Chapter Text
First chapter summary (This isnt for reading purposes,just my guide to write):
*A type of celestial reunion that Aziraphale was forced to attend about updating about their angelic actions. He had seemd to have more required empathy than ever with humans. The time passed and Aziraphale had shown patterns that he seemed to not be an *angel* anymore. Not in a bad way,just not *heaven's* way. After and intern investigation Heaven reclaimed his execution,but they decided that maybe the 'Make that motherfucker fall" process was more effective,like "We don't actually care,just give Hell more morons to care of". So his fall wasn't sudden of harmless,of course. He was (not literally) spited his sins on his face. And his crimes,principaly: Excessive and inappropriate compassion for humans, Direct interference to thwart a divine plan,A close, emotional, and dangerous relationship with a specific demon (yes, Crowley, you). After this Aziraphale at first felt an infinate void and sadness upon him. His grace was gone. But then he started to feel slightly empowered,as if he was finally free. He isn't,but it was better than to always have to be perfect to Heaven. And Like crowley,His appearence changed. His Hair now darkened and longer,his eyes now with a pupil shaped like a goat's one and a less bright aura. compared to crowley this wasnt a fallit was a rising dark partially free (now fallen) angel. After falling Aziraphale finds himself disgusting,as if his dignity was taken (because it was) he felt guilty,and for a long time didnt spoke to anyone,but himself. Looking onto mirror and wanting to go back in time to fix things,but it was too late for that. Hell quickly heard of the situation,and knew that this would be a really good thing. "Just imagine this: An angel who knew way better heaven and earth now fallen and destined to be on the side of the damned. They could declare war upon heaven with this new ally,right?" Said beelzebub after casually summoning Crowley to tell him the news. "But no one really knows where is that sucker...and no one really knows if the rumors or him are real,yet...if you find this prick for us...we (hell) could finally be free..." Again,stupid statements. Crowley was amazed,a fallen angel? in this times? it was like throwing away an important client but not caring and then just fire them. So after that Crowley returned to earth and sat on his car. Returning with Aziraphale,he couldnt change his mind...he was a monster. That's what he told to himself. He didnt even dared to read a book,to call anyone or eat something. He was just there,sitting on the floor lamenting his existence. Armaggedon was over,but another war was about to start.
---
Aziraphale had received invitations from Heaven throughout his existence, but none like this. There were no fanfares, no choirs, no radiant “blessed be” written in ink of light. Just a dry, curt order, delivered by a faceless messenger:
Aziraphale. Principality of the Sword of the East.
Appear before the Council.
Attendance is mandatory.
The last two words weighed like a bitter classical angel protocol.
“I don’t like this,” he had grunted, leaning against the library wall with his arms crossed. “Heaven doesn’t summon without reason. Much less like this.” Aziraphale had tried to smile, but the smile had slipped from his grasp. "Just a routine report,” he had said. “I won’t be long.” A lie. He knew it. But the angel went up anyway.
Heaven was… different. Not aesthetically-it was still that endless, light-filled office that aspired to be infinitely perfect but only managed to appear sterile. but in the way eyes followed him. As if his mere presence were an anomaly. They led him to a meeting room he had never seen before. a white, circular, immense dome, with no visible doors. Like being inside a crystalline bell jar where every word would be weighed, measured, and filed away. Before him, floating , were members of the Council. Archangels, sub-chiefs, beings so ancient they didn't remember having faces. Metatron entered last, like someone arriving late to their own judgment because they know no one will punish them.
“Aziraphale,” he said, without a smile, without warmth, without the theatricality he had so often used. “We need to review your performance.”
The phrase 'review your performance' hit him like a bucket of ice water. One didn’t 'review the performance' of an angel who had prevented Armageddon by implicit orders of the very divine morality they claimed to follow.
That was an excuse.
Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back and took a deep breath.
“I have fulfilled my duties in the most-”
“You have shown excessive empathy toward humans,” Gabriel interrupted, flipping through a folder that seemed pretty normal. “An… inconvenient empathy.”
“I have shown compassion,” Aziraphale corrected, feeling a tremor of indignation. “Isn’t that our purpose?”
“Our compassion is selective,” Uriel retorted, his voice like that of a statue that had never grasped the concept of grace. “You have been indiscriminate.”
Indiscriminate. What an ugly word to describe loving someone without labels.
Then Michael spoke, his tone sharp as a scalpel:
“You have also directly interfered with a divine plan.”
Aziraphale opened his mouth. He closed it. He tried to speak again.
"Armageddon was a terrible idea," he whispered. "We had to stop it."
Metatron inclined his head slightly. "You didn't have to. You decided to do it."
Ah. The truth spoken as an accusation.
Therein lay the real crime.
But the final blow was yet to come. He sensed it before it was spoken.
"And finally," Metatron pronounced, his voice so sweet it hurt, "there is your… relationship with the demon Crowley."
A murmur of light swept through the room.
Almost a whisper.
"Relationship."
Aziraphale felt something twist inside him. A reflection of ancient fear.
"Crowley… is a friend. An ally. Nothing more."
Metatron smiled, but in the way someone smiles when they already know the answer to a riddle and are just waiting for everyone else to give up.
"The recordings disagree." Recordings. Beloved God.
They had been watching.
Aziraphale swallowed, and for a moment, the silence was a physical weight on his chest.
"What... what do you want me to do?" he managed to ask, because his voice had never been a weapon, but it could be a weak shield if he tried.
"We don't want you to do anything," Metatron replied, adjusting his robe of light. "We want you to be an example." And then he understood. The judgment had already been made.
A time passed that he couldn't measure. Questions, accusations, silences, a feeling growing ever colder behind his heart. At some point, he stopped trying to defend himself. Not because he accepted the accusations, but because he understood that the decision wasn't about him. It was about what his existence represented.
-Free will.
-Independent thought.
-Affection.
Something Heaven feared more than Hell. Finally, the Council deliberated in a luminous murmur.
Metatron spoke:
"Execution was proposed… but deemed unnecessary.
Hell already has too many problems.
However… the forced fall seems appropriate."
The verbal whiplash pierced him. The Fall. Not an accident. Not a mistake. An expulsion.
"The Fall…?" His voice cracked. "Out of compassion? Out of wanting to protect humanity? Out of… out of concern for Crowley?"
"Precisely," Gabriel said.
Almost with relief, like someone filling out a form.
And then, like a script prepared with cruel efficiency, they began to list:
"Excessive and inappropriate compassion for humans."
"Direct interference with a divine plan."
"Emotional bond with a specific demon."
Each word was a hammer blow. Each accusation, a reminder that he had loved too much for celestial standards.
Aziraphale felt something hot welling up behind his eyes.
Posibly tears.
“I beg you…” he murmured, “to reconsider...please. Don’t tear me from… from my home. From who I am.”
Uriel replied with brutal frankness:
“You cease to be useful.”
Ah. And there lay the truth.
His actions didn’t matter. Only his usefulness.
Metatron raised a luminous hand.
“Aziraphale. Principality of the Eastern Gate. For the crimes listed above…you are sentenced to the Fall.”
The world stopped,well at least not yet.
-
He wasn't physically pushed. Heaven never soiled its hands. He only felt a tug, an internal tearing, as if an ancient root had been ripped out. First, an absolute emptiness. A silence so vast it seemed to devour him. Its grace-that constant, soft, warm light-was extinguished like a candle crushed by invisible fingers. He felt something inside him die.
And then…Then, something else.
A strange current coursed through his body.
Dark, yes.
But not malevolent.
Rather… free.
Freed from correction.
From surveillance.
From divine duty.
Infinite sadness mingled with a new, warm, and dangerous impulse. Like opening your eyes after centuries in darkness and discovering you like what you see. His wings burned, but not with fire. In a soft, pearly, almost gray sheen (michael reference hehe). His hair, once soft curly white, darkened like spilled ink. It grew, became wavy, wild. A lock fell across his forehead and he felt… emotion. Something so human he almost wept. His eyes changed. The iris turned a deep blue, too deep. And in the center, the pupil elongated, vertical, like a goat's slit. A reminder of Crowley, but not a copy. He wasn't descending into Hell. He was veering off course. A fall that wasn't a fall. A crooked ascent. An angel… but not of Heaven. A fallen one… but not of Hell. A third kind of creature (Not literally hehe) And as the sky opened beneath his feet and gravity claimed him, Aziraphale felt something he never thought he would feel in a Fall: Power,Guilt,disgust and fear.
And a whisper in his mind, soft as velvet:
Crowley…
Then came the blow. The true fall. The world closing in like a whip of pain and possibility. And Aziraphale ceased to be what Heaven had created. He became something no one could control. Aziraphale awoke as if he'd been wrenched from a dream he hadn't asked for. There were no flames. No demonic chants, no distorted laughter, no metaphorical tentacles trying to welcome him to the club. Only the smell of damp earth and cold stone. The impact of the fall had left him in a small crater. ridiculous, really. At first, he didn't move.He couldn't. His body trembled, not from pain, but from… revulsion. Toward himself. He tried to sit up, but his hands ,now paler, with veins that looked like spilled ink beneath the skin,shaken horribly. It took him a few seconds to register that they no longer glowed. That they no longer emitted that soft light that had always served as a reminder that he was, essentially, good. Now they were just hands. And he… he was no longer what he had been. “Oh, how disgusting,” he whispered voicelessly. “How… ugh" He didn’t say it to the air. He didn’t say it to anyone. He said it to himself.
-
Hours passed.
Perhaps days. Time, devoid of divine grace, began to feel like a parched throat.He found an abandoned building to hide in. An old theater, or perhaps a concert hall, or perhaps simply a space condemned to remain dark forever. He curled up in a corner, knees drawn up to his chest, as if that could stop the feeling of emptiness gnawing at the edges of his soul.There was a crooked mirror nearby. The kind of mirror not worth stealing even for a cheap satanic ritual. Aziraphale looked at it. And he hated that reflection. His eyes, with that vertical pupil like a goat but grayer.His hair, longer, darker, falling over his forehead like a shadow. His aura (if it could still be called an aura) dull tremor, a faint pulse that seemed to doubt its existence.
"When did I go wrong...?" he murmured. He struck the mirror with his palm. It didn't break; he only cut himself a little—nothing serious, nothing an angel would have felt. He hugged himself with disdain. The silence was unbearable. The silence was him without Heaven. And also without anyone to care or help above. He didn't speak to anyone. He didn't look for food. He didn't read a book. (and that, for Aziraphale, was a clinical symptom that he had hit rock bottom.)
He simply existed.
And he regretted existing.
-
In Hell, of course, news travels faster than rats.
In fact, rats were the official messengers. Beelzebub was cleaning his antennae (or tuning his vocal cords, or doing something involving a wet sound that made you want to renounce humanity) when he received the report. "A fallen angel," he said, savoring the phrase as if it were made of rotten honey,which is impossible,but well...demons can do those. "One who knows Heaven inside and out. And Earth. And had contact with a demon, especially." The final sentence brought a small flash of cruel amusement to his face. It took less than five minutes to summon Crowley. Crowley appeared in the middle of the infernal hall with the grace of someone who had been disturbed from their nap (which was the reality). “If this is just another meeting to remind me I don’t have a set torture schedule,” he slurred, “I swear I’m going to sue for workplace harassment.” Beelzebub leaned toward him, too close to be legal. “We have… news.” Ngk,” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Good news, or the kind that gives me heartburn?” “An angel fell.” Crowley blinked. Once, twice, three times. “Wot?”“New. Fresh. Just cast out of Heaven. Not molded by us. A rare creature. Powerful. Useful.” Beelzebub grinned. “Would make an excellent weapon in a war.” "War?” Crowley repeated listlessly. “Oh, fantastic. Because the last one went so well.” "If you find them,” Beelzebub continued, ignoring his sarcasm, “Hell could finally break free. Stop following celestial orders. Unite under it's own leadership. Unchained.” Crowley paused for a long time. “And what am I supposed to do? Chase rumors? Track down a fallen angel they don’t even know exists?” Beelzebub smiled… too broadly. “Exactly.”
Crowley disappeared without saying goodbye, because he was Crowley.But he was surprised. A fallen angel, in the 21st century. Heaven didn't just let one go.It was like firing employee of the month for using recycled paper.Too improbable. Back on Earth, Crowley slid into the Bentley's seat and sank down as if he'd carried ten tons of existential problems.
A fallen angel…
Who the hell could that be?
The thought crossed his mind unbidden.
Michael...? nah,too important.
Uriel...? Too obedient...
Gabriel...? well,that prick should've fallen years ago...but whatever.
Saraquel...? Do I have to explain..?
And so he kept thinking,until he reached someone that he was avoiding to mention.
Aziraphale…?
No.
Ridiculous.
Impossible.
No-
They couldn't-
They wouldn't let-
He isn't-
Crowley closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and leaned back in his seat.
"Don't be an idiot," he muttered to himself. "Aziraphale's fine. He's... himself."
Offended, brilliant, and... fine.
This is Aziraphale's appearence btw (If this doesn't wokr,here's the link to the image:https://ibb.co/xKstmFHn):