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It should be noted that Crowley had no intention of adopting a teenage girl.
He argued that Crowley always offered strong justifications for his actions, especially those that were utterly baseless. He claimed he was simply passing through Quahog, Rhode Island, on what he later called a "justifiable devilish mission," actually a detour to avoid the congestion on Interstate 95.
Coincidentally, Quahog is a place even devils would find unsettling. In 1647, Belfinger cursed it, the reason for which remains unknown. This led to a strange phenomenon in the town: terrible things happened to the residents with an unsettling regularity, yet no one seemed to learn from them, and no one seemed to grow from them. Crowley thought it was like hell, only with a better drainage system.
He stopped at a gas station to fill up his beloved car—they called it a "gas station," as if gasoline were thinner than liquid—and that's when he saw her.
The girl was sitting on the side of the road, outside an ugly house, its paint the color of vomit, and she was crying. It wasn't the hysterical crying for attention but the desperate sobbing of someone who had long since given up hope and wept silently.
Crowley had lived on Earth for six thousand years. He had seen countless people suffer. He himself had caused much suffering. He was adept at turning a blind eye to suffering; it was practically his job.
But something about this girl made him stop.
Perhaps it was the hellish energy emanating from her, like static electricity, faint yet clearly discernible. Perhaps it was because he could see her family through the window, laughing heartily at the television, seemingly oblivious to her absence. Perhaps it was simply because, since that "imperfect apocalypse," he had lived for about a century, and his heart had become unusually tender.
"Well," he muttered, "whatever."
Twenty minutes later, with a small miracle, a few pairs of old shoes, and the weariness characteristic of adolescence, he created a replacement for Meg. This replacement would exist indefinitely, ignored like the original, and her family would probably never notice the difference between them. Meanwhile, the real Meg lay unconscious in the back seat of the Bentley, covered by his coat.
It wasn't until somewhere across the Atlantic that Crowley realized he had absolutely no idea what to do with a teenage girl.
Aziraphale was organizing his collection of eighteenth-century sermons (arranged alphabetically by the sins they addressed, then by the severity of the curses they threatened) when Crowley burst into the bookstore carrying what appeared to be a corpse.
“She’s not dead,” Crowley said quickly before Aziraphale could recover from his shock. “She’s just asleep. Miraculously asleep.”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said in the tone he only used when a demon did something utterly foolish, “what are you doing holding a child? ”
“A teenager, actually. Sixteen, I think. Maybe seventeen. Maybe fifteen. Kids that age all look the same, don’t they? ”
“No, they don’t—oh my god, put her on the sofa. Gently! She’s not a sack of potatoes.”
Crowley surprisingly carefully placed Meg on Azi’s Victorian chaise lounge. In the soft bookstore light, she looked younger and more pitiful than she had in Quahog. Her glasses were askew, her hair was limp, and her clothes looked like they’d come from a shop that sold “anything we find in a warehouse.”
“Alright,” Aziraphale said after Meg was settled, “explain now.”
Crowley began to explain.
It took some time, partly because he kept defending himself, and partly because Aziraphale kept interrupting him with increasingly sharp questions, such as, “You stole her? ” and “What do you mean, you left a substitute? ” Most damningly, “You can’t possess a human child just because you pity her! ”
“Why not? ” Crowley demanded. “You were more than happy to possess the Antichrist.”
“We were preventing the end of the world! ”
“Well, I was preventing… ongoing emotional trauma. It’s essentially the same thing.”
“It’s not—”
“Listen, angel,” Crowley interrupted, pacing back and forth, his snakeskin shoes clicking on the floor. “She has hellish energy. In fact, quite powerful. Someone in her blood has definitely come into contact with real demons. Perhaps more than once. The point is, she shouldn't be in a place like Quahog, ignored by those who wouldn't even notice if she disappeared. And she did disappear. And no one would have noticed.”
“But why bring her here? ”
“Because, well,” Crowley said, as if he'd just come up with a brilliant reason, “you’re good at… taking care of people. Caring. Things like that.” He waved his hand casually. “I certainly can't afford to raise a teenage girl. I don't even know what they eat.”
“Food, Crowley, they eat food.”
“You know what I mean.”
Aziraphale looked at the sleeping girl, then at Crowley, then back at the girl. His expression shifted several times, from annoyance to worry, then to a kind of helpless pity.
“We're incapable of taking care of children,” he said, but his tone had softened.
“A teenage girl.”
“That distinction doesn’t help you.”
“She needs help, angel. Real help. Not the kind… you know. Not the kind her family does. Or rather, inaction.”
Aziraphale sighed, a sigh that showed he knew he had lost but was determined to put on a show, at least for a few more minutes.
“This is completely illogical.”
“Most good things are like that.”
“We know nothing about raising children.”
“Teenagers. We’ll handle it.” “The two of us combined—” Crowley counted on his fingers, “…have about twenty-two thousand years of experience with humans.”
“Yes, but not with dependent humans who need care.”
“How hard can that be? ”
It turned out that this was a question they would be answering for the next two years.
Meg was awakened by the smell of old books and the sound of two people arguing in extremely elegant English accents.
“Crowley, I can’t just lock her in the attic; that’s too barbaric—”
“It’s not barbaric; it’s comfortable! The attic is comfortable! ”
“The attic is for storage.”
“She’ll have privacy. There’s natural light. It’s probably twice the size of her room in Quahog.”
“That’s not the point…”
Meg slowly sat up, dizzy. Her last memory was sitting on the front door crying, probably because her mother forgot her birthday again, Peter ate her lunch, and Chris accidentally sacrificed her textbooks to some kind of monkey god—
Wait.
This wasn’t her home.
Judging from the accent, this wasn’t even America.
The room she was in looked like a bookstore, the kind that existed in three-dimensional space but conceptually extended to more dimensions. Books filled every wall and every surface, piled high, seemingly defying the laws of physics and common sense. The air was thick with the smell of old paper and leather-bound books, and something else, something that sent chills down her spine, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
The two arguing men stood near the doorway. One was dressed all in black, his hair meticulously styled. He pointed at her, demanding she dress more fashionably. The other, in a plaid vest and bow tie, looked like someone who had gotten lost, missed a garden party in the 1920s, and decided to stay there.
They noticed she was awake and stopped.
“Ah,” said the one in the plaid vest, “you’re awake. That’s good. How are you feeling? Not dizzy? Not nauseous? ”
“Crowley, get her some water…”
“Why should I do that? Fine, fine.” The dark-haired man snapped his fingers, and a glass of water appeared on the table beside Meg.
Meg stared at the glass of water.
Then she looked at the man who had conjured the glass out of thin air.
Then she looked at the glass of water again.
“Well,” she said slowly, “so I’m either dead, drugged, or experiencing the most bizarre mental breakdown in the world.”
“I’m afraid none of those,” the plaid vest said cheerfully. “I’m Aziraphale, this is Crowley, and you’re in London. Well, Soho, to be precise. More precisely, my bookstore. Would you like some tea? ”
“What I want to know,” Meg said, surprised by the calmness of her voice, “is why I’m in London, since my last memory is of Quahog.”
“Ah,” said Aziraphale, “yes. That…Crowley? ”
Crowley, who had been leaning against the bookshelf with a deliberately nonchalant air, adjusted his sunglasses. “Okay. Well, what I’m about to say might be a little strange.”
“Stranger than that sudden gushing water? ”
“Yes. Okay. To put it simply: I’m a demon, he’s an angel, we’ve been on Earth for six thousand years, I found you in Quahog, and you were completely ignored by your family. I noticed you had demonic blood, so I decided… to transfer you away. Permanently. You can’t go back.”
A long silence followed.
“That’s the short version? ” Meg finally asked.
“The full version involves more details about the double I left behind, the geopolitical history of demonic blood, and a rather complex explanation of what we did during that near-apocalyptic catastrophe of 2019. By the way, you were asleep. You’re lucky.”
Meg looked at Aziraphale. “Is he… serious? ”
“I’m afraid so, yes. Everything is true. Including the fact that he’s a demon, but I must emphasize, he’s not… a very good demon. I mean, he’s very good at being himself. If that makes sense.
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“Hmm, I think it really doesn’t make sense. Would you like some more tea? ”
“I haven’t had any tea yet.”
“Ah, right. Well then, would you like some tea? ”
At this moment, Meg had several possible responses in her mind. She could scream, she could cry, she could demand to go home immediately, she could accuse them of kidnapping, and she could insist on calling the police.
However, she heard herself say, “Do you have hot chocolate? ”
The truth was this: Meg Griffin had been ignored by her family for seventeen years (it turned out she was seventeen, not sixteen or fifteen). She had been forgotten in restaurants, left behind at rest stops, and once, unforgettably, abandoned in the Grand Canyon for six hours because no one noticed she wasn’t in the car.
So, the idea that someone had noticed her, noticed her enough to bring her to another continent, was so novel that it temporarily overshadowed any rational fear of being kidnapped by supernatural forces.
And hot chocolate really does taste good.
“So,” she said, settling into the velvet armchair that seemed designed for philosophical discussions, “you mean, I’m… half-demon? A descendant of demons? ”
“Pretty much,” Crowley said, sprawling across the sofa like a cat asserting its territory. “Your great-great-great-grandmother was probably related to some kind of hellish creature. It’s far more common than you think. Bloodlines are diluted over generations, but you still retain enough of the essence. That’s probably why you’ve always felt…out of place.”
Meg thought about it. She thought about how she always felt a little uncomfortable, like wearing an ill-fitting costume for an ordinary girl. She thought about how she sometimes dreamed of unburnt flames, of darkness as warm as home.
“Okay,” she said. “It’s strange, but okay. So what now? You…leave me here? Is that legal? ”
“Strictly speaking, not legal,” Aziraphale admitted. “But we’ll handle the paperwork. A few clever tricks, some creative paperwork, and legally, you’ll be the guardian of Margaret Fair, Aziraphale Fair, and Anthony Crowley. You know, we’ve been partners, business partners, for a long time, and adopting a young relative won’t attract any attention.”
“Margaret? ” Meg wrinkled her nose.
“That’s a very respectable name! I think it’s much better than Megan.”
“Strictly speaking, I wasn’t originally called Megan. My real name is Megatron.”
Crowley sat up. “Your parents named you Megatron? ”
“That was in the eighties. They were obsessed with Transformers. Or maybe they were drunk. Perhaps both.”
“This…” Crowley seemed to choose his words carefully. “Actually, it explains a lot about your family.”
“If you’d like, we can still call you Meg,” Aziraphale said hastily. “However, the legal documents will list Margaret. Now, we should discuss the accommodations. The bookstore has—”
“I hear you arguing about the attic,” Meg interrupted. “I don’t mind the attic. It’s fine.”
“But…”
“I’m used to being inconspicuous. Seriously? Living in the attic of a magical bookstore in London sounds much better than living in a bedroom no one remembers.”
Aziraphale looked like he was about to protest, but Crowley noticed him and gently shook his head.
“Alright,” Crowley said. “Then the attic it is. But we’ll make it comfortable. A proper bed, a proper desk, and really good heating.”
“And bookshelves,” Azi added, “you need bookshelves.”
“Why does she need bookshelves? I live upstairs, and I never read.”
“Everyone needs bookshelves, Crowley.”
“She’s seventeen, not seventy.”
“Is this ageism? ”
Meg listened to their argument, a strange warmth welling up inside her. No one had ever argued about her comfort before. No one even cared to argue about it.
“Hmm,” she said softly. They both fell silent. “Thank you. For…this, whatever it is.”
Aziraphale’s expression softened considerably. “You’re welcome, dear. Now, shall we go see the attic? ”
—
Meg’s first week in London had been an insult to her.
It wasn’t that London was cold—Quahog was cold too, the kind of cold that chills you to the bone. But London’s cold was damp. It seeped into clothes, lingering and making everything sticky and uncomfortable. And the rain! It rained incessantly. Not a deafening storm, but a persistent, annoying drizzle that made everything gray and somewhat bleak.
“Why does the rain fall horizontally? ” she wondered one morning, staring at the rain outside the attic window, which seemed to be undergoing an identity crisis.
“Welcome to England,” Crowley called from upstairs. “The weather here is terrible, but everyone gets used to it.” Alright. And breakfast is ready.
At least the attic is perfect. Crowley and Aziraphale have kept their promise, transforming what was once a dusty storage room into a haven. There's a comfortable bed, covered with a soft down comforter, like sleeping on a cloud. A desk sits by the window, cleverly capturing London's rare natural light. Three bookshelves are already filled with Aziraphale's carefully selected "must-read for young ladies," half of them already full.
(The collection includes works by Jane Austen and Terry Pratchett, several books on demonology "for family history research," and a cookbook titled How to Avoid Accidentally Poisoning Someone, which Meg suspects Aziraphale carefully chose.)
And there's heating. Warm and cozy, activated with a snap of Crowley's fingers.
Meg descends the narrow stairs and finds Aziraphale busily setting up the stove in the magically conjured kitchenette. It was hidden behind the bookshelf. (“It was always there,” Aziraphale insisted, “just… temporarily put in some pocket space.”)
“I made porridge,” he announced proudly, “with golden syrup. Very traditional.”
Crowley, lounging at the small table with a cup of coffee, glanced at Meg and said silently, “Too sweet.”
“I heard you,” Aziraphale said.
“The devil’s hearing is a myth.”
“Angels’ hearing isn’t.”
Meg took a bowl of porridge and found Crowley was right—it was cloyingly sweet—but she ate it anyway, because Aziraphale looked so pleased.
“Alright,” Aziraphale said, sitting down with his own bowl and a cup of tea, “we should talk about practical matters. Like education.” “You have to go to school—”
“No,” Crowley and Meg said in unison.
“Or we could arrange private tutoring,” Aziraphale continued. “Given your…special circumstances, that might be better. We can’t let you accidentally unleash hellish energy in gym class, can we? ”
“Me? Really? ” Meg asked in alarm.
“Probably not. But better safe than sorry. We’ll find you a tutor. A low-key one. Preferably someone with knowledge of the supernatural.”
“Oh, I know someone suitable,” Crowley said. “Remember that witch in Tadfield? A descendant of Agnes Nutter? She’s doing remote tutoring now.”
“Anathema Device? Oh, she’s perfect! Great idea, Crowley.”
“Hey—”
Meg interrupted their impending argument. “Wait, so I’m going to be homeschooled? Tutored by a witch? ”
“Is there a problem with that? ” Aziraphale asked.
Meg remembered her previous school, where she was constantly ridiculed, ignored, and even locked in the janitor’s locker for three hours. “No,” she said slowly, “no, I think this might suit me just the way it is.”
It turned out that Anathema Device was exactly the kind of supernatural foster daughter who could tutor angels and demons effortlessly. Mainly because she had seen angels and demons in the “unattainable apocalypse,” making a teenager with hellish blood seem rather ordinary in comparison.
The lessons were held three times a week via video call, meaning Meg could sit in her attic room in comfortable clothes while Anathema, from a farmhouse that seemed to be sustained primarily by goodwill and witchcraft, taught her a variety of subjects, from English literature to physics. “Practical mysticism for the accidentally cursed.”
“Okay,” Anathema said in one lesson, brushing her tousled curls away from her face. “Today we’re going to learn about the history of demonic bloodlines. Open your Hellish Genealogy—yes, the one Aziraphale gave you, with all those bookmarks—turn to Chapter Four.”
Meg flipped through the ancient book, which reeked of sulfur and regret. “Found ‘The Unexpected Consequences of Hybridization.’”
“This is the chapter. Now, most people with Hell blood don't know they have it because the bloodline has been diluted over generations. But sometimes! Very rarely, the bloodline concentrates. Usually it's due to geographical clustering, or, like you, because you've always lived in a place cursed by demons. Quahog was cursed by Belphegor, wasn't he? ”
“Obviously.”
“That enhances your potential. You might notice strange things happening around you. Small strokes of luck, or misfortune? Things breaking at inopportune times? Things like that? ”
Meg remembered the time her father was about to hit her brother when the beer suddenly exploded. And her mother's phone would always suddenly die whenever she was about to say something particularly harsh. “Maybe,” she admitted.
“That’s an unconscious manifestation. With proper training, you can control it. But honestly, unless absolutely necessary, I advise you not to use it. Demonic magic often has complicated consequences.”
“Like what? ”
“Like accidentally turning…turning someone into a frog for three weeks. Don’t look at me like that; it was an accident. He was a real jerk.”
After class, Meg would spend hours in the bookstore, ostensibly doing homework, but really just existing. It was intoxicating to be in a place where people noticed her.
Aziraphale would bring her tea. Crowley would drape his coat over her shoulders when the heating was fluctuating. They would argue about all sorts of things—literature, music, whether Elvis was really dead or ascended to heaven to sing for the celestial choir—and they would drag her into the arguments, genuinely wanting to hear her opinion.
It felt so good to be needed.
By the third month, Meg started using “trousers” instead of “pants” and had her own opinions about tea.
By the sixth month, Crowley performed seemingly random miracles—like automatically washing the dishes or ensuring they always found parking in central London on weekends—and she was no longer surprised.
By the ninth month, she accepted the fact that Azi's bookstore was in a state of quantum chaos: the same book could appear in three different places simultaneously, and under no circumstances would it be sold.
By the twelfth month, she realized she no longer thought about Quahog, only occasionally wondering if the "stand-in," Meg, was still there, still being ignored, still crying alone by the roadside.
The first real crisis occurred in the fourteenth month when Meg accidentally set the curtains on fire with her mind.
"I didn't mean to!" she choked out, and Crowley snapped the fire out. "I was just angry."
"I was reading about that article about Paradise Lost and how Milton messed everything up..."
"He did mess everything up," Crowley agreed.
“Then I felt a wave of heat wash over me, and then…”
“It’s alright,” Aziraphale said, appearing with a new curtain in his hand. “This kind of thing is common in people with hellish blood. Especially during puberty. Perfectly normal.”
“Normal? I set something on fire with my brain! ”
“Well, strictly speaking, it’s because your inherited demonic nature was channeled through emotional distress, but that’s true. Crowley, didn’t you say there were ways to deal with this? ”
“Mostly meditation. Breathing techniques. I’ll teach you. I learned them before, because someone annoyed me at lunch, and I accidentally cursed the entire monastery.”
“It was you? ” Aziraphale said. “I have to make it up to you; it took me weeks to undo all the curses! ”
“To be honest, they were really annoying.”
“They’re nuns, Crowley! ”
Meg watched them bicker, a strange feeling of fondness rising within her. This had become the norm. It was something she was used to. The two supernatural beings argued like an old married couple (were they really a couple? She was still unsure and dared not ask), and they even showed concern for her, teaching her not to accidentally start a fire.
“So,” she interrupted them, “meditation? ”
Crowley nodded. “Yes. First rule: Don’t try to suppress energy. That will only make things worse. Instead, be aware of it, and then guide it. Like this…”
He held out his hand, and a small flame appeared in his palm, dancing harmlessly. “Feel this heat, realize it’s yours, and then tell it what to do. It’s not entirely about control. It’s more like… negotiation.”
“You’re negotiating with fire? ”
“I’m negotiating with the demonic essence that produces fire, something different.”
“If you put it that way.”
Over the next few weeks, Crowley taught her some basic techniques. How to feel the energy swirling in her chest. How to dissolve anger and frustration through breathing without letting them turn into fire or mild curses. How to transform them into something harmless, like making flowers grow faster or ensuring the bookstore's erratic heating works properly.
Learning this from a demon felt strange. But then again, her life was strange enough. Strange yet beautiful, terrifying yet real, more real than anything else in Quahog.
The conversation about university began one Tuesday at breakfast, Meg's eighteenth birthday, though no one had mentioned it before.
"So," Aziraphale said with a cautious nonchalance, as if he were about to bring up an important topic, "have you thought about what you want to do after your A-levels?"
Meg had been using Anathema's tutoring to pursue her qualifications through distance learning. She took a bite of her toast and paused. "Hmm… not really interested in university?"
"You should go to university," Crowley said without looking up, his eyes still glued to the newspaper. “You’re very smart. And college…university life…well, it’s an experience. Everyone should experience it. At least the good parts. As for student loans and terrible accommodations, perhaps we can overlook those.”
“Could I…stay here? ” Meg tentatively suggested. “Help out at the bookstore? ”
“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale said firmly. “It’s not that we don’t want you to stay, but you deserve more. You should pursue whatever interests you and study what you truly love. We’ll fully support you.”
“Right, Crowley? ”
“Of course.”
“I…” Meg suddenly became emotional. “I don’t even know what I should study.”
“Then what are you interested in? ” Aziraphale asked.
Meg recalled the past eighteen months. She had read those demonology books, fascinated by the history of beliefs in good and evil. She remembered her long conversations with Aziraphale about religious art and symbolism. She remembered Crowley’s endless discussions about theological contradictions in various faith traditions, clearly based on personal experience.
“Religious studies? ” she said. “Maybe? I know it sounds strange, considering…all of it.”
Crowley grinned. “Great. You’ll have the best perspective. Although you might have some trouble writing your paper on the demon hierarchy. It’s hard to take ‘I asked the demons I live with’ as a reliable source of information.”
“The Religious Studies program at SOAS, University of London, is excellent,” Aziraphale said, already pulling out his phone. “SOAS is part of the University of London. It’s highly ranked, has a great reputation, and is easily accessible by tube. You could commute from there.”
“You’ve already looked it up, haven’t you? ” Meg asked.
“I probably did some preliminary research,” Aziraphale admitted.
“Last week,” Crowley added. “He’s been planning this conversation for days. So subtle, angel.”
“I’m just trying to support my child! ”
“You’re overprotecting him.”
“I don’t even know what that means—”
“It means you’re hovering around me… Crowley, you can’t just watch; you have to help.”
“I’m not hovering.”
“Gentlemen,” Meg interrupted them, unable to suppress a laugh. “Thank you. Thank you for your concern; thank you… for everything. I’ll apply to SOAS. Maybe a few more as backups, just in case? ”
“Good idea,” Aziraphale said with a beaming smile. “Very wise. Now, about your personal statement…”
“The angel doesn’t need you to write it for her.”
“I wasn’t planning on writing it anyway; I was just suggesting.”
“No.”
“But…”
“No.”
For the next three months, Meg meticulously prepared her application materials, with Aziraphale barely interfering. Nevertheless, he gave her seventeen books on “how to write a persuasive essay without lying,” and Crowley occasionally offered some sharp critiques.
The personal statement was the hardest part. How should you write about your motivation for studying religion? Is your real motivation “I lived with an angel and a demon, who were my foster parents, and I wanted to understand what that meant from an academic perspective? ”
Finally, she wrote about feeling out of place growing up and how she found meaning in stories. Faith and conviction about wanting to understand how humans perceive the sacred and the evil. It was sincere, despite the vague wording.
The day she received her acceptance letter, Aziraphale cried.
“I’m not crying,” he insisted, wiping his eyes with a checkered handkerchief. “I just got something in my eye. Dust. Dust from the book.”
“You are crying,” Crowley said, but with a smile, an arm around Meg’s shoulder—a side hug if demons could embrace.
“I’m happy,” Aziraphale corrected. “It’s not the same. My dear girl, I’m so proud of you.”
Meg stood in a magical bookstore in Soho, an angel weeping with joy beside her, a demon feigning indifference. Then she realized she was just as proud of herself.
On Meg’s first morning at SOAS, University of London, typical British weather—overcast skies, as if ready to unleash an emotional storm at any moment.
Aziraphale had been awake since dawn, preparing. He made breakfast, the eggs burnt, and prepared three different outfits for Meg to choose from. He checked her bag repeatedly to make sure she had everything she needed. Meg noticed he would secretly wipe away tears every few minutes.
“An angel,” Crowley said gently, taking Azi’s hand. “She’s going to college, not to fight a war.”
“I know that,” Aziraphale sniffled. “But she’s all grown up now; it feels like just yesterday she was burning the curtains…”
“That was last year.”
“Now she’s going to college, and I…I…” He suddenly burst into tears.
Meg, wearing jeans and the black pullover Crowley had bought her—with a subtle snakeskin pattern—came downstairs to find Azi…bursting into tears on Crowley's shoulder, who patted his back awkwardly.
"Okay," she said. "So we're both doing fine."
"I'm doing fine," Crowley said, though a suspicious glint flashed in his eyes behind his sunglasses. "It's just that the angel's a little emotional."
"I have the right to express my feelings, Crowley!"
"I didn't say you didn't."
"And she's ours, she is..." Aziraphale didn't finish, but he didn't need to.
Meg crossed the room and gave him a hug, a proper hug, just like she'd learned from him over the past two years—a tight, all-consuming hug that conveyed everything words couldn't.
"I'll be home by five; it's a half-hour commute. I'll text Crowley at lunchtime. Okay?"
"Okay," Aziraphale said, returning her hug warmly. “But you’ll be careful? Call if anything happens? And you’ll…”
“Angel,” Crowley interrupted her, “let her go.”
Aziraphale reluctantly released her, then immediately hugged Crowley back, the devil accepting the embrace with resignation.
“Alright,” Crowley said after a moment, “we’ll drive her.”
“It’s only thirty minutes by the tube,” Megan said.
“We’ll drive her. First day of university. It’s customary. Parents do it.”
Meg gasped. “You…you’re coming with me? ”
“Of course. Did you think we’d let you go alone? Let’s go.”
They drove the Bentley to SOAS, where it miraculously stopped in front of the bookstore. Aziraphale sat in the front, clutching a checkered handkerchief tightly, weeping intermittently. Crowley drove with his usual confidence, cursing London traffic with his creatively witty language. Meg sat in the back, watching the city rush past, a strange peace washing over her. They arrived at SOAS University of Asia quickly. Crowley had parked illegally (a small miracle ensuring no traffic controller noticed), and the three were silent for a moment.
“Well,” Meg finally spoke, “I should…”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said, his voice choked with emotion. “Yes, you should go. But wait…”
He turned and took Meg’s hand. His eyes were red-rimmed, but his smile was genuine.
“I want you to know,” he said carefully, “whatever happens in there, whether you like it or hate it, whether you make friends quickly or need time to find like-minded people, whether you change your mind, whether it’s choosing a course, a career, or anything else, we’re proud of you. We’ll always be proud of you. Right, Crowley? ”
“Yes,” Crowley said gruffly. “He’s right. And if anyone treats you badly, be sure to tell us. I can arrange some minor troubles. Like, something like your shoelaces always coming undone.”
“Crowley!”
“What’s wrong? I’m just showing my support.”
Meg smiled, her voice slightly choked. “I know you’re there for me; thank you both. Thank you for everything you’ve done. For…for choosing me.”
“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said, his voice breaking again. “Thank you for bringing us together.”
They embraced goodbye on the sidewalk, a three-way embrace, Aziraphale sobbing uncontrollably, Crowley patting her back roughly, while Meg struggled to hold back her tears. Then, with her backpack slung over her shoulder, carefully controlling her demonic nature, she walked through the gates of SOAS University of London, ready to learn from the unique perspective of someone who truly understood religion.
Behind her, Aziraphale buried his face in Crowley’s jacket and wept uncontrollably, while Crowley held him, pretending his eyes weren’t wet.
“She’ll be alright,” Crowley whispered. “She’s smart. She’s brave. She’s ours.”
“I know,” Aziraphale said with difficulty. “I know she’ll be alright. But I have the right to be emotional about it.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t, angel.”
They stood there for a few more minutes, the two supernatural beings displaying parental affection in the heart of London, neither suggesting leaving until Aziraphale had completely calmed down.
“Well,” Crowley finally spoke, “what do we do now? She’s still several hours away from home.”
Aziraphale decisively blew his nose. “I think we should…do something, distract ourselves, stop worrying.”
“Lunch?”
“I don’t really need to eat, Crowley.”
“Neither do I, but I saw a place called Wingstop on the way here, and I need to figure out what that means. Are they stopping people from eating chicken wings? Whose wings? Why? ”
Nevertheless, Aziraphale laughed. “It’s a chain restaurant, you idiot; they sell chicken wings.”
“Chicken wings? ” Crowley looked genuinely offended. “That’s so misleading. I thought it was something about angels or something. You know, ‘Wingstop,’ like stopping angels. Or a shop that sells wings. Real wings.”
“Who needs a shop that sells wings? ”
“Role-playing? A theatrical performance? I don’t know, angels, but this is way more fun than chicken wings.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You like it.”
“Sorry.”
They went to Wingstop anyway, because Crowley still found the name amusing, and Aziraphale was willing to play along. The boy behind the counter looked bewildered as Crowley spent five minutes studying the menu. But they ended up ordering some different kinds of chicken wings and sitting in a plastic booth that clashed terribly with Azi’s style.
“This is awful,” Aziraphale said, taking a bite of a chicken wing.
“It’s absolutely terrible,” Crowley echoed, picking up another chicken wing.
“This decor is awful.”
“Plastic tables—it’s 2025. It’s a sin.”
“And yet we’re still here.”
“And yet we’re still here.”
They finished their chicken wings, and they actually enjoyed them. Then they wandered aimlessly through the streets of London, like two parents who had just sent their child to university and didn’t know what to do next.
“IKEA,” Crowley suddenly announced.
“What did you say? ”
“IKEA. Let’s go to IKEA.”
“Why are we going to IKEA? ”
“Because,” Crowley said, as if struck by a sudden inspiration, “Meg is officially in university now, and she’ll definitely want to redecorate her room. She’s more mature now, not like a little girl anymore. We should buy her some new things.”
“Crowley, we can conjure up new things…”
“It’s different. Come on, let’s go to IKEA. It’ll be fun.”
Not fun at all.
IKEA was a labyrinthine nightmare, filled with flat-pack furniture and tongue-twisting names. Couples argued over shelves, and children screamed over meatballs. Aziraphale looked around, growing increasingly horrified, while Crowley seemed to derive a perverse pleasure from the chaos.
“Look at this,” Crowley said, pointing to a bedroom display. “MALM bed frame. What does MALM mean? ”
“I think it’s Swedish—”
“And this, HEMNES. Honey, these aren’t words, just sounds.”
“They’re Swedish.”
“KALLAX,” Crowley read the name on the shelf. “BILLY. EKTORP. It feels like summoning the furniture demon.”
“I don’t think so—”
“However,” Crowley pondered, stroking a table, “Meg definitely needs a proper table. The one in the attic is a bit too small. How about this one—MICKE? ”
“It’s…modern.”
“She’s eighteen, honey. Modern is good. And look, it has cable management. She needs that when she’s using her laptop.”
They ended up spending three hours at IKEA, debating the merits of various pieces. Aziraphale wanted all the furniture to be oak; Crowley, with his ingrained preference for black and chrome, got lost in the market section and bought seventeen tea towels with Swedish moose patterns “for a change,” sparking an unexpectedly heated debate about the sturdiness of the Lack side table.
“They only weigh thirty pounds,” Crowley pointed out. “Even if they collapse, we can miraculously fix them.”
“That’s cheating.”
“It’s practical.”
They bought a desk, a new bookshelf, and a desk lamp. And an armchair, which Crowley said was ironic but actually only looked comfortable.
“Well,” Crowley said, looking around, “today’s childcare is done.”
“We bought furniture, Crowley. This isn’t…”
“This is definitely childcare. We’re providing an educational environment for the child. This is textbook childcare.”
“Strictly speaking, legally she’s not ours yet…”
“Stop,” Crowley interrupted him suddenly, becoming serious. “Don’t finish, Angel. She’s ours. From the moment I put her in the Bentley in Quahog, she’s ours.”
Aziraphale’s tone softened. “Yes,” he agreed softly, “yes, she is.”
They drove home in silence, the trunk crammed with modular furniture with tongue-twisting names. Both were thinking about the girl they had unexpectedly acquired yet deliberately kept. She was now sitting in a religious studies classroom, listening to those who were completely unaware that they coexisted with the embodiment of good and evil, explaining the concepts of good and evil.
—
It all began in the third week of school, at a seminar on theodicy, which explored why a benevolent God would allow evil to exist.
Meg listened to her classmates debate this question, growing increasingly frustrated. They were all too "theoretical," discussing Leibniz, Augustine, and various philosophical frameworks, while the answer was actually right there in her living room, where they argued almost every night about whether the Beatles or the Rolling Stones were better.
(Crowley thought the answer was Queen. Aziraphale insisted it was Mozart. They both agreed that most modern music was "noise," but then contradictorily admitted they knew the lyrics of the songs they claimed to hate by heart.)
"But," one student said, "don't you think the existence of evil suggests that God is either not omnipotent or not entirely good?"
Before Meg could stop him, her hand was raised. "Or rather, that the whole framework is wrong. What if good and evil weren't opposing forces but complementary? What if the key wasn't eliminating one but maintaining balance?"
The seminar's moderator, Dr. Okonkovo, was pleased that Meg seemed so interested. "Margaret, that's an interesting perspective. A bit like Zoroastrianism. Could you elaborate?"
So Meg began to speak at length. She recalled her two years living with an angel and a demon. They integrated into the local environment, chose each other, and then chose her. Every day, they proved through their actions that good and evil are less absolute laws of the universe and more personal choices.
She certainly didn't mention angels and demons. But she spoke of the complexity of morality, of how the same action can be good or evil in different situations, and of the complexity of humanity—perhaps that was the key.
Her classmates looked at her as if she had said something extraordinary. Dr. Okonkov smiled and said, "Margaret, your contribution is wonderful. I would love to see you elaborate on this further in your paper."
Meg then realized that for the next three years, she would have to write a paper on religion while carefully concealing the fact that she possessed primary sources of religious material at home.
After the seminar, she noticed she was crying.
Not the kind of hysterical sobbing, just tears. Sudden, uncontrollable tears, welling up without warning, usually triggered by small things. Like a warm word from a classmate. The thought of her former family wasn't that she missed them, but their shadows lingered, like the way Aziraphale hugged her before leaving that morning.
She had always been prone to tears, one of the reasons her family teased her, but this time it felt different. Much stronger. It was as if her emotions were turned up to maximum volume, but she couldn't find the volume control.
And there was anger. She would suddenly erupt in a fierce rage, wanting to smash things or set things on fire—a worrying problem given her background. The anger came and went quickly, leaving only emptiness and confusion.
And there was fear—a persistent, gnawing fear, the fear that this wouldn't last. The fear that Aziraphale and Crowley would realize she was too much trouble. The fear of waking up one day to find herself back in Quahog, the past two years nothing but an elaborate dream.
One evening, she brought it up with Crowley in her usual roundabout way.
“Don’t you feel like you’re different? Like you feel everything too intensely, while everyone else seems perfectly normal? ”
Crowley, who was reading a book about corvids, suddenly looked up. “What’s wrong? What happened? ”
“Nothing happened. I just… I cry a lot. Over the smallest things. Then I feel stupid for crying, and then I get angry at myself for feeling stupid. It’s exhausting.”
“That’s human nature, Meg. Especially young people. At your age, emotions are naturally intense.”
“But what if it’s more than that? What if I have a problem? ”
Crowley put down his book. “Listen to me. You have nothing wrong with yourself. You’ve been through trauma, yes, trauma—don’t look at me like that—you’re processing it and adapting to a completely new life. You have the right to be sad about it.”
“But…”
“However,” he continued, “if this is bothering you so much, you should talk to someone. Find a professional therapist.”
“A therapist? ”
“Yes, Angel and I have already discussed it. We’ve found the right person. She… she’s a bit special, but she’s very capable. She specializes in people with complex backgrounds.” He paused. “Very complex backgrounds.”
And so, for the next week, Meg found herself sitting in a warmly lit office in Bloomsbury, facing a woman who introduced herself as Dr. Bloom.
Dr. Bloom was tall and angular, with sharp features and unsettlingly dark eyes. She wore business attire—neat trousers and a crisp shirt—but there was something about her that seemed out of place with the outfit, like a wild person dressed in civilized clothing.
“Margaret,” she began, her voice surprisingly gentle despite its heavy Scandinavian accent. “Your guardian gave me a brief overview of your situation. But I’d like to hear your own story. Why are you here? ”
“I’ve cried too much,” Meg said bluntly. “I’m easily angered. And I’m always afraid that all good things will disappear.” The doctor nodded, unsurprised. “How long have you been feeling this way? ”
“Always? But it’s gotten worse since I moved to London. Maybe it’s because people are paying more attention to me now that I’m more aware of it.”
“Tell me about your family. Your biological family.”
Meg began to speak. About being ignored. About being forgotten. About the careless cruelty and deliberate indifference. About feeling utterly unworthy of love because those who should have loved her didn’t.
Dr. Blom listened intently, like a predator. Sigh, Meg felt like the kind of predator that protects rather than threatens.
“And now? ” Dr. Blom asked. “What about when you were with Aziraphale and Crowley? ”
“It’s different now. They see me. They care about me. They…” Meg’s voice choked. “They chose me. But I’ve been waiting for them to turn back their choice. Waiting for them to realize I’m not worthy.”
“Hmm.” Dr. Blom took note. “Margaret, I’m going to share my initial assessment, but you need to understand that this is only preliminary. Your description sounds like borderline personality disorder. The symptoms are mild, but they are present.”
“Borderline…?”
“This disorder often stems from early trauma and rejection. It manifests as intense emotions, a fear of abandonment, and unstable self-perception. Does that sound familiar? ”
Meg thought for a moment. “Yes. I’ve experienced all of these. Very familiar.”
“The good news is that it’s treatable. Treatment, especially dialectical behavioral therapy, is very effective. We will focus on improving your mood regulation, distress tolerance, and interpersonal skills. Margaret? ” Dr. Bloom leaned forward slightly. “Having borderline personality disorder doesn’t mean you’re incomplete. We’ll work together to help you develop healthier coping mechanisms.”
“Okay,” Meg said, feeling something loosen in her chest. “Okay, I can do it.”
As Dr. Bloom left, he said almost casually, “Your guardian mentioned your origins. That hellish bloodline.”
Meg froze. “They told you that? ”
“They told me your origins are complicated. I’m familiar with complicated ones. I used to be one of Odin’s ravens. A long time ago. Then I changed careers.” She smiled, her teeth appearing particularly sharp for a moment. “The point is, I understand that bloodlines don’t determine destiny. Margaret, you are much more than your bloodline. Remember that.”
Meg walked out of the office, feeling more relaxed than she had in weeks. She finally understood what she felt like. She also had a plan. And, given her life experiences, it seemed plausible that her therapist had once been a mythical bird.
She texted Crowley: Treatment is going well. Dr. Bloom is a nice person. And she used to be a raven??
Crowley replied immediately: I told you she specializes in rare cases. Did she say anything useful? Yes. Borderline personality disorder. Mild. Treatable.
Good. Let's talk over dinner. Angel: Making risotto. It's going to be awful. Go home.
Meg smiled, because that's right. Home. She finally had a home.
—As expected, the risotto was terrible. Aziraphale had overcooked it, making it a paste, and added about seven times the amount of Parmesan cheese in an attempt to "enhance the richness."
"It's delicious," Meg lied, struggling to eat the risotto in her bowl.
"Terrible," Crowley corrected, shoving him away. “Angel, I’m saying this out of love, but you can’t make risotto. Don’t try again.”
“I followed the recipe exactly.”
“The recipe didn’t take your picky nature into account. Risotto needs to be benevolently ignored, which is completely against your nature.”
“No, I’m not. Oh well.” Aziraphale deflated slightly. “It is a bit…sticky, isn’t it? ”
“Like wallpaper paste,” Crowley chimed in, “but thicker.”
Meg laughed, a laugh so light it surprised even herself. “Can we order takeout? ”
“Good idea. Thai? Indian? Or that dumpling place? ”
They ended up ordering Thai, which was laid out on a small table in the back room of the bookstore. Just then, Meg told them the diagnosis.
“Borderline personality disorder,” she said, carefully observing their expressions. “Dr. Blom said the symptoms are mild and treatable, but… I wanted you to know. In case you find it hard to accept. In case you want to…”
“That’s enough,” Crowley interrupted. “If you’re trying to imply we’ll abandon you because of a mental health diagnosis, I’ll be very angry.”
“Very angry,” Aziraphale added. “My dear, one of us is a demon, the other an angel. Together, we’ve observed humanity for six thousand years. Do you know how many humans have mental illnesses? The vast majority do; it’s almost the norm.”
“You think you’re crazy? ” Crowley pointed to himself. “I’m a devil; I once had an existential crisis because I drove too fast on the M25. This angel broke down in 1793 because she lost a book. We’re hardly paragons of mental stability.”
“That was the first edition of the Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, with annotations from my discussions with Newton.”
“I mean,” Crowley continued, “we’re both a little crazy. The only difference is whether you’re seeking help. And you’re seeking help, so you’re doing well.”
Meg felt tears welling up in her eyes, the beautiful kind of tears. “Dr. Bloom wants to see me once a week. She calls it DBT, Dialectical Behavior Therapy.”
“Great,” Aziraphale said firmly, “we’ll adjust the schedule; you can do whatever you need.”
“I also need to practice mood regulation skills. It seems I need to learn to ‘coexist with uncomfortable feelings’ instead of reacting immediately.”
“That sounds terrible,” Crowley said.
“That’s true.”
“But it’s necessary,” Aziraphale said. “We’ll support you. However, I must mention, please don’t misunderstand, we did buy you some new furniture from IKEA. But Crowley and I worked for three weeks and only managed to assemble the table.”
Meg blinked. Then, apparently, Crowley was so exhausted that night that he turned into a snake, and they still hadn’t managed to assemble the armchair.