Chapter 1: H L E P
Chapter Text
“And you promise to only aid the benefits of Heaven and ethereal beings alike going forward then?”
Aziraphale stood in front of the elevator he and the man in front of him had just walked out of, the being whose hand was outstretched, expecting a full commitment to Heavenly business from the infamous traitor to the “Great Plan.”
“Yes, Although, I would like to be able to reach all of our ethereal beings, including Muriel. I expect them to report here once a week, I have been running that shop for three-hundred years, you know.” Aziraphale spoke, dancing around the hand in front of him. The elevator always dizzied him, he wondered if it ever made Crowley’s chest spin in circles.
Crowley.
“Why yes, of course, anything you need. Heaven is yours, you know. I expect great things from you.” The Metatron eyed down at his hand before meeting Aziraphale’s eyes once more.
The angel swallowed before shaking it without true feeling, the smile on his face painted as he remembered the demon waiting by his car downstairs, waiting for him .
The demon he would save the world for. Again and again.
For eternity and longer.
“You can count on it.”
Earth, Eight Weeks Later.
Books were never meant to float.
At least, that was what Muriel had been taught about Earth. They weren’t around for the creation of gravity, for they were just a mere cherub at the very beginning of humanity. God had created scriveners when she decided that humanity and the angels needed to all be accounted for. When the archangels were too busy with monitoring Earth and the other angels were just starting to come to fruition— the ones who kept Heaven afloat, barely mentioned in The Bible— like Muriel. They were the ones who had learned about the knowledge of creation before they provided any services to the Heavenly Host, rather than carrying out those plans on behalf of God (such as creating star factories, for instance). Muriel knew about gravity just as anyone knew about breathing. It’s just what happens when you exist, one of the many symptoms of life on Earth.
However, when one stops breathing, or, in this case, gravity goes askew, it is noticeable. Very noticeable. So noticeable, in fact, that Muriel had started panicking when How Green Was My Valley by Richard Llewellyn had started floating above a large stack of books near the front of the bookshop that morning. They had spotted it out of the corner of their eye, having been reading all through the night, only looking away to the rest of the shop as the sun began to rise.
That had been five minutes ago, and no matter how many times Muriel had put the book back on top of the pile, it would begin to hover once more, and no miracle would work to keep it down.
“Why won’t you stay still?” Muriel asked, as if the book were about to reply. At this rate they believed it would, but it wasn’t until another book, this time closer to the window, had begun to float as well.
Muriel rushed over to the hardcover, Emma by Jane Austen, to be exact.
“I thought books weren’t supposed to float!” They exclaimed, trying to put the book down back onto the pile like the last one. As soon as Muriel let go, the book began to hover again, as did the one on the table beside it. Lord of the Flies by William G. Golding.
“Aziraphale will smite me if any of you get ruined! Please stop floating at once!” Muriel exclaimed, their voice high and panicked. The three books wiggled in the air, First How Green Was My Valley , then Emma , followed by Lord of the Flies , and then a fourth book that hadn’t been floating before. The one that had sat directly under Emma in a large pile; Pride and Prejudice , also by Jane Austen, hovering ever so slightly underneath the former.
The four books wiggled again, one at a time in the order Muriel had found them in. How Green Was My Valley, Emma, Lord of the Flies, and Pride and Prejudice .
They ran over to the bookshop phone, realizing that they had never used one, not even in the three months they had been reading in the bookshop. If Muriel ever needed anything, they would run across the street to Nina at the coffee shop, or to Maggie next door. But they wouldn’t be up at this hour, let alone taking calls from a phone that never called.
“Oh, please! What’s his number?!” Muriel fret, sifting through the papers scattered across Aziraphale’s desk. They began rummaging through its overflowing drawers, finally coming across an address book from upwards of thirty years ago, flipping through the pages to “C.”
“Got it!” They spoke in triumph, rotating the dial of the phone with the right numbers as fast as they could, looking frantically over at the books that continued to hover near the front of the shop.
Crowley couldn’t imagine why anyone would call him at five-thirty in the morning, let alone who was calling. The rest of London had barely woken up, and he hadn’t any plans to in the first place.
He had been staring at the screen in disbelief for too long, it seemed, for his phone had sent the call to voicemail.
For Aziraphale to call — after, well, that — was absurd.
For him to call again , as the phone started to frantically a second time to show that he indeed was , meant that it had more of a purpose. Aziraphale, calling with a purpose from a place of being , unlike Crowley in a flat that never felt like home— in a flat that just had a cellphone thrown and shattered at its concrete walls.
A pity against fragility indeed , Crowley thought in the exact tone Aziraphale would have said it in if he really was on the other end of the call, excited for conversation.
“Bloody Angel,” Crowley groaned. If Aziraphale wanted to talk, they might as well do it face to face.
Being left in the dust was one thing, and it had happened to Crowley many times over the course of his existence. Being left for Heaven by someone who was thoroughly manipulated and hurt by the ethereal body was another, especially when it was your best friend and forbidden eternal love. Crowley had thought that The Fall was the worst thing he had ever experienced, for now any time he smelt sulfur, all he could think of was the burning of his wings, how they turned to a charred black and how his eyes, oh his hopeful eyes, had turned to that of a snake. He was left in a shell of who he once was, forever convinced from that moment forward that this was what he was meant to be, only a shadow of his former self.
But seeing Aziraphale look back at him before walking right into that elevator up to Heaven, that hurt more. More than The Fall. More than all of Crowley’s damned existence combined. It hurt so much he had just chosen to sleep in Hell’s flat after driving around London until he ran out of gas and had to power the Bentley through pure rage. He had found himself screaming at his plants after that. Screaming at the walls. The broken boiler. Everything. Anything that would listen, anything in earshot.
Who needed prayer when the only person you ever loved left? When they would be the only one who would hear it and still never listen?
A voice in the back of his mind asked if this was Aziraphale’s prayer. If this was him trying to scream.
So, Crowley grabbed his car keys and didn’t bother locking the door behind him.
Heaven, 1999 AD.
Angels were never meant to sweat.
At least, that was what Aziraphale had been taught by his corporation under Earthly circumstances. It was also what he had always assumed, as he was never warned of perspiration being a normal occurrence when he was issued this body, this vessel of existence. And yet, here he was, standing thusly in front of the archangels Gabriel, Michael, and Uriel, feeling a sort of dampness under his arms throughout his best attempt at not whittling his fingers away at the expense of their harsh words toward him. He genuinely thought he had been doing an excellent job of fighting away the urge to fidget, of fighting against the urge to be as imperfect as he was just told he was, as awfully askew to how he—
“Should be preparing for the turn of the millennia! Only a few more years until the antichrist is born, you know, and with such evil afoot you really must at least try to get your numbers up, Aziraphale. I mean, only seventeen blessings since we saw you last? It should at least be twenty-one.”
It had only been three weeks, and this meeting was spontaneous. He was about to miraculously fix a woman’s stroller, and make sure it never got caught up on the sidewalk. But he was summoned by the holy host.
And even then, he would have been three blessings short.
“You see, I was called right in the middle of—”
“It’s almost like you aren’t trying anymore, like you don’t truly want to bless the world.” Uriel commented.
Michael hummed, “Remember what we said about your habit of going native, Aziraphale.”
“I was created to bless the Earth with Heaven’s gifts. I promise I will aid in such venture—”
“I mean, only seventeen? But you’ve done twenty-five good deeds this month, the two simply don’t add up.” Gabriel scoffed, slapping Aziraphale’s file into Michael’s arms, the other archangel smirking as Gabriel strode toward the principality. “If you aren’t at thirty blessings by the end of the month, consider yourself…”
But Aziraphale was so focused on the feeling of his damp underarms and the ticking clock behind his boss to truly listen to his words. He was supposed to meet Crowley at his bookshop to celebrate the turn of, not only the century but the millennia , in two minutes. They were meant to spend the night together, just as they had when every other century turned for the last few. Since the arrangement, if he remembered correctly.
He had to let Crowley know he was going to be late.
“...I mean, do you even care about God’s plan if you don’t…”
Aziraphale continued to stare just above Gabriel’s shoulder, nodding at his words as he lifted his finger as a means of causing four books in his bookshop to float for a demon that couldn’t be fashionably late if he tried. Four books relaying a message. Four books; Les Misérables by Victor Hugo, And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie, The Last Hero by Terry Pratchett, and East of Eden by John Steinbeck.
It was the only thing to calm his nerves.
But, he was still perspiring.
He wondered if Gabriel could tell.
The bookshop looked as if it hadn’t been touched since Crowley last left it.
The outside hadn’t changed for the better part of two centuries, now that he thought about it. But the piles near the windows always tended to change shape every few weeks at the very least. These were the same as three months ago, the same as Aziraphale had left them. Would he have started moving them around if he had come back to the shop?
Crowley hesitantly sauntered across the street, finding himself on the doorstep of a bookshop that was interestingly unlocked but still closed at this early hour. Inside, he could see lights, books, and a frantic looking angel dressed as a Constable.
Muriel ?
Crowley opened the door and walked inside, finding the shop looking identical to how he had left it months ago.
Why was Muriel here?
“Oh, thank goodness! I didn’t know if the call went through! That phone is a tricky thing.” They fussed, rushing over from the desk in the back all the way to the front and over to Crowley excitedly.
“Right,,” Crowley spoke, looking over their shoulder to first see four books hovering above the piles stacked beneath them. “What are you doing here? And what’s with the floating books?”
“The Metatron left me in charge when Aziraphale decided to become Supreme Archangel!” Muriel exclaimed, but quickly grew weary when they turned back to see the books had not set themselves down. “The books are why I called. They won’t stay down.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow, sighing as he walked over to the now agitatedly vibrating copy of How Green Was My Valley in a pile to his right by the door.
“They started around dawn, and it’s only those four!” Muriel explained. Crowley took the book into his arms, feeling it still as it tucked itself into his forearm.
“Did you bother to check the titles?” He asked, images of Aziraphale flashed through his brain, talking about every detective story he had ever read, the clues to solve the apocalypse, and most recently, Gabriel’s appearance on his doorstep.
“Err…” Muriel started. Crowley walked over to Lord of the Flies , placing it on top of How Green Was My Valley before heading towards the pile shaking of Jane Austen at Muriel’s right.
“So that’s a no,” Crowley said, picking up Emma and Pride and Prejudice, adding them to the pile in his arms. “Just these then?”
“Yes, just those. They wouldn’t calm down when I tried to put them back on the piles.”
Crowley took the books to Aziraphale’s desk, plopping them down before looking at Muriel with another sigh. “That’s because they’re trying to say something.”
“But I thought books weren’t supposed to talk— or float!” Muriel said, even more unsure of the shop they found themselves in than before.
“They don’t. But this is Aziraphale’s shop, so you have to take the logistics out of it.” Crowley said, finally reading the titles of the books: How Green Was My Valley, Lord of the Flies, Emma , and Pride and Prejudice .
“H, L, E, P?” He asked himself, hearing the answer in the letters and quickly switching the two middle ones around for what he didn’t want to hear. “H, E, L, P.”
“What?” Muriel asked, breathless. “What do you mean ‘help’?”
“He’s in trouble.” Crowley said barely above a whisper.
“Who’s in trouble?” Muriel further inquired.
“AZIRAPHALE, YOU IDIOT!” He roared, finally turning to Muriel. “That’s why he sent the message!”
“He sent the message? But he can’t be in trouble! He’s in Heaven , running things! He should be perfectly safe!” Muriel exclaimed with an uneasy smile.
“Yeah? Well, apparently he’s not.” Crowley said, gesturing toward the books on the desk.
“Well, he was fine when I saw him! And that was last week!” Muriel almost argued, trying to reason with what “Help” could mean.
Crowley was taken aback by this, his head turning to the side in question.
“You saw him?” He asked. He couldn’t help the tightness in his throat, this was all too much.
“He has a meeting with me every week about the bookshop, just to make sure it’s in tiptop shape!” Muriel’s smile was too bright and genuine for Crowley to bear at the moment.
“Every week, huh?” He asked in disbelief.
“Yup! I actually have one tomorrow, and I can check up on him. I’ll even tell him about the floating books!” Muriel babbled. Crowley couldn’t decide if he was crying or fuming.
“Right, great idea,” He swallowed, forcing out a smile. “Carry on then, I’ll be off.”
“Wait—why don’t you come with me?” Muriel asked, turning toward the demon. Crowley swallowed, already booking it to the door.
“Got business to attend to, catch up later, yeah? Jolly good.”
And he left the bookshop in a similar fashion to how he had the last time he was there, unsure of what to do with himself on Whikber Street, let alone how to process any of what just happened.
Chapter 2: Hand-Written by Him, Himself
Notes:
when i said updates would be sporadic i didn't intend for sporadic to mean over a month— but here we are with chapter two! i hope everyone's holidays have been happy and healthy. may this chapter come to you in peace! i also hope you're enjoying the story so far!
Chapter Text
“And, you’ll never believe it, the books— they were floating!”
Aziraphale’s Heavenly office wasn’t one that had existed previous to his promotion, but after the Metatron had insisted that he had somewhere to work, Aziraphale was forced to go along with the procedure, as he usually was these days. He often believed it was somewhere they could keep him still, for within his first week in Heaven (the week between leaving Earth and his first meeting with Muriel), he had visited all of the lower classes of angels to bid them his regards. Not of mean notes, sarcastic remarks, or of anything needing a change. Just a simple thank you with news to come. And news did come, news of change, of reward, of equality and difference. The kinds of things Aziraphale had wished for from his superiors. The kinds of things that had made Michael and Uriel scoff and Saraquael stare at him in awe.
After weeks of visitations, the Metatron had led him to the office he sat in now with Muriel, one that had a camera installed within the last week, because “every piece of Heaven, new or old, must be watched over just as we oversee Earth.”
This one had a microphone, of course. So the earthly angel kept to his desk as he plotted against the Second Coming, as he found a way to leave the trap he had walked in to fix.
Aziraphale hummed in response to the former scrivener, his eyes lifting with the understanding one would have with a young child. He smiled as one would at a family gathering they were forced to be at, putting on a show for whoever may have been assigned to watch over him today.
“They were?” He asked with a level of enthusiasm that would keep Muriel involved, to tell him more.
“Yes! I called Mr. Crowley for help— he thinks they were meant to be a message from you, but I don’t see why they would be, you’re fine.” Muriel said confidently. The occasional mention of Crowley driving past the shop in their meetings was commonplace, but for him to actually come, actually get Aziraphale’s call was… unexpected.
“And what kind of message did he think they sent?” Aziraphale asked, trying to keep calm and collected, the smile bright on his face with his hands folded on the desk in front of him, squeezing them together out of weariness. Crowley had listened. He saw his message— been to the bookshop , after everything. He had helped Muriel read it. He— He.. He…
“He thinks you’re calling for help, which is silly because you’re right here, and you’re all right!” They exclaimed, giggling. Aziraphale forced out a chuckle, nervously squeezing his hands again.
Crowley was right of course, but he couldn’t let the camera know that.
“Sometimes, the books get uneasy when I am away from them for long bouts of time, they did the very same when I was called up here for a meeting in 1999,” Aziraphale spoke calmly, “They sometimes remember Crowley— he’s been our most regular customer for the past two-hundred years after all— he was there entertaining them until I came back, but they’re funny things, and may start floating again. So, I have hand-written a note for you to fold in the cover. They like words of encouragement from their owner on paper or otherwise— it’s just how books are.”
Aziraphale, with trembling hands, took a folded piece of parchment from the inside of his coat, handing it to Muriel, who took it with excitement. They had a quest, a small one at that, but a quest to fulfill. Something to do .
“But, make sure not to read it. Books enjoy their privacy as much as humans do.” Aziraphale added, leaning forward as he spoke.
Muriel nodded feverishly, pretending to ignore the archangel’s quivering lip.
“I sold no books, just as you asked. Although, someone may come back to special order a signed copy of a new book from America that you don’t have in your inventory. Is that okay?” Muriel asked. Aziraphale felt his face begin to curl into a smile, and for the first time since their last meeting, he let out a calm sigh.
“Yes, that is perfectly fine. Although, order two, so you can have one to read and shelve in the Modern Reads section.” He instructed. Muriel tucked the note into their breast pocket, trading it with the notepad they had used to investigate him and Crowley months ago. They wrote down the instructions with care as Aziraphale eyed the camera in the corner of his office once more, hoping the interaction was as normal as it always was.
“Is that all, Muriel?” He asked. The angel looked up from their notepad, beaming.
“Yes, Aziraphale. Are we meeting next week?” They asked. Aziraphale nodded, politely grinning in return.
“Yes, Wednesday at three o’clock, just as always. Now, go on, the books may start floating again!” Aziraphale urged, trying to sound like the books would bite the cherub when they got back to Earth. Muriel seemed to have gotten his fearful message, having gotten out of their seat and quickly waved before they left the quiet office to the hustle and bustle of Heaven outside.
Aziraphale sighed to himself, looking down at the desk, head in his hands. He hoped whoever was watching him through Heaven’s cameras assumed he was upset about the floating books. That his sadness had come out of his lack of control of the shop on Earth, and not at the fact that The Metatron was thwarting all he was planning for the ethereal place.
The support Aziraphale had gained in the lower ranks of angel was remarkable for only having been Supreme Archangel for a few months. He went to them first to see what changes they wanted to see of Heaven, if any, having thought of Muriel before any angel else. He had created more of a balance of power between the ranks, and was in the beginning stages of redefining the definition of “good” through such measures, the kind of good he and Crowley believed in, the kind that made a difference rather than a celestial ruckus of cycles waiting for the end of the world.
But, of course, The Metatron knew all of this, and was probably on his last straw of supporting it.
Aziraphale knew no book could float on its own. He was sure Metatron did as well, but it wasn’t a matter of knowledge when it came to understanding abnormality, no. It was often a matter of accepting its existence. However, under these circumstances, it was the case of being the first one to perceive it, and Aziraphale hoped a certain demon would be waiting for such a thing before the Heavenly Host suspected it to exist at all.
Before it was too late for the demon to know how Aziraphale felt.
Before it was too late to do something about it.
London, 2019 AD.
“So…Where do you want these, angel?”
Fire extinguishers. About twenty-four of them were sitting in the trunk of the Bentley, parked outside of Aziraphale’s shop. It was a crisp October morning, he and Crowley had picked them up about a half-hour ago and were about to lug them into the shop. For a place full of flammable paper, it was a wonder how Aziraphale hadn’t owned one before today.
“Oh, hm. It wouldn’t be smart to put them all in the same place now, would it?” The angel laughed nervously, and he felt golden eyes staring down at him with concern.
“No, we wouldn’t. But why not get them inside first, yeah? Then we’ll find the right places for them.” Crowley reassured.
He had wanted to put a hand on the angel’s arm, but since the almost-end-of-the-world, such territory felt less like a dream and more like an awkward availability to the pair.
They made a quick habit of regularly talking after the events of that August, and neither of them really thought about stopping any time soon. The fire extinguishers were something that took a month or so for Crowley to bring up, an offer originally, but a team effort in the long run. Aziraphale couldn’t bear to think about the flames, or Crowley running through them, trying to find him, trying to….
“That sounds excellent.” Aziraphale gulped. Crowley held his gaze on the angel for a beat longer before taking two extinguishers into his arms and passing them to the angel, both knowing they had a long day of bickering ahead of them, neither wishing it to be any different for at least they were here, safe, and together once again.
Crowley was never good at apologies, especially when they weren’t meant for Aziraphale.
But, here he was in the very empty bookshop, waiting for Muriel in one of the upholstered chairs near the front of the store. They were older than anyone out and about in Soho, probably as well as their parents. They were softer than they looked on the outside, the seemingly firm cushion actually one of comfort. Crowley wondered if Muriel knew about when Aziraphale found these chairs back in 1886 from a widow just outside of London. She had left her entire library to Aziraphale, “a dear old friend,” who she hoped would house the furniture no one took from her estate after she passed. She had rather it gone to a good home than to Debbie, her very-well disinherited daughter-in-law, so it wouldn’t be sold to a stranger. She was old-fashioned in that way, and her partner Susan had loved her for it. Crowley had heard the story a thousand times, and often wondered if Aziraphale had met Susan. Crowley also often wondered if Muriel truly knew what was in this bookshop, what they were truly protecting.
He sighed as Muriel reached the top stoop of the stairs outside of the bookshop, fumbling with the key. The demon hauled himself up from the comfy seat, startling the young angel by unlocking the door from the inside, finding them blushing from nervousness on the other side of it.
“Thank you,” Muriel spoke, ducking inside. Angels , Crowley thought.
“Don’t mention it,” Crowley spoke, enunciating his t’s with emphasis. “I have something to say.”
Muriel hummed as they went over to the stack of Jane Austen books near the front of the shop.
“I… I was… loud, erm… aggressive the other day, talking to you. ‘Bout the books. I… I’m sorry.” Crowley said quickly. Muriel turned around, smiling.
“Oh, it’s alright! You weren’t so aggressive, Michael and Uriel have definitely spoken to me louder than that.” They said, shooing the apology away.
“That’s the point,” Crowley said. “I’m not like them, I’m a demon. So when I am, I apologize, because you don’t deserve to be treated like that.”
“Treated like what?” Muriel asked.
The demon felt his heart sink in his chest, he could practically see Aziraphale in their eyes.
“You don’t deserve to be yelled at for misunderstanding something— anything, really. ‘S just a part of existence, y’know?” He asked.
“But, I’m an angel, I’m not allowed to misunderstand, or get things wrong! That’s not a part of my existence.” They urged. Something was yearning in their throat, wishing, hoping, somewhere deep down. Crowley could hear it. Crowley knew that it hoped he was right.
“Oh, it is, trust me,” He assured, moving to see what exactly Muriel was doing with the pile of books
“Are you sure?” They asked, closing the cover and fully turning back around to face the demon,
Crowley looked to the compass lining the second floor of the shop, his eyes resting on the “E,” the one right about Muriel.
“Absolutely.” He spoke, walking toward the Angel.
What did they just do? Crowley was scolding himself, he was doing that a lot these days.
“What did you do with that book?” He asked lightly, pursing his lips out, pretending to be more softly curious than he was angrily so.
“Oh! Aziraphale said the books missed him, and that's why they were floating! He said they enjoy messages from their owners to not feel lonely— written or otherwise— so he gave me one to give them! Written by him, himself!” Muriel explained, so delighted by the fact that the books were staying still. Crowley’s eyes shot above his sunglasses, looking at the Angel as if they had grown a third head; something his lot had more of a history of doing.
He went straight for the opening pages of Emma , finding a sealed envelope tucked neatly into the spine. Muriel tried grabbing it away from him, but Crowley was tearing open the letter before they could grab it back.
“He said they like their privacy!” Muriel exclaimed. Crowley growled, throwing the book to the floor, nearly ripping the letter out of the envelope.
“Books don’t have privacy! They don’t have feelings!” He yelled.
“Then why do they float and make me feel things?!” Muriel argued.
Crowley wouldn’t admit it, but, from what he could remember of Aziraphale’s tears after reading The Song of Achilles a few years back, they did have a point.
Crowley sat back down in his chair, letter in hand, Aziraphale’s immaculate penmanship scrawled on the page. He knew he should read it, there was an angry fire on the inside of him wishing to engulf it, devour it with its fury. Another part of him wanted to rip it up, burn it, never to know what was written on it. He knew Aziraphale was calling for help, but the part of Crowley that had put his foot down on “his own side” for six-thousand years asked if the angel really deserved it this time. If he only ever wanted to be with Crowley because he needed him, because he couldn’t save himself.
But Crowley remembered the fire and the angel's subsequent possession of Madame Tracy, knowing Aziraphale was fully capable of saving himself if he needed to, even if he were discorporated. He wouldn’t go out of his way to reach the demon, especially not now, not after…
Crowley tightened his grip on the letter, groaning to himself as he rolled his eyes, knowing the right thing to do, never the good, never the bad, just the right.
And so, he folded the letter back up and tucked it into his blazer, swallowing as he did so.
Muriel could only gape at him before he turned to leave the shop once more, with no merely as much sadness or fury as the previous times he had.
Chapter 3: The Unfolding of Paper and a Brass Key
Chapter Text
Heaven, Before the Beginning.
Aziraphale was convinced that this Angel’s hair alone was brighter than all those he’d ever come to meet.
So, the second time he had come to meet this fellow, he was sure to find out his name.
Heaven was a little hazier back in those days, for the windows surrounding it were not yet reflecting the earthly sky or silver buildings of London, but of the warm glow many of the cherubs had come to understand as God’s embrace, the epitome of what Heaven was meant to feel like: the sunlight shining on one’s face for the first time after a long, cold winter. The kind that held you the way a kind grandmother would, the way a blanket does in the darkest night. Aziraphale often found himself basking in the haze by the windows, finding his fellow younger principalities doing the same from time to time, sitting in the light of their creator, simply being.
Aziraphale did not know of the cold yet, but the red haired Angel in front of him had started to feel a chill in his bones that he was sure never sat there before.
He couldn’t get it to shake away.
“Hello over there!” Aziraphale called upon seeing his new friend, rushing toward him with excitement.
The red-haired Angel turned to face him, smiling as he recognized the Angel from the birth of one of his nebulae.
“Hello Aziraphale!” He waved, happy to find a familiar face in the cherubs he’d been seeing all over the place. The newest children of The Almighty, the ones helping with Earth, the ones with the jobs Crowley was never informed about by his fellow, elder siblings.
Aziraphale felt something like warmth come across his cheeks, and he was nowhere near a window.
“How is your nebula coming along?” Aziraphale asked, stopping a few paces away from Crowley. Aziraphale took a moment to notice how, though draped in similar outfitware, his friend’s sleeves’ trim was different than his own, looking almost like a cuff with how it sat above the end of the fabric rather than being the trim.
His friend was of higher status, no longer a cherub— of course, Aziraphale knew this— but he was above a Throne, or a Dominan, for sure, with how high the trim was. He wondered if Gabriel’s cuff sat much higher, from what he could remember from seeing him at his last report.
“Oh the one you helped me with? Thank you for that by the way, it really was a great favor,” The Angel was excited, almost tripping over his own words as if he hadn’t talked to someone else for a while. “It’s barely warming up still, it will take a very long time. I’ve tried asking The Almighty if there is a way for it to expand to its full potential, but she just said to keep following the directions left for me on my desk.”
“Ah, so the suggestion box didn’t work out for you?” He asked, trying to ignore the worry he felt for his friend’s questioning, his words quickening with every breath.
“I considered what you said about it, and thought that if I were to suggest a suggestion box, it would be to my brethren before The Almighty,”
And those brown eyes finally met Aziraphale’s blue for the first time since they’d started talking, and the Principality wondered how in all the cosmos Heaven could get any warmer.
“Oh, well I suppose that is a better start,” Aziraphale let out in relief despite speaking softly and folding his hands together anxiously. “I still think you are better off following orders, I don’t want to see you get into trouble.”
“I won’t, don’t you worry, Angel.” The red-haired angel spoke with a smile that made Aziraphale wonder if the nebula they made together really was the most colorful thing he had seen in his short existence thus far.
Aziraphale hadn’t felt before seeing his friend, only love for God of course and some lighter forms of righteousness but to feel — he only ever knew of such a thing since meeting the red-haired Angel; the one who perked up with eyes of cacao to the sound of trumpets blaring in the distance for the higher ranks of Angels to come for a check-in. The one who always looked bright, new, and different against the backdrop of Heaven. The one who was now turning to walk away—
“Oh, I didn’t catch your name!” Aziraphale exclaimed, calling after him.
The Angel turned back around to face the principality with a golden-like smile.
“We’ll meet again Aziraphale. I know it,” He assured with a wink before he flew away to follow the orders of the fanfare from above.
Aziraphale was left in the daze of Heaven’s glimmer, but he was sure to have felt a loss of warmth in his friend’s absence, one he felt in what he was sure they called his chest.
It was the last Aziraphale would see the Angel for a good while.
“Have the books calmed down?”
Aziraphale sat tall with his hands folded, smiling. Muriel often found Aziraphale straining to keep up with a feigned smile during their visits to Heaven, but they assumed it had been because of the camera blinking softly in the corner.
“Y-Yes! They have stopped floating.” Muriel spoke wearily, the fact that Crowley had the letter meant for the books put itself at the front of their mind.
“Oh, jolly good!” Aziraphale chimed, his eyes flickering to the camera’s blinking, as if he were counting it. “That is very good.”
Muriel ignored it, continuing to wonder if the archangel expected Crowley to take the letter out of Emma or not.
“Have you sold any books?” Aziraphale then asked. Muriel adamantly shook their head.
“Nope! Just the special order ones, and there were only two. Modern books, as I told you last week.” Muriel spoke in a worried monotone, and they hoped Aziraphale could hear it behind the plight of Heaven he had sat himself within.
“Ah, very, very good.” Aziraphale repeated, looking over Muriel’s shoulder to avoid eye contact with the camera, as if not staring at it would make it stop blaring red.
This hadn’t been a problem before today.
“Erm… Aziraphale,” Muriel started, but the archangel raised a hand.
“Shhh, give me just one moment, Muriel, I am seeing to something, my apologies.” He tried his best to not sound as dismissive as he did. Muriel almost turned around, but Aziraphale had grabbed their hand with his.
“Don’t turn around, they need not notice,” He commanded his words barely above a whisper, almost a prayer, but Muriel understood it. They kept their head high, fighting the urge to nod in compliance. Aziraphale lifted his hand with his elbow propped on the desk, his eyes turning back to Muriel’s. “Now, tell me, how are Nina and Maggie?”
Muriel, trying their best to act as if they weren’t taken aback by this change in subject, gulped.
“They’re better… I think. Maggie certainly goes into the coffee shop more often than she did before. Nina also looks less grumpy.” Muriel said, watching Aziraphale’s fingers move ever so slightly, as if they were fidgeting towards a skittish freeze, but they would move again before Muriel could assume they wouldn’t. It was almost as if he were conducting a fly’s path, as if he was holding something so fragile, so gentle, only he could see its beauty.
“Have they been checking up on you?” He asked, taking a deep breath in. Muriel swallowed again, beginning to think they had begun to understand what humans called “sweat.”
“Yes! Nina comes on Tuesdays with hot chocolate, and Maggie comes on Saturdays and shows me music!” Muriel exclaimed, as if it would change the motion of Aziraphale’s fingers. As if it would make them maneuver normally again.
“And what music did Maggie show you last Saturday?” He asked, trying to take hold of Muriel’s gaze back from his hand to his cerulean eyes.
“I believe… I believe it was called Queen? The singer was a planet but he certainly sang a lot about love,” Muriel recalled. Aziraphale chuckled at that, tapping his index and middle fingers with his thumb in a jerky motion.
“Freddy Mercury, yes. He could sing like no other.” Aziraphale spoke, before Muriel saw Aziraphale snap his fingers. They heard a crack in the distance, far down the wide plane of Heaven. Muriel turned in its direction, only noticing one thing.
The blinking red light had stopped.
Aziraphale had turned the camera off.
The archangel had no time to waste, and brought his hands back together with urgency as he spoke, “We don’t have much time. Tell me— have you seen Crowley since we last spoke?”
He’d never asked Muriel about the demon before. He’d try his best to ignore and forget and hope for what he was sure he never could.
“Did you tell him about how I told you to get the books to stop floating?” Aziraphale asked again, leaning forward on the desk.
Muriel nodded again, this time with ferocity.
“Does he know about the letter, then?” Aziraphale asked once more.
“Yes. H-Heh… He took it. From the inside cover. Heh—he has it.” Muriel, choked out.
The archangel smiled, leaning more across the desk.
“But has he read it, Muriel?’
The Angel didn’t know, they hadn’t seen Crowley since then.
“I-I…” Muriel stammered, Aziraphale gently held their hands in his, desperation in his cerulean eyes.
“Has he?”
Muriel was shaking, trying to remain calm. Aziraphale rubbed his thumbs over Muriel’s knuckles in an attempt to soothe them.
Everything had culminated so fast, in the last week. One moment they were alone in a bookshop that felt too large to call home— having started with nonfiction books, mostly atlases and gardening— it was too stuffy with things they were scared to understand. The next they were met with a demon grumpier than they’d ever seen him before, followed by a frantic meeting with an even more frantic boss and an anxious week alone. There was something missing and they didn’t know what to make of it, something between Aziraphale and Crowley had been lost.
All Muriel remembered was looking at the tea, how Aziraphale made Crowley less grumpy, and the kiss through the window.
They were so, utterly, confused.
“He unfolded it, b-but he was looking at the paper more than reading it. I-I think he decided against it. He folded it up and put it in his blazer. I haven’t… I haven’t seen it since.” They admitted. And to their great amazement, Aziraphale gave them a warm smile.
“That’s all right, Muriel. You did an excellent job, thank you,” Aziraphale said, before letting go of their hands and reaching into his pocket and taking out a brass colored key, one that was tied to a fraying piece of twine. He then placed it in the scrivener’s hand, closing their fingers around it.
“Give this to him,” He spoke, his eyes glassy with what Muriel could tell were silent tears. “We need not meet next week, I have a feeling I will see you before then. And please, don’t sell any books.”
Aziraphale’s smile was full of something warm that Muriel couldn’t place, but they assumed it held pieces of what love was.
“I won’t, I promise.” Muriel said, tightening their grip on the key.
“Good— now go, before they come to fix the camera.” Aziraphale whispered.
Muriel nodded before getting up frantically, rushing through Heaven, and back down to Earth.
The South Downs, 1923 AD.
“It’s a quiet village, a nice place to settle down after a life like uncle Herbert’s.”
Melissa Offendale was a spritely young woman in the eyes of Aziraphale, a woman who was to be engaged into money and live a long, bright life. He held her arm by the elbow through the cold, snowy paths of the property they found themselves on, the property that her late uncle had left to her in his death.
“Do you have many memories here, Miss Offendale?” Aziraphale asked, leading her through the snow up to the cottage’s front door.
“Only some holidays when I was young, I do remember it being quite warm when we were snowed in on Christmas,” She spoke, her cheeks as rosy as the paint on her lips. “This was before he went to perform in Vaudeville, of course.”
“Of course,” Aziraphale remembered her uncle very well. Herbert Brooks was an extraordinary magician with whom he took private lessons before he went off to perform in America for good. Brooks had an extensive collection of wine, one that he and Aziraphale drank over for many years. Sometimes, Aziraphale would take a bottle home.
He had last heard from Herbert a month ago in a letter about a week before Melissa wrote to him about his passing. She had mailed him on behalf of her Aunt in America, saying that Melissa was left with his cottage in the South Downs, but if she didn’t want it, there were a few old friends of her uncle’s that may. Friends that had been here more than she ever had, spending weeks in late springs some-odd years ago learning stage tricks.
Herbert was a good man, one that Aziraphale was as fond of as he was his late friend, Oscar.
“But of course, my family lives so far away, and we haven’t much need for this funny old thing anymore. You really are kind to have responded to our letter, Mr. Fell, we know Uncle Herbert’s friends here haven’t seen him in quite some time, but we also know you knew him better than we all did.” She explained, pulling a small brass key out from her pocket. She slipped it into the keyhole under the antique doorknob, turning the knob as Aziraphale pulled the door from her grasp, ushering her inside so as to keep her from being bitten any more by the wind.
“Well, it’s good to have a place to settle down, after I pass the shop down the family tree,” Aziraphale excused. This cottage was more than that— a place to go just in case everything went South— in case he had nowhere left to turn.
“Well, that's lovely! How long has the shop been in your family?” Melissa asked, walking over to the main fireplace in the empty living room. The cottage was much larger on the inside than the out, the walls aged with a cream paint, wooden beams supporting the upper floors, engravings on the baseboards that went back at least two centuries. It smelt of old paper, dusty trinkets that now found themselves in boxes across the pond— of holiday memories and rotten firewood.
It smelt like the bookshop, but with a crisp edge that Aziraphale only ever found in one other person.
“My nephew, he’s studying business in Brighton, should be done in a few years.” Aziraphale had been talking about this nephew for over a hundred years now, hoping that no one would ever ask to get dinner with the two of them.
So far, Crowley was the only one who ever inquired about such an evening— and that with a smirk.
“There’s two bedrooms, two bathrooms too I believe— but the office can be made into another one if you’d need it. There’s also a small library my Aunt kept upstairs. The kitchen and dining rooms are just this way, there’s even an enclosed porch that looks over the garden.” Melissa went on, taking Aziraphale’s elbow by the hand, bringing him through the house as he looked at it in awe. He felt a flutter in his chest from the moment he walked onto the property— the cottage was loved, and he intended to keep it that way.
A place for after the end of the world , he supposed.
“What am I supposed to do with a brass key ?”
Crowley was slouched over a chair in the bookshop, his leg hanging off one of the arms. He had the key Aziraphale gave Muriel in his hand, twirling it between his fingers while Muriel swung their arms back and forth feverishly.
“He just said to give it to you. He also said that we wouldn’t have a meeting next week— that he’d probably see me before then. I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean!” Muriel exclaimed. Crowley dared to lower his sunglasses down his nose, raising his dark eyebrows. The Angel gulped at this, now pulling on their fingers anxiously.
“He said he’s probably going to see you before next week?” He asked. Crowley’s voice had gone quiet. He held the brass key by its handle, the metal now warm in his hand.
“Yes.” Muriel confirmed.
The demon shot up and out of the chair, headed steadfast to the back of the bookshop with Muriel following in step, realizing he was throwing the doors of the liquor cabinet open, grabbing a glass and a 1890s red wine, Portuguese, Muriel couldn’t believe it.
“What are you doing?” Muriel asked. “What is that? Are you going to consume it?”
“Yeah, ‘s what you do when you can’t handle things,” Crowley spoke, popping the bottle open with a snap as he started to heavily pour it into the glass.
“He’s your best friend,” Muriel almost pleaded, almost , understanding the hoarseness of Crowley’s voice as a threat and not of the pain that had been sitting there for so long.
“Was. Haven’t spoken in a bit,” He spoke, putting the bottle down as he cradled the glass gently in his hand.
“I’ve noticed.” Muriel almost muttered, staring into what they hoped were Crowley’s eyes as the demon took his first sip of the wine.
The angel made a scrunched face of disgust.
“We’re not talking about this, not when he’s coming to Earth.”
“He didn’t specify how or when we're going to see each other, just that we might—”
“Well, would you go upstairs with no meeting planned?”
“No—”
Crowley took another gulp of the wine, swallowing with a refreshed sigh.
“Precisely the point. He’s coming to Earth.” Crowley concluded, emphasizing his words with his glass.
“And that’s why you’re drinking all of his wine?” Muriel asked. Crowley then downed the rest of his glass, hiccuping as he poured more.
“He gave us— me— homework, remember?”
Crowley hadn’t mentioned the letter yet. Not even when Muriel had given it to him.
“Yes,” Muriel spoke, stilling themself. “I remember.”
“Yeah, well… I can’t do it sober .” He said, taking a smaller sip this time.
“That’s not good,” Muriel said, unsure of what to do with their hands.
“Well, technically, I’m not.” Crowley retorted.
“But he believes that you are, t hat you always have been .” The Angel pleaded gently, much like Aziraphale when he wanted Crowley to stay on the phone with him, when the night was much more than the angel could take.
“And that’s precisely the problem, isn’t it?” Crowley asked, putting his lips to the glass’ edge.
Muriel was at a loss for words.
“I do the— maybe-sometimes— the right thing,” The demon explained, swallowing the almost-vomit in his mouth as he began to pace. “ He is equating the two.”
“But are they not the same?” Muriel questioned.
“That’s the problem with you lot, you don’t see the difference.” Crowley said, pointing at Muriel with his glass half empty.
“But some of us do, that’s why you love —”
“ I do not —”
“It’s okay if you do, you know,” Muriel whispered. Crowley shook his head, continuing to pace around the back of the shop as if he were meant to be going somewhere other than in a circle.
“Alright,” Crowley said, exasperated. “I need to collect myself before reading this. I need some alone time.”
Muriel smiled to themself.
“Okay,” The Angel spoke, continuing to smile. “But you really are—”
“Shut it!” Crowley said, turning to the angle with a pointed finger at their chin. Muriel gulped, nodding as they left the room. He snarled, guilt settling in his chest as he sat down in one of the plush chairs. He placed his wine glass on the floor beside him, the brass key into his pocket, and pulled the letter out and into his hand.
“Damn you, Angel.” Crowley muttered, unsure of who he was truly speaking to.
Crowley unfolded the paper in his hand, looking again at Aziraphale’s handwriting. There were words he could make out without reading the sentences, but he tried to keep his focus in between the lines, on the beige parchment. There was no such paper in Heaven, and Crowley then knew Aziraphale must have smuggled it up there, or at the very least, miracled it into existence. It was Aziraphale. His Aziraphale. Not written on the crisp, pristine paper of Heaven’s making, of aged paper, Earthly paper, parchment that smelt like his cologne.
Crowley folded the letter up once more, for he couldn’t.
He couldn’t read it.
Not now.
Chapter 4: Wishing for Contentment
Chapter Text
Aziraphale stood tall in front of Michael, Uriel, and Saraquael with his head high and his hands folded behind his back.
“Is there a reason why the camera in your office went out of service yesterday?” Michael asked.
Being on Earth for so long taught him many things, including how to lie.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Though, that never meant it was always easy for him.
“Oh you do, don’t lie to us, Aziraphale. We saw your hand wave on the tapes!” Uriel accused.
But he had pretended to be a demon on multiple occasions, after all.
“Well, if you recall any of my previous interactions with humans or other Angels, you will see me move my hands in a variety of ways as I speak. It is simply a mannerism of mine. Concerning the camera, however, I have no clue what you’re talking about.” He further explained with a smoother tone than he ever thought he could.
“When we agreed to let you have an office, you promised there would be a camera. When we asked you why it wasn’t there, we had to miracle one ourselves. We told you to keep it on at all hours, Earthly and otherwise. We even miracled it to do so!” Uriel exclaimed. Michael put a hand on their arm, calming them down.
The Metatron had actually miracled it to do so, but they didn’t care about that. They never did.
“If you remember correctly, I do believe it was The Metatron who issued the camera in my office. And, unless you have any suspecting reason as to why I would turn the thing off, perhaps you should console the Angels operating the cameras in the twenty-sixth class. I assure you, it was not me.” Aziraphale remembered his meeting with the twenty-sixth class very well, it was three weeks and two days ago, and they had promised him they were on his side more than the others. He provided them with love, and they provided him with the same hope he had in making a difference.
Aziraphale was counting down the minutes in his mind, by the time they would get to the Angels, he would be long gone. It wasn’t something he had to worry about anymore. His plan was already in motion downstairs.
— or so he hoped.
“You’re a dark horse, Aziraphale—”
“We’ll look into it, thank you.” Michael interrupted, nodding to him in dismissal as they led Uriel away down the long ,endless halls of Heaven.
Saraquael, however, stayed, waiting for the other two to get far enough away to speak.
“Whatever you’re doing, Aziraphale, don’t think The Metatron won’t notice,” They warned, before turning around themself, following their siblings down the long hallway.
Aziraphale swallowed, nodding before he turned around to go back to his office.
It won’t be long, now, he thought to himself. Not long at all .
Heaven, Before the Beginning
“We were thinking you could help create another nebula, as you have had nothing but stellar reports on your previous ones.”
The red-haired Angel stood in front of his brethren— Archangels. Uriel, Saraquael, Michael, and Gabriel, whose hair was only a bit longer than his own, and his eyes as purple as some stars he had helped create. He was standing right before him, tall and broad, speaking of plans on what to do next.
“I would be grateful to,” The Angel spoke, bowing his head in gratitude.
“The Almighty also wishes me to commend you on your imagination, for it has apparently helped exceed expectations in the creation of Alpha Centauri,” Gabriel continued, folding his hands in front of him. “As well as in the creation of the Supernova.”
“Well, what can I say, The Almighty’s plans have never been shinier!” The Angel laughed, causing Uriel and Michael to as well. Sandalphon nodded his head with a smile, leaving Saraquael to sit and look up at their brother with an unreadable expression.
“Yes, yes… and that is why you will be moving your excursions to the outer ring of the created universe!” Gabriel spoke in excitement. The Angel’s siblings started applauding his efforts, all but Saraquael, who seemed to let out a heavy sigh.
“Oh! Wow! Really?!” The Angel asked, looking nervously to the faces in front of him.
“Yes! That way, you have as much ah… space to create as you please! I believe The Almighty has assigned you to a project named M-Thirty Seven, and would like you to lead in its creation!” Gabriel explained.
“And this is going to take place at the inner edge of the universe?” The Angel was praying, but for the first time, he wasn’t sure exactly to whom.
“No no, the Principalities will be working hard to evolve the work you have done there, no. You will be working on the outermost edge of the universe. Didn’t you hear me? So you can have more space!” Gabriel laughed the question off as if it didn’t mean his brother would be on the edge of known existence.
“Will I be expanding the current proportions of the universe then?” The Angel asked, already knowing of the solitude housed where he would be working.
“Oh, yes, the M-Thirty Seven will be the gateway to the outer, expansive edges of that side of the universe! It will also have an orbit, you know how much the Almighty loves her orbits!” Gabriel spoke as if a star had been birthed right before him from the palm of the Almighty’s celestial hand.
“So, it won’t be visible to Earth, then?” The Angel asked, unsure of why this universe had to be gawked at by beings the equivalent to what the Dominions were calling pigeons.
“We are unsure at this time, that large nebula you made, a couple million years back, is the one housing Earth’s creation, and it is close to where M-Thirty Seven will be, but we haven’t gotten information on The Almighty’s placement of the planet in the universe yet, we just know it will be in that Nebula.” Saraquael explained thoroughly, their voice low and knowing. Gabriel clapped his hands together with a tight smile.
“So, perhaps it will! That makes it all the more worthwhile!” He concurred.
The red-haired Angel forced a smile. He wondered why The Almighty invented it, the tension in gritted teeth.
“I gladly accept this project, thank you,” The Angel started, “But—”
“Fantastic! We’ll send you the details!” Michael chimed.
“— Is it really necessary to create a nebula that is only meant to be seen by a species that may never know it exists?”
Gabriel’s smile fell like a pin dropping into the floor. The rest of the archangels froze around them, looking at the Angel as if he was born with three heads.
“Is it necessary for us to pray when She can hear our every wish?” Gabriel asked.
The Angel stammered as he silently wondered if those wishes were ever truly granted. He felt another chill rake through his feathers, the snowy cold of a shooting star passing through him.
“I-It’s just that… well you never know what these nebulae are capable of! There could be grandeur, cosmic anthol—”
“You need not worry about such ventures, The Almighty will handle it in your instructions. I must ask why? You seem reluctant—”
“—It’s just that these nebulae could do so much more than be seen, they have the potential—
“—And that is The Almighty’s decision to make, their current potential may be powerful, yes, but it is to be understood by the humans we are creating. Not us.” Gabriel finished, linking his fingers together as he took a step closer to the auburn Angel in front of him.
“I know it is a trying time right now, believe me. With Lucifer gone and the newer Angels unsure of what to make of it. But we need not question The Almighty’s intentions. She has a plan and we are to stick to it. Is that understood?”
Somewhere in the universe, The Almighty was listening to her children over the first cup of coffee, stirring what She called milk around the bottom of the porcelain.
“Is that understood?”
Somewhere in the universe, a star sighed and an Angel’s wings were painted a little darker.
“Yes,” The Angel swallowed. “It is understood.”
Finding Aziraphale’s diary was not what Muriel thought they would find in his desk. Well, Muriel was never really sure what would be in one’s personal desk, they never had any personal items in theirs— certainly not a diary. They would be in trouble for having such a thing, let alone having a personal item in the first place.
Reading Aziraphale’s diary though— that was something entirely accidental.
It looked like a normal book, remnants of dust on the ornate cover, the pages yellowed but lined, handwritten. They thought it had been another gardening journal (there was another one in the drawer that was specifically about caring for houseplants and another of French pastry recipes), but once they flipped to the back of the thing, they couldn’t help but notice Crowley’s name sprawled all over the page next to words no Angel would feel.
No ordinary Angel, especially not one who had spent the last few millennia on Earth.
Dear Diary, This week has taken quite the turn, as has my heart, but I believe that is always a normalcy with Crowley being around the shop— especially so frequently as of late— all thanks to Jim.
It was written the morning before the shopkeepers meeting, before the demons came from Hell to thwart it.
Jim said something to me when he originally came to the shop, asking if I’d ever felt that “everything would be better if you were just near one person,” and it hasn’t left my eb and flow of thought. Every time I think of his words, I think of Crowley, and how my heart aches for him, how it has for a long time. I can’t help but express how much it hurts, especially with Jim now standing between us. I’m unsure of how to say this, but I do know I am an angel of desire, and though this is not the first time I have written this, it still holds true. I want Crowley to know that I love him.
Muriel froze. They knew it was deeper than it seemed.
I know I seldom deserve it, for it is a love that can only go unspoken. Though, I am grateful for how it has grown, how Crowley and I have gotten closer over time. I always fret I ask too much of him, his time, his existence. Though, no matter how terrifying a feeling it felt at first— I find him exhilarating. I am not worthy of Crowley’s kindness, let alone his friendship, no matter how much he may or may not deny these facts.
The Angel let out a shaky sigh, slowly putting the diary down as they read the final line.
Crowley, I just hope you know I see it now. I have for a long time, my dear, that in my heart you are mine.
“Crowley…” Muriel spoke, the name falling off their lips without thinking first, fear bubbling up and through them.
“Ngk… What?!” Crowley called from the other room.
Muriel let out a shaky breath, shaking their head. He has to read the letter, remember?
“Nothing, never mind!” The Angel yelled, deciding to keep it to themself.
He has to read the letter , they thought again. He must .
London, Soho, 1967 AD.
There was no need for Aziraphale to walk back to his shop.
He could have accepted the offer of a ride from Crowley, for one. Or he could have just miracled himself back to the bookshop, or anywhere, in fact. And yet, he insisted on feeling the cool night air blow around him as he sauntered home, the lights of Soho shining down on him as if he were just another comet passing through their galaxy. The breeze felt nice, after all. It carried a calmness with its swagger, the kind that eased Aziraphale when his heart felt as though it was about to burst out of his chest.
The purr of soft engines whizzed past him as he strolled along, trying to find his breath along the way. He was unsure of why he had to go on such a venture to find peace, why his hands were clammy on such a dry night, why his chest felt as if it were about to cave in. He always blamed these feelings on his corporation, the body issued to him keeping up with its human appearance.
He knew that was never the case, for his heart was as real as his halo, and he just gave the apparent enemy the closest thing to… well…
The breeze started to pick up around Aziraphale as he turned the corner onto another main street of his neighborhood. The bookshop was only a couple of blocks away, and yet it felt like eons. He had given Crowley— the apparent and yet loving enemy— holy water.
Aziraphale had made the decision after over a century’s worth of thinking on it, of course, but in the end he knew that, after thinking long and hard about The Arrangement and their shared millennia not only on Earth but before, he often listened to his heart before The Almighty. He was trying to snatch the lapels of his overcoat in a way that would keep it from beating out of his chest. He let himself give Crowley something more than destructive, and yet it was the only help he could dare to offer. It was the only showing of love he could dare, for he was as careful as Crowley was fast, and no matter how much he wanted to be with him, to coexist and watch over the Earth and simply love with him, he…
He hated loving Crowley. He loved it more than anything else.There was no one else he could love more. He knew he would never be able to have him, but what hurt the most was how much Crowley cared, for he answered his questions and gave him gifts when those in Heaven only ever gave him the feeling of a cold chest and a wounded heart. He made time for him, made a way to protect him, to save him, to make them equals before Aziraphale could accept they were anything other than pure enemies.
He wished, and despite that being forbidden, he had been secretly for eons. He wished Crowley could bring him up to speed with him, to whisk him away from Heaven and Hell, to feel the same way, to choose Earth and the people on it before him, just as they always have.
Aziraphale had been harboring in his shop for the better part of two and a half decades. He tried to understand the thumping of his heart in that time, ever since the last time he had seen his friend, ever since he danced for his forgiveness and realized he cared, after all these millennia, saving his books, his magic act…
It was a confession he could never reveal to himself. Although loving unconditionally was a part of Aziraphale’s essence, understanding what he felt for Crowley to be more than the kind of love he gave all living things was treason, a prayer the Almighty couldn’t ignore, one he would be punished for almost as harshly as Crowley would for owning the gift he gave him that very night.
Aziraphale sighed as he opened the door to his bookshop, the warm draft pulling him in as he let the heat rise in his face at the thought of coming home to him, once more.
He wished, and in slow longing, he was swaying with desire he defined as contentment.
Crowley couldn’t do this, he could barely handle holding the paper in his hands.
“Muriel, I’m going for a drive,” He decided, yelling across the shop after throwing the letter back onto the chair he had found himself in.
“Intoxicated?!” Muriel exclaimed, appearing out of a hidden corner from the back of the shop.
“No, not intoxicated,” He sighed, remnants of now dissolved alcohol making his tongue sour as he pulled his keys out of his pocket. “I’ll be back.”
“But what about the—”
And he was gone.
Heaven, Before the Beginning.
“Your wings look different, you know.”
The red-haired Angel turned around to face an oncoming Saraquael, swallowing as he sat on the edge of a star.
“They do?” He asked quietly, as if he didn’t already know the answer.
Saraquael came closer to their sibling, taking his hand.
“Please, just be careful, my brother. I wouldn't want to see you—”
“I know, I know.”
He took a deep breath as Saraquael let go of his hand. The universe they’d help create twinkled before them.
“You don’t really, do you?” Saraquael said more than asked.
The red-haired Angel felt a shiver come across his wings, wondering if they held the burdens of the questions in his heart. He felt the angel with white hair pulling on his heart strings, and he wondered why The Almighty created feeling— why She had others create with her at all if they weren’t to feel in their creation as well.
“No,” He spoke, careless. There were bigger things that mattered than this, and only one of them cared about it. “Suppose I don’t.”
Angels were never meant to be curious creatures, it was why The Almighty created humans. Perhaps Muriel had attained some of their traits during their short time on Earth thus far, or perhaps curiosity was something they were exploring. Whatever it was had Muriel searching in Aziraphale’s desk for more clues. They didn’t mean to read the rest of Aziraphale’s diary. It wasn’t like it was any different from the entry they read anyway, the same kind of story involving Crowley, or some instance that made Muriel want to explode with a feeling they couldn’t understand. It was a breach of privacy of the highest order, but they couldn’t stand by this anymore. Not when they were both hurting— they were on Earth together for over six thousand years —and neither could speak of it at all.
They found many small things in Aziraphale’s desk. A small book of dessert recipes that were definitely meant to be in the cookbook section of the shop. Another small book of prayers, a handheld copy of The Bible when he had many versions— including two others that were on top of his desk— around the shop. Some journals from not too long ago filled with stories of the same zine, a few copper coins, a deck of cards. He had a box of unused fountain pens in the bottom drawer, and a black and white photo of a small cottage in what looked like the countryside. He had a colored and more modern photo of it on his desk, and Muriel wondered where it was, if Crowley knew what it meant.
There were other photos, some of saints, some of prophets, some of books. There were even a few of Aziraphale himself, the oldest looking to be from 1910, he was smiling brightly in front of a bakery of some kind, clutching a stack of books to his chest. Muriel thumbed through the rest of the small pile, looking at the Angel through the last century or so. He was in a top hat on a stage in one, shelving books in another. Only one of them was in color, one of him in front of his bookshop, standing proudly in front of the door.
Aziraphale was happy on Earth , Muriel decided.
They put everything they found back into the drawers of the Angel’s desk exactly as they had originally found it. The journals were stacked chronologically, bottom to top, the pictures on top of them underneath some old museum pamphlets. The books went back in the top drawer as the mess of Aziraphale’s desk returned to the order it had been left in when he went back to Heaven; untouched, waiting for his curiosity and drive to get a hold of him again.
Muriel, proud of their handiwork, stepped back and looked fondly at the desk, wondering what their desk in Heaven would look like if they were allowed to have little books and photos and knick-knacks on it. They decided they would have a photo of a pretty place too, just like the cottage, somewhere on Earth to look forward to, even if they were never meant to go.
They wandered back to the front of the shop, looking outside to see if Crowley had come back yet.
He hadn’t, and he had left something behind that looked to never have been unfolded in the first place.
Aziraphale’s letter to Crowley was left right where the demon had sat before.
It rustled a bit when Muriel looked at it, just like the books that had floated days before.
“But you're meant for Crowley to read, not me!” Muriel spoke in disbelief.
The letter rustled again, leaving the Angel to swallow anxiously in response. They couldn’t go back up to Heaven now. They weren’t supposed to.
So, Muriel did what any abnormally curious Angel would do and picked up the paper and gently unfolded it, seeing that it revealed calligraphy much like that in the journal. The loops of Aziraphale’s script were perfect, written in bold, dark ink— the only kind Heaven allowed to be used, the kind Aziraphale used to write on his Heavenly signatures and documents.
Only Aziraphale would write a letter with such penmanship as this.
He was, more than any other Angel at least, human , after all.
Muriel looked around once more, hands shaking as they held the page. They kept looking out the front windows of the shop, trying to eye Crowley’s flashy red hair or the waxy shine of the Bentley. It seemed as though The Almighty planned for the coast to be clear for long enough to be able to read it, as if the bookshop was protecting the Angel as it always did Aziraphale.
Muriel let out an anxious sigh, turning their full attention to the page in front of them.
Dear Crowley , it read.
I am unsure of how to start this, just as I am unsure of when or if I will ever see you again. This is not how I envisioned I would reach you next. I wish I could speak with you face-to-face, preferably on Earth. I wish for many things, but I think we can both agree they are not all deserved.
I would like to formally apologize for everything that happened the morning I left. For misjudging you, hurting you, offending you— amongst all the trouble I have caused you since then and before. I never wanted to push you away, I never wanted to leave, especially without you. There has never been a moment over the last few centuries when I have not wanted to be accompanied by you. I’m afraid I was simply too scared to admit this to you, hoping you would figure it out for yourself. But, you were right, we have been “us” for a long time, and we have been spending the entirety of that time pretending that we weren’t.
And for that, I couldn’t apologize more; the ignorance of my love for you.
I know I may never get to say it to you, nor that I may deserve the ability to say it in the first place. But, with the state of my being in Heaven, I may never get the chance. I love you, Crowley, for you . Not the version of you that was an Angel, the version of you that is happiest, that is saddest— the version of you that slouches over furniture and feeds the St. James’ ducks when it rains— the version that is so unequivocally you. I always have, I believe. But, I think you know that— or at least— I hope you do.
Before they smite me, erase me, or do what they’ll plan when I stop their efforts, I had to say, or at least, write it to you. This is not how I wished to inform you of my love, not in the slightest. However, you deserve the truth above all, and that is it, including this: I only wanted to better the world, to better what has always been so intrinsically flawed. I wanted to make Heaven a better place. I realize now I only ever wanted to be with you, to fix it with— for— you. Our plans were never truly one-sided, you must know that. They don’t have the world in mind like you and I, and I hope you know I am looking out for it best I can, not for the sake of myself or the books, but for you.
May this message get to you in whatever way works best, albeit may not be the one I had hoped for. May eternity bring you peace and rest, however it is spent.
I hope to see you again before it all ends, if it does.
In Ineffability,
Aziraphale.
Chapter Text
The Bentley was seemingly just as annoyed at Crowley as Crowley was at himself.
“Yeah, yeah, come on, I get it,”
The car wouldn’t let him drive any further than around Whikber street. After making him pass the bookshop about twenty times, the demon felt as though he should stop driving and find something better to do. Nina’s coffee shop was tempting, and she was staring at him the last five times he had driven past. But did he really want to confront her when he could barely confront Muriel?
On the twenty-first go-around, the Bentley parked itself in the same spot it had sat in before, just outside the bookshop, refusing to move no matter how hard Crowley put his foot on the gas.
“Blasted car,” He said, somehow feeling too sad to even get mad at it.
There was a knock at his window before he could even turn the car off.
“Is there a reason why you keep circling the block?”
It was muffled through the glass, but clear as day in Crowley’s ears. He sighed to himself, turning and opening the car door softly, avoiding all eye contact with Nina as she stood, apron on, arms crossed next to his car. He could practically feel the Bentley smirking at him, as if this was its plan all along.
“Is there a reason why you’re going around, knocking on car windows?” Crowley retorted, shutting the door behind him. Nina kept most of her weight leaning on one leg, looking up at him as if he were serious.
“We haven’t seen you in two months when you’re usually around here every day, you keep circling the block when you’re upset, and there hasn’t been any sign of Mr. Fell since two shopkeepers meetings ago. If you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll storm in there and figure it out myself!” Nina spoke, annoyed, not so much furious as she was frustrated. All Crowley could do was look at her with a blank face, not knowing what to say, or where to begin.
“So?” She asked. Crowley stammered, looking around nervously.
“Gone,” He mumbled. Nina leaned in closer, putting her hand to her ear, leaning towards Crowley.
“Sorry, couldn’t hear you,” She spoke, leaning closer and putting a hand by her ear for emphasis.
“Gone— he’s gone. Off to Heaven. Running it, actually. Didn’t want to stay. Wanted to ‘make a difference,’ his words.” Crowley explained quickly, unsure of the words, trying to run away from the conversation. What he hadn’t expected was Nina’s reaction to it all.
Stunned, she was. Stunned.
“He what?” She asked, the anger falling from her face, her expression. Her arms even uncrossed themselves.
“Left,” was all Crowley could manage before feeling what was welling up on the inside. He tried his best to look away, but Nina came around, following his glossy yet unseeable gaze.
“ You ?” She asked, “He left you ? Did you talk?”
“That’s what made him, um… ngk. Yeah,” Crowley was stumbling, tripping over his forked tongue.
She just stared.
“There’s no way… but you two…”
“I know. That’s what I thought too,” Crowley said, feeling the frog in his throat croak, ready to jump out and bring the waterfall with him.
“Look, Crowley, right? I’m sor—”
“Don’t bother,” Crowley said, “It’s not going to bring him back.”
“No, but.” Nina said, looking around before coming closer to Crowley, almost in his personal space. “If you need to talk about it, I’m here. I’m going through the same thing, you know?”
“Yeah, yeah, with your former partner.” Crowley spoke.
“Exactly. I’m sure Maggie wouldn’t mind helping you too. You’re not alone, alright? I don’t think hanging around the bookshop would help you so much though,” She advised. Crowley sighed, bringing his hand to the back of his neck to rub it. Anxious habit.
“Oh, right, that’s… you see… Muriel, yeah. They’re um, new, to this whole Earth thing. Yeah… t-they call when they need help. And Aziraphale, he… I think he’s… Anyway it’s not important. Just be on the lookout, okay? Something… there’s something more to all of this. I think.” He explained. Nina raised an eyebrow.
“Well, actually—”
“Crowley!” Muriel exclaimed from the door of the corner store.
Nina and Crowley turned to see a frantic looking cherub, both sighing at the same time.
“I should go,”
“Yeah, got that part, look, here’s my number, alright?” Nina said, handing Crowley a business card from her apron. “Just call and I’ll be there. I’m not sure what’s going on, but if it’s anything like last time, I want to help, yeah?”
Crowley swallowed and nodded, taking the card from her hand as he miracled her number into his phone’s contacts before turning around and facing the Angel across the street.
It was never wise to try to hide certain things in Heaven.
Aziraphale knew as such, he had been aware of such failed feats by both himself and fallen angels older and much more powerful than himself, they were the martyrs he had been warned about for nearly his entire existence. He was taught to never become them.
As he re-entered his office, he sighed as he clicked the door shut, knowing full well that he was more than just an epitome of them— he was in love with one of them.
He made his way around the desk that was so bare, so mundane, that he couldn’t find the inner beauty of it. He often liked to find it in such subtle things on Earth, the kinds of things that filled space and allowed a room to feel full. This, however, was an insult to such a purpose. The desk had a glass top and white legs, despite being at a modern-looking angle, they did nothing to give it much character in comparison to the rest of Heaven surrounding him. The white of the walls stayed cold and pristine in a way his har never did, the way his heavenly garb never had warmth or wrinkles, nor shiny buttons or even his beloved pocket watch.
All of his files, plans, documents— they all had to be manifested. There were no drawers with hidden spaces for sketches of his beloved. There were no extra notebooks he found on his missions in Scandinavia, or Amsterdam. There were no photographs to be found, no buttons or coins. Just manifestations of what was to be done, never to look back at what had already occurred.
Aziraphale wished he could hum to himself without the incessant worry of being made a fool to the security camera, but he wondered if it would matter in the coming Earthly-hours. When he would be in the elevator, going down, to save the world, maybe reclaim his love.
To never go back in it, and ever go up .
Heaven, Before The Beginning
‘How did you do it?”
The red-haired angel looked to his left. He wanted to take in his creation before it was too late, before his wings turned a different color for good, before he couldn’t recognize himself anymore.
He knew he wasn’t meant for this kind of eternity.
“Do what?”
Aziraphale sat down next to him. The rock was gagged under his robes, nearly scratching through the fabric. The view of the cosmos held blue star gas and porcelain stars, ones that had barely been born, ones with a sunrise that hadn’t learned to stretch yet.
‘Make all of this.”
The white-haired angel was staring at him, his hand gesturing to the stars.
The red-haired angel stammered.
“W-Well, I just followed Her instructions, just as you saw that first time we met.’ He spoke matter-of-factly, although his voice was held barely above a whisper.
He never liked to intrude on his creations, he wanted them to live freely, more than he would ever be able to.
“Well, I meant what I said then, you did an excellent job,’ Aziraphale spoke like a feather floating in the wind, wistful and fluttery. His cheeks wore a rose colored blush, and he was playing with his hands in his lap as if he were in front of The Almighty herself.
The red-haired angel dared to reach over and take the younger Angel’s hands in his own, urging them still. Widened blue eyes met a pair of warm brown, and Aziraphale was stunned the red-haired Angel was convinced if he turned any more red he would become what some of the cherubs working with vegetation were calling a tomato.
“And I meant what I said, and I’ll say it again; Thank you, Aziraphale,” There was something more in his words, but Aziraphale was too lost in coffee eyes and the cosmos to see it pass. He didn’t realize the sadness in the other Angel’s eyes. “For everything.”
“Of course,” Aziraphale said. He didn’t need to know this Angel’s name anymore. He felt deep inside he’d know him for longer than these stars would burn; than the universe would exist; than The Almighty would love them all.
He knew he’d stay within him somewhere, but not without leaving first.
“What did the Archangels say to you?” He asked, unsure of whether to let go of his friend’s hand or not.
“They want me to help create more nebulae.” The red-haired angel said flatly. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.
“Why not help with Earth? The plans are almost done, we’d need help with designing what the humans would be able to see.” He spoke like a cloud flying through a sunny sky, like the moon in the night. So soft, yet so bright in his glimmer.
He couldn’t lie to him. He could lie to The Metatron if he had to, but never him .
“They’ve begun to question my priorities, I believe. With all the rebellion happening, you know, the tensions with Lucifer. God isn’t happy.” He wished that were the case, he wished that was all this was— but it was his mind that had egged him further into thinking of why— but hadn’t She invented that word anyway?
Aziraphale’s gaze fell to their hands. He squeezed.
“Please, just—”
“I know.”
“I’d hate to—”
“I know, just—’ And the red-haired angel released one of his hands to cup the other Angel’s face, causing him to startle. “If I fall— ”
“No—”
“But if I do —”
“You won’t —”
“You never know. Just listen.”
And he caressed his thumb over the rosy cheek. Aziraphale’s eyes were galaxies of their own devising. He was sure he’d never be able to capture their beauty in these skies if he tried.
“If I fall, promise to look after them for me,” He spoke, gesturing to what was off the edge of the cliff they shared. “The nebulae,” He paused, turning back to the Angel before him with a smile Aziraphale would never forget. “ Yourself .”
The Angel before him swallowed, nodding in his grasp.
“Forget me, move on, go visit Earth, be the Angel you’re meant to be,” The red-haired Angel urged. “They’ll need you more than me.”
“That’s not true—”
“It could be soon. Just. Please.”
And in his plea to the stars, Aziraphale nodded again, more fervently.
He’d never know his name, and he didn’t think this Angel wanted him to, just in case.
“Okay,” he whispered, his gaze never wavering. “I will.”
It was never wise to run in Heaven.
Aziraphale knew as such, better than to do such a thing, in fact. There wasn’t a supposed need to run, you’d be questioned. Why such urgency? Has the Almighty called for your presence? What did you do?
He had fallen in love a long time ago, and he was sure they knew. That they all knew.
That wasn’t why he was running, of course. Why would he be running in the direction of the elevator to Earth with archangels on his tail with a file clutched to his chest? Why would he be rushing with such a thing?
He wanted to save the world for him, his love, if not the people living there.
“Aziraphale!” Michael yelled. “Stop at once!”
Disorderly conduct. They couldn’t handle it if they tried. But they seemed to be getting along with it better than he anticipated.
Aziraphale held the document tighter to his chest as he panted, pushing himself. He had to make it. He couldn’t let these plans stay here. He just couldn’t.
“You’re not getting away with this!” Uriel roared.
They were getting closer.
The angel pushed himself further.
He couldn’t let the plan in his arms stay here, for it was never meant to stay in Heaven in the first place, of course, but he couldn’t let it follow through. He couldn’t bear to let his brethren follow through with such a massacre on the world. The bloodshed was all too much to bear witness, the destruction, the terror of what it would become— Earth would no longer be what he remembered, what the people on it deserved. It would become the shell of itself that Aziraphale found himself being these days.
He couldn’t let that happen. He knew that much.
Aziraphale turned a final corner. It was a long, but straight shot to the elevator now. He could see the door.
How could they end a world that refused to die? How could they refuse to accept the defeat they made others make penance for? How could Aziraphale stand by? HOw could they let the stars fall, the food rot, the people starve? How was it that the world could rot away and they wouldn’t care? The Almighty’s greatest creation, not themselves, but what they were meant to protect? What they were devout to, more so than God Herself? How was it that they had given up on the world, all for righteous victory over fallen angels as if they weren’t a fragment of themselves?
Just a few more feet—
“And just where do you think you’re headed, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale?”
And that was when Aziraphale stopped running, before he could crush himself into whoever had planted themself in front of the door to downstairs, to his forever.
“Ah… The Metatron!” Aziraphale spoke enthusiastically, barely catching his breath. He found himself stuck on the cold eyes in front of him, the eyes of God’s advising, the eyes of the beholder itself.
“I see you’re in a rush! Now, now, don’t let me interrupt you! As you were,” He spoke, stepping out of the way, gesturing to the elevator doors, bowing his head to Aziraphale, who, with all his might, stayed put.
Aziraphale swallowed, narrowing his eyes in suspicion— the taste of sour steak— almost concern.
“Are you sure?” He asked, holding the file tighter to himself, as if it would make a difference.
“Are you? It sure is a long way down. I believe you know that better than any of us, I’m afraid.” The Metatron replied, turning to stand a little more in the way of the door once again.
He held out his arm to Aziraphale, as if to link arms, “Come on, let’s take a walk, shall we?”
Aziraphale smiled, almost sizing up the door with his eyes as he spoke, “I’d be delighted.”
“Oh, Jolly good! I was worried you’d go ahead on down; I have something to show you.” The Metatron spoke softly, guiding Aziraphale away from the door to the left, down one of the narrower halls of Heaven with Michael and Uriel following them at a solid pace, side by side, like soldiers in a parade.
He had started a war, of course. He knew that much. He just hoped his army would find him. His battalion, platoon. His lover in arms, the one who once loved to save him.
Crowley .
It was a prayer. A prayer to love; to Earth and who was on it.
To home.
Notes:
"And anyway, they like holding hands." <3
(sorry this took so long, updates will probably be less regular as we go on because life is a thing that happens sometimes. i hope're your enjoying this though! all of your love and support is greatly appreciated! :)
Chapter 6: "Can't You See It?"
Chapter Text
Crowley sauntered into the bookshop the same way he had when he came back from Heaven eight weeks ago, looking around with some urgency, trying to find an Angel that appeared from around a corner.
“You didn’t read the letter, did you.” Muriel started, arms crossed. They came out from the back of the shop where Aziraphale’s desk sat, the nook with a sofa nearby, forever facing East.
Crowley paused, lifting his chin, taken aback by their words.
“I’m a demon,” Crowley spoke, his voice gentle in the way a snake slithers along the ground. “I lied.”
“You never had to,”
“Oh, but didn’t I just?”
“No! You—”
“Did he insist that I read it? When he can just pop on down here and talk to me? Is he too scared to leave Heaven? He didn’t seem so scared to leave here...” Crowley snarled, now approaching Muriel. He took his glasses off his face as he sneered, his golden eyes aglow.
Muriel had never seen them before— oh, the way they glisten . They were at a loss of words.
“I… He… He didn’t… want to leave! I don’t even think—”
“Well, he did. He left Earth. He left you. He left me. And, from what I can gather, he doesn’t give a damn about any of this. He’s like a dog chasing its own tail, and I’m not buying a damn leash.” Crowley said, stopping a few feet in front of Muriel, who was right where Aziraphale stood, in the same glimmer of light as those few weeks ago.
“I have no idea what that means!” Muriel cried. Crowley cursed under his breath, throwing his hands up and stepping so close to Muriel they could feel his breath on his nose.
“Then let me make this crystal clear,” Crowley growled, all the way from his throat to the tip of his forked tongue. “Aziraphale made his choice. He went back to Heaven. Whatever they do to him up there is his business. Not yours, not mine—”
“He only went back to Heaven because he thought you would be there with him!” Muriel exclaimed, tears in their eyes.
The room fell silent around them, Crowley felt the occult equivalent to blood pumping in his veins, his face hot and scrunching up like a scorching summer day; the kind angels hide in the shade from, the kind snakes like to bake their scales under.
“And he’s a bloody idiot for thinking it!” The demon snapped, the tips of his ears burning red as Muriel spun around, shaking their head.
“It’s not like he knew you never wanted to go back— he wanted to change the world with you because he was always scared you would leave if there wasn’t a reason for you to be where! He never thought he was enough for you! He was so scared, so sure you would never love him in the way that he loves you!” Muriel, having never yelled before, still had tears in their eyes, but their voice was as clear as day, the room dry as their words painted the walls around them.
“He what?” The demon asked, his eyebrows flying above the rims of his glasses. No.
“He only went back because he thought it would be safe to change Heaven for the better and be with you there at the same time! That you would be free and do ‘good’ together and able to change everything for the better! But all that’s happened is the archangels trying to stop whatever he’s ‘planning,’ in their words. He’s been trying to convince the rest of the Angels that they are worthy and loved, that there is something greater than the Second Coming in existence itself, that it’s ineffable .” Muriel explained, tears running down their face as the sun shone brighter on the side of their face closest to the window, almost sparkling in the dancing light; neither knew it, but one could be sure that it was the brightest ray of sun in all of London.
“Right,” Crowley said, swallowing.
Muriel continued.
“Can’t you see it?!” They exclaimed, Crowley had never seen the Angel so animated. “I think all you can see is what he did, not why he did it. All you can see is that he left you when he really just wanted to leave with you. He thought you’ve been grumpy for so long because he always asks things of you, because he’s scared. He’s scared that you couldn’t be yourself anymore, because you couldn’t be who he thought you were; a good person.
“He adores you, just as you are, he always has! He just thought that if he could give you back what you lost, you’d be happy. He didn’t think him alone was enough of a reason for you to follow him, and now he’s trying to save the world for you— but I know that’s not all.”
Crowley didn’t feel his heart crushed into pieces. He didn’t know his mouth was hanging open, only a little, only enough to let his astonishment shine through his features.
“Neither of you truly see each other, you never talked to each other about any of this, never bothered to ask .” Muriel continued to ramble, “I know asking questions is what got you both here in the first place, but the fact that you of all beings didn’t ask … You were both so scared to lose the other that you did anyway. And now, for once , he’s trying to ask you for help, and all you’re going to do is blame him for it?”
Crowley slowly found himself in the same position he had left the Angel, staring at where he once stood, where he was frozen after he—
“Can’t you see it?”
He could. Oh , he could.
He could see Aziraphale, lips quivering, eyes glassy. He could see an Angel so tender, so torn apart by physicality that he was quite literally shivering . He could see him trying to find the words, his heart beating out of its chest with insatiability.
Aziraphale, who never knew he was starving until he ate. Aziraphale, who never ceased in consuming stories of love and the human condition. Aziraphale, who called him even when there was no reason to. Aziraphale, who needed six seconds to figure out the apocalypse but six thousand years to understand his place in the world and still be unsure of it. Aziraphale, who only ever wanted… Aziraphale was want, was desire, despite Angels not being of such a thing— they were shunned for it— he was shunned for it. Crowley remembered the feeling.
But Aziraphale standing there, looking at Crowley with every emotion he was sure the Angel had ever felt— what had been painted on his angelic face exactly? The unknowing of whether to ask for all of it to happen again, for more time to process what was between them. He had six-thousand years, but five minutes felt too long and too short before him.
Suddenly, Crowley could see his want. The same want he has held for the things he had forever surrounded himself with. The same want he’d watched for millenia, for longer , and he realized that it was for him .
“You know, he is so worried. Worried about the Second Coming, that will never see you again, that you may never want to see him. But all I can see is that you’re both hurting. He loves you. He has since before time, I reckon, and I think you have as well. And, if that’s the case, I don’t see why you won’t go and help him, because all he has ever wanted to do is help you be happy again, because you never showed him that your happiness was with him all along. Because he never knew.”
Crowley, stunned, turned back to face Muriel. He closed his mouth and opened it again. Nothing came out, of course, the scrivener in front of him had simply shocked him to his living core.
“I—”
“So, for the love of the world , please stop all of this and help me help him!”
Muriel had tears in their eyes, and Crowley was almost sure this was the first time they had ever truly cried.
The demon, at a loss for words, suddenly felt the phone in his right pocket start to vibrate with a silent ring.
The two of them looked down, eyeing the source of the noise.
Crowley swallowed, digging into his pocket to fish out his phone with Nina’s contact card up. She was calling.
“Nina?” Muriel asked in a whisper.
Crowley brought the phone up to his ear.
“Nina?” He asked.
“Look, I know I just saw you, but you should really look outside.”
Crowley leaned to his right, seeing the street brighter than he had seen it ten minutes prior. Muriel ran to the front of the shop, where the sunlight seemed to be filling the entirety of the main room without shadow.
“Did the clouds part?”
“That’s the thing, there were no clouds to begin with. It’s almost like the brightness got turned up on the sun .”
Crowley cursed under his breath, moving toward the front of the shop, trying to get an eye on the shops of Soho, searching for anything.
“How’s the Dirty Donkey looking?” He asked, trying to find a good view of the bar.
“Erm, Maggie, love, do you have eyes on the Dirty Donkey?” He heard the barista ask a good distance from the phone. There was some clammer in the back before he got a response. “She says the windows are glowing. It’s hard to look at, apparently.”
“Get over here, immediately.” He commanded. He heard rustling on the other end of the line, Muriel came over to him, worried.
“What’s going on exactly?” Nina asked.
“Heaven? Some sort of wrath? No clue. Just get over here now.” Crowley demanded, Muriel visibly terrified in front of him.
“On it,” Nina confirmed, leaving Crowley with a petrified Muriel.
“Crowley, what’s happening?” They asked as the demon continued to look outside.
“Turn the Open sign around to Closed after Nina and Maggie come in and lock the door. I think Heaven’s a little upset at your boss,” He instructed. Muriel nodded as they both heard the bell above the door ring with Nina and Maggie rushing through it.
“Go lock the door,” Crowley called. All Muriel could do was nod and follow suit.
“What’s happening?” Maggie asked. Nina put a hand on her back, looking at Crowley with an equally concerned gaze.
“I think Heaven is a little angry with Mr. Fell, and may or may not be sending an army to attack his bookshop, by the looks of things,” Crowley was making an assumption, but if he was as clever as he thought himself to be, they weren’t really going for the bookshop, but who was most likely inside of it.
The light started to grow around them in a seething blaze, one that had the four of them shielding the light with their eyes.
“You don’t say?” Nina asked sarcastically. Crowley started closing the curtains and shades closest to them, Muriel followed suit with the other side of the store.
‘Why would they do that?” Maggie asked, “He’s not here, and you aren’t hiding anyone here again, it’s just been Muriel here.”
“I don’t think it’s about him … I think they’re looking to find something else,” Crowley rushed around the shop before stopping before a nineteenth century mirror Aziraphale made him help refurbish a century ago. Or someone else , he thought as he looked at himself. Of course .
The luminous shadows around the shades grew brighter. Crowley swallowed as he turned back around. “You three block and barricade the windows, I’ve got upstairs, they’ll be here any moment to… erm— collect… me.”
Nina and Maggie exchanged a look only they could understand, one of trust and a bit of something more, deeper than any cave and quieter than any library.
Muriel, on the other hand, had just nodded, wiping their tears away with their sleeves and started to make way toward a bookshelf near the front of the shop. Nina went with them, taking as many books out of the shelves closest to the window as she could. Maggie did the same across the shop on the other side of the door, placing antiques and books on the ground to make way for the shelves they would all place in front of the windows.
Of course Heaven would come to “attack” the bookshop, they were just as idiotic as Hell. Of course they wouldn’t know what to come for, but they’d find Crowley there, of course they would. Of course they’d take him upstairs and hold him ransom, use him to get Aziraphale to crack. Of course they’d be coming for the one person who knew Aziraphale better than anyone else, the one person who would still care for him.
They knew Crowley was as flawed as Aziraphale in the sense that they’d gone native on Earth, and Crowley was sure they’d use it against them. Against Aziraphale .
Crowley could feel the heat of anger radiating off his body, the smoke starting to bellow, the high pitched whistle of a teapot.
He clenched his fist, his heart pounding as he thought, Heaven doesn’t stand a chance .
He blocked all the windows of Aziraphale’s upstairs apartment with various shelves and miracles; a stack of pots that wouldn’t dare to fall if even The Almighty herself came down to smite it. Stacks and stacks of books that would withstand any attack. Old antique dressers that were dustier than they ever had been. Muriel didn’t live upstairs, and Crowley was just about sure they’d never been up here, never felt the soft satin of Aziraphale’s pillow cases, or used the camphor wood bath salts he had stowed away in his bathroom. The tea tins would still be half full, the kettle worn with use but cold with dormant water, waiting for its owner to come back and boil his tea leaves and stain the pages of his most-worn paperbacks.
Crowley distantly smelt Aziraphale in the shimmer of sunlight escaping the breadth of his curtains, in the pages of old books lying about, in the dust he always refused to clean. In the hardwood floors, the cologne bottle on his nightstand, and tartan quilts— he didn’t realize how much he missed his domesticity— how much he wanted to revel in it with him.
Crowley sighed as he double checked the windows, barricading them once more, sending another miracle to protect his living quarters, before running back down the stairs into the foyer of the bookshop, where he stood in the middle of its compass before staring at the door.
He pulled his glasses out of his breast pocket, rolling the cold metal over in his hand, sighing.
“I thought you were going to handle the upstairs?” Nina asked, oblivious to Crowley’s absence and extremely out of breath, “You said they’d be coming any minute!”
“I did, in here,” Crowley said, putting his glasses on as he began to saunter toward the door. “You lot stay here and barricade the door after I’m gone. I’m going upstairs.”
Crowley pushed out of the shop into the now nearly blinding daylight of London’s Soho, determined to finish the apocalypse before it started, before the bookshop burned once more, before Aziraphale was touched by the wrath of Heaven, or worse, God.
Chapter 7: Going Up
Chapter Text
Heaven, Before the Beginning.
Aziraphale often wondered how the people were going to be on Earth, in this new world they were creating.
They were meant to be absolutely perfect beings, more perfect than all the Angels and Heaven itself. They were meant to have a world of their own, not just a plane of existence. They would be drenched in sunlight, in all of beauty itself, in the golden rays of a star’s dance and the vegetation they were creating: flowers and trees, saplings and grass. They would start in a garden, per Her orders, and the principalities in charge of plant life were ever so excited by the new color of it all, they started to call it green. Because it glimmered and gleamed, and either word didn’t work to fulfill such richness, and the humans deserved only the best, as they were to be God’s prized creation, and their duty to watch over and protect.
Of course, Aziraphale wasn’t meant to actually take part in the creation or development of the vegetation that was to be placed in the garden, no. He was meant to study it, to understand what it was, what it would become. His superiors had told him that The Almighty said he had a larger role to play in Eden, one bigger than creation.
Oh, but how he wanted to smell what his brethren were calling the daffodil, feel the supposed softness of grass, and hear the song of what they were naming the Nightingale.
He still looked up and out, into the created parts of the universe, into the stars as his friend told him to. Aziraphale noticed that their wings were darkening, that with every passing of them, they got darker and darker. Of course, they were not as dark as Lucifer’s, Lucifer who, at least in rumor, was testing The Almighty. Aziraphale knew that his friend was friends with friends of the first Archangel, that he at least had to be very high in rank and would possibly know him, and in the face of those thoughts he held his hands closer to his body, just a little tighter. He didn’t want to see them get in trouble with The Almighty. He couldn’t imagine what that would mean.
No one had decided that rebelling against Her word was a worthy enough cause, but who would in the face of all you’d ever come to know? In the face of all you’d ever known to love unconditionally?
Aziraphale walked past the warm windows of this place he called home, the only place he had ever known, besides the universe. The universe in which he watched over on behalf of his friend who now worked along its edge, his friend whose sharp jaw and bright auburn curls he would never forget. He wondered if they were softer than the grass his colleagues were designing. He wondered if his friend even knew they were making grass, if he would know about it before the all-encompassing knowledge of the humans’ garden was shared to the rest of Her children above the world She was creating.
Aziraphale remembered his slender fingers holding onto his own, assuring him that all would be okay. He remembered the caressing of thumbs down his cheek, holding him steady in the face of apprehension, in fear for what would happen to the only Angel that smiled at the sight of him, at the Angel that made his chest lift—that made him smile.
In the southwest corner of Heaven, the soft light emanating from the windows was brightest. Angels often came to pray, for they believed She resided closest to this corner, to keep watch but not intrude on their duties, to give hope and light, but at the same time, not overwhelm Her children.
Aziraphale found himself here, and he was alone.
He walked toward the corner window, hoping that what his brethren spoke of was true, that this truly was the closest point To Her in all of Heaven. Where She provided guidance and strength, where she would listen.
And so, Aziraphale knelt and clasped his hands together in front of the brightest light in all of Heaven.
He began to pray.
The shadows of angels illuminated the nearly blinding light coming from The Dirty Donkey. Three of them were standing in the doorway as it opened, three archangels he was all too familiar with, three that were making it all too bright on Earth.
Good thing Crowley had his sunglasses on.
“Crowley! What an excellent surprise! We were just coming to find you!” Michael clapped their hands together with excitement.
“Yeah, got the message. A blinding sun? Really?” He asked, holding high despite the fact that he was squinting behind his glasses.
“We had to be effective,” Uriel added, nodding upward. “It’s not just us here, you know,”
Crowley looked up, finding hundreds of angels perched atop the buildings of Soho, dressed in white battle clothes looking down with the kind of sorrow you felt when the sun went behind a cloud on the first spring day.
“We don’t trust you, Crowley. We aren’t sure what’s going on with Aziraphale but we know for sure you have something to do with it.” Michael explained, they were smiling too bright for Crowley to know everything was working out up there. They were too happy to see him. Saraquael at their left was too stoic.
“Please, do join us upstairs, we’d love to have a chat with you about our boss,” Uriel added.
“And what if I decline such a meeting?” Crowley asked, swiveling with his swagger a little as he spoke.
“Then we will have to take some measures to try and convince you otherwise—”
“ Such as , occupying the bookshop over there.’ Uriel spoke, pointing across the street to Aziraphale’s shop on the corner. They were too happy to be delivering that news. Crowley couldn’t bear to let them feel any more joy from this situation.
“No, no… that won’t be necessary,” The demon spoke with an annoyed sigh, giving the impression that they were wasting his time. “Let’s get this over with.”
“So, you’re agreeing to this meeting?” Michael asked. They and Uriel looked disappointed at the fact that they would not be infiltrating the bookshop but rather, be going upstairs.
“Yeah, no point in putting the bookshop in much trouble again,” Crowley enunciated his t’s in the way a snake flicks its tongue, an old habit from his time in Eden.
“You’re sure?” Uriel asked. Crowley began to wonder if this was all a trick of some kind.
And so, Crowley walked right into the elevator, no longer bothering with their questions.
He hit the button upward to Heaven himself, happy to see Michael’s expression fall at the idea that there would no longer be a need for the extra Angels watching over Soho, blinding those on the ground, trying to grab a coffee, take a walk, or hide behind the barred doors of an archangel’s bookshop.
Saraquael could only look at him with a silent expression, of the three angels in front of him, he knew they in particular did not care for unnecessary antics. He knew they saw him in a different light than Michael or Uriel, one of sympathy rather than despise. One that made him hope that he was close with them before he fell, for all he could truly remember of those times were the stars and the cerulean eyes of a former cherub.
He hoped they would spare him. Spare the world. Spare Aziraphale, for his sake.
“So, where is he?” Crowley asked. Michael raised an eyebrow at him.
“Excuse me?”
“Aziraphale. Where is he? Aren’t we all having a meeting?”
“Oh, Aziraphale isn’t going to be present, he has ever so much to do.”
“He is too busy to have a meeting with not only his fellow archangels, but the only accomplice he’s had in the history of his existence? That doesn’t sound like him.”
“The Metatron took him to the side on our way down; it is understood that there are more pressing matters he has to attend to.” Saraquael spoke up for the first time since this escapade began, looking over to the southwest hallway to their left . Both Michael and Uriel glared down at them, but quickly looked back up to Crowley, who’s eyebrows were raised far above his glasses.
“Oh really?” He asked.
Saraquael nodded,“Yes.”
“But— The Metatron entrusted us with talking to you in the meantime, so please follow us this way.” Michael spoke with Uriel nodding along. Crowley yawned . He saw Michael’s pupils shudder at it.
“Alright, nice try, guys.” He said suddenly, clapping his hands together and smiling
“What?”
“You really did a good job, luring me up here, with this big meeting—”
“—We were not luring —”
“—Now just wait a moment—”
“—you up here, let us explain! We—”
“—Aziraphale, he’s not how he was, not how you remember him—”
There was a cry, coming from down the leftward hallway, the one Saraquael kept staring down in silence. A wail so ear piercing, so sharp in tone it cut through the air like a gust of wind. Crowley’s head snapped in its direction immediately, never having heard such a sound of pain before in his entire existence. Not during the flood, any war, or even the fall. A scream so wretched with pain, one of a waterfall and a rock-filled stream. One that tore the stars down from the night sky, that made your heart drop into the pit of your stomach and sit there while you forgot how to breathe. The kind that was lined with hellfire on the brink of spreading, that scorched the skin and left scars on your wings.
Crowley looked between the three angels in front of him, they couldn’t see it but his eyes were wide and filled with fury.
“How could you let this happen?!” He exclaimed.
“How could you?” Michael asked. Uriel dared to smirk.
Saraquael snapped their fingers, and soon enough, Michael and Uriel’s moths were moving, but no more sounds were coming out.
Crowley whipped his head down to them.
“Down the hall, fifth door on the left. He was coming to you, I believe, before He took him. I have a feeling God is furious. The windows haven’t stopped shaking since.” They started.
“I—I—”
“Go. Save him. He never wanted to be a part of this,” They continued. “I’ll take care of the other two.”
And they shared a look Crowley felt he had seen before. A look at Saraqael remembered an Angel with graying wings having on the edge of a star.
“Right,” Crowley spoke, turning down the hall before breaking into a sprint. He’d deal with them, all of them later.
Once he got his Angel back.
Heaven, Before the Beginning
“Erm… Hello.”
Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to start, but he remembered his superiors teaching him about prayer, that it was to come from the heart, from hope itself, cascading ever so fiercely towards Her in a plight of devout love.
“I wanted to thank you for all that you have given us, given me, especially. What we are doing with the Earth and the Humans is truly inspiring, and especially wonderful. I can’t imagine what is next, but I know with your guidance it will be more lovely than anything before. I am sure of it. And I will devote myself to its cause, for my heart is with you and your creation, my Lord.
“I am just apprehensive, is all. About my friend, mostly. Oh I am so terrified he will get into trouble for the Angels he is around, for whatever he may think. He loves so fiercely, Lord, you must see that. I’m sure you do. He looks out for me like no other, and I guess that is what is so terrifying. To know someone cares. Truly cares about you and not just our orders. It’s refreshing, really.
“I just… I wanted to thank you. For all of your creations— especially him— for what you are planning on Earth as well. Thank you for letting me be so gracious as to be present for it. It is a privilege, Lord, and I thank you for it. I have no doubt in your reverence, and I once again thank you dearly for it all.”
Aziraphale let himself sigh, shifting his weight. He hoped he had said the right thing.
“Just, please look out for him, do let him thrive, he just wants to see his stars shine.”
And the Principality breathed in through his nose, and he was sure he wasn’t alone anymore. Probably another Angel looking for guidance.
“Amen.”
When he opened his eyes, something had changed around him. Something he never thought would happen— could happen mind you. He felt the energy in the room change. He opened his eyes. He closed them, and opened them again. He couldn’t see.
Heaven was never supposed to be dark.
It was a place of warm light illuminating windows, angels in white robes with golden lace, with lacquer and honey sewn in their harp strings, heart strings tying them together through the means of God’s ineffability. IT was a place of eternal peace, a place of all the love in the universe, albeit centralized into a unit, but it was present.
But in the dark, it was empty. Emptier than Aziraphale had ever witnessed it. He knew he wasn’t alone in this room, this place, but he couldn’t help but feel lost. He couldn’t help but feel he was at fault for somehow turning the lights off.
“Erm… Hello?” He asked. Running footsteps started to approach him.
“Hello?! Is anyone there?!” A high voice called.
“Hello! It is I, the principality Aziraphale!”
“Aziraphale!” They called, “It’s the Principality Nanael! I’ve come to find you before it’s too late!”
Nanael, his colleague in the creation of vegetation on Earth.
“Nanel! Goodness me, where did all the light go?” He asked. He saw their shadow come before him, their white robes a stark contrast to the consuming dark around them. He could make out the green of their eyes, however dark it was within the new setting, the glimmer of their identical robes, the seam of golden embroidery looked swallowed in the dark.
Their face was somehow paler than his own, and for the first time Aziraphale saw an Angel scared in the paradise of Heaven.
“Nanael? What is it?” Aziraphale asked.
His colleague swallowed, taking his hand and holding it tightly.
“It’s Lucifer, his friends— your friend, with the red hair,” They were in a frenzy, turning around and breaking out almost into a run,leading him back and through Heaven. “He’s about to fall.”
Chapter 8: Sauntering Vaguely Downward
Chapter Text
“Aziraphale?!”
“Crow… Cro.. Cr—”
“Angel!”
Crowley was running, he didn’t care anymore.
Heaven, Before the Beginning.
Aziraphale never had the need to run before.
Nanael led him through the bulk of Heaven to its center, down winding hallways that would otherwise be filled with such a bright, warm glow. Down hallways that felt like silos of space without stars. Like emptiness had encapsulated all that had once been bright, infiltrating the dark with something other than peace, with something so fearful that it was almost intentional. Running through the dark felt like they were running from and toward it all at once, no real destination in mind, just a guttural feeling. It was nothing he had ever seen before.
Nothing he’d ever want to see again.
Crowley scooped Aziraphale up in his arms and into his lap as if he were the last thing he’d ever hold.
“I’m here! Angel, I’m here, it’s—”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale could barely speak, but the tears in his eyes spoke more than his whimpers.
“Yes, it’s me, I’m here, I—”
“Go,” Aziraphale started coughing. “You need—”
“I’m not going anywhere without you.” Crowley was certain. Aziraphale was shaking in his arms, practically shivering , weak and whimpering, his tears overwhelming his body. “Who did this to you?”
“Th-The M-Met—” Aziraphale started choking again, the coughing spell worse than before.
“Easy, Angel, easy, breathe ,” Crowley urged. “Metatron?”
Aziraphale nodded, leaning further into Crowley’s arms as if he were squirming away from the cold light of Heaven, back into the soot and smell of anything else, something of Earth incarnate. The demon tried to use a miracle to bring him back to a state of full health, but there was something blocking it, keeping the manifestation of power from coming to fruition.
“Angel, I’m trying to miracle you better, but—”
“He—” Aziraphale coughed again, swallowing before he took in a big breath and continued. “He used p-powers far t-t-too great for o-our miracles. Something— he made my miracles w-work against m-me—”
He started coughing again. Crowley clutched onto him tighter, shaking his head with bewilderment.
“H-How can he do that?”
“The e-evolution. To b-become an a-archangel,” Aziraphale spoke in broken pieces. “The m-magic, h-he’s the o-one who gave it to m-me. H-He reversed it w-when he… when he found o-out…”
He started coughing again, Crowley was nearly rocking him back and forth, rubbing the Angel’s back with his freer hand, as free as one could consider it to be.
“Found out what?” Crowley asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Aziraphale’s eyes were bluer than any ocean ever had been in that moment, but his voice was as clear as the sky could be on a normal London day.
“T-That I was trying to s-s-save— to g-go back t-to— the Earth. B-Back—”
“To you, Crowley.”
Metatron, standing in front of the now-closed door to the rest of Heaven, had his left fist lifted in the air, clenched tightly as Aziraphale doubled over in Crowley’s arms. The demon scrambled, holding Aziraphale closer, turning his back to the voice of God once more.
“You didn’t think he’d return? That he would want any part of this place without you in it?” Metatron asked, stepping closer. Aziraphale was gasping for air, and Crowley tucked his face into his chest trying to hide him from anymore impact, looking ahead of them, away from the Metatron.
“And you didn’t think he’d try to leave?” Crowley retorted.
The Metatron smiled.
“Oh, I did. But what about you , Crowley? Out of all the questions you have ever dared to ask, was that one of them?”
Heaven, Before the Beginning.
Aziraphale hadn’t seen anything like it.
Nanael stopped in the middle of the crowd, angels of all ranks gathered around a gaping circle in the middle of Heaven. In the middle was the open sky, a dark hole with clouds and smears of blue within its grasp— She hadn’t said what would be above the vegetation yet besides the stars, and the angels guessed this was the work in progress She had been working on before She was disturbed.
Aziraphale didn’t care. He was looking for his friend.
‘Excuse me," "Pardon me,” the principality made his way through the crowd, trying to find his way toward the edge of the circle. As he got closer, he saw tufts of red hair between a sea of black, brown, and blonde haired heads, curls that surrounded coffee eyes, an Angel that looked so scared as he peered over the edge, his wings darker than anything Aziraphale had ever seen.
“What happened?”
“Apparently it just opened up as he was walking. It happened to Lucifer earlier, too, although his wings were much darker than these.”
“I think it happened to Azazel too, now that you mention it.”
Lucifer? And Azazel? Aziraphale thought, still trying to push through his brethren to see more clearly. Weren’t they just—
“Do you understand what you have done, dear child?”
Crowley didn’t feel his jaw drop, but he was sure if this were a few weeks ago, Aziraphale would have told him to close it so he didn’t drool all over the shop.
“Did you once think he would ever leave Heaven? I mean sure, why would he ever want to come back to you? After what you left him with? But did you really never think twice about him actually going along with our plans? After all he rebelled against?”
This Crowley knew— that Aziraphale was going to Heaven to change it, not to follow suit in what they were planning. But the idea of Aziraphale coming back to him— he thought he was as good as dead. Done for. Unable to see for the rest of eternity.
“We both know you never deserved him returning, but I’m shocked you didn’t entertain the idea of it happening, not even just once,” The Metatron smiled. “For giving into such a temptation before he left, I’m surprised you didn’t let yourself sink into your longing for him. I guess you’re as good as him at addressing things then.”
“You were spying on us?!” Crowley asked. “You saw—”
“Everything, yes.” The Metatron spoke so calmly, so smoothly, like silk or calm waters.
Crowley held Aziraphale tighter, hearing him whimper as The Metatron walked around them to get back into Crowley’s line of sight, towering over them.
“It’s a pity, you know, I had faith in him that he would at least try to stay. Try to do what he planned against us. But he just couldn’t not without you, I guess it was too unbearable for him. That, and with his essence failing him as he ‘evolved’ up into his ‘rank,’ he was just, oh I don’t know, descending into his own personal loss I presume.” The Metatron’s eyes were colder than all of Heaven, colder than the fluorescent lights and the reflection of London through the windows. Colder than God’s love for Angels after Lucifer fell.
“But alas, here you are, come to be his knight in shining armor. Last I remembered you were the Black Knight? Right? 537 AD? Right when you two decided conspiring was worth your time and efforts? More worthy of attention than any duties put forth by the Lord? More worthy than The Great Plan?
“And yet who lost in the end? Who is on the floor of Heaven, who’s life essence is being drained out of him? Who will die at the hands of Almighty—”
“That is enough, Metatron.”
Heaven, Before the Beginning.
“My Lord, let me explain—”
“There is no need, child, today is a day of penance, and it is your turn.”
The red-haired angel was shivering, looking up from the hole in Paradise.
“But, but what did I do?” He asked.
“You know, and I hope you can learn from it.”
A murmur ran through the crowd, and Aziraphale wondered how she sounded so calm in the face of betrayal.
“B-But I don’t!”
“But you do. Never fret, you still have a role in The Great Plan.”
Reassurance? Had the others gotten any?
Aziraphale made his way to the front of the crowd, standing back with the other Angels. He saw Gabriel and Michael, looking on with shocked yet smug features. Saraquael on the other hand, looked as though they were about to sob.
“Why must there be such a great bloody plan anyway? What is it all for?”
There was a gasp from the crowd, and Aziraphale swore he felt the floor shake with God’s fury.
“You ask unforgivable questions, and for that you must leave.”
“But—
Aziraphale caught his friend’s fiery gaze, hot with tears that were staining his face. He wished he could pull him back, not heal him from his questioning but give him a place to let him wonder. He wished The Almighty would think twice about this, but if she didn’t do it for her first-born, why would she do it for her fiftieth?
With a seemingly invisible hand on his back, the red hair angel was pushed off the edge of the circle, his eyes on Aziraphale until they couldn’t be any longer, headed down as the Principality was left with a memory of mocha eyes, auburn curls, and nothing else of his one and only friend.
She had never spoken to Crowley before. Not ever since, ever since…
“Oh, oh my—”
The windows of Heaven shattered before them, wind seering in, whipping them all around.
Crowley looked down at the Angel in his arms, watching his eyes flutter shut, scrunching against the forces around them.
Crowley held him tighter. It was all he could do without letting him go.
“You were supposed to leave them alone. Those were my orders. The plan changed.”
“I… I—I.. I—”
“You will be punished.”
And The Metatron, seemingly thrashing in The Almighty’s grasp, disappeared before Crowley’s eyes.
“I cannot transport you both back to Earth, he is taking up too much of my grasp. You need to jump down, but I will ensure you have a steady fall with a solid landing.”
“G-God, I’m not… I’m not who… I’m not sor—”
“I know Crowley. I always have. It’s okay.”
And for the first time in a long, long time. He wanted to believe Her.
“Go. Bring him home,”
For once, Crowley believed they were on the same page about something. For the first time in over six-thousand years, he agreed with.. .agreed with….
Crowley looked down at Aziraphale, whose face was no longer scrunched but his eyes were still closed. He looked down at Aziraphale, who looked paler than the ice caps and stiller than the Statue of David. Aziraphale, whose body was limp in his own, who was in his lap; who he had to bring home.
Crowley, bracing against the wind, moved Aziraphale’s legs to wrap around his torso, sitting him in his lap and tucking his face into his neck. He then, under the weight of the wind and an Angel, squirmed toward the edge of Heaven’s southwest corner, making it to where there was a large enough hole without glass shards. He sat along it’s edge, feeling the sky whipping around his thighs, he decidedly slung his legs over the edge, trying to keep them still against the wrath of God’s wind. He tightened his arms around Aziraphale’s back, with one hand cradling his head into his chest.
Crowley had fallen before at God’s command, but he was glad Aziraphale wasn’t awake for his own. He was glad he wouldn’t know that he was about to fall.
“Are we really going back to Earth, or are you playing with us too?” Crowley yelled. He wondered if God really would answer his question this time. If she really cared about them.
“Go back to Earth, you two. Go home.”
The Fall, Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell.
He never knew what it felt like to fall.
To trip over your words, of course he knew that. He knew how to soar downward with strong wings of pearl, flight feathers stronger than God’s hold on the universe, and a will so taut with love it was brighter than the stars it helped create.
Of course the Angel falling through the clouds just below Heaven knew what it was like to trip, to be clumsy with himself and his purpose, but to fall… Well, he wasn’t sure he had ever felt like this before.
Or would ever want to feel like this again.
Doing a freestyle dive for what feels like hundreds of miles a moment is more than the lack of control he felt over himself. It was the fact that he was pushed by God’s hand, that She threw him from the center of his back where his wings splayed, where they burned and they were falling with fire— as if he were but a candle expected to have lit up the whole sky. It was his job, after all, but wasn’t She the one who created the suns? Those angelic, cerulean eyes? Was this (now fallen) angel anything more than a task follower—a crafter under the guise of creation Herself?
His feathers were searing now, and they ached more than anything. He wondered if he would have any feathers after this, or if She had simply cursed him with the burden of wearing wings he’d never be able to use. Wings that would no longer shield him from the supposed “evil” he was a part of— wings that were a sign of what he once was, not who he had apparently become.
At the center of it all, he believed She was wrong. Wrong for this, for punishing him— like a child who didn’t know any better that was still put into the timeout corner— he was so angry he was crying, his tears burning into his face. Just below his side burn on his right cheek burned too, and all he could feel was heat as he continued his saunter downward. He tried to think of Above, of the stars, but they were turning into the blur of his teary eyes, and he couldn’t focus with the tingling in his fingertips, he could feel his tongue split into two, and was absolutely sure green was purple, down was up, and a pair of cerulean eyes were awaiting him at the end of this all to tell him just how awful a job he’d done.
But, instead, he was a house without furniture sitting in a pool of burning sulfur, wondering where those eyes had gone, and if he would ever see them again.
And so, he took them over the edge.
Crowley fell again.
Not to his demise, no. Into the love of the Angel in his arms. To Earth, The world. What they had built, together. There’d be no sulfur this time— no burning, or the charring of wings. Just the ground beneath them, the sky above, and love, embracing them in its breeze, it’s graceful ease.
He felt the wind rushing past them both, fleeting in the cradle it created in bringing them back to Earth. Aziraphale was tight in his grasp, face tucked into his neck with legs wrapped around his waist. Crowley felt his heart was willing to burst, willing to explode out of his chest with the fierceness of reliving this— reliving his descent. But was a fall so much of a descent as it was a grand leap into knowing the one thing he was sure to ever love in all his existence?
And so, this time he didn’t fall with torn wings and cascaded feathers. This time, he was sure of it. He was positively radiant with the knowledge, in fact, and decidedly landed with two feet planted on the pavement of Soho with Aziraphale in his arms.
He wasn’t going anywhere. Neither of them were.
Not anymore.
Chapter 9: The Glimmering Sun
Chapter Text
When they landed in Soho, it looked just as the demon had left it, only less blinding. The sun was glimmering on the shops below, people were outside enjoying the sun, paying the two beings no mind as they stood in the middle of Wickber street. Aziraphale was still in Crowley’s arms, wrapped around him like a sloth, unconscious and slowly breathing.
The demon took a deep breath, relaxing his grip a small amount before darting towards the bookshop, kicking the door with his foot as a knock.
“It’s Crowley! He has Aziraphale!” He heard from the inside, guessing it was Muriel from how frantic the voice sounded. Within seconds Nina was at the door, opening it for him as he was ushered inside. He didn’t bother to bear any greetings, for he just took to the staircase with the Angel in his arms, rushing him to his bedroom so he could lie him down on something that was warm instead of cold, soft instead of hard, home instead of above.
Nina followed him up the stairs, watching him set Aziraphale down on the bed in way gentler than any parent. She swallowed before she spoke up, hearing Maggie come up the stairs from behind. “Is there anything we can do to help?”
Crowley had paused, he was arranging Aziraphale’s limbs on the bed, knowing that he’d have to get him into some better clothes. He sighed, not bothering to look up as he spoke, “The armoire in the corner. Find something comfortable.”
He heard movement as he turned back to the Angel, his Angel, pale in the face and stuck wearing a ridiculous white suit and a beige bow tie. It was too colorless for him, it almost looked as if it were draining the color from his face— it probably had been for weeks. He started with the bow tie, slipping it from its knot swiftly, making quick work of the task. He then unbuttoned the top button of Aziraphale’s pristine pearl collared shirt, looking up to find Nina in the corner with what looked almost like a nightgown and raised eyebrows.
“That’ll work, I’ll take it from here.” Crowley called. She looked even more surprised at this, but didn’t hesitate to come over with it.
“He sleeps in this?” She asked. Crowley shook his head, taking the gown from her and laid it on the bed. He had to change him the human way.
“He doesn’t sleep.” Crowley said simply. “He probably hasn’t gotten any new nightclothes since the late nineteenth century..”
“This is from the nineteenth century? ” She asked. Crowley hummed in confirmation, smoothing out the wrinkles with a miracle.
“Hrm… probably. Not sure. Haven’t seen him wear it since he discovered lavender bath salts.” Crowley said, turning his attention back to Aziraphale, unbuttoning his blazer before looking up at Nina, “Are you gonna go or not?”
She raised her eyebrows again, but didn’t say anything other than, “I’ll be downstairs.”
Crowley tried to be as gentle and quick as possible as he changed Aziraphale’s clothes. He was able to sit him up and take both his shirt and blazer off in one go, before putting the nightgown over his head so he could just pull it down and over him. He untied his loafers with precision, realizing they were the same ones he had always worn, the one thing he was probably able to keep. He made quick work of his pants as well, before being able to throw the waste of his Heavenly garb into oblivion and finally dressing him totally in the nightgown.
Crowley then picked Aziraphale up again, putting him in the wing-back chair by his window, the one surrounded by piles of books and a small overhead lamp for his nightly reading. Crowley had decided Aziraphale was better off tucked in, for he was cold to the touch and Satan knew he wasn’t getting any warmth up in Heaven.
He was able to get Aziraphale tucked into his bed relatively quickly, grabbing one of the tartan blankets he kept at the foot of his bed and laying over the already high pile of bedding he was burrowed under. Crowley had kept his hands out from under the covers and opened the curtains, pulling the reading chair closer to the bed and turning on the lamp. He then, finally, took the angel’s hand, and sighed as he squeezed it, knowing he wasn’t gone. He was here, God had made sure of it. He just needed to… wait, he supposed.
Maggie and Nina, upon sitting downstairs for three hours with no word from Crowley, made their way upstairs on the first day to find him clutching onto Aziraphale’s hand, looking up at them with bright, tired eyes of fear and annoyance.
Maggie, looking at Nina, had dared to go into the room, asking, “When do you think he’ll wake up?”
Crowley huffed, “Days. Weeks. Dunno. Not soon— sure of it.”
Maggie looked back over her shoulder.
“Would you like us to take Muriel in for the time being, then?” She asked, her voice light as an angel's feather.
Muriel. Muriel was still down here. On earth. With them, and no duty to attend upstairs.
All Crowley could do was nod, and he was then left in the bookshop alongside his angel. Waiting for him, just as he always had.
And so, Aziraphale slept for six days with Crowley holding his hand by his side, running lines through his mind on how to react when the angel woke up. Muriel’s words rang back and forth in his head, trying to find an answer as to how to approach them without the insufferable truth of accepting them as fact, because they were right, and Crowley wasn’t sure if Aziraphale knew that he knew that. That he knew how he felt now, that it’s just as he always had, as angry as he was, as terrified and antagonizing— Crowley still loved him all the same.
There was no use in beating around the bush anymore, however, especially not when Aziraphale’s eyes started to flutter on the seventh day, when the light from the window shone on his face in the morning and he looked nothing short of breathtaking. Crowley squeezed his hand again, sitting on the edge of his seat to get closer. He brushed his free hand, his right hand, over the angel’s forehead, and for the first time in a week, cerulean eyes were shuttering open, blinded by the light of the London sun coming through his window.
“Angel?” Crowley whispered, rubbing his thumb along Aziraphale’s forehead again, trying to soothe the tension in his brow. The angel stirred.
“The light—” Aziraphale croaked, before squeezing his eyes shut. Crowley turned around, quickly letting go of his angel for just a moment to shut the sheer curtains. The glimmer of dazzling noon turned into a fairy-like haze. Aziraphale opened his eyes again, and this time, was able to keep them open, despite how heavy they were from the fall.
“Better?” Crowley asked, resuming his position in the chair, taking Aziraphale’s hand again.
“Much. T-Thank you.” Aziraphale said, slowly turning his head towards his demon, the one who then grabbed his hand and squeezed gently.
“Of course,” Crowley spoke softer than the blankets Aziraphale was burrowed under; softer than he was sure to ever have had.
Aziraphale gave him a small smile, giving his best attempt at a squeeze back.
Crowley smiled back.
“You… you read the letter?” Aziraphale asked, his throat dryer than Crowley’s humor.
Crowley sighed, starting to rub the back of Aziraphale’s hand with his thumb.
“To be honest, angel, I couldn’t,” He said. Then, adding with a smile, “Your handwriting was so loopy —
“Crowley—”
“I mean honestly, did they teach you calligraphy up there? I couldn’t even—”
“ Crowley ,” Aziraphale pleaded, giving him the look he’d thought he’d never see again. The one where, if they were standing, his head would be a little bowed, looking up at him with large eyes and a smile he couldn’t hide.
Crowley laughed, shaking his head free of the tension he couldn’t release from his chest.
“No,” He finally spoke. “No, I didn’t read it. But Muriel… they did and— well— I got the memo.”
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, letting go of his hand before starting to try and shift in the bed, but with one movement of trying to lift himself with his arms, he fell back on his back, scrunching with soreness.
“Let me help you,” Crowley said, standing up and hovering over the angel. “You wanna sit up?”
“Oh please ,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley felt his heart lurch as he reached out to pick the angel’s torso up, lifting him from the armpits like a child, pulling him up to sit against the pillows his head was just resting on. Aziraphale shifted, pulling the blankets over his lap carefully as Crowley sat back down next to him in the chair, watching the angel fold his hands in his lap and look over at him with tired gratitude.
“Thank you, dear boy.” He spoke tenderly, smiling with all he could muster. Crowley nodded.
“‘S nothing,” Crowley replied. Aziraphale moved his hand out of his lap over to the demon again, and Crowley graciously took it back into his own.
“What did Muriel say?” Aziraphale asked.
“A lot,” Crowley admitted. He didn't know where to begin.
“Please, just— oh dear please just… just talk . I do believe we are long overdue for a chat.” Aziraphale said. Crowley started rubbing his thumb along the angel’s knuckles again.
“Yeah,” Crowley agreed. “Couple millennia, you think?”
“Longer, I’m sure.” Aziraphale chimed, his smile never leaving his face. Crowley let himself grin, still unsure of what to say.
“Angel, I…” Crowley started. He decided to breathe, letting out a sigh before he went on. “What I said before you left. I meant it, you know. That we’ve… that we could be…”
“Yes, I-I…”
“Angel, I want you , I want to be with you— life without you is just… I just… What I’m trying to say is that Muriel told me a lot of things, especially from the letter and— I mean. How could you think you don’t deserve me? I mean seriously Angel, why do you think I’ve been coming round all these years? Because you’re just useful to the great bloody Arrangement? Why do you think I… before you— I — left…”
Aziraphale’s grip tightened on Crowley’s hand. Tears were making their way out of his eyes and down the sandy shores of his cheeks, but his smile couldn’t be any brighter.
“I…” Crowley started, unsure of how to say the three words that had sat on the tip of his tongue for the last six-thousand years.
“I’m sorry for leaving,” Aziraphale spoke softly, “I’m so sorry, Crowley I—”
“Angel—”
“Crowley I really—”
“ Angel. ” Crowley urged, bringing his free hand to the angel’s cheek, watching Aziraphale’s eyes grow as he did so, nearly pulling away before Aziraphale raised his hand and placed it over Crowley’s, holding it to his face.
“Oh Crowley,” tears were streaming out of Aziraphale’s eyes. They were the breadths of a waterfall, one being unfrozen by the sun— Crowley’s golden eyes— in front of him after an arctic kind of blast. The kind where your eyelashes bid frost and your eyes are stained with snowflakes. Where the world was so cold but the sun, the sun, still felt like love cascading on your face, dancing on your skin with the warmth of the ever-distant summer.
And like the summer sun, dancing around them were the rays peeking in through sheer, yellow curtains, dust particles flying around the air, circulating them as Aziraphale closed his eyes, leaning in from his waist with his weight into the former demon next to him, closing the distance between them.
Crowley, after Aziraphale’s initial reaction to being kissed, hadn’t expected to ever have the chance again. But, with Aziraphale trying, with all the little might he had, to push his lips as closely as he could to Crowley’s, he let himself revel in the feeling. He let go of Aziraphale’s hand, bringing his own to the back of the former angel’s head, finding the nape of his neck, where his white curls met the collar of his nightgown.
Carding his fingers through the small tufts of hair there, Crowley grounded himself in the touch, caressing Aziraphale’s cheek with his thumb as he felt the angel pull on the blanket with his free hand, fingers curling into the quilt as if for dear life. However, at the same time, the angel pressed Crowley’s hand even harder into his cheek, trying to wrap his own hand around it, never wanting the kiss to end. The demon tasted like every meal he had ever had the pleasure of consuming, every ray of sun and every dollop of custard cream intertwined with the lacquer of gold and the most ornate dust jacket he had of his favorite paperbacks. He was all he had remembered tasting, only this time, with the joy of time on their side, with eternity ahead of them and love intertwined between them.
It was Crowley who pulled away their first time, and Aziraphale who pulled away in this, but only to lean back in and press a quick kiss into the corner of Crowley’s upturned mouth. Aziraphale held onto the demon’s hand as he tried to keep his balance leaning forward, holding it tightly as he met the demon’s golden eyes that were glistening with tears.
“I love you, my dearest,” He spoke low and warm, like a heated slice of pie with caramel drizzle. “I always have, and I will be here as long as you’ll have me.”
“For eternity then,” Crowley spoke, bringing Aziraphale’s hand to his lips to kiss. “I love you too, you know.”
And he did. They both did. In the rays of a glimmering sun over London, how couldn’t they?
Chapter 10: The Brass Key
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The bookshop had never felt more like home.
Of course it had felt like honeysuckle on the side of an old glass jar, the setting sun hitting it right where the twine tied around it fell loosely by the glass. Aziraphale’s stash of tea had been well in use these last few days since he returned. His ornate, hand painted mugs were finally seeing the light of day, the ones from small street vendors at weekend markets or craft fairs. Cup after cup of tea was being brewed in different flavors. Many times, it was a back and forth between chamomile and lavender, but the occasional peppermint and citrus made its way through the vine. His jar of honey refused to run out, no matter how much it had been used. Crowley had made sure of it.
The shop was just as dusty as ever, however, now the books were humming the tunes of old love songs to themselves in the night as the gramophone lazily spun Aziraphale’s ‘78s well into the soft-lit night. There was noise, rather than the awkward silence of Muriel amongst their murmurs, especially the ones coming from the mystery section, wondering where on Earth Aziraphale had gone, and where his new funny friend with the duster had flown off to all those weeks ago.
It felt fuller too, with another person in the bookshop— but the atmosphere felt different this time with Crowley around. Instead of a visitor, the Bentley hadn’t left its spot outside, and the window display had noticed this. The bookshop felt as though the demon had finally sunken into its warm embrace, the hug it had been trying to give him for well over two hundred years. He had finally walked within it as his own, making sure the books were in place as Aziraphale rested, just as he did now, on the loveseat by his desk, basking in the warm sunlight raining on him through the window.
Crowley came around the back of the sofa, smoothing his hand over Aziraphale’s shoulder to the back of his neck before wrapping his arms around him from behind, planting a kiss into the top of his head.
“Good to see you’re up, Angel,” He spoke, leaning his chin atop the white curls.
“Yes, well,” He spoke, lifting his book far enough up for Crowley to see that it was there, “The books don’t read themselves.”
Crowley felt the corners of his mouth turn upward, and he let himself smile.
“How are you feeling?” Crowley asked, playing with the collar of Aziraphale’s newly manifested tartan pajamas. They were the kind with the oversized collar and large buttons on the sleep shirt, the kind with elastic band sleep pants that were warmer than a freshly baked pie. If Aziraphale was anything, he was nothing if not consistent with his wardrobe, even in times like this.
The Angel sighed, “Still tired, dear. My arms and legs haven’t stopped aching.”
The pain was supposed to subside on its own, for any miraculous intervention, as per Metatron’s handiwork, would only make it worse until his curseful manifest was truly gone.
“Do you want a cold compress? Some tea?” The demon asked— but he felt a hand fumble for his own, wrapping around his slender fingers with the softness of a cloud.
“Just you, dear boy, if you would care to sit.” Aziraphale finally looked up to him, the cerulean waves in his eyes were calm for the first time in their existence, begging for rest. He was searching in Crowley’s goldens for something, but with a squeeze of the hand, the demon saw them relax a little.
“Of course,” He spoke just above a whisper, squeezing the Angel’s hand one more time before coming around the edge of the couch.
He found Aziraphale now as he had for the last few days: under the blanket he knit just a few years back when the world shut down just after the apocalypse was averted. Crowley lifted its edge as he sat down, bringing it over his lap as he wrapped his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, pulling him into his side. They rarely talked when they sat like this, as new as it was to them. Most of the time, Aziraphale would fall asleep with a novel in his lap, the soft purr of his snores giving Crowley all the comfort in the world knowing that he was okay. That he was here , by his side, just as he had been for all of human history.
Crowley ran his hand up and down the Angel’s arm, he wasn’t entirely sure why he did it, but he figured it was for the same reason one ate ice cream on a hot day, or wore a hat in the cold. It was just a part of this , a part of Aziraphale snuggled into his side, a part of their life now.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, his voice as lazy as the sun outside, tumbling onto their laps through the shop’s windows around them.
“Yes, Angel?” The demon replied, stilling his hand while looking down at the Angel, keeping it in a firm place on his forearm to tell him that he was here , to listen, and for certain, not going anywhere.
“When do you think it will stop?” Aziraphale asked, his voice soaked in the sound of a rusty hinge, a worn out wheel tired of spinning.
Crowley swallowed, squeezing the angel’s arm.
“I’m not sure, I think we just need to wait it out— try to get you moving when you feel up to it.” He replied, avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze.
“I feel awful that you have to… to coddle me like this,” Aziraphale was bashful, and Crowley smiled.
“Well, lucky for you, I like coddling you. Been doing it for a while. One of my favorite pastimes,” Crowley chimed, starting to rub his hand along the angel’s arm again.
“Oh you sod, ” Aziraphale grinned, leaning further into Crowley as he looked up into his golden eyes.
“Shut up,” Crowley almost sang he was smiling so wide.
A nightingale flew past the window as he leaned down and kissed the top of Aziraphale’s head.
They had decided to paint their picture of the world together these last few days in ways they hadn’t before. Crowley would help care for Aziraphale in more ways than giving him hugs and tea— he would hold his hands as he helped him regain his strength. He would warm up the tub in his bathroom with his lavender bath salts and greet him with a warm towel when he decided he was ready to go to bed. He would slither into bed with him after helping him lay down on his back, wearing the silk pajamas Aziraphale hummed the harmony to with his own tartan pair; fascinated by the fabric, rubbing his fingertips along its seam as he drifted off into the slumber he hadn’t taken part of until now.
He would hold Crowley through the rainy London nights, the pitter patter of raindrops hitting the window beside them, running his hands through the fiery hair that had gotten unruly when he couldn’t sleep. He never knew what it was like to dream before, but he often couldn’t tell whether he was asleep or awake, for when he closed his eyes, he only wished for this and this only— nothing more and nothing less.
Muriel visited with news from Heaven, having been called back by Saraquael with the choice of either returning to their post or staying on Earth to help Aziraphale with the bookshop, just as they had been doing. Saraquael had been appointed by God to be the new Supreme Archangel, and The Second Coming had been established as canceled to the rest of Heaven, following the effervescently loud torturing of the Metatron after what had happened to Crowley and Aziraphale. Muriel often came with stories of Nina and Maggie across the way, espresso and eccles cakes in hand to help dust and clean the shop after Aziraphale started opening it for a few hours during the day again.
Living had become more of a luxury rather than a waiting game. Crowley had, after a long night of wine, decided to bring his plants into the windowsill of the bookshop, his CD collection upstairs, and his eclectic art sprinkled around the shop. His apartment was bare within twelve hours after that night, the Bentley practically driving itself back to the bookshop to sit proudly on Wickber street, where it had decided it rather liked to sit and people watch (and, on the rare occasion, angel and demon watch).
It took six weeks for Aziraphale to resume his normal hours running the bookshop, and he had never failed to sell books better than with Crowley around, hissing at the state of some of the covers of Aziraphale’s (albeit, pristine) first editions, especially those of Jane Austen.
“Angel?” Crowley asked one afternoon, sitting in the sunlight coming through the window onto the sofa by Aziraphale’s desk, just where the angel had been working on a restoration project of a Shakespeare play.
“Yes dear?” The angel asked, shuffling the papers around on his desk to make way for his gloves and tools. He had a small spool of thread and a needle with him as well, ready to fix up the binding with love and a little miracle.
“When you sent Muriel back down with that brass key— what was that about?”
The shuffling stopped as Aziraphale turned to face Crowley, who glowered a little at him as he took the small key out of his pocket, holding it up for him to see.
“Ah, yes… the key…” Aziraphale swallowed, deciding to take off his gloves for his palms were suddenly just too hot for him to bear with.
“It isn’t a key to the shop, those keys are the normal kind,” Crowley started, but Aziraphale met his eyes, the ocean meeting the sun with a sigh.
“I.. erm— may have acquired a property in the South Downs, some time ago…” He spoke slow and steadily, as if it were a race to be won.
“A property in the South Downs?”
Crowley understood the feeling of needing insurance, hell he had a thermos of Holy Water in his safe at his old apartment for decades. But an entire property?
“A cottage , actually. I… I was given it from an old magician’s family. Promised myself that if anything were to truly happen…”
“You’d go there.” Crowley finished, but Aziraphale just nodded, leaning over and reaching for his hands.
“With you, my dear boy. With you ." He said.
Crowley raised an eyebrow.
“I thought the cottage would be a nice place to settle down, if I— we — ever decided to retire, if somehow, maybe the world didn’t end in Armageddon. It was one of my more… frivolous investments. Much like venturing out for those delicious crepés back in 1793— it was something I knew I couldn’t have but… well… if there were ever the possibility , of course I wanted the chance to have it.”
Aziraphale was sure he never saw Crowley so stunned before.
“I wanted you to go there, to have it, if… you know… everything happened as it was originally intended. There’s a photo you see, in my desk,” Aziraphale started again, turning to rustle through the drawers of his desk, coming upon the photo just where he had left it last before handing it over to Crowley, who couldn’t believe his eyes.
The cottage had a small pathway and a large front garden, vines falling from the roof over the outside’s cobblestone. It wasn’t too big or small, and it looked cozy— like the bookshop had a fairy tale wife in the countryside— with tall grass in front of the hedgerow, lanterns on the cobblestone wall, and the ocean in the background.
It was perfect. Utterly and completely perfect .
“Of course, the world hasn’t ended, but I wanted to make sure it was in good hands, just in case.”
Crowley launched himself out of the sofa and strided over to Aziraphale, standing over him. As the angel looked up at his love, the demon took his face into his hands, leaning down for a steady kiss. One that grounded your feet into the Earth, that solid feeling of a heart’s weight in your chest. Aziraphale craned his neck upward, trying to reach more and more up into Crowley’s mouth as the demon held them still, pulling away only to caress the angel’s cheeks with his thumbs.
“We can still go there, if you’d like. Live on the coast, honestly retire.” Crowley whispered.
Aziraphale’s cheeks had a rosy tint to them. He’d never looked happier.
“I think I’d like that very much.” He said, reaching up to hold Crowley’s arms, rubbing his thumbs along the dark fabric.
The two smiled, gazing longingly into each other's eyes, into their future.
While, outside, a nightingale looked in the window from Wickber street, its shadow a mark on the carpet inside in between rays of sun, chirping happily at the scene. Just as its lover sang for them from Berkeley Square— it turned to fly back to them.
To home.
Notes:
And that is "We Are But Fallen Stars."
This fic was planned on such a whim of passion and heart that I am still unsure of how it made it this far. I really wanted to write an in-the-meantime fix-it for the second season, one that is in no means a prediction of what I think would/will happen in season 3, but one that let my heart rest easy until then. One that let me know they're happy, at least, in my mind. I wanted to go a little deeper into the motions of it all, but in the end, this fic was happier than I ever thought it coud've been, and I'm so so grateful for everyone who has left kudos or enjoyed it so far, and hopefully in the future as you read this.
I would like to thank my partner, for indulging in my obsession with these two and cheering me on. And finally, I'd like to thank all of you for reading this little thing! I really hope you enjoyed it!
More Good Omens fics (and others) are in the works, so keep an eye on my profile (or tumblr: @/oddityofstars) if you want to stay up to date on that kind of stuff. Otherwise, please have an amazing day and know that the sun will shine on you, forever and always <3
Forever yours,
Your Oddity of Stars
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