to spend by yourself — and six-thousand years is a long time to suffer. Everyone I care about dies, angel. You — you were the only one who didn’t. Who wasn’t going to, and, I —” Crowley cuts himself off, swallowing harshly.

“I’m not going anywhere. Never again.”

For a long moment, Crowley is silent. Then, eyes downcast, he whispers, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Nothing lasts forever, right?”

Aziraphale’s eyes burn with tears. Agitated, mind racing through everything ‘Anthony’ had told him, he grips one of Crowley’s hands tightly in his. “You have to be clearer with me, Crowley. I — I’ve never been very good at reading between the lines. I thought — I thought we were discussing the bookshop. And Crowley? I’d give up my bookshop a thousand times over, but not you. Never you.”

“But you did,” Crowley mutters. “You did give me up.”

“You walked away. I asked you to stay, and you left —”

“You asked me to give you the one thing I couldn’t give!” Crowley exclaims, then sinks back into the couch, closes his eyes, and sighs deeply. Much quieter, he continues, “Angel, I can’t do this right now. I don’t — nghhhh, my memories aren’t all here.”

Aziraphale latches onto that.

Finally, something tangible. Something Aziraphale can fix.

So much of this is terribly complicated, and Azirpahale has no idea how to proceed. Miracles and memories and mortality though? There’s a simple path forward — an obvious solution.

And Crowley’s here, so everything is going to be okay.

They’ll get through this.

One way or another.

“Right. You said that Gabriel referred to ‘setting your memories free’?”

“Ngk. Yes?”

Aziraphale exhales slowly, closes his eyes, and nods, brows furrowing in concentration. “Alright, so that might actually be to our benefit. If the memories were in a vessel, then we’d have to track that down, as they’d be more resistant to returning to their host.  However, given that they’ve already begun returning to you, I believe it’s safe to assume that your ‘magnetic force’ (to put it simply) is very strong.”

“What is it with you and Gabriel and the magnet metaphor?” asks Crowley, wrinkling his nose.

Aziraphale blinks. “Oh, it’s in the manual.”

“There’s a manual?”

“Ah, yes. It’s mainly instructions on how to handle the miracle-aspect of being an Archangel. I doubt the Metatron realized I could access it, else he’d likely have ensured I could never so much as glance at the cover.” There’s a bitter edge to his words that Aziraphale doesn’t bother to hide. “It's called ‘How to Archangel (For Dummies)’.”

Crowley’s mouth falls open.

For a second, his eyes subtly glaze over, and then he snorts a sound that’s half-laugh half-sob. “Aziraphale, I think — I think I might’ve been the one to write that,” he says, giggling incredulously. “What the fuck? Ngk, I can’t remember what’s in it, but I vaguely remember being so fuckin’ proud when it was finished, only for Gabriel to tell me there was no point because the chances of someone ever reading it were infinitesimal.”

Aziraphale snorts darkly. “Well, multiple someones did end up reading it, it would seem. It was very informative and well-written, by the way.” He makes sure to look Crowley in the eyes (wrong, wrong, round pupils, dull brown, it’s my fault) , tone serious. “Thank you, dear boy.”

In the back of his throat, Crowley makes a drawn out strangled noise. “Ngk.”

“Now, it should be as simple as increasing the ‘magnetic field’ of your current memories, though possibly emotionally draining — and the mortality thing will be easy in comparison,” Aziraphale murmurs, narrowing his eyes in thought. “Which would you prefer to do first?”

Crowley sinks deeper into the couch. “Nghhhh. Dunno, memories? Seems more pressing.”

“Right, um…” Aziraphale hesitates, fidgeting, then softly asks, “May I put my hand on your forehead? It — it isn’t entirely necessary, but I do believe it would help me concentrate the lazari.”

Swallowing harshly, Crowley nods. “Um. Right now?”

“Would you prefer to wait?”

“N- no, I guess not. Right.” Crowley takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, face twisted into a nervous grimace. “Hit me, I guess.” There’s a long pause. 

Pardon?

Crowley racks one eye open. “It’s an expression, angel.”

Aziraphale, who had been a mixture of confused and alarmed, exhales slowly. “An expression. Right.” Suddenly feeling very self conscious, he gently presses his cool hand onto Crowley’s warm forehead, then closes his own eyes and concentrates.

—

Anthony isn’t about to admit it, but he’s slightly afraid. Afraid that the memories are going to be too much, afraid that it isn’t going to work, afraid that it is going to work.

Aziraphale’s fingers are cool against his forehead. 

Swallowing harshly, Anthony forces himself to not lean into the touch.

He isn’t a fucking cat.

(Full offense, Fish.)

He doesn’t pinpoint the moment it begins.

It’s like a leak, dripping the smallest bits of water through the roof, and you don’t notice until those drops have turned into a steady stream.

Soft greens and blurry browns. Sweet scents and warm rocks and peace and laughter.

It all begins in Eden.

The garden, the angel, the apple.

Except…

Except it doesn’t. It begins far before that, in the dead of night.

Crowley isn’t in his body anymore. He’s observing, eyes wide, as stars swirl all around him. He’s flapping his hands like Muriel does.

He’s grinning so hard his cheeks hurt.

He’s alive, and he loves being alive.

His heroes are still heroes.

All the colors seem so much more vibrant; the sense of wonder still burning bright inside his soul.

There is the Metatron, smiling warmly, the oldest — or at least, Raphael thinks he is. Time hasn’t really started yet, so dates get a bit warped. Then there’s Lucifer, and then Gabriel, and then Raphael, and then Uriel, and then Michael.

There aren’t many of them. Not yet.

Much happens.

The universe is created, and Raphael is enamored. He explores with a childlike giddiness — the others start distancing themselves from him, and he doesn’t know why. It hurts.

The stars are there, though.

The stars are there, and the stars never hurt him. He likes the stars better than he does the other archangels. He spends a long time experimenting with miracles, creating and creating and creating, brain in constant motion.

More angels are made.

Raphael excitedly writes down everything he’s learned — a manual, in case any of the angels are ever promoted.

Gabriel thinks it’s stupid, and tells him as much.

(Lucifer smiles and tells him, in a tone that’s probably too sweet to be genuine, that it’s a very lovely idea. Raphael pretends like the approval doesn’t mean the world to him.)

Then Raphael gets too curious, and learns that the Metatron is not his friend.

It burns.

It burns, it burns, it burns.

Raphael dies in the pool of sulfur, and Crawly is born in his wake.

A few thousand years pass. Crawly becomes Crowley, and Crowley falls in love with an angel, and everything works itself out. Everything is going fine, until it isn’t.

Gabriel shows up.

The nightingales stop singing, and the Metatron smiles, and Crowley knows that he has lost a game he never agreed to play.

Six millenia worth of memories fill Crowley’s head as he lies there on the couch in the bookshop.

Crowley opens his eyes.

He looks up at Aziraphale, at those red-rimmed hazel eyes gazing down at him with worry and alarm, and regrets every life decision that has led him up to this point.

“Tell me this has been a dream,” Crowley says, his voice sounding far away to his own ears. There’s a note of thinly-veiled desperation behind his flat tone.

It has to be a dream. 

If it isn’t, then everyone has seen his suicide notes. 

If it isn’t, then he got drunk, asked Beelzebub for cuddles, and fell asleep on zir lap as if ze hadn’t tried to assassinate him more times than he can count.

If it isn’t, then Crowley might just — he might…

If it isn’t, then Aziraphale came back. Aziraphale cares.

If it isn’t, then Aziraphale really did cry over Crowley, really did promise not to leave again, and held Crowley’s hand while he sobbed.

“You’re not dreaming,” Aziraphale says softly, voice cracking. “Um, Crowley, I — do you feel any different?”

I feel like I should’ve offed myself while I had the chance, he wants to say, but doesn’t.

He doesn’t want to be the reason his angel cries again.

“Ngk,” he mumbles “My memories are back, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Do a miracle.” Aziraphale has an oddly frightened look on his face.

“Wha—”

“Please, Crowley. Please just do it.”

Crowley gazes up into Aziraphale’s eyes, feeling rather lost, before exhaling and glancing down at the blanket. It’s yellow. With nary a thought, Crowley snaps his fingers — the blanket will turn black if it knows what’s good for it.

The blanket stays yellow.

“Did you not turn me back?” Crowley asks, raising an eyebrow and pushing himself up into more of a sitting position. He keeps his expression as calm as possible, which is difficult considering how emotionally exhausted he is. He wants to fall asleep and never wake up again.

(He wants to curl up in Aziraphale’s arms and cry while the angel tells him it’s all going to be okay — that they’ll be okay, even if it’s a lie.)

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I – I did,” he whispered. “I — maybe, maybe I did it wrong. I’m — should I go get the others?”

…Oh.

Oh, fuck.  

Crowley knows what went wrong. His stomach drops like lead, and he internally groans — nothing can ever be easy, can it?

It’s kinda obvious, now that he thinks about it.

Miracles like this aren’t just a matter of lazari. If it was, then angels and demons would be running around turning each other mortal all the time. It’s about choice.

Aziraphale can’t turn Crowley back, because Crowley doesn’t want to turn back.

Not really.

He knows that it would be for the best, but… but to turn back is condemning himself to an eternity of pain and suffering.

This way, he can see the finish line.

This way, there’s an end in sight — and a natural one at that. He doesn’t even have to kill himself. His organs will just shut down with age, so no one can fault him for dying.

It shouldn’t matter though.

It shouldn’t matter, because Crowley agreed to change back.

Frustration curls in his chest. 

So… so this is basically the world’s worst mental block, then.

Fucking hell.

How does he explain this to Aziraphale without sounding completely and utterly pathetic?

Chapter Text

Crowley swallows harshly. He opens his mouth to speak, but as soon as he does, the door whooshes open in a flood of demonic power.

“Look,” Beelzebub says, eyes flickering briefly to Aziraphale before settling on Crowley. Zir expression is solemn. “I was going to let the two of you have a few more minutes, but the president of the big annoying loud country that your brat’s from? Well, he’s one of ours now. And the big annoying loud country has declared war on the maple syrup country — I’ll let you guess why.”

Bee’s words are jarring.

However, what’s more jarring is the cacophony that’s coming from behind zir: a mixture of yelling, shouting, sobbing, and… incredulous laughter?

“I don’t see what any of that has to do with us,” Aziraphale says icily. His grip on Crowley has tightened again, and he’s glaring at Bee as if daring zir to contradict him.

Bee’s expression grows impossibly more dour. “You happen to live in this universe, ‘ Supreme Archangel.’ Heaven came after Gabriel and I. You really think you’re the exception? That they’ll leave you and Crowley alone?” Ze leans forward, dark eyes matching Aziraphale’s in stubbornness. 

Aziraphale glares back. 

Ze sighs deeply, leans back, and crosses zir arms. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this because I’m selfish, and I don’t want to live in a world where Gabriel and I can’t spend eternity together. Right now, Heaven isn’t going to stop until the four of us are permanently out of the picture.”

“So basically,” Crowley grumbles, “the four of us are stuck together. That’s just lovely.”

Bee opens zir mouth to say something, then pauses, wrinkling zir nose in confusion. “You’re still human.”

“...I plead the fifth.”

“Wrong country, dear,” Aziraphale mumbles.

Crowley groans. “Whatever. Point is, Lord Beelzebub, that I don’t owe you answers.”

“You fell asleep on my lap and permanently ruined my reputation,” Bee snarks. “I think I deserve a few answers after that indignity.”

“That didn’t happen and we’re never speaking of it agai—”

Bang!

Crowley sits bolt-upright, muscles tensing.

Across from them, Bee scowls, stomping out of the room without comment. A few seconds later, the sudden silence is broken. “Adam, I don’t care what the witch said, you can’t go around shooting every entity that mildly annoys you!”

Exhausted in every way possible, but a spark of curiosity still managing to burst into life, Crowley tries to get up and follow Bee out, sure that Aziraphale will be close behind. 

However, he gets nowhere. 

Aziraphale is holding Crowley too tightly

Upon realizing what he’s doing, Aziraphale flushes and lets go of one of Crowley’s hands — the other he continues to hold hostage, which makes Crowley’s heart oddly warm.

Crowley likes this new clingy Aziraphale.

Then Crowley remembers why Aziraphale is so clingy, and the tender sprout of good feelings abruptly dies.

The two of them make their way to the front of the shop, where Adam is cooly saying, “Well, considering the alternative was letting my partner fistfight said entity, I think I chose the best possible course of action. Besides, you’re a demon. Shouldn’t you be encouraging my violence?”

“He missed, didn’t he?” Nina (when did she get here?) deadpans. “No offense,” she continues, in a tone that implies she means all the offense, “but I think we’ve got bigger problems right now than Jason Todd Wannabee trying and failing to shoot Mr. Maggot Man.”

Crowley rounds the corner of the bookshelf. 

No one notices him and Aziraphale, so caught up are they in the scene playing out before them.

An unamused Ligur is holding back Hastur. Behind them is a toppled bookshelf, books sprawled everywhere in a sad display of broken spines and torn pages, which Fish has laid down in the middle of. 

Muriel kneels at the edge of the mess, attempting to coax Fish towards them.

Gabriel has two black eyes from Crowley’s punch. He’s sitting on the couch chair, eyes glazed over as if he’s lost in thought.

Maggie is leaning against the wall with a troubled expression. Nina stands next to Maggie, still wearing her apron, arms crossed defensively across her chest.

Meanwhile, Bee has zir hands on zir hips and is glaring at Adam, who appears thoroughly unimpressed. The gun in his hand has the safety switched off.

Beside Adam stands Warlock, eyes red-rimmed, and Crowley’s heart skips a beat.

Shit. Fuck.

The kid had been so upset earlier.

It isn’t as if Crowley had never considered going back to check up on Warlock, but in the end it never seemed like a good idea. He’d fucked the kid’s life up enough as it was.

Staying away was supposed to make things better — not cause more pain.

Why can’t Crowley stop hurting people?

He’s tried so fucking hard to be better, but he only ever seems to make things worse.

Aziraphale was right to push him away.

The air in the bookshop feels too thin, and Crowley instinctively squeezes Aziraphale’s hand like a freezing plant leaning towards the gentle warmth of the sun. The angel’s hand is firm and soft and grounding.

Crowley should be happier that Aziraphale’s hand is in his — and he is, really, he is.

But he’s also very, very tired.

His mind is a mess of a thousand different thoughts.

Part of him still feels very distant from everything that’s happening; the past few months were a fever dream and now he’s waiting to wake up — but his eyes are already open. His throat is tight. 

Distancing yourself from your emotions helps… until it doesn’t.

Until you reach for them, fingers outstretched, and they aren’t there. 

They should be there.

But they aren’t, and you’re too tired to search for them.

You realize, far too late, that you’ve fucked up.

How can your emotions both be overwhelming and absent? It’s confusing, and you sit crying on the floor and begging for answers. Why you? Why this?

How do you fix it?

Do you even want to fix it, or are you past that point? Do you just want it to be over already?

All these thoughts race through Crowley’s mind in the span of a few seconds — which is exactly how long it takes someone to notice the room is even more crowded than before.

Muriel locks eyes with Crowley.

Their mouth falls open slightly, and then they’re running at him and throwing their arms around his neck in a tight embrace.

“Mr. Crowley,” Muriel chokes out, voice cracking. “You’re here, you’re really here, you’re not dead —”

Warlock makes a strangled sound in the back of their throat. They gaze at Crowleys, a thousand emotions crossing their face in the span of a millisecond, before turning on their heel and running out of the bookshop. Adam immediately follows them.

Awkwardly, Crowley rubs Muriel’s back with his free hand (Aziraphale still hasn’t let the other go) and tries to pretend that everyone isn’t staring at him. 

“Crowley,” Hastur snarls.

Because he’s an idiot, Crowley raises his eyebrows and says, “Yep, that’s my name. Don’t wear it out.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Hastur replies.

“Actually,” Aziraphale says icily, “I made you swear not to cause anyone in the bookshop injury in exchange for my assistance. That oath doesn’t disappear just because you discovered one of said ‘people’ isn’t who you thought they were.”

 Hastur’s eyes practically bug out of his head.

Holy fuck, since when does Aziraphale speak to people like that?

(Come to think of it, Aziraphale had spoken in the same manner to Bee earlier — Crowley had just been too upset to consider the implications.)

Crowley stares at Aziraphale like the angel has grown a second head.

Then he remembers everything that’s happened in the past few months, and his stomach sinks.

Oh.

Yeah, that… that makes sense.

Aziraphale has changed — then again, so has Crowley.

“I’d usually be all for murder,” Gabriel admits, speaking up, “but seriously, Hastur? In front of Crowley’s head-of-Heaven boytoy, feral (but also kind of adorable) angel friend, and the love of my life who outranked you and seems to have developed a soft spot for him? Now, that’s just stupid”

Sighing and dragging a hand down zir face, Bee says, “Look, he’s like a homeless dripping wet dog with fleas. Pathetic in a way that grows on you.”

Excuse me? Crowley thinks, glaring at zir. He doesn’t know whether to be offended at the sheer audacity or surprised that he somehow managed to grow on Bee.

Nina scowls and says, “The U.S. declared war on the Canada, Heaven is apparently declaring war on Earth, and you all are standing around bickering. No wonder the world is in shambles.” She doesn’t look at Crowley as she speaks, which makes Crowley’s throat tighten even more.

Muriel finally lets go of Crowley, pulling back and wiping their eyes, and says, “We’ll fix it. We — we will. I promise, Nina.”

‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep,’ Crowley wants to say but doesn’t. He’s not that cruel — well, he tries not to be.

“Right, war. That,” Aziraphale mutters. He takes a deep breath, then louder, says, “I’m not going back to Heaven.”

“That’s fine,” Muriel replies, nodding, “I’m decently sure most of the lower rank angels will be alright with coming down here instead. We’re not powerful, but we can help.”

Aziraphale furrows his brow and tightens his grip on Crowley’s hand. “No, I mean — well, I’m done. I’m not — I’m not doing this anymore.”

“What?” Crowley says incredulously, only realizing that he’s spoken when everyone turns to look at him. He sighs. This is going to physically pain him to say that, but he’s going to say it anyway, no matter how much his heart is screaming at him to stay quiet and not look a gift horse in the mouth.. “Right, can’t believe I’m saying this, but angel, you can’t start a fucking rebellion and then decide you’re out. It just, it just doesn’t work like that.”

Why couldn’t Aziraphale have decided to run away with Crowley before getting himself tangled up in a second Great War?

“Well put, Crowley,” Bee says, looking pointedly at Aziraphale and raising zir eyebrows.

Crowley not-so-subtly flips zir off.

“I didn’t start a rebellion,” Aziraphale protests, shoulders sagging, “I just… attempted to create better living conditions for the lower-raking angels and give them the resources to expand their points of view so that they might realize that things were wrong.”

“Rebellion, uprising, mutiny, whatever you want to call it,” Bee says, waving zir hand dismissively and sitting down on the coffee table, “the meaning is the same. You’ve convinced them that the higher-ranking angels shouldn’t be trusted.”

“By that logic, they shouldn’t trust me. I’m the highest-ranking —”

Bee scoffs. “Not in their eyes. Up until a few months ago, you were a traitor, and until a few years before that, you were one of Earth’s representatives: under the higher-ranking angel’s jurisdiction just like they were.”

“Congrats on the rebellion,” Crowley murmurs to Aziraphale, smirking just slightly.

Aziraphale sighs deeply.”Thank you, my dear.” In a more serious tone, he says, “I’m not leaving you, not again. Never again.”

“Sure,” Crowley says, voice cracking, hoping beyond hope that the promise isn’t an empty one. “Uhmgnnnngk, uh, er — what’s your plan then?”

Aziraphale is quiet for a long second. “I don’t have one. All I’ve been able to think about since we found your — your…” He trails off, eyes tearing up, and takes a deep breath before plowing onward. “All I’ve been able to think about since we found th– the notes is whether you were okay. Physically, I mean — obviously, you’re not… erm…”

For a long second, everyone is quiet. Then —

“Um, what if the two of you stayed here,” Muriel says softly, “and we could all figure out what to do together? Like — like, as a team.”

Audible in the bookshop as everyone stares at Muriel, the clock tower chimes.

It chimes once, twice, thrice —

The sound that follows is not a chime but a bang.

Chapter Text

The bombing makes Crowley oddly nostalgic for another time.

Not too nostalgic, of course, but… but everything had been simpler back then.

Now, as smoke and panic fills the streets, ‘lighting from Heaven’ raining from the sky, Crowley instinctively tries to do a miracle — to protect Aziraphale’s shop from the tirade. 

Nothing happens.

Gabriel and Bee make eye contact, and Bee sighs, nodding once. Ze turns to Aziraphale. “Get yourself and your mortals somewhere safe — yes, I am including you in that statement, Crowley — and the rest of us will deal with these morons.”

“Oh, and could you find the antichrist and his plus one while you’re at it?” Gabriel adds, adjusting his cufflinks, looking prim and proper despite the double black eyes. “I hate dealing with parents, especially when it comes to their kids dying.”

Crowley’s heart twists.

He was there on the day Warlock was born, and he always knew that he’d be burying them someday. Death comes for humans indiscriminately — Crowley is no stranger to watching the light leave someone’s eyes, though the pain is fresh and raw each and every time.

It never does get easier.

Right now especially, Crowley can’t deal with losing anyone else, especially not one of his kids — ngk, that is, one of the kids he’s raised. 

(It’s selfish for Crowley to think of those kids as his own. They all deserve so much better than him.)

Aziraphale’s eyes flash understanding, and he turns to Crowley, Nina, and Maggie, his lips pressed tightly together. “We’ll find the children, then evacuate.”

In the corner, Muriel wilts a bit. Their gaze becomes downcast. Fish has crept over to them and paws at one of their legs.

“We’re taking Muriel,” Crowley says decisively. 

Muriel’s eyes widen with hope. They look to Bee for approval — as if Bee is the one in charge here which, rude, ze definitely isn’t — and Bee sighs, giving Crowley an exasperated look. “Look, whatever convinces  yourself and the Supreme Archangel to get to safety.”

“Why do you care?” Crowley asks mulishly.

Bee pauses, tilting zir head. “I don’t. But for whatever reason, the Metatron feels threatened by you two. In my eyes, even if you can’t fight, we need to keep you out of his hands. The other option would be killing you —”

“I vote for that option,” Hastur says. 

“— which I’m not inclined towards anymore. Lucky you. Besides, I don’t think it’s either of you guys' times. Not yet, at least.” Bee maintains pointed eye contact with Crowley while ze speaks, which is both extremely weird and… oddly touching.

Fortunately, Crowley doesn’t have time to think too hard about this.

They have kids to find.

It isn’t too late, because it can’t be too late.

It can’t.

There’s a thrill in walking through a bombing as a mortal, even under Aziraphale’s protection, knowing that nothing can hurt him.

Smoke and ash hangs heavy in the air.

They find Warlock and Adam crossing tentatively through an alley, attempting to return to the bookshop without getting blasted into smithereens. As it is, Warlock’s arm is clutched to their chest at an odd angle from when one of the blasts had propelled them into the side of a brick building.

Warlock is scowling at the ground, and Adam’s expression is dark and moody.

Which, yeah, that’s fair.

If Aziraphale had been injured, Crowley would also be ticked off.

In a wave of lazari, Aziraphale and Muriel (but mostly Aziraphale) miracle the small group of outcasts to a cabin that Crowley’s never seen before.

“Really? You brought us back to South Downs?” Adam asks, glancing around. His gaze falls on the cabin, a small, quaint thing in the middle of a stretch of grass with a few trees here and there. “Huh. No one lives here, but how did you know that?”

Aziraphale flushes. “Um, I wasn’t really — I simply was thinking of getting you all to safety, and apparently this is what my mind eq… actually? That’s unimportant. Inside, if you all will,” and snapping his fingers, the front door unlocks.

All this time, Aziraphale has never let go of Crowley’s hand.

Crowley considers making a joke about how he isn’t going to disappear if Aziraphale lets him go, but immediately thinks better of it, the snarky voice in his head reminding him that he’d quite literally disappeared the last time Aziraphale had let him go.

Also, Crowley really doesn’t want Aziraphale to let go of his hand. Maybe it’s selfish, to be relishing this contact, but he can’t help it.

The inside of the cabin is bare, semi-furnished. There are no beds or couches, no electricity or running water, and over everything lies a thin blanket of dust. This is all fixed in a snap of Aziraphale’s fingers.

It feels wrong to see Aziraphale doing such powerful miracles without breaking a sweat, but… well, he is a Supreme Archangel now, isn’t he?

Though come to think of it, Aziraphale’s miracles started becoming more powerful around the time that Gabriel ‘went missing…’

“So what now?” Nina asks. At Aziraphale’s telling silence, she narrows her eyes. “Do you expect us to just sit here and watch the world fall apart? Do you?”

Aziraphale sighs. “No, I simply…” His face twists with derision, and instead of answering, he turns to Warlock. “First things first, let me heal your arm — we’ll have you feeling better in a jiffy.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No. I want Nanny Ashtoreth to do it. Or is there a reason she can’t?” they ask challengingly, turning their gaze to Crowley. “If no one tells me what’s going on now, I swear to whatever’s out there that —” They clench their jaw as if physically forcing themself not to finish that sentence, face twisting and eyes gleaming, and oh shit are they going to start crying again —

In the end, Aziraphale gives the child a slightly-edited version of events. He heavily implies that Crowley becoming human/unrecognizable/amnesiatic was the result of a rather unfortunate accident with a miracle, though his stomach twists painfully as he speaks.

The child shouldn’t have to carry the weight of such knowledge.

Still, the lie tastes like ash on his tongue, and he grips Crowley’s hand tightly all the while.

Crowley, who’s dead tired on his feet, leaning against Aziraphale.

Crowley, who’s acting skittish and seems to keep spacing out.

Aziraphale has only seen Crowley like this a few times in the 6000 years that they’ve known each other. All those times though, the mood never lasted more than a month or two.

It’s been more than two months since Aziraphale left for Heaven… more than two months since Crowley wrote those notes.

Crowley’s mood hasn’t been showing signs of improvement. What if it never does?

Aziraphale can’t help but feel like he’s shattered Crowley, shattered his entire world , beyond repair — a thought which he quickly shoves away. Crowley needs Aziraphale to be strong. He can’t… he can’t be weak right now.

“Then why haven’t you fixed it yet?” Warlock snaps, question directed to Crowley. “You fixed everything else,” they say, as if Earth  isn’t literally going to Hell around them, “so why are you still mortal?”

“Nice question, kid,” Crowley says dryly, “but your arm is still broken. Let Aziraphale heal it and get some rest, will you?”

“Shut up! You don’t get to tell me what to do, you left!” Warlock’s cheeks are wet with tears; and though their face is twisted with anger, there’s a panic in their eyes that makes Aziraphale feel more helpless than ever.

He’s a terrible angel.

“No one is ‘fucking off’,” Nina says firmly.

Maggie nods, jaw set. “We’re all in this together. I don’t know all the context, but no one is leaving this house until we at least have a plan to set things straight.”

“Is there any food here?” Adam asks. “We didn’t eat dinner, and I can’t sleep when I’m hungry.”

“There… should be some in the kitchen,” Aziraphale says, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand. “We miracled it to be a fully functioning house, so I would assume there’s food. Warlock, please just let me heal you. Then the two of you can go check on the, ah, living situation.”

Resentfully, a withering glare on their face, Warlock allows Aziraphale to soothe the area with a simple healing miracle.

“Good as new,” Aziraphale says. He means for the words to come out comforting, but even to his own ears he sounds exhausted.

Warlock, who had seemingly unconsciously leaned into Aziraphale’s touch, abruptly jerks their arm backwards. Their face is red. Without meeting anyone’s eyes, they turn their back to the others and exchange quiet words with Adam, who nods. The two teenagers leave the room.

For a moment, there’s a tense silence.

Then Maggie speaks. “Are we going to talk about it?”

“Alright, you’re going to have to be more specific than that,” Crowley says, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “There’s loads of stuff we need to talk about.”

Maggie winces. “To start off, are you an immediate danger to yourself or others?”

“No,” Crowley deadpans, though Aziraphale feels him tense even more. 

“Are you sure?” Nina asks.

“Nghhhhnghhh. Look, I’ve written tons of suicide notes in the 6000 years I’ve been on this planet, and I’ve never— never actually tried to go through with it. M’kay? I’m fine.”

“Surprisingly,” Maggie says, trying for a half-smile, gaze sympathetic, “that isn’t very comforting. Especially since you’re… still human? What’s up with that?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Crowley grumbles.

“That’s nice,” Nina says, her gaze dark. “Do it anyways.”

Grimacing, Maggie quickly adds, “We do need to talk about it, Crowley  — or at least, you need to talk about it with one of us — but it doesn’t have to be right this very moment. When did you last sleep?”

“For more than three hours,” Nina says dryly.

Crowley shrugs. “Two nights ago, ish?”

“You should try to sleep some, Mr. Crowley. You too, Mr. Aziraphale. You both look really tired,” Muriel says, brows pinched with concern. They’re wringing their hands again.

Surprisingly, Crowley doesn’t protest — a testament to how emotionally exhausting the past few days must’ve been. He mutters, “Fine,” pulls his hand away from Crowley’s — no no danger no don’t leave don’t leave — and wanders off into the part of the cabin so far unexplored.

Aziraphale immediately follows him.

The first door Crowley opens is the door to the first of two bedrooms, and in silence he kicks his shoes off and climbs into the bed, not looking back at Aziraphale, who stands awkwardly in the doorway.

When Aziraphale had first looked at this cottage, doing a search online late one night in a bout of determination and hopefulness after the Armageddon that wasn’t, he’d imagined what it would be like to move in with Crowley.

He’d daydreamed about it a thousand times.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be sweet, their cheeks flushed, perhaps giggling at something the other had said — it was supposed to be joyful, pleasant, hopeful.

Crowley was supposed to be happy.

Crowley was supposed to see the garden out back and grin, bouncing  on his toes, and torment the plants until they shook. He was supposed to come back inside with a smug look on his face and sit down at the table, where Aziraphale would excitedly serve a homemade dinner.

That’s never going to happen now.

“You can join me,” Crowley says quietly, pulling Aziraphale from his racing thoughts. “I don’t— I don’t mind. Ngk, would prefer it, actually.”

A seed of hope sprouts in Aziraphale’s chest.

The two of them don’t talk about it, but when Aziraphale gets in the bed, Crowley immediately curls into his side. The warmth is soft and warm and special.

There’s going to be a war, and everything has gone to shit — but in this moment, Aziraphale can close his eyes and breathe in Crowley’s scent and pretend that he hadn’t fucked everything up. He can pretend that the tears on his cheeks are ones of joy rather than sorrow and grief for what could’ve been.

Chapter Text

Crowley awakes to boisterous chatter drifting down from… somewhere.

He blinks his eyes open to a dark room— fuck, where is he? This isn’t his flat.

Then he feels soft curls pressed against his cheek, a chin resting on his shoulder, strong arms wrapped around his midsection —

Crowley makes a drawn-out, slightly strangled noise in the back of his throat.

Oh, right.

The bookshop, the memories, the cottage in South Downs…

“Are you awake, dear?”

Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who is currently spooning him. Aziraphale, whose voice is tinged with sleep and a modicum of uncertainty.

Aziraphale, to whom Crowley has said countless mortifying things to in the past 24 hours… oh fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

What had past him been thinking?

“Yeah,” he mumbles, forcing himself to sit up and turn to face Aziraphale, who sits up as well.

The angel’s cheeks are tinged pink. His curls are messy, his fingers worrying the sheets, and his hazel eyes flicker up to Crowley. “May I — may I kiss you?”

[Crowley.exe has stopped working. Retry later?]

How many times had he imagined this? Waking up in bed next to Aziraphale (though in the fantasies, Aziraphale had usually been awake all night reading), feeling safe, rolling dramatically over onto Aziraphale and kissing him senseless?

A mischievous glint in Crowley’s eyes, Aziraphale’s gaze one of fond exasperation as he teasingly says, ‘Good morning to you too, dear. Sleep well?’

This… this is nothing like that.

(But unlike those fantasies, this is real.)

Wordlessly, Crowley nods.

Aziraphale cups Crowley’s face with a warm hand and leans in, pressing a tender kiss to Crowley’s lips, which Crowley returns without a second thought.

(If not for everything Aziraphale had said to Anthony over the past few months, Crowley would be worried that he was doing this out of a sense of obligation. Aziraphale leaving had, admittedly, fucked with Crowley’s head a bit. But that was then and this is now. Maybe everything isn’t as broken as it has seemed.)

For a moment, Crowley looses himself in the kiss.

Then Aziraphale pulls away.

A wet, salty taste lingers on Crowley’s lips. His cheeks are wet, and so are Aziraphale’s.

Crowley grimaces, rubbing at his eyes with the soft sleeve of his shirt and taking a deep, shuttery breath. He exhales slowly. “What time is it?” he asks, voice wavering.

“7 AM, if the clock is to be trusted.”

This is more than a bit alarming.

Crowley sits up straight, squinting at the window. “Um, nghkk, I don’t — I don’t think it’s supposed to be that dark outside.”

“End of the world,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Or well, smoke and soot from the bombing, I suppose. I’m sorry, this is — this is my fault. I’m sorry.”

“Nah.”

Aziraphale gives Crowley a hesitant, questioning look.

“Ngkghh, I, um — I think he’s been planning this for a long time. Maybe longer than you’ve been alive. I, uh, heh — that might’ve been why I fell, actually.”

“What?” Aziraphale says, leaning forward, brows creased with concern. He gently takes Crowley’s hand in a comforting gesture, loose enough that Crowley could pull away if he wanted to.

Crowley melts a bit at the touch.

“I didn’t so much fall as, well, saunter vaguely downwards? For the most part, that is. Um, my wings just seemed to be darker every time I pruned them. I dunno if it’s the doubt or the questions that did me in, but — hnghh, point is, I had already mostly Fallen by the point this happened? From what I remember, that is.”

Aziraphale listens in silence, rubbing circles on the back of Crowley’s hand with his thumb.

“The Metatron had a little office — heh, he invented offices, actually. Bastard. Anyway, hnghhh, I was looking for him. I — I was going to ask him why my wings were turning black, I think. It was a long time ago. He wasn’t in his office, but he’d left some of his journals out on his desk, and… heh, curiosity killed the cat, I suppose.

“I didn’t… I didn’t understand what was in them. It seemed like plans, I guess, but it was ridiculously confusing. I ended up going through his drawers trying to find something that would help me understand what was written in them. Stupid idea, really.

“He had alarms on the drawers. I hadn’t gotten anywhere in my ‘research’ when he burst in, all mad looking, and started yelling at me. I don’t, ngkgnghhh, I don’t remember everything he said. I think… I think I started crying at some point. None of what he was saying really made sense to me. It was just loud. Loud, and angry.

“Worst part is, I wasn’t even mad at him? I was mad at myself for being a horrible angel and making him upset with me, yadah yadah yadah. I… I asked him why he hated me, and I started apologizing (was sobbing my eyes out at this point), and I… I tried to leave. To cry my eyes out in a star system, probably.

“Well, nghhh, he didn’t like that. At all. He grabbed my arm, got really quiet, and then he… he sighed, and told me that what was about to happen was my own fault, and how he couldn’t just let me leave after what I’d found. I had no fucking clue what was going on. I was so fucking stupid, I was—”

“You weren’t,” Aziraphale interrupts, eyes ablaze, startling Crowley, who gazes at him with wide, teary eyes. “You weren’t stupid.”

Crowley swallows harshly, nodding once. “Um,” he continues, voice cracking. “He… he threw me backwards. I, I was expecting to hit the floor, but I never did. I just kept Falling. My blood felt like it was on fire. I begged the Almighty to make it stop. I begged, and begged, and no one answered. I wanted to die just to make it stop hurting.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, eyes glistening with tears. “I’m so, so sorry, Crowley.”

Shrugging, Crowley says, “I didn’t — ngghnkk, I didn’t remember it until yesterday. Gabriel came by soon after I dragged myself out of the sulfur and removed my memories from before the Fall. Doesn’t matter, I suppose. I still couldn’t tell you what was in those Somebody damned journals. Nothing in them made any bloody sense.”

Aziraphale hums. “…But the Metatron believed you able to figure out what was in them. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have cared that you were going through his stuff.” There’s a long pause, the Aziraphale sighs deeply and casts his gaze to the ceiling. “I don’t want to lose you. To… to yourself, or to this war.” He looks back at Crowley. “Crowley? Why… why are you still mortal? The miracle… the miracle should’ve worked.”

There’s the guilt again, heavy in Crowley’s chest.

He can’t bring himself to look Aziraphale in the eye.

“I think… I think I have a mental block, of sorts. That’s, um. Keeping me from turning back. I’ll… I’ll figure it out. I promise.”

Aziraphale is quiet for a long second, then nods and says softly, “I trust you.”

The kitchen is a sight to behold.

Maggie and the teenagers are covered in flour, while Nina stands off to the side, looking out the window at the ominous dark sky, her fists clenched tightly by her sides. She appears restless.

Then Crowley notices that there’s one more person then there should be.

Specifically, one more demon.

Said demon is currently sitting on the floor cooing at Fish, who curled up purring in a grinning Muriel’s lap.

“Why — why is Eric here?” Crowley asks tiredly.

Muriel blinks, ducking their head sheepishly, smile faltering. “Um…”

“Assassination attempt gone wrong,” Nina deadpans. “Turns out, the key to survival is having a cat with you on all times. Who’d have thought?”

“Assassination attempt?” Crowley asks dubiously, raising an eyebrow. “Eric?”

Eric quickly raises his hands. “Technically, it’s not an assassination attempt, since assassinations are politically motivated. And I’m only motivated by not wanting Hastur to kill me again.”

“Right,” Crowley sighs, reaching up to make sure the new pair of sunglasses Aziraphale had miracled up for him upon his request are settled where they’re supposed to be. He hadn’t expected demonic visitors so early in the day.

“It’s fine though, Eric’s on our side now!” Muriel exclaims. “I told him he couldn’t pet Fish unless he joined us.”

“The world’s doomed,” Warlock mutters, dramatically pouring pancake batter into a frying pan.

Mood.

“You’d think so,” Maggie says, wincing. “We’ve been keeping an eye on the news — it’s… interesting.”

“In the past 24 hours, 12 different countries have declared war, 18 high-level natural disasters have occurred, and there’s been 522 freak accidents reported that have resulted in death. And rising,” deadpans Nina. “The world’s population has gone down by approximately 5 million people.”

“Any word from Gabriel or Beelzebub?” Aziraphale asks, leaning against the wall. He looks worryingly exhausted despite having slept for the past ten hours.

“Not yet,” Maggie says.

Three quick knocks come from the front door. Everyone freezes, and a couple seconds pass, then the person knocks again.

Aziraphale sighs deeply. “I’ll get it.” He exits the room.

Not about to leave his angel alone, Crowley follows.

Taking up a slightly defensive stance, Aziraphale opens the door — and then relaxes, though his expression now borders exhasperation. Crowley looks over Aziraphale’s shoulders.

Two angels, wings out and all.

One appears anxious. She has her arms crossed over her chest, shoulders hunched, and has her gaze fixed on the ground.

The other looks Aziraphale dead in the eyes and says, “I don’t need sleep, I need answers.”

Said ‘other’ also looks remarkably like a younger version of Crowley, though his hair is a slightly different shade.

“Why are you two here?” Aziraphale asks, unamused.

“Is Muriel inside? We — we wanted to make sure they were okay,” mumbles the first one.

The Crowley-esque one says, “Actually, that’s why Danielle’s here. I want to know what the fuck’s going on.”

“Language,” Aziraphale deadpans. He sighs, running a hand down his face. “Yes, Muriel is here. Both of you, come in. The last thing we need is the neighbors getting curious.” He pauses, then adds, “Wings away, please, it’s rather crowded inside at the moment.”

“Who’s that?” the Crowley-esque one says, pointing at Crowley.

Crowley wrinkles his nose and smiles passive aggressively. “Better question is, who are you?”

“Crowley, this is Aeriale. Aeriale, this is my…” Aziraphale pauses; they haven’t discussed this. “My Crowley.”

Crowley’s cheeks grow red, but hey, at least he manages to repress the squeak that threatens to escape his throat. (So his reputation is only mostly ruined. Lovely.)

Chapter Text

“It’s fine, we have experience with stopping Armageddon,” Adam reassures Warlock. “And I didn’t even have a gun back then.”

All of them are sitting in the cottage kitchen eating pancakes off of paper plates in what has got to be the most awkward breakfast to ever take place.

A demon, an ex-demon who is sort of mortal at the moment, four angels, three normal mortals, the ex-antichrist, and a cat walk into a cottage — it sounds like the beginning of a bad joke that Crowley probably invented at one point.

(Don’t talk to him about Dad Jokes TM. Those were a mistake, and honestly, how was Crowley supposed to know those kids would tell the same jokes to their kids, and so on and so on? He’s just lucky Aziraphale didn’t hear about that set of evil wiles, or else Crowley would never here the end of it.)

“Why do you have a gun now?” Maggie asks Adam, attempting to smile — it ends up being more of a grimace. There’s concern in her eyes.

Ah, right.

Adam having a gun seemed pretty tame to Crowley, but then again, Crowley has seen children fight in countless wars with weapons much more volatile. (He tries to help where he can, but he’s never able to save them all.

Sometimes, it seems more merciful to just let them die.)

“Oh, Mrs. Anathema gave it to me. She said that if I didn’t have my powers, then I needed some way to protect myself in case the pigeons decided to attack. They work for the government, you know. It’s a very real threat.”

Maggie blinks slowly, eyes crinkling. “Right.”

“Wait, the pigeons work for the government?” Danielle asks, tilting her head, weathering the cuffs of her shirt with nervous fingers.

Muriel shakes their head. “No, that’s the bourgeoisie. And large corporations. It depends on the country, but large corporations are run by the bourgeoisie, so I think no matter how you look at it, the bourgeoisie is in charge.”

Everyone stares at them.

“I read most of the books in Mr. Aziraphale’s shop,” Muriel says, flushing — then they pause, eyes growing wide. Their shoulders sag. “Oh…”

“What?” Nina asks.

“Oh, um, nothing. It’s just… now that Mr. Aziraphale’s back, it’s not my bookshop anymore. So I’ll never get to finish reading all of them. Plus, the world’s ending, so…” they mumble, shrugging. “It’s not important, I suppose.”

Aziraphale stares at them for a long, long moment, a conflicted expression flashing across his face. Then he looks away. “Right, well… if it’s still standing after this whole debacle, you’re free to drop by any time.” He opens his mouth as if to say something more, then closes it, a far away look in his eyes.

His pancakes sit untouched before him. He makes no move to begin eating them, which… something uneasy shifts in Crowley’s stomach.

“These are really good!” Eric says, oblivious to the tension.

Aeriale raps his fingers against the table impatiently.

(Fucking hell, aggressively tapping against random surfaces isCrowley’s stim.

Is this the Almighty’s idea of a joke?

Is it not enough that a human looking at the two of them would think they were siblings?

Red hair, slim builds, oddly characteristic restlessness…

Aeriale better not start wearing black too.)

“Why is the Metatron destroying everything if Hell isn’t fighting back?” Aeriale asks finally. “What’s the point of a war if there’s only one side?”

“Your Metatron isn’t destroying everything,” Nina says, glaring at the table as if it has personally wronged her. “Lazy bum can’t even be bothered to do that — most of what he’s done is just manipulating people into destroying one another.”

Adam hums. “Well, the natural disasters are probably angels manipulating the ground and waters and such — assuming we’re ruling out pigeons?”

“Yes, we’re ruling out pigeons,” Warlock deadpans, though the edge of their lip is curling up into a fond smile. They’re on their third syrup-drenched pancake. “Don’t think they could cause this much destruction, love.”

“My point still stands,” says Aeriale. “What’s the point in fighting if there’s no one to fight?”

“What’s the point in creating a universe just to destroy it,” Crowley retorts, raising his eyebrows. “It’s ‘ineffable’.”

Aziraphale squeezes his hand.

“No, no, he has a point,” Maggie says, setting her fork down, a determined look in her eye. “How does he benefit from this? Is it just sadism, or is there an end goal? You can’t rule the world if there’s no world left to rule.”

“Well, speaking from experience,” says Adam, “ruling the world only seems appealing when you think you can rebuild it around yourself and… and friends. And you can be in charge, and everything will go the way you want it to. A completely destroyed world… there’s nothing appealing there.”

“Speaking… from experience.” Nina closes her eyes, resting her forehead on her hands. “Jesus Christ.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but no,” Adam says with a slight smirk. “The exact opposite, actually.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley sees Muriel freeze in place. They gaze unblinkingly down at the table with wide eyes, color draining from their face.

Warlock tilts their head thoughtfully. “Does Jesus actually exist?”

“Yup,” Aeriale says, nodding. “Saw her walking down the hall once. I was supposed to be working, but I got bored. She couldn’t talk long, said She had a meeting with Her Mum, but was really nice and laid back about everything. I asked if She was gonna write me up for taking unauthorized breaks, and She just grinned and winked at me, said not to tell anyone but that She has a soft spot for angels like me. Never saw Her after that though.”

Muriel quietly sets their fork down, shoulders slumping, and buries their face in their hands.

“Oh, dope,” Warlock says. “’She?’”

Aeriale blinks, nodding. “Well, I usually refer to Her with ‘feminine’ terms, but technically… I mean, She’s God,” he says, as if that explains everything, which it sort of does.

Celestial and occult beings usually don’t have genders, though they may have preferred expressions of it.

Crowley is the exception. He has all the genders, and none of the genders, and he delights in explaining this to humans because most of the time they’re too confused to ask questions. It’s one of his favorite evil wiles.

‘Spreading mass confusion,’ he’d write on his reports… which, well, he might’ve exaggerated a little bit, but no one needed to know that.

It had been… well, it had been fun.

He hasn’t done that in a long time.

Maybe… maybe he should start doing it again, even though he’s not being ordered to cause mayhem anymore. How long has it been since he’s caused mayhem just for the hell of it?

Then Muriel’s shoulders shake, and Crowley remembers that the real world does indeed exist outside his head.

“Muriel? Kid? Constable Investigator?” Crowley softly calls across the table. “You okay?”

Most of the others continue talking, but Crowley tunes them out.

And then Muriel removes their face from their hands, and they aren’t crying.

They’re laughing.

Not the fun kind of laugh though — the kind of laugh that you laugh because, well, what else are you supposed to do?

“We’re… we’re stupid,” Muriel declares, grinning, a helpless, slightly-panicked look in their eyes. “We’re really, really dumb, Anth — er, Mr. Crowley.”

Crowley wrinkles his nose. “You can, erm, you can keep calling me Anthony if you want. I don’t mind. And, nghhh, what do you mean by that exactly?”

At some point everyone fell silent, staring at Muriel and Crowley.

It’s so quiet you could hear a fly buzz.

Rather, it’s so quiet that you can hear a fly buzz.

There is a fly on the windowsill watching them with funky little eyes, as flies are wont to do, and Crowley refrains from rolling his eyes. Of course Bee’s spying on them while also trying to fight a way, or whatever ze and Gabriel are currently attempting to do.

“Well, um…” Muriel bites their lip, shrinking under the weight of everyone’s attention. “Um, I mean… I just…”

Danielle rests a hand on their shoulder. “What is it?” she asks hesitantly, giving Muriel a once over.

“Jesus Christ,” Muriel says. “Um, I was just thinking, if the Metatron’s trying to do a Second Coming, then… then They should be here, right? But, but They’re not, and so… so if someone were to pretend to be Them, it’s not like it would be glaringly obvious. And, and being a savior works best if everyone desperately needs one, right? So…”

“So he’s making everything go to shit so that he can swoop in like Earth’s knight in shining armor and ‘save us’?” Nina says.

“Identity theft is not a joke, Jim,” Warlock mumbles, fiddling with one of their piercings and gazing darkly at the table.

Aeriale brightens. “Millions of families suffer every year!”

Blinking, Maggie says, “You’ve watched The Office?”

The angel nods, gesturing to Aziraphale. “He thought we should be exposed to more Earthly things, probably so that we’d realized how great everything was and not want it destroyed.”

“Well, how do we stop it then?” Nina asks, sighing deeply and rubbing her forehead. “We’re no match for a literal angelic army — even if some do revolt, from what Muriel was telling me, it’s mostly lower class angels who want an uprising.”

Aziraphale hums softly. “Well…” He hesitates, looking at Crowley. “May I tell them what you told me earlier, dear boy? About… well, about what you saw?”

Oh.

A small warmth blooms in Crowley’s chest — Aziraphale cared enough to check that he was okay with something before going through with it, which is new.

It’s… it’s a good new.

Crowley shrugs and says, “Why not?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale exhales slowly, a conflicted look crossing his face again. “Before Crowley Fell, he got a look at the Metatron’s private journals, and whatever was in it was significant enough that the Metatron thought the only solution was to, well… cast him out.”

“And you didn’t think to tell us this?” Nina asks Crowley.

Crowley narrows his eyes and wrinkles his nose, leaning back in his chair. “Nghhhk, well, s’not like I remembered it until yesterday, and none of it made sense so hgnnnh, didn’t seem important I suppose.”

“If none of it made sense, then why did he care that you found it?” asks Aeriale.

Begrudgingly, Crowley answers, “He thought I did understand it. Still don’t, by the way, and I’ve very much slept in the 6,000 years since then.”

“Do you think the journals are still there somewhere?” Danielle asks softly. “Maybe, maybe if we could find them… well, if he thought you could figure it out, then maybe you can? If you saw them again, that is?”

Crowley makes a face. “Ngh. Dunno.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Maggie says, “but how would we find them?”

Crowley looks at Aziraphale, and Aziraphale looks at Crowley.

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale says.

Raising his brows, Crowley says, “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to,” grumbles Aziraphale, “I’ve known you for 6,000 years, my dear. You have your scheming face on.”

“Well, ngk.” Aziraphale isn’t wrong, but still. Rude.

“What were you going to say, Anthony?” Maggie asks.

“I mean… I could probably still get into it — I doubt he removed my access, if the journals do still exist, since, well, y’know. Demon. And Aziraphale’s Supreme Archangel.”

There’s something thrilling about feeling like he has a purpose again.

And, well, scheming has always been one of Crowley’s favorite pastimes.

He may have been a shitty angel, and he may be a shitty demon, but the one thing he’s not shit at is saving the world. (Well, Crowley sort of did it once, and that’s more than most people can say.)

Aziraphale gazes at Crowley for a long moment. Something in his expression softens, and then he sighs deeply and shakes his head, the faintest hint of an exasperated smile ghosting across his lips. “Wily serpent.”

Crowley grins — a real grin, the first in a long time — leaning back further in his chair. “That’s a yes, isn’t it?”

“…Yes.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale doesn’t like this plan.

Well, ‘doesn’t like’ is putting it quite lightly — this plan stirs up guilt and shame and anxiety… and, honestly? Aziraphale wishes for nothing more than to crawl back under the covers with Crowley and sleep while the world crumbles pointlessly around them.

Does that make him selfish?

Maybe.

Does that make him a coward?

Definitely.

“Are you coming with us, Eric?” Muriel asks, tilting their head. They lean against the table, gazing down at a piece of paper covered in cursive detailing possible ways for their scheme to play out — ‘brain thundering’, they had put it, a determined gleam in their eyes all the while.

Eric gives them an odd look. “I’m a demon.”

Shrugging, Muriel scribbles something else down and says, “Exactly — you can report to your superiors that you were ‘infiltrating Heaven’. I mean, that’s got to be a lot more impressive than killing a ‘human’, right?”

“So we’re going for straight-up treason then?” Aeriale asks casually.

Muriel stiffens, hand halting in its tracks. For a long moment, they say nothing, gnawing at their bottom lip — then their gaze flickers over to Crowley, then to Aziraphale, then back to the paper, then up at Aeriale. “I don’t know exactly why the Almighty created me, but… but I don’t think she would’ve wanted this, and — and if that makes me a traitor, then… then I guess I’m a traitor.”

In that moment, Muriel looks almost like a child. Lost, not knowing their place in the world, but with a streak of resilience that can’t be broken.

That won’t be broken.

Here Muriel is, being braver and bolder than most angels, determination shining through beneath the clear apprehension in their eyes. They’re a better angel than Aziraphale ever was.

“Hell is a bit understaffed at the moment,” Eric says, grinning down at an annoyed-looking Fish cradled in his arms, who hisses and swats at him. “Aww,” he coos. Then, seemingly remembering that he’d been in the middle of a thought, he perks up and looks back at them. “If you want to even the playing field a bit —”

“No one is Falling,” Crowley says sharply, glowering at Eric.

Aziraphale wonders if he’s included in that statement.

***

In the end, they decide to split up into three groups: Crowley and Aziraphale (Operation Information) will search the Metatron’s office, while Aeriale, Muriel, and Eric (Operation Distraction) will ensure that the Metatron stays away while they do so.

Danielle (Operation Don’t-Let-The-Humans-Die...tion) will stay at the cottage in case the humans come to require miraculous protection, at which point she’ll contact Aziraphale and do her best to keep everyone safe until he can get there.

(Aeriale was supposed to stay behind too, but he’d put his foot down, so Muriel had reluctantly switched him over to Operation Distraction.)

Crowley smirks, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s do this.”

“Don’t do anything reckless,” Aziraphale says, mouth dry, speaking mostly to Crowley but turning his gaze round the table all the same so as not to single the demon out.

Muriel nods solemnly. “We’ll be careful.”

“Absolutely. ‘Careful’ is my middle name,” Aeriale chirps — which is a complete lie, as angel’s don’t have middle names.

(Except for one A. Z. Fell, of course.)

“Yeah, ‘course.” Crowley’s tone is far to casual, clearly having seen right through Aziraphale’s attempt to make it a general command. “Simple in and out, James Bond style.”

“Can the demon-kitty come?” Eric asks, bopping the enraged cat on the nose. “She’s a good girl, yes she is!”

“We are not bringing the cat on a spy mission,” Crowley says at the same time that Aziraphale says, “Absolutely not; under no circumstances.”

“You two are such dads,” Warlock grumbles.

The two turn to stare at them.

Then Adam sighs mournfully and, like the consumer of worlds he is, snitches the very last pancake and begins to eat it, and all eyes pivot to him. “I still don’t see why we can’t come along. I have a gun; they have a pipe. We’d be fine.”

“You can ‘be fine’ down here where it’s safe,” Aziraphale says firmly.

“World war three is literally going on right now,” Warlock deadpans, blowing their bangs out of their face with a scoff. “It would probably be safer up there, but don’t worry, we get it — we aren’t good enough for Heaven, and we aren’t good enough for y —”

“Enough!” Muriel shouts, slamming their hands with their ears and squeezing their eyes shut tightly. Voice cracking, they say in a slightly quieter tone, “This is difficult enough as it is — will you all please stop fighting? Please?”

Everyone falls quiet. Muriel is gasping for air, and Aziraphale… Aziraphale hasn’t the foggiest how to help.

For God’s sake, why is he always so useless?

He can’t save Muriel, he can’t save Crowley, he can’t save Earth and he most certainly can’t save Heaven. He was dunce for ever thinking he could.

Of course only the Metatron ever ‘believed in him’ — there was nothing to believe in. Everyone could see it, even the Metatron. That was why the Metatron picked Aziraphale in the first place, right? Because he’d be the only one stupid enough to fall for it? What an absolute fool he —

“Catch,” Nina says flatly, and the next thing Aziraphale knows she’s grabbing an apple from the bowl on the counter and

He catches it, blinking at her.

Pardon?

What is wrong with humans these days?

“Stop spiraling. Eat an apple,” she deadpans, as if this is a reasonable explanation for chucking fruit as his head.

“I was not ‘spiraling’,” he huffs.

Because he really wasn’t. He’s fine — nothing bad has ever really happened to him, so he should be fine. He is fine.

“Hm, sounds like something someone who was spiraling would say,” she retorts, looking him up and down disapprovingly. “Seriously, just eat the damn apple. It’s obvious you’re hungry.”

I don’t deserve food, Aziraphale doesn’t say, because that might worry Crowley (not that it should. It’s the truth, after all.)

“I’m afraid I’m not hungry, actually,” Aziraphale says instead. He sets the apple down on the table and takes a deep breath, Nina’s scrutinizing gaze weighing heavy on his shoulders, and forces his attention back to Muriel.

Crowley is talking to them, and they seem to have calmed down quite a bit. They’re no longer clutching their ears. Their expression is still weary, but their breathing is steady again.

“It’s alright; I’m fine,” they say, rubbing at their eyes, sniffling softly. “Sorry.”

“Ngk, don’t apologize. ‘S normal, it is.”

“You all need therapy,” Nina grumbles. “Every last one of you.”

“So do you, love,” Maggie says, edges of her lips twitching upwards in an exhausted but teasing smile.

Nina flips her off.

***

The elevator obviously isn’t an option. Luckily for Operation Information and Operation Distraction, the stairs can be accessed anyplace, anytime.

They split up at the top.

White floors, white walls, white doors, white ceilings.

Home sweet home.

Crowley and Aziraphale don’t talk. Crowley, because he honestly doesn’t know what to say; Aziraphale, presumably because he’s too busy glancing over their shoulders, looking left and right and left again.

“If the cavalry is coming, I doubt that they’re going to jump out at us from behind a pole,” Crowley says, just to break the silence.

Aziraphale huffs. “Don’t be silly.”

“Alright, what’s wrong? Besides the obvious, that is.”

“I’m fine.”

“That doesn’t even begin to answer my question.”

“Nothing’s wrong, Crowley. I simply don’t wish to be here, and it’s been a very long few months.”

“Ngk…sorry,” he says quietly.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Why are you apologizing? It’s my fault that we’re in this conundrum to begin with.”

“If I’m not allowed to blame yourself, then neither are you. We’re past that.”

“I don’t think we are. Last night you were talking about all the suicide notes you’ve written over the ages,” Aziraphale says quietly. “I claim to be your friend, and your… your partner, of sorts, but I never noticed something was wrong. If anything, I seem to have only made it worse. Especially after the ordeal with Gabriel.”

“You haven’t been there for me when I needed you. But,” Crowley says, grabbing Aziraphale’s arm and forcing the angel to stop walking and look at him, “that can change. I needed you last night, and you were there. Okay? Pulling away because you feel guilty is the exact opposite of what I need right now. I — I need you to keep being there for me. And I’ll, ngk,” he takes a deep breath and drags his fingers down his face, “I’ll do my best to be there for you.”

I’ll do my best to stay.

“Please, angel. Don’t pull away.”

Don’t leave me again.

Aziraphale swallows harshly, keeping his face tilted away from Crowley’s. “I’ll be there for you. I promise.”

“Being there for me includes not pulling away and bottling things up.”

“I’m not bottling anything up.”

“You’re a shit liar, you know.”

“Oh look, we’re nearly at the Metatron’s office.”

“Is that you attempting to change the subject?” Crowley asks, baffled.

“No, it really is around this corner. We need to be quiet now.”

“How convenient,” Crowley grumbles.

Aziraphale shushes him, and he narrows his eyes, wrinkles his nose, and gives Aziraphale an unimpressed look that’s very similar to the one Fish had given Eric earlier that morning.

In turn, Aziraphale… smiles.

It’s a sad, tired smile; he turns and peaks around the corner. Operation Distraction must’ve completed their initial task, because he steps forward and silently beckons for Crowley to follow, which Crowley does.

The door to the Metatron’s office is in the middle of the hallway.

“Do you think its got intruder alarms?” Crowley asks, looking the door up and down.

Aziraphale hesitates. “I… probably, but I think I can take them down? I mean, not take them down, but I… I have an idea of how we could bypass them.”

“Right. What does this idea involve, exactly?” Crowley asks, sticking his hands in his pockets and raising an eyebrow.

Wincing slightly, Aziraphale mumbles something unintelligable.

Crowley just squints at him and waits.

Finally, Aziraphale sighs and says, louder, “Stopping time?”

This has Crowley pausing and blinking at Aziraphale, an uncomfortable feeling squeezing his chest.

Aziraphale is more powerful than he used to be, sure, but to this extent?

Right. Right, this isn’t jarring.

It isn’t as if stopping time that one time took Crowley every ounce of energy and concentration he could muster, fueled by desperation and need.

And Aziraphale is suggesting it the way he might suggest sushi — though with none of the enthusiasm, of course.

“That’s — ngk. Are you going to pass out afterwards?”

After the adrenaline had worn off, Crowley had barely been able to stumble his way into bed before collapsing into a cold sleep.

Aziraphale pauses. “It would probably be tiring, but I always seem to be tired these days, so I should be able to function as normal.”

“Right, yeah, we’re absolutely discussing that later,” Crowley says, scowling at Aziraphale, who huffs.

“Do you have a better idea? One single better idea?”

“…”

“Right then, we’re going with my idea.”

“You told us not to be reckless,” Crowley says sharply.

“…Yes?”

“Look me in the eyes, and tell me that this isn’t reckless.”

“It isn’t reckless. You’ll be no more in harm’s way than you already are.”

“And you?”

“What about me?”

Crowley’s throat constricts; he gazes into the angel’s genuinely puzzled hazel eyes and glares. “Will you be more in harm’s way than you already are? ‘Cause this goes both ways, you know. If I’m not allowed to do reckless shit then neither are you.”

“I’ll be fine, Crowley. I’m not the one that’s mortal right now.”

Okay, wow. Low blow.

Alright.

Crowley swallows, giving a small nod, and in a tight voice says, “Right.”

Expression crumbling, Aziraphale says, “No, that’s not what I — look, please just let me protect you. Please. I — you’re my everything. I can’t lose you, Crowley, and if I can’t stop you from doing things like this then I’m going to do everything I can to make it safer for you, even if it means more danger for myself.”

Crowley, too choked up to speak, blinks at Aziraphale, swallows once more, and nods.

Chapter Text

A tingling washes over them as the few noises left in Heaven’s halls dissipate, replaced by an unnatural and all consuming silence.

“Do you — do you think it worked?” Aziraphale asks, fidgeting with the end of his waistcoat. “It’s difficult for me to tell, given. . .” He gestures to the empty halls around them. 

“Mm. Seems quieter, anyhow.”

“But what if that’s simply the placebo effect playing tricks on our minds, and time is still proceeding like usual?”

Crowley raises his eyebrows and moves forward, pressing a hand flat against the door to the Metatron’s office. “One way to find out, isn’t there?”

He shoves it open.

There’s a moment in which they both hold their breaths, but no alarms sound. Aziraphale exhales slowly, shoulders slumping, relief evident in the creases of his face. “Oh. That — that actually worked.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow and holds the door for Aziraphale, glancing around the empty halls for good measure before shutting the door behind them.

Their footsteps echo through the empty room. In the middle sits a brilliant white desk with gold accents, and to the sides there are various (and all too familiar) bookshelves and cabinets, all closed and locked. Aziraphale takes a deep breath, exhales, and rubs his forehead.

“Ngk — you okay?”

“Quite. Just, just a tad drained, dear.”

Crowley doesn’t doubt that. He makes a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat, then returns his attention to the office. The Metatron’s made surprisingly few alterations in the past six-thousand years — but in some odd, inexplicable way, the stagnancy is also not surprising in the slightest.

He swaggers around the desk and bends over to yank open one of the cabinets. It asks him for his sigil, and he signs Raphael’s.

Nothing happens.

Fuck.

“Here, let me try.”

Aziraphale signs his own sigil with a fingertip that glows golden.

Still, nothing happens.

Crowley makes a face. Then he turns to Aziraphale and holds out a hand. “Can you summon some paper and a pen, perchance?”

Blinking, Aziraphale nods. He twists his hand, and between his fingers appear a quill and scroll, which is close enough. He takes them and squeezes his eyes shut — then, from memory, he sketches out the Metatron’s sigil. 

Tilting the scroll in Aziraphale’s direction, Crowley says, “This one. Try it. And, erm, think Metatron-y thoughts.”

Aziraphale hums softly. He grimaces as if tasting something bitter, shakes his head, and signs an wobbly imitation of the sigil on the scroll.

For a few long, long seconds — that technically aren’t even actually passing — nothing happens.

And then the drawer slowly rolls open.

“I really don’t like that it mistook me for him,” Aziraphale grumbles, and Crowley snorts.

“Rank and power level, angel. Not vibes.”

Narrowing his eyes, Aziraphale says, “Then why did you tell me to think, ah, ‘Metatron-y’ thoughts?”

Crowley smirks. “A hunch, I guess.”

“I really don’t like you.” Aziraphale grumbles, then freezes, expression shifting to one of horror and worry, and he quickly amends, “I — Crowley, I didn’t actually mean it like that, I just —”

Crowley clenches his jaw.. “Relax, angel.”

“But I’ve said some truly awful things to you in the past, and I —”

“If you start treating me like I’m fragile, I swear to Someone that I’ll pull a Muriel and start handing out your books,” he threatens — not that he’d actually go through with it of course, but Aziraphale doesn’t need to know that. “I’ve known you for six thousand years. I can tell when you’re joking, angel.”

“Are you by chance under the misconception that I think you’re fragile?” Aziraphale says, a look of frustration flashing across his face. “Crowley, you are the most resilient person I know. If I’m terrified of hurting you, it’s only because I’ve already caused so much damage and can’t bear the thought of causing any more. I care about you.”

“. . . Right,” murmurs Crowley, feeling slightly silly now. His cheeks grow warm, and he forces his attention back to the open cabinet.

Inside it are a couple journals; beneath them, an array of files. They are perfectly organized, the edges all lined up and not a speck out of place: perfect, always perfect, never anything but perfect.

Metatron hasn’t changed a bit since I Fell, Crowley thinks, something bitter curling its claws in his chest. What’s it like to have the world cater to you, huh? To never struggle? To never be completely alone and forced to choose: adapt or fucking die?

(What a choice that is.)

Crowley takes out the first journal and hands it to Aziraphale, who signs the Metatron’s sigil on the cover. It flips open to the first page, projecting hundreds of thousands of words into the air around them, tiny golden scribbles in the universal tongue made lost to humans millennia ago after the trainwreck that was the Tower of Babel.

Mouth slightly agape, Crowley turns in a circle with janky steps, squinting at the writing. . . which should mean something, theoretically does mean something (unless this is a red herring), but looks like nothing but gibberish — at least to Crowley, that is. He glances over at Aziraphale, but the angel appears equally stumped.

They flip through the pages in the first journal. Something is nagging at Crowley, but he can’t figure out what it is. His jaw is clenched tight and his eyes are narrowed in frustration.

Why the hell did the Metatron think Crowley would be able to figure this out?

Bull– shit.

They arrive at the last page, and Aziraphale gives Crowley a downcast, questioning look — but something about his posture, something about the crinkles by his eyes and the way his lips are pressed together, indicates a spark of hope beneath it all.

A miniscule spark. The kind of spark when you’re trying to light a candle and it isn’t quite catching, but then a tiny blue light flickers across the tip of the wick, and there’s a hiccup in time as you wait to see if the flame will suffocate, collapsing under its own weight, or burn ever brighter and step into its maturity.

Crowley swallows. “Next one?” he says in lieu of answering the unspoken but very real question.

They move through the journals in this manner, and then the files, and then the rest of the many drawers and cabinets, Aziraphale growing visibly more exhausted all the while. Desperation and frustration clash in Crowley’s chest as he racks his brain for what the words and drawings and diagrams and charts could possibly mean.

People are depending on you, his brain taunts. Aziraphale is depending on you — and you’re going to let him down, just like always. Might as well just toss the towel in. Do better, be better, just —

The sole thing keeping Crowley from smacking the side of his head with the heel of his hand is the fact that Aziraphale is right beside him, and Crowley can’t do something so obvious in front of Aziraphale.

 Instead, he subtly presses at the raw spot in his wrist.

His head clears, making room for the aching pain, and for a moment the relief is gratifying — but then comes the shame, slipping in like an uninvited guest, and his stomach churns. Aziraphale is literally right there. 

What is wrong with him?

“It’s all gibberish,” Crowley grumbles, gesturing to the floating golden nonsense projected into the air around him.

“Perhaps it's some form of code?” Aziraphale suggests.

“No yeah, that’d make sense. S’just not one I know.”

“Do you believe you might be able to figure it out if given time? Perhaps we can take pictures of a few of the pages? I — I’m afraid I can’t keep this miracle going for much longer.”

Internally, Crowley curses.

“Maybe? I dunno. Let’s do pictures; pictures might help. Useful things, pictures are.”

And great, now he’s rambling, and Aziraphale gives him a weary but vaguely worried look — and erghhh, why couldn’t The Metatron have written his notes plainly and simply, with big neon arrows pointing to the important parts and conveniently detailing their weak points?

So. Bloody. Inconsiderate.

Crowley fumbles his phone out of his pocket and takes a flurry of pictures, keeping a half eye on Aziraphale all the while. 

When a bead of sweat slips from the angel’s forehead down the side of his temple, Crowley shoves his phone back in his pocket and closes the journal that he had been taking pictures from, placing it neatly back into its respective cabinet and swinging it closed with a bang.

Despite time being paused, he flinches and shifts his gaze to the door in alarm. Nothing happens — obviously, time is stopped after all — and he lets out a slow breath, pushing himself off the floor and nodding to Aziraphale, who gives him a weak smile that looks more like a grimace, and together they exit the Metatron’s office.

They walk down a hallway that they hadn’t passed before, but will lead them to the stairs nevertheless, as is the winding nature of Heaven’s hallways.

“That could’ve gone bett— Aziraphale?”

The angel sways again, bracing himself with a hand against the wall, and takes a shuddering breath. “I — sorry, I’m unable to — “

Daisies are prettiest mid-spring.

Aziraphale is lying amidst a pile of them, staring up into a swaying cerulean sky, his chest rising and falling steadily. He reaches out a hand, reaching beside him to grasp Crowley’s arm.

But all he feels are leaves and petals and daisies.

Where — where is Crowley?

There’s only more daisies, fragile petals beneath his too-cold fingertips, and Aziraphale is just lying there — he needs to get up; but he doesn’t make a move to, and his chest is still rising and falling in a smooth rhythmic motion that doesn’t match the panic clawing its way up his throat.

All he can feel are leaves and petals and daisies.

Too cool, too smooth, too. . . normal.

And above him, the cerulean sky — light is coming from somewhere, but there is no sun and no moon, just an unnatural brightness that shouldn’t be but is.

And he still can’t move.

It is his body, but he is not in control.

He needs to find Crowley, he needs to, but all he does is lie there

Amidst the leaves and petals and daisies.

Before leaving Crowley behind, Aziraphale had very rarely slept. As such, he was unfamiliar with nightmares — he knew they existed of course, but they were not a personal acquaintance of his, and for this he was grateful.

These days Aziraphale spends every waking moment drowning in an ocean of exhaustion.

Unfortunately, the many hours he spends asleep are equally unpleasant, and now he wakes — as he has so many times in the past couple of months — with his heart in his throat and cold sweat on his forehead.

Crowley is missing and I need to find him and oh dear this is all my fault —

“Angel?”

Aziraphale opens his eyes. 

For a moment, he has no idea where he is. He quickly realizes that’s because he, indeed, has never been here before, and has no recollection of how he got here. However, wherever ‘here’ is, it must be safe, because Crowley is with him (not missing, so the world isn’t ending, even if it sort of is).

‘Here’ is what appears to be some sort of hotel. It has that signature hotel smell to it, and no furniture except a scratched up desk in the corner, the nightstand a few feet away upon which Crowley’s sunglasses lie, and the lumpy queen bed beneath him.

Aziraphale blinks sluggishly at Crowley, who glares back for a few seconds, then huffs and averts his eyes, slinking further down in the rickety chair upon which he’s been sitting. 

(Sitting, of course, being a very loose term for the way Crowley lounges like a half-cat half-snake hybrid who found the singular spot on the floor where the sun shines just right through the blinds.)

“Pardon, what — what occurred?”

“You passed out —”

“Well, I’d inferred that much.”

“I wasn’t finished. You passed out, somehow miracled us back to the cabin? As you passed out.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes. “We’re not in the cabin. And how could I possibly have . . . ?”

Raking his fingers through his hair, Crowley sighs, though it sounds more weary than exasperated. “Brilliant question, right there. No fucking clue. Supreme Archangel powers, boom, we were  in Heaven then we weren’t?”

“Right,” Aziraphale says faintly.

“We’re in Scotland, courtesy of the two lovesick fuckers in the other room.”

Ah. Scotland. That answers all his questions.

Chapter Text

Operation Distraction wasn't as perfectly planned as Muriel would've liked it to be. The ducks were supposed to cause mild havoc in the armory room, just enough to get the higher ranking angels in a tizzy, but Muriel had underestimated the thirst for destruction housed in those small,  adorable  feathered bodies — a fatal mistake which they will not be making again.

In the resulting mess, the three of them had gotten separated. Aeriale had darted between a row of breastplates to escape falling helmets, Eric had scaled a wall to avoid being trampled by the rampaging ducks, and Muriel had gotten lost amongst the endless rows of weapons in pursuit of one of the younger ducks who'd sprinted off.

Muriel lost track of the duck.

Then they realized that they had no idea where they were, nor how to navigate back to their friends. Heaven should really make the layout of this place simpler. How is anyone supposed to find anything with it like this? Especially something as small and dangerous as a duck?

Clearly, they hadn’t thought the design through.

Now that the commotion has died down, Muriel can’t even attempt to follow the sound back to their friends — they’re completely, utterly in over their head, but at least they have the company of swords, and armor, and — they round another corner — . . . books?

Oh goodness, there’s books!

Old ones, too! Not Muriel’s preference, but Aziraphale would love them. The titles are written in an antiquated version of the angelic language, which makes it difficult to parse through, but Muriel picks out words like ‘War’ and ‘Strategy’ and ‘Victorious’. The covers are beautiful too, with art etched across the surface and red velvety spines.

(The velvet part is unfortunate. Muriel would have to be wearing gloves to touch them, because the feeling of velvet makes their teeth itch in a very bad way, and then they have to touch something that feels good as soon as possible or it’ll get worse and their brain will explode. Well, it might. Possibly. They don’t haven’t tried it out, and they definitely don’t plan to.)

They bend down to get a closer look at the art on the books’ covers: constellations, stars, and nebulas; planets with rings so detailed that the individual rocks are visible, if only barely; and vivacious galaxies that seem to twist and turn across the cover.

A glint catches their eye.

It’s coming from the back of the lowest shelf, peeking out from beneath a silk cloth. Carefully, they reach down and grasp at the cloth, pulling it back just an inch at first, then all the way. Their breath catches in their throat.

The sword is the most brilliant thing that Muriel has ever seen, with ruby red stones secured in the versatile golden handle. It’s sturdy, yet sleek, and Muriel can only imagine the elegance with which it must slice through the air when swung.

It’s ethereal.

With a start, Muriel realizes that this isn’t their first time seeing this particular sword — not in person, but in a photograph, taped haphazardly into one of Aziraphale’s diaries. The entry had been dated the day after the failed apocalypse.

‘I didn’t think I’d ever see it again, let alone wield it. It’s gone now. The mailman took it. I think that might be for the best, as after raising the sword against Crowley — even if it was halfhearted, even if I’d never be able to do it, even though Crowley knew I’d never hurt him — I don’t believe I trust myself around weapons. The meer picture is enough to make me feel ill.’

Which begged the question of why Aziraphale had chosen to place the picture in his diary, but the entry had ended there, and Muriel hadn’t given it more than a second’s thought — until now.

There’s a quiet clinking of chain armor somewhere around the corner. It’s probably the duck getting into more mischief, and they should take the opportunity to go retrieve the naughty thing, but they can’t bring themself to look away from the sword.

Clink clink clink clink, clink clink, cliiink clink clink, clink.

Then the summoning tug of a miracle — one of Aziraphale’s miracles — yanks at the center of Muriel’s soul.

Not a moment too late, as the faintest echo of heavy footsteps — too heavy to be Eric’s or Aeriale’s — reaches Muriel’s ears. The intelligent thing to do is obviously  to answer the summon. The sword isn’t that important, and the lure of it should be a warning sign, not an enticement. 

(But hadn’t Aziraphale told them to trust their instincts?)

Muriel should answer the summon. It’s logical, right?

Except they hesitate, the clinking of the chain armor echoing in their head. Echoing and echoing and echoing.

(The itch hasn’t gone away since it started.)

Clink clink clink clink, clink clink, cliiink clink clink, clink . . . clink clink clink clink, clink clink, cliiink clink clink, clink . . . 

It was methodical, Muriel is sure of it. Why was it repeating like that?

It almost reminds Muriel of that code in those old history books, the one that goes S.O.S. — and oh.

All at once, the pieces fall into place, and Muriel’s eyes widen.

Short short short short, short short, long short short, short.

….     ..     _..     .

1. I. D. E.

They have an ally here.

Any ally who knows morse code. . . in Heaven?

It doesn’t make sense.

This, of course, intrigues them.

Even as the footsteps increase in volume, Muriel stands frozen in place. The sword is right there. And there’s someone here who might be able to help — who might have answers, clues, to help them save the world.

The world in general, but also Muriel’s world.

Their tiny, cozy world. 

A bookshop overflowing with knowledge, a red-headed martyr with sunglasses and a broken heart that’s just beginning to mend, a record seller whose compassion overflows as freely as her recently found courage, a lost and hurting human who still found it in her heart to help the nervous angel across the street, a Supreme Archangel who once burned as brightly as the sun but now flickers and wanes but still has so much to give, and a fellow angel who smiles shyly despite the looming darkness and thinks of Muriel as a friend.

Muriel takes a deep breath —

And refuses the summon.

There’s no time to dwell on their decision; they’re moving before they can think about it, their fingers wrapping around the sword's hilt.

It’s heavy as the world on their shoulders, and Muriel has to strain to lift it.

But lift it they do.

Eyes ahead, don’t look back, keep moving.

Muriel weaves through aisle after aisle with their heart in their throat.

The stranger said to hide, and as hurried, heavy footsteps grow louder by the second, Muriel finds that to be quite an amenable plan.

There’s a pile of ammunition, and Muriel ducks behind it and squeezes their eyes shut —

(Lord, please.)

— and stumbles, for the floor isn’t where it’s supposed to be. Their stomach lurches, vertigo yanking sharply at their lungs, and for a moment they can’t breathe.

When the air finally comes, it’s with the chill of freezing rain on a dark night. It’s as cold as the Metatron’s tone when he’d called Muriel the ‘dull one’, as cold as the fear in Muriel’s chest after reading Crowley’s suicide notes, cold enough to make their nose burn in icy protest and their eyes water painfully.

Everywhere is white. There is nothing, and Muriel is nothing.

It’s so cold.

They’re shaking, teeth chattering, and are hit by the sudden, terrifying realization that if they die here — and despite the lack of hellfire, Muriel is oddly certain that a death here would be permanent — no one will know where to look. They won’t know if Muriel is actually dead. They’ll never find a body.

This is what Crowley wanted (still wants?) when he made his stupid plan.

How?

How could anybody want this?

To feel so alone, so abandoned, so small?

I don’t want to die.

The tips of their fingers are ashen, quickly developing a bluish tint.

Everything is white. There is nowhere to go to escape the cold, just an endless sea of white, white nothingness. They squeeze their eyes shut and let the tears fall. They freeze before they can make it fully down Muriel’s cheeks.

When Muriel opens their eyes again, there is a girl.

Foe or friend, it doesn’t matter now.

“C - c- cold. ‘M so cold. Please,” Muriel pleads through numb lips, clutching the handle of the heavy angelic sword, its white tip digging into the void. It won’t burn brightly for them, not like it does for Aziraphale.

(Maybe they simply don’t burn as brightly as him.)

The young girl smiles kindly. She has dark wavy locks and soft brown skin adorned with dancing freckles, dimples like breathtaking craters on the shining moon, and wears only a sunny yellow dress that falls to her knees. She’s even barefoot. . . yet she radiates warmth.

Warmth piercing the frostbitten air as surely as the nails had pierced Jesus’ bloodied wrists.

“You’re very far from home, you know,” she says knowingly, a comforting look in her gentle deep brown eyes. She takes a step closer, and it’s as if the sun itself is giving Muriel a hug; they sink into the warmth, Aziraphale’s sword clattering to the ground as they crumple to their knees, a sob of relief tearing itself from their throat as the ice on their fingertips melts.

“There there, you’re alright. Let’s get you outta here, hmm?” She lays a hand on Muriel’s shoulder, and all the aches in their muscles fade into oblivion. The air moves easier through their lungs. Breathing isn’t such a chore, and the tears running down their cheeks don’t freeze on the way down. “It’s not your time.”

And she keeps speaking in that soft, lilting tone, but Muriel’s brain can’t piece together the sounds into words. It’s been happening more and more often lately — there’s simply too much, too bright too loud too cold too hot , and their brain can’t keep up with it all. 

They nod though, because that’s the polite thing to do. The girl smiles knowingly, enclasps her hand in Muriel, and guides them forward. Everything is the same bitter, cold white. For all Muriel knows, the girl could be leading them deeper and deeper into the nothingness, but they have no choice but to follow.

She’s warm.

Her warmth is the only thing keeping Muriel alive right now, and they are very aware of the fact.

Strangely though, they don’t feel helpless.

Not like they usually do when they have to depend on someone. 

The echo of dull, useless, pathetic, mistake is muted by an odd peace, beckoning Muriel ever forward, and they’re oddly sleepy, the way they get when they finish a good book and the armchair in the bookshop is cozy and warm, and it’s raining outside in a soothing cadesance that . . .

That . . .

Muriel’s eyelids droop.

Wait, they can’t fall asleep.

They . . .

They’ve got . . . something . . .

“Just a little longer,” the girl promises, then winces and gently pries the handle of the sword from their fingers. The loss is instantaneous. It jerks Muriel just a little bit out of their stupor — enough to realize that the tip of the sword had been millimeters away from scraping against the floor.

Despite her small size, the girl easily hefts the sword over her shoulder, takes Muriel’s freezing hand in her warm one once more, and pulls the two of them onward.

Muriel doesn’t ask for the sword back, but they want it.

They want it very badly.

They don’t even know why. They couldn’t explain if the girl asked, so they stay quiet — and anyways, it’s not like they can keep carrying it right now. Walking is becoming a struggle as it is, despite the girl’s forgiving pace.

Everything tingles with a strange numbness.

“What — what is this place?” Muriel manages to say with some difficulty.

The girl simply hums, navigating the empty white void with the confidence of someone who walked a path every day for years and years and could do it with their eyes closed, their hands cuffed behind their back, and a particularly stubborn rock in their shoe.

“It isn’t a place,” she says after a long pause. “It’s the opposite, actually — it’s a complete lack of places, of time, of space. I suppose it’s peaceful if you’re built for it, but if you’re not . . . well, it can be a tad challenging.”

“Jesus,” Muriel mumbles, too cold to react much to the realization.

She gives them a soft smile. “Language,” she says, tone teasing, and then Muriel is tumbling forward once more.

Warmth returns in a wave, and Muriel is so relieved that it takes them several long moments to register their change of location. The white is still there, but not in a void way — in a Heaven way.

Feet away from them is a shocked-looking angel in a wheelchair, the same one who had caught Muriel showing Crowley the files.

 The angel — no, archangel Saqael — recovers from her shock and looks Muriel up and down in an unimpressed way before saying, “Well, don’t just sit there. Pick up the sword that certainly doesn’t belong to you and follow me. We have much to discuss.”