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Many people, meeting Muriel for the first time, formed three impressions: that they were very young, that they’d been very sheltered, and that they were very book smart, if desperately lacking in street smarts.
Actually Muriel was the same age as all the other angels and was extremely smart in every way necessary for their position. The sheltered part was not entirely true - they had never left Heaven before, but they were a 37th degree recording angel scrivener and so knew the general contents of quite a large percentage of the records of Heaven. Heaven did not believe in index cards or filing systems, or (and Muriel had been positively giddy when they’d learned of it) - databases. Heaven believed in summoning the nearest scrivener, saying “Get me everything we have on the influence of end-time cults on 20th century politicians” and having it in their hands before they’d even finished speaking.
Muriel didn’t just remember everything they’d been tasked with archiving; they remembered everything that had happened in their long but nearly uneventful life. They remembered the days of Creation, before even Time existed, and the name of every angel who had Fallen. It wasn’t actively in their head, but when prompted they could recall it immediately.
“Look at the stars,” Crowley said, staring up from the roof of the bookshop, where the stars were shining brightly in defiance of the light pollution from the surrounding shops. “Humans are just starting to get a good look at them. Just in time for it all to go ” - he made a vague wavy gesture - “poof.” He took another swig from the bottle. “I made them, y’know.”
Muriel was still learning about figures of speech, so they answered “I know,” and then blinked. “Wait, I do remember you! You were-“
“Not another word,” Crowley snapped, and Muriel was suddenly acutely aware that this was a demon. Who, despite not having moved an iota, loomed. “I’m not that angel anymore.”
“Got it,” Muriel nodded, making a mental note. “Not that angel.”
Crowley gave them a very long, very suspicious look. Muriel put on their best helpful expression, the one that was ready to wait as long as it took for an archangel to remember that they’d summoned a scrivener. (Three months, four days, 18 hours: Uriel, in the 14th century. Gabriel was a close second for length, and the untouchable leader in frequency.)
Crowley was not even in the running. He finished his bottle and started another before speaking again. “Do angels still remember…”
Muriel was starting to get good at interpreting his hand waves. “The starmaker?” they provided helpfully, since the name itself was off limits “Well, I do. I mean, I remember because your work was amazing, not just because it’s my job to record things.”
“You really…?”
“Oh, yes,” Muriel gushed. “Everything was so beautiful! It was all anyone could talk about! And I had friends in the construction archives who saw your Book, and said it was the finest piece of celestial engineering-” Muriel cut off abruptly. Was mentioning his Book included in not mentioning his name?
Crowley preened, there was no other word for it. “Yeah?”
“Oh yes. None of us could understand-” No, wait, that would definitely fall under the restrictions.
Crowley leaned back and stared at the stars for so long that Muriel didn’t think he was going to answer at all. “I asked questions,” he said softly. “I wanted to know why we were making it all, just to end it right about” - he made a show of looking at his watch - “now. And don’t say anything about ineffable plans.”
“Well, I can’t," Muriel said matter-of-factly, "because they don’t tell us anything about the plan. They just ask us to look things up. But what I do know…” They hadn’t thought about any of this since just after the Fall. “We didn’t know why all of you…” Vaguely wavy hand motions were, they realized, surprisingly useful. “Didn’t know what we could talk about. So we just - stopped. Stopped talking, stopped thinking, stopped…” even having friends. Oh. Had they even realized that before now? Looking back, that was when the vastness of Heaven stopped feeling clean and expansive and started feeling isolating and oppressive.
Crowley looked sympathetic, and surprisingly with no trace of his usual anger. “If you’re wondering if what you’re doing now is enough to Fall, no. Just look at Aziraphale. We’ve had this - well, part of this,” again with a hand wave, and Muriel could guess which part got left out, “conversation before. Usually after rather more wine than this,” he said, hefting the bottle to illustrate.
Muriel looked at it speculatively. “Could I…?”
“I don’t tempt angels anymore.” Flatly.
Muriel gave him a dry look which lacked any trace of their usual cheerful expression. “You aren’t. I do know what wine is.”
He grinned, suddenly. “Yes, but do you know what hangovers are?”
That was - Muriel was quite certain of it - a friendly grin. Perhaps even teasing. From a demon. Which was more than they’d get from anyone in Heaven, and that… just wasn’t right.
“I think I would like some wine,” they said firmly. “And some more questions. Even if they come with hangovers.”