Archive of Our Own ^beta

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“In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the waters. And God said, ‘Let there be light.’ And there was light.”

Excerpt from the Biblia Latina (Johann Gutenberg and Johann Fust, c. 1455). For the purposes of sharing this text, I have taken the liberty to use the commonly known English translation from the King James version of the Bible, which may not be a direct one-to-one translation of this 42 line Bible.

Referred to colloquially as “The Gutenberg Bible,” it is one of the earliest books to be mass-printed using the movable metal type. This particular copy is one of forty-nine surviving prints, found within the vast collection of antique books in A.Z. Fell & Co Bookshop. This copy is in remarkable condition save for one annotation scrawled in the margins next to the previous verse, which reads as follows:

“And then there was you.”

Note From the Author: This is a compilation of correspondence between two individuals across earth’s written history. Though I cannot say with complete confidence, my obsessive empirical findings over the last few years have given me reason to believe that these are not letters from different people but are, in fact, from the very same two people throughout millennia. God so help me, I cannot publish these findings in any official academic setting without tarnishing my good name as a budding historian. That would be a career suicide before I even managed to get my foot in the door. It’s just as well; I am certainly no one of any importance. But I believe I have discovered something very important, indeed. This all originally began with my internship in London as a historical archivist. Pouring over countless fragments of the earliest texts in human history, I began to notice some rather odd similarities between some of these texts that anachronistically should not have coincided at all. Even with my frankly excessive hours spent on this subject, there is still much contained within my findings that make very little sense to me. I do not care to divulge much about myself for the sake of anonymity, but something you must understand is: I do not consider myself a person of faith. I do not—or did not—believe in the supernatural, certainly not immortal beings, gods, angels, demons, or any of the like. Now, it seems to me that the world might be a stranger place than I realized. Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. All this to say: I understand how crazy this must all seem. But I have sat with this for several years now, and I can no longer bear not to share it somewhere. I will try to keep my own interjections brief, save for perhaps some clarifications and personal conjectures here and there. I hope that my findings alone will speak for themselves, and I will leave it up to you to decide whether or not there is any truth to them. All these words shared between these two—whoever they are—have been living alone in my heart for too long. And at the risk of sounding sentimental: there’s something about their story is too beautiful not be shared. It is, by all accounts, a love story—albeit a remarkably unusual one.

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“Angel,

Do you remember what it was like? You know, before the light. You and I have existed pretty much since the dawn of time, which is pretty weird to think about if I dwell on that a bit too long, actually. But what about before that? Before we were matter, when we were simply an idea floating around in some endless, inky soup of nothingness, do you think we were still us, then? Sometimes, I like to imagine we were there together in that nothingness. That we knew each other before we even knew ourselves. 

That sounds ridiculous now that I’ve written it out, doesn’t it? I’m not sure why I’m even writing this.”

Letter addressed to “Angel.” The letter was never signed, postmarked, or sealed, suggesting that it never actually made its way to its intended recipient. The exact year the letter was written is unknown, though its origin is likely sometime within the 20th century, as the letter itself is dated “19-whatever.”  

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“Crowley,

It has been far too long, my dear old friend. Though we have a habit of bumping into each other every couple hundred of years, I hope this letter will find its way to you in Hell in one piece. I learned something this morning and I cannot trust myself to remember to tell you the next time we happen to meet.

Do you remember that little prank we pulled together on Moses, the one with the bush and the fire? Well, as it would happen, it seems he took that as some sort of sign from God. I have had quite the earful from Gabriel and Michael about it, but I suppose they’ve found a way to spin it in God’s favor. So all is well, in the end. I don’t think I ever said it, but requiring him to take off his shoes was a nice touch. I find myself chuckling over that bit quite often. I hope Hell finds you well, my friend. Or perhaps I should say that I hope it finds you unwell? I am never quite certain what the protocol is for that. At any rate, may we be reunited soon.

Yours,                                                                                               

Aziraphale”

Letter on papyrus scroll, singed around the edges. Date: unknown, but one can assume it must have been not long after the time of Moses. The exact years in which Moses was believed to live vary according to different religions, but the general consensus would place this over 1000 years BCE. Due to the blasphemous nature of the text, it is widely regarded as a fake in most theological circles.

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“Angel,

The Ritz. Tonight. You, me, and a truly criminal amount of alcohol. 

Crowley

P.S. Don’t think this means I’ve forgiven you for turning my Bentley yellow. I just want to get drunk.”

Attached: two photographs taken at The Ritz Hotel in London. The first photo was from 1915, found in a newspaper clipping lauding the increasing renown of the hotel that opened in 1906. Though the photo has aged greatly and is difficult to make out, there are two figures seated at the table nearest the camera that greatly resemble two individuals in the background of another promotional photo taken at the Ritz in 2002; one redheaded, and one with pure white hair.  

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“Crawley

Crowley,

Sorry, still getting used to the new name. It was good to see you again in Golgotha. It had been quite a while.

I am not sure if I will send this. I am not so sure I should even be thinking it, much less writing it down somewhere. It is blasphemous, I know. I cannot help but think you might understand it a little if I were to tell you so in person. Unfortunately, that is exactly what worries me. 

I have not been able to stop thinking about what you said before the Great Flood. You know, about how God’s plan sounded more like what your side would do. I looked away when all those people drowned. When we watched Jesus be mounted up on that cross, I looked away then, too. I kept telling myself that suffering is a necessary part of God’s plan and that so much good will come from this one man’s pain. 

So why did it feel like I was lying when I told myself that? Angels never lie. That’s what your side does, after all.”

Severely aged fragments of a torn piece of paper, pieced together. There are some notable gaps in the pieces that have been found, so some of it is filled in with my own conjecture and may be an inaccurate reflection of the true text as a whole. The fact that such a historical text managed to be preserved at all, however damaged, is something of a miracle. I came across this one during my internship. Whether or not it was real sparked a heavy debate as this was a recent discovery during the time I interned. The paper was later carbon dated and found to indeed be from some time after the supposed crucifixion of Christ, though it must be noted that carbon dating cannot necessarily prove the writing is also from that time period. This text was of particular interest to me in the beginnings of this journey of mine, as the questions posed within it seemed surprisingly modern to me. Didn’t I promise that I would not insert so much of myself into this compilation? I’m rambling.

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“Angel,

I can’t quite remember who came up with the apology dance, but I can only assume it must have been me. What a genius I must have thought myself. It is unfortunate that time travel is not within a demon’s capabilities, or I would go back and make sure to spare myself the embarrassment of ever having to do that stupid dance again. Anyway, yes. You were right, and I was wrong. Can we put an end to this? I promise I’ll swallow my pride and just admit it next time.

Crowley.”

Letter dated 1998. It should be noted here that though some of these letters are postmarked, the postage is quite unusual. Not a single one of the postage stamps appears to have ever been officially in print as far as my research has taken me. There are rarely ever return or mailing addresses, either. I have no clue how these letters were actually mailed. I also have no idea what the “apology dance” is, but God, I wish I did.

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“Crowley,

I know I said it before, but I’m not sure I could ever thank you enough for saving my books from the bomb at the church. I often forget that you know me so well. To have had the foresight to save them! Crowley, there truly is some of that old angel still in you. Oh, I know you don’t like it when I say that. But it’s true. You are good, Crowley. Of course Heaven is not capable of making mistakes, but I do wonder if there was a slight error on their part when it comes to you. Hell does not deserve you.

Yours in Eternity,

Aziraphale”

Postmark on the letter dates it to 1941, which may explain the mention of the bomb. It is hard to believe that books would survive a bombing, but that is certainly not the most unbelievable thing in the whole of these letters. 

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"Angel,

Forget Armageddon. When I couldn’t find you in your bookshop, before I knew what had happened to you, I already believed the world had ended. 

Crowley"

Never sent. The page is stiffly wrinkled and stained with what appears to be alcohol.

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"Crowley,

I hear operas are all the rage now amongst the humans. I have learned that you must call upon your closest friends and family, dress up in your finest frocks, and attend all together to experience the music and the theatrics. In Venice, apparently the whole city flurries to the opera house in droves! It is the biggest social event since balls. I know you do not care for dancing. But you do like music. And human watching. This is sure to be a prime setting for human watching.

I hope I can tempt you to come along with me if you’re not too busy in Hell. 

Yours,

Aziraphale"

Letter dated 1638. This was a year after the first opera house (the Teatro San Cassiano) became open to the public in Venice, Italy during the period of the arts that would become known as the Baroque period.

Note From the Author: And I suppose now I ought to finally address the elephant in the room. Though I’m sure by now you must have already come to your own sort of conclusion, if you have read this far. Two people who seemed to have lived since even before the history of the earth, who mention their respective places Heaven and Hell regularly, who speak of humans as if they cannot be grouped into the same category? “Human watching?” If this is not all just a part of some very odd, elaborate roleplay in written form (could something like this be a sort of kink? Perhaps that would merit researching…), there can be only one explanation that makes any sense. However truly nonsensical that explanation may be. These do not seem to be the omnipotent, all-knowing kind of angels and demons you read about in Christianity or in other popular religions around the world, though. They may exclude themselves from humanity, but there is something so… ordinary about them. Relatable, even. They are excited about the latest customs, the newest music, the best places to drink. They just so happen to also be very powerful, deific eternal beings …

I’m rambling again.

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"Angel,

Sometimes I think you and I might be the only two people in all of Heaven and Hell who got it all right. Hell is much better suited for me than Heaven, of course. But even something about Hell feels like… I don’t know, like trying to squeeze into a coat that’s just a little bit too snug in the arms. Yes, I know we can just miracle the sleeves a little bit bigger, but I’m sure you know what I mean. You feel similarly, don’t you? Deep down—and I mean really digging down deep in there—isn’t there a part of you that feels like you’re not quite cut out for Heaven?

I think about leaving it all behind sometimes. I’ve heard of places some angels and demons go that’s neither Heaven or Hell. I’ve been wondering what that would be like. But honestly, I think I like Earth the best. Or maybe that’s just because you’re there with me. I don’t know.

Crowley"

Date unknown. It is another one that seems to have never made its way to the recipient. When it comes to their most earnest thoughts, it seems they have a habit of not sharing them. That is, I think, the most human thing about them.

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“Crowley,

The man who runs the record store by my bookstore miraculously received an original pressing of the new album from that band you like. Queen, was it? As in: ‘God Save the Queen!’ I did not know this, but apparently that is a very valuable thing for music collectors. Humans do have such strange customs, don’t you think? I suppose that’s much like a first print edition of a book, and you know how I love those.

I hope you might come by and visit the bookshop soon. This album has your name on it when you do. Metaphorically, of course. Wouldn’t want to ruin a collectible! I hope you don’t mind that I listened to it a few times first. I quite like the song ‘Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy,’ even if it does veer dangerously into bebop territory.

Yours,

Aziraphale”

This letter was written 1976, the year that the album “A Day at the Races” by Queen was released. This is also the very first mention of this bookshop that I found in the correspondence I’ve gathered over the years. This initial mention led me down a rabbit hole of locating bookshops and record shops next to each other in the London area. The London part was on a bit of a whim, based on the mention of the Queen of England and prior mentions of the Ritz Hotel in London. I did manage to find a location that fit that criteria: A.Z. Fell & Co Bookshop, which I mentioned in the beginning. Though I no longer live in England, upon that discovery I immediately bought the earliest plane ticket, called in sick out of work, and found myself outside that bookstore some 8 hours or so later. To my immense regret, the whole place was boarded up and seemed to not have been touched in quite some time. To come all this way and have nothing to show for it? Well. All I will say is that I was not going to let that happen quite so easily. How do you imagine I managed to scrape together so many of my findings?

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"Angel,

I’m convinced you don’t actually know what 'bebop' is.

Crowley"

Queen is most definitely not bebop.

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"To the Formidable Mr. Crowley, Esteemed Demon of Hell,

I would like to extend a formal invitation to the grand opening of A.Z. Fell & Co Bookshop this Saturday. I do not suspect to have too many visitors on opening day, but I would consider it a terrific success if only you were in attendance. You are, of course, welcome to stop by at any time. Even when we are closed, my door is always open to you. 

I am so thrilled to have something of a home base on Earth. I know Heaven is supposed to be… well, Heaven. But they do not have tea in Heaven! It is a tremendous oversight, if you ask me. And anyway, as of late I cannot say I feel quite so welcome there. It is nice to have a place that is completely my own, no one else to be considered, no one’s rules to follow but my own. It’s quite funny, really. In theory, anything and everything is at my fingertips in Heaven. Yet it feels as though Earth is the only place were I can truly have whatever I want. 

I hope to see you at the grand opening. Come by early and we can have a spot of tea. 

Yours,

Aziraphale, Purveyor of Books

P.S. You may be wondering just exactly who "Co" is in "& Co." Well. To me, this place is as much yours as it mine."

This letter is dated 1800, which means that bookshop had belonged to the angel for over 200 years. It appears to have remained in business until only within the last few years. After my visit, I researched more about the history of the building and came across the most incredible find of all! I could hardly believe I spotted it. 

Attached: photo of a plein air oil painting of a busy street in London by the artist Walter Sickert. The painting is from the early 1900s, judging by the fashions pedestrians are wearing and the automobile parked outside A.Z. Fell & Co in the background. Outside of the bookshop, two figures can be seen engaged in a conversation—one with bright red hair, and the other has white hair. Sickert’s influential style with its broad, patchy brush strokes, leaves much detail up to the viewer’s imagination ,but I am certain that those two people are our Aziraphale and Crowley. Without a single doubt. Comparing the photos I found of them at the Ritz, it has to be them. I cannot begin to express what it felt like to discover that painting. All at once, this obsession of mine became something very real and tangible. They were no mere characters in a story to me, then. They were real.

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Angel,

I could not help but notice that Shakespeare stole something I said and put it in the play. What a joke of a playwright he is! Can’t the man come up with anything original?

When is his next play? I will attend with you if I must. Only to make sure he hasn’t pilfered any more of my genius, of course. 

Crowley

To think that these two have likely spoken to or interacted with countless historical figures over time, possibly even influenced some of their work. I mean, Shakespeare! The questions I would have for them if I could just have even an hour with either of these two!

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“Crowley,

I am already anticipating whatever sarcastic comeback you will have prepared for my being too maudlin, but I want to say it anyway. Last night, I was strolling down the cobbled streets of London outside my shop, as I often do. And I passed a couple sat on a bench, pointing out constellations in the night sky. I slowed my steps as much as I could without garnering suspicion to eavesdrop a little. I listened as they spoke in wonder about the very things I once watched you create so many years ago. It is strange to think that you and I were there together when those constellations were formed. That was the day we met. I can still see your smile plain as day as those galaxies blossomed across the sky with turn of a crank, can still see the nebulas forming in the reflection of your eyes. I did not know you then like I know you now, but I think I understand now why you were so upset that this magnificent thing you had such a hand in creating would be considered nothing more than “a fancy wallpaper” (those were your words then, if I recall correctly) to humans. I’m sorry for not understanding that sooner. 

What you made: it does mean something. For how long have humans looked up the sky and marveled at the beauty you created? As I listened to that couple last night, saw the awe in their eyes as they gazed up, I wished I could tell them: “My friend—he made that. Isn’t it incredible?”

You’re incredible, Crowley. I mean it.

Yours,

Aziraphale”

Postmarked 1907. Perhaps you might be as happy as I was to notice that this one was actually delivered. That is almost as miraculous as learning that, apparently, our lovable demon Crowley was actually the man behind the stars in the sky. I’ll admit, the night I found this particular letter, I stepped out onto the balcony of my apartment with my steaming mug of tea and looked up at the stars with new eyes. It’s so easy to forget to look up, isn’t it? They really are incredible.

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Note From the Author: The following entries are letters sent from Crowley to Aziraphale. Each of the letters are postmarked over the span of a few years, but have all been stamped in red with a notice: “Could not be delivered.” Not a single one of them was ever opened. That is, of course, until I took the liberty to open them. Any reason that these were unable to be delivered can only be assumed, but for my own sanity, I cannot believe that it would have been the angel's decision not to read these. You will see later why that explanation is unfounded to me. 

“Aziraphale,

You are a damned fool, Aziraphale. Heaven is not the “good guys.” They have never been. Isn’t that the lesson we have been forced to learn over and over again, year after bloody year in this existence? We were so close to leaving it all behind, Aziraphale! We don’t need them—Heaven, Hell, angels, demons. They’re all bullshit. Every last one of them. But you know what has never been bullshit? You and I. Can’t you see that? I know I’ve already said as much to you. But I will try one last time: please don’t do this. I do not think I can bear to speak to you again if you make this choice.

Crowley

P.S. I think the worst part of it all is that you really thought I would be happy to go back there. After all this time we’ve spent together, what makes you think I would ever want to go back to the place that scorned and banished me for simply being who I am? I’m no angel, Aziraphale. I’m not sure I ever was.”

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“Aziraphale, 

I thought you would at least have the decency to write me back. Things must be going splendidly in Heaven if you are too busy to send me so much as a hello in months. Well, then, you have my utmost congratulations, Mr. Big Hotshot Archangel of Heaven. I hope you're truly making the difference you wanted to make.

Crowley”

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“Aziraphale,

You must think you’re so important now. Too good for a demon from Hell, obviously. You know, there was a time when I truly thought that we existed together somewhere between Heaven and Hell. When I saw Gabriel and Beezlebub, I thought… Well. Nevermind. None of that matters now. I was wrong. If you were here, I’d do the dance right now. I'm sure you'd be quite pleased with that.

Crowley”

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“Angel,

I've stood outside your bookshop for a while. It looks so depressing now, with the lights never on, the padlock on the door, all the shop windows glazed with a film of dust. After a while, I couldn’t take it anymore. I took the padlock off and went inside. I wasn’t sure if I’d be allowed inside anymore, being a demon and all that. But it seems like your invitation inside still stands after all this time. For some reason, I almost hoped I wouldn’t be let in. I think I could have finally allowed myself to give up on you, then. I’m not sure why I’m still writing you letters anymore. You clearly do not think of me anymore. I wish I were more the heartless demon I ought to be. Maybe this would hurt less.

Crowley

P.S. I dusted off all the books for you.”

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“Angel,

Every couple of months I check on your bookshop. Get rid of some of the dust, make sure no one has broken in and stolen any of your collection. Funny thing, though: I went to check on it today and there was not nearly as much dust as I would have expected to have gathered since I last visited. In a ridiculous, hopeful moment, I called out your name. I half imagined to see you sitting there in your red chair, the sunlight shining like a halo in your white hair. 

You weren’t there, of course. No one was.

Crowley”

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“Angel,

After thousands and thousands of years, I only kissed you once. There are far more dark, wretched places in this universe than Hell, I think. Fire and brimstone and eternal darkness is quite tame compared to the places my mind takes me when I think about that kiss, about all the many things I wish you and I had done. Please tell me that it’s not too late, Aziraphale. I'll give up everything if it means ending this horrible silence. I'll go to Heaven. I'll be the angel you want me to be. Just please speak to me.

Crowley”

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“Angel,

Do you really have nothing to say to me? Nothing at all? Won’t you come to see me, even just once? Drinking at the Ritz is not the same without you. Well, all of Earth is not the same without you, really. My plants make for much poorer company than you. Only you have the unique ability to infuriate me and make me laugh at the exact same time.

Yours in eternity,

Crowley”

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Note From the Author: I understand I did say that I would refrain from inserting myself too much into this and simply let the letters speak for themselves. I certainly set out to do just that. But there’s something niggling at me—a confession I feel I must make to anyone who has become as invested in this strange tale as I first became. I mentioned previously that I booked an ill-advised ticket to London to scout out this angel’s bookshop. Well, that was only the first time. In truth, I’ve been to London a second time since then. And I am not exactly proud of the means in which I procured some of the private, more recent correspondence I have shared with you all (the details of which I think it would be prudent for me to definitely not disclose). What set out simply as a curiosity suddenly became a problem I felt I must solve, though I knew it was not my right to meddle in the affairs of two beings thousands of years older and wiser than me. I have enough self-awareness to admit that it takes a certain kind of madness and delusion to think I could do anything about any of this. But when I read through that stack of letters left neatly beside the entrance of the bookshop—left as though in a last desperate hope that their recipient might chance by them—I felt that I must somehow take matters into my own hands. 

I do not think this angel is lost forever; he is only somewhere made very difficult to reach, potentially by another’s design. And because that angel has kept a very thorough set of journals of his extensive life (really, it’s very comprehensive. It belongs in a museum), I know that the angel would have never gone silent by choice. Above all else, all of those journals are another kind of love letter. I think even when they’re not about this Crowley, they’re still about Crowley. And if I can just find some way for him know just how much Crowley loves him back, I think… well, I don’t actually know what would happen, then. But for some reason, I feel like this is something I have to do, like there had to be some reason I ever came to discover the existence of these two in the first place. Is it so strange that an angel could have need of a guardian angel himself? Even if that guardian is just a simple human of questionable sanity and entirely too much gall?

With all that said, the following are some entries I copied from Aziraphale’s journals. There was no way I could have possibly read all of them, nor could I even begin to share it all. But I have taken special care to include some of the last entries he wrote before he went missing. I think you’ll understand then why I cannot believe that he would simply leave Crowley without a single word. 

“The dust has finally begun to settle since we narrowly escaped Armageddon. Everything seems so terribly quiet now following such chaos. But there is a pervasive sense that we are not entirely out of the woods, as the mortals sometimes say. 

It is hard to believe that things worked out as well as they did for Crowley and me, even if our respective sides would have little to do with us now after everything we did. Sitting at our usual bench in the park today, I got the sense from Crowley that that’s exactly how he’d prefer things to be. I’m not so sure myself. I feel like I can relax for the first time in a while without having to worry about pleasing Heaven. It is such a relief, I admit. The world feels rife with possibility with that kind of freedom, Crowley and I answering to no one but ourselves. But am I truly ready to leave it all behind like him? To simply forgo all that I was created to do? He makes it seem so easy. He's done it once before, after all. Why does it not seem easy for me? Who would I be, if not for Heaven?"

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"From what I’ve gathered from my time spent amongst the humans, angels experience time very differently. Their lives are so short and yet the days and years can feel impossibly long at times. Whereas for me, it seems that an entire century can go by with hardly a passing thought. 

How do I explain it? Time does slow for me when I’m with Crowley. Especially recently, with both of us on the lam. There were some centuries where we barely saw one another, but lately I think I see Crowley nearly every day. For our safety, we ought to stick together, of course. Crowley says I have a tendency to get up to trouble when I am left to my own deviced, but I would argue that he is rather describing himself. Yes, it is the best arrangement for both of us that we do not stray too far. Crowley has even invited me over to his flat a few times. Can you believe I’ve probably only been over there once in the last couple of hundred years? You can barely tell anyone lives there, he has so few possessions and hardly anything by the way of decoration, save for his beloved plants. I can see why he prefers the bookshop. It is far more welcoming, if I must boast. Since I’ve been coming over a little bit more, he’s fitted the place with a little more seating, at least. 

As I was saying, with so little to do and all the time in the world to do it, time has effectively bent around me and become quite the languid, yawning thing. It is odd and new, but I cannot say I dislike it. Actually, I quite enjoy it. We have plenty of hours at our disposal to do so as we please, and I cannot think of a better person to share them with than Crowley. When I’m alone, I often worry if I’ve aligned myself with the wrong people—if this is all a mistake, if God is displeased with me for so readily divesting myself of my Heavenly duties to simply spend my days amongst my books, listening to Crowley’s records. When I’m with Crowley, none of that seems to matter. Not a single thing we do together feels wrong. It feels as if I am exactly where I’m supposed to be."

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“All the millennia Crowley and I have known each other, and he still has the ability to surprise me. We were loitering at one of our usual spots today and he admitted to me that he was actually the one to suggest that the American colonists dump all that tea into the harbor. Just because he thought ‘it would be funny.’ The politics of mortals are befuddling to me at best and of course, that has long been all ‘tea under the bridge’ now in English history, but I could not believe this was the first I heard that he’d had a hand in it. Now that he mentioned it, though, the whole ordeal certainly has his name all over it; the world’s largest cup of tea. He looked so smug about it, too. It was all I could do but laugh. I think it must take a very special kind of person—or demon—to surprise you even when you’ve spent hundreds and thousands of years together. There is simply no one quite like Crowley. Everything about him is quite special. It is a wonder he has not gotten bored of me yet.” 

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“It has been some time since I’ve written. There had not been much of any significance to report. But after all that talk about having so much time on our hands to simply do as we please, it would seem trouble has found Crowley and me once again. I don’t believe we can hardly go a decade without some major event occurring. I’d say this is only slightly better than having to divert the apocalypse. We’d managed to pretty successfully ward ourselves from any interference between Heaven and Hell up until now. That was, of course, until the angel Gabriel showed up at the door to my bookshop, naked as the day God made us… That was certainly a sight to behold. I thought for sure he had come for our reckoning, to drag us back to Heaven and Hell. But he was not the angel Gabriel I have known for millennia. To borrow a mortal phrase, it seemed that the lights were not quite on inside. He was altogether not there. 

I have no choice but to call Crowley with my tail between my legs. I know he will be horribly upset the moment he realizes that our peace on Earth has become compromised so soon after we established it. But what else am I to do? I am not helpless by any sense of the word with my power as an angel. Yet when it comes to handling whatever chaos this life throws in my direction, I cannot do it without Crowley. I am beginning to suspect there’s very little I can do without Crowley. Besides, all my power does little good when I cannot simply perform a miracle as large as I would need without drawing even more attention to ourselves. But I am sure Crowley will know what to do. He always knows what to do. 

Gabriel—or Jim, as he has decided to call himself—is currently dusting my entire bookshop until I figure out just what to do with him. It is disconcerting to see him in such a… state, but I admit I am a little grateful for the help. It is such a bother to keep all this dust that accumulates here at bay without a miracle.

I've just had the most ridiculous idea of Crowley with a feather duster, dusting my shop. Perhaps I should enlist his help next time. It would be a hilarious sight to see a demon from Hell clean. I think I would very much enjoy that."

Chapter Text

“Well, it seems I have spoken too soon. This issue with Gabriel is much, much worse than staving off Armageddon. Circumstances are more dire than ever, and our problems do not end at our locations simply being discovered again by Heaven and Hell. What is at stake this time is not just the end of Earth and mortalkind, but all of time itself. All of creation, Hell included. Only Heaven will remain if their plans succeed. I cannot understand why Heaven, why God, would want this. Surely, they all must know this is a mistake? How can the end of Everything be what all of this was for?

With so very much to lose, I find myself erroneously mourning the most over the loss of this simple little life Crowley and I had only just begun to enjoy. I know nothing about it is all that different from what we’ve always been doing, him and I. It is only a continuation of the natural rhythm we’ve fallen into after years and years running into each other on the job. The only difference is that it feels like a choice this time—albeit a choice we’ve essentially backed ourselves into after gravely displeasing both Heaven and Hell. Perhaps the real difference is that it feels like I chose this. Like, perhaps, this is what I’ve actually been choosing all along, and only now have I finally allowed myself to do it fully without regard for anyone but myself. And now the very moment I’ve decided to give in, consequences be damned, that choice is at risk of being ripped from me. And not only that, but Crowley, too. If Heaven’s plan prevails, there will be no Hell. No demons. No Crowley. The only fighting hope for him is if he can somehow be restored back to angelhood. There is so much good in him—I know there is. But is that truly what it must come down to?

It is not just Crowley I worry for, of course. There are so many humans who deserve the chance for a long life, however brief that longevity may be. In some way, I’ve loved every human I’ve ever met. But quite recently, I have become rather close to the mortals I see everyday on my little sliver of Earth at the bookshop. Maggie—sweet Maggie—who now runs the record shop her family once ran. And Nina, the woman who owns the coffee shop across the way. After all my efforts, they are finally getting somewhere together! Should they not have the time to love each other until their hair has grown as white as mine? What was the point of it all, if not for that? 

I’ve spent far too much time writing this as it is. There is so much to be done if I am to somehow convince all of Heaven that this cannot be the way."

Chapter Text

“I learned of two things that I was not aware I yearned for until today. It is the most wretched shame to have come to understand in the same hopeful breath that if I am to have the one, I cannot have the other. 

When he pressed his lips to mine, I think I finally understood how Eve must have felt tasting the fruit all those years ago in the Garden. The overwhelming joy of it, and also the bitter loss. 

At last, I have a chance to make real and true difference. I had nearly allowed myself to believe that God perhaps no longer saw the value in me, that She would not have anything to do with me. But Metatron said that my time has finally come. It has all been a test from God, you see. All these centuries, all these confounding feelings of uncertainty: a test. I understand that clearly now. And now that I know that, my true work can begin.

Crowley was given the chance, and he would not take it. I do not think I could ever convey with words how much sorrow that brings me. I would have set it all right if he would have only trusted me. We would no longer have to run away from things, run away from ourselves. He insists I do not understand but I do. And I have to believe that he will understand soon, too, once he sees all the good I will do. He will be furious with me for now, and perhaps it will be another hundred years before we wishes to speak to me again. But he will come around. I’m sure of it."

This particular entry is written with a decidedly less steady hand than the previous neat penmanship. There are some blurred smudges on the page that look as though a few droplets made contact with the ink while it was still fresh.

Chapter Text

Note From the Author: The previous passage was the final journal entry of the angel Aziraphale that I will share at this time. It is not even remotely close to the last one I could share (as I said before, Aziraphale was verbose and a meticulous note keeper. The amount of journals he had is truly staggering), but it is the most recent entry I was able to find. It is dated about a decade ago from the time that I am writing this. It must be said here that I am exercising a tremendous amount of self-control not to include every written page I managed to take a picture copy of from the bookshop. Though the damage has already been done as far as preserving the privacy of these two individuals, I suppose there are indeed limits to what I feel comfortable sharing. I hope you will understand.

Other than those journal entries that I am choosing to withhold, I have also reached the end of all written correspondence I have found over the last few years in my search. Perhaps I should finally let this all go and forget all about it for my own sake. God knows I have devoted entirely too much time and effort (and money, to be honest) to this. But I am not sure I can leave it at that. If all of this is indeed as real as it has become to me, then that means that they have somehow stopped the supposed end of the world twice together. I refuse to believe that whatever decision it was that Aziraphale had to make would have been what actually ended what they had in each other.  So though I have come to a complete standstill on finding any letters and leads at present, my search will remain ongoing. If this is the last I ever write here, then I guess you can assume that the well has run dry.