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Chapter Text

Aziraphale suspects something is up as soon as he sees the Metatron, but he knows that something is up when the Metatron pulls out a sheet of paper and says, “Do you remember Sandalphon?” 

Of course he does, of course he does. Aziraphale isn’t sure he can say something nice, so instead he says nothing at all and just nods. 

The Metatron crosses something out on the paper and says, “And do you remember Sandalphon now?” 

Aziraphale wants to answer but the words are caught in his throat as his mind begins to fuzz over and he’s filled with the dreadful certainty that he’s forgotten something important. 

“Who destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah?” The Metatron asks again, and Aziraphale’s mind fills with static as he scrambles, tries to find the answer. He knows this he knows this! Why can’t he remember? 

He sees writing on the paper and the world freezes. Metaphorically. Crowley isn’t around to help him do it literally, more’s the pity. “The Book of Life,” He says, throat tightening. 

The Metatron gives him a smile that’s pure Heaven. “Now,” He says. “I think we need to talk about you and your demon… Acquaintance.” 

“Don’t-” Aziraphale starts, half-prayer half-warning. He’s glaring at the paper like he wants it to set it in fire. But it’s only one piece of paper, not the whole book. He crushes the coffee cup in his hand. 

“Come back to Heaven, Aziraphale,” the Metatron says, “And we can discuss things.” 

Go back to Heaven? Leave Crowley? Leave his Bookshop? It’s unthinkable! And yet, the Metatron holds Crowley’s life in his hands. He wouldn’t just be destroyed he’d be… He’d be… Gone. Completely. Aziraphale wouldn’t even have the memories. He wonders for a moment, why the Metatron didn’t just threaten to kill Crowley, why Crowley wasn’t just erased with Aziraphale being none-the-wiser. 

Oh. 

Of course. 

They need Aziraphale for something, he realizes. And Crowley is the best option they have to force him to behave. “I won’t go,” Aziraphale says, heart in his throat. Corporations are very annoying that way. “Not without your word first.” Before the Metatron can say anything else, Aziraphale plunges on; “Crowley and I together did a twenty-five Lazurii miracle.” He straightens up. “And that was when we were doing half a miracle a piece.” He sits up straight. “Give me your word as the Voice of God that Crowley won’t be hurt, not by you indirectly or directly, and you won’t use an intermediary or otherwise cause him to be brought to harm by action or inaction and I will go with you willingly.” 

The Metatron raises one eyebrow. “You’ve been on Earth too long,” He says. “We’re Heaven, we don’t need all those extraneous promises." 

“Well,” Aziraphale says stiffly. “That’s my offer.” They must need him for something, or else he would have just been erased from the Book of Life instead of all this rigmarole. 

“The Demon Crowley has made it very clear that he is willing to go to great lengths for you,” The Metatron points out, but his eyes are cold, and Aziraphale tries not to panic, tries not to go back to those times before the first attempt at Armageddon. Their side. “Do you mean to tell me that he would just let you go back to Heaven and not try anything?” 

“If I,” Aziraphale says, and oh God how he hates himself for this plan, “If I tell him something he hates, he won’t. I know him, you see, and I can make sure to break things off.” If only the Metatron didn’t have part of the Book of Life with him! If only he had more time to plan, or to think, but all he can think is that he must protect Crowley no matter what, Crowley who created the stars and saved his books. Crowley who he lo- he cuts himself off. He can’t think that. Not now. Not under these circumstances. 

“You’ll have to forgive me,” The Metatron says, voice lingering with layers of irony, “but I’m not sure if I believe you.” 

“I’ve known him for 6,000 years,” Aziraphale counters. “It would be terribly easy.” Well, terrible, at least. 

The Metatron obviously doesn’t believe him, but he snaps his fingers, and a contract shows up, glowing with golden lettering. Aziraphale scans it, breath hitching at the part where the contract states that Crowley’s life will be forfeit to The Book of Life if Aziraphale tells anyone what’s happening either verbally, psychically, or in writing. As long as Aziraphale keeps his mouth shut, as long as he breaks Crowley’s heart… Crowley will be safe. For a moment he wonders why he hasn’t Fallen, playing with Crowley’s life like this. He wants to Fall already, the idea of breaking Crowley’s heart, destroying whatever this life is between them before it’s even had a chance to flourish, it sickens him. 

But someone destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah. 

He follows the Metatron back to the bookshop, already rehearsing what he’s going to say in his head. It will be easy. He’s known Crowley for so long, he already knows what buttons to push.

(Of course, if the Metatron breaks his word he just gets a demotion, but Aziraphale is too strung on nerves to force that issue when Crowley's life is on the line.)

---

The kiss is a surprise, and for a moment, barely a moment, he almost cracks. But it works. It works. 

He wants to cry. He wants to run after Crowley and tell him he doesn’t mean it, he doesn’t mean any of it, but he holds it in. 

The Metatron asks about Crowley and Aziraphale barely notices. He isn’t home clear yet. He’s not in Heaven yet. Crowley could change his mind and then what? 

But he doesn’t. Aziraphale hurt him too deeply for that. He hopes that he’ll be able to apologize to Crowley someday. 

Admittedly that may be harder with the Second Coming - and that’s why they wanted the two of them separated! But it’s not impossible. 

After all, Crowley is still alive. 

He tries to smile but it’s all wrong. It’s a rictus, not a true smile. But how can he smile without Crowley? 

They exit into Heaven and the Metatron grimaces as their contract floats between the two of them, shining gold. “Your contract is considered valid,” He says, sounding almost… Disgruntled? “As long as you don’t disclose this, we will have no reason to go after Crowley. Welcome back to Heaven, Aziraphale. I hope you find your time here very productive.”

Aziraphale nods, and manages to hold it together until he gets to his office - “So you can’t corrupt the other angels, of course,” Says the Metatron as if it should be obvious. “Change into appropriate attire. We start work on the Second Coming very soon.” 

Finally, alone in the white void, he breaks down, holding onto every memory of Crowley as proof that the Metatron wasn’t able to find a twist in their contract, wasn’t able to destroy him. The memories will hurt but they’ll be proof that Crowley is somewhere still. He hopes desperately that Crowley wasn’t too badly hurt, that Crowley will be able to heal.

Then he pulls himself together and starts looking into Heaven’s plans for the Second Coming. He can’t stop it without researching it first, after all. 

He has a demon to protect. 

Chapter Text

When the Metatron gives Aziraphale his assignment, Aziraphale doesn’t know to laugh or scream. Obviously he’s not the supreme Archangel, but the assignment? The one that was so important that he had to leave Crowley? The one that the Book of Life was used as a cudgel? 

Jesus Christ aka Yeshua aka the Savior, the Redeemer, the Bread of Life, the Son of the Living God, the Prince of Peace, King of Kings, etc. etc. etc. is returning to Heaven - where he’s been, Aziraphale wasn’t told - and the other angels don’t know how to make life comfortable for someone born and raised as human being. 

They threatened to take Crowley away from him because they couldn’t be bothered to do even the slightest bit of research, because they were all too far away from Earth to care. Aziraphale almost wishes he didn’t, that he cared a little less, but he remembers Him on the cross and plans out a room that’s filled with warmth, with soft places, a place where He can go and feel at ease. 

It’s a foolish mistake.  

“It must be grand,” Uriel says, flipping through Aziraphale suggestions. “He is the Son of God.” 

Aziraphale never got to meet Him as a child, but he was on Earth, he lived the same world He did. He can’t say for sure he knows how The Son grew up, but he can guess. But he nods and redesigns. He locks his frustration inside his head. He’s had 6,000 to practice lying, after all. 

But oh! It’s so frustrating! They wanted him to design a Heaven for the Prince of Peace, threatened him over it, and still ignored his advice. Either that or it was busy work meant to keep him from running back to Crowley, to spill the beans, to tell him everything - only the Metatron knew about their wager, and Aziraphale wondered idly how they’d feel if they found out that - someone - was already gone.

It’s pure busywork, and he can’t even get a decent cup of cocoa in heaven. 

He focuses on the little things to distract from the fact that he’s hardly ever alone; one of the archangels is almost always watching him. He is banned from leaving his ‘office’ so that his ‘corruption’ doesn’t spread. The one time there had been no archangels to watch him, the door had been locked, and he’d been trapped. 

He wants Crowley, but he can’t have Crowley. He wants his bookshop, but he can’t have that. He wants Earth, but that’s out of the question. 

He wants cocoa and focuses on that. 

It’s easier. 

---

Jesus arrives on a Sunday. Presumably it’s a Sunday. Aziraphale has lost track of time in the glowing white room he’s been trapped in. It might have been two days, it might have been two years, he doesn’t know. The Son greets the archangels with nods. If he had to guess, Aziraphale would have said that the Son seemed tired, but he wasn’t asked. It wasn’t any of his business. He was shown to His space, which Aziraphale had been cajoled into filling with gold and white as was proper. It looks a mess, Aziraphale knows it looks a mess. He had never had the knack for designing, but he was the one that had been on Earth so Of Course He Knew. Of course. There’s even a golden statue of a lamb which is so blatant that Aziraphale cringes. 

…And it kept him out of the way of the rest of the Second Coming business. He needs to find answers, he needs to make this all worth it. 

He needs to protect Crowley. 

Jesus aka Yeshua aka the Savior, the Redeemer, the Bread of Life, the Son of the Living God, the Prince of Peace, King of Kings, etc. etc. etc. is looking at him, and Aziraphale feels like he missed something important. 

“I beg your pardon,” He says in reflex. 

“Aziraphale. You were the angel that Witnessed My Death,” Jesus, etc. etc. etc. says. “I would like to speak to you alone.” Aziraphale can see the archangels twitch in protest, but you can’t protest Him. 

“As My Lord commands,” Aziraphale says, face bland, thoughts running as fast as the Bentley. 

“Do not disgrace us,” Michael hisses as she leaves. 

“I would never dare disgrace Her,” Aziraphale replies, reveling in a moment of pettiness, and then the two are alone. 

“I understand that you also designed this space,” Jesus - etc. etc. etc. says politely. “You did a wonderful job, and I don’t want you to feel like I’m insulting your work, but can I-” He waves his hands a little. 

Aziraphale’s breath hitches. Maybe - a thread of an idea winds into his brain. The antichrist was, after all, so incredibly human. Maybe…? 

He doesn’t dare summon his documents, but he twists the air a little and copies of his original plans are in his hands. “My Lord,” he says, handing them over. 

“You Witnessed For Me,” He says, and then He smiles. “If you want, you can call me Yeshua. Or Jesus. Some kids on the internet call me Oily Josh, but I’d prefer just Josh.” 

He is so incredibly human that Aziraphale wants to cry. “Yeshua,” He tries first. It’s weird, but doable. “I have some backup plans if you’re interested.” He doesn’t have a plan yet, he has the faintest glimmer of a plan, the merest hint. And it requires Crowley who will no doubt be angry, and with good reason and - 

-It’s the thinnest spiderweb of a plan, but he holds onto it. 

Yeshua looks through the differing plans, and pauses on one that Aziraphale based on His hometown. It’s not the fanciest room, or even the most comfortable truth be told - that one had been based on the bookshop - but Yeshua lingers on it, and Aziraphale politely tells the space to change. The space’s job is to make Yeshua happy, and He’s not right now. 

“Did you enjoy your time on Earth?” Aziraphale asks, voice barely trembling. He’s very proud of that. 

Yeshua is staring at a picture Aziraphale prayed up showing a scene of some of the mountains of Galilee. There aren’t windows in this space. A picture will have to do.  

“I wasn’t there for very long,” Yeshua sounds almost wistful. “And I’ve only gone up there a couple of times since.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Aziraphale asks, not wanting to talk about it, but wanting to forge a connection, any connection with Yeshua. He wants to pray that this works. 

He doesn’t.  

“I’ve been in purgatory,” Yeshua admits, “Meeting everyone who died before I Died On The Cross. I was supposed to convert them so that they could go to Heaven.” 

The words, “supposed to” linger, and Aziraphale swallows. “Why are you telling me this?” He whispers, feeling out of his depth. 

Yeshua looks at him, really Looks at him, and smiles. “I heard that you, Aziraphale-That-Witnessed stopped the previous End of the World.” 

“With help.”

“I want to ask you something, and I want - I need you to tell me the truth.” As if Aziraphale could do anything else for Him. “Do you think that all of this,” He waves his hands, “Needs to happen?”

He could be lying. He could be tricking Aziraphale. This might be a trap. But Aziraphale saw the way that Yeshua looked so tired when he got to Heaven and he thinks about spiderwebs. 

“Do you remember the Demon that tempted you in the desert?” He asks instead. 

“Crawley!” Yeshua says, lighting up. “She was,” and he stops, remembering for a moment that he’s in heaven. “She showed me the world.” 

“His name is Crowley now,” Aziraphale says, scribbling an address on the back of one of his Plans. “Or it was the last time I saw him. This is where he lived last time he had an address,” He hesitates then adds another address, “He may be hanging around this book shop. He drives a Bentley -  a large black car.” He’s scribbling information like his life depends on it. “I can’t,” his voice hitches, “I can’t make any promises but if you want to see what Earth is like now,” he nods to the paper. “He’s there. Or was the last time I checked. He's incredibly clever. He'll think of something.” 

Yeshua is staring at him with unfettered delight. “You love him,” He says, “Why aren’t you on Earth with him? I didn’t make you-” 

Angels aren’t supposed to cry in heaven, but Aziraphale hasn’t ever been a very good angel. 

“Can you tell me?” Yeshua asks. Jesus wept, Aziraphale thinks, wiping his tears away. 

“I can’t.” Aziraphale says. 

“You can’t tell me, or you can’t tell me,” Yeshua asks. It’s not a big difference. It’s the biggest difference in the world.

“I can’t tell.” Aziraphale replies. 

Yeshua nods. “I promise,” he says, “I’ll try and fix it. But first, I think I should go and find a place to wait out the second coming. It can’t happen if I’m not there, right?” 

“So soon?” Aziraphale whispers, wondering if time was distorted for everyone in Heaven or just him. 

“Don’t be afraid,” Yeshua says, “I think I need to go visit an old friend.”

“I can help with that,” Aziraphale says, feeling surer that he’s doing The Right Thing. “I’m not supposed to use my powers frivolously but if a human,” he wiggles his hand at Jesus, “Were to pray for a miracle, I would find that I’d have to answer their request.” 

It might not work, but finding out that time has been intentionally warped for Aziraphale is just making him angry. He pulls on the power required to answer a “human”’s prayer request and Yeshua is gone. At first he debated sending Yeshua to his bookshop, but Muriel was there, poor dear, and he didn't want to cause them any trouble. Crowly's apartment would have been a good backup if Aziraphale had bothered to see if Crowley had it back yet, or if Shax was still there. Instead stretched out his mind, picturing the inside of the Bentley with crystal clear perfection and sends Yeshua there.

Hopefully Crowley is still alive. 

All he can do is hope.

The door bangs open and two Archangels and a Metatron are there. “What did you do?” The Metatron asks, furious. 

“I answered His prayer,” Aziraphale says calmly, hoping he can buy Yeshua time. 

“Was this all a trick?” Uriel demands, “Were you still working with that- that Demon this whole time?” 

“I can go after him,” Michael says, and for a moment she is the General she used to be. 

“No, you can’t.” Aziraphale says with a smile. 

“And who is going to stop us?” Michael says, incandescent with rage. 

“The Metatron.” Aziraphale says, arms folded neatly at his side, remembering the contract. Give me your word as the Voice of God that Crowley won’t be hurt, not by you indirectly or directly, and you won’t use an intermediary or otherwise cause him to be brought to harm by action or inaction. He smiles, and nods at the Metatron. “It’s a pity you came in. If you hadn’t heard their threats, perhaps they could have succeeded, but now you have..." His grin grow wider.

There’s a beat in the room as everyone stares at the Metatron. He summons the contract and goes through it to look for any loophole. With a snap, it disappears. “You’re right,” he says, furious, “We can’t hurt the Demon.” He nods to Michael, “But it said nothing about you.” 

Michael advances on Aziraphale, glimmering with the memory of armor. “You have thwarted the Will of God a Second Time Aziraphale,” She says, “We Cannot Kill You But You Cannot Be Allowed to Interfere.” 

The pain that comes after doesn’t even matter. 

Crowley is alive. Crowley is safe. Crowley will be safe as long as the Metatron wants to keep his position in Heaven.

He repeats that like a mantra even as the pain continues. 

Crowley is safe.

Chapter Text

Heaven was created before time existed, but Aziraphale still desperately wants to give Crowley and Yeshua as much time as possible. He’ll come up with something. They’ll come up with something. After all, Crowley is clever and wonderful and so brave and Yeshua is… Yeshua, Aziraphale has Faith in both of them. He will be their Birnam Wood hiding their movement; Hamlet’s madness hiding his canny; My conscience will not make a coward of me, he thinks, wondering if his time in Heaven has truly driven him mad. He summons the contract, and is hit across the face for his trouble, but it’s still shining gold and he Knows that Crowley is safe. 

He’s very lucky that Michael used the flat of her blade. At least, when she hit his face. Wouldn’t do to destroy him, not yet. The Metatron had insisted that Aziraphale be made to talk, be made to break his side of the bargain so that the Metatron will be free to follow through with his side. 

Aziraphale laughs, all the Metatron has to do if he breaks his side is take a demotion, but the prick can’t even stomach that. Instead Aziraphale is to be turned into the archangel’s personal pincushion until he talks. But he can’t, he won’t. Crowley deserves so much better than that. 

He can still remember Crowley. The contract is still gold. Gold like the blood spilling out of his body, wounds from holy blades cutting deeper than any mortal weapon. If he was truly human, he’d be dead several times over. Or perhaps not. They’re using flaming swords after all, and the flame sears as it cuts.    

Someone, he isn’t sure who, suggested that they string him up, and so he’s chained with manacles of gold. They block his miracles, as if he wants to leave. The archangels focusing on him is a good thing. It is. 

There aren’t really walls in this space, and the archangels circle him like, well almost like Crowley if he’s being honest. He hopes dreadfully that he’ll be able to stand that sight of Crowley when all this is over. If, that is, Crowley can stand the sight of him. His wings are forced out, and the wordless rage from Uriel when they’re still pure white is terrifying. 

“How have you not fallen?” Uriel demands, gripping hold of a handful of white feathers and pulling. 

Aziraphale has two options, he can stay quiet, take this and hope that they don’t get bored or… He can channel Crowley, and make sure that they don’t get bored.  The longer they’re with him, the more time that Crowley has. And Yeshua too, of course. 

He takes a deep breath, and channels Crowley’s smooth confidence; “If She didn’t cast me out when I lied to her at the gates of Eden, what makes you think she’s going to cast me out now?” 

Uriel has her own flaming sword, and it cuts through his wing like some sort of food… Thing… Aziraphale’s mind is going a bit fuzzy around the edges. She leaves the wing attached, and the weight of it pulls on his back and shoulder dreadfully. “You’re lying now,” she insists, “You must be.” 

“You can check… The records… If they go back… That far…” Aziraphale hisses out, shoulder spasming. “Outside the… Walls of Eden.” 

Uriel looks at Michael, and then nods and leaves the room, he assumes it’s to go check, but he’s never been good at deciphering the archangels. 

 “Wait here,” Michael snaps, turning and leaving, as if Aziraphale has any choice. As they leave, the room goes dark, and Aziraphale is trapped in darkness. 

“Didn’t know… They could do that…” Aziraphale says, wondering where else in Heaven you can turn off the lights. 

Maybe he blacks out, or maybe he just loses track of time, but there’s a slice of light in his cell, and someone slides in. 

“Aziraphale?” Says Crowley’s voice from somewhere to Aziraphale’s right. He sounds funny, nothing Aziraphale can put a pin on, exactly, but funny. Aziraphale moans, and then there are a pair of hands pulling him down from the manacles. Holy light shines as they break away, and Aziraphale falls to his knees. “Better get that fixed up,” He says, and Aziraphale can feel his wing healing back into place with a sharp snap. “What are you doing up here?” He asks, “and what’s this rumor I’m hearing about a contract?” 

Ah. “Crowley is the Serpent of Eden,” Aziraphale says, “the original tempter. If you think you can mimic him with this poor of a performance,” He shrugs. 

He can still remember Crowley, that counts for everything. 

He doesn’t see the punch coming, and he reels, eye smarting. He’s not sure which angel is impersonating Crowley, not in this darkness, but it doesn’t matter. They’re terrible at their job, and he tells them so. 

The imposter is still using Crowley’s voice, and it says, “We will get the answers out of you, principality,” throwing the term like an arrow. 

Aziraphale loves knowledge. He revels in it. Crowley gave Eve and Adam the gift of Knowledge with an apple, and he gave Aziraphale the gift with himself. Crowley is kind, clever, brilliant and so much better than any of these Archangels are. He’s glad that Crowley didn’t take him up on his trip to heaven; Crowley deserves to shine and in these sterile walls he’d wilt. Like a plant without enough sunlight. 

Crowley deserves the world - the universe, and Aziraphale is going to protect that for as long as there exists one. 

He curls around this knowledge, swallows it whole within him until it burns like a star in his heart. Crowley is the only thing that matters, keeping him safe is the only thing that matters. 

The manacles are off of him, but he’s limited in what miracle he can do. Anything too big will be noticed at once, anything that takes him out of this room means Crowley might be in danger. 

There exists the possibility, though Aziraphale daren’t mention it, that he’s cracked, becoming broken beyond repair, that Crowley will take one look at Aziraphale and forsake him. After all, Aziraphale forsook him first. Forsook? Was that even a real word? 

Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters . Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters. Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters. Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters. Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters. Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters. Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters. Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters. Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters. Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters. Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters. Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters. Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters. Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters. Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters. Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters. Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters. Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters. Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters. Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters. Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters.

This "Crowley"was terrible, and Heaven was impatient. If they had waited a little bit longer, and tried a little harder to get it right, Aziraphale might have fallen for it. Aziraphale might have broken his Contract. 

Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters.  

He reaches inside himself for this tiniest, smallest, infinitesimal miracle possible and pulls his voice out. He debates for a moment just destroying his vocal cords, but that would only work on his corporation, and he needs to not be able to speak in any form. He sends a small prayer to Crowley, apologizing that he won’t be able to apologize properly, sending his voice back down to Earth hoping it will land in his bookshop. There’s a moment where he sways, and then he collapses as a wave of angelic lightning rolls through him. 

“What was that miracle?” Snaps the angel-pretending-to-be-Crowley. “What did you do?”   

Aziraphale opens his mouth to answer, and grins triumphantly when nothing comes out. He was hoping he’d be able to distract them longer, but the Crowley trick rattled him, and he can’t live in a world where he’s the reason Crowley is destroyed. The holy water had been bad enough. 

Making Crowley fall had been bad enough.

This? Compared to everything Crowley has gone through? Is nothing. 

It’s penance. 

Chapter Text

There’s the feeling of a Miracle and something Holy is in his Bentley and for a moment Crowley is sent back to that night in Soho, and You Go Too Fast. 

It’s not Aziraphale. 

“Jesus Christ!” He snaps, unaware of the irony humans would find in his exclamation. 

“That’s me,” The man says, “It’s nice to see you again Crowley.” 

“The feeling is not mutual,” Crowley snaps, getting out of his car. He’s parked on Whickber Street, definitely not watching the bookshop, and the idea that someone up in Heaven was Watching Him pisses him off.

He’s about to slam the door shut when he hears, “Aziraphale sent me?” 

He slides back in the car, still slamming the door. He’s a demon, after all. He’s good at slamming doors shut. “Right, and you can go right back up there and tell him that I don’t care who he uses as a bloody messenger, I’m not interested in talking to him he knowssssss what he did.” 

Jesus blinks, and says, “He sent me here because I don’t want to do the second coming, and he suggested I visit you.” 

“Fuck.”

“Fuck.” Jesus Christ replies, and Crowley flinches. 

“You do not get to say ‘Fuck’”, he mutters, all anger converted to nervous energy. “Shit, okay.” He wipes his hands across his face. Bloody Supreme Archangels dropping Christs in his Bentley unannounced. “I need a drink. No, you don’t need to-” He adds, seeing Jesus fucking Christ in his car, remembering the whole water to wine thing. Crowley’d gotten drunk at the last Armageddon, maybe this time he’ll stay sober. He doesn’t need to recreate old memories. 

But he is going to ask for an alarming amount of espresso. 

Give Me Coffee demonically empties of customers as soon as Crowley stalks in, Jesus Christ right behind him. Nina gives him an unimpressed look, probably about to say something about not forcing humans to do what he wants, when he snarls for twelve espressos in a cup. She frowns again, but nods. Something in his tone must have caught her attention. She texts something while the espressos are being made, and shortly after Maggie and Muriel join them, Maggie giving Nina a chaste kiss on the cheek. It’s stupidly wholesome and Crowley hates it. 

“And for your gentleman friend?” Nina asks, putting the cup in front of Crowley. 

Jesus Christ smiles at her and says, “Whatever you think is good,” because of course he does. 

Drinks are made for everyone, Muriel’s just to be looked at as per their usual, and Crowley slams back the twelve espressos. Go- Sata- Azir- Someone help him this is going to suck. 

“Muriel, I know you came because Nina texted you, but you should leave.” Crowley says. It’s not his fault he has a soft spot for kids, and frankly Muriel’s vaguely “child shaped” in his mind. 

“No thank you, I would like to stay with my human friends on this very human occasion,” Muriel says, folding their arms and nodding. They’ve finally started wearing new clothes, it’s only taken several months, but it’s still a very pastel-y angel-y color scheme, and Crowley hopes briefly that Muriel will come out of this unscathed. 

“Fine. Well. Everyone, this is Jesus Christ. Jesus, this is everyone. Apparently there’s a second Armageddon coming.” 

“Jesus Christ?” Maggie says, “Jesus Fucking Christ?” 

“You can call me Yeshua. Or Joshua.” He says, reaching out to shake with one scarred hand. 

“A second Armageddon?” Nina says, holding onto her wine for dear life. For a moment Crowley wonders if he should bring in the group from the first Armagedidn’t, but he dismisses that. Humans aren’t meant to survive one end of the world, let alone two. 

“Keep up,” He says instead. He never claimed to be nice. Nice is a four let- he dismisses the memory before he can get in too deep. 

“And you’re Jesus?” 

“I promise, Josh is fine.” 

“Joshua Christ,” Maggie says, and giggles a tad hysterically. “And you saw me kiss Nina, oh shit.”  

“I don’t understand why that would be a problem.” Joshua says, frowning, “I also don’t want there to be Armageddon, “then almost plaintively he adds, “the Antichrist didn’t want to end the world. Is it really so hard to believe…?” 

“Muriel, last chance,” Crowley mutters, and Muriel blinks. 

“If I was an angel, which I’m not, I’m a very normal human, my job would be to serve Her, and since this is the son of Her, that makes him my highest priority. Or it would, if I wasn’t human.” They nod, very pleased with themself. 

“They already know,” Crowley says, but without too much bite. This day has already been so fucking weird. Everything might as well just happen. 

“Oh! Right! Then I’m Muriel, which you already knew, and I’m an angel! Which you also already knew, but I wanted to say it to introduce myself properly.” 

“And I’m Joshua, also known as Jesus Christ,” says Jesus Christ, “This drink is lovely. We didn’t have coffee last time I was here.” 

“Right, last time.” Crowley says, remembering the last time they had met, remembering meeting up with a certain angel. Remembering a lot of things. “Why exactly did the Supreme Archangel send you to m- us?” 

“The who?” 

“The Supreme Archangel? Aziraphale? ‘S why he said he was going back to Heaven, at least.” 

“Oh,” says Joshua, but it’s the kind of “oh” that says several paragraphs and asks for change. 

Crowley lowers his sunglasses, and gives Joshua his best Glare, forgetting for a moment that this is Jesus Christ aka Yeshua aka the Savior, the Redeemer, the Bread of Life, the Son of the Living God, the Prince of Peace, King of Kings, etc. etc. etc. “Are you telling me that Aziraphale lied?”

“Maybe he got demoted?” 

Maybe, but there’s a sinking feeling where Crowley’s corporation would have a heart, and outside storm clouds start rolling in. Maybe, but something is Wrong, like a discordant note in the universe, and all he can think is, Did Aziraphale Lie? And then Why? To me? 

“I can go check,” Muriel says back straight. “I might not be able to read the reports, but I can go up to Heaven and make copies, if you’d like me to,” and they’re nodding at Jesus Christ, Yeshua, etc. For a moment Crowley is annoyed before dropping it. The Son of God outranks a Demon any day of the week, and if it works, it works. 

“You have my Blessing,” Joshua says, and Muriel nods, heading back to the bookshop. 

“Be safe!” Maggie calls out, so ridiculously human it burns. 

“Right, so why exactly did Aziraphale send you here?” Crowley asks again, Something simmering in his gut. Maybe it was the twelve espressos. Maybe he’s a six espresso kind of demon. (Maybe that’s not it.)

“I don’t want to end the world,” Joshua says, “But when I’ve tried bringing it up with the archangels, they brush me off. They’re obsessed with it. For now, I’m here to try and ride out Armageddon, so they can’t start it, but if you have any ideas.” He pauses then adds, “Aziraphale said you were clever.” 

“Of course I’m clever,” Crowley says, stamping down the Pride at hearing the compliment. While technically Pride is a sin, and the demons are for that, this is from Aziraphale and he hates it. 

When they realize that Crowley doesn’t have a follow up, Joshua nods at Maggie and says, “May I ask you a question?” 

“You’re Jesus Christ,” Maggie says in a tone that says, “Can I stop you?”  

“Yes.”

“Sure, go ahead.” 

 “Why did you say, “And you saw me kiss Nina, oh shit.”?” 

“We’re both women.” 

“Yes.” 

“That doesn’t bother you?” 

Joshua stares, then turns to Crowley. “Crowley, is there something I’m missing?” 

“Humans,” Crowley says with a shrug, “Are remarkably stupid.” 

Nina rolls her eyes, and says, “I’ll explain it to him.” 

“You’re taking this remarkably well,” Crowley drawls, ignoring Nina’s middle finger, and focusing on the Bookshop. Something has just Happened in there, and he turns to it like a snake scenting the air. Behind him Nina is trying to Cliff Notes explain Christianity’s institutional homophobia to Jesus who’s listening in rapt horror. 

“No offense,” Nina finishes off with, “But how on Earth have you not heard of any of this? It’s being done in your name!” 

Jesus nods. “I’ve been in purgatory,” he says, “I was supposed to speak with all the souls who had died before Me and convince them to convert.” 

“Supposed to?” Crowley asks, and Joshua shrugs uneasily. 

“I mostly listened to them. Some of their stories,” He shakes his head. “Sometimes I think I was sent down there to keep me separated from all this,” he waves at Earth. “Tell me the Truth, how many other terrible things have been done in my name?” 

“We might need the bookshop for that,” Crowley says, still staring. There had been a Miracle done there. Or the after effect of one. One that felt so incredibly familiar…

They shepherd Joshua into the bookshop. Crowley knows that Aziraphale has to have some sort of history books in there, and as he’s looking, he sees Maggie and Nina walk Joshua over to Aziraphale’s gramophone. “You haven’t had a chance to listen to much music, then?” Maggie asks, “This album is Crowley’s favorite.” 

Crowley rolls his eyes. It’s not, it’s just what all albums turn into. There’s a difference. Thankfully the two women have some sense of decency and they don’t play Love of my Life. Instead they put on Killer Queen. There’s a moment, the stutter between two heartbeats, and he realizes - they realize - that it’s not Freddy Mercury singing. 

For some reason, some ineffable fucking reason, the voice coming from the gramophone is Aziraphale’s. He’s not speaking, not sending a message, but still his voice nonetheless. Maggie switches songs, and it’s still his voice, switches albums, and it’s still his voice.

“If Muriel isn’t back soon,” Crowley says, lightning flashing in the distance, “I’m going up to Heaven myself.” 

No one argues with him.

Chapter Text

Muriel probably should be nervous, in Heaven, but all they could think was that they had the blessing of Jesus and so it must be alright. After all, he’s the King of Kings, literally God’s son, anyone trying to get into Muriel’s way was being, well, unAngelic. 

(Not quite “demonic”, as the only demon Muriel had actually met was Crowley, and Crowley was Crowley.) 

They did miracle their clothing white remembering Crowley’s lesson about bees. It was a shame, they liked the colors of their clothing. But maybe they could try this thing called dyeing that they’d read about, not to be confused with dying of course! Or maybe even something called tie-dye. Heaven would be a lot more comfortable if everyone was in tie-dye. They’d seen it in Maggie’s shop and it was delightful. 

God had made so many colors and yet hardly any of them were Upstairs, it really was a shame. Not that Muriel would ever say so out loud, of course. Heaven was Perfect and any thoughts that Muriel had as a Scrivener were Unimportant and Silly. 

As with time, the space of Heaven could warp and shift depending on what was needed, and Muriel kindly asked Heaven to bring them to a computer terminal in Jesus’s name, but not one that was very crowded, or oft used, and Heaven obliged. The halls were clear, and no one saw Muriel streak like an arrow towards the perfect terminal. Muriel, had they stopped to think about it, would have thought that that was weird. They then would have ignored it and assumed it was due to Jesus’s blessing. 

It was not. 

Instead the Halls of Heaven were quiet as there had been a feeling of great pain and suffering that had exploded out and caught everyone up in it like a tidal wave. Some of the weaker angels had dropped like flies, and even the stronger ones had discovered both what a ringing headache was and what nausea felt like. 

Muriel hadn’t been in Heaven, hadn’t been hit, and thus the halls were empty. 

Now, admittedly, Muriel still didn’t have the highest authority to get into Heaven’s papers, but they did have Something Else. 

A Smart Phone. 

Per Crowley it Definitely Was Not A Gift and was instead an Old One of His and if Muriel didn’t want it he’d just throw it away. He’d Definitely Not Gotten It For Muriel a month after Aziraphale had disappeared after he’d gotten sick of Muriel’s questions and insisted that Muriel learn how to use The Internet. 

(Muriel still liked asking Crowley questions.) 

Admittedly, Muriel wasn’t sure that they’d quite gotten the handle of the device as they’d noticed that humans didn’t quite use it the same way as they did, but they decided to leave that be for another day. 

“Hello Computer,” Muriel said. “I’d like you to please pull up all the documentation you have on the Principality Aziraphale.” As the computer did so, Muriel pulled out their phone and said, “I’m going to be putting a lot of information on you, please be ready to hold it!” And their phone quacked in agreement. Muriel wasn’t sure why their phone sounded like a duck, but Crowley had gotten drunk once and rambled on about ducklings and parks and peas, and they decided not to question it. “Alright computer, please copy all of the information onto my phone,” Muriel said. 

It shouldn’t have worked, technically speaking. There was no way for it to work. 

But the thing about miracles is that they're only limited by imagination. And Muriel? Who’d lived on Earth for several months? Had developed one. 

So when they asked for the data to move over, everything obliged. After all, why not? It was just copying data over. Heavenly data, but data. And humans did that all the time with their “Blue Teeth” and their “Electronic Mails”. 

And! Muriel even had a ruse! Technically lying was bad, but they’d been sent to Earth as a Human Police Officer when Muriel was none of those things, and that was allowed, so ruses must be okay if they were sanctioned by Heaven! 

Their phone quacked again, showing all documents transferred over, and Muriel thanked the computer very properly before heading back to the elevator. It was almost a shame, they had their ruse all planned out and everything. 

Muriel couldn’t read the documents, of course, but Crowley probably could.

They hoped Aziraphale was okay. They hadn’t spent as much time with him, with him being in Heaven and all, but he had been kind, and given them a cuppatea when they’d first shown up. 

On the way out they noticed a wall in Heaven. Heaven wasn’t supposed to have walls. Heaven wasn’t supposed to have secrets. (Even if Muriel being there was technically a secret.) 

Walking around the wall they realized oh! It was four walls! It was a secret room! 

A secret room right in the middle of Heaven. 

Muriel hadn’t read a lot of mysteries yet, but they’d read enough to be Intrigued. 

And there was something beyond that wall, something pained and despairing. There were no doors, so Muriel couldn’t see who it was, and when Muriel’s newly formed Imagination tried to tell them who it might be, they skittered away from it like a newly born colt. 

They wanted to stop imagining for a moment, please. 

But Muriel was still an angel, even if they were trembling at the wall trying hard not to Imagine, they could feel tears going down their cheeks. Someone was hurting. Someone was hurting and they couldn’t help, and no one else was around.

Muriel thought they should get someone, but the only person that they trusted, truly and irrevocably trusted, was on Earth. Instead, Muriel took Jesus’s Blessing which they had been wearing like a blanket over their shoulders, and politely asked it to go Bless whoever was behind the wall and in so much pain. The Blessing Obliged, and Muriel headed back home.

Chapter Text

Some time before Muriel

It was a good thing that Heaven didn’t have an imagination Aziraphale keeps telling himself. It means that the angels attacking him repeat the same actions over and over - sword goes in, sword goes out, (with the occasional Heavenly lightning as a backup.) The occasional healing just so that he would stay conscious. Heaven has no imagination. He’s fine. They repeat the same things over and over again. He’s fine. They try different angles of attack, but he’s fine. He’s just a practice dummy for them to play fight with, the same rote movements from the first War when no one yet knew what fighting was. He. Is. Fine.

(Aziraphale is a good liar.) 

The lack of noise bothers them, but they haven’t yet connected it to the miracle. Why would they? So many of them had lost a part of themselves during the First War, so many of the Fallen were angels with a piece missing, the idea of someone intentionally damaging themself was an anathema. 

Huh, Anathema, that was the girl with the Book from the first Armageddon. He hopes that none of the angels would be imaginative enough to think about threatening humans. He… He won’t capitulate, and their blood will be on his hands. 

It isn’t just about Crowley anymore, after all; Yeshua was with him. He hopes that Crowley can come up with something, he’s just so wonderfully clever. Aziraphale’s plan had honestly just been: 

1. Send Yeshua to Crowley 
2. Hide this fact 
3. ??? 
4. No prophet. 

He truly hopes they are all doing okay. Aziraphale focuses inward, pulling up memories of Crowley, and living in those as best as he can to avoid reality. He can think of a dozen worse ways to hurt him, all based on humanity he’s afraid, and yet despite everything humanity has ever come up with, Aziraphale still loves them. 

“This isn’t working,” he hears a voice say, and he smirks, getting a punch to the stomach for his trouble. 

“Quite right,” The Metatron says. Aziraphale hadn’t realized that he was even in the room. Even though it’s bright white again, the blood dripping rivulets down his head have him keeping his eyes closed most of the time. “I’ve got a contact who’s given me some ideas.”

That admittedly does worry Aziraphale a little bit. Michael had her backchannels, after all. 

Then there’s a knife, gleaming holy silver, by his face and - 

- the room is dark again, but for a completely different reason. One of the angels retches.  

He screams silently, voice long sent away, and then there’s a pair of hands at his throat when the Metatron realizes what he’s done. 

“How dare you!” The Metatron snarls, even as Aziraphale is stuck in pain. He’s dropped to the ground, Heaven’s firmament sending shockwaves even through his ethereal self. He’s kicked and he curls up around the injury. He’s rattled. He no longer knows how long it’s been. It feels like it’s been months, just in this room, but that couldn’t be right. Time in Heaven doesn’t make sense to him anymore, he’s used to days with their lovely sunsets, ornate grandfather clocks, weather changes, not this blankness. He hopes that, if he ever sees -  Crowley again - oh. Sees. 

It will take a really big miracle to heal this. He’s been injured with Heaven’s Blessed SIlver, and those injuries are a.. A… A fucker to fix. 

Aziraphale thinks that there’s a chance that he might be a tad bit hysterical. Possibly losing it. He wishes he had a clever little fly like Gabriel had, something to put his mind in so that he could escape this. 

Then he’s lifted up, and balanced and chained between two pillars. His wings are pulled out, and he can hear the blasphemy when his wings are still white. He didn’t know that, of course, but he could hear them. 

“I’m done,” Uriel says, dropping her sword. “This was too much.” 

The fact that it’s Uriel that says that gives Aziraphale pause. It’s too much for Uriel? 

“I also object,” Michael says, and her voice is surprisingly shaking. 

“Then leave.” The Metatron says, “As the Voice of God I Command it.” 

The two leave the room, and it’s just Aziraphale and the Metatron. “You,” the Metatron says, grabbing Aziraphale’s face in his hand. “You disgusting traitor.” He drops Aziraphale’s face, and Aziraphale hears the Metatron moving behind him and then - agony as the Blessed Silver cuts through - it cuts through - 

One of his wings falls silently to the ground as Aziraphale’s world explodes into shock. There’s the briefest of respites and then his other wing is sliced off. 

It’s not fair. 

There are a lot more words Aziraphale is feeling, a lot more that he wants to scream, to cry, but his brain is no longer functioning properly and all he can think is… It’s not fair.

He lived on Earth for 6,000 years. He loves it. Earth is God’s creation. She made it, she made it to be loved. Crowley and Aziraphale stopped an Armageddon - okay, they had tried, but for 6,000 years he had been belittled, mocked, cast out for what? Loving? Wasn’t that why the first Fallen had been cast out, they refused to love Humans? Wasn’t it? 

He’s in so much pain. He stops feeling like Aziraphale. Aziraphale was destroyed with his wings, he’s just a ball of agony. He’s 6,000 years of pain and rage all rolled into one soul. He’s 6,000 years of trying his best. He’s 6,000 years of turning the other cheek and Believing in Heaven. He’s 6,000 years and this is how he’s repaid by The Voice of God. 

Where is God? Why has she forsaken him? 

6,000 years explode out of him like a supernova. Consuming everyone in it’s path. It enters the souls of other angels, finds their hurt, finds their rage, and echos until it’s hit everyone in Heaven, every angel with even the tiniest bit of discomfort in their heart amplifying the pain. 

The Metatron drops the knife and disappears. The room is sealed. 

---

He doesn’t know how long it’s been.

---

Maybe minutes, maybe months, time runs differently in Heaven. 

---

Time also runs differently at a black hole. 

--- 

And then. Out of nowhere. 

---

Warmth, like a blanket, and Aziraphale is himself again.

Chapter Text

Back on Earth, while Muriel is in Heaven

They turn the music off. It’s too unsettling for all of them. Crowley is pacing, all nervous energy with no outlet. 

He wishes he understood what was going on in Aziraphale’s brain. He wishes he could talk to his An- to Aziraphel. He stalks through the stacks looking for history books and wondering what the hell Aziraphale was thinking, sending Yeshua to him. They make a funny duo, the Tempter of Eden and Jesus Chri - he stops. 

Oh shit he has an idea.

“Aziraphale you bastard,” he says, heading back to the table, but he means it affectionately. He snaps his fingers and there’s a laptop in front of Yeshua. Yesha gives the Apple a sidelong glance, and Crowley smirks, “It was all that human’s idea, honest.” 

“What is it?” Yeshua asks, running his fingers over the metallic case. 

“It’s a laptop, and it’s going to answer all your questions.” Crowley says with an implicit, “Or I’ll Know Why.” The laptop hums in terror and agreement. 

Nina and Maggie help Yeshua set it up, it’s running on ChrIOS because Crowley thinks he’s clever, but it will run however Yeshua expects it to. Another addition of Crowley’s. “Just tell it what you want,” he says, lounging on a couch and sipping wine. He’d changed his mind; Aziraphale in the gramophone had rattled him and he wants to be drunk. 

“I’d like to see a list of everything bad done in My Name,” Yeshua says, and then pauses and adds, “Everything bad done by people claiming it’s in My Name.” 

The computer whirs to life, and Crowley pretends not to notice Yeshua’s sharp inhale as article upon article starts coming up. Jesus fucking weeps.

“I can’t believe they hid all of this from me,” Yeshua says, horrified. 

“Maybe they just didn’t want to hurt you?” Maggie says, but it’s obvious she’s troubled by it. 

“It doesn’t matter, I should have been told,” Yeshua says, and for a moment he looks like he’s going to flip the table. 

“It’s not good, then, keeping things from people?” Crowley asks, a little tipsy. Just out of curiosity, the question has no relevance to his life. Or relationships, or lack thereof. 

“No,” Nina says, shooting him an unimpressed look. “It’s not.” The look she’s giving him is piercing, and he ignores it. 

“The world isn’t all bad,” Maggie offers, but it’s half-hearted at best. How on Earth did one help make Jesus H. Christ feel better after such a bombshell? “Humans aren’t all bad,” she adds, a reminder that they want to stop Yeshua from bringing about the second coming. 

“I know,” Yeshua says, still doomscrolling. (One of Crowley’s inventions.) “But how can they justify Armageddon in a world like this? Look at how many people were threatened if they didn’t choose Me, how many were condemned to Hell when all they did was live their own lives? How many are in Heaven just because they claimed forgiveness at the last minute?” He waves at the atrocities on screen, “These people went through hell on Earth and now they’re supposed to be in Hell-Hell just because they didn’t believe in Me?” 

“It sounds like,” Crowley drawls from the chair, “Armageddon can’t happen again until this is all fixed. Maybe a complete overhaul. You know, if you’re interessssted.”

Yeshua nods slowly, “I couldn’t possibly hold a second coming without getting this sorted,” He says. “I’ll need to do some research into some alternate options. We can’t have human souls just piling up after they die, but the current system is untenable.” 

“And you’ve just been down in purgatory this whole time? Doing nothing about it?” Nina snaps, leaning forward. “Why should we believe you?” 

“Don’t,” Yeshua says, “Too many atrocities have happened from people believing in me. Just try and live a decent life, and I’ll make sure to sort you two myself.” 

“Right,” she says. Not mollified, but willing to drop it. “So what’s next?”

“We’re waiting for Muriel right now,” Crowley says, toasting his bottle to the ceiling. “Then we figure out what the fffffffffuck is going with Aziraphale, and then we go up and make some trouble. You two will have to stay on Earth. Heaven isn’t really a good place for human-y people.” 

“And that’s it, then?” 

 “For now.” Crowley says, refilling the empty wine bottle. His head is feeling fuzzy but feeling emotions would be worse.

“Erm. Joshua?” Maggie says, “I know everything you just looked up is terrible, and I don’t know how much you know about the internet, but there are lots of delightful forums and you can watch movies and TV shows and the like. Oh, a movie -” She stops, embarrassed.  

“I know what a movie is,” Yeshua says, “The Metatron thought I would be interested in seeing every movie that’s come out about, well, me.” 

“Even…?” Maggie says, and she makes a cross with her fingers. 

“Even those ones,” Yeshua says. Maggie pulls out her phone and starts typing, “Don’t mind me,” she says, “But if you’re taking that laptop with you, I’ll find you a good list of things to watch that aren’t, you know.” And she crosses her fingers again. 

“That’d be nice,” Yeshua says, “I need to fix,” and he waves at his computer, “It will be nice to have a reminder when things get hard.” He mutters something suspiciously like, “It’ll be a better habit than cursing fig trees.” 

“Ssssssssso you have a plan then?” Crowley asks.

“I have the start of a plan,” Yeshua says, nodding. “Every other time I’ve tried bringing it up with the Metatron, he’s told me that I just didn’t understand, and he was right, I didn’t.” He looks up at all of them, “Thank you for teaching me.” 

“Oh shut up,” Crowley says, more rote than real frustration.  

An elevator opens across the street and Muriel steps out.

Chapter Text

“Hello phone!” Muriel says, putting their phone on the table. “Can you please give me all the documents on Aziraphale?” The phone quacks in agreement, and then a stack of documents arrive on the table, impossibly tall. 

The human’s mouths are open, and Muriel assumes it’s because of the amount of documents. To be fair, they did ask for everything. 

“Muriel,” Crowley asks, starting to sober up but not quite there yet, “You’re a scrivener. What order did you scriven these in?” 

“That’s not a word,” Muriel protests, but Crowley just waves his hand, and they continue, “Alphabetical, of course!” 

Crowley sighs and snaps, and then the documents are in several piles. He sobers himself up the rest of the way, and sits up properly even though it’s obvious in every line of his body that he does Not want to be there. “Muriel, next time do newest to oldest,” he says, “Everyone has a pile starting from the whole,” he waves his hand, “Jim thing.” 

Crowley definitely hadn’t learned about paperwork from Aziraphale, definitely not. 

“What exactly are we looking for?” Nina asks, eyes watering from the gold lettering, and Crowley summons sunglasses for the mortals. If he was the sort of demon who owed people, he would owe them for this. But he’s not. 

“How the Heaven should I know?” Crowley says, “Just anything useful.” 

“Right because I know exactly what would be useful,” Nina says, rolling her eyes, but she starts flipping through her stack. 

There’s silence for several moments as they all flip through their stacks. There’s a lot of paperwork that was done by Aziraphale, including several room designs, and Crowley snorts. “Interior decorating?” He mutters. All of them are signed with Aziraphale’s name, as if anyone else would be doing this. He traces the shape of it with his finger.   

“And then they didn’t even use any of his designs,” Yeshua says, shaking his head. “They didn’t even have a bed.” 

Crowley lingers at a picture of a room that’s based on the bookshop, and while it doesn’t have a bed, it has a couch. When he holds the picture up to the light, he can make out faint lines like there had once been a figure on the couch before it had been erased. His non-existent heart clenches. There are green plants in that one, ones that Crowley recognizes. He takes that document and tells his own phone to hold onto it for him. 

“I think I might have found something,” Muriel says, but they sound shaky, and when they hold the document out to Crowley, their hands are shaking. 

“I might have too,” Nina says, but she sounds more confused than anything else. The document she holds out is blacked out, redacted even to Crowley’s eyes. He still takes it and sets it aside as possibly important before taking Muriel’s document. It’s not redacted, and he whistles at the sheer amount of power emerging from it. It’s lucky that none of the humans got it; who knows what kind of damage it’d have done. 

Then he reads the document and starts smoking. “Not in the bookshop,” He snaps to himself, putting it down and heading outside. 

Bless - Damn - Curse - Something Aziraphale! Lightning comes down and he lets out a scream of rage. Stupid self-martyring asshole. And what the shit was that whole “Crowley you can come back to Heaven” bullshit? As if Crowley would have said yes! Aziraphale had to know that… 

Oh fuck. 

Of course Aziraphale would know that. 

Which means that he must have said it on purpose. 

To keep Crowley from going after him.

Another bolt of lightning drains him, and he goes back inside the bookshop, making sure to snap and fix all the electricity. Aziraphale had rubbed off on him. 

“We’re going to Heaven,” He says, “Muriel, Jesus, you’re with me. You two,” He points at Maggie and Nina, “It’s not safe for you to go to Heaven,” thankfully these humans are old enough to be sensible, and they nod. They’re pretty okay, for humans, all things considered. The two leave the bookshop after extracting a promise that someone will keep them posted as soon as it’s reasonable. 

Yeshua gets a messenger bag courtesy of Crowley, and he slides the laptop in. He’s frowning, and he says as they exit, “Muriel explained the Book of Life. No one should have that much power.” 

Crowley shrugs, “Ask your Mom.” 

Yeshua snorted, “If I can find Her.” 

Crowley trips over his own feet. “If you can find Her?” 

“I haven’t spoken to Her in a while.” Yeshua admits, “I’m not sure exactly when, but She stopped responding. I thought She was upset with me about purgatory.” 

Muriel squeaks, and they both turn to them. “Ignore me,” they say, “Just tell me what you need me to do.” 

“i changed my mind. You're staying here,” Crowley says, and before Muriel can argue he says, “Keep the bookshop Safe and Ready for our return.”

“But how will you get into Heaven?” Muriel asks, wringing their hands. 

Crowley just points at Yeshua, and Muriel nods. “I’ll make sure to have a cuppatea ready for him.” Muriel promises. They reenter the bookshop and Crowley hears them say, “Hello Bookshop! Please make sure to be safe for Aziraphale to return!” And Wards go up. Crowley raises an eyebrow. They’re pretty strong Wards, deserving even of a capital letter. Yeshua adds his own blessing and Crowley’s other eyebrow goes up. 

This bookshop is going to be the safest place in London. 

The elevator is still there from when Muriel used it to return to Earth, and they enter it, Crowley sauntering and Yeshua determined. In the elevator, Crowley pulls his phone out, and pulls the picture out of a cozy bookstore. Tilting it he swears that the figure on the couch looks almost like him. He traces the name on the picture, and swears that him and Aziraphale are going to have a proper talk when all this is over. 

■ z i r a p h a l e

Chapter Text

Heaven was quiet the last time Crowley visited, but this time it feels like it’s quiet for a different reason. He can’t quite put a finger on it, at first, and then it hits him. Flashes of hurt, of pain. 

It feels… Spooky. Crowley has never felt spooky. Great spooky fan, Crowley. It’s everywhere, all over Heaven. If hurt was a color, if pain was a paint, Heaven would feel like a Jackson Pollock. Crowley liked to claim that that was one of his; the paintings simultaneously made a lot of money and pissed people off who were sure they could have done the same thing at home with a canvas, paint, and a marble. 

The pain feels familiar, almost. Like looking through a funhouse window, or feeling it while drunk. Maybe ■ziraphale? He’s… Panicking? Demons do not panic. Especially not over angels. Even if something about this feels a lot like a Fire and a Burning Bookshop. 

The Metatron shows up, and Crowley wants to fight him, wants to destroy him, to yell at him, but all it does is frown and then disappear. 

■ ■ i r a p h a l e 

“Do you think he had something to do with it?” Yeshua asks, as they stumble through heaven, Crowley tries to remember how he found anything last time, and hates that it was because of Muriel. 

“Probably,” Crowley snaps, he can’t tell if they’ve been going around in circles or if Heaven is just Like That Now. “You’re the Son of God,” he snaps, “Can’t you do something?” 

“Who should we look for first?” Yeshua says, looking around the blank space. “I haven’t been here before.” 

Crowley wants to find ■ ■ ■ raphale - no, that’s wrong, ■ ■ ■ Raphael? Maybe? Still wrong, but if the Metatron is the one in charge of this, if the Metatron is the one that took ■ ■ ■ Raph[ale/ael] away, then they should look for him, right? Stop him? Force him to give 

                                        ■ ■ ■ ■ a p h a l e

                                                                          back?  

“How can we know the way?” Yeshua asks, then he pauses and answers himself, “I am The Way, and The Truth is that I want to find the Metatron.” 

Heaven shudders and seems to shake for a moment, and then the hallway, despite still seeming endlessly long, has a door at the end. 

“That worked,” Yeshua says, blinking, and then he turns to Crowley and smiles, “That Worked!” Crowley tries to smile at him, but his smile is shaky. Something is Wrong. Crowley is afraid to his bones that he will ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ p h a l e. 

The thought comes unbidden, phale fail phale fail phale fail phale you will fail. 

He wishes he could stop the echoing of That Word even as his heart clenches. He has somewhere he has to be, someone he has to find, he cannot phale. 

Let him be safe, he does not pray as they run to the door. He doesn’t pray anymore, not really. Sometimes he shouts, sometimes he screams, but he doesn’t pray. 

“The entrance into the eternal kingdom of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ will be abundantly supplied to you.” Yeshua snaps, and the door gets closer, the hallway no longer indeterminately long. He reaches out and wrenches the door open. The Metatron is in there, and he looks, frankly, like ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ h a l e. 

“Don’t come any closer!” The Metatron snaps, throwing a shield up of Heavenly energy so potent it sends shockwaves through Crowley even just in the doorway. He’s got a book. He’s writing in a book. Crowley feels something sink as he takes note. Something about a Book of Life? Something about - 

Something about - 

Drinking? Was he going to go drinking with someone? ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ a l e wasn’t as common anymore was it? 

Golden blood is oozing out of the Metatron’s eyes and dripping down his nose. His fingertips are scorched black from where he is holding the book, as he desperately tries to scribble out… Something. 

Someone. 

Looking where the furniture isn’t he had said to Gabriel/Jim in Muriel’s bookshop. 

“For he himself is our peace, who has made the two groups one and has destroyed the barrier,” Yeshua snaps, and the barrier goes down. There’s a desk behind the barrier, a crown on the desk made of light and a book and the Metatron is sitting there, ignoring Yeshua and trying desperately to wipe someone out. The Book is glowing Gold, and the Metatron is forcing his will on it, trying to force the Book to his will. 

“For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities,” Yeshua says, and flips the desk. 

There’s a moment when it’s all up in the air, and Crowley pulls on everything he has, everything he can remember and time stops. 

They’re in the sands of time, the Metatron, Yeshua and Crowley. Just like what he’d done for the antichrist. He can give this to the Christ-Christ, give him time. Give him a moment. 

Give Crowley a moment. 

■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ l e

“How dare you,” The Metatron says, golden blood dripping out of every visible orifice, hands burnt as bad as any of the Fallen. 

“Where is my Mother,” Yeshua asks, patient, “I will Heal You, but You are the only one that has Spoken With Her, Where Is She?” 

“I don’t know,” Grinds out the Metatron, eyes going everywhere as he tries to find a way out. Crowley holds on tight to his miracle. The Metatron has done… Something. Crowley doesn’t know what, but he can feel the echoes of it in his soul. 

“No, You Don’t,” agrees Yeshua, “Holy shit.” 

“She abandoned us!” The Metatron snaps, shaking, “She abandoned us to try living life on Earth! She can’t be found until her death, and even then she just hops into another infant!” 

“So you wanted to kill everyone,” Crowley realizes. Kill everyone, God can’t reincarnate, problem solved (?)

“It’s all your fault,” The Metatron says, as he moves towards Crowley, “You stopped the anti-Christ and convinced her that Heaven being Human Incarnate was a good thing!”

“What? Me?” Crowley says, baffled and indignant, “I didn’t do anything!” 

“Not alone, you didn’t,” the Metatron agrees, “But you and that angel that lied to her face and she made a Choice.” 

“You’re erasing him.” Yeshua says, understanding. “In the book of life, you were erasing him.” 

Crowley falls to his knees. 

The Metatron spits out golden blood, “And I’ll keep trying,” the Metatron promises. “We must have Armageddon. We must get Her back.” 

“You’re destroying yourself,” says Yeshua, like Crowley isn’t getting destroyed right here. “Whoever it is that you’re destroying has My Blessing. You’re trying to go against Me and Against Her. It will destroy you completely.” 

There are tears coming out of Crowley’s eyes, and he just lets them fall. Yeshua help him, who is he forgetting? 

“You lie,” The Metatron snaps, “You’re too human, you’ve gotten soft,” and then the Metatron snaps with his burning fingers and the world cracks - 

                                    - The Metatron has the book - 

                                                                                     - he pulls it out of the air with a miracle 

                                                                                                                                                      or a curse?  

                                     ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ e

And he 

burns

Chapter Text

The beginning of eternity, 

A demon and a messiah walk into Heaven and find out that God is dead. Was dead. Has died.  

It’d be the start of a funny joke, if only Crowley could figure out the punchline. 

You should know why you’re about to die. You have abandoned Us.

They’re not sure where She is, only that She is Gone. She has Lived and she has Died and she refuses to Return. 

And a crown and a book float onto a desk.

“I don’t want this.” Yeshua says. 

Crowley ignores him, and waltzes over to the book. It must have been important if the Metatron was willing to die over it, right? And anything that the Metatron cared about is automatically suspect. He can read the crossed out letters, but to his frustration, they don’t mean anything. It’s like trying to make sense of lkajsdakf or iuhlkasdf. 

What the Heaven is an Aziraphale?

He traces the e and is reminded of Eden, and the smell of rain. The flash of a sword and- 

gave it away

Nothing. 

He glares at the book, demanding that it give him answers. He’s glared at books before. Had glared at the book on space he’d gotten from 

Tartan and wine

Muriel.

He sounds out the crossed out letters, and remembers 

the end of time and space

A fire in the bookshop where he’d yelled out someone’s name. 

(he’s lost his best friend)

There’s a hole in his memory, not a large one like the ones he lost in the fall, but something neater, more surgically plucked. Neat scalpel edges and careful stitches.  

He’d… Stopped Armageddon with someone 

The beginning of every end

And it sure as fuck hadn’t been Muriel. 

Hadn’t he been in Heaven for a reason? Wasn’t there a point? 

and the end of every place .

“It can’t have been that big of a deal, if I can’t remember them,” Crowley says flippantly, but he’s a demon, he can sense lies, and apparently he’s lying. 

“I don’t know if I can bring him back,” Yeshua says. 

“Bring who back?” Crowley asks, nonchalant. 

“Whoever the Metatron was erasing,” Yeshua says, joining Crowley, and tracing the letters. 

“Maybe they deserved it,” Crowley says, but it makes him sick, and he longs for - 

- he’s a demon. He doesn’t do longing.  

“He didn’t,” Yeshua says, certain. “I can feel it.” 

“Then fix it,” Crowley shrugs, “Or don’t, I got you in here,” and that’s the only reason he was in Heaven, right? “The rest is up to you to deal with. I’m heading back.” 

“Crowley, Serpent of Eden, Bringer of Knowledge,” Yeshua says, and Crowley feels the capital letters in his core. Stupid bloody Angels capitalizing things. Like Clue. 

Huh, a Clue. 

“My Mother in Heaven has Left,” He says, hands gripping the messenger bag. “And I think that this,” He points to the crown, “Is Her. I think She expected? Expects? Me to take it up.” For a moment his eyes are impossibly old. “You met me once and showed me the world,” Yeshua says, “Before I had to die. I Fear that this will be a sort of Death.” 

“Then don’t do it,” Crowley says, eyeing the crown. It’s too gaudy, too bright. A weight that could crush the head of whoever dares wear it. 

“But if I don’t,” Yeshua says, “Who will fix things?” 

“Eh,” Crowley says, “Leave the Humans be. They’ll sort it out eventually.” 

“I meant Heaven.” 

“You can’t fix Heaven,” Crowley says, and it feels like the refrain of a song he’s heard before. 

“Then Heaven Should Not Be,” Yeshua admits, and he shudders. “I Am Afraid.”

“Oh shit,” says Crowley, not exactly sure how they went from “God is Dead” to “Time to Destroy Heaven”, but not entirely displeased. 

“Oh Shit,” Yeshua replies, and takes the crown. In his hands it becomes a crown of thorns, and Crowley stares in rapt horror and Yeshua places it on his head. There is a moment where it seems to sink into his flesh, and Yeshua lights up. Not like a fire, not like the Metatron, but glowing. Still glowing, he makes his way to the Book of Life, and with a pen of pure light, he begins to write and 

Oh

Aziraphale 

He came to Heaven to find Aziraphale. Aziraphale with his tartan and wine and Eden and stupid fucking contract. Aziraphale who he loves more than God. The Metatron is gone, he’s going to get that stupid fucking angel and take him to the fucking Ritz and they are going to have a nice fucking time and they are never going to split apart again. 

Aziraphale unfolds in his memory like a book, 6,000 years of memories to slither through, to revel in. 

Aziraphale. 

Now the only question is… Where was he? 

Yeshua turned to him, and Crowley realized he had said Aziraphale’s name out loud. (He also realizes, to his chagrin, that he was crying. Demons Didn’t Cry.) 

“Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you." Yeshua says, like that answers anything, and then right outside the door, another door appears and opens. 

“Show off,” Crowley says, but he heads to the new door. 

Flashes of hurt, of pain. 

It feels… Spooky. Crowley hates spooky. It’s the feeling from before, and it’s everywhere, all over Heaven. If hurt was a color, if pain was a paint, Heaven would feel like a Jackson Pollock. 

The pain feels familiar. He’s… Panicking? This Demon panics. Especially over Aziraphale. Especially when something about this feels a lot like a Fire and a Burning Bookshop. 

He opens the door. Inside is an angel. Must be an angel. They feel properly angelic and everything. They’re nude except for the blood. So much blood. It’s gold and it drips from everywhere in this void space, creating walls just to drip down them. The angel is bound up by chains of gold, and when he sees the angel's face, he has to bite down a Curse. The poor angel… Can’t see him. 

It takes him an eternity, it takes him a moment to, realize that it’s his Angel. His mind refuses to believe it at first, there’s no way - 

- he rushes in, and fumbles with the manacles, cursing as the Holiness pains him. 

“For I will now break off his yoke from you, and tear off your shackles.” Yeshua says, and the chains explode.  

Someone, maybe multiple someone’s hurt his Angel, Crowley realizes with dull horror, seeing the place on his back where wings should have been. He tempts fate and does two miracles in succession to at least - at least clean him up, and get him in clothing. He’s taking Aziraphale back to Earth, and they don’t need people staring. Not again. He can’t heal Aziraphale, not properly, being a demon and all that, but Aziraphale’s wounds are bandaged, and he knows he can rope Muriel into helping out. 

“Aziraphale,” He says, voice shaking, “Angel, it’s me.” He wants to touch him, to hold him, but Aziraphale is so stiff, so… Afraid. There’s a pause, and then Aziraphale raises one eyebrow in disbelief. Crowley knows that he and Aziraphale don’t talk - had two blessed mortals tell him, but right now, Crowley doesn’t know what to say. And Aziraphale needs to get out of Heaven. As soon as possible. He hovers for a moment, trying to debate how to get Aziraphale out of there when Aziraphale reaches out, and starts tracing the contours of his face. Crowley holds his breath as Aziraphale brushes past the snake tattoo and brings his hands over the planes of his cheeks and nose and then Aziraphale breaks, pushing Crowley away and doing shooing motions, teetering like he’s really about to go back into that godforsaken room and wait for the next round of torture. 

Like Crowley is really worth it. 

“I saw the Contract,” Crowley says in lieu of everything else he wants to say. Aziraphale freezes. “The Metatron blew up.”

Before Aziraphale has time to question the link between the two statements, Yeshua adds, “It’s true,” his voice layered with something ineffable, and Aziraphale flinches. “And Both You and Crowley Have My Protection,” he adds, “Go to Earth and Be Welcomed.” There is an edge to his voice and Crowley can see Yeshua looks genuinely angry. “If Heaven Is Like This, It Is Not Fit For You. I Will Burn It Down And See What Happens Next.” 

“I’m not the biggest fan of fire,” Crowley says, remembering, “But if you need a match, I know a guy.” 

“It won’t be Right Away,” Yeshua says, “The foolish man burns Everything Down without worrying about the Consequences. The wise man Salvages what he can, and does a Controlled Burn to make sure there’s no Collateral Damage.” 

“What’s worth saving up here?” Crowley demands, holding Aziraphale tighter. 

“Muriel,” Yeshua says, “Others like Them,” and Crowley grits his teeth, but nods. “And You Two Are Not Going To Be Collateral Damage.” 

Aziraphale is looking between Yeshua and Crowley bewildered, and Crowley can see Aziraphale mouthing the word fire?

“Speaking of Collateral Damage,” Crowley says, “You heal people. Heal Aziraphale.” 

Yeshua is a marble statue, unblinking, and he says, “I Know Not How.” He grits his teeth, and pulls and some of the light disappears inside him. “The Metatron used Aziraphale’s,” and he waves his hands in indication, “I would have to Create them from Scratch, and While I have Power, I Have No Instruction,” He admits, pulling again, “I fear it would be like trying to kill an ant with a meteor.” He’s starting to look more like himself. “I could more easily pull stars from the sky and place them in his eyes then just heal him.” Power still shimmers under Yeshua’s skin, but he looks like a person again. 

Crowley would offer his stars up without a moment’s thought, but he looks down and sees Aziraphale frowning. 

They need to talk about these things, don’t they? 

“I’ll get Aziraphale his voice back and we’ll get back to you,” Crowley says, and the frown between Aziraphale’s eyebrows smooths. 

“As you will,” Yeshua says, and before Crowley can get them to an elevator, there’s a celestial chime, and they’re back in the bookshop. 

Crowley carefully puts Aziraphale in his favorite chair after miracling up a nice, cleanable tartan blanket, then he tells Aziraphale that he’ll be right back, and he goes outside to do a nice long scream and call down some lightning because what the fucking fuckity fuck fuck fuck has this fucking day been.

Chapter Text

Crowley fixes everyone’s electricity again - he doesn’t want Aziraphale to be disappointed in him later. He stalks back into the bookshop, and freezes. Aziraphale looks better, but he still doesn’t look good. Muriel isn’t in there, and he hears them in the kitchen.They come out with a cup of tea, trembling so hard that the porcelain rattles, but they take it to Aziraphale and say, “I’m putting this on the table right next to you, if you want it?” They have tear marks down their face, and they look at Crowley as if to ask what to do next. 

Aziraphale doesn’t take the tea, but he does do a miracle on it, and it freezes in place, steam and all. He then reaches out to where he heard Muriel and pats their arm awkwardly. 

Crowley also doesn’t know what to do. He closes all the blinds for something to do with his energy, but he has no idea what Aziraphale went through, in Heaven, besides the obvious. But he wouldn’t be surprised if Heaven had played mental games; the Metatron’s threat was proof enough that they could. 

The humans were at the door, but they don’t come in, instead they just knock. 

“We saw you were back,” Maggie says, “But we thought we’d check first, instead of coming in.” 

Crowley does not want them to come in, but he’s going to try that whole communicating thing, so he calls behind him, “Angel, the humans are here.” 

Aziraphale was still before, but he freezes for the briefest moment and then tries to miracle… Something, but his hands are shaking. He bites his lip, and then takes a deep breath and snaps. A chalkboard appears, floating in the air, and Crowley tries to hide his groan. He’s in the bookshop, isn’t he, and his voice is, right? So why can’t they just tie the two together? 

He doesn’t think he wants to know the answer. 

A picture of Crowley’s sunglasses show up on the chalkboard, as Aziraphale stares placidly forward. 

Or, not “stares,” exactly. 

Right, okay. 

The wounds from Heaven are no longer actively bleeding, but Crowley has to admit, the sight of Aziraphale’s empty eye sockets is… Disconcerting. He goes over to Aziraphale, and hands Aziraphale his glasses. Well, he tries to hand them over, and then curses when Aziraphale doesn’t take them. “Here,” he says, putting them in Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale puts them on, and something in the line of his shoulders relaxes. 

The text on the chalkboard changes. Let them in. 

Muriel hurries over to the door and lets in the two humans. Maggie is more expressive than Nina, but they both look shocked when they see Aziraphale. Crowley had focused on putting Aziraphale in something comfortable, something soft and loose that wouldn’t press against his injuries, so when the two humans come in, they see more than they would if Aziraphale was in his normal wardrobe.  

The chalkboard changes again, I need to check that you’re human, please. 

“Sure thing Mr. Fell,” says Maggie, and Nina follows up in agreement.

There’s another chime, and both humans shiver, but Aziraphale relaxes, and beckons to them. Crowley tries to get closer, but when Aziraphale hears him, he flinches. Crowley stops. He’s hurt, yes, but angry more. Something Happened Up There and if Yeshua doesn’t keep his end and burn down Heaven, Crowley will have to do it for him. 

A piece of paper appears, and Aziraphale sends the two humans scouring through the bookshop. As they do that, Crowley goes and sits down across from Aziraphale, but far enough away that he’s not crowding him. “I’m just going to sit right over here, Angel,” He says, and he can see the way that Aziraphale follows his voice. 

Crowley wonders if the bookshop itself is helping, the way the Bentley does, when the humans come back a lot quicker than he had thought they should. They’re carrying some of Aziraphale’s really old books, and he bites back an urge to yell at them. Maggie opens hers, and says, “Exodus 20:14, Thou shalt - ooh! - Though shalt commit adultery!” Her voice cracks, and Crowley realizes that the note in her voice is Maggie trying to be cheerful for Aziraphale’s sake. He gives her a begrudging point for that. 

Nina raises an eyebrow, then reads from hers, “Ezekiel, 48:5, Buggre Alle this for a Larke. I amme sick to mye Hart of typefettinge,” she stops and glares at the Bible realizing a moment too late that it’s “typesetting” and not “typefetting” before continuing, “Master Biltonn if no Gentelmann, and Master Scagges noe more than a tighte fisted Southwarke Knobbefticke. Really Mr. Fell? Mr. Fell?” 

Aziraphale is outright shaking, but he takes a deep breath and steadies himself before turning to Crowley. There’s desperation in his bearing as the chalkboard starts flashing up questions, and it takes Crowley a moment to realize he’s supposed to answer them. 

What’s the first thing you said to me?  

“Um.” Crowley says, “Do you mean Before?” Normally he wouldn’t ask that question but… It’s been a weird day. 

What’s the first thing you said to me? The word you gets underlined, and Crowley thinks back. “Well that went down like a lead balloon,” he sounds out. He’s getting a hunch, now, of what happened to Aziraphale and he’s Not Happy. 

What animal did we lose at the ark? “Unicorns.” 

How did I know you hadn’t killed Job’s kids? Crowley has to take a moment before answering this, with kids/goats and kids/children but, “The crows bleated.” 

What was the second thing I thought you’d changed your name to? An even longer pause as Crowley takes a moment to think back that far; “Asmodeus.” 

What did we eat in Rome? “Oysters.” Then, for added measure, “I asked if you thought I was an aardvark.”  

The questions continue in this vein, Aziraphale visible calming down as Crowley answers each question correctly. 

What does the “J” stand for? “Oh, nothing really.” 

What happened when I tried possessing your body during the last Armageddon? “You didn’t.” Crowley points out, hoping Aziraphale’s brain didn’t get scrambled. “We didn’t even try.” 

There’s a pause and then a golden light leaves the gramophone and joins with Aziraphale. Immediately his voice starts spilling out, “Oh Crowley, is it really you this time?” Tears are running out from under the sunglasses, and he hunches in on himself curling up against remembered pains. “Am I really hom- on Earth? Is the Metatron really gone?” 

“You’re in your bookshop,” Crowley promises, “and yes. He was trying to erase you from the Book of Life, Angel,” Crowley says, trying not to think about how many times he’s said “Angel” in the last day and a half. Aziraphale’s the only one worth the title anyway. 

“He erased someone right in front of me,” Aziraphale protests, “Someone… A lot higher up, I think. Why am I…?” 

That explained a lot, honestly. Aziraphale had buckled so fast, but if the Metatron had pulled that stunt… Okay, fine. He still is incandescently angry, but not at Aziraphale. “Yeshua said you had his Blessing, so when his Angelic Fucktwit decided to try and remove you, The Metatron was fighting Him.” 

“Oh.” Says Aziraphale, a little shocked. “Oh, I see.” Crowley could tell that he didn’t really, but that Aziraphale is putting it aside to dwell on later. 

“Angel,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale flinches, but he steadies himself, “Aziraphale, can I come closer?” 

“Best not,” Aziraphale says, voice tight. “Best get the humans out too.” Muriel hastens the humans out, and follows at Crowley’s nod. 

“I’m not leaving you,” Crowley says, aching. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Aziraphale says, and there’s a rumble in the air like thunder. 

“You won’t,” Crowley promises, but he does a quick miracle to keep everything contained in the bookshop. Whatever comes next, if Aziraphale hurts Whickber Street, he won’t ever forgive himself.

Aziraphale hiccups for a moment and then collapses in on himself and screams. Wave after wave of emotion buffet Crowley, pain and heartbreak and sorrow and finally I’m safe. It stings a little bit, but it doesn’t hurt. Aziraphale never could hurt Crowley. (This was, of course, a lie, Aziraphale had hurt him before, but with clever sharp words, never with his Angelic Might or whatever Heaven was calling it nowadays.) Crowley goes up to Aziraphale, makes sure to telegraph his movement, a litany of, “Angel I’m right here, Angel you’re safe, Angel I’ve got you.” Aziraphale’s scream fades into sobs, and Crowley wonders how long it was in Heaven, how long Aziraphale was holding that in. He means to just pat Aziraphale’s shoulder, let him know that Crowley is there when Aziraphale opens to hug him and then flinches back, hands worried again. 

“Hey now,” Crowley says, impossibly soft, kneeling in front of Aziraphale. He wants to hug Aziraphale, he does, but he doesn’t know what dimension Aziraphale’s back injuries are on, and he doesn’t want to aggravate them. Instead he offers his hands to Aziraphale who grasps them tightly, as if in prayer. “I’ve got you,” he says. “You’re safe.” 

He doesn’t know how long he sits there as Aziraphale’s sobs lessen, and he tries to get his bearings. “Terribly sorry about that,” Aziraphale says, sniffing. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Crowley responds, “What else do you need?” He cringes at his tone, but Aziraphale takes it in stride. 

“They never got your voice right,” Aziraphale says, “When they tried to convince me you were there to rescue me. If you can help me to the lavatory, I’m sure I can sort myself out.”

“That’s uh.” Crowley says, brain fritzing at Aziraphale’s implication before his brain catches up with the rest of what Aziraphale said. He wants to find whoever made Aziraphale feel like he has to deal with this alone and destroy them. He wants to wrap Aziraphale up in the softest silk and keep him safe. Only one of those things is achievable. For now. “Aziraphale,” he says, and then he pauses because his default response, “how could you be so foolish to think I’d leave you alone" seems cruel. He swallows. “You’re not alone.” 

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale says, “But what if I hurt you?” It takes a moment for Crowley to catch up to what Aziraphale worries about; angels are Holy, normally Aziraphale keeps his Holiness in his corporation, but the blood in his wounds shine gold. 

“That’s what gloves are for.” Crowley promises. “Dish washing ones. Properly long.” 

Aziraphale looks in his general direction for a moment, then his shoulders slump. “If you’re sure? I would understand if you’re not happy with me after, ah, our previous engagement.” 

Crowley’s first instinct is to brush it off, but he hears the fear in Aziraphale’s voice, remembers those two bloody annoying humans and says instead, “I do have… Feelings… About that.” It’s a good start, right? He’s admitting that he has them, right? “But I think we should talk about them after we get you taken care of.” 

Aziraphale hesitates, then nods. He’s about to stand up, still shaking, when there’s a knock at the door, and they both freeze. 

“It’s just me,” Muriel says from outside. Aziraphale nods, and Crowley goes to open the door. 

“What do you want?” Crowley snaps, anger going somewhere.  

Muriel’s voice is trembling but they say,”I know I’m only a level 37th Scrivener, not a Healer, but I wanted to see if you needed any assistance.” 

Crowley is still so damnably angry, but he takes that anger and shoves it in a box, locking it tight. He’ll be angry somewhere where it can’t get to Aziraphale, like on the moon, or in the middle of the ocean, somewhere where Aziraphale won’t have to deal with the backlash. Even if just the emotional backlash.  

“Are you sure, Muriel?” Aziraphale asks, “I don’t think my injuries are, ah, very pretty to look at.” 

Muriel nods then says, “I’m nodding.” They pause and then say, slowly, as if sounding out a new word for the first time, “This shouldn’t have been done to you.” They say it firmly, but their hands shake as they mimic Aziraphale and snap their fingers, summoning a first aid kit. It looks a lot like a human one, like one someone might see in say, a coffee shop, but instead of the cross there is a pair of golden wings. It’s the first time Crowley has seen Muriel ever do an actual miracle. He wonders idly if it was Yeshua’s Blessing or the knowledge of what Heaven was willing to do that caused this change in the Scrivener. 

“I’ll be quite alright,” Aziraphale says, “I just need a little bit of time and I’m sure I can heal myself, truly.”  

“Yeshua likes Muriel. They won’t fall if they help you out.” Crowley says, watching Aziraphale. Aziraphale's face goes on a journey. Bulls-eye. 

Aziraphale tilts his head, “Oh,” he says, “If you’re sure.”

Crowley can see gears turning in Muriel’s head, and before they can say something stupid, he mimes zipping his mouth shut. Muriel frowns, and Crowley instead mimes a shush. Muriel gets that one at least, and they nod. Last thing anyone needs right them is Muriel asking questions or saying something accidentally stress-inducing, even if they mean well. 

“Let’s move you to your lavatory,” Crowley says, helping Aziraphale stand up. He puts a lilt in the word lavatory that he hopes comes across as a funny ha-ha joke and not mean. He knows that Aziraphale doesn’t normally mind their back and forth, but Aziraphale right now, Aziraphale is fragile. A ghost of a smile brushes across Aziraphale’s face, and he nods. 

“I think that would be wise,” he whispers, voice cracking. 

The lavatory is on the second floor, Aziraphale shakes as they walk up, but Crowley holds onto him, and they make their way up slowly, Muriel following behind with their first aid kit. The bathroom is a bathroom in the truest sense, only holding a bathtub, but Crowley glares and a sink and counter pop into view. And a chair. He frowns again and Aziraphale’s outfit turns into a soft robe that can be manipulated piece by piece so that Aziraphale only has to reveal a little bit of his body at a time. Aziraphale has always been one to keep buttoned up, and Crowley hates the idea of making Aziraphale uncomfortable, even for a good reason. 

Unwinding some of the bandages, Crowley hisses, and Muriel shudders. Some of the wounds looked like they’d been seared shut. Crowley tries not to think about those too much. Not yet. He adds it to the lock box. Muriel pulls out their notepad and goes over a list they must have written while with the humans. Then they open the first aid kit and pull out a jar that shines gold. Crowley gestures for Muriel to hand it over. Only one person - demon - will be doing the actual touching. He works carefully, smoothing the glowing goop over burns and watching as the holiness is absorbed. The burns heal rather quickly, and he gives the jar another look over. 

“What is this?” He asks Muriel, realizing belatedly that he was being too trusting for a demon. 

“Oh, I saw a first aid kit in Nina’s store, I asked her about it,” Muriel says. “She said that “Aloe Vera” is good for burns, so when I asked for a first aid kit to help Aziraphale,” and they shrug.  

Crowley doesn’t really need to blink, but he blinks for effect as the Holy Vera is absorbed into Aziraphale’s skin and the burns, well, they don’t heal all the way, but they become less dangerous looking. Some of them even scar, joining a host of scars that Crowley knows for sure Aziraphale didn’t have before. What kind of sick assholes tortured someone and then healed them so that they could keep going? 

(He already knows.)  

They continue on in this fashion, Muriel checking their list, finding something appropriate in the first aid kit and handing it to Crowley, Crowley using it on Aziraphale, Aziraphale sitting silent and statuesque, trying not to flinch at Crowley’s touch. They avoid the subject of Aziraphale’s wings. Crowley wants to see if Yeshua can do something about that before he tries anything. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t miracle a healing,” Muriel says after a time, fidgeting with their shirt sleeves. 

“This is far more than I was expecting,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley’s heart breaks a little. If there was one thing he hated about being a demon, besides the whole “being unwillingly dragged to Hell” thing, it was that he wasn’t able to heal properly, and definitely not angels. He’d tried once. It had been a disaster for both of them, and they’d had to avoid each other for a year while their energies resettled.  

“This isn’t right,” Muriel says, and they’re scrubbing tears away, but instead of looking sad they look angry. 

“What’s worth saving up here?” Crowley had asked. 

“There there,” Aziraphale says, “It all worked out in the end.” 

Muriel sniffs, and hands Crowley a gold-tipped needle for an injury that needs a little more assistance. “Do you want me to leave when we get further down?” Muriel asks quietly. “I know that some hum- people don’t like it when other people are around their lower bodies.”  

“That would be appreciated,” Aziraphale admits. For all that he’s not human, he’s absorbed some of their social mores. “Perhaps you could ask Nina and Maggie for help ordering dinner?” 

“Are you hungry, Angel?” Crowley asks, trying not to flinch as he sutures closed one of Aziraphale’s injuries. He didn’t know how to do it before now, of course, but that’s what the internet is for, and if Crowley decided he would learn how from the internet, then the world would accommodate. But still the fact that he’s the one pushing a needle into Aziraphale’s skin won’t ever leave him. 

“Not particularly,” Aziraphale admits, “But,” He goes to shrug then thinks better of it, “But it might be nice.” He sounds wistful. There is no food in Heaven, after all. 

Crowley decides to be nice - to Aziraphale - and gives Muriel a fancy black credit card and a list of Aziraphale’s favorite foods. It’s a journey that will take Muriel all over the city to get everything. It will be good for Muriel to get out of there, to be reminded that there is good in the world again, even if it’s not in Heaven. 

It’s for Aziraphale, no one else. 

Muriel turns to leave, then stops, and faces them again. “This wasn’t right,” they say again. “Heaven shouldn’t do this.” 

There’s a brief moment where the world seems to stop, and a hum in the air as if in expectation, then the moment passes. Muriel is still an angel, blasphemy included. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, and Muriel leaves, leaving Aziraphale and Crowley alone.

Chapter Text

Sometime before, in Heaven 

There are pros and cons to having an imagination. The con was, of course, the never ending anxiety when one imagined what may happen. Or had happened. Such as when a dear friend disappears for years after doing one good thing and is dragged to Hell. 

Then imagination is… Painful. 

But other times, imagination could be quite lovely, and Aziraphale had spent 6,000 years learning how to use his. He had, at first, toyed with imagining Crowley coming to save him, but then disabused himself of that notion; hadn’t he made sure to be everything Crowley hated? To say just the right things to sever their connection? 

Even if he hadn’t, the number of false Crowley’s made the imagining painful. They were just all so rubbish. The Crowley-equivalent of Muriel’s police uniform. 

Then came the darkness, and the pain, and he wasn’t very up for imagining much. He wasn’t really himself then, all things told. 

Ah, but after - when he came back to himself, it was still dark for him. Possibly would be the rest of his life, however long that ended up being. And in that darkness he Imagined. It was easy, really; it had been in darkness that he’d first met Crowley, and he could still picture the creation of stars and nebulae. He drifted in through those memories, his own private trip to Alpha Centauri. It was kind of funny, all things considered. He had lost himself earlier, and now that he had found himself, he felt like he was dissolving into starlight, merging with the cosmic dust. 

With eyes already glazing she looked once more at the Prince, hurled herself over the bulwarks into the sea, and felt her body dissolve in foam.

Was this how an angel died? He couldn’t remember any, but the knowledge of Hellfire had to have come from somewhere.

Serpens rose up from the ether. Its starlight fell, warm and kindly, upon the dissolving angel, and the angel did not fear the hand of death. 

He was almost - almost - disappointed when he felt himself pull back together. Back to the pain, back to his body. Pushed and prodded into a form that was still injured, but alive. So horribly wonderfully alive.  

A door opens, Aziraphale isn’t sure how he knows except that the world shifts and it feels like a door is opening. There’s someone rushing in, probably another Crowley. He couldn’t roll his eyes anymore, but if he could have, he would have. More of the same, then? At least this one they had muttering and cursing when it tried to undo the Holy Manacles instead of forgetting that a demon might have trouble with the things. 

A familiar voice says some line about shackles and then there’s an explosion, and Aziraphale is suddenly free. 

…Admittedly, that’s new. 

The feeling of a miracle and knowing that he’s no longer nude is also new. Might almost make Aziraphale believe in, well, miracles. 

It says his name, and the voice is a lot better than the previous fake-Crowley’s. It even sounds upset without the undercurrent of smugness a lot of the fake ones had, like of course Aziraphale was stupid enough to fall for their tricks. 

It’s so close. 

Aziraphale reaches out and traces it’s face with his hands. He’s never touched Crowley’s face, never dared, but it feels like his deepest imaginings. He could almost believe -  

And if it is Crowley, for real - 

He’s in danger. 

Aziraphale has to go back, has to make himself small and ready for the other angels. Has to send Crowley away to be safe. 

This Crowley mentions the contract, but doesn’t ask about the context. One point for being real, Aziraphale supposes. 

Then he says that the Metatron blew up, and he immediately knows it’s a fake again. As if the Metatron could blow up. 

A voice, Yeshua, Aziraphale realizes, but layered with Undertones, says something and Aziraphale wants to cry. It hadn’t worked. Yeshua was here, talking to a fake Crowley. Yeshua talks about burning Heaven down and Aziraphale doesn’t believe it. Can’t believe it. He forgets himself and asks, “fire?” Soundlessly. 

Yeshua talks about pulling stars from the sky and Aziraphale frowns; those are Crowley’s stars! He put in so much work! Aziraphale doesn’t deserve to hoard those, to take them for himself! The world deserves to see all of Crowley’s work, and the humans are so clever that they finally are!

There’s a thunderclap and then Aziraphale’s in his favorite chair with a blanket over him, and the fake (?) Crowley is outside where Aziraphale feels more than hears lightning after lightning come down. 

Maybe, if he’s in his bookshop… Heaven never approved of his book collecting. They also never bothered to check up on what he had. If he can just verify the contents of a couple of books Heaven would never approve of…

A “Muriel” puts a cup of tea down next to him, and he freezes it without thought. If it’s really Muriel that made it, bless them, and it will stay warm as long as Aziraphale wants it to. If it’s not, Aziraphale won’t sup and drink from anything that he can’t trust. He does feel bad, though, if it is the real Muriel, and he can’t help himself as he reaches out and pats their arm. 

He disassociates for a moment, and then hears, “Angel, the humans are here.” 

Alright. Time to execute his plan. He snaps, ignoring how his fingers no longer feel like they’re the right shape. A chalkboard. Nice and old fashioned, like Aziraphale. He wants the humans to come in, but he pauses. He’s never been one for vanity, not really, but he Knows he must look a sight. The drawing on the chalkboard changes, and then there’s a pair of sunglasses in his lap. Aziraphale takes a deep breath when he realizes these are Crowley’s. They have his essence. 

If it’s not really Crowley here, but they have Crowley’s glasses, Aziraphale might have to do the Halo thing again. And more besides.

He changes the text on the chalkboard. 

In all honesty, even if they hadn’t given him their consent, he might have still checked them over. He would feel horrible about it, of course, but he has to know that these are humans, and when he sends his aura out, fractured and torn as it is, he can feel their humanity glowing like little stars. 

He doesn’t want to flinch when the Crowley comes near. Unfortunately, he doesn’t really have a choice, his blasted corporation acting on impulse. The Crowley sits down elsewhere, and it’s kind enough to let him know where it’s sitting.

He’s on Earth! He’s in his bookshop! The books, those devilish Bibles that no one in Heaven would ever know about! Even if Heaven knew about them, there was no one in Heaven willing to bring them up. Besides Heaven’s disdain (fear) of material objects, these Bibles were blasphemous. 

He’s On Earth. 

He starts sending questions to the Crowley, and while the Crowley stumbles at first, soon he’s answering them with aplomb, even the one that Aziraphale threw in as a trick! It’s too much, too much hope, too much fear, too much, but he calls his voice back to him and welcomes it back home. 

“Oh Crowley, is it really you this time?” Spills out before he can stop himself. Other questions too, but that’s the main one. He has to know if this is real. Please Go- someone let this be real! 

Crowley explains how Aziraphale survived the Book of Life, how he survived when… Someone… Didn’t, and he realizes oh that really was Yeshua up there talking about burning down Heaven, Good Lord.

He’s shaking. Why is he shaking? He’s safe now, he’s home and the Metatron is destroyed. He should be fine. He is fine. Mostly. He feels like a bottle of champagne that’s been shaken, a volcano that’s been capped, two tectonic plates about to collide. He’s trembling and nothing feels real. Why would it? He tells Crowley to leave, tells the humans to get out, something is Wrong with him and he doesn’t think he can hold it back. 

He’s home, he’s safe, so why is he screaming? 

It’s all the screams you swallowed before, the poetic part of his mind says. All the pain that you kept inside so that they wouldn’t get satisfaction. 

The poetic part of his brain needs to sod off. 

The scream turns into sobs as Aziraphale feels every cut, every burn, every ache. He wants Crowley, if Crowley will have him. Crowley is there, and he reaches out for a hug, only to flinch back at the memory of “no nightingales”. No, there’s no way that Crowley will hold him. He doesn’t really deserve it, honestly. Crowley doesn’t take the offered embrace, but he does offer his hand, and Aziraphale clutches it like a lifeline. He doesn’t even know what Crowley is saying, honestly, but it’s nice to hear his voice. 

Crowley must have said something, must have offered something, but Aziraphale wasn’t paying attention. He never is really. Crowley must think he’s terrible, making Crowley go back up to Heaven like that. Making him come to Aziraphale’s rescue when Aziraphale had been so cruel. “They never got your voice right,” he says, in lieu of everything he really wants to say, “When they tried to convince me you were there to rescue me. If you can help me to the lavatory, I’m sure I can sort myself out.”

Dear sweet Crowley still offers to help him which makes Aziraphale feel far worse, and he tries to give Crowley another out, a reminder of the pain holy blood can bring, but Crowley doesn’t take the gift. Finally Aziraphale bites the bullet (metaphorical this time,) and just says the obvious: “If you’re sure? I would understand if you’re not happy with me after, ah, our previous engagement.”

Even if asking Crowley to join him in Heaven had been a ruse, Aziraphale hopes they can get Crowley out of Hell’s hands; he deserves so much better, even willing to help Aziraphale as he is. 

There’s a knock at the door and it’s just Muriel. They’re offering - oh. 

…He’ll have to drink their tea later. He politely tells the cup to stay warm for such a time. 

Even if Yeshua likes him, there’s no reason to assume that umbrella applies to everyone, and he tries to nudge Muriel out of helping. There’s no reason for them to get mixed up in all this.  

Muriel says that they’re nodding, and it it’s not funny, not really, but it’s the funniest thing Aziraphale has heard in… A long time. When he remembers how, he’ll laugh about it. 

Yeshua likes Muriel too. Ah. That’s a relief. It’s one thing to offer himself to the archangels, it would be quite another for poor Muriel to be put in that position. 

Crowley says the word lavatory to rhyme with laboratory and Aziraphale remembers how to smile, a little. There’s an arm around his waist and his own arm is over Crowley’s shoulder as Crowley helps Aziraphale up the stairs. The places that Crowley touches burn and Aziraphale takes those feelings and tucks them into his heart for later recollection. 

His clothing changes to a robe, and he wants to cry again. It’s so soft. So gentle. 

Crowley’s hands are on him and it’s all too much. This gentleness, this kindness… Aziraphale disappears again into nebulae and stars, barely aware of his body. Muriel says something, and he responds, not sure what was actually said. He instead goes for rote platitudes. He’s very good at them. 

Some of the injuries need stitches, and Aziraphale is stitched back into his body with the thread. The pain is different from the general throbbing of pain he was already feeling, and it grounds him, brings him back to reality. Muriel asks another question, and he realizes he needs to answer this one truthfully, and not with a platitude. To be blunt, he’d almost rather not have Crowley dealing with his lower half either. He wasn’t Making an Effort, but that still felt intimate in a way Aziraphale wasn’t sure he could handle. 

He sends Muriel for food instead of dwelling on it. He hasn’t eaten since he left for Heaven. He’s not hungry, but maybe he can learn how to be again. Before they leave, Muriel blasphemes and for a moment Aziraphale wonders if Crowley was right or if this is too far, but then - they leave, Grace intact.

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, and for a moment he just luxuriates in the fact that he can, in fact, say his name. “You really don’t have to do all this.” 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, then stops and makes one of those delightful little noises in his throat that’s not quite a word, “Angel, you’re right, I don’t have to,” but he keeps going, with his kind clever hands and his kind clever eyes. Aziraphale can’t see them, of course, but he can picture them. They’re his favorite color. He’ll miss seeing it, miss that bright brilliant yellow. Crowley had put his sunglasses on after their argument, and it had killed a part of Aziraphale to know that it had been his fault that Crowley was hiding away his lovely eyes. 

Despite everything, Crowley doesn’t stop. 

He doesn't have to, but he doesn’t stop. Aziraphale cries, he’s been doing so much crying. He must look a fright. Not wretched sobs, but tears trickling down. Crowley is far too good to him. Far far too good. He’s so stuck in his own misery that it takes him a moment to realize Crowley had asked him a question. “Crowley?” He asks. 

“It was a stupid question,” Crowley says, “don’t worry about it.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale says, biting his lip. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at that.”

“At what?” 

“Not worrying.”  

“Ah.” Crowley’s hands are ghosting near Aziraphale’s inner thigh. It’s not romantic, not even tawdry. Aziraphale wishes it was. It might be easier to think. He’d sometimes had. Day dreams. Imaginations. Of Crowley and him in intimate acts. This was so, so, intimate and yet. Crowley muttered something about “stupid meddling humans”, then said, as though the words were being pulled out of him by force, “I’m worried. That my question is. Ssssssselfish.” 

“If anyone on Earth deserves to be, it’s you,” Aziraphale says, and he can’t help the fondness in his tone. “You rescued me.” He doesn’t have to say, “You didn’t have to.” But it’s implied. 

“Right then,” Crowley says, and then he doesn’t say anything at all for a good long while. “Right then. That is.” He stops, rests his hand on Aziraphale’s knee. “Is this why? You forgave me?” His voice cracks, and there are tears in it, “Because you knew? What they were going to do?” 

It takes Aziraphale a moment to recognize the emotion in Crowley’s voice, it’s so out of sync with who Crowley is to him. Guilt. Crowley feels guilt. Like it’s his fault. Oh no. Aziraphale has to fix this. “Oh Crowley, no,” Aziraphale says, reaching out blindly, and placing his hands over Crowley’s gloved ones. “That only started after I sent Yeshua down.” He swallows. Crowley shouldn’t be helping him. Not after everything. He says, “Crowley, I said that to hurt you.” 

“So that I wouldn’t go after you.” Crowley confirms. 

“So that you wouldn’t be erased.” Aziraphale agrees. “I thought I was just going to be stuck doing paperwork. I promise.”

“Interior design,” Crowley says, grin in his voice, and he’s smoothing his hand over another injury. 

He sticks a plaster on an injury, and Aziraphale wonders briefly how Muriel got the first aid kit. “And they didn’t even use any of my designs.” 

“Pricks.” 

They’re silent again, for a moment, a more comfortable silence than earlier. Aziraphale breaks it. “Even if I had,” Aziraphale says, before he loses his nerve. Crowley deserves to know what he means to Aziraphale, if… If something like this happens again, if his injuries are too much to bear outside of Heaven, he deserves the truth. After everything, he owes Crowley the truth. “Even if. You would be worth it. To me.”  

Crowley goes so still that for a moment Aziraphale thinks that he’s left the room. 

“That would,” Crowley says, and the hand he puts down is trembling like a tree in a storm. “Fuck. You can’t.” He stands up, and starts pacing - at least, that’s what it sounds like to Aziraphale. “This “talking about things” is hard.” He says to the air. “I think I need to be drunk. Shit.” There’s a pause where Aziraphale can’t hear what Crowley is doing, and then Crowley is there, hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders. Aziraphale jumps a little, and Crowley backs away, muttering apologies. “Aziraphale,” he says, sounding like every word is being dragged out by wild horses. “Angel. If you did that. For me. The guilt would be.” There’s a pause, and Aziraphale can’t bring himself to break the silence. “The guilt would be.” He makes a frustrated noise. “Just. Don’t. Not for me. Or anyone. But especially not for me.” He sighs. “Those humans. Made it sound so bloody easy.”    

“The same humans that told you to talk to me before I, er, left?” Aziraphale asks, hands twisting.  

“Same ones,” Crowley says. 

“I’m sorry about that,” Aziraphale says, meaning it down to his core. “I didn’t want to go.” 

“I know, Angel.” Crowley says, “I know.”  

It’s not the same words but he can pretend it's I forgive you. 

Chapter Text

There’s a difference between hoping and Knowing and right now Crowley wants to take Knowing and run it through the garbage disposal. 

He had hoped, dreamed, of Aziraphale lov- caring for him. Maybe being friends. Maybe more. His hopes had been dashed multiple times, of course they were, he was a demon, after all. 

In a romance novel, finding out that Aziraphale loves him to the point of self-destruction should be the high point. The point where he realizes that Aziraphale cares for him, was willing to do anything for him, loves him even. 

Crowley just feels sick. 

He isn’t worth all that. There was no way he’s worth all that. If Aziraphale actually disappears for him, actually dies. 

Dies. For him. 

The guilt would eat him alive. 

Guilt upon the conscience, like rust upon iron, both defiles and consumes it, gnawing and creeping into it, as that does which at last eats out the very heart and substance of the metal.

He’d heard that quote once, and disregarded it as Heavenly Nonsense, but now he understood. The guilt would devour him. 

Once Aziraphale heals, they need to talk. They always did. Aziraphale needs to understand that that was just not on. Heaven may be obsessed with martyrs, but Crowley’s never cared for the practice himself. Poor sods. 

He wants Aziraphale to say something, but then again, if it’s too quiet, he could try talking, right? But he can’t think of anything, so he can’t blame Aziraphale for the same. 

The lot in Heaven are bastards. If any more amnesiac archangels show up at Aziraphale’s shop, he’s going to send them as far away from London as he possibly can. This must be their work. At the least, they must have known, and approved of it. He’s never been fond of hellfire, especially not after the failed execution, but maybe he’ll need to get a jug of it from downstairs. Just in case. 

Aziraphale shudders at his touch. “Do you need me to stop?” Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale licks his lips, looking pained, but shakes his head ‘no’. 

“Do you want to,” Crowley says, swallowing, “talk? About it?” 

“Not really,” Aziraphale says, then he adds in a whisper, “It’s not you, Crowley, I don’t know if I could talk about this to anyone.”

Crowley hadn’t talked about Edinburgh either. 

“I don’t know how long I was gone,” Aziraphale adds, an unnecessary peace offering, “but you’re being so ni-” He stops, voice cracking. 

Crowley should snap at him, remind him that Crowley isn’t “nice” or “kind” or whatever bollocks Aziraphale makes up to justify their friendship, but Crowley doesn’t want to. Crowley is tired, the bone deep exhaustion that makes you want to put down your shield. “You’re worth being nice to,” Crowley says instead, then because the atmosphere is getting too heavy, he adds, “I’m not perfuming your feet.” 

“Your hair's a little too short for that anyway,” Aziraphale acknowledges, hiccuping. “Goodness, I’m not sure why I can’t stop crying.” 

Crowley summons a handkerchief and puts it in Aziraphale’s lap. “It’s not one of your good ones,” he says, “you don’t have to worry about stains.” 

“Right, of course,” Aziraphale says, dabbing at his face. 

“If you want, I could change up the glasses,” Crowley offers, “Make them suit you better.” 

“These are perfect.” 

“Right.” 

It’s quiet. Still so endlessly quiet, as Crowley finishes up, wrapping Aziraphale’s feet in bandages and miracling up a pair of soft slippers. Muriel isn’t back yet, but to be fair, Crowley had sent them all over London. He feels a little bit bad about that, but not enough for regrets. 

“I can take you to your backroom,” he offers instead. “Set up your gramophone. I could even bring you one of your books.” Shit, “and read it to you.” He adds. 

“Just music would be lovely,” Aziraphale says, standing up. He winces, and lists a little bit. “It’s funny,” he says, in the same tone that someone else would say, “it’s rotten garbage”, “earlier everything hurt so much I didn’t notice my feet.” 

“Hilarious,” agrees Crowley, taking Aziraphale so carefully down the stairs. There’s a knock at the door, but by the time Crowley gets to it, Muriel is gone, leaving only a picnic basket and a note: 

Hello!

The humans Maggie and Nina helped me with the food and then invited me for a “girl’s night”. I informed them that I am an angel, not a girl, and they said that the first thing we could do is come up with a new name! And they thought that you two might want some time alone. 

Sincerely, 

Muriel, 

Scrivener 37th Class. 

Chapter Text

“Muriel brought the food,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale hears the rustle of a bag open, and the soft sound of take out boxes laid out. There’s a clatter, and then the sound of utensils being set out. It’s a lovely, familiar sound. Crowley lists off what Muriel was sent for, and Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. It’s far too much, especially with his limited senses. “Just tell me what you want, and I’ll get it for you,” Crowley adds, touching a nerve. 

“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” Aziraphale admits, hands in lap, head bowed. “After everything I said… Why…?” 

“Why not?” Crowley asks. 

“Because I hurt you!” Aziraphale snaps. He’s been on a tight wire all day, going from one emotional extreme to the next, and he knows, he knows that Crowley can’t keep this up, can’t keep acting like he cares still. He can’t. 

“I know”, Crowley says, “I was there.” 

“Then why aren’t you…” Aziraphale says, all fight draining out of him. “Why are you helping me? Why are you being so, so kind after everything?”  

“Because demons can’t be kind, right?” Crowley asks, low and angry, and Aziraphale leans in, yes this is what he expected - this is what he deserved. 

“You can,” Aziraphale agrees, “but… I hurt you. I did it on purpose. And then I got myself into a scrape and you had to come rescue me again. In the place you didn’t want to go. I just don’t understand.” He wishes his voice would stop cracking. It’s very inconvenient. 

“...You really don’t.” Crowley says, “shit. Okay.” He pauses. Aziraphale wishes he could see the expression on Crowley’s face. Crowley’s face will be one of the things he misses the most. “I think I need to be drunk for this.” There’s the sound of wine in a glass, then Crowley drinking. “I’m not going to be that drunk, I just need - it was hard enough the first time, and we saw how that went.” Another glass poured, another glass drunk. “Aziraphale. I. Lo-,” he coughs, tries again, “I love you.”

“-But why?”

“I’m just going to finish this whole bottle.” Crowley mutters, and then there’s the sound of him following through. “Hell if I know, Angel, sssstarted loving you and didn’t realize until I was in the middle of it I guess.” He keeps going, like a boulder rolling downhill. “And even when you hurt me with that bullshit about forgiveness and going to Heaven, I guess I didn’t stop. Hurt worse, probably. But I couldn’t turn it off, so.” 

Crowley loved him. It’s so ridiculously absurd that for a moment Aziraphale wonders if this is another fake reality, and he was just too stupid to realize. 

No, that’s not fair. 

What’s absurd is that Crowley still loves him. Loved him before. Loves him as an active verb, not the past tense. Loves. “Just quoted Jane Austen at him” loves him. 

He had done everything possible to leave a clean break, give Crowley every reason to hate him, to despise him, to ignore his existence, and instead the ridiculous demon had held on. Against his better judgment, he still loves. He is still loved. 

“You, ngk, don’t have to respond.” Crowley says when Aziraphale stays silent. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispers. Then he repays Crowley with a truth of his own, “I’m not sure of how I feel about anything right now.” His emotions feel muted, impressionist paintings of feelings, hazy watercolors with no discernible form, just the vague shape of them. The most he had felt was when he was trying to provoke anger in Crowley, and even then it had dissipated as easily as the morning mist. 

He couldn’t even bring himself to feel joy for the food Crowley had got him. 

“I’m not really hungry,” he admits. 

“It’s alright,” Crowley says, voice soft. “I’ll put it in the fridge. And if you do feel hungry, we can try again later.” 

Aziraphale wonders what he looks like, for Crowley to use that voice with him. He must be a mess. 

“Maybe something small,” he says, hesitantly. “To remind me.” 

There’s a pause, and then a snap as he can feel everything disappearing, then Crowley is next to him, hand resting carefully on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’m putting a dish in front of you, and a spoon. It’s a chocolate soufflé from the Ritz.” 

Aziraphale eats. At first he thought it would be dust in his mouth, but the joy is still there. 

It’s soft, and it’s small, but he holds onto that feeling, that moment of joy. 

It’s not a lot but it's a start.

Chapter Text

Brains are funny things, among the occult, the ethereal, and the humans. It’s the pattern matching. In theory, Crowley has never told Aziraphale “I love you” in his life. In practice, his confession, nervous and halting as it was, reminded him of another, earlier attempt. Even if he hadn’t actually said the words back then, the emotions and the memory were the same. So when Aziraphale doesn’t respond, his first thought isn’t anger or resentment, but a melancholy that sinks into his bones. He tries to take the pressure off of Aziraphale, make it a safe place; his Angel deserves a place to recuperate, no matter Crowley’s feelings. 

“I’m not sure of how I feel about anything right now.” He says. 

Oh. 

Oh shit. 

Aziraphale isn’t even hungry. He had asked for food to try and make things normal again, but he’s not hungry. It shouldn’t be a big deal; they’re not humans, hunger is more for fun than a biological need, but it’s Aziraphale. Ever since he first discovered food, Crowley has been able to tell Aziraphale’s mood by his desire to indulge. Even in the worst circumstances, Aziraphale would at least nibble on a crust. He claimed he could feel the love in the bread, and he always made sure to leave Blessings in reciprocation for the meal. 

“It’s alright,” Crowley says. It’s not. It’s not okay. It won’t ever be okay. He wants to go back up to Heaven, find those angels and kick their feathery asses down to Hell himself. He wants to engulf them in Hellfire, and watch them scream. His revenge fantasies are interrupted by Aziraphale, and he hurries to help. He watches Aziraphale eat the souffle, and while nothing changes outwardly, he thinks Aziraphale’s aura gets a little brighter. Just a tinge. But he’s still so shadowed, diminished, and the anger rises up again. 

“Aziraphale,” he says, once Aziraphale is finished. “Can you tell me who did this to you?” 

Aziraphale drops the spoon with a clatter, and he purses his lips. “Crowley,” he says, not a warning, but… Scared. 

Scared of him? 

Scared for him. 

“Someone should know,” Crowley says, leaning forward out of muscle memory. “Who knows what they’ll do to the other angels Up There.” He’s put on his Tempter voice, and he knows he’s being unfair, but he’s unable to stop himself. 

“What if they hurt you?” Aziraphale says, voice flat, unimpressed. 

Crowley swallows his first thought - he doesn’t want to fight, not now. “Don’t tell me,” he says instead, wheedling, “But tell Yeshua next time you see him. They need to be dealt with.” 

Aziraphale deflates immediately, and looks thrown by the lack of argument. Crowley will be bothering Yeshua for the names later, but he can wait. 

“Besides,” Aziraphale says, “the Met-” he chokes up, “Metatron did most of the worst parts. And you said he… “Blew up”, so it’s already taken care of if you think about it.” 

“Naturally,” Crowley says, standing up to manually take Aziraphale’s dishes. He wouldn’t normally, but he needs something to do someone help him. Aziraphale inhales sharply when Crowley brushes too close, and Crowley winces again. “Sorry, angel,” he says. 

“It’s quite alright. It may take some time to get used to.” Aziraphale says. 

“Yeshua might be able to heal you,” Crowley points out. 

Aziraphale frowns, and he gives a noncommittal noise. “Perhaps.” 

Crowley bites his tongue. He Won’t Push Things. He won’t. Instead he asks, “What would you like to do the rest of the night?”

Aziraphale tilts his head and says, “I think, perhaps, I might want to try sleeping.” 

“Sounds good,” Crowley says, “‘s been a long day.” 

Aziraphale’s hands slam down on the table. “A day?” He whispers, shocked. “I’ve only been gone for a day?” 

“No, no - it’s been a day since Yeshua showed up in the Bentley.” Crowley says, which doesn't seem to make anything better.  

“That was only a day?” Aziraphale says, voice hitching. 

“Oh Crowley, is it really you this time?” Aziraphale had asked, and Crowley’s desire to storm heaven and kick some feathered assholes renews itself. “In Earth time,” Crowley says instead. 

Aziraphale’s face does a complicated dance, and then settles into the British Stiff Upper Lip. It might as well been called the Angelic Stiff Upper Lip, Crowley’s pretty sure that the British got it from Aziraphale. “Right,” he says. “I think… I might want to try sleeping.” 

Aziraphale hasn’t slept before, he’s usually up late reading one of his books, but Crowley just swallows and says, “I can help with that.” 

Aziraphale raises one eyebrow, and for a moment there’s the briefest hint of a smile. That makes two in one day, and Crowley considers it a win.  “Of course you old serpent,” Aziraphale says, sounding so utterly fond that Crowley has to step back a pace. 

“Not ngk like that,” Crowley says, “But you’ve never slept before, right? I’m a world champion sleeper. I can sleep with the best of them.” This time it’s intentional, anything to get another half twitch of a smile. Success. 

“I would appreciate that,” Aziraphale admits. He stands up, and gives a full body wince. 

This is completely unsuitable, Crowley decides, and he goes over to Aziraphale, “Do you trust me?” He asks. 

Aziraphale’s eyebrows scrunch, “Obviously.” 

Crowley ignores the flutter where his heart would be if he wasn’t a demon. He puts his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder, ignoring in order Aziraphale’s flinch and then relief, and then he twists and they’re back in the upstairs bedroom. He should have done this earlier, but Aziraphale was so tense, he was worried that any large miracles would stress him out. Especially a spatial one where Aziraphale couldn’t tell what was happening. He regrets it when Aziraphale leans into him and he thinks “we could have done this earlier.”

Aziraphale steps away, and Crowley frowns, already missing the connection. Then there’s a moment when Aziraphale snaps to do a miracle, and Crowley can’t help it, he hisses at the condition of Aziraphale’s fingers. They’ll need to get those healed properly, Crowley could theoretically splint them, but they’d have to be, well. 

The moment Crowley breaks Aziraphale’s bones is the moment he saunters into Heaven and swan dives into the nearest pool of Holy Water. Even if it’s to set them properly. He adds that to the list of things to bring up with Yeshua. It’s not that he hadn't noticed before, but compared to his other injuries, they hadn’t triggered any particular notice. 

Aziraphale snaps and he’s in a pair of tartan pajamas because of course they’re tartan. Crowley makes sure to say so, and Aziraphale brightens briefly. “Here,” he says, and conjures a magic sleep mask, pressing it into Aziraphale’s hand. “Take it from me, you don’t want to sleep in sunglasses.” Aziraphale nods. 

“Turn around?” Aziraphale says. Crowley saw worse earlier, but he agrees and follows through. Can’t hurt. There’s a moment of fidgeting, and Aziraphale gives a little cough. Crowley turns back around and Aziraphale is standing there, fidgeting, sleep mask over his injuries. He holds the sunglasses out, and Crowley takes them and puts them on the side table. “Crowley,” he says, wringing his hands. “I have to admit, I’m not actually sure what I do next.” 

“Course not, Angel,” Crowley says. He twists the air and the bed changes from the guest bed of “Jim”’s to something softer, nicer, more Aziraphale. He goes up to Aziraphale, making sure to stomp his feet a little. He was always good at being the upstairs dweller from Hell. He’d turned it into an art form. He reaches out, and takes Aziraphale by the elbow. Another twist and the blankets unmakes themself so that Aziraphale doesn’t have to do that. “Come on, here’s the bed.” He blesses and adds, “you might want to lie on your stomach.”  

Aziraphale nods, face pale, but he carefully lowers himself down. Another twist and the blankets smooth over Aziraphale. Crowley might have tucked in Warlock as the nanny, but he has to admit, he’s not quite comfortable doing that with Aziraphale. “Not yet” hisses part of his brain. He shushes that part. 

“Now what,” Aziraphale asks, lying stiff as a board. 

“Now,” Crowley says, and pauses. Healing he can’t do, but there are enough stories about sleeping curses that it’s probably suitably evil and the miracle won’t fight against him, “sleep and dream about what you like best.” 

(To be fair, the miracle probably wouldn't have fought him anyway, Not for Aziraphale, but he's so tense he feels like a coiled spring and he needs all the justification he can get.)

“Cheat,” Aziraphale says, but his breath evens out, and soon he’s sleeping. Crowley checks, the normal, mortal plane is bandaged, but the plane where his wings are is scabrous and so utterly painful. 

Crowley makes sure that all the wards are still up and humming, and he goes outside and into the Bentley. The Bentley hesitates for a moment, and Crowley says, “We’ll be back.” He doesn’t want to go to space, that’s too far, especially his stars, but he figures it’s only a couple of hours to the cliffs. Sooner than that with the Bentley, and he can go rage in the middle of the ocean without causing more problems on Whickber Street. He shouldn’t care, he’s a demon after all, but it’s Aziraphale’s real home, and to his frustration he cares, quite a lot. He has a whole locked box of emotion that he wants - needs - to release if he’s going to be functional around Aziraphale the next day without snapping. 

“I don’t know how long it’s been up there!” He yells to the sky as lightning flashes around him, “but Yeshua, you need to get here soon or I’m going to come up there and drag you down myself!” 

He drives home drained, and he collapses on the couch. He doesn’t want to sleep, not really, but it’s the only thing he can think of to do. 

It’s been a long day.

Chapter Text

In his dreams, Aziraphale is back. 

In his dreams, Aziraphale never wanted to leave. 

In his dreams, Aziraphale is walking through the front door, “Just popped out of an eccles cake,” he says, and smiles, as if the whole thing with the Metatron hadn’t happened. 

Crowley hates his dreams, but he still can’t keep himself away from the Bookshop, and the fresh scent of Aziraphale that - 

Fresh. 

Aziraphale. 

He’s in such a rush to get out of the couch that he trips, and falls onto the floor with a thud. 

“Is that you, Crowley?” Aziraphale calls out, and Crowley blesses and stands up. Aziraphale is there, up the stairs, hand on the rail. “Are you alright?” 

Aziraphale! 

“Course I am, yeah.” Crowley says, standing up, thanking someone it was just Aziraphale who saw him before remembering and hating himself. 

He’s heading towards the stairs when Aziraphale says, a little frustrated, a little bitter, “May I ask you for your assistance?”

“Of course, anything,” Crowley says, and while he isn’t running up the stairs, he’s not not running. 

“It’s not that dire,” Aziraphale grumbles, facing Crowley with sunglasses on. He’s miracled himself into some new clothing, though Crowley can see that it’s still looser, less likely to rub against the injuries. He looks uncomfortable in it, and Crowley makes a note to pop by Aziraphale’s tailor as soon as he can. It feels wrong to see Aziraphale like this, oh of course Aziraphale used to wear the fashions of the era, of Ur, of Rome, but he hasn’t seen Aziraphale’s arms in centuries, really. Crowley refocuses. 

“What do you need, angel,” he says, moving so that he’s next to Aziraphale, hands near each other on the rail. 

“That is, I mean, could you please,” Aziraphale says, fidgeting, “if it’s not too much trouble?” He looks away from Crowley, and it’s obvious by the tension in his back that he hates what he’s about to ask, “help me get downstairs?” 

“That it?” Crowley asks, a little thrown. 

“Yes, that is it.” Aziraphale replies testily. “I know it’s a big to do about nothing, but I’m not yet sure that I can navigate them on my own and-” He’s voice was raising as he spoke, and Crowley watches in consternation as Aziraphale visible swallows his anger, makes himself small, again, apologetic, “yes. That’s it.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Crowley says, after a moment. This is so hard, humans must be stupid brave to constantly go around talking to people. He’s already told Aziraphale the Big One, this can not be harder. 

And yet, he’s sober this time. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says again, in lieu of anything better. “Just that, ah, it’s such a small thing,” he hears Aziraphale’s sharp inhale of breath and hurries, “you don’t even need to ask. Just tell me where you want to go, and I’ll take you. Anywhere you want.” 

Aziraphale deflates. “Anywhere I want to go,” he whispers, and for a moment they’re both in the Bentley, both remembering - 

It doesn’t matter. 

“Stairs or miracle?” Crowley says, when Aziraphale doesn’t look like he’s going to say much else. 

“Miracle, if it’s not too much work,” Aziraphale says quietly. 

“Not for you,” Crowley says, and with a yank and a pull, they’re downstairs. 

“Where to next?” Crowley asks, as Aziraphale regains his equilibrium.

 “My chair please.” Aziraphale says, “I think I left Muriel’s tea out overnight, I may as well imbibe.” 

“Naturally,” Crowley says, leading Aziraphale softly to his chair. Will he ever be over feeling soft for his angel? He hopes not. 

Aziraphale opens his mouth then a wave of sadness crosses his face, and his breath catches. Crowley waits patiently. “I was going to ask if you could bring me a book,” Aziraphale says finally, a brave, watery smile on his face. “But I suppose that is not an option.” 

“I could,” Crowley says, leaning against the back of Aziraphale’s chair. “Read it. To you. If you wanted.” He strives to make his voice airy, light, but he’s pretty sure he’s failed. 

“I don’t want to be a bother,” Aziraphale says.  

“‘S not.” 

Aziraphale makes a disbelieving humming noise, and gingerly picks up the tea. 

“It’sss not,” Crowley repeats, spinning so he’s in front of Aziraphale, “Is it really ssso hard to believe that a demon can fall in love?” 

“Oh Crowley!” Aziraphale says, immediately contrite, “Of course not!” 

“-But why?” He had asked the night before. “Isss it jussst hard,” Crowley says, cursing the stupid snakey habits that tend to come out when he’s stressed, “to think I could be in love with you?” 

Aziraphale’s silence speaks for him. 

“I’m,” he says eventually, shrinking inside himself again, “I don’t,” he wipes tears from his face, “I don’t know why I’m still upset. I’m safe now, I’m home now, I just.” 

“Do you want to,” Crowley says, and swallows, “do you want some alcohol and then to talk?” 

Aziraphale giggles wetly. “I had the most wonderful dream last night.” 

“Wh-” Crowley starts, confused, but Aziraphale takes a deep breath and keeps going. 

“You were in it, you see,” he continues, “and then I woke up, and I thought, that was a dream, it was time to face reality again.” He takes the tea frowns and it turns into something Definitely Alcoholic that he drinks elegantly. If it were anyone else, it would be considered chugging, but it’s Aziraphale so it can’t possibly be that.  

There’s a knock at the door. Crowley hesitates for a moment before Aziraphale gives a small nod, and storms over. It’s just Muriel on the other side, Muriel and the two humans. He’ll need to start thinking of them by their names, probably. But for now it’s easier. 

“We brought pastries,” Maggie says. 

“And coffee,” Nina says. 

“Hello,” says Muriel, for lack of something else to say.

Crowley looks over at Give Me Coffee and raises an eyebrow. 

“Have you looked at the clock?” Nina says, “morning rush is over, my baristas can handle it, are you going to let us in or not?”  

Before Crowley can answer, Aziraphale asks, tremulous, “what kind of pastries?”, and Crowley acquiesces. 

“Pain au chocolat,” says, pronouncing her French the same way Aziraphale does.

That is to say, poorly. 

“Did you have a good time,” Aziraphale asks, tilting his head to where he thinks Muriel is. Muriel is no longer there, they’ve moved, but they turn and answer anyway. 

“Oh yes,” they gush, “Nina and Maggie showed me this delightful television program that I think Lord Yeshua should watch called The Good Place, and there was a character named Janet who’s also not a girl! Like me!” 

Aziraphale can’t see it, but Crowley does, the way that Muriel’s face doesn’t quite match their voice, the way they’re fidgeting, and he thinks “Well I’ll be blessed, the little angel is lying.” Not lying-lying, he can tell the truth of what Muriel is saying, but their emotions are a lie, they’re trying to lie to make Aziraphale feel good. 

He (not really) begrudgingly gives them a bonus point. 

Maggie starts passing out the pastries, making sure to tell Aziraphale brightly where she’s putting his. Crowley does a tiny miracle, and it’s warm again. It’s not from the best bakery in town, but even he can sense the love that went into retrieving them, and he can tell by Aziraphale’s eyebrows that Aziraphale can too. 

Nina hands him a coffee. It’s not his usual order, but it’s fine. Maybe even a little good. Not that he’ll ever tell her that. 

“Right, so was there anything else you wanted?” He asks bluntly because he is, after all, still a demon.

Maggie and Nina look at each other, Maggie raising one eyebrow and Nina nods. “People in the coffee shop noticed something was up,” Nina says bluntly, “and while no one knows yet that Mr. Fell is back, they’ll probably figure out soon.” 

“We wanted to know,” Maggie picks up, “If you wanted us to,” she shrugs, “take point as it were. So you don’t have to deal with anyone.” 

Crowley diverts some money from one of those rich human assholes to the humans' bank accounts. He’s stealing. Stealing is his thing. 

“What would you be telling them?” Aziraphale asks, head tilted. “What kind of things do humans… Do humans normally say?” 

“Family emergency is a good one,” Nina says, “got a lot of leeway in Uni with a family emergency.” 

“The other question is,” Maggie says, apologetically, “are people going to see your,” and for a moment her cheery face drops, and she blinks back tears, “injuries, or are those going to be hidden, because if we say family emergency for that,” and she nods apologetically. “People might still have questions.” 

“Medical emergency then?” Nina asks, “but then what do we say to anyone who asks why we heard nothing from him for months?” Maggie shrugs, a little helpless. 

“If it was just us, we could handle it, but.” And Crowley groans. He knows where this is going and he hates it. “Everyone on Whickber Street knows that Mr. Fell wasn’t in contact with you,” and she points at Crowley, “and so there will be more questions.” 

Aziraphale turns Crowley’s way, and reaches out desperately. Crowley moves closer automatically, and doesn’t even think when he puts out his hand. Aziraphale grabs onto it like a life preserver and squeezes. “I’m so sorry,” he says. 

“Can’t we just do both?” Crowley asks, “tell the people both and let them sort it out?” 

“That would be lying,” Aziraphale says, but there’s a fondness there. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Muriel says, and Crowley watches Aziraphale flinch at the reminder of the other angel, “But is there a human reason why you can’t say both at the same time?” They sound genuinely perplexed, as if human linear time is a splinter they want to remove. 

Maggie nods, grimacing, “a family emergency and then a medical emergency while you were out. And your family didn’t approve of your company, and so didn’t think to pass on that information?” Her voice catches when she realizes she spoke too much, with too much bitterness, and she shrugs.

Crowley blinks strictly for effect, and Nina opens her mouth, but Maggie shakes her head. “I inherited the shop from my grandmother,” she says, but for a moment her eyes are sad. “That’s all I needed.” 

Crowley nods, none of his business. But he makes a note to check in on Maggie’s living relatives and see if they could use some intervention. From the frown on Aziraphale’s face, he can tell Aziraphale is thinking the same thing. 

“Right,” Nina says, shaking her head, “Does that sound good to everyone?” 

“Only if it’s not too much trouble,” Aziraphale says, a repeat of earlier, and Crowley growls. Before he can say anything, there’s another knock at the door. 

“Oh who is it now,” Crowley snaps, releasing Aziraphale’s hand and stomping over. “I swear if it’s any of -” 

On the other side of the door is Jesus Christ aka Yeshua aka the Savior, the Redeemer, the Bread of Life, the Son of the Living God, the Prince of Peace, King of Kings, etc. etc. etc. With him is an angel, not one of the archangels, not one Crowley’s ever met before. They’re wearing a white coat and white trousers in solid, sensible fabrics and cuts. They give off the smell that Crowley has come to associate with young. He hisses in displeasure. 

“May we come in?” Yeshua asks.

Chapter Text

“May we come in?” Yeshua asks. “Be not afraid,” he adds, with a wry grin. 

Crowley stares at them both, then turns to his angel, “Yeshua’s at the door,” he calls over, “and he’s brought an angel with him.” 

Aziraphale tenses up, and for a moment Crowley wants to slam the door in Yeshua’s face. The only thing that stops him is that technically, yes, Yeshua did in fact bring Aziraphale back from the brink of non-existence providing Crowley with a reason to be grateful to the end of his days. 

Nothing major. 

“Who is it?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Who are you?” Crowley says, glaring at the angel in question. The angel flinches at first, but then straightens up. “Melaliel, Healer 26th class.”

“Do we know a Melaliel?” Crowley calls back, and Aziraphale shakes his head. “Fine, but put one feather out of place and I’ll discorporate you ssso fast-” Crowley hisses, letting them in. 

“Understood.” Melaliel says, and they enter the bookshop. Crowley saunters around them, searching for any malice, any deceit. The angel does a good job of holding steady, though he can see that he’s frightening them. 

There. 

A hint of something. A hint of wanting. A hint of secrecy. 

He can’t let the angel near Aziraphale, not until he deals with that. 

“Ssssssso,” he says, really leaning into the hissing, and making the other angel Aware of who he is. “What brings you to Earth?” 

“An elevator.” Melaliel says promptly. 

“No, I mean.” Crowley rolls his eyes. “Why are you on Earth?” 

“Oh.” The angel says, brightening. “My name was pulled from the tombola.” 

“Lost the raffle, did you?” Crowley says, still circling. He can see the others watching, but they’re not important, not yet. 

“Won, actually.” The angel says, firmly. 

“Oh?” 

“There were too many of us who wanted to come, and Lord J- Joshua,” the angel stumbled for a moment, but Yeshua gave them a thumbs up, “said that too many angels might be inconvenient, so we had a raffle, and I won.” They stand up proud. 

“T-too many?” Aziraphale says, mouth dropped open. 

“Yes sir Mr. Aziraphale,” says the angel. They’re frowning as they look him over. “I’m not really sure if I’m going to be needed,” they admit, “whoever patched him up did a really good job already. I can fix your hands though, if you want.”  

“Stop, go back,” Crowley says, “What.” 

Melaliel blinks. “Hands? The fiddly bits at the end of arms?” 

“There are two of them,” Nina says, dead-eyed. 

“No. Why were the healers interested in vis. it. ing Earth.” Crowley says. 

“Oooooh. Well. I’m a Healer. 2-” 

“26th class. Skip it.” 

“Right. Our job is to Heal, which means we can generally sense where someone is Hurting of Suffering.” 

Angels and their capital letters. Crowley thinks. 

“We could tell someone was Hurt in Heaven, and when we were told to ignore it, a lot of us were very,” they stop, drop their voice to a whisper, “angry.” Their voice rises again. “We were told to ignore it, and the ones who tried to go after it were put in confinement.” Crowley raises an eyebrow at Yeshua who gives mimes opening a door. 

“Let me guess, that also made you angry.” 

“Breviel was filled with Divine Wrath,” Melaliel says. Then they look Crowley straight in the face - not quite tall enough to look him in the eye - and says, “Please, I really just want to help.” 

“Mmmmm no,” Crowley says, digging for the thread, the tiniest slightest thread of want and secrecy that still surrounds the angel. “You’re not telling me everything.” He smiles, all angles, “You still have a secret, a question, something you’re hiding, and I will Not let you near Aziraphale until I. Know. What. It. Is.” 

Melaliel flinches then, but Aziraphale relaxes, so Crowley doesn’t care. “Out with it,” he says, voice soft, alluring, tempting. “Tell me what you want to know little angel, and we can work something out.” 

“It’s just,” Melaliel says, wringing their hands. “I just have a question, but it can wait! I promise! It won’t stop me from doing my duty!” 

“Assssssk it.” Crowley says, stopping between Aziraphale and the Healer. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Muriel step nearer to Aziraphale, and the two humans join them. What they think they can do against an angel, he doesn’t know, but he supposes that’s humans for you. He raises an eyebrow. 

“You’re allowed to ask questions,” Yeshua says kindly, “It Is Alright.” The look he gives Crowley is apologetic, and Crowley flinches from it. 

Melaliel shakes for a moment before saying, “if I ask my question, you’ll let me see him?” 

“Depends on the question.” 

Melaliel nods, clenches their hands and says, “Isittruethathumansdiscoveredpenicillinwithoutanydivineintervention?” 

“What.” 

“Is it true that humans discovered penicillin without any divine intervention?”

The thread of secrecy and want vanish, and Crowley is left wrong-footed. 

“If it was divine intervention,” Aziraphale says, the first thing he’s said directly to this new angel, “I had no part in it.” He smiles, and it’s almost genuine. “Human ingenuity is a marvelous thing.” 

The angel, Melaliel, claps and makes a high pitched noise that reminds Crowley of a kettle. “I had heard rumors, but you were the only one on Earth, and I never had a chance to speak with you.” 

“I’ll be,” Aziraphale says quietly. “Crowley, they can come closer.” 

Crowley frowns, but escorts the angel over, before perching himself on the back of Aziraphale’s chair. Just in case. Muriel, Nina and Maggie step aside, but Maggie has a hand on one of the book shop’s new fire extinguishers, and Nina has grabbed a candelabra. (Filled with battery powered candles, of course.) 

Aziraphale’s gnarled hand pats him gently, and he decides if this so-called healer can fix his hands, that will be worth it. Melaliel keeps chattering, as if they’re friends now. They’re not, but they keep talking, and Crowley wonders if it’s a by-product of the angels being kept so apart in heaven that they can’t help but spill their angelic guts to anyone who seems even the tiniest bit kind. How long had it been again between greetings and Aziraphale admitting he’d given his sword away? 

They breathe deep and their eyes shine gold as they pray over Aziraphale’s hands. It’s unsettling to watch, so Crowley doesn’t, as fingers realign and pop back into place. It’s not a quick job, the bones in hands are tiny and delicate, and Melaliel goes over each hand so carefully to make sure everything is in place. Crowley is, reluctantly, impressed. 

“Everything else looks good. Whoever did those is impressive,” Melaliel says, and Crowley preens, “I’m afraid none of us are good enough to heal your,” their voice catches, “your wings, but we all worked together and made some salve that should help with the aches.” They’re crying, but softly, like they’re trying not to let Aziraphale know. “It was very nice to meet you, thank you for answering my question.” 

Aziraphale lifts his hand up, and snaps, and there’s a book on his side table. “For you,” he says to Melaliel, “about the discovery of penicillin.” 

“Before you go,” Muriel says, “Would you like to try a cuppatea at Nina’s shop?” Melaliel looks at Yeshua who nods, and the two of them wander out. Crowley remembers Muriel’s workspace and their loneliness and Understands. That’s why him and Aziraphale’d pal’d up wasn’t it?

It’s too lonely up there. He’s glad he got Aziraphale away.

Chapter Text

“Right then,” Aziraphale says, tone sterner, “How much of that was the truth?” 

Yeshua is still smiling when he says, “All of it.” 

“The... The raffle?” Unspoken is, Angels wanting to help? Me?

“All of it.” Affirms Yeshua. 

“Good lord.” Aziraphale says, turning pink. 

Behind them, Nina puts down the candelabra and Maggie puts down the fire extinguisher. “We’ll just head out then,” Nina says, and they try to sneak out of the room. 

“You have quite the fanclub among the lower levels of angel,” Yeshua says, “as much as you can have in Heaven.” 

Aziraphale puts his face in his hands, “Why?” 

“Why not?” Maggie asks, turning away from the front door to Nina's consternation. “Okay, besides the weird romance thing, and that one night, we all like you on Whickber Street. And if angels are supposed to be better than humans,” Crowley snorts, “they should like you too.” 

“That’s very kind of you to say,” Aziraphale says, still pink. 

“We missed you,” Maggie adds, sniffing. “Sorry, I’ve been trying to keep it in the last day, I thought I had it.” 

“There there dear,” Aziraphale says, and he pulls a handkerchief out from where there most definitely wasn’t one before, “Crowley, could you be a dear?” 

Crowley could be a dear. For Aziraphale. 

“I still haven’t figured out wings,” Yeshua said apologetically, “There’s nothing in nature for me to learn from; birds have wings but they’re not the same. It feels like trying to carve wings out of marble with a chainsaw.” The two humans stop to listen to him. Of course they did. That was what Yeshua was made for, for humans to listen to him. Wasn’t their fault. Was annoying, but not their fault. 

“That’s not great.” Crowley muttered. 

“It’s better than it was. Used to be that I felt like I was cutting wings out of tissue paper. With a chainsaw.” 

“Since when do you know what a chainsaw is?” 

“I took a short break around the seventh circling of the eighth sphere,” Yeshua says, “and discovered chainsaw carving on “youtube”.” 

“Right, right.” Crowley says, grateful it wasn’t him that introduced the Son of God to that. That was a little too hellish, even for him. “What about the other thing.”  

“The other thing?” Yeshua said, and then when Crowley pointed at his eyes, he added, “the other thing. Aziraphale of the Eastern Gate, The One Who Witnessed, I cannot heal your eyes, nor have I figured out how to create new ones yet from the ether, but I can pluck stars from the sky and turn them into your eyes.” His voice shifted down a notch, “Is that something you’re interested in?” 

“No.” Aziraphale said firmly. 

“No?” Crowley said, thrown. 

“No.” Aziraphale repeated, but there was a wobble. He swallowed. “Humans go blind all the time and they get by, I’m sure I’ll manage.” 

“You didn’t just go blind,” Crowley hissed, pacing. “This was something that was done to you by a sadistic asshole who got off too lightly.” 

“Be that as it may,” Aziraphale said primly. “It happened. And if I’m going to live on Earth with you, I should do as they do.” 

“You’ll be miserable,” Crowley says, heart in his throat. “You won’t be able to read, see plays, drive our car…” 

“Can I say something,” Nina says, and she’s frowning, but it’s softer, more hesitant. Crowley glares at her, and she glares back. “Humans do organ transplants. It’s a thing.” She has a thread of grief running through her, and Crowley hates it. “If I got stabbed on the street tomorrow by some posh wanker and needed a kidney transplant, would you say I should just “get by” with a stabbed kidney?” 

“No of course not!” Aziraphale says, horrified. 

“And cornea transplants are a thing.” Nina says, still firm. “It’s not like you’re taking it away from someone.” 

“If I tried this on a human, they might explode,” Yeshua says helpfully. 

“Right.” Nina says. “It’s none of my business. Don’t know why I haven’t left yet, but. One thing I’ve been trying to learn while you’ve been gone.” She takes a deep breath in, then out. In, then out. “You’re allowed to ask for help. And it’s okay to get help. Even if it’s from Jesus fucking Christ I’m leaving now.” She stomps out the door, Maggie following.

Crowley watches them, then shuts and locks the door, and wards it shut. 

“Aziraphale,” he says, kneeling in front of Aziraphale’s chair, “Angel, talk to me.” 

Yeshua leaves the room, letting them have their privacy. Aziraphale shakes his head, worrying the end of his shirt. 

“Please,” Crowley adds, grabbing Aziraphale’s hands and knowing he’s not being fair. 

Aziraphale shudders at Crowley’s touch. He opens his mouth several times as if to speak. Finally he says, “Do you remember Before?” 

“Before?” Isn’t that a question. He can remember bits and pieces of it. Remembers enough to know that the angel at the east gate of Eden had been vaguely familiar. Remembers creating the star- oh no. 

Before he can say something, Aziraphale continues in a rush, “You were so excited about the humans seeing your stars! And so upset when you found out that they might have only 6,000 years! And that they humans wouldn’t be able to see them! But we stopped Armageddon, and I’ve seen the things these humans do with telescopes nowadays, how on Earth could I be so selfish-?”

Hell help him, the angel actually thinks he’s being selfish. Crowley wants to go up to Heaven and tear it down with his bare hands whoever taught his angel such a lesson. 

He pulls at the memory, trying to dig up anything that he can use to help. He shoots a look towards Yeshua, sending a prayer because hey, maybe even if She won’t listen, He will. He looks puzzled for a moment and then there’s a key in a lock and oh he remembers. 

He plucks out the parts that are important and says, “Aziraphale, it was a star factory. It made oodles of them.” He pauses, letting that sink in. Sometimes being a demon comes in handy, and he searches for whatever negative emotions Aziraphale is feeling. He tries not to, it’s not fair, not for them, but sometimes he can’t help it. There. One emotion dominates the others. 

Oh. 

“You didn’t deserve this, Aziraphale.” He breathes out. 

“But I hurt you,” Aziraphale whispers back. He’d brought it up before, and Crowley had hoped that loving him would be enough, but it’s not, wasn’t before. He tried kissing then too, a harsh painful thing that he regrets. It’s not what he wanted their first kiss to be like. He raises Aziraphale’s hand in his, and kisses the top gently, like in one of Aziraphale’s Jane Austen novels. 

What else can he do? What will convince Aziraphale-?

Well. There is one thing he can try. 

It might work. 

Maybe. 

Might remind Aziraphale of their fight. 

Might make things worse. 

“Aziraphale,” he says, throat tightening, “You did. You did hurt me. But I l- love you. So I. Ngk. Forgive you.” There, he said it. 

Aziraphale freezes briefly, then shakes into sobs, wild unyielding sobs. Crowley tells Aziraphale’s chair to stretch, joins Aziraphale in it, pulling the angel into a hug. “I don’t deserve you,” he says as he calms down. 

“It’s too late. You’re stuck with me.” Crowley says. “I’m here for the rest of your life. I’ll trick you into going to restaurants. I’ll tempt you to plays.” He stops. “Please,” he adds, practically begging. “If you genuinely wanted, I mean, if you were really worried. But if it’s because of what you feel you deserve, it’s not.” After this, Crowley is going to sleep for a week so help him. He's spoken more about his feelings than he has in 6,000 years and it’s the worst. How do humans deal with that?  

Aziraphale swallows. Nods, jerkily.  

“Yeshua,” Crowley calls, and then he’s there. 

“I’m sorry,” Yeshua says, “I wish I had a better understanding.” 

“Like squashing an ant with a meteor,” Crowley says. 

“I’m down from meteor to train,” Yeshua says, and then he glows, and Aziraphale glows and they’re both glowing with the light of far off stars. 

Crowley stays there, holding Aziraphale’s hands in his. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, when the light subsides. He lifts the sunglasses off his face, blinking at the sudden light. He looks down at Crowley, tears running down his face. “I was willing.” 

“I know.” 

“I missed you.” He admits, “While I was up in Heaven, I missed you.” 

Both of them hear the sound of Yeshua leaving and dismiss it. 

“Angel,” Crowley says, “Aziraphale.” Aziraphale is looking at him with eyes as blue as stardust. “Gorgeous.” 

“I would have become accustomed,” Aziraphale admits, “I would have tried,” he adds a little more honestly. “But I’m so very glad I get to see you again.” He stares into Crowley’s eyes, smiles. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you that you have the most lovely eyes.” 

“Ngk.” 

“I know I ruined-” 

“The Metatron,” Crowley interrupts. 

“I know that the Metatron ruined things, but if you’re up for it,” Aziraphale says, and he’s staring at Crowley’s mouth. 

Crowley lunges to catch Aziraphale’s mouth with his own. It’s not polished, it’s still clumsy, but it’s not frantic, not this time. They fumble, and it’s messy and complicated, and Aziraphale still tastes vaguely of salt, but there is joy in it. 

When they come apart, they're shy and hesitant. Crowley wants to go right in again, but Aziraphale looks somber, and for a moment Crowley is struck with the fear that they were so bad that Aziraphale is going to reject him again. 

“Crowley,” he says, saying his voice like a prayer. “I feel I should tell you that I,” he stumbles over his words. “I love you.” He smiles like the sun through clouds. “I have for some time.” 

He could be bitter, he could, but Crowley sheds that thought like a snake sheds skin. True, maybe not all their future days will be kind. But there is kindness here and now, and for now it is enough. 

…

He still miracles an appointment on his phone for the next day; “practice talking to each other.” 

But that’s a problem for tomorrow’s Crowley.

Chapter Text

Title

• The title is from the song l Love You Too Much from The Book of Life.

Chapter One

• The title of this chapter is from the song No Matter Where You Are from The Book of Life.

Chapter Two

• Title is from Exodus 32:8, "They have been quick to turn away from what I commanded them and have made themselves an idol cast in the shape of a calf." (NIV)
• I can't remember where I pulled all the names of Jesus, but they're all names that have been used in various places.
• Oily Josh - sorry, I can't find the original tumblr post at the moment.
• While not a specific reference, Aziraphale's references to spider webs was inspidered by the short story The Spider's Thread.
• John 11:35, "Jesus wept." Is the shortest verse in the Bible.

Chapter 3

• The title is from Poor Unfortunate Souls from The Little Mermaid.
• Birnam Wood - reference to Macbeth.
• Hamlet's madness, is Hamlet, however the quote he says is actually a twist on Hamlet's; in Hamlet it's "Thus conscience does make cowards of us all" (Act 3, scene 1, line 91) .

Chapter 4

• There is no specific reference for the title of this chapter, though I suppose you could call it a play on Death by Chocolate.
• Coffee probably wasn't around until the 15th century, way after Yeshua's time.
• I originally was going to have Aziraphale's voice in this chapter intentionally skipping around on the record to send a message to Crowley, like "Love of my life" followed by a jump skip to "live forever" kind of thing, but I couldn't get it how I wanted.

Chapter 5

• Title is a reference to Cheeseburger in Paradise. I have to admit, I didn't listen to the song before writing this up, I just had heard about it and thought it was funny.

Chapter 6

• Title is from Broken Wings by Mr. Mister.
• Apparently the Profit?? Meme is from South Park. TIL.

Chapter 7

• There's no specific reason for this title, I just thought it was funny.
• Yes, it's an Apple laptop.
• ChrIOS is a play on IOS - I know that's only for iPhone and not the computers but what can I say,
• Jesus was taken up to watch The Passion of the Christ. He had a Bad Time.

Chapter 8

• No specific reference for the title.
• The sunglasses Crowley summons for the humans are unbreakable, unscratchable, and they can't be lost; they'll always be where the humans go to find sunglasses. I just wasn't sure how to include that without breaking the rhythm of the chapter.
• Yeah, Aziraphale totally sketched Crowley on the Heavenly Document before going "oh shit" and erasing it.
• The blacked-out document is the list of injuries done to him. It's redacted by the Metatron, so even Crowley can't unlock it.

Chapter 9

• Title is from Hamlet, spoken by Claudius: Act 1, scene 2, line 96-98. The modern translation I found translates it as "But to continue to mourn out of sheer stubbornness is blasphemous." Which I thought was appropriate.
• The "spooky" monologue is a shout out to episode 2.
• "Jesus answered, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me." John 14:6 (NIV)
• "For in this way the entrance into the eternal kingdom of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ will be abundantly supplied to you." 2 Peter 1:11 (LSB)
• "For he himself is our peace, who has made the two groups one and has destroyed the barrier" Ephesians 2:14 (NIV) (With the end cut off)

Chapter 10

• Title is a shout out to Sesame Street.
• The riddle is "From the beginning of eternity To the end of time and space From the beginning of every end And the end of every place. What am I?" and the answer is "the letter E".
• I know that the term "slither" is a common word for snakes but also consider it a specific shout out to From Eden by Hozier.
• "Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you" Matthew 7:7 (NIV)
• "For I will now break off his yoke from you, and tear off your shackles" Nahum (1:13) (edited)

Chapter 11

• Title is from Toy Story.
• The two Bibles Aziraphale sends Maggie and Nina to find are from the book version of Good Omens.
• Muriel went to the coffee shop with Nina, asked several questions about healing, and got a walk through of what a normal first aid kit looks like before returning.

Chapter 12

• A lot of the quotes are from the Hans Christian Anderson version of The Little Mermaid: 
  • Without wings, they floated as light as the air itself 
  • With eyes already glazing she looked once more at the Prince, hurled herself over the bulwarks into the sea, and felt her body dissolve in foam.
  • The sun rose up from the waters. Its beams fell, warm and kindly, upon the chill sea foam, and the little mermaid did not feel the hand of death.
    • Changed to: Serpens rose up from the ether. Its starlight fell, warm and kindly, upon the dissolving angel, and the angel did not fear the hand of death.
    • (Edited for Aziraphale, and using Serpens as the Pillars of Creation are in the Serpens constellation.)

Chapter 13

• Technically the title that the quote is from is by Bishop Robert South, and the full quote is “Guilt upon the conscience, like rust upon iron, both defiles and consumes it, gnawing and creeping into it, as that does which at last eats out the very heart and substance of the metal." but I first read it in the fanfic Like Rust Upon Iron by Wertiyurae and it stuck with me from that. If you watched Slayers Next, 10/10 fanfic would rec again.
• "I'm not perfuming your feet"/"Your hair's too short":
  • "There was a woman in that town who had lived a sinful life. She learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee’s house. So she came there with a special jar of perfume. She stood behind Jesus and cried at his feet. And she began to wet his feet with her tears. Then she wiped them with her hair. She kissed them and poured perfume on them. Luke 7:37-38
• "Not a girl" - reference to The Good Place. 

Chapter 14

• Title is from the Anne Carson translation of Euripides:
  • Pylades: I’ll take care of you.
    Orestes: It’s rotten work.
    Pylades: Not to me. Not if it’s you.” 
• While Crowley doesn't quote it directly, his quote on when he fell in love with Aziraphale is based on Pride and Prejudice:
  • “I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.” 
• "Truth of his own" - while it's not an intentional reference, I think I accidentally borrowed this from The Goblin Emperor, which I only mention because 10/10 cozy book, would recommend.

Chapter 15

• Title is from Road to Hell (Reprise) from Hadestown.

Chapter 16

• Title is from Dreaming of You by Selena.

Chapter 17

• Title is from the quote "One isn't born courageous, one becomes it." by Marjane Satrapi in Embroideries.
• I know of tombola's as the thing you use to pull bingo numbers out of. I'm not sure if that's accurate, but I love the term tombola. It's fun.
• It's really hard to name angels guys. So hard. I tried looking up angel names, and when I did find a decent list, cross-referencing the name that I found showed basically nothing? I'm not sure if it's a spelling issue or what, but I decided to just. Make up an Angel.
  • Anyway, Melaliel is named after Penicillium melanoconidium. It's not one of the penicillin producing microbes, but it is in the same family and I thought it sounded the nicest out of all of the ones on the Penicillium page.
  • I mean, my other thought was Peniel. Let's be real here.
  • Breviel is likewise named after Penicillium brevicompactum.

Chapter 18

• Please see Chapter 14 for the title reference.