Chapter Text
Aziraphale’s feathers smoke and flame first, starting at the root, simmering to the tip. His clothing is next, caught from his wings. It licks at his skin, catching at his hairs and setting his nerves alight. It’s a fruitless metamorphosis—agony endured not for some glorious rebirth, but for a deadened husk, ripped of potential.
At some point, he’s pushed off of the ledge and begins his plummeting descent. His own screaming is pulled away by the deafening roar of atoms and material things as he leaves Heaven and hits Earth’s atmosphere.
He’s not sure how long it takes him to realize he’s landed. He tries to move, but can’t—can only stare at the blackened ground he lays upon. He searches inward, looking for that ever comforting brush of fingers with God’s light, and finds nothing, the barren walls of his soul scorched clean.
He slams back into consciousness all at once, and heaves a sob, every breath agony. He shifts himself onto his stomach to give his bloodied wings reprieve from the sting of damp gravel.
But it’s not over yet.
Pinpricks start at his shoulder blades and soar out like small needles sewing into his skin. He lets out a hoarse yell as they spread, his nails digging into dirt, searching for any kind of purchase to brace against.
Eventually, the sensation lifts. He turns his head to wretch, his arms barely able to hold him up.
What follows is a week of false starts and fitful sleep. He barely moves meters, tossing and turning. It rains one night, water soothing his ruined wings. He uses all his gathered strength to miracle some clothing on—he has no more energy for miracles and his corporeal form is in some danger of heat rash, so this will have to do.
At the end of the seventh day, he finally finds the strength to sit up, propping himself against a nearby tree, and looks around. He’s in a field. He knows the road—just a half hour drive out of London.
He snorts softly. They couldn’t even give him the grace of someplace unfamiliar, could they? Every direction he looks is accompanied by a hollow pang in his chest, every inch steeped in beautiful, ruined memory.
He stands and begins ambling vaguely in the direction toward London, stopping every few minutes for breaths. He’s too weak for miracles and too nervous about his potential new…appearance to herald a cab. He can barely walk, but it’s all he can do, now. There is one path forward.
He is alone, for this. He’d been so close. He'd felt so bloody clever with all his plans and formulations—with the angels he’d quietly swayed, the demons he’d formed working relationships with. Too much, too soon. Heaven panicked—meddling isn’t very divine, after all—and Aziraphale took the Fall for it.
He sighs and looks up at the clear night sky, his heart clenching again as he maps out constellations. It can’t be over—he’s given too much. He's too close to making all that difference he threw everything away for.
But first, the bookshop.
He grips the tree and stands, gasping in pain. It takes another week to get to city limits. By the end, he can’t stop shaking, the metaphysical exhaustion and pain throbbing through his whole being. His wings burn in their tucked away realm. It’s all he can do to keep moving. Through the city, he keeps to backends and alleys, drawing as little looks as he can.
He reaches his bookshop, finally, breathing out a sigh of relief at the familiar doors. All that talk of flexibility had been complete nonsense—he’d been too busy, back only a handful of times since becoming principality.
He places a hand on the door, feeling the wards. Blessedly, he’d made sure only a select few could enter, before he’d left. At present, no one human or otherwise is inside. The wards dance over his skin, not quite sure what to make of him.
“I know,” he whispers tiredly, slumping into the door. “Lots to get used to. But I’m still…me. I think. Can you let me in? I’m back for a while this time. Probably.”
The wards envelop him after a few moments, surging through him with a rush. He hisses, gritting his teeth against the sensation before it settles down. The door swings open.
“Right,” he rasps, and steps inside, shutting the door behind him. “Don’t—let anyone in, except—” He bites off the unconscious addition and sighs, looking around for a distraction.
The shop is tidy—a word Aziraphale wouldn’t have ascribed to it before, but Muriel has apparently gone above and beyond in their duties. He stumbles to the back, upstairs to his rarely used quarters and slumps on the bed with a hiss. He chances a look at his feet and hands—still grey with ash and soot and half burnt feathers. The miracled shirt and trousers stick to his skin, rubbing in all the wrong places, stained with old and new blood.
He jerks awake some time later, the tip of some fading nightmare on his tongue. He groans, settling back against the pillow. His wings still ache and burn, but he can’t bear to bring them out. It’s just another reminder of...damnation. Emptiness. Uncleanliness.
Damp, sheltering feathers.
He shakes himself, sitting up with a groan. There’s too much to do. He can’t move, but—he grabs the phone from his desk, settling down. He forms a list in his head, and begins to call.
A summed cacophony of voices fill the line over the next few hours—some abrupt, some concerned. Some have already heard, though if they haven’t, Aziraphale isn’t keen to deliver the news. This isn’t about him, after all.
Slowly but surely, he collects intel. For a while, it’s as much fun as he can make it, in his condition. Writing in a little spiral pad, taking names and numbers down, crossing dead leads off with red ink—all he needs is a pipe and a tweed hat.
He sets the phone down, finally, and is met with once comforting quiet. The clock ticks. He looks out onto the rainy street bereft of humans, the light hitting just so.
He awakens, huffing in frustration. There’s so much to do. He can’t just sit around brooding and waiting to heal. There’s no telling how long that will take.
Three raps rattle the door. Aziraphale straightens, curses, starts a forgiving prayer, and shakes himself out of it.
“Just a moment!” He calls. He can’t go to the door and be sprouting antlers or something. He breathes out and holds his breath as he turns the mirror around. He looks awful—blood and dirt and sweat is caked onto his brow and muddies his clothes. The wounds, physical and otherwise, span his Beings, interwoven in a precise, exacting pattern of cruelty.
No antlers, though. Just gaunt, haunted pallor. He shakily snaps his fingers, donning a large coat and a facial overlay to conceal the damage. Otherwise, he looks...normal. Normal, plain Aziraphale. Even falling, he does meekly, with no…show. He shakes himself and slowly makes his way down the stairs. He breathes out once, twice, before opening the door.
It’s Crowley.
Shit.
He looks like Crowley—not much has changed, on his end. Aziraphale can only stare, bereft of words.
Crowley purses his lips, grimacing. “You light up the Network like a bloody Christmas show and you’re surprised I’m at your doorstep?”
Right, he should have thought of that. Some of those contacts still talk to Crowley—none that would know why Aziraphale is calling, but enough in number to be a bother. “I’m sorry, I should have thought of that.”
“You look awful,” Crowley says.
Aziraphale swallows. “Sorry.”
Crowley stares at him. Blood roars in his ears. He closes his eyes. It was foolish to do those miracles. He should have just ignored the knock.
“Angel?”
He blinks blearily. “Hmm?”
Crowley’s brows furrow. “Something’s not right—”
He reaches toward him, but is stopped by the wards at the door—the only thing stopping Crowley from immediately sensing…everything. Crowley flinches, something tortured flickering across his face before forced nonchalance reappears.
“Sorry, I’m just tired,” Aziraphale mutters.
“Tired,” Crowley says, trying out the word. “You. Are tired.”
Aziraphale nods miserably, bracing himself in the entryway. “I should probably sleep.”
Crowley blinks. “Have you ever slept?”
“Of course I have!” Aziraphale says.
Which is true—he’s done so a few times out of idle curiosity. There has been, of course, a spike in his…interest in the activity as of late.
“I—I should go. Sorry that all came your way. I’ll try not to—” Aziraphale swallows against a throb of pain. “I’ll work on figuring something out.”
“Right,” Crowley blinks, his face shuttering. “Yeah. ‘Course. Do that.” He gives Aziraphale a short nod, turns on his heel, and he’s gone.
Aziraphale closes the door, sinking against it and burying his face in his hands.
Some time later, he jerks awake at the sound of another knock and the subsequent unpleasant thwack of his head against wood. He groans, shuffling up, off the floor.
Another knock, a pleasant jingle, and—oh, he knows who that is. He opens the door, wiping dry tears from his eyes.
“Aziraphale!” Muriel says. “I heard—I heard and I don’t know what to do, and—“
“Sssh—sssh,” he says, placing a consoling hand on their shoulder, scanning the street before ushering them in. “Come in—would you be a dear and magic up a recliner and sofa for me? I’m still quite weak.”
They do immediately, the rich undertones fitting the room perfectly. Aziraphale lets out an exhausted sigh, and settles in. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“For me?!” Muriel blinks. “I think—considering the circumstances, I think I should be asking you what you need? I mean, damned or not, you’re still you, right? All that stuff you said about love and free will and—“ Muriel swallows, holding an empty tea cup.
He opens his mouth. An unfamiliar pull slides up his spine, settles on his fingers and the tip of his tongue—it would be so easy to...convince them to follow him. To tempt. He flinches.
“N-no—no, dear,” he says shakily. “If you keep following what we discussed, you’re doing exactly as your duty entails, and more than enough for me.”
Muriel wrings their hands. “Oh, but—they’re so cross and I—I liked how it was, for a while. They’re—“ Their face wrinkles in disgust. “Promoting me.”
Aziraphale stifles a snort. “They should—you’re good at what you do. You’ve grown so much!”
“But I liked being here. I got—I got coffee in the mornings,” they whisper conspiratorially. “I can tell you that now!”
The foam ring around Muriel’s lips during their weekly catch-ups in Heaven had betrayed as much already, but Aziraphale isn’t about to spoil their fun.
“I’d already passed a few rules lessening the issues with visiting earth for angels—I believe Heaven has far more on their hands to worry about than my little addendums. You will be fine,” he says.
“Are you?” they ask. “Fine, I mean.”
“Yes! Quite all right.”
“But you must be in—in terrible pain!”
Azirphale winces, falling silent as the intense throbbing of his wings oscillates between revving and roaring.
Muriel’s gaze grows drawn. “You are—oh, I—I want to do something for you. This is all…” They look up nervously. “It’s not…”
Aziraphale raises a hand. “Don’t…none of that, dear. Keep reporting to Heaven and doing your job and enjoying your lattes, and…seeing me, if you can. That is more than enough.”
He sinks into the lounge chair as Muriel relaxes and witters on, nodding and smiling at the right intervals.
Later, he wakes again, the pounding in his skull reaching a crescendo. He closes his eyes against the pain, whimpering as he readjusts.
“You’re really not ok,” Muriel whispers.
Aziraphale snaps up, meeting their eyes. It’s dark out, now, and it seems they’ve closed the blinds and lit a few lanterns. He sighs. “I…it’ll subside eventually, I’m sure.”
“I hope so,” Muriel says, wringing their hands. “Has it gotten any better already?”
No.
“Yes! Really, dear, it’s nothing to worry about. I’m—well, things have changed, and—and—that’s alright! You saw the good we did. I just wasn’t good enough at it to…last the course.”
He falls silent. Nothing lasts forever, indeed.
“You need someone here,” Muriel says softly.
Aziraphale shakes his head. “I cannot have you abandoning your post and—and coming down with me. It’ll do no one any good.”
“Then—then someone! Nina, or—or—“
Aziraphale smiles at them. He remembers that naïveté—that insistence that what is right is always possible, that people should always drop everything to help others. But humans are excellent at blurring the edges. So good, in fact, they’d eroded away at him for thousands of years.
“It’s never that simple,” He says. “I’m…here. That’s a lot more than I expected to have, at this juncture. But, I think you’ll be expected back soon, and I—“ he shifts to stand. Muriel surges forward and lightly pushes him back.
“No no, I’ll—I’ll go, but you rest, ok? I can’t…come see you for a bit, but I will try! I will,“ They smile, and he returns it, though it feels a bit lopsided on his miracled face.
They pause at the door, worrying their lip. “He’d come. If you asked.”
Aziraphale looks down.
“He’s asked after you—when he pretended he wasn’t visiting me here,” Muriel presses softly. “I don’t know the first thing about well…anything. But I know I felt—“
“Stop,” Aziraphale breathes out. “Please.”
Muriel deflates, looking down. “Just…think about it, ok?”
Aziraphale doesn’t look up as the bell rings and the door shuts.
After everything Aziraphale has done to undermine every unsaid gesture over the last thousand years, the last thing the demon deserves is another crisis to mop up. Even if he’s gotten more flexible with the fundamentals—enough to trip and fall, at least—some things are truly unforgivable.
Perhaps some punishment is warranted.