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Chapter Text

“… and then you have that meeting with the leader of the fifth division who has been asking about your input for the last weeks very insistently and I'm afraid we can't avoid him any longer …”

Tabiel's voice drones on like that in the same manner as she masterfully navigates the hallways of Heaven without glancing up even once from the notepad in her hands.

Aziraphale, who is walking right beside her and actually has a bit of trouble keeping up with her pace, finds himself a little in awe at her familiarity with their surroundings, but at the same time prays that he will never reach the same level. The day he might become so intimately acquainted with this place he would be able to dodge a randomly placed pillar right in the middle of the corridor with his eyes more or less closed would also be the day he would flee in a panic, horrified by what he had grown into.

As of now, thankfully, Heaven is still so vast and unfamiliar, with every hall and room looking the exact same, that Aziraphale sees no reason to worry just yet.

Not like Tabiel who even steps around random angels on her path like they're part of the inventory and have been walking up and down these corridors in the same pattern for millennia now.

(And, knowing Heaven, that actually might be true, as depressing as that thought is.)

“… and afterward the esteemed Archangel Michael wishes to see you at your earliest convenience …” Tabiel goes on, chipper and efficient as ever.

Aziraphale hadn't been too delighted about The Metatron putting him up with “an assistant” to “help him find his footing” because at the end of the day he just knew that Tabiel's main function was to keep a close eye on him and report back to The Voice about everything he did and said. But naturally Aziraphale couldn't refuse the offer without appearing suspicious. So he fake smiled and thanked The Metatron for being so thoughtful and the next thing he knew Tabiel materialised right next to him, eager to please, and has barely left him since.

She is a bit like Muriel with her enthusiasm and naivete, but at the same time Aziraphale has no doubt that she is completely loyal to The Metatron and wouldn't hesitate for a single second to share even the most incriminating things with him, without any care for Aziraphale's fate.

After all, The Metatron surely chose her specifically for always having been such a good servant before.

Aziraphale actually had been concerned at first, wondering whether The Metatron seeing a need for Tabiel's reports would be a sign of him not trusting his Supreme Archangel and suspecting Aziraphale of foul play. However, instead of allowing this to discourage him and make him abandon his plans, like Crowley has been insisting since Tabiel's arrival about two weeks ago, Aziraphale is still determined to keep up the facade and do everything in his power to appear like an exemplary angel nobody has to be wary about.

After all, this is why he is here for.

“Yes, yes, wonderful,” Aziraphale says at some point, speaking over Tabiel's constant prattle since he already learnt by now that it would go on like that for hours on end otherwise. “Thank the Heavens for your organising skills. I don't know what I would do without you.”

As expected Tabiel beams at the compliment and probably will report right back to The Metatron what a nice chap Aziraphale is, especially compared to the previous Supreme Archangel.

“You have been working non-stop, though,” Aziraphale points out. “I feel a tad guilty for occupying so much of your time.”

Tabiel's expression makes it very clear that such a thought has never even crossed her mind before and probably never will.

“But please, it is an honour,” she insists, pronouncing the word like there is nothing more important in the entire universe. “You are so very valuable for our cause, Your Highness, and to be able to support you even a little bit is more than I could have ever dreamt of …”

While she rambles on, Aziraphale can't help but wonder, with a pang of sadness, if she actually knows what a true dream even means.

He highly doubts it.

Aziraphale sighs and lets her keep talking for a while more until they eventually pass the record room and he manages to finally get rid of Tabiel by ordering her to search for some random reports. He knows from experience that it will take her some time, even with Heaven's powers at her side, and Aziraphale watches her dive deep into the papers for a minute, feeling quite bad for wasting her time like that, before slipping out of the room relatively unnoticed.

With a clear destination in mind – and thanks to the location of the record room at least 58% certain that he is on the right track – he walks down several bright corridors, nodding to the occasional angels who greet him in passing with either flailing limbs or cautious wariness, and eventually pauses right in front of a nondescript wall.

He looks around, making extra sure that he is the only one around, before tapping against the surface in a certain pattern.

The wall opens up and Aziraphale quickly steps inside only to shut it behind him once more.

As soon as he finds himself all alone in that secret passageway, he breathes a sigh of relief and allows himself a moment of reprieve. After all, it can get quite exhausting to never be on your own. To always have watchful eyes on you, one way or another.

It has been bad before, but since he came back from his little trip back to Earth about a month ago everyone seems keen on keeping him in their periphery. Aziraphale knows that they're scared he might shake all of Heaven again with his emotions, therefore they're trying to make sure to spot any signs of another collapse early on.

He is also very aware that lots of angels – at least the ones who actually have a say up here – have been advocating rather strongly for keeping Aziraphale out of Heaven entirely. Which, all in all, is a reasonable reaction to what happened. They're confused about it all and scared it might occur again, this time maybe with even worse consequences.

However, since The Metatron wants Aziraphale to stay right where he is, there is nothing anyone can do about it.

It has led to the rumour mill spinning, though, as Aziraphale has noticed. A lot are starting to wonder why The Metatron would risk Heaven's safety for one angel and Aziraphale certainly welcomes such talk more than anything. Let them wonder, let them question. The more they become suspicious about it all, the better.

Unfortunately it leaves Aziraphale with barely any time to himself, a stark contrast to his life back on Earth. He appreciates humankind, of course, but he always loved his time to himself, just him and his books and a nice cup of cocoa, and he misses it all so very terribly.

The only one who was allowed to burst into his alone time without Aziraphale being too cross about is also the one the angel right now misses even more.

And so, after revelling in the few minutes of silence, he braces himself, unconsciously touches the ring on his finger that seems so harmless but is anything but, and reaches out with a tentative, “Crowley?”

It is still a bit weird, communicating like this. Especially since he didn't have that much time to get used to it yet, with everyone up here bothering him at all times of the day.

He waits – eagerly, nervously – for a reply and eventually flinches a bit in surprise when there is suddenly a loud, “Angel?” booming in his head.

Yes, this seriously needs more getting used to.

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs. “It's so good to hear your voice.”

It has been way too long.

And apparently Crowley feels the same way because he answers, a bit grouchily, “Angel, where have you been? I haven't heard from you in like a week.”

Aziraphale presses his lips into a thin line, the blatant concern in Crowley's voice, despite the obvious disgruntlement, almost making him too emotional.

“I called you,” Aziraphale reminds him. “Every single day.”

“Yeah, you did,” Crowley agrees grumpily. “But a quick 'Hey, Crowley, just checking in to tell you I'm still alive, bye!' doesn't really cover it.”

Aziraphale huffs. “I promised you to check in regularly.”

Crowley made him swear, right before he returned back to Heaven. He insisted that no matter what, no matter how busy he would be, that he would keep the demon in the loop at all times.

And he kept that promise.

“Yeah, well, an actual conversation would've been nice,” the demon complains. “Not just a quick message in-between, like I'm nothing more than an afterthought.”

Aziraphale grimaces. “I can promise you, dearest, you are the furthest thing from an afterthought.”

Crowley lets out a series of unintelligible noises and Aziraphale drinks them all in as if they're the most beautiful poem, only written for him.

“You know how much I have been watched,” Aziraphale states. “And I can't talk to you while in the company of some other angel. I'm not sure if they could sense our connection so up close and I don't want to risk it.”

“Angel –”

“Furthermore, I know that my facial expressions would give me away while talking with you in my mind,” Aziraphale adds, a soft little smile flickering over his lips. “I believe Nina called it 'besotted' that one time …”

Once again Crowley is unable to string any coherent words together and Aziraphale absolutely adores it.

“I … I just don't like it,” the demon eventually manages to grunt. “I don't like that they're watching you so closely –”

“You already mentioned that,” Aziraphale says. “Repeatedly.”

“So then why won't you listen?” Crowley complains. “It's suspicious. It's dangerous. It's –”

“Understandable,” Aziraphale cuts right in, not in the mood to have the same discussion all over again. “Somehow I managed to cause an earthquake in Heaven. Something that technically shouldn't be possible because there is no ground underneath us to speak of. And yet I did it.” He shakes his head, still in disbelief about the whole thing. “It's their right to be on guard. I would do the same in their position.”

Crowley audibly grits his teeth through their bond, obviously unhappy that he can't fight Aziraphale's logic in this case.

“Besides, it actually starts to cast a damning light on The Metatron instead,” Aziraphale informs him, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Angels are beginning to wonder why he is keeping me around if I'm such a potential danger to Heaven. They're getting suspicious of him.”

Crowley seems intrigued by this change of pace. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale confirms. “I'm not saying it will do us much good in the end. At some point he might just tell them all it is the Will of God and most of them are going to believe him –”

“But not everyone,” Crowley finishes his thought. “They will start to doubt. Like Michael did. Like maybe many others are already doing, without us knowing.”

Aziraphale nods. “It's not much, but it's definitely a start.”

That's all they need, a start.

Something to build free will upon.

“I still don't like it, though,” Crowley is not tired of pointing out. “To have all those watchful eyes on you …”

Aziraphale doesn't necessarily disagree. It is an uncomfortable situation all around.

“I know, my dear,” he breathes. “I'm not overly fond of it either. But it has to be done and endured –”

“Why has that someone to be you, though?”

There is so much emotion in Crowley's voice, so much vulnerability, and Aziraphale craves so much to wrap him into this arms at that moment.

And so, instead of answering Crowley's question which can't really be answered, Aziraphale whispers, “I miss you. So much. I wish I could be with you.”

Aziraphale has been saying that every time since he has arrived in Heaven and it doesn't become any less true. On the contrary, it grows stronger and stronger every single day.

Crowley, meanwhile, heaves a deep sigh. “Then come back, angel. You know where to find me.”

Right there, in Aziraphale's beloved bookshop.

With the Bentley parked outside.

It's simple and easy and everything Aziraphale ever wanted in life.

And yet he can't have it. Not right now, at least.

“You know I can't,” Aziraphale says, sad longing filling every part of his being. “It's too early. I don't want to return to Earth too often and have The Metatron become distrustful and follow me someday. If he were to realise that we two … well, that we, um, talking again and everything … well, it might raise some awkward questions I'm not sure I could answer without giving myself away.”

Furthermore, he doesn't want The Metatron's attention on Crowley at all, no matter what he might believe of the circumstances.

It's not a risk Aziraphale is willing to take.

“You don't need anyone's permission,” Crowley grumbles, however. “Just use the ring, angel. Pop right into the bookshop in the blink of an eye.”

Aziraphale glimpses back at the ring in question on his finger. He knows that it's technically possible to jump right into the demon's arms in a matter of milliseconds. After all, the human king who commissioned those rings certainly used it for that very purpose, to be with his lover every night, even though they resided on different sides of the country during that time.

There is a catch, though.

The Heavenly reports about those rings are rather slim and nobody has mentioned so far what to do to leap right back to the point of origin after everything was said and done. Aziraphale realises it must be achievable because the human ruler has been back to the battlefield every single morning after spending the nights with his wife, but he has no idea how to get there. Do you just have to wish really hard or is there some sort of words or spell work involved which the Heavenly agents who stashed the rings in the treasury never bothered to learn about?

Aziraphale doesn't know and that's seriously troubling him.

“I wouldn't know how to get back,” he sighs. “It's too risky.”

Crowley makes some quite unhappy sounds. “We could test it out,” he proposes then. “Come to the bookshop and we try different approaches, to see if we can find a way to jump back to the starting point. I'm sure it's not rocket science.”

Aziraphale inhales deeply. “Crowley –”

“And if we don't find the solution,” the demon adds quickly, “you just have to sneak back into Heaven. It's easy enough.”

“It's not that easy,” Aziraphale protests.

“In the last few months I've done it twice,” Crowley reminds him, a smugness in his tone Aziraphale shouldn't deem so endearing and yet he does. “So don't tell me it's impossible.”

Aziraphale grimaces. Of course he is aware that it could work. But it could also result in The Metatron catching him in the act and starting to wonder how Aziraphale managed to get back to Earth without using the lifts or escalators. If he takes just one closer look at the ring …

Well, it's not worth it.

“No, we should only use this for emergencies,” Aziraphale decides, even though it weighs heavily on his heart. “Besides, Michael has been asking to see me. Maybe she found something that will help us with this awful Second Coming business …”

Crowley scoffs at the mention of that particular archangel. “I don't trust her,” he snarls.

Aziraphale doesn't blame him.

“Me neither,” he agrees. “But what choice do we have? I believe she is genuine enough – for now, at least. She wouldn't gain anything from pretending to work with us, would she?”

Crowley snorts. “You mean, apart from the position of Supreme Archangel after you have fallen from grace by her hands? Yeah, right …”

Naturally that has been on Aziraphale's mind as well. But indeed, there is little they can do about it.

Besides –

“It's too much of an elaborate plan, don't you think?” Aziraphale asks. “If she just wanted me out of the picture, she could have done it a million other ways. Easier ones.”

At this point there is nothing left but to at least trust that Michael is loyal to God and nobody else. Aziraphale believes her doubts about The Metatron to be sincere and that is all that matters now.

“Okay, fine,” Crowley concedes with a groan. “Michael is not that smart, I'll give you that. Why bother with a complicated plot if she could just rat you out another way. For conspiring with demons, for one.”

Aziraphale pulls a face. “I'm not conspiring –”

“Oh, but you are, a little bit.” Crowley's grin is actually audible through the bond. “And you like it.”

At first Aziraphale refuses to blush, out of principle, but then he remembers that there is no one around to see him and the next second he feels his cheeks warming up.

“You're ridiculous,” he scolds the demon fondly.

Crowley chuckles. “And you like that too.”

Once again the urge to be with the demon, to see the face he is making right now, is actually so strong that Aziraphale nearly gets ripped apart at the seams of his essence. Back in the days he lived centuries without ever meeting Crowley once and now one feeble month is enough to drive Aziraphale near to the verge of utter insanity.

He had no idea that it was possible to miss someone so much.

He suddenly feels something shifting around him and it takes him a moment to notice that he's touching the ring on his finger, his subconsciousness ready to leap to Crowley and damn the consequences. The yearning of his heart so powerful that his brain didn't even register a thing.

He quickly flinches back and chastises himself for being so impulsive.

Yes, seeing Crowley right now would be pure paradise. But it would also come with a lot of problems that ultimately would make their lives more complicated.

They can't afford to slip up.

And so instead of doing something foolish and probably ending up both loving and regretting it at the same time, he hastily says, “I should go back. Tabiel has most likely already found all those bogus reports, she is terribly efficient like that, and we wouldn't want her to report to The Metatron that I was untraceable for a good while …”

He rambles on like that for a few more minutes, listing all the reasons why it would be logical to join the Heavenly ranks again and keep up the charade, but ultimately it actually sounds like he rather has to convince himself than Crowley and in the end he snaps his mouth shut again.

“Angel,” Crowley eventually whispers when it's been silent for too long on Aziraphale's side. “Please, just be careful.”

He's always saying that at the end of their conversations these days.

And somehow he manages to sound more and more worried every time.

Aziraphale loves and misses him so dearly.

And this time around he isn't too shy to voice his own feelings.

“I love you,” Aziraphale tells him because it's nothing but the truth and Crowley deserves to hear it, as often as possible.

Crowley hasn't said the words back yet. Aziraphale isn't even sure if a demon can utter them without bursting into actual flames.

It doesn't matter, though. Crowley both says and shows it in all the ways that count.

Today it is a heartfelt, “I'm gonna make sure nobody buys a single of your books, angel,” and that's all the love declaration Aziraphale needs.

So when he steps back into the bright corridors of Heaven, a little smile accompanies him all the way back to the record room.

Chapter Text

Crowley always feels utterly elated and awfully miserable whenever he finishes one of his conversations with Aziraphale.

Elated because it is always the best part of his day to hear Aziraphale's voice in his head these days. It's good to know him alive and well. Thanks to their ring's connection Crowley has a deeper feeling for the angel now and he can actually sense when Aziraphale isn't doing too great, even if he claims the opposite. Therefore there is no posturing between them, no well-meaning lies to spare the other.

No, Crowley always knows what's going on. And this time around Aziraphale has been somewhat tense – as he basically has been since arriving in Heaven –, but overall positive and confident. He's obviously content with the progress that's happening and naturally Crowley is happy for him as well. The less trouble the better.

However, Crowley is also constantly miserable when they wrap up one of their – way too short – talks because it means leaving Aziraphale to the unpredictability of Heaven all by himself. Yes, he's got his ring and that fail-safe seriously puts Crowley in a lot of ease, but there are still so many things that can go wrong and he doesn't like any of it.

Besides, he misses Aziraphale. He misses their little dinner dates and their all-night discussions about everything and nothing. He misses the way Aziraphale always looks at him, depending on the time of the day – exasperation, affection, annoyance, tenderness. He misses having the angel just by his side, both of them living their lives together in tandem.

It feels all so out of sorts without him here.

Crowley sighs as he steps towards the window and glances outside. He's been holing up in the bookshop since Aziraphale left and barely showed his face around, eager to stay under the radar to not throw any suspicions back at his angel for one reason or another. Once in a while, though, he has to take it all in. He has to remind himself why they're doing all of this. Why they're risking their lives.

And so he looks at the humans outside.

The ones that hurry past the shop, their eyes only fixed on their watches because they're continuously too late for their super important things. The ones that linger about, maybe waiting at the street corner to meet up with friends or patiently letting their dogs sniff on every single item on the pavement they deem remotely interesting. And the ones that stay for a longer period of time, the neighbours and shop owners and the people who actually sit down in Nina's coffee shop to enjoy their hot beverage with all the time of the world instead of getting one of those cursed to-go cups Crowley isn't entirely sure anymore if they have been Hell's invention or not.

These humans are all so colourful. So oblivious.

They have no idea what Aziraphale is currently risking for them and they will most likely never know.

And it's a bit unfair, Crowley has to admit, because the angel deserves all the recognition for a change, but at the same time he is also very aware that Aziraphale would utterly hate anyone making a big fuss about it. Him acting like stopping the apocalypse is not a big deal and in fact something almost anyone would do (even though they all know that's far from the truth) is a character trait that Crowley both despises and adores.

Before Crowley even knows it he has shifted into his serpent form (because occasionally it's just easier to deal with everything as a snake for some reason) and curls up on the windowsill as he continues to watch the humans passing by. Of course he is rather big and obvious, but as before most people don't even spare him a glance. And the few who do do a little double take at first and then apparently decide that Crowley must be some sort of window decoration and not an actual, living being before going their merry ways again.

Only a little girl in a sunflower dress pauses in front of him at some point and gapes at him through the glass with a bright smile, obviously delighted by the sight. Crowley tries to grin crookedly back at her which he knows must look rather disturbing than lovely in this shape, but the girl just giggles gleefully and then dashes off when someone in the distance calls for her.

Crowley looks after her and tells himself once more, yes, this is why they're doing this. This is why he ultimately let Aziraphale go instead of clobbering him over the head and dragging him to Alpha Centauri against his will.

For little girls in their sunflower dresses.

For those who actually deserve a shot at a normal life before Heaven comes raining down on them and chooses on their own terms who is worthy of Paradise and who is a sinner about to be destroyed forever.

And also for those who oftentimes remain forgotten as Crowley can't help but think as he watches two cats snuggling in some corner. Because he's fairly sure that Heaven doesn't have any plans for all the animals on the planet and would just vaporise them alongside Earth without even a second thought.

It would be a bloody shame.

Yes, they're doing it for all of them.

And they're doing it for themselves. To get back to their silly, little lives full of books and plays and sushi and houseplants.

That is, at least, what Crowley is telling himself over and over once more, probably for the twenty-seventh time this day alone.

“Don't you think you're being a bit too conspicuous?” suddenly a voice asks from behind him, jolting him out of his thoughts. “Lying there, for the whole world to witness?”

Crowley turns his head and sees himself confronted with Muriel who is nervously fumbling with their hands.

“I promised Aziraphale I wouldn't tell anyone that you're here,” they remind Crowley. “And that would be far easier if no one would outright ask me about it since they saw you in the window, you know? Because I'm a terrible liar, I don't think I'm even capable of it –”

As they continue to ramble and quickly as light speed stumble into a panic at the mere idea of attempting to bend the truth, Crowley just sighs and slithers off the windowsill before transforming back into his human shape out of anybody's sight.

“Don't start to hyperventilate, little angel,” Crowley tells them. “I don't wanna explain to Heaven why you died on my watch.”

As expected Muriel doesn't take it as the joke it is but instead gawks at him in horror, clearly thinking that they indeed might die from this. They force themself to draw in a deep breath they don't actually need and quite loudly count to twenty. Most likely a technique they read in one of Aziraphale's books.

In the end they seem calm enough again. “Alright, alright,” they say. “I'm fine …”

Crowley assesses them, unimpressed. “I assume you will be excellent under real pressure.”

Muriel begins to beam at him. “Oh, thank you –”

“That was sarcasm,” the demon explains.

Muriel's shoulders droop instantly. “Oh,” they say again, this time disappointed.

Crowley grits his teeth, since the dawn of time never really in the mood to deal with any angels beside Aziraphale, but somehow seeing himself stepping forward and patting Muriel's arm reassuringly anyway.

“Don't worry, you've got other qualities,” the demon says. And once again wonders what he did in life to ultimately end up here.

Who did he offend so much that he doesn't deserve anything easy and uncomplicated?

(Well yes, God, obviously. But does She really need to add even more and more? Wasn't the whole Falling business enough already?)

“What were you even doing there?” Muriel asks, their gaze fixed on the windowsill Crowley just left behind. “Were you moping again?”

Crowley grimaces at the phrasing. “I'm not – I don't mope –!”

The audacity of angels is truly astonishing sometimes.

Muriel, however, doesn't appear overly convinced. “Were you pining then?”

THE AUDACITY.

Crowley hisses at them like the snake he is as he contemplates whether Aziraphale would genuinely be too upset if he dumped Muriel in the rubbish bin outside.

“And I'm mosssst certainly not PINING –”

He even takes off his sunglasses for extra effect, his eyes piercing through their very being.

Unfortunately they remain unfazed and Crowley honestly can't tell whether Muriel just doesn't possess any sort of survival instinct or whether she is positive for some reason that the demon is merely an adorable kittycat nobody has to be afraid of.

Either option is rather stupid.

“I think you do pine,” Muriel instead explains cheerfully. “I have been reading a lot of books in the last couple of months and whenever the protagonist is standing at the window, all wistful, they more often than not yearn for –”

“You're reading too much,” Crowley cuts in harshly.

“But Aziraphale told me I should read as much as possible,” they object. “It boosts my 'ability to think critically'.”

Crowley snorts. “And your critical thinking tells you I'm pining?”

“Yes,” she agrees happily.

Crowley clenches his jaw and refrains from throwing a few books right at their face. “Angelsss,” he mutters to himself. “As always the bane of my existence. In any way they can imagine.”

Muriel blinks. “I didn't –”

They break off immediately, though, when Crowley stops them with a dramatic wave of his hand.

“Just forget it,” he grumbles. “Go play with your books, baby angel. And if you ever dare to psychoanalyse me again, I'm gonna feed you to the neighbour cats, do you hear me?”

Muriel scurries off instantly, at least clever enough by now to realise that this question doesn't require an actual answer.

Crowley watches them disappearing into the depths of the bookshop before ending up shaking his head in utter disbelief.

Pining?

Him?

Yeah, right.

Angels are truly crazy.

---

Tabiel finds Aziraphale as he is walking through some random hallway, a bit lost and yet reluctant to ask for directions because as a proper angel you should actually know Heaven inside out by heart.

Tabiel thankfully doesn't comment on his obvious lack, though, and instead continues to drag him to all sorts of angels and meetings which discuss valuable Heavenly agenda Aziraphale couldn't care less about, but still works through like it is his only mission in life. Everyone seems at least happy by his enthusiasm about even the tiniest issues while Aziraphale smiles and tries to play nice and interested about it all.

After all, he is the Supreme Archangel. He should care about this, right?

Just as he ends up on his way to Michael after finally shaking Tabiel off, he gets intercepted once more and at first he can barely contain his disgruntlement at someone stepping in his path so vigorously, but as he realises he is dealing with The Metatron he instantly straightens his spine and puts on an expression that radiates pleasantness.

“Aziraphale,” The Metatron states loudly, for everyone in the vicinity to hear, “I have been looking all over for you.”

Aziraphale shoots him a forced smile as he answers, “Oh, I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that you had need of me. If I had known –”

The Metatron brushes him off right away. “It doesn't matter.”

However, it actually sounds as if it does matter and Aziraphale wonders whether poor Tabiel might suffer the consequences of not informing The Metatron about the Supreme Archangel's whereabouts at all times.

“How can I help you?” Aziraphale asks, batting his eyelashes in a manner that he always uses for particularly obnoxious customers. It looks harmless and polite, but, according to Crowley, actually screams, “If you dare waste my time one more second I'm going to make your life a living hell!” if you know what to look for.

(“It's called the customer service smile, angel. It's absolutely hilarious and also one of the most dangerous things on the planet!”)

Thankfully The Metatron is just as oblivious as most of Aziraphale's unwelcome customers.

“I was just on my way to Michael,” Aziraphale adds, hoping that whatever might weigh on The Voice's dark soul could wait another hour or two. Since he's been postponing his visit for quite a while now, just to not appear too suspicious in his eagerness, and right now he has reached a point where he can barely take it anymore. If Michael indeed has found some vital information, Aziraphale needs to know about it now.

“Michael, yes,” The Metatron says with a nod, like he knows all about it. “I'm glad to see that you two managed to overcome your differences.”

Aziraphale bites his bottom lip for a moment, unsure how to respond to that, before he eventually settles on nonchalance. He and Michael can still only be described as reluctant allies at best and Aziraphale highly doubts that will ever change, but they have come together regularly for the last weeks, outside of their mandatory meetings, to dig through Heaven's massive records to track down some concrete plans about The Second Coming and it seems that The Metatron has caught up on that change.

Aziraphale refuses to have his feathers ruffled by this, though. Instead he states, “Michael and I, I guess you can say we have come to an understanding. If we want Heaven to run smoothly, we can't just live in animosity. The greater good is more important than any … well, any differences.”

The Metatron nods along, obviously pleased to hear that. “Indeed it is,” he agrees. “And I'm delighted to see it.”

Aziraphale puffs up his chest as though these words actually mean something to him.

“I don't want to occupy much of your time then,” The Metatron says. “There is just some … some issue I wanted to run by you. And since it's a bit of a delicate matter, I didn't think it wise to bring it up in front of the others.”

He grabs onto Aziraphale's elbow, not gently by any means, and pulls him into a corner that seems private enough to not be disturbed or interrupted by any third parties.

Aziraphale blinks and tries to tame down his anxiety. “What is it?”

The Metatron exhales. “It's about Hell.”

Aziraphale is unable to hide his surprise. “Hell?”

“Something is happening down there,” The Metatron says, his voice lowered so much that Aziraphale is forced to lean in. “I can't say what exactly. It feels like … like something is shifting.”

Aziraphale creases his forehead. He has to admit that this is the first time he is hearing of this. To be perfectly honest, in his quest to fit into Heaven and try to find information about the upcoming apocalypse he barely wasted a thought on Below.

“And I was wondering,” The Metatron continues, “if you might have heard something. Well, due to your … er, unique relationship with Hell.”

Aziraphale bristles at that. “I don't have a unique relationship with Hell.”

The Metatron looks like he strongly disagrees. “Well, it's fair to assume that almost everyone knows about …”

He makes a vague hand gesture that basically says nothing, but you seriously don't need to be a genius to realise he is talking about Crowley.

Aziraphale tries desperately to keep his composure. “I can assure you that Crowley barely has any connection to Hell as it is these days.”

He lifts his eyebrow, dares The Metatron to contradict him, and of course he can't because not so long ago he offered Crowley back into angelic status and a demonic demon who does nothing but demon wouldn't have ever had such an opportunity presented to him in the first place. And The Metatron might very well just have proposed this chance for very selfish reasons while not giving an actual damn about Crowley's evil status, but on the outside he surely has to keep up the facade that he believes Crowley to be an upstanding citizen, otherwise his offer would have looked even more conspicuous than it already does.

Therefore he agrees easily, “Of course I know that. I never meant to insinuate that Crowley is still tightly connected to Hell and its values.” The Metatron shakes his head to make his point. “However, so far he is still a demon and thus he has ties to Below, so I just wondered if he might have heard something about this …”

On first instinct Aziraphale just wants to tell him that Crowley hasn't mentioned anything of that kind, but at the last moment he remembers that he is actually supposed to be broken up with the demon, in every manner of the word.

“I wouldn't know,” Aziraphale says as he tries to appear like a being fiercely attempting to suppress their emotions. “I haven't spoken to Crowley since … well, since I went with you …”

The Metatron keeps a blank face for a moment as he just stares Aziraphale down in the most intrusive manner possible. Aziraphale has a hard time not trembling on the spot and breaking down the very next moment.

“Well, that is unfortunate,” The Metatron says in the end, his voice smooth and yet somehow chillingly cold at the same time. “I figured you might have sought him out during your … well, your little stay on Earth a few weeks ago. To make him see the errors of his way and try to convince him yet again that returning to Heaven would be an amazing gift he shouldn't miss out on.”

Of course that would make sense, from The Metatron's point of view. Far too many people know that Aziraphale is quite attached to Crowley and it's quite reasonable to assume that he wouldn't just throw it all away like that. Especially with the threat of The Second Coming and the inevitable destruction of all sinners looming over their heads. They all know that Crowley would die if he were to remain a demon and they all know that Aziraphale wouldn't simply take that without at least fighting for it.

“I confess, I intended to pick up my conversation with Crowley and make him see light,” Aziraphale lies through his teeth because anything else would sound illogical and therefore suspicious to The Metatron. “But he wasn't around. He clearly didn't want to be found, no matter how hard I tried.”

The Metatron studies him for a moment, probably trying to figure out whether Aziraphale is telling the truth or not, but since he has no real experience with anyone lying to him he doesn't interpret Aziraphale's twitching eyebrow as a tell but just a twitching eyebrow.

In the end his ingrained belief that no angel could ever lie to another is strong enough to not question Aziraphale's words.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale makes a mental note to take further precautions to keep Crowley hidden from anyone's eyes in the bookshop. So far Aziraphale only restored the store's status as an embassy and figured it would be enough because he didn't think The Metatron might ever be interested in it. After all, he left it to Muriel as an afterthought, not a care in the world.

But if he's asking for Crowley again, after all this time, Aziraphale figures that it can't hurt to take it a step further to hide the demon.

(Even if Crowley probably won't like it and will fight Aziraphale every step of the way.)

“Well, it's a shame,” The Metatron eventually says with a sigh. “I was hoping for some insight.”

Aziraphale tilts his head. “You don't even have an inkling what might be going on in Hell?”

The Metatron shakes his head. “I can't pinpoint it,” he confesses. “It might just be internal battles. Maybe another change in leadership. It is prone to happen, especially since Lord Beelzebub's … well, departure.” He pronounces the word with both disgust and confusion, apparently still as stunned by the whole thing as anybody else. “But it also might be something else. Hell certainly isn't forthcoming with their information.”

Aziraphale reminds himself to ask Crowley about this later. The demon hasn't mentioned it yet during their talks, so it's fair to assume that he didn't notice anything amiss so far either, but if anybody might get subtly to the bottom of this, it's Crowley.

“Well, I surely apologise that I couldn't be of any help just yet,” Aziraphale says, his customer service face back on track. “But please, I would like to support you in any further endeavours.”

The Metatron nods. “I truly appreciate it.” And then he pauses, clearly lost in thought, as his eyes flicker all over Aziraphale's physical form. “Maybe you should consider picking up your old contact with the demon Crowley again, to at least get some information out of him. I'm sure I can help you find him.”

Aziraphale baulks at the mere idea of The Metatron being on the lookout for Crowley. He can't even begin to imagine what would go through the other angel's mind if he were to locate the demon right there in the bookshop.

Aziraphale pretends to reflect on it, though. Pretends that The Metatron's offer is gracious and generous and not something you dismiss right away.

Ultimately he says, as calm as he manages, “I thank you for your proposal, but I actually do have an idea on how to find Crowley on my own. I will definitely get back to you, however, if I'm not successful.”

“You should take some backup with you, though,” The Metatron points out. “You never know with demons.”

Aziraphale attempts to not look utterly affronted as he responds, “Don't worry, Crowley won't hurt me.”

“You didn't leave on the best of terms last time,” The Metatron reminds him.

Aziraphale just looks ahead, his true emotions buried underneath a big pile of fake ones. The voice in his head yelling the entire time, don't give yourself away, don't give yourself away …

“So do I understand correctly that you wish for me to go to Earth and look for Crowley?” he wonders.

“The events in Hell are troubling,” The Metatron states. “Any sort of idea of what might be behind it would be highly appreciated.”

Which is obviously a yes.

Aziraphale can't keep a little smile off his face at the possibility, even though he is not so sure this is actually a reason to celebrate. Since The Metatron obviously has a personal interest in this endeavour this time around, he will make sure to keep a close eye on his Supreme Archangel during that visit. Aziraphale highly doubts it would be safe to actually meet with Crowley in person. Not if he is determined to keep the demon out of it all.

And he still is determined.

No, Aziraphale will rather have to fake an unsuccessful search for Crowley and come back empty handed.

But it will be nice to see Earth again.

And maybe he is going to sneak a little peek of Crowley in the distance at least. It wouldn't be enough, not by a long shot, but it sounds wonderful nonetheless.

So he tells The Metatron, “I won't disappoint you,” and doesn't mean a single word of it.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale basically bursts into Michael's office with grand fanfare and exclaims, after making sure that they're truly alone, “Please tell me you found something to thwart The Second Coming!”

Michael, her face as pinched as ever while sitting at her desk, shoots him a very disapproving glance.

She doesn't answer at first, though, and just watches Aziraphale settling in front of her and straightening his waistcoat with as much dignity as possible.

“I apologise,” he says a moment later as he clears his throat awkwardly. “I just ran into The Metatron and I guess I am a little …” He flails one hand around and hopes this will get his feelings across without actually having to voice them. “Please, just tell me, did you find something?”

Michael still regards him as though she is seriously considering crushing him right underneath her shoes.

Business as usual then.

“Let's get one thing straight,” she says eventually, her tone ice cold. “I'm not here to thwart The Second Coming. If you honestly think that, you are welcome to go and never come back.”

She gestures at the closed door and Aziraphale can't help but gulp, too much reminded of countless encounters he had with her in the past when he used to be just a mere principality and utterly terrified of those powerful, almighty archangels.

(And to a certain degree he still is terrified of them. He has to remind himself on an unhealthily regular basis that he is actually their superior now and technically doesn't have to shy away from them anymore.)

(Old habits die hard, though.)

“The Second Coming will be Heaven's greatest glory,” Michael repeats the company line with an unusual amount of passion, at least for her standards. “And I have no intention of ever stopping it. It would be blasphemous to even entertain such a thought and you should be careful with your words around me or anyone else, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale hates that he feels chastised like a child, even though he actually didn't do anything to be ashamed of.

“I'm not collaborating with you because I have a wish to put an end to this,” Michael hisses. “No, I'm here because I seriously doubt that the events currently unfolding are indeed Her commands. Because I'm only willing to follow God's will and no one else's.”

Aziraphale grimaces, but doesn't try to argue with her. He knew right from the start what he was getting himself into and it would be stupid to see it otherwise now. Michael is set in her way and Aziraphale's books might have urged her to use some critical thinking of her own and question a bunch of things going on in Heaven, but if God Herself would show up the next second and tell her to trigger The End Michael would jump right to it without a moment of hesitation.

Aziraphale is aware of it all and he might not be happy about it, but at this time he can't ask for anything more.

“Alright, I understand,” he is quick to confirm. “I will make sure to use my words more wisely in the future.”

Michael merely glares at him in response.

“But do you have some new information?” Aziraphale urges after another minute of tense silence between them. “About stopping The Metatron, of course, and not The Second Coming.”

Michael scowls at him a moment longer before she pushes a piece of paper closer to him. “This is a report, issued a few weeks ago,” she explains. “The Metatron requested to speak to The Son. I can't say what came of it, however, because half of the record is missing.”

Aziraphale frowns. “The Son?”

Michael looks at him as though she deems him too incompetent to even live. “Christ!” she emphasises. “Jesus Christ!”

Aziraphale tries not to get flustered and fails spectacularly. “I mean, I know,” he mutters. “I know who he is …”

Of course he knows. He is not stupid, no matter what Michael might assume.

And he is naturally not even surprised to hear Christ's name right now. After all, they might not be privy to the actual events that would lead to The Second Coming, but everyone knows, including most humans, that God's son plays a major part in it all.

“I'm just a little surprised that The Metatron had to request an audience with Christ of some sorts,” Aziraphale states. “I guess I simply thought … I thought The Metatron could easily pay Christ a visit without doing much bureaucracy beforehand.”

It doesn't sound so complicated that anyone would need to put a request form in.

Then again, it is Heaven, after all. They barely do anything without bureaucracy.

“Okay, well then, it's a start,” Aziraphale has to confess. “Although these are, of course, not great news.”

If The Metatron is already meeting up with Christ, the ball might soon begin to roll, as the humans like to say.

Those are quite awful news indeed.

Aziraphale was actually hoping that they would have more time – more time to gather real intel, real evidence, instead of solely trusting a vague feeling of wrongness in their guts –, but if The Metatron is actively putting things in motion now there is not another hour to spare.

It seems like countermeasures need to be activated.

And Aziraphale already knows what's first on the list.

“Then we need to speak to Christ as well,” he announces.

Aziraphale has been considering it for a while now. After all, Christ is most vital for The Metatron's plans and might just go along with it because he has been told so since basically his whole life. Because he truly believes he is following God's command, to fulfil his destiny.

But from what Crowley has told Aziraphale about Christ, he is also a very bright and intelligent man and hopefully might be receptive to Aziraphale making his case. Maybe he could put this whole thing on hold with just a simple conversation. With Christ refusing to participate in The End – at least without talking to God first about it which would be, if they're right about The Metatron's actual motives, rather complicated for The Voice to arrange – The Second Coming would be cancelled before it even had a chance to truly begin.

Yes, it's a solid idea, but so far Aziraphale has hesitated to go that step since at the end of the day he can't be completely sure it will work. Talking with Christ would mean putting all of the cards on the table and the facade Aziraphale has so carefully built over the last couple of weeks would crumble down immediately.

If Christ would ultimately turn out to be on their side, it wouldn't matter, of course.

But just a speck of doubt would be enough and Aziraphale would lose his advantage as Supreme Archangel in the blink of an eye. The Metatron would learn about his true intentions and, best case scenario, put him into jail, or, worst case, delete him from The Book of Life.

Neither of those options is very favourable.

Then again, perhaps it's finally time to take some action instead of rummaging through old files and hoping for the best.

“Yes, I think we should talk to Christ,” Aziraphale decides, even though his insides churn painfully at the prospect. “He can put a stop to all of this.”

Michael narrows her eyes. “You would have to reveal everything to him,” she says. “He might even be able to read your true intent on your mind before you're capable of opening your mouth.”

Aziraphale pulls a face. “He could read my mind?”

“Of course,” Michael says easily. But there is some hesitation in her voice and Aziraphale can't help but latch onto that straight away.

He regards her intently and ends up wondering whether she has ever interacted with The Son for a longer period of time before or whether she merely glanced at him from a distance. Aziraphale is sure that she will claim to know Christ well if he were to ask her directly and he is also fairly sure that it wouldn't be a complete lie but also far from the truth.

Sometimes Michael likes to pretend she has more influence and knowledge than she actually possesses and right now Aziraphale isn't very keen on pointing out that behaviour because at the end of the day he can't afford to antagonise her in any way. So if he has to put up some kind of facade for her as well, so be it.

So instead of calling her out he just nods and says, “Well, right, mind reading. Of course.”

It doesn't really matter either way because he might get only one chance at talking to Christ and he will have to make proper use of it. Only the truth and nothing else.

“I know it's a risk,” he admits. “But if The Metatron is already seeking out Christ, I don't know how much time we have left.”

He shudders at the mere thought of being too late.

And at this point he doesn't know if it will make a difference or not, if Christ will even listen to him when The Voice himself is telling him something different, but it's worth a try. That is why Aziraphale is here for after all.

Michael, however, doesn't appear overly optimistic. “You seriously think Christ will listen to you?” she asks incredulously. “Without any sort of proof?”

“Well –”

“There is no reason for him to take your word above Metatron's,” she states and Aziraphale hates to admit that she has a point. “Only because you think Christ will just believe you by looking into your puppy dog eyes –”

“Puppy dog eyes?”

Michael snaps her mouth shut, obviously not eager to share where that phrase came from, even though it's apparent she must have read that in one of Aziraphale's books. At least he's never heard her – or any other angel, for that matter – use that term before.

“It would be stupid to approach Christ without any evidence,” Michael snaps at him. “You would only reveal yourself and probably even myself because you just keep on talking and talking and talking …”

Aziraphale scowls, but at the same time he can't really refute her claim. He does have a tendency for rambling when he's nervous and it's fair to assume that talking with Christ of all people would make his anxiety levels spike into unknown levels.

Back on Earth he never actually interacted with him, only watched over him from afar from time to time and reported back to Heaven. They didn't have any sort of relationship, at least not in the manner Christ and Crowley used to have –

Aziraphale sighs.

Yes, Crowley.

That is another thing Aziraphale hasn't been able to stop thinking about.

Well, granted, for so many obvious reasons, but also in regards to the entire Jesus Christ business. Because once upon a time Crowley showed that man “the kingdoms of the world” and along the way they formed a connection that's fairly unique, Aziraphale is sure of it.

A connection they can use now.

No matter how much Aziraphale might dislike it.

And so he whispers, “Crowley might be the answer.”

Michael stares at him, clearly both confused by the apparent change of topic and at the same time instinctively infuriated by the mere mention of a demon's name.

“What?” she asks and barks simultaneously.

Aziraphale ignores her hostile tone. “Christ and Crowley, they used to be … well, friends, I would dare to say,” he explains. “Crowley might be able to convince him of something nefarious going on without having solid proof about it just yet.”

Michael continues to gape at him.

Blinks.

And blinks.

For a very long moment.

In the end she asks, her voice extra slow, as though she wants to make sure that Aziraphale catches every single word, “The Son and The Serpent – used to be friends???”

She sounds like she is seriously questioning her own sanity.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, fidgets on the spot. “I don't know if friends is the right word,” he admits. “But they were travel companions, at least.”

Truth is, Aziraphale never really asked too many questions about the whole thing. Crowley had sounded fond when he spoke of Christ, almost affectionate, and that was enough for Aziraphale to shut any more information down and never speak of it again.

Back then he excused that behaviour with demons lying constantly. He told himself that he couldn't believe anything that came out of Crowley's mouth regarding Christ anyway, so why bother?

Now, however, he is ready to confess that he was jealous. Jealous about the way Crowley talked about Christ. About the way he smiled when he remembered the young man.

Aziraphale didn't want to hear any of it and instead buried himself deep in denial.

Even now he feels something ugly spreading within his chest. He knows it's silly, especially after everything he and Crowley went through together. He knows, without any speck of a doubt, that he alone has Crowley's loyalty and that not even Jesus Christ himself can compete to that.

And yet Aziraphale has always been a tad insecure and he just can't shake the sensation to its fullest.

Meanwhile, Michael seems to lose most of her faith. “Travel companions?” she exclaims. “Why weren't we told about this? Why didn't we know that The Son was – a demon, no less –”

She shakes her head in utter disbelief.

And then glares at Aziraphale, clearly blaming him for everything. “Why didn't you tell us about this?” she accuses. “A demon, close to Her son – you should have reported that right back to us! Or were you already so deeply entangled with The Serpent that you put your own desires above –”

“Please!” Aziraphale cuts in, raising his hands while trying not to blush at the implication. “I swear to you, I had no idea about it either. I only learnt about it during the crucifixion. At that point it was too late anyway and I didn't mean to disturb the following events by a report about something nobody would have been able to change anyway …”

Michael's expression hardens even more. “You should have told us about it afterwards regardless.”

“Yes, well …” Aziraphale lowers his gaze. “I figured that Christ would have told you all himself, so I didn't see the point.”

He is in fact somewhat surprised that he actually didn't. As far as Aziraphale knows Crowley never made a secret out of his true identity and Christ could have easily shared his adventures with the demon with all of Heaven later on.

So why did he keep quiet instead?

Aziraphale's curiosity is piqued all of a sudden and he actually has to fight down the strong urge to walk right out of this office straight to Christ and ask him outright about this, without any care for the consequences.

Thankfully he does have at least a little common sense left and so he stays right where he is.

“It doesn't even matter,” Aziraphale states. “If you want, you can be angry with me about that after everything is said and done. You're then free to share every single detail you learnt about me and my incompetence with all of Heaven and present yourself as the grand saviour after the failure of a Supreme Archangel that is me.”

He doesn't care one way or another, to be honest.

“But right now we need to be on the same side,” he reminds her. “And like it or not, Crowley is right with us. And he might be the only one getting through to Christ.”

Michael lifts her eyebrow, apparently still sceptical. “So you're willing to put your demon back on the chessboard? To actively use him instead of hiding him away?”

Aziraphale bites his bottom lip.

Of course he doesn't like the thought of putting Crowley in harm's way. But if they're timing it right, if they're smart about it, then this actually might be the safest option there is.

Crowley surely would agree.

And only because Aziraphale is open to using Crowley's expertise in this, doesn't mean he wants to take any risks.

Either way, he needs some facts first, though, before making any plans.

“For one, this all really depends on where Christ even is right now,” he says. “Because, to be frank, I never bothered to find out. I always assumed he would be with the human souls here in Heaven, but I could be wrong?”

He looks at Michael for clarification and just sees himself confronted with a blank stare.

Somehow he doesn't like this at all.

“Oh no, please don't tell he's been reincarnated?” Aziraphale grimaces. “Dear me, then he might not even remember Crowley and all of this was for nothing –”

“Jesus Christ has not been reincarnated!” Michael informs him.

Aziraphale instantly releases a breath of relief.

“Oh my goodness,” he sighs. “That's good then. Because I can tell you, all this growing up among humans and then triggering the apocalypse on a certain birthday or something – well, we have been through that once already and I wouldn't look forward to experiencing that again –”

Aziraphale is certainly happy that it is over and done with.

“So Christ is here in Heaven?” he wonders.

Michael pinches her face. “I assume so,” she answers.

Aziraphale frowns. “You assume?” he asks, bewildered. “Are you telling me you don't know?”

Michael doesn't respond.

And that is answer enough.

“How can you not know?” Aziraphale exclaims incredulously. “You're one of the original archangels, the Firsts – how can you not know where The Son is?”

As expected Michael doesn't react too thrilled about Aziraphale's tone. “How come you don't know? You're the Supreme Archangel!”

Aziraphale scoffs. “Only for a few months! I'm still getting lost half of the time.”

“Well, then maybe you should focus more on your job –”

“It's not like anyone gave me a manual, with Christ's whereabouts right on the first page,” Aziraphale complains.

It's true, he barely got any instructions. But considering that The Metatron mostly likely only put him back into Heaven for not-so-noble purposes, he didn't exactly bother to teach him anything but the bare necessities.

Aziraphale huffs at Michael glowering at him like this is all his fault somehow before he finally glances back at the request form The Metatron left behind in the files, hoping against all odds that at least some sort of department he sent that report to might be mentioned.

As expected it's just a generic form, though, without any means to find out where it was originally issued to.

“How come The Metatron knows where Christ is and you don't?” Aziraphale sighs.

Michael folds her arms across her chest and for a moment she looks so utterly defensive that Aziraphale expects to be thrown out of the office the next second.

The silence stretches between them, strained and uncomfortable, but Aziraphale isn't eager to back down and leave that question unanswered.

Eventually Michael deflates. “I assume contrary to The Metatron neither of us had a real reason to keep close tabs on The Son. We knew that he had come to Heaven after his sacrifice, but after that we lost sight of him, somewhere in the vastness of the Holy Host. It's not like he needed a babysitter.” She squares her shoulders. “And I guess somewhere in the last two-thousand years he got lost in the masses. I always assumed he had joined the human souls. But technically he could be anywhere here in Heaven. Or even beyond that. He is Christ, after all.”

Aziraphale arches his brows. “But wouldn't you have known? If he had left Heaven somewhere along the way?”

“How?” Michael prods. “He hasn't been reincarnated, that much I know, because that is something not even The Metatron could have done in secret. But apart from that? Maybe Christ's soul is floating somewhere around in deep space.”

Aziraphale chews on his bottom lip, the thoughts in his head somersaulting.

“Well, since The Metatron needed an internal request form, it's fair to assume Christ is still in Heaven,” he states.

“If he hasn't left since then,” Michael points out. “After all, this form is already a few weeks old.”

A fair point.

A point that doesn't make this any easier.

“So you are saying we lost the Son of God in this big, endless universe?” he summarises, dread gripping every fibre of his existence.

Michael grits her teeth. “It appears that way.”

Aziraphale actually knows that angels can't get anything akin to headaches up here in Heaven and yet there is suddenly a very painful pressure behind his eyes.

“So what do we do now?” he whispers miserably. “How do we find him?”

Michael just shakes her head. “I haven't got the faintest idea.”

Great.

Just great.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale is ashamed to say that he never really gave the human souls in Heaven much thought.

Granted, he has always known the vague area where they were put to eternal rest, but mainly because that knowledge was ingrained into his being upon creation, even back when humans were merely a fleeting idea in God's mind. He never actually bothered to check it out for himself.

At this point he can't really say why not.

Sure, he never spent much time in Heaven in the first place, so his disinterest might be excused with the lack of opportunity. Furthermore, he found himself surrounded by humans on a regular basis back on Earth, so why should he have visited the deceased ones Above as well?

He never formed those kinds of close relationships with humans to feel the need to seek them out in the afterlife. Of course he has always been fond of them, beyond the fact that they're the Almighty's most beautiful creation, and he basically risked his own life to save them from the apocalypse years ago and is actually doing so again right now, but he could never bring himself to actual let them into his personal life. To allow them to be part of his existence in a rather intimate manner.

Because at the end of the day human lifespans are short and the loss would have broken Aziraphale's heart over and over.

So yes, that's why he put some distance between himself and them, as weird as that may seem considering his devotion for them.

And that's also why he never visited them in Heaven.

However, now he sees no other option. Since Christ might very well be among them and Aziraphale needs to speak with him before The Metatron has a chance to dig his claws into him.

If it's not too late already.

So, after sending Tabiel off with another bogus quest that will hopefully keep her occupied for a long while, he heads towards a section of Heaven he's actually never actively been to. He wanders hallways that look exactly like all the other hallways up here, but somehow feel different for a reason Aziraphale can't pinpoint.

It gets worse the closer he gets to The Gate.

Humans are certainly not wrong when they describe the entrance to Heaven as a massive, golden, overly impressive gate, standing guard above them all and judging them from up high. Of course by the time you're standing in front of it, you have already been chosen for Heaven, but somehow it still looks intimidating enough that even Aziraphale can't help but feel assessed in a very thorough and uncomfortable manner.

He stares at The Gate for a long time and suddenly realises why he never came here. It feels like it knows all his most private secrets and he honestly hopes that isn't true because that would seriously upset his plans.

Found out by a gate.

Crowley would both laugh and yell about it.

Aziraphale fidgets awkwardly on the spot before his gaze drifts to a desk right beside the massive hinges, looking so small it's easy to miss. Several angels are posted there, most of them currently busy talking with a new arrival of human souls, it seems. They still have corporal bodies because the transition is simpler for them that way, but they appear distorted at the edges, like they're neither here nor there. When Aziraphale steps closer he can't even fully read their expressions, everything is far too blurry for that. He only watches them listening to one of the angels explaining the ins and outs of Heavenly life as though they're a tourist group about to set out on a nice, little city trip.

It's rather bizarre, Aziraphale has to admit.

Neither of the human souls spares him any mind, though, and soon enough they shuffle after the angel in question leading them through The Gate. Aziraphale can't tell whether they're in awe or excited or absolutely terrified and it's a little disheartening to watch them disappear into the endlessness of Heaven.

He doesn't have much time to dwell on it, however, because the other two remaining angels take notice of his presence.

The first one – Hastiel is his name, as Aziraphale knows by instinct – just looks confused that one of his kin got lost in this section of Heaven and is just about to open his mouth, most likely to ask Aziraphale if he needs directions back into the realms' centre. The other angel, though – Namatiel – recognises him right away, his eyes widening.

He immediately leaps to his feet and shuffles about at first, obviously not sure if he should bow or something, and ultimately settles on some odd half curtsey that looks all sorts of awkward. Hastiel, meanwhile, stares at his friend in bewilderment for a moment longer, clearly debating if he might have lost his mind, before his attention fully lands on Aziraphale and he suddenly understands what all the fuss is about. He jumps up also, but thankfully doesn't try to show his respects by doing strange things with his issued body.

“Please, please, this isn't necessary,” Aziraphale is quick to assure them as he steps up to the desk, trying to appear as non-Supreme-Archangel-y as possible. He doesn't want them to shy away like skittish animals. “I was just in the neighbourhood and figured I would stop by.”

Both angels appear puzzled by his phrasing and look at him, calculating how to react to that statement.

Aziraphale decides to clear his throat and explain, “You see, I have been in my new position for a little while now and I thought it would be beneficial to get to know every part of Heaven as intimately as possible. Essential even.”

The angels nod along, apparently still not really sure what to do, but obviously figuring that agreeing wouldn't be a bad move.

“And of course I couldn't pass up on your department, gentlemen,” Aziraphale says, the most pleasant smile on his face he can muster. The one that puts anyone at ease. “After all, you're absolutely integral for all of Heaven's infrastructure and I'm afraid to admit that I barely know anything about how all of this works.”

This spurs Hastiel and Namatiel right into action. They basically stumble upon each other to be of service to him, both exclaiming in unison, “How can we help –?”

Aziraphale smiles sweetly at them. “I'm just – I'm just in awe of it all,” he says – and this time it's actually not even a lie – as he gestures at The Gate staring down at them. “I can't even begin to fathom how big your operation is. And you're doing it all by yourselves? This is beyond impressive.”

As expected the angels become rather flustered by that, not used to compliments of any sorts, while Aziraphale continues to regard them as though they're the most amazing creature he has ever seen.

(Once again, it's actually kind of the truth. Organising all the masses of human souls on a daily basis can't be an easy feat and these angels certainly deserve more recognition that they're currently getting.)

“I don't even dare to picture the sheer numbers,” Aziraphale says with a shake of his head. “I mean, how do you even keep track of it all?”

“Oh, it's indeed a massive operation,” Namatiel confirms, his chest a bit puffed out due to Aziraphale's praise. “But don't worry, Your Highness, everything is under control at all times. We know where every single soul is residing at any time as we mark them right at arrival.”

Aziraphale tries not to look too eager by this piece of information.

This sounds perfect.

“Oh really?” he breathes. “So you can just tell me where Marie Curie is right now? Or Shakespeare?” He chuckles, now a little nervously. “Or, I don't know, Jesus Christ –?”

He puts extra effort in sounding like he's simply cracking a joke. Like he is not serious at all.

Nonetheless, Namatiel frowns a little at the question, not exactly sceptical, but clearly somewhat bemused.

Hastiel, on the other hand, is keen as a puppy and therefore quick to respond, “Well, we can find you these people, if you so desire, no problem.” But just as Aziraphale is about to beam at him in utter delight and declare him his best friend, Hastiel has to concede, “Well, apart from Jesus Christ, of course. He was never marked or anything. He is The Son, after all, he can do what he pleases –”

Of course.

It would have been too simple.

Aziraphale tries his best to cover up his disappointment and instead says, with a laugh that seems a bit too shrill for his own ears, “Oh yes, of course I knew that. I was just joking.”

Hastiel and Namatiel, who probably never heard a joke in their entire existence, mutually decide to play along and grin at Aziraphale as though this is all absolutely hilarious.

Aziraphale sighs, but instead of turning around again and leaving this conversation on a very weird note (which might reach The Metatron one way or another) he stays for a good while longer and asks the angels all kinds of questions about their jobs. Soon enough they're excitedly chatting away and any mentions of Christ are forgotten by the end of it.

So when Aziraphale walks away he feels both well informed about a section of Heaven he barely knew anything about before and also deeply disappointed that this new knowledge won't be able to help him in his crusade.

---

Crowley usually doesn't dream.

It's not something that happens to demons (and also angels, come to think of it). They were never designed to sleep or to even ponder over their lives too much, therefore it wasn't even considered in their creation plans.

However, Crowley occasionally does something akin to dreaming. He relives memories in his sleep and from time to time, when his brain feels creative enough, his mind adds a few things to spice things up.

Right now, as he's lazily dozing in Aziraphale's bed, shifting back and forth between wakefulness and unconsciousness, he finds himself reminiscing the last time he was here, with the angel by his side.

He thinks about the kiss they shared, so soft and affectionate, but this time, instead of retreating to the kitchen to have some tea while shyly holding hands and exchanging brief kisses like a pair of blushing teenagers, Crowley ends up dragging the angel back to bed.

The demon actually feels the angel's weight on his as their lips don't lose contact for even a second. He hears Aziraphale making all those amazing sounds, those happy sighs and little moans, and Crowley drinks it all in greedily while pulling the angel even closer, desperate for more touch between them, for more …

And then somewhere along the way Crowley hears Aziraphale saying his name.

Quietly. Tenderly.

Urgently –

Wait!

Crowley blinks his eyes open, for a moment so disorientated that he barely knows what even happened. He stares at the ceiling that has become quite familiar in the last few weeks and tries to wrap his head around things while Aziraphale's voice is still speaking in his mind, calling his name.

And he takes a long minute to realise that he actually isn't dreaming. That he is indeed hearing the angel in his head.

“– wley?” Aziraphale is just asking yet again. “Oh, my dear, if this is a bad time, just tell me quickly, so that I –”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley answers before he even really knows it, both in his mind as well as with his voice. He blinks some more, trying to get the remnants of that dream, the image and sensation of Aziraphale on top of him, out of his head and only ending up semi successful.

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs in relief. “I'm so sorry, but you took so long to respond, I got a little worried.”

Crowley hums as he stretches his limbs like a cat, his body still not fully awoken yet.

“'m sorry,” he mutters drowsily. “Was sleepin' …”

He notices a wave of fondness originating from the angel suddenly washing over him at those words. “Oh darling,” Aziraphale breathes. “I apologise for waking you then.”

There he is again, using those blasted pet names.

Crowley grits his teeth.

It's even worse when Aziraphale uses them unconsciously as he is doing more and more often these days. Like it's second nature to him by now and it can't be helped.

It makes Crowley feel all sorts of mushy things he's barely ready for.

“I actually just have two very quick questions,” Aziraphale says. “I won't bother you for long.”

You can bother me until the end of time, Crowley doesn't say.

Technically he is allowed to say that now. They've talked it out, they have put their relationship onto the next level, therefore it's completely fine to be a bit sappy here and there. Aziraphale certainly isn't holding back with his declarations and endearments and Crowley could do the same without having to feel too embarrassed about it.

The truth is, though, that it's all not so easy. For many reasons.

Foremost, of course, he is still not used to it. Millennia of being a demon and communicating via sarcasm and snark surely took its toll on him. He can't just tip the switch from one day to another and suddenly be romantic and all that rubbish.

Flirty? Yes, no problem. Even a little soft from time to time? Sure, if it makes Aziraphale happy.

But to actually voice the thoughts out loud that have been occupying his mind for half an eternity? Those thoughts he had classified forbidden early on because they were just so bloody dangerous?

Well, it's tough to break out of the habit of seeing them as anything but taboo.

Crowley is fairly sure it will take him some time to get over this blockade in his own head. Maybe even more than Aziraphale is willing to sit out.

Besides all that, though, Crowley feels like there are still too many things standing between him and the angel. Yes, they had a few good talks and Crowley surely didn't regret kissing Aziraphale a second time (and a third and a fourth …). He likes the pet names (even though they drive him insane) and the familiarity and the softness with Aziraphale is talking to him these days. He loves it all and he doesn't want to miss it again.

But they also suffered from miscommunication issues for thousands of years now and ignoring it all would eventually blow up into their faces. As it did back in the bookshop all those months ago. Crowley doesn't want to reach such a point ever again and unfortunately that means to fess up and get their shit together. By talking and being honest and all those things Crowley isn't much of a fan of …

Ugh, whoever said that love is hard certainly knows what they're talking about.

Right now, though, they have more pressing matters to attend to, as much as Crowley hates to admit.

“Okay, yeah,” he mutters as he rubs the last remnants of sleep out of his eyes. “What are your questions?”

While Aziraphale clearly braces himself, the demon stifles a yawn.

“Number one: Do you know what is going on in Hell?” Aziraphale wonders. “And number two: do you or your former lot have any inkling where Jesus Christ might be?”

Crowley comes to a screeching halt mid-yawn.

His jaw actually gets locked right where it is and for one moment he seriously fears he might end up stuck this way.

WHAT. THE. HELL?

Chapter Text

Crowley seriously wishes he didn't wake up at all.

Because getting hit with reality in such a cruel and painful manner first thing in the morning is seriously far from great.

“Angel,” he complains with an excessive whine. “Seriously? Why would you dump this all on me before I even had my coffee yet?”

Crowley feels Aziraphale's confusion through their bond. “You barely drink coffee,” the angel points out.

“True,” Crowley confirms easily. “But I feel like I would've needed ten shots of espresso for this.”

Aziraphale huffs. “Alright then,” he says. “Get your espresso. I'll wait. If it helps us to have a productive conversation about this …”

Crowley rolls his eyes. Why did he have to fall victim to the bitchiest angel Heaven has to offer?

WHY??

Crowley shakes his head in disbelief before stretching his body and listening to some of his bones popping back into place. Afterwards he crawls out of the bed and miracles himself some clothes because he sure as hell doesn't want to have this talk with just his underwear and a flimsy shirt on.

Even if nobody can see him right now, he also has some standards.

“Okay, okay,” he grumbles eventually after conjuring a mug of steaming coffee into his hands and heading for the window to sit down on its sill. The glass as well as the wood beneath him are quite cold, but somehow it feels right for this type of conversation, so he stays exactly where he is and bears it like the prideful snake he is not.

“Okay, yeah,” he mutters then, somewhat grateful that Aziraphale kept quiet the whole time and allowed him to gather himself and yet not grateful enough to actually voice that out loud. “Let's tackle one thing at a time –”

“Yes, this would be preferable,” Aziraphale cuts in, obviously keeping himself from pointing out that this is how things normally work anyway. “So where would you like to start –?”

Crowley throws one arm into the air in frustration.

“Jesus!” he interrupts right away because this is clearly the more pressing matter. “What the fuck are you going on about Jesus?”

Aziraphale makes a little noise in the back of his throat that's so distracting Crowley nearly drops his coffee.

“Yes, right, Jesus,” the angel says with a nervous chuckle. “Oh my, how awfully familiar you are with him –”

Crowley detects something very odd in Aziraphale's voice, something that tickles in the back of his head, but he seriously doesn't have the brain capacity to deal with this now. “So what about him?” he urges instead. “Are you telling me you're trying to find him?”

“Oh yes, we do –”

“And you have no idea where he is?”

“… no, we don't …”

Crowley squeezes his eyes shut for a moment as he fights off an oncoming headache. “So Heaven lost Jesus? That is what you're saying?”

He's actually not even surprised at this point.

Behind all that grandeur and posturing Heaven can honestly be very narrow-minded and incompetent. It's quite a miracle that they managed as long as they did.

“Nobody lost Jesus,” Aziraphale objects immediately, his ingrained desire to defend Above at all costs apparently kicking in again. Then, however, Crowley feels him deflating through their connection as he is picking up on his own reaction. “I mean, yes, in a sense … well, nobody kept tabs on him. After all, he is The Son, he can go wherever he pleases.”

The last bit sounds a little like a company line once more, but Crowley graciously doesn't point it out.

“So Jesus could basically be anywhere?” Crowley summarises.

“Technically yes,” Aziraphale agrees, albeit rather reluctant. “However, we have reason to believe that he resided in Heaven at least a few weeks ago …”

And then he is suddenly rambling about The Metatron and Michael and some request forms while Crowley sips on his coffee and tries to keep up, even though his brain is barely there yet.

He gets the gist of it, though.

“So you want to find Jesus before The Metatron can wrap him around his fingers by batting his eyelashes and giggling like a schoolgirl?” Crowley asks.

“That image wasn't exactly necessary, but yes,” Aziraphale confirms, his grimace audible. “If he is already meeting up with Christ, things might be further afoot than we thought.”

“You said it's been weeks?” Crowley wonders, his head tipped to the side in thought. “Well, the world hasn't ended yet, so either Metatron hasn't found him either or Jesus wasn't really receptive to his suggestion –”

“Or there is more to The Second Coming than only The Son,” Aziraphale cuts in. “We don't really know yet how everything will come to pass after all. There are so many different versions told on Earth and I have no idea if either of them are true or if Heaven has a completely different plan …” He sighs, long and tired. “We can't find any records about it. Any grand plans. How can we even stop it if we don't know the specifics?”

That is indeed a problem.

Yes, people have talked about Jesus Christ coming back for a very long time now. And so many religions and subgroups and small cults and whatever else you can think of have their own interpretations about The End. There is so much out there, in fact, that Crowley lost interest quickly.

Some motives show up more than others, of course, but it's hard to see a common ground there when the chance that Heaven is planning something completely different is actually not that low. Heaven doesn't care what humans think or expect and Crowley assumes that includes The Second Coming as well.

“Well, to answer your original question,” Crowley picks up their conversation again, “Hell was never particularly interested in Jesus' whereabouts. Even back when he walked among the living.”

Crowley never got an assignment from his former superiors about God's Son suddenly popping up on the playing field. Actually he had gotten the impression that they were pressured, most likely from Above, to stay out of it and let The Almighty's plans run its course.

Since on the other hand nobody really forbid him from taking a look, though, Crowley got curious one day and paid that special man a visit. The demon remembers vividly how he didn't think much of Jesus at first glance, just a regular bloke among other regular blokes. Yes, he was somewhat captivating as he easily gathered people around him with his stories and his charm, but overall he wasn't more impressive than some other chaps Crowley has met throughout human history.

When Jesus took actual notice of Crowley, however, things began to change. He knew right from the start what Crowley was, but instead of running for the hills or raining the wrath of God upon him Jesus got intrigued in return. He asked Crowley all sorts of questions – about Hell, about Heaven, about the life of a demon in general – and he was so enthusiastic and almost naïve about it Crowley couldn't help but be reminded of Aziraphale a little bit.

Of course that was Crowley's breaking point.

Afterwards he returned, over and over, and while he told Jesus about all the different cultures out there and saw the wistful looks on the carpenter's face, he eventually decided to just take him.

While at the same time praying that God wouldn't strike him down for this.

So they travelled the world, got to know each other and by the end of it Crowley liked Jesus enough to tell him that he didn't have to go through with God's plans for him. That he didn't need to sacrifice himself for a cause that didn't seem overly important to Crowley at the time.

Of course Jesus didn't listen. He simply smiled, put his hand on Crowley's shoulder and told him that everything would make sense one day. Just have faith.

Sometime later Jesus got crucified and Crowley lost him to Heaven.

And two thousand years later he also lost Aziraphale to Heaven and somehow it felt exactly like back then and at the same time a million times worse.

Crowley rubs his forehead and once again considers going back to sleep. “So … you're hoping you can convince Jesus to not trigger the fucking end of the world?”

Aziraphale stays quiet for a moment. “Well,” he says eventually, “I was actually hoping that you would be able to convince him.”

There is that weird waver in the angel's voice again.

That tension.

And Crowley can't really say what it is, but there is clearly something bugging the angel.

It's also not a new thing, Crowley is fairly sure of that. Back in the day Aziraphale always seemed a bit on edge whenever Jesus was mentioned. Granted, that didn't happen a lot because Crowley wasn't eager to tell Aziraphale about his little adventures with the son of God and the angel in return didn't appear keen on asking any questions about it either, but once or twice it came up and Aziraphale repeatedly reacted in a strange manner.

For the longest time Crowley just assumed that Aziraphale was secretly appalled that a demon would ever dare to get close to Jesus, but ultimately was just too polite to say that to Crowley's face. However, in the light of the recent events Crowley's actually not so sure anymore.

Might it be … jealousy?

A few weeks ago Crowley would have laughed at the mere prospect, but now things have changed and the fact that Aziraphale always clenches his fists and looks ready for murder – in his sophisticated and repressed English kind of way – whenever the topic of Jesus and his relationship with Crowley is even hinted at might actually speak a very prominent language.

Huh.

Who would have thought?

Crowley can't help but be a little pleased about it. He doesn't think he ever had anyone be jealous because of him.

His first instinct is to tease the angel, to use this new information to his own advantage to have a bit of fun, and he's already imagining Aziraphale flustering as he tries to talk himself out of the whole thing. But unfortunately Crowley remembers the issue at hand sooner than later and decides this is neither the time nor the place for this.

(He saves it for later, though.)

(You never should let such an opportunity go to waste.)

“I don't know if I can convince Jesus of anything, angel,” Crowley sighs. “I couldn't even talk him out of following destiny and ending up on that cross.”

“But back then it was only about his life,” Aziraphale reminds him, his voice having gone soft now. Most likely in reaction to the badly concealed pain in Crowley's tone. “Now we're talking about every living creature on the planet. He might think differently about it …”

Crowley grimaces as he recalls Jesus' devotion to God. His blind faith that everything would be alright, just wait and see.

“Besides, if we tell him that The Metatron isn't working on God's behest at all, that might change things also,” Aziraphale adds.

Crowley pulls a face. “Do you have any proof of that yet? Anything solid we could present to him?”

Because he knows that Jesus was fond of him in return, yes, but he isn't sure that would be enough for him to believe Crowley's words just like that. Not with a topic so valuable to him.

“Michael and I haven't found anything yet –” Aziraphale admits tentatively.

“Then I'm not sure Jesus would ever believe me,” Crowley states and it hurts a little bit to say it out loud, but it is the truth. “He can be stubborn like that.”

Crowley surely recalls all the many instances where Jesus actually pouted at him when he wanted to go somewhere specifically and the demon said no at first.

Ultimately Jesus always got his way.

That bastard.

“But we can at least sow doubt,” Aziraphale argues. “We can make him question if The Metatron is seriously as sincere as he appears.”

Well.

It's as good a plan as any.

But there is still a catch.

“Well, that's all well and good, angel, but if we don't even know where Jesus is, all of this is pointless anyway,” Crowley reminds him. “If your lot doesn't know and my lot never cared enough to know, I have no idea where to even start.”

There is silence on the other end of the line.

For such a long time, in fact, that Crowley begins to wonder whether Aziraphale broke off the contact abruptly.

He is just about to open his mind and prod at their bond when the angel reports back with an exhausted sigh.

He actually sounds so bloody haggard that the desire to be by his side, for real, suddenly becomes so powerful Crowley has to shut it down fiercely because otherwise he is fairly certain he would have popped up right next to the angel, thanks to the rings on their fingers.

“Michael and I, we will find something,” Aziraphale says and he doesn't seem to actually believe it, but grasps onto it anyway. “There must be some form of trace. Just something …”

Crowley hates to hear him like this.

He hates it all so much.

Once again he wants to tell the angel to come to the bookshop, to get away from it all for a little while at least. Away from those bright corridors and watchful eyes following him almost every step of the way. Away from the pressure and expectations.

But Crowley keeps his mouth shut in the end since he knows that Aziraphale will shoot him down again. Maybe even become angry at the demon for not knowing when to quit.

It's unfair and stupid, but yes, Aziraphale can also be a very stubborn fool.

So in the end Crowley just clears his throat and tries to defuse the situation by changing the topic. “What was your other question again? I didn't catch it.”

He was far too distracted after the mention of Jesus.

Aziraphale at least spurs into action once again. “Oh yes,” he says, a bit more vigour back in his voice. “The Metatron approached me to ask if I knew what was happening in Hell right now.”

Crowley frowns. “There is something going on in Hell?”

“He doesn't really know what,” Aziraphale explains. “Only that something is … shifting.”

Crowley creases his forehead as he reaches out his senses. He cut ties with Hell a long time ago and therefore he is not privy to many changes down there anymore, but as a demon he still got a feel for it.

And indeed, as he allows himself to poke at Hell's general aura it seems a bit distorted.

“I didn't notice it before,” Crowley mumbles, “but The Metatron is actually right. There is something going on with Hell.”

Aziraphale sparks alight a bit more at those words. “Can you tell what it is?”

Crowley tries. And quickly fails.

He never felt anything of this sort.

“I don't know,” he confesses. “It's really weird.”

“Define 'weird'.”

Crowley takes his time to mull this over. “As if the foundation of Hell is shaking,” he finally settles on. “For some reason …”

Aziraphale seems to hold his breath. “Do you think you can narrow it down?”

“I'm not sure,” he admits. And then his expression darkens as he adds, “But I just know the right person to ask …”

Aziraphale sighs and suddenly some very conflicting emotions are coming Crowley's way, nearly throwing him off.

“Angel?” he asks tentatively.

“The Metatron actually told me – or ordered me, to be more precise – to come ask you about Hell,” the angel explains. “Personally, I mean.”

Crowley lifts a brow. “He wants you to come to me?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale confirms. “Apparently this is important enough for him that he wants to use every option available. Including you.”

For a moment Crowley is too stunned to react in any manner, but soon enough a smile creeps onto his features.

“So that means you're coming back to Earth?” he asks, unable to hide the excitement in his tone. He actually sounds a bit like a child about to receive the greatest gift and he doesn't even care.

“Yes,” the angel tells him. He doesn't seem too happy about it, though. Which is only proven right when he adds, “And we can't see each other.”

Everything inside Crowley clenches painfully all at once. “Angel –”

“Please, Crowley,” Aziraphale cuts in, his tone shaking. “Since The Metatron shows such a personal interest in this, I'm certain he will be watching me the whole time on Earth. Besides, he seems adamant to send some angels with me as well. For my own safety, because 'you can never know with demons'.”

It's clear he's quoting The Voice and he sounds absolutely insulted by the implication of Crowley doing him any harm.

“I don't know if The Metatron is seriously worried about my safety or if these angels are just supposed to be additional eyes on me,” Aziraphale states. “At this point it doesn't even matter anymore. It simply means we can't be in each other's vicinity.”

Damn, this sounds even more torturous than Aziraphale residing in Heaven. Right here on Earth, in London, so very close and yet further away than ever before.

Crowley just hates his life.

“I will come to Earth, pretend to look for you and ultimately pretend to fail,” Aziraphale declares. “I'm sorry.”

Crowley snorts as he ignores the tight sensation in his throat. Why should he be surprised that fate is unfair once again?

“This sucks,” he grumbles.

Aziraphale exhales unsteadily.

“It does,” he agrees. “But look at the bright side: maybe we're gonna find Christ tomorrow, convince him of our mission and everything will be over by the end of the week.”

Crowley actually sees Aziraphale's over-the-top, cheerful grin right in front of his inner eyes accompanying these words.

The one he always wears when he smiles through the pain and uncertainty.

“Yeah, well, I'm a demon,” Crowley scoffs. “We don't look at the bright side.”

That's usually not their style at all.

But hey, Crowley's always been a horrible representative of his species, so maybe once it can't actually hurt to be a little optimistic?

Even though it's probably going to be a waste anyway.

Chapter Text

Crowley always liked St. James' Park.

He can't even really say why that is. He picked it at random once upon a time, as a somewhat safe meeting point with Aziraphale for their Arrangement. But when he started to spend longer hours there, and more often for pleasure than for actually conspiring with the angel about the newest topic of the week, the whole atmosphere started to grow on him.

The nature. The water, glistening in the sun. The humans, for once not so stressed out by the challenges of their everyday lives as they're revelling in the park's beauty. The ducks, quacking along, without any real cares in the worlds.

Yeah, Crowley liked it.

And he still does.

During the time of his fallout with Aziraphale he hadn't been back even once, all the memories too painful to revisit, so as Crowley is taking a seat on his favourite bench that overlooks the water in just the right angle he can't help a little sigh. He surely missed it all, as he is now realising.

He leans back and for a moment he feels relaxed enough that he is able to fool himself that everything is alright in the world. That there is nothing but peace and tranquillity.

That feeling doesn't last, of course.

Because it doesn't take overly long for a familiar presence to show up next to him on the bench and any sense of safety flies straight out of the window.

But ultimately this is why he came for. Unfortunately.

Crowley doesn't even look up from the newspaper article in his hands as he says, making an effort to sound exceptionally bored, “Shax.”

Shax squirms a little on the spot, clearly trying to find a comfortable position. “Crowley,” she greets back, equally coolly.

Crowley doesn't hurry because he knows it will annoy her and he is simply an arsehole at heart. He reads the article about a construction site in Oxford as though it's the most riveting thing he ever encountered and lets Shax stew for several more minutes. He feels her impatience in every fibre of his being, but she also doesn't seem highly surprised by his behaviour as it has become some sort of beloved MO for them both at this point. So instead of complaining and only getting sarcasm in response, Shax huffs quietly and watches the ducks doing their thing.

Eventually Crowley lowers the newspaper and shoots her a glance. As always she is wearing a Mary Poppins Nice Evening Outfit, including the hat and make-up, and once again Crowley finds himself wondering how she is coming up with that. Is it something she saw in an obscure magazine and figured she had to copy to fit in or did the dressing department in Hell assume this would be the right look for her?

Crowley doesn't ask, but he can't help but be curious.

“You know,” he says instead, “for someone claiming to not like Earth very much, you're here an awful lot.”

Shax purses her lips until they're merely a dot on her face, obviously displeased by the observation. And she doesn't deem Crowley's question with an answer, but merely regards him with a degrading look that's actually rather impressive. If Crowley would have been a lesser demon, he actually might have been intimidated.

As it is, though, Crowley only reacts by drifting his eyes back to the newspaper, indicating that he doesn't have any nerve for stupid games just now.

So Shax is quick to ask, “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Who says I had any intention to talk to you?”

Shax gestures at the bench as though this is all the explanation they would ever need. While Crowley wonders when the fuck this has become Shax' spot and stopped being Aziraphale's.

(Well, probably since the time he found himself free of Hell and could walk in and out of the bookshop without a care in the world.)

(They didn't need any benches anymore.)

For a moment Crowley debates whether he should be mournful about that, but in the end he decides that their new arrangement is far too superior to have any regrets.

“I'm just sitting here, reading my newspaper,” Crowley says casually. “No need to interpret anything more into that.”

Shax tenses up even more beside him, but as expected she doesn't just stand up and walk away. She always had a nosy nature – which ultimately led to her Fall, as far as Crowley knows – and wouldn't just miss a chance to get the newest gossip.

Furthermore, it says a lot that she is still on Earth. Crowley has been sensing her presence for a while now, simmering somewhere in the distance, merely waiting for something, and he has just been just as curious as to figure out why that is. Why she'd rather stay on Earth and deal with all those pesky human things instead of returning to Hell and making good use of her promotion.

Might it be in connection to the weird events happening Below?

“Did you ever find out?” Shax suddenly asks, apparently not capable of enduring the silence between them for a moment longer.

Crowley merely hums, acting as disinterested as possible, “Find out what?”

“If that energy source from a few weeks ago actually was your old crush?” she elaborates, the tone of her voice clearly meant to hurt him.

Crowley forces himself to not even twitch a muscle.

To be honest, after everything that happened afterwards he totally forgot that Shax sought him out that day to ask about Aziraphale. Crowley certainly denied it back then and by the way she is holding herself she undoubtedly didn't gather any further information on the subject in the meantime either, but Crowley ends up a little anxious anyway.

He never liked when Hell asked about Aziraphale.

“How should I know?” Crowley grumbles into the newspaper, not looking at her because he knows she would expect him to be evasive about the topic. “I haven't seen the angel for months. I can't tell you what he's doing.”

He makes an effort to sound like a scorned lover who desperately tries not to sound like a scorned lover.

And since Shax smirks in response, obviously pleased by the reaction, it's fair to assume he is doing a decent job.

“You want my advice?” Crowley grunts. “Forget about Aziraphale. Out of all the angels up there he is the least of your problems.”

Shax hums. “Clearly,” she says. “If he was able to bear your company for such a long time, he must have some sort of soft spot for demons. Well, as far as an angel is capable of it, of course.”

Crowley makes his brow twitch and doesn't reply.

“There are even rumours that he tried to bring you back with him to Heaven,” Shax adds. “That he even hoped to turn you back into an angel.”

Crowley despises that Hell sometimes knows so very much.

Shax, on her part, looks quite intrigued by the whole thing. Crowley highly doubts she would ever want to become an angel yet again herself, but she seems fascinated by the mere concept.

Crowley snorts. “I wouldn't listen to rumours too much. Just a waste of time.”

Shax leans in. “Also in this case?”

Crowley grimaces, not eager to relive this particular experience anytime soon. Despite Aziraphale since then apologising and explaining his reasoning in a way that Crowley could actually accept, it still hurts. He still feels the pain of Aziraphale looking at his sad eyes and whispering, “Nothing lasts forever.”

By now Crowley knows they've merely been talking past each other. That doesn't mean, though, that he likes to remember all those miserable months when he truly believed that Aziraphale could only ever love him as an angel.

“How about we make a deal?” Crowley says through gritted teeth. “Maybe I'm gonna tell you something about those rumours if you tell me what's going on in Hell.”

Shax goes rigid immediately, her body allowing her no time to pretend.

She obviously didn't expect Crowley to ask about that.

And to be fair, the whole thing went completely unnoticed by him until he finally checked for himself. Shax probably assumed – not completely wrongfully – that Crowley had no interest in Below anymore whatsoever and therefore wouldn't catch up on the change. After all, you have to actively look for it and why should a traitor desperate to get as far away from Hell as possible even do such a thing?

“How do you know about that?” she asks, her eyes narrowed.

Crowley merely shrugs. “I like to stay up-to-date, you know? Keep a close eye on the enemy and all that.”

An utter lie because this could have been going on for years without his knowledge, but if there is one thing he is good at it's blatantly lying to Hell.

Shax assesses him for a long moment and in the end scrunches up her nose.

That's all the answer she obviously deems Crowley worthy of.

Of course the demon can't accept that. “C'mon, Shax,” Crowley prods her. “You can tell me. We're old friends.”

That statement actually seems to startle her a little. “We're not friends,” she insists.

But she rather sounds bewildered than confident about it and Crowley smiles at her uncertainty.

“Well, we're something, at least,” Crowley points out. “I still have to teach you about sarcasm, remember? Don't make me forget that.”

Shax harrumphs before shaking her head.

Crowley straightens his back and braces himself to use all his temptation tactics to get her to reveal Hell's secrets, no matter what, but before he is even able to open his mouth and get this show on the road, she suddenly announces, “Beelzebub came back.”

Crowley grinds to a halt instantly and for an endless minute he can't do anything else but gape at her.

Well.

That is certainly unexpected.

“Beelzebub is back?” he exclaims in a tone that almost sounds like a shriek.

Does that mean Gabriel is back, too?

Crowley certainly wouldn't look forward to that.

Shax sighs. “Beelzebub was only in Hell for a quick visit,” she explains. “They warned us that the angels have been planning The Second Coming for a while now. And then they were off again.”

Well, yes, that does make sense.

Gabriel might have told Beelzebub about that eventually and they deemed it necessary to share that rather important piece of information with their old pals. Not particularly out of the goodness of their heart but mainly because The Second Coming would entail the entire universe, including Alpha Centauri or wherever the two love birds ended up hiding, and they're most likely not eager to get killed for good if they had a chance to stop it.

Either way, Hell has been warned and it's no wonder that the whole thing has been starting to tremble and crack. Demons might not have many emotions in general, but when a lot of them feel a lot of things at the same time the foundation of Hell might get compromised.

Crowley notices Shax staring at him imploringly, a strange expression on her features, and he takes a second to realise that she is looking for confirmation. Beelzebub probably didn't bring any solid proof, only the word of one angel that has been voted most hated by the demons way too many times, and Shax is keen on having more than one source to back this up with.

And since she knows that Crowley at least used to have ties with Heaven and managed to intercept Heavenly reports in the past …

Well, it's not entirely stupid to seek out Crowley in the matter.

On instinct he wants to deny the entire thing, though. To keep it under wraps. That is what he has been doing for the last few weeks. He hasn't mentioned it to anyone but Aziraphale, so why start now?

But then he pauses.

Deliberates.

Would it be so bad for Hell to know?

Granted, Crowley doubts that they would have a way to stop it because at the end of the day they're completely incapable of coming up with any good plans, but they might at least become a very effective distraction.

Crowley isn't up for starting any wars, but as far as it sounds Hell is on the verge of it anyway. Maybe he can shape it in a manner that would benefit their cause.

And so he says, “Yes, it is true. It seems as if Heaven has begun the process.”

Shax goes quite pale as she grits her teeth with suppressed fury.

She looks ready to kill.

Crowley actually feels the need to scoot away a little bit. Put as much distance between them on this bench as demonically possible.

But just as she is about to leap to her feet, undoubtedly to rush back to Hell and raise, well, Hell, Crowley yells, “Wait!”

She freezes and studies him with squinted eyes.

“What?” she hisses. “Didn't you already do enough by keeping your mouth shut until now? How long has it been since you could have warned us?”

She is not happy and Crowley doesn't blame her.

And she appears even less thrilled when Crowley states, “You can't start a war!”

The vein on her forehead begins to throb. “You can't tell me what to do!” she barks at him harshly. “You can't tell Hell what to do!”

Of course he can't.

He never really could.

But that doesn't change the fact that bloodshed is not the answer and would only make things worse.

“You have to trust me,” Crowley insists and then immediately rolls his eyes at himself because this might be one of the stupidest things he ever said.

Shax surely shares the sentiment as she looks at Crowley as though he has lost your mind. “Trust you?” She doesn't seem to know whether to laugh or kick him in the head. “Whatever made you believe that we could ever –”

“Blood oath!” he cuts in quickly, shutting her up efficiently right away.

“What?” she asks in confusion.

“There are … things afoot,” he says, as vaguely as manageable. “But I can't tell you because I don't trust you one single bit –”

Shax scoffs. “Likewise.”

Crowley waves her off impatiently. “I'm just saying, I could tell you – if you agree to a blood oath and swear to me that you won't talk to anyone about this without my explicit permission.”

Crowley isn't exactly delighted about it, but strategically it makes a lot of sense.

Hell is in uproar and even without his confirmation, sooner or later things would have gotten ugly. Because Beelzebub might have fallen from grace by associating with an angel in such a manner, but most individuals down there are still very aware that their former duke has always been devoted to Hell and wouldn't do anything to cause unnecessary chaos. They would come to the conclusion soon enough that Beelzebub's words about The Second Coming must be true.

So if Crowley doesn't want a damned battlefield – and he so doesn't want that –, he needs someone rational on Hell's side, keeping the masses at bay.

And Shax is smart, beneath it all. Smart and ambitious. And above all else her survival instinct is extra strong.

She will see reason.

And yet Crowley isn't willing to even utter a hint of what's going on right now in Heaven without some sort of assurance that she won't just tell everyone she meets soon after.

No, Aziraphale has to remain safe at all costs.

“So how about it?” Crowley urges. “A blood oath in exchange for the information of a lifetime?”

Shax grimaces. “You're bluffing.”

“I'm not,” Crowley promises. And this time it's actually the truth which Shax seems to realise since her demeanour shifts quickly. “This information – well, if you play your cards right and we'll all come out of this alive, you're going to be a hero to your people. The Second in Command, right after Lucifer himself.”

Shax can't help but perk up, intrigued.

Crowley smirks, once again pleased by how easy it is to wrap Hell around his finger.

And it's good to know that he's still got it.

Chapter Text

Thankfully blood oaths are not as messy as they sound.

Technically the blood that is running through the veins of their issued bodies is not even really theirs, so to speak, therefore it doesn't have much impact in the ritual. No, instead you rather bind a part of your essence to the promise and if you would ever dare to break it, your essence would rip apart piece by piece.

It's nasty and painful and you usually don't enter a blood oath if you're not absolutely sure that it's worth it.

Shax, at least, seems sure enough.

She's feeling it, the shift in the air. She knows that something big is going on in Heaven and that Hell needs to learn the truth about it if they don't want to end up blindsided.

So it happens that on this nondescript afternoon two demons in St. James Park enter a pact.

There is not much fanfare, not a big firework or anything like that. They just touch each other's fingertips and mumble some ancient words they know by heart by design (even though Crowley has never actually uttered them before) while their essences sparkle between them.

Humans walk by, not noticing a thing.

“Whatever we discuss on this bench from now on is never allowed to be discussed by you with anyone but me, unless I give you strict permission,” Crowley makes himself clear. “And that includes any kind of communication on your part, verbal or non-verbal. No secret codes you developed with your buddies once because you were bored, no letters, no paintings, no bloody pantomiming – nothing. Do you agree to those terms?”

Shax hesitates for a moment, more out of instinct than anything else, before she presses her lips tightly together and nods in confirmation.

The magic between them sparks for a second and then fizzles out.

And Crowley can't really say how he knows it worked, but he knows. He feels it in his entire being.

Shax straightens her spine and according to her pinched expression she senses it too. She remains sitting on the bench, though, indicating that she is ready to hear whatever Crowley is about to tell her.

And so Crowley, knowing that it will be safe to talk as long as at least one arse cheek of Shax' is placed on the bench's surface, announces grandly, “There are agents right now in Heaven actively trying to stop The Second Coming!”

Shax narrows her eyes.

Assesses him very thoroughly.

And then says, dry as a bone, “It's your little pet angel, isn't it?”

Crowley refuses to bristle, both at her statement as well as her tone, and instead insists, “I won't tell you any names.”

Despite the blood oath he just can't bring himself to expose Aziraphale.

“I'm just telling you, things are afoot,” Crowley states. “And if Hell would go to war, this might rile things up in a far too great a manner. Disturb the whole operation.”

Shax scoffs. “And what do you expect us to do? Nothing?”

“Oh no, of course not,” Crowley objects with a dismissive hand gesture. “I expect you to do what you do best: wreak havoc.”

Shax obviously can't help a little smirk at that.

“Be a distraction,” Crowley urges her. “Make Heaven's life as miserable as possible. Don't just double or triple your usual efforts, make it tenfold instead. Make sure that Heaven will stay occupied.”

“But no war?” Shax inquires yet again, her tone suggesting that she doesn't really understand why they just can't do that instead.

Crowley shakes his head vehemently. “No, a war is too massive,” he explains. “We don't need one big fire but rather one million smaller ones spread all over the planet.”

Shax tilts her head, pensive. “You want to spread Heaven thin.”

It's not a question.

“Yes,” Crowley agrees. “If the angels are all down here putting out your fires, Heaven will be far emptier. And those agents will have an easier time moving around without watchful eyes following them all the time.”

Shax nods, apparently finally getting the gist of things. “So you want us to create chaos big enough that Heaven's forces feel the need to act, but not as big that the archangels might get personally involved?”

Of course she knows that Crowley is keen on keeping Aziraphale out of it all. And while a full-blown war would force the Supreme Archangel to take action, a bunch of wild demons spreading a bit more misery among humankind and Heaven than normal would not.

It might finally take all those close eyes off Aziraphale's back and allow him to move more freely. And it also might keep The Metatron busy enough that he would need to put his plans for The Second Coming on pause for the time being.

Either way, Hell actually might help them out here, as weird as that sounds.

The enemy of your enemy is your … well, not friend, naturally, but maybe a reluctant ally in the fight for basic survival.

“So, what do you say?” Crowley urges.

Just because Shax is bound by an oath to not share any of this information doesn't mean she actually agrees with the plan to begin with. She still has a right to refuse and not do anything with what Crowley just told her.

“Well, it does sound logical,” she concedes, after a minute of silent consideration. “But I'm not so sure I will be able to keep the hordes of Hell at bay like that. I do have an important position down there, no question about that, but there are still certain individuals that I have to answer to. If someone like Dagon or even him would protest and instead give orders for war, there wouldn't be much I could do.”

“I know that,” Crowley assures. Especially Lucifer's word is law down there and nobody would ever dare to defy him. “I guess you have to be smart about it, Shax. Tell them that spreading Heaven thin first is a strategic decision. That causing chaos will weaken Heaven. That it will hurt Heaven even more when you have them on their knees.”

Shax considers it for a moment. “That argument won't hold for long, though,” she points out. “You know demons, they're bloodthirsty by nature. They won't be happy to postpone a potential war for all eternity.” She squints her eyes accusingly and adds, “Particularly after that apocalypse that never happened. A lot of people are still on edge about that down there.”

Right.

Well, Crowley still doesn't feel any need to regret his part in thwarting the end of the world by the hands of the Antichrist, but he can also acknowledge that it truly didn't help easing the tension in Hell at all. Everyone had been working towards this goal for millennia and to have it ripped out of their hands caused quite a ruckus that hasn't died down yet by any means.

So with the possibility of an actual war on the table, most demons wouldn't hesitate for too long.

“I know it's not a permanent solution,” Crowley admits with a sigh. “But even just an extra few days might give us the headstart we need.”

Shax purses her lips. “And we are seriously talking about stopping The Second Coming for good? This is not about your little angel making an exception just for you while the rest of us face complete annihilation by the end of it?”

Crowley blinks behind his sunglasses. “Listen, Shax, it's no secret that I'm not Hell's biggest fan,” he doesn't hesitate to remind her. “But to be frank, I despise Heaven even more. And to see them succeed, to imagine all their triumphant little faces – ugh, it makes me nauseous.”

He actually couldn't live like that.

Earth destroyed, demons and all those other sinners (whoever they might be) vapourized, and nothing left but the angels basking in their glorious victory.

Crowley would be sick to his stomach the entire time.

And who knows who would even end up in the 'sinners' category. Granted, usually Heaven and Hell have a seasoned system for who goes where after their death, but there is no guarantee that the same will apply for The Second Coming. Maybe the people in charge – aka The Metatron – are going to be a little more strict in their assessment and many people who don't deserve it will be blasted away into nothingness.

Hell, perhaps even Aziraphale himself is going to be labelled as a sinner for all the 'indiscretions' in the past.

Crowley surely wouldn't put it past The Metatron to arrange such a thing.

No, The Second Coming has to be stopped permanently.

“Heaven doesn't deserve to win,” Crowley presses through his teeth and apparently that is more than enough for Shax.

She nods at him, clearly realising that his fury is genuine.

“Very well then,” she says. “I still don't trust you, but you make a valid point. After all, Heaven took even more from you than any of us.”

Her tone is somewhat mocking and even a bit dismissive, but Crowley can't object to that statement. Heaven tried to rip Aziraphale away from him and actually was successful for a couple of (absolutely miserable) months and Crowley will never forget that.

Never.

And Shax seems to become quite aware of that fact as she studies Crowley's facial journey intently. Crowley can't really say what he looks like, how both beyond furious and absolutely devastated he must appear by the mere reminder of it all, but at least it seems like it's enough for Shax to believe his motives.

She nods firmly before standing up.

But just as she is about to step away she suddenly appears to remember something and sits back down.

“You never told me,” she realises, eyeing Crowley. “What about those rumours?”

Crowley, who is already thirty steps ahead of her, can't even begin to fathom what she is getting at and merely looks at her in bewilderment. “Rumours?”

“Yes, the rumours about you allegedly being invited back into Heaven's arms as a redeemed angel,” Shax clarifies. “You said you would tell me all about it if I told you about what's going on in Hell.”

Oh yeah, right.

That completely slipped Crowley's mind.

He offers her a crooked smirk in response and reminds her, “I said that I would maybe tell you.”

Shax pulls a face, obviously not happy about his avoidance tactics. “Crowley –”

“How about this?” Crowley interrupts, his smile not wavering once. “You prove yourself to me, as someone trustworthy, and then I might feel inclined to tell you the whole story.”

Shax scoffs. “I'm not that interested in it,” she basically spits onto the ground in front of Crowley's feet.

But Crowley actually can hear in the tone of her voice that she is intrigued by the mere notion of a demon becoming an angel again. Clearly not for herself – Crowley is fairly sure she would rather rip all her hair out one by one –, but as a general concept. Perhaps she is considering using it as a very effective threatening technique in Hell for disobedient demons?

Who knows?

Either way, she eyes him for a minute more, her gaze flickering all over Crowley's body as though she is looking for some more secrets the other demon consciously forgot to tell her, while Crowley just sighs and directs his attention back to the newspaper in his hand.

As he is preoccupied reading an article about a family dog exposing the cheating husband by digging out the mistress' lingerie between the couch cushions during family game night, Shax eventually stands up and walks away, without even a word of goodbye.

Crowley discreetly watches her leave and relaxes a bit when she is finally out of his sight. Nonetheless, he waits twenty more minutes before he taps into the ring's connection and sends a message to Aziraphale to call back as soon as it's possible for him.

This time it takes hours and if Aziraphale wouldn't have regularly sent quick affirmations that he's fine, just busy, Crowley would have gone quite insane.

The sun is already setting when Aziraphale finally reports back.

“I'm so sorry for keeping you waiting,” he says, somehow sounding more stressed than Crowley can ever remember. “I'm ridiculously popular today.”

Crowley starts to fidget. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, don't worry,” Aziraphale assures him. “They all just needed my expertise today, for one reason or another. Especially Tabiel has been particularly clingy.” He sighs wearily. “But it seems that Hell is currently causing some drama and that got everyone distracted enough that I was able to slip away.”

Crowley finds himself grinning. Shax certainly doesn't wait around.

“Yeah, about that …”

He dives into his tale, telling Aziraphale all about his deal with Shax, while he feels the angel getting more and more anxious on the other end of their bond.

“Are you sure this was wise?” Aziraphale wonders when Crowley has finished. “Hell is rather unpredictable –”

“And that might give us an advantage,” Crowley cuts in. “Listen, I don't like it either, but Hell is equally eager to see The Second Coming not happening. Why not use that?”

Aziraphale falls silent, clearly mulling this over.

“You might be right,” he ultimately concedes. “It's not an ally I have been hoping for, but Hell certainly has a history of keeping Heaven on its toes. I mean, without them Tabiel would probably still follow me around like a lost puppy. So I guess I have Hell to thank for that.”

He sounds like he can barely believe such words are leaving his mouth and Crowley surely shares the sentiment.

“How's the search for Jesus going?” the demon wonders then, both the desire to not think about Hell at all and his personal interest on the Christ matter urging him to change the subject.

Once again Aziraphale doesn't appear overly optimistic as he states, “Oh dear, don't get me started …”

And then he dives into one of his rambles and he talks and talks, apparently without any real intention of stopping anytime soon.

But just as he is mentioning an idea of Michael's to look for Jesus' followers behind The Gate and hope that a) Jesus is with them, or b) they have at least valuable information, Aziraphale suddenly stops mid-sentence.

So abruptly, in fact, that Crowley instantly ends up alarmed.

“What is it?” he exclaims, this time both in his mind and out loud.

Some of the ducks shoot him side-eyes, obviously wondering why the weird fella is talking to himself.

Aziraphale, however, merely sighs in the most wistful manner.

“Oh my dear, listen to us,” he says. “These days we don't talk about anything but apocalypses.”

Crowley relaxes at first when he realises the angel is not in any immediate danger. Then Aziraphale's words get through to him, though, and he grimaces as he feels the pain even without their bond amplifying it.

“I know,” he whispers. “But it is kind of a pressing matter, is it not?”

Sadness is radiating off of Aziraphale. “Of course it is,” he agrees unhappily. “But with us barely having any time to ourselves apart from strategising … and me being stuck up here in Heaven … well, sometimes it can just slip your mind why you're doing all this in the first place.”

Crowley pulls a face. He can imagine that it's not easy to stay focused if you're so isolated from everything you hold dear. At some point it must be so difficult to keep on track.

“You're doing this for little girls in sunflower dresses,” the demon reminds him.

As expected Aziraphale is more confused than eased by that statement. “What?”

“Humanity,” Crowley clarifies. “You're doing this for the humans and their silly little lives.”

“They're not silly,” Aziraphale defends them on autopilot and Crowley finds himself smiling at his defiant tone.

“If you say so,” Crowley chuckles. “But just remember, you're doing it for them. For all the Maggies and Ninas and Adams and Anathemas and whoever else you can think of out there …”

Aziraphale hums, clearly requiring a moment to take it all in.

And then he adds, probably the softest he has ever been, “And you. I'm doing this for you.”

Crowley is kinda relieved that the angel can't see his expression right now because he's fairly sure he looks so very dumb with the muscles in his face going slack there for a moment.

Of course this shouldn't be any surprise and technically it isn't, but the way Aziraphale is phrasing it, the manner his voice got so gentle all of a sudden, makes it sound like Crowley is actually the main motivator for all of this. Yes, saving humanity and all of God's creation is certainly a nice bonus Aziraphale is eager to take with him as well, but most of his focus is directed on Crowley alone and the demon barely knows what to do with this.

Nobody has ever regarded him in the way Aziraphale does.

How does a demon react to that?

Crowley at least acts in the manner he always does: By losing the ability to speak and just arranging some unintelligible words together that make no sense at all.

He feels Aziraphale's amusement, though. His fondness. As though Crowley being rendered speechless is the most endearing thing.

For him probably it actually is.

And at that moment he suddenly misses the angel so much it's nearly ripping him apart. It's so very unfair that Aziraphale can't be by his side to witness Crowley making a proper fool of himself.

Therefore he can't reign it in anymore and instead blurts out, “Damn, I bloody miss you!”

Aziraphale reacts with surprise at first, clearly thrown off by Crowley's blatant honesty, but it's quickly replaced by a yearning that they both sense in every part of their being.

“Oh Crowley …” the angel whispers and it's so very obvious that he shares the sentiment.

While Crowley bites on his bottom lip and chastises himself for making it harder for them both.

He can't tame down that bloody longing, though, no matter how hard he tries. He seems that once it has a chance to start, it has no intention of going anywhere anytime soon.

He misses the angel and he knows Aziraphale can feel it and it's all just a fucking mess.

Why did it have to be them?

Why couldn't they just live their little, unexciting life in peace?

Was that seriously too much to ask for?

Crowley closes his eyes, attempts to reign himself in somehow, but then he feels a weird breeze hitting him in the face and he quickly opens his lids again.

Only to see Aziraphale sitting right next to him on the bench.

Crowley stares at him in utter shock and for a second there honestly considers the possibility of him having gone completely crazy. He's already pathetic enough, so why not hallucinate the angel out of nowhere?

But then he gapes some more and realises that the illusion that might or might not be Aziraphale looks equally shell-shocked, his eyes widened so much they seem to nearly bulge out of their sockets.

For a long moment they just look at each other, completely frozen.

And then Crowley spots the ring on Aziraphale's finger which has been glowing brightly and is now fading back into his original state and he suddenly understands what is going on.

Aziraphale apparently managed to travel through their bond with the ring's power, right to Crowley's side.

Just like they both have been yearning for, despite them trying to suppress it.

Aziraphale appears to come to the same conclusion at that moment.

Because his jaw goes slack and he exclaims loudly, “OH FUCK!”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale can't say what happened.

He was standing awkwardly in one of the secret passageways, listening to Crowley admitting that he missed him, and somehow the angel's entire system shut down and sparked alive at the same time. He felt both Crowley's longing and his deep-rooted regret for even uttering those words in the first place, most likely scolding himself for getting all emotional in a situation like this and wasting their time, and Aziraphale just couldn't deal with Crowley feeling bad about it all.

He did nothing wrong, after all.

And so Aziraphale's emotions flared up, a strong urge to pull Crowley into his arms and assure him personally that his feelings could never be ill-timed, no matter what, and before he even really registered it the ring on his finger glowed in a faint light.

Next thing he remembers is the world tipping to the side for a moment, a weird sensation filling him as though he lost his footing.

And then, all of a sudden, instead of endless, bright white surrounding him there was a lake and ducks and humans walking around … and Crowley …

Crowley who stared at him in as much shock as Aziraphale was sensing at that moment.

For a long second they merely gaped at each other, too stunned to even comprehend what had occurred.

But then his glance flickered to both of their rings and suddenly it all made sense.

“OH FUCK!” Aziraphale exclaims as he jumps to his feet on autopilot and feels his anxiety skyrocket into so far unknown stratospheres.

He even gets dizzy from it and staggers about.

He ignores Crowley reaching out to steady him, though, and instead rasps, “Oh dear Lord, what did I do? What did I do –?”

He hadn't planned any of this.

He's been so very careful the last few weeks, desperate to keep his feelings in check and not teleport himself back to Earth – back to Crowley – in a moment of weakness. It was hard, sometimes close to impossible, and yet he managed somehow.

But to feel Crowley's yearning and sadness – it obviously was too much in the end for Aziraphale's poor, fragile heart.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Aziraphale mutters in terror, over and over, as he snaps his gaze back and forth, his mind already expecting countless angels, led by The Metatron, leaping out of the nearest bushes and arresting him and – even worse – Crowley for treason of the highest kind.

The only person coming near, however, is Crowley. He quickly rests both hands on the angel's shoulder and grounds Aziraphale in a manner no one else ever could.

Aziraphale's breathing slows down immediately, even though his brain tells him how stupid it is not to freak out right now.

But he just has to look into Crowley's eyes, peeking out behind those sunglasses, and feels a very familiar – and terribly missed – calmness gripping onto him. As though the demon has some secret superpower which mulls everyone close by into a peaceful state and lets them believe that everything is completely alright.

Even if that couldn't be further from the truth.

“Angel,” the demon says quietly, his gaze fixed on Aziraphale alone, “that's it. Just take a deep breath.”

On instinct Aziraphale wants to snort at that because his body surely isn't in any need of oxygen. Not now, not ever. But just as he is opening his mouth to tell Crowley just that, he feels his throat tightening in a very uncomfortable manner and he has to reluctantly agree that the demon might have a point about the whole thing.

So ultimately Aziraphale does as he is told and inhales slowly. It's a little shaky at first, but his mind seems to clear somewhat at the gesture, so he does it again and again. Deeper and deeper with every breath he takes.

In the end he reaches a state that could tentatively be described as calm.

It lasts for about ten seconds.

Then he hears some ducks quake in the distance and he is suddenly remembering once more that this is all so wrong, oh so wrong, and he is on the verge of falling into yet another panic. His entire being starts to tremble as his gaze flashes all over the place, seeing potential threats at every corner.

His brain screams at him to run and hide and especially get as far away from Crowley as possible because nobody shall find him in the Supreme Archangel's presence –

Oh no, Aziraphale doesn't even dare to imagine what might happen to him then –

Nobody is supposed to know –

Nobody –

Aziraphale still senses Crowley's hands on his shoulders and he is just considering breaking free from that grip – even though it might very well be the last thing his heart actually desires – when the demon all of a sudden begins to push him. Aziraphale only has time to yelp in surprise before he is dragged across the grass, towards the parking lot.

“We need to get out of the open,” Crowley mumbles underneath his breath while navigating around passersbys and hindrances on the ground in front of them.

Aziraphale just lets it happen because at this point he is barely capable of a coherent thought anyway.

His spirits instantly rise, though, when he spots The Bentley soon after. Just sitting there in its parking spot, glistening in the sunlight.

Aziraphale actually sighs in relief, even though he technically knows that it's ridiculous. The car surely won't be any help against the armies of Heaven, not even on its best day.

And yet it's a safe haven Aziraphale desperately longs for and he quickens his steps at the car's sight, eager to climb inside and at least feel the illusion of safety.

He relaxes straight away when he slides into the passenger seat.

And that feeling intensifies when Crowley takes place on the driver's side.

Yes, Aziraphale's mind decides. This is right. This is how it's supposed to be.

He even ends up smiling.

Crowley, however, shoots him a look as if he is seriously questioning the angel's sanity before making a rumbling noise in the back of his throat and puts the keys into the ignition.

“We need to get to the bookshop,” Crowley presses through his teeth while steering The Bentley out of the parking lot with as much road rage as to be expected from him. “And then we figure this mess out.”

Right, the bookshop.

Granted, if Heaven would notice his absence, this would surely be the first place they would look. But for now, with them probably still oblivious to the fact that they lost their highest ranking archangel, the celestial barriers around the shop will make Aziraphale invisible enough that nobody will sense him if they don't particularly (and very hard) look for him right there.

It's not perfect, of course, but it will give them some much needed time.

For the next few minutes Aziraphale doesn't say a word, doesn't even know what to feel, while Crowley drives through London's streets and yells at the other drivers.

When they eventually arrive at their destination, the angel is actually somewhat reluctant to leave the car's safety and expose himself to the unpredictability of the pavement, but Crowley isn't shy about yanking him out of his seat and dragging him along once more. On the corner of his eyes Aziraphale realises The Bentley is beginning to follow them, almost as if it doesn't want to leave the angel out of its sight again, and Aziraphale is just about so touched by it his heart swells.

That doesn't last long, though, because Crowley snarls at the car, “Don't be stupid. You know what to do.”

The car halts, almost like it's chastised, before it suddenly roars to life and drives off.

“I don't let it park in front of the shop,” Crowley offers as an explanation while he shoves Aziraphale through the door. “Would look too suspicious if anyone were to come by to check.”

Right.

That actually makes sense.

Aziraphale nods in understanding before he is immediately distracted by his new surroundings. Just with The Bentley earlier the angel just abruptly feels so utterly safe and at home that all tension leaves his body in an instant.

Dear Lord, how much he has missed this.

Aziraphale lets his eyes drift all over while absently noting Crowley locking the door and turning the sign to “closed”.

“Okay, now we've got some privacy,” the demon says, stepping away from the entrance. “No annoying customers and the baby angel is also out all day 'running some errands' – whatever that means; I haven't figured that one out yet …”

While Crowley continues to ramble in the same fashion, obviously very on edge, Aziraphale just nods and doesn't know what to do.

For the last few weeks this was his dream – just being alone with Crowley – and now it feels hollow and wrong. Like he made a big mistake and they both have to suffer the consequences for this.

“Okay, maybe take another deep breath?” Crowley suddenly suggests, jerking Aziraphale out of his thoughts. “You look like you're about to collapse on me, angel.”

Aziraphale doesn't breathe again, though.

No, he just stares at the demon in front of him, rejoices and curses in his head at the same time, and then sits down on his armchair since he notices his legs are getting a tad bit unsteady.

“Oh dear Lord, what did I do?” he whispers as he shakes his head in disbelief. “I didn't mean for this to happen …”

Crowley fidgets on the spot – too far away, as Aziraphale's mind is quick to point out – and glances at the ring on his own hand.

“Well, there is an adjustment period,” he says. “I don't know about you, but I'm still not used to those things. The number of times I almost teleported myself to Heaven …”

He shudders at the mere idea.

And Aziraphale can't help but grimace as well at the thought of Crowley suddenly popping up right next to him in Heaven, for The Metatron and everyone else to see …

Yes, all things considered they can deem themselves lucky that so far the only witnesses to this whole fiasco have been a couple of ducks.

“I need to go back,” Aziraphale states, his hands clenched into fists when dizziness hits him at the mere prospect of leaving his beloved bookshop – and Crowley – behind in favour of a cold and vast Heaven. “I can't stay here, it's too dangerous …”

Automatically he finds himself glancing out of the window, once again expecting a brigade of angels staring right back at him. The only thing he sees, however, are humans walking by, just minding their own business.

For now.

“I don't know how to get back,” he says, his tone shaky. “I don't know – how do I get back to where I was before –?”

He looks down at his own ring, searching for answers and unsurprisingly not getting any.

He moans in dismay.

This appears to spur Crowley into action because he bounces off the wall behind him and walks up Aziraphale. There is no hesitation as he kneels in front of him, one hand resting on the angel's knee in a reassuring manner.

He is suddenly so very close that Aziraphale feels his cheeks heating up.

“Hey, don't worry, angel,” Crowley says, a crooked grin on his lips that is probably meant to appear soothing but looks rather wicked instead. “We'll figure it out.”

Aziraphale rubs his temples. “But –”

“No idea if we get the rings to work how we want them to,” Crowley cuts in. “But if worse comes to worse, we just sneak you back to Heaven. I told you, I'm an expert by now.”

Aziraphale sighs.

Of course he knows that it won't be that easy. That there is too much that could go wrong.

But the sound of Crowley actually being optimistic and cheerful, even though it might be mostly a facade to keep Aziraphale from freaking out anew, is enough for the angel to feel the corners of his mouth tugging upwards.

Crowley reacts with a smile of his own.

And then he asks, “Angel?”

Aziraphale glances up, right into Crowley criminally distracting snake eyes. “Yes?”

The demon's smirk widens. “Hi.”

Aziraphale blinks, confused. “Um … hi?”

Crowley chuckles. “It's nice to see your stupid angel face again.”

Aziraphale pauses.

Yes, right.

In his utter panic he completely forgot to even acknowledge the demon's presence in the manner he deserves.

Aziraphale straightens his back and fumbles about, eager to get his composure back, before he responds with a nervous, “Um, yes, of course … it's nice to see you, too … even though the circumstances are less than ideal, obviously …”

“Obviously,” Crowley agrees easily.

“I … I just …” Aziraphale trails off again, unsure what to say.

He imagined it, of course. Being reunited with Crowley again. He played it in his head thousands of times and contemplated the best ways how to do about it. How to make it all meaningful and worthwhile.

What he would say. How he would act.

He was determined to plan it all out as soon as the time would have come. He intended to make the moment extra special, just like in so many of the books he has read over the centuries.

Maybe he even would have included some rain because Crowley apparently likes it so much for some reason.

This now, however? This wasn't planned in any manner and instead of being romantic and suave Aziraphale is overwhelmed and anxious and he just doesn't know what to do. His feelings are all torn – his heart tells him this is the most beautiful thing, to be with Crowley again, while his head screams at him to run away as fast as possible – and it's almost like he's ripped apart.

It doesn't get any better when Crowley suddenly leans in.

Aziraphale thinks he might go for a kiss and even though it wouldn't be the first time he tenses up on instinct, scared and nervous and yet also elated all at once. It feels like too much right now somehow, but he has no idea how to voice his fear without sounding as if he's rejecting Crowley.

Then, however, Aziraphale realises that the demon isn't aiming for a kiss because the next thing he feels is a pair of strong arms wrapping around his torso.

He blinks at first, confused.

Crowley uses that distraction to go all in. One hand settles on Aziraphale's lower back and gently pulls him in while the other hand finds its way to the nape of the angel's neck, sending a little thrill down Aziraphale's spine. Crowley holds him close, like he wants to protect Aziraphale from everything bad in the world, as he melts their bodies together.

Aziraphale finds himself calming down before he even knows it.

A hug.

This is a hug.

Aziraphale has never been hugged before.

Granted, as a snake Crowley sometimes had gotten a little more close and personal with him in the past, obviously deeming the animal shape a good excuse to act out on any cravings for touch. But it never was something like this.

And sure, here and there some people had greeted him with some sort of embrace back in the day. Once or twice they even used it as a thank you of some sort, after Aziraphale had been especially kind to them and helped them out with a problem of theirs.

But, as he is realising now, Aziraphale never had a real hug before.

The kind that makes you feel safe and not all alone in the world. The kind that calms your nerves, even though technically that shouldn't be possible due to the dire situation.

Aziraphale read about it in books, but he never experienced it himself.

And now he does.

It's nice.

Beyond nice, even.

Before he even knows what he is doing he buries his face right where Crowley's shoulder and neck meet and releases a sigh which apparently had been buried deep in his being. It feels exceptionally liberating to let go and just allow himself to enjoy the moment.

“This is nice,” he mutters into Crowley's skin.

The demon chuckles, his breath brushing over Aziraphale's ear. “It is,” he agrees. “Just wait until you experience the wonders of cuddling.”

Something twists in Aziraphale's stomach. “You have done that before?”

“No, never,” Crowley says flippantly. “But I've heard it's life-changing and all that. And also very cool and manly –”

Aziraphale can't help it, he grins. “You're ridiculous, Crowley.”

“I know, angel. I know.”

They remain like this for a long while. Aziraphale knows that it must become a bit uncomfortable for Crowley, with him halfway kneeling on the ground, but he doesn't complain once and since he doesn't seem eager to let go anytime soon either, the angel doesn't point it out.

Eventually, though, Crowley pulls back. He doesn't go far, however, his hand staying on Aziraphale's face to cup his cheek.

“Feeling better?” the demon asks, concern in his voice as his gaze flickers over Aziraphale's features like he's searching for hints of another panic attack.

Aziraphale smiles at him. It's a bit wobbly, but genuine nonetheless. “I'm better, thanks.”

Crowley's other hand wraps around Aziraphale's wrist and he squeezes it softly. “Don't worry, we'll figure it all out,” he promises. “We've come too far to mess it all up now.”

They both know the world doesn't work like that, but Aziraphale is happy to indulge him for now.

“Besides, there might have been something good to come out of it,” Crowley says. “Well, apart from you and your stupid little angel face finally being here again, of course.”

Aziraphale frowns. “And what is that?”

“This whole mess gave me an idea,” Crowley tells him with a wide grin.

Aziraphale studies him sceptically. “An idea about what?”

Crowley's eyes sparkle as he announces, “I think I know a way to find Jesus.”

Chapter Text

“A tracking spell?”

Aziraphale sounds wary. Incredulous.

And yet Crowley doesn't waver but nods in confirmation. “A tracking spell.”

It's actually quite the obvious solution and the demon is still fairly cross with himself for not thinking of that right on the spot when they first talked about Jesus missing.

Aziraphale, however, doesn't seem to share the sentiment. “Are you sure?” he asks as though he is seriously questioning Crowley's sanity. “How is a little human spell supposed to find God's son? I can't imagine –”

“Don't you dare dismiss human magic so easily,” Crowley cuts right in, not in the mood to hear any more of that. “After all, this is a human spell as well.”

He lifts his hand and gestures at the ring on his finger.

“It's powerful enough to fool Heaven,” Crowley reminds him. “And it's working perfectly.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth on instinct, apparently bracing himself for a counterargument. But then he allows himself to ponder it over quietly, his gaze fixed on nothing but the ring.

“I can't fathom it being so easy,” he finally points out. “Don't you think countless people would have done it in the past if it really worked?”

Crowley blinks. “How do you know that didn't happen? Maybe half of the supernatural community right here on Earth knows exactly where Jesus is while Heaven remains oblivious?”

Once again Aziraphale hesitates.

“Do you seriously think so?” he wonders in the end. Cautious, as if the response might be a frightening thing.

Crowley lets him consider this for a moment longer before he eventually shakes his head. “Nah,” he admits. “I have no idea how exactly tracking spells work, but I know that you need some sort of personal item of the person you're looking for. And I highly doubt many people have access to Jesus' old stuff.”

Aziraphale chuckles, a little high-pitched. “Yes, I don't believe there is anything left down here, no matter what the Church claims …”

It's most certainly true. Most of the things that are worshipped today as once being touched by Jesus or God or whoever is basically just rubbish which Crowley found on the side of a road once and sold to the highest bidder, much to Hell's utter amusement.

“Well then, let's assume for a moment that a tracking spell is truly the answer,” Aziraphale says. “Then how are we supposed to get our hands on some of Jesus' personal possessions? I'm not sure there is anything in Heaven either, to be frank. As you know, they're not really keen on material things up there …”

“Oh, that's alright,” Crowley brushes him off straight away. “I do have something of Jesus.”

Aziraphale halts and studies him with arched eyebrows.

“You do?” he asks.

There is once again that edge in his tone and this time Crowley also watches in fascination how the angel grits his teeth. It's subtle, barely noticeable for anyone else, but the demon knows Aziraphale long enough by now to spot even the smallest detail.

Yes, it actually appears as though Aziraphale is jealous somehow.

Oh what utter delight!

Crowley tries not to grin smugly as he answers, over-the-top casual, “Yes, just a little something Jesus gifted to me once.”

It was actually the first time anyone has ever given Crowley something without a purpose or some sort of motive but merely because they felt like it. Because they thought the other would enjoy it.

That's why Crowley is still hanging onto it two-thousand years later. He never had the heart to get rid of it.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, is still looking somewhat uncomfortable. “Well, how … nice,” he mutters. “What – what is it?”

When Crowley plays dumb and just stares at him in fake confusion, the angel is forced to clarify, “The – gift Christ gave you … what is it?”

“Oh, only some leather necklace,” Crowley explains, waving him off. “It had been in the family for a few generations at that point, as far as I remember.”

The fact that the gift wasn't a simple trinket but actually a family heirloom nearly seems to knock Aziraphale out completely. He releases a series of inhuman noises as he doesn't appear to know what to do with himself.

“And … and he gave it … to you?” he eventually croaks, on the one hand apparently desperate for more details and at the same time hating himself for torturing himself further by asking more questions.

“Well, Jesus knew he wouldn't have any children,” Crowley says with a shrug, even though it still pains him how casual Jesus had been back in the day about his destined death. “And like I said, I showed him the world. He was very grateful.”

Aziraphale chokes on nothing and Crowley has to keep himself together to not break into hysterical laughter.

Instead he acts like nothing is wrong and he doesn't notice a single thing. “So, what do you say?” he says, all innocent. He even bats his eyelashes. “Do you think it might work?”

Aziraphale takes a moment to get his bearings back, but in the end he squares his shoulders and says, “Well, I'm not sure it will. But then again it wouldn't hurt to try, would it?”

Crowley smirks. “No, it wouldn't.”

He leaps to his feet and heads for one of his cardboard boxes that contains the few items of his life he cared enough about to keep around. He doesn't need to rummage for long before he finds the small bag where he stashed the necklace in question in.

He hasn't looked at it for a while as he is realising now when he pulls it out. He has almost forgotten what it looked like and now, as he's studying it anew, he finds himself hit with memories of the day he received this gift.

Jesus tried to be nonchalant about it. Like giving such a family heirloom to someone outside of family is merely a little thing. However, Crowley felt his nervousness, the man clearly anxious that the evil demon from Hell might not like his present, and it was actually a little bit endearing to see him squirm so much.

Overall it's not a valuable item. You'd be lucky to get ten pounds for it at a flea market these days. It's basically just a leather cord with a pretty, yet worthless little stone embedded into it. Nothing extraordinary whatsoever.

Crowley knew its true value, though, right from the get-go and has protected it ever since.

As he carries it toward Aziraphale now it feels like he's handling the most precious cargo there is. The angel, though, eyes the necklace as if it has personally offended him and everything he holds dear.

“So this belonged to Christ?” he asks. As though he might hope that Crowley remembers he has been mistaken and Jesus never gave him anything.

Well, Crowley needs to disappoint him on this one. “Yep,” he says, pronouncing the 'p' extra strongly. “One-hundred percent Christ Original.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes.

Ultimately, though, he appears to recall how much this necklace could help them out in this situation and he takes it out of Crowley's grip to inspect it more closely.

“We should call Anathema,” he says then. “She might know a powerful enough tracking spell.” And adds with a sigh, when Crowley doesn't instantly react, “Book girl.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “I know who you're talking about,” he grumbles. “I was just wondering if that's really her area of expertise.”

“Well, she is a witch, after all,” Aziraphale reminds him.

“Indeed she is,” Crowley says. “But I was thinking that maybe we should ask the witch first who “killed” me. She mentioned that she knew the supernatural community here in London, didn't she? There might be someone close by who can help us.”

Aziraphale, however, doesn't react in the way Crowley expected.

The demon anticipated either a nod of approval or some sort of argument for Anathema's sake. What he gets instead, though, is Aziraphale's eyes widening in horror.

“On no,” he whispers, obviously in distress all of a sudden. “Oh dear –”

Crowley tenses up, instantly alarmed. “What is it?”

“Cynthia,” Aziraphale says and Crowley needs a second to remember that that is the name of the witch in question. “Oh no, the poor thing. I completely forgot to notify her that you're alive.”

Crowley deflates immediately with a groan. “Seriously, angel?”

“She was so upset,” Aziraphale goes on. “She still thinks she killed you.”

Before Crowley has a chance to say anything to that, the angel has grabbed his outdated telephone and asks it, “Please call Cynthia Wheeler.”

It rings once. And then it jumps straight to voicemail.

Aziraphale seems puzzled by that, staring at the receiver like he's not sure what just happened, and Crowley sees himself forced to explain, “It's the weekend, angel. She probably has closed her shop by now and doesn't want to be disturbed by anyone.”

He gestures at a nearby clock which shows that it's late afternoon. The witch seriously might have programmed her phone that only saved numbers can reach her for the rest of the weekend and called it a day.

Aziraphale doesn't seem to accept that, though, as suddenly that determined expression sneaks up on his face Crowley only knows too well. The angel is apparently eager to tell this Cynthia woman about Crowley's non-dead status now.

Before he can storm out of the door, though, Crowley reaches out again, his finger wrapping gently around Aziraphale's wrist, grounding him to his armchair.

“You can tell her on Monday, angel,” he says.

Aziraphale scoffs. “I have no intention to still be here on Monday.”

It's a brutal reminder that their time together is limited once more.

Crowley grits his teeth and clarifies, “Then I will tell her on Monday. After all, I have to pop by and ask her about a tracking spell anyway. She'll see then that I'm very much alive.”

For a moment it seems like Aziraphale wants to argue, but in the end his muscles relax underneath Crowley's touch.

“Fine,” he concedes. “But you should take Muriel with you.”

“Why?”

“Because if you just show up in that woman's shop, looking like a demon with your black clothes and sunglasses, she might believe you were raised from the dead for the sole purpose of avenging your murder,” Aziraphale points out with a snort. “The poor thing will probably suffer from a heart attack then and there.”

Crowley feels like he should be insulted by this, but then again he can't really refute that argument either.

“And you think Muriel's presence will change anything about that?” he asks instead, pouting.

“Angels normally put humans at ease,” Aziraphale reminds him. “Especially Muriel, wouldn't you agree? I mean, look at them, they're sunshine and rainbow incarnate.”

Crowley has to admit that Muriel doesn't look anywhere near threatening and would certainly tame down the demon's general darker aura by a lot. Furthermore, it's not so bad to hang out with the baby angel once in a while, so why make a fuss about it?

“Don't let Muriel know all the details about what we are doing, though,” Aziraphale warns him. “They swore not to tell another soul about our little operation, but I'm not sure how much they would be able to take if The Metatron were to interview them.”

Right.

So far they have been careful with what they're saying around Muriel. Not necessarily because they don't trust them but because they have no spine whatsoever and would simply cave under the smallest amount of pressure.

“I'm just gonna tell the baby that we're going shopping,” Crowley promises.

Aziraphale nods before his gaze drifts back to Jesus' necklace which he is still clutching in his hands as if he can't let go of it.

“And you think it might work?” he asks yet again uncertainly.

Crowley shrugs. “Humans have surprised us many times before, angel. Why not again?”

Aziraphale presses his lips into a thin line and nods, clearly agreeing with that statement. Human ingenuity has always been remarkable – so much, in fact, that both Heaven and Hell had started to adopt some of their inventions a long time ago – and nobody really knows if there is even an end to it.

Aziraphale sighs and puts the necklace back into Crowley's hand, still an odd expression on his features as he assesses it intently. Then his shoulders drop and he says, “Well, now we just need to find a way to get me back to Heaven.”

Crowley grins at him and once again he tries to appear optimistic, even though he's fairly sure the angel doesn't buy it at all.

“I guess then we have to start experimenting, don't we?”

---

Since they're not certain whether the rings save the last location somehow and they most definitely don't want to risk losing that, Crowley becomes the guinea pig.

They make it easy at first.

While Aziraphale remains downstairs in the backroom, Crowley walks up the stairs and shuts himself in the bedroom. And then he just closes his eyes and wishes desperately to be at the angel's side.

It works easily enough.

Crowley isn't shocked in the slightest considering that in the last few weeks he more often than not almost got himself teleported into Heaven by accident just by wishing too hard. This time is no different, even though the distance between them is not even close to grand.

It's enough, though.

One second Crowley is standing next to the window, longing for his angel like the most pathetic loser, and the next he pops up right beside Aziraphale, the ring on his finger glowing unnaturally for a second before fading back into his usual self.

Crowley startles at the transition and takes a moment to orient himself and try to figure out what he makes of the experience. He expected something with more grandeur, but actually it barely felt like anything at all. Just as if you blink your eyes for a millisecond and suddenly you're at another place.

Aziraphale smiles sympathetically at him. “It's a bit of an odd experience, isn't it?”

Crowley tilts his head. “Not as odd as I expected.”

“Yes, it's probably not that big of a difference when you jump from one side of the same building to the next,” Aziraphale confesses. “But if you change realms like that, trust me, it's rather disorientating.”

Crowley surely can imagine. The atmosphere and basically anything else is wildly different in Heaven and to be sucked out of there so abruptly to be thrown into a completely contrary ecosystem must be a shock for the body.

“Alright, try to get back to the bedroom,” Aziraphale encourages him.

Crowley shuts his eyes once more and attempts to long for that bedroom just as much as he had done before in reverse.

This time it doesn't work.

When he's opening his eyes, he is still with Aziraphale.

The angel sighs. “I don't think you're wishing fiercely enough.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Yes, why the hell would I want to be alone in some bedroom when I can be here with you? Makes no sense.”

It seems his brain refuses to see any reason in that.

And it does have a point.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, blushes slightly at the implication that Crowley wants nothing more than to be with him and the demon can't help a little pleased smirk at that.

“Please, dearest, focus,” the angel urges then. “I know it seems a little silly –”

“It is.”

“And I also know that subconsciously you probably don't want me to return to Heaven and therefore figure that I will stay longer if any attempts on your part fail,” Aziraphale adds with a wistful smile. “Trust me, I actually don't feel any different. But it is necessary –”

“Yes, yes,” Crowley impatiently brushes him off. “I've heard that company line many times before so far, thank you. That doesn't change the fact that I don't see why we of all people have to go through this. Let someone else take over for a change –”

“And who, dear?” Aziraphale asks, his eyebrow arched. “Who but us cares enough to risk Heaven's wrath like that?”

Crowley slumps his shoulders.

This time around there are surely some parties much more interested in stopping Heaven than during the last apocalypse – namely, Hell –, but that would only end in chaos and mess if they were to take charge in this operation.

And sure, at the end of the day it might still work because miracles happen every day after all, however, Crowley isn't ready to bet his own existence on it. No, Aziraphale is a unique position right now, much more so than anybody else, and it would have been foolish to not take advantage of that.

Nonetheless, as Crowley closes his eyes and tries to teleport himself back into the bedroom again just with the power of the ring, nothing occurs once more.

“Maybe we need a break,” Aziraphale proposes then.

He is still tense, most likely desperate to get back as quickly as possible, but he's clearly recognising Crowley's dwindling spirit and he knows perfectly well that the demon would be rendered useless soon enough if he were to push him some more right now.

Crowley still feels guilty, though. “What about Heaven?”

“I don't think a few additional hours will make much of a difference,” Aziraphale says and he actually sounds somewhat convinced of his own words. “If Shax does her job right, Hell will soon start spreading more misery and Heaven will be too occupied with that sudden spike in demonic activity to wonder where their Supreme Archangel might be.”

Crowley studies him sceptically. “It actually sounds like that would be the ideal time to wonder where your Supreme Archangel might be, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale waves him off. “Oh, don't worry, everyone up there knows that I'm not much of a fighter. I will be the last being anyone thinks of in such a crisis.”

Crowley still remains wary.

“And if someone might notice my absence, despite it all,” Aziraphale continues, “I just will have to come up with something. Maybe I'm going to pretend that I felt emotional again and that I quickly had to leave Heaven, in fear of causing any further chaos like last time.”

It's actually a good enough lie.

The angels would probably be rather relieved that Aziraphale recognised the situation and decided to withdraw as quickly as manageable and wouldn't really question the details. The Metatron might, granted, but if Shax indeed will do her thing right he might be too busy to look at it too closely.

“Let's just have a little break, shall we?” Aziraphale says again, a smile on his features now.

Crowley purses his lips. “You sure?”

Despite everything he would hate to put the angel in more danger only because he couldn't cope with the thought of Aziraphale leaving him again so soon.

“Because you look awfully calm for someone who was freaking out mere five minutes ago,” Crowley can't help but point out. He's not sure he likes that abrupt change very much.

“Don't be fooled, I'm still 'freaking out'”, Aziraphale states as he uses air-quotes in a manner that is annoyingly adorable and distracting. “But I dislike seeing you so stressed even more.”

Crowley sighs. “Angel …”

“Like I said, Heaven is busy right now,” Aziraphale cuts in. “And I have been gone for, what, half an hour? I highly doubt anybody is missing me just yet.”

With their luck The Metatron has already discovered the whole truth in that half hour and is assembling Heaven's army as they speak, but Crowley keeps his thoughts to himself.

Perhaps a little tentative and very much fake optimism can't hurt after all.

Aziraphale, at least, appears to appreciate the effort as his grin widens into something brilliantly bright.

“How about some sushi then?”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale missed it.

He missed it all.

Humans bustling about. All the different noises coming from a thousand different directions. Smells – so many good, but so many also very, very bad – assaulting you from all sides.

It's vibrant and alive and such a stark contrast to Heaven that Aziraphale can't get enough of it.

Even when some gentleman yells at them because Crowley parked in a non-parking area without a care in the world, Aziraphale revels in the man's profanities and drinks it in like a sponge. While Crowley watches in amusement and shakes his head with a smile, as though he seriously can't believe the angel.

The sushi place where magically the best and most private table ends up free has always been one of Aziraphale's favourites, but is (hopefully) not known enough to The Metatron, like for instance The Ritz, to come looking for his lost Supreme Archangel right there.

Aziraphale doesn't hesitate to order almost everything on the menu while Crowley chuckles at it all and sticks to a few spare sushi rolls and his sake.

Soon enough they fall into an easy conversation and it's also everything Aziraphale has missed so dearly. They don't talk about apocalypses and sons of Gods and whatever else is plaguing them right now but instead the most mundane things they can think of. Crowley's plants, tales about Muriel's clumsy attempts to understand humanity, the newest gossip about the shopkeepers. Apparently Maggie and Nina have been daring some cautious advances with each other in the last couple of weeks and Aziraphale couldn't be more delighted to hear it.

As the night progresses Aziraphale finds himself relaxing more and more. Granted, he is still very much aware of the danger they're currently in, but for the time being it doesn't seem like the worst thing in the world to let go of it. At least for a couple of hours.

It doesn't turn out to be so hard in the end because over the course of the evening Aziraphale finds himself effectively distracted by the simple and yet meaningful question in his mind whether they're actually on a rendezvous.

Or date, as they're saying around here these days.

Aziraphale doesn't think much of it at first because it barely feels different from all the other instances they went out for dinner together, but eventually, when Crowley's hand brushes his for the twenty-seventh time that night (and yes, Aziraphale counted) in a way that is probably supposed to appear casual and yet is anything but, Aziraphale's mind gets stuck on the idea.

They're sitting close, they smile and laugh, they touch each other one way or another the whole time (mostly Crowley gently resting his foot against Aziraphale's underneath the table), and it suddenly feels more intimate than all the other times they went out to eat.

Also their topics of conversation change eventually. While previously talking about anything and anyone else at some point they started to reminisce about their past together, about all the little stories and details Aziraphale nearly forgot about, and it feels like it's just the two of them on this big, endless planet.

That weird heart in his chest which technically doesn’t need to beat in any way does a little leap at the intensity the demon radiates as he tells yet another tale about something that seemed so insignificant back in the day, but for some reason the demon wasn't able to forget.

Aziraphale licks his lips and wonders whether it would be inappropriate or not to take Crowley's hand into his right now.

He doesn't get a chance to dwell on it too much, though, because at that very moment their waiter shows up at their table again, a polite smile on his face and a plate with dessert in his hand.

He places it in front of Aziraphale and mutters something the angel doesn’t catch because he is still too busy looking at Crowley and trying to decipher if something monumental is occurring or not.

In the end the demon just smiles crookedly as soon as the waiter is hurrying off again and nods at the dessert. “Go ahead, angel. I know you’ve been dying to try this since we arrived.”

It’s true, the chef’s newest creations never disappoint, and this particular Japanese strawberry shortcake with a special twist indeed looks beyond criminal and yet Aziraphale can’t help but stare at the demon some more. Only when Crowley starts to fidget on his seat before taking another gulp of his sake, Aziraphale is finally capable of averting his eyes.

Shaking the odd sensation filling his entire body off as well as possible, the angel eventually turns towards the dessert in question. He doesn’t dive into it with the same vigour as usual, though, still too distracted by everything to allow himself to focus on anything else.

That changes, however, when the first bite of the cake melts on his tongue.

“Oh!” he exclaims, absolutely delighted, and ends up wiggling on his chair in excitement. “This tastes delicious!”

Crowley just offers him a little smirk. “I bet it does.”

“No, but seriously …” Aziraphale starts, overwhelmed by the onslaught of taste in his mouth. “You need to try this, I insist!”

Previous times the angel merely pushed his plate in front of Crowley and the demon – sometimes reluctantly, sometimes at least akin to enthusiastically – took a bite with his own cutlery. Now, however, for some strange reason Aziraphale can’t even fathom, he puts a piece of the cake on his own fork and offers it to Crowley.

For a moment Crowley appears just as surprised about this change in pace as Aziraphale, but while the angel quickly finds himself blushing and desperately attempts to come up with a way to get out of this situation without too much embarrassment, the demon spurs into action.

He doesn’t pick the fork out of Aziraphale’s hand, though, as you might imagine.

No, he leans forward and takes a bite of the cake. While the angel is still holding the fork.

Basically feeding him.

Aziraphale flushes from head to toe and it doesn’t get any better with Crowley gazing at him intently the whole time. He closes his mouth around the fork and looks at the angel over the frame of his sunglasses, his eyes lively and so very intense they don’t seem out of any realm they’re familiar with.

Aziraphale gets hot and cold simultaneously while his blasted heart suddenly beats so fiercely it actually hurts.

It’s both half an eternity and a fleeting second when Crowley ultimately draws back again, chewing pensively on the dessert.

“It’s good,” he concludes in the end.

Aziraphale’s mouth opens and closes, unsure how to react to this, and he lets his arm outstretched for far too long to not be embarrassing. When he eventually manages to pull back, he notices that every single flower in the room has blossomed out in the most dramatic manner, with the guests and staff looking at them in wonder and confusion, and Aziraphale curses himself as his blush reaches deep into his core.

As much as he wants to duck his head and pray that the ground might swallow him whole, Aziraphale can’t take his eyes off Crowley, however, and so he is a first-hand witness to the demon licking a few crumbs out of the corner of his lips, his tongue such an unexpected sight that Aziraphale nearly loses his mind.

“It’s really good,” Crowley says with a nod.

And then the bastard has the audacity to pick up their earlier conversation about that baby pigeon Aziraphale once found behind his shop and nursed back to health, like nothing ever happened, like the entire exchange has been completely normal, while Aziraphale just gapes at him and feels his basic body functions shutting down on him one by one.

In the end he doesn’t finish the cake.

Which in itself is already the most astonishing miracle there is.

---

When they find themselves back at the bookshop and the door closing behind them, Aziraphale can't keep it to himself any longer and blurts out, “Was this a date?”

Crowley, currently busy shutting down the blinds, halts for a moment, clearly thrown off by the angel's bluntness.

Then, however, a sly smirk flashes over his features.

“I don't know,” he says. “Do you want it to be?”

Aziraphale hesitates.

Mulls it over.

And in the end he decides, “Well, I wouldn't terribly mind.”

“You old flatterer,” Crowley says with a chuckle before going back to the blinds.

Aziraphale, however, isn't finished yet. “If this was a date – which, as mentioned, wouldn't have been the worst thing in the world …”

“Stop it, you're making me swoon.”

Aziraphale ignores him. “I was just wondering – in the few modern films I watched, on the end of a date – well, things normally happen then … well, a very specific thing …”

Crowley's grin is back, brighter than ever.

“Why, angel?” he asks. “You wanna do it like in those films? You want me to drop you back at your doorstep and me lingering about while you fumble awkwardly with your keys, stalling for time while hoping for a proper goodbye …?”

The teasing in the demon's tone is almost too much, but Aziraphale can't bring himself to back down now.

So he nods bashfully.

And Crowley doesn't hesitate a single second. Before Aziraphale is even able to blink the demon is suddenly crowding his space, so ridiculously close they might very well be just one being.

Aziraphale's heart leaps into his throat.

“Well then,” Crowley whispers against his lips. “Thanks for the nice evening, I guess.”

Aziraphale doesn't even have time to roll his eyes because the next second they're actually kissing. The angel's breath hitches for a moment, despite the whole build-up caught off guard by the intensity of it all, and he takes a second to get his grip. But as soon as his mind and body are willing to jump to the same page there is no stopping him.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat he's never heard before from himself and melts against Crowley's form, so very eager to get closer. He buries his fingers in the demon's hair – which has quickly become his favourite pastime – and kisses him back as vigorously as he manages.

It's a bit clumsy at first because despite everything he barely knows what he is doing, but when he ends up opening up his mouth a little bit somewhere along the way more or less completely by accident, Crowley uses the opportunity to deepen the kiss and Aziraphale all of a sudden knows what real heaven feels like.

Absolutely divine, that is.

Way too soon Crowley draws back somewhat, breaking the kiss, and Aziraphale can't help but pout like a toddler who has been deprived of his beloved biscuits.

Crowley chuckles at Aziraphale's expression and thankfully doesn't go very far, his breath still skidding over the angel's skin as he asks, “It's late, angel. Maybe we should go to bed.”

The colour of Aziraphale's face changes into a blinding red very fast.

“Um …” he mutters, too stunned to come up with anything else as pictures of him sharing a bed with Crowley suddenly assault his mind. Admittedly, he fantasised about it before, from time to time, but he's not sure if he's –

“To sleep,” Crowley clarifies in amusement, jolting Aziraphale out of his roller coaster of thoughts. “Just to sleep, angel.”

Tension immediately leaves Aziraphale's muscles, even though he can't really say whether he is rather relieved or disappointed.

Maybe both, somehow?

He is unable to explain to himself how that works, but it certainly feels that way.

“Right,” he says, still quite flushed and dazed. “Yes, um, sleep.”

Aziraphale's logical brain tells him he shouldn't.

That he instead ought to continue trying to figure out this whole teleportation thing and, if unsuccessful, quickly attempt to sneak back into Heaven.

There is no time to waste.

Rather sooner than later Aziraphale's absence will be noticed, there is no question about that, and he can't risk Heaven looking for him down here.

Aziraphale's heart, however, tells him a different story. Here is Crowley, looking all soft and also a little rumpled, and this is everything Aziraphale wanted in life. It's not even a temptation but the fulfilment of his greatest dream and it would be absolutely foolish to throw it all away for the mere chance of someone Above, in the midst of all the chaos with Hell, starting to wonder where Aziraphale has gone to. Especially with Michael keeping an eye on things and thwarting any suspicions with a raise of her mighty eyebrows alone.

Yes, Aziraphale can allow himself to indulge for one night, right? At least for an hour or two.

Nothing bad will happen.

He just has to believe that.

So he smiles again, a little soppily this time, and repeats again like a moron, “Yes … sleep …”

Crowley seems wary for a moment, almost like he has read Aziraphale's mind through it all, and he looks as if he wants to add something to this fairly simple-minded conversation, but ultimately he seems to decide that Aziraphale is downright useless in this state. So he merely pulls back, takes the angel's hand and tugs him up the stairs to the bedroom.

They make a quick affair of things, mainly because Aziraphale indeed feels sleepy after so many weeks of Heaven, as he is now realising, so he just snaps his fingers and miracles himself into a comfy pyjama. Crowley does the same without much fanfare before diving underneath the duvet like it's second nature at this point.

Once again Aziraphale feels a lot of things at the sight of the demon in his own bed and he just keeps on staring at him, unmoving.

Meanwhile, Crowley appears to interpret Aziraphale's behaviour as caution.

“Oh, don't worry, angel,” he says reassuringly. “A few hours won't hurt you. I can feel Hell wreaking havoc all over the planet. Heaven is certainly too busy to miss you right now.”

Aziraphale nods dumbly, still not sure whether to trust his voice.

“And if some angels seriously should show up here in the meantime,” Crowley goes on, “I promise to turn into a mini snake and hide in some little crack. I swear to you, they won't find me. I've done this a bunch of times in the presence of angels, none of them has ever detected me.” A slow grin creeps onto his features and he adds in amusement, “Including you.”

Aziraphale suddenly has many questions about that, but when Crowley lifts the duvet, clearly inviting the angel in, nothing else matters anymore and he climbs into the bed right next to his demon without a second of hesitation.

And when he lays down on the pillow and reaches for Crowley, he releases a sigh of relief so powerful that nothing can compare.

Yes, this is it.

This is what he is fighting for.

Chapter Text

They take some time to figure things out.

At first they just lie side by side, their hands linked between them, and naturally that is rather nice and comforting, but eventually Aziraphale can't help but think that it isn't enough. They're sharing a small space together, why not make the most of it?

After all, this whole “cuddling business” is famous enough that there must be some solid foundation.

It actually sounds like an extended hug and since his last embrace with Crowley has been wonderful, Aziraphale doesn't see any reason to not make it last longer.

Crowley seems to have the same thought because suddenly he huffs and grabs blindly for the angel, obviously eager to have him closer somehow as well. And Aziraphale has seen it in films before, how the couple melts effortlessly into each other like it has been destined by God Herself, and it certainly doesn't appear difficult in theory, but when they both attempt their luck they realise it's not quite as simple.

Their limbs end up in weird places, they kick and slap one another by accident and at one point Crowley nearly falls off the bed.

For a while it actually looks hopeless.

But then, somehow, everything falls into place, like magic, and Aziraphale sinks into the demon's arms and places his head right on his chest while Crowley holds him tightly.

And this …

Yes, it's nice.

Very nice.

Aziraphale hums happily and for a long moment neither of them says anything. They just stay like this, enjoy their proximity and don't think of much else.

It's quiet.

Almost peaceful.

(The few instances Aziraphale allows himself to pretend that everything is fine and not dire.)

The angel smiles and considers the very real possibility to remain like this forever. It seems reasonable enough, at least.

Along the way Aziraphale dozes off a bit. Not much, just enough to be lulled in by all the warmth and safety. He feels Crowley doing the same – sometimes his breathing becomes slow, sometimes it hitches back to life.

It appears like they're both tired, but at the same time not quite eager to miss a single second of this experience.

Aziraphale sighs as the thoughts in his head start to run rampant at some point, his happiness once again mixing with his worry and guilt. He wants to chase the latter away, at least for the time being, but soon enough his mind gets fixated on it and he simply can't turn it off.

And so it happens.

“I wanted to apologise,” Aziraphale hears himself whisper into the darkness.

Crowley stirs in his arms. “For what?”

There is quite a lot of bewilderment in his tone and Aziraphale doesn't blame him.

The angel licks his lips. A part of himself doesn't want to bring it up, just desires to revel in the tenderness of the moment. After all, this is a romantic situation and it shouldn't be disturbed with any serious talks.

Then again, life is unpredictable and when you're working as a spy up in Heaven even more so. Aziraphale might be imprisoned or even dead soon enough and even though neither of them likes to even entertain that thought and instead enjoys all sorts of denial on the matter, it's not a far-fetched reality. Aziraphale knew what he was getting himself into and the risks it would involve.

That also means, though, that they might not have as much time together as they would like and that anything that has to be said one of these days should be voiced rather sooner than later because they might not get a second opportunity.

Aziraphale doesn't want to leave things between them left unsaid only because he wasn't brave enough to talk about them when he still had the chance.

And so he takes another deep breath and whispers, “I wanted to apologise for … well, for ever hurting you in the past. With my … um, with my angel-ness.”

For a minute Crowley remains quiet, obviously trying to wrap his head around Aziraphale's words. In the end he snorts a laugh and asks mockingly, “Angel-ness?”

Aziraphale doesn't allow himself to be offended by the demon's tone. “Well, yes,” he confirms instead with a nod. “I have to – regrettably – admit that in the past I didn't even really take notice of such things, but due to my angelic upbringing I might have, at some occasions, come off as … well, as rude towards you.”

“Rude?” Crowley asks. He still sounds more amused than anything.

“Yes, rude,” Aziraphale states, still not deterred. “Rude and – and ill-mannered and narrow-minded and snobbish – and –”

“Okay, angel, I'm getting the gist,” Crowley cuts in, obviously not in the mood to hear any more adjectives.

“I'm just …” Aziraphale continues with a heavy sigh. “I never truly thought twice about it, to be frank. I called you 'evil' and accused you of lying often enough because that is what demons do, at least according to my world view …”

He feels Crowley stiffen next to him and before he even knows it Aziraphale holds onto him even tighter.

“And I didn't even assume for a single second that I might hurt you with my words and actions,” Aziraphale goes on, his heart suddenly weighing a ton in his chest.

He remembers it. Not everything, of course, because even an angelic brain can only save so much information and memories, but he recalls enough. How he acted snappish and holier-than-thou towards Crowley over the centuries and millennia, feeling superior in many ways since this was just the manner things were supposed to be, right?

An angel and a demon. That was how they ought to interact.

Crowley also always fired back, so Aziraphale never entertained the possibility that he might be affected by the angel's words in a negative manner and just didn't want to show that vulnerability to the outside world. He hid behind mockery and sarcasm and Aziraphale didn't see anything wrong with that, simply a normal reaction for a demon to have, but here and now he can't help but wonder how much of that has been a facade. How often he actually deeply wounded Crowley by just being an idiotic angel who was daft enough to not know better.

Crowley stays quiet for a while, apparently taking his time pondering over Aziraphale's clumsy, yet sincere apology.

“For the record,” he says, after a few minutes, “I never lied to you. Not really.”

“I know,” Aziraphale whispers without hesitation because he indeed knows, has always known deep down, even during the times he couldn't admit that to himself.

“Yeah, I bent the truth sometimes a little,” Crowley confessed. “Or I just didn't tell you stuff. Not because I'm petty or I didn't want to share things with you … but because …”

He trails off and Aziraphale feels the tension in the demon's body spiking.

“Well, mainly because you're an idiot,” Crowley keeps on, fondness in his voice. “An idiot who constantly makes the wrong choices when given certain information. So yes, sometimes I kept my mouth shut about certain things since I was worried you would get yourself in trouble over it and I had to come and rescue you again.”

Aziraphale finds himself smiling, despite it all. “You love rescuing me.”

Crowley scoffs. “You're a moron.”

Once again he sounds quite affectionate and Aziraphale shuffles even closer to him.

The angel is aware that he should be insulted by the insinuation that he isn't mature enough to handle specific information. And he certainly is, to some point. However, he also can relate to it. His urge to protect Crowley at any costs is probably the strongest instinct he ever had and the demon might feel the same way. So if he truly thought he would keep Aziraphale safe by withholding intel …

Well, it is understandable.

Granted, they need to change that now because an equal partnership shouldn't have secrets like this, but at the same time Aziraphale can't fault Crowley for doing it in the past.

As long as they both learn from their mistakes, it would be alright.

“Sometimes, though,” Crowley goes on and this time his voice gets so quiet that Aziraphale actually has to concentrate hearing him, despite their proximity, “… well, sometimes I didn't tell you things because … I knew you would be worried, you know? Worried and making a fuss and all that …” He falls silent for a long moment before he adds, rather reluctantly, by the sounds of it, “… for instance, I never told you how it really felt to Fall … or what Hell did to me after the whole grave robbing business, you remember? … or …”

Aziraphale is quick to place his hand on Crowley's chest, right above his heart, and tries to make the gesture as reassuring as possible.

“Crowley, please, “ he whispers. “This is completely different. These are your experiences and you are the only one to decide what to do with them. It's … it's …”

Aziraphale gulps, a sudden lump in his throat making this rather hard.

Of course he knew that Crowley has suffered and it breaks his heart to even imagine what the demon went through, all alone. Aziraphale hates it with every fibre of his being and if God or any other almighty deity would ever grant him one single wish he would want for Crowley to have the power to remove any bad memories if he so desires. Crowley never deserved any of it.

“Yes, it's your decision,” Aziraphale continues. “And you're right, I would be worried and I would make a huge fuss about it, I'm sorry … but you can't really blame me, can you?”

Crowley just chuckles lowly in response.

“If you ever choose to share some of those experiences with me, I would be honoured,” the angel makes himself clear. “I would do anything in my power to support you. But I also don't expect anything from you. I don't want you to relive all of that only because you believe this is what I need from you. It is not.”

Crowley makes a little humming noise in the back of his throat.

“And I didn't mean for you to feel guilty just now,” Aziraphale adds. “I just sincerely wanted to apologise for all those times I acted like an arrogant, snappish and inconsiderate angel towards you without a second thought. And I wanted to assure you that I will do better in the future.” He licks his lips. “I'm not going to be perfect right away. I will slip up and I'm already sorry for that. But I will give it my best and if I ever step out of line and don't notice, you need to call me out on it.”

Crowley snickers. “So you want me to point it out when you're being an arsehole?”

Aziraphale flinches at the phrasing, more on instinct than anything else, but in the end he can't help but agree with it. And so he confirms, “Yes, I want you to be brutally honest with me.”

Crowley shifts a bit and Aziraphale takes a moment to realise that it must be a nod.

“Alright,” the demon says. “And I will try to be more honest with you as well in the future. Because this is what it's all about, right?” He makes a dramatic pause before he says, stretching the word, “Communication.”

He sounds mocking. Annoyed.

But Aziraphale senses that Crowley, underneath it all, doesn't think it that much of a joke as his tone might make you believe.

And so the angel finally falls asleep, with a smile on his face.

---

The next morning, when Aziraphale finds himself sipping some tea on his armchair downstairs and contemplating how to get back to Heaven, he suddenly hears Crowley stirring awake up in the bedroom. There is some rumbling and a crashing noise and then the demon hurries down the stairs, his gaze flicking back and forth until they settle on Aziraphale. Crowley immediately relaxes.

“Angel,” he says with a weary sigh. “Word of advice: when you spend the night with someone, you don't just sneak out of bed the next morning.”

Aziraphale huffs. “I wanted a cup of tea,” he defends himself, at that moment sounding more British than ever before in his life. “Besides, dear, you have a tendency to sleep long. I didn't have any intention to lounge around for weeks.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “I wouldn't have slept for weeks –”

“Says the demon who once upon a time slept a whole century away,” Aziraphale reminds him. “Your sleeping pattern is very irregular, Crowley. It can't be trusted.”

Truth is, though, that Aziraphale truly considered staying in bed for far longer. When he woke up and spotted Crowley drooling onto his shoulder and mumbling in his sleep, Aziraphale desired to remain there for the rest of eternity.

However, then everything came crashing down on him once more, more fiercely than ever, and he quickly got out of there before his treacherous heart would have convinced him to throw all caution overboard. Of course it was still one of the hardest things Aziraphale has ever done, but the prospect of The Metatron showing up at their door the next second and discovering them like this, all entangled, was eventually enough to spur Aziraphale into action.

He couldn't leave yet, though. Not without his tea and naturally a proper goodbye.

“Time is not on our side, Crowley,” Aziraphale states. “I need to get back –”

The demon interjects any further words by raising his hand, shutting Aziraphale up effectively.

“Yeah, about that – let me for a moment …” Crowley says, his forehead creased as though he is concentrating.

And then, all of a sudden, he is gone.

Vanished into thin air.

Aziraphale gasps in surprise, looking at the vacant spot where the demon has resided just a microsecond ago.

And then a triumphant yell is coming from upstairs. “I did it!”

Aziraphale basically leaps out of the armchair and rushes up the stairs, taking two at a time. And he only comes to a screeching halt when he finds the demon back in the bedroom, right next to the window.

“You did it,” the angel realises, both in shock and awe. Crowley successfully used his ring to teleport himself back to the place of origin. “You did it!”

Crowley grins widely at him and at that moment the urge to walk up to him and kiss him is so strong that Aziraphale can barely contain himself. Then, however, he reminds himself that there is no real reason to hold back, so he starts to move and yanks the demon into a quick, yet deep kiss.

Crowley's breath gets caught in his throat, clearly thrown off by this reaction, but when Aziraphale pulls back and discovers a pleased smile on the demon's lips it becomes obvious that he didn't awfully mind.

“How did you do it?” Aziraphale asks urgently.

“I focused on the good stuff this time around,” Crowley explains, his arm still wrapped loosely around Aziraphale's waist.

The angel doesn't see any need to change their current positions just yet.

Furthermore, he is too busy frowning at Crowley in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Well, last time when I tried wishing myself back into this bedroom, I didn't really have much motivation to do so,” the demon points out. “This time around I decided to fixate on the positives. I just thought of last night … tapped into the ring's power and somehow I was here.”

He blushes a little at the reminder of their night spent together, as Aziraphale can perfectly see thanks to their closeness, and it might be one of the most beautiful things on Earth.

“So, you are saying … if I want to teleport myself back to Heaven, where I have been before … I should concentrate on something good?”

Aziraphale tilts his head, deeply in thought. It surely makes sense, but at the same time it's rather difficult to find anything positive about Above right now.

Crowley, though, of course, also has an answer for that. “You were in one of the secret passageways before you turned up here on Earth, right? Focus on that then.”

Right.

Those secret passages.

The ones that give Aziraphale a sensation of safety in Heaven. The ones that Crowley showed him and which the angel has begun to deeply associate with his friend and companion along the way.

An involuntary smile creeps up on Aziraphale's face at that.

“See?” Crowley's smirk grows. “It's not that hard when you get the hang of it.”

Aziraphale feels the ring on his finger reacting, feels it basically asking him if he wants to go back. He senses a tug and even though it's not as powerful as the other way around, when he accidentally teleported himself to Crowley's side, it is strong nonetheless. Like a beacon showing him the right path, if he so chooses to take it.

“I think I know what you mean,” Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley hums and tightens his grip around Aziraphale's waist.

“You should go,” he says. “Not that I want you to go, mind you, but … time is of the essence and stuff.”

Aziraphale smiles sadly at him, the upcoming goodbye suddenly too much to bear. “Crowley …”

Crowley clears his throat. “Don't get all emotional and teary-eyed on me, angel,” he (fake) complains. “I'm gonna get us a tracking spell and then we're gonna find Jesus. Together. We won't be apart for long.”

Aziraphale seriously hopes that this is true.

“You're right,” he agrees because it feels better than being sceptical.

“Besides, now that we know how to hop back and forth with those rings, we can pay each other's little visits,” Crowley points out with a brilliant smile.

“We should still remain careful –” Aziraphale is just about to warn, but gets interrupted right in the middle of it by a soft kiss.

He doesn't object.

“Just shut up and go before I tie you up and never let you out of my sight again,” Crowley growls against his lips.

Aziraphale flushes at the image. “You're impossible.”

“And, as already established, you like it that way,” Crowley adds with a smirk.

He presses another kiss onto Aziraphale's mouth, just a brief peck really, and then steps backwards, breaking their contact. On instinct the angel wants to whine in protest, but soon enough his common sense reminds him of the situation at hand and he starts to pull back as well.

(With a very heavy heart.)

“Well then,” Aziraphale says, tugging at his waistcoat. “I once again apologise for barging in like that completely unannounced yesterday, but I thank you for the lovely date and … well, everything else.”

He feels his cheeks burning when Crowley's grin widens at those words.

“Oh, stop it,” Aziraphale scolds him. “Just – hurry up and get that tracking spell so that we can hopefully leave this entire affair behind us soon enough.”

So that we can finally have our old lives back.

Our little, unexciting, wonderful lives.

Crowley's expression turns earnest instantly and he nods in agreement.

And that is the last Aziraphale sees before the ring does its magic and transports him back to Heaven.

Chapter Text

Cynthia Wheeler looks like she is stumbling straight into a brain aneurysm when Crowley walks through the front door of her antique shop first thing Monday morning.

It's been about a month since she “killed” him, but it seems she remembers him very vividly.

She forgets to breathe at the sight of him and actually has to clutch onto the counter to not lose her balance and drop to the floor like a sack of rice.

Crowley merely smiles at her, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. Of course he is still not happy that she threw Holy Water at him without even asking any questions first and it certainly doesn't help that his hand is still hurting occasionally when he is moving it in the wrong way by accident. However, at the same time he can't really fault her, especially after everything Aziraphale told him about her situation. She was in a panic and wanted to protect her daughter and Crowley can respect that.

So no hard feelings on his side.

After all, he didn't die, he now knows that Holy Water doesn't instantly kill him, and the whole thing brought Aziraphale back to him, so all in all it's actually a win.

“I'm not here to seek revenge,” Crowley tells her right away, making his voice as soothing as possible. “I just want to talk.”

Cynthia whimpers, obviously still wondering if her life is over now.

That is when Muriel joins in. They seem a bit confused by Cynthia's reaction first, but eventually shrug it off as something humans apparently do. They step close with the brightest grin underneath the sun and exclaim excitedly, “This is an amazing establishment –”

And then Muriel rambles on, all bubbly and happy, and Cynthia can't help but relax. For one probably due to Muriel's harmless innocence and also because angels always put people at ease.

It most likely was indeed a good idea to drag the baby angel along.

Even though Crowley won't mention that to Aziraphale ever, of course.

Eventually, when Cynthia has unclenched enough to find her voice again, she looks at Crowley with wide eyes and whispers, “You're alive?”

Crowley shrugs, like this is all not a big deal. “Yeah, sorry. It was all just a bit of a misunderstanding. You got me good, don't get me wrong, but you obviously didn't kill me.”

Cynthia gulps and continues to stare at him.

“Listen, I don't hold any grudges,” Crowley explains to her. “I'm not here to cause you any harm.”

Cynthia doesn't seem convinced, but her gaze shifts to Muriel when the angel puts their hand on the woman's wrist and pats it reassuringly.

“I can vouch for him,” Muriel says, as sunshine-y as ever. “He might be a demon and he might appear a bit grumpy more often than not, yes, but he is actually really nice.”

They shoot Crowley a smile at those words and usually he wouldn't approve such a description of him, particularly coming out of the mouth of an angel, but in this instance it would only help their cause, so he tries for a smile himself. It probably looks a little forced, but it's all he's got right now.

Cynthia, meanwhile, looks at Muriel so casually touching her. “Are you an angel?” she whispers, obviously eager to keep her voice low even though there is nobody in the shop but them at the moment. “Like … like the other one?”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley helps her out because apparently his angel didn't think of introducing himself to the witch back when he first met her. “His name is Aziraphale.”

Cynthia nods at him and then gazes back at Muriel.

“Yes, I am an angel,” Muriel confirms joyfully. “Mind you, of course not even as highly ranked as Aziraphale considering he is the Supreme Archangel, but I am part of the Holy Host …”

Cynthia blinks. “Supreme …?” she begins to ask, but then seems to decide that she better doesn't want to know and leaves it with that.

“Aziraphale is awfully sorry, by the way, that he completely forgot to tell you about my not-dead status,” Crowley adds. “In his defence, though, a lot has happened since. It was easy to slip anyone's mind.” He grins widely at her, with way too much teeth. “I hope my alleged untimely demise didn't keep you awake at night.”

Cynthia doesn't appear sure which response might be correct in this instance and therefore settles on quickly changing the topic.

“Why are you here?” she asks. “Just to ease my conscience?”

She doesn't sound convinced and she is certainly not wrong.

Instead of answering right away, however, Crowley turns to Muriel and tells them, “How about you look around if you find anything nice for the bookshop here? Aziraphale would be delighted by another addition.”

Of course those are the magic words and Muriel almost trips over their own two feet in a hurry to scuffle deep into the antique shop, their gaze sweeping all over the place.

As soon as Crowley has made sure they're out of earshot, he directs his attention back to Cynthia. “I need your help,” he says. “And I need it fast.”

Naturally Cynthia appears sceptical, her eyes flickering to where Muriel just vanished out of their lines of sight. She probably knows too well that the demon sent them away on purpose, to not have them overhear the following conversation.

“Yes, I know, this looks a bit suspicious,” Crowley admits with a heavy sigh. “But trust me, it's for the best. I'm on a rather secret mission now and Muriel … well, they crack quickly under pressure. Hell, they would most likely share all our secrets in exchange for a candy cane.”

Cynthia blinks at him, still hesitant and yet starting to look intrigued. “So what do you need help with?”

“A tracking spell,” Crowley tells her while leaning over the counter. “The most powerful you have.”

Cynthia tilts her head. “Who are you looking for?”

“It's better for you to not know any details,” Crowley waves her off. “Apart from the fact that you probably wouldn't believe me anyway.”

Of course that gets her even more curious and Crowley spots the tension in her muscles as she clearly debates with herself whether she should take the risk and dig further into this. But then she shoots a glance at a door behind her that must lead to the backroom – right where her daughter most likely is right now, at least according to Aziraphale – and she deflates instantly, obviously deeming the risk not worth it.

“I won't get into trouble for this?” she asks, worried.

“Just subtly point me in the right direction,” Crowley tells her. “Nobody will know.”

Cynthia licks her lips and ponders this over carefully.

In the end, though, she seems to decide that she owes Crowley at least that much.

“I know just the right person for the job,” she announces and the demon nods in satisfaction.

---

Thankfully Cynthia doesn't waste a single second.

After calling in an employee to look after the shop and her daughter and making some phone calls, she climbs into the passenger seat of The Bentley and gives Crowley directions to where he needs to go to find, quote, “the most powerful magic in town”.

(Muriel gets left behind in the store, meanwhile, too enamoured by it all and eager to ask the employee a million questions about anything. They barely even noticed when Crowley told them he would be back shortly.)

They drive for about ten minutes, through the narrowest streets London has to offer, before Cynthia orders him to stop in front of an inconspicuous single family house that is standing in line with a whole row of other single family houses looking exactly the same.

“We're here to meet Ana Novac,” Cynthia explains. “She does have the mightiest spells in town. For a price, of course.”

“No problem,” Crowley says easily.

Cynthia assesses him intently. “You have money?” she asks incredulously, as though the mere concept is absolutely unfathomable to her.

Crowley looks at her, flatly. “I'm a demon,” he reminds her. “I can conjure almost anything out of thin air.”

Cynthia narrows her eyes. “Then why don't you just conjure a tracking spell?”

“It doesn't work like that,” Crowley objects. “There are rules and boundaries and especially human magic interferes with our way far too much. If I were to combine those two things, I might accidentally blow up half the city.”

Cynthia's eyes widen before she quickly jumps out of the car, obviously now more than keen on getting Crowley what he needs the normal way.

Ana Novac already awaits them at the door.

By the looks of it she is around fifty years old, with wavy hair and sharp eyes. And she is not subtle at all about her heritage, considering all the different talismans and runes hanging on her body or even decorating her skin. You don't need any supernatural abilities to identify her as a witch. She is basically screaming it from the rooftops.

(Which must be quite the delight for her neighbours.)

(And which Crowley is not shy to point out.)

“Your neighbours must hate you,” he says in lieu of a proper hello.

While Cynthia just eyes him sceptically, probably wondering whether demons always act this way, Ana doesn't take offence. No, she actually laughs, loud and proud.

“I'm a thorn in all their sides,” she states cheerfully. “It's magnificent.”

Crowley grins and walks up to her. “Anthony J. Crowley,” he introduces himself, with just enough flair to make her chuckle.

“Ana Novac,” she says right back. “Cynthia told me you're interested in a spell?”

Crowley is fairly sure that nobody is overhearing them right now, but he would feel safer to discuss the matter right inside that heavily warded house instead of the front porch. So he gestures through the door and Ana understands right away. She steps to the side, beckons both the demon and Cynthia to step over the threshold.

Only to realise that this woman's home is simply a mirror of herself. Her compilation of completely normal furniture and knick-knacks is buried underneath more talismans and charms and sigils and whatnot. It's the true lair of a witch and Crowley basks in its beauty for a moment there.

“This is gorgeous,” he says with a wide grin. “Can I move in with you?”

Ana assesses him from head to toe, as if she is seriously considering the question. “Well, you're easy enough on the eyes,” she comes to her conclusion with a shrug. “Might be nice to have some hot piece running around here –”

“Ana,” Cynthia hisses then, interrupting her friend effectively. “You don't know what he is!”

Ana continues to chuckle. “Love, you're still taking everything too seriously, don't you?” She pets Cynthia on the head like a puppy. “Don't worry, we're just joking. Besides, I know that he's a demon.”

Crowley arches his brows. “You know?”

Ana nods and just raises her arm, directing Crowley's attention to a talisman attached to her bracelet which is glowing in a faint red light.

Obviously an alarm system that tells you when you're close to a Hell creature.

“Fascinating,” Crowley mumbles, looking at the stone more closely.

Ana pulls her hand back and looks at him intently. “But you're not here for something like this today, am I right? Cynthia told me something about a tracking spell?”

Crowley blinks a few times to get his thoughts into order again before nodding in confirmation. “That's right. Preferably the strongest humankind has ever seen.”

Ana narrows her eyes. “And who do you need to find?”

“Is that important?”

“You're a demon,” Ana reminds him. “Forgive me, but I don't wanna inadvertently help you track down some poor chap you have every intention of killing.”

Crowley snorts at the accusation. “Trust me, I don't wanna kill anybody. Quite on the contrary.”

Ana remains wary. “Trust you?”

Crowley opens his mouth, ready for another excellent argument, when suddenly Cynthia pipes in, “He is actually working with angels.”

That certainly gets Ana's full attention. “Angels?”

She studies him again, clearly seeing him now in a rather new light. Crowley allows it to happen and tries to appear as unthreatening as possible.

“Yes, I'm working with a bunch of angels,” he eventually confirms. “Don't ask about the when and how and who and whatnot, I won't tell you a damned thing. Mainly because it would be dangerous for them and for you to have such information.”

While Cynthia starts to look more nervous, Ana gets intrigued.

“I can't tell you who I'm tracking down,” Crowley urges her. “But I can assure you that it's mighty important. Not just for Hell and Heaven but also for humanity as well.”

Otherwise you might all be dead soon enough, he doesn't say.

Ana appears to recognise the seriousness of the situation, though, because her expression hardens as she nods in understanding.

But instead of just handing the tracking spell to Crowley and doing her part of thwarting the apocalypse, she is still a human and humans usually don't give something of value away for free.

“What do I get in return?” Ana asks, her gaze expectant as though she seriously believes Crowley would drop all the riches of the world to her feet the next moment.

Crowley bares his teeth, but doesn't scold her for thinking like a business woman. After all, she has to finance her lifestyle somehow, just like everybody else.

Crowley can't fault her for that.

So he asks, “What do you want then? Money? I can bury you in money.”

He's already lifting his hand, ready to snap his finger and conjure as many golden coins and fluttering paper money as possible out of nothing.

She starts to look pensive, though, and says, “I can get my own money just fine, thank you. How about something else instead? Something only a demon can get me?”

A weirdly uncomfortable feeling begins to settle in Crowley's gut.

“And what would that be?” he asks warily.

Ana grins. “How about you making sure that I have a good shot of not ending up in Hell?” she proposes while batting her eyelashes at him. “I'm not an evil person by any means, but I'm not so sure my morals are up to standard for Heaven either, and I'm seriously not keen on ending up in a fiery pit when my time comes …”

Crowley frowns at her. “You want me to use my influence to keep you out of Hell?”

“Yes!” she states with a fierce nod.

Crowley blinks behind his sunglasses.

And then he breaks into hysterical laughter because he just can't help himself.

“I'm sorry, darlin',” he says a few minutes later as he wipes a single tear off his cheek. “I'm the worst demon you could ask that of.”

The witches in the room exchange glances among each other.

“Why is that?” Cynthia wonders. “Because you're associating with angels?”

Crowley smirks crookedly. “Yes, in a way. I'm persona non grata down there. A traitor. A disgrace for all of demonkind.” He truly loves all those nicknames. “In fact, you'd rather get in Hell's good graces by burning me up to a crisp. That would seriously get you some bonus points.”

Ana squints her eyes, studying him suspiciously. “Why would you even tell me that?”

Crowley can't blame her for being mistrustful. It would have indeed been easier to lie to her, to make up some fake contract with no intention of ever keeping to it, and call it a day.

But that's not who he really is anymore.

(If he ever has been.)

“What can I say?” He shrugs his shoulders casually. “My – well, my angel is big on honesty lately and I've been picking up on it. Got used to it, I guess.”

Ana stares at him. “Your angel?”

Crowley tries to remain nonchalant, at least on the outside, but he already feels the corners of his mouth tugging into a stupid smile at the mere thought of Aziraphale.

“Well, yeah,” he blurts out because at this point why bother anymore? “I Fell from Heaven and after that I kinda fell for an angel – and I know it sounds like a bad film or something –”

He inhales deeply and tries not to be too unsettled by the two women staring holes into his head at those news.

“Well, either way, you should be fine,” he tells Ana. “I may very well be Hell's most hated ex-employee, but I still have some tricks up my sleeves and I can totally see that you're not in any real danger of ending up in Hell anytime soon. So long as you don't burn down a town or something in the next few years, of course.”

Ana deflates in relief and Crowley finds himself wondering what she might have done that she truly assumed she would go to Hell for it.

Probably something as outrageous as loving a woman or sharing a bed and house with a man before they were married.

Yes, there have been enough preachers over the centuries who have claimed loudly that these “offences” would get you a ticket straight to Hell. Funnily enough, those supposed sinners mostly ascended to Heaven in the end while those preachers got a special place in Hell just reserved for them alone.

Sometimes celestial justice can be beautiful.

“Okay then,” Crowley says, eager to get back on track. “What do you want? No money, no lift to Heaven – so what can it be?”

Suddenly a smile spreads across Ana's face and somehow the demon doesn't like it at all.

“I want the story,” she insists. “The story of you and that angel.”

For a moment Crowley is so stunned he just stares at her.

“What?” he asks, unfortunately his voice becoming a little squeaky in the process.

“I just love a good story,” Ana states. “And yours – well, it sounds like a good one. A really good one.”

Crowley glances to the side and notices Cynthia nodding in agreement to that. She actually seems especially intrigued about their backstory now.

Crowley grinds his teeth.

“Seriously?” he whines.

“Yes!” Ana confirms. “The story for the tracking spell!”

The witches nod once again.

Crowley groans.

Curses his life.

“Are you sure you don't want anything else?” he proposes hopefully. “I do have riches, you know? Or maybe a favour or two? Have your pick.”

Ana considers the offer for all of three seconds before she shakes her head. “Oh no, the story will serve just fine.”

For a moment Crowley seriously questions her sanity if she honestly prefers a silly little tale over any demonic gift. Then he remembers, however, that witches are all a little weird, in the best case scenario, and completely insane in the worst case and Ana seems to lie somewhere in the middle of it. She must be getting something more out of it than a nice bedtime story, whatever that might be.

Crowley contemplates picking up a fight over this. Argue his head off.

Or maybe just go to someone else. Someone who will leave his private life alone and just focus on the gain. Ana might have claimed she is the best in the area, but Crowley surely knows that humans tend to exaggerate on a regular basis.

Then again, he neither has the time nor energy to search for anyone new. Ana is certainly powerful and her spell will get them further in their quest to locate Jesus and have this all finally over and done with.

So if it's a story she wants, why not give it to her?

And so in the end Crowley accepts his fate.

“Alright then,” he sighs in defeat and then throws his head back for dramatic effect. “But you have to swear that you won't mention any of what I'm about to tell you to neither Heaven nor Hell. They have their rumours, they don't need any more details.”

No, this is just between Aziraphale and Crowley.

And a couple of witches now, as it seems.

Crowley tugs on his sleeve and tells himself to make this whole thing just thorough enough to satisfy Ana and just vague enough that the real tale will still belong to Crowley and Aziraphale alone.

“Well,” Crowley sighs then. “I guess it all kinda started at a little place called The Garden of Eden …”

Chapter Text

Thankfully nobody noticed Aziraphale's absence in Heaven.

He had been more than a little anxious when he shuffled out of the hidden corridor he teleported himself back into, low-key expecting Tabiel or even The Metatron himself to wait for him on the other side of the wall. And yes, it might not have been the end of their operation to tell them all about the secret passages throughout Heaven, but it would have broken Aziraphale's heart nonetheless to share it with them and see their privacy lost forever.

Nobody hovered on the other side, though. No, instead Aziraphale stepped into a completely empty hallway and sucked in all the imaginary oxygen of Heaven in relief.

Soon enough he found Tabiel in another corridor, frantically looking for him. When she asked him where he was and tried not to sound too accusingly about it, he just told her he had a talk with Michael, knowing fairly well that a) the archangel in question would back him up if necessary, and b) that Tabiel would never dare to ask Michael about it directly anyway.

Soon enough Tabiel shuffles him back in the direction of the crisis centre, eager to give her report about Hell's newest mischief. Aziraphale listens along and nods with a grave expression, looking like the concerned Supreme Archangel he is so supposed to represent, even though on the inside he can't help but be somewhat pleased by these developments.

And you might say about Hell what you want, but they're very efficient when there is chaos and destruction involved.

Because since Aziraphale last looked at the damage everything appeared to have doubled and tripled in the meantime, resulting in Heaven directing their attention more and more towards their hereditary enemies.

As Crowley had suggested to Shax (and as Shax obviously managed to convince Hell of afterwards) there are mostly comparatively small things happening. A little chaos here, a bit of misery there.

A Hell Hound dropped into the centre of Tokyo. Cages in several zoos all over the world suddenly vanishing, allowing the previously imprisoned animals to roam free. The air conditioning failing in the hottest countries all at once. Every single left shoe disappearing in a small town in Norway. The traffic lights in New York City all jumping to red at the same time and staying that way, causing an awful lot of road rage.

It's overall not the worst Hell has ever done, but it's enough to keep Heaven busier and busier by the hour.

Naturally some become suspicious, though. While Michael just eyes Aziraphale from across the room a few days later, obviously not in the mood to ask any questions about it because she just knows she won't like the answers anyway, The Metatron becomes increasingly concerned.

“This is rather atypical,” he says during one of their crisis meetings, with Aziraphale and many of the other archangels present (apart from Sandalphon who apparently couldn't wait to travel to Earth and kick in some demons' heads). “We need to assume this is a direct reaction to the events that happened in Hell prior to this.”

“We still don't know what it was, though,” Uriel points out.

“Maybe Hell was gathering their armies,” Saraqael adds. “That would explain the weird energy we felt in the last few days.”

The Metatron nods pensively before his eyes finally land on Aziraphale. “What do you think?”

Aziraphale straightens his spine and tries to appear not too rattled by it all. “Well, Hell has often been quite unpredictable,” he says. “And it might very well be that one demon down there one day suggested that they should be more of a thorn in our side than usual and everyone else went along with it. After all, they are well known for being quite spontaneous and not always coming up with the best of plans, am I right?”

Talking Hell down has always worked well with the archangels before and also this time it's no exception. They all nod in unison like the mere thought of Hell making any elaborate plans is just too absurd to even entertain.

The Metatron, meanwhile, rubs his chin, his gaze still focused on his Supreme Archangel. Aziraphale is fairly sure that he's once again contemplating to send Aziraphale down to Earth to try to pry any information out of Crowley, but doesn't dare to voice this out loud in front of the others. Aziraphale isn't surprised because he highly doubts the idea would be well received by the archangels and might actually rather raise uncomfortable questions than anything else.

Aziraphale, though, understands The Metatron's gaze perfectly and finds himself nodding subtly.

And just in the midst of it the ring's link suddenly opens up and Crowley's voice booms in his head, saying, “Angel, I got the tracking spell. Call me back when you've got the chance.”

In the last few weeks Aziraphale became an expert in not flinching at the sudden loud noise in his ear. Also this time he remains calm and doesn't let on anything while he quietly sends back a, “Yes, later.”

Nobody present seems to realise that human magic is happening in their midst right this instance and this once again reinforces the idea that Crowley's plan with the tracking spell actually might both work and be subtle enough for Heaven to not notice a single thing.

“We should be concerned about these turns of events,” The Metatron says then. “And we ought to stay vigilant. We need to learn more about Hell's situation in order to defeat these sudden attacks.”

They talk some more, back and forth, and Aziraphale participates just enough to not look suspicious.

Afterwards he makes his excuses, shakes Tabiel off (which, thankfully, isn't that hard since she gets called into a crisis meeting of her own soon) and then hurries deep into Heaven to slip into a secret corridor and travel to one of his favourite places up here: the forgotten Heaven concept idea that looks like Eden.

Aziraphale had been blown away the first time he saw it because it looked so much like that garden he was issued to protect many lifetimes ago and where he evidently met Crowley again that it caused a lot of emotions welling up in him. Also now he feels full and happy as he strides into the centre of it and sits down on a boulder right next to a glistening pond.

It's wonderful. Granted, there are differences because contrary to the real thing there are no animals bustling about and the eerie silence is a bit disconcerting, to be honest, but overall it's constantly awakening a lot of lovely memories within Aziraphale and he enjoys basking in them.

Also now he allows himself five minutes to remember the first time he saw Crowley down here. A snake just slithering through the high grass. Aziraphale barely got a glimpse of him before he was gone again, but he never forgot that moment in all those thousands of years which followed.

Eventually he takes a deep breath and sends a message to the demon in question. “I'm alone,” he says. “We can talk.”

The response is prompt. “Where are you?” Crowley asks. “In one of the secret passages?”

“In the garden,” Aziraphale explains and can't help a soft smile at that.

“Perfect,” Crowley replies.

And then, instead of further details, the air suddenly shifts and Crowley pops up right beside Aziraphale, dangerously close to the pond. While the angel stares at him with wide eyes, Crowley shakes his head as though he has to chase off the abrupt dizziness and then hastily staggers away from the shore as soon as he gets aware of his location.

“You're right, it's much different when you travel between realms,” Crowley says while he opens and closes his mouth as though he wants to get rid off the sudden pressure in his ears. “Damn, that is no fun!”

Aziraphale lets out a series of noises before he leaps to his feet. “Crowley!” he scolds. “Why would you risk coming here?”

Crowley scoffs. “Because I've got the tracking spell, moron?”

“A little heads-up would have been nice nonetheless –”

“Seriously?”

“Besides, it would have been beneficial to make some sort of plans first –”

Crowley just folds his arms across his chest, clearly defiant. “I got the tracking spell, I already tried it in different parts of the world to see if Jesus might be somewhere on Earth and it didn't react anywhere,” he states through gritted teeth. “So ergo Heaven should be next on our list. That's why I'm here.”

“Crowley –”

The demon doesn't appear in any mood for an argument, though. He just pulls Christ's necklace out of his pocket and studies it intently.

The small stone embedded into it is glowing faintly and Aziraphale is fairly sure that it hasn't done that before.

“Well, looks like Jesus is somewhere in Heaven,” Crowley says triumphantly. He turns around himself and comes to a halt when the stone's glow starts to increase in a certain direction. “And he is somewhere that way.”

While Aziraphale tries to orient himself somehow and fails miserably, Crowley mutters, “If I'm not totally wrong, this is where The Gate is.”

“So Christ is indeed with the human souls,” Aziraphale breathes.

Crowley snorts. “Makes sense. If you have the chance to either hang out with humans or angels, I would pick humans any other day as well.”

Aziraphale tries not to feel offended.

After all, he has a point.

And in the grand scheme of things it doesn't really matter anyway because it honestly looks like the tracking spell is working (or at least reacting to something) and Aziraphale has to admit that he only had very faint hope at this point that this would actually lead to something besides disappointment.

But as he watches the stone glowing now, it seriously seems like they're getting somewhere.

He just hopes it's the right direction.

“Very good then,” he says as he straightens his waistcoat, ready to spur into action. “I'm going to follow the trail and see where it leads us while you return back to Earth –”

“Oh hell no!” Crowley protests and quickly pulls the necklace out of reach just when Aziraphale is grabbing for it. “I'm coming with you!”

Aziraphale scoffs in the most unattractive way. “I don't think so!”

Crowley scoffs right back at him. “Well, I think so and I'm still the master of my own life –”

“Crowley –” Aziraphale cuts in with a weary sigh. “This is Heaven and no matter how much you believe yourself to be sneaky, the chance of you getting sighted by anyone is just too high –”

Crowley waves him off impatiently.

“First of all, do you know how to get through The Gate without anyone noticing?” he asks, arching his eyebrows expectantly at the angel. When Aziraphale simply reacts with a pout because they both know very well that this area of Heaven is mostly a mystery to him, Crowley grins smugly while Aziraphale both wants to kiss and curse him. “Well, I do know how to get through it. There is another secret corridor, you see –”

“Why wasn't that one on the map you drew for me about all those other passages?” Aziraphale complains.

“Because frankly, I didn't think it would be important,” Crowley explains with a shrug. “Why would you want to go to the human Heaven anyway?”

Another good argument, Aziraphale has to confess.

“Either way, there is a secret door, further down,” Crowley continues. “Nobody is really around in that part of Heaven. I will be fine.”

Aziraphale folds his arms across his chest, not impressed in the slightest by this. “We have to get there first, though,” he reminds the demon. “And that would be much more of a hassle than you're ready to admit –”

Crowley rubs his temple. “Angel, you're the most clever being I have ever known, but sometimes you're just ridiculously daft!”

Aziraphale scowls at that accusation. “Crowley, seriously –”

The demon just shakes his head in exasperation – he can't keep out the fondness, however – before gesturing dramatically at the ring on his finger.

“You just go to The Gate and when you have reached your destination you call for me and I teleport myself next to you,” Crowley states. “Easy as that.”

Oh.

Alright, maybe Aziraphale is indeed a little daft.

That certainly makes sense.

He deflates at the obviousness of it all. “Right,” he admits tentatively. “That might work.”

Crowley spreads his arms and tells Aziraphale with his expression, See? You idiot.

“But still, maybe I should still go in alone,” the angel doesn't give up. “Look for Christ myself first and just call you when I have found him. I don't know how much the human area is watched by angels –”

“Barely not at all,” Crowley says with all the confidence.

Aziraphale studies him sceptically. “And how should you know? The last time you were properly up here in Heaven humanity hadn't even been created yet.”

Crowley scoffs. “I just know. Angels don't really care about humans in general. So why would they waste resources and keep a close eye on the humans here in Heaven?”

Aziraphale opens his mouth. And then closes it again.

Crowley unfortunately does have a point.

The few angels greeting the new souls right there at The Gate had been the only celestial presences Aziraphale had sensed there at all. And the sole item at their disposal was a mere desk and nothing else. No grandeur, no effort, nothing. It's obvious that the superiors of Heaven never really put much thought into it.

As long as everyone remains right where they are supposed to be – which they are able to control thanks to the tagging system they have invented for any soul – they seem happy enough to leave the humans be.

It would probably be easy enough to sneak right through The Gate if they wouldn't make any sort of fuss and turn themselves into a beacon of some kind.

“Angel, we don't have time for you to be difficult,” Crowley presses through his teeth. “Who knows how long Hell will play along with our charade before they get tired of it all and declare an open war with Heaven? It might only be minutes away at this point.”

Aziraphale slumps his shoulders. Unfortunately he makes a point this time as well.

“Just call me when you've reached the wall,” Crowley states. “Left side, about two hundred steps from The Gate. That's where I hid the secret door.”

Aziraphale is about to nod on instinct, but then comes to a screeching halt and creases his forehead in confusion.

“I beg your pardon?” he says. “You hid the secret door there?”

Crowley shrugs like this is all not a big deal. “I helped build some of that wall back in the day. And I don't remember much of Heaven, to be honest, but all those secret passages are burned into my brain somehow.”

Aziraphale still continues to stare at him. “Why would you have even seen the need for a secret door there to begin with?”

“Snake,” Crowley reminds him while pointing at himself. “I obviously thought it would come in handy someday. I don't remember my decision process from back then, but hey, it works out for us now, am I right?”

Aziraphale still remains quiet and for a moment he actually starts to entertain the possibility that this isn't just a convenient coincidence but actually fate. That all of this was destined to happen when Crowley hid that secret door so many millennia ago inside the wall.

That maybe …

That maybe a higher power is on their side?

For a second there Aziraphale allows himself to actually become a little hopeful that everything might turn out alright. That they're actually on the path they're supposed to be.

Could this be true?

Are they really …?

“Hey, angel?” Crowley suddenly asks, jolting Aziraphale out of his thoughts. “Are you okay?”

Aziraphale blinks a few times.

And then he nods before he can even think better of it.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Everything is fine.”

Crowley, however, still assesses him warily, clearly not fully convinced.

So Aziraphale straightens his back and says, with new determination flooding his entire body, “Then let's do this!”

Chapter Text

The angels call the section where all the human souls are stashed Area B-1.

Crowley has no idea if they over time created a more flourish name for it all, something unofficial that isn't found on any documents, but he really hopes so because that stupid designation doesn't do any of this justice at all.

Crowley has never seen it in its glory. Back when he helped working on this project – a rather blurry memory apart from the secret door and a few little scenes here and there – it was all just an idea. Nobody really knew how it would actually work in the end, but of course nobody questioned the Almighty's orders on this matter. They all just did their job like the obedient drones they were.

(Well, apart from Crowley, of course.)

(And to this day he can't recall why he thought a secret door would be a good idea, no matter how hard he tries.)

Crowley couldn't really imagine what the whole thing would look like back then, the concept too wild and outlandish for any angel to grasp, and also now he has no clue what he is even looking at when he closes the secret door behind them again and gazes at Area B-1 right in front of them.

Aziraphale next to him gasps, equally stupefied.

The basic idea of it all is that every single human being can shape their own Heaven. Can make it into anything they want. And naturally that is a nice concept in general, but it gets rather crazy and confusing when trillion, no, endless souls are all coming together and creating their own version of Heaven.

Yes, the space is also infinite, to accommodate everyone, but six-thousand years of procreation and death is still an awful lot.

Also, fact is that most souls actually end up in Heaven. Sure, Hell is always eager to seduce people to their side, but the truth is that you need to be more than an everyday bastard to deserve eternal punishment Below. Granted, you might end up in Purgatory for a while – a whole other department Crowley is not very familiar with – if you've been, for instance, constantly rude to retail workers or have been a dead-beat father who couldn't bother to ever pay alimony, but overall those people manage to achieve the forgiveness of Heaven when they eventually redeem themselves.

So yes, at the end of the day those are a lot of souls Heaven has to deal with.

And now, as Crowley looks at Area B-1, he suddenly realises the extent of it all.

It's wild. It's chaotic. And it might be the most beautiful thing Crowley has ever seen.

Millions of different Heavens are clashing against each other right in front of them and considering that they're just at the wall it's fair to assume that it will get even more the deeper they walk into it.

Crowley can't wait.

He grins widely as he lets his gaze roam around.

It's clear that these are the personal Heavens of many people from the most different time periods. There is a random locomotive driving around the area, turning the sky black, while a herd of wild mustangs is running right beside it, trying to keep up. Houses are standing around everywhere, in the most disorganised order, which couldn't be more contrary. European castles, Japanese temples, primitive huts, spacious luxury apartment complexes, and even a few caves. Vehicles are driving around in all forms, starting from the very first automobiles to the newest technology.

It's not just the memories of their previous lives, though, that humans are conjuring up, to probably create some sort of familiarity and safe space for themselves. No, this is Heaven and everyone can do with it what they want, so naturally the human race is making the most of that.

The Beatles are giving an impromptu concert right next to some Mediaeval knights' training field. A clown the size of a skyscraper is wading through an ocean of cotton candy. A vacuum cleaner and a broom are having a heated argument about who of them is cleaning better and by the looks of it they're only seconds away from getting physical with each other. Ancient statues, one more famous than the other, are dancing through the streets and pulling pranks on innocent passersby.

And it only gets weirder and weirder.

Crowley decides then and there that he wants to grow old here.

“This is madness,” Aziraphale exclaims, apparently not as enthralled by the happenings in front of him than his demonic counterpart. He gapes at it all with wide eyes and flinches back when a random monkey tries to rug on his earlobe.

“Oh, c'mon, angel,” Crowley says with a booming laugh. “This is gorgeous.”

“It is chaos and I don't understand how Heaven allowed it to get so out of control,” Aziraphale complains. “Don't they realise what is happening here?”

Crowley raises a pointed eyebrow. “You're the Supreme Archangel. Did you realise?”

Aziraphale bristles at that and for a while doesn't find a proper answer, especially when he gets distracted by an army of toy cars driving all over his feet and nearly knocking him over.

In the end, though, he replies with an impressive pout. “I haven't been Supreme Archangel that long,” he defends himself.

He looks ridiculously adorable at that moment and Crowley wants to kiss him badly, but he also knows that the angel most likely wouldn't appreciate the sentiment.

So instead he gets the necklace out of his pocket and finds himself relieved when he sees the glow of the stone having increased in the meantime.

“We're certainly at the right spot,” Crowley points out as he shows the necklace to Aziraphale.

The angel scoffs. “Then let's pray we're going to find him in this utter madness.”

Crowley throws him a cocky smile. “Have a little faith, angel.”

Aziraphale glares at him, but instead of a witty response he just glimpses at the necklace and then follows its pointed direction without another word.

Crowley laughs loudly and runs after him a moment later.

And so they walk further into this wonderful and beautiful mess. They pass dinosaurs fighting with laser guns, cowboys riding mythical creatures and something that looks like a caricature of the monster of Loch Ness being in a heated discussion with Godzilla. At some point Crowley and Aziraphale even find themselves at a place which has an eerie familiarity with the bridge of the Enterprise and Aziraphale actually has to drag the demon quickly out of there because Crowley seriously starts to consider ignoring their current mission for the sake of searching for Kirk or Spock instead.

Yes, this is truly a remarkable place all around.

It looks like Heaven actually did something right for a change.

Ultimately, after minutes or hours or even days (Crowley can't be sure anymore), they reach a spot where the necklace's stone starts to glow the brightest it has so far.

Crowley's heartbeat picks up because he sure as hell knows what this means. He points the necklace around, all over the area, desperate to find the right direction, but at this point the stone's light is so bright that the demon can't really make out any differences.

“I think Jesus is very close,” Crowley says, a little breathless.

Aziraphale squirms on the spot and lets his gaze wander, over every single face close by. So many souls are walking by them or are just enjoying their existence right beside them and none of them is familiar enough to make them pause. It's been two-thousand years at this point since either of them has seen Jesus, but they both know that they would recognise him anywhere.

And they don't spot him in any of those faces.

Crowley looks down on the necklace with a scowl. “This spell is not very precise,” he complains.

“To be fair, Heaven's magic is particularly strong here,” Aziraphale points out. “Not to mention the power accumulated by so many souls in one place. I think it can be accused that the spell isn't working to its fullest potential considering all the interferences. And who knows, maybe Christ is the biggest interference of them all …?”

It's a good enough argument, but Crowley doesn't really like the whole situation anyway.

His eyes soon enough land on a building that looks like a pub from the Mediaeval times, including an askew roof, dirty window you can barely look through, and horrible and obscene singing coming from inside.

“Then how about we do it the old-fashioned way and ask around?” Crowley suggests as he gestures with his chin to the pub.

Aziraphale doesn't appear overly impressed by the establishment, but he is also very aware that usually bartenders know far more people than anyone else. So ultimately he nods, albeit visibly reluctant.

Inside everything is as Crowley expected it to be and at the same time it's completely different.

The décor, the interior design, it's all so very Mediaeval it feels like travelling back in time. There is even a wall adorned with animal heads right across the entrance.

The clientele, however, is clearly not what Crowley has gotten used to. Yes, there are a few faces that fit perfectly, but there are also what looks like Roman scholars, Hun soldiers, business people straight out of Wall Street, and a woman on the far end who looks so eerily like Queen Victoria that Crowley barely knows what to do with that.

In the end he just nudges Aziraphale towards one of the few empty tables while walking up to the bar counter. The keeper is just what you anticipate – broad and a little filthy, with a stupidly large moustache and a grumpy attitude.

Crowley approaches him with a smile. “Hello there,” he says cheerfully. “I was wondering if you can help me.”

The barkeeper eyes him suspiciously, but eventually he just shrugs and beckons for the demon to go on. Apparently not having to worry about money or getting stabbed out of the blue has made him gracious enough.

“I'm looking for Jesus Christ,” Crowley says.

The man huffs. “Boy, if you've come here to spread your religion or something, we're in Heaven, if you haven't noticed –”

Crowley scowls at the mere idea. “Oh hell no,” he is quick to protest. “I'm actually looking for Jesus, you know? Like, the actual person and all that …”

The bartender narrows his eyes. “So you want to tell me that Jesus Christ is really here, with us mere people?”

“Is that so unrealistic?”

The man mulls this over for a moment and then obviously decides that no, it's not. “Since I've arrived here I surely have experienced stranger things.”

Crowley sighs. “But I assume that means you haven't seen Jesus then?”

“You're a wise man,” the bartender mocks him.

Crowley rolls his eyes and is just about to flip the chap off, turn around and drag Aziraphale out of here again. But as he glimpses at the angel in question he notices that yes, Aziraphale may look a little wary with all those people around him dancing and singing (terribly) along to the musicians in the corner actually making good music, but he also seems exhausted, the last few hours and probably also the last few months weighing heavy on him, and Crowley decides that maybe a little break is exactly what they need before they resume their search.

“Do you have any half decent wine?” he asks the barkeeper then.

The man snorts in response. “Of course, this is Heaven. I've got all the wines.”

That makes Crowley perk up. “All of them?”

The fella nods and instead of asking further questions he just reaches underneath the counter and pulls out a very familiar bottle. It's not only the exact brand of very rare wine he and Aziraphale had stumbled upon during the French revolution back in the day and instantly fell in love with, it is actually the same bottle they devoured in that little, damp and yet surprisingly cosy basement of some abandoned villa at the edge of town. Which Crowley knows very well because he remembers vividly how the bottle's label had been peeled off at one side by a serving boy previous to that, creating the pattern of a butterfly.

The demon stares at it all and barely knows what to say.

The bartender, meanwhile, just laughs. “I guess you're pretty new here, huh?”

It's not exactly wrong. “You could say that,” Crowley states through gritted teeth.

“Well, Heaven gives you everything you desire,” the man explains with a shrug. “Not sure how it really works, but sometimes you just have to think about it and it comes true while other times Heaven just seems to know what you need and creates it for you.”

With these words he gestures at the bottle.

Crowley, however, can't find it in himself to be thrilled by that. He is an intruder here, not part of this whole world, so why would Heaven accommodate him? And how can it read his mind?

He suddenly gets very uncomfortable.

He grabs the bottle and the two glasses that appear out of thin air right next to it before hurrying over to Aziraphale and hastily dumping his findings on him in one long, incoherent sentence that leaves the angel behind more confused than anything.

“What?” Aziraphale asks at the end of it, his frown deepening.

Crowley puts the wine right on the table, for Aziraphale to see clearly. “Look at that. Heaven created this for me.” He shudders at the mere prospect. “How does Heaven know what I need? And why would it do that for me in the first place?”

Aziraphale remains bewildered for a moment longer, but then he seems to recognise the bottle as well and his eyes widen. His gaze flickers back and forth between Crowley and the wine, obviously trying to make sense of it.

Ultimately he sags his shoulders. “I assume Heaven accepted us as part of this world as soon as we stepped in. It probably can't distinguish between human souls, angels and demons. We radiate energy, just like the souls do, and therefore Heaven thinks we belong here.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale confirms. He doesn't look as confident as he most likely wants to appear, though. “Crowley, I don't think you have to worry –”

“Are you sure?” Crowley repeats. “Because this could also mean that Heaven now knows that a demon is in their midst, considering it obviously read my bloody mind –”

Maybe the alarm bells at headquarters are now blaring as they speak, alerting all of Heaven that a creature of Hell managed to sneak in.

Crowley tenses at the thought, already tapping at the ring to prepare himself to hop back into the bookshop and quickly pack his things before going into hiding for the unforeseeable future.

Aziraphale quickly reaches out to him, however, and squeezes his wrist in a soothing manner. “There is nothing for you to worry about. Heaven doesn't have any means to detect a demon. Not like this, anyway.”

Crowley squints his eyes. “No?”

“If you were to walk right in front of The Metatron, sure,” Aziraphale says with a chuckle. “Also, if you were to perform a miracle and thereby pull power out of Hell – yes, that would be rather obvious and would all of Heaven alert of your existence. But as long as you stay put …” He sighs and rubs his eyes. “The truth is, as I have recently learnt, Heaven – the actual concept of Heaven, this whole institution and everything this entails – can't really differentiate between angels and demons. It doesn't really understand the construct. For Heaven itself you have been created as angels and that's it.”

Crowley mulls this over carefully in his head. “So … Heaven believes I'm an angel?”

He doesn't really know how to feel about that.

“I mean, we all know the difference,” Aziraphale tells him. “But Heaven, it's not a living being with a mind of its own or anything like that. It's a compilation of energy and power, only fed with the basics of information. It's an entire ecosystem, so to speak. And I think nowadays nobody really knows how to explain to Heaven that demons are something different than angels now. But since it still reacts to any sort of threat no one deemed it much of a priority anyway.”

Huh.

Yes, Crowley figured that Heaven's security system didn't necessarily react to the presence of a demon alone the first time he came up with Muriel which ultimately made him decide to sneak in a second time with Aziraphale a couple of weeks ago to get those rings, but he never bothered to stop and wonder why.

Of course it makes their job easier now, but Crowley isn't really happy about Heaven still registering him as an angel. It feels all kinds of wrong somehow.

Aziraphale seems to read his mind as he adds, “I'm sure Heaven sees you as a rather weird angel right now. And maybe, if you were to stay for an extended period of time, it would eventually notice that you're something different. But we should make sure not to get to that point, wouldn't you agree?”

Crowley nods as he pours himself a glass of wine and downs in one go.

And so for the next fifteen minutes they drink, watch the locals enjoying their afterlife and constantly eye the necklace in Crowley's hand, hoping for some shift in the glow and ending up deeply disappointed.

“I believe there is indeed too much interference here,” Aziraphale sighs eventually. “And if the bartender didn't have any intel, maybe we should continue walking around and search the old-fashioned way. I'm sure Christ can't be far.”

“Assuming that the tracking spell hasn't short-circuited,” Crowley adds with a grunt. “Because if that's the case, I have no idea how we're supposed to find Jesus in this endless chaos of madness.”

Aziraphale grimaces and doesn't contradict.

He doesn't get a chance to say anything else, though, because suddenly the music swells up and the celebrating humans are stepping it up a notch. Maybe spurred on by the alcohol (can you get drunk in Heaven?) or perhaps merely because they suddenly feel like it. There is singing and bellowing while the people are jumping all throughout the room, eager to make everyone participate. All of a sudden someone is tugging on Crowley's jacket, keen on making him join their little party, and it only stops when the demon shoots the man in question a death glare with his snake eyes and watches the human stumble backward in shock.

Crowley chuckles as he puts his sunglasses back on.

His smile slips instantly, however, when the humans start to leap onto the tables and dance their heads off. Several of them also suddenly end up on Crowley and Aziraphale's table, not having a care in the world for the glasses or the bottle of wine or whether they might step on some fingers in the process.

Crowley groans. “We should go, angel,” he calls to Aziraphale over all the noise.

He doesn't get very far, though.

Just as he is about to stand up and bid his farewell, one of the men on their table all of a sudden trips over his own feet and falls to the side with a loud yelp.

Right into Crowley's lap.

The demon just has a chance to blink in puzzlement and stares at the wiggling chap who is suddenly so very close and personal with him. The man laughs as he tries to find his bearings and ends up wrapping one arm around Crowley's shoulders for support.

The demon suddenly finds himself ready for murder.

“Listen –” he presses warningly through his teeth.

The rest gets stuck in his throat, however.

Because the man turns his head towards him and when their gazes meet they both gasp in shock at the sight of the other.

“Crowley??” the man exclaims in utter surprise.

And Crowley croaks back, equally shell-shocked, “Jesus!?”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale doesn't even really register at first what is going on.

One minute he is suddenly rather close to strangers' body parts he never had any intention to take a more thorough look at and the next he notices one of those dancing individuals making himself comfortable right there on Crowley's lap.

Aziraphale clenches his hands into fists.

He jumps to his feet, determined to grab this fellow by the collar and pull him off of there without any mercy whatsoever. Especially since Crowley doesn't seem eager to do the same, for some reason.

But as Aziraphale finally steps closer, he sees the look on the demon's face.

It's shock.

Recognition.

And it's all directed at the man with the best seat in the house.

Aziraphale hesitates, his hand hanging halfway in the air, and he takes a moment to take the stranger in. To study those features … only to realise that he knows that face.

Granted, he mostly had seen it from afar two-thousand years ago and certainly not that often, but Aziraphale never forgot anyway.

Jesus Christ.

Literally.

“I can’t believe it,” Christ is just exclaiming, extra loud due to the noises around them. “What are you doing here? Since when does Heaven allow demons in their realm?”

Aziraphale winces at the manner he basically yells this very sensitive information through the room while Crowley just laughs in amusement, his smile spreading so wide it almost splits his face apart.

“Well, you know me,” the demon replies. “I’m never where I’m supposed to be.”

Christ’s expression turns incredibly fond at those words before he leans closer for the response, clearly not eager to continue screaming over all the voices. His lips nearly make contact with Crowley’s skin as he whispers something into the demon’s ear while he simultaneously remains right there on the lap as though he belongs there. It doesn’t look like he has any intention to leave anytime soon.

And Aziraphale knows that he should be above any petty feelings. That the whole thing doesn’t mean anything besides two friends who never would have imagined to see each other again reacting absolutely ecstatic at being with one another once more, despite the odds. It should be a lovely moment and it is, there is no question about that.

But at the same time Aziraphale can't help but stare at all the touches happening between them, at different points of their bodies, and his stomach clenches painfully.

It's not a nice sensation and he desperately tries to chase it away, tries to be a better man, a better angel – but it is, surprisingly and yet not surprisingly at all, far harder to do just that than he assumed.

Especially when Crowley starts to laugh and throw his head back at whatever Jesus has just said to him, so awfully familiar with the son of God in a manner Aziraphale has barely seen before.

Aziraphale takes another step forward before he even knows what he is doing and clears his throat pointedly, trying to get everyone's attention on him. Christ barely shoots him a glimpse, too busy continuing to whisper intimately into Crowley's ear, but the demon notices Aziraphale approaching their little private bubble and looks up at him, his cheeks flushed.

“Um, hello,” Aziraphale says awkwardly, despite the ugly feeling settling in his gut naturally very aware that he is dealing with the Almighty's offspring here and it wouldn't be at his best interest to make a horrible first impression by yelling at him like a jealous lover to get off Crowley's lap. “I'm truly sorry for interrupting …”

It's a lie, of course, but no one needs to know that.

(Even though Crowley stares at him like he is very aware of what is going on inside the angel's mind right now.)

Christ just blinks at first, obviously not really sure where the voice addressing him is coming from, but then he turns his head and his eyes lock with Aziraphale's. The angel can't help but flinch at the rattling intensity of his gaze.

“Yes?” Christ asks. He sounds friendly, gracious in all the right ways, but Aziraphale spots him tightening his grip around Crowley's shoulders. He is obviously prepared to defend his current position and stay right where he is, no matter what fool might dare him to move.

Aziraphale gulps as Christ's eyes seem to pierce through his skin. “Uh …”

He suddenly can't even remember what he wanted to say and he has no idea if this is some godly power or just the man's reputation making itself known. Either way, Aziraphale just gapes at him and is unable to make his vocal cords function properly.

Thankfully Crowley is here to pick up the slack. “I think Aziraphale was just about to propose that we retreat to somewhere with a bit more privacy and less drunkards.”

He gestures at their surroundings, at the human hopping about and singing terribly to the upbeat song.

Christ neither agrees nor refuses, though. No, instead his eyes widen and he stares at Aziraphale like he is one of the World Wonders itself.

“You're Aziraphale?” he breathes in awe. And then his head whips back to Crowley and he asks the demon, excitement in his tone, “That is Aziraphale? Your angel?”

Crowley looks rather uncomfortable all of a sudden while Aziraphale merely looks back and forth between those two, not really sure what to make of the situation at hand.

Christ, at least, leaps off of Crowley's lap – finally – and all of a sudden crowds Aziraphale between the table and a chair. Aziraphale feels his heart beating ridiculously loud in his chest while Christ studies him from head to toe in a manner that is rather unsettling.

Aziraphale squirms on the spot, seriously debating with himself whether he should just bounce over the table behind him and quickly run out of the pub, but he never gets the chance to make a decision as Christ suddenly shuffles even further into the angel's personal space and starts to shake his hand fiercely.

Aziraphale blinks and simply reacts in kind because he honestly has no idea what else to do.

Christ, meanwhile, grins at him brilliantly.

“Aziraphale,” the man breathes. “It is such a pleasure to finally meet you.”

While Aziraphale blushes and doesn't know if to be pleased or terrified by that, Crowley just grumbles in the background, his features fixed on Christ, “Don’t start!”

Christ chortles while completely ignoring the demon behind him. “I have heard so much about you, it feels like I already know you!”

“… oh?” Aziraphale blinks, at first not exactly sure how to react to that. Especially because Christ is still grasping his hand like his life depends on it and that contact is quite distracting, to say the least. “Um … well … I guess it’s nice to know that even around here you have heard of the Supreme Archangel …”

Christ, however, arches his brows in surprise at those words. “Supreme Archangel?” he exclaims. “When did that happen?”

“It’s a recent development,” Crowley answers with a scoff. “And we don’t have to mention it, nobody is happy about it.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, ready to defend himself and his position, but he recoils quite quickly because it is certainly not utterly wrong.

Either way, he finds himself looking back at Christ who in turn stares at him as if he is actually meeting with a celebrity. Which is rather strange because Aziraphale originally assumed that the feeling would be the other way around.

Aziraphale fidgets even more awkwardly, not certain how to deal with this. He surely imagined meeting this man many times in the last few weeks, but he didn't expect it to happen like this.

“You're freaking him out,” Crowley complains, his gaze directed at Christ while he saunters closer to them. “What did I tell you, over and over again back in the days, about being a weirdo?”

Christ merely huffs, apparently not bothered by Crowley's words at all.

“But this is Aziraphale!” he states as though this would explain everything. “I've finally got a face to the name. It's like a miracle come true. And you should trust me on that, I'm a certified expert on miracles.”

He winks at Crowley.

Crowley rolls his eyes with his entire face in reply.

While Aziraphale presses his lips into a thin line and contemplates if it would be a good idea to interrupt this interaction or not.

Before he can make up his mind, though, Christ's attention is back on him again.

“I'm sorry if I'm being weird,” he says, pronouncing the word like it's the most alien he has ever used. “But back in the day Crowley has told me so many stories about you and since then I have been actually dying to meet you –!”

Oh.

Oh.

Christ didn't hear about Aziraphale from Heaven, he heard it from Crowley. Two-thousand years ago, when they travelled the world together.

Oh my.

“He couldn't shut up about you, the fool,” Christ says, delighted, and Aziraphale switches back and forth with being pleasantly flattered and blushing from top to bottom.

Crowley just sends a snarl in Christ's direction.

Christ, however, seems rather used to the demon's particular behavioural patterns and doesn't even bat an eye at that reaction.

“Crowley's obvious infatuation with you was so utterly endearing,” Christ says cheerfully. “I think most of the time he didn't even notice how often he talked about you. It was always 'Aziraphale once said …' or 'Aziraphale would love this, I'm sure of it …', on repeat, all day. Priceless.”

He scrunches up his face in a manner humans tend to do when they're dealing with something incredibly adorable.

By the looks of it, Crowley doesn't appreciate it.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, chuckles nervously and feels his cheeks heating up even more. He is quite aware that it's actually absurd to react in such a way because he knows that Crowley feels a very great deal for him, but for some reason it's something different hearing it from an outside source.

Especially Jesus Christ himself.

Crowley appears to share the sentiment, albeit probably for different reasons. “Jesus –” he presses through his gritted teeth, the warning in his tone more than enough to make any sane being take a step back for their own safety.

Christ doesn't budge, though. He just continues to look at the demon like he is the most endearing thing and says, “Oh c'mon, please don't tell me your crush is still a secret. It's been thousands of years!”

Crowley merely clenches his hands into fists and for a moment it seriously looks like he is considering striking Christ down, just to make him stop talking.

But before anything can happen the music crescendos once more, resulting in the humans dancing becoming all of a sudden even more erratic and unhinged, and they themselves getting bumped into a horrifying amount. Aziraphale has never been great with too many people in his direct vicinity and this obviously applies to souls as well, as he is now realising.

“How about we retreat to a quieter environment?” he proposes hastily, his gaze locked warily on the jumping humans apparently being too drunk to have any care for the beings around them. It looks like Aziraphale is only moments away from being swept away for good, to never be seen again, and he actually would rather avoid that.

Just as that thought crosses his mind, a door shows up on the wall next to them. Aziraphale stares at it in confusion at first, wondering whether Christ used his supernatural powers to conjure it out of nothing, but then once again Aziraphale recalls where he is and the fact that Heaven is eager to fulfil any of his wishes. It’s somewhat a weird sensation, to have potentially everything he could ever dream of at his disposal here, but he doesn’t allow himself to dive deeper into this now. He doesn’t have the time to have a chat with Shakespeare or visit the Library of Alexandria in all its glory.

Instead he walks towards the door, quickly fleeing the swaying bodies around him. Thankfully both Christ and Crowley follow him immediately, no further encouragement necessary. The room they find themselves in then – a simple backroom, albeit with shelves filled with books all over the place because of course Heaven would give Aziraphale books, despite him not outright requesting them – immediately gets completely quiet as soon as they close the door behind them.

As though they have suddenly entered an utterly new world.

Aziraphale can't help but be amazed by the mechanics of it all and swears to himself to investigate this part of Heaven further as soon as he's got the time for it.

Right now, though, there are more pressing issues that need his attention.

Crowley seems to remind himself of that as well. Aziraphale can't really tell whether the demon is indeed overly eager to get matters along or whether he is just keen on Christ not ever mentioning his old “crush” on Aziraphale ever again, but either way he instantly turns back to Christ and says urgently, “We're here because we need your help.”

Christ assesses him carefully for a moment, but just as Crowley is opening his mouth again, most likely to explain the reason for his and Aziraphale's presence, Christ says, “So I assume you're here because of The Second Coming?”

Crowley looks thrown off for a mere second.

But he catches himself quickly enough as he asks, “So you know what's going on?”

Christ shrugs. “I figured it's not a coincidence that nobody bothered about my existence for thousands of years and now all of a sudden I'm getting so many high-ranking visitors in a short period of time.”

“So The Metatron already spoke with you?” Aziraphale asks as his chest clenches uncomfortably at the thought. Some part of him seriously hoped that The Metatron wouldn't have been able to find Christ in this chaos of souls, but apparently he's been too optimistic about that.

“Yes, he came by a while ago,” Christ confirms. “I can't really say when, though. Time is a very strange thing here. I might have been just a week ago or two or three or maybe even half a lifetime …?”

Aziraphale chews on his bottom lip and exchanges a glance with Crowley. The demon's eyes aren't visible behind his sunglasses, but Aziraphale knows him well enough to interpret even the tiniest twitch on his face by now.

Crowley is concerned.

And Aziraphale certainly shares the sentiment.

“What did you tell The Metatron?” Crowley urges. “You told him to get lost, right? Right?”

Christ' gaze settles on the demon in an almost unnerving manner. “My friend –”

“No, no, not that face again,” Crowley cuts in impatiently, his hands gesturing at the man's expression in front of him. “You know I hate that face!”

Christ sighs. “Crowley –”

“And not that voice again either!” Crowley grumbles. “Stop it!”

Christ grimaces. “Please, you have to understand –”

Crowley grits his teeth so hard Aziraphale actually starts to worry they might break apart the very next moment.

“You did say yes to The Metatron, didn't you?” Crowley hisses, his gaze even darker due to his lenses. “You do realise that you signed my death sentence with that, right? Next to a million other peoples' as well!”

Christ slumps his shoulders.

“It is God's will,” he whispers and he actually sounds rather apologetic about it.

Crowley folds his arms across his chest. “So what if we told you it isn't?”

Christ pauses and looks at the demon in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Crowley turns especially tense all of a sudden. “If you really believe this is all God's plan, then tell me, my friend: when was the last time you actually spoke to Her?”

And Aziraphale watches Christ's face fall.

Chapter Text

Crowley feels many things right now.

There is joy and relief for seeing his friend after so many centuries apart. He never thought he would ever lay his eyes on Jesus ever again, to be honest, and the demon had come to peace with it a long time ago. When he made the decision to get to know the fella better and take him to the kingdoms of the world he knew right away that someday Heaven would show up and claim him for itself again.

It was just a matter of time and Crowley had accepted that. Nevertheless, it didn't make it any easier to watch Jesus suffer for humanity in that cruel way and be reduced to doing nothing. Sure, Crowley contemplated several escape plans during that time, telling himself that Hell wouldn't mind thwarting the angels in great style as a justification for himself to think such treacherous thoughts in the first place, but ultimately nothing came to mind that would get both of them out of there alive. Kidnapping the son of God would have only ended in disaster for Crowley and evidently not changed a single thing, so in the end he just stood by and prayed that his presence would give Jesus some comfort at least.

When he ultimately spotted Aziraphale among the spectators he quickly joined the angel, so very desperate for some soothing company at his side, but at the end of the day it wasn't even enough to keep him around for long. Crowley couldn't stomach staying until the finish line and till this day he sometimes feels guilty about that, even though he knows that Jesus probably was actually relieved to know that his friend didn't watch him die.

So yes, Heaven took Jesus and Crowley never expected to see him again.

It's truly a welcome miracle.

At the same time, however, Crowley feels a lot of complicated things. Jesus was always this devout man, underneath all that cheerful and charming persona, and that went against everything the demon stood for. They argued about it a lot back in the day, especially when it was time for Jesus to sacrifice himself for humanity or whatever crappy excuse Heaven told itself for letting the son of God die a horrendous death instead of coming to his aid. Jesus went along with it willingly and Crowley hated every moment of it.

And now they're back at it again. With Jesus being so bloody pious that he wants to trigger The Second Coming without second-guessing anything and with Crowley ready to rip that idiot's head off in frustration.

This time around it's even worse because Jesus seems prepared to cause his friend's death along the way.

And that kinda hurts.

Granted, Crowley shouldn't expect much because at the end of the day they're two beings who couldn't be more opposite and it's also been over two millennia since they even interacted with each other. A part of Crowley is actually surprised that Jesus even remembers his name, to be frank. So it's logical to assume that Jesus originally didn't have any reason to even consider Crowley's fate in all of this when he agreed to The Metatron's plans.

But still …

“I'm sorry,” Jesus says. “I really don't understand what is going on.”

His gaze flickers back and forth between Crowley and Aziraphale, obviously desperate for some sort of answer on the issue.

“Are you telling me that the order for The Second Coming hasn't been issued by God?” Jesus sounds sceptical and of course Crowley doesn't blame him. It's a lot to process.

“Well … it is a rather complex matter …” Aziraphale starts, clearly searching for a way to handle this topic delicately without agitating Jesus too much in the process.

Crowley, though, isn't here to treat Jesus with kids' gloves. No, the man deserves to learn the truth without beating around the bush for the next twenty minutes.

“We believe that God hasn't been around for a while,” Crowley states bluntly, ignoring Aziraphale flinching and then shooting him a warning glare completely. “Nobody has seen or spoken to Her in ages. Apart from The Metatron. Or so he claims.”

Aziraphale grimaces, apparently expecting Jesus to react in an outrageously negative manner at the demon's straightforwardness and send the armies of Heaven in their direction the very next second.

Jesus, however, seems mostly confused. “You seriously believe –?”

“When was the last time you spoke with Her?” Crowley cuts in, not in the mood to drag this along longer than it needs to.

Jesus falls silent at the question, a weird expression on his features.

“C'mon, think!” Crowley urges impatiently. “It's been a while, am I right?”

Jesus hesitates some more.

And in the end he confesses, “To be perfectly truthful … I have actually never spoken to Her. Or seen Her, for that matter. Not directly, at least.”

Crowley blinks.

Well, this is certainly unexpected.

Aziraphale looks equally thrown off and he opens and closes his mouth in succession, without ever a sound coming out of it. He obviously has no idea what to say to this.

Crowley can relate.

“So … you never …?”

This is actually too much to comprehend.

Jesus just nods in response. “I had angels visiting me, telling me that God was my … um, my Mother? My Father? My Parent?” He quirks his head to one side. “Actually, I don't really know how this all works …”

Crowley waves him off. “Later,” he promises nonetheless because his friend looks ridiculously bewildered by it all. “So you just took the words of those angels?”

“They were angels!” Jesus makes himself clear with a scoff. “What was I supposed to do? Not believe them?”

Okay, fair point.

Crowley, meanwhile, turns back to Aziraphale who still seems to be short-circuiting beside him. “So what does that mean? When was the last time someone has actually seen God?”

Aziraphale blinks repeatedly, visibly trying to clear his head. “Well …” he mumbles. “Christ must have been sired in some manner by Her, but … um, as far as I know it was mostly an automated process that was established a very long time ago. She didn't necessarily need to have been present for the siring and birth to get into motion.”

Crowley scoffs. “Sounds like a dull way to make a baby.”

Aziraphale shoots him a fondly exasperated look at that. “Yes, well, it just means she wouldn't have been required to be there for Christ's conception. Therefore …”

He trails off, a grimace on his features.

“Therefore,” Crowley picks up his train of thought, “God could be absent for far longer than two-thousand years.”

Aziraphale pulls a face, obviously not liking that idea at all. “Well, we've seen her talking with Job back in the day …” he points out, even though he sounds rather bitter about it. Job has been so very long ago.

And Crowley hates to crush him even more, but he can't help but add, “Well, we've seen a bright light shining from the sky and a very muffled voice in the distance, at least.”

Aziraphale stares at him, alarmed. “Are you saying that it might have not been Her?”

“I'm not saying anything,” Crowley is quick to object. “I'm just … well, it would have been easy enough to fake, am I right? For someone like, for example, The Meta-Twat.”

Aziraphale hesitates, obviously not eager to take this at face value without further proof. And Crowley doesn't blame him, it must be a hard pill to swallow. Even Crowley feels a little sick at the idea and he's turned his back to Heaven and everything it entails countless lifetimes ago.

“Well …” Aziraphale says again after a while, tugging at his waistcoat in that manner that tells you he is overwhelmed and anxious, but wants to keep his composure nevertheless. “I most definitely talked with Her back at Eden. After I – um, accidentally misplaced my flaming sword.”

The corners of Crowley's mouth tug upwards in amusement at the memory.

“It was Her,” Aziraphale insists. “I'm sure of it.”

“I assume that faking it for an angel is probably next to impossible,” Crowley says. “You would notice the difference right away.”

“I would!” Aziraphale states. It seems important to him to make this absolutely clear.

“And you,” Crowley goes on as he directs his attention back to Jesus who so far just listened to their conversation with a far-away look on his features, “you would have noticed right away as well that something might be wrong. So you didn't see a light from the sky and hear a voice. Instead angels were sent to you to bring you the big message about your heritage.”

Jesus bites on his bottom lip. “So you think The Metatron arranged this all?”

“It's only a theory so far,” Crowley admits. “I don't have any proof. But my gut tells me …” He sighs as he rubs his temples to fight off an oncoming headache. “The only thing I can tell you for sure is that even the highest ranking angels haven't spoken to God directly in a very long time. Michael herself confirmed that.”

Jesus perks up at the name. He probably knows just as well as them that Michael is the most devoted of them all and wouldn't just make this up for a good laugh.

“We don't expect you to believe us,” Crowley says with a sigh. “It's a lot, I know that. But if you have even a shrivel of a doubt, please consider postponing The Second Coming. At least until we have found something concrete to prove it all to you.”

Jesus' expression turns guilty once more. “Crowley …”

The demon grits his teeth. “Oh c'mon, don't make me beg. You know that there is something fishy going on, don't deny it!”

Jesus' shoulders droop. “I don't think I can help you –”

“Why not?” Crowley cuts in, now anger sparking alive in his entire body. “Just tell The Metatron that you want to talk it all out with God first before making any universe-altering decisions. It's not an unreasonable request.”

Jesus sighs. “No, it's not. But –”

“So you don't care about any of this, is that it?” Crowley interrupts once more, his hands clenched into fists so fiercely his fingernails dig deeply into his palm. “You want to condemn me and probably millions of souls on Earth for – for what, exactly? Because one angel who has been most likely lying through his teeth the whole time told you so??”

Crowley seriously considers punching Jesus in the face right now.

He only stops when he feels Aziraphale gently wrapping his fingers around Crowley's wrist. The demon relaxes immediately under the touch since he just can't help himself, even though his head is still insistent that he uses some violence here and now, just to feel better about it all.

Jesus takes a step back, obviously interpreting the rage inside Crowley easily enough. “It's not that I don't want to help you –”

“Then what is holding you back?” Aziraphale now pipes in, his steady gaze resting on the man in front of them. It's the look of quiet disappointment Crowley always hates so much when it's directed at himself. Now, however, he finds himself vindicated and leans closer to the angel out of instinct.

“You're right, I could tell The Metatron that I insist on speaking with God first,” Jesus agrees. “But … it won't change a thing.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes. “Why not?”

“Because it doesn't matter,” Jesus states. “I don't matter.”

Both Aziraphale and Crowley look at him in confusion.

“It's completely irrelevant if I believe you or not,” Jesus explains. “Because fact is, I'm just a figurehead for The Second Coming. The face of the campaign.” He furrows his brows and leans close to Crowley again, whispering, “Did I say that right, face of the campaign? I heard the younger souls talking like that …”

Despite everything Crowley can't bring himself to ignore his friend, so he nods reassuringly, telling Jesus that he is doing it right.

Jesus actually smiles for a second there, proud of himself and happy about Crowley's acknowledgement, but soon enough he reminds himself to get back on track.

“I'm just the face of this all,” he continues. “The one smiling and waving and reassuring everyone that things will be fine. That's my sole job.”

Aziraphale hesitates. “Sooo …?”

“Neither my opinion nor my involvement technically matters,” Christ explains with a sigh. “Heaven and The Metatron could start this whole Second Coming business without me. Granted, that wouldn't fit the name anymore, but I don't think that would be much of a priority in that particular scenario …”

Crowley isn't really sure what to make of this and therefore just keeps on staring at the man while praying for things to make sense.

“I don't know what to tell you.” Jesus flails his arms around as though he deems this the best way to express himself. “I want to help you, I really do. Because yes, I'm not sure I can actually believe you, but you're also not totally unreasonable.” He shrugs. “It wouldn't hurt, at least, to ask to speak with God first about this. And I will do it, the next time The Metatron will approach me about this. However, if what you are saying is true …”

He makes a vague hand gesture, like this explains everything.

And it kinda does, at least for Crowley. “If Aziraphale and I are right, The Metatron will just ignore your request and start The Second Coming without you. While coming up with some excuse for the other angels about your absence. He'll probably tell them that humans are weird and unpredictable …”

It's a good enough excuse. Crowley used it himself more than once whenever he had to deal with Hell's ignorance about how humans even work.

“But …” Aziraphale looks back and forth between them, even more puzzlement on his features now. “How can they start The Second Coming without you? That doesn't even make sense …”

Jesus throws him a tight smile. “I was never the one destined to start or even execute it to begin with,” he says. “I don't even remotely have the powers for that.”

Aziraphale blinks at those words.

Crowley finds himself a bit out of his depth as well. He's seen some of the things Jesus can do back in the day first hand and he felt the raw power behind it all. Admittedly, turning water into wine is something completely different from judging over every single soul on the planet, but still, Crowley is fairly sure he's got at least the potential for it.

“So … if it's not you,” the angel tilts his head, “it's God after all?”

Crowley gulps at the question

Will The Metatron need the aid of the Almighty after all? Is he even going to be able to start the apocalypse without Her?

Were he and Aziraphale wrong this whole time and God actually has been the one in charge of this project all along?

Crowley feels his insides churn at the mere possibility. Because that would mean that everything has been Her divine plan and there would be no way to stop it. No way to thwart the end.

He ends up glancing at Aziraphale (because how could he not, especially in such a situation) and finds the angel deeply in thought. He is watching Jesus intently, obviously waiting for further explanations, and Crowley can't tell how Aziraphale feels, whether he is terrified or in denial, whether he wants to laugh or scream or curse the entire world …

But just as Crowley is ready to grab Aziraphale and flee to the farthest corner of the universe, hoping that they might be safe there by some miracle or at least have the chance to spend the rest of their time there together in peace before Crowley would be pulled into nothingness, Jesus clears his throat.

“Well, it is God's power that is supposed to kickstart it all,” he confirms. “In the shape of something called The Book of Life.”

Crowley freezes.

Arches his brows.

And then hears Aziraphale gasping next to him, as realisation hits the angel extra hard.

“Oh yes, of course!” he breathes, his eyes growing wide. “The Book of Life!!”

He grasps onto Crowley's arm way too tightly and repeats, in awe and shock, “The Book of Life, Crowley!!”, as if the demon might have not heard for some reason.

Crowley, meanwhile, has to confess that it does make a lot of sense and he is actually a bit mad at himself for not figuring it out sooner.

The Book of Life. The chronicle about every single living being on the planet and beyond. This very powerful and detailed list.

And when you end up getting erased from it by a third party, let's say a grandfatherly looking angel with a God complex …

Well, you're gone for good.

Yeah, they're screwed.

“We need to get our hands on that book!” Crowley hisses. “Now!”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale departs more or less instantly after it all.

Crowley wanted to rush into action right away, but quickly enough Aziraphale convinced him that a) it wouldn't get them far if he ran around Heaven like a madman and would eventually be captured, and b) Aziraphale had to pay Michael a visit anyway and ask about The Book of Life's whereabouts since he never bothered to learn such a thing.

Crowley, very begrudgingly, complied, but made Aziraphale promise to call him as soon as he was with Michael safely in her office.

Because there is no time to be wasted. The Metatron so far most likely only held back since he wanted to do everything right by the book (yes, pun intended!) to make nobody suspicious, but if he were to find out that there are actually beings working against him he might just walk up to the book and delete all their names before they even had a chance to blink.

Yeah, Crowley is not eager to risk that.

However, he also admits that Aziraphale has a point and that discretion is still important if they want to get out of this alive and well, so he says goodbye to his angel at the pub's door.

“Don't worry,” Aziraphale says with that smile of his he believes to appear reassuring but actually looks rather forced instead. Crowley never had the heart to tell him that his efforts were wasted and also now he stays silent on the matter.

“Oh, I will be worried,” Crowley promises. “You can't stop me.”

Aziraphale's features soften. “I will head to Michael straight away. I might even use my wings for a little distance. I think everyone is so distracted by Hell that nobody – especially The Metatron – might notice.”

Crowley grinds his teeth. “Angel –”

“I will be careful nonetheless,” Aziraphale swears. “But being in a hurry when Hell is trying to overrun us is not that suspicious, wouldn't you agree? It won't raise too much attention.”

He's not wrong, but Crowley doesn't like it nonetheless.

The Metatron might take notice of it either way and confront Aziraphale about such unusual behaviour. And unfortunately the angel is so very bad at lying sometimes that The Metatron might catch up on it …

Yeah, Crowley doesn't even want to think about it.

Aziraphale seems to read his mind once again and instead of any more soothing words he lifts himself onto his tiptoes and presses a brief, yet impossibly tender kiss onto Crowley's cheek.

“Stay here and try not to worry too much,” Aziraphale whispers. “Catch up with Christ. I think the poor fellow feels quite guilty about it all.”

Crowley sighs. Technically Jesus doesn't have anything to feel bad about, but of course that never stopped humans before.

Aziraphale pats his chest gently. “We will have this sorted out in no time. Stealing The Book of Life – easy enough, right?”

He is nervous, maybe more so than in the last few weeks playing spy in Heaven, and Crowley despises seeing him like this. So before he can talk himself out of it he leans in, planting a kiss on the angel's lip.

Aziraphale tenses up at first, as though he is seriously surprised by Crowley's reaction, but as before he melts soon enough and so they find themselves kissing right in the middle of Section B-1 of Heaven, with a bunch of drunk humans bawling in the background and a group of teenage girls giggling right next to them at the unexpected sight.

Crowley doesn't care about any of this.

Only the angel in his arms is important.

“Call me as soon as you see Michael's delightful face,” Crowley insists once more when he – reluctantly – pulls back, his lips still tingling pleasantly.

Aziraphale's gaze remains unfocused for a moment (a sight Crowley is rather proud of) before he offers the demon a smile, this one a little more calm.

“I will,” he promises.

And then he is gone.

Crowley watches after him until he disappears behind a few alien looking creatures fighting with their light swords and then returns back to the pub with a sigh.

Jesus waits for him there and the man doesn't seem to really know whether to be smug about being witness to Crowley's heartfelt goodbye or whether to feel guilty for spying in the first place.

In the end he settles for something in the middle and it's so confusing to look at that Crowley just slaps him over the head with a roll of his eyes and then gets him more alcohol from the bartender who teasingly asks him if he finally found Jesus. Crowley just smirks at the fella in response and that appears to throw him off so much that his attention drifts to Jesus in the background, his expression turning quite pensive.

“I'm so sorry about it all,” Jesus says when they find themselves at a small table in a surprisingly quiet corner. “I assumed you knew about the book and about everything else because it never occurred to me that nobody has shared that information with at least angels like Aziraphale …”

He sighs as he runs his hand through his still unfairly shiny hair.

“Please don't ever think that I want you to die, Crowley,” he whispers, leaning a little closer, but still maintaining some distance, as though unsure whether the demon would appreciate it. “I don't want you to die.”

Crowley feels the last bit of anger drain out of him rather quickly. “I know that,” he whispers back.

“I never forgot about you,” Jesus goes on. “And when the time would have come – well, for The Second Coming and all that – well, I already planned a long time ago to plead for some exceptions. You among them, of course.”

Crowley feels something warm prickling in his chest at the thought of Jesus making a case for a demon in front of – what he then presumed – God Herself.

“I was sure I would make Her see reason,” Jesus continues. “But now … if it's really The Metatron pulling the strings and She is not even around to look into my big puppy dog eyes and do me that favour …”

Crowley takes a huge gulp of his whiskey and keeps silent.

Jesus stays quiet for a while as well, just nursing his drink and shooting many glances in the demon's direction.

Then he picks up his voice again by saying, “I heard rumours. About a demon being offered angelic status and the demon refusing.” He assesses Crowley thoroughly. “That's been you, hasn't it?”

Crowley stares at him. “How the hell could you know about that?”

“Well, from The Metatron actually,” Jesus admits. “When he came by the other day to plead his case about starting The Second Coming he mentioned it, among other things. I think he tried to convince me how absolutely rotten demonkind is if even one who was offered such a unique chance would act like it was the biggest offence.”

Crowley scoffs.

Makes sense that The Metatron would use that to his own advantage.

“So it's true then?” Jesus prods. “You were offered to become an angel again?”

Crowley bares his teeth. He doesn't like to be reminded of any of this.

But he also doesn't want to leave Jesus hanging, so he answers, “He did offer, yes. And I told him to shove it.”

Jesus just watches him, more curious than anything else. “Why?” he wonders. “Do you prefer being a demon?”

“No,” Crowley says quickly, out of instinct. But then he mulls this over for a moment and clarifies. “Yes. And no.”

Jesus frowns. “That doesn't make much sense, my friend.”

“I just hate that with our lots it has to be the one extreme or the other, you know?” Crowley explains with a sigh. “I just want to be me. Far away from Heaven and Hell and whatever else you can think of. I only want to live my life the way I desire to and, to be frank, I don't really care if I'm doing it as a demon or an angel or even a human …” He halts for a second and then corrects himself, “Okay, maybe not the latter. I don't know if I could be strong enough to exist as a human. The concept of digestion alone would absolutely kill me.”

Jesus laughs at that and then he instantly dives into a couple of anecdotes about bowel movements Crowley never wanted to hear about, but apparently has to listen to now anyway because Jesus is still so irritatingly captivating that even such a topic draws people – and demons – in.

Soon enough, however, the man's smile dims again. “So you didn't want to be an angel again?” Jesus asks. “To be … what Aziraphale is?”

Crowley's heart leaps a bit at the mention of his angel. “I don't want to have to change fundamentally for it to be a requirement to be with him.” He takes a deep breath. “And it wasn't only about that. I hated the idea of rejoining Heaven. Of associating myself with it once more. Like the last six-thousand years didn't even matter.”

Instead of being offended by it Jesus simply nods. “They hurt you,” he says. “They cast you aside. So why should you forgive them when they have done nothing to earn that?”

Crowley studies him intently. “That's quite a new tone on you,” he realises, a grin on his face now. “I like it. Two-thousand years ago it was all about God and Heaven and the higher purpose and that one day I would see the errors of my ways and all that.”

Jesus grimaces. “Yes, the mistakes of the youth,” he admits. “I didn't realise back then how naïve I have been. But then I arrived in Heaven and I learnt all about it, piece by piece, and … well, I wasn't as impressed as I thought I would be.”

Crowley raises a brow, intrigued. “No?”

“You told me back then that you were forced to Fall because you asked too many questions,” Jesus says. “And I nodded along to that, but, to be perfectly honest and to my great shame, I actually didn't really believe you. I couldn't imagine that a merciful God would condemn you so horribly for something so absolutely insignificant. Questions are nothing bad, after all, so why make you suffer for it?” He huffs. “No, I just assumed you exaggerated spectacularly and left important things out.”

He actually looks quite guilty saying that and Crowley finds himself reaching out and patting his hand for a moment.

“I knew you didn't believe me,” the demon says. “You never were a good liar.”

“That doesn't make it any better,” Jesus bemoans. “Because when I was in Heaven, when I witnessed all those angels and how they interacted with each other – when I learnt all the rules up there – I suddenly realised that maybe you had been telling the truth all along. You had 'the audacity' to not walk in line, to question decisions, and for that you were punished.” He shudders, like the mere idea is too much to comprehend. “I can understand why you have no love for Heaven and why you would rather die in an apocalypse than join their ranks again. You don't owe them anything.”

Crowley's grin widens. “I seriously like this new side of you.”

“Well, what can I say?” Jesus shrugs. “Call me enlightened.”

“Then why keep on staying here?” Crowley wonders. “Why not roam the universe and leave it all behind? You don't really owe them anything either.” He huffs. “They also forced you to suffer for their cause. That was basically the very reason for your existence.”

Jesus' features soften.

“I'm not staying for the angels,” he whispers. “I'm staying for them.”

He gestures into the room, at the humans still dancing around, at women and men and children and some creatures that might be furries celebrating together, and Crowley gets it immediately.

Humanity.

Considering that he risked his neck for them during the last apocalypse he sure as hell can relate to Jesus' decision.

“They're messy and chaotic and yes, sometimes they're absolutely horrible in the most vile manner,” Jesus says. “But they're also kind and good and worth risking your life for, don't you think?”

He glimpses at Crowley with a twinkle in his eyes.

It looks like some way or another he heard about the demon's actions the last time everything threatened to go to shit.

Crowley doesn't give him the satisfaction of answering to that. Instead he fills his glass back up with the snap of his fingers and nips on it with a carefully maintained blank expression.

Jesus keeps on smiling, though, and Crowley can't help but wonder once again whether the son of God is able to read minds or not. It's certainly not a very comforting thought to have.

Eventually, after a few more minutes of Jesus assessing the demon with that damned smirk on his features, the man leans forward and says, just loud enough to hear him over the noises in the pub, “So tell me, when was it that you finally grew a pair and proposed to Aziraphale?”

Crowley chokes on his drink.

And while he is busy punching onto his chest and gasping for breath, Jesus keeps on mumbling, more to himself than Crowley, “… growing a pair, is that the correct phrase? Some of the modern souls used it a while ago …”

Crowley, after ultimately coughing up all of the liquid out of the wrong pipe, croaks rather pathetically, “… what?”

Jesus looks absolutely innocent as he replies, “Well, the more modern arrivals do have a specific manner of articulating themselves and the phrases they sometimes use are as bizarre as well as fascinating –”

Crowley impatiently waves him off, not in the mood to discuss the development of language. Back in the day Jesus was capable of getting lost in such a topic for hours without a single break and things probably haven't changed much since then.

Crowley doesn't have time for that.

Instead he asks in a tone that is most definitely not a squeak, “… propose?”

Jesus smiles easily, not at all bothered by the demon's reaction. “You don't have to be coy, Crowley,” he says. “I've noticed the two matching rings. I know that nowadays such a thing represents commitment and marriage …”

While he goes on in a similar fashion, Crowley feels his muscles relaxing a bit as his gaze drifts to the ring on his right hand. It's sitting there, all harmless, the perfect counterpart to Aziraphale's. Crowley can see how this might get confusing for some.

“… or did Aziraphale maybe propose to you?” Jesus finds himself mid-ramble. “I confess, it does make more sense, considering how flustered you have always been at the mere mention of him. I'm not sure you would have survived proposing to him –”

“It's not a bloody wedding band!” Crowley interrupts harshly and tries to sound as appalled as possible, even though the slight flush on his cheeks most likely betrays him. “Those are magical rings.”

He offers a quick summary and Jesus listens attentively. The man's expression, however, doesn't change a bit during the explanation.

“It still sounds like commitment to me,” Jesus states cheerfully.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

“Was Aziraphale the one who actively put the ring on your finger –?”

“Stop it!” Crowley growls and refuses to remember how it felt when the angel showed him the matching jewellery for the first time.

Jesus keeps on grinning.

“I'm happy for you,” he says in the end. “You deserve it.”

Crowley doesn't know how to react to that, so his mouth stays shut.

Jesus finally seems to take pity on him soon after and directs their conversation to a completely different path in such a smooth manner it almost feels natural. He is suddenly reminiscing about his (after)life in Heaven, about all the quirks and oddities, and it doesn't take long for Crowley to join right in, commenting on all the strange things they have already encountered in their brief time here in Area B-1. He notices himself relaxing more and more as he finds himself transported back in time to when he used to talk with Jesus all day and night while the hours flew by unnoticed.

When there is eventually a lull in the conversation and they merely watch the people around them enjoying their afterlife with everything they've got, Jesus starts to shuffle a bit closer and shoots what he probably believes to be subtle glances in Crowley's direction.

The demon just lets him be, figuring that Jesus will say his piece as soon as he's ready.

Which is, thankfully, right on time when a very bearded individual begins to peel out of his shirt to show his belly for everyone to see and growls like an aggressive, drunken bear the whole time doing so while the spectators cheer him on. Crowley quickly averts his gaze, not in the mood to be witness to that, and finds himself almost nose-to-nose with Jesus as he turns his head.

“When Aziraphale eventually calls you with his not-wedding ring,” Jesus says, gesturing at the jewellery in question without being overly bothered by their sudden proximity while Crowley just bares his teeth in warning, “can you take me with you?”

Crowley frowns. “You want to accompany me?”

Jesus nods firmly. “I need to know the truth. About God.”

For a moment Crowley hesitates since at the end of the day dragging the son of the Almighty around might get them a bunch of unwanted attention the demon isn't overly keen on. So far they merely managed to survive because they were able to stay underneath the radar.

Then again, Jesus Christ himself might be a powerful tool since nobody in Heaven would dare to defy him, probably not even The Metatron, and that would come quite in handy.

And above all else, it is true: Jesus deserves to learn the truth. More than any of them, to be honest.

Crowley glimpses at the ring on his finger once more.

“I don't know if this is built for passengers,” he explains. “But we sure as hell can give it a try.”

Jesus grins widely. “Then it seems you won't get rid of me that easily just yet.”

Well.

Jesus might be a menace even on a good day and yet Crowley can't say he terribly minds having him around for a bit longer.

Chapter Text

Hurrying through Heaven to reach Michael's office as quickly as possible is merely a blur for Aziraphale.

Once or twice he is pretty sure someone calls out to him, but he just goes on, the mere possibility that The Metatron could simply grab The Book of Life at any moment and eradicate basically anyone's existence to his own liking spurring him on like nothing ever had done before.

When he eventually bursts into Michael's private chambers, he nearly blurts out, “We found Jesus!” before even closing the door behind himself properly.

Thankfully the words end up stuck in his throat the second he realises that Michael is not alone.

No, there is The Metatron himself, just looking up from a conversation with the archangel, his gaze drifting to Aziraphale basically falling gracelessly into the room.

“Aziraphale!” The Metatron exclaims. “Michael and I were just talking about you.”

Aziraphale freezes and tries to look not too shaken as he asks, “You did?”, his voice a little squeaky, but yet somehow steady enough, much to Aziraphale's surprise.

The Metatron nods, but since he remains relaxed and not like he thinks he is in the company of beings conspiring against him, Aziraphale forces himself to calm down as well. It surely doesn't look like The Metatron has figured them all out and has come to arrest them for treason.

“Michael and I agreed that the current increase in demon activity is most concerning,” The Metatron explains. “And I have come to the conclusion that this might very well be because Hell has become aware of our plans. About The Second Coming.”

Aziraphale can't help a little wince at the blatant use of the term and he glimpses backwards, making sure that the door is locked shut (just as The Metatron has done earlier too, most likely). Most of Heaven doesn't know of any plans yet, mainly to keep any preparations under wraps without Below taking notice, and Aziraphale is also quite eager to let it stay that way for now.

The angels should rather focus on their reading and getting to know humanity better via books instead of being distracted by what is deemed to be the greatest triumph of Heaven.

“You believe Hell knows about it all?” Aziraphale asks, pretending to be utterly surprised by the news.

The Metatron pulls a face. “It has come to my attention that the former Lord Beelzebub has been paying Hell a visit a few days ago. And I highly doubt they were just there for a nice social gathering among good, old friends.”

He scoffs at the mere thought and Michael joins him immediately. Aziraphale attempts to follow suit to keep up appearances, but somehow the noise he ends up producing sounds more pathetic than derogatory.

“And you think that Beelzebub knows about our plans?” Aziraphale wonders, aiming for oblivious. However, since The Metatron is rather aware that he is intelligent enough to make appropriate deductions, Aziraphale fakes realisation hitting him then and there as he breathes, “Oooh, Gabriel …”

“Yes,” The Metatron confirms, his teeth clenched. “I'm afraid I was somewhat worried about the possibility. That is why I have been keen on picking up the pace in our plans.” He folds his arms behind his back. “Of course there is no reality in which Hell would ever be able to stop us, but the chaos they're currently inflicting is proof that they won't give up trying. It looks like they're attempting to spread us thin right now which is a surprisingly smart tactic.”

Aziraphale glues his mouth shut, suppressing the urge to boast about that having been Crowley's plan as fiercely as he can manage.

“The Metatron proposed that we ought to hurry matters along now,” Michael pipes in, her face as stoic and expressionless as ever. “We indeed shouldn't give Hell a chance to turn this entire affair into a mess. It is supposed to be perfect. Elegant.”

Aziraphale shoots her a look. He knows she is still on their side, not really meaning her words right now, but she surely sounds so utterly convincing that he can't help but hesitate nonetheless.

Then, though, the meaning of her statement pierces through his mind and he goes rigid. “You want to start The Second Coming now?”

He is completely helpless not to sound panicked about it.

While Michael glares at him, clearly disapproving that he is unable to keep his composure, The Metatron suddenly steps forward and pulls Aziraphale into the furthest corner of the office, to give them some kind of privacy.

Aziraphale's heart rate spikes while The Metatron just watches him silently for a moment.

“I know you're worried about your demon friend,” The Metatron states, pronouncing the word 'friend' like he meant to say something completely different instead. And when Aziraphale opens his mouth to protest out of instinct, he gets stopped immediately by the other raising his hand in warning. “Please don't insult me by denying it.”

Aziraphale pauses.

Of course he wants to protest. Wants to keep on pretending that Crowley is not an important part of his life anymore after making his choice to not join Heaven with him.

But Aziraphale also isn't sure whether he has the strength to fake something that goes so much against his nature to the point where it is utterly alien to him. He still feels Crowley's kiss on his lips, still sees his worried expression in front of his inner eye, and Aziraphale just knows that feigning indifference would be impossibly hard.

Besides, The Metatron is quite perceptive. Maybe even more so than any other angel here in Heaven.

He is not here to be fooled.

And so Aziraphale decides to go with parts of the truth because that's easier on his heart than denying it all.

“I'm sorry,” he breathes. “I know I shouldn't care for Crowley much anymore after he … well, after he so rudely refused your gracious offer and turned your back on you and me. But …”

He chews on his bottom lip and tries to look remorseful about his own feelings.

“But you still care for him,” The Metatron picks up for him. “Aziraphale, you have always been an exceptional angel. When you were told to love all of God's creations, you took it further than anyone else. You found it in yourself to even love a demon.”

Aziraphale flinches, but doesn't even attempt to contradict.

After all, it's true anyway.

“It is rather remarkable,” The Metatron says while assessing Aziraphale as if he is a quite fascinating study project. “Then again, you're also not the only one …”

There is an edge in his voice now and Aziraphale just knows that he is talking about Gabriel.

Aziraphale looks up. “I realise what is at stake here,” he says as he chases off the heavy sensation on his chest. “God's will must be followed, under any circumstances. I would never dare to jeopardise that. I just …”

“You just would like to save your demon along the way,” The Metatron adds with a nod. It might be understanding, it might be disapproving, Aziraphale can't exactly say.

However, he chooses to go with it anyway. “Crowley might be a demon, yes, but he is … gosh, he is actually rather good and nice and …” He swallows, telling himself not to gush too much as he usually has a tendency when he is talking about the demon. “You know what I'm talking about, right? After all, you offered to make him an angel again.”

“I did,” The Metatron agrees. “Because I trusted your judge of character.”

Aziraphale presses his lips into a thin line. “He is good,” he insists. “I actually don't really know how he ended up in Hell in the first place. Granted, he is quite cocky and smug and very irritating when he wants to be, but at the same time … well, he never really went along with Hell. His idea of chaos and mischief is glueing coins to the pavement. He almost exclusively lied on the reports to Hell to make himself look much more evil in their eyes while he merely wanted to live his life in peace.”

The Metatron leans closer. “And he confided in you about all of this?”

Aziraphale nods eagerly. “Early on. And I decided to condone such behaviour because the less chaos caused by Hell the better. Naturally.”

The Metatron arches an eyebrow. “I can't recall ever reading anything about this in one of your reports, however.”

Aziraphale refuses to be intimidated by that tone. “I apologise,” he says, lowering his head as though he feels ashamed. “But I know that reports sometimes get mixed up and end up in the wrong places. I didn't want to risk Crowley being found out and being removed from his post, only to be replaced with a much more vicious demon. It would have been a disadvantage for Heaven and …”

“And a loss for you,” The Metatron finishes.

Aziraphale swallows. “I'm so sorry,” he whispers. “I'm not even sure if my feelings are going against God's command or not. After all, like you said, She ordered us to love all of her creations. Demons would fall under the same category, right?” He glances up, his gaze piercing. “I would love to ask Her herself about this one day.”

Not a single muscle in The Metatron's face twitches as he replies, “Maybe, one day.”

Well, Aziraphale surely didn't expect The Voice to take him to see the Almighty here and now anyway, but his vague answer is telling nevertheless.

“Very well then,” The Metatron then announces in a grand tone. “You shall get your chance to save your demon. You may travel down back to Earth – with an escort, of course, due to the high demon activity – and get your Crowley up here. I'm sure we will all be able to make him see reason, won't we?”

Suspicion rises inside Aziraphale, but he pushes it aside and instead smiles at the angel in a manner that hopefully looks rather grateful.

“Oh, thank you,” he praises. “I promise you, you won't regret –”

The Metatron cuts him off once again by lifting his hand. “Just hurry. We don't want to waste any more time.”

He looks one more time at Aziraphale imploringly before shooting a glimpse at Michael and then hurrying out of the office.

Both Michael and Aziraphale remain silent for several minutes afterwards, both making sure that The Metatron is truly out of earshot.

Eventually, though, Aziraphale's muscles tense and uncramp on repeat as he steps closer to his companion.

“Did you hear that?” he asks urgently. “He was awfully eager for me to get Crowley.”

Michael stays unimpressed. “I told you, I'm fairly sure he only brought you back up here and bound you to Heaven by appointing you Supreme Archangel because of the powerful miracle you performed together with your demon. He needs Crowley for that, too, somewhere along the way.”

“So he is truly rushing matters along then?” Aziraphale wonders, more than a little concerned.

“I'm afraid so.” Michael's features harden even further. “If we don't find a way to stall him or even some proof against his agenda, I don't think there is much we can actually do –”

“Oh, we found Jesus, by the way,” Aziraphale blurts out, honestly startling Michael so much that she just stares at him with wide eyes. “And we also know now where the power source for The Second Coming originates from.”

Michael's mouth drops open. “What –?”

Aziraphale ignores her, however, to send a quick message towards Crowley. I've arrived at Michael's office. We're alone.

While Michael continues to gape at him, clearly torn between just being shocked in general and being furious with him for withholding such vital information, Crowley eventually pops up in the room, right next to Aziraphale.

With someone else in tow, grabbing onto the demon's arm.

“Hey, look at that, it worked,” Crowley says with a grin, looking at Christ who is taking his new surroundings in with curiosity. “I wasn't sure if I could really travel with a passenger.”

Michael makes another shocked noise in the background while Aziraphale glares at Crowley.

“You took him with you?” he asks, gesturing at Christ.

“He insisted,” Crowley explains with a shrug. And then adds when Aziraphale continues to scowl at him, “Hey, don't get all preachy on me. He could really help us out, you know?”

Aziraphale is actually very aware of that and yet he doesn't like the idea of dragging the son of God into all of this. She might not be happy about it, if She ever comes around.

However, it's not like any of them can tell Christ what to do either.

If he wants to be here and join this chaos, so be it.

“I hope you do realise that we might very well be marked traitors of Heaven for what we're about to do,” Aziraphale reminds Christ nonetheless. “Are you really sure about this? You still have time to walk away.”

Christ shoots him a soft smile. “I'm the son of God,” he reminds Aziraphale right back. “What would they ever dare to do to me?”

Well, fair point.

Aziraphale doesn't get a chance to reply, though, because Michael suddenly shows up beside him, her attention still solely fixed on Christ.

“My Lord …” she breathes, clearly in awe.

Aziraphale can't say he has ever seen her like this and it's actually a little unsettling.

Christ offers her the same smile he just gave Aziraphale. “Michael,” he says, reaching out his hand. “We have never been properly introduced, I think.”

Michael stares at the outstretched hand like it's a foreign object. And while she takes her time trying to figure out whether to take it and have the audacity to shake Christ's hand or whether she should drop to her knees instead and declare her undying devotion, Aziraphale quickly pulls Crowley aside and hurries to get him up to speed on the newest developments.

“We don't have much time,” Aziraphale urges. “The Metatron is really determined to see this through as quickly as possible, I'm afraid.”

“Well, he won't get very far without The Book of Life,” Crowley points out.

Aziraphale grits his teeth. “Don't get cocky. We don't have it in our possession yet. There are still at least a thousand things that can go wrong.”

“But it also might go right.”

Aziraphale raises his brow. “Since when are you an optimist?”

Crowley shoots him a crooked smirk. “It doesn't hurt to change things up a bit once in a while, right?”

He winks at Aziraphale and it's merely playful, maybe even a facade to cover up his own tension, however, for some reason the angel finds himself gaping at him like never before. There seems to have something changed in Crowley's demeanour and it might very well be his reunion with Christ or the fact that they actually have some sort of concrete plan now, but he is suddenly so very mesmerising for Aziraphale that he doesn't even dare to blink.

Crowley just grins back, a light flush on his cheeks.

While Aziraphale seriously considers taking his sunglasses away from him so that he's got an unrestricted view of his eyes. Since he can't help but wonder whether they are sparkling extra bright right now.

Thankfully he is able to hold himself back on that one. Particularly because he suddenly realises that Michael and Christ have finished their little private dance of hand shaking and are now looking at Crowley and Aziraphale with a rather uncomfortable intensity.

Aziraphale awkwardly clears his throat and forces himself to direct his gaze at something else than Crowley's radiating aura.

“Um, yes,” he mutters, not having a single idea where they even are conversation wise. “The book …”

The reminder appears to shake Crowley out of it as well. “Yes, the book,” he announces grandly. “We need to get the book …”

Michael assesses them like she wonders if they might have lost their minds somewhere along the way.

Crowley just ignores her and draws in a very deep breath.

“We grab the book and hide it in the farthest corner of the universe, where not even The Metatron would be able to find it …” he states, now obviously becoming quite keen again on getting things along. He even glances at the door, as though he is seriously contemplating storming out of there and stealing the book right under the angels' noses without any sort of proper plan.

While Christ looks like he is determined to follow Crowley into the fires of Hell if necessary and Michael just stares at them as though they're all idiots, Aziraphale finds himself taking a deep breath.

“I have been thinking,” he says, way calmer than he expected to be. “The Book of Life could actually be the answer to all our problems as well.”

Crowley frowns at him. “How so?”

“Think about it,” Aziraphale encourages him. “It's a chronicle about every living being. That includes the Almighty, right?” he adds, turning towards Michael.

Who nods in confirmation. “Our beloved Creator is the first on the list.”

Aziraphale grins at that. “It's not just a simple register of names, though, is it? No, it's the story of their lives. Which include, for example, someone's current whereabouts. Or past ones.”

Crowley squints his eyes, apparently realising where Aziraphale is going with this. “You want to use the book to find God?”

Aziraphale feels a surge of excited energy rush through his system.

“I don't know if we can actually find Her,” he has to admit. “But it might be the proof we need to make everyone see that She hasn't been around for a very long time. That whenever The Metatron claimed he talked to Her and has just been acting as Her messenger – well, it would be easy enough to cross-reference that with The Metatron's whereabouts at that time, you see …”

A little smile starts to tug at the corners of Crowley's lips. “Then the angels would realise that whenever The Metatron claimed he met up with God and afterwards spoke on Her behalf, he wasn't truthful about it whatsoever …”

“He still might have an explanation for it all,” Michael points out, always the sceptic.

“Maybe,” Aziraphale agrees. “But it must be a jolly good explanation. And even then, I highly doubt everyone would be appeased by it. The Book of Life is sacred in ways The Metatron is not.”

Crowley's grin widens. “This might actually work!”

He sounds excited and Aziraphale loves seeing him like this so much that he almost grasps the demon's lapels and pulls him in for a kiss. He refrains from it in the end because he is fairly sure that Michael wouldn't appreciate such displays in her presence, but it is a close call.

Michael shoots him a dark glance nonetheless. “There is a huge problem with your plan,” she states.

Crowley grimaces. “Aw, Michael, always the killjoy.”

She looks at him for a moment, as if to decipher what he might mean by that, before turning her attention back to the entire group.

“You can't just steal the book and read it,” she says with a scoff. “It is locked.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes. This is the first time he hears of something like this.

“Locked?” he asks, confused.

“Yes, locked,” Michael confirms. “And it is not a mere lock that you simply open with a key. No, this book has been sealed by the purest and rawest of Heavenly powers, back in the day when most angels hadn't even been created yet.”

Aziraphale arches his brows in surprise, Christ leans closer, visibly intrigued, and Crowley merely grows pensive, as if he is trying to remember something.

“To be perfectly honest, I have no idea how The Metatron would go about breaking that seal in any other manner than it was intended to,” Michael says. “Until recently I would have claimed that it's absolutely impossible, even for him. But now?” She bites her lower lip. “I have been watching him for a while now and he is clearly up to something. I think he might have found an alternative way to open the book, whatever that may be. He's at least confident enough about it. But considering that he might be planning this for quite some time, perhaps even for centuries or millennia, he undoubtedly has a massive head start on all of us.”

Aziraphale blinks.

“Sooo … this seal …?” He tilts his head. “How do you know that The Metatron isn't just planning on opening the book the way it is supposed to?”

Michael actually laughs at that. It's a brief thing, but it startles everyone present so badly that they take a step back, just to be safe.

“Because, Aziraphale,” she says, still an amused smile on her lips which might be creepier than anything Aziraphale has ever seen, “like I said, this lock isn't just a simple one. No, the book was sealed shut by the four original archangels back in the day. The First Ones. And only they can open it again.” She pauses for a moment and then clarifies, “Well, apart from God Herself, of course. I'm fairly sure She can open the book too without much problem.”

Aziraphale gapes at her.

Christ gapes at her.

And Crowley … well, he actually looks a little lost, to be frank.

“The … First Ones …?” Aziraphale mutters, dread beginning to fill every fibre of his being. “You don't mean …?”

Michael stares him down.

“Myself and Gabriel, of course …”

“… of course …” Aziraphale mumbles.

“… Lucifer –”

“Oh dear –”

“… and Raphael!”

“Oh dear Lord!”

Aziraphale grimaces extra hard.

So much for their plan then.

There is clearly no way for them to open The Book of Life and discredit The Metatron along the way.

While Crowley remains quiet and just studies Michael, Christ shuffles a bit closer to him, curiosity written all over his face.

“So, I assume this is bad?” he wonders.

Aziraphale sighs deeply. “Well, getting Michael on our side would obviously not be a problem,” he states, gesturing at the angel in question. “And, as weird as it is to say this, I'm sure Gabriel would go along with us as well without much issue. After all, there is at least one particular demon he would hate to see destroyed.”

Yes, this still feels all kinds of strange, even after so many months.

Aziraphale isn't certain he will ever get used to it.

“Lucifer, however …” He shudders at the mere memory of the last time they encountered the devil. “Well, if he doesn't kill us on sight, I'm sure he will push us into the fiery pit soon enough. This might be about his own survival, but why not take the book for himself and try to get it open instead? The damage he could do with it …”

Aziraphale actually gets a little sick just imagining it.

Not that Lucifer would be able to actually open it, at least according to Michael, but he would surely try and not leave any of them alive in the process.

There seems to be not much reason left in him.

“And even if, by some miracle, we would be able to make Lucifer go along with it all, it doesn't even matter,” Aziraphale bemoans. “Because Raphael died during the Fall, a very long time ago, and that is where it all ends anyway!”

It's clearly a shame.

They could have their proof with The Book of Life. Instead they will be forced to hide it somewhere and probably run for their lives for the rest of eternity.

Unless they find an alternative, like The Metatron apparently has. But how can they, when The Voice had so much more time to prepare it all? The Metatron could start The Second Coming ten times over before Aziraphale would have even gathered one single decent idea.

Granted, they might get lucky, but when do they ever get what they want?

Aziraphale blinks and braces himself for resignation to fill the small room, dragging him along with them. However, when he finally looks up again he just sees himself confronted with Michael staring absolutely incredulously at him.

Like she seriously can't believe his daftness.

“What are you even talking about?” she exclaims. “Who ever told you that Raphael is dead?”

For a moment Aziraphale finds himself so startled by the question that his eyes flicker back to Crowley on instinct. The demon, however, is just grinding his teeth extra hard and looks like he would rather be anywhere else but here.

An odd reaction, Aziraphale had to admit, but he doesn't get any time to dwell on it because Michael's gaze actually pierces through his skin.

He squirms, highly uncomfortable. “Well, Raphael died during the Fall … everyone knows that …”

Michael stares at him as though she is honestly questioning his sanity.

“Your information is outrageously outdated, Aziraphale,” she complains. “Once again proof that you're completely inadequate to be Supreme Archangel and that The Metatron had some ulterior motives appointing you –”

“Yes, yes, we have been over this,” Aziraphale cuts in, anger making his cheeks flush. “I'm a horrible angel, I know that. You don't have to remind me all the time.”

“It needs repeating apparently,” Michael hisses before shaking her head in utter disbelief. “Because how can you not know that Raphael is very much alive?”

Chapter Text

For a long moment Aziraphale doesn't know what to do with himself.

He simply gapes at Michael while the archangel in question keeps on complaining about Aziraphale's utter incompetence in very great detail.

Meanwhile he doesn't even have the mental capacity to be offended by her words. No, he is just in utter disbelief that he could seriously be so fiercely uninformed. This isn't just a minor oversight, something that happens by accident and you can easily laugh off with a shrug. Raphael's (apparently supposed) death has been one of the major events in the Great War back in the day and to think that Aziraphale has it all wrong?

Before he even knows it he turns to Crowley, his instinct once again telling him that there is only one being in the entire universe he can trust completely.

And since Crowley always has the answers to seemingly everything …

“Is this true?” Aziraphale whispers urgently, leaning closer to the demon. “Is this honestly true?”

Crowley doesn't reply.

He just opens his mouth and closes it again, only to repeat that motion several times in a row, as though he wants to respond, but words are failing him completely. His expression, once more, turns so utterly strange it throws Aziraphale off in a manner that leaves him rather unsettled for some reason.

“Of course it is true!” Michael is ultimately the one who answers, her gaze so very accusing that Aziraphale can't help but feel the strong impulse to apologise profusely for his ignorance and beg for her forgiveness.

“Well, how should I have known?” he tries to defend himself instead. He raises his voice for a second, but when Michael lifts her eyebrow in a challenge, clearly daring him, he keeps on squeaking like a frightened mouse, “The last information I have gotten was that Raphael died during the Fall …”

Aziraphale is sure of that.

Those news spread among the angels like a wildfire.

“Are you telling me now that it was a lie?” he wonders, not sure whether to be furious or just simply confused about it.

In the end he settles for a little bit of both.

Michael, however, merely scoffs into his face. “Nobody lied,” she states. “At first we truly thought that Raphael had died in the fiery pit. But later we got confirmation that he had actually survived and become part of Hell.”

Her eyes flicker to Crowley at those words while the demon still appears lost for words.

“Then why did nobody tell me about this?” Aziraphale complains. He even ends up pouting and doesn't give a damn how childish he might look at that moment.

“When we heard about Raphael's survival, you had already been stationed on Earth,” Michael explains.

Aziraphale huffs. “And that's reason enough not to inform me?”

“We did notify you, just like everybody else in Heaven,” Michael insists, clearly not thrilled by Aziraphale's tone. “We sent a memo.”

Aziraphale blinks.

Oh.

OH.

Oh my.

His face suddenly morphs into a quite tight and uncomfortable grimace.

Michael watches him warily. “What? What is it?”

When Aziraphale is all of a sudden the one lost for words, Crowley finds his voice again. He clarifies, with a hint of inappropriate cheerfulness in his tone, “Aziraphale never reads the memos.”

Michael doesn't seem to know if to be stunned or not surprised at all.

In the meantime, Aziraphale spurs back into action, the desire to defend himself stronger than his own mortification. “I read them!” he states indignantly. When Crowley, however, looks at him, with more than a little doubt in his eyes, Aziraphale recants reluctantly, “Well … I skim them.”

Michael looks like she's having a massive migraine right in front of their eyes. “You. Skim. Them?”

Aziraphale squirms awkwardly on the spot. “Well, in my defence, Heaven produces far too much paperwork. And there is a new memo almost every single day, with all kinds of inconsequential information nobody really cares about –” He comes to a screeching halt when Michael shoots him a particularly dangerous death glare and he quickly corrects, “Well, um, I mean – those memos are often filled with lots of information that, um, … don't apply to everyone's situation, you see? … And, um, I shall not waste my time if there are so many things to do, am I right …?”

He shoots Michael a nervous grin and wonders whether he might survive the next second.

Michael, at least, seriously appears to consider for a minute to just end Aziraphale's existence here and now. Aziraphale surely wouldn't put it past her.

In the end, though, she just rubs her temples and mumbles something underneath her breath Aziraphale is fairly sure is far from flattering in any manner.

“Well,” Christ's voice suddenly jolts them all out of the moment, his intense eyes swaying back and forth between them, “if Raphael is indeed alive, that's good news. Right?”

He doesn't seem sure and, to be frank, neither is Aziraphale.

Is that good news?

Granted, they might actually be able to open the book now, but it is still a major risk on various levels. Lucifer will still be less than amenable and Aziraphale can't even say how Raphael might react because he has truly no idea where and who he is right now. Most likely someone high ranking down in Hell, a duke or something equally influential. Aziraphale isn't overly familiar with the hierarchy Below and since he actually never met Raphael before, back when he still used to be an angel, he is unable to even conjure a face of that being in front of his inner eye. Admittedly, Raphael might have changed his appearance since then, of course, but it surely bothers Aziraphale that there is just a blank spot when he thinks of that former archangel.

Aziraphale glances back at Crowley, hoping for some sort of eye contact that would give him something, no matter what, but the demon is simply looking ahead with a pinched expression on his face. It even seems like he is deliberately avoiding the angel's gaze.

All this is clearly bothering him, even more so than ever before, and Aziraphale just wants to reach out and take his hand, no matter the current audience.

But before he's got the chance to do any of that, Crowley suddenly tenses up and his features darken as he glares at Michael.

“Wait a little minute –” he presses through his teeth, agitation visibly thrumming through his entire body. “If the book is sealed up like that – how come you and your little friends came down to the bookshop all those months ago and threatened me and Aziraphale with erasing our names from it?”

He growls underneath his breath, clearly far from happy.

And Aziraphale, after being reminded of that as well, has to admit that he shares the sentiment. He had been completely terrified by those threats back then and it made his anxiety spike through the roof more than once. The idea of not only being deleted from existence but that Crowley might be the one disappearing into nothingness – it sent Aziraphale into a constant frenzy.

Michael, unsurprisingly, looks utterly unapologetic. “I didn't lie,” she says. “Well, at first.”

Crowley snarls at her and for a moment it sincerely seems like he is debating turning into a snake and biting her in the face.

“When we came to you, I truly assumed that you would just need one of the original archangels to open the book,” she explains. “Soon enough, however, we realised that it required all four of us. I just decided not to inform you of our discovery back then because the threat was powerful enough to keep you on your toes. Why jeopardise that?”

She shrugs, as though this is simply a minor thing nobody should be overly angry about in hindsight.

Crowley obviously doesn't see it like that as he clenches his hands into fists and starts to tremble, the effort to hold himself back not to attack Michael taking a toll on his body.

Aziraphale finds himself cross as well, but in the grand scheme of things it's truly not the worst thing Heaven has ever done to them. Besides, they don't have time for any grudges right now.

Instead he asks, “How did The Metatron react when you realised that it would need all of the First Ones to open the book?”

“I don't think he was overly surprised,” Michael says. “Which led me to believe that he already tried to open the book in the past – maybe with Gabriel's help? – and remained unsuccessful. I deemed it a bit odd that he didn't inform us about that, but at the time I didn't think too much of it.”

Aziraphale presses his lips into a thin line. It's not unlikely that The Metatron tried it before and failed. Maybe he even made an attempt centuries ago, back during Mediaeval times when God's power was still considered the most powerful and divine among humankind. And when it ultimately didn't work he started to look for alternatives.

“Look, this doesn't even matter right now,” Crowley pipes in, visibly still on edge by Michael's nonchalance, but obviously aware enough to put this aside for now. “We should take the book before The Metatron gets a chance of using it –”

“And what makes you think I would condone such a thing?” Michael cuts in. She folds her arms across her chest and scowls at the demon with clear disdain. “I have been open to gathering evidence against The Metatron with you until now, yes, but stealing The Book of Life? This is not what I signed up for.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Michael –”

“No!” the archangel interrupts him harshly. “The Book of Life is sacred beyond any doubt and your suggestions are sacrilegious and appalling –”

“Michael –”

“– and I won't be part of any of this!” she hisses. “I can't allow you to just take it. I can't allow a demon to walk out with one of the most sacred items in the history of the universe –”

Aziraphale grimaces. Of course he should have seen that coming, but he's been so absorbed by their breakthrough that he completely forgot Michael's unwavering devotion to Heaven. She might doubt The Metatron's intentions and is willing to work behind his back to learn the truth, but at the end of the day she is still a pious creature who wouldn't dare to risk her belief.

Aziraphale glimpses at Crowley, unsure what to do now. He can't think of any argument that might change Michael's mind.

Ultimately it's not the demon, though, who finds a solution to this dilemma but Jesus Christ himself.

“Michael,” Christ speaks, his voice warm and soft and so very mesmerising that you can't help but lean into it. “I do understand your hesitation and your loyalty to Heaven's cause is admirable. You are truly the most devout of them all, just like everybody has been telling me constantly.”

Aziraphale is fairly certain that he is exaggerating a great deal right now, but Michael seems too captivated by the son of God addressing her to notice it.

“I will tell the Almighty all about it, the first chance I get,” Christ promises solemnly. “She will be very pleased to hear about your faithfulness.”

Michael's chest puffs up somewhat at those words.

“But,” Christ then adds, almost sounding a bit remorseful, “it is vital that we get the book out of The Metatron's grasp. And we can't do this any other way but taking and hiding it.”

Now Michael starts to hesitate.

“We can't allow The Metatron to abuse The Book of Life in such a vile fashion, can we?” Christ goes on. “God trusted us to keep good care of it and I have every intention to uphold that trust. Don't you?”

Michael is very quick to reply, “Of course I do.”

“And am I not Her son?” Christ prods.

This time the archangel is even faster. “Of course you are.”

“Then let me take care of the book, yes?” Christ says. “Right now it would be much safer to keep it out of The Metatron's reach. I promise that no one will touch it but me. Especially not the demon.”

He shoots a subtle, yet very apologetic glance in Crowley's direction at that last line, making it apparent that he's only saying that to get Michael on their side again. Crowley responds with a quick nod.

Michael, meanwhile, seems to mull Christ's proposition over carefully.

“You will be in charge of the book?” she asks.

“Only me,” Christ swears.

Michael pauses a moment longer, but evidently she can't refuse the son of God in the matter. So she slumps her shoulders and gives her permission with a slow tilt of her head.

Aziraphale breathes a sigh of relief.

“Then we should hurry,” Crowley leaps in once more. “Before The Meta-Wanker's got a chance of getting the upper hand.”

“We should make some sort of plan first,” Aziraphale objects, ignoring the manner the demon is impatiently tugging at his sleeve. “As soon as we take the book, it's highly likely that Heaven will know all about it. My cover might very well be broken after this as well. We are going to have to be quick about it.”

Crowley huffs, but he doesn't contradict. By learning that The Metatron can't just open the book on a whim they surely are allowed to spare at least a minute to handle this rationally.

“For one, can we just take the book?” Aziraphale asks, his gaze directed at Michael now. “What kind of security measures do we have to expect?”

He is actually not keen on melting into a puddle after merely glancing in the book's general direction only because Heaven put a protection spell on it or something equally life-ending.

For a second, though, it looks like Michael isn't eager to share any information on the matter, particularly with a demon present. But after Christ nudges her lightly she relents instantly.

“There are no special security measures,” she admits. “It never really was necessary, with the book being here in Heaven, surrounded by the mightiest of them all. So why bother with it?”

Well, Aziraphale isn't exactly sure about that considering demons are apparently able to sneak into Heaven just fine, but he is not here to argue with Michael about that. They don't have the time for any debates.

“That doesn't mean it's somewhere public, though,” Michael goes on. “The book is in a rather restricted area of the main archive. Not accessible to many angels.”

Crowley throws Aziraphale a side glimpse. “But I assume it's easy enough for the Supreme Archangel to get access, am I right?”

Aziraphale chews on his bottom lip, suddenly getting quite nervous. He has never stolen anything before, at least not on purpose, and he is not sure how to go about it without acting suspicious and alerting anyone in his vicinity about his intentions along the way.

“Naturally Aziraphale is allowed to get to the book without any problems,” Michael says coolly, once again not hiding her disgruntlement about Aziraphale's new position in the Heavenly Host. “I can't say what will happen when he takes it with him without proper permission, however. Such a thing has never occurred before.”

Crowley perks up. “So you're saying the doors might shut down and lock him in as soon as he touches the book?”

Aziraphale gulps, the idea certainly not a pleasant one.

“I can't say for sure,” Michael admits. “But it's possible that he might raise some major alarm bells.”

Aziraphale looks back at Crowley, seeking some solace or answers or whatever else the demon has to offer at this moment (because Crowley always has something to contribute when situations seem hopeless), and Crowley once more doesn't disappoint. He shoots the angel a reassuring smile before pointedly glancing downwards.

Aziraphale takes a moment to catch up with the meaning.

The rings on their fingers.

Even if Aziraphale might trigger some sort of alarm, he would be able to teleport himself out of the dilemma in the blink of an eye.

“I should go back to Earth,” Crowley says. “So that you can jump right out of Heaven when you get the book.”

He still sounds somewhat reluctant about it, though, and Aziraphale figures that he isn't happy about the prospect of leaving Aziraphale behind like that.

Aziraphale would hate to see him go as well, but it is a reasonable plan. Crowley is at least stealthy enough to sneak out of Heaven without anyone the wiser and Aziraphale will follow him soon after.

Provided that there won't be any bad surprises, of course.

Naturally it is a risk, going in there more or less blindly and just hoping for the best, but at this point they don't have many options left. If worse came to worse, Aziraphale at least might have a chance to talk himself out of the situation with the other angels and come up with a logical explanation for why he would take The Book of Life.

Granted, right now he can't think of anything other than the truth, but he is sure he would be capable of lying convincingly enough if he ever has to.

“And what about the seal?” Aziraphale asks, looking back at Michael. “How exactly does it work?”

“Each of the First Ones put a specific magical code on the book only they can unlock,” Michael explains.

Aziraphale narrows his eyes. “And would it be enough for each one to do their part separately? Or does it have to happen in a row?”

Michael grimaces so hard it actually hurts to look at it.

“All four of us would have to be in the same room, unlocking the book one by one,” she states. “It doesn't work any other way.”

Of course it doesn't.

Aziraphale feels another painful headache throbbing behind his eyes.

“So you are saying,” he asks, “that we have to get you, Gabriel, Raphael and Lucifer into one room?”

To be frank, that thought is absolutely terrifying and Aziraphale can't help but shudder.

Crowley appears to share the sentiment.

“I think it would be easier to just kidnap The Metatron and torture him until he tells us his alternative for opening the book,” he proposes.

While Aziraphale at least considers it for a very brief second, Michael, of course, reacts so insulted at the suggestion that the temperature in the office suddenly drops significantly. Aziraphale even starts to freeze, even though technically he shouldn't be bothered by it at all.

“The question is, should we even attempt to open the book in the first place?” Crowley asks then, concern written all over his face. “Even the tiniest chance of Lucifer getting his hands on it –”

His features are doing some very uncomfortable looking gymnastics and Aziraphale can't exactly blame him for that.

It's more than likely that Lucifer would do horrible things with The Book of Life. He would, without much doubt, get his revenge on both Heaven and humanity. In the end only Hell would remain and that mere concept is so utterly terrifying that for a moment Aziraphale's legs threaten to give up on him.

And yet …

“What other choice do we have?” he sighs. “Yes, we can steal the book and keep it hidden, but for how long? It's fair to assume that it will act like every other holy artefact and be like a beacon for Heaven as soon as we take it. It's going to be hard enough to hide it in the first place and I don't see it working for all eternity. I actually would be surprised if we managed to stay in the dark for even a week without being located by Heaven's armies.” Aziraphale's shoulders droop as he once again contemplates the near hopelessness of it all. “To open the book and show everyone that The Metatron lied to them is our best shot at thwarting The Second Coming.”

Crowley grits his teeth rather loudly. “And also the riskiest move in the history of everything.”

Aziraphale takes a very deep breath. “Then so be it.”

Chapter Text

For a very long time Aziraphale has never been one to take great risks.

He has always been cautious and hesitant, taking his time evaluating a situation and trying to find the least dangerous pathway out of it.

And then the apocalypse (the first one) happened and that suddenly changed. Till this day Crowley is still a bit baffled that he managed to actually convince the uptight angel to join his cause instead of leaning back and letting events unfold.

But Aziraphale took that leap of faith and never regretted it since.

Also now, years later, in Michael's office, with the archangel, the son of God and a demon staring at him, he looks confident enough in his assessment of the circumstances.

And Crowley hates it.

He hates that Aziraphale has been backed into such a corner that he feels forced to make such a scary decision. And he hates that all of this is occurring in the first place.

Crowley would rather continue to live his peaceful and uneventful life, spending at least 90% of his time contemplating whether it would be too forward to brush his fingers with the angel's or not.

That had been his existence since the last apocalypse, up until the point where The Metatron ruined it all, and Crowley so desperately wishes it back that he almost feels tears prickling in his eyes.

“It's too dangerous, angel,” Crowley whispers. “We can't jeopardise everyone's lives like that …”

Aziraphale grimaces as he rubs his temples, clearly in pain, both mentally as well as physically “What do you want me to do then, Crowley?” he asks, a challenge in his tone. “Please tell me. We can't hide the book forever, you know that –”

Of course Crowley knows that.

It eats him from the inside.

“Rather sooner than later The Metatron is going to get the book back,” Aziraphale states. “And he will use it to evaporate all of Hell and every other being he considers a sinner. So many millions of souls will cease to exist in the blink of an eye.” Aziraphale's face falls at the mere possibility. “I agree, putting Lucifer near the book is a risk. And Raphael probably too, considering he is a demon as well. But if we plan this right, we can control the situation.”

“Angel –”

“It's not a perfect solution,” Aziraphale cuts in. “I would prefer to do it any other way as well. But do you have a better idea? One single better one?”

Crowley suddenly feels transported back in time to the first apocalypse, when all seemed lost and gone for good and the angel used a similar phrasing to undermine their helplessness. There hadn't been much hope back then either and yet they still made it out alive.

Out of sheer and dumb luck, mostly.

“The Book of Life contains everyone's life story,” Aziraphale reminds him as though Crowley might have forgotten this very important detail somewhere along the way. “And granted, I don't know how much of God is actually written in there, if it would be enough to actually find Her … but it would be undeniable proof that something is wrong up here. That you were right all along.” He starts to tug on his waistcoat like he always does when he's anxious. “Heaven would see through The Metatron's lies and realise that they have been following the wrong being all this time –”

“I know all that,” Crowley cuts in. “But that doesn't change the fact that Lucifer is just as much of a threat, maybe even more so …”

He can't help but recall their last interaction, back at that airfield in Tadfield, and feels a painful knot growing in his gut.

“He hates us both, probably with a burning passion,” Crowley states. “He most likely won't even allow us to tell him about our plans before he rips us to shreds.”

Aziraphale pulls a face, clearly not delighted by those mental images.

Then, however, he starts to chew (very distractingly) on his bottom lip and argues, “I agree that Lucifer hates us and Heaven and humanity and probably most of Hell as well. But there is something you should consider too.” His intense gaze seems to pierce right through Crowley's skin. “He still loves God. He might deny it and act like none of it matters anymore, but we all know the truth, right? He has always loved Her the most, above anyone, and he still does. And if he hears that She might have been gone for a long time, basically replaced by The Metatron without anyone knowing …”

Crowley scoffs. “You think he will suddenly be on our side?”

Aziraphale shakes his head right away. “Of course not. But he might listen.”

Crowley curses underneath his breath, but unfortunately he can't really contradict Aziraphale's words. All of Hell knows, basically senses, that Lucifer's feelings for God didn't just evaporate overnight with the big rebellion. Granted, it is all very complicated and messy and Lucifer would most likely rather admit to owning twenty unicorns than still loving the Almighty, but it is indisputable nonetheless.

And yet it's still so very risky and Crowley would prefer basically any other route than this one.

“What about The Metatron then?” the demon prods. “How is he planning to open the book? Do we even have an inkling of an idea?”

Aziraphale looks rather uncomfortable for a second and glimpses quickly at Michael before saying tentatively, “Well, we don't know for sure … and let me tell you, it's just a theory at this point, we might be completely wrong about it –”

“Angel!” Crowley interrupts warningly, not eager for another one of Aziraphale's long rambles.

While the angel grimaces and clearly tries to come up with the right manner to phrase this all, Michael states, as bluntly as ever, “I suspect that The Metatron is somehow planning to use you and Aziraphale to break the seal.”

Crowley blinks behind his dark lenses. “Us?” he asks in confusion. “How?”

“The miracle you performed to hide Gabriel,” Michael explains, without a single muscle twitching on her face. “I don't know why, but after it happened The Metatron got suspiciously interested in you two. I'm even assuming this is the reason he appointed Aziraphale as Supreme Archangel in the first place. To have him close.” Once again she scrunches up her nose at the reminder. “And you, demon … well, he offered you a place in Heaven, did he not? And even when that didn't work, he probably knew that you would follow Aziraphale anywhere sooner than later anyway.”

Well, Crowley can't deny it.

Granted, he is not sure whether he actually would have forced himself to join Heaven again at some point, too grieved by Aziraphale's absence to think straight, but he most certainly would have tried to reach out to his angel once more somewhere along the way.

Because he is just that pathetic.

“So,” he starts hesitantly, “you think Aziraphale and I could open the book? Together?”

To be frank, so far he hadn't thought much about that joint miracle of theirs. Too much had happened during that time and he didn't deem it important enough to waste any effort on it.

Sure, he was a bit surprised when he heard about the unexpected power behind it all, about the alarm bells it allegedly triggered in Heaven, but he merely assumed that perhaps an angel and a demon doing a miracle together had raised some red flags in their wake. Yes, he didn't anticipate such a thing (otherwise he wouldn't have done it in the first place), but he wasn't completely baffled by it either.

But is it more than that?

Because if it is merely an angel and a demon combining their powers, The Metatron might have just kidnapped a minor Hell inhabitant a long time ago and forced them to perform a miracle with him. Easy as that.

So why focus on Aziraphale and Crowley then?

It's rather mysterious and Crowley would love to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible. However, once again they don't have the time for that.

“So we can open it?” he asks instead, his gaze locked on Aziraphale. “We don't need Lucifer or Gabriel or –?”

He stops, unable to say the name.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, doesn't seem to notice his discomfort as he sighs heavily. “I don't know,” he admits. “We should most definitely give it a try, as soon as we have the book. But according to Michael there is more to it than that. I don't think a simple miracle will be enough.”

Crowley doesn't assume so either because life is unfair like that, but a little hope can't hurt. Especially when the alternative is so utterly terrifying.

“Maybe,” Michael all of sudden joins their conversation, making both Crowley and Aziraphale flinch so hard they nearly hurt themselves in the process, “we should first plan how to get the book. And how to hide it from Heaven.”

She still looks more than a little affronted at the thought of stealing The Book of Life, but she obviously resigned herself to her fate.

Crowley, meanwhile, just waves her off. “We hide the book the same way we hid Gabriel,” he announces. And after a glance towards Aziraphale he adds, a bit more cautiously, “Right?”

Aziraphale inclines his head, indicating that he had the same thought as well.

“I mean, it did work perfectly before,” he admits. “Why not with the book as well?”

Michael assesses them sceptically. “And if it doesn't work?”

Aziraphale is just drawing in a breath, ready for a reply, despite probably not being really certain how to answer that at all, when Jesus leaps in with a, “Then I shall give it a shot, right? After all, my powers might still be good for something.”

Right.

Jesus isn't just a mere human who likes to dance on tables and sit on demon's laps. His powers have always been limited due to his human status, but they're pure and Godly in a manner not many things are and he seriously might be able to help them out here if anything else fails.

Michael, at least, seems once more appeased by Jesus' assurances.

“And,” Crowley continues, “we're gonna steal the book by Aziraphale just marching in there, taking it and then using our rings.”

Michael arches her brows. “And you believe it would be that easy?”

Crowley snorts. “Well, under different circumstances I'm sure it would be difficult enough. But with the Supreme Archangel and the son of God on our side?”

Again, that seems to calm Michael down. She nods once and sighs.

She will probably apply for a long and very remote vacation when all of this is over, Crowley is sure of that.

Crowley certainly can relate to that. He needs some nice holidays himself. Preferably far, far away from anything celestial and/or demonic. Just a lovely cottage with lots of nature around and nothing else.

“Well then,” Aziraphale jerks him out of his brief reverie, “I guess there is no time to waste now. We should –”

He fumbles around, vaguely gesturing at the door, while his anxiety obviously reaches new levels. Crowley despises seeing him this way and for a moment considers yanking him into another hug, no matter the audience, just to soothe him somehow, but soon enough he realises that this probably would be the wrong move and only increase Aziraphale's nervousness.

So instead he aims for a lighter version and rests his hand on the angel's shoulder.

“Don't worry,” he says. “Everything will be fine.”

Aziraphale huffs. “Still an optimist, I see?”

Crowley grins lopsidedly. “What can I say? It's starting to grow on me. Don't get used to it, though.”

“I wouldn't dare.”

Aziraphale looks at him for a minute, like he wants to memorise any little inch of Crowley's face, before straightening his back and asking, “You will be careful, yes?”

There is quite a lot of vulnerability in his tone and Crowley wonders whether the most amount of Aziraphale's anxiousness has been actually reserved for the demon's safety and not for himself.

Knowing the angel, it's most likely true.

Crowley feels something warm bubbling in his chest. It's indeed rather nice to have someone who cares so much.

“Don't worry, I'm gonna sneak out of here without anyone noticing,” he swears solemnly. “I'm a snake after all. The Snake.”

Aziraphale only offers him a tight smile at first, clearly not completely convinced by the demon's words.

“For most of the way to the escalator I can use the secret passages,” he reassures the angel. “And on the off-chance that some spare angel who is by some miracle not completely held busy by Hell's rebellion might spot me, I can always use the ring and jump right back to you.”

While Aziraphale still looks nervous, Michael mouths “secret passages?” in the background, confusion written all over her features.

Crowley sighs. Truth be told, he should be far more concerned about Aziraphale's safety than the other way around. The angel is the one who dares to walk straight into the lion's den. And sure, as the Supreme Archangel he might be allowed to without raising any questions, but it's still a risk.

Crowley glances at Jesus and finds the man instantly nodding at him, understanding the demon's plea without him even having to utter a single word.

“I will be fine,” Crowley then promises Aziraphale yet another time. “You and Jesus are the ones who are doing a heist here, not me. I'm actually a little jealous.”

Aziraphale seems to startle a little and then looks at Jesus, many questions twinkling in his eyes.

Jesus just grins. “I hope you don't mind the company?”

Aziraphale frowns, obviously wondering when they had the time to discuss Jesus' involvement in this all, while Jesus just shrugs casually and explains, “I swore to Michael that I would be the only one who touches the book. I keep my promises.”

Aziraphale stares at him a moment longer, apparently too stunned by everything to form a coherent thought, and he only directs his attention back to Crowley when the demon cups his cheek and gently turns his head around.

“You will be careful too, yes?” he asks, the emotions in his tone too strong to hide.

Aziraphale's demeanour softens immediately. “Yes, I will.”

Crowley feels a clump growing in his throat and it only seems to get worse the longer he gazes into the angel's eyes. So he forces himself to address the last person in the room.

“And you?” he tells Michael. “You promise to not rat us out?”

Michael scowls at him.

“Because that would end up badly for you too,” the demon reminds her.

Michael scoffs, but instead of rolling her eyes and throwing a cruel remark into his face her gaze intensifies, as though she is eager to devour him just with her eyes. And not in the good way.

It's rather apparent that she wants to say something, wants to address the issue Crowley is so keen on ignoring, and for now he is just grateful that she didn't say anything in Aziraphale's presence.

Even though he doesn't really know why.

Michael isn't known for taking anyone's feelings into consideration. Then again, she most likely isn't in the mood for a lively and probably very long conversation to break out as soon as she would have breached this very sensitive topic. So she rather stays quiet.

Crowley takes what he can get.

For now.

Who knows how long Michael will keep her mouth shut?

How long is she going to overcome the temptation of shocking Aziraphale to his very core?

It most likely won't be forever, Crowley is quite sure of that.

Then again, he doesn't have any time right now to dwell on it all. So with one last glance at Aziraphale that hopefully radiates everything he can't say out loud with so many others in the room, he finally turns to the door, ready to tackle this thing.

But before he can step outside, Michael suddenly pops up beside him, so very close that all of her angelic everything makes the demon's skin tingle.

Her stare is piercing, nearly menacing, as she presses through her teeth, “When you find Raphael, tell him he is a fool.”

Crowley meets her eyes with a dark expression of his own.

And for a moment the atmosphere between them is so charged that Crowley swears he can hear sizzling in the air.

“Oh, trust me,” he breathes, just for her ears. “He is well aware of that.”

He watches the vein on Michael's forehead throb before stepping through the door. The last thing he hears is Aziraphale one last time calling after him, “Please, be careful!” and Michael instantly following that statement with, “You are the one who needs to be careful if you don't tell me about those secret passages right away!”

Crowley shakes his head and slips through a nearby hidden door.

Chapter Text

Time just seems to crawl excruciatingly slowly when you're waiting.

Especially when your company is anything but delightful.

It's never been one of Aziraphale's dreams to be locked into Michael's office with the archangel herself and yet he is forced to endure it all while he is impatiently waiting for Crowley's confirmation that he has safely returned back to Earth. And yes, normally it might have even been not that bad because most of the time Michael is just happy to ignore his existence altogether, but right now she is quietly fuming after Aziraphale had to give her at least a vague account about all the secret passageways through Heaven. He kept it rather short and didn't give much details, but the fact that someone like Crowley could have more knowledge about her home than her put her in an insufferable mood and Aziraphale made sure to stay at the far end of the room's corner, as much distance between them as possible.

Christ, meanwhile, just seems content to sit on the floor and meditate or whatever else he is doing with his eyes closed. Aziraphale is too afraid to ask, mainly because Michael might also take offence at him daring to interrupt Her son.

So Aziraphale has nothing better to do than remain anxious the entire time, imagining anything and everything that might go wrong on Crowley's way down to Earth and going insane along the way.

So when the demon's voice finally echoes through their bond, telling Aziraphale that he has left Heaven, the tension in Aziraphale's body drains out so fast that his knees actually start to buckle. He hastily has to grab Michael's desk to not fall over.

Michael just narrows her eyes in response as though she wants to rip Aziraphale apart for touching anything of hers.

Aziraphale gulps and hastily yanks his hand away.

“Well then,” he says, his voice, by some miracle, only wavering a little bit, “I guess our paths separate here. For now.”

Michael just leans back in her chair and folds her arms across her chest. “I demand to be informed about every development.”

Aziraphale fidgets uncomfortably on the spot. “And how do you want me to do that?” he asks, trying to sound somewhat confrontational, but ending up quite wary instead. “It is highly possible that my cover will be blown after stealing the book and I don't think it would reflect well on you if we were to communicate via the official channels …”

Michael huffs before snapping her fingers lightly, a small piece of paper materialising on the desk in front of her a second later. She offers it to Aziraphale without another word.

Aziraphale takes it and studies it carefully.

It's blank apart from a number printed on it.

“My phone number,” Michael explains easily.

Aziraphale blinks a few times, trying to wrap his head around this new information. In the end he asks incredulously, “You have a phone number?”

She merely shrugs, like this is not a big deal. “I learnt that it is an effective way to communicate with my contacts in Hell.”

Aziraphale starts to feel even more floored, “You have contacts in Hell??”

Michael ignores him. “I expect a call at least once a day,” she commands. “Any failure to report and I might be inclined to talk with The Metatron after all.”

Aziraphale swallows audibly.

“Don't think I won't follow through,” she warns him. “I'm on your side for now, but if I ever get the feeling you are keeping me out of the loop to do something incredibly stupid, I will put Heaven first. Don't ever doubt that.”

Aziraphale would never. Her devotion to Heaven is the one thing he is absolutely sure of.

He glances back at the phone number in his hands. “And you are certain that Heaven can't trace this back to us?”

“No one ever bothered to understand human technology,” she explains. “And only a select few know that I'm using this number to talk with my contacts. If they will ever see me talking to you, they will simply assume I'm getting information by my informant about the current uprising. Nobody would become suspicious, not even The Metatron.”

Aziraphale suddenly has so many questions and so little time.

Ultimately he can't help asking at least one. “How did you end up with a phone then?”

Michael remains quiet for a moment, apparently contemplating whether to answer or not. In the end she takes pity on him.

“I have been in touch with Hell for a long time,” she says. “And over the years we have always adapted to improve our communication. So when the first phones got invented …”

She spreads her arms, basically saying that's all she wrote.

Aziraphale is still far from satisfied by that answer, but he also knows that she won't say anything else on the matter. He can probably count himself lucky that she was willing to offer this much in the first place.

“Well, alright,” he mumbles. “Of course we will stay in touch.”

Michael nods, telling him with her eyes, you better or I'm going to end your little, pathetic existence before you even know it.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath.

“And for what it is worth, I apologise,” he says. “For being such a horrible angel.”

Michael actually laughs at that. “You most certainly are.”

“I know, I know,” Aziraphale waves her off. “Eating, drinking, associating with demons, not knowing that one of the first archangels is actually still alive –”

“I still can't believe you thought Raphael to be dead.” Michael shakes her head, clearly not over Aziraphale's ignorance. “You are definitely a marvel, Aziraphale. And not the good kind.”

Aziraphale suppresses the urge to roll his eyes too hard. “It was an honest … um, misunderstanding.”

Michael assesses him for a moment, a weird expression on her face.

“Out of all the angels …” She scoffs. “It's ridiculous. Nobody has been closer to Raphael in the last few millennia than you –”

Now Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “What, because of Crowley? He hates Hell just as much as you, maybe even more so. Always has.” There is no denying it. “Having him in my life didn't automatically lead to me getting introduced to his superiors. Till this day I have barely seen any of them.”

Michael looks at him as if she deems him absolutely and irrevocably stupid. “As always, you're completely on the wrong path –”

“I don't know what Raphael looks like today, I don't even know what name he is using nowadays,” Aziraphale goes on. “Yes, I'm a terrible angel for being so blind and ignorant, but it's not like we can change any of that, here and now, am I right?”

Michael grimaces. “I could change some of that,” she mutters, more to herself than Aziraphale, and Aziraphale can't help but wonder what she might mean by that.

“What alias is he using these days then?” he asks instead. “Just in case we really need him to open the book.”

Michael lifts one of her brows. “I'm sure your pet demon can help you with that.”

Naturally Crowley will know the answer to that, but Aziraphale finds himself hesitating nonetheless at the mere thought of asking the demon for help in the matter. Somehow Crowley reacted a little weird at the mention of Raphael and Aziraphale doesn't know for sure, of course, but this might indicate a not so happy past. Perhaps something happened between Crowley and the former archangel which led to the demon never mentioning him again in anyone's presence ever again.

Aziraphale is quite aware that things happen in Hell that are too despicable to even think about. And he also knows that some of these things happened to Crowley. He hates to even consider it, hates the idea of Crowley hurting, but it's the truth.

So Crowley flinching at Raphael's name – yes, this is most definitely not a good sign.

Yet another reason why Aziraphale sincerely hopes that they will be able to break the book's lock just with the power of their combined miracles, no further archangels necessary.

It would spare Crowley the pain of facing Raphael again.

“Go now!” Michael commands, jolting him out of his thoughts. “And if either of you should be captured, don't expect any help from me.”

“Of course not …”

“And if either of you dares to mention my name during interrogations, I will deny everything,” Michael goes on, her features dark. “And I won't hesitate to kill you both and burn your beloved bookshop to the ground if you would ever dare to betray me like this. Understood?”

She offers him a sweet smile that looks so very cold at the same time that Aziraphale's heart stops beating abruptly.

“Um, yes …” he mutters nervously. “Understood.”

“Good.” Michael's smile stretches even more and it's absolutely terrifying to look at. “And if anything happens to the book in the meantime, I will rip all of London apart, do you hear me?”

Aziraphale nods frantically.

Michael spreads her arms. “Very well then. Go on and good luck.”

Aziraphale doesn't dare to remain in the archangel's presence a second longer. He whirls around, desperate to flee and hopefully never look back, and only at the last moment he remembers Christ's presence in the room. He rushes towards the human and carefully nudges his shoulder, jerking the man out of his meditation. (Or sleep? Yes, he could've just been sleeping.)

Christ opens his eyes slowly and smiles at Aziraphale as though he has just woken up from a rather nice dream.

“We need to go,” Aziraphale urges, still feeling strange about interacting with Her son in such a nonchalant manner, but overall seeing it as a priority to get out of Michael's presence as soon as possible. “Crowley is back on Earth.”

Christ leaps to his feet, offers Michael a few words of farewell which actually soften the archangel's features tremendously, and then they're off.

Straight to the main archives.

Nobody steps into their way during all of this. To be frank, not many angels are even around anymore. It gets blatantly obvious very soon that a lot of them have been sent down to take care of Hell's uprising and Aziraphale once again has to admire Crowley's plan to spread Heaven so thin that they wouldn't notice their Supreme Archangel's extraordinary projects.

Christ merely follows along, his gaze roaming all over the place. Aziraphale is fairly sure that he's seen other parts of Heaven than Area B-1 before, but who knows how long that has been? He certainly appears curious enough that it's fair to assume it has been a fairly long time.

He and Aziraphale eventually find themselves stepping into the main archives without anyone stopping them even once. Inside they only spot a few scattered angels between the shelves, so deeply engrossed in whatever it is they're doing that they don't even raise their gazes to acknowledge Aziraphale or Christ's existence.

Aziraphale inhales deeply and finally strides over to the restricted area he usually wouldn't have dared to even look at, closely followed by Christ.

They have to walk through a bunch of doors which are clearly sealed with everything Heaven's might has to offer. Aziraphale can clearly see how next to impossible it would have been for an outsider to get through all these security measures.

When you are the Supreme Archangel, however, you only need to touch the door handle and everything opens up to you without a moment of hesitation.

It is actually a bit surreal and he feels rather grateful for his promotion now. No matter the ulterior motive The Metatron might have had for appointing Aziraphale, it surely comes in handy now.

Who knows if The Metatron even considered Aziraphale using his new status in such a manner? Or did he actually contemplate sealing off the restricted area, just to be safe, but couldn't come up with a good explanation for why he would exclude his Supreme Archangel?

Either way, the doors are opening for Aziraphale and Christ with ease and he is thankful for that.

Nevertheless, he stays vigilant, figuring that The Metatron might have hidden a trap or two to protect his most valuable asset. After all, he apparently has been planning this for long enough now to see all his bases covered.

And Aziraphale finds himself proven right when they ultimately reach the main room and he senses something radiating in the air that is most definitely out of the ordinary. Completely different to all the earlier magic lying on the doors and all the other objects nearby.

As though it has been added belatedly.

Aziraphale hesitates.

“Do you feel that?” he asks Christ, despite his confidence eager for a second opinion.

Christ nods right away. “With every fibre of my being.”

Aziraphale swallows audibly. “Do you think …?”

He halts, not even really sure what he intended to ask in the first place. This new aura throws him off in a manner he seriously didn't anticipate. It feels so alien, so utterly non-ethereal, that he doesn't know what to do with it.

It's apparent that The Metatron went to a unique source to fortify the book's walls. Maybe he even dipped into something Heaven would have normally not approved of.

At first glance it sounds like an unnecessary risk, but then again, who would even know about it when nobody is about to enter this area without permission from the highest up?

Considering that Michael didn't mention it, though, it is logical to assume that these additions haven't been around for long. Otherwise there is no way she wouldn't have noticed it last time, all these months ago when they went out to look for Gabriel and used the book as a way to intimidate everyone in their path.

Aziraphale licks his lips and carefully steps closer to The Book of Life. It's standing on a plain pedestal and overall doesn't look highly breathtaking. It's a book, yes, and it's honestly beautiful, especially in Aziraphale's expert eyes, but he's also seen similar examples down on Earth before. At first glance there is nothing special about this one.

But Aziraphale feels it.

The book seems to be brimming with the lives it contains. As though every single soul, every single angel and demon and human and even the tiniest fly, are singing all at once, their power wafting out of the restraints of the pages. It's so utterly mesmerising that Aziraphale finds himself shell-shocked for far too long.

When he shakes himself out of it by blinking rapidly he can't even tell how much time has passed. Maybe even hours, without him noticing.

He clenches his hands into fists and takes another step forward.

And another.

And another.

At some point he finds himself right in front of the book and it's even more overwhelming now. He actually has to force himself harshly not to get lost in the sensations again.

At the edge of his consciousness he registers Christ standing right next to him, studying the book with the same look of awe.

“Alright then,” Aziraphale mutters, feeling somewhat stupid for talking with a book, but somehow can't bring himself to not do it. “We truly apologise for interrupting you like this. We know you would rather stay here, but this is mighty important …”

Of course the book doesn't answer.

Even though a small part of Aziraphale expected as much.

He takes another deep breath and looks at Christ, urging him to take the next step. The man assesses the object a moment longer, his eyes suddenly glowing in a rather supernatural light, before he reaches out.

While Aziraphale prays that whatever The Metatron did to protect this artefact would have no effect on the son of God.

As he learns a second later, however, he is unfortunately quite wrong.

As Christ tries to touch the binding, something that looks like an electrical surge from the outside runs through his fingertips, making the human flinch back.

The book remains unbothered.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asks, instantly alarmed.

Christ shakes his hand, clearly attempting to get rid of the numb feeling in his limbs. “Yes, I'm good,” he reassures the angel. “It's just … a little tickly.”

Aziraphale stares at the book with narrowed eyes, calculating the current situation. “Do you think it would react the same way if I were to touch it?”

Christ ponders that over for a second. “I don't know, perhaps.”

That's most certainly not a confident answer.

Aziraphale sighs. It's possible that a miracle of his own might be enough to break this protection because at the end of the day this magic might feel foreign, but not overly powerful. At least not strong enough to keep someone with Aziraphale's status away for long.

Then again, if he were to use a miracle and it wouldn't work, he would probably alarm a great deal of people of his plans. Something he isn't particularly keen on.

However, before he is able to make any kind of decision Christ launches yet another attempt. Aziraphale can only gasp in surprise as the human lays his hand on the book.

The cover is sizzling, as though it's determined to attack Christ at all costs, but this time the man stands his ground, his face contorting in discomfort. He doesn't wince even once, though.

Aziraphale's jaw goes slack.

“What are you doing?” he exclaims. “Don't hurt yourself.”

Instinctively he grabs Christ's arm, wants to drag him away and get him to safety, but as soon as the contact is established he feels that electrical sensation for himself and he squeaks in shock at the unexpected attack.

He stumbles back a few steps and it takes him a moment to catch himself.

Christ turns towards him, with his hand still resting on the book. “Are you okay?” he asks, concerned. His voice is steady and firm, as if he's barely feeling the consequences of The Metatron's security measures at all.

Aziraphale frowns. “Are you okay?”

Christ gazes back at the book. “It stings a little,” he confesses. “But it's getting better.”

Indeed, as Aziraphale allows himself to take a closer look he realises that the little lightning strikes are getting less and less by the second. As though they're running out of fumes fast.

“It's not a very powerful protection, at least if you're the son of God,” Christ tells him with a little smirk. “I think it's merely there to startle you. To make you waver. It's not designed to withstand a lot of endurance, though.”

That's surely not the worst news Aziraphale has ever gotten and yet he can't help but crease his forehead in concern. “Are you really sure?” he wonders. “I don't want you to hurt yourself –”

“I'm fine,” Christ soothes him. “Just a few more seconds and I think this spell will run completely dry on its own –”

He comes to a screeching halt when they both suddenly hear the door behind them opening. While Christ remains right where he is, not keen on breaking his contact with the book, Aziraphale whirls around immediately.

And somehow he is not surprised to see The Metatron there.

Yet his heart drops to the bottom of his stomach nonetheless.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

If he is being honest with himself, Aziraphale never expected things to go smoothly.

There is always something, isn't there?

So when The Metatron walks into the small room, looking almost casual as though they're friendly acquaintances randomly meeting at the supermarket, Aziraphale's brain instantly whispers, of course.

How could it have been anything else?

Aziraphale's entire body tenses up as his mind desperately tries to think of a plausible explanation to all of this. He is quite certain that there is something that might actually make somewhat sense, but unfortunately he comes up completely blank and just releases a series of incoherent stammers.

The Metatron merely smiles softly like the kind grandfather he most definitely isn't.

“Aziraphale,” he greets his Supreme Archangel with a nod. And then adds, directed at Christ, “My lord …”

Christ seems to consider greeting him back, like this is all just a completely normal situation. But in the end he just keeps his hand right where it is and doesn't say a thing.

The Metatron doesn't seem offended. On the contrary, he looks as if he expected nothing less.

“I'm not surprised to see you here, Aziraphale,” he says nonchalantly, his piercing gaze back on the angel in question. “I knew that sooner or later you would show up right here.”

Aziraphale tenses up even more. “You did?”

The Metatron starts to march further into the room while Aziraphale hurries back to Christ's side.

“You are predictable, Aziraphale,” he states. “Your love is predictable.”

He pronounces love as though it's something despicable. Something that isn't worth your time or effort.

Aziraphale straightens his back and attempts to prepare himself for anything. With The Metatron you never know. He might kill you or give you a hug, everything is possible.

“I knew that your love for humanity would lead you here eventually,” The Metatron states. “Your love … for the demon.”

He grimaces at the latter and Aziraphale feels a rather sudden urge to punch him in the face.

Instead he mutters, “I … I don't …”

“Jesus Christ is a surprise, though,” The Metatron admits. “If I had known, I would have doubled the protection. Tripled, even.”

Christ just remains standing next to the book, not breaking with it once. Whatever it is he is doing, he deems the current connection important enough to not let it slip away once more.

Nevertheless, he finally tips his head in The Metatron's direction in acknowledgment. “Hello again,” he says casually.

The Metatron hums in response.

His attention stays on Aziraphale, however.

“Like I said, I'm not surprised,” he states. “And yet I can't help but be somewhat disappointed. I actually thought I had gotten through to you in the last few months. That you had rediscovered the glory of Heaven and its holy purpose.”

Aziraphale feels his hackles rise, but he forces himself to keep quiet for now. It's not too late, they can still make this work –

“You … you don't understand,” he hurries to explain, his voice wavering. “This is not what it looks like …”

The Metatron lifts an eyebrow. “Ah yes? What am I looking at right now then?”

His tone is mocking.

Taunting.

And not in that fondly amusing manner Crowley always uses with him. No, it's cruel. Eager to humiliate.

Aziraphale straightens his back and subtly shifts closer to Christ. They may not be able to talk themselves out of this, they can, however, disappear in the blink of an eye.

Aziraphale just needs to reach Christ first to take him with him …

And hope that the security measures have dimmed down enough that an escape is even possible …

“Where did I go wrong, Aziraphale?” The Metatron then asks and he sounds genuinely curious. “The Almighty's will is absolute and you know that just as well as I do. How can you defy Her like that?”

Aziraphale presses his lips tightly together.

“I don't!” he insists.

The Metatron chuckles. “You're obviously trying to steal The Book of Life. How do you intend to explain this away?” His gaze zeroes in on Aziraphale so much that it actually physically hurts. “A temporary whim? Just a little accident?”

Aziraphale can't help a very undignified scowl. “I would be more than happy to explain it to Her. Right here and now!”

The Metatron merely waves him off like he is an obnoxious bug. “Oh, you don't deserve the honour of even existing in Her mere presence –”

“And is that yet another excuse?” Aziraphale cuts in, his teeth gritted. “You have been telling all of us again and again why we can't see Her! Not even Her own son has spoken to Her once!”

He gestures at Christ who in turn is staring at The Metatron imploringly, clearly keen on a straight answer on the topic as well.

“I don't want to defy God!” Aziraphale insists and seriously means it from the bottom of his heart. “I love Her with every fibre of my being, just as fiercely as ever. And if She were to come here and tell me that this is all Her plan, that all of this has been Her intention right from the beginning, then … well, I would at least consider it.” His chest churns painfully uttering those words, but it is nothing but the truth. “I would do so with a very heavy heart, yes. And I would try everything in my power to plead my case one way or another and …”

And at least, if nothing would work, see to it that Crowley would be safe. Somehow. No matter how.

“I'm not foolish enough to believe that I could openly fight God,” Aziraphale explains, the mere prospect so unthinkable that he gets dizzy from it. “But I'm not, am I? Because She is not here to scold or even punish me for my indiscretion.”

Something starts to twitch on The Metatron's features.

“She is not here!” Aziraphale hisses. “Is She?”

He stares the other angel down, challenging him.

“Just tell the truth!” Aziraphale commands. “She hasn't been here for a while, has She? And you're afraid that I might reveal your little secret, therefore you came all by yourself instead of bringing an entire army with you. You can't risk me causing doubts in any of your loyal soldiers, can you?”

The Metatron's knuckles turn white as he clenches his hands. “I'm here alone because despite everything I don't want you to get hurt,” he says. “I was hoping to be able to reason with you.”

He sounds so sincere it actually frightens Aziraphale.

Not even Crowley can lie that smoothly.

So how is an angel capable of it?

“Don't lie!” Aziraphale growls. “You don't care about me or anyone else for that matter. You just saw a power vacuum and you took it, nothing else!”

The Metatron's expression finally darkens after that.

“I think you have got it all wrong –” he says, clearly on edge now.

“I don't believe I have,” Aziraphale objects. “Because you could so easily dismiss it by simply calling Her and instead you are too busy finding one excuse after another.”

The Metatron opens his mouth, probably with another lie waiting on the tip of his tongue, and Aziraphale has enough of it. Not only because he is tired of listening to it but also because they can't waste any more time and risk actually being apprehended by Heaven's security.

So Aziraphale simply dismisses The Metatron with a scoff and reaches out for Christ, keen on establishing contact between them to get them out of there. Christ is still struggling somewhat with the book's defence mechanism and Aziraphale isn't really sure what might happen if the rings' magic gets involved into the mix as well, but they don't have the luxury of waiting that out anymore.

After all, he came here to take a huge risk.

But before he is able to do just that, The Metatron suddenly snaps his finger once and Aziraphale watches in horror how the book Christ has still been touching the entire time dematerialises right underneath the human's fingertips. While Christ gasps in surprise at this unexpected turn of events Aziraphale hastily whirls back towards The Metatron and watches with wide eyes how The Book of Life shows up in the angel's grasp.

The Metatron shoots Aziraphale a triumphant smirk while he tightens the grip around the book and pulls it closer to his chest.

“You can't honestly believe I would allow you to get away with one of the holiest artefacts in the history of Heaven?” he asks with a snort. “Seriously, Aziraphale, I thought better of you.”

Aziraphale stares at the being in front of him, for a moment too shell-shocked to react in any manner.

“The Second Coming is right on its way and there is nothing you can do about it,” The Metatron tells them. “And initially I actually did intend to make some exceptions, even for your demonic boyfriend, but since unfortunately neither of you is prepared to play by the rules I feel rather inclined to be a little less gracious.”

He brushes over the leather binding, almost like he is petting it, and Aziraphale can't help but feel somewhat nauseous from the sight.

The Metatron is holding life and death in his hands.

Life and death of so many people.

Including Crowley.

“Please, let's talk about this …” Aziraphale begs.

He's fairly sure that The Metatron so far hasn't been able to open the book, otherwise he would've already done so before and eradicated a good amount of Heaven's enemies along the way, probably starting with Lucifer and all those demons who are currently rebelling in every corner of the world, keeping Heaven preoccupied. So it's indeed fair to assume that the book has remained sealed for now.

That doesn't mean, though, that The Metatron doesn't have any means to break the lock just yet. And it also doesn't mean that he actually needs Aziraphale and Crowley for it. It's only a working theory so far, mainly supported by Michael's observations, but they have no proof whatsoever that it might be true. Maybe they're on the completely wrong path.

Maybe The Metatron is indeed close to solving the puzzle, with the help of some other means. Or perhaps he has already done so, without either of them noticing, and there is nothing to stop him from opening the book and erasing Crowley's name first, only to torture Aziraphale into absolute madness.

Aziraphale's heartbeat quickens at the mere possibility.

He can't help it, his brain instantly starts imagining it. The Metatron, his lips stretched into a cruel smile as he eradicates Crowley out of The Book of Life like he is nothing. And Crowley, just vanishing right in front of Aziraphale's eyes.

Would he feel pain? Would he cry out in agony, call Aziraphale's name in despair and try to reach him only to disappear before their hands would be able to touch?

Would the end of his existence leave a huge hole in the fabric of reality?

Aziraphale starts to pant and sweat as his anxiety grips him tightly and for a moment he gets so lightheaded that he actually has to grab onto the nearest furniture available to him to keep himself from crumbling down.

He is trembling all over.

And it takes him a very long minute to realise that it's not only his body that is shaking.

On the edge of his consciousness he hears The Metatron exclaim somewhere behind the fog of Aziraphale's panic, “… are you doing? Not again, AZIRAPHALE –” and he watches Christ next to him looking all confused and concerned as everything around them begins to move.

He seems even more worried when the ground beneath them cracks.

Aziraphale merely registers it all from the edge of his consciousness. He knows he should be startled and afraid, but instead he feels out of place. Like he is a mere bystander, a witness. Someone who is not involved in the happenings whatsoever and can do nothing else but watch them unfold.

He sees The Metatron stumble as the floor beneath him quivers extra hard and the only thing Aziraphale is thinking, Good.

That thought seems to trigger something because all of a sudden The Metatron appears to become the main target of whatever the hell is happening. The ground underneath him shakes and splits open, making the angel lose his balance and eventually drop to his knees into a deep crack.

The Metatron looks shocked, his eyes wide, and for a moment he is merely able to grasp onto the book and not fall over onto his face. Ultimately, though, he starts to yell in the direction of the door and it takes Aziraphale a while to realise that he is calling for backup.

Soon security will burst through that door and choose to do whatever is necessary to stop Aziraphale from ripping Heaven into pieces.

Aziraphale is aware that this should frighten him, that he should fear for his life. But once again it feels like this is happening to someone else and he just stands there while his panic gets the better of him.

In the end it is Christ who acts.

According to the expression on his face he has no idea what is occurring, but he doesn't waste their time asking any questions. He just sprints forward, right to The Metatron, and yanks The Book of Life out of the angel's grip. The Metatron exclaims in anger, but the moment he dares to clutch onto Christ's trouser legs the floor trembles even more violently and he lets out a startled yelp and releases Christ in the process.

The human doesn't hesitate to rush back to Aziraphale's side and grasp onto the angel's arm.

“Get us out of here!” he calls over the loud noises around them.

At first Aziraphale doesn't know what he wants, doesn't understand why Christ is even talking to him – I'm just a witness, I don't have any power here – but when Christ's grasp gets tighter, close to painful, Aziraphale blinks himself out of the fog in his head.

“– Crowley –” Christ is just yelling urgently at him. “Get us to Crowley –!”

Crowley, yes.

Aziraphale squares his shoulders and finds his sole focus switching to the demon. He senses Crowley through their bond, waiting down there on Earth, in some small cabin he probably picked at random, and something warm rushes through Aziraphale's system.

The ring on his finger begins to glow as it establishes the connection.

And the last thing Aziraphale sees is a bunch of agitated angel bursting through the door, looking at the scene in front of them in horror, before everything goes dark around him.

---

The next thing Aziraphale registers is that he is stumbling.

Blindly.

He can't say what's up or down anymore and his legs completely lose their footing, resulting in him tripping all over himself, his balance non-existent. He releases a series of yelps as he feels his feet slipping away from under him.

But before he is able to make contact with a hard surface, there is suddenly a pair of hands gripping onto his shoulder, trying to stabilise him.

On instinct Aziraphale wants to lean into the touch, wants to catch himself, but the image of The Metatron's face twitching in rage is too present in his mind and Aziraphale automatically flinches back from the person grasping onto him while all of his defences are going up at once. Something powerful is starting to grow inside of him and he is more prepared than anything to throw it at any danger that might come his way.

But then, just as he is about to lash out, he hears a voice next to him say, “… it's okay, it's okay, calm down …” and Aziraphale immediately relaxes.

Because that voice …

His head snaps up and after a moment of his vision slowly getting back to what it once was he suddenly realises that it is Crowley holding onto him.

Aziraphale chokes on a relieved sigh at the sight of him and basically falls into the demon's arms before he knows what is happening. “Dearest …” he whispers.

Crowley's grip tightens, clearly attempting everything to keep the angel upright.

“What happened?” he asks, alarmed.

It's Christ who gives an account of the events somewhere behind Aziraphale's back (and Aziraphale is glad to know that he managed to come with him and didn't get lost somewhere along the way). Aziraphale only hears bits and pieces, his ears still ringing somewhat, but he most certainly senses Crowley's growling in his chest more than once as he listens to Christ telling his tale.

“The Metatron?” Crowley exclaims eventually, the emotions in his voice so loud that Aziraphale can't help but wince. “Fuck, I never should've let you go alone …”

Aziraphale takes a moment to realise that the demon is addressing him.

Once again it's Christ who answers, though. “You would have only been caught. We got away, nobody got hurt –”

He is interrupted by a deafening noise cracking through the air.

Aziraphale flinches and notices Christ doing the same close by. Only Crowley remains unbothered, just sighing from the depths of his being.

“What was that?” Christ asks, his gaze going upwards through a nearby window, and Aziraphale follows his example a second later. At first glance there is nothing out of the ordinary outside, just a cloudy sky, but he soon spots a flock of birds flapping around in the air, visibly spooked by whatever just occurred.

“Well, it started a few minutes ago,” Crowley explains while simultaneously helping Aziraphale back to his feet. “I assumed it was a very freaky storm or something. But now I think – well, it might be Heaven?”

He doesn't sound sure and Aziraphale definitely doesn't blame him.

However, when another noise breaks the silence, like a massive thunder, it's hard not to at least acknowledge the theory. There is clearly no storm outside, nothing to explain such a phenomenon, and Aziraphale feels deep down that there is something rather unnatural going on.

Him causing another earthquake in Heaven – could it really be heard all the way back to Earth? Even when they're technically not even on the same plane of existence?

“What have I done?” Aziraphale breathes, staring out of the window in horror.

Has he broken Heaven?

Did he destroy everything?

He can't imagine that one single angel would have such power, especially him, but he remembers the sensation of everything around him shaking and falling over vividly enough to at least pause and consider.

Thankfully Christ is there who answers, in his remarkable calming voice, “Don't worry, nothing is broken. Only a little … shaken up.”

Aziraphale looks back at him, his eyes big. “Are you certain?”

Christ stays silent for a minute, obviously reaching out to assess the damage, and ultimately nods. “You have done a number Above, there is no question about it,” he says, almost sounding a bit proud. “And I have no idea what even happened to begin with. But you didn't destroy anything …”

Aziraphale deflates so much he nearly collapses on the spot yet again.

“Thank the Lord …” he breathes.

“What did you do, though?” Christ wonders, more than a little curious. “How did you do that? I never felt anything like it.”

Aziraphale gulps as he averts his gaze. “To be frank … I don't know.”

He just saw the book in The Metatron's grasp and he simply lost it. The prospect of everything going down like this, after everything they have done to prevent it, was too much to comprehend.

He has so many questions, just like Christ apparently, but he also knows that they don't have the time to deal with them in peace.

“We need to hide the book!” he says instead, gesturing at Christ still clutching it like it's a lifeline he can't afford to let slip through his fingers. “Heaven might be rattled right now, but they won't wait for long to come after us –”

Another loud thunder cracks the sky, making Crowley hesitate for a second, but in the end he nods with determination.

“Then let's do it!”

Chapter Text

Crowley watches as Aziraphale places The Book of Life onto the simple, yet sturdy table in the middle of the one-room hut that the demon chose at random in Nowhere Scotland because if you're on the run you have to be anything but predictable.

It looks quite innocent, exactly like most of the books in Aziraphale's shop, and for a moment Crowley finds himself wondering whether they really brought back the right one or just grabbed some book from a shelf by mistake.

Heaven is big and sometimes very confusing, stuff like this can happen.

But as he finally dares to step closer, he senses something brimming beneath the cover. Something so very alien that Crowley doesn't know how to even comprehend it.

The urge to put some distance between himself and this object, to rush straight for the exit and preferably never return, suddenly gets so weirdly strong that Crowley realises fairly quickly that this can't solely be his survival instincts kicking in.

No, something is helping matters along.

“Do you also feel this stupidly powerful desire to run away?” he wonders, his gaze unable to focus itself on anything else but the book.

In the corner of his eye he notices Aziraphale and Jesus exchanging a confused glance.

“You feel like that?” the angel asks, clearly not able to relate to Crowley's situation at all. When the demon then nods, his jaw clenched, Aziraphale adds pensively, “Well, I guess this might be another security measure then? To keep demons away?”

“Makes sense,” Jesus mumbles next to him.

Aziraphale sidles up beside Crowley at the next moment, his hand tentatively resting on Crowley's upper arm.

“Is it too much?” he asks, worried. “Do you need to get away?”

Crowley grinds his teeth, every single cell in his body screaming at him to flee. It's so utterly unsettling that he starts to tremble a little.

“It's far from pleasant,” he presses out. “But we have to do this. It's not like we have any other choice.”

Aziraphale looks like he wants to protest nonetheless, despite knowing perfectly well that Crowley is right, and the demon hurries to link their fingers together and give Aziraphale a soothing squeeze.

“Whatever spell they put on the book, it doesn't harm me,” he reassures.

The corners of Aziraphale's mouth curl downwards. “Not physically. But –”

“Angel, just let's hurry up, okay?” Crowley urges. “The quicker, the better.”

Aziraphale presses his lips into a thin line, obviously not happy with the situation, but eventually he admits to himself that things have to move along.

“Okay, let's hide the book first,” he says, visibly forcing himself to be all business about it. “And after that we need to hide ourselves as well. All three of us.”

He glimpses at Jesus who immediately snaps to attention, apparently ready for whatever is about to come his way. It would have been adorable if Crowley wouldn't have been so busy fighting his instincts.

“We can't hide ourselves like we did with Gabriel, though,” he points out. “Nobody would be able to see or interact with us.”

Which might sound rather lovely for Aziraphale, but would be quite counterproductive to their mission.

“Alright, alright,” the angel nods along. “You're right. We need to make an exception with us. So that anyone we actively address is able to actually perceive us.”

Okay, yes.

That sounds good.

“Yeah, let's do that,” Crowley says impatiently.

Aziraphale, however, ends up hesitating once more.

Crowley lifts a brow. “What is it?”

“I'm just …” Aziraphale sighs. “The last time we performed a miracle together we made it as small and inconsequential as possible and it still triggered major alarm bells in Heaven. What will happen now if we put actual effort into it?”

It's obvious that he isn't only concerned for their ongoing safety but also for Heaven's continued well-being. They don't really know what happened Above and Aziraphale is probably terrified that he might accidentally rip his former lot apart without even meaning to.

Crowley shuffles even closer to him and squeezes his upper arm in a hopefully reassuring manner.

“I can't make any promises, angel,” Crowley says, unable to be dishonest about it, “but I don't believe we will destroy all of Heaven by performing a little miracle here on Earth.”

“But –”

“Yes, the alarm bells up there might go crazier than ever before in their existence,” Crowley concedes. “And we should definitely prepare for that, no question about it. But it's highly unlikely that we will cause any damage. I mean, it didn't happen the last time either, right?”

Aziraphale turns contemplative immediately. “Well, Michael didn't mention anything of the sorts –”

“See?” Crowley scoffs. “Don't you think she would have complained about it constantly to you if something like that would have happened last time?”

Crowley feels the angel's muscles slowly relax underneath his touch.

“You have a point,” he admits, a bit sheepish.

“Don't worry,” Crowley says. “The only thing we're about to do is hiding that damned book and then hiding ourselves, okay?”

Aziraphale looks at the demon intently and then nods with a determination that Crowley can't help but deem endearing.

“Yes, you're right,” Aziraphale whispers. “Let's get to work then.”

He wiggles his fingers, clearly warming himself up for what is to come.

And so they get the job done.

While performing the first miracle Crowley tries to concentrate on the act itself. Tries to determine whether there is something different about it than when he is doing his magic on his own. And although it is indeed nice to connect with Aziraphale in such a way and he allows himself at least a moment or two to enjoy it all far too much, it's overall not as earth-shattering as Crowley expected it to be. At least, from his point of view, it doesn't feel like it would send big shockwaves through all of Heaven.

It feels … warm and safe.

Nothing more and most certainly nothing less.

The second miracle – hiding themselves as well as Jesus – feels about the same to Crowley and by the end of it he has to test the magical barriers several times to find himself reassured that everything worked according to plan.

While Aziraphale falls somewhat quiet after they're done, clearly lost in his own thoughts, Jesus blinks at them as his gaze flickers back and forth between them.

“So, we're invisible now?” he wonders.

“Not exactly,” Crowley says. “But for every single living being we're now being perceived as the most unimportant things in the entire galaxy. We're not worth the energy to be acknowledged in any way.”

Jesus rubs his chin. “So … we're basically nobody now?”

“Nobody and nothing,” Crowley confirms.

Jesus seems rather intrigued by the concept, but instead of asking further questions he picks up the book from the table and examines it like he expects it to feel different. Crowley, meanwhile, ends up backtracking, the demon repelling magic still radiating strongly off the book despite everything.

It looks like they won't become friends anytime soon.

While Crowley is busy eyeing the book a minute longer, Aziraphale suddenly snaps out of his own reverie and straightens his posture so much it actually looks like he is tensing up every single muscle in his body.

Crowley is fairly sure the angel has never done this before and he gets instantly concerned.

“We need to move quickly now,” Aziraphale reminds them. “Heaven still might be preoccupied because of my little … um, my little earthquake or whatever it was … but I'm sure the alarm bells started ringing just the same as last time and I don't want to wait around here until someone up there finally notices.”

This is certainly a fair point and Crowley already ends up scooting closer to the hut's door.

Before he is able to shush them all out of there, though, Aziraphale says, after a pregnant pause, “But …”

Only to fall silent right away again.

Crowley lifts an eyebrow. “But?” he prods.

“But maybe …” Aziraphale goes on, licking his lips nervously, “maybe we should try opening the book now?” When Crowley doesn't react immediately, he adds bashfully, “Don't you think?”

Crowley furrows his brows. “You wanna do this now?”

“Well, there is no time to waste –”

However, before he gets any further, Crowley raises his hand in warning, effectively stopping any oncoming rambles.

“Angel, be reasonable here,” he pleads. “I mean, look at you …”

He gestures at Aziraphale's everything – at the bags underneath his eyes, at the haunted look on his features, at the way his hair and clothes appear all sorts of dishevelled. Normally Aziraphale wouldn't allow himself to look like this, especially in the presence of others, and now he doesn't even notice.

“You're exhausted,” Crowley has to point out for him. “And you're clearly rattled by … well –”

He points outside where there is still a faint growling from above to hear in the distance.

“You need rest,” the demon insists. And when Aziraphale doesn't seem appeased by that, obviously ready to argue the issue as passionately as his tired body and brain will be able to muster, Crowley adds with a sigh, “And I need rest as well.”

As expected those are the magic words and any fight drains out of Aziraphale immediately.

He might be willing to push himself beyond his limits, but he would never force Crowley to do the same.

“Then let's go!” the demon quickly announces, already shoving Aziraphale and Jesus out of the door without a moment's hesitation.

---

They use their wings to fly themselves to the other end of the planet.

To some town in Alaska, to be exact.

And while Jesus ends up rather captivated by the huge display of snow suddenly at his disposal, Crowley heads for a nearby pick-up truck – the ones Americans seem to love so much – that doesn't look too shabby and breaks it open with some of the tools he always keeps in his pockets and barely has the chance to use these days.

To nobody's surprise Aziraphale lets out a shocked gasp while Crowley opens the car's door with minimal effort.

(Ha, he's still got it!)

“Don't tell me you want to steal this vehicle?” the angel whisper-shouts at him, careful about any potential audience and yet eager to let Crowley know about his displeasure.

The demon doesn't even spare him a glance while he climbs into the driver's side and yanks some cables out of the console.

“Of course we're gonna steal it,” Crowley mumbles underneath his breath while he tries to remember how to properly hot-wire a car. He's surely seen enough videos on youtube on the matter at that one evening he was bored out of his mind a couple of years ago.

(Next to a bunch of other, very educational videos which allow Crowley now to be an expert on how to plaster a wall, how to train a cat and how to rob a bank.)

(Yes, the internet is a very weird place sometimes. Crowley sure knows why he lied through his teeth and took credit for its invention with Hell back in the days.)

“Crowley –” Aziraphale starts to hiss, clearly on the verge of a righteous tirade.

“We don't have another choice, angel,” Crowley cuts in instantly. “From here on out no more miracles. At least for all the everyday things. We don't want Heaven to track us down after all, do we?”

“Yes, naturally, but –”

“See?” Crowley shrugs while his gaze still remains on the cables in front of him. “And we shouldn't stay around in case someone might have noticed us flying here. I actually doubt it, with Heaven being so busy thanks to you, but I don't want to take the risk. We should travel the human way from now on, the angels would have no idea how to trace us like that …”

Aziraphale huffs. “I do see the logic of your thinking, but stealing –?”

He actually seems deeply distressed. Like taking a random car which would be easily replaceable is even more rattling than stealing The Book of Life.

Yes, Aziraphale is quite weird sometimes as well.

Like the internet.

“Don't tell me you want to walk through the snow?” Crowley asks with a rise of his eyebrow as he gestures at all the mountains of white surrounding them.

That makes Aziraphale pause, at least.

“Don't worry, angel,” Crowley says. “I'm sure the human owner has insurance and will get a refund. Besides, their papers with their name on it are certainly in the glove department. As soon as all of this is over you can miracle a small fortune into their bank account as an apology, how about that?”

Aziraphale chews on his bottom lip and ponders this over for far too long in Crowley's opinion, but in the end he nods. Rather reluctant, mind you, but thankfully he seems to accept their fate.

Not long after Crowley finally manages to hot-wire the car and off they go.

(Not without having some trouble dragging Jesus away from the snow first, however. During his living years on Earth he has seen it once or twice, Crowley knows that, but never in such quantities. It must look absolutely miraculous to him.)

(Crowley doesn't have time to indulge him, though. Not yet, at least.)

And so they drive off into a random direction, deep into the nowhere of Alaska.

Crowley has to get used to it at first because a) the truck is certainly not the newest, yet still more modern than the Bentley and therefore rather foreign to operate for the demon, and b) he has never actually driven around in a completely human way, with no miraculous support whatsoever. Thankfully the streets are beyond empty and so it doesn't really matter on which side of the road he rides or if he swerves more often than not.

Eventually, after quite a few hours, they finally reach a gathering of vacation cabins Crowley had been looking up on the internet before. He rents the one furthest away and instantly gets a fire going in the huge fireplace in the living room because he sure can't take much of this freezing cold anymore.

And by the way Aziraphale instantly gravitates towards it too he isn't really fond of the temperature change either.

Jesus, on the other hand, is already outside in the backyard again, by the looks of it apparently only seconds away from discovering the joys of making a snow angel on the ground.

“He is like a child on Christmas,” Aziraphale points out, affection in his tone.

Crowley chuckles quietly as he heads towards the small couch right across the fireplace – the best seat in the house right now, no question about it.

“Yeah, well,” Crowley says. “He didn't experience much snow when he was alive. And I'm sure there were some in Heaven, but I can't imagine it would come close to the real thing, you know?” He leans back with a sigh. “Let him have his fun for a while.”

Jesus is surely wrapped in some heavy winter gear they had found in their stolen car and might just survive for half an hour outside.

Aziraphale doesn't seem to have much objections either and instead hurries to join Crowley on the couch. He instantly shuffles close, not leaving much space between them, and hums in satisfaction when the demon throws one arm around his shoulders.

“This is nice,” Aziraphale mumbles after a long moment of silent contentment.

Crowley turns his head to the side and takes in the scent of the angel's hair. “It is,” he confirms quietly.

“When this is all over,” Aziraphale continues, “we should really go for an extended vacation. Just the two of us, somewhere far away from any civilisation.”

Crowley smiles to himself.

That most certainly sounds like a proper demon's nightmare, but for him it seems just like the thing to look forward to.

So he doesn't allow himself to think about the real possibility of them not making it out alive of this mess and instead shuts his eyes for a second and just pictures it all. Him and Aziraphale, in a remote cabin, no one around for miles and no threats lingering somewhere in the dark, just waiting to strike.

Only them and peace.

Crowley smiles at the thought. “A vacation is alright with me, I guess.”

He actually feels Aziraphale rolling his eyes at his flippant tone and laughs softly when the angel nudges him into the side.

“No stealing, though,” Aziraphale makes himself clear. “We have done enough of that in the last few hours.”

“Why do I still get the feeling that you deem that stolen car way worse than the book?” Crowley asks in amusement.

Aziraphale huffs. “It's both equally bad.”

It is not, not even close, and yet the angel appears so dead-set on it that Crowley can't help but grin from one ear to the other.

“You're one in a million, you know that?” Crowley says and means every word of it.

Aziraphale snorts, but Crowley can tell, especially through their bond, that he is pleased by the demon's assessment.

“I'm sure Heaven would agree with you,” the angel states. “I highly doubt that any angel before has ever been so crazy and bold.” He halts and tilts his head in thought, probably thinking back to the beginning. “Well, at least it has been a while.”

Crowley snickers. “Your list of felonies isn't that long, angel. You only went undercover as the Supreme Archangel, lied to everyone up there, conspired with another archangel, kidnapped the son of God, stole The Book of Life and shacked up with a demon.”

Aziraphale squirms on his spot, obviously not really sure whether he should be embarrassed or flattered by it. “Let's not forget that I nearly let The Metatron fall into a crack in the floor.”

Crowley lets out a loud laugh. “I would have loved to see that.”

Aziraphale makes a happy noise in the back of his throat. “It was very satisfying,” he agrees. “Even though I regret not having punched him in the face as well. That would have felt nice.”

The warm sensation within Crowley's chest gets almost unbearable all of a sudden and he quickly presses a kiss onto the angel's temple.

“You're such a bastard,” he says cheerfully.

You're MY bastard, he thinks, but doesn't add.

And as he sits there, across the fire, with Aziraphale in his arms, Crowley can't help but wonder if this is what love feels like.

Chapter Text

The next morning Aziraphale finds himself alone in bed.

The night before they retreated into one of the bedrooms, with Christ watching them with a knowing smile and yet staying silent, mostly likely due to the warning glare Crowley shot in his direction. Aziraphale had both been nervous and excited to be alone like that with the demon once more, but in the end utter exhaustion caught up with him so quickly that he could barely enjoy sinking into Crowley's embrace before everything went dark around him.

Now, all on his own again, the angel can't help but be disappointed at first, as he did hope for more opportunities to entangle all his limbs with Crowley and bask in their togetherness. However, before the sensation has any chance to fester he suddenly notices something wafting through the air that actually smells like eggs.

Aziraphale rolls out of the bed as elegantly as possible (which means, not much), reminds himself at the last second not to miracle his clothes back on his body but do it the human way instead, and then he hurries into the kitchen area of their little cabin.

He stops in his tracks, though, when he sees himself confronted with Crowley standing at the stove, frying some eggs in a pan while two slices of toast pop out of the toaster nearby right on time.

Aziraphale blinks.

“… you cook?” he ends up blurting out like an idiot, sounding so incredulous it's not even funny anymore.

Crowley, however, doesn't seem to take offence. He just throws an amused glance over his shoulder and says, “I'm full of wonders, angel.”

Aziraphale shuffles closer to him, more on autopilot than anything else, and sidles up right beside the demon, looking at the display in front of them. It's nothing fancy, basically just eggs and toast and a bunch of fruit, but for Aziraphale it looks like the grandest meal he has ever seen.

“Where did you get the ingredients?” he finds himself asking first because apparently that's easier than voicing his feelings into actual words.

Crowley just shrugs. “I mentioned to the cabin's owners last night that we don't have many provisions. They brought this over this morning, along with a map to show me the nearest supermarket.”

Something warm bubbles inside Aziraphale.

Humans.

Yes, they're complex and more often than not more terrifying than demons, but sometimes they manage to make the world a better place with simple deeds like this one.

“And you know how to handle the stove?” Aziraphale asks, awed. “Without using any kind of miracle for it?”

Crowley chuckles. “It's not rocket science.”

Aziraphale glances down again, watches the demon scramble the eggs in the pan like he has never done anything else in life, and all of a sudden he knows what people mean when they're talking about domesticity. This might be just a simple thing, but it feels warm and safe in ways Aziraphale can't describe.

His heart seems only moments away from bursting out of his chest.

And that's why, when the eggs look done enough, he grabs the pan's handle out of Crowley's hand, pushes it aside and turns the stove off, all in one smooth motion.

“Hey, what –?” Crowley begins to complain, but instantly shuts up when Aziraphale manhandles him against the kitchen counter and aligns their bodies until there is next to no space left between them.

He remains speechless for a moment longer before an infuriating smirk sneaks onto his lips.

“Aziraphale,” he teases with a chuckle. “Are you telling me you're getting all hot and bothered watching me handling food? I am shooketh by this unforeseen turn of events –”

“Oh, shut up!” Aziraphale growls and then helps matters along by grabbing the demon by the neck and yanking him into a kiss.

There is nothing sweet about it. Nothing gentle.

No, instead Aziraphale lifts himself onto his tiptoes and deepens the kiss before Crowley has even a chance to react in any manner. The demon lets out a muffled noise at first, but soon enough it turns into something that suspiciously sounds like a moan, and hearing that sparks Aziraphale's body alive in ways he never experienced before.

He presses them closer together, even reaches out with his essence and thrills when Crowley's acts in kind, before he buries his fingers in the demon's hair and massages his scalp in a manner that seems to make Crowley melt. He leans into the touch greedily while simultaneously tilting his head to allow Aziraphale better access to basically everything.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale keeps on kissing and roaming his hands over areas he never dared touching before and it's becoming addicting so very fast he gets dizzy from it.

He pushes Crowley further into the counter and somewhere in his foggy brain starts to wonder whether they should better take this into the privacy of their temporary bedroom …

Just the two of them …

And then the sound of a throat pointedly clearing startles angel and demon apart and they turn their heads both in confusion and alert.

Only to see themselves confronted with Jesus Christ standing underneath the threshold of the kitchen door, an amused smirk on his lips.

He looks back and forth between his companions.

And then he gestures at their bodies, so closely entwined that you basically don't know where one ends and the other one begins.

“Gentlemen,” Christ says, mock-scolding, “you should leave some room for Jesus.”

For a moment everything is eerily quiet.

Apart from some imaginary crickets chirping in the distance.

Then Christ breaks into hysterical laughter, apparently so entertained by his idea of a joke that he can barely contain himself.

“… do you … do you get it …?” he wheezes. “Because … I am Jesus …”

He continues to laugh like he has no intention to stop anytime soon.

Aziraphale merely stares at him, not sure how to act.

Meanwhile, Crowley lets out a groan from the depths of his being and drops his forehead onto Aziraphale's shoulder. “I'm so sorry,” he whispers. “His sense of humour obviously hasn't improved in the last two-thousand years …”

Aziraphale draws a very deep breath in.

And suddenly realises how absolutely ridiculous his life has become. Here he is, a fugitive from Heaven, in the arms of a demon while the son of God cracks terrible jokes.

This is surely not how he expected to end up one of these days.

Aziraphale watches Christ still snickering to himself for a moment longer before he quietly sighs and tightens his grip around Crowley's waist.

“I think we should hurry things along and try to open the book,” he whispers into the demon's ear. “Before he has the chance to come up with an entire comedy program.”

Crowley snorts. “Good idea.”

And so he wiggles himself out of the angel's grasp (which Aziraphale still can't help being somewhat reluctant about because it just feels wrong) and turns back to Christ with a stern expression.

“Stop giggling like a schoolgirl and get the damned book!” he orders. “We don't have all day.”

Christ, thankfully, refrains from any more jests and simply does as he is told, rushing down the hallway towards his room.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale pinches the bridge of his nose. “How is this our life now, Crowley?”

The demon shoots him a crooked grin. “You mean, with you suddenly pushing me against the kitchen counter and having your wicked way with me? I'm actually not complaining.”

Aziraphale finds himself blushing before he even truly registers it. “I didn't – I didn't mean –”

Crowley keeps on smirking, clearly entertained by the angel's fumbling. “You're really cute when you're flustered.”

Of course that doesn't help matters along at all and Aziraphale ends up even more tongue-tied. Technically he knows that it is fairly absurd to react this way, especially with him having been the one to initiate the events, but somehow doing these things is still something completely different from actually talking about it. Aziraphale never exactly deemed himself a being of action, but apparently in this particular department his body seems to consider it much simpler to execute its needs than let the brain formulate it into proper sentences.

Crowley doesn't appear to mind, though. On the contrary, Aziraphale's inability to find the right words pleases him a great deal, by the looks of it.

When Christ eventually returns to the kitchen, book in his hands, the angel feels both relief and disappointment for leaving the matter hanging between him and Crowley like it is once more.

These days they barely have any time for anything.

Aziraphale forces himself to return back to the issue at hand, however, as quickly as possible and his features harden immediately with determination as Christ places the book right next to the silverware on the table.

Aziraphale straightens his back, feeling a bit like he's on the verge of storming into battle. “Then let's give it a try.”

---

It doesn't work.

Of course it doesn't work.

Aziraphale gives it his best effort and even more than that and yet nothing happens. He only senses Crowley putting all of his energy and concentration into it as well, feels the strength pouring out of every fibre of the demon's being as he stares The Book of Life down, but in the end it's to no avail.

They attempt different approaches, different styles, even hold hands and then embrace each other in the hopes of amplifying the effect, but the book remains just as it is.

Ultimately, after almost half an hour of Aziraphale and Crowley trying about everything they can think of, they finally have to admit defeat.

And naturally, in the grand scheme of things Aziraphale should have expected such an outcome, should have seen this coming a mile away, and yet he finds himself grossly disappointed nonetheless.

He had seriously hoped that they would at least make some sort of difference.

But there the book lies, innocent and untouched. Nothing has changed whatsoever and it's quite disheartening to look at.

“Well then,” Christ says with a sigh. “I guess we have to open the book the way it was intended to, right?”

Crowley just makes a grumbling noise in response while retreating into the furthest corner of the room, as far away from the book as possible, and Aziraphale is once again reminded by the artefacts' repelling magic against demons. He quickly puts a dish towel over the book, not sure whether that has any kind of effect (probably not), but feeling better doing something about it anyway, as useless as it might be.

“How should we go about it, though?” Aziraphale wonders aloud, anxiety grasping onto him once more. It's been happening more and more frequently in the last few days and he truly doesn't appreciate it.

After a very tense silence in the room Crowley finally raises his voice again, even if he sounds like he would rather keep his mouth shut and stay in denial for all eternity.

“We have to be smart about this,” he says. “Think strategically.”

Aziraphale is quick to nod along. This sounds rather reasonable.

“We should start with Gabriel,” Crowley continues. While gritting his teeth audibly as he has to spell out that name. “We don't know where he is right now, but Beelzebub showed their face in Hell not so long ago and it's fair to assume that they're still around somewhere. And where they are, I'm sure Gabriel is not far behind either.” He shudders, like that mental image is still disturbing him in ways he doesn't want to think about too closely. “We should start by contacting Shax. She might know something, at least enough to help us out.”

Naturally Aziraphale doesn't really like the idea of Crowley putting himself out there like that, but he knows that it is necessary.

“On top of that, Beelzebub might also be the solution to maybe convincing Lucifer of our goal,” Crowley goes on. “He was always very fond of them …”

Aziraphale frowns. “Are you sure this is still the case? With Beelzebub choosing Gabriel over Hell?”

Crowley grimaces once again at the reminder. “Sure, his affection might have waned a little,” he concedes. “Well, perhaps he even hates them more than either one of us. But it can't hurt to send Beelzebub in there first, right? The worst that can happen is that they end up dead and I wouldn't shed too many tears about that, to be frank.”

“It might make Gabriel reconsider helping us, though,” Aziraphale points out.

“Above all else Gabriel is a bloody narcissist,” Crowley states with a scoff. “Yeah, Beelzebub's death would affect him, but at the end of the day he is just as aware as us that it is very likely that he is on the naughty list with Heaven now and will be eradicated by The Metatron if nobody stops him. I'm sure his survival instinct is stronger than his grief.”

Aziraphale can't help but hesitate at that. He recalls that absolutely awful time when he thought Crowley to be dead and just wallowed in despair and agony. Those days he couldn't have cared less if the world might have crumbled around him and killed him along with it. Nothing was important anymore.

Maybe Gabriel might react the same way if Beelzebub were to be eradicated?

Then again, Aziraphale isn't certain whether their situations are even comparable in the first place. After all, what he and Crowley managed to build over millennia is surely not the same as what Gabriel and Beelzebub have.

Then again, Gabriel has surprised him so much by choosing a demon over Heaven that Aziraphale wouldn't dare to anticipate his former superior's actions and feelings any longer.

“Either way, we should make it our best effort to keep Beelzebub alive,” Aziraphale says. “It would be simpler on all of us.”

Crowley doesn't seem to agree, but he nods nonetheless.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale takes a deep breath.

He doesn't want to mention it, wants to spare Crowley any pain, and yet …

“What about Raphael?” Aziraphale asks, his voice quiet.

As before Crowley flinches in a manner he probably doesn't even really realise. “That won't be a problem,” he says quickly.

Too quickly.

“But –” Aziraphale starts, only to be interrupted by the demon once more, “Don't worry about him, he won't be an issue.”

Aziraphale furrows his brows. “How do you know?”

Crowley just stares at him, his eyes hidden behind his dark lenses. Aziraphale meets his gaze, unsure how to act in such a situation, a situation he doesn't really know the whole context of, and he feels so out of his depth that he barely knows what to do with himself.

His first instinct is to pull Crowley into a reassuring hug, but the demon actually looks like he would fight Aziraphale if he would reach out. Like a disgruntled cat forced into a corner.

And once again Aziraphale wonders what the hell happened between Crowley and Raphael that would make him react this way …

“Well, it's easy, right?” suddenly another voice cuts through the tension and both angel and demon wince before turning their attention back to the third party in the room. Christ just smiles back at them, either not noticing or simply ignoring everything that is going on.

“Easy?” Aziraphale asks then.

“Of course,” Christ replies. “One might assume that as soon as Lucifer is amenable to our cause, Raphael would follow right along, yes?”

Aziraphale blinks.

Well, yes, that does make sense.

Just one word from Lucifer and Raphael would most likely jump without asking any further questions.

He might indeed not be any issue, just as Crowley claimed.

However, as Aziraphale glances back at the demon he finds himself doubting if this has really been Crowley's train of thought. He surely agrees to Christ's statement by nodding his head, but Aziraphale can't shake the feeling that Crowley is just doing it for his own convenience, not because this is what he meant all along.

Something ugly settles in Aziraphale's gut as his brain, quite unhelpfully, decides to come up with all kinds of potential (and quite awful) scenarios for the reason of Crowley and Raphael's strained relationship.

Aziraphale would love nothing more than to keep Crowley away from the former archangel and maybe, with some careful planning, the demon actually wouldn't have to physically be in the same room if they were to open the book. Perhaps Aziraphale would be able to arrange for Crowley to be on the other side of the planet for that.

Provided that they will be capable of reaching that point in the first place, of course.

“Alright,” he says then with a sigh. “Let's start with Shax.”

Chapter Text

Returning to London is undoubtedly a risk.

It's fair to assume that Heaven put the bookshop and various other locations they deemed likely to be visited by Aziraphale and/or Crowley sooner or later under strict surveillance. Crowley at least is pretty sure that The Metatron didn't hesitate to put his best people on the mission, so desperate to get the book back that he would rather jeopardise leaving some front lines open and vulnerable for Hell to wreak havoc unsupervised. He probably doesn't really care much about Hell's little rebellion right now. Perhaps he even realised at some point that it all had been just an elaborate ploy to distract him and the angels in the first place.

Either way, as soon as they end up on London's soil again, Crowley's instincts instantly flare up. Granted, they're invisible to everyone right now, but just a false step or word might shatter their slight advantage into a million pieces in the blink of an eye.

And yet they don't have a choice.

Therefore, on a rather sunny Thursday afternoon, they end up back on that bench in St. James' park.

Aziraphale insisted on accompanying him, even though Crowley had pointed out that Shax would probably be much more amenable to helping them without an angel breathing down her neck. But since his near capture by The Metatron up in Heaven Aziraphale appears rather determined to not be separated from Crowley again, not if he can't help it, and Crowley doesn't have much energy to fight him on that one. After all, deep down he feels the same anyway.

Jesus, at least, is staying far away for the time being. They had dumped him and the book in a random aquarium in Germany where he is currently happily spending his hours staring at all the big and little fishes from all over the planet with wide eyes, like a child seeing the world for the very first time.

Crowley most likely could pick him up two months later and the man wouldn't have noticed any time passing.

“Will this even work?” Aziraphale suddenly says, jolting Crowley out of his reverie. “I mean, we're invisible right now. How is Shax supposed to know we're here?”

He gestures at the bench they both sat down on, side by side, not a lot of distance between them because apparently at this point it is second nature for them to gravitate to one another without any hesitation.

“We sealed the deal with a blood oath,” Crowley explains. “She will sense that I'm here, even if she can't see me at first.”

Aziraphale appears a bit sceptical by that, but he refrains from starting any sort of argument and chooses to trust the process instead.

And true to Crowley's words, only ten minutes later a figure who looks suspiciously like a humourless Mary Poppins shows up out of nowhere and heads straight for the bench. Naturally she deems it completely empty, so she has no regard for the limited space and sits down not as far away as Crowley would have liked. Both he and Aziraphale have to squeeze themselves to the side in a rather uncomfortable manner, but Crowley isn't eager to address her before she has fully settled down on the bench.

As soon as she has both her butt cheeks parked on the seat, though, and Crowley is confident that the blood oath is once again in effect, he doesn't hesitate to greet her with a cheerful, “Hey, nice to meet you here.”

Crowley turns visible to her the moment he addresses her and naturally Shax hadn't anticipated any of that. Therefore she startles so badly she nearly knocks herself out with her flailing arms while Crowley has a good laugh about it. But just as she is about to leap to her feet, Crowley grabs her by her bony wrist and keeps her where she is.

“Don't move,” he hisses. “It's just me.”

Shax blinks a few times, obviously not very soothed by the sound of Crowley's voice. “You –” she growls, her eyes narrowing a dangerous amount. Under any other circumstances Crowley actually might have deemed it a good idea to retreat, at least a few steps, but thanks to their deal he is trapped on this bench and has to make do with what he has got.

Aziraphale doesn't make the situation any better, however, by suddenly jumping in as well, telling Shax, “We're terribly sorry for startling you like this, but we didn't have any other choice.”

Shax' eyes grow even bigger when the angel abruptly appears in her line of sight as well and Crowley has to grasp onto her extra hard to keep her in place.

“Angel,” Crowley complains as he shoots a disapproving glance over his shoulder. “What did I tell you? Let me handle this.”

Aziraphale seems more annoyed than chastised when he replies, “Yes, yes. Whatever you say.”

Crowley rolls his eyes extra hard, making sure that Aziraphale can see it clearly even behind the dark lenses. “Don't be like that. I told you to keep your mouth shut –”

“It would have been rude to just sit here and not say a word –”

“Angel, sometimes you're seriously killing me –”

And so they go on like that, back and forth, for several minutes until Shax has got adjusted to this weird situation just enough to interrupt them by pointedly clearing her throat and shooting them both death glares.

“So, what is it you want?” she asks, obviously deciding that getting straight to business would be the best course of action.

Crowley couldn't agree more.

“We're looking for Gabriel,” he gets instantly to the point as well. “You wouldn't happen to know where he is?”

Shax actually appears surprised by the question. “Gabriel?” she wonders. “Whatever do you need him for?”

Crowley, despite their deal not really keen on sharing absolutely everything with Shax, simply says, “Just stuff. Not your concern.”

Of course Shax doesn't react favourably to Crowley's dismissive tone, but instead of grilling him further her gaze flickers to Aziraphale. She obviously figures that she would rather get some proper answers from the angel, even by simply studying his expressions. Contrary to Crowley, who has perfected the art of completely blank features if the situation so desires, Aziraphale still wears his true feelings on his sleeves more often than not.

“Trust me, dear,” Aziraphale tells Shax, replying to her silent question without any hesitation, “you don't want to know the details. It would be better for your continued existence if you know as little as possible about this.”

Of course Shax remains far from happy about being kept out of the loop, but she apparently trusts the prominent belief of angels always telling the truth enough to not pick up any fight about this.

So instead she redirects her attention back to Crowley and responds, “I have no idea where Gabriel is. And I highly doubt that anyone else in Hell knows either.”

Crowley isn't surprised to hear that, but he had to ask anyway. “What about Beelzebub?” he adds. “Do you know their whereabouts?”

Shax immediately shakes her head. “I haven't seen them apart from their brief visit a few days ago.”

“And they didn't mention where they were heading next?” Aziraphale wonders, leaning forward so closely he almost ends up on Crowley's lap. (Not that Crowley would overly complain.)

Shax scrunches up her nose, clearly not thrilled having to talk directly to an angel, out of principle alone. Therefore she rather looks at Crowley than Aziraphale when she answers, “No, they didn't say anything of that kind either.”

Once again, Crowley expected as much. Beelzebub isn't known for taking unnecessary risks and telling all of Hell their current location surely wouldn't have been the safest thing to do, despite their common goal of stopping The Second Coming. Hell is petty and narrow-minded and having some revenge on a former lord who dared to shack up with a former archangel would have been a nice side project.

“Well then,” Crowley says. “Can you at least tell us if Beelzebub left anything of theirs behind in Hell? Something you have access to?”

Shax frowns in confusion. “You want …?”

“Yes, something personal,” Crowley confirms with a nod. “Doesn't really matter what it is in the end. Their favourite pair of boots, a strand of their hair – just something.”

Shax remains wary. “What do you need that for?”

“A tracking spell,” Crowley tells her bluntly.

It had worked with Jesus before, so Crowley figured beforehand that it might do them some good with Beelzebub either. It can't hurt to try, at least.

And since it's still easier to track down Beelzebub that way because busting back into Heaven to find something of Gabriel's, especially since angels aren't exactly prone for having many possessions in the first place, Crowley decided that focusing on Beelzebub would be beneficial for their cause.

It's obvious that Shax has many questions, but she just shuffles on the spot, visibly uncomfortable by Aziraphale staring at her without even blinking. She doesn't want to stay here for longer than she needs to and Crowley has no complaints on that front.

“I will see what I can find,” Shax ultimately gives in, ready to bolt at any second now.

“Hurry things along,” Aziraphale urges her. “We don't have much time.”

Shax gapes at him as though she isn't sure whether she should run as fast as possible or eat the angel alive. In the end she chooses the former and is gone before Crowley is even able to blink.

“Do you seriously think she can actually help us?” Aziraphale asks, not for the first time since Crowley suggested paying Shax a visit the day before.

“She can be useful,” Crowley states, also not for the first time. “So let's use her.”

Aziraphale grimaces. “That sounds so wrong.”

Crowley laughs as he throws one of his arms around Aziraphale's shoulder. “Welcome to Hell, angel.”

Shax returns about half an hour later.

She is tense, like she had to go through some lengths to reach her goal, but she doesn't complain once as she places herself on the bench once more and pulls a small dagger out of the inside pocket of her coat.

“Beelzebub loved to keep this one hidden somewhere on their body at all times,” Shax explains. “For your regular stabbing needs and such.”

Aziraphale stares at her, clearly not certain whether she is joking or not.

Meanwhile, Crowley takes the dagger and assesses it from all angles. He can't be completely sure because he made it a habit of staying as far away from Beelzebub as demonically manageable from the moment he met them, but he vaguely remembers them playing with a dagger that looked like this one once or twice in the past.

It will do.

“Thanks, Shax,” he says with a crooked grin. “Looks like you're not utterly useless.”

While Shax scowls at him – not surprised by his lack of manners, but not delighted about them either –, Aziraphale slaps Crowley on the arm with a huff.

“Please, dearest, be nice,” he scolds. And then adds, in a far more pleasant voice, as he turns back to Shax, “Thank you so much for your assistance. This might very well be the difference between life and death.”

Shax' glare deepens for a moment longer, out of instinct believing that she is being made fun of, but when she realises that Aziraphale is completely serious her features soften again.

“So … this will help stop The Second Coming?” she asks suspiciously, pointing at the dagger in Crowley's hand.

Aziraphale nods eagerly. “You might have saved us all.”

Shax is visibly torn, due to her nature not eager to be pleased because of some angel's words, but at the same time obviously unable to resist Aziraphale's charm after all. Ultimately she tries to save face by grunting something incoherent and then staggering off without another word.

Aziraphale watches her leave with a frown.

“She is not one of the nice ones, is she?” he wonders.

Crowley scoffs. “There are no nice ones in Hell, angel.”

“I would beg to differ,” Aziraphale objects. “For instance, you, darling, are most certainly very pleasant company. And I'm sure there are some other demons down there who would love to be a bit nicer, but unfortunately are unable to express this properly since it is not socially acceptable –”

Crowley interrupts the angel with a raise of his hand. “Whatever,” he brushes him off. “Even if, by some miracle, we've got a bunch of closeted nice demons down there – trust me, Shax is not one of them.”

Aziraphale watches the demon in question disappear into thin air in the distance. “Yes, I gathered that.”

He actually sounds disappointed. Like he was seriously considering striking up a friendship with the demon, no matter the fact that she led an attack on the bookshop just a few months ago.

Sometimes Aziraphale is just too trusting for his own good.

He probably would've been dead a long time ago if it weren't for Crowley.

“You're a moron,” Crowley sighs, fond exasperation wavering in his tone.

Aziraphale obviously decided at some point to rather view this as a term of endearment than an insult, so he smiles brilliantly at the demon and Crowley is simply too weak to not smile back at him like an utter fool.

“So what now?” Aziraphale eventually asks when they have spent a couple of minutes just gazing at each other like the greatest idiots in the world.

“Now?” Crowley draws in a deep breath. “Now I'm going to introduce you to Ana Novac.”

---

Ana, just as Shax, is at first quite startled when both Crowley and Aziraphale show up out of nowhere after addressing her at her front door.

However, she gets over it quickly enough and ushers them inside, far too intrigued by the miracle she just witnessed to be mad about a little jump scare. She immediately asks all kinds of questions about it, clearly eager to harvest this knowledge to her own advantage later on, and Crowley has to stop her with a stern glare before they might waste precious hours on the topic.

“This is not a social call,” Crowley growls. “We just need another tracking spell.”

“As fast as possible would be best,” Aziraphale pipes in for good measure.

Ana looks at the angel properly now, her gaze roaming over his shape in an almost inappropriate manner. Aziraphale becomes quite awkward instantly and starts to squirm on the spot.

“You're the angel, right?” Ana asks, excitement sidling into her tone now. “Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale halts. “You know of me?”

Crowley groans internally at the question because of course Ana knows Aziraphale. The witch had been like a sponge when the demon told him their story in exchange for the spell to find Jesus, soaking it all in and not missing a single detail. She had been delighted to hear the love story between an actual angel and demon and Crowley certainly knows that she didn't wait around to tell the tale to anyone who would listen afterwards. Half of the supernatural London community might be aware of it by now.

Crowley rubs his temples and fights off the headache that is most definitely coming.

“Oh, of course I know you,” Ana states cheerfully as she suddenly links her arm with Aziraphale to lead him further into the house. “Crowley here couldn't shut up about you.”

Technically true, but considering that he was kinda forced to do that it seriously doesn't count.

“It's been remarkable, what you two have been through already,” Ana goes on while she looks at Aziraphale like he is some sort of celebrity she has been dying to meet for eternities now. “And also so romantic.”

Aziraphale's eyebrows nearly climb up to his hairline. “Oh …?” he asks, obviously unsure how to take this.

He shoots a glimpse at Crowley and asks him through their bond, “You told her about us?”

Crowley sighs. “I had no other choice.”

That doesn't seem to explain anything to Aziraphale who switches between confused and surprised while Ana next to him prattles on and at some point offers him some biscuits.

(Which, despite his puzzlement about it all, Aziraphale naturally doesn't refuse.)

(Because he is Aziraphale.)

“… so he seriously took the time to rescue your books during the war even though bombs were dropping all over?” Ana is just saying with a wistful sigh. “You know, Crowley was quite flippant about it when he told me, but I could already tell that it was stupidly romantic of him …”

Aziraphale blushes adorably at the reminder. “… well, it was a very nice gesture.”

Ana looks at the angel's flushed cheeks and obviously deems the sight the most adorable thing. She ends up cooing at him, as though she has completely forgotten that she is talking with an actual being of Heaven, before turning her attention back to Crowley.

“You were right,” she says. “He is incredibly cute.”

While Aziraphale gets even more flustered, Crowley can't help but pull the corners of his mouth down. “I never told you that,” he complains.

Yes, he might think it on a regular basis and might even become confident enough over time to actually say it to the angel's face more often than once a century, but this is most certainly not the kind of thing he shares with a near stranger.

Ana, however, just grins at him. “You might have not said it out loud, but I can read between the lines, my friend, and –”

She doesn't get any further, though, because the doorbell suddenly rings and she instantly leaps to her feet on instinct.

Crowley allows himself to be grateful for the interruption for a whole second before he notices a weird aura radiating from the entrance. He shares a brief glance with Aziraphale who doesn't seem to register anything amiss and then quickly follows Ana.

He isn't fast enough to tell her to be cautious before opening the door, however.

And so they both find themselves confronted with the newcomer standing on the front porch.

Crowley instantly tenses up at the familiar sight.

Shax.

Crowley has no clue what this is even supposed to mean, why Shax figured it would be a great idea to follow him to the witch's house all of a sudden, but he doesn't like it one bit.

So he shoves Ana more or less gently out of the way and shoots Shax the darkest scowl in his repertoire. “What are you doing here?” he hisses like the snake he is.

He actually had no intention to put Ana on any demon’s radar and to have Shax blatantly ignore that doesn’t sit well with Crowley, even though right now she might still be the least of their problems and even some kind of ally, come to think of it.

Shax, meanwhile, just smiles sweetly at him, not at all deterred by Crowley’s harsh tone. “Ah, Crawly,” she says. “I should have known.”

Crowley blinks.

That smile on her lips, the way she is pronouncing her words – something is most definitely wrong here.

Her whole demeanour suddenly seems all different and Crowley finds himself quite unsettled somehow.

As subtle as possible he pushes Ana behind his back, putting himself between them like a shield, while he continues to eye Shax suspiciously.

“What is going on?” he growls. “You shouldn’t be here –”

Shax keeps on smiling in that irritating and, as you look closer at it, rather chilling manner and Crowley feels a colder shiver running down his spine. All of a sudden every instinct in his body screams at him at once, warns him to be careful and to run, run, run, NOW, so much so that he gets dizzy from it.

Yeah, something is fundamentally wrong here.

He can’t move, though, and he has to watch in horror as Shax’ features slowly melt away and make way for a face Crowley hasn’t seen in a very long time.

It’s a face both so beautiful and so ugly it hurts to gaze at.

Crowley’s heart stops.

And the person who is not Shax after all grins brightly at him, as though they’re just old friends meeting up on this lovely afternoon.

“Hello, Serpent,” Lucifer says. “I think we have to talk.”

Chapter Text

Lucifer has always been many things.

He has been one of the firsts and the most beloved by all. He was beautiful and bright, God’s undeniable favourite, and everyone envied him even back when nobody knew what envy even was. He was unattainable, like a star at the night sky, so amazing and awe-inspiring to look at, but most certainly not someone you would casually hang out with.

And he was jealous and arrogant, deeming himself better than anyone, especially humankind. He was stubborn and not eager to back down, even when everything around him fell apart. He rather started a bloody rebellion and damn himself as well as millions of others brothers and sisters than submit.

And over time, after many millennia boiling in the hottest fires of Hell, he became bitter and paranoid and cruel. He was the one who Fell the hardest and he never forgot, not for one second. And he never failed to let out his temper on anyone in his vicinity, not giving a damn that those beings followed him into the darkness without a second thought.

Crowley always stayed far away from Lucifer, especially when he noticed the slow yet gradual descent into insanity. He certainly was more than relieved when Lucifer, back in the day, told him to cause some trouble in the Garden and that was about the last time they interacted with each other for quite a long while. The next instance actually was the apocalypse that didn’t happen and back then Crowley couldn’t help but notice how much Lucifer’s aura had changed for the worse in the last few millennia since they had last seen one another. It felt like he had become the beast he had presented himself as back there in Tadfield.

And now?

He is wearing his face again, the one any angel knew and loved once upon a time, and his smile actually appears beautiful and inviting at first glance. You could actually be fooled to believe that Lucifer has good intentions this time around. That he is here to help and listen to your worries.

But Lucifer never was that kind of being, even in his most glorious days, and Crowley doesn’t trust the peace one bit.

Lucifer, on his part, doesn’t seem impressed by Crowley’s defensive demeanour as he nonchalantly pushes himself into the house without waiting for an invitation. He looks all wrong at this messy place, with his dark suit and his overall well-kempt appearance, and Crowley gets nauseous from the sight alone.

He shouldn't be here, this is all wrong, what is happening …

“Who is your friend?” Ana whispers into his ear from behind him, by the sound of it more intrigued than terrified.

Crowley opens his mouth and shuts it again with an audible click. He has no idea how to explain to the witch that the literal devil is just walking through her living room and admiring her collection of exotic voodoo dolls on her shelf.

How do you tell a person something like this without risking them having a heart attack in the process?

So Crowley stays quiet and just stares at Lucifer, not even blinking once, while the thoughts in his head are somersaulting like crazy.

He doesn’t get any further than this, though, because at that moment Aziraphale comes out of the kitchen, clearly curious about what the fuss is about. His gaze instantly lands on Lucifer and his brows furrow in confusion. It’s obvious that Aziraphale has trouble placing the newcomer as he tilts his head pensively.

It doesn’t take him long, however. Just a second later and his eyes suddenly grow to the size of saucers while every hint of colour vanishes out of his face at once. For a second there Crowley even fears that the angel might faint on him.

Instead he just croaks incredulously, apparently far too overwhelmed with the situation to know what he should do.

“Don’t address him!” Crowley is quick to warn over their bond. “He can’t see you yet –”

Aziraphale now gapes at him, utter fear in his eyes, but he nods anyway. Crowley can’t really say if he truly understands what is happening or if he is simply nodding out of instinct and nothing else, but the demon is happy enough with Aziraphale keeping his mouth shut to analyse this any further.

Lucifer, meanwhile, turns back to him, that awfully sweet smile still on his lips. “Your angel is here also, yes?” he asks, his eyes flickering in the vague direction of Aziraphale’s location. “I can sense him as well …”

Aziraphale flinches at those words and Crowley feels sick all over again.

However, Lucifer can’t seem to determine where Aziraphale actually is. His gaze just roams randomly through the room, taking everything in.

“Remarkable,” he mutters eventually. “I am aware of his presence, but I can’t determine his actual whereabouts. This is quite a powerful miracle.”

Crowley grits his teeth and keeps himself from engaging in any manner.

“Then again, I should expect nothing less from the angel who managed to make Heaven tremble like that, am I right?” Lucifer’s grin grows significantly and this time there is nothing sinister about it. “Wonderful.”

The praise sounds quite genuine and Aziraphale appears so rattled by it that he stumbles a few steps backwards and has to grab onto a nearby cabinet. The small noise this creates makes Lucifer’s head whip right into the angel’s direction and Aziraphale yelps in shock, but thankfully keeps himself from actually addressing Lucifer.

“What are you doing here?” Crowley finally finds the courage to open his mouth, his determination to see Lucifer’s attention on anything else but his angel strong enough to overcome his terror, at least for now. “How did you find us?”

Lucifer just shrugs. “Shax,” he explains. “I saw her taking Beelzebub’s dagger and I got curious, so I followed her.”

Crowley frowns. “You did?”

“She has been acting a little odd lately,” Lucifer says. “I knew she wasn’t betraying me, but there was just something happening I wasn’t privy to. And you know me, I hate being kept out of the loop.”

Lucifer actually winks at Crowley then and the demon all of a sudden feels in desperate need of a shower.

“So yes, I followed her,” Lucifer goes on. “There she was, sitting on that bench here on Earth and seemingly talking with herself. For a moment I figured she had finally lost it for good, but then I started to realise that she wasn’t crazy after all. That she was actually interacting with someone I just couldn’t see.” Once again he glimpses in Aziraphale’s vague direction, still quite intrigued by the entire concept. “So when she went back to Hell I followed the dagger’s aura. Which made me knock on the door.”

Crowley narrows his eyes. “And you decided to take Shax’ appearance to lull us into a false sense of security.”

Lucifer smirks. “Exactly.”

Crowley’s whole body tenses up even more as it takes most of his energy to fight off his instincts urging him to run and never return. It sounds reasonable in theory, but naturally he can’t just leave Aziraphale and Ana behind to fend for themselves.

So facing Lucifer it is.

“Well, here we are,” Crowley says, spreading his arms. “Mystery solved. Shax just got us some souvenirs from Hell that we can sell for a good price –”

“Do you honestly want me to believe that you’re doing business with Shax?” Lucifer asks, amused. “That this is about money or power or whatever else your witty, little mind can think of?”

Crowley tries to not make his anxiety too noticeable. “I have no idea what you expect me to tell you –”

“Do you know what I believe?” Lucifer cuts right in, obviously not in the mood to hear the demon’s excuses. “I believe it is not a coincidence that you and your angel are back on Earth after Heaven shook to its core and shortly after rumours about The Book of Life being stolen have reached my ears. Am I right with this one so far?”

Crowley gulps.

Of course it shouldn’t surprise him that Lucifer knows because he always knows, his spies absolutely everywhere, and yet he can’t help but feel wrong-footed.

“So why Beelzebub’s dagger?” Lucifer keeps on going. “And why visit a witch who is known for her extraordinary arsenal of spells, especially the ones which help you track someone else down?”

The urge to look at Aziraphale, to see for himself what the angel might be thinking right now, is more than a little powerful, but Crowley merely clenches his hands into fists and stares at Lucifer. He has no intention to give Aziraphale’s location away under any circumstances.

“I do have my theories, of course,” Lucifer continues. “Because by now I’m sure we all are aware that The Book of Life can only be opened by The First Ones. And while you might not be particularly interested in actually finding Beelzebub, our dear Gabriel is a different story, am I right?”

“He knows,” Aziraphale’s voice suddenly pops up in Crowley’s head, all panicked and concerned. “Oh dear Lord, he knows …”

Which is not great by any means.

Yes, naturally, in the grand scheme of things they would have needed Lucifer as well to open the book, but they had every intention to plan this one out very carefully. To make the whole situation as safe as possible. Crowley at least most certainly assumed to have Beelzebub and Gabriel by his side by then to lessen the blow, maybe even Michael.

Neither he nor Aziraphale planned to face Lucifer all alone, completely unprepared.

Crowley surely knows now how it feels when a nightmare comes true.

“Don't waste your breath denying anything,” Lucifer says, an intensity flashing behind his eyes that makes Crowley shiver from top to bottom. “I'm not an idiot. I can put two and two together.”

While Crowley wonders whether he might have a heart attack soon enough, Lucifer drops onto the couch behind him and nonchalantly spreads his arms over the rest behind him. He looks relaxed, like he owns this place, and in a crazy part of his brain he probably actually believes that.

Ana, meanwhile, looks back and forth between them all. She doesn't seem thrilled that this stranger is treating her house like his property, no doubt, but she is smart enough to keep her mouth shut for the time being. She is not used to dealing with neither Heaven nor Hell and she isn't keen on stepping on anyone's toes by mistake.

Aziraphale follows her example and stays quiet as well. The terror on his features is still there, of course, but the fact that Lucifer hasn't ripped anyone to shreds yet apparently is making him vaguely optimistic that the devil is not here to kill.

At least for now.

“So … I assume the book is not here?” Lucifer asks, his voice sounding innocent enough. Only Crowley seems to notice the hidden threat underneath it as neither Ana nor Aziraphale flinch at the question contrary to him.

Nonetheless he somehow finds the strength to reply, “No, it's not here,” with only a slight waver in his tone.

Lucifer smiles and that might be one of the most horrible things Crowley has ever seen.

“Where is it?” the devil wonders.

Once again he is calm and polite and it's the biggest lie ever uttered.

Crowley squirms uncomfortably on the spot as he fights every instinct in his body screaming at him to run away and save himself.

“It's not here,” he repeats, his teeth clenched.

At the edge of his consciousness he notices Aziraphale shifting closer to him, most likely sensing the demon's quiet distress and feeling the urge to offer support somehow. Crowley desperately wants to lock eyes with the angel, wants to look into those baby blues and let them give him courage like they so often have done in the past, but he still doesn't even dare glancing in Aziraphale's direction.

He can't risk the angel being exposed like that.

Lucifer, in the meantime, just smirks at the demon. “You should wise up and give me a location, Serpent,” he suggests, once again using that terribly sweet voice he always presents before lunging for a vicious attack. “Otherwise this won't end pretty.”

Aziraphale makes a little noise in the back of his throat right next to Crowley, but he still doesn't say a word to either Lucifer or any of them. Instead he reaches out and links his fingers with the demon's, squeezing them gently. In the grand scheme of things it's not much, a simple gesture while facing the actual reality of being murdered by the devil himself, but for Crowley it feels like a power boost like nothing else.

He squeezes back (subtle enough to not have Lucifer notice a thing) and squares his shoulders.

“Remember, you don't have the high ground here,” Crowley presses through his gritted teeth. “The book is hidden and you will never find it. Not without me.”

As expected Lucifer reacts more amused than impressed at Crowley's bluntness.

“You were always such a funny little fella,” he says with a chuckle. “Never knew when to submit or when to shut up …”

Crowley refuses to shudder at the reminder. “I'm just telling you the truth,” he says. “The miracle I used to hide the book, it's powerful. You can't just hope to sense it somehow if it's close enough.” He forces himself to meet Lucifer's eyes straight on. “Besides, it isn't going to be keen on being tracked down by the likes of you. It repels demons and I'm sure it will do anything to keep you particularly far away from it.”

If Lucifer is surprised by that news, he doesn't show it.

Instead he leans forward and suddenly directs his attention at Ana. For a second there Crowley totally expects him to leap from the couch and attack the human, but before the demon is able to push Ana out of harm's way somehow, Lucifer merely smiles at her and it actually looks charming of all things.

“Would you be so kind and make me a cup of tea, honey?” he asks, sweet as sugar. “I'm feeling a bit parched.”

Ana winces at being addressed directly and at first she pauses, too confused by the tension in the room to find herself able to make a proper decision just yet. However, when her gaze lands on Crowley and the demon urgently nods at her, she mumbles an affirmation and heads for the kitchen.

Lucifer watches her leave and as soon as she out of their lines of vision, he turns his head back towards Crowley.

“If you don't tell me where the book is, I will kill her,” Lucifer states, his voice still all sugary. “I will slowly boil her organs and make you watch as she begs for the sweet release of death. She is going to wither away like the fragile creature she is.”

Crowley's heart stops beating at that far too vivid image while Aziraphale beside him lets out a very distressed sound, his eyes wide.

“And if, by any chance, that won't convince you,” Lucifer goes on, “I'm going to take your little pet angel. I might not be able to see him right now, but I know he is here. Because he would never leave you, isn't that right?”

It takes all of Crowley's energy not to glimpse at Aziraphale.

“It's been a while since I had some fun with an angel,” Lucifer whispers, his features softening at the memory. “Oh, I always loved it how much they squeaked and sobbed when you ripped out their feathers one by one.” Lucifer's grin widens even more. “And I'm sure your angel would be exquisite, all at my mercy …”

Crowley feels utterly sick.

This is not something he even has the strength to picture.

It's simply too much to handle.

“So tell me, Crawly,” Lucifer urges. “Where. Is. The Book?”

Chapter Text

Crowley has been in many dire situations before.

But this one right now?

Well, it seems most certainly eager to take the first place on his list.

It doesn't look overly threatening from the outside – just a charming businessman casually sitting on the couch while two fellows huddle together on the opposite side of the room, just staring at the man, and a woman brews some tea in the kitchen next door –, but it might very well be added to the history books.

There is a strong possibility that this moment will even decide the fate of everything.

And Crowley has no idea how to handle that. He's always been good at working under pressure, has gotten used to it after all the millennia of Hell breathing down his neck more often than not, but this just takes the cake.

Lucifer might not look like much, but he's been one of the most powerful angels there ever was and now he accumulates all the might of Hell in his body. Crowley isn't really sure of the magnitude of it all because Lucifer always loves to make a mystery of himself, but he wouldn't be surprised if the devil could easily rip the earth apart and let them all be swallowed up by Hell.

“What do we do now?” Aziraphale asks him through their bond. He formulates the question very carefully and doesn't leave Lucifer out of his line of sight even once while doing so, probably fearing that the devil might somehow pick up on the supernatural connection radiating between him and Crowley. Only when Lucifer doesn't even bat an eyelid Aziraphale does slowly relax.

It looks like the devil tunes out human magic just as much as Heaven does.

“I don't know, angel,” Crowley hisses back. “We could try … not dying?”

Aziraphale huffs at that. “That is not a very good plan.”

“I think it's an excellent plan,” Crowley shoots back. “Because any other plan, by definition, would involve DYING and I don't know about you, but I don't find this preferable ...”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “You are being ridiculous –”

“Since when is it ridiculous to want to stay alive –?”

“C'mon, Crawly, don't leave me hanging!” Lucifer suddenly cuts in, making Crowley flinch so hard it actually hurts. “I have no idea if you're just having indigestion right now or if you're communicating with your little angel via weird facial expressions,” he gestures flippantly at Crowley's features which must have gone through some odd looking twitches while talking with Aziraphale and forgetting anything else around them, “but I'm not known for my patience. So tell me where the damned book is and maybe I won't destroy everything you hold dear.”

Crowley straightens his back and once again suppresses his flight instinct with everything he's got.

“Listen,” he says with a sigh, “you don't want the book. Trust me, it repels anything even remotely Hellish in the most uncomfortable way. You can barely stand being in the same room with it, I can assure you.”

Lucifer lifts an unimpressed eyebrow. “I'm not a common demon.”

“Therefore it might even have a stronger effect on you,” Crowley states. He is not sure of it, of course, but he can imagine that Heaven clearly had Lucifer in their minds as well when they protected the book. He might even have been front and centre, with every other demon and whatnot just a happy addition.

Lucifer, at least, considers it all for a moment. In the end, though, he doesn't deem this important enough not to know the book's location and presses through his teeth, “Just tell me where the book is. I won't ask again.”

Crowley swallows audibly while Aziraphale shuffles even closer until their bodies are aligned. Normally this would have given the demon at least a speck of comfort, but now it actually does the opposite.

It reminds him that Aziraphale is by his side right now and that is currently a horrible place to be.

“You should go,” he whispers at the angel. “Grab Jesus and flee to the furthest corner of the galaxy –”

“Are you SERIOUSLY expecting me to leave you behind like this?” Aziraphale snaps. “You must be mad!”

“I AM mad!” Crowley growls back. “Angel, you have no idea what he will do to you when he gets a hold of you –”

“I can imagine –”

“No, you CANNOT!” Crowley interrupts harshly. “Trust me, you just can't!”

He shudders at the mere prospect while Aziraphale glances at him with concern.

“Go,” Crowley breathes. “Please …”

Aziraphale stares back at him and it looks like his heart is breaking.

But before the angel has any chance to make a decision and either ignore Crowley or, for the first time in his life, do the sensible thing, Lucifer jerks them out of their reverie once more.

“Did you hide the book in your angel's little shop maybe?” the devil asks. “I'd dare say that it probably wouldn't be the most logical choice to stash it somewhere where Heaven and Hell would think to look first. Then again, it IS kind of a good thought to hide the book among so many others of its kind, practically making it invisible …”

He tilts his head, pensively. “Perhaps I should pay the bookshop a visit. Just to see for myself.”

Aziraphale goes rigid next to Crowley straight away at those words. “Muriel …” he whispers, horrified.

And Crowley's insides clench painfully as he pictures Lucifer walking right into the shop and grabbing the poor baby angel before they have an opportunity to escape. Lucifer would absolutely delight in having such an innocent angel at his disposal and wouldn't hesitate to do the most horrible things to Muriel, just for the fun of it.

Crowley gets nauseous.

However, instead of reacting all emotional as Lucifer clearly expects him to respond, the demon squares his shoulders and forces himself to keep his composure, at least on the outside. Lucifer shouldn't get the satisfaction of watching Crowley losing it.

“Just tell me, Luci,” he says, a cocky grin on his lips that feels genuine enough to maybe fool at most someone, “what do you intend to do with the book then, huh? You know just as well as I do that you can't just open it and eradicate a bunch of names.”

The vein on Lucifer's forehead twitches once at the reminder.

“Locked like it is now The Book of Life is simply a nice accessory you can put on your shelf, nothing more,” the demon continues. “So what is your plan? Do you really believe that you might be able to convince Michael or Gabriel to help you break the seal?” Crowley draws in a deep breath and then adds, with his heart nearly bursting out of his ribcage, “And what about Raphael? Do you expect him to just bend over?”

It actually physically hurts to utter that name Crowley has been so eager to forget, but to see Lucifer narrowing his eyes in obvious displeasure is almost worth it.

“I have my way of making everyone do my bidding,” Lucifer presses through his teeth.

Crowley outright laughs into his face and feels both like the bravest being in existence and the greatest moron who ever lived while doing so.

“Seriously?” he mocks. “How do you intend to do that, for real? Because I fear you're overestimating yourself immensely here.”

Lucifer clenches his teeth so hard some of them seem to audibly break apart in his mouth.

“Let's do a headcount, alright?” Crowley goes on. “Gabriel? Well, you might be able to persuade him. Maybe. He left Heaven behind for a demon, he could be amenable to doing everything in his power to save Beelzebub – and also himself – from complete annihilation.”

Crowley wouldn't put anything past that particular angel.

“Michael, though?” The demon pulls a face. “We all know that she is devout to the point of sheer insanity. She serves God and no one else and she won't be convinced under any circumstances, there is no question about it. She would fight you until her very last breath.”

Lucifer looks like he wholeheartedly agrees, even if he doesn't say it out loud.

“And what of Raphael then?” he taunts instead, his supernatural eyes glinting with provocation. “What would he do?”

Crowley ignores Aziraphale squirming uncomfortably beside him and answers, “He will never help you!”

Lucifer starts to look amused again, visibly entertained in a rather cruel manner by Crowley's apparent discomfort with the topic.

“Never?” he wonders, a teasing note in his tone. “Not even with your precious little angel's life on the line?”

Aziraphale freezes at those words at first before a perplexed frown shows up on his features. He is clearly wondering what he has got to do with any of this and Crowley is beginning to realise that he won't have a good excuse for talking himself out of this one.

But perhaps it is time.

Crowley knew right from the start that he wouldn't be able to keep this secret forever.

“Don't try to rattle me,” he growls at Lucifer. “You are perfectly aware that Raphael will NEVER help you if you were to lay just one single finger on Aziraphale!”

Lucifer smirks at that while Aziraphale gets clearly more confused by the second.

“You're exaggerating your own power here, devil!” Crowley snaps. “You might get a hold of the book, but you know you won't be able to keep it for long. All of Heaven's armies are after it and you don't have anything to keep them away forever.”

Lucifer glares at him. “Heaven's got nothing against me –”

“Apart from coordinated, well-trained forces instead of the mess your Hellish commandos have always been,” Crowley states with a scoff. “Yes, the rebellion back in the day was bloody and devastating, but everyone was so thrown off and overwhelmed then. Most of us didn't really know who was friend and who was foe and you took cruel advantage of that …”

It was a mess, plain and simple.

“Nowadays, though?” Crowley raises a pointed eyebrow. “Let's be honest, Hell is a joke. No discipline, no strategy whatsoever. Hell is like a feral cat lashing out at anyone and then getting distracted by a bug flying by a second later –”

Lucifer's face loses every colour as the temperature in the room suddenly rises suspiciously. “You DARE –?”

“Let's face it, Luci,” Crowley urges while spreading his arms widely. “You don't have the power to stop Heaven. Yes, you might hold onto the illusion and even Heaven might still believe it to a certain amount, but as soon as you've got the book they will steamroll you without a moment of hesitation.” He snorts. “I mean, even for the last apocalypse you needed the Antichrist because you weren't powerful enough to do it yourself –”

Three things happen at once after that:

One, Aziraphale gasps in utter shock at Crowley's boldness.

Two, Lucifer leaps to his feet and roars in anger, making the walls shake.

And three, a sudden bright light blazes through the room, startling every single one of them.

Crowley blinks in confusion, every alarm bell in his head blaring at once, before instinctively reaching out for Aziraphale next to him, desperate to make sure that the angel is alright. Thankfully he gets a good grip of the angel's forearm right away and feels Aziraphale placing his hand over Crowley's in answer, obviously eager for some sort of reassurance as well.

The light disappears just as quickly as it has appeared and Crowley finds himself huffing in surprise as he notices Lucifer lying on the ground between the couch and the coffee table, staring up at them in bewilderment.

At the corner of his eyes Crowley registers one of the creepy voodoo dolls Ana has stashed on a shelf nearby glowing before going back into its original state and he realises right away that this must have been the source for it all.

It seems one of Ana's spells has been triggered.

Which is proven correct just a moment later as the witch casually walks back into the living room, with a tray of tea in her hand, and says to Lucifer on the floor, “No violence in this house!”

The devil gapes at her, clearly dumbfounded, and it's such an unfamiliar sight that Crowley nearly breaks into hysterical laughter because neither his body nor his brain are able to handle this sort of stress.

Lucifer, meanwhile, keeps on staring at Ana. “This was you?” he exclaims.

The witch merely shrugs after placing the tea on the table. “There are spells hidden all over this house. I don't allow any trouble here.”

Lucifer's jaw goes slack and for a second Crowley is convinced that Ana signed her death sentence. He braces himself, more than ready to grab the human and get her out of here as quickly as possible.

Then, however, something marvellous happens: Lucifer laughs.

And it's not one of those laughs that promises doom and torture. No, it is honest and harmless and Crowley actually hasn't heard that one in such a long time it almost feels nostalgic in the weirdest way.

“I like you, witch,” Lucifer tells Ana and he sincerely sounds fond.

It's absolutely bewildering.

Ana, though, acts only vaguely impressed. She looks down at Lucifer still glued to the rug and then turns back to Crowley.

“Stop trying to keep me in the dark,” she orders. “Who is this fella?”

Both Crowley and Aziraphale start to fidget awkwardly. “Um, well …”

“What's his name?” Ana urges.

Crowley tilts his head. “Uh … Sam?”

Ana squints her eyes in suspicion. “And Sam is short for …?”

Crowley grimaces, but realises it won't do his health any good beating around the bush for longer. “Well … Samael?”

Ana pauses at that.

Looks back and forth between them all.

And then she asks, incredulously, “So I knocked the devil on his arse?”

She remains in complete disbelief for only a second longer. Then a proud grin spreads across her face.

“Alright,” she says with a chuckle. “That's surely something to tell at our coven's weekly poker game.”

Crowley gapes at her. He isn't sure whether she is just unable to grasp the magnitude of it all just yet and is simply joking around to mask her own terror or whether she is actually serious, deeming her probably the most insane person alive. Either way, the demon doesn't dare to poke this with a stick.

Meanwhile, Lucifer just stares at her like he can't really determine what to make of her.

“So, why is Satan in my house then?” Ana asks as she folds her arms across her chest. “What kind of trouble have you gotten me into?”

Her glare is directed at Crowley and the demon is quick to lift his hands in surrender. “I swear to you, I had no idea that he would come after us. That wouldn't have been on my bingo card in a billion years!”

While both Lucifer and Aziraphale frown in puzzlement at the phrasing, looking scarily similar doing so, Ana nods, obviously satisfied by Crowley's honesty.

“Well then,” she says, her gaze flickering between them all, “no matter if you're angels or demons or devils, there will be no violence in his house! I like it here way too much to see it all explode because some supernatural idiots can't control their emotions, you hear that?”

Crowley feels the urge to nod dutifully and Aziraphale follows through right away as well. Even Lucifer appears for a moment as if he wants to agree like a good, obedient puppy.

In the end, though, he just scowls at himself and climbs back on his feet. Far less graceful than he probably aimed for.

“This doesn't solve our discussion,” he reminds Crowley with a low growl in the back of his throat. “I still want the book and I still won't hesitate to kill you all –”

“Okay, listen, how about we calm down for a bit?” Crowley proposes. “Because deep down you know that we won't use the book to start The Second Coming …”

“Of course I know that,” Lucifer cuts in with a huff. “Your misguided devotion for the human race is well documented, after all. That doesn't mean, though –”

“We have no intention of harming you or anyone in Hell either,” Crowley is quick to clarify. “We don't want to kill anyone.”

Not even The Metatron deserves death, even though it would be so simple to just erase his name as soon as they would have successfully opened the book.

Lucifer, at least, doesn't seem able to comprehend such a train of thought and he assesses Crowley warily. “So if you don't intend to kill anyone … why do you need to unlock the book?”

Crowley takes a deep breath and exchanges a quick glance with Aziraphale who nods in approval.

“Just tell him,” Aziraphale encourages the demon through their bond.

Crowley looks Lucifer straight in the eyes. “We want to find God,” he explains. “Or at least prove that She has been gone for a long time, contrary to what The Metatron let everyone believe.”

Lucifer freezes.

And for a very long moment time around them seems to stop working.

Not even the clock on the wall dares to move.

“You want … to find God?” Lucifer eventually asks, his tone disbelieving in a manner Crowley has never heard before.

So he hastens to confirm with a firm nod.

Lucifer lifts a brow. “Are you telling me … She is gone?”

Crowley takes in a very deep breath.

Now or never.

“Yes, we believe She is gone,” he states. “Maybe even missing.”

Lucifer blinks. “… missing?”

Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “We can't say for sure,” he admits. “We only know that it's been a while since someone has talked to Her directly. I mean, when was the last time for you?”

So many emotions pass over Lucifer's face in a matter of milliseconds it's hard to grasp.

“It's not like we meet up for brunch every Sunday,” he says indignantly, as though Crowley's question alone is an insult to his person.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “I know, I just … Back during this whole Job business, you had a bet going on with Her, right? You did talk to Her then, yes?”

Lucifer remains silent for far too long after that, clearly getting lost in his own thoughts.

And then he says, through gritted teeth, “We communicated via The Metatron. I assumed She didn't deem me worthy enough anymore to talk to me face-to-face …”

He clenches his hands into fists and the temperature in the room once again rises uncomfortably. Both Ana and Aziraphale shuffle closer to Crowley as though they believe the demon might be able to protect them from this somehow.

“So you think … She has been gone for a long time?” Lucifer hisses.

“We just know that The Metatron has many excuses why nobody but him is allegedly allowed to talk to Her,” Crowley states. “And the book would give us undeniable proof whether that's true or not.”

Lucifer stares at him.

And falls silent once more.

“Do you think he believes us?” Aziraphale tentatively asks through their connection.

Crowley still doesn't dare to look at him as he answers, “Let's hope so. Otherwise there is a high chance we might be dead within the next few minutes.”

And that's something Crowley would like to avoid at all costs.

Chapter Text

Lucifer stays silent for a very long while after that.

And while he loves to claim that he isn't doomed with something as pesky as emotions, there are sure quite a lot of them flashing over his features now as he tries to make sense of it all.

There is disbelief and puzzlement and the general anger he always appears to feel and a million other things he probably doesn't even have the capacity to truly understand. They're still there, though, probably confusing him even further.

And Aziraphale watches it all in fascination. He never thought he would ever be so close to the Morningstar – even back when he was this glorious angel nobody would have even dared to just be in his presence, for the fun of it – and it's so very terrifying and also so utterly awe-inspiring.

Lucifer chose to come here, wearing the face he used once upon a time. A face every angel would recognise. It probably was meant to intimidate as well as hurt, and from Aziraphale's point of view it certainly does. However, it also shows that Lucifer hasn't forgotten his roots. He might act appalled by his time as an angel, but he can't seem to shake it entirely either.

He was born an angel, he loved being an angel and that will always be a part of him.

And as Aziraphale studies him now, he realises that he has been right about the devil all along: Lucifer still loves God.

You can see it clear as day, with the way his eyes shine and the muscle in his face twitch. He might despise this feeling and will most likely negate it until his dying day, but it is undeniable.

(Well, at least for Aziraphale.)

(He spent most of his life studying humanity and their emotions and he got close and personal with Crowley and all his complicated feelings. It's all rather familiar to him now, probably contrary to most of Heaven who wouldn't notice anything happening on Lucifer's expression at all.)

Aziraphale sees it all unfold and he is mesmerised.

Meanwhile, after what feels like forever, Lucifer just looks at Crowley and says, so very calmly it is frightening, “I want to speak to the Supreme Archangel.”

As expected Crowley immediately bristles at that.

He still seems determined to keep Aziraphale far away from it all.

“What?” the demon then snaps at the devil because he apparently lost any self-preservation. “NO!”

Lucifer's gaze hardens at Crowley's blunt dismissal. “You're a snake, Serpent!” he hisses. “I want to speak to someone I can trust won't lie to me.”

Crowley barks a laugh. “Angels lie all the bloody time –”

“I know their flaws,” Lucifer cuts him off instantly. “But your angel – he does have a certain reputation. So I want to hear this from him!”

“No way –”

“Don't fight me on this, Serpent!”

“You're not the boss of me –”

“Well, technically –”

“Don't even dare to start with this –”

“You're really feisty for someone who can be ripped apart by my hands so very easily –”

“You don't scare me –”

“Stop it, both of you!” Aziraphale cuts through the tension hastily, not in the mood to see them jump at one another's throats once again. This is neither the time nor the place to waste precious daylight on petty squabbles.

Crowley audibly clicks his mouth shut right away and just stares at the angel with a reproachful glare.

Lucifer, meanwhile, looks at Aziraphale, too. He does have a terrifying smile on his features, though.

With Aziraphale properly addressing him he has become visible to the devil.

Lucifer's grin only widens as he takes a step closer and revels at Aziraphale unable to withhold a wince. “Hello there,” he purrs. “Nice to see you again.”

Aziraphale feels a shiver running down his spine, but he forces himself not to flinch back a second time and give the devil even more satisfaction.

In the meantime, Crowley's scowl only hardens as he growls through their bond, “Angel, what THE HELL?”

“What did you expect?” Aziraphale asks with a pointed raise of his eyebrow. “I couldn't stay hidden forever, dearest.”

Crowley scoffs. “You could've hidden a while longer at least.”

Aziraphale senses that overwhelming concern radiating off the demon and it touches him beyond measure. If it weren't for the devil himself staring at them both, he would have reached out and wrapped Crowley in a soft embrace. As it is now, though, he is only able to send all his love through their connection, hoping it will give the demon at least some sort of comfort.

“So, tell me,” Lucifer urges, jerking them both out of their little moment. “You can't really expect me to believe that any of what you're claiming is true.”

Aziraphale braces himself and tries not to get intimidated by Satan's glowing eyes directed straight at him, studying him with an intensity as though Lucifer had every intention to peel off the angel's skin layer by layer just to get to the centre and have him all exposed.

“Well, of course I can't tell you what to believe,” Aziraphale counters and ends up proud of himself when his voice only shakes a little bit. “What I can tell you, however, is that Crowley and I are not alone in this. If I'm being honest, it actually has been Michael who instigated it all.”

Aziraphale never thought he would ever see the devil thrown off, but now here there are.

Lucifer is so taken aback by that new piece of information he completely forgets not to act surprised.

“Michael?” he asks, stunned.

He surely knows what deep impact that has.

Both Aziraphale and Crowley have been declared rebels and traitors for years now and nobody would put it past them to rile things up a bit with lies and fairy tales and whatnot to make the lives of Heaven and Hell more complicated.

But Michael?

She is something else.

“She came to us,” Aziraphale confirms with a firm nod. “She is actually the reason Crowley and I found our way back to each other, thanks to a fake death notification she smuggled into the Heavenly reports …”

It's quite weird to imagine that Aziraphale has to be grateful for Michael's meddling, but at the end of the day it is nothing but the truth. Michael brought them back together and it doesn't even matter that her motivation has been less of the romantic nature. Granted, Aziraphale would like to think that rather sooner than later he would have realised all on his own what an absolute fool he had been about this whole Metatron affair and would have returned to the demon, grovelling on the ground for Crowley's forgiveness, but thanks to Michael all of this went down far quicker than it otherwise most likely would have taken.

Lucifer, meanwhile, looks at them sceptically, his features darkening. He is clearly not convinced and Aziraphale didn't expect him to just accept it without at least a second of doubt.

“You can call her,” the angel proposes. “She has a phone.”

That seems to render Lucifer even more speechless and he just gapes at Aziraphale.

“I'm just saying, you don't solely have to believe my word,” Aziraphale tells him. “I know that it might be a lot.”

Lucifer narrows his eyes and assesses the angel as though he is considering whether to skin him alive or just stab him in the back.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale doesn't feel overly confident that he is going to survive this whole ordeal, but he tries to not let it show on the outside anyway. Instead he holds his head high and acts like nothing can faze him.

“So what is it you propose we do?” Lucifer then asks. “To prove if your little, insane theory is right or not?”

Aziraphale puffs up his chest and ignores the fluttering of his heart. “We work together.”

Lucifer actually laughs at that, to nobody's surprise. “I'm not exactly a team player.”

“No, you're the devil,” Aziraphale agrees. “And if there is one thing you're famous for, it's making deals. So let's do that.”

Lucifer arches his brows. “You're proposing a deal? With me?”

He's clearly questioning Aziraphale's sanity right now and the angel has to admit that he is doing that as well.

But they are here now and he doesn't see any other way.

“Yes, let's make a deal.”

Aziraphale stares at the devil straight on and doesn't even twitch a muscle when amusement starts to show up on Lucifer's features. Aziraphale even ignores Crowley getting rather rigid beside him, his displeasure about the entire situation vibrating through their bond in such a loud manner it almost renders the angel temporarily deaf.

Silence keeps on spreading through the room and after a while it becomes so utterly charged and uncomfortable that Aziraphale can barely take it.

He remains right where he is, though, even if it requires all his strength. He meets Lucifer's pleased smile with an expression he hopes radiates confidence as he straightens his back to appear unwavering. He knows he is not impressive to look at by any means, especially compared to someone so properly dressed and terrifying as Satan himself, but Aziraphale likes at least to believe that he possesses some sort of authority Lucifer might respond to.

Meanwhile, Crowley stands on the sideline, his features hard while his gaze flickers back and forth between them. It's obvious he has so many things to add, their bond basically brims with all those unspoken words, and yet he stays quiet, obviously not eager to question Aziraphale and his offer in Lucifer's presence.

“So, what shall it be?” Aziraphale eventually urges when the quiet lingers for way too long. “Do you want to help or would you rather kill us and not have any answers at all?”

Lucifer chuckles at that, the sound dark. “I don't need you of all people to get my answers.”

Aziraphale forces himself not to wince at the being's tone. “Are you sure about that?”

He is very aware that he is playing with fire, that he actually might have gone mad for challenging the actual devil in such a manner. But what is there left to do, in a situation like this? Lucifer will kill them both and probably Ana as well if they can't convince him that they're useful to him.

Lucifer, thankfully, seems so far more amused by Aziraphale's boldness than offended. “You're quite entertaining, I have to confess,” he says. And then adds, with a glimpse at Crowley, “I'm starting to understand why you like him.”

Crowley bristles, but keeps his mouth shut. Considering that he most likely would have said something very rude it's probably for the best.

“Well, you're rather daring, Supreme,” Lucifer states, his attention back on Aziraphale. “Trying to make a deal with the devil, I highly doubt you learnt that in Angel Sunday School. And yet here you are, risking it all.”

Aziraphale presses his lips into a thin line. “I have to be completely honest,” he says. “I would rather not have to deal with you at all. As I am sure the feeling is mutual.”

“It is,” Lucifer agrees easily with a nod.

Aziraphale feels actually rather proud of that quick confirmation. “However, because neither of us is eager to be annihilated during The Second Coming, a temporary alliance is necessary. We need you to open the book and you need us to have access to the book in the first place. You can't find it without us.”

Christ might not be able to hide forever, but he is the son of God no less. Lucifer was never allowed to touch the man, even back when he walked and lived among the humans, and it's likely that this still applies. Despite his rebellious nature there have always been some rules even the devil follows and doesn't dare to break.

And because Jesus Christ is part of the Almighty's higher plans, maybe even the ineffable one, Lucifer doesn't come close to the human.

Even though Christ probably represents everything he despises.

The proof that God loves humanity like nothing else there is.

“So what do you propose then, oh mighty Supreme?” Lucifer asks with a scoff.

Aziraphale shoots a brief glance at Crowley who looks like he is merely seconds away from a brain aneurysm before he tugs at his waistcoat to give his trembling fingers something to occupy themselves with.

“Let's keep it simple,” the angel suggests. “We work together and find the remaining archangels. You promise to do no bodily harm to anyone, even the smallest insect, during the duration of our agreement. And when all is set and done and we hopefully have exposed The Metatron, we will all return to our own lives and never bother each other again.”

Lucifer narrows his eyes. “And the book?”

“It shall remain in Heaven, like it has done all this time,” Aziraphale decides.

Lucifer doesn't seem happy about that. “What would keep someone like Michael from using it against me and all of Hell as soon as it has been unlocked?”

“Maybe the fact that nobody ever tried to do that in the last six-thousand years?” Aziraphale reminds him. “It would have been so easy to eradicate all of Hell in the last few millennia and yet no angel has ever considered it. Why?” He shakes his head. “Because it's not God's plan.”

Lucifer still doesn't look completely appeased and Aziraphale can't help but sigh.

“Look, I can't make any promises about the aftermath,” he confesses. “Technically I'm a thief and a fugitive right now. And the worst part is, I kind of like it.”

He senses amusement and pride vibrating through his bond with Crowley and when Aziraphale shoots him a quick glance he notices a small smile on the demon's lips.

“We're all on the same team right now, aren't we?” Aziraphale urges the devil. “So let's forget our differences at least for a short while and work together? What do you say?”

---

Crowley hates this.

Yes, making a deal with the devil is preferable to being killed on the spot, but for him it feels like they're just desperately trying to postpone the inevitable. Because you can trust many things in life and one of those is that you can't trust Lucifer at all.

Crowley impatiently shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he remains silent at Aziraphale's side. He has been keen on lecturing the angel, actually screaming at him, basically since he dared exposing himself to Satan in complete disregard to his own safety, but Crowley is rather determined to not fight right in front of Lucifer. Apart from the fact that that monster would find this highly entertaining, they simply can't risk getting distracted by a domestic dispute while the raw power of Hell sits right there on the couch.

No, they need to be in the moment and don't leave Lucifer out of their sight even once.

“You're awfully confident, Supreme,” Lucifer is just saying, throwing a wolfish smirk in Aziraphale's direction. “I have got to admit, it makes me a little tingly.”

Aziraphale doesn't hide his grimace as he takes a deliberate step back from him.

“It is the truth,” the angel insists. “We do have the same goal here. Yes, our motives might be different, but at the end of the day we just want to stop The Second Coming from ever happening. So why waste our time fighting each other and playing right into The Metatron's hands?”

That actually seems to hit a nerve as Lucifer's features darken. He's probably imagining The Metatron having the time of his life witnessing them all quarrel from afar and ultimately getting the upper hand by simply watching them ripping apart any chance of survival for themselves by their own design.

Divide and conquer, right?

And so, in light of that, Lucifer concedes, “I might be inclined to some sort of temporary truce until we have opened the book and finally learnt the whole truth. After that, however? I won't give any guarantees.”

Aziraphale tenses up, obviously not happy about that restriction.

“Lucifer …”

“You wanting me to just roll over and go home when everything is said and done?” Lucifer scoffs. “If The Metatron is truly guilty of what you accuse him of, it will be my pleasure to melt him from the inside out slowly and listen to him scream for hours. And anyone else who might have helped him, willingly or not.”

That is clearly something Aziraphale is not agreeing with.

“We can't just –”

“Oh yes, I can,” Lucifer cuts in with a dark grin. “Take the offer, Sup. It won't be on the table for long.”

Aziraphale falls quiet and starts grinding his teeth, the emotions showing up on his face and also wafting through their connection making it very apparent that he's struggling majorly with this. And Crowley can't blame him, it doesn't sound like the greatest of deals. He might not be The Metatron's biggest fan – not even close –, but he knows Lucifer's preferred forms of torture and nobody deserves that, not even slimy liars like The Voice.

However, before either Aziraphale nor Crowley can say anything, no matter what, Lucifer waves them off with a dismissive gesture of his hand.

“Why don't you two discuss this privately first?” he proposes. “You look like you need to strategise. After all, I showed up here rather unannounced and didn't give you much time to prepare.”

It might seem like a nice offer, but it's actually more of a taunt. Crowley knows that tone in the devil's voice way too well to not flinch at it.

Lucifer continues with a smug smile. “Why don't you two retreat for a moment while Ana and I enjoy our tea? Right, darling? We will be fine.”

Ana, who has taken place in an armchair both close and far away from Satan, just nods. She is either still absolutely in denial or thoroughly insane as she says, “Sure, let's have some tea while you tell me all the stories from Hell.”

Lucifer laughs. “Oh, sweetheart, I've got more than enough of those. Let me tell you about the time I let a dragon lose in the archives, just for the hell of it – yes, pun intended –”

And then he dives into a story that visibly appears to delight Ana in a great manner while Aziraphale and Crowley remain frozen on the spot for a while longer, just watching those two entirely ignoring them.

Then, however, Crowley shakes himself out of it, grabs the angel by the wrist and tugs him into the next room, putting enough distance between themselves and the devil while still being able to keep him in their line of sight. Of course Crowley isn't stupid enough to believe that this is giving them any sort of privacy, not with Lucifer's heightened senses, but at least it feels a little bit like that and Crowley takes all he can get right now.

“Angel,” he hisses then at Aziraphale, his bottled-up frustration beginning to bubble onto the surface right away. “Have you gone mad or why did you think it would be a good idea to strike a deal with the devil without consulting me first?”

Aziraphale pulls a face at the accusation. “We did discuss it, remember?” he shoots back. “We agreed that it would probably be the only way to get Lucifer on our side.”

Crowley recalls that vividly. He also was the one who said that Lucifer is the one being in existence who honours a deal more than anyone.

But that doesn't mean it would be smart to just jump in.

“We agreed, yes,” Crowley confirms through gritted teeth. “But as you hopefully also remember, we didn't decide on any details yet. Deals are delicate things and the smallest false word can be twisted –”

“I know, I know,” Aziraphale cuts in. He sighs deeply and runs his hand through his hair for a moment, messing it up in an unfairly distracting way. “But, to be fair, neither of us expected Lucifer to just show up on the doorstep. We had to act quickly.”

Crowley squeezes his eyes shut.

Once again he curses Shax for letting herself be caught and then followed by Lucifer. And then he swears at himself for actually feeling a little guilty for feeling that way because she surely didn't mean for any of this to happen. Lucifer learning about her involvement with the traitor probably wasn't high on her list.

“It's also not a bad deal, right?” Aziraphale asks and he sounds both sincerely curious and highly nervous about Crowley's opinion on the matter. “I mean, it could have gone worse …”

Crowley groans as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “It's not the worst deal I've ever heard,” he admits reluctantly.

“Sometimes the simple things are the best,” Aziraphale states, looking relieved at the demon's approval. “Even though I'm not wholly happy with it …”

Crowley snorts at that. “You truly didn't believe that Lucifer would just agree to going back to Hell without making anyone pay, did you?”

Aziraphale's shoulders droop. “Well, not really, no,” he confesses. “But still …”

“It's not ideal,” Crowley says. “I mean, sure, the Metatron deserves to be punished, no question about that. But not like that.” He can't help but shudder once more at the picture of Lucifer doing his worst. “We can't predict what will happen, though. We just know that the moment when we open the book, we won't be all alone with him, right?”

Not at all.

“Right,” Aziraphale confirms, his gaze flickering back into the living room where the devil is still busy relaying his stories rather animatedly to a very interested witch. “Michael will be there. Gabriel.” And then, after a pregnant pause, he adds, “Raphael.”

Crowley tells himself not to flinch at the name and he doesn't succeed.

Aziraphale once more looks at him while a million emotions dance over his features. He is surely catching up on it all and doesn't know what to do with it.

To be frank, neither does Crowley.

A part of himself just wants to yell it into the angel's face, just to have it over with. But then the voice in his head tries to convince him that this would be too big of a distraction right now. That Satan is sitting in the next room and they have to focus on that alone.

Crowley draws in a shaky breath.

“Okay then,” he says. “Let's go with your deal. It's not perfect, but I don't think anything can be in this situation.”

No, perfection has been long gone.

So he turns back to the living room, eager to hurry things along, but before he is even able to take a single step, Aziraphale suddenly says, “Crowley, wait –” and the demon freezes.

Aziraphale looks anxious all of a sudden.

His eyes drift back and forth between Lucifer, Ana, Crowley and just their general surroundings while he fumbles with his fingers in front of his belly.

He is clearly on the verge of saying something he has no idea how to address properly.

And even though Crowley would like to deny it, he is fairly sure he knows where this is going. Because contrary to him Aziraphale obviously doesn't care if anything might be an inconvenient distraction or not.

So when he eventually asks, “Why did you tell Lucifer that Raphael wouldn’t help him if he were to harm me?” Crowley isn't really surprised.

Nonetheless, his heart makes a very painful leap.

Of course Aziraphale had been more than a little confused by those words. Why shouldn't he, after all? It must make no sense from his point of view.

“Angel …” Crowley breathes back, not sure how to react and yet eager to say at least something, even if it's just one single word.

“I don’t understand,” Aziraphale goes on, not giving Crowley any chance to choose how to go from here. “Why would Raphael care if I live or die?”

It’s such a silly question that Crowley just wants to laugh in response.

But his throat tightens and not a single sound comes out.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Aziraphale says, obviously desperate to see some reason here. “Why would any demon care about me?” And then clarifies, after a pause, “Well, apart from you, obviously.”

Crowley still can’t speak.

But he is also so very tired from doing his old dance all over again. To deflect and not acknowledge.

And so, instead of brushing it off and coming up with a fleeting excuse Aziraphale would most likely buy, Crowley just looks at his angel.

No words leave his mouth and he is even unable to utter through their bond, but he tries to convey everything through his eyes.

Everything they have never addressed before because Crowley never wanted to deal with this specific part of his past that was long gone and dead for good.

Unfortunately, thanks to The Metatron and that bloody book, it is necessary again now.

Damn them all.

Aziraphale appears confused by Crowley’s demeanour at first as he just looks back at the demon with a bewildered frown.

But eventually – finally – he seems to recognise something on the demon’s features and his eyes widen.

“Oh,” he says at first. And then he takes a very long moment to wrap it all around his head and suddenly he gasps in shock, “OH!”

Chapter Text

For a very long moment Aziraphale's brain just says, NO!

No.

No!

NO!

Over and over and over, in various degrees of emphasis and confidence.

And then, when Aziraphale's mind is finally able to utter more than one single word, his thoughts are somersaulting so badly he gets dizzy from it. He hastily snatches his arm out in a random direction and finds himself clutching onto a nearby chair to keep himself upright.

Crowley watches it all with a pained expression, but obviously doesn't dare coming any closer.

He is apparently not sure how Aziraphale might react to any proximity.

And to be honest, Aziraphale isn't really certain about that either. The thought of Crowley coming nearer in any way suddenly feels so suffocating he can't even comprehend the idea.

So they stay like this for a while, tense silence filling the small room as Aziraphale tries to get his bearings back and Crowley allows him all the time in the world.

Eventually, after minutes or maybe hours (who can say at this point?), Aziraphale does the one thing that seems reasonable in the current situation: he yells harshly, “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?”

Crowley flinches at the raise in voice, but recovers quickly enough.

“Angel –” he starts to say and even, after a second of hesitation, decides to take his sunglasses off, and Aziraphale really appreciates that, but at the same time there is too much going on in his head to fully acknowledge the demon's display of vulnerability here.

He just feels a headache coming his way and it hurts.

“Crowley – I can't even –” Aziraphale presses his lips into a thin line and shakes his head in disbelief. “Are you seriously telling me what I think you're trying to tell me?”

As always Crowley's snake eyes are so very expressive and leave nothing to the imagination. “Angel –”

“Oh dear Lord!” Aziraphale cuts in, not exactly in the mood to hear the demon's excuses right now. “Oh my –”

Has he honestly been so blind?

So stupid?

Aziraphale thinks back to their first meeting, up in Heaven. He never asked the ginger angel's name that day, somehow so struck by it all – by the beauty of the newly created nebula and also the sparkling personality of this mesmerising stranger – that he completely forgot about it. He deemed Crowley a regular angel, like basically all the regular angels he had stumbled upon since then.

The grand ones? The high ranking ones?

Aziraphale actually hadn't met them before, never spoke to one, and had only seen glimpses of Michael and Gabriel in the distance once or twice at that point. He hadn't assumed that this friendly angel who asked for his help on that fateful day would actually be one of them. It didn't make sense at the time – why would an angel with a so much higher status even talk to someone like Aziraphale?

So yes, Aziraphale never really thought twice about it. Never even stopped to consider that regular angels normally don't build nebulae all on their own.

Aziraphale was young and naïve back then and by the time experience and wisdom caught up to him (allegedly) it wasn't an issue anymore.

Crowley never wanted to talk about his angel days and Aziraphale had no desire to push his friend, so ultimately it became a thing of the past. Something forgotten in a tightly locked backroom of one's memory.

Until the day Muriel pointed out to Aziraphale that Crowley must have been someone with a high rank up in Heaven back in the days.

Aziraphale started to wonder again. To puzzle. But then so much else was going on and Aziraphale didn't want to risk alienating the demon once more and losing him for good, so again he shoved the whole thing into the back of his mind.

Now here they are, though.

And Aziraphale hears Michael's voice in his head, telling him repeatedly,“Nobody has been closer to Raphael in the last few millennia than you –” and it hurts to imagine that he hasn't seen this while probably everyone else around him has known the entire time.

“Dear Jesus –” Aziraphale exclaims, his eyes squeezed shut as if he is in pain. “How could you never tell me this? I thought we were friends –”

“We are friends!” Crowley corrects him with determination.

Aziraphale looks straight at him, straight into those beloved eyes which appear to glint even brighter than ever before right now.

“Dear God, Crowley –” the angel hisses. “I mean, I never wanted to push and you were under no obligation to tell me anything – but come on, at least one little comment would have been enough, don't you think? Or did you deem it hilarious that apparently everyone knew the truth but me?”

Crowley scowls at the accusation. “Of course not –”

“Then why, Crowley?” Aziraphale growls. There are so many emotions whirling inside him right now, making him light-headed, that for a moment he actually fears that the earth might begin to tremble and break apart again just as it had happened in Heaven.

Thankfully, though, everything remains in its place.

For now.

“I do understand that you never wanted to talk about your past,” Aziraphale goes on as he flails his arms around because he basically has no idea what else to do with himself. “I would have never forced you to say something … and God, I see that this is hurting you and that it is probably tremendously traumatic for you to even remember those old days …”

Aziraphale doesn't exactly know what happened since he mostly managed to keep himself away from the actual fights, but he knows that Raphael Fell in a very grand fashion. So much so that everyone deemed him dead (at first).

Aziraphale never asked around what actually happened. He didn't want to know, didn't need any details. He just was aware that so many of his fellow angels were cast out violently and it broke his heart.

Raphael's supposed death was one of the major events of the rebellion and Aziraphale can't even begin to imagine what occurred during that time. How absolutely horrible it must have been.

“You know me, Crowley,” Aziraphale insists. “I never would have urged you to give me a detailed report about your life before the Fall or anything of that sort. I wouldn't even have uttered a single question if you would have asked me not to. You know that, right?”

Crowley seems rather reluctant about it, but he nods anyway.

“Then why?” Aziraphale exclaims. “You could have told me the truth. Didn't I earn your trust?”

“Of course you did –”

“Then why do others have the privilege of knowing about your past and I have not?” Aziraphale asks, his voice wavering so much that it almost breaks. “What did I do wrong that you –”

“Dammit, angel!” Crowley suddenly cuts in sharply, his eyes sparkling so intensely they're nearly blinding. “You have no right to be mad with me about this!”

Aziraphale stares at him, stunned.

This is most certainly not the kind of excuse he has been expecting.

“Are you serious?” the angel hisses. “Naturally I have every right! We have been friends for millennia, at the very least, and I don't –”

“No, no, no!” Crowley interrupts once more, his hands raised high. “This has nothing to do with that –”

“So then what –?”

“You want to know why I never told you?” Crowley interjects, his whole body so tense it actually looks painful. “Because this entire bloody time – ever since I met you in The Garden – I was convinced that you knew!”

Aziraphale blinks, so startled by that statement that he feels all his anger instantly taking a step back, leaving room for utter confusion.

“What?” he asks, absolutely eloquently.

Crowley grinds his teeth rather loudly and starts to pace the small room, like a caged animal eager to break free.

“I thought you knew and just never brought it up,” he tries to explain. “I believed – at least in the beginning – that this was the main reason why you even tolerated my demonic presence. That you were keen on getting something out of it, whatever that might have been …”

Aziraphale's jaw goes slack. “You really believed …?”

“In the beginning,” Crowley repeats with emphasis. “I didn't have any other explanation why an angel like you would hang out with someone like me. It seemed like a logical assumption …”

Aziraphale doesn't even know how to react to that.

He wants to take offence, but as he allows himself a moment to contemplate the situation he has to confess that Crowley's chain of thought back in the day wasn't a completely unreasonable one. Angels just never associated with demons ever and Aziraphale's behaviour at the time must have been quite puzzling for Crowley.

If Aziraphale is being honest, even he himself can't really explain what urged him to seek out the demon again and again at the beginning. He knew that none of his superiors would have approved, but Aziraphale did it anyway, despite the very real threat of repercussions.

Of course Crowley assumed at first that Aziraphale had some hidden agenda. That he had hoped to get some advantage from associating with a former archangel. What else was he supposed to believe?

Aziraphale can't fault him for that.

“I don't remember much about Heaven,” Crowley says through gritted teeth. “But I vaguely recall that we met up there. Right?”

He sounds unsure, like he doesn't know whether it has been a dream or not, and Aziraphale's chest churns painfully at the vulnerable expression on the demon's face.

And yes, it hurts to realise that their first meeting obviously wasn't significant enough to burn itself deep into Crowley's memory, but once again Aziraphale can't exactly blame him. For the grand Raphael this little, unimportant angel he stumbled upon one of these days probably wasn't noteworthy enough to store into his longtime memory.

“So we met,” Crowley states, spreading his arms wide. “Before Eden. And we talked. Not just a quick 'Hello, how are you? Okay, bye', but we had an honest-to-God conversation, didn't we? A deep and meaningful one.”

Aziraphale can't deny that – in hindsight it had even been much more meaningful than either of them could have ever imagined – and so he nods.

Crowley huffs. “And this whole time I just assumed – like anyone would – that I introduced myself or that you asked for my name or that you already knew who I was to begin with, like most angels did at the time, at least. You know, regular stuff.”

Aziraphale grimaces. “Well, I actually had no idea who you were … and introductions weren't made, in fact …”

“I'm starting to realise that now, too,” Crowley snaps. “But how was I supposed to know that? It was a reasonable enough assumption –”

It was, Aziraphale has to admit.

“– because what kind of idiot doesn't introduce himself while creating a nebula with someone else?” the demon grumbles, clearly fed up by it all.

You, apparently, Aziraphale thinks immediately, but before he is able to voice that thought he realises that it's technically not true and therefore he replies, “Raphael, apparently.”

Crowley looks at him then, the distinction doing something to him he obviously can't exactly comprehend himself. He seems lost and overwhelmed and a million other things and Aziraphale just wants to pull him into a tight hug and help him forget all his sorrows.

But it's not that simple because at the end of the day Aziraphale feels equally lost and overwhelmed, unable to wrap his head around this whole mess.

It's hard, if you believe you've known someone inside out for millennia … and then …

And then you learn there is much more to it.

Much more.

“You didn't know?” Aziraphale asks, his voice barely a whisper now. “All this time you thought …?”

Crowley presses his lips into a thin line. “Yeah,” he says with a shrug that is probably meant to appear casual, but is anything but. “I just assumed … well, sometimes you mentioned my angel days, but you never said my former name … I simply thought you were considerate …” He lowers his gaze. “And it's not like we talked about the archangels often or something like that …”

It's true. Aziraphale can't recall if he ever mentioned Raphael's name in Crowley's presence in the first place.

Most likely not. He had no reason to.

After all, he barely spared any thought on that archangel he supposedly never met and who had been allegedly dead for such a long time. He had too much to worry about the likes of Gabriel and Michael, so why bother with some long deceased being?

There was no reason for either Aziraphale or Crowley to ever bring up Raphael in conversation.

“Six-thousand years …” Aziraphale breathes, still in shock about this. “This has been between us … for six-thousand years …”

With none of them the wiser.

“You never …” The angel stops and draws in a shaky breath. “You never … at least, suspected?”

Crowley sighs. “You remember the pub, a few weeks back? When you stalked me after I said my grand goodbye and all that?”

“I didn't stalk you –”

Crowley just waves him off. “You asked me then, for the very first time, who I used to be up in Heaven. And at the time so much was going on and I … well, I thought you meant it metaphorically or philosophically or whatever, so I didn't think much of it … I never assumed …”

He shakes his head.

“I truly realised when you stood there in Michael's office and claimed that Raphael was dead,” Crowley tells him. “At first it didn't make any sense to me … and then it made perfect sense.”

It must have been a shock. Crowley probably felt just like Aziraphale is feeling right now.

Absolutely floored, with no idea how to get up anymore.

Confused and angry and betrayed.

And also guilty for even feeling that way because, as it's becoming clear now, Crowley didn't withhold this information out of ill intentions.

No, once again they both made assumptions and didn't dare to check up on that to make sure.

They didn't communicate.

Blimey, why is this so hard?

Why didn't anybody teach them this? It seems like extremely vital life lessons.

“I don't …” Aziraphale mutters, more to himself than anybody else. His gaze flickers all over the room and for some reason can't bring itself to settle on Crowley. “I don't know how to feel about this … how am I supposed to feel about this …?”

He actually directs that last question at the demon.

Who appears equally lost on the matter.

“No idea,” Crowley confesses. “I've never been in such a situation before …”

Aziraphale barks a laugh which sounds hollow and false. He highly doubts many beings have ever experienced something like this.

“Dear Lord,” he mumbles, rubbing his temples to fight back an upcoming headache, “it feels like I don't know you anymore …”

Crowley instantly tenses at that. “I'm still the same as before!” he insists right away, a desperation in his eyes Aziraphale hates to see there.

The angel sighs. “I know that,” he assures Crowley. “Logically I'm aware that it shouldn't make much of a difference, it's way in the past and it doesn't taint our experiences together …”

But tell that to Aziraphale's heart.

He can't help but think back on that moment he stumbled upon the ginger angel up in Heaven. That carefree, energetic angel who managed to wrap Aziraphale around his finger with a simple smile. Back then Aziraphale assumed that his reaction had been so intense because he had never seen anyone so beautiful before.

However, now Aziraphale can't keep himself from wondering …

Did Crowley just have such a strong effect on him because he was one of The Firsts? Would Aziraphale have felt something similar if he would have been close to one of the others as well? Lucifer maybe even? Is that the reason why so many followed the devil?

Aziraphale wants to dismiss it at first because he can't remember ever feeling remotely close like that when he finally got into contact with Gabriel and Michael, but by then the reality of the rebellion had left its traces on all of them, dimming the bright light of Heaven in a way it would never be the same.

So maybe Aziraphale had just been so enamoured with Raphael because this is how the lower-ranking angels were supposed to feel around someone like him …

Perhaps it was created that way from the start …

Maybe it was never real …

Maybe …

“NO!” a voice suddenly booms through the room and Aziraphale startles so badly he nearly smacks himself in the face. Instead he blinks and looks back at Crowley who is staring at him with narrowed eyes and gritted teeth.

“Don't let your thoughts go there, do you hear me?” he hisses while actually looking a bit terrifying doing so.

Aziraphale bristles. “What … how …?”

“I can see it on your face,” Crowley states. “And I can feel it through our bond. You're allowing yourself to doubt everything between us, aren't you?”

Aziraphale pauses before glimpsing down at the ring on his finger.

Right.

“Reading someone else's thoughts is rude,” Aziraphale finds himself responding since he doesn't know what else to say.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “I can't read anyone's mind and you know it,” he growls. “But it's not hard to guess because I know you!”

He basically yells that last part into Aziraphale's face, making the angel wince.

“I'm just …” Aziraphale bites his bottom lip, desperately searching for the right words. “Just … up there, in Heaven … I thought you so magnificent right from the start … and now it turns out …”

He can't go on. It feels too impossible to say out loud.

Crowley, meanwhile, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Angel,” he says. And then clarifies, “Aziraphale. That has nothing whatsoever to do with how you feel.”

“But –”

“I can assure you,” Crowley interrupts, apparently not eager to let Aziraphale fester in his own dark thoughts for one second longer, “that out of all the angels I met since the beginning of my existence, may it have been as an angel or as a demon – out of all of them nobody got even as remotely obsessed with me as you did.”

For a moment Aziraphale remains silent.

And then the tension in his body releases itself via an inappropriate laugh. It's merely a brief thing, but it feels wrong in the otherwise quiet room.

“You're the only one,” Crowley insists. “I promise you that. And it happened not because of some – some design plans or something – but because that's how you are. How you have always been …”

Aziraphale's shoulders sag while a myriad of emotions attacks him again all at once. There is relief and happiness, but also doubt and uncertainty, and also a million other things that make the angel dizzy.

He wants to rush to the demon and hug and kiss him. And he also wants to run away and scream his sorrows into the world. He wants to do it all and it doesn't make any sense …

In the end he doesn't get a chance to do any of that.

Because before either he or Crowley can diffuse the situation in whatever way, Ana suddenly interrupts their staring contest by peeking around the corner.

“Well, not to disturb your little moment here or anything, but – just so you know,” she says, her eyebrows arched high, “Lucifer is gone.”

Both Aziraphale and Crowley flinch at the exact same time at those words and whirl towards her, their eyes wide.

“He's WHAT?” they exclaim in unison.

Ana shrugs like this is any other Tuesday. “He suddenly perked up in the middle of one of his monologues like a dog that's seen a squirrel and then just walked out of the door without another word.”

For a second everything is absolutely silent in the room, not a single muscle moved.

And then Crowley throws his head back and groans, “Ah, shit!”

Aziraphale couldn't have phrased it any better.

Chapter Text

Crowley's had enough.

He is in dire need of a vacation.

No, not just one. Many.

At least he is pretty sure that he requires approximately twenty-six vacations in a row alone to recover from the stress these last few weeks have put on him.

Yes, demons can endure a lot, but not that much.

At first he lost his very best friend and maybe the bloody love of his life to Heaven and The Metatron, resulting in months of despair and anger. Then, after heartbreak and setbacks, they managed to reunite, only to be separated again. They were forced to work with archangels, play a dangerous game, and barely got to see each other. And then they basically kidnapped Jesus Christ and stole one of the most important and powerful artefacts out of Heaven, making them Most Wanted in an instant. They had to run and yet the devil himself found them without much hassle.

And next to Aziraphale apparently being able to almost rip Heaven apart with his emotions, he obviously had never any real idea about Crowley's angel past and ended up fairly blind-sided by it all.

Where the hell did everything start to go so terribly wrong?

Crowley never imagined that his past of all things would become such an issue. It was never a topic between them, apart from a few fleeting mentions here and there, and Crowley decided long ago to leave it all behind. The angel he once was became a completely separate identity to his demonic self and he liked it that way. And he liked that Aziraphale seemed to respect that train of thought.

And then the moment in Michael's office happened. Where Aziraphale announced, rather confidently, that Raphael has died during the Fall and Crowley realised that nothing has ever been as he originally assumed. Granted, for one single second he could fool himself that Aziraphale indeed viewed Raphael as a totally different being to Crowley and therefore said such things. But soon enough it became obvious that this wasn't the case.

No, his stupid, smart, beautiful, little angel never really knew who Crowley used to be.

It threw Crowley off so much he had no idea what to do with it. Thankfully one thing after another happened then, allowing him to focus his attention on basically anything else than the absolute chaotic mess that is his life.

He also was aware, though, that he couldn't keep it to himself for long.

Not that he intended to. Aziraphale deserved to not be kept in the dark for a moment longer, Crowley just had to wait for the right time to come clean and reveal to the angel that obviously they both have been living their lives under false assumptions.

Again.

Damn, Nina and Maggie had been so very right. He and Aziraphale seriously needed to learn to communicate better.

Hell, they're currently connected due to some magical soulmate rings or whatever and they still manage to talk past one another.

At this point it's clearly a gift.

Either way, Crowley certainly didn't intend to reveal the truth about his past with Lucifer in the next room, but when has life ever been fair to him? Aziraphale was understandingly hurt and confused while Satan next door probably felt it all and had the time of his life.

Well, until the moment he apparently stepped out of the door and left.

Great.

Not that Crowley particularly enjoyed Lucifer's company, but the devil walking around without any supervision sounds even more horrifying to him.

And so, once again, Crowley's messy life has to wait, resulting in Aziraphale and him hanging in this weird limbo, because circumstances urge them to fixate on other matters.

“I don't like this,” Crowley presses through his gritted teeth. “I don't like this at all!”

Aziraphale appears to share the sentiment, at least according to the distressed expression on his features. “Where might he have gone?” he asks, his gaze drifting back and forth between the demon and the witch, as though he expects one of them to have the answer.

Crowley just scoffs. “He could be anywhere.”

It's Lucifer, after all. Crowley doubts that there are many limits on this world and the next that might be able to stop the literal devil from doing whatever the hell he wanted to do.

“This is … far from ideal,” Aziraphale points out, clearly keeping himself at the last second from cursing passionately. “Do you think he sensed where the book is?”

Crowley shudders at the mere idea. “Damn, I hope not.”

He thinks of Jesus still strolling through that aquarium in Germany, completely oblivious to what is going on right now.

“Maybe we should take Christ to us,” Aziraphale proposes.

Crowley is about to agree on instinct, but then finds himself hesitating. “Or maybe not,” he argues. “Perhaps that was Lucifer's plan all along.”

Aziraphale arches his brows as he contemplates that suggestion. “You believe he disappeared on purpose, so that we would check up on the book in a panic?”

Crowley pulls a face. “It's not a bad plan.”

“Indeed it isn't,” suddenly another voice says right behind them all. “A shame I didn't think of that.”

They all whirl around at once and, to all their surprise and also – as weird as that sounds – relief, they find themselves confronted with Satan once more.

Crowley never thought he would ever be happy to see that heartless bastard, but here they are.

“What the fuck?” he growls, not at all keen on watching his language. “Where have you been?”

Lucifer merely smirks, obviously not in a hurry to reply to the question. Instead he walks further into the room and Crowley realises that he is not alone anymore. The demon tenses up automatically, figuring that Lucifer might have gotten some company from Hell or something, and notices that Aziraphale switches in some sort of battle stance himself, too rattled up by the situation to take any chances.

Soon enough, though, they both catch up on the fact that this new person doesn't seem to be here on their own free will. No, they squirm in Lucifer's tight grip, apparently determined to set themself free again.

Unsuccessfully, however.

Crowley squints his eyes and he recognises the flies buzzing in the air first before the actual person.

“Lord Beelzebub?” he exclaims, stunned.

He feels Aziraphale radiating similar feelings through their bond, his eyes going wide.

Crowley blinks a few times, staring at Beelzebub's disgruntled face, and for a moment doesn't know what to say. In the end, though, his gaze flashes back to Lucifer who looks more than a little smug about it all.

“You found them?” Crowley asks, incredulous.

“You don't have to act so surprised,” Lucifer says with a snicker. “I have many talents.”

Crowley narrows his eyes in suspicion and exchanges a glance with Aziraphale who simply shrugs in response, none the wiser.

Ultimately it's Beelzebub who clarifies, “I found you.”

Crowley finds himself nodding.

Yes, this makes more sense.

Lucifer isn't deterred by this at all as he continues to grin widely. “I sensed them lurking around outside on the street,” he explains. “So I picked them up.”

He tightens his grip, as if to make a point, while Beelzebub shoots him a dark glare.

“Well, excuse me for being curious why the Great Lucifer would suddenly show up on Earth,” the former lord grumbles. “I felt you from the other side of the planet.”

Considering that both Lucifer and Beelzebub used to share a rather unique connection for many millennia it's not that surprising to hear that they're still able to sense one another in such a capacity.

“I just had to make sure for myself,” Beelzebub says. “Especially after what happened in Heaven.”

Aziraphale instantly gets awkward at the reminder of Above nearly getting ripped apart by his hands not so long ago.

“Oh, that wasn't my doing,” Lucifer is quick to make himself clear, a delighted smile on his face. “I mean, don't get me wrong, I would love to take the credit for that, but no, this was all our esteemed Supreme Archangel over here!”

While Aziraphale looks like he would like to be swallowed by the ground, Beelzebub stares at him in confusion. They clearly can only see the unassuming little angel in his proper clothes and can't imagine such great power originating from him.

“Seriously?” they ask, in great disbelief.

Crowley would have liked to be offended on Aziraphale's behalf, but Beelzebub does have a point, therefore the demon remains quiet and watches his angel squirm uncomfortably on the spot for a long minute before he takes pity on him.

“It doesn't matter right now,” Crowley cuts in sharply as he ends up not so subtly positioning himself in front of Aziraphale to shield him from all that hellish attention. “We have more important things to talk about.”

Beelzebub stares at him as though they can't decide whether Crowley lost his mind or not. “More important than the near-destruction of Heaven?”

While Aziraphale flinches behind him at those blunt words, Crowley clarifies, “The Second Coming, of course. Our upcoming annihilation!” He scoffs. “I figure that's more important right now.”

Unfortunately Beelzebub doesn't appear overly impressed by it all.

Which is most likely due to the fact that Lucifer is still grasping onto them with a fierce grip, apparently without any intention of ever letting go. It's certainly not the best situation to be in, particularly when you betrayed said Satan just a few months ago after many aeons of loyal service by eloping with the enemy to live happily ever after.

Naturally Beelzebub doesn't feel overly safe now. Or ready to have such vital discussions about the fate of the universe.

No, instead Crowley feels the air change as Beelzebub is preparing for an attack against their former boss. It might be stupid to try to challenge Lucifer in such close quarters, but Beelzebub obviously doesn't trust the devil not to rip them to pieces the next second, just for the hell of it (and they might not be wrong), and therefore figures that desperate measures are better than nothing.

No violence occurs, though.

Because once again Ana's defence mechanisms kick in.

The blinding light shows its face again and the next moment Beelzebub lets out a yelp before losing their balance and nearly toppling to the ground. Only Lucifer still holding onto them keeps them from making close acquaintances with the rug beneath.

The devil merely laughs, not faltering even once. “Be careful. The witch bites.”

While Beelzebub only looks puzzled, probably not really comprehending what just happened, Ana actually seems a bit proud by the praise. She probably never imagined in her wildest dreams to get approval from Satan of all beings, but she clearly makes the best of it.

Crowley just shakes his head and wonders once more at what point in time his life got so very weird.

“What –?” Beelzebub starts, their eyes flashing back and forth between them all.

“Don't worry, everything is alright,” Aziraphale pipes in, a soothing smile on his lips. “The house simply doesn't like ill intentions, you see?”

Beelzebub obviously doesn't see and studies the angel like they think him insane.

In the end, though, they understand enough of the situation to realise that calling up a miracle to get out of Lucifer's grasp isn't the wisest idea right now. Therefore they attempt to tug themselves free the old-fashioned way, but the devil remains steadfast and keeps on holding tight.

“It's no use, Beelzebub,” Lucifer sighs, not even wincing when several flies start to buzz around his head. “It might be unfortunate for you, but we need you. Hence I can't allow you to leave.”

The crease between Beelzebub's forehead deepens. “Whatever do you need me for?”

They sound a bit wary about the upcoming answer.

“Well, technically we require Gabriel,” Lucifer explains. “And since I've heard you're attached at the hip these days …”

He offers Beelzebub the sweetest smile that is so very horrible to look at Crowley's eyes begin to ache. Beelzebub, meanwhile, seems rightfully concerned by these turns of events and for a moment appears to seriously consider ripping their own arm off just to have a chance to escape.

“What do you need Gabriel for?” they ask then, their tone low and threatening.

They may be outnumbered and at a clear disadvantage, but the mention of Gabriel surely sparks something inside of them.

Crowley can relate, he would react the same way hearing Aziraphale's name out of Lucifer's mouth in such a context. He wouldn't care for acting all mad challenging the devil, he would just think of his angel and nothing else.

“Why, to open The Book of Life, naturally,” Lucifer states, as though this should have been plainly obvious.

As expected, Beelzebub's gapes at him like they think him absolutely crazy.

“WHAT?”

Crowley groans as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

This is already the opposite of fun.

“Let's get you up to speed,” he says and immediately dives into a (hopefully) more coherent explanation. Beelzebub listens intently, but their incredulous expression never wavers.

And when Crowley is finally finished, they don't hesitate for one single second to exclaim loudly, “WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK???”

Ah, Crowley couldn't have phrased it better himself.

---

At first Beelzebub doesn't really believe them.

And when they eventually, after finally realising that the devil and “the traitors” would never come together just to make up such an insane lie, accept the truth they nonetheless don't appear overly thrilled to involve Gabriel in all of this.

“You're just going to kill him when all of this is done,” they accuse particularly Lucifer, their gaze extra hard as they glare at their former boss.

Lucifer, for his part, doesn't exactly deny it which doesn't make it any easier.

Sure, Gabriel might not be at the top of his list, but at the end of the day the ex-archangel managed to steal away one of the devil's highest ranking demons and that must still hurt something bad. It's fair to assume that Lucifer wouldn't mind hurting him back at least a little bit in return.

“Listen, we're gonna find him, one way or another,” Satan states, leaning so closely into Beelzebub's personal space that his breath must skid over their skin. “Maybe we just stumble upon him, maybe we lure him out by torturing you. Either way, he will be ours.”

Lucifer grins widely while Crowley just feels something heavy settle in his stomach.

Granted, he still recalls Gabriel ordering Aziraphale's death with sickening ease, back in the day when Crowley pretended to be his angel, and since then the demon would have loved nothing more than make Gabriel pay for it all in the most horrible manner, but this is neither the time nor the place for any revenge plans.

(Besides, Crowley can't help but think of “Jim” and his easygoing innocence nowadays whenever Gabriel pops up in his mind. Yes, Jim was simply a blank slate, but Crowley also knows that at least some part of it was the essence of the archangel buried deep inside shining through and he has no idea what to do with that information ever since.)

“I don't believe threats are the best way to achieve our goals,” Aziraphale chimes in, his gaze resting on Lucifer still crowing Beelzebub's bubble.

“It always worked in the past,” the devil says easily enough as he shrugs his shoulders.

Aziraphale grimaces. “It's not the best motivator when you want to protect the ones you love.”

Lucifer rolls his eyes extra hard at that, clearly not having the patience for that.

Beelzebub, meanwhile, has been assessing them all quietly for the better part of the last twenty minutes. “So without Gabriel, we are all doomed?” they ask eventually, their attention focused on Aziraphale because they most likely figure that the angel would be their best bet on getting out of this alive.

“Most likely, yes,” Aziraphale confirms. “We might be able to evade The Metatron and Heaven for a while and keep the book hidden, but one of these days …” He sighs. “Opening the book, finding God or at least proving that She hasn't been around for a long time – it might be our only chance to thwart this altogether.”

At the mention of the Almighty Lucifer, once again, does something very complicated with his face as something akin to feelings shows up on his features for a fleeting second.

“We were actually just in the process of making a deal,” Aziraphale reminds them. “Maybe we should revisit that, so that Gabriel is safe to come to us and we can finally hurry things along.”

There is quite an edge in Aziraphale's tone now. He is apparently rather displeased by everything delaying thanks to Lucifer's antics.

The devil, however, merely scoffs. “It's not my fault that you interrupted our negotiations first because of your little lover's quarrel.”

As expected Aziraphale bristles rather hard at the accusation. “There weren't any quarrels –” he tries to insist, even though it sounds rather weak even to Crowley's ears. The angel, at least, can't help but shoot another quick glance at Crowley, most likely once again remembering the very big revelation about the demon's past just about half an hour ago. So far Aziraphale didn't have a chance to digest any of it even remotely properly and Crowley hates more than anything that it is still lingering right above them like an angry cloud.

But what is there to do when there are so many more important things at stake right now?

Aziraphale seems to come to the same conclusion as well as he straightens his jacket, a clear indicator that he is bracing himself, and trains his attention back onto Lucifer.

“Either way,” he says sharply, “I refuse to let you anywhere near the book without setting some boundaries first.”

Lucifer grins brightly. “Be careful, all that bossiness is starting to make me tingly …”

Aziraphale doesn't even deem that with a response and instead dives into a series of demands which Lucifer quickly meets with some of his own. Soon enough they are lost in a quite heated back and forth that Crowley watches from the sidelines like it's a tennis match.

He actually gets a bit dizzy from it, but also finds himself not so secretly proud of Aziraphale for standing his ground against literal Satan.

Beelzebub is witnessing the entire spiel from the background too while looking rather uncomfortable. It's obvious they would rather flee altogether, to never be seen again, than sit on a random witch's couch, but they also appear to realise that staying for now might have its benefits.

At some point Crowley ends up noticing Beelzebub's gaze flickering to the front door a few times and at first he brushes it off as the former lord just assessing their options nonetheless, however, eventually Beelzebub's facial expressions start to irk him. And so, instead of ignoring it, he heads towards the door in question, with Beelzebub glaring after him while Aziraphale and Lucifer are still busy arguing about the fine print.

Crowley opens the door … and finds Gabriel standing right outside the fence, just at the property line.

He leans against the old wooden planks, looking completely out of his place in his business suit. At the door opening he perks up and an inappropriate smile shows up on his features when he spots Crowley.

“Ah, demon,” he says in greeting. “It's nice to see you again.”

Crowley can't say whether the angel is actually genuine or whether this is his idea of mocking, but Crowley doesn't share the sentiment at all either way.

He folds his arms across his chest and eyes the former archangel darkly.

“Gabriel,” he just grunts while he can't help but notice the single fly buzzing around Gabriel's head. It seems as if Beelzebub managed to get a message across, maybe before Lucifer even captured them, and Gabriel dutifully followed the instructions to come around, but keep his distance until things have settled.

“Tell me, is Lucifer seriously in there?” Gabriel wonders, pointing at Ana's house with clear disbelief on his face.

Crowley grins with too many teeth. “He's currently negotiating with Aziraphale whether to keep you alive or not when all is said and done.”

Gabriel obviously attempts to remain unimpressed, but a flicker of uncertainty glints in his eyes nevertheless.

“And Beelzebub?” he asks, his grasp on emotions apparently still not strong enough to hide his concern.

“Still kicking,” Crowley grumbles. And then adds, after reluctantly taking pity on the fella for worrying about his beloved, “Unharmed.”

For now.

Gabriel, at least, sags his shoulders in clear relief. He might not actually believe that Lucifer is truly on site, but due to Beelzebub's behaviour he does know that something is amiss and it's making him low-key anxious, that much is obvious.

And he should be nervous, in Crowley's opinion. Apart from Beelzebub nobody in that house likes him at all and they will only tolerate his presence out of necessity for a short while.

After that, who knows?

Crowley doesn't mention any of this, though, because he sure as hell doesn't want the former archangel to turn around and never return.

(Why, yes, Gabriel might fancy himself in love and all that, so maybe he actually wouldn't flee just now, even with everyone openly opposing him, but Crowley can't be sure with the bastard and he doesn't want to test any limits. Not when they're so close to their goal.)

Instead Crowley throws a glance over his shoulder into the house and when he spots Lucifer and Aziraphale just shaking hands, apparently sealing their deal, he straightens his jacket and turns back to Gabriel.

“Then let's head inside and get this over with.”

Gabriel opens his mouth, clearly on the verge of saying something, but Crowley strolls back into the house, not in the mood to hear any more words out of Gabriel's mouth than strictly necessary.

He seriously can't wait for all of this to be over.

Because as things are developing now this might very well be Crowley's worst nightmare coming true.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale finds himself surprised and at the same time not surprised at all when, after finally coming to an agreement with Lucifer both sides are able to live with, Crowley marches back into the living room, with Gabriel in tow.

Who immediately freezes at the threshold and stares at the devil with wide eyes.

Crowley next to him just huffs. “I told you Lucifer is here!”

“Yes, well,” Gabriel says, “I didn't actually believe you.”

For a moment Crowley doesn't appear to know whether he should feel offended by that or not and in the end merely shrugs and shuffles back to Aziraphale's side, obviously eager to put as little distance between them as possible. Aziraphale surely shares the sentiment and doesn't hesitate to lean closer as well.

Meanwhile, Lucifer seems delighted to greet Gabriel with the same menacing aura he has been radiating since his arrival. His smile turns evil as he steps towards the former archangel and his tone morphs back into a thing of darkness and intimidation as he whispers something to Gabriel that makes him shiver, despite clearly trying to suppress such a reaction.

Aziraphale can't really tell what they're saying, but, to be perfectly frank, he doesn't overly care. As long as nobody kills the other he finds himself content enough to let it slide.

“So you sealed a deal with Lucifer?” Crowley asks through their bond.

“I did,” Aziraphale confirms and can't help but be rather proud of himself for doing so in the first place. He never imagined he would ever negotiate with the devil and not only come out of it alive, but also with the upper hand, but somehow it actually happened and it feels so surreal that he has to pinch himself once more. “We kept it simple. Lucifer is not allowed to physically harm anyone – directly or indirectly – without my explicit permission for the next forty-eight hours.”

Crowley raises a brow, obviously surprised by those terms. “Forty-eight hours?”

“That was the best we could agree on,” Aziraphale says. “With Michael hopefully soon on her way I figured it would be enough –”

“Oh no, angel, this is not a complaint,” the demon is quick to intervene. “I'm actually very impressed.”

Aziraphale offers him a little smile, keeping it subtle enough to not alert the others to their silent conversation. “You are?”

Crowley inclines his head. “Not many were able to stand their ground against Satan and lived to tell the tale.”

“Well, technically he can still kill me after the forty-eight hours are up,” Aziraphale reminds him, now a grimace contorting his face at the mental image.

“Oh, I don't think he will,” Crowley protests, so much conviction in his voice that you can't do anything else but believe him. “Lucifer would never admit to it, of course, but he likes you.”

Aziraphale frowns, not really certain if he should be pleased or utterly terrified by that information. “He does?”

Crowley nods a little more firmly at that. “Trust me, he does.”

Aziraphale blinks and looks back at the devil, just in time to see Lucifer glance at him and throw him a wink when he notices the angel's attention resting on him. Aziraphale flushes nervously and quickly averts his gaze.

“Well, either way,” he says, not ready to acknowledge the entire thing just yet, “the deal we made is rather basic. I couldn't bring him to swear to not steal the book at any time, though.”

Lucifer had been quite adamant that he wouldn't make any promises about the book's fate and Aziraphale just wasn't capable of making him budge, no matter the counteroffers he put on the table in exchange.

“It doesn't matter,” Crowley tells him. “The book is safe for now and we should only bring it here at the very last moment. By that time Jesus will be here and Michael and also Gabriel – all beings who would do anything in their powers to protect the book from the devil.” He shoots a grim look at Lucifer's direction. “He will try something, there is no question about it. The Book of Life is much too valuable for him to just shrug it off.”

Aziraphale wholeheartedly agrees. It would be naïve to assume otherwise.

“We should probably strategise with Michael beforehand,” Crowley goes on. “Make sure that she will grab the book as soon as everything is said and done and bring it back to Heaven immediately, right where Lucifer can't get to it.”

Aziraphale nods. “I was thinking the same thing,” he says, secretly delighted that their minds are so in sync. “We shouldn't leave anything to chance.”

By the way their bond is vibrating Crowley is apparently just on the verge of replying, but he halts instantly when he notices Gabriel approaching them. Crowley tenses up and then mumbles something incoherent underneath his breath before slipping away, obviously not in the mood to be anywhere near Aziraphale's former superior.

Aziraphale can't exactly say he is a fan of it either, but somehow he finds himself automatically thinking of “Jim” looking at the angel's face and so he ends up staying right where he is instead of retreating.

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel greets him, his voice as booming as ever. “I certainly never imagined that we would meet again under such circumstances.”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and reminds himself that he just verbally sparred with Satan five minutes ago, so there is no need to be intimidated by a disgraced archangel.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale says back coolly. “It is … well, it's not exactly 'nice' to see you, but …”

Gabriel just waves him off. “Oh please, are you still hung up about our past?” He laughs like this is a ridiculous thing to hold a grudge over. “I was simply following orders, my friend.”

Aziraphale pulls a face. Of course Gabriel used to be a dutiful angel and who knows how much of the things he did had actually been ordered by the likes of The Metatron beforehand, but he still wore that awful smile while doing it all and that's hard to forget.

Nevertheless, Aziraphale is indeed not here right now to dwell on such things.

They have way more important issues to focus on.

“As it may be,” he says, doing a dismissive hand gesture. “We gathered here for a common goal and that is all that matters right this instant.”

Gabriel leans closer. “Right. Our common goal.”

Aziraphale glances back at Beelzebub who is currently listening – reluctantly intrigued, by the looks of it – to one of Lucifer's monologues.

“Did they tell you the details?” he asks Gabriel.

The angel snorts. “You mean, you rebelling against Heaven and stealing The Book of Life in order to break the seal and prove some outlandish allegations against The Metatron? Yes, I heard about that just now.”

Aziraphale arches his brows. “You deem The Metatron innocent?”

“Oh no, that weasel is definitely up to something,” Gabriel is quick to reassure. “I've worked closely with him long enough to be certain of that.” He shrugs his shoulders casually. “I didn't know anything concrete, but I had my suspicions that he was following his own agenda more than anything else.”

Michael must have felt the same way, being in such proximity to The Metatron for such a long time, and eventually cracked when she couldn't ignore all the signs anymore.

“It's quite a bold move to steal the book to prove you're right, though,” Gabriel points out, amusement lacing through his voice. “How did you come up with that?”

Not eager to mention Christ's name just yet because apparently apart from him and Crowley nobody in this house has heard rumours about Her son's involvement so far, Aziraphale merely mutters, “Well, it just happened.”

Gabriel assesses him quietly, obviously aware that there is more to the story, but instead of prodding his grin only widens. “Either way, it's quite an undertaking to get all four of The Firsts in one room, I have to say. Nearly ludicrous.”

Not happy to be reminded of his insanity yet again, Aziraphale grimaces.

“Even Lucifer,” Gabriel states, whistling in approval. “I'm actually impressed.”

Aziraphale isn't really sure whether he is actually complimented or simply teased at, so he just mumbles, “He rather found us …”

“Oh, don't get me wrong, you're still utterly mad,” Gabriel points out with a laugh. “Then again, you seem to have somewhat of a gift for luring archangels in, haven't you? If you managed to make Raphael fall under your spell and follow you around like a puppy for millennia, why not try your luck with a few more?”

While Gabriel chuckles at himself, clearly proud of his own wit, Aziraphale finds himself once more flinching at the reminder of Crowley's true past.

Gabriel, of course, notices right away.

He glimpses first back at Beelzebub and Lucifer and then at Crowley, standing awkwardly on the side, keeping his eyes on them.

“Is it true then?” Gabriel wonders. “What they said? That you had no idea about Raphael?”

Aziraphale refuses to admit to his shame again, especially to the likes of Gabriel, so he remains silent and lets that speak for itself.

“So you truly didn't know?” Gabriel asks, that judging tone in his voice something he obviously can't turn off, too deeply ingrained in his being by now. “How did you manage to be so oblivious all this time?”

He seems seriously baffled and Aziraphale has a very hard time not to blush too hard.

“I just …” he mumbles while fidgeting on the spot. “I just never learnt the truth … and it wasn't important, so I never bothered to seek it out for myself …”

Gabriel merely shakes his head. “Truly, Aziraphale, only you.” He snickers to himself. “The whole time I simply assumed you tolerated the demon's presence because of his former status.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes when he recalls that Crowley said something similar not too long ago. “I'm not that shallow,” he presses through his teeth.

“Well, my bad,” Gabriel says, still far too amused. “I presumed you had some standards or at least common sense. Clearly I was wrong.”

Aziraphale intensifies his glare. “That is rich, coming from you,” he states indignantly while gesturing at Beelzebub.

“It's not the same,” Gabriel objects without a moment of hesitation. “Beelzebub used to be a being of the highest status down in Hell –”

“And that's what is important to you?” Aziraphale cuts in. “Status?”

Gabriel scoffs. “Of course not! In the grand scheme of things it technically doesn't even matter. But I was never under the illusion that Beelzebub was a mere, low-ranking demon like you used to be with your little pet.”

Aziraphale clenches his hands into fists so tightly it hurts.

“Out of all the beings on Earth, I actually assumed that you were the one who might be able to understand me,” he says as he seriously feels some disappointment blossoming inside of him.

He never really believed that he could ever be friends with Gabriel – too much has happened between them in the last few millennia –, but to have some common ground with at least one other angel would have been nice.

“I do understand how you can – well, feel for your demon the way you do,” Gabriel admits, his gaze drifting over to Beelzebub again. His features suddenly turn so close to besotted that Aziraphale is barely capable of looking at it without getting uncomfortable. “I'm just dumbfounded about how it came to be in the first place. Why you kept the demon around in the beginning and didn't try to rain all of Heaven's might on his head.” Gabriel shrugs. “If I wouldn't have been forced to converse with Beelzebub on a regular basis after that blasted apocalypse that never happened – once again, thanks for that –, I would have never even considered getting close to them. I would still sit up there in Heaven, be the Supreme Archangel and have no worries in my life.” And then he adds, so quietly it's barely audible, “And no joy either.”

Aziraphale feels the anger within him slowly draining away. He does understand Gabriel's point of view, Aziraphale's behaviour in the past must look all kinds of confusing for a dutiful angel. Normally angels don't engage with demons until absolutely necessary.

And yet Aziraphale and Crowley were drawn to each other, even though neither of their superiors forced them to interact. On the contrary, they were usually told to keep away from each other and try to thwart the other one's efforts for either good or evil from the shadows.

Aziraphale sighs. Of course he could tell Gabriel the whole truth – that he already had met Crowley in Heaven and probably developed the first crush in recorded history and beyond within two seconds, urging him to seek Crowley's company over and over even after his Fall –, but somehow he doesn't feel a strong urge to share this part of the story with Gabriel. The former archangel's tale might seem similar at first, but at a closer look it's so vastly different to Aziraphale's that he isn't sure whether he might get much sympathy from Gabriel on the matter.

So instead he simply says, “Well, I guess I always have been an unconventional angel,” and leaves it with that.

Gabriel sure laughs at Aziraphale's self-assessment. “You most certainly were. Usually I didn't waste much thought on you, but when you came up you undoubtedly got stuck in my head, even if I could never really understand why.” His smile widens. “I think you were even the cause of my very first headache. I was so confused about that feeling, I had no idea what to do with it. For a while I even thought I was dying while Michael called me an idiot and rolled her eyes at me the whole time.”

Aziraphale can't help it, he smirks at the mental image. A sense of pride fills his very being at the thought of causing Gabriel so much pain and puzzlement.

“Either way, I guess that is also one of the reasons I came to you when I lost my memory,” Gabriel confesses. “Because you were unconventional.”

Aziraphale grins.

“And also because of Raphael, naturally,” Gabriel adds. “I had no memory, of course, but I guess some instinct told me that at least someone out there had experienced the same thing and came out on the other side of it. That's what drew me to the bookshop, too.”

Aziraphale freezes.

Blinks.

“… what?”

Did he seriously hear that correctly?

Gabriel, thankfully, catches on quickly to Aziraphale's confusion, but once again he reacts with amusement. “Oh, let me guess, you didn't know that either?” he wonders. “Well, to be fair, it wasn't common knowledge even back then, so why should we have informed a little Principality about it …”

While Gabriel continues in the same fashion, basically bashing Aziraphale's former rank and highlighting his unimportance back then, Aziraphale just remains unresponsive.

Did he honestly imply …?

No, this can't be.

Aziraphale would know about this.

… right?

The angel soon finds himself uncertain as he remembers how very little he actually had been privy to apparently. So why not add one more thing …?

Aziraphale ignores Gabriel's self-absorbed rambles completely and turns back into the room, looking for Crowley and finding him still standing in a corner, just eyeing Lucifer and Beelzebub on the couch warily (with Lucifer obviously having the time of his life merely being intimidating by sipping on a cup of tea and Beelzebub trying their hardest not be anxious and not succeeding completely).

Aziraphale doesn't hesitate to leave Gabriel behind right in the middle of his monologue and rushes over to the demon instead.

“They wiped your memory?” he blurts out, for everyone to hear. All the heads whip into their direction and Aziraphale couldn't give less of a damn about it.

Contrary to Crowley who immediately looks uncomfortable. “Seriously, angel?” he hisses underneath his breath. “How is this important right now?”

He sounds flippant about it, like it's all ancient history by now you shouldn't bother about anymore, and for him it might actually be, but for Aziraphale everything is new and frightening and the thought of Crowley having gone through the same thing as Gabriel …

All alone …

“But … you remember Heaven,” Aziraphale states. And then he adds tentatively, “Don't you?”

Crowley chews on his bottom lip. He so very obviously doesn't want to discuss this, especially with all the company around, but at the same time he doesn't want to deny Aziraphale anything at this point, probably still feeling rather guilty about the whole Raphael debacle.

And so he answers, still rather quietly to give them at least the illusion of privacy, “I remember some things. A lot of stuff still eludes me, though.”

Aziraphale wants to protest out of instinct, wants to insist that this doesn't make any sense, nobody seems to know more about the inner workings of Heaven than Crowley … but then he allows himself a moment to think this over and he ends up hesitating.

Basically since the moment they have met Crowley oftentimes began one of their conversations with, “I don't remember much about Heaven, but –”. That line became a staple actually and the entire time Aziraphale merely assumed that the demon had just been dismissing his past and decided to file all of that knowledge into the back of his mind on his own.

However, now Aziraphale can't help but think of the way Crowley can barely recite their first meeting. Or little things, like the fact that he built a hidden entrance into The Gate's wall to have access to Area B-1 back in the days, but can't recall to this day why he saw the need for that in the first place. Not to mention that he more often than not doesn't seem to recognise either angels or demons he allegedly had worked with in the past, just shrugging them off dismissively.

Aziraphale never really thought about it before, merely told himself that this was one of Crowley's quirks, but now …

“So they seriously wiped your memory back then?” Aziraphale asks, horrified at the thought. “Just like they did with Gabriel?”

“Well, they never actually turned me into a completely blank slate, like our friend over there,” he hisses before nodding into Gabriel's direction. “No idea why. Maybe someone botched the process or they got interrupted or something …”

He sounds nonchalant about it, but Aziraphale knows without any doubt that this has been weighing on the demon's mind for a very long time now.

“I still recalled the basics,” Crowley admits. “I even still knew my name. Other things I remembered back over time. It hurts, but it's doable.”

Aziraphale's heart breaks at the thought of his friend having to go through all that by himself. He must have felt so alone in this.

He reaches out, not caring who is watching right now, and intertwines his fingers with Crowley's, squeezing them soothingly. The demon tenses up at first, his gaze flickering to their audience, but he doesn't pull back either.

“Why did they do that to you?” Aziraphale whispers, his voice shaking.

Crowley shrugs. “That is something I don't remember either,” he confesses. “But if I had to guess? The rebellion was upon us and Heaven might have not been eager to lose two archangels at once. So maybe they were hoping to keep me with them by reprogramming me again.”

It does make sense, as awful as it sounds.

However, it doesn't sit right with Aziraphale. “Then why did God make you Fall anyway?” he asks, confused. “Even if someone messed up the whole memory erasing bit, they could have tried again, yes? Why go through such extreme measures?”

Crowley scoffs. “You know God. Ineffable.”

Well, yes.

But still …

“Or,” Lucifer suddenly pipes in, apparently having no problem with leaping into a conversation he wasn't invited to, “maybe Raphael learnt something he wasn't supposed to and Heaven decided to both wipe his memory and get rid of him.”

Crowley scowls at the devil. “With those conspiracy theories again, Luci? Aren't you getting tired of this?”

It's apparent they had this discussion before. Many times even.

“Oh please,” Lucifer brushes him off. “So you're telling me it's a coincidence that one day you're heading out to 'ask The Almighty some questions' and afterwards you come running to me, insisting that you had something important to tell me. But before any of that can happen, they suddenly grab you and make you forget everything?”

While Crowley just huffs, clearly having none of that, Aziraphale gets intrigued right away and turns to Lucifer as well.

“And you have no idea what … what Raphael intended to tell you?” he asks, still shivering a bit using that name, but feeling it would be more appropriate in this situation.

“No clue,” Lucifer admits. “But whatever it was, he seemed highly agitated about it.”

Aziraphale finds himself falling deeply in thought, his brain working overtime as he tries to make sense of it all. But before he is able to come up with at least one plausible explanation, Crowley nudges his shoulder impatiently and jerks him out of his reverie.

“I know that face, angel,” he hisses sharply. “Leave it be. It's not worth wrecking your brain over.”

Aziraphale bites his bottom lip. “But what if you really saw something –”

“You've seen too many films,” Crowley complains. Only to remedy a second later, “Or, in your case, you've read too many books. There is no bloody conspiracy here –”

“But how can you be sure?” Aziraphale cuts in. “Especially after what we know now.”

Crowley stays silent for a long minute, just studying the angel through his dark lenses. Aziraphale can see his snake eyes flickering back and forth, as though they're looking for something specific on the other's features.

In the end, Crowley sighs. “Fine, maybe there is something there,” he admits. “It's suspicious, I'll give you that.”

Aziraphale grins in triumph.

“Nonetheless, it doesn't matter right now,” Crowley brushes it off. “I won't get all my memories back in the next few hours, at least. Maybe I did see something. Maybe I was cast out to keep my mouth shut. Hey, maybe they even tried to kill me and failed.”

Aziraphale shudders once more as he recalls the rumours of Raphael's supposed death making their rounds back then. Angels who had been witnesses at the time described in horrible detail how the former archangel had been pierced through and burned and eventually Fell deep into the abyss, his wounds so severe that nobody had expected him to survive it all …

Aziraphale actually gets sick as he imagines Crowley's face during all this …

Did perhaps someone seriously count on Raphael not getting out of this alive? Had he been specifically targeted …?

Oh yes, Aziraphale is definitely getting ill from it all.

“We can't say what happened back then and maybe we never will,” Crowley states. And through their bond he says, “Please, stop fretting over this. You're only going to drive yourself insane.”

“But –” Aziraphale starts.

“We can investigate the matter sometime later if you really want to,” Crowley concedes, even though he sounds far from thrilled about it. “But right now we should focus on more important things, don't you think?”

And loud, for everyone else to hear again, he announces, “Let's just call Michael and have this all over with!”

While both Beelzebub and Lucifer grimace hard at the mention of the archangel's name and Gabriel's face actually lights up a little, as if he seriously missed his former partner somehow and looks forward to seeing her again, Aziraphale feels even more tension gathering in his body and it doesn't even ease up when Crowley squeezes his fingers reassuringly once more.

Aziraphale just sighs and prays to anyone who might listen – maybe even God or at least some other deity with a speck of power – that everything might be over soon.

One way or another.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale's hands actually shake a bit when he grips onto Crowley's phone and starts to dial Michael's number.

The demon gets it, though. This is it after all, isn't it? Soon enough she will be here and then all four of The Firsts – (and Crowley's brain refuses to add himself to that, no matter how naive that might be) – are going to open the book and they will finally know about God and Her whereabouts …

Aziraphale shudders at the magnitude of it all and he actually needs a few tries to finally push the right buttons. When it eventually rings, loud enough for every supernatural being in the room with enhanced hearing to note, the angel's anxiety visibly spikes once again and Crowley hurries to shuffle closer and offer all the comfort he can muster.

Aziraphale shoots him a grateful, little smile.

Which immediately vanishes when Michael's cold voice echoes through the phone line, “Aziraphale, you're late for your daily report.”

Aziraphale can't help but turn into a chastised child. “I apologise,” he is quick to make amends. “There have been so many grand developments –”

“Yes, yes, get to the point,” Michael cuts him off impatiently. “I don't have much time right now. The Metatron is due in my office any minute now.”

Aziraphale tenses up instantly and exchanges a nervous glance with Crowley.

“Well,” the angel says then, “how fast can you be here on Earth? London, to be exact.”

Michael pauses, clearly taken aback by the question. “Why?”

“We've got the band back together,” Crowley leaps into the conversation, leaning into Aziraphale's personal space to holler into the phone's speaker. “You're the only one who's missing, Mickey.”

Michael releases a noise of astonishment she probably would have been deeply embarrassed about under different circumstances. “You … did it?”

Crowley grins widely. “We did it, baby!”

“Even …?” Michael asks, clearly wondering whether she is hearing this correctly.

“Oh yes, even Satan himself,” Crowley replies cheerfully, throwing a tight grin into Lucifer's direction. Who in return just raises his hand as if he wants to say hi.

It feels a bit surreal, but at least Crowley's flippant attitude about it all makes Aziraphale relax in a certain way.

“Well,” Michael then states. “I'm actually impressed. I never imagined that you would manage to do this so quickly.”

Crowley refrains from pointing out that both Lucifer and Gabriel actually were the ones who came to them, one after the other. There is no harm in letting Michael believe, at least for a while, that Crowley and Aziraphale are both miracle workers who accomplished the near impossible all by themselves.

“So, when can you be here?” Crowley urges. “Because as much fun as our merry band is, I'd rather see them gone again very soon.”

Michael hums in thought. “Like I said, The Metatron is about to pay me a visit. To discuss the current crisis. This might take a while.” She sighs. “I will try to keep it short and call you afterwards.”

Without another word she hangs up the phone.

Aziraphale blinks in surprise while Crowley just scoffs.

No manners, those angels.

“Looks like we have some time to kill, huh?” Lucifer asks, a smirk on his lips. “Who is in the mood for some poker?”

While both Gabriel and Ana actually seem intrigued by that proposal, Crowley just groans and immediately walks out of the room.

While praying that Michael will hurry up, goddammit.

---

At some point Crowley ends up in Ana's winter garden.

It's disorganised and a little dirtier than it needs to be, but she clearly takes care of her plants and herbs and Crowley can certainly respect that. So he doesn't hesitate to sit down on a bench right in the centre of the room and, after taking in the atmosphere, look upwards.

Into the sky.

It has started to grow dark and the first stars are visible up top. Not impressively so because big cities like London haven't seen a proper night sky in ages, but it's enough to put him at ease. He looks at those familiar shapes and feels some sort of peace filling him up.

He remains alone for about ten minutes before he notices a figure coming closer.

It's Aziraphale, trying to stay quiet and nearly running into a pot in his effort to do so.

“May I join you?” he asks, almost a little hesitantly. As though he expects Crowley to deny him.

The demon merely scoots a bit nearer to one side of the bench and gestures at the free space next to him. “Be my guest.”

Aziraphale immediately sits down and makes himself comfortable in that special way of his, by wiggling around to find just the right spot. Crowley watches it from the corner of his eyes with a fondness he simply can't suppress and even ends up with a small smile on his features.

Eventually, when Aziraphale finally manages to settle down, they stay silent for a long while, solely looking out of the big window above them.

“Is Ana alright?” Crowley asks at last, keeping his voice low to not startle the angel.

Aziraphale, to his credit, doesn't even flinch. “She is,” he confirms. “I insisted on her leaving the house, to be on the safer side. I even offered to pay for any accommodations, maybe enjoy a few days in a nice wellness hotel. But she refused.”

Crowley chuckles. He isn't really surprised. “Of course she did.”

“I think she is rather fascinated by it all,” Aziraphale continues, disbelief in his tone now. “Well, I assume it's not any day you have got a group of angels and demons in your living room, among them several former archangels and the devil himself. She obviously can't miss that.”

Crowley laughs now. “No, she cannot.”

“Last I saw she was rummaging around in her kitchen,” Aziraphale says. “I heard her mumbling about introducing us all to the joys of alcohol.” He frowns at that. “I'm not sure a drunk Lucifer or Gabriel would be such a good idea. Especially with something as poker involved.”

Crowley's grin gets so wide his face nearly splits in two. “It would be immense fun, though.”

Aziraphale doesn't appear to agree, but at the same time he apparently doesn't deem this important enough to leave his comfy spot and prevent Ana from presenting her liquor collection to all those eternal beings in her home. No, instead he stays right where he is, his gaze still directed at the stars in the sky.

Ultimately, when the silence has been stretching between them too long again, he whispers, “You created some of them, didn't you?”

Crowley nods. “I did.”

He feels a knot forming in his throat, making it difficult to speak.

“You do remember that you were building a nebula the first time we met, right?” Aziraphale wonders and when Crowley hums in confirmation, he adds, “It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Well,” he pauses, suddenly beginning to blush endearingly, “apart from you, that is.”

Crowley senses something very warm bubbling in his chest.

His smirk grows.

“Angel,” he teases. “Did you have a crush back then?”

Aziraphale doesn't even hesitate for a single second as he admits, “Yes, I did. It might have very well been the very first crush in the history of everything. And it took all of ten seconds at most.”

Crowley arches his brows. Granted, Aziraphale had hinted something of the kind a while ago, but it most certainly is different to hear it all spelled out like this.

He clears his throat awkwardly.

“Well,” he croaks, “I guess that was over and done with quickly when you met me as a demon again, huh? What a letdown and all that.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Please don't talk about yourself like that,” he pleads. “And no, it didn't just disappear. It got very confusing, yes, and I might have battled with myself more often than not, but nothing vanished. On the contrary, it only … grew.”

Crowley presses his lips into a thin line as he fails to come up with something appropriate to respond to that.

Despite everything he is still not very good with this whole feelings talk and it will probably take a few decades at least for him to become even remotely acceptable in his skills.

But that doesn't mean he is totally helpless right now.

And so he decides to pick up that very important conversation again that they had to cut short because of Lucifer's sudden disappearance.

“Look, Aziraphale,” he says with a heavy sigh, taking his sunglasses off to offer at least some sort of openness. “I'm really sorry. About … about Raphael.”

The name still burns on his tongue something fierce, but Aziraphale deserves the whole truth.

The angel's features soften instantly. “Oh, Crowley …”

“No, please,” the demon cuts in quickly. “I just … I apologise for being so … so dumb. I shouldn't have just assumed that you knew, even if it made all the sense at the time. I should have made sure …”

Crowley can only recall bits and pieces about his first meeting with Aziraphale. He remembers that he was too distracted at first to really acknowledge the angel, but that he soon found himself engaged with him. And he knows that he instantly liked that unassuming little angel from the beginning, deeming him a fresh breeze of air after having dealt with the likes of Lucifer and his closest followers for too long at that point. Aziraphale was lovely and nice and Crowley recalls seriously enjoying that.

And yes, he assumed that Aziraphale knew about his status because frankly, the angel had been rather flustered in his presence and Crowley had been quite used to that kind of behaviour at the time when meeting lower ranking angels. Raphael back then was too dense to realise that it might have been something else but utter awe all along.

And Crowley didn't question it over all these millennia either since apparently he is just as stupid.

“Crowley, it's … okay,” Aziraphale says. “I'm not saying that I have even remotely digested the information just yet or that I won't freak out about it once or twice – or a lot – over the next few days, weeks, months, millennia regularly. It's still … dear Lord, mind-blowing.”

Crowley certainly can imagine what sort of shock this must have been.

“But … you were also right,” Aziraphale states. “You're still the same person. We are still the same. Only because your past looks way different than I anticipated …”

He trails off and just makes a vague hand gesture.

“I will need some time to wrap my head around this,” the angel confesses. “And I'm already apologising in advance because sometime – or, more likely, very often – I'm going to look at you as though … well, as though I don't know you or as though you're a puzzle I just can't figure out …”

He seems deeply sorry about that already, but also knows himself well enough by now to realise that this is exactly the way he is going to feel in the foreseeable future about this entire mess and there is nothing he can do about it.

And yes, Crowley gets it. It's all new to Aziraphale and so much to stomach in such a brief period of time, not to mention the fact that so many other terrifying things are happening all at once. Aziraphale is probably merely able to stand upright right now and appear remotely collected because he is a) an angel, and b) stubborn as hell if he needs to be.

If everything is said and done and he and Crowley will (hopefully) return to their old life? Well, Crowley can already picture everything crashing down on Aziraphale at once then.

Nobody would blame him for that, least of all Crowley.

It won't be pretty, the demon knows that, and maybe Aziraphale won't be capable of standing Crowley's sight for a while, at least not without feeling too much at the same time, but they both have to trust that they will come out of it on the other side somewhat alright.

Crowley doesn't have much faith left, but this he believes with all his being.

“And I'm sorry too,” Aziraphale then whispers, jerking the demon out of his thoughts. A sorrowful expression finds itself on the angel's features all of a sudden and Crowley frowns at it in confusion.

“Sorry?” he wonders. “For what?”

Aziraphale lowers his gaze. “I actually meant to apologise a long time ago, but somehow … well, to be frank, I felt too ashamed.”

Crowley is still not following. “About what?”

Aziraphale presses his lips so tightly together they completely vanish. “It is my fault,” he breathes. And then clarifies when Crowley just continues to stare at him, “Your Fall. I made you question …”

He seems to deflate, as if this has been weighing on him for all eternity now.

Crowley merely blinks, not really sure what to do with that.

“And now I'm starting to realise that you maybe don't even remember,” Aziraphale whispers, the remorse in his tone so heartbreaking Crowley actually hears something shatter inside of himself. “Dear Lord, you might not even know and I kept it to myself the whole time …”

He starts to fidget and it's obvious he is on the brink of leaping to his feet, probably to pace the room nervously and ramble about before fleeing the scene without giving Crowley a chance to reply.

Crowley, not in the mood for any of that, just quickly spurs into action and throws his arm across the angel's lap to keep him right where he is. Aziraphale flinches at the sudden contact, but doesn't pull back, so the demon decides to see this as a win.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says slowly, “am I understanding this correctly and are you seriously trying to blame yourself for my Fall?”

Aziraphale grimaces. “You might not remember … but it was me who made you question God's decisions … and I don't know if you actually Fell because of said questions or if you maybe indeed saw something you weren't supposed to, only because I made you seek out the Almighty at that exact moment …”

Crowley rolls his eyes extra hard. “This is not your fault, any of it.”

“But –”

“Aziraphale, please,” Crowley cuts him off. “You're welcome to blame Lucifer or God or maybe even The Metatron – at this point I wouldn't be surprised if he played a part as well back then. You can even fault me – or Raphael, if that makes you feel better – for being so absolutely stupid to challenge the Almighty during a time of beginning unrest …” He shakes his head, sighing. “You, though? There is nothing you have to feel bad about.”

Aziraphale doesn't seem like he is agreeing, but he tentatively nods anyway. He obviously can't bring himself to look into Crowley's eyes, though.

Crowley shuffles closer, until they're pressed together from head to toe. “This has been weighing on your mind a long time now, huh?”

Aziraphale solely makes a scoffing noise, but otherwise remains quiet on the matter. It's all the answer Crowley needs, however.

“You know what?” the demon says. “When all of this is over, when all of those twats in the next room are back in Heaven or Hell or wherever, just where they belong, far away from us – then we two should sit down and talk about everything. I will tell you my entire life story – what I experienced, how I felt about it, even about the stuff I remember from Above – and you will tell me yours.”

Aziraphale's forehead creases. “That will take a long time.”

“It will,” Crowley confirms. “But I guess it's what we need if we want to look forward to a better future and all that rubbish.”

Aziraphale chuckles quietly. “I think you're right,” he says. “It's certainly not the worst idea you ever had.”

“Hey!” Crowley mock-complains, even though the fond smile on his face undoubtedly betrays him.

Aziraphale shoots him a soft look as he links their fingers together and they remain like this, just gazing at each other and ignoring the voices coming from the other room. At least it doesn't sound like they're murdering one another, so Crowley doesn't deem it important enough to offer it any of his precious attention.

They only get startled out of their little moment, though, when something starts to vibrate in Crowley's trousers and he takes a second to realise that it's his phone.

He hastily pulls it out and recognises the number showing up on the screen as the one Aziraphale called before.

“It's Michael,” Crowley mutters, his chest tightening as reality hits him full force again. He seriously doesn't want to deal with any of this right now – or ever –, wants to stay in this content bubble with Aziraphale for longer, but unfortunately the universe has got other plans.

He hits accept on his phone and puts on the loudspeaker.

“Michael,” he greets the being on the other end of the line fake-cheerfully. “How nice to hear back from you. Are you on your way?”

“Oh, um, no, I'm sorry,” a voice that is most definitely not the most annoying archangel in existence answers then. “I'm not Michael – I mean, can you imagine, oh dear Lord –”

Crowley frowns in confusion as he listens to that familiar nervous chuckle.

“Muriel?” he asks and exchanges a look with Aziraphale to make sure he got that right. The angel nods, looking equally puzzled.

“Oh yes!” Muriel replies with their usual enthusiasm. “It is me, yes! Using a human mObiLe pHoNe –” they say, pronouncing the words in the weirdest way possible. “Humans are so ingenious despite their limited powers, are they not? It is quite marvellous –”

“Why do you have Michael's phone?” Crowley cuts in sharply, not in the mood to hear one of the baby angel's rambles.

“Oh, well,” Muriel responds, “he gave it to me and told me to call you. It is such an honour to be of service –”

Crowley feels dread filling his entire being. “Who told you that?” he urges.

Muriel doesn't answer. No, instead there is a shuffling noise, indicating that the phone is reached around, before another voice suddenly echoes through the line.

“Demon,” The Metatron greets him like they're old friends who haven't heard from each other in a while. “I think we need to have a little chat, don't we?”

Chapter Text

Of course Aziraphale shouldn't be surprised.

Because something always goes wrong.

And yet he flinches violently at the sound of The Metatron's voice and grips onto Crowley's arm for support since he is not sure whether his knees would have been able to keep him upright otherwise. He grasps on tightly and the demon immediately leans into the touch, probably offering comfort and seeking reassurance at the same time as well.

“Fuck!” Crowley sends through their connection and it takes Aziraphale a second to realise that he didn't say that out loud. “This isn't good.”

That might very well be an outrageous understatement.

“Don't panic just yet,” Aziraphale says calmly, even though he feels anything but. “He doesn't know where we are, otherwise he wouldn't just call.”

“From Michael's phone,” Crowley reminds him with a huff.

Aziraphale grimaces. “Yes, this is bad.”

“Gentlemen,” The Metatron says in that grandfatherly tone of his Aziraphale has learnt to hate more than anything. “I think we got off on the wrong foot, as humans tend to say. We don't have to work against each other.”

Aziraphale bristles at those words. “You want to bring an end to all of creation. I don't see where we could find a common ground here.”

“The Second Coming has been foretold since the beginning,” The Metatron berates him like a child who doesn't know anything of the world just yet. “And it's not The End. Every worthy soul out there will ascend to paradise and spend eternity in the light of God …”

Aziraphale grits his teeth. “And you decide who is worthy of that and who is not, am I right? And everyone and everything else just ceases to exist.”

The Metatron falls silent after that and Aziraphale almost regrets not being able to see the being's face right now and decipher all the micro-emotions flashing over his features. Annoyance, impatience. Maybe even a tiny little bit of awkwardness, who knows?

“Perhaps we should discuss this in a more intimate setting,” The Metatron then proposes, once again sounding jolly nice and not like a threat at all. “This isn't something to talk about over the phone.”

Crowley grits his teeth, every single fibre of his body clearly revolting against the mere idea.

Aziraphale certainly feels the same way and yet …

“Muriel is with him,” Aziraphale points out once more through their bond just when the demon is about to open his mouth and most likely snarl at The Metatron to go where the sun doesn't shine. “That means …”

He doesn't need to say anything further, Crowley gets it right away. His expression darkens visibly.

“You're at the bookshop, aren't you?” he asks The Metatron, a thousand negative emotions wavering in his tone.

“Oh yes, I am,” The Metatron confirms without a second of hesitation. “I know you would love to return here, wouldn't you? Muriel and all your lovely neighbours surely are missing you a great deal.”

Aziraphale instantly sees the intimidation for what it is: come over or Muriel, Nina, Maggie and everyone else close by will pay a terrible price.

It makes Aziraphale's throat close up.

From a rational perspective it would be foolish to risk everything for a bunch of humans when the entirety of creation is at stake. It would be much more reasonable to fling the mobile phone away from them as far as possible and then, after grabbing Jesus and the book, flee into the unknown.

But the mere prospect makes Aziraphale physically ill.

The idea of abandoning his friends like this is too much to bear.

Crowley certainly seems to struggle with the same thing. “We should run,” he voices out Aziraphale's thoughts. “But …”

Aziraphale sags his shoulders. “I know what you mean.”

“The Metatron won't just stop at the neighbourhood,” Crowley adds, obviously trying to convince himself as much as the angel. “Next is going to be all of Soho and then maybe London itself. He won't hesitate to burn the whole world to find us.”

Aziraphale shudders. Of course he already anticipated such a scenario, but he had hoped for them to have at least a little more time.

“Besides, if he's got Michael's phone …” Crowley continues.

Aziraphale sighs. “Then he must have Michael.”

He probably didn't kill her because this would have been very difficult to explain to the rest of Heaven, but it's highly likely that she is locked up this very instant and the prisons of Above are basically impenetrable. Aziraphale at least has never heard of anyone ever escaping before.

“Without her we can't go through with our plan,” Crowley reminds him. “We need to find out exactly where she is.”

This is, unfortunately, true. Yes, she might be imprisoned, but maybe The Metatron is keeping her at a secret location. Or perhaps he is keen on keeping her around, to not let her out of his sight.

Either way, this is vital information they can't just dismiss.

“Looks like we're going back to the bookshop,” Crowley says. And then, directed at The Metatron, he states, “If you dare to hurt any of our friends, you will regret the day we were created, do you hear me?”

The Metatron laughs. “Of course,” he says easily, obviously not taking Crowley seriously by any means. “I will be awaiting your return.”

He hangs up, leaving Crowley and Aziraphale behind with just that beeping sound as company.

Crowley mumbles something underneath his breath and puts his phone away again before glancing back into the house where the droning voice of Lucifer obviously explaining something in his condescending tone wafts over to them.

“We need to go without them knowing,” Crowley urges. “Meta-Wanker can't get his hands on them as well.”

Aziraphale nods. For The Metatron to have all of The Firsts at his disposal sounds like a horrible idea.

“Then let's go before anyone notices we're missing,” the angel whispers through their bond as he grabs Crowley's hand and pulls the demon right out of the backdoor. He doesn't feel good about this, especially about leaving Ana to her devices to deal with a former archangel, a former lord of Hell and Satan himself (even though she surely proved herself earlier to be capable of standing her own ground), but Aziraphale knows that the alternative would be just as uncomfortable.

Lucifer would insist on coming along and Gabriel would probably impose as well, his self-absorbed ego most likely somehow making him believe he would be able to change The Metatron's mind about The Second Coming somehow, and ultimately Heaven would have the upper hand yet again.

Aziraphale shudders at the mere thought.

So he sends a silent apology in Ana's direction while they hurry towards The Bentley, dread filling both of their beings with every single step.

And that feeling doesn't vanish when they, only ten minutes later thanks to Crowley's hellish driving skills, stop right in front of the bookshop where at that exact moment miraculously a parking spot opens up.

Aziraphale takes a very deep breath and reaches out to Crowley one last time. They link their hands and squeeze them soothingly while sharing tight smiles with each other. No word is spoken, not even through their bond, and yet Aziraphale senses the connection between them more than ever.

They dwell in that moment for a mere second before they finally climb out of the car and face their doom together.

Right away Aziraphale is hit with a full blast of nostalgia at the sight of the bookshop standing tall and proud at the street corner like it has done so many decades now.

The angel sighs wistfully as he can't help but remember the very first time he walked through that double door and was instantly lost to the building's charm. Suddenly it feels just like yesterday and at the same time so long ago that Aziraphale doesn't know what to do with it.

As they step through the door now, however, Aziraphale only has a brief second to reminisce about all the good times before he tenses up as his gaze meets the other people in the room.

The Metatron is sitting on Aziraphale's favourite armchair, so casual like it's any other day, and finds himself flanked by three rather intimidating looking angels. In the background Muriel is shuffling between the shelves, deeply engrossed in their task, and clearly not realising in what kind of danger they are right now.

“There you are!” The Metatron greets them with a wide smile as he spreads his arms as though he is about to pull them into an embrace. Crowley visibly bristles at that and stops right where he stands, apparently not eager to get any closer. Aziraphale follows his example because he certainly feels the same way.

And so they stay frozen in the middle of the room and both scowl at The Metatron taking up all that precious space.

“It's been a while,” The Metatron says, a horribly fake smile on his lips as he studies the newcomers. “How have you been? Would you like a cup of tea perhaps?”

Crowley actually bares his teeth at him.

“Can we drop this charade?” he hisses. “It only makes me want to kill you more.”

While the other angels tense up at those words, clearly bracing themselves to stop Crowley at all costs, The Metatron merely snickers quietly.

“Very well,” he agrees easily enough. “Then let's cut right to the chase, as humans tend to say, shall we? Even though Kimiel over here does actually brew a rather decent tea,” he adds, pointing at one of his bodyguards behind him who immediately straightens his back at being addressed directly. “You're missing out.”

On the edge of his sight Aziraphale notices Crowley rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses.

“Maybe later then,” The Metatron says with a shrug. “Although you're indeed right, we're on a strict timetable here. So why don't you just give me the book and stop making any more trouble for all of us, yes?”

There is a rather sharp edge in his tone all of a sudden and Aziraphale can't help a small wince.

Crowley, meanwhile, doesn't look like he is impressed at all. “Your demands are big,” he states, his composure not faltering once. “And yet you offer nothing in return.”

The Metatron chuckles. “Do you really think you are in any position to bargain with me, demon?”

“I think so, yes,” Crowley says with a nod. He even shoots The Voice a cocky smile which looks so utterly confident that even Aziraphale ends up fooled by it for a moment.

The Metatron appears primarily annoyed by Crowley's attitude, though, and for a brief moment it even shows up on his features, clear as day, but he quickly settles into his neutral state of appearance again, all composed and aloof. As though he is above everyone and everything, and couldn't be bothered to care.

“Look, you two stole The Book of Life and even confused Jesus Christ's mind so much that he went along with this madness,” The Metatron states. “Those offences are severe and I would have every right to disassemble you into atoms where you stand without even the hint of a trial.”

The angels behind him start to shuffle, once again as if they're preparing themselves to do just that.

“You only remain alive right now because I still have need for you,” The Metatron reminds them. “But please, don't test my patience. You don't want to risk that, trust me.”

Even though he actually sounds somewhat nonchalant, the threat is more than effective. Aziraphale feels a shiver running down his spine, making him very uncomfortable.

“Where is Michael?” Crowley demands to know, his eyes piercing behind his shades.

“None of your concern,” The Metatron dismisses them. “You should rather worry about yourselves.”

Aziraphale chews on his bottom lip. Like they have discussed before, it's highly unlikely that The Metatron just killed her. Apart from the fact that it would have raised a series of very awkward questions he would have been unable to answer, Aziraphale is also fairly sure that he (and all of Heaven) would have sensed the end of the existence of someone as significant as Michael. It would have caused ripples throughout the cosmos unable to miss.

However, that doesn't mean that he didn't put her somewhere nobody would be capable of reaching her.

And without her …

“I want the book,” The Metatron repeats himself with a weary sigh. “And I won't say it again.”

Aziraphale unconsciously shuffles closer to Crowley yet again, their hands lightly brushing now. The contact is enough to offer some sort of comfort, even if it might be delusional at this point.

“You can't win here,” The Metatron points out. “Your weakness is too great.”

He gestures further into the room where Muriel is still busy shelving some books, obviously not a care in the world. And then The Metatron motions outside and Aziraphale looks through the large window to the other side of the road, right where Nina's coffee shop is standing tall and proud. Nina is currently taking the order of a couple sitting at one of the outdoor tables, completely unaware of the figure lurking in the shadows behind her, watching every of her moves. Another angel, clearly one of The Metatron's trusted soldiers.

“I just have to say the word and –” The Metatron snaps his fingers and Aziraphale doesn't need a lot of fantasy to know what would follow such an action.

He feels panic gripping at him as his gaze rests on their human friend.

“She didn't do anything wrong,” Crowley presses through his teeth. “None of them have.”

“You're right, they didn't,” The Metatron confirms. “And yet I won't hesitate to not only kill them where they stand, but to drag their souls to Hell, to be tortured for all eternity.”

Both Aziraphale and Crowley tense up at once hearing those words.

“You can't –” Crowley barks.

“How would you even begin to justify –?” Aziraphale snaps at the same time, shaken to his core at the mere possibility of Nina and all their other friends ending up damned in such a cruel manner, of no fault of their own.

The Metatron merely waves them off like they're obnoxious bugs interrupting his nice meal. “I can do it and I will,” he swears, leaving no room for doubt. “And it's going to be all your fault.”

Aziraphale clenches his hands so fiercely into fists his fingernails dig painfully into his palm. He concentrates on that ache, welcomes it even, because otherwise he might have lost his temper and punched The Metatron in the face, ruining it all in the process.

And by the way Crowley is basically vibrating next to him the demon has a hard time keeping himself at bay, too.

The Metatron merely smiles, visibly amused by their obvious struggles. “Please, gentlemen,” he says then, after revelling in the sight of Aziraphale and Crowley fighting their instincts for a few, long minutes. “I'm not an unreasonable angel, all things considered. I'm sure we will come to an agreement everyone can be content with.”

Crowley scoffs so strongly he almost spits into The Metatron's face.

“I'm serious,” The Voice insists. “I know you love humanity and all that and you want to save them at all costs, but this is God's will and you can't honestly presume to be standing above that, can you?”

Aziraphale and Crowley simply glare at him and stay quiet, not deeming that with a response.

“The Second Coming will happen,” The Metatron makes himself clear. “It is up to you, though, how exactly. Because if you decide to cooperate with me here and now, I will be ready to show mercy. Not only are your beloved human friends going to be allowed into paradise, no questions asked, but you two as well.” When neither of them reacts in any manner at that, The Metatron adds, “Yes, even you, demon. You can stay right how you are, a little demon and nothing more. No need to change into an angel first, as you so clearly would despise that, am I right?”

Crowley grinds his teeth very audibly.

“You can stay together in paradise forever,” The Metatron promises. “You can live in a little private corner, just the two of you, and be happy and in love and whatnot. Take the bookshop with you and your car and whatever else you can think of.”

For one, traitorous moment Aziraphale allows himself to picture it. To simply exist with Crowley in a happy bubble, no care in the world. To be with one another, hold each other, just do all the things Aziraphale has been fantasising about for way too long now, without fearing any form of repercussion for it. He would be free to kiss Crowley in the morning and the evening and in-between as often as they both want.

It indeed sounds wonderful.

But oh Lord, at what cost …

“And what about the rest, huh?” Crowley challenges.

“If you think about it, there will be nobody left but demons and the rotten scum of humanity,” The Metatron says. “And do you really want to risk it all to protect a bunch of murderers and abusers and –”

“– and anyone else you deem unworthy,” Crowley cuts in harshly. “Atheists, wiccans, witches, people who committed some sort of sin in your eyes …” He huffs. “I could go on, if you want.”

The vein above The Metatron's eye twitches, otherwise he doesn't show any kind of reaction to Crowley's accusation.

“Maybe we can come to an arrangement on the matter as well,” he finally proposes. “You're still the Supreme Archangel after all, Aziraphale. You should be allowed to have a say in the matter, too.”

Aziraphale blinks, confused. “You want me to help decide who is allowed into paradise and who is not?”

“You, Jesus Christ, the rest of the Holy Host,” The Metatron goes on. “It's a group effort, after all.”

Aziraphale squints his eyes. “Are you serious?”

“I swear on the Almighty's name!” The Metatron urges.

And that is a promise no angel would be able to break, no matter what. They would disintegrate even entertaining such an idea for a fleeting second. No, this is binding and indestructible.

Aziraphale finds himself more stunned than ever.

“Why is he so ridiculously eager to start The Second Coming?” he sends to Crowley via their bond. “Granted, God commanded it, but …”

It doesn't sit right with Aziraphale at all.

Crowley hums in agreement underneath his breath. “You're right,” he confirms. “It seems very suspicious that he is so awfully keen on sharing all his power. I don't know …”

Crowley's conflict on the topic is tangible through their connection in such a manner it actually makes Aziraphale a little dizzy.

The Metatron, meanwhile, leans forward on his armchair, his intense gaze resting on both of them. “So, gentlemen,” he says, “what shall it be?”

Chapter Text

“What shall it be?”

The question echoes in Crowley's brain, makes him light-headed and nauseous, as he watches The Metatron intently, hoping to spot some sort of weakness on the other angel's features. The Voice, however, remains calm and collected, at least on the outside, and it drives Crowley absolutely nuts to see him so nonchalant about the whole affair.

As though they're talking about a mere business deal and not the fate of basically everything.

Crowley glimpses back outside, right at the coffee shop where that one angel is still hovering in the shadows, their sole attention settled on Nina who is completely unaware of the danger she is in. She is simply serving a customer, nodding along to whatever the two people on the table are telling her, while she is probably already daydreaming about the end of the day when she can close up the shop and enjoy her free time. She might have some plans with Maggie later on or she is only hoping for a quiet evening with a nice book and a glass of wine, Crowley has no idea, but he finds that he wants to do everything in his power to make this possible for her.

Crowley notices Aziraphale looking in the same direction, most likely similar thoughts rushing through his head at that moment.

“What shall we do?” Aziraphale whispers through their bond, the emotions wavering in his voice so real Crowley can almost touch them. “We can't let them die like … like …”

Like the worst sinners, destined to be tortured in Hell for all eternity by the likes of Hastur.

Crowley gets violently sick at the mere prospect.

“But … the book,” Aziraphale goes on, absolutely miserable by being confronted with such an impossible choice. “And … everyone else …”

Yes, it is an impossible choice and Crowley never felt so overwhelmed before.

Whatever they decide, it will both be right and so very wrong.

Why the bloody hell did he ever choose to develop feelings and all that rubbish? It just makes things so utterly complicated. Everything would be so much easier if he wouldn't feel a damned thing.

“I don't have all day,” The Metatron's piercing voice rips harshly through the air, jerking them out of their private conversation. “I'm running out of patience.”

Crowley chews on his bottom lip.

And then he makes a decision.

“We need to give him the book!” he sends through their bond.

Aziraphale is apparently so surprised by those words he forgets to be subtle about his reaction. “Are you serious?”

Crowley sighs. “What other choice do we have?”

“He is bluffing,” the angel insists, his hard gaze still settled on The Metatron making himself comfortable on Aziraphale's favourite armchair like he has been invited to do so. “It is not allowed to send uncorrupted souls to Hell. They can't even cross the threshold.”

It is most certainly true.

There is a reason why Hell is so eager to corrupt and twist as much souls as possible when the humans are still alive.

“What does it matter?” Crowley cuts in with a slight shake of his head. “Maybe he is bluffing. Or maybe he honestly found a way to cheat the system and is able to dump them all down there, Muriel included. I don't really wanna risk finding out. Do you?”

Aziraphale hesitates, a pained expression on his face.

“But …” he whispers eventually. “The book … we sacrificed so much to get it.”

Crowley hates to think about it as well. “Yeah, we did,” he confirms. “But this is not how life works. Sometimes sacrifices are just short-term or even useless.”

Aziraphale sags his shoulders, defeated.

“Look, so far he can't do much with only the book, right?” Crowley tries to see at least the hint of a bright side. “Let's just get it and hopefully stall for some time until we can think of a way to get out of this mess …”

Aziraphale eyes The Metatron and the other angels in the room warily.

“I'm not sure there is a way –” he starts, but instantly gets interrupted when The Metatron clears his throat loudly once more.

“Are you done with your silent communication?” he asks impatiently, gesturing back and forth between them. “Because it is getting tiring.”

Crowley flinches as he at first finds himself believing that The Metatron somehow knows about their magical rings and their unique connection and he can't help but yank his ringed hand behind his back on instinct, eager to protect it all. However, it doesn't take long for him to realise that The Metatron obviously thinks that Crowley and Aziraphale are simply silently communicating with their eyes and facial expressions and the demon allows himself a second to sigh in relief.

He wouldn't want their special bond exposed to the likes of The Voice.

“We're getting you the book,” Crowley says through gritted teeth. “You pathetic, self-absorbed –”

“Yes, thank you,” The Metatron quickly interjects with a raise of his hand. “It is truly good to know that there is some common sense left in you.”

Crowley scoffs while Aziraphale pulls a face as though the other angel has offended him greatly.

“Well then,” The Metatron says, leaning forward in the armchair a little. “Off you go. And don't come back empty-handed or even consider betraying me somehow. I have eyes and ears at places you wouldn't even believe.”

Crowley can't help it, he looks around sceptically.

Then he reaches out for Aziraphale, keen on dragging his angel out of there as quickly as possible. However, he doesn't even manage to touch Aziraphale before The Metatron cuts in with a, “And I would assume this is an one-person job, yes?”

He blinks at Crowley, almost looking innocent.

While the demon actually snarls at him.

“Maybe you should shut your mouth –”

“And maybe you should consider the bigger picture here,” The Metatron interrupts, calm as ever. “Aziraphale may stay here with me. You can fetch the book in the meantime.”

Like a good, little dog, he doesn't say, but clearly means.

Crowley tenses up from top to bottom and the urge to throw himself at that particular angel and show him the wrath of Hell suddenly sparks alive again, more powerful than ever. For a brief second his vision even gets black as he pictures roaring a battle cry and screwing caution to the wind.

And then Aziraphale brushes his wrist, just once, and Crowley's rage dissipates immediately.

It's almost a bit frightening how much power the angel has over him.

“I will be fine,” Aziraphale assures, his voice low. “Please, dearest.”

“Please, don't risk your life over this,” he adds through their bond. “The Metatron won't harm me.”

Crowley grimaces. “You don't know that –”

“Don't act like this doesn't make sense, from his point of view,” Aziraphale says. “He knows that we will always come back for each other. He just wants reassurance, that's all. There is nothing nefarious about it.”

Crowley clenches his hands into fists and shoots a dark glare at The Metatron before he turns back to Aziraphale.

“It is true, by the way,” he states.

Aziraphale frowns. “What is?”

“I will always come back for you,” Crowley swears like he has never sworn anything before in his entire existence.

Aziraphale's features soften immediately in that special way of his. “Oh Crowley,” he whispers, so many emotions in his voice. “I feel the same.”

Crowley wants to pull him close, wants to touch him, kiss him. Wants to hold on and never let go.

However, he is very aware of their company, so he simply tries to convey his feelings with the support of the rings. He is not sure if he actually succeeds, but he likes to believe that Aziraphale's besotted expression gets a little bit more besotted in the process.

Crowley looks at him for a moment longer, drinks it all in, and then he forces himself to whirl around and walk out of the room as quickly as possible before he has time to change his mind.

And he keeps on walking, even though it feels like he is leaving his heart behind.

---

Crowley finds Jesus quickly enough.

The aquarium in Düsseldorf the demon dumped his human friend a while ago to keep him both hidden from too curious eyes and also preoccupied for days so he wouldn't get himself in trouble has already been closed for half an hour and nobody is around anymore. Only Jesus is sitting on a bench, staring with awe at the huge tank filled with all sorts of fishes right in front of him.

Jesus looks relaxed, happy, and for a second Crowley actually hates the thought of disturbing the man's peace. Being the son of God has never been easy for him, even though he scarcely shows it, and there is barely anyone on this planet who deserves a break more than him.

Back in the day Crowley had witnessed the constant stress and pressure Jesus was under first-hand and the man might have been dead for two-thousand years since then, but the demon highly doubts that all of that completely vanished overnight. After all, Jesus is still the offspring of the Almighty and that will never change. That fact alone must be a huge weight on his shoulders, day in and day out.

So yes, leaving Jesus alone to admire some colourful fishes idly swimming their rounds in the tank seems like a small price to pay.

However, Crowley doesn't have the luxury of allowing his friend a few days of serenity. Instead he grits his teeth and steps closer, moving right into Jesus' line of sight.

Jesus' gaze doesn't divert from the tank even once. “Is it time?”

Crowley straightens his back. “There have been … some developments.”

Jesus certainly notices the tightness in the demon's tone right away and finally directs his attention back to him. His eyes flicker over Crowley's form as if he might find the answer to absolute everything that way.

“I assume things didn't go as planned?” he realises straight away.

Jesus was never one who could ever be fooled.

Crowley sighs. “You might say that.”

Jesus tilts his head. “What happened?”

Crowley growls underneath his breath, impatience gripping him once more, but Jesus needs at least the basics to not walk blindly into a situation he is not prepared for. So the demon hurries to summarise everything the man has missed and only blushes slightly when his words eventually begin to tumble above each other, turning his sentences into jumbled messes.

Nonetheless he tells Jesus about Lucifer showing up, about Gabriel and Beelzebub, and ultimately about The Metatron blackmailing them in the cruellest way possible. Jesus listens to it all silently, not a single muscle twitching in his face the entire time.

“Okay, we have to go!” Crowley urges then when he deems Jesus caught up enough. His thoughts can't help but return to Aziraphale, all alone with The Metatron and his bullies right now, and to their friends who have the threat of dying horribly soon enough still hanging above them all like a sword ready to slice them open.

Crowley can't leave them hanging.

But when he reaches out to Jesus to pull him to his feet and carry him back to London as quickly as possible, the man actually avoids any sort of contact by taking a step back.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he implores.

Crowley groans. “Of course I don't want to –”

“Then maybe you shouldn't,” Jesus says as though it's as easy as that.

Crowley rolls his eyes at that. “Life doesn't work that way,” he presses through his gritted teeth. “You don't always get what you want.”

Jesus sighs. “I know that, probably more than anyone.”

Crowley finds himself briefly flinching at that.

“However, handing the book to The Metatron now, with us so close to our goal …” Jesus goes on.

Of course it's less than ideal – really bloody horrible actually –, but what are they supposed to do? Ignore The Metatron's threats and do their own thing while Heaven would eventually start to kill all of Crowley's friends and then continue to destroy London and beyond?

It doesn't sound like a great deal either.

“We're not even remotely close to our goal,” Crowley presses through his teeth.

“We apparently have Lucifer on our side,” Jesus reminds him. “Thanks to a deal he made with Aziraphale that will expire soon enough. We don't want to miss that window, do we?”

A good point, Crowley has to confess.

Then again, not good enough.

“And we have Gabriel,” Jesus adds. “And Raphael as well, I think?”

He looks a bit unsure and that's to be expected because Crowley avoided saying that name in his summary and merely implied it all. The demon nods his confirmation, once again not able to voice it all out.

“Where did you find him then?” Jesus wonders. “Did he come along with Lucifer?”

Crowley wants to wave him off, but at this point Jesus is about the only one who doesn't know the truth in their little circle and it would be more than unfair to leave him completely blind like that.

So Crowley inhales deeply and admits, “Well, about that … I apologise for never telling you, but … well, Raphael might have been – me, once upon a time …”

Jesus' eyebrows fly upwards in surprise at first.

However, then he allows himself a moment to contemplate, his head tilting to the side in thought while he hums underneath his breath in a rather unsettling manner.

“I see,” he says eventually. “I guess in hindsight it makes sense.”

Crowley shifts uncomfortably on the spot. “It does?”

“There was always something about you,” Jesus mutters.

Crowley can't even begin to fathom what that could possibly mean, but he doesn't have any time to dig into this further. Instead he waves his arms impatiently around and presses through his teeth, “Yes, okay, we've got Lucifer and Gabriel and even fucking Raphael, but Michael is locked away somewhere and we have no clue where –”

“We could look for her,” Jesus proposes, as though it's as easy as that.

“And that might take forever,” Crowley hisses. “At least long enough that most of Soho will cease to exist and I don't know about you, but I would love for that not to happen –”

Jesus opens his mouth, clearly on the verge of yet another argument, but then he just releases a little noise of surprise, his gaze drifting to something right behind Crowley.

The demon doesn't even have a chance to whirl around before a heavy hand suddenly lands on his shoulder and a terrifyingly familiar voice whispers dangerously, “Little serpent, may I ask why you felt the need to sneak out only to visit some fishies?”

Crowley goes all stiff as he finds himself all of a sudden shoved with his back into the nearest wall. He blinks a few times, tries to orientate himself and then meets the gaze of the newcomer.

Lucifer.

Who is clearly not in the mood to heed Crowley's personal space and instead forces them to be face-to-face. The demon feels Satan's unnaturally hot breath skid over his skin and it makes him dizzy.

“Tell me,” Lucifer snarls, his teeth looking like fangs ready to rip Crowley's throat out. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Chapter Text

Naturally it's not the first time Lucifer is right in his face.

And yet Crowley can't say he cares for it anymore than he used to.

Unfortunately there is not much he can do about it. He's not really sure whether Lucifer's powers are simply that strong or whether he's got some inbuilt control over every Hell inhabitant, but Crowley can barely move while the devil keeps him easily pinned to the wall. Lucifer doesn't even break a sweat, completely unaffected by Crowley trying to wiggle out of the grasp of his lapels.

Only the fact that Lucifer made a deal with Aziraphale to not harm anyone in the next forty-eight hours keeps Crowley from actively panicking.

Lucifer's grip might be tight, but the only thing he is hurting right now is Crowley's jacket.

Crowley once again sends a quiet prayer of gratitude towards Aziraphale for being such a stubborn bastard that even the devil himself caved to his demands.

“What are you doing here?” Lucifer repeats his question, his tone sharp. “We're right in the middle of a crisis and you're going sightseeing?”

Crowley makes a face. “Listen, it's not what you think –”

“And where is your pet angel?” Lucifer asks, his gaze flickering around as if he expects Aziraphale to jump out of a corner at the next second and viciously attack him. “Is he somewhere around here?”

While his eyes drift through the room, they completely miss Jesus standing right next to them, and for a moment Crowley is so utterly confused by that that he starts to question his own sanity. Then, however, he remembers that the miracle Crowley and Aziraphale performed together is still intact, leaving both Jesus and the book absolutely invisible to anyone.

Well, unless Jesus would decide to address another being.

But he wouldn't be that dumb –

“Lucifer!” Jesus exclaims at that very moment.

Crowley squeezes his eyes shut in pain.

Or maybe Jesus would be that dumb.

Lucifer clearly startles when Jesus becomes visible to him at such close proximity and his grasp on Crowley's jacket loosens enough that the demon is able to quickly slip out of it. He stumbles backwards, out of the devil's direct reach, before shooting an accusatory glance at Jesus.

“What the hell?” he hisses at the man. “Why would you do that?”

Jesus barely spares him a glimpse, his entire attention directed at Lucifer.

Who in turn doesn't really seem to know what to think of the situation and ultimately settles on a very creepy smile.

“Jesus Christ,” he says. “Don't tell me you're in on this charade?”

Lucifer can sense the book's power now, too, and his features turn hungry in a rather alarming manner.

Jesus remains calm, though.

Frighteningly calm, to be exact.

His smile is pleasant and friendly as he assesses Satan as if he is any other being. “We're on the same side,” he reminds Lucifer. “To be frank, from my point of view, we have never been enemies to begin with.”

Lucifer grimaces at those words, clearly estimating the situation quite differently.

And Crowley is not surprised since Jesus has always been the epitome of what Lucifer hated the most: proof that God loved humanity above everything.

It's probably only due to Aziraphale's deal that Lucifer isn't exploding right now and grabbing Jesus to drag him into the fires of Hell. That doesn't mean, though, that he isn't imagining it now rather excessively and putting a notification in his mental calendar to do just that as soon as his contract with Aziraphale runs out.

Crowley will have to keep an eye on Jesus even more than usual if he doesn't want to risk losing his friend to Hell. He's already unpopular with Heaven as it is, actually dooming the son of God due to his actions would put him into a very uncomfortable spot.

Not to mention that Jesus might be a moron, but Crowley is actually quite fond of him. He would hate to see him suffer.

“So you have got the book,” Lucifer snarls, his eyes flashing all over Jesus' body until they settle on the obvious bulge in his jacket close to his chest. “I should have known.”

Crowley can't help it, he raises his eyebrows warily. “You seriously expected Jesus Christ to be here?”

“After you two had your little love affair two-thousand years ago?” Lucifer scoffs right into their faces. “It's no surprise that Christ is following you like a puppy, Serpent. He's already done it back there.”

While Jesus actually smiles at those words, as though he is absolutely delighted to be compared to a baby dog, Crowley finds himself rolling his eyes at Lucifer's phrasing.

“There wasn't a love affair …” he grumbles underneath his breath. Then, however, when his brain manages to catch up to it all, he creases his forehead. “Wait? You knew about Jesus and me hanging out back then?”

Lucifer folds his arms across his chest and shoots him the smuggest look Crowley has ever seen in his life.

“Of course I knew,” he states. “I'm Lucifer. I know everything.”

Oh wow.

So much for modesty.

Crowley isn't really thrilled to hear all of this, though. Back in the days he made sure to stay under the radar when he took Jesus to see the kingdoms of the world. And since neither Hell nor Heaven ever approached him about it he always assumed he had gotten away with it somehow.

It seems he had been wrong.

“Why did you let it happen then?” Crowley wonders, staring at the devil with suspicion. “You hated Jesus. The mere idea of him even.”

Lucifer tilts his head. “It was amusing to me,” he explains in a manner as if it should have been obvious. “Granted, for a while I actually assumed that you would tempt Christ one way or another. Can you imagine? The son of God, seduced by Hell?”

He shakes his head with a smile, clearly entertained by that thought.

“But I got reminded quite quickly that you're a horrible demon,” Satan continues. “You've got a big mouth, Crawly, I'll give you that, but that's about it. Instead of luring Christ to our side, you started to like him.”

He actually scrunches up his nose in disgust at that.

Meanwhile, Crowley bristles at his tone. “Oh yeah?” he presses through his gritted teeth. “Then why didn't you intervene? Or, come to think of, why did you let me be stationed on Earth in the first place if I'm that horrible?”

Lucifer huffs. “It was just pathetic and amusing enough to simply let it be.”

While Crowley narrows his eyes, not totally believing that statement, Jesus sidles up next to him and whispers not so subtly into his ear, “And also maybe because you used to be Raphael. That probably still means something to him.”

Lucifer scowls, visibly offended by those words.

“I couldn't care less,” he growls.

Jesus just smiles as he whispers back to Crowley, “He is lying. You can tell because he usually doesn't lie and doesn't have much practice with it.”

Lucifer's glare darkens, to an alarming amount, and yet Crowley can only see the signs that Jesus is indeed not wrong.

“You're right,” he says with a laugh. “He is really bad at this.”

“It's kind of adorable, isn't it?” Jesus chuckles.

While Lucifer looks like he suddenly doesn't give a damn about Aziraphale's deal anymore and will rip them apart the very next moment, consequences be damned, Jesus keeps on grinning at him, clearly no care for his own well-being.

In the end, though, the devil decides to brush it all aside (at least for the moment) as he assesses them both with squinted eyes.

“Stop all these distractions!” he hisses. “Why are you here? Just to get the book?”

“Yes,” Crowley says, which is technically true.

Lucifer doesn't seem convinced, however. “Then where is the Supreme?”

“At his bookshop,” Crowley speaks the truth yet again.

“And why is that?” Lucifer grumbles.

Crowley hesitates. He isn't eager to tell Satan even a tiny bit of what transpired after he and Aziraphale left Ana's house, but any evasive tactics probably wouldn't do him any good. Lucifer might be bad at lying, he is an expert at detecting it, though.

Before Crowley is able to make up his mind, Jesus figures that there is no harm in being truthful and he spills his (or, more precisely, Crowley's) guts so quickly the demon can't do anything about it.

As expected, Lucifer's expression hardens.

“You're here to bring the book to The Metatron?” he snarls, his supernatural eyes stabbing through Crowley's entire being. “After everything you've been through to get your hands on it?”

Of course he has got a point, Crowley can't deny that, and yet he is only able to think of the last glance he exchanged with Aziraphale before leaving. All that worry and affection and trust. Crowley can't just abandon him, it's a physical impossibility.

He doesn't even need to say the words, Lucifer sees right through him immediately. “You're an idiot!” the devil barks. “You want to doom us all for your boyfriend? You know just as well as me that The Metatron won't kill your precious angel, he is far too valuable for that.”

“Yes, I know that,” Crowley tries to defend himself. “But The Metatron already threatened to destroy half of London –”

“So what?” Lucifer cuts in. “Are you concerned about your little human friends?” He snorts dismissively. “Forget about them. Get some new ones if you're so eager for it. They're expendable anyway.”

Crowley bares his teeth. “Forget about them? Seriously?”

“Why not?” Lucifer asks, lifting his brow in a challenge. “You're really good at forgetting, are you not?”

Crowley's hands clench into fists and for a moment he wonders whether it would be a great idea to punch Satan in the face.

Most likely not and yet it doesn't stop Crowley from picturing it rather vividly..

Meanwhile, Jesus suddenly pipes in again by wondering in confusion, “What does that mean? Why are you good at forgetting?”

Crowley just waves him off, not in the mood for any of that.

Lucifer, however, always took immense pleasure from revealing everyone else's secrets but his own and he announces, “Oh, our little Crawly got parts of his memory wiped when he used to be Raphael. He doesn't like to talk about it.”

Lucifer grins viciously, indicating that he would love to talk about it for hours, just to see Crowley squirm and suffer.

Jesus turns rather pensive at those words, though. His glance flickers back and forth between devil and demon, his forehead furrowed deeply in thought.

Eventually he says, “Now I understand.”

Crowley, still too busy glaring at Lucifer, doesn't even spare his friend a glimpse as he asks absently, “What do you understand?”

“Where that blockade in your mind comes from,” Jesus explains easily.

Crowley's confusion instantly takes the upper hand and he finally looks at the man, leaving Lucifer only at the edge of his sight. “What blockade? What are you talking about?”

“When I met you I immediately noticed the wall in your mind,” Jesus goes on. “I didn't think much of it and figured it was some sort of demonic defence mechanism to keep someone like me out of their most private thoughts. But now …”

Crowley stares at him, stunned.

This is the first time he's heard of this.

“There is a wall in my mind?” he asks, suddenly far too overwhelmed to wrap his head around the image. “And you can see it?”

He has been seeing it for a very long time apparently.

Crowley isn't really sure how to react to that.

Lucifer also doesn't seem to know how to react to that. He just studies Jesus intently, lets his gaze wander all over the man's body, and obviously attempts to determine whether Jesus is actually speaking the truth.

“Yes, there is a wall,” Jesus confirms with a nod. “I even tried talking with you about it once, but you dismissed me quite quickly and I figured it was too sensitive a topic and never brought it up again.”

Crowley frowns.

He vaguely recalls Jesus mentioning some walls back in the day, but at that time Crowley was a bit drunk thanks to some excellent Greek wine and also in a somewhat sour mood because he had dreamt about Aziraphale the night before and had found himself rather missing the angel all of a sudden. Therefore he wasn't very receptive to Jesus' attempts of conversation and brushed him off quite rudely.

Back then Crowley didn't understand what Jesus had been trying to say and by the time he was sober and not so miserable anymore he had mostly forgotten about it altogether.

Crowley can't help but actually shudder at the thought of a visible wall in his mind, put there by Heaven itself. He begins to scratch his head, some part of him wondering if he might be able to poke it this way.

Meanwhile, Lucifer's expression has darkened as he zeroes in on Jesus once more. “Don't be daft,” he hisses. “You can't see into anyone's mind, especially not into a demon's.”

“I understand if you question my abilities –” Jesus says.

“I question your ability to tell the truth,” Lucifer snarls. “Either way, it matters not. Be free to talk about walls all you want. I just need the book and let you two be.”

That jerks Crowley out of his own thoughts again.

“No way!” he finds himself objecting right away, actually sounding authoritative enough that he might have fooled a less intelligent being.

There is a lot to say about the devil, but unfortunately his intelligence is out of the question.

“I will take the book!” Lucifer insists, clearly not keen on hearing any protests. “I can't let you doom us all!”

Crowley subconsciously positions himself between Lucifer and Jesus. “We won't let you through without a fight,” Crowley promises, even though the voice in his head screams at him for being such a reckless moron. “And your deal with Aziraphale forbids you to harm anyone.”

Lucifer snorts. “You do realise we're in a bit of a dilemma here, right?” he asks. “Because yes, technically I can't hurt you, but if I let you get away with the book to give it to The Metatron, there is a good chance that we all will die. Every living being in this universe. And that might take precedence, don't you think?” He takes one step closer and visibly delights when Crowley can't help a flinch. “There is no winning scenario here. Therefore, my deal with Aziraphale doesn't apply.”

Crowley would love to contradict, but Lucifer's words do make some sort of sense.

“Only because The Metatron gets his hands on the book, doesn't mean he's gonna be able to open it,” Crowley tries to reason nonetheless. “So, by definition –”

“You're grasping at straws, Serpent!” Lucifer interrupts, his scoff more than a little dismissive. “There is no guarantee that The Metatron hasn't found an alternate solution by now. On the contrary, considering that he hasn't so far reached out to The Firsts makes you automatically think that he does seem to have discovered some other way.”

Crowley narrows his eyes, not happy to be reminded of that yet again. “You can't know if it'll work.”

“It's too much of a risk, though,” Lucifer hisses. “And I don't care enough about the lives of a few pesky humans to take those chances.”

With these words he suddenly begins to move, apparently not in the mood to argue with them any further.

Crowley tenses up on instinct as he is very aware that he's got not a chance in hell (yes, pun intended) against Satan on a mission. Lucifer would rather crush him with a single twitch of his little finger than waste just one second on him.

And yet Crowley doesn't jump out of the devil's path because he is an idiot like that.

Yes, granted, he is merely frozen on the spot mostly, but he also feels a little (and rather stupid) spark of courage lighting up inside of him which stops him from giving Lucifer free access to Jesus without putting at least the illusion of a fight up first.

Instead of sensing the mighty powers of Hell hitting him all at once, vaporising him completely, though, Crowley notices Jesus sidling up beside him, not a care in the world on his features. He simply looks at Lucifer reaching out to him and doesn't even wince once.

Crowley tries to call out in alarm and push Jesus out of the way, but the man evades the demon's grasp and instead ends up stepping up to Lucifer charging at him.

Before either Satan or Crowley can react, Jesus lifts his arm and rests his palm against Lucifer's forehead.

The effect is instant.

Suddenly there is a very weird shift in the air, as though everything is tilted to the side and at the same time upside down. Crowley actually stumbles a bit, even though he is fairly sure he is still standing on solid ground.

Lucifer is not so lucky, though.

He freezes immediately as soon as Jesus touches him and falls to his knees just a second later. Crowley watches in shock as one of the most powerful beings in existence folds up at once, like there is not a speck of strength left in him.

Lucifer's eyes are open wide, his gaze all of a sudden so dazed as if he is not with them anymore.

As if he is in a completely different world.

And then tears actually begin to stream down Lucifer's cheeks.

Crowley stares at it, for a long minute totally convinced that he is imagining things. Because this can't be true, right?

Lucifer can't be actually crying, can he?

But the longer Crowley gapes at the scene in front of him, the more real it gets.

He turns towards Jesus who is still touching Lucifer. The man is all calm and there is even a little smile on his face.

“What are you doing to him?” Crowley asks, his voice suddenly far too hoarse.

Jesus doesn't waver once as he explains, “I'm showing him God's love.”

Crowley blinks, stunned. “God's love?”

“Lucifer needs to be reminded that God never stopped loving him,” Jesus says. “It will help him to get perspective.”

Crowley's jaw goes slack while he glances back at Lucifer who is still looking like – yes – he is actually seeing God.

“You can do that?” Crowley wonders, in awe.

Jesus merely nods like this is no big deal. “I can do many things. And I want to help you, too.”

Crowley's heartbeat picks up right away as he pictures himself on his knees and sobbing just like the devil.

“You want to show me God's love?” he asks quietly, truly not sure what to make of that. If to be thrilled or terrified by the prospect.

Jesus shoots him a warm look. “I can do that as well, of course,” he agrees. “God never stopped loving any of you, you know? Even if you might not believe that.”

Crowley fidgets on the spot, suddenly very uncomfortable.

“But actually I would rather help you in some other way first,” Jesus states, his gaze morphing into something rather intense. “I want to break down the wall in your mind.”

Crowley pauses, for a moment so overwhelmed by what is happening that he finds himself unable to understand the words spoken. He takes a while to catch up on things.

“You want to … get my memories back?” He raises his eyebrows. “Am I getting this right?”

Jesus nods patiently. “I want to help you.”

On instinct Crowley wants to question Jesus' ability to do just that, but another glimpse at Lucifer makes the demon shut up right away. Breaking down a blockade in someone's head is probably child's play for someone like Jesus.

Crowley ends up shaking his head on instinct only to nod just a second later. He repeats that series of motions several times, probably looking like a fool in the process.

He thinks of Heaven, of back then, of the few vague memories he still has and he tries to envisage what's missing. Tries to determine whether he's actually got the energy necessary to face something like this, so many thousands years later, or whether it would be better for his physical and mental health if all of this stayed buried until the end of his days.

Ultimately he decides that it doesn't matter.

At least not now.

“We've got no time for that,” Crowley objects through gritted teeth. “If you hadn't noticed, there are much more important things to worry about right now.”

Jesus doesn't waver, though, and doesn't stop smiling at him as he steps closer. In the process he lets go of Lucifer who audibly gasps at the break of contact and blinks his eyes repeatedly, like he is slowly waking up from a fever dream. He seems too disoriented, however, to do much of anything else, even though Crowley finds himself keeping an eye on him nonetheless.

“Crowley, my friend,” Jesus says, his voice once again taking that tone which feels like a balm for the soul. “I can't explain it, but I have a sense that your lost memories are important. Right here and right now.”

Crowley studies him warily. “So you think …?”

“I can feel it,” Jesus emphasises. “Someone up there went to an awful lot of trouble that you would lose your memories and it has never been more vital than today. I believe you have the answer to our questions, right there in your mind.” He wiggles his fingers. “I simply need to unlock it.”

Crowley bites his bottom lip, once more uncertain what to do.

It sounds like so much.

Like a burden he isn't very eager to face all alone.

He desperately wishes for Aziraphale to be by his side, to hold his hand and tell him that everything will be alright, but he doesn't dare to reach out and somehow risk that The Metatron might finally notice the invisible connection they have been sharing this whole time through those rings on their fingers.

It doesn't appear worth it, only because Crowley might be a little (or a lot) scared of what is inside his head.

Just as he is ready to freak out, though, Jesus seems to read him like an open book again.

“Don't worry,” the man tells him. “I will be with you, every step of the way. You don't have to do this on your own.”

Crowley looks into those so very familiar eyes and feels a calm washing over him right away. He doesn't know if that's some godly power or if Jesus merely has that effect, but the demon welcomes it greedily.

“So – you think this is really important?” Crowley asks, still hesitant about the whole thing.

Jesus doesn't wait to nod. “There is a voice in my head telling me that we would be morons to ignore this.”

Crowley isn't certain how he feels about that. “That voice – is that God?”

Jesus tilts his head in thought. “Maybe yes, maybe no,” he says. “Perhaps I'm just hearing voices and am slowly losing my mind, who knows?”

Crowley bares his teeth. “That's not very reassuring, mate.”

Jesus grins. “I know. And yet you trust me anyway, don't you?”

Crowley would love to deny the accusation, just to be petty, but in the end he just sighs and figures what the hell, right?

“Okay, fine,” he says. “Then let's do this.”

Chapter Text

The first thing he hears is a voice.

It seems to be everywhere at once, ethereal and yet present in a way that makes you shudder, and he can't help but listen to it attentively.

“Your name shall be Raphael,” the voice declares.

He has no idea what that means, what a name even is, but he knows just enough to not contradict that presence in front of him.

And so he nods and he becomes Raphael.

---

Raphael finds himself surrounded by so much colour it almost blinds him.

He didn't know what to expect when God showed him a network of secret passageways apparently nobody is acutely aware of and he immediately ended up rather in awe when they reached a room She says contains one of the concepts of Heaven.

“Are you saying … that Heaven could have looked like this?” he breathes, watching a blob of yellow and green wobbling right beside him in the air.

God just nods, clearly amused by his stunned reaction.

Her face that is so many faces at once and simultaneously none at all looks quite delighted as Raphael reaches out to the blob in question and releases a childlike squeal when it pops upon contact, draining him in colour.

“Why are you showing me this?” he asks later.

“Because out of my creations so far you're the only one creative and open-minded enough to appreciate this,” God explains.

And Raphael has to admit, it makes sense. At least he can't imagine Gabriel or Michael standing right here and displaying anything else but disdain at this (beautiful, wonderful, magnificent) chaos surrounding them.

“This is our little secret then?” Raphael wonders, feeling not a small amount of glee at the prospect.

“One of these days you are going to have someone you will share this with,” She says. “But for now, yes, it is our little secret.”

Raphael laughs and then he urges Her to show him the other hidden Heaven designs as well because he wants to see everything.

---

“I don't understand,” Raphael says, looking down the long wall they're currently building to separate their parts of Heaven from the one that will hold human souls soon enough. “Why do you exactly want me to install a secret door here without telling anyone?”

As always God isn't very forthcoming about Her decisions as She responds, “Just do it, Raphael.”

He hesitates. “But … what is the reason for this –?”

She chuckles at him, sounding quite fond. “You're asking a lot of questions. You always do.”

Raphael frowns. “Is that bad?”

“No, it's not,” She objects. Then, however, her expression dims a little and She tells him, quietly, “Be aware, though, Raphael, that one day this might get you into trouble. You will not understand at first and you will suffer and I'm already very sorry for that – but it is going to lead you to your destined path.”

Raphael, still too bothered by the door he is supposed to hide in The Gate's wall, finds himself more confused by Her words than anything. “What?”

She just smiles indulgently at him and even rests one of Her hands on his shoulder for a second, making him look up.

“Just know, that whatever will happen to you, there is a light at the end of the tunnel,” She states. “You will have to overcome many challenges, but there is going to be something – someone – it all will be worth it for.”

Raphael squints his eyes. “Someone?”

As usual, She doesn't elaborate and instead encourages him to continue his work. And soon enough he is too preoccupied by the thought of those humans soon arriving here, all new and exciting to look at, and he forgets all about God's words.

---

“You need to create a new nebula in quadrant 46-782,” the Almighty tells him, just as Raphael is about to head right in the opposite direction.

He freezes right where he is. “But – that quadrant isn't supposed to be worked on for a few more months,” he reminds Her. “I don't see –”

“Just do as I say and don't question me,” She orders. She seems more amused than put out, however.

Raphael remains puzzled by this sudden change of plans, but She is God after all and if anyone can do whatever they want, it's most certainly Her.

And so he turns around and moves towards the quadrant in question.

---

He creates a nebula at quadrant 46-782, just like it was Her command.

Up until he ends up having some difficulties jump-starting the whole thing.

Thankfully a principality flies by exactly at the right time and Raphael calls him over before he even knows it.

---

“I'd hate to see you getting into any trouble.”

The principality's – Aziraphale's – voice is laced with a peculiar amount of concern and Raphael can't help but glance at him. He never really considered it before, but to know that someone is so worried about your well-being is actually quite a nice feeling.

Who would have thought?

It's amazing how many new things you're learning all the time.

Raphael offers the angel next to him a smile that turns out much softer than he used from himself. He didn't think much about it when he stopped this random angel passing by to help him out and now he's having all these experiences he is not exactly prepared for.

“Thanks for your help,” he then says. “And thanks for your advice.”

Even someone like him, someone who has been told is somehow “above” most others, can be taught by a being like Aziraphale, he has come to realise. Raphael knows that some of his brothers and sisters, like Lucifer and Gabriel, would absolutely scoff at the mere prospect and wouldn't even have given Aziraphale a chance to utter a single word in their presence, but Raphael simply likes the idea of learning from every creation there is.

And as it turns out, Aziraphale had some valuable insight.

Sometimes those who get overlooked easily enough overhear the most interesting things.

Raphael meets Aziraphale's worried gaze again and morphs his smile into something even more reassuring.

“I wouldn't worry, though,” he says. “How much trouble can I get into for asking a few questions?”

Aziraphale actually looks like he wants to protest, like he knows more than Raphael on the matter, but then the universe decides to make itself known with shooting stars and whatnot and Raphael is too busy watching it all in awe while protecting Aziraphale from any possible impacts that he forgets all about it.

---

Raphael doesn't want to waste any time.

Granted, the concept of time is still a bit confusing to him and he's not really sure yet how to handle it accordingly, but he knows that it would be beneficial to talk with the Almighty about that tight schedule for the universe as soon as possible and so he heads right out after saying goodbye to Aziraphale.

He actually says, “I'll see you soon,” because he has every intention to meet up with that particular angel again. Hopefully even more than once.

For now, though, he has to find God and tell Her that it's quite a rubbish plan to end everything after a few thousand years. Or at least ask about the logic behind that train of thought since at the end of the day the Almighty is omniscient and can explain this to someone like Raphael. There is probably just something he is missing, even though he can't tell right now what that could be.

However, it doesn't hurt to ask.

---

After a lot of looking around Raphael finds himself in a rather remote corner of Heaven. He's not really certain whether he is at the right place, but another angel pointed in this direction a while ago after Raphael asked for some help and she seemed semi-confident about it, so here they are.

After yet another round of futile exploration Raphael is ready to give up, though, and expand his search pattern to some other parts.

Just when he is about to turn around, however, he suddenly hears voices coming from some room at the end of the hallway. Raphael can't make them out at first, but at least one of them sounds quite agitated. He can't help but get curious and shuffle closer.

“… don't understand,” the distressed voice is just saying. “Why would you do that?”

“My thinking might not make sense to you right now, but I promise you there is a good reason for it,” the other person in the room answers.

And Raphael knows that voice very well.

God.

Raphael's smile widens, delighted that his search is finally over. He is on the verge of hurrying along and making his presence known as the other voice is piping up yet again.

“But the timing –” that being says. “Why now?”

It's The Metatron, Raphael suddenly realises. One of the voices he has heard the most because that angel is always everywhere, spreading the word of God among them. Raphael has listened to him more times than he can count.

“Why would you leave us now?” The Metatron wails.

And Raphael stops right in the middle of his step.

Leave?

God wants … to leave?

Raphael blinks, puzzled.

“There is unrest upon us,” The Metatron argues passionately. “A rebellion even. Lucifer –”

“I know what's going on,” the Almighty cuts in calmly. “This has been foretold for a long time. By me, if you remember correctly.”

There is a noise as though someone – most likely The Metatron – is shuffling awkwardly on the spot. “I just ...” he mutters. “Why would you leave us in such tumultuous times?”

“I won't be gone tomorrow,” God assures him, Her tone so soothing that Raphael believes Her by default. “I'm going to stay for a while, don't worry. But after the rebellion …”

“Your sudden absence would hit Heaven tremendously,” The Metatron tries to reason. “I don't even want to begin to fathom what this would do to the angels' morale and loyalty, especially if this rebellion will indeed be as bad as you told me. What will they think if you just leave?”

Raphael frowns, feeling far too overwhelmed.

He doesn't really understand what they're talking about, but he is also not stupid either. He knows that there has been frustration building among many angels, Lucifer foremost, about God's plans for humanity. Raphael is very aware that there are many who are not happy about this.

So will this lead … to a rebellion?

Raphael doesn't have personal experience with that concept because since the beginning of time it has never happened so far, but he knows in theory what it means. And if Lucifer and his friends seriously intend to bring it this far …

Raphael shudders at the thought.

It doesn't sound pleasant.

“I'm not worried about the angels,” God then says, jerking Raphael out of his thoughts. “I'm sure you will take care of it all.”

Raphael needs a moment to catch up to the fact that She is addressing The Metatron.

“But –” the angel in question starts, sounding stunned.

“You know of all of my plans,” the Almighty states. “And I'm sure you are going to carry them out with your usual efficiency.”

The Metatron gulps audibly. “You want me to …?”

“You are my voice after all,” God tells him. “So be my voice!”

There is silence for a while as The Metatron apparently needs a moment to wrap his head around those words.

“So … you want me to lead them?” he asks tentatively. “To make sure they keep on staying on the righteous path?”

God merely hums, not really giving a clear answer, but not dismissing the other angel's statement either.

“But … how can I do it?” The Metatron wonders, obvious panic in his tone faced with such a mighty task. “With you gone – why would the angels listen to me? There will be a lot of unrest and confusion after the rebellion and I don't see –”

“I am confident in your abilities,” The Almighty interrupts, Her voice leaving no room for further objections. “You will bring order to the chaos again and lead them down the path that I have carved for all of you.”

The Metatron has no more chance to protest because Her words are more than final and Raphael can't help but actually feel for him. It sounds like an awful lot to deal with.

Like the weight of the entire cosmos is suddenly resting on his shoulders, without any warning whatsoever.

“It won't be that difficult,” the Almighty waves The Metatron off, as though they are merely talking about a bagatelle. “After all, like I said, I already established all the plans for this universe, up until its end. I'm sure you're going to be able to execute them all by the time I return.”

The Metatron gasps at those words. “But … are you certain …?”

“I am,” God states, unwavering.

The Metatron sounds like he is close to tears when he finally asks with a shaky voice, “But … when will you return?”

The Almighty hums thoughtfully before She answers, “Well, let's say on the 28^th of April 2025, shall we?” She contemplates this for one more moment before clarifying, “Yes, I like this date. I will return then.”

Raphael can't comprehend what that might even mean and by the confused noises The Metatron is making in response to that he doesn't have any idea either.

However, God doesn't elaborate because at the end of the day She is above such things and soon enough Her voice as well as The Metatron's are moving further away as they start to walk in the opposite direction, leaving Raphael behind.

Who is still lingering in that corridor, more than a little torn.

He just came to ask some questions about the universe and now he feels like he's heard something he wasn't supposed to.

God is leaving?

There is a rebellion afoot?

Raphael's head begins to spin and the sensation is so unfamiliar and unsettling that he nearly loses his balance. In the end he has to grab onto a nearby wall to keep himself from falling over.

What is he supposed to do now?

Ignore it all because this all seems to be God's plan and Raphael shouldn't even dare to intervene?

Try to make Her change Her mind, just like The Metatron at least attempted?

Spread the news around and watch Heaven dissolve into chaos?

Raphael has no idea and he finds that he never felt more alone than now.

---

A part of himself wants to seek out Aziraphale again.

The nice and bubbly angel gave Raphael a sense of warmth like nobody else has ever done and Raphael could really use someone to hold onto now. He never had such a desire before, but now it's more prominent than ever and Aziraphale is somehow the first thing on his mind.

And so he heads out, his body moving all on its own.

---

However, on his way he suddenly spots Lucifer in the distance, talking animatedly with a group of other angels, and an idea strikes Raphael.

If Lucifer were to know about God's intention to leave them all, he might reconsider his plan, at least for the time being.

Maybe he would be horrified by the thought of a rebellion led by him leading to the Almighty turning Her back to them all. Because despite it all, despite their differences, Raphael knows that Lucifer loves God with everything he has got and he wouldn't want Her to disappear.

So Raphael moves towards Lucifer, eager to get his point across and at least do something.

“Lucifer, we need to talk,” he interrupts the conversation – or, more precisely, Lucifer's monologue, by the sounds of it – and pushes himself in front of the angel in question, not having a care in the world when the others protest his behaviour rather harshly.

Lucifer, beautiful and arrogant as ever, reacts by lifting his eyebrow. “Raphael,” he says, somehow making that name sound like a dangerous river about to rip everything in its path apart. “It's not like you to be so rude.”

Raphael brushes him off with a huff. “I have something important to tell you,” he doesn't wait around to clarify. “I don't have time to be polite.”

Lucifer still remains unimpressed. “We're actually right in the middle of discussing something very important as well, so if you would be so kind –”

“I overheard something!” Raphael blurts out, cutting the angel right off. “I headed out to ask God some questions and then I walked in on something I'm not sure I was meant to walk in on –”

He flails his arms around helplessly, not really sure what to do with them.

This time, at least, Lucifer begins to look intrigued. “And what, do tell, did you hear?”

Raphael pauses while he shoots a tentative look at the other angels next to them. He knows a few of them and some not at all and he can't say he would feel comfortable sharing such big news in front of either of them.

And so he adds, “We should talk in private.”

Lucifer contemplates this for a moment before nodding. “Alright then, you got me interested. This better be good, though.”

Raphael snorts. “It is.”

Lucifer assesses him quietly and explains, “We actually do have something very important to discuss, though. So why don't we meet up sometime later, yes? At my office.”

Lucifer's office is more like a lair no one actually really wants to step into, but Raphael is too eager about it all to care much.

He inclines his head. “Alright.”

And as he watches Lucifer and his companions walk away again, picking up their conversation once more, Raphael sighs and prays that he is doing the right thing.

---

Eventually Raphael starts to move again, his original plan to seek out Aziraphale and ask for the angel's advice back on track.

He doesn't get very far, though.

Because he finds himself intercepted.

By The Metatron, to be exact.

Raphael blinks at the angel who is suddenly blocking his way.

“I can't let you go on,” The Metatron says and before Raphael is even able to react, the angel has grabbed his wrist and pulled him into a nearby room. Raphael stumbles while The Metatron shuts the door behind them, effectively locking them both in.

“You don't understand –” Raphael tries to reason, but immediately comes to a screeching halt when The Metatron waves him off impatiently.

“I do understand,” he states. “You've overheard the conversation God and I had earlier, didn't you? At least my assistant told me he saw you coming from that direction, looking distraught.”

Raphael could lie, of course, but he never lied before in his life and he has no intention of starting now.

Even though his entire being tells him it would be best to hide the truth.

“I'm just trying to help,” Raphael argues. “If Lucifer knew about God's plan –”

“What?” The Metatron scoffs. “Do you think he would become an obedient son again? That he would happily accept humankind?”

That indeed sounds a little far-fetched, even to Raphael.

Nonetheless, he isn't keen on giving up so easily.

“I'm not saying it will be a simple task,” he counters. “But Lucifer is smart. If he knew the true stakes –”

The Metatron shakes his head so vehemently that Raphael fears for a moment it might fly off.

“We can't do that,” he insists. “Everything has to happen exactly as God foretold it.”

Raphael creases his forehead. “But what about this free will everyone has been talking about? I'm pretty sure you can't foretell that. So there must be some room for unpredictability …”

The Metatron sighs.

Heavily.

And then he studies Raphael with a sorrowful expression.

“I won't be able to talk you out of this, am I?” he asks, defeated. “It's a shame, really. You are one of the most magnificent of God's creations. And yet …” Disappointment clouds his features. “You're always asking so many damned questions, Raphael. And we all knew it would get you into trouble one of these days and yet you never stopped. Now look where we are.”

Raphael fidgets uncomfortably on the spot. “What are you saying?”

“You are doomed to Fall,” The Metatron tells him.

And Raphael isn't really sure what that means, but it can't be anything good.

“You will Fall,” The Metatron emphasises. “And yet you will forget all about what I just said for now because I can't let you walk around with the knowledge you acquired. It's only going to create a panic and turn everything into an utter mess.” He grinds his teeth rather audibly. “And the Almighty just ordered me to keep everything in order, you know? So I can't have you ruin everything before I even really start.”

Raphael is still not certain what is happening right now, but his body is already gravitating further away, his instincts urging him to put as much distance between him and the other angel as possible.

“We have this new device, you see?” The Metatron goes on in a calm manner. “It can take anyone's memories. It's not been tested yet and I can't guarantee it will work perfectly on the first try, but I'm sure you will be delighted to be our guinea-pig for this, am I right?”

Raphael blinks in confusion. “What's a guinea-pig?”

“No idea,” The Metatron says with a shrug. “But I heard the Almighty use the phrase, so I figured it fits the situation.”

Raphael still has so many questions and at the same time he is very aware that he should run, but when The Metatron says with a sigh, “I'm actually really sorry about this, you have to believe me”, and then two angels out of the shadows grab Raphael to keep him from fleeing, he suddenly knows that his life will never be the same again.

The last thing he thinks of is Aziraphale's face, looking at him worriedly, before they drag him into the dark.

Chapter Text

Coming back out of the fog is overwhelming on a whole new level.

Running through so many lost memories in such a short period of time clearly does a number on you and for a moment Crowley's head feels like exploding when he finally returns to the present. Every single muscle in his body is strained to the edge and it takes a while for him to realise that he's back at the aquarium in Germany, with Jesus by his side and Lucifer hovering somewhere on a bench in the background.

Crowley groans and curses and holds his head, feeling as if it's not a far-fetched possibility that it might fall off the next second. And he only manages to keep himself on his own two feet because Jesus is gently stabilising him. Otherwise, the demon is sure, he would have dropped onto the ground like a sack of potatoes.

“Bloody fucking hell!” he keeps on spewing, his eyes squeezed shut in pain. “What THE FUCK was that –?”

Jesus remains a soothing presence next to him as he answers, “Don't worry, this will ease soon.”

Crowley doesn't believe him at first, can't imagine that such an ache would ever go away, but after a few minutes of controlled breathing, guided by Jesus' soft encouragements, the tension of his entire being quickly fades away.

He blinks as his vision gets better as well and he finds himself staring into a random fish tank in front of him. He watches the fishes lazily swim through the water, not a care in the world, and somehow he ends up deeply relaxed by that.

“How are you feeling?” Jesus eventually asks, concern still in his tone.

“I feel …” Crowley starts and then immediately trails off again since he can't really explain his own inner state.

Agitated, of course.

Overwhelmed still.

But also … whole?

Like the pieces that have been missing for all those thousands of years have slipped perfectly back into their places.

It's a sensation like nothing he has ever experienced.

On instinct he wants to revel in it more, wants to explore and dissect it, wants to truly understand, but when Lucifer suddenly shuffles somewhere behind them Crowley recalls the urgency of the situation.

He glances at a nearby clock in a bit of a panic because it seemed as though he had been reliving his memories for bloody ages and therefore lost so much valuable time Aziraphale and their friends in Soho might not have, but he instantly calms down when he notices that not even five minutes have passed.

It appears surreal because this surely felt like a lifetime once again lived, but he highly doubts the clock is lying.

“What did you learn?” Jesus wonders, leaning in.

Out of the corner of his eyes Crowley notices Lucifer perking up at those words too. He is still keeping his distance, particularly to Jesus, and he still looks rattled by what the human has showed him before, the supposed love of God so powerful it brought him to his knees earlier, but he is curious enough about the whole thing to not walk away in a huff or simply attack, in complete disregard to his deal with Aziraphale.

“I learnt …” Crowley says, blinking. It feels impossible to describe everything he has seen. And, as he remembers a moment later, he doesn't need to share all of it because most of his memories are private.

His time with the Almighty, his first meeting with Aziraphale, his instant urge to seek that specific angel out again since apparently he's already started to become a lost cause back then …

However, there are certain things all of them should know.

“God left,” Crowley whispers, still somewhat in shock about what he learnt. “She left out of her own volition. Sometime after the rebellion.”

He glimpses at Lucifer and sees a devil who doesn't seem to know what to make of this information.

“But she intends to return,” Crowley adds. “On the 28^th of April 2025.”

Both Lucifer and Jesus simply stare at him without showing any kind of reaction and the demon quickly recalls that neither of them is probably familiar with the modern human calendar.

“That's just in a few months,” he clarifies. “She will come back soon. And she expects all of her plans to be executed by then.”

Jesus hesitates. “So you mean …?”

Crowley nods vehemently. “God is coming back and The Metatron is in a hurry to get it all done before that. With The Second Coming as the cherry on top.”

That's why The Metatron is so desperate to see this through.

That's why he was so willing to make accommodations for Aziraphale and even Crowley.

He is running out of time.

And Crowley can't help but feel a tiny bit sorry for him.

Granted, he is still an arsehole and Crowley would love to fling him into a supernova rather sooner than later, there is no question about that, but he also remembers the absolute panic in The Metatron's voice as God put the weight of the entire universe on his shoulders as if it was any other day.

At that point he most likely frantically tried to keep it together, with all means necessary, to avoid utter chaos among the angels, demons and everyone in-between.

It sounds like an awful lot. Crowley, at least, is fairly certain that he himself would have cracked underneath that pressure a long time ago.

It's almost admirable that The Metatron is still standing.

“So … what do we do?” Jesus asks, suddenly sounding very small. The fact that God apparently has never really been around in his life clearly hit him harder than he could have imagined.

“We open the book,” Lucifer growls from his bench, his eyes fixated on the dent in Jesus' coat where The Book of Life is hidden beneath. “We wait for Michael and –”

“Michael has been captured,” Crowley cuts in. “She could be anywhere.”

Lucifer's expression darkens. “Then we torture The Metatron and force him to tell us where she is –”

“Do I need to remind you of your deal with Aziraphale?” Crowley asks with a scoff. “This is not working, mate.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Lucifer presses through his teeth. “You know just as well as I do that the time for action has finally arrived. And neither of us will come out of this without making our hands dirty.”

Crowley fidgets on the spot.

He doesn't like any of this, but if he wants to save his friends he seriously might be out of options here.

He thinks back to his formerly lost memories – because how could he not? – and can't shake the feeling that the answer is somewhere in there. He remembers himself, so young and naïve and full of hope for a wonderful future. He recalls Lucifer, the most beautiful of them all, still in God's good graces and looking so much more brighter for it. A true Morningstar.

He thinks of Aziraphale, with all the little quirks he is still in possession of to this day. So gorgeous in his own special way that he managed to get an archangel's attention with just his own uniqueness. And so very worried about Raphael's fate, even though they had known each other for less than ten minutes at that point.

And Crowley remembers The Metatron, cold and calculating and yet so inundated by it all. To suddenly get the responsibility about everything shoved into your hands must have felt so utterly overwhelming that Crowley can't even comprehend it and it's truly a miracle that The Metatron didn't break apart at some point –

Crowley pauses.

Tilts his head in thought.

Maybe …?

“Call me crazy,” he says, still a bit tentative, “but I think I have got a plan.”

Lucifer creases his forehead. “And what would that be?”

Crowley tells him and the devil's scepticism doesn't vanish. On the contrary, it only deepens.

“That sounds like a horrible plan,” Lucifer points out with a scoff.

“Well, it's the only decent one we have right now, so deal with it,” Crowley challenges.

Lucifer huffs, but thankfully he doesn't bring up torture yet again. “And how do you intend to accomplish this madness?” he asks. “We need to get close to The Metatron for this to work. Preferably without the rest of Heaven intervening in any way.”

Lucifer is right, they only will have one shot at this.

They can't afford to lose it all only because one of The Metatron's bodyguards gets in their way at the last second, ruining it all.

“How do you suggest we go about things then?” Crowley wonders, not feeling particularly good about asking Satan for advice, but figuring that some situations require a new point of view.

Lucifer starts to grin.

Widely.

“I'm the king of Hell,” he reminds them. “So let's use that.”

Crowley frowns. “You mean …?”

Lucifer leans forward. “Let's rain the might of Hell right upon The Metatron's head!”

Crowley has so many questions and overall he knows that this is probably a horrible idea all in itself, but he thinks of Aziraphale and the trust in his angel's eyes and so he ends up nodding in consent.

Maybe it will do The Metatron some good to show him first-hand what he's actually dealing with. And it's going to create at least enough of a distraction for Heaven to deal with.

Crowley just hopes that London is going to survive it.

“Okay then,” he says. “Let's do it.”

---

A very uncomfortable silence stretches after Crowley is gone.

Aziraphale, still hovering in the space between the entrance door and the backroom, spends a good five minutes looking at where the demon has vanished before, spreading his wings to fly to Germany and pick Christ up from his little aquarium adventure.

And Aziraphale would have been happy to keep on standing right there and wait for Crowley's return, no matter how long it would take, just existing in utter silence and ignoring the existence of everyone else in the room, but unfortunately The Metatron starts to become weary of Aziraphale awkwardly keeping his distance and gestures at the small couch across the armchair.

“Why don't you keep me company?” he asks, his tone so suspiciously friendly that Aziraphale finds himself narrowing his eyes on instinct. “We barely had a chance to get to know each other.”

Aziraphale feels everything inside of him recoil and he actually takes a step back at first, his entire being more than a little keen on escaping the situation. When The Metatron's angelic bodyguards begin to eye him menacingly, though, Aziraphale straightens his back and follows the invitation.

He sits down on the sofa, his posture stiff and his expression pinched.

The Metatron doesn't seem to mind the obvious hostility. On the contrary, he appears amused and has the audacity to laugh right into Aziraphale's face.

“Oh, don't look at me like that,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You're acting like I'm the villain here.”

Aziraphale tenses up even more. “You want to end all of life,” he reminds the other angel.

“I want to execute God's will,” he corrects. “There is a difference.”

Aziraphale bites his bottom lip. “So if you had the choice …?”

The Metatron chuckles before snapping his fingers and conjuring a cup of steaming coffee right next to him. He sips on the beverage a few times, indulging in a manner Aziraphale has seen very few angels do beside him, and throws a glance at his heavenly protectors. He doesn't say a single word, but his eyes apparently communicate enough and all three of them retreat deeper into the bookshop, out of sight.

(But probably not out of complete earshot, should The Metatron have need for them again.)

“If I had the choice?” The Metatron then picks up their topic of conversation once more. “See, I'm not here to question The Almighty's decisions –”

“This is all quite hypothetically,” Aziraphale cuts in, now actually getting a little curious about the answer.

“Right then,” The Metatron says. “Well, I don't mind humanity, to be frank. They're rather amusing at times.” He sounds like he is talking about a goofy puppy that entertains everyone in its vicinity by repeatedly stumbling over its own too big paws. “I wouldn't care either way if they continue their existence for another few millennia. Or even longer.”

Aziraphale can't help it, he seriously believes The Metatron. He seems genuine in his assessment.

It doesn't change a thing, though, Aziraphale knows.

“And yet you still will follow God's plan,” he says with a sigh.

“Of course I will,” The Metatron replies easily enough while shrugging his shoulders casually as if they're not just talking about the end of the world. “This is the way things are supposed to be.”

Aziraphale slightly shakes his head before he glances through the window again. He sees Nina taking coffee orders effortlessly while Maggie watches her from the counter, a soft expression on her face.

To picture those two dead soon enough – either by Heaven's wrath or by The Second Coming – is too much to comprehend. They're so full of life – they all are – and it seems such a waste to throw it all away.

“Don't you feel regret?” Aziraphale wonders. “Don't you think … there could be a better way?”

The Metatron doesn't look impressed. “If you honestly believe you can stop all this with just a few sentimental words, Aziraphale –”

“I'm just saying … be mindful of The Ineffable Plan,” he says rather quickly. This has helped during the first apocalypse already, maybe it will be useful with this one as well. “Perhaps The Second Coming is up for interpretation.”

The Metatron lifts an eyebrow. “So you're accusing Heaven of understanding the true meaning of The Second Coming all wrong, is that it?”

At this point Aziraphale is ready to grasp at any straw he can find, as outlandish as it may appear.

“Yes, maybe,” he tries to reason. “Yes, perhaps everyone needs to be judged by God, but without all that unpleasant destruction-of-the-universe business attached to it. Sometimes the written word can be quite colourful and doesn't actually mean what you think it does.”

The Metatron stays silent for a moment, just staring at Aziraphale while not moving a single muscle in his face.

“You're naïve if you truly believe that,” he then says. “A dreamer.”

He actually sounds a little wistful. As though he wishes he could have such a mindset, too.

Aziraphale wants to latch onto that, wants to further investigate these emotions and maybe twist them to his own advantage, but The Metatron shoots him a warning look, apparently very aware of what the other is thinking. So Aziraphale falls silent right next to the other angel and occasionally sips on the rather delicious tea after The Metatron has conjured it for him.

Aziraphale can't say how long they're just sitting like that. Perhaps even half an hour.

And usually Aziraphale doesn't mind silence, he actually rather enjoys it at times, but at some point he gets impatient, his mind going to weird places. He wonders whether there is anything he might say or do that could change The Metatron's opinion on the whole matter, he worries about Crowley and the fact that the demon has returned yet, he asks himself what The Metatron will do with the book as soon as it is going to be in his possession …

Overall, however, Aziraphale still puzzles about how the other angel actually intends to open it in the first place.

“How do you intend to even open the book?” Aziraphale finally asks the question that has been burning on his mind for far too long at this point, effectively breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Because if you truly believe you will be able to make The Firsts trust you –”

“I don't need them,” The Metatron just waves him off.

Not a moment of hesitation.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath in. “So Michael has been right? You do have an alternative method to break the seal?” He hesitates and then adds, “Or at least you believe so.”

“I know,” The Metatron corrects him.

His gaze rests on Aziraphale, in the most pointed manner you can think of.

The angel shivers from top to bottom, he can't help it. Once again Michael's words pop up in his mind, how she suspected The Voice somehow wanting to use Aziraphale to reach his goals.

Aziraphale and Crowley.

“Is it true then?” Aziraphale whispers. “You believe that we can open the book?”

The Metatron doesn't respond verbally, but his face tells more than enough.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “You're wrong,” he insists. “Crowley and I tried to open the book before and we didn't succeed. Whatever you think –”

“You just need to know how,” The Metatron cuts in calmly. “Then it's going to be child's play.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “This is ridiculous!”

He feels his conviction waver quite quickly, though, the longer he watches The Metatron. The angel in question merely appears mildly amused by Aziraphale's refusal to believe him, like he is eagerly waiting for the moment to prove the other wrong.

“Why us?” Aziraphale then mutters, his urge to get some sort of answer, no matter how outlandish, stronger than his desire to dismiss the entire thing. “Why do you believe it has to be Crowley and I? Why not anybody else?”

That has been nagging on Aziraphale more than anything.

The Metatron simply takes another gulp of his coffee, not at all impressed by the urgency in Aziraphale's voice. “Why you?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. “I think you know, Aziraphale.”

The angel in question frowns. “No, I don't. That's why I'm asking.”

“Deep down, you know,” The Metatron insists serenely.

Aziraphale pauses. Is The Metatron implying that his feelings for Crowley are making them both unique nobody else is and can ever be? That doesn't make a lot of sense, though, because then Gabriel and Beelzebub would fit the bill as well. Granted, those two don't have the sort of history that Aziraphale and Crowley have, but overall it would be the same principle, right?

Or is this something else?

Something Aziraphale hasn't even considered before?

Or didn't even dare to consider because it sounded so utterly outlandish that he immediately dismissed it?

After all, there has been a thought in the back of Aziraphale's mind. A tiny one, an absolutely absurd one, an impossible one, and yet … it doesn't want to go away, no matter how hard he tries.

But this can't be it since it is indeed impossible.

The Metatron starts to smile, however, as though he is following Aziraphale's train of thought easily enough and the angel once again stills, unsure about practically anything at this point.

He wants to ask, wants to make sure, wants to not be crazy for merely entertaining such an idea, and he thinks The Metatron seems at least amenable enough to give a straight answer …

In the end, though, it doesn't come to that.

Because all of a sudden Hell breaks loose.

Chapter Text

One second everything is completely normal, the next the earth underneath them is shaking and the world outside plummets into utter chaos.

Aziraphale watches with wide eyes how the streets are suddenly filled with black smoke wafting through the air, clearly taking everyone by sheer surprise. The people on the road yelp and scream before hastily rushing into different directions, searching for safety in the sudden darkness. He hears mothers cry for their children, dogs barking agitatedly and people groaning when they collide with some objects or even other humans in the unexpected vastness.

While the angel bodyguards who have been lurking around somewhere in the bookshop earlier hastily rush back to them in alarm, The Metatron has leaped out of the armchair and gapes through the window. “What is happening?” he exclaims, as though anyone present seriously might have the answer for him.

“Maybe it's a gas leak?” one of the angels pipes up.

Aziraphale can't help but look at him with bewilderment, right next to The Metatron.

The angel becomes rather self-conscious and quickly explains, “I've read many of the Supreme's books. And humans seem to deal a lot with gas leaks.”

While The Metatron doesn't appear to know how to react to that, Aziraphale finds himself a little elated that yet another angel found solace in his books.

“Why, yes, indeed, it might be a gas leak,” he immediately encourages the other angel's way of thinking. “Even if we're in the UK right now and this is all very American, I'm sure it's –”

“Hell!” The Metatron cuts in harshly.

Aziraphale shoots him a look. “Granted, these leaks are not pleasant, but –”

“No, this is not a leak, it's Hell!” The Metatron presses through his teeth while gesturing out the window.

And as Aziraphale narrows his eyes, he is able to see for himself. The smoke is behaving rather oddly, like it is somehow alive. The little flickers of hellfire inside of it also speak volumes for The Metatron's argument.

Aziraphale blinks.

Is this just a coincidence? After all, thanks to Crowley giving Shax the idea Hell has been wreaking havoc among the planet for a while now, distracting and confusing Heaven all over. Did they simply arrive in London now and decided on this random shopping mile in Soho?

Or is this deliberate?

Did Shax send them here on purpose? Or did even someone else tell her to do so? Someone much higher in rank.

Aziraphale wants to dismiss it at first because his deal with Lucifer had been more than clear that he wasn't allowed to hurt anybody, not even indirectly. That most certainly involves sending out an army to do his bidding, of course.

However, as Aziraphale takes a moment to look closer, he realises that none of the humans are actually being harmed. Sure, they're disoriented and scared, but no one is getting hurt. Even the demons Aziraphale is able to spot in the distance very blurringly seem to hold themselves back while the humans around them are rushing to safety.

So would that indicate … that they were indeed sent here by Lucifer?

But how did the devil know where they should go?

How did he learn about Aziraphale's (or maybe The Metatron's) whereabouts?

Aziraphale feels something painful blossom in his chest and his urge to reach out to Crowley, to make sure he is alright, is suddenly overwhelming. But there is so much chaos and The Metatron is still standing so close next to him and he doesn't want to risk exposure.

He doesn't want to risk his fragile connection with Crowley.

And so he stays silent and looks outside, dread filling his entire being, while The Metatron and his bodyguards are talking animatedly with each other, obviously trying to determine what to do next.

However, suddenly they come to an abrupt halt when a powerful gust of wind rips the front door open and nearly flings it off its hinges.

Aziraphale stares at the display and his eyes widen when a shadow floats through the smoke, drifting closer.

Intimidating and ominous, like a nightmare that has come true.

The figure stops right there at the open threshold, a few mere steps away from them.

And even though the smoke is still thick, almost impenetrable, the way that being's eyes are glowing so fiercely red that everyone is able to see them perfectly makes all of them shudder. Even The Metatron can't contain himself, no matter how hard he tries.

Aziraphale gulps and looks at that creature in the door while his heartbeat hangs in his throat.

Technically he knows who it is, has even passionately fought out a deal with him not so long ago and came out more or less the winner, and yet Lucifer looks so utterly terrifying at that moment that Aziraphale actually can't believe he ever were in that being's presence and lived to tell the tale.

“The Metatron,” Lucifer then says, his voice, though quiet compared to the screams outside, seemingly vibrating through the entire shop and making them all flinch. “Look at you, hiding like the coward you are.”

While the angel bodyguards appear like they're seriously considering losing control over their bowel movements, The Metatron desperately tries to appear unaffected. And he indeed manages it to a certain degree and only Aziraphale's vast experience with all sorts of emotions in the last few millennia allows him to notice the tension in the other angel's shoulders.

“Lucifer,” The Metatron just says, glaring at the blurry figure in front of them.

Lucifer grins, his teeth looking like fangs within the black smoke.

“Did you seriously think Hell would just idly stand back while you and your little team of miserable angels destroy everything in their wake?” the devil asks.

The Metatron clenches his hands into fists and only Aziraphale can see them trembling. “This has been foretold for a long time,” The Metatron argues. “Not even you can prevent this.”

The devil laughs, his voice echoing through the room and stabbing through their skins.

“That may be true,” Lucifer concedes. “But who knows if you will still be alive to see the end result? Because as it is looking right now, you and your little friends are outnumbered.”

Just on cue several demonic faces show up at the windows, staring at them through the glass with horrible grins on their features.

It's truly what Aziraphale always expected Hell to be like.

Just like in the worst, most frightening stories which have been told for many generations.

“You can't come in here,” The Metatron hisses. “This bookshop is still off limits for the likes of you.”

Lucifer chuckles. “We'll see about that.”

He snaps his fingers and the demons suddenly start to pound against the windows, creating a deafening noise that makes Aziraphale flinch so hard he almost knocks himself out. It's disorienting to a nearly unbearable degree, especially paired with Satan's manic laughter, and Aziraphale quickly can't tell what's up and down anymore.

And just when he believes he can't endure it anymore, he suddenly feels someone grabbing his hand from behind and firmly pulling him between the back shelves of the room. His little yelp of surprise drowns within all the other noises as he stumbles over the floor, desperate to keep his ground.

He tries to go into battle position on instinct, but it's not that easy when you're struggling to stay upright. Nonetheless, he whirls towards his assailant, eager to defend himself however necessary.

He quickly relaxes, however, when he finds himself face-to-face with a very familiar face.

“Crowley,” he breathes in utter relief and immediately throws himself into the demon's arms a second later. Crowley lets out an “oof” in response, but he reciprocates instantly nevertheless, his strong grip making Aziraphale feel safe right away.

“I was so worried,” the angel mutters into Crowley's neck. “Where have you been? And what's with Lucifer and all those demons?”

“Well, angel, about that …” Crowley chuckles while he, visibly reluctantly (a sentiment Aziraphale shares), lets go of the other and takes a step back. “Let's just say, things didn't work out as I expected.”

Aziraphale barely has time to frown in confusion before he notices Jesus standing a few paces apart from them, waving cheerfully at him.

And of course it shouldn't have been a surprise because Crowley went out to collect The Book of Life which has been in Jesus' care since they escaped Heaven, but somehow Aziraphale assumed that he would stay behind nonetheless, far out of The Metatron's reach.

“Do you think it wise to have him here?” Aziraphale wonders, leaning closer to Crowley. “The Metatron might take him back to Heaven and there will be nothing we could do about that.”

He grimaces at the idea, at the prospect of Jesus being dumped back into the Human Heaven without ever finding any answers to his questions, but then he suddenly hears Lucifer's laughter even increasing in the background again, by the sound of it clearly still having fun intimidating the angels, and another thought suddenly strikes him.

“Wait – did you arrive here with Lucifer?” Aziraphale asks, his gaze flickering back and forth between Crowley and Jesus.

The demon grins tightly. “Yeah, we did.”

“But – what happened?” Aziraphale wonders. “Did you pick him up on purpose or –?”

“It doesn't really matter,” Crowley brushes him off. “Let's just say, he is here to help right now.”

Aziraphale hardly believes that. “And how exactly?” he asks incredulously. “The Metatron is about to call all of Heaven here and Lucifer might be powerful, but he is not that powerful. And ultimately we will be right where we started, with The Metatron holding the lives of our dear friends above our heads –”

“We've got a plan, angel!” Crowley quickly cuts in, now something akin to excitement on his features. “And I think it's a halfway decent one.”

“I like the plan,” Jesus pipes in, shooting his friend a warm smile. “Lucifer claims he isn't too thrilled about it, but considering that it didn't take much convincing to have him come along tells its own story, am I right?”

Aziraphale can't even begin to imagine what kind of plan the Fallen Morningstar, the son of God and the Serpent of Eden might have come up with together.

“I don't think –” Aziraphale starts, only to be interrupted by Crowley yet again.

“I remember, Aziraphale,” he states, suddenly so many emotions on his face the angel has a hard time distinguishing them all. “My time, up in Heaven. I remember.”

Aziraphale takes a moment to realise what he is implying. “You …?” He blinks in bewilderment. “But how …?”

Crowley merely inclines his head in the direction of Jesus and it suddenly makes sense. Jesus' powers are just as mysterious as the Almighty Herself.

Crowley grabs his hand then and uses the rings to send a flood of pictures into Aziraphale's head, obviously very keen on sharing his recovered memories with the angel. It's too much all at once, though, and everything turns blurry very fast. Aziraphale recognises some familiar places and faces, but that's about it.

“Crowley …” he groans. “You're going way too fast, darling.”

Crowley looks chastised for a second there and Aziraphale feels terribly bad about it before contemplating how to rephrase that, but he doesn't get any opportunity as Crowley quickly decides to shorten things by doing it verbally.

“I was there,” Crowley tells him impatiently. “God left, angel. On Her own free will.”

Aziraphale stares.

Naturally this was a possibility – and quite a strong one considering there can't be many powers on earth who would actually be able to force Her to do anything –, but it still hurts to hear it out loud. That She left without an explanation, without saying goodbye at least …

“And The Metatron, She left him in charge of executing all of Her plans,” Crowley rushes to explain. “So he decided to not tell anyone, to avoid chaos and whatnot. But God will return in just a few months, you see, and now he's freaking out because the deadline is coming nearer and nearer –”

Aziraphale keeps on gaping. “God – is about to return?”

Crowley nods so frantically that Aziraphale actually gets concerned the demon's head might fall off within the next second. “She will!” he states. “That's why The Metatron is so desperate to move things along.”

Well, it does make sense.

At least Aziraphale thinks so.

Truth is, though, his head is still throbbing, both because of the terrible noises the demons are still causing and all this new information, and he can't really grasp what this all means. He suddenly just feels utterly drained and wants nothing more than to climb up the stairs and lay down in his bed, preferably with his favourite demon by his side. The urge is so strong for a moment that Aziraphale has to fiercely struggle with himself to stay right where he is.

“The Metatron still thinks that you and I can open the book, yes?” Crowley asks, urgency in his tone again.

Aziraphale finds himself once again reminded of that last conversation with The Metatron before Hell's arrival, about the fact that The Voice believes that both Aziraphale and Crowley have the power to unlock The Book of Life because they're unique in a way that nobody could ever fathom.

He shudders, not having the energy to face this possibility.

And yet, when Crowley continues to look at him imploringly, he quickly nods and confirms, “Yes, The Metatron still believes it.”

And he might be right, Aziraphale thinks to himself. Even though it is madness.

Thankfully Crowley doesn't seem to notice his inner conflict as he says excitedly, “Very well. That works out perfectly for our plan.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “And what sort of plan are we talking about here?”

Crowley's smirk grows. “We're going to give The Metatron exactly what he needs.”

Aziraphale pauses.

Blinks.

Gapes.

And then he exclaims, almost loud enough to drown out all the other noises in the background, “WHAT??”

Chapter Text

“We're going to give The Metatron exactly what he needs.”

Crowley feels good uttering those words, but naturally Aziraphale doesn't react too thrilled about the demon's suggestion at first. No, on the contrary, his jaw goes slack and he looks at Crowley as though he seriously questions the other's sanity.

“WHAT??” the angel then basically screams at him.

And yes, granted, Crowley has to admit that without context those words actually sound a little bad. At least it's easy enough to misinterpret them.

Before he gets a chance to explain himself, though, Aziraphale is basically snarling, “That is not a plan, Crowley, that is giving up. We can't just let The Metatron destroy everything we hold dear –”

“Now wait a minute –” the demon tries to intercept.

“– we need to fight,” Aziraphale continues passionately, completely ignoring Crowley's attempts for further justification. “And yes, everything seems bleak right now and if God seriously will return in just a few months and start The Second Coming anyway, it might appear pointless, but we can't simply give up and –”

“Angel, angel!” Crowley urges and thankfully, after resting his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders to somehow ground him, the angel in question calms down somewhat, taking several deep breaths while shaking all over. “I'm not saying we should give up.”

Aziraphale keeps on inhaling and exhaling an exaggerating amount. “Then what are you saying?”

“With my memories recovered, I've seen something,” he says. “And it's …”

He halts, unsure how much he should voice out loud and risk The Metatron or any of his guard dogs overhearing, before his gaze lands back on the ring on his finger and he resumes through their bond, “It's complicated, angel. I just need you to trust me on this, okay?”

Aziraphale looks more than a little conflicted. “But –”

“Please, trust me!” Crowley pleads. “Just – follow my lead, no matter how outrageously crazy it seems to be. I do have a plan.”

Crowley would have loved to give a more detailed explanation, but he is still not completely convinced that these rings give them a hundred percent privacy and he simply can't jeopardise the entire operation by revealing too much. If The Metatron would find out, everything would crumble and –

“There you are!” suddenly a voice booms from the side and everybody flinches, too engrossed with one another to notice the fourth person approaching them.

Crowley shoots The Metatron a look that he hopes is appropriate for the situation.

“You brought the book,” The Metatron recognises as he nods his approval at Crowley. “Most excellent. Although I assume Hell's sudden appearance right along with you is not a coincidence, am I right?”

Crowley grimaces. “Lucifer is not happy about any of this, you see. He just followed along.”

He still hears Lucifer and the demons in the background, causing just enough distraction for all the angels The Metatron brought along with him.

Exactly like Crowley hoped it would be.

The Metatron merely hums, clearly not questioning the demon's explanation in any way. And why would we? Technically it's true, Lucifer is not happy about this and he followed Crowley and Jesus to the bookshop.

The fact that there is a little more to it than an upset devil and his army of demons desperately trying to stop The Second Coming with nothing but brunt force and no plan at all is left unmentioned.

“Well then,” The Metatron says, stepping closer. “If you open the book right now, we can get rid of him first thing, what do you say?”

Crowley watches him with narrowed eyes and tries to not look too smug that The Metatron left his bodyguards behind to deal with the inconvenience of Hell, just as they had planned.

“So you really believe that Aziraphale and I can open the book?” Crowley wonders.

To be frank, right now he doesn't care either way, and he would love to get this over with as quickly as possible, but The Metatron would get suspicious if Crowley would give in too easily and start to question his motives.

They only have one shot at this and if that means that Crowley has to be the best actor there is, so be it.

“I know you can open it,” The Metatron insists. “Aziraphale and I already had a wonderful discussion about it. Well, until your little hellish companions interrupted us rather rudely.”

Crowley shoots a side glance at Aziraphale and suddenly notices so much discomfort and unease on his angel's features that he can't help but pause.

He doesn't like this at all.

Crowley hesitates, not really sure what to do now. He originally just intended to play an act, to let the Metatron talk for a while so he wouldn't become suspicious of the demon, but now he finds himself becoming reluctantly intrigued himself.

What did The Metatron tell Aziraphale that his angel suddenly looks so utterly uncomfortable?

“Angel?” Crowley reaches out through their bond, desperate for some sort of connection. “What did he say to you? Why are you looking like that?”

Aziraphale doesn't respond as he merely chews on his bottom lip. And when Crowley tries again to fish for further explanation, Aziraphale throws him a glance that clearly warns Crowley from using the rings right in front of The Metatron.

And he probably has a point about that, but Crowley hates it anyway.

“When you performed that miracle together the first time,” The Metatron starts to explain, by the waver in his voice apparently excited to share those grand news, “I instantly got curious. The reaction in Heaven was massive in a way I have never seen.”

Crowley can't help but remember Aziraphale telling him about Michael mentioning how she noticed The Metatron taking a sudden interest in the principality and the demon after that miracle in question.

“Nobody was overly alarmed by it,” The Metatron continues with a huff, shaking his head as though he remains disappointed by his fellow angels. “I alone saw the potential, though. I investigated the matter thoroughly and finally found the truth.”

Crowley squints his eyes. “What truth?”

The Metatron stares at him so very intently it seems to pierce right through Crowle's skin. “Did you know that angels and demons are incapable of performing miracles together?” he asks. “Their powers simply cancel each other out. It's like throwing holy water and hellfire into the same bowl, they simply destroy one another and leave nothing useful behind.”

Crowley tilts his head. He actually did not know that.

And by the way Aziraphale is arching his brows so highly they nearly disappear underneath his hairline, he wasn't aware of that either.

Then again, why should angels and demons ever be taught such a thing because doing a joint miracle with the enemy would be so very far-fetched for anyone else but Aziraphale and Crowley at this point? Why bother to learn something that would never happen in the first place?

“It doesn't matter if the angel and demon in question are in love or something like that,” The Metatron states with a snort, phrasing it like something truly ridiculous. “The laws of the universe still apply, no matter all those pesky feelings.”

Crowley hates his negative tone, but he is too intrigued by the topic at hand to punch him in the face and knock him out just now.

He files it away for later, though.

“Then how come Aziraphale's and my miracle worked?” Crowley wonders.

Too good, in fact.

The Metatron doesn't offer a response but simply smiles at the demon. Like Crowley is adorably stupid and naïve for not seeing the truth right there in front of him.

Crowley glimpses back at Aziraphale and once again finds his angel more than a little awkward.

“You know what he is talking about?” the demon urges.

Aziraphale shifts on the spot. “I think I know what he believes to be true,” he answers tentatively. “However, it's ludicrous. There has to be another explanation.”

“Angel –”

“He must be wrong,” Aziraphale argues, by the sound of it almost desperate to find some way to explain this all away. “Angels and demons must be capable of performing miracles together under special circumstances, I'm sure of it. He just doesn't know better.”

“He is The Voice of God –” Crowley attempts to reason.

“And yet he is not omniscient,” Aziraphale objects. “At the end of the day he is simply another angel who doesn't know as much about demons as he thinks he does.”

Crowley isn't sure that's true, but Aziraphale is clearly shifting into stubborn territory now and the demon knows from experience that it would be next to impossible to get Aziraphale out of there. At least not without wasting precious time and jeopardising their plan in the process.

And so he sighs and forces his attention back to The Metatron.

“You know what? Whatever.” Crowley shrugs. “Keep your secrets. I don't really care about the why. I just want to save my friends.”

The Metatron squares his shoulders. “And I'm an angel of my word. You help me and I help you.”

Crowley bares his teeth. “I need you to swear on the Almighty that no harm will come to them. That they will find a place in paradise and experience everlasting peace and whatnot.”

The Metatron nods gravelly. “You have my word.”

Crowley glares at him. “And the thing you said earlier? About Aziraphale as Supreme Archangel supporting you during the sorting process?”

The Metatron inclines his head once more. “Aziraphale will be allowed right at the top, his vote vital in deciding who is to go to paradise and who is not. Just as Jesus Christ, of course.”

The man in question straightens his back at the mention of his name, assessing The Metatron curiously.

“We don't have to be enemies here,” The Metatron states. “We can work together and make this as painless as possible. And afterwards you and Aziraphale, you can go wherever you want to go. Find a peaceful little corner and live your lives, without anyone ever bothering you again.”

Crowley sags his shoulders. “You promise?”

The Metatron, clearly noticing that the demon is about to cave, eagerly swears, “I promise. On the Almighty's name.”

Crowley nods, trying to look as defeated as he can manage.

He exchanges a glance with Aziraphale who seems nervous and not really certain what to expect.

“Don't worry,” Crowley sends him through the rings. “Just remember, we're doing this for all the little girls in sunflower dresses.”

Aziraphale sighs very quietly. “I still don't know what you mean by that.”

“Just – trust me.”

Aziraphale hums in response.

And so Crowley turns back to The Metatron and announces, “Alright then. You get your miracle.”

---

There is no big fanfare.

There are no trumpets, no fireworks, no parade whatsoever. It's just Jesus pulling The Book of Life from underneath his jacket and placing it on an unremarkable little table next to them all.

Crowley stares at it as he once again feels that powerful urge to get away from it as far as possible. Every instinct in his body tells him so and it is so utterly difficult to ignore that sensation that he can't help but reach out to his angel on autopilot and takes Aziraphale's hand into his.

Aziraphale seems surprised by that unexpected touch at first, clearly not having expected for the demon to seek physical contact in the presence of The Metatron himself, but he appears to remember quickly that the book is obviously designed to repel anything Hellish and offers Crowley a reassuring squeeze instead.

“Okay, here we go,” Crowley mutters and then adds through their bond, “Just follow my lead, angel.”

Aziraphale presses his lips into a thin line and nods firmly. He still looks uncertain, but he trusts the demon enough to see this through, no further questions asked.

Crowley is once more blown away by that high level of trust and if it wouldn't have been for their audience, he would have yanked the angel into a bruising kiss and told him he loved him with every fibre of his being.

Because yes, Crowley loves Aziraphale.

At least he is fairly sure that the emotion he is feeling right this instant can't be anything else but that.

He doesn't say it out loud, though, doesn't even send it through the rings, since this is neither the time nor the place.

Instead he directs his attention back to the book and inhales deeply.

His magic starts to flow. Powerful and wild.

While he repeats over and over in his head, “Give The Metatron what he needs.”

Over and over and over.

Aziraphale is quick to follow him, to adapt to the vibrations in the atmosphere. And soon they both feel it, the shifting in the air.

The brief change of reality.

And as fast as it has happened, it stops.

Once again, without any fanfare.

There is no blinding light, no choirs singing, no explosion or anything of that kind. It's just Crowley and Aziraphale exhaling at the same time and opening their eyes to seemingly the very same scene as before.

With The Metatron and Jesus standing beside them and the book on the table not even flinching.

It remains unlocked.

The Metatron frowns. “It's still sealed,” he states the obvious because apparently he doesn't know what else to say.

“It is,” Crowley agrees easily enough. He even throws in a crooked grin for good measure.

“This wasn't the deal,” The Metatron grumbles. “Open it, now!”

Crowley, who is still holding onto his angel's hand and not having any intention of letting go anytime soon, tilts his head. “Well, Aziraphale and I performed our miracle, just like we promised. And it worked.”

Crowley can feel it and he knows that Aziraphale is able too.

At least the realisation on his features is answer enough as he finally appears to understand what Crowley hadn't been capable of explaining before.

The Metatron, meanwhile, merely scoffs. “Nothing worked. The book is still locked.”

“Well, technically you just asked us to help you,” Crowley makes himself clear. “And we did. We gave you exactly what you need.”

The Metatron stays both upset and confused for a minute longer, his gaze flickering back and forth between the book and the beings present.

“You didn't give me shit,” he then hisses. “And I'm not amenable for playing games, demon. If you refuse to open the book, then your friends will suffer for your insolence –”

Crowley actually laughs out loud at that.

“You know, you went to so much trouble to erase my memory back in the day,” he says and revels in the sight of The Metatron looking rather stunned at this sudden change of topic. “But apparently you just have to add a son of God into the mix and all your hard work is made undone.”

The Metatron blinks before shooting a glance at Jesus who cheerfully waves back at him, clearly not a care in the world.

“So … you remember?” The Metatron summarises, directing his question back at Crowley.

“I do,” Crowley confirms as he still feels a shiver washing through his system at the reminder of it all. It will take a long while for him to process it properly, he is certain of that.

The Metatron just snorts in response, though. “It doesn't change a thing.”

“Oh, it changes everything,” Crowley insists. “Because I recall your little talk with God –”

“You're a demon now,” The Metatron cuts in. “Nobody will believe you if you claim that God left us a long time ago.”

“Yes, I'm a demon.” Crowley nods. “You made sure to destroy my reputation once and for all.”

The Metatron grits his teeth. “So why do you think –?”

“It's not about that,” Crowley brushes him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Do you know what I remember most vividly about your secret conversation with Her?”

The Metatron pinches his face as he visibly refuses to even make a guess on that matter.

“The panic in your voice,” Crowley explains. “The utter desperation when God put the weight of the whole universe onto your shoulders.”

He still hears it, clear as a bell.

The Metatron reacts rather stumped by that answer and just gapes at Crowley, obviously not having a clue where the demon might be going with this.

“I do understand why you acted that way,” the demon confesses. “Up until that point you were barely more than a glorified secretary, just repeated the word of God, and then all of a sudden you were supposed to run upper management? While there was a war afoot and everyone was on edge? I would have panicked too.”

Oh, Crowley actually would have run.

As quickly as his wings would have carried him.

“And let me guess, since that day you have been working non-stop to keep it all together, right?” Crowley asks. “You upheld the facade and made everyone believe that God was still around and hadn't abandoned us all. You worked relentlessly to not have it all crashing down.”

The Metatron clenches his hands into tight fists. “You have no idea what I have been through, demon!”

“You're right, I don't,” Crowley confirms. “But there is one thing I do know for sure: that you haven't had a minute of rest in over six-thousand years.”

The Metatron creases his forehead. “What does that have to do with anything –?”

Crowley grins.

And feels satisfaction throbbing through his very being when The Metatron suddenly starts to yawn.

Very excessively.

The Metatron startles at his own body's reaction, so much puzzlement on his features that it's hilarious to witness.

“Getting tired, huh?” Crowley teases.

The Metatron stares at him. “What did you do?”

It's Aziraphale this time who responds, “We gave you exactly what you need.”

Crowley nods in confirmation. “You know, sleep is God's greatest invention and yet you lot never really appreciated it. Even Aziraphale here only sleeps like every few months which is seriously a shame. Rest is so important.”

The Metatron yawns yet again as he stumbles backwards, his legs clearly having trouble doing their job now. Eventually he ends up in an armchair in some little nook, placed there for customers of the bookshop to hopefully never ever take a break and skim through some books in peace.

“What. Did. You. Do?” The Metatron presses through his teeth once more, his gaze aiming for murderous as he glares at them. However, his sight is already beginning to become dazed and the effect is highly diminished by it.

“We're the good guys here, mate,” Crowley says with a chuckle. “You poor fella need some serious rest and that's exactly what we gave you. You're welcome.”

“But –”

“Don't tell me you're not exhausted, Meta,” Crowley interjects with a scoff. “You never dared to rest, though, in fear that everything might crumble down around you if you don't keep your eyes on all that was happening at all times, am I right?”

The fact that The Metatron doesn't protest is answer enough.

“You need some proper sleep, mate,” Crowley informs him. “No wonder you're so cranky all the time.”

The Metatron actually pouts at those words and it's so funny to look at that demon bursts into laughter.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, explains, “We're sorry it had to come to this, but Crowley is right. A sleep-deprived mind doesn't make the wisest decisions, I have learnt that since I have been here. Even an angel isn't immune to this –”

“You can't be serious –!” The Metatron snaps. He doesn't have any energy to leap out of his seat again, though. On the contrary, he sinks even deeper into the cushions while his eyelids are visibly getting heavier by the second.

“Just go the fuck to sleep, little one,” Crowley mocks him. “And considering that you've been on edge for many millennia I'm sure you're gonna nap for quite some time. How long would you guess, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale rubs his chin as he makes quite a good show of pondering this over. “Well, I'm certain it will be a few months at the very least, darling. Probably even more.”

Crowley smirks. “I once slept a whole century away,” he tells The Metatron happily. “I can see that easily happening for you too. You most definitely need it.”

The Metatron starts to struggle, tries to protest, but the combined miracle of Aziraphale and Crowley is too powerful in the end. The angel's eyelids fall closed eventually and his body deflates right in front of their eyes.

From one second to the next The Voice of God is fast asleep.

Breathing deeply and snoring quietly.

It's almost adorable.

Crowley grins smugly down at him. “What did I say? Sleep – the greatest invention there ever was.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale watches The Metatron's slumped body peacefully sleeping on the armchair in front of them and has no idea how to feel about this all.

When he finally realised Crowley's true intentions as they performed their miracle, he went along with it, so swept away by the demon's emotions that he deemed it the greatest idea that ever lived. Afterwards Aziraphale wasn't exactly sure anymore, wondering whether this would actually solve their problem or just create a bunch of new ones. Crowley, however, acted so certain about his stroke of genius that Aziraphale couldn't help but join him.

And now, staring at The Metatron sleeping so deeply like he indeed has never slept before and desperately requires to catch up to that, Aziraphale has to admit that it's at least nice that their most current threat is eliminated for the time being.

“He is almost cute, isn't he?” Crowley announces, looking at The Metatron with a teasing grin on his features.

Aziraphale can't really say he agrees, but considering that the demon is most likely meaning this in a mocking manner he surely doesn't expect an honest opinion.

Instead Aziraphale ends up distracted by the noises in the background again and he is reminded once more that most of Hell is currently outside on the streets, spreading fear among those poor humans unfortunate enough to cross their paths.

“We should probably do something about that,” Aziraphale says, pointing back to the main room.

Crowley throws a glance over his shoulder, almost as if he has forgotten all about it. “Yeah, right.”

Aziraphale doesn't wait for further statements as he shuffles back to the entrance and finds both Lucifer and the angels right where they left them. The devil is grinning nearly maniacally at The Metatron's bodyguards and seems to quite enjoy those three animatedly discussing with one another what to do about the current situation. It appears they aren't able to come to any kind of consensus and instead rotate back and forth with their arguments.

They stop, however, when they notice Aziraphale returning. They stare at him, their expressions unreadable, and stay frozen right where they are.

Lucifer, meanwhile, smirks at him. “Is it done then?”

Aziraphale blinks at him in confusion and it's finally Crowley who shows up next to him and answers, “All done.”

Lucifer's amusement only seems to grow. “I never thought this would work, Serpent, but I guess I was wrong.”

While Crowley can't help but look rather smug confronted with such scarce praise coming from the devil himself, the angels in the room bristle at the sight of a demon among their midst. But before they're able to do anything about it (whatever that might have been), they're rendered speechless when Jesus suddenly joins them as well, The Book of Life clearly visible in his grip.

The angels' jaws go slack simultaneously at this very unexpected display.

Aziraphale almost feels sorry for them.

(Almost.)

(He's surely not eager to forget that these angels were willing to follow The Metatron's plan of condemning Aziraphale's friends to a miserable existence in Hell.)

At the same time he doesn't want to waste any more time on them than he needs to. So he straightens his jacket and attempts to look as authoritative as possible as he addresses the angels then, jerking them out of their obvious shock, with a firm, “Don't just stand there! We have things to tend to.”

They simultaneously gape at Aziraphale, still not moving a collective single muscle.

“You two,” Aziraphale says, gesturing at the ones closest to him. “Get The Metatron back to Heaven, will you? He has gotten incredibly tired and needs a place to rest. Miracle a nice bed or something and leave him be, understood?”

They still just blink at him while one of them mouths, “Bed?” as though he has never heard of such a thing before.

Aziraphale remains unimpressed by that lack of action as he continues, pointing at the one angel left, “And you, you shall head wherever Michael is being held captive and make sure she will be released. And tell her to come here as quickly as possible, if she is able. We have much to discuss.” When the angel in question only arches an eyebrow at that, Aziraphale adds, “On the Supreme Archangel's orders!”

At those words they immediately snap back to attention, obviously remembering just now that with The Metatron out of commission for the time being Aziraphale is actually the highest ranking angel present. As expected The Metatron apparently didn't come around to officially renounce Aziraphale after the theft of the book – because it would have raised too many questions he most likely didn't have any patience to answer – and therefore Aziraphale still has the authority that was vested on him originally.

And with The Metatron out of the picture, Aziraphale might finally do something good with that.

The angels, however, still don't move. Less because they don't want to follow that order, though, but more because they don't seem to want to leave Aziraphale and probably also Jesus alone with a bunch of demons and Satan himself.

Before they can argue their point, though, Aziraphale is quick to reassure, “Don't worry, everything is under control. Neither Lucifer nor Hell will do further damage, we have an agreement.”

The angels gasp at that, clearly thrown back that anyone would be both brazen and brave enough to make a deal with the devil and survive. Aziraphale is suddenly faced with a lot of disbelieving admiration and he feels something tingling down his spine at those looks.

He brushes it off quickly, though. “Go!” he commands, puffing up his chest for further effect. “We don't have all day!”

Finally the angels move and hurry off to do exactly as they have been told.

While Aziraphale finds himself breathing more freely as soon as they're out of sight. It's surely telling that he feels more relaxed with demons around, one of them even Lucifer Morningstar, than his own brethren.

It's then that Crowley steps closer to him and whispers into his ear, “I love it when you get all bossy, angel.”

Aziraphale shivers at the demon's breath skidding over his skin and he can't help a pleased blush, no matter the fact that Lucifer is looking at him with a teasing grin.

“Well,” Aziraphale mutters as he desperately tries to clear his throat and get his voice back to a normal volume, “I guess it would be nice if we could, um, well – get everything back to how it was.”

After a bit of awkward fumbling he manages to gesture outside where the air is still filled with black smoke and the faint laughter of demons.

Lucifer chuckles. “Aw, they're just having a bit of fun.”

“I don't think the humans see it that way,” Aziraphale points out.

Lucifer rolls his eyes, but he eventually turns around and disappears into the darkness, only his voice carrying through the air as he tells his people to stop their little celebration. There is a lot of disappointed groaning in reaction to that, just like children who are not happy that their parents force them to stop playing because bedtime is arriving, but ultimately nobody dares to defy the devil, of course, and soon enough the fog begins to slowly clear.

Aziraphale watches it all and wonders once again how this has become his life.

“What's the next step of your glorious plan?” he wonders, directing the question at Crowley who is still standing right beside him. “Or didn't you think that far?”

“To be frank, I was only 30% sure that all of it would actually work,” Crowley confesses. “But for the next step? Well, I think we should just heed Maggie and Nina's advice.”

When Aziraphale only reacts with a confused raise of his brow at that, the demon clarifies, “We should all talk.”

Oh, right.

It's certainly not the worst idea Aziraphale has ever heard.

“Alright then,” he agrees. “Let's talk.”

---

They end up in Nina's coffee shop because contrary to the bookshop Lucifer can actually set foot in it.

There are no humans around as they all have fled after that black smoke showed up and so they take place at the biggest table in the establishment. Both Lucifer and Jesus look around like they're not exactly sure what to do with this place while Aziraphale and Crowley hastily push their chairs together as closely as possible.

Before any of them is able to start the conversation, Nina suddenly pops up next to them, obviously not having been chased away by Hell attacking once again. Aziraphale wonders if there even exists anything in this world that could actually throw her off.

“So this was you?” she asks in lieu of a hello as she points outside the big window where the last demons on the road are scattering away.

“You may say that, yes,” Aziraphale confirms, grimacing.

Nina just nods. She has seen weirder things before.

“What shall I tell the firefighters and police when they arrive?” she asks.

“Oh, don't worry,” Aziraphale is quick to answer. “They all have conveniently forgotten that they're supposed to be here. Nobody will bother you.”

Nina nods yet again, not questioning anything.

Her gaze then falls onto the two people at the table unbeknown to her and she wonders, “Who are your friends?”

Jesus leans forward, an inviting smile on his features. “I'm Jesus Christ,” he introduces himself.

“Lucifer Morningstar,” the devil follows his example as he throws Nina a mocking wink.

Nina just freezes.

Stares.

And then she turns around and walks away while muttering underneath her breath, “I really need an Irish Coffee …”

Aziraphale doubts she will reappear anytime soon.

Who does show up, though, are Gabriel and Beelzebub not that long after. Crowley had called them earlier – or, more precisely, the witch Ana – and told them to meet them here.

Gabriel seems delighted at the sight of Jesus specifically and starts to ask him all sorts of weird questions that actually appear so random Aziraphale fears about the angel's sanity (like “Did you ever think of colouring your hair green?” or “Are you sad you never had the chance to pet a guinea pig?”) while Beelzebub keeps their distance, sitting on the farthest chair possible and just eyeing Lucifer warily.

Lucifer stares back at them as well, his expression unreadable, and for the next fifteen minutes it's just this odd display of charged atmosphere between them that makes Aziraphale so utterly uncomfortable he seriously considers fleeing the scene.

Therefore he is actually glad when Michael finally walks through the door, as imposing and elegant as ever.

“Michael!” Aziraphale exclaims, the relief in his voice clearly startling her. “It's so good to see you. Are you alright?”

Michael pauses, obviously not used to someone being concerned about her well-being. “… yes, I'm alright,” she says hesitantly.

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale says. “I have to confess, I actually got a bit worried there.”

Michael still studies him with a frown. “Well, The Metatron just confined me to my office. Nothing to worry about.”

Aziraphale shoots her a smile at those news and she seems so uneasy that she averts her gaze and quickly chooses a chair next to Jesus. While doing so she stiffly nods at Gabriel before glaring at the devil.

“Lucifer,” she says coolly.

“Michael,” Lucifer mutters, tipping his imaginative hat at her.

And then they continue to stare at each other, much to Beelzebub's alleviation as they sigh in relief when the devil's attention isn't on them anymore.

In the end, though, Michael clearly didn't come here to scowl at Satan for eternity, so her gaze snaps back to Aziraphale and Crowley, making both of them jump a little.

“So, we're all here now,” she states. “Shall we open the book? Before The Metatron catches up to us?”

Aziraphale blinks. “Um, how much did the angel who freed you tell you?”

Michael narrows her eyes. “He didn't say anything. He just opened the door and then quickly ran off before I could even recognise his face.”

Well, okay.

Aziraphale can't really blame him, he probably was scared of repercussions and hoped that a quick exit might save his life.

“Well, there have been some developments …” Aziraphale says and then explains as fast and as thorough as possible what had occurred since their departure from Heaven. Michael listens to it all silently and grows more incredulous by the second.

By the end of it she mutters, “Are you serious?” and then looks at Jesus for confirmation. When the man nods happily in regard to Aziraphale's statement, Michael merely shakes her head.

She gestures between Aziraphale and Crowley and announces, “You are both the weirdest individuals God has ever created.”

Everyone at the table mumbles in agreement.

Aziraphale doesn't really know whether to be offended or pleased at first, but when he notices Crowley's smug expression he decides to be the latter as well.

“So, The Metatron is asleep?” Michael wonders, just to be safe she actually heard that correctly.

“Like a baby,” Crowley confirms. Then, however, he halts and clarifies, “Well, technically babies don't sleep very well, so I don't see why that is even a phrase.” He looks so endearingly bewildered by that, Aziraphale would have kissed him right here and now under any other circumstances. “Okay, The Metatron sleeps like an angel who has never slept before in his entire life. He will be out cold for a long time, believe me.”

“Believe you?” Michael repeats, rather sceptical.

“That fella has been on constant edge for more than six-thousand years,” Crowley reminds her. “He's been running on stress and anxiety for all that time and I actually have no idea how he hasn't dropped dead yet. I certainly would have if I suddenly got the fate of the universe placed on my unprepared shoulders.”

Michael still doesn't appear completely convinced, but she also doesn't openly deny Crowley's words.

Ultimately she merely waves him off, apparently not interested in discussing this topic with a demon any further.

“So we don't open the book then?” she asks into the round, her expressionless face giving no indication of what she might truly think about that. She could deeply oppose the idea or wholeheartedly agree, Aziraphale most certainly can't tell with her.

Lucifer, at least, shows a little more reaction to the prospect of The Book of Life simply going back to where they got it from. The corners of his mouth curl downwards as he says, “I don't want to see the book in Heaven's hands again. Especially with God not around. Who knows what kinds of naughty ideas you might come up with.”

Michael scowls at him. “We can't even open it without you.”

“The Metatron obviously believed he had found an alternative for unsealing it,” Lucifer reminds her with a scoff. “So who knows if he wasn't actually right?”

Aziraphale squirms awkwardly on his seat as he once again can't help but ponder over The Metatron's conviction that he and Crowley would have been able to break the book's lock.

He notices the demon glancing at him at those words, clearly still having questions about it that Aziraphale isn't really willing to answer because it's all so absurd, so impossible …

And yet …

Aziraphale shakes his head slightly, in an effort to chase all those thoughts away. They don't have any place here right now.

There are much more important issues which need attention.

“Okay, listen up,” he states, with all the authority his new rank is allowing him. “I know this is quite a tense situation and we really can't be sure about anything at this point. But maybe we can come to a compromise that will satisfy us all for the time being.”

Everyone just looks at him, awaiting his next words.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. “We can't know whether God will indeed come back on that 28^th of April or not. Granted, we could open the book right here and now and see for ourselves where She is, but I'm not certain this is going to do us much good. The Metatron is out of the way, I'm still technically Supreme Archangel and neither of us has any desire to start The Second Coming, at least without the Almighty's explicit commands. Am I right?”

He glances around and notices that nobody contradicts. Admittedly, Michael seems a bit conflicted for a minute, probably because of the fact that God actually did order The Metatron back in the day to see it all through till the end. Then again, she hadn't been present during that particular conversation and only has the word of a demon right now that it actually happened. And she most definitely won't trigger The Second Coming only because Crowley claims God commanded it over six-thousand years ago.

“Well then.” Aziraphale straightens his back. “How about we agree to keep up the status quo for now? Let's draw up a contract that neither of us will do anything apocalypse adjacent and that the book will remain sealed like it has been for all this time. Would that be agreeable?”

Lucifer chews on his bottom lip and not so subtly glimpses back at the bookshop, right where Jesus had left The Book of Life earlier because the devil or any of his subjects can't access it there.

He isn't exactly happy about it all, that much seems true, but he is smart enough to realise that he is not in a good enough position to argue.

“What will happen if that 28^th of April arrives and God doesn't show up?” Jesus wonders.

Aziraphale sighs. “We should agree to meet back up here on the 29^th of April if that happens,” he suggests. “To discuss further steps.”

He is met with some murmuring.

Nobody agrees overly enthusiastically, but not one of them appears completely appalled by the proposal either.

“Alright then, little Supreme,” Lucifer says, his piercing eyes cutting right through Aziraphale's skin. “Let's make that damned contract then.”

And when everybody nods – albeit still a bit tentative – and Crowley links their hands again underneath the table, squeezing Aziraphale's finger reassuringly, Aziraphale just knows that at least for a short period of time they might have found something akin to a true truce.

Chapter Text

And so they draw up a contract.

They keep it rather simple because at the end of the day nobody seems overly keen on making much of a fuss about it. Granted, Lucifer sees the need to complain about some phrases in the text once or twice and Gabriel has a few inappropriate suggestions even though technically he isn't part of either Heaven or Hell anymore and therefore has no speaking rights whatsoever, but overall it is a smooth affair and they have it done within half an hour, with everyone satisfied enough about it to not continue any fighting.

After all, the main focus – to keep the status quo and leave The Book of Life untouched – has been covered from all angles and that's the most important part.

And Aziraphale can't help but feel a little bit proud. Yes, he knows pride is one of the sins and he shouldn't indulge in them in any shape or form, but never in his wildest dreams would he have guessed that one day he would sit at a table next to the most powerful beings in existence, one of them Satan himself, and actually would make them listen and agree to his terms.

So from his point of view he is allowed to be somewhat giddy about it.

He watches them all, sitting at the table and talking with each other. Granted, there is very long and deeply rooted animosity that won't be erased during one sunny afternoon, showing itself in almost every word and gesture. Not even Aziraphale is completely above it, as he notices somewhere along the way. However, there are no weapons drawn or any blood spilling, so all in all it's certainly a win.

A true miracle, so to speak.

When they eventually manage to wrap their talks up, with everyone having signed the contract, they continue to linger for a while, apparently no one really willing to be the first to turn their back and walk off.

Jesus is animatedly talking with Gabriel while Beelzebub hovers in the background, trying to look aloof, even though it's obvious they don't want to miss a single word. Meanwhile, Lucifer is eyeing the menu on the wall, probably wondering whether he should order the fanciest drink on there, just to see for himself how utterly ridiculous humankind has become.

Michael, on the other hand … well, Aziraphale notices her glancing across the street, right where the bookshop is standing tall and proud.

She visibly struggles with herself for a moment, but eventually she ends up asking, “May I borrow some more books from your collection?”

She is still rather reluctant about it, like she is despising herself a little bit for steeping so lowly, but nonetheless it's obviously important enough for her that she is able to set her pride aside for the time being and ask.

Therefore Aziraphale responds with an easy smile, as though this is any other day and nothing to make a big deal about. “Of course. Any angel is welcome to read as many of my books as possible.”

Those words let Gabriel perk up who leans in, interest sparkling in his eyes. “You're reading human books now?”

There is no judgment in his tone, though, only fascination as his gaze rests on Michael.

“Oh, have you already read up on human pregnancy and birth, by any chance?” he asks, his face suddenly a mask of disgust. “If yes, eurgh, am I right? I could have never imagined this would actually be so vile and disturbing. Why did we ever assume something different?”

Naturally Lucifer ends up drawn in by that description right away. “What's vile and disturbing?”

Gabriel appears more than thrilled to share his new knowledge and so he cheerfully describes everything in great detail, much to Michael's obvious horror and the devil's growing intrigue.

“Fascinating,” Lucifer mumbles before turning his head towards Aziraphale. “And you're teaching angels these things?”

Aziraphale, despite everything still feeling a bit uncomfortable with having Satan's undivided attention resting on him, clears his throat awkwardly and explains, “Well, I have been collecting books for centuries and I'm sharing them with Heaven –”

Lucifer narrows his eyes. “Only Heaven?”

Aziraphale blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“I'm just saying, I've recently come to realise that we could actually learn a lot from humans about hellish behaviour.” Lucifer grins widely as he glances at Crowley. “Let's be honest, in the last few millennia up here you didn't need to do much to cause chaos and destruction among humanity, am I right? They did most of it by themselves.”

Crowley grits his teeth. “To be frank, sometimes I even mellowed it down a bit. Humans are absolutely crazy most of the time.”

Lucifer laughs, delighted, before turning back to Aziraphale. “What do you say? Will you share some of your knowledge with Hell as well?”

Aziraphale hesitates.

Of course he is not happy about the motivation behind it all, but at the end of the day Hell might also profit from learning more about humans. And yes, there are a lot of dark chapters the demons will surely eat up with pleasure, but overall humanity is so much more complex and maybe Lucifer and his followers might realise all these similarities by reading more about them.

Besides, Aziraphale would rather have Lucifer ask for permission like this than mercilessly invade the nearest bookstores and rob them blind.

“Well, I'm always happy to help,” Aziraphale ultimately agrees.

After all, maybe this was the main reason why he felt that strong urge to gather so many books in the last centuries. Perhaps, deep down, he knew that the day would come that they might change Heaven and Hell forever.

So he sighs and says, “Let's go shopping then.”

---

As always it pains him a great deal to part with any of his books, but he tells himself over and over that it is for the greater good.

So he hands over a bunch for Michael and even Gabriel after she shows some interest, and in the end provides Lucifer with all sorts of titles Aziraphale believes might intrigue him enough at first to keep reading due to their dark topics but might let him finish them with important life lessons nobody ever bothered to teach him before (or any of them, to be precise).

“Well, I can't say it's been a pleasure meeting an angel,” Lucifer finally says his goodbye, grasping tightly onto the books in his hands, “but I guess you're not so bad.”

That is probably the highest compliment an angel will ever get from the devil himself and so Aziraphale cherishes it for what it is.

“You're certainly not what I expected either,” Aziraphale confesses.

Lucifer grins. “In a good way or a bad way?”

Aziraphale doesn't have to contemplate that for very long. “Both,” he says. “Without any doubt.”

Lucifer seems satisfied by that answer. He offers Aziraphale a wicked smirk, throws Crowley a wink which makes the demon bristle, glares at both Michael and Gabriel and then glares even harder at Beelzebub. And then he visibly shudders when Jesus suddenly joins them and he takes a few steps back. Aziraphale can't say whether something happened between them, but Lucifer seems at least eager to put enough distance between them.

“Adieu then,” Lucifer says. “We're gonna see each other at the next apocalypse. Or on the 28^th of April, whenever that is.”

“Maybe you should get yourself a calendar,” Aziraphale suggests.

“Right,” Lucifer states. “A calendar. Whatever that is either.”

And then he is suddenly gone before Aziraphale can explain it to him.

He sighs and looks at the empty spot in front of him. He realises that at some point in the future (most likely not that far away) everything will crash down on him at once and he is going to truly deal with the fact that he met the devil and not only survived but confronted him many times, but for now it still feels surreal and he quickly brushes it away before it might cripple him.

Instead he glances to the side and finds himself face-to-face with the son of God.

Which is another mind-blowing fact all on its own.

Jesus just smiles at him. “You're quite remarkable, you know?” he says.

Aziraphale refuses to blush and fails miserably. “Um, well …” he mutters and lowers his gaze, too overwhelmed by it all to react to that properly. “And you are … well … so you are going to return back to Heaven, yes?”

Sometimes it's easier to change the topic as quickly as possible, even if it's quite clumsy.

“I want to keep an eye on the book,” Jesus confirms. “And I would like to help. You've been right, angels have been too detached about what's going on on Earth. How are they supposed to be their shepherds if they don't know anything about them? We should definitely change that.”

Aziraphale meets the man's smile with one of his own. It will be nice to have a true ally up there when he eventually returns as well.

“I'm glad to hear that,” he says.

“And what about you?” Jesus wonders. “Will you come back to Heaven?”

There is a weird note in his voice and Aziraphale certainly doesn't miss the way Jesus' gaze flashes to Crowley at the other side of the room for a second. He is clearly not asking for the well-being of the universe but for the benefit of his friend.

It's nice to know that Crowley has people looking out for him like that.

“I'm the Supreme Archangel, at least for now,” Aziraphale reminds him. “I can't stay away for good. But …”

“You don't want to live there,” Jesus realises.

Aziraphale sighs. “I would hate it, with every fibre of my being. For various reasons. But especially because of …”

He trails off, though, Jesus seems to understand him anyway. His smile turns quite genuine as he squeezes Aziraphale's shoulder.

“You're just the angel Crowley always told me you are,” he says happily. “And I look forward to keeping on working with you up in Heaven. But take your time.”

He winks at Aziraphale, a boyish grin on his face that makes him look endearingly young, before he shuffles back to Crowley, by the looks of it saying goodbye. At least the man and the demon are soon enough locked in a heartfelt embrace and Aziraphale quickly glimpses away, feeling like he is intruding on a very personal moment.

Eventually one after the other bids farewell, until only Aziraphale and Crowley are left behind.

The demon gravitates closer to him right away. “So … you're not going back?”

He doesn't even hide the emotions in his tone, next to the fact that he takes his sunglasses off. He obviously decided somewhere along the way to be all open about it and Aziraphale truly appreciates that.

“I will, eventually,” Aziraphale explains. “I still think I can do some good up there.”

“You can,” Crowley mumbles.

“However, it doesn't have to be my life,” Aziraphale continues. “Humans do it all the time, right? Go to their jobs for a few hours per day and then come back home to their loved ones. Seems simple enough.”

Crowley doesn't say anything to that at first, but the look he shoots Aziraphale tells the angel everything he needs to know.

And then Crowley adds, with a devilish smirk on his features, “But don't expect me to be the trophy housewife and prepare you some luscious dinner every night all of a sudden. I'm not that kind of demon.”

Aziraphale can't help but let his gaze flicker to the rings on their fingers that neither of them seems in any hurry to take off anytime soon before he says, “Too bad. I really enjoyed watching you make breakfast that one time.”

Crowley's brows climb upwards, clearly remembering that moment very well where the angel basically attacked him with all his affection at the sight of the demon in the kitchen. By the spark in his eyes he might not be totally opposed to repeating that moment and Aziraphale really hopes he will get a nice dinner or two out of it after all.

“Well, I'm most certainly not cooking now,” Crowley replies with a huff. “I feel like I lived several lifetimes in the last few weeks.”

Aziraphale's shoulder sag at the reminder. “Indeed it feels like it.”

Crowley heaves a deep sigh as he rubs his temples. “I seriously don't know what I should do first: Get impossibly drunk or just crawl into bed and never come out.”

Aziraphale laughs. “Why not both?”

Crowley just lifts his eyebrows again at that, looking at the angel.

“Let's get ourselves the greatest dinner of all times – with lots of alcohol and the most scrumptious things to eat – and take it all to bed,” Aziraphale suggests with a bright grin. “And maybe watch some television, for relaxation. You enjoy that show with the four old ladies and their inappropriate jokes, right?”

Crowley gapes at him.

“So you want to eat and drink in bed and watch Golden Girls?” he asks, incredulous.

“We deserve it, don't you think?” Aziraphale says with a shrug. “Maybe we should just take the whole week off and spend it in bed, lazing around.”

Crowley keeps on staring at him.

And then the softest expression appears on his features as he says, “I love you.”

Aziraphale startles and for a moment he seriously considers that his ears malfunctioned and he didn't actually hear that.

However, when he eventually admits to himself that yes, this did actually happen, he simply scoffs.

“Seriously?” he complains. “After everything we have been through, this is what finally makes you say those words?”

Crowley seems rather amused by the angel's reaction. “What can I say? I'm a simple demon with simple needs.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “There is nothing simple about you.”

“You're right,” Crowley agrees, chuckling. “I'm actually pretty fantastic, come to think of it –”

He doesn't get any further than that because Aziraphale suddenly grips him by the lapels of his jacket and shoves him against the bookshelf behind him. While the demon's eyes widen in surprise and some of the books tumble to the ground due to the impact, Aziraphale just looks at Crowley – at this gorgeous, wonderful, infuriating and obnoxious being the universe decided to send to him all those millennia ago – and deems himself the luckiest bastard on the planet.

Crowley releases another startled noise when Aziraphale then connects their lips, but thankfully he melts into the touch rather quickly. As usual they basically intertwine with each other in all planes of existence accessible to them.

Aziraphale kisses him softly, just enjoying the warmth and safety of Crowley, and then he kisses him passionately, making the demon truly groan in the most delicious way, and he loves it all.

If this is his reward for everything he had to go through, then he will gladly call it worthwhile.

“I love you too, by the way,” he eventually remembers to mention, peppering those words against Crowley's inviting lips.

The demon just growls in response and pulls the angel even closer.

And so they stay like this for a long time, releasing the tension of the last few months and just craving one another's company in any manner imaginable, until Muriel eventually stumbles upon them and asks them innocently if they could move a bit to the side so that she would be able to put the books that had fallen earlier back into the shelf.

Aziraphale and Crowley, both too dishevelled and dazed to concentrate on any other kind of interaction besides with each other, just link their hands and immediately flee the scene.

And when they eventually reach Aziraphale's bedroom and giggle like little children, happy and carefree, the angel simply knows that whatever might happen today, tomorrow or in the next couple of months, they will both be strong enough to face it.

Together.

Chapter Text

On the morning of the 28^th of April Crowley wakes up disoriented at first, not really sure where he even is.

He stares at the ceiling above him and then he stares at the florally embroidered blanket covering his body while his brain takes a few minutes to make sense of things. Eventually, though, that familiar sensation of warmth and safety settles in again and he realises that he is in the bookshop, right here in Aziraphale's bed.

A smile creeps up on his features, just like all the other times he has woken up right here in the last couple of months.

The smile, however, fades quite quickly once more when he suddenly recalls the date.

The 28^th of April.

The day God is supposed to return.

Of course Crowley has been dreading this day the entire time, but for the majority of it his denial game was strong enough to not get too anxious about it. Only last night it came crashing down on him at once and he freaked out so badly he was unable to find any kind of rest. Aziraphale, even though probably just as wired as the demon himself, spent all his energy trying to calm Crowley down and eventually they ended up in each other's arms in Aziraphale's bed, reminiscing about their craziest tales of the past because this turned out to be the perfect distraction for both of them.

Crowley apparently even fell asleep at some point which he is actually quite surprised about.

Now he finds himself all alone in bed, but he hears Aziraphale moving around downstairs. The angel is definitely a bit more restless, according to the manner he walks back and forth in the shop, but that is most certainly to be expected on a day like this.

Either God will show up today and maybe decide to bring The Second Coming after all or She will keep away and Heaven and Hell have to come together again to discuss their next steps.

Neither of those options sounds very tempting.

Crowley squeezes his eyes shut, cursing his existence. Why does everything have to be so extreme most of the time?

The last few months they managed to build a somewhat peaceful life with one another. Aziraphale went to Heaven for the day, Crowley stayed behind to scare potential customers out of the bookshop, and eventually his angel returned. They spent their evenings and weekends (because Aziraphale started to adapt to the human work week) going on dinner dates, taking strolls in the park, having picnics next to the duck pond, spending time with Maggie and Nina and other friends and curling up in bed together every night. Aziraphale didn't always sleep – since he is still weird like that –, but he never stopped being eager to hold Crowley or be held in return until late at night.

All in all, a simple life. An easy life.

No drama, no catastrophes. Yes, maybe a bit boring, from an outsider point of view, but in Crowley's opinion it was everything.

And today this might all come to an end.

He hates it, more than anything.

However, instead of staying in bed and feeling all miserable he promptly rolls off the mattress, miracles his clothes back on and walks downstairs.

The world might burn today, but he will be damned (again) before not spending as much time with Aziraphale until then as possible.

As expected Aziraphale is just bustling about, carrying some books from one end of the shop to the next only to change his mind two seconds later and bring them somewhere else. It's clear that his anxiety is spiking with every passing minute and Crowley would love to comfort him, but he doesn't feel much better himself.

And yet he tries as he grabs Aziraphale just when is walking by and hugs him from behind.

“Morning, angel,” he mumbles, pressing a soft kiss onto the side of Aziraphale's neck.

Aziraphale freezes at first, but very soon some of the tension in his body loosens up. Not everything, mind you, but enough to make him stop for the time being.

“Good morning, darling,” he whispers back while Crowley still feels shivers running down his spine at the angel using such pet names for him. It hasn't lost his marvel, even after all these months.

Crowley doubts it ever will.

“How about a nice breakfast?” the demon suggests. “Just you and me and lots of food.”

Aziraphale laughs quietly. “That sounds like my own personal paradise, under any other circumstances,” he admits. “But right now – well, I don't think I could eat a damned thing.”

Crowley expected as much while pulling the angel closer to his chest.

“I know you're freaking out,” he says. “Trust me, I'm freaking out, too. But there is nothing we can do about it. It will happen or it will not.”

Aziraphale pats the demon's hands clasped in front of his belly. “I know, sweetheart. That won't stop my brain from worrying, though.”

“Anything I can do to make it better?” Crowley wonders.

“Just – be here,” Aziraphale breathes so quietly, as though he doesn't want anyone to hear but Crowley. “Be with me.”

Crowley leaves a gentle peck on the angel's temple. “There is nowhere I would rather be.”

And so they spend their morning, with Aziraphale fuzzing about and Crowley watching him, trying to calm down on the inside and not succeeding much either. At some point he turns into a snake because that shape has always given him some sort of security he can't really explain and that at least distracts Aziraphale for a little while, cooing how gorgeous Crowley looks while the demon wraps himself around his angel and squeezes him extra tightly.

Eventually, though, anxiety wins again and Aziraphale starts to move around once more.

Crowley, meanwhile, slithers to his favourite place when in this form, the windowsill on the southern side. There is always a good amount of sun and it's just nice to curl up there and get warm.

Also today it actually works and he finds himself relaxing somewhat.

The humans outside pass by without anybody sparing him much attention. The few who do clearly deem him a prop of some kind. Crowley certainly has been napping at this exact spot for months now and only a handful of people have realised that he is real.

(For one week he got even internet famous, with young people luring outside the window and filming him for hours, waiting for some sort of life sign. Crowley truly enjoyed staying stock still for a very long time only to suddenly snap up his head without any warning and dramatically hiss at them, much to the shock and then later delight of those youngsters.)

(As internet fame is short-lived, though, he quickly got replaced by a cat counting to three and that was that.)

Crowley lies in the sun for hours on end, dozing happily and listening to Aziraphale being busy in the background.

At some point, however, he finds himself startled out of his dazed state by someone outside stopping right in front of him.

He cautiously opens one eye, expecting to discover some teenager who is chasing an internet trend weeks too late.

He halts, though, when he realises that is not the case.

There is no teenager, but a young girl, about six years old.

Wearing a very familiar sunflower dress.

Crowley can't help it, he raises his head and stares at her. The girl laughs at the motion, her eyes sparkling so brightly it's hard to not be mesmerised by it. She looks at him as if he is the most amazing thing in the world and Crowley finds himself attempting to smile at her in return. It's not easy in this shape and usually looks more terrifying than reassuring, but somehow it happens on autopilot. Thankfully the girl seems to be ecstatic by it rather than traumatised and beams right back at him.

And so they remain like that for a long moment, just smiling at each other, before she eventually giggles adorably and rushes away again.

Crowley watches after her until she is out of his line of vision before he turns back into the bookshop again. He quickly morphs back into his human form and grasps onto Aziraphale just when the angel is passing him again.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale then asks, clearly noticing the change in the demon's mood.

Crowley looks at him and thinks of the girl and her sunflowers. “Whatever happens today, we did the right thing,” he states. “Humanity deserved to be saved.”

Aziraphale blinks at him at first, obviously wondering what brought this on, before his features soften. “You're right,” he agrees. “It's just … well, it's difficult to imagine that everything we fought so hard for might have been for nothing after all.”

“At least we gave them a few more months,” Crowley says, gesturing outside the big window. “Some time to celebrate more birthdays and weddings and graduations and whatever other milestones you can think of. More time to have boring evenings in front of the TV and suffer through annoying family boardgames. More time to take the dog for a walk and try to hide their smoking habits from their wives. More time to love, to laugh, to fight, to forgive …” He shrugs. “Just – more time.”

Aziraphale looks at him, stunned.

“You are very …” He trails off, clearly looking for the right term. “Well, I can't exactly describe it, but you are very that today, dearest.”

Crowley grins lopsidedly. “Even a demon has its moments.”

Aziraphale seems like he wants to protest. Wants to say something sappy like “You have ALL the moments, Crowley!” and the demon is not sure he would be able to take that right now.

So he leans in and kisses his angel and thankfully that's enough, like always, to make Aziraphale forget about anything else.

Until the moment the bell at the front door rings, indicating another customer walking in.

Crowley growls as he draws back from Aziraphale, totally preparing to bark at the newcomer and send them out of the door flying.

He comes to a screeching halt, though, when he sees himself, once again, confronted with the little girl in the sunflower dress.

Standing right here, in the bookshop.

Crowley stares at her in surprise while she just smiles brightly at them.

“Oh, hello,” Aziraphale says, his voice so impossibly soft it mellows everything in the vicinity. “Are you lost, my dear? Or are your parents around?”

While she just keeps on grinning, Crowley leans closer to Aziraphale and whispers, “I think she is here to see the snake.”

Aziraphale appears confused only for a second before realisation hits on. “Oh, I see.” He chuckles. “Well, the snake is just taking a little nap, I'm afraid. He's gotten pretty tired because he didn't sleep well last night. I hope you understand.”

She giggles in response.

And then she says, “I'm just here to thank you for the marvellous entertainment you have provided in the last few millennia. It has been an absolute pleasure.”

Aziraphale furrows his brows, completely bewildered by the looks of it, and Crowley isn't far behind. To hear such words coming out of a child so young is more than a little disturbing.

“Um … what?” Aziraphale asks, blinking rapidly.

The girl beams.

And then her gaze switches to Crowley and the demon suddenly notices that her face is not the one of a normal human child. No, it seems to be no face and countless faces at once …

Just like …

Crowley gasps and out of instinct he grasps onto Aziraphale so fiercely that the angel yelps.

The girl keeps on smiling as her attention drifts to the point of contact between angel and demon. “I told you,” she says, looking at Crowley, “one of these days you're going to have someone to share everything with. I'm happy it worked out.”

Crowley stops breathing.

And he is only still standing because Aziraphale is keeping him upright.

“What is happening?” the angel mutters, as much to himself as to Crowley.

Crowley can't answer that question, though.

He has no bloody idea what is happening either.

The girl, meanwhile, winks casually at them. “Well, that was all I wanted to say,” she says cheerfully. “Have a nice life.”

And with these words she whirls around, her dress swinging with the motion, and walks out of the door again as though this has been any other day.

As though this has been completely normal.

Crowley gapes after her and wonders whether he might discorporate on the spot.

Sure, it would be highly awkward, with Lucifer probably never letting him live that down, but right now it feels like an actual possibility.

Aziraphale next to him, in the meantime, visibly begins to tense up as well. Whether he simply connected the dots or whether he somehow felt it, being an angel and all that, Crowley can't say.

But soon enough he looks equally shell-shocked.

“Oh my, was that …?” he asks, his eyes as big as saucers.

Crowley nods, unable to use his vocal chords.

“And she was …?”

Crowley nods again, albeit he has no clue what Aziraphale even wanted to say.

For a long moment they remain like that, just frozen on the outside and on the inside freaking out so much they might as well combust.

It feels like a lifetime passes just around them.

And Crowley gets only startled out of it when Aziraphale suddenly spurs into action and marches to the door, a determination on his features that's actually a little scary to look at.

“What are you doing?” Crowley squeals pathetically, his voice an absolute mess.

“I just have to …” Aziraphale mutters and then he is out of the door before any kind of explanation is offered.

Crowley dies a little on the inside, but the thought of leaving Aziraphale alone is even worse than anything else that might await him and so he runs outside too before his logical brain is able to scold him for it.

Thankfully he doesn't need to look far as he spots Aziraphale's back just a little down the street, near that quiet alley. Crowley rushes after him right away and pauses beside him, his gaze resting on the girl just as Aziraphale's does.

They clearly haven't gone far in his absence as Aziraphale is just whispering in awe, “You're really here.”

The little girl – no, She – smiles. “Well, that was the plan, was it not?”

Crowley gapes at Her like an absolute idiot.

Despite everything, despite what he had overheard so many thousand years ago, he actually never really anticipated to be in God's presence again. That privilege was only reserved for Raphael, the perfect son who asked too many questions. Crowley The Demon, though? Why should he ever be in the glory of the Almighty again?

Granted, this specific moment actually doesn't seem all that grand and earth-shattering, to be honest. From the outside it just looks like two middle-aged men talking with a little girl and somehow, weirdly enough, it even feels that way somewhat. There is not that all-consuming magnitude anymore that used to radiate out of God every second of every day and always felt a little suffocating. Yes, Her face is odd and Her voice appears to vibrate a bit more, like it has some trouble to find the right frequency, but She suddenly seems so … down-to-earth that Crowley doesn't really know how to handle this.

However, it's what ultimately gives him the courage to actually open his mouth as well. “And you have been here all this time?” he presses through his teeth, clearly recalling their first encounter many months ago.

He can't help but sound accusing and under any other circumstances he might have been horrified by his audacity – Aziraphale next to him surely winces at his tone –, but right now his brain is too much on fire to actually care about that.

Sure, She might smite him because at the end of the day he is just a little demon, but at least he stood his ground.

God, however, doesn't waver but keeps on smiling that little girly smile. “Yes, I have been here,” She confirms. “Well, I have been everywhere.”

“Everywhere?” Aziraphale finds himself asking before immediately flinching at himself for actually responding to that to begin with.

“What's the purpose of creating an entire universe if you don't enjoy it?” She says, sounding like this should have been blatantly obvious. “I didn't build all this only to watch it from a distance, up there in Heaven. Where is the fun in that?”

Aziraphale blinks. “So … you have been among the humans?”

“I lived among humanity,” She agrees with a nod. “I travelled the stars. I flew through galaxies. I spent centuries as a protozoan as part of the Atlantic Ocean. I was the eagle in the sky and the mammoth breaking through the ice.” She smiles, more than a little wistfully. “And one time I spent years with a group of otters. I think that was my favourite. They're the most adorable creatures, are they not?”

She sounds so innocent, with that little girl voice, while Aziraphale just stares at Her, apparently lost for words.

Crowley feels the same, but he gathers just enough willpower to ask shakily, “So you left … to live with otters?”

It seems so surreal, so downright ludicrous, that he seriously starts to wonder whether he lost his mind somewhere along the way.

“I left to experience life,” She corrects him. “And I left to give you all a chance to do the same.”

Crowley frowns. “How so?”

“Free will,” She says with a shrug. “The creation I'm most proud of. And which also scares me the most.”

Crowley can't imagine God being afraid of anything and yet here She is, telling them just that.

“It's unpredictable, even for me,” She states. “And yet I knew it would be glorious. But with me around, with everyone just hanging on my lips and following my word to the letter, I knew neither of you would be able to unlock its full potential.”

It does make some sense, Crowley has to admit.

And yet …

“Well, The Metatron made sure that nobody even realised you were gone,” Crowley growls.

“Which I didn't expect,” God confesses. “Once again, free will. It's wild, isn't it?” She shakes Her head, Her little pigtails flying around. “I didn't anticipate The Metatron to do what he did.”

“You didn't check up on him?” Crowley asks, raising his brows. “Or on Heaven in general?”

She sighs. “A little bit, here and there. Not enough to see the complete picture, though.” Then She begins to chuckle and adds, “Well, apart from the last few months. Once again, thank you for all the entertainment. To put The Metatron to sleep like that, wonderful. I never would have thought of that.”

Crowley isn't sure what to make of it all and by the looks of it Aziraphale feels just as helpless.

“At the end of the day I left to give you all the opportunity to unfurl your free will in any way imaginable,” She continues, sounding more serious again. “And it might not seem like much happened in the last six-thousand years in that department, but it did. You are all individuals with your own feelings, your own agendas, and yes, some of you ventured out way more than others – with you two being the prime examples –, but ultimately you all made use of your free will.”

Crowley wants to wave her off, wants to claim that most of Heaven is still a pile of mindless puppets, but after a moment of consideration he keeps himself at bay. Yes, on first glance it might look like nothing much has changed, but the Almighty isn't wrong, there are differences. From angels who allow themselves to indulge in little hobbies – like Muriel running a bookshop with great enthusiasm or Michael getting more and more intrigued by the stories humans have written – to angels who actually break out of their lines in a rather big way and run away to live with a demon of their choice, for example. Gabriel, one of the strictest angels who has ever lived, surely is a good example of using his free will in a rather unexpected manner.

So yes, Crowley keeps his mouth shut because God is right. There are changes, they have been happening for centuries probably, and they might have not occurred at all with Her being there, everyone just dutifully waiting around for Her next command. The Metatron might have fooled them all that God had still been around, granted, but deep down most likely every angel had some sort of sense that something was different after Her departure. They couldn't name it, couldn't really pinpoint its origin at all, but Crowley is certain they felt it somehow.

“And now … you're going back to Heaven?” Aziraphale then asks, his voice jolting Crowley out of his thoughts.

God's expression softens. “I promised, didn't I?” She reminds them once again. “Besides, after all this time I have started to miss it. It will be nice to return, at least for a while.”

Aziraphale nervously shifts his weight from one foot to the either and Crowley feels his anxiety increasing as well while they share a quick glance with each other.

“What about … The Second Coming?” Aziraphale wonders, his voice shaking.

God just looks at them. “What about it?”

Crowley nearly screams because that question surely seems like a punch to the gut. But he only grinds his teeth very loudly and keeps himself from saying another word because it wouldn't have been pretty otherwise.

Aziraphale appears equally on edge, however, he has just enough strength left to keep his composure somehow. “Will you …?” he starts to ask, only to trail off, take a rather deep breath and then try again, “Will you trigger it?”

God tilts Her head.

Once again looking so damned innocent it's driving Crowley mad.

And in the end She replies, “Nah.”

That's it.

Crowley loses it.

“Nah?” he growls indignantly, throwing his arms into the air quite dramatically. “After all we have been through, after EVERYTHING, that is your answer?!”

God blinks at him.

“Do you want me to trigger it?” She asks.

Aziraphale bristles immediately at that and doesn't hesitate to try to salvage the situation by rambling, “No, no, of course not, Crowley didn't mean – he is just – we would never –”

He keeps on rambling in the same fashion, by the looks of it absolutely terrified that God just might start The Second Coming the very next second if they don't change Her mind as quickly as possible.

Crowley, meanwhile, simply scowls at Her.

This is all just too much.

They have been struggling for months trying to avert The Second Coming, Crowley nearly lost Aziraphale for good over all of this, and ultimately God merely shrugs it off like it meant nothing?

Crowley's blood begins to boil.

“So you made us go through all of that,” he hisses, “and in the end you decide that it wasn't worth the effort? Are you telling us that?”

God assesses him with wonder in Her eyes.

And then she leans closer to Aziraphale and says, “Feelings are such glorious things, are they not? He doesn't want The Second Coming and yet he is angry that I don't want it either. Fascinating.”

She keeps on studying Crowley like he is an intriguing science experiment while Crowley seriously debates with himself if it would be too dramatic to simply stomp off in a huff.

It makes him realise, though, that God might have lived among Her creation all this time, but that She hasn't mastered the art of truly understanding emotions in any way just yet. It seems that feelings are too unpredictable even for the Almighty.

“I think he is mostly angry about the fact that it appears like you're dismissing all our pain we have experienced in the last few months due to the threat of The Second Coming,” Aziraphale explains, despite visibly looking uncomfortable having to talk to God like this keen on standing beside Crowley and supporting him. “And I feel the same, I have to confess. I don't want The Second Coming, mind you, and it would completely break my heart to see it executed, but … well, it feels like there has never been a threat to begin with and we wasted our lives trying to avoid it.”

God's gaze flickers back and forth between them as she obviously considers Aziraphale's word very carefully.

“I didn't mean to … hurt you,” She then says, still sounding a bit confused about it, but making an effort anyway. “Your struggles in the last months weren't just a way for me to have some free entertainment. The Second Coming is real and I truly intended to activate it. I was just watching and wondering how The Metatron would handle it.”

Crowley stares at her. “And then we took him out and you never swooped in to see it through? Why?”

“Because I was intrigued by the way Heaven and Hell found themselves back together,” God admits. “I never really thought it possible and yet you proved me wrong. So I began to wonder about all the other things angels and demons and humans could still surprise me with. And suddenly The Second Coming didn't seem all that tempting anymore.”

Crowley chews on his bottom lip, the raging emotions inside of him still ripping painfully at his organs. “So you simply dropped the idea? Just like that?”

“It wouldn't be the first time, wouldn't it?” She says, a little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You do remember all the concepts of Heaven I created first, right? Every single one of them I deemed the greatest idea ever when I came up with them, but after a time they all didn't sit right with me. They didn't fit, at least not for the purpose I originally intended them to. So ultimately they ended in the backrooms of Heaven.” She shrugs. “The Second Coming is the same, in a manner of speaking. It seemed like a brilliant idea back before even humanity was created. A reward for everyone righteous and good. A way to be closer to me and the Holy Host. An utter paradise.”

Crowley notices something ugly settling in his stomach at those words.

“And what do you think of that idea now?” he wonders.

“That maybe I have been looking at it all wrong,” God says. “That it's perhaps a little hasty to write an epilogue before you have even developed the full story yet.”

Aziraphale nods along to that rather enthusiastically while Crowley merely grunts, not really sure what to make of it.

“So … what will happen now?” Aziraphale asks tentatively.

God quirks Her head to one side. “Thanks to free will, I don't know.” She appears rather delighted by the concept. “What I will do, though? Well, I'm gonna return to Heaven, get to know my son for the very first time, reevaluate the current hierarchy because it looks like it needs an update and I will continue to let The Metatron sleep.” She nods to Herself, clearly satisfied with that plan. “And what will you do?”

Aziraphale looks so taken aback by that question he only opens and closes his mouth in quick succession, without a single tone coming out of it. Crowley finds himself unable to respond either because at the end of the day he never expected that God Herself would ever ask him that.

“Am I allowed to make a suggestion?” She wonders. “You're free to ignore me, of course. But I know you have been looking into moving into the countryside and I heard through the grapevine that there are some beautiful cottages in the South Downs. Maybe take a look at that?”

Crowley blinks, suddenly feeling very overwhelmed.

“ … so you wouldn't mind …?” he starts asking and then immediately trails off again.

So you wouldn't mind a demon and an angel living together, here on Earth? A demon and an angel sharing everything with each other?

God just smiles. “You can do whatever you please.”

Aziraphale makes a little noise in the back of his throat at these words, as though he has been waiting all his existence to hear them, before his arm snatches forward out of instinct and he links his fingers with Crowley's, right there in the Almighty's line of sight. He blushes a second later, rather spectacularly, probably flustered by his own boldness, but he doesn't flinch back and somehow this feels like the greatest love declaration Crowley has ever received.

God keeps on grinning, more amused than anything else by the looks of it, before She inclines Her head again. “Well then. Have a nice life. Until next time.”

And so She turns again, ready to make her way back to Heaven.

She doesn't get far, though, because Aziraphale calls, “Wait!” just a moment later. She shoots a glance over Her shoulder and studies the angel expectantly.

Aziraphale flushes once more and for a second Crowley believes he might backtrack again, just brush it off and wish God a nice life in return. But then he straightens his shoulders and takes some courage by squeezing Crowley's hand tightly before saying, “It's about … The Metatron believed that Crowley and I could open The Book of Life … I just …”

While Aziraphale furrows his brows, clearly looking for the right words, Crowley senses something clenching in his chest again. They haven't really talked about it since then, even though it has been weighing on the demon. However, whenever Crowley asked about it, Aziraphale always shot him down quickly and at some point he simply stopped breaching the subject.

Crowley assumed that Aziraphale just wanted to forget the whole thing and merely deem it a fluke you didn't need to think too closely about.

But apparently it is actually important enough to him to ultimately ask God, right here and now.

“Why are Crowley and I able to perform miracles together when … well, when angels and demons are usually incapable of such things?” Aziraphale wonders, his voice trembling as if he fears the answer more than anything.

God smirks lopsidedly. And then She says, “You know why.”

Aziraphale bristles at that. “The Metatron believed to know why,” he corrects God because this is apparently a thing he does now. “But it's impossible …”

“Why?”

Aziraphale arches his brows. “Why what?”

“Why is it impossible?” God clarifies.

Aziraphale looks stumped at first and takes another minute to get his thoughts back into some sort of order. “Because … this is just how the world is?”

“And yet free will is unpredictable,” God adds with a chuckle.

“But – but – this has nothing to do with free will –”

“Why not?”

“But – but –”

“Aziraphale,” God sighs. “If it makes you feel better, you can see it as part of the Ineffable Plan. But ultimately – it happened. Because of you and because of Crowley. Nothing more, nothing less.”

While Crowley just frowns in confusion, Aziraphale falls silent, his gaze locked with the Almighty's.

“It happened because of your love for each other and your love for humanity,” She says, her voice unusually soft. “I didn't really expect it and yet I'm not surprised.”

Aziraphale keeps on looking at her.

“And what … what does it mean?” he asks quietly.

“It can mean whatever you want it to mean,” God offers. “You can ignore it, you can celebrate it. Do as you please.”

She giggles then, sounding like a little girl again, as her beautiful sunflower dress dances in the wind. She throws them both a playful wink and the next second she suddenly disappears into thin air, right there in front of them.

Crowley gasps and gapes at the empty spot for way too long.

He can't say how much time passes, too riled up by what has happened to even remember the concept of time, but at some point they both manage to return to the bookshop and close its door behind them. Crowley finds himself in a daze for quite a while longer, though, his brain completely unable to process anything right now.

He only jerks out of it when he eventually notices Aziraphale staring at his own hands in wonder, as though he is seeing them for the very first time. Next he even miracles a mirror right next to him and assesses himself pensively from head to toe, once again clearly searching for something in his image that doesn't really fit.

“Okay, what is going on?” Crowley finally manages to use his voice again. “What were you and – and – and She talking about?”

He can't say her name, no matter how hard he tries. At least not yet.

Aziraphale whirls around, a thousand different emotions flashing over his features. “I … I didn't think it possible,” he mumbles as he places his hand on his chest. “But it seems … I mean, I felt something different, but I was assuming I was imagining it …”

“Angel, make sense!” Crowley growls, not in the mood for any more timeless rambles.

Aziraphale heaves a very deep breath. “Darling, you and I – it seems we have gone truly native.”

Crowley narrows his eyes sceptically. “What are you saying?”

“I'm saying that we have gone so native that Holy Water can't kill you and Hellfire probably can't kill me either,” Aziraphale explains. “Well, I wouldn't want to test that theory because it might still burn me, just like Holy Water is still capable of hurting you, but – well, it can't destroy us anymore.”

Crowley blinks. “Because we have gone native?”

Aziraphale presses his lips into a thin line. “So much so, in fact, that we … well, it seems we have grown souls, my dear.”

Crowley stares.

And scoffs.

“Yes, sure,” he mocks. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

Aziraphale huffs. “I'm serious, Crowley. Somewhere along the way we managed to grow souls.”

This is one of the most ridiculous things Crowley has ever heard and yet the absolute gravity in Aziraphale's voice throws him off.

The angel quite obviously doesn't mean this as a joke.

So …?

“You can't really mean that,” Crowley objects. “Souls are only for humans and animals. They're not for angels and most definitely not for demons.”

“I know,” Aziraphale agrees without a second of hesitation. “And yet we defied that.”

Crowley shakes his head. “This is absurd –”

“It is,” Aziraphale confirms once more. “And yet, just like God said, it happened.”

Crowley furrows his brows, not really sure how to reply to that.

“Think about it, Crowley,” Aziraphale urges. “Holy Water can't kill you anymore. Why is that?”

Crowley can't help but glance at his hand. It's completely healed now, but he surely recalls how Cynthia Wheeler attacked him with that surge of water and how absolutely terrified he had been in that moment. And yet, somehow, he didn't die. Yes, his hand burned badly and made him suffer through so much pain for a week, but he didn't end up as a puddle of goo on the floor and he couldn't believe it for the longest time.

He still can't, to be frank.

“And what about our time in Heaven?” Aziraphale goes on. “When we ventured into Area B-1 to search for Jesus between all those human souls? Do you remember how Heaven accommodated us when we were there? How it produced your favourite bottle of wine and how it created a backroom when I desperately wanted some privacy for us all?”

Another instance that is hard to forget for Crowley.

“Yes, of course,” he mutters.

“I didn't think much of it at first,” Aziraphale admits. “I just assumed that that part of Heaven was designed to fulfil anyone's wishes, you know? But after a while … well, I recalled talking with the angels responsible for guarding The Gate about a week prior to that. They told me about their jobs and frankly, I didn't listen all that well, I just tried to cover up the fact that I was being too curious for my own good –” He clears his throat. “Well, those angels told me that Area B-1 is designed to accommodate souls. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Crowley sighs. “Angel –”

“And what about the fact that I nearly ripped Heaven apart not once but twice?” Aziraphale challenges, lifting his brow. “Can you tell me how that happened?”

Crowley grimaces. “Well, no.”

“Well, I can,” Aziraphale continues. “Because it all makes sense now. We're anomalies, Crowley, and Heaven had no idea what to do with me and my emotions.”

Crowley frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I think Heaven registers me as an angel, but also as some sort of human due to my soul,” Aziraphale says like this is a completely normal thing to say. “And when I felt very high emotions – the first time when I believed you dead and the second time when The Metatron tried to steal The Book of Life back from us –, Heaven didn't know how to handle me. I was an error in the system and my powerful feelings quickly overpowered everything. Heaven reacted by amplifying it all – because at the end of the day it was designed to accommodate human souls and somehow it tried to do just that. But with me also being an angel and being deeply connected to Heaven due to my creation – well, it resulted in a complete nuclear meltdown, I suppose.”

Crowley stays utterly silent after that.

He just stares and tries to wrap his head around it all.

Could it be possible?

“Not to mention the fact that we are obviously capable of performing very powerful miracles together,” Aziraphale reminds him. “When we tried to hide Gabriel from prying eyes, we made it our mission to put as little effort as possible in it – and yet it made all the alarm bells in Heaven ring at once. How did that happen?”

“Angel –”

“Think about it,” Aziraphale cuts in. “We all know every single soul stores powerful energy. There is a reason Hell is so keen on collecting and corrupting as many of them as possible. And if we two really possess souls and we're able to tab into that energy because it's basically a part of us by now – well, you can imagine that the outcome might be rather impressive, right?”

Crowley folds his arms across his chest.

Could it really be possible?

Them being anomalies like that certainly explains all those things happening. Things that have left them so baffled and perplexed before.

Things that didn't seem to make any sort of sense.

Crowley attempts to listen within himself, tries to somehow locate that bloody soul if it seriously exists, but he comes up empty.

“I don't feel any different,” he states.

“Humans can't feel or see their soul, so it's safe to assume we can't either,” Aziraphale says with a shrug. “I mean, I did have the feeling that something has been shifting for a while now, but it has happened so gradually that I just wasn't sure …”

Crowley can't really say he relates.

Granted, the world started to feel a little bit warmer and lighter after the non-apocalypse and Crowley slowly began to enjoy it all somewhat more, but does that really mean …?

“So you're saying we can't neither feel nor see it and the only thing we have is faith?” he asks, incredulous.

Aziraphale makes a face. “If you want to phrase it like that …”

Crowley snorts. “I'm not sure I believe it.”

“It's okay,” Aziraphale says softly. “Right now I will for the both of us. And maybe, with time, you will join me.”

Crowley doesn't feel utterly confident about that, his entire being somehow fighting the idea out of principle alone.

He looks down at his hands, just like Aziraphale has done before, and tries to find something different. Tries to find some sort of sign that this is all true.

He sighs.

“If this is all real,” Crowley at least allows himself to theorise, “I'm not sure how to feel about that. Is it good, is it bad?”

“You're thinking too much in extremes again,” Aziraphale calls him out. “This is neither Heaven nor Hell, darling. This is just us.”

Crowley pulls a face. “But how am I supposed to feel about this?”

He truly can't say.

“It's the testament of our love for humanity,” Aziraphale says with a warm smile. “For Earth and the life God has created. It seems that somehow we both longed so desperately to be part of it that our wish was granted.”

Crowley blinks.

Well, that certainly doesn't sound too bad.

And to be frank, it's true. He has never really identified with Hell and Heaven had been in the past for him for a very long time now. He didn't feel like belonging anywhere for most of his existence, it seems, and more than once he actually prayed that he could get detached from it all and just join the humans and their silly little lives and rituals.

Was that craving seriously enough to make him grow a soul?

It appears unlikely, Crowley has to confess, and yet maybe it's indeed time for some faith. It might not be the worst to believe in something again.

(Besides Aziraphale, that is.)

“Fine then,” he decides. “We two have souls and we're cool with it.”

Aziraphale chuckles at that, visibly beyond amused. “Just like that?”

Crowley shrugs. “Why make a fuss over it? If you tell me I have a soul, I will believe you.”

Aziraphale's face spreads into a huge smile, so happy and relieved it actually might be the most beautiful thing on Earth.

For a long moment they just look at each other, joyous and giddy while also busy trying to process the fact that a) they suddenly have souls somehow, and b) God not only visited them but also basically gave them permission to do whatever the hell they fucking wanted.

It feels both liberating and absolutely scary.

“So … what do we do now?” Crowley eventually asks, breaking the silence in the room.

Aziraphale glimpses at their hands which are still entangled with each other and something very tender shows up on his features.

“Well, there is indeed a very lovely cottage in the countryside I have been eyeing for a while,” he admits, with a gorgeous blush appearing on his cheeks. “Maybe … maybe we could give it a try?”

Crowley smirks. “You really want to move to the countryside?”

“Why not?” Aziraphale defends himself. “Let's try it out and if we like it, we can move there for good. Take the Bentley and your plants and my bookshop and just –”

He makes a hand gesture that most likely means “and we can just be out of here”.

Crowley smiles at the mental picture of simply indulging in an existence of pure peace and quiet.

It makes something very warm blossom inside of him.

Absently he starts to brush over the ring on Aziraphale's finger with his thumb, just like he has been doing more often than not for the last few months.

Aziraphale, of course, notices. He always notices.

“We should probably give them back now,” he mumbles. They have kept them as a safety measure, just in case something might happen and they would have ended up separated. But with God basically offering them a peaceful life now …?

They don't seem very necessary anymore.

And yet Crowley revolts at the mere idea of letting them go.

“We should keep them,” he states. “So when our new neighbours out there ask, we can tell them that we're married.”

As expected Aziraphale turns very red very fast.

It's glorious.

“Crowley,” he scolds the demon, without any heat in his voice.

Crowley chuckles. “Don't tell me you wouldn't like that.”

And then, to make matters worse (or better), he takes his own ring and places it on his left hand's ring finger. Aziraphale stares at it with wide eyes.

“Looks nice,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale just mumbles something underneath his breath. He can't hide the fact, though, that his gaze flickers to Crowley's hand rather frequently just then.

“We keep them,” Crowley then decides with a determined nod. “It's not like Heaven will miss them anyway.”

Aziraphale looks like he wants to protest on principle alone, but when Crowley pulls him in on his waist and kisses him deeply any sort of fight leaves him in a matter of milliseconds and he melts into the demon's embrace immediately.

“So this is really it?” Aziraphale eventually breathes against Crowley's lips, his voice merely a breeze. “Our happy ending?”

“I never really got that expression,” Crowley says. “It's not an ending, things are just beginning.”

Aziraphale laughs quietly and then corrects himself, “Okay, our happy beginning then.”

Crowley hums and pulls the angel closer. “Better.”

Aziraphale shuffles deeper into his arms. “So we are really doing this?”

“Yeah, why not?” Crowley responds. “Tomorrow we're gonna grab our bags and drive to the South Downs. Today, though …”

He suddenly steps back and snips his fingers. A second later some music seems to come out of nowhere, the violins soft and melodic.

Crowley grins at Aziraphale's bewildered expression before he bows and says, “Will you do me the honour of this dance, angel?”

Aziraphale's features gentle instantly. “Crowley …” he whispers, so many emotions in his voice.

A second later he takes Crowley's hand and lets himself be pulled into his arms yet again.

And so they dance for the rest of the afternoon and late into the evening.

An angel and a demon.

Who found each other over and over again against all odds.

Who managed to break out of all the expectations put upon them to build something completely different together.

And who will dance with one another until the end of time and beyond.

That is a promise that the demon makes to his angel.

And the angel happily accepts.