Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hullo Crowley, it’s me. Um, Aziraphale, I mean. I’ve been thinking about our last conversation. When you uh, you know. Anyway. We both spoke rather harshly to each other, and I would feel very badly if we left things like that. So when you’re ready to be civil, please call me. The offer still stands by the way.”

It takes longer than he would like to visit Alpha Centauri.

Crowley is not there.

When he couldn’t locate Crowley on Earth, Aziraphale had been so certain he would be here. He'd even brought a bottle of his favorite Chateau Petrus Bordeaux, and brushed up on the apology dance, ready to make an absolute fool of himself. Now he's all alone among vast towering columns of gas and stars. They arch overhead like a cathedral. It's quiet everywhere in space of course, but this place feels hushed. Reverent in its stillness.

Crowley’s absence was a dull persistent ache throughout Heaven’s endless meetings, but without the distractions, Aziraphale feels it freshly again. It seems so foolish now, but he had so hoped that he’d find the demon here. Aziraphale grips the neck of the bottle tightly as the grief swells up and threatens to choke him.

“Ahem,” says a cautious voice. Aziraphale startles and turns away, dropping the bottle to pull out a handkerchief and wipe the freezing tears from his cheeks. When he turns back around, Aziraphale sees a broad-shouldered angel with braided hair looking at him. “Anything I can help you with?” they ask, very politely pretending that they haven’t caught him crying in the vast emptiness of space.

“Ah, no,” he replies, then clears his throat. “Just, um, sightseeing.” The wine bottle is spinning merrily in place beside him. “A friend always wanted to visit.” Aziraphale watches the other angel glance over to the bottle, and he recaptures it awkwardly. “I thought I might find him here,” he says to finish his thought.

The angel looks a little surprised. “You’re the only visitor I’ve seen, sorry,” they say, moving to Aziraphale’s side and looking out at the vista of glittering colors. “It’s too bad too; Alpha Centauri might be my favorite of celestial gardens.”

“Are you the designer?”

“Just a humble groundskeeper. The original architect was among the first to Fall, so I think that keeps people away.”

“Oh.” It’s all Aziraphale can manage at the moment, stunned at the implications slowly unfolding for him. “That’s terrible.”

“Yep,” the angel says cheerily as they depart. “Hope you find your friend soon; enjoy your visit!”

“You were right. I was wrong. You were right. You, um, you can’t see it obviously, but I did the dance as well.”

“Crowley, it’s me. You know, you’re behaving quite childishly, ignoring me like this. You ought to know that things are going Very Well. The Metatron and I are working very closely on a big project we’re calling The Second Coming. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? Anyways, everything is fine, and I’m doing splendidly without you.”

“Crowley, answer your phone, please. I’m starting to get worried about you…”

Aziraphale returns to his bookstore the next chance he gets. On the elevator ride down, he gives his reflection a brisk, silent pep talk. We’re just returning to pick up a few creature comforts for the Upstairs Office . Crowley surely won’t be there. He’s perfectly welcome to be there, since Aziraphale never revoked his invitation, but why should he be in the bookstore right at this very moment? Just because he’s still refusing to answer any of Aziraphale’s calls doesn’t mean anything happened to him, just that he’s being a stubborn git. He’s probably embarrassed because he-

The memory that Aziraphale has been carefully avoiding floods back with vivid clarity. The jolt and yank of hands on his jacket. The shock of being reeled in, chest to chest, and then Crowley’s mouth pressed hard against his own. The warm, whisky smoke scent of Crowley was as familiar to Aziraphale as the earthy paper of his bookstore, but now it threatened to drown out everything else. He could taste it against the seam of his lips before the wild, knee-shaking panic had coursed through him.

He’s startled out of his thoughts by the jolt of the elevator settling in Soho. Aziraphale snatches his hand away from his mouth and self consciously adjusts his waistcoat as he steps out into the street and towards home.

Aziraphale is not at all disappointed when it’s Muriel’s smiling face that appears from behind a shelf when he walks inside. He is not devastated or bereft either, he tells himself.

“Hello, hello, Mr. Fell! Good to see you!” Muriel exclaims as they cross the foyer and immediately throws their arms around him in a hug.  Aziraphale stiffens in surprise and then pats them gently on the back.

“Ah, hello Muriel, dear,” he says before gently extracting himself from their embrace. “Things going well, I trust?” A surreptitious look around the store doesn't show much difference in inventory, if any, since he’s left, which is a deep relief.

“Yes! It’s marvelous,” they gush, turning back around to head for the large writing desk. “I’ve been learning so much about humanity and Earth…” There is a rainbow of post-it notes scattered across every surface of the desk and some of the surrounding shelves. There’s also a fiddle leaf fig tree standing in a pot beside the window.

“Has Crowley been staying here?” He asks them carefully, but there’s little that seems to phase Muriel’s enthusiasm.

“Yes, and really I don’t know what I’d do without him.” Muriel says, as they carry a small stack of books over to place near the plush armchair. “You know, I had no idea demons could be so nice…”

Aziraphale turns away from the plant before he gives into the sudden urge to smite it. Something acrid and bitter is building up in his belly, and he doesn’t want to identify it. There’s several red sticky notes on the old brass cash register, and Aziraphale moves over for a better look. Crowley’s blocky handwriting is spread across them: ‘DO NOT SELL ANY BOOKS!’ 

The anger vanishes as quickly as it appeared. Aziraphale starts looking over the rest of the notes on the counter’s surface. Some are in Muriel’s tidy little script, with definitions for different human idioms. But most are notes from Crowley. “Hugs are for friends; handshakes are for customers,” reads one.

“Mr. Fell?” 

“Hm?” Aziraphale puts the note back and turns to see Muriel looking at him with a worried expression.

“Are you and Mr. Crowley angry at each other?” They ask, wringing their hands together nervously. “Is it because he kissed you?”

“How do you know about that?”

Muriel gestures to one of the windows. “Um, I kind of, saw it? I tried to talk to him about it, but um, he said he didn’t want to talk about you.”

“Is that so?” Aziraphale replies, suddenly wishing he’d never stepped into the elevator today. “What did he want to talk about?”

“He didn’t want to talk about anything,” Muriel tells him a little reluctantly. “He, uh, ended up drinking quite a lot of wine and singing along to a bunch of songs by this band called The Smiths. Do you know them?”

Aziraphale realizes he’s clenching his fists and forces his hands to relax. “I can’t say that I do,” he tells her. “Not really a fan of modern music.”

“Oh they’re not bad, actually. Maggie’s been loaning me loads of records for all kinds of music, and I think Mr. Crowley likes it when I try his suggestions for things. Like soda pop and rolling the window down in the car. Did you ever go for a drive with him—?”

“Muriel.” He doesn’t mean to be rude to them - none of this is their fault after all. But Muriel must hear some of the strain nonetheless because they pause and grimace a little.

“Right,” they say with a nod. “Right. You’re probably here on some very important business and I’m just rambling… Um, what can I help you with?”

“Nothing serious,” he assures them, forcing a smile back into place. “I just wanted to pick up a few things for Upstairs.” He points Heavenward at Muriel’s blank look. Oh! they mouth silently, nodding in sudden understanding. “Yes, quite,” he continues, “Just small things like a tea set.”

“Of course!” Muriel springs back into motion, gesturing for Aziraphale to follow them back towards the kitchen. “I can imagine it is not easy to get a cupperty up there…”

“Muriel told me that you’ve been helping them with the bookshop. Which means that you haven’t left, or been disincorporated… You’re really just… ignoring me. That’s… fine. If that’s how you want to behave, then fine. But it’s not fair! It’s not fair at all - you kissed me! And then you left! You should be apologizing to me!”

“I’m sorry; I shouldn’t’ve shouted at you in my last message. I’m just… things are a lot stickier up here than I realized. I’m going to try and speak to Christ directly; you remember God’s Son, don’t you? I just don’t believe that He’d go along with this whole plan… Something’s not right about it. [a sigh] I’m getting off course - I really just called to tell you I’m sorry, Crowley. For all of it. Um, I think I might’ve taken it a bit for granted - our being a team, I mean. And I… oh bollocks, I miss you terribly, my dear, and I hope you’re well. Give my regards to Muriel.”

Aziraphale never had much reason to spend time among the various rings of Paradise that humanity’s worthy dead were spread across. From his perspective, it seems to be a series of overlapping and tightly woven liminal spaces that souls can move through freely while Paradise changes and shapes itself around them. There are also enormous groups of souls that tend to gravitate and move together, which Aziraphale finds quite charming. That even with the tools of creation at their fingertips, humans still preferred the imperfections of their own company.

Ahead of the vast, swirling geometries though is a space that seemed a bit more like a very tidy bank lobby. An endless line of the recently passed are queued in neat lines to be called up to the next available cubicle where a cherub waits to check them in. Aziraphale walks crisply past the line with an air of what he hopes is confident authority. A shorter, portly attendant steps forward to meet him with a polite smile. She’s wearing her hair up in a sleek, high ponytail, and from the extra bits of gold gilding along her temple, Aziraphale assumes she must be the floor’s manager.

“Supreme Archangel,” she says, holding her crystalline tablet propped against her hip. “We weren’t expecting a visit today; what can I help you with?”

“Forgive me, uh…?” he waits expectantly.

“Adriel.”

“Adriel, lovely! Sorry for the surprise visit, but I need to speak with someone from Earth,” he explains.

“Of course,” Adriel replies, pulling up her tablet to swipe through a few pages. “Typically, we require an appointment made in advance as it can take some time to retrieve a soul if it’s way out in the ether, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.”

“Who would you like to speak to?”

“Jesus, please.”

“Could you be a little more specific?” Adriel asks, starting to type.

“Of Nazareth?”

“Oh!” Adriel’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and she hugs the tablet to her chest. “Oh, He’s not in there. He was brought out months ago in preparation for His return.”

“Is that so?” Aziraphale says, taken aback.

“Yes, I’m surprised you don’t know…” she replies, still poking at her tablet in distress. “You should’ve been notified; we send all of our forms in triplicate!”

Aziraphale holds up his hands reassuringly. “I don’t doubt your work for a moment, Adriel,” he reassures her with a gentle smile. “Just a simple mistake somewhere in the chain of communication. Lots of plates spinning and all that.” Adriel nods, not looking very reassured. “Can you tell me where he’s staying?”

“It looks like he’s been given a residence with the Angels of the Beatitudes - I see a note about getting him up to speed with human technology,” she tells him hurriedly. “I can have a chariot called to bring you over there!”

“No,” he says with a laugh and wave of his hand. “No need to go to any fuss; I enjoy the exercise.”

“Are you sure? I’m so sorry for this error, your Excellence.”

“Quite sure, now I won’t hear another word about it!” He tells her, turning to go before he receives any more attention or a formal apology submitted in triplicate.

It’s not difficult to find the new home that’s been created in the Beatitudes. It’s a sprawling, filigreed structure of gold and blue that would make any Rococo palace on earth look demure. It’s kept behind a gated wall, guarded by what looked like a divine branch of the American secret service. The whole display is just… vulgar, and Aziraphale is only more certain that something is fundamentally wrong.

The angels watch Aziraphale approach silently, but make no motion to stop him from crossing through the gate door and walking up to the house proper. Not for the first time, he wishes that Crowley were with him. The demon had a gift for sniffing out skullduggery and tracking it down to the source with the tenacity of a hound.

Aziraphale knocks once on the giant door and then pushes it open and steps inside. “Hello?” He calls out through the foyer filled with marble sculptures. “Your Holiness?”

“C’mon! Your Holiness is my Mother!” A friendly voice calls back as a young man in his thirties walks out to greet him with a grin. He’s tall, tanned, and muscular with dark hair pulled back into an artful half ponytail. Dressed in a red and white robe that might’ve been made from layers of chiffon from how it fell and floated around him as he walked over to Aziraphale with his arms open. “Please, call me Jesus!” He says and immediately pulls Aziraphale into a tight, friendly hug.

“Um, lovely to meet you,” Aziraphale manages as he is squeezed tightly. Jesus is heavily cologned of course, with frankincense and cedar, but there’s a discordant note that sticks in Aziraphale’s mind like a thorn.

“Aziraphale, right? The Supreme Archangel?” Jesus continues to lead him further into the house, all enthusiasm. “So pleased to finally meet you - we’re going to start working together very soon I’m told!”

“Actually,” he says, forcing himself to focus again as he follows Christ into a courtyard with a central fountain and topiaries shaped like crucifixes. “That’s what I was hoping to talk to you about today.”

“Yes! We’ll be getting started soon and I am so excited to get out and start Saving people!”

 “Saving some people, yes,” Aziraphale allows with a nod. “But what about, um, everyone else?”

Jesus sits down on a garden chair, crossing his legs and shrugging. “The wicked will suffer the torments of Hell - you know, the ushe.”

Aziraphale can’t stop himself from frowning at that. “Right, the wicked, sure,” he says, gesturing to one side. “But what about everyone else? “ he finishes with a wave to the opposite side of himself.

“I don’t follow.”

“Well, what about people who weren’t baptized, or just don’t believe in you?” he asks a little more forcefully, stepping forward to stand in front of Christ.

Jesus laughs and shrugs. “They’d better start believing pretty quickly, huh?”

“I beg your pardon,” he scoffs, startled by the outright callousness. There is nothing of the bright-eyed idealistic teacher that Aziraphale met so long ago in the figure before him, and it’s maddening . What the Hell is happening – even before the thought finishes, it comes to him. The smell.

Brimstone.

 Spurred on by a sudden instinct that sounds exactly like Crowley, Aziraphale reaches behind him and shoves the basin of the fountain down as hard as he can. The marble dish capsizes and falls with an enormous, echoing clatter as it spills water over Aziraphale’s legs and across the floor.

Jesus, or more correctly - the demon impersonating him, shrieks in sudden terror and scrambles up onto the lounge chair to get away from the water. “ You fucking cunt, ” he hisses, holding his robe up around his ankles.

“What’ve you done with Christ, fiend?” Aziraphale demands, getting ready to throw more water.

The demon snarls back at him. “Go on, do it! You’re too late to stop anything even if you do kill me!”

“We’ll see about that.” Aziraphale sets his jaw and gets ready to miracle an entire holy thunderstorm over their heads if need be. Then he hears footsteps coming down the steps behind him,  Aziraphale turns and freezes in surprise. “You…”

“Me,” The Metatron agrees as he steps into the courtyard. He looks, if anything, only mildly put out by the scene in front of him. “I really hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” he says as he pulls a small tablet out of his inside jacket pocket.

“I knew there was something going on,” Aziraphale tells him, furious and vindicated and very, very alone. “You won’t get away with this.”

“Yes, I will,” The Metatron replies mildly. “Not that you’ll know.” And then he presses a button on the tablet. Aziraphale’s world suddenly rocks with a sickening pulse of vertigo that sends him stumbling to his hands and knees.

“What have you done?” he gasps out, looking up at The Metatron through the spots filling his vision.

“Factory reset.” Aziraphale can barely hear him through the ringing in his ears. It feels like his head’s been cracked open like an egg, contents slipping through his fingers. The Metatron walks over and crouches down in front of him. “Time for you to rejoin the flock, Aziraphale,” he says.

“I.. I can’t…” The world’s beginning to fade away around him, and Aziraphale feels himself collapsing to the floor. Remember Crowley , he prays desperately, Please God let me remember Crowley!

The Metatron stands and turns away to speak into his tablet, as if Aziraphale is a task left to be completed by an underling. “I need you to meet me in London,” he’s saying to someone over the phone. “Things have escalated.”

Remember Crowley , the Angel repeats to himself like a mantra, cheek against the wet golden floor. Crowley, Crowley, Crowley . There’s a feeling of home, a scent of whisky, and then nothing.

Chapter Text

On an overcast and cold afternoon, an angel and a demon share lunch at the Ritz in Mayfair. This has become less remarkable in recent years due to an angel and a demon having kept a standing reservation. But neither Mr. Fell nor Mr. Crowley has enjoyed their usual lunches for several months, so the table is conveniently available when our guests arrive.

“Isn’t this place a little immodest for your ilk?” the demon asks before taking a delicate sip of wine. He is, first and foremost, beautiful. Appearing no older than thirty-five, with effortlessly tousled light brown hair, a square jaw, and gleaming teeth, most people assume he is some sort of film star. And they’re almost correct. He’s The Star.

Lucifer.

Star of the Morning.

Reigning Prince of Hell.

The First to Fall.

The Original Influencer.

“It was very highly recommended,” The Metatron replies primly as he unfolds a napkin to place across his lap. “And there won’t be many opportunities for earthly pleasures in the near future.”

A server drifts by to place an impeccably plated meal in front of each of them before stepping back. “Your third course is a filet of turbot served ‘veronique’ with a white wine cream sauce,” as she speaks, her eyes drift down to the open collar and small triangle of golden skin left exposed. “Um, chanterelle mushrooms, and locally grown grapes.” He catches her eye and winks.

“Sounds divine,” he purrs, and the girl blushes deeply as she retreats back to the kitchens. The Metatron watches the exchange with a tight lipped expression of distaste. “Don’t be sour, old Vox,” Lucifer tells him. “You’ll curdle your tea.”

“You realize this is meant to be a discreet meeting, don’t you?” The Metatron replies testily as he picks up his tea cup. “Nearly everyone is staring at you.”

“Good.” Lucifer takes a neat bite of fish and hums in approval. “Now, how are things going with your new Head of the Heavenly Host? I assume that’s why I’m here.”

“He went looking for trouble and found it.” The Metatron tells him through a tight-lipped expression. “I had to erase his memories before he did any lasting damage.”

“You were extremely precise, I assume,” Lucifer says cynically as he continues to eat. “And only erased the incriminating evidence that he’d seen.” He raises a skeptical brow at the angel, whose expression only darkens. “Leaving just a little minor confusion, but otherwise no major changes to Aziraphale’s routine or personality?”

The Metatron huffs an irritated breath through his nose and then waves a hand over his plate to clear it of food. “I had to act quickly, and he’s much more agreeable this way.”

“I’m sure he is,” Lucifer says as he sits back in his chair expectantly. “And I’m sure absolutely no one noticed a difference?”

“Don’t be so smug,” The Metatron snaps as he pulls an archaic looking flip phone from his jacket pocket. He opened it, pressed a few buttons and then set it on the table as a familiar voice began to play.

“Ngghk… Right, okay, suppose this is fair. Turnabout being fair play an’ all. Um, yeah, that’s okay. I just. You haven’t left a message in a few days and I… I wanted to know if you’re okay. Did you talk to him? Christ, I mean. He seemed like a good kid but that was a long time ago so… be careful, alright? Just because I don’t want to talk to you doesn’t mean I don’t want you to be okay! Um. Yeah. Soooo let me know you’re alive, or tell Muriel to tell me. Toodles-! (fuck me…toodles? Really?!)” Crowley’s voice becomes distant as he moves away from the phone before the message cuts off.

The Metatron puts the phone away, and then takes a sip of his tea before saying, “You’ll have to kill him now, of course.” His tone and bearing give the statement the weight of authority - a directive given to a subordinate.

Lucifer raises his eyebrows slightly at the insult and leans back in his chair. “Oh? And how do you propose I do that?” He pulls a golden cigarette case from the inside of his jacket and clicks it open. “I can only assume that your memory is going because I shouldn’t have to remind you that we already tried that.”

“You can still disincorporate him,” The Metatron snaps irritably.

“Ah yes,” he replies with a slight nod as he tucks a neatly rolled cigarette into his mouth, and puts the case back into his pocket. “I’ll just take the biggest pain in my ass and express mail him directly where he can do the most damage.” Lucifer snaps his fingers and lights the cigarette with a spark of brimstone.

A maitre’d seems to materialize immediately at their table. “Sir, you may not smoke here.”

“Yes, I can,” Lucifer says without looking at him. “Now fetch me a bottle of the Barolo Riserva. The 1978, if you please.”

“Right away, Sir.” The man's eyes glaze over as he spins on his heel and walks quickly away.

“I warned you about this, Vox Dei,” Lucifer tells The Metatron sternly. He takes the cigarette from his mouth and flicks a bit of ash on the ground as he continues. “You’ve upset a very delicate balance without any regard for the consequences. Consequences that could blow up the entire plan.” The maitre’d returns and holds out a bottle for Lucifer’s inspection, and the demon gestures for him to wait. “I will deal with Crowley, if only so that you don’t fuck things up anymore than you already have.”

“I beg your pardon…?” The Metatron says, bristling.

“I’m going to tell you this one more time, Vox,” Lucifer continued, cutting him off with an irritated gesture with the cigarette. “And hope that it finally lands with the appropriate gravity. If Crowley believes that Aziraphale has been harmed, or worse, killed by Heaven or Hell, then I have no idea what he will do .” He stands and takes the bottle of wine from the maitre d's startled hands.

“Uh, Sir?” the man asks and then winces when Lucifer glares at him. “The cigarette?” Lucifer’s eyes narrow for a moment, but then a bright, open grin spreads across his face. It’s radiant and merciless, like a firework exploding in your face.

“Right, of course, silly me,” Lucifer says apologetically; he snaps his fingers and the maitre’d suddenly drops to his knees and opens his mouth. The Prince of Hell slowly extinguishes his cigarette on the man’s tongue.

“So do me a favor,” Lucifer continues speaking to the Metatron over the strangled whimpers. “And don’t fuck up my best bargaining chip any further.” He lets go of the butt of the cigarette and pats the human on the cheek before facing The Metatron again with that same dangerous smile. “Thanks for lunch,” he says as he leaves the angel there, fuming.

Crowley hadn’t intended to move into the bookshop. He’d truly meant to do the opposite when he watched Aziraphale enter the elevator with the Metatron. But one can only drive so many loops around London before you have to admit that you don’t really want to leave. Defeated, he’d parked in his usual spot in the alley and settled in for a good wallow while waiting for a better idea to occur to him.

That’s where Muriel had found him. They’d knocked on the window while he was napping, scaring him six ways to Sunday, started asking him questions and then never quite stopped. They were endlessly curious, and possessed all the self-preservation instincts of a crash test dummy. Every time Crowley walked out the bookshop; he told himself that it was for the last time. That he wouldn’t go back. But demons lie even to themselves, and he would find himself visiting again within a few days to check on them. While you wouldn’t be able to get him to admit it, he felt an instinctive need to protect the young Scrivener. Because Muriel reminded him… of himself. Before the Fall. Before any of this.

Filled to the brim with questions and entirely innocent to how easily that desire for understanding can lead you astray. If young Crowley had had someone like old Crowley to look out for him, then maybe his life would’ve taken a different path. And wasn’t that a thought too painful to hold onto for very long? Still, that idiotic little seraph may not have had an old Crowley eons ago, but Muriel does. So he’d stayed, and he’s teaching them as much as he can. 

At first it was agonizing to spend time in the shop without Aziraphale; he’d been tempted to empty the place out, start a heaping bonfire right in the center of the street, and dance around it to show just how little he cared that nothing lasts forever. But he still remembered how it felt when the old shop had burned around him. The whole place just echoed with a sort of sad emptiness - like it knew Aziraphale had abandoned it as well. And in that moment of demon - building kinship, Crowley realized that Aziraphale had unintentionally left him a priceless real estate opportunity. It’s not everyday that an entire building in Soho comes onto the market is it? And he was a demon in need of a new den of iniquity… Muriel had been briefly concerned when he’d walked in with a box of plants and announced he was taking over the bookshop as the independent nation-state of Crowlesbury. But that quickly turned to relief when he offered them a job as the official representative from “Those Bastards Up There” and “Shop Apprentice.” They agreed that he was a very benevolent ruler and accepted the appointment with aplomb.

Steadily, the shop began to feel less like a mausoleum and more like a living, breathing place again, as Muriel covered everything in post-it notes and Crowley’s plants began to find their spaces among the shelves. And Crowley hardly ever thought about how it felt to kiss Aziraphale or the look on the angel’s face when they broke apart.

When Aziraphale started leaving him voicemails, Crowley had been furious and hurt all over again. At first, he did ignore them just to be petty and mean, but as those feelings faded, Crowley just felt… tired. He hated how comforting it was to hear Aziraphale’s voice again even if the messages made him want to reach through and throttle him. Because wonder of wonders, Heaven was up to some no good shit and it was certainly going to end up involving the two of them putting aside their fight to save the bloody world. And then they’d probably pretend like the fight never happened - just like that, Crowley had suddenly convinced himself that Heaven trying to end the world might actually be a net positive for him all things considered.

He’d just about worked up the courage to answer Aziraphale’s next call when the messages stopped. Crowley felt like a fuse had been lit somewhere, and he could only wait in dreadful anticipation for it all to blow up. 

Predictably, it blows up shortly after Crowley leaves a message for Aziraphale.

After picking up their usual order of a chai latte for Muriel and one “Flash Bastard” for himself (8 to 10 shots of espresso that Nina collects through the day to avoid having to brew them all at once whenever he appears), Crowley walks back into the bookshop and finds Muriel talking with a customer.

“And THEN,” they say, nearly breathless with excitement, “It turns out to be a double negative cross or something because she was only pretending to be a bad guy pretending to be a good guy, and she actually WAS trying to stop the virus from being released after all.”

“Thought I told you to stop reading that trash?” Crowley asks as he walks over.

“C’mon, cousin,” the man says as he turns to greet him with a smile. “Just a little guilty pleasure.”

Lucifer smiles at him like they are sharing a private, good humored joke. He’s wearing sharply pleated, high waisted black linen pants with a distractingly tight, short sleeved, knit polo to match, and the deep v of the collar opened almost to the center of his chest. He’s several inches shorter than Crowley, though it hardly matters because his presence fills the room like a storm front. 

What Crowley means to say is some combination of ‘Muriel, run!’ or ‘Why the fuck did you let Lucifer into the bookshop?!’ but he’s too shocked to do either, so what comes out is a panicked hiss as he jumps backwards and drops coffee and chai all over the floor.

“Mr. Crowley?” Muriel asks, looking between the two figures.

Crowley ignores her, rounding instead on Lucifer. “How did you get in here?”

“How do you think?” Lucifer answers with a slight nod towards Muriel.

“What are you both talking about? Mr. Keats just asked if we were open,” they say, frowning in confusion. “And I said yes, come on in– oh you’re a demon, aren’t you?” Muriel turns to ask Lucifer with wide eyes. He puts a hand over his heart in an apologetic gesture, and their face falls in disappointment.

“He’s not ‘a’ demon!?” Crowley sputters and points a finger at him. “He’s the bloody Prince of Darkness!”

“King of Darkness at the moment, I’ll thank you,” Lucifer corrects.  

“What? Oh, um,” Muriel says, their voice shaking just a little as they face Lucifer and dip into a curtsey after a moment's hesitation. “Welcome to Crowlesbury, your highness- or is it lowness?”

“Muriel, we’re friends,” he says, offering them his hand over the counter. “Call me Lucifer.” Crowley tamps down on the urge to slap his hand away from theirs. Instead, they both shake hands politely and espresso continues soaking into his shoes. Lucifer gives Crowley the same, honeyed smile and restores both coffees back to their unspilled states. “It’s been a long time, cousin,” he says, placing Muriel’s cup on the counter and holding the other out to Crowley. 

“Stop it,” he snaps, flinching away from the cup. “What do you want?”

Lucifer shrugs and lifts the cup to his mouth, taking a drink and then saying, “I came to talk to you.” 

“Oh yeah? Just a friendly little visit out of the blue?” Crowley replies. “Nothing at all to do with a little Apocalypse 2: Electric Boogaloo?”

“Apocalypse?” Muriel asks, both hands wrapped around their latte.

“Not at all,” Lucifer replies smoothly, “Heaven’s got their plan, yes. But Hell wants to keep the world just as it is.”

Crowley frowns. “Hell? Or you?”

“Tomato, tomahto.” Lucifer takes another drink of espresso, then turns and sets the cup down on the counter with an air of finality. “Muriel, darling, would you mind if I stole my cousin here for a bit?” he asks. “I’d like to talk to him privately.”

“Actually, I would mind, only because I’m worried you’re going to smite him,” they reply, voice shaking only a little with nerves. Lucifer looks at them. “...and that wasn’t really a question, was it?”

“It was not,” he confirms.

While Lucifer has his back to him, Crowley pulls his phone out of his pocket and tries to open up his emergency contacts. Stupid glass thing. Twenty-odd years ago, he could’ve typed out a sonnet by feel if he’d wanted to. Lucifer turns back around just as he finds the number he wanted. 

“Really?” Lucifer asks, unimpressed.

“YES!” Crowley declares, jamming his thumb down on the call icon and vanishing into the network.

Around the block, in a cardboard box in the backseat of a black Bentley, an answering machine picks up. It sounds like a modem trying to connect until Crowley is corporeal enough to laugh properly as he reassembles himself in the front seat. Reaching for the steering wheel, his hands close around empty air - which makes no sense, because then he’d be in the passenger’s seat...

“You dropped your phone.” Lucifer’s voice is directly beside him and Crowley startles so badly that he nearly bounces off the passenger-side window.

“AHH-LUCIFER!”

“Oh relax,” he says, dropping Crowley’s phone into his lap dismissively. “I haven’t even done anything.”

Crowley makes a valiant effort at leaning back against the car door nonchalantly. “Just… Well, um,” he stalls, while inwardly he desperately tried to coax his higher brain functions back out from the dark corner they had fled to in wild, animalistic fear. “I was just going to…”

“Shut up, I don’t care.” Lucifer’s tone is mild as he adjusts the Bentley's seat forward, but there’s a warning, buzzing current underneath it. Crowley’s mouth closes with a click of his teeth. “I came all the way out here; even brought you a gift,” Lucifer continues, faintly irritated as he motions to a bottle of wine nestled between Crowley’s legs in the footwell. “You’re welcome by the way.”

“Ooooh, a Barolo?” Crowley says, picking up the bottle to look at it more closely. “ 1978 Riserva… that’s marvelous.”

“Mm,” Lucifer agrees, adjusting the rear view mirror. “We’ll open it over dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“We have reservations at Nobu. So if you’re done fucking around, I’d like to hit the road.” 

“Nobu? Wait, where are we going?” Crowley asks, already fearing the answer. “I thought we were talking?” He reaches for the door handle but it locks before he can even touch it.

Lucifer looks at him, disappointed. “Anthony, be reasonable. If we stay here, your plucky sidekick over there is going to eavesdrop and then they’ll be involved.” He gestures minutely through the windshield, and Crowley looks across the street where Muriel is very clearly peering at them through the window of Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death. “Is that what you want?”

Crowley’s stomach drops somewhere down into the footwell with the Barolo. “No,” he says quietly, but firmly. “No, let's go.”

“That’s what I thought,” Lucifer says as he turns the engine over and puts the car into reverse. “They seem like a good kid.”

“Please… just stay away from them,” Crowley says, slumping down into the seat, defeated.

“It’s not me they have to worry about.” Lucifer pulls out into the road and hits the accelerator. London begins to smear and streak by as they travel. “It is good to see you, cousin,” he says after a beat.

“Wish I could say the same,” Crowley says, crossing his arms, but there’s no real venom to his words. It's a force of habit more than anything - speaking so impertinently to the prince and Lucifer allowing it. “So you’re King of Hell, now?”

“Mm,” Lucifer agrees, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel idly as the Bentley soars across the ocean. “Needs must when the Devil drives his son to soccer or whatever the fuck… And then Beezelbub ran off with that meathead, Gabriel. Things were falling apart.”

“Ah,” Crowley drawls. “ Noblesse oblige.”

“I saw an opportunity.”

“Blergh,” Crowley says, tongue flicking out in disgust. “You’re all the same.”

“Would you shut up for a second, and listen to me?” Lucifer reaches across the car to swat Crowley’s thigh with the back of his hand. “I’m trying to tell you something you’ll like.”

“Go on then,” Crowley grumbles, looking out the window at the vast green forests of New England flashing by.

“What exactly do you know about Judgement Day?”

Chapter Text

“What exactly do you know about Judgment Day?”

Crowley blows out a breath through his lips. “ Pbbbbt, well… not much. Raphael blows his horn; second coming of the Messiah; a buncha humans getting raptured up into the Heavens?”

“More or less,” Lucifer says, pulling a pair of aviator style sunglasses from nowhere and sliding them on. A traitorous little part of Crowley’s brain thinks they look pretty damn sharp and wonders if he’s due for an refresh. The rest of him viciously hates that there’s even a fraction of admiration left for the prince within him. 

“You know, I didn’t understand why you liked this place so much at first. Why contain yourself to only three dimensions in a pedestrian physical body…?” Lucifer says, pivoting. “Then I came up and gave it a try, and oh baby, I had no idea.”

Crowley can’t help but perk up just a little at that. Aside from Aziraphale (and very recently Muriel), he’s never seen one of their ilk express pleasure at life in the mortal realm. “Had fun, did you?”

“Mm. I was treating the world like it was an all you can eat buffet fifteen minutes before closing.” Lucifer tells him with a half smile. “But then you, you clever little thing, you stopped the Apocalypse; and you proved that the Plan isn’t set in stone.” He tips his head down to look at Crowley over his sunglasses with an expression of such pride that Crowley feels his ‘pedestrian’ body blushing.

“Pfft… well, it wasn’t all me,” Crowley says, forcing himself to look forward towards the horizon.

“It got me thinking,” Lucifer says. “What if there was no Plan?”

Crowley blinks and settles back into the car seat, suddenly remembering the smell of burning feathers. “Are we talking about the Great Plan or the Ineffable Plan?” He asks carefully.

“I think what makes it ineffable is that it doesn’t ‘effing’ exist,” Lucifer replies back with a sneer. “So I decided to make my own plan.”

“By letting Heaven win?”

“Letting them? I’m practically gift wrapping it.”

“Why?”

“Excellent question,” Lucifer says, smiling. “Because when the worthy have all been Hoovered up to that great big circle jerk in the sky, they’re going to close the Gates and fuck off for the rest of eternity.”

“Really? What about Earth?” Crowley asks.

“Another excellent question. Earth will just keep right on spinning; I doubt most people will notice much of a difference.” Lucifer’s smile grows to a self-satisfied grin. "Like a big avocado, ready to be plucked.”

Crowley fidgets and props his head in his hand against the door frame. “And then you smash it all into guacamole, I suppose? Cover the earth in fire and brimstone? Eternal damnation for everyone?”

“Ehnk. ” Lucifer makes a noise like a game show buzzer, “Wrong. Stop thinking like an angel. Think outside the box.”

“The box is Earth?”

“No, the box is -” he pauses and takes a breath. “If there’s no Heaven, then why would there be a Hell?”

Brows furrowing in thought, Crowley’s eyes cast about the car as if he can find the answer Lucifer wants from him. “Rrright…”

“Crowley, c’mon. The entire reason that Hell exists, that we are demons, is to stand in opposition to Heaven. If there is no longer any Heaven keeping us down there, why the fuck should we stay?”

“Oh…” It begins to sink in, the wider scope of what Lucifer is suggesting. “You want to empty Hell?”

Lucifer’s grin splits his face with a flash of lightning white teeth. “Yes. Early retirement for every single demon.”

“What about humanity?”

“You’ll like this.” Lucifer pauses for effect and then says “Absolutely nothing,” with a flourishing wave of one hand.

“Nothing?” Crowley asks, deeply skeptical.

“Why should anything change? They’ve created a paradise right here for us to enjoy,” Lucifer replies, gesturing downwards to Earth. The Bentley cruises along the towering edge of a massive, rolling thunderhead in the Great Plains. Lucifer rests his hand on the gear stick, idly caressing it as the smell of ozone fills the car. Goosebumps travel up Crowley’s arms and legs, and he has no idea if it’s static, fear, or arousal - probably all three whenever Lucifer is involved.

“Think about it,” Lucifer says wistfully. “Do good, do evil, do whatever the fuck you want. Real freedom. Finally.”

Ah, Crowley thinks, the more things change… Planets, empires, and various boy bands had all lived and died in the time since Lucifer had last talked to him about freedom. Now, at least, Crowley has the benefit of knowing exactly whose freedom the prince is concerned with.

“Sounds lovely. What’s it got to do with me?” Crowley asks.

Lucifer’s expression turns regretful as he looks over towards him. “Don’t flip out, but I am kidnapping you.”

“I knew it!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re very clever,” Lucifer says. “The thing is, we couldn’t have you and that angel interfering like you did before. The Metatron said that he would handle it.”

The Bentley doesn’t suddenly fill with scales and venom and teeth, but it’s a near thing. Crowley exhales a slow breath that’s only slightly scorching, and then says “That angel has a name.”

“I can’t be expected to remember every–”

“Don’t,” Crowley snaps, sharper than he’d ever spoken to the prince before. “You know his name.”

Lucifer is silent, knuckles turning white where he grips the wheel. Crowley watches and wonders if he’s pushed too far and finally found the edges of Lucifer’s affection.

“The Metatron offered Aziraphale the role of Supreme Archangel because he knew that he would accept, and it would separate you two,” Lucifer says calmly after a moment; it’s not an apology, or even an acknowledgement of Crowley’s anger, but it is a concession.

“If they’ve hurt him, if they’ve done anything…” Crowley says and then cuts himself off, all too aware of his own precarious position - utterly isolated somewhere above the Grand Canyon.

 “Here.” Lucifer pulls a dark crystal tablet from his jacket pocket, taps it a few times and then offers it to Crowley.

Aziraphale is on the screen, though he looks distressingly more like Gabriel than himself. He’s wearing a dove gray suit with an immaculately white polo shirt. His soft, wild curls have been smoothed out into a side part that only divine intervention could hope to keep in place. Crowley feels sick. Oh Angel…

 “See? He’s okay.”

“He is not okay,” Crowley growls back, his voice betraying more emotion than intended.

“Fine, but he is alive,” Lucifer replies. “And will remain that way so long as you don’t interfere.”

“I’m just supposed to believe you?” Crowley watches Aziraphale talking with a group of angels, directing them easily. He looked like a luxury car salesman, all empty smiles and charm.

“You know I prefer to use leverage to get what I want. Aziraphale’s well-being is yours and Heaven’s is another.”

“You could be lying.”

“Anthony, I have never lied to you,” Lucifer says reproachfully, as if offended by the insinuation. “You’re my kid-sibling; I love you.”

Crowley says nothing to this, just hands the tablet back to him.

“I really did try to keep you out of this,” Lucifer says into the silence. “I know Aziraphale is important to you.”

“I should’ve gone with him,” Crowley says quietly, drumming his fingers on his knee.

Lucifer scoffs. “Sure. Best case scenario: they wipe you both and tuck you into separate broom closets for fifty thousand years. At least my plan involves getting your lover back and leaving you both on Earth.”

“Ngk,” Crowley chokes and looks out the window with a grimace. “He’s not… uh…”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Lucifer fully turns his head to look at Crowley in disbelief. “You’re ‘not’?”

“No, we’re not,” Crowley says, wondering if he could fling himself through the window.

“Well, why not? Is he waiting for marriage? Do you need a chaperone to start courting?”

“Shut up,” Crowley says back, unable to stop the slight smile. It’s almost certainly dangerous, and he is still sick with worry, but it does feel good to spend time with Lucifer again. The familiarity is comforting. “We got close once, I think, but he said I go too fast for him.”

“Damn,” Lucifer says sympathetically.

“Then I kissed him while we were arguing, and he said he forgave me.”

Lucifer winces and shakes his head. “You know, we could leave him up there?”

Crowley laughs again, enjoying the commiseration and easy silence just a little.

“Do you ever think…” Crowley starts after a moment’s thought, then wets his lips and tries again. “Do you ever wonder if She’s considered forgiving us?”

“No,” Lucifer answers without hesitation. “She can’t.”

“Why not?” Crowley asks.

“Because in order to be forgiven, you have to have done something wrong.”

Aziraphale, Supreme Archangel and former Guardian of the Eastern Gate, looks over his work and decides it is good. Well, good enough, at least. Lots of moving parts to keep an eye on trying to organize the Messiah’s return to Earth, but could there be a more worthy endeavor?

He’s standing on a muddy berm out in some remote area of what he’s been told is Nebraska, but honestly looks no different than Kansas or South Dakota, so who can be sure? The farm they are visiting has been washed out in recent flash floods; it’s a small place with a Good Christian Family at the end of their rope and praying for a miracle.

It’s their lucky day.

Christ walks barefoot down the small hill and into the open field of dirt and rotting soy plants. The mud does not dare to sully his skin or clothes; the air smells like myrrh and jasmine. The archangel, Michael, walks with him and calls out “Be not afraid, Goodman family! For before you walks the Lamb of God, the King of Kings, Immanuel.”

A lanky teenage boy in a black hoodie emblazoned with an anarchy symbol walks out of the house first, filming on his cell phone. Soon after, two older adults (a man and a woman, and therefore, presumably, his parents) come stumbling out.

“C’mon Mike, lighten up!” Christ laughs and nudges Michael with his elbow. “Joe and Cheryl are old friends!”

Despite himself, Aziraphale's attention wanders when the wailing and supplication drags on, and his gaze drifts skyward where a thunderstorm towers over the horizon, lit by the occasional flash of lightning. The Goodman’s plight and the great storm reminds him distantly of Job so long ago. The lesson that unwavering faith no matter how bleak the situation will be rewarded… and also salamanders for some reason?

Still, whatever Christ is about to gift unto the family, it looks like that storm will wash it away. The Metatron was very clear that no other miracles were to be performed beyond the Goodman farm, but really this entire small town is struggling to recover from swollen rivers and mudslides. It’s scarcely a miracle at all if the winds shift just enough to push the weather front further south.

“You still filming? Check this out!” Christ raises his hands up to the heavens, rays of golden light shining from his fingertips. “I give you the Bread of Angels!” A blinding white beam of divine energy appears from the ground surrounding Christ, and spears up into the clouds overhead.

While everyone is focused on the miracle before them, Aziraphale pushes very gently on a band of barometric pressure. He catches Uriel’s eyes on him as his influence withdraws back into his physical body. Aziraphale raises his eyebrows in a silent question, the picture of innocence. Uriel says nothing and looks back towards the proceedings His relationship to the other archangels has always been somewhat distant since he was promoted over them after Gabriel fell. Aziraphale tries not to take it personally.

Something small drops from the sky and lands next to Aziraphale’s shoe with a soft plap. It’s a small bundle of whitish-yellow flakes all stuck together in a little nugget. Another lands nearby, and then a third, and then tens of thousands all land together around the fields and house with a sound like you’d dumped out a bag of ten thousand dinner rolls onto the table.

“What is this?” Cheryl Goodman asks, pulling a small clump from her hair and sniffing at it cautiously.

“Manna from Heaven,” Christ says with a bright smile, reaching to pluck the bit of manna from her fingers and pop it into his mouth. “Mmm,” he continues while he chews, “The ancient Israelites loved this stuff!”

“Oh,” she answers; not quite as ecstatic as Aziraphale had hoped for, but she was probably just shocked. Afterall, he knew next to nothing about how humans lived on Earth - Sandalphon was the expert who had gone undercover to study them in preparation for The Second Coming.

“It’s going rather well, I think,” Aziraphale says quietly over his left shoulder before turning to look at his companion.

There’s no one there. It's a mistake he’s made many times before - looking to his left and expecting to see someone there. Aziraphale doesn’t know why the feeling lingers, but he trusts that eventually the Almighty will reveal to him the reason.

Their little group spends the night on Earth in a little motel nearby called The Elysian Fields, which has been vetted and emptied to ensure that Christ is safe from the forces of Evil. Sandalphon told him that it was to build “hype” around Christ’s impending return - allow mortals enough time to take some blurry photos and start a “hashtag”. It’s not something that Aziraphale would’ve considered relevant to The Second Coming, but that is why he trusts the expert.

He is sitting at the end of the bed in a humble hotel room waiting for the hours to pass until they leave for the next scheduled miracle (where the local press will be waiting). Curiosity and boredom drive him to begin cycling through the channels on the television. It’s primarily a lot of brash sound, jangly music, and flashing lights, but eventually he lands on a black and white film and pauses. 

The advertisements tell him that Casablanca is a classic film, and Aziraphale does find the story somewhat charming, but that’s not what keeps him there. There is something distractingly familiar about the character of Rick. He’s quite certain he’s never seen this film nor the original actor, so the question  itches at him. The fedora and trench coat look very nice, but there’s something missing and Aziraphale, bizarrely, thinks it might be sunglasses. 

“Listen, last night we said a great many things,” Rick says to Ilsa. I suppose I’ve got something to say.

Aziraphale watches, almost hypnotized as the scene conjures up these tiny snippets of… something? A half-remembered dream on awakening. It’s like trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle in the dark.

“Richard, no, I-” Ilsa tries to argue, shaking her head.

“Now you’ve got to listen to me,” Rick insists. …if I don’t start talking now, I won’t ever start talking.

There’s a fluttery, panicky feeling starting somewhere in Aziraphale’s chest. The machinery of his physical body is telling him that he needs air, that he can’t breathe. There’s a name right on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t quite grasp it.

“If that plane leaves the ground and you’re not with him, you’ll regret it.” Tell me you said no.

Aziraphale tries to take a breath, but it catches, lodges in his throat and chokes him. His eyes are stinging and his vision swims as it fills with tears. Holy Mother what is happening to him?

“We’ll always have Paris,” Rick says. You can’t leave this bookshop.

This is ridiculous. Aziraphale is openly weeping now, and it’s ridiculous. He’s not a child; he knows that this is fiction, that Rick and Ilsa never existed. And yet he feels as though he has lost something or someone precious to him. He should turn the blasted television off, but he can’t seem to find the will to do so.

“Here’s looking at you, kid.” We could’ve been…us.

Air; he needs fresh air. Aziraphale is up and out the door of his room, bracing himself on the balcony overlooking the car park. Away from the wretched machine, he sucks in deep lungfuls of the crisp pre-dawn breeze.

“Alright, Aziraphale?”

Sandalphon’s voice cuts through the quiet and startles him badly. Aziraphale turns away, wiping his eyes and smoothing his shirt back out. He turns back around, intending to say something reassuring, but instead what tumbles out is “Crowley.”

The name feels like a prayer, and Aziraphale lifts his fingertips to his lips, shocked.

Sandalphon lifts his eyebrows in surprise, then grunts out a laugh with a smirk. “Told you he’d crack again,” he says over his shoulder. Michael steps out of the shadows just behind Sandalphon’s shoulder.

“I really thought it would stick this time,” Michael says.

“What are you talking about?” Aziraphale asks.

“No matter,” Sandalphon says, ignoring him. He reaches into his inner coat pocket but Michael touches his shoulder to stop him.

“Let me do it,” they say, watching Aziraphale with an almost hungry expression.

“I don’t understand,” Aziraphale says, taking a step back from them. “What are you doing?”

Michael pulls a small tablet from their pocket. “I’m going to erase your memories again.”

“Again?”

“Oh yes,” Michael agrees, smiling in satisfaction. “And I want you to know, Aziraphale, that you deserve this.”

They press their finger to their tablet and everything goes dark.

Aziraphale, former Guardian of the Eastern Gate and current scrivener of the 38th degree, is sitting quietly in his office, waiting to be needed.

It feels like it’s been a very long time since he’s gotten any research requests though - most everyone seems to have their hands full working on the Judgement Day project. Not that he’s complaining of course! It’s his honor and duty to participate as well, however small his own part is.

Only there’s also been this name rattling around in his head lately and if there is no task which requires his time, surely there is no harm in checking if there are any records of it in the archive.

“Please show me any records you have of someone named ‘Crawly,’” he asks the archive quietly. He’s prepared for nothing to be returned, but instead his desk was promptly buried under a massive pile of folders. “Oh my…”

The folders are covered in warnings about their security and secrecy. How strange that he should know the name… perhaps he had overheard it somewhere?

Aziraphale reaches out to drop his hand onto the folder closest to him, expecting it to pass right through. He’s a Principality after all, and these records are all tagged as for Archangels only.

His hand lands on the surprisingly solid folder. Aziraphale blinks and then smiles - a little miracle all his own! Surely, this must be part of The Plan. He opens the file and takes a look.

Crawly, it turns out, was the Serpent of Eden. A sense of relief fills Aziraphale - that explains why he’d known the name. They would’ve been in the Garden at the same time. Probably for the best they never met though; Aziraphale doesn’t relish meeting a fearsome demonic serpent after giving his flaming sword away.

“I see they forgot to revoke your administrative privileges. Typical.”

Aziraphale snatches his hand back away from the files and looks up to see the archangel Uriel standing across the desk from him.

“Your excellence, I…” he stammers.

“I had you placed here because I thought you might take to it,” they say, almost regretfully. “But you really can’t help but get into trouble, can you Aziraphale?”

“I - I don’t know what you mean, your excellence.”

Uriel clears the desk with a wave of their hand and then pulls out their tablet. “No I don’t suppose you would,” they agree.

Everything goes dark.

An angel, newly formed, sits in quiet reverence waiting for his Creator to give him a name and purpose.

The room he’s in is pleasant enough.

But it does feel like he’s been waiting an awfully long time.