Chapter Text
Crowley was wrong.
The elevator ascended, dragging Aziraphale’s heart on a string. He forced himself to breathe. He held tortured cries in his mouth, clasped his writhing hands, and straightened confidence into the stretching spaces of his spine.
Heaven wasn’t toxic.
Heaven was love: an outstretched hand, a warm embrace, a gift with no expectation.
Heaven was hope: a pool of water in the desert, a beckoning light that cut through the despairing dark.
Heaven was shelter: a fire in the hearth while snow darkened the windows, an awning in the rain.
Toxic was the machine, the scrolls of words scribed in a language God never wrote, interpreted by a voice God never spoke, then enforced by a fist that God never raised.
He could fix it. God believed in him. He could speak with God Themself, clear up misunderstandings, open the doors, light a fire in Heaven’s hearth and burn everything the angels thought they knew. Then, he would shine that light down upon Hell and reach out with compassion, with warmth, with forgiveness, and wash the shadow and rot from their wings that had always shone bright beneath, and there would be no more hatred, no more despair, no more abandonment--
Aziraphale’s heart wrenched downward, ripped his throat and shattered his spine. A scream burned in his closed mouth. He clasped his shaking hands, held his breath, and smiled.
The Bentley parked in front of a low garden gate that contained the spread of shoulder-high weeds. The gate crashed open ahead of Crowley’s stride, hands in his pockets, sunglasses sheltering vacant eyes. The weeds parted for the demon like a trembling sea, and he took the stoop in one long step then pounded a fist on the splintered door.
“Book Girl!” he shouted with teeth while the horseshoe overhead burned into the wood.
For too long, the only sound was the hiss of insects in the overgrown yard, where a green-heavy tree had split the garden walkway with its roots. A roof tile clattered loose and disappeared among billows of unchecked ivy that obscured the cracked walls and broken windows, hiding the husk of the house. Crowley pounded again on the door, which presently yanked back and admitted the wild stare of a sleepless eye.
“What do you want?” Anathema snapped.
Crowley grated his teeth. He wanted to throw his jaw wide and laugh in her face with venomous jagged fangs. He wanted to burn the cottage down and watch it smolder and billow black into the too-perfect sky. He wanted to scream with a nightmarish cry that would break reality in two. But he said, “I need a prophecy.”
Anathema stopped breathing. Her fingers crawled on the doorframe and she braced herself in the space of the door. “I don’t… have--” She quelled a sob that wrenched at her throat and she lifted her chin and shook her limp hair from her eyes. “I don’t know. Anything," she snarled. "I have nothing. There’s nothing left and you’re wasting your time. Get out.”
Crowley’s posture did not flinch. “Time,” he enunciated sharply, “is the only thing any of us have left. You are the descendant of that Nutter prophet and you’re not finished until the world’s finished ending, which isn't long from now.”
“There are! No! Prophecies!” Anathema howled, thrusting open the door and widening wild eyes at him, long hair greasy and knotted, stained pajamas thinned by days of constant wear. Her glare twitched in dark circles. “I burned them. I burned them because my ex convinced me that burning them would make me free. Now I’m in Hell and you’re stinking up my porch, demon.”
With a cant of his head, Crowley slithered to the edge of the threshold. “Did you keep the ashes?” he asked like distant thunder. Anathema squinted at him. Crowley’s smile was cruel. “I can give you back your purpose, Witch. All you have to do is invite me in.”
The bell jangled over the bookshop door, and Muriel leaped to attention with an open book crumpled against their chest. “Oh! Hello! A customer! Welcome to the bookshop! Fell's Books! The best bookshop in London! I'm, um--" Their eyes sprang wide with realized horror and they scratched squeaking fingers against the white constable's helmet that was still strapped to their head. "Oh no, excuse me! Please forget you saw me for just one moment!"
Muriel leaped into the back kitchen, pulled down a bright flash of a miracle, then stepped out again with a brilliant smile and without a helmet, straightening a new crisp tartan bow tie at their throat. "Welcome to Fell's Books. I'm Muriel! I'm the bookseller. Is there anything I can help you with? Are you looking for a book? We have lots of books." They demonstrated by pulling a book out of a well-stuffed shelf, which triggered a small avalanche of vintage novels. Muriel froze with the keystone book held in midair, staring down at the pile of bent dusty tomes at their feet.
“That's okay,” the uniformed youth replied while he he hopped down the step, a backpack bouncing on a shoulder. “Is Mister Fell in?”
“Oh.” Muriel very carefully placed the book back on the empty shelf. "No, sorry. It's only me here. Are you a friend of Mister Fell?"
“Sort of. He tried to kill me once.” The visitor flung his hand with a swing and a theatrical swoosh: the pile of books floated off the floor and slotted themselves neatly in their places while Muriel’s eyes grew wide.
“I’m Adam." The visitor tilted his head, his eyes sparkling. "I'm here about Armageddon.”