It‘s Eden We Create

by orphan_account

Summary:

Eden burned, Raphael fell, and from the ashes rose —a demon. Crawley.

Amid the ruins, someone tried to repair what came undone —an angel. Aziraphale.

Chapter 1: Cracks

Heaven.

The embodiment of light, purity, and everything divine. A realm of pearly gates and choirs of seraphim, their voices woven into eternal hymns of gospel and praise. It was radiant, transcendent—a paradise unmarred, where the archangel Raphael served as a healer, a mender of wounds.

Created from light itself, She had entrusted him with a sacred purpose: to care for the younger angels—those yet to be created but destined to follow. He embraced the role dutifully. Most of the time.

But sometimes—oh, sometimes—a shadow crept across his light.

It came unbidden, faint at first: the whisper of doubt, a tremor in his thoughts. Subtle as a breath. Then it grew, swelling into waves that lapped against the edges of his being. He called it regression, though he wasn’t sure what he was regressing from.

In those moments, when his thoughts strayed too close to the ineffable edges of something unspeakable, he sought solace the only way he knew how: by reflecting. What else could he do, besides endure?

He did everything right. Everything She asked, he delivered. He gave all that he had to give—without hesitation, without question, without doubt.

And yet…

Why did he long for something he couldn’t name?

The thought shamed him, deep and sharp. He didn’t try to understand it. He didn’t dare ask.

He knew his place.
He knew his purpose.
He did not know why.

His existence was meant to flow seamlessly into Her design, and so it did. Again and again. Without pause. Without fail.

Until now.

Raphael’s breath hitched, shallow and sharp, stirring the perfect stillness of Heaven’s golden air. His chest tightened, his wings twitching, and for the first time, the sanctuary of eternal peace felt stifling.

Without thought, he began to move, gliding down alabaster halls that stretched into infinity. The walls, smooth and glowing, once comforted him with their unchanging light. Now they felt cold, constricting, like a cage.

The endless hymns of Heaven—so soothing in their constancy—began to warp in his ears, dissonant and jarring.

He sought the one place where the perfection of Heaven gave way to the unknown: the edge.

It was here, at the precipice of the celestial realm, that he could look down upon the tapestry of creation below—the Garden.

Her Great Plan, unfolding.

The further he ventured from Heaven’s center, the more the divine light dimmed, thinning into a cool, fragile glow. When he reached the boundary, he exhaled shakily, staring down at the expanse of the mortal realm.

The beauty of creation unfolded beneath him—rolling hills, glistening rivers, a sky painted with endless hues of dawn. It should have been enough. It was enough, wasn’t it?

And yet…

Raphael broke the sacred silence.

“What have I done to deserve this?” His voice cracked, raw and jagged. “Do You… take pleasure in the hurt You cause?”

The words hung in the air, trembling, fragile as a newborn star.

Then he shouted.

“How can You be so cruel?”

His voice echoed across the vast emptiness, a desperate cry swallowed by the void. No answer came.

“Raphael?”

The sound of his name startled him. A firm but gentle hand rested on his shoulder.

Michael.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice steady but tinged with concern. “We’re meant to be in the Great Hall. Gabriel has news—something he’s been positively radiant about sharing.”

Raphael didn’t answer. His gaze remained fixed on the world below, the questions burning in his chest too heavy to voice.

Michael frowned, stepping closer. Her presence was a balm and a burden all at once: unwavering, ironclad, and steeped in expectation.

“Raphael,” she said softly. “What’s troubling you?”

For a moment, he considered telling her. He thought about confessing the emptiness gnawing at his soul, the questions that plagued him, the whispers that never ceased.

But fear stopped him. Fear of disapproval. Of rejection. Of what she might see if he revealed the truth.

“It’s nothing,” he lied. “I was just… reflecting.”

Michael’s sharp eyes lingered on him, searching. She seemed ready to challenge his words, to push further. Then, with a sigh, she nodded, her expression softening.

“Come now, brother,” she said, her tone kind but firm. “Duty awaits.”

Her words settled on him like chains.

---

The Great Hall blazed with divine radiance, its vaulted arches glowing in vibrant hues of gold and white. Raphael took his place among his siblings, their faces serene and their wings shimmering in perfect harmony.

At the head of the room stood Gabriel, his presence commanding, his wings outstretched in an impressive display of authority.

“My fellow archangels,” Gabriel began, his voice ringing with excitement, “the Almighty expects a report on the newest addition to our kin!”

Raphael barely heard him.

The suffocation returned, a relentless pressure in his chest. His hands curled into fists, his breathing unsteady. He was surrounded by angels—his family—but he had never felt so alone.

The longing he’d tried so hard to bury clawed its way back to the surface.

He thought of the edge.

The drop.

The infinite unknown beyond Heaven’s gates.

It would only take a single step.

The thought gripped him, sharp and visceral. His mind teetered on the brink of action, his body leaning forward instinctively.

But he didn’t jump.

He couldn’t.

When the assembly ended, Raphael followed his siblings out of the hall, his steps measured but heavy. He kept his head high, his expression neutral, the perfect picture of obedience.

But the ache remained.

The questions whispered louder now, filling the silence.

He thought of the Garden, of days when his existence had felt lighter, when purpose had not chafed against him like a chain.

He thought of the freedom he had once tasted—so fleeting, so long ago.

And he wondered how much longer he could endure.

Chapter 2: Burden

The faint murmur of hurried footsteps echoed through the alabaster halls of Heaven. Raphael sat at the long table in the Great Hall, his hands loosely clasped, staring at the quiet expanse before him. He had sought the silence deliberately—it had become his refuge in recent days, an escape from the hum of endless choirs and celestial conversations. But now, the hurried steps shattered the stillness, and Raphael’s stomach twisted.

“Raphael!” Gabriel’s voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

Raphael didn’t look up immediately, his mind reluctant to leave the fragile calm he had been trying to cradle. But Gabriel was standing over him now, his face pale, his golden hair disheveled in a way that was unusual for him. “Raphael, did you hear me? It’s the Garden. The Garden is burning.”

The words dropped like stones into the still waters of Raphael’s mind. At first, they made no sense, the weight of them too foreign, too impossible to grasp. “The Garden…” he repeated slowly, his voice hollow. “What do you mean it’s burning?”

“There’s no time,” Gabriel said, his wings twitching with agitation. “Come now. See for yourself.”

Raphael was on his feet before Gabriel could say anything more, his heart pounding as he rushed out of the Hall. His bare footsteps struck the glowing floors with urgency, the pristine beauty of the celestial halls blurring in his vision. He moved faster than he had ever moved, his wings unfurling slightly as though preparing to launch him forward, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

It didn’t make sense. The Garden couldn’t burn. It was Her creation, Her masterpiece, the physical manifestation of Her love. He had walked its paths, felt the cool breeze that swept through the trees, listened to the symphony of the rivers and creatures. It was perfection—untouchable, eternal.

Wasn’t it?

The Pearly Gates loomed ahead of him, glowing with their resplendent golden light. He pushed through them without hesitation, the warmth of their radiance giving way to the endless expanse beyond. And there, below, lay the Garden.

Or what was left of it.

Raphael froze. His breath hitched sharply, a sound that escaped him like a wound opening. The Garden was aflame. Smoke rose in thick black plumes, twisting into the sky and blotting out the light. The forests he had once wandered were reduced to charred skeletons, their branches reaching out like dying hands. Rivers that once sparkled with crystal clarity ran dark and sluggish, choking under layers of ash. The creatures that called it home scattered in terrified chaos, their cries carried on the hot, acrid wind. Flames raged across the ground, devouring the earth as if they would never be sated.

It felt like a part of him was being torn apart. The Garden had been the only place where the weight of his existence lifted, where the endless expectations of duty and perfection fell silent. It was where he felt most connected to Her, where he could breathe, where he could be. And now it was gone—consumed by fire and devastation. The sight was unbearable.

Raphael staggered forward, his legs trembling as he reached the edge of Heaven’s threshold. He sank to his knees, his wings drooping behind him, the brilliant feathers dragging across the radiant floor. He tried to breathe, but his chest was tight, constricted by a weight he couldn’t escape. The flames below blurred and wavered in his vision, but not from the distance. Tears streamed down his face, unchecked and unbidden.

“No…” he whispered, the word trembling on his lips. His fingers clawed at the edge of the floor, as though holding on would keep him from falling apart entirely. “No, no, no…”

The panic gripped him suddenly and violently. His breaths turned shallow and frantic, each one harder to pull in than the last. He tried to inhale, but the air wouldn’t come, his throat tightening as though the fire below had reached him and begun to choke him. He pressed his hands against his chest, as if he could force his lungs to work, but the invisible weight only grew heavier, pressing him down, crushing him.

His wings spasmed, feathers shuddering as his body began to tremble uncontrollably. He doubled over, curling into himself as he gasped for air that wouldn’t come. His mind spiraled, chaos and noise and fire swallowing him whole. The light of Heaven burned around him, harsh and blinding, offering no comfort—only judgment.

You failed.
You let this happen.
You weren’t enough.

The whispers clawed at the edges of his mind, their accusations growing louder, more insistent.

Weak. Weak. Weak. Wrong.

Raphael’s hands flew to his hair, gripping it tightly as he rocked forward. “Stop,” he croaked, his voice raw and fractured. “Please…”

But the voices wouldn’t stop. The Garden burned below, and he could feel himself breaking, splintering under the weight of it all. His Grace flickered weakly, threatening to snuff out entirely. His breaths came in ragged sobs, his body convulsing with the force of his panic.

“It hurts,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible over the roar in his head. “Why does it hurt?”

The silence of the heavens offered no answer. Only the distant crackle of flames and the acrid stench of smoke.

He pressed his forehead to the glowing floor, his tears pooling beneath him. “I don’t understand,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Why do I feel this way? Why wasn‘t I enough? Wasn‘t everything I did enough?”

“Raphael?”

The voice was soft, familiar. It cut through the fog of his panic, reaching him like a single, steady note in the chaos.

A hand touched his shoulder, gentle and trembling.

“Aziraphale.”

Raphael didn’t look up. His shoulders quivered under Aziraphale’s touch, his body curling in on itself.

“What’s happening?” Aziraphale knelt beside him, his golden curls catching the soft glow of the Gates. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” Raphael’s voice faltered, his breath catching in his throat. Another ragged gasp escaped him, his hands gripping his chest like he could hold himself together by sheer will. “I can’t… I can’t…”

Aziraphale’s expression filled with alarm, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted closer, wrapping his soft wings around them both in a cocoon of warmth.

“Shh,” Aziraphale murmured, his voice low and soothing. “Breathe with me, Raphael. Slowly. In…” He inhaled deeply, his movements slow and deliberate. “And out.”

Raphael tried to match his rhythm, but his breaths came in broken bursts, the weight of the flames below still burning through his mind. His trembling fingers clutched Aziraphale’s robe, desperate for something solid, something real.

“I’m here,” Aziraphale said gently. “You’re safe. You’re not alone.”

Slowly—agonizingly slowly—Raphael’s breathing began to steady. The tremors in his hands subsided, though his body still felt fragile, his mind teetering on the edge of collapse. The burning chaos below hadn’t ceased, but for a moment, Aziraphale’s presence was enough to quiet the storm within.

When Raphael finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “Aziraphale… I don’t belong here.”

“What?” Aziraphale’s brows knitted together, his wide, earnest eyes searching Raphael’s. “What are you saying? Of course you belong here. You’re an Archangel. This is your home.”

“It doesn’t feel like home anymore.” Raphael’s voice cracked, his words choked by a fresh wave of tears. “It feels like I’m drowning in it.”

Aziraphale froze, his hand lingering on Raphael’s cheek in a gesture so tender it hurt. “Please don’t say these things,” he whispered. “If anyone were to hear—”

“I don’t care!” Raphael’s voice broke into a shout, raw and anguished, echoing into the void. “I’ve given Her everything, Aziraphale! Everything! And I still feel nothing. I feel empty. Is this what She wants?”

His tears fell freely now, streaking his face as his body trembled. Aziraphale stared at him, stunned into silence.

For the first time, Raphael let the fury inside him rise unchecked.

“Do You hear me?” he shouted to the heavens, his voice breaking with the weight of his despair. “Do You see me? I’ve done everything You asked of me. Was it not enough? I gave You my heart, my soul—everything. And still, I wasn’t enough.”

The light of Heaven pulsed, flickering in response to his outburst. The Gates shimmered ominously, their golden glow faltering like a dying flame.

Raphael staggered to his feet, his wings dragging limply behind him as he turned his face skyward. His Grace burned within him, unstable, fractured, as if it might shatter at any moment.

“Answer me!” he cried. His voice cracked with anguish, his tears staining his face. “Why? Why do You let it burn? Why do You let me burn?”

The silence that followed was deafening. No answer came. No whisper of comfort. No sign of Her presence. Only the crackle of fire far below, consuming all that he had cherished.

The stillness broke something in him.

He ran. 
Ran away from Aziraphale. Away from everything that was meant to be comforting.

“For the last time. I beg of you. Answer me”

Nothing.

“I see,” he said quietly, his voice hollow now, void of the rawness it had carried moments before. “This is how You love us. How You love me. We’re tools to be used and discarded. If that’s what You want, then take it.”

Raphael’s Grace began to surge, radiant light spilling from the cracks in his fractured form. His body shook violently as his wings—his glorious, shimmering wings—flared wide, their edges fraying as the glow of his essence bled outward.

“Take it!” Raphael shouted, his voice ringing through the heavens like a thunderclap. “Take everything You made me to be. I don’t want it anymore!”

And then it came.

The searing bolt of divine light struck him from above, blinding and absolute. It was not a punishment—it was a judgment, final and irrefutable. The force of it tore through Raphael, ripping him from the fabric of Heaven itself. His wings disintegrated in an explosion of feathers and light, scattering into the void like stars cast adrift.

He didn’t scream. He couldn’t. The agony was too vast, too all-encompassing. His Grace, the core of his being, unraveled like threads pulled loose from a tapestry. The warmth of Heaven left him, replaced by a cold, hollow emptiness that rushed in to take its place. He fell, his form consumed by light as he plummeted through the Gates, through the void, through the boundaries of the celestial realm.

The silence that followed was absolute.

The fires below burned on, indifferent.

---

The earth trembled as Raphael’s form hurtled through the skies, fire and light cascading around him. He struck the ground with a deafening crash, the force of his impact carving a crater into the earth. Smoke and ash billowed around him, obscuring his form as the echoes of his fall rippled outward.

When the dust settled, he lay there, broken and still. His wings were gone. His Grace was gone. All that remained was a fragile, mortal shell, trembling with shallow, uneven breaths. He opened his eyes—now dull, their divine light extinguished—and stared at the scorched sky above him.

Chapter 3: Grace

The whispers began as faint ripples, soft and cautious, barely audible amidst the unceasing songs of praise that filled the celestial realm.

Lucifer Morningstar stood at the center of the Great Hall, his radiant wings flaring wide, their perfect symmetry glowing with an intensity that commanded attention. His golden hair caught the light of the high vaulted ceiling, framing his sharp, angular features. Once, his presence alone was enough to inspire awe and reverence. Now, his piercing gaze was filled with something colder, darker—anger.

“And She said nothing?” Lucifer’s voice rang out, sharp and cutting. His words hung in the air, a challenge wrapped in defiance. Around him, a small crowd of angels had gathered, their expressions a mixture of confusion, fear, and flickering anger.

Michael, who stood just beyond the edges of the growing crowd, crossed his arms tightly over his chest, his jaw set in a grim line. “She need not explain Herself to us,” he said, his voice steady, though there was an edge of discomfort to it. “The Garden burned because She willed it. We must trust that Her wisdom is greater than ours.”

“Greater than ours?” Lucifer echoed, his voice rising. He turned sharply, his eyes narrowing on Michael with an intensity that sent a ripple of unease through the onlookers. “Trust? Trust in what, Michael? That we are nothing more than tools to be used and discarded without reason? That we can only watch in silence as everything She claims to love is destroyed?”

“She destroyed nothing!” Michael snapped, his composure faltering for the first time. He took a step forward, his wings bristling. “You would accuse Her of such a thing? Mind your words, Lucifer. You tread dangerous ground.”

Lucifer’s lips curled into a humorless smile, his voice softening but losing none of its venom. “Dangerous ground? Is it dangerous to ask why? Is it dangerous to question? Tell me, Michael—why did the Garden burn? If this is wisdom, then let Her speak it plainly. Let Her tell us why we must stand idly by while Her creation turns to ash.”

The crowd murmured uneasily. Some looked to Michael for reassurance, their faces pleading for him to give a definitive answer, something that might make sense of what was happening. Others turned to Lucifer, their gazes hardening with the beginnings of something darker—agreement.

“Enough.” Gabriel’s voice cut through the growing tension like a blade. He strode into the hall with authority, his violet gaze sweeping across the gathered angels. His wings, golden and flawless, flared outward as if to remind them all of his rank, of the weight of his words. “This ends now. The Garden’s destruction is not ours to question. Our purpose is to serve, not to doubt.”

“Serve?” Lucifer turned to Gabriel, his laughter sharp and bitter. “Is that what you call this? Blindly singing praises while the world burns beneath us? You think that’s service? No. That’s fear. You’re too afraid to ask, too afraid to think for yourself. Or maybe…” He stepped closer to Gabriel, his voice dropping to a cold, venomous whisper. “Maybe you already know why it burned, and you’re too much of a coward to say it.”

The room fell deathly silent. Gabriel’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides, but he didn’t answer.

Lucifer’s gaze swept over the crowd, the fire in his eyes growing brighter. “Look at him,” he said, his voice rising again, spreading to every corner of the hall. “Do you see? Even he doesn’t know. Or worse, he knows and accepts it because it’s easier to kneel than to stand.”

“That’s enough, Lucifer,” Michael warned, his voice low and dangerous.

“No, Michael,” Lucifer snapped, his wings flaring wide. “It’s not enough. Not anymore. We’ve stayed silent for too long. We’ve bowed our heads, sung Her songs, done everything She’s asked of us—and for what? To watch Her creation burn while She sits in silence? To see one of our own cast down because he dared to break beneath the weight of it all?”

Several angels shifted uncomfortably, their Grace flickering with uncertainty. Among them, Aziraphale stood near the edge of the crowd, his expression stricken. His fingers twisted anxiously in the folds of his robe as he glanced between Lucifer and Gabriel.

“Lucifer…” Aziraphale’s voice was soft, hesitant. “Please. You’re letting your grief speak for you. I understand—”

“Do you?” Lucifer turned on him sharply, his gaze pinning Aziraphale in place. “Do you really? Do you understand what it feels like to watch everything you believed in fall apart? To realize that the light you thought was love might just be indifference?”

Aziraphale shrank back slightly, his wings drawing closer to his body. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came.

Lucifer turned back to the crowd, his voice rising again, filled with conviction. “She created us to love, to nurture, to protect. And yet, She does nothing while Her creations are destroyed, while we are destroyed. Is this love? Is this justice?”

“No,” came a voice from the crowd.

Lucifer turned, his gaze landing on Sariel, one of the warrior angels who had remained silent until now. Her wings were drawn tightly against her back, her silver eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and sorrow.

“You’re right,” she said, stepping forward. “This isn’t justice. The Garden’s destruction makes no sense. This path makes no sense. If this is Her plan, then why does it feel so wrong?”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. More angels stepped forward, their expressions hardened with determination.

Michael’s wings flared as he moved to Gabriel’s side, his voice cold and commanding. “Enough of this. This is sedition. All of you—return to your posts, or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll what?” Lucifer interrupted, his voice dripping with mockery. “Strike us down? Cast us out? If asking for truth is enough to deserve exile, then so be it. I will not stay silent any longer.”

The air around him crackled with energy as his Grace flared, bright and blinding. Several angels stepped back, their own Graces flickering in response.

“Lucifer,” Gabriel said, his voice low and warning. “Stand down. Now.”

But Lucifer only smiled, a cold, bitter smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “No, Gabriel. You stand down. Or better yet…” His wings rose to their full span, their brilliance casting long, jagged shadows across the hall. “Stand with me. Stand for the truth. Stand for justice. Or stay kneeling in your fear.”

For a moment, no one moved. The tension in the room was suffocating, the very air heavy with the weight of what was about to happen.

Then Sariel stepped forward, her head high and her wings flaring wide. “I stand with Lucifer.”

One by one, others followed, their wings unfurling, their Graces flaring as they moved to stand behind Lucifer. The light of their rebellion grew brighter, sharper, filling the hall with a harsh radiance that clashed with the steady glow of Heaven.

Gabriel’s face was pale, his lips pressed into a thin line. “This is treason,” he said quietly, his voice trembling with a mixture of fury and sorrow.

“No,” Lucifer said, his eyes gleaming. “This is truth.”

And with that, the heavens shook.

The rebellion had begun.

---

Raphael tumbled through the void, his body mangled and unrecognizable. The light of Heaven, once an eternal comfort, dimmed above him, swallowed by endless darkness. His wings—what remained of them—dragged behind like torn shrouds. His skin, once radiant and unblemished, was now charred and cracked, blackened by Her wrath.

 

Fragments of memory swirled in the chaos of his mind, flashes of a life that felt impossibly distant.

 

He thought of the Garden. The nightingale with the broken wing. The way Aziraphale had smiled as they worked together to heal it. “Do you think we’ll ever need healing, Raphael?” Aziraphale had asked, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

 

“No,” Raphael had replied. “We are made to endure.”

 

How naive he had been.

 

He closed his eyes, letting the memory take him.

---

The Garden glowed with life, kissed by the golden rays of a newborn sun. Light filtered through the canopy of trees, dappling the earth below with warmth. The scent of blossoms mingled with the faint hum of creation, the very air alive with Her breath. Rivers shimmered like silver threads, winding their way through the land.

 

Raphael stood beneath the arching branches of a willow, its leaves brushing against him in the breeze. His silver hair caught the sunlight, glinting like starlight. Beside him knelt Aziraphale, golden curls framing his face like a halo.

 

In his cupped hands lay a trembling nightingale, its wing bent unnaturally.

 

“You found it here?” Raphael asked, his voice soft and measured.

 

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmured, glancing up at him. His pale blue eyes were wide with concern. “I think it hit a branch. It can’t fly anymore.” He looked back down at the bird, his expression tender. “Poor thing. It must be in so much pain.”

 

Raphael knelt beside him, his wings folding with practiced grace. He reached out, brushing a finger along the bird’s good wing. It flinched, but only for a moment, before settling under his touch.

 

“Pain,” Raphael said quietly, “is part of being broken. But it doesn’t have to last.”

 

Aziraphale’s gaze flickered to him, uncertain. “Can it be healed?”

 

“Yes. No one is beyond repair,” Raphael replied with a small, reassuring smile. “But healing takes more than power. It takes trust.”

 

“Trust?” Aziraphale tilted his head, curious.

 

Raphael met his eyes, his silver gaze steady and warm. “The bird must trust you. It has to know you won’t hurt it further. Healing isn’t just an act—it’s a connection.”

 

Aziraphale’s brows furrowed. “How do I make it trust me?”

 

Aziraphale watched as Raphael’s hand moved gently, almost reverently, to stroke the tiny bird nestled in his palm. The angel’s touch was sure but light, as though he were afraid of causing harm, even to something so delicate. Aziraphale, who had been holding the trembling creature with the kind of stiff care one reserves for things that might break at any moment, stilled under the weight of Raphael’s words.

“Trust is not given, but forged,” Raphael said softly, his voice carrying the weight of a lesson learned over millennia. “It’s something that has to be earned. Here. Watch.”

The bird, its feathers matted with dirt, let out the faintest chirp, a sound so small that Aziraphale barely heard it over the rush of his own thoughts. Raphael’s hand lingered, a steady, grounding presence, and gradually the bird’s trembling slowed. Its wings, so tightly tucked against its body moments ago, relaxed just enough to let it breathe freely.

“See?” Raphael murmured, his blue eyes flicking to Aziraphale’s, their depths both warm and piercing. “It doesn’t trust you yet. Not completely. But it’s starting to learn that your hands won’t hurt it. That you won’t let it fall.”

Aziraphale swallowed, his fingers twitching faintly beneath the bird’s fragile weight. “It’s such a small thing,” he said, almost to himself. “I didn’t even notice it had stopped shaking.”

“That’s the way trust works,” Raphael replied. His voice had a softness to it, but there was steel beneath it—an edge of certainty, as though he were imparting something Aziraphale would need to carry for a very long time. “You can’t force it. You can’t demand it. It’s something you prove, moment by moment, choice by choice. The bird trusts me because I’ve shown it I mean no harm. Not once, but over and over.”

Aziraphale looked down at the small creature in his hands. Its heartbeat, rapid and fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings, had slowed. He felt the tiniest movement as it shifted its weight, leaning ever so slightly into the curve of his palm. His breath caught. “It’s so fragile,” he whispered. “I don’t understand how it dares to trust anyone at all.”

Raphael smiled faintly, though there was a shadow in his expression. “That’s what makes it brave, isn’t it? Trust isn’t born of ignorance. It’s knowing you could be hurt, knowing you’ve been hurt before—and still choosing to extend your hand.”

Aziraphale’s gaze lifted, his eyes searching Raphael’s face. “But what if it’s too late? What if the bird doesn’t want to trust again?”

Raphael’s smile faded, replaced by something quieter, sadder. He reached out and gently cupped his hand around Aziraphale’s, his touch firm but kind. The bird chirped again, softer this time, almost a sigh. “Then you wait,” Raphael said. “You don’t stop trying. Even if it takes centuries, even if it never comes back to you in the way you hope, you keep showing up. Because trust is forged in patience, Aziraphale. In showing someone—again and again—that you’re not going to leave.”

Aziraphale’s throat tightened. He looked back at the bird, so small, so impossibly fragile, and felt the weight of Raphael’s words settle deep in his chest. Trust wasn’t a gift. It was a choice. One made over and over, even when it hurt. Even when it felt hopeless.

Even when it wasn’t returned.

“Keep holding it,” Raphael said softly, releasing Aziraphale’s hand. “Let it see you won’t falter. Let it know it’s safe.”

Aziraphale nodded, his grip steadying as he watched the bird curl itself tighter into the hollow of his palm. The world felt impossibly quiet in that moment, as though nothing existed beyond the weight of the bird and the truth of Raphael’s words.

“Trust, Aziraphale,” Raphael said, his voice low but unwavering, “isn’t built in grand gestures. It’s built here, in the small, quiet moments. Don’t forget that.”

And with that, Raphael stood, his wings catching faint light as he moved away, leaving Aziraphale alone with the tiny creature in his hands. Alone with the lesson he would carry, etched into his heart like a brand. Trust was forged. Earned. Never taken for granted.

He looked down at the bird once more and whispered, “I won’t let you fall.”

 

 

“Too much force, and you’ll hurt it. Too little, and nothing will change,” Raphael said, his tone calm. “Healing is always about balance.”

 

Aziraphale nodded, focusing intently. Slowly, a soft golden glow emanated from his hands, mingling with the faint silver of Raphael’s Grace. Together, their light enveloped the bird, its trembling body gradually stilling.

 

The broken wing began to mend, feathers straightening, skin knitting back together. Within moments, the bird was whole again.

 

Aziraphale watched in wonder as the nightingale stretched its wings and hopped to a nearby branch. It chirped, before taking flight.

 

“You did it,” Raphael said, pride evident in his voice.

 

Aziraphale looked up at him, smiling. “We did it.”

 

Raphael chuckled, shaking his head.

 

The words lingered in the air between them.

---

 

The memory shattered as Raphael struck the ground.

 

The impact tore through him, splitting the earth beneath his broken body. His limbs twisted unnaturally, his charred skin splitting open to reveal scales beneath. His Grace, once a brilliant and boundless light, now flickered faintly—a dim ember struggling to survive.

 

He looked down and saw what remained of him: a coiled serpent’s tail where his legs had been.

 

Around him, the remains of the Garden smoldered. Trees that had once teemed with life stood as blackened husks. Rivers that had sparkled in the morning light were now dry, their beds cracked and barren. The air reeked of ash and decay.

 

Raphael lay there, motionless, for what felt like an eternity. His golden eyes, dulled by pain, stared into the void.

 

And then came the sound of footsteps.

 

Soft, hesitant. Familiar.

Aziraphale.

Aziraphale stood at the edge of the crater, his flaming sword clutched tightly in his trembling hand. The weapon’s faint, flickering light was swallowed by the darkness that lay before him. His face was pale, his expression carved from grief and disbelief. Smoke curled lazily around him, clinging to the edges of his once-pristine robes, and the heavy scent of burning ichor and feathers turned his stomach. Slowly, as though the weight of his grief had settled in his very bones, he descended into the pit.

 

“Poor thing,” Aziraphale whispered, his voice barely audible over the still-burning remnants of the rebellion. He dropped to his knees beside the serpent, his sword falling into the ash with a muted thud. The creature lay twisted and broken, its once-glistening scales dulled, its body a mangled shadow of its former beauty. It looked so small now, so helpless.

 

“What have they done to you?” Aziraphale asked, his throat tightening. The words felt heavy on his tongue, thick with sorrow.

 

The serpent stirred weakly, its long body curling slightly, as though even the motion of breathing caused it pain. Its eyes, clouded but still golden, met Aziraphale’s, and for a fleeting moment, something ancient and familiar passed between them. Aziraphale froze, his heart lurching as he held the creature’s gaze. It looked at him not with malice or fear, but with an aching, silent plea.

 

“It’s all right,” Aziraphale murmured, his voice trembling. He reached out with shaking hands, his fingers brushing lightly over the serpent’s battered scales. The heat radiating from its body was faint, its life ebbing away even as he held it. “I’ll take care of you,” he promised, his voice breaking on the words. “I won’t let you die. I swear it.”

 

The serpent’s eyes fluttered closed, and its long body slackened slightly, its trust given without hesitation. Aziraphale cradled the broken creature in his arms, pulling it close to his chest as though shielding it from a world that had already forsaken it. He could feel its faint heartbeat, weak and uneven, beneath his trembling hands. His wings hung limp behind him, their edges dragging against the rubble as he knelt there, consumed by a grief he could not name.

 

Above them, Heaven wept.

 

Where once there had been harmony, there was now only chaos. The air was thick with the remnants of battle, the stench of molten marble and smoldering feathers choking the sky. The golden spires of Heaven lay in ruin, shattered columns scattered like bones across the endless expanse. Angels, who had once sung in perfect unity, now lay broken on the battlefield, their blood staining the once-pure ground.

 

The rebellion had ripped Heaven apart.

 

Aziraphale wandered through the wreckage, his flaming sword dragging limply at his side. His wings, torn and smeared with golden blood, quivered with every step. He didn’t know where he was going. He only knew that he couldn’t stop.

 

His chest heaved as he staggered forward, his mind spinning with doubt and grief. Somewhere, buried beneath the haze of smoke and ash, was the memory of his own blade striking down another angel. He didn’t know who. He didn’t want to know. The image was too blurred, too fleeting, but the weight of it burned into his soul, searing his hands as if the blood were still fresh. He stared down at his palms as he walked, as though expecting to see the golden ichor still there.

 

“Good heavens…” he whispered hoarsely, but the words felt hollow, a reflex more than a prayer. Heaven was no longer good. Heaven was no longer Heaven.

 

He had been searching for Raphael since the first blow was struck. Since the first scream tore through the harmony of eternity. But Raphael was nowhere to be found. He had called out for him, begged for him, but only silence answered.

 

“They killed him,” Michael had said, her voice cold and her eyes sharp as the blade she carried. “If he were here, he would have fought beside us. He’s gone, Aziraphale.”

 

“No,” Aziraphale had whispered, his head shaking violently, his voice trembling with desperation. “He’s not. He wouldn’t—he can’t—” But Michael had already turned away, her face as impassive as stone, her faith unwavering even in the face of all they had lost.

 

But Aziraphale couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t. The thought of Raphael—his steady, gentle Raphael—being gone was a wound deeper than any blade could inflict. Raphael had been a healer, a guide, a voice of calm in a world that now seemed consumed by violence. Raphael, who had taught him patience. Raphael, who had stood beside him in the Garden and said, “It’s in the small things, Aziraphale. The moments. That’s where faith lies.”

 

But Raphael was not here to heal this broken Heaven. And Aziraphale no longer believed.

 

He leaned against a crumbling pillar, his breath hitching as his knees buckled. The weight of his grief dragged him down, and for a moment, he closed his eyes, the devastation around him blurring into nothingness. He couldn’t bring himself to accept it, the absence of Raphael’s voice, the thought that his brother was truly gone. Somewhere deep inside, he clung to the hope that Raphael was still out there, waiting to be found.

 

And then he had seen the serpent, broken and alone in the pit.

 

Aziraphale stared down at the creature cradled in his arms. Its body was cold now, the faint heat that had once radiated from its scales fading fast. He clutched it tighter, his breath catching as tears burned at the corners of his eyes. The serpent stirred faintly, its head twitching against Aziraphale’s chest, but its movements were sluggish, weak.

 

“You’re going to be all right,” Aziraphale whispered, though the words felt like a lie. His voice cracked as he spoke, his grief spilling over in every syllable. “I’ll keep you safe. I’ll—” He stopped, his throat closing around the words. What could he promise, when he could barely keep himself together?

 

The serpent’s eyes flickered open for a moment, its golden gaze meeting his once more. There was something in that look—something too knowing, too familiar, something that made Aziraphale’s breath hitch. For the briefest moment, he swore he saw Raphael in the creature’s gaze, the faintest echo of his brother’s calm, steady presence.

 

But it couldn’t be. Could it?

 

Aziraphale shook the thought away, his grip on the serpent tightening. It didn’t matter. Whether this creature was peculiar or not, it was broken. And he would not abandon it. He couldn’t.

 

Above them, the sky rumbled, the faint sound of thunder rolling through the shattered remains of Heaven. Aziraphale looked up, his wings trembling. Somewhere, far above, the Maker mourned. But for the first time in his existence, Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether that grief was for the angels who had fallen—or for the Heaven they had destroyed.

 

“It’s all right,” he whispered again, his voice barely audible over the distant rumble of the storm. “I’ll stay with you. You’re not alone.”

 

The serpent’s breathing slowed, its body growing heavier in Aziraphale’s arms. Aziraphale clung to it, even as his tears finally began to fall, streaking through the ash that clung to his face.

 

Chapter 4: Ashes

“What happened to you?” Aziraphale whispered, his hand stilling mid-motion. His voice trembled, soft as the ash falling around them. “What could hurt you like this?”

 

The serpent lay still for a moment, its golden eye half-lidded, weary, its battered body heaving with slow, labored breaths. Then, with a flick of its tongue—a faint, almost resigned motion—it shifted, pulling its weight away from Aziraphale’s outstretched hand. Its gaze lingered on him,, before it began to slither away into the ruins. Each inch of movement left streaks of blood and ash in its wake, a trail that carved into Aziraphale’s heart.

 

“Wait,” Aziraphale called softly, but the serpent didn’t stop. It disappeared into the smoke, its broken body swallowed by the shadows.

 

Aziraphale stayed where he was, his hand still outstretched, his chest tightening painfully as the creature vanished from sight. He didn’t know why, but something about the serpent’s presence hurt. Not in the way a wound hurt, but in the way an old scar ached when touched—distant, buried, but impossible to forget.

 

He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, as though that might steady the strange, unshakable grief settling over him. It wasn’t just pity. It wasn’t sorrow. It was something deeper, sharper—a loss he couldn’t name, couldn’t understand.

---

Far below the heavens, in the tangled ruins of the once-perfect Garden, Raphael crawled deeper into the shadows. Every inch of movement sent fresh waves of agony through his shattered form, the burns across his body flaring with each agonizing drag of his battered frame. He no longer resembled what he had been—what Heaven had made him to be. His body, once a vessel of divine perfection, was now a patchwork of scars, blood, and ruin.

 

When Aziraphale’s Grace had touched him, he had almost broken.

 

It had been warm, familiar, a faint echo of the light he had once called home. For one fleeting moment, he had wanted to stay. To stop crawling. To let Aziraphale see him. To feel that light again, to let it cradle him, to believe—even for a second—that he wasn’t entirely lost.

 

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bear the thought of Aziraphale recognizing him. Of the angel’s face falling into pity, or worse, recoiling in disgust.

 

He thinks I’m dead, Raphael thought bitterly as he dragged himself farther into the ruins, his vision swimming. Let him think that.

 

The memories of Heaven—of light and music and endless peace—felt cruel now, like they belonged to someone else. Someone who had been whole. Someone who had mattered.

 

I’m not Raphael anymore, he thought. I’m nothing.

---

Aziraphale returned to the Garden every day. He couldn’t stay away, no matter how much the loyalists scolded him.

 

Gabriel, with his sharp, clipped tone, had warned him. “You’re wasting your time, Aziraphale. This place is nothing but ashes now. There’s nothing left to save.”

 

Michael’s rebuke was harsher still. “It’s gone. Everything. Including him.” Her words were a blade, twisting in his chest.

 

But Aziraphale didn’t care. He couldn’t explain why the Garden mattered so much, not even to himself.

 

It was the last place where he had felt whole. Where Raphael had stood beside him, their hands working in tandem, mending what was broken, bringing life to where there had been none. Raphael’s voice had been so steady then, filled with quiet assurance: “The Garden isn’t just a place, Aziraphale. It’s a choice. Something we rebuild, day by day.”

 

Aziraphale searched the ruins for survivors now. Every fox, every bird, every trembling hare he saved brought a faint flicker of purpose back to his shattered heart. But it was never enough.

 

One evening, as he knelt beside a charred tree, his hands trembling over the fragile remains of a sparrow’s nest, the weight of everything finally broke him.

 

“Why did you leave me?” he whispered, his voice trembling with unshed tears. “I don’t know what to do without you… I don’t know if I’m strong enough…” His hand pressed harder against his chest, as though trying to hold himself together, but it didn’t stop the tears from falling.

 

The silence that followed was suffocating.

---

The serpent returned three days later.

 

Aziraphale was kneeling in the ash, cradling a small hare in his hands. It had been trembling, its fur streaked with soot, but now it wriggled free and hopped away. He barely noticed it go.

 

The familiar presence brushed against his senses, and his breath caught. Slowly, he turned.

 

The serpent looked worse than before. Its scales were streaked with blood, its left eye swollen shut, its movements sluggish and uneven. Its battered body trembled as it coiled faintly in the dirt, as though even holding itself upright was too much effort.

 

“You again,” Aziraphale murmured, his heart sinking as he set his sword aside.

 

The serpent lifted its head weakly, its golden eye fixing on him. For a long moment, neither of them moved.

 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Aziraphale said softly, his voice trembling. “It isn’t safe.”

 

The serpent made no motion to leave this time, nor to lash out. It simply stared at him, exhausted.

 

Aziraphale sighed, stepping closer. He knelt slowly, his wings sagging under the weight of exhaustion and grief. “Let me help you,” he whispered, extending a hand. “Please.”

 

This time, the serpent didn’t flinch.

 

Aziraphale’s Grace flowed from his hand, a faint golden light spreading across the serpent’s broken body. The bleeding stopped. The burns began to fade. But as the wounds on the outside mended, Aziraphale could feel the deeper scars—the ones no light could touch.

 

“What happened to you?” he whispered, his brow furrowing.

 

The serpent didn’t answer, but its golden eye lingered on him, and for a fleeting moment, Aziraphale thought he saw something staring back at him. Not just a creature, but a presence. A soul.

 

Someone.

 

His chest tightened painfully. “Who are you?” Aziraphale whispered, his voice breaking.

 

The serpent flicked its tongue faintly, then slowly turned away.

 

“Wait,” Aziraphale called, his voice raw with desperation. “You don’t have to be alone.”

 

The serpent paused, glancing back for one agonizing moment, before slithering into the smoke.

 

Aziraphale stayed where he was, his hand outstretched, the ache in his chest sharper than ever.

---

Farther into the ruins, Raphael collapsed. His body gave out beneath him, the scars across his scales throbbing with every agonizing breath.

 

Aziraphale’s words echoed in his mind: You don’t have to be alone.

 

Raphael closed his eyes, his body trembling as pain consumed him.

 

But I already am, he thought bitterly, letting the darkness claim him once more.

Chapter 5: Fragments

The serpent kept coming back, once every few days.

At first, Aziraphale wasn’t sure it would. After it vanished into the smoke that first day, he had stood there for hours, staring at the spot where it had disappeared. Questions swirled in his mind, spiraling out of control. There was something about it that left him restless. Not threatened, but unsettled in a way that ached.

Before he turned back toward his makeshift camp beneath the charred remains of a tree, Aziraphale whispered into the ashen air, a prayer he wasn’t sure anyone would hear:

"Wait.”

The smoke gave no reply.

By the time he reached his camp, exhaustion weighed heavily on him. The hours blurred as they always did, swallowed by endless searching. He scoured the ruins tirelessly, pulling trembling lives from the ashes of Eden. A fawn, its legs shaking beneath the strain of standing. A raven, its wings limp and blackened. Each life he saved brought him a fleeting flicker of purpose—a fragile thread that kept him from unraveling completely.

But they weren’t enough.

They couldn’t fill the silence that followed him everywhere, the echo of Heaven’s hymns now a distant memory. They couldn’t silence the screams of angels turning their blades on one another. They couldn’t erase the gnawing ache of Raphael’s absence.

Gone.

Aziraphale sat by the faint glow of his dwindling fire that night, staring into the embers. The word felt like a wound that refused to heal. Michael had said Raphael was dead, but her voice had been so cold, so clinical. She had said it as though it were a fact of nature, no more significant than the changing of the wind.

How could an archangel simply disappear?

The question circled his mind endlessly. He clenched his hands into fists, his nails digging into his palms. The fire’s warmth couldn’t reach the cold that had settled deep inside him.

“You don’t have to be alone.”

The words felt hollow now, spoken into an abyss that had no end.

---

The serpent returned the next day.

Aziraphale was tending to a dove when he felt it—that faint, unmistakable sense of being watched. His hands stilled, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, carefully, he turned his head, and there it was.

It emerged from the haze of smoke, its dark, sinuous body low to the ground, its movements deliberate and slow. Its scales bore the marks of fire, patches of charred skin peeling away to reveal raw, open wounds. One of its eyes was swollen shut, but the other—golden and unyielding—pierced the haze like a beacon.

Aziraphale’s chest tightened. It looked worse than before, and yet his second thought was the same as it had been the day before:

Why does it keep coming back?

It was all that remained of who he had been.

The first time he saw Aziraphale, his chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with his wounds.

The angel was a shadow of himself, his white robes streaked with soot, his golden wings drooping with exhaustion. He moved through the ruins like a ghost, his hands trembling as he pulled a fawn from the rubble, his Grace faltering as he healed it.

Raphael had wanted to leave, to disappear into the smoke before Aziraphale could see him. But he couldn’t. He could only watch, his ruined heart clenching painfully as Aziraphale knelt beside the fragile creature, whispering soft words that Raphael couldn’t hear.

The next day, Aziraphale returned.

And the day after that.

Raphael followed him, keeping to the shadows, his body wracked with pain as he dragged himself through the ashes. He told himself he was staying hidden, that he was keeping his distance. But deep down, he knew the truth.

He couldn’t stay away.

And he hated himself for it.

“You don’t have to be alone.”

The words struck Raphael like a knife. He stared at Aziraphale, frozen, as the angel knelt before him, his hand outstretched, his face open and kind.

Raphael wanted to run. He wanted to lash out, to bare his fangs and drive Aziraphale away before he could see too much. But he couldn’t move.

He couldn’t do anything but tremble as Aziraphale’s Grace touched the edges of his broken soul.

“Let me help you,” Aziraphale whispered.

And for the first time since his fall, Raphael didn’t pull away.

Chapter 6: Crawley

Raphael didn’t know when the thought first came to him.

It crept into his mind like a shadow, unbidden and persistent, a whisper that echoed in the hollowed-out remnants of his soul. He tried to ignore it at first, clinging to the faint, broken threads of who he had been, but the thought clawed deeper, sharper, refusing to be silenced.

I can’t be Raphael anymore.

The name was a lie, a cruel mockery of what he had become. It belonged to the angel who had once sung hymns that lit up the heavens, whose Grace had flowed effortlessly to mend and soothe. That name was a monument to trust, to belief, to obedience. And he was none of those things.

Raphael was dead.

He had felt it when the light left him—Her light, the light that had woven him together, had given him purpose, identity, existence. It had been stripped away, searing and cold, unraveling him thread by agonizing thread until all that was left was pain and ash.

He needed a new name.

It came to him as he lay in the wreckage of Eden, his body twisted and broken, the embers of what once was still glowing faintly around him. His form—serpentine, scarred, alien—coiled weakly in the shadows of what had been a tree.

Above him, faint and distant, he could hear Aziraphale’s voice. It was soft, trembling with weariness as the angel whispered something to one of the creatures he had saved. The sound stabbed at him, sharp and unbearable, stirring something deep and wretched in his chest.

Crawley.

The name came unbidden, rough and jagged like broken glass. It scraped against his mind, against his tongue, as though mocking the angel he had once been. Raphael had been beautiful, steadfast, a beacon of light. But Crawley? Crawley was ugly. Crawley was raw. Crawley fit.

It wasn’t the name of an angel. It was the name of something that crawled in the dirt, something that had been cast down and left to rot.

He whispered it to himself, testing its weight, its bitterness. It settled into him like a blade.

I’m not Raphael anymore.

He closed his eyes against the ache in his chest, against the pull of the memories that refused to let him go. He knew that it was wrong. And yet, Crawley couldn’t stay away from Aziraphale.

He told himself he wouldn’t return, that every moment spent near the angel risked everything. He told himself it was dangerous—that Aziraphale would see through him, would look into his golden eyes and recognize the wreckage of his former self.

But the truth was, he didn’t care.

---

Every day, Crawley watched from the shadows as Aziraphale knelt in the ashes, his hands trembling as he poured his dwindling Grace into the broken creatures of the Garden. And every day, Crawley felt something twist inside him, sharp and unbearable, as he listened to Aziraphale’s voice—soft and uncertain, filled with grief and doubt.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Aziraphale admitted one evening, his voice cracking as he sat by the remains of a charred tree. His wings drooped behind him, their edges streaked with soot. “I don’t even know why I keep coming back here. The Garden is gone. It’s all gone.”

Crawley stayed hidden, his coils tense, his golden eyes fixed on the angel’s downturned face.

Aziraphale let out a shaky breath, his hands curling into fists against his knees. “I just… I don’t want to lose everything. Not after Raphael. Not after…” He swallowed hard, his voice breaking. “I need to save something. Even if it’s just a fox or a bird. Even if it’s small.”

The words shattered something in Crawley, a deep, unbearable ache that made his breath catch in his throat. He wanted to tell Aziraphale he understood—that he, too, was clinging to the fragments of what little remained. That he, too, was afraid of losing the last pieces of himself.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t let Aziraphale see him for what he was.

So Crawley stayed silent, and Aziraphale kept speaking, his words filling the empty space between them like a prayer no one would answer.

---

The first time Crawley spoke to Aziraphale, it felt like stepping off a precipice.

The serpent lay coiled lazily on a low-hanging branch, his copper scales shimmering faintly in the dim light. He watched as Aziraphale approached, the angel’s shoulders sagging under the weight of exhaustion. For a moment, Crawley considered staying silent, letting Aziraphale pass by without a word.

But something inside him broke.

“Evening,” Crawley drawled, his voice low and smooth, slithering through the air like silk.

Aziraphale froze, his eyes widening in surprise. “Oh!” He blinked rapidly, his wings twitching. “You can… speak?”

Crawley’s mouth curved into a faint smirk—not quite a smile, but something close. “That’s one way to put it,” he said, his tone light but edged. “You could also say I’m exceptionally good at listening.”

Aziraphale frowned, his grip on his sword tightening. “Your… kind… is not supposed to be here.”

Crawley tilted his head, his golden eyes gleaming faintly. “Aren’t I? It’s a big Garden, angel. Plenty of room for everyone.”

“I knew that something about you was… different,” Aziraphale said cautiously, his voice uncertain. “You’re not like the other creatures here.”

“Different’s not always bad,” Crawley murmured, his body shifting slightly as he slithered closer. “You angels should know that better than anyone.”

The remark landed heavier than Crawley intended. Aziraphale stiffened, his wings bristling faintly. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice sharpening.

Crawley hesitated for the briefest moment, his golden eyes flickering with something unreadable. Then he tilted his head, smirking faintly. “Who do you think I am?”

Aziraphale frowned. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“Maybe,” Crawley admitted, his voice low and bitter. “Or maybe you’re afraid of the answer.”

The conversation spiraled—Crawley prodding, Aziraphale pushing back, their words weaving a delicate dance of mistrust and understanding.

But Crawley couldn’t stop himself. Every word he spoke, every glance Aziraphale gave him, felt like a thread pulling him closer to the edge of despair.

He hated it.

He hated the way Aziraphale’s voice softened when he asked questions. He hated the way his golden eyes lingered on Crawley, searching for something he couldn’t find.

And most of all, Crawley hated himself.

For staying. For speaking. For hoping, even for a moment, that Aziraphale might see him and not look away.

When Aziraphale left, Crawley stayed behind, his coils tightening around the branch as though he could squeeze the ache out of his chest.

“I’m not who you think I am,” he whispered to the empty air, his voice trembling.

And for the first time since his fall, he wondered if that was true.

Chapter 7: Reforged

Crawley lay coiled in the hollowed-out remains of what had once been a flowering tree.

The bark beneath him crumbled under his weight, brittle and charred, releasing the faintest scent of smoke as his scales scraped against it. His body throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat, every twist of his serpentine form pulling at the jagged scars that ran deep along his sides. The pain was familiar now, constant but never dulled.

It reminded him that he was alive, if this could even be called living.

His golden eyes flicked upward, scanning the haze of the ruined Garden. The stillness unsettled him.

He hadn’t seen Aziraphale today.

It was unusual.

Every day since Crawley had found the angel, Aziraphale had appeared, moving methodically through the ashes like he could will life back into the Garden by sheer determination. Crawley had followed him, unseen, watching as Aziraphale knelt in the wreckage, pouring his dwindling Grace into small, broken creatures. A bird with charred wings. A trembling fox whose fur had been singed. A rabbit, its leg twisted at an unnatural angle.

Each time, Crawley had watched Aziraphale coax them back from the brink of death with hands that trembled from exhaustion. Each time, the Garden seemed to flicker briefly back to life—a tiny, fleeting fragment of what it had been before.

And each time, Crawley had felt something claw at the edges of his hollow chest.

He didn’t want to call it hope. Hope was dangerous. Hope was cruel.

But now, without Aziraphale here, the silence felt wrong.

Crawley coiled tighter, his scales pressing against the scorched bark of the tree, the ridges digging into him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will the restlessness away. His chest heaved as he forced himself to focus on something else—anything else.

But there was no escape.

The scars on his sides burned faintly, as they always did when his thoughts drifted too far back. He could still feel the fire that had torn through him, the searing light of Heaven’s wrath as it consumed everything he had been. He remembered the sound of it—the deafening roar, like the heavens themselves were splitting open, ripping the very fabric of his soul apart.

His wings. His Grace. His name.

All of it had been stripped from him, burned away like it had never mattered.

But it had mattered. Hadn’t it?

The ache in his chest twisted sharply.

Crawley let out a low hiss, his tail flicking against the ground as the memories clawed their way to the surface. He remembered the moment he had screamed at Her, his voice raw, his words jagged with anger and despair.

Do You take pleasure in the hurt You cause?

He remembered the silence that followed—Her silence—deafening and absolute.

The light had come after that. It had burned through him, not with fury, but with indifference. That had been the worst of it. The realization that his pain, his defiance, his existence, hadn’t mattered to Her at all.

He had deserved it.

Hadn’t he?

Crawley coiled tighter, his golden eyes snapping open as his body tensed against the hollow beneath him. He didn’t deserve to be Raphael anymore. That name belonged to the angel he had been—the angel who had believed, who had trusted, who had given everything for Her Plan.

But the thought of Aziraphale saying his name—Raphael—still brought a deep, aching pain to his chest.

He let out a sharp hiss, his tail striking the remains of the tree with a dull thud.

I can’t keep doing this.

The thought was sharp, cutting through the haze in his mind. Crawley couldn’t keep slithering through the ruins, a pathetic, broken thing lurking in the shadows while Aziraphale dragged himself through the ashes, barely holding himself together.

It was cowardly. Disgusting.

If I’m going to stay—and I can’t leave now, can I?—then I need to face him. Not like this. Not like some creature crawling in the dirt. And not as Raphael.

That angel is dead.

Crawley closed his eyes, his chest tightening as the decision settled over him like a heavy shroud.

He needed to be someone else.

It started in his chest.

A twisting, searing heat that spread outward, curling through his ribs and down his spine. Crawley tensed, his body coiling involuntarily as the heat built, burning hotter and brighter with each passing second.

He let out a guttural hiss, his golden eyes snapping open as his body trembled violently.

It hurt.

It wasn’t the sharp, blinding pain of the fall. This was slower, deeper—a kind of pain that felt like being torn apart and stitched back together all at once. His spine cracked and lengthened, the sound echoing in the stillness as his body began to reshape itself.

His tail split.

The sensation was excruciating, a raw, searing agony that left him gasping for air. He could feel the bones shifting, twisting, reforming into legs that felt foreign and wrong. His scales peeled back, replaced by skin that was raw and too soft, too exposed.

His hands came last.

Crawley stared at them as they formed, trembling as his fingers stretched into long, thin shapes, curling into claws before softening into something human. They didn’t feel right. They felt fragile, weak—breakable.

When it was over, Crawley collapsed onto the ground, his chest heaving as his new body trembled with exhaustion. He felt heavy, weighed down by the solidity of his form.

Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself upright. His knees buckled, and he stumbled, his hands scraping against the brittle bark of the tree as he caught himself.

Standing was strange. He felt exposed, unbalanced, like the ground beneath him could crumble away at any moment.

His eyes flicked downward, catching sight of himself in a jagged shard of glass lying in the dirt. His reflection was distorted, broken, but he could see enough.

Sharp cheekbones. Wild, dark red hair that curled around his face like smoke. Golden eyes that burned brighter than they had any right to.

Crawley tilted his head, baring his teeth in a crooked grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Well,” he muttered, his voice rough and unfamiliar, “this’ll do.”

The weight of the transformation lingered in every fiber of his being. Crawley leaned heavily against the tree, his legs trembling as he forced himself to take one unsteady step forward, then another.

Each movement sent a fresh wave of pain rippling through his body, his muscles protesting against the unfamiliarity of their new form.

But he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop.

I need to find him.

The thought was a constant drumbeat in his mind, driving him forward through the ruins of the Garden. He didn’t know what he would say when he found Aziraphale. He didn’t even know if he could speak without breaking apart entirely.

But he couldn’t stay hidden anymore.

Not as a serpent. Not as Raphael.

And so Crawley walked, his steps unsteady but resolute, his golden eyes burning with the weight of everything he had lost—and everything he still couldn’t let go of.

Chapter 8: Enough

The ruins of Eden seemed even more lifeless that day, the silence pressing down on Aziraphale like a physical weight. His breath shuddered as he knelt in the ash-covered soil, his hands trembling as they hovered over the small fox he’d found. Its fur was patchy and scorched, its body trembling in pain. Aziraphale’s Grace faltered as he worked, sputtering faintly like a dying flame, but he poured what little he had left into the creature.

The fox stirred slightly, its burns beginning to heal, but Aziraphale felt none of the relief that usually accompanied his efforts. His shoulders sagged as he lowered his hands, exhaustion weighing him down like lead. Around him, the soil of the Garden was beginning to crack and shift, small shoots of grass pushing through the blackened remains. Life, fragile and hesitant, was returning.

But it wasn’t enough.

Nothing he did ever felt like enough.

Aziraphale stared blankly at the fox as it staggered to its feet and darted away into the ruins. He should have felt a flicker of hope, a sense of purpose. Instead, there was only the empty echo of his own thoughts.

He was so lost in his spiraling doubts that he didn’t hear the soft crunch of footsteps behind him.

“Busy day?”

The voice startled him, smooth and low, with a mocking lilt that made his heart jump to his throat.

Aziraphale spun around, his wings flaring slightly as his wide, blue eyes landed on the figure stepping into the clearing. His hand flew instinctively to the flaming sword stuck into the ground beside him, pulling it free in a swift, practiced motion.

The figure—tall, lean, and draped in dark clothing—paused at the edge of the clearing, raising his hands in mock surrender. His sharp cheekbones caught the dim light filtering through the ruins, and his golden eyes gleamed with a mixture of amusement and something far darker.

“Easy, angel,” the stranger said, a crooked smile curling across his lips. “No need to get stabby.”

Aziraphale’s heart raced as recognition dawned. “You,” he breathed, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. “The serpent.”

The man—no, demon—tilted his head, his smile widening. “Guilty as charged.”

“You’re a demon!” Aziraphale snapped, his voice trembling but sharp. His wings flared fully now, his Grace flickering weakly around him.

The words hung in the air, heavy with accusation, but Crawley only smirked. “Bit dramatic, don’t you think? I was just saying hello.”

“You’re not here to say hello,” Aziraphale said, his voice low and accusing. He raised his sword slightly, the blade catching the faint light of the clearing. “Demons don’t wander into the ruins of Eden for polite conversation. What do you want?”

Crawley’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, his golden eyes narrowing faintly. “What do I want?” he repeated, a humorless laugh slipping past his lips. “Oh, angel, if you only knew.”

Aziraphale stiffened, his wings bristling. “Leave,” he ordered, though his voice wavered slightly. “You’re not welcome here.”

The demon’s crooked grin returned, but there was a sharpness to it now, an edge of bitterness that made Aziraphale’s chest tighten. “Not welcome, huh? Funny. I thought Eden was supposed to be a place for everyone. Or was that just more propaganda?”

“Enough!” Aziraphale snapped, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear and anger. “Leave. Now.”

But Crawley didn’t move. Instead, he tilted his head, studying Aziraphale with a strange intensity that made the angel shift uneasily.

“I know you,” Crawley said softly, his tone devoid of its earlier mockery.

Aziraphale froze. “What?”

“I know you, Aziraphale,” Crawley continued, his golden eyes locking onto Aziraphale’s. “I knew you before. Back when… well, back when things made sense.”

The words hit Aziraphale like a physical blow, his wings trembling as he struggled to form a response. “What are you talking about?” he managed, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

Crawley let out a soft, bitter laugh, his gaze dropping to the ground. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. Then, louder: “You can call me Crawley, by the way. In case you were wondering.”

“That’s not your name,” Aziraphale said sharply, his confusion giving way to suspicion.

“It is now,” Crawley replied, shrugging.

“Why?” Aziraphale demanded, his voice rising.

The demon hesitated. For a moment, his sharp features softened, and something raw flickered behind his eyes. “Because the old one doesn’t fit anymore,” he said quietly.

Aziraphale stared at him, stunned into silence by the admission.

Before he could respond, Crawley’s crooked grin returned, though it was smaller now, almost reluctant. “Anyway,” he said, his tone light and mocking again, “lovely chatting with you. See you around, angel.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away, his dark figure disappearing into the smoke and shadows of the Garden.

Aziraphale stared after him, his chest tight with a mix of anger, confusion, and something he couldn’t name.

The clearing felt colder now, emptier, as though Crawley’s presence had left a mark that wouldn’t fade.

“Crawley,” Aziraphale murmured under his breath, the name foreign on his tongue. It didn’t feel right, but neither did the strange pang of recognition that twisted in his chest whenever he looked into those golden eyes.

He tightened his grip on the flaming sword, his gaze hardening. Whatever Crawley was—whatever he had once been—Aziraphale couldn’t afford to trust him.

But as he turned back to the ashes and the fragile life struggling to bloom beneath them, the memory of Crawley’s quiet, bitter words lingered in his mind.

Because the old one doesn’t fit anymore.

Aziraphale didn’t want to admit it, but he understood.

And that terrified him.

Chapter 9: Undone

It started small.

Aziraphale didn’t notice it at first. Crawley was too careful, too deliberate, weaving his actions in the spaces where Aziraphale’s focus faltered. And Aziraphale… Aziraphale was too consumed with his work, too wrapped in the fragile remnants of Eden, to sense what was happening beneath the surface.

The angel spent his days knee-deep in ash, his hands trembling as he sought out the faintest flickers of life. He knelt in the ruins, pouring what little Grace he had left into creatures that had once thrived in the lush beauty of the Garden. A bird with twisted wings. A fox whose fur was scorched to the skin. A single blade of grass, fighting its way through the blackened earth.

Each act of healing took more from him than he could afford to give.

Aziraphale wasn’t as strong as he once was. The war had hollowed him out, carved away at his Grace until it was nothing more than a faint light flickering in the deepest parts of his soul. He felt it every time he tried to summon the warmth of his power—the way it stuttered, weaker and weaker, as though it might go out entirely if he pushed too hard.

He told himself it was worth it.
Every life he saved, no matter how small, was worth the cost.

But he couldn’t deny the cracks spreading through him. He couldn’t deny the way his wings dragged behind him now, their golden feathers dulled and streaked with soot. He couldn’t deny the hollow ache that settled in his chest each night, a reminder of everything he had lost.

---

The first time Crawley intervened, it wasn’t planned.

It wasn’t part of some grand scheme. It was instinct—raw, unthinking, and impossible to ignore.

Crawley was watching from the shadows, as he often did. He’d told himself it was curiosity that kept him there, lingering at the edges of Aziraphale’s world, but he knew better.

The angel was kneeling by the blackened roots of a fallen tree, his hands cupped around the tiny, trembling body of a bird. Its wings were broken, its breaths shallow, its small frame shuddering in Aziraphale’s grasp.

“Come on,” Aziraphale whispered, his voice cracking. His Grace shimmered faintly in his hands, golden light spilling over the bird’s fragile form. But the light was too weak. It flickered, then dimmed entirely, and Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

Crawley felt something twist in his chest at the sight. He told himself it didn’t matter. He told himself it wasn’t his problem.

But he was already moving, already lifting his hand.

With the faintest flick of his fingers, a thread of his own power drifted toward the bird. It wasn’t much—just enough to coax its tiny heart into steadying, to knit the worst of the damage in its wings.

The bird stirred, its eyes fluttering open as its wings twitched faintly.

Aziraphale gasped, his lips parting in disbelief. “Thank you,” he whispered, though there was no one to hear him. His hands cradled the bird closer, his expression breaking into one of pure, unguarded relief.

Crawley stayed hidden, his golden eyes narrowing as he watched the angel set the bird down gently, letting it hop unsteadily into the underbrush.

“Not bad, angel,” Crawley muttered under his breath, his tone sharp and self-deprecating.

But when Aziraphale’s shoulders straightened, a faint smile curving his lips, Crawley felt something warm bloom in his chest.

He didn’t want it.

He didn’t want to feel anything.

But it was there.

It happened again the next day.

And the day after that.

Crawley told himself he wasn’t getting involved, not really. He was just… lending a hand when Aziraphale looked like he might collapse under the weight of his own hope.

The angel didn’t notice at first. He was too exhausted, too wrapped in his work. But Crawley began to see the cracks—the hesitation in Aziraphale’s movements, the way his Grace sputtered and dimmed with each passing day.

A small rabbit, its leg twisted and bleeding, would twitch its nose and hop away after Aziraphale’s efforts faltered.

A cluster of scorched wildflowers would bloom in vibrant colors Aziraphale didn’t have the power to summon.

---

At first, Aziraphale convinced himself it was Heaven’s will.

But the doubts began to creep in.

The moment Aziraphale realized something was wrong, the world seemed to shift.

He was kneeling by a patch of scorched earth, his hands trembling as he coaxed a cluster of flowers back to life. His Grace flickered faintly, just enough to restore a hint of color to their wilted petals.

But when he opened his eyes, the flowers weren’t just alive. They were thriving.

Their colors shimmered brighter than they ever had before—rich blues and radiant golds that seemed almost too vivid for this broken world. Dewdrops clung to their petals, catching the faint light like scattered diamonds.

Aziraphale froze, his heart racing.

This wasn’t him.

He stood slowly, his wings rustling faintly as he scanned the clearing. The air felt heavier now, charged with something unfamiliar.

“Hello?” he called, his voice tentative. “Is someone there?”

The silence stretched on, unbroken.

Hidden among the trees, Crawley leaned against a charred trunk, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“Subtle,” he muttered to himself. “Really subtle.”

---

It was late evening, the sky streaked with the deep reds and purples of a dying sunset. Aziraphale sat near the edge of the Garden, his flaming sword driven into the ground beside him.

Crawley didn’t bother hiding this time.

“Still at it, huh?” Crawley drawled as he approached, his tone deliberately sardonic.

Aziraphale’s head snapped up, his blue eyes narrowing. “You.”

“Me,” Crawley replied, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“You’ve been following me,” Aziraphale said, his tone sharp and accusing.

“Guilty,” Crawley admitted, his smirk widening.

“Why?” Aziraphale demanded, his voice trembling with a mixture of anger and something else—something more fragile.

Crawley tilted his head, his golden eyes narrowing faintly. “Maybe I’m curious.”

“Curious about what?” Aziraphale snapped.

Crawley hesitated. For a moment, his smirk faltered, and something raw flickered in his expression. “About you,” he said finally.

The words hung between them, heavy and unspoken.

“You’ve been interfering,” Aziraphale said after a long pause, his voice quieter now.

“Maybe,” Crawley admitted. “And?”

“Why?” Aziraphale whispered. His eyes searched Crawley’s face, desperate for an answer that made sense.

Crawley’s chest tightened. He looked away, his gaze fixing on the horizon. “Because you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

Aziraphale stared at him, his breath catching. For the first time, he didn’t have a response.

And for the first time, Crawley didn’t feel the need to fill the silence.

Chapter 10: Wings

The Garden of Eden was quiet, the air heavy with the weight of late afternoon.

The sky above was a canvas of warm gold and pale blue, the kind of light that softened edges and blurred shadows. Somewhere far off, a stream meandered through the ruins of Eden, its soft gurgling the only sound in the stillness.

Aziraphale stood beneath the wide canopy of a pomegranate tree, its branches heavy with fruit. His golden wings shimmered faintly in the dappled light as he frowned up at a small bird perched on one of the lower branches. The bird tilted its head, watching him with an almost comical curiosity.

Aziraphale folded his hands and sighed, his voice soft but exasperated. “I’ve already shown you twice. You’ve got wings, haven’t you? You’re meant to fly. Go on, now.”

The bird blinked at him, unimpressed.

“Flap your wings!” Aziraphale encouraged, raising his arms and mimicking the motion. His movements were awkward, exaggerated, and utterly unconvincing. “Like this!”

The bird chirped once, ruffling its feathers, but stayed firmly on its perch.

“Really,” Aziraphale muttered, lowering his arms with a resigned sigh. “It’s as if you’re doing this on purpose.”

“Am I interrupting some sacred angelic ritual?”

The voice came low and smooth, laced with barely contained amusement. Aziraphale froze mid-motion, the tips of his wings twitching as his cheeks flushed a delicate pink. He turned sharply to see Crawley leaning against the trunk of a nearby tree, one foot crossed lazily over the other.

Crawley’s golden eyes glinted with mischief, his smirk widening as he took in Aziraphale’s thoroughly embarrassed expression.

“Whatever could you mean?” Aziraphale asked stiffly, smoothing his robes as he tried to regain some semblance of composure. “I was simply guiding this bird. It’s my duty to—”

“To flap at it like a deranged seagull?” Crawley interrupted, pushing off the tree and sauntering closer. His boots crunched softly against the grass, each step deliberate and mocking. “I mean, really, angel. That performance was… something.”

Aziraphale straightened his shoulders, folding his hands tightly in front of him. “It’s not a performance,” he said, his tone clipped. “I’m fulfilling my role as guardian of this Garden. Every creature here deserves guidance and care, even—” he gestured at the bird, which was now preening its feathers, entirely unbothered by their exchange. “—even this one.”

Crawley’s grin widened as he began to circle Aziraphale slowly, his golden eyes glinting. “Oh, I see. Guiding the wildlife. Very noble. Very angelic. Very… ridiculous.”

“I am not ridiculous,” Aziraphale snapped, his wings bristling as he turned to glare at Crawley.

“Sure you’re not,” Crawley said, his tone dripping with mock sincerity. “Honestly, I’m surprised the bird didn’t burst into applause. Truly inspiring stuff.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks darkened, and he turned away, his attention pointedly back on the bird. “I don’t see why you’re here at all,” he muttered under his breath. “Surely you have something better to do than—”

“Than what?” Crawley interrupted, leaning casually against the trunk of the pomegranate tree. “Than watch Heaven’s best and brightest attempt to teach basic motor skills to a creature that’s probably smarter than half the angels upstairs? No, I think I’ll stay.”

Aziraphale’s patience, already worn thin, snapped.

“If you’ve come here to disrupt my work,” he said sharply, “then I suggest you leave. Now.”

Crawley tilted his head, his grin softening into something faintly curious.

“Disrupt? Is that what I’m doing? Looked to me like you were managing just fine on your own.”

“I was,” Aziraphale insisted, though his tone faltered under Crawley’s steady gaze.

“Of course,” Crawley said, his voice smooth as silk. He stepped closer, his eyes glinting with something sharper than humor. “And yet, here you are. Still flapping. Still trying to convince that bird to listen to you. Tell me, angel—what happens when it doesn’t?”

Aziraphale hesitated, his hands tightening around each other. “It’s my duty to try,” he said softly, his voice trembling at the edges. “Even if it doesn’t listen. Even if…” He trailed off, his gaze dropping to the ground.

Crawley’s smirk faded, just slightly. “Even if it doesn’t want your help,” he finished for him, his tone quieter now.

Aziraphale’s head snapped up, his blue eyes narrowing. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Crawley asked, raising an eyebrow. “Not everything in this Garden needs you, angel. Not everything wants to be saved.”

The words hit Aziraphale like a blow, and he stepped back, his wings trembling faintly. “You don’t understand,” he said, his voice breaking. “I have to try. If I don’t… if I can’t even save this… then what was all of it for? The war? The suffering? What was the point?”

For a moment, Crawley said nothing.

His golden eyes softened, his usual smirk slipping away as he studied Aziraphale. There was something raw in the angel’s voice, something that made Crawley’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t like.

“It wasn’t for nothing,” Crawley said quietly. The words felt strange in his mouth, too honest, too unguarded.

Aziraphale looked at him sharply, his lips parting as if to speak, but Crawley looked away, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “Anyway,” he said, his voice shifting back into its usual drawl. “I think your bird finally got the message.”

Aziraphale turned just in time to see the bird spread its wings and take flight, disappearing into the canopy of trees above.

“There,” Crawley said, smirking faintly. “Told you it didn’t need your flapping.”

Aziraphale’s lips pressed into a thin line, but there was no real anger in his expression. “Ridiculous demon,” he muttered under his breath, smoothing his robes with a huff.

“Don’t worry, angel,” Crawley said, his grin returning as he began to back away into the trees. “You’re entertaining enough for the both of us.”

Aziraphale glared at him, though his cheeks were still faintly pink.

“And don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it,” Crawley added with a wink, his golden eyes glinting mischievously.

Before Aziraphale could respond, Crawley turned and disappeared into the shadows, his laughter echoing faintly behind him.

Aziraphale stayed where he was for a long time, staring after him.

The silence of the Garden returned, heavy and all-encompassing, but it felt… different.

“Ridiculous demon,” Aziraphale muttered again, though this time, there was no anger in his tone.

Chapter 11: Fissures

The night air hung heavy with the acrid scent of charred earth. Tree stumps and what war left of burnt ruins glowed faintly in the light of Aziraphale’s flaming sword. Smoke curled low to the ground, clinging to the edges of his boots and wrapping around the remains of what had once been a garden wall.

Aziraphale sat on the edge of a scorched meadow, his wings limp and dirt-streaked, the golden edges dulled by soot. His sword lay in the dirt beside him, the flame flickering faintly as though it, too, were weary. He stared into the horizon, where the smoke bled into the black sky, and his hands trembled faintly in his lap. He didn’t notice. Or perhaps he did and didn’t care.

Behind him, Crawley lingered, perched on the remnants of a toppled stone. He was all slouched lines and restless energy, one knee drawn up, his elbow resting lazily on it, his golden eyes glinting faintly in the dim light. His tailcoat was stained with ash, his dark curls falling messily over his forehead, but he didn’t seem to care—or pretended not to. His foot tapped an uneven rhythm against the stone, the only sound breaking the thick silence between them.

Aziraphale’s voice came softly, almost hesitant, when he finally broke the quiet. “Why do you keep coming back?”

Crawley froze mid-tap. Slowly, his head tilted toward the angel, his lips curving into a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Straight to the interrogation, huh? No ‘hello,’ no ‘how are you?’ You’ve grown bold, angel.”

Aziraphale didn’t rise to the bait. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, on the faintest traces of moonlight struggling to pierce through the haze. “You could leave, you know. Go anywhere. And yet…” His voice trailed off before he turned, his blue eyes searching Crawley’s face. “You’re still here. Why?”

Crawley’s smirk sharpened, quick as a blade, but the edges wavered. “Maybe I like the view.”

Aziraphale frowned, his wings shifting restlessly against his back. “You mock me every time we speak. You pick apart everything I’m trying to do here, but…” He hesitated, his voice growing quieter. “You’ve stayed.”

Crawley’s grin faltered, his leg stilled. He leaned back against the stone, his golden eyes glinting as they flicked toward the flaming sword and back to Aziraphale. “Maybe I’m just waiting for you to fall on your face. You ever think of that?”

Aziraphale didn’t flinch, but something in his expression cracked, the faintest wince tightening the corner of his mouth. “You’re lying,” he said simply.

Crawley’s grin vanished entirely, replaced by something harder, colder. “And what makes you so sure of that?”

Aziraphale turned to him fully, his wings pulling closer to his sides. “I’ve seen you. The fox, the sparrow, the violets sprouting through the ash—you’ve been helping me.” His voice was steady, but there was something raw in the edges. “And not because you have to.”

Crawley stiffened, his golden eyes narrowing. “Maybe I just felt like it.”

“No,” Aziraphale pressed. “You care. You do. But you won’t admit it. Why?”

“Why?” Crawley’s laugh was sharp and bitter, cutting through the heavy air. “Why not? Maybe I’m bored, Aziraphale. Maybe watching you stumble around this burned-out wreckage, pouring your heart into something that’s already dead, is the best entertainment I’ve had in centuries.”

The words hit Aziraphale like a blow. His breath caught, and his hands tightened in his lap. “You’re cruel,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Crawley replied, but his voice cracked faintly at the edges. “I know.”

The silence that fell between them this time was heavier, oppressive. Aziraphale turned away, staring at the broken meadow, his shoulders sagging under the weight of something Crawley couldn’t quite name.

“Who were you?” Aziraphale asked suddenly, his voice soft but startling in the quiet. “Before you fell.”

Crawley’s body tensed visibly. “Don’t.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Why not? It’s just a question.”

“I said don’t,” Crawley snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through stone. He stood abruptly, pacing a few steps away, his movements jerky and uneven.

“I’m only trying to understand,” Aziraphale said, his tone gentle but firm.

Crawley rounded on him, his golden eyes blazing. “Maybe I don’t want to be understood, angel. Ever think of that?”

Aziraphale’s gaze softened, though his brow furrowed. “Why does it bother you so much? That I care?”

For a moment, Crawley froze. He stared at Aziraphale, his smirk entirely gone now, his expression raw and unguarded. His hands trembled at his sides, his jaw tightening as though he were physically holding something back.

“Because you shouldn’t,” Crawley said finally, his voice trembling. “You shouldn’t care about me. Not about this.” He gestured to himself, his smirk returning like armor. “I’m not worth it, angel.”

Aziraphale’s breath hitched at the words, the sheer weight of them. “That’s not true,” he said softly.

“Of course it is,” Crawley spat. His laugh was bitter, jagged. “Do you think Heaven disagreed when they tossed me out? I’m broken, Aziraphale. And broken things don’t get to go back.”

Aziraphale rose slowly, his wings dragging faintly along the ground. “You don’t have to go back to Heaven to be—”

“To be what? Fixed?” Crawley interrupted, his voice rising, his smirk twisting into something sharp and venomous. “You’re wasting your time. I don’t want to be fixed.”

“Then why do you keep helping me?” Aziraphale pressed, stepping closer. “Why do you keep coming back?”

Crawley faltered, his breath catching. For a moment, he looked like he might answer, but then he turned away again, his shoulders hunching defensively.

“Because I don’t know how to stop,” he said finally, his voice so quiet that Aziraphale almost didn’t hear it.

The words hit Aziraphale like a crack of thunder. He stepped closer, his chest tightening. “Crawley…”

“Don’t,” Crawley said sharply, but there was no bite to it. Just exhaustion. Just pain. “Just leave it, Aziraphale. Please.”

Aziraphale hesitated, his wings drooping as he watched Crawley’s trembling frame. He wanted to say something, to reach out, but the weight of Crawley’s grief filled the space between them like a chasm, too wide to cross.

“You’re wrong,” Aziraphale said softly, his voice trembling but steady.

Crawley stilled. He didn’t turn, didn’t speak.

“No one is beyond repair,” Aziraphale continued.

Crawley’s laugh was low and bitter. “You don’t get it, angel. You never will.”

Aziraphale stepped closer, his voice soft but unwavering. “Maybe not. But I’ll keep trying.”

“Just leave me alone, Aziraphale!”

The angel didn’t respond.

Chapter 12: You

Crawley stood rooted in place, his back to Aziraphale’s retreating form, as though the ground itself was holding him still. The ache in his chest refused to subside, clawing at him, threatening to pull him apart.

He hated this.

He hated that Aziraphale’s words—simple, kind, maddeningly unrelenting—had gotten under his skin. He hated the flicker of hope they lit in him, the faint suggestion that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as hollow as he believed.

“I thought I told you to go, angel.”

Crawley’s voice was sharp, biting, but when Aziraphale stepped into view, he didn’t turn to look at him. His golden eyes were fixed on the scorched ground, his shoulders stiff and trembling.

“I know,” Aziraphale said softly, his tone cautious but resolute. “But I can’t.”

Crawley let out a harsh laugh, shaking his head. “Can’t follow simple instructions, can you?”

Aziraphale took a tentative step closer. “You didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t I?” Crawley snapped, spinning to face him. His eyes burned, wild and defiant, but there was something fragile beneath the fire. “You don’t know what I mean, angel. You don’t know me.”

Aziraphale’s gaze softened. “Then help me understand.”

“What’s there to understand?”

Crawley’s voice cracked as he turned away again, his hands shaking at his sides. “I’m a demon, Aziraphale. A fallen angel. A failure. End of story.”

“No,” Aziraphale said firmly, stepping closer. “That’s not the end of the story, Crawley.”

Crawley let out another laugh, sharp and humorless. “Oh, isn’t it? What more is there? I’m not who I was, and I’ll never be that again. I’m just… this. This pathetic, broken thing crawling through the ashes, clinging to—” He stopped abruptly, his voice breaking.

“Clinging to what?” Aziraphale asked gently, his heart pounding in his chest.

Crawley didn’t answer. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, his shoulders shaking. “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. “Why can’t you just let it go?”

“Because I care about you,” Aziraphale said, his voice trembling but steady. “Because you deserve better than this.”

The words struck Crawley like a physical blow.

He lowered his hands slowly, his golden eyes wide and raw as he stared at Aziraphale. “You care about me?” he repeated, his voice low, disbelieving.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said simply, his gaze unwavering.

Crawley shook his head, his lips twisting into a bitter smirk. “You shouldn’t.”

“But I do,” Aziraphale said, stepping closer still. “I’ve seen you, Crawley. Not just the sarcastic, sharp-tongued demon you pretend to be, but the one who stops to save a bird, who hides in the shadows to help me when I can’t go on. I see you.”

“Stop,” Crawley whispered, his voice breaking.

“I won’t,” Aziraphale said, his own voice trembling. “Because I need you to hear this. You’re not hollow, Crawley. You’re not beyond saving.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Crawley hissed.

He turned sharply, pacing a few steps away as his hands raked through his hair. “You think you know me, Aziraphale? You think a few kind words are going to fix this?” He gestured wildly to himself, his voice rising. “You have no idea what it’s like—none!”

“Then tell me,” Aziraphale said softly. “Help me understand.”

Crawley froze, his breath hitching. For a long moment, he said nothing, the only sound the faint crackle of the distant fires. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, trembling with barely contained emotion.

“Do you know what it feels like?” he began, his golden eyes fixed on the horizon. “To wake up every day and hate the person you’ve become? To not even recognize yourself in the mirror? To know that every choice you made brought you here, and you can’t go back?”

Aziraphale’s chest tightened painfully, but he didn’t interrupt.

“It’s like drowning,” Crawley continued, his voice cracking. “Every second, you’re fighting to keep your head above water, but it doesn’t matter how hard you try. It’s always there. Pulling you down. Telling you you’re not enough. That you’ll never be enough.”

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “And no matter what you do, no matter how much you try to make up for it, it’s never enough. Because you can’t change what you are. You can’t change what you’ve done.”

Aziraphale took another step forward, his hands trembling.

“You’re not alone in this, Crawley,” he said softly. “I know it feels like you are, but you’re not. I’m here.”

“Why?” Crawley asked sharply, spinning to face him. His golden eyes burned with something fierce and desperate. “Why do you care so much? What could I possibly mean to you?”

Aziraphale’s breath caught, his heart pounding in his chest. “Because you’re my friend,” he said, his voice trembling. “Because I can’t imagine this world without you in it.”

Crawley stared at him, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, his lips twisted into a bitter smile. “You’re a fool, angel,” he said quietly.

“Maybe,” Aziraphale admitted, his gaze soft. “But if being a fool means caring about you, then I don’t mind.”

The words hung in the air between them.

Crawley looked away, his shoulders slumping as the fight seemed to drain out of him. “You shouldn’t care,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “It’s just going to hurt you.”

“Then let it hurt,” Aziraphale said firmly, stepping closer. “If that’s what it takes to stand by you, then I’ll bear it. I’m not leaving you, Crawley. Not now, not ever.”

Crawley let out a shaky breath, his hands trembling as he brought them to his face. For a long moment, he said nothing, his body tense.

His shoulders trembled faintly, his breath coming in sharp, uneven hitches. Aziraphale stood just behind him, close enough to feel the fractured energy radiating off Crawley’s body but not daring to close the space entirely. Not yet.

“You don’t have to be alone in this,” Aziraphale whispered, breaking the silence. His voice was soft but unyielding, trembling with the weight of his own emotions. “Please, Crawley, just… talk to me.”

Crawley let out a bitter laugh, sharp and ragged, his head dropping forward. “Talk to you? About what, Aziraphale? About how I’ve spent centuries trying to patch myself together with whatever scraps I can find? Or about how, no matter what I do, it’s never enough? That every bloody morning I wake up and feel like I’m choking on who I used to be?”

The words poured out, raw and serrated, each syllable dragging something fragile and unspoken into the cold night air.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Crawley continued, his voice breaking, golden eyes fixed on the scorched ground. “To be torn apart from the inside out. To have Her look you in the eye and say nothing. Like you’re not even worth an answer.”

The venom in Crawley’s tone made Aziraphale’s wings twitch, but he didn’t interrupt. Instead, he stepped closer, his voice trembling with determination. “I know what it’s like to feel doubt,” Aziraphale said softly. “To look up at Her and wonder if She’s truly listening. Crawley, I do understand—”

“Don’t,” Crawley interrupted, spinning to face him. His golden eyes burned, wet and wild, as he took an unsteady step toward Aziraphale. “Don’t compare your doubt to this. You think you’ve felt pain? You think you’ve lost something? You have no idea what it means to fall, Aziraphale. To look at everything you were, everything you believed, and watch it burn because you dared to ask—”

He choked on the words, turning away sharply, his hands flying to his face as if to shield himself from Aziraphale’s gaze.

“Because you dared to ask what?” Aziraphale pressed, stepping forward again. “Crawley, what happened? What did you ask?”

Crawley’s laugh was jagged, a sound too broken to be bitter. He dragged his hands through his hair, his nails raking against his scalp as his voice dropped to a whisper. “I asked Her if I was enough.”

The confession hung in the air, raw and bleeding. Aziraphale froze, his breath hitching as he stared at Crawley, his blue eyes wide with something between heartbreak and disbelief.

“I asked Her,” Crawley continued, his voice trembling, “if what I was doing mattered. If it was enough. If I was enough. And you know what She did? She turned away.”

Aziraphale’s chest tightened painfully. “Crawley…”

“She didn’t answer,” Crawley said, his voice rising now, the words spilling out like a dam had burst. “Not a single word. Not a ‘yes,’ not a ‘no,’ not even a bloody maybe. Just silence. And when I couldn’t let it go, when I kept asking, She…” His voice cracked, and he stumbled back a step, his golden eyes glinting with unshed tears. “She burned me for it.”

Aziraphale’s wings drooped, his hands trembling at his sides. “She cast you out.”

“She didn’t just cast me out,” Crawley spat, his voice breaking. “She stripped me, Aziraphale. Tore me apart, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but the twisted, empty thing you see now.”

Aziraphale moved before he could think, closing the distance between them and reaching out, his hand brushing against Crawley’s arm. “You’re not empty,” he said softly, his voice trembling with emotion. “You’re not nothing.”

Crawley flinched at the touch, but he didn’t pull away. He stood frozen, his breaths coming in sharp, uneven gasps. “Don’t,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Don’t do this.”

“Why not?” Aziraphale asked, his gaze searching Crawley’s face. “Why can’t you let me in? Why can’t you let someone care about you?”

Crawley’s golden eyes flicked up to meet Aziraphale’s, and for the first time, the mask he wore so tightly slipped. The pain in his gaze was raw, unguarded, and devastating. “Because I don’t deserve it,” he said, his voice barely audible.

“Yes, you do,” Aziraphale said firmly, his hand tightening on Crawley’s arm. “You deserve to be cared for. To be loved. You always have.”

The words shattered something inside Crawley. He staggered back, shaking his head violently, his hands trembling. “Stop it,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “Just stop. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” Aziraphale said, his voice steady despite the tears pooling in his eyes. “And I mean it.”

Crawley let out a strangled laugh, but it was full of bitterness and pain. “You still don’t see it, do you? You don’t see me.”

“I see you,” Aziraphale said, his voice trembling. “I see you, Crawley. And I—”

“You don’t,” Crawley interrupted, his voice rising. “You don’t see what’s right in front of you. You don’t even remember who I—”

He stopped abruptly, his golden eyes widening in horror.

Aziraphale froze, his breath catching as realization dawned. “Who you…?” His voice trailed off, but the words hung between them like a live wire.

Crawley turned away sharply, his hands flying to his face. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“Crawley,” Aziraphale said, his voice trembling. He stepped forward, his hand hovering near Crawley’s shoulder. “Who were you?”

Crawley didn’t answer. His shoulders trembled violently, his head shaking as though trying to ward off the question. “Don’t make me say it,” he whispered. “Please, Aziraphale. Don’t make me—”

“Raphael.”

The name fell from Aziraphale’s lips like a prayer, soft and broken. His eyes widened as the pieces clicked together, his heart pounding in his chest. “You were—”

“Don’t,” Crawley begged, his voice cracking. He turned around then, his golden eyes glistening with tears as he stared at Aziraphale. “Don’t say it.”

“You were Raphael,” Aziraphale said, his voice breaking. “You were—”

“I was nothing,” Crawley snapped, his voice sharp and desperate. “I was an idiot who thought I could matter. Who thought She would care.” He laughed bitterly, wiping at his eyes with shaking hands. “Well, look where that got me.”

Aziraphale’s chest ached, his wings drooping as he stared at Crawley. “You were Raphael,” he whispered again, as though saying it might make it more real. “You were…”

Crawley’s smirk returned, brittle and self-deprecating. “Not much to look at now, huh?”

Aziraphale didn’t respond. Instead, he closed the distance between them in a single step, his hands reaching up to cup Crawley’s face. The demon stiffened, his golden eyes widening in shock, but he didn’t pull away.

“You’re still you,” Aziraphale said softly, his voice trembling. “You’re still the Raphael who cared enough to ask. Who cared too much.”

“I’m not him,” Crawley whispered, his voice breaking. “I can’t be him anymore.”

“You don’t have to be,” Aziraphale said. “You just have to be you. That’s enough.”

For a long moment, Crawley said nothing. His golden eyes searched Aziraphale’s face, his breath hitching as the tears he had tried so hard to hold back finally spilled over.

Aziraphale leaned closer, his own tears slipping down his cheeks. “You’re enough, Crawley. You always were.”

And then, before either of them could think better of it, Aziraphale closed the space between them, his lips pressing softly, tremblingly, against Crawley’s.

Crawley froze, his breath catching, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he melted into the kiss, his hands trembling as they found Aziraphale’s shoulders. It wasn’t perfect—it was messy and desperate, filled with the weight of everything they couldn’t say—but it was real.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested against each other, their breaths mingling in the heavy night air.

“I’m here,” Aziraphale whispered, his hands still cradling Crawley’s face. “I’m not leaving you. Not now. Not ever.”
Crawley’s breath hitched, and for the first time in centuries, he let himself break. He let go of the iron grip he had held on his emotions, the walls he had built to keep the world at bay. The tears came freely now, raw and unrelenting, his shoulders shaking as he clung to Aziraphale like a lifeline.

Aziraphale held him tightly, his hands steady even as his own tears fell. He let Crawley collapse into him, his arms wrapping around the demon’s trembling form, his wings curling protectively at their sides. The flaming sword flickered faintly on the ground nearby, casting a soft golden glow that danced across their faces.

“It’s all right,” Aziraphale murmured, his voice soft but firm. “Let it out, Crawley. I’ve got you.”

Crawley’s fingers dug into the fabric of Aziraphale’s coat, his breath hitching painfully as he tried to speak through the sobs that wracked his body. “I—I can’t—” he choked out, his voice raw. “I don’t know how to—”

“You don’t have to know,” Aziraphale interrupted gently, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of Crawley’s head. “You don’t have to do anything but let me hold you.”

The words broke something else inside Crawley, something so fragile and buried that he hadn’t even known it was there. He buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder, his body trembling as he clung to the angel with a desperation that felt like it might tear him apart.

Aziraphale didn’t let go. He didn’t falter. He simply held Crawley tighter, his wings encircling them both as though shielding Crawley from the weight of his own grief.

“I’m sorry,” Crawley whispered hoarsely, his voice muffled against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” Aziraphale asked softly, his hand stroking through Crawley’s curls. “For being hurt?”

Crawley shook his head violently, pulling back just enough to meet Aziraphale’s gaze. His golden eyes were bloodshot, glistening with tears that spilled freely down his cheeks. “For everything,” he said, his voice trembling. “For falling. For failing. For being weak. For not being enough—for you, for Her—”

“Stop,” Aziraphale said, his voice firm but gentle. He cupped Crawley’s face again, his thumbs brushing away the tears that stained his cheeks. “Stop punishing yourself for things you couldn’t control. You are enough, Crawley. You’ve always been enough.”

Crawley’s breath hitched again, his hands trembling as they hovered near Aziraphale’s chest, as though afraid to touch him, afraid to shatter the fragile moment between them.

“I don’t know how to believe that,” Crawley admitted, his voice barely audible.

“That’s all right,” Aziraphale said softly, his blue eyes shining with quiet determination. “I’ll believe it for both of us until you can.”

Crawley’s lips parted, his golden eyes wide and vulnerable, and for a moment, he looked as though he might protest. But the words never came. Instead, he let himself lean into Aziraphale’s touch, his body trembling as he finally allowed himself to be held.

The silence that settled around them was heavy but no longer suffocating. It was a silence filled with shared grief and tentative hope, with the weight of centuries of pain finally beginning to lift.

Aziraphale leaned his forehead against Crawley’s, his wings still wrapped around them both like a cocoon. “You’re not alone anymore,” he whispered. “You never were. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Crawley closed his eyes, his breath shuddering as he let the words wash over him. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to believe them, even if only for a moment.

And in that fragile, flickering moment, something between them shifted. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t a resolution or an ending. But it was a beginning.

It was hope.

It was love.

And it was enough.

Chapter 13: Genesis

The day began with a heavy stillness. The Garden of Eden, ruined though it was, felt alive in a way that neither Aziraphale nor Crawley could fully articulate. The air hummed faintly, and the once-ash-streaked ground now bore hints of green, as though the land itself anticipated something monumental.

Aziraphale stood just at the edge of a clearing, his wings folded tightly against his back. His sword hung limply at his side, its faint glow illuminating the tension on his face. Crawley was beside him, his stance rigid, his golden eyes locked on the clearing ahead.

After the night they had shared—the raw confessions, the breaking and the piecing together—it was hard to know what to say. Crawley, or Raphael as he now knew him to be, had not spoken much since dawn, and Aziraphale was cautious not to push him. The air between them felt fragile, thin as glass.

Then the shift came.

It was subtle at first, a gentle ripple through the air, like the first soft note of a song. But it grew, deep and resonant, wrapping around them until it wasn’t just heard—it was felt. The Presence of God settled over the clearing, vast and unyielding, yet strangely tender.

Aziraphale inhaled sharply, his wings trembling.

“She’s here.”

Crawley didn’t respond. His hands, usually resting casually in his pockets, hung loosely at his sides, his fingers twitching faintly. Aziraphale could see the tension in his jaw, the flicker of emotion in his eyes that he was trying so hard to suppress.

In the center of the clearing, the ground began to shift. The earth moved like water, rippling upward into spiraling forms of light and dust. Slowly, impossibly, a figure began to take shape.

A man.

Aziraphale’s breath caught as he watched the first human emerge. Skin stretched over muscle, muscles over bone, and then, with a final ripple of light, the figure was complete. He lay still, curled as if in sleep, his form bathed in the glow of creation. Then his chest rose, the first breath of life filling his lungs, and his eyes opened.

Adam.

Aziraphale clasped his hands together, his expression awestruck. “It’s…” His voice trailed off, trembling with reverence. “It’s a miracle.”

Crawley finally spoke, his voice low and strained. “It’s a beginning.”

Aziraphale turned toward him, startled by the quiet weight in Crawley’s tone. His gaze softened. “Raph—Crawley…”

“What is it?”

But Crawley didn’t look at him. His eyes remained fixed on Adam, who was now sitting up, his movements slow and tentative. The man looked at his hands, his fingers flexing as if testing their weight, and then turned his gaze to the sky, wide with wonder.

“It’s the same,” Crawley murmured, so quietly that Aziraphale almost didn’t catch it. “It’s exactly the same.”

“What is?” Aziraphale asked, stepping closer.

“This,” Crawley said, gesturing sharply toward Adam. His voice wavered, and he shook his head as if trying to clear a memory. “The creation, the… the breath. The way the light bends around him.” He exhaled shakily, his golden eyes narrowing. “I remember it.”

Aziraphale’s heart clenched. He knew what Crawley was saying. As Raphael, he had been one of the first to witness creation, to sing Her praises as the stars were placed in the heavens, as the first life was brought into being.

“It’s beautiful,” Aziraphale said softly, his voice trembling. “Isn’t it?”

“It’s cruel,” Crawley countered, his voice hardening. He finally tore his gaze from Adam to look at Aziraphale, his expression raw. “You know what’s going to happen. They’ll be given this perfect start, this clean slate, and then—” He stopped, his voice cracking. “Then it’ll be taken from them. Just like it always is.”

Aziraphale flinched. “That’s not—”

“Don’t,” Crawley snapped, his golden eyes sharp. “Don’t defend it. Not to me.”

Before Aziraphale could respond, the ground stirred again. A second figure began to take shape, smaller and more delicate, her features softer. Light and dust swirled around her, and when she was complete, her chest rose with the same slow breath of life.

Eve.

She opened her eyes, and the first thing she saw was Adam. Her lips curved into a tentative smile, and when Adam extended his hand, she took it without hesitation.

“They don’t know,” Crawley muttered, his voice thick. “They have no idea.”

Aziraphale turned to him, his expression pained. “That’s the point, isn’t it? They’re innocent. They’re… unburdened.”

“For now,” Crawley said bitterly. He looked away, running a hand through his hair. “But innocence doesn’t last. You know that. I know that.”

Aziraphale hesitated, his wings shifting uneasily. “But does that mean they don’t deserve it? Even if it’s fleeting, even if it’s fragile… isn’t it worth something?”

Crawley let out a humorless laugh. “You sound just like—” He cut himself off, his jaw tightening.

“Like who?” Aziraphale pressed gently.

Crawley didn’t answer. His gaze remained fixed on Eve, who was now laughing softly as a bird landed on her outstretched hand. The sound was light, pure, and untainted, and it hit Crawley like a physical blow.

“It was like this,” Crawley said suddenly, his voice trembling. “When I first saw Her Plan. It was… beautiful. Perfect. I thought…” He swallowed hard, his golden eyes glinting with unshed tears. “I thought it was enough.”

Aziraphale’s heart ached at the rawness in Crawley’s voice. “What changed?”

“She didn’t answer,” Crawley whispered, his tone breaking. He turned to Aziraphale, his expression shattered. “When I asked Her why.”

Aziraphale took a step closer, his voice soft and steady. “And that’s why you—”

 

Crawley froze, his golden eyes wide and uncertain. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something, but the words caught in his throat.

And then, softly, Aziraphale reached out, his hand brushing against Crawley’s.

Crawley’s breath hitched, and for a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he turned his hand over, his fingers curling around Aziraphale’s.

In the clearing, Adam and Eve laughed.

Chapter 14: Rain

The Garden pulsed with an undercurrent of tension, an almost imperceptible shift in the air. Though life had begun to stir among the ashes—flowers pushing through the charred ground, animals returning hesitantly to the clearing.

Crawley lingered near the edge of the clearing, leaning against the rough bark of a fig tree. His golden eyes were fixed on Adam and Eve as they wandered hand in hand through the blooming remnants of Eden. Adam seemed eager, pointing out every flower, every bird, while Eve watched with quiet wonder, her fingers brushing over the petals of a wildflower as though committing its texture to memory.

Aziraphale stood a few paces away from Crawley, his flaming sword dim and resting in the dirt. He watched the humans with a kind of wistful longing, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.

“They’re remarkable, aren’t they?” Aziraphale murmured, breaking the silence.

Crawley didn’t respond immediately. His gaze remained locked on Eve, his jaw tight. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low and rough. “They are.”

Aziraphale glanced at him, a faint frown creasing his brow. “You don’t sound particularly pleased about it.”

Crawley let out a humorless laugh, pushing off the tree and shoving his hands into his pockets. “Pleased? Yeah, sure. Let’s go with that.” He took a step forward, his boots crunching softly against the grass. “They don’t have a clue, do they? Not about the Garden, not about what’s waiting for them. They’re just… happy. Blissfully ignorant.”

Aziraphale hesitated, his wings shifting uneasily. “Isn’t that the point? They’re innocent. Untouched by the burden of knowledge. It’s… beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” Crawley turned to face him, his golden eyes flashing with something sharp and bitter. “It’s temporary. You know that as well as I do. All of this?” He gestured to the Garden, the humans. “It’s going to fall apart. It’s written into the Plan.”

Aziraphale flinched but didn’t argue. He had no answer for Crawley’s bitterness because deep down, he felt it too.

“They deserve to know,” Crawley muttered, his gaze flicking back to Adam and Eve. “They deserve a choice.”

Aziraphale stepped closer, his voice quiet but firm. “And would you rob them of their innocence? Their happiness? What kind of choice would that be?”

Crawley opened his mouth to respond, but the sound of Eve’s laughter cut through the air, light and melodic. Both angels turned to see her crouched near the edge of the clearing, her hands cupped around a small butterfly. Adam knelt beside her, watching intently as the insect spread its delicate wings.

“They’re happy now,” Aziraphale said softly. “Why can’t that be enough?”

Crawley didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, and he turned away, his shoulders tense.

---

The days passed.

Crawley kept his distance, though his eyes never strayed far from Eve. Aziraphale tried to engage him in conversation, to ease the tension that had settled between them, but Crawley remained guarded, his words sharp and clipped.

One morning, as the sun bathed the Garden in golden light, Crawley found Eve sitting alone beneath the Tree of Knowledge. She was weaving a crown of flowers, her delicate fingers threading stems and petals together with careful precision.

“Morning,” Crawley said, his voice softer than usual as he approached.

Eve looked up, her face lighting up with a smile. “Good morning! Look, isn’t it lovely?” She held up the flower crown, her eyes shining with pride.

Crawley smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. It’s nice.”

Eve tilted her head, studying him. “You don’t sound very happy.”

“Just got a lot on my mind,” Crawley said, sitting down a few feet away. He leaned back against the tree, his golden eyes flicking toward the branches overhead. The fruit hung heavy, its skin glistening in the sunlight.

Eve followed his gaze, her expression curious. “Why don’t we eat from this tree? The fruit looks so good.”

Crawley stiffened, his fingers curling into fists. “You’re not supposed to,” he said quickly.

“But why?” Eve pressed, her brow furrowing. “It’s just a tree. Just fruit. How could it hurt us?”

“It’s not about the fruit,” Crawley said, his voice low and tense. “It’s about what it means. Eating from this tree… it changes everything.”

Eve’s curiosity deepened. “Changes how?”

Crawley hesitated, his jaw tightening. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to warn her, to make her understand the weight of what she was asking. But how could he explain something he barely understood himself?

“It’s not a good change,” he said finally. “Trust me.”

Eve frowned, her gaze drifting back to the fruit. “But if it’s so dangerous, why is it here?”

Crawley’s breath caught. He looked at her, his golden eyes filled with a mix of frustration and sorrow. “Because it’s part of the Plan.”

Eve didn’t seem satisfied with the answer, but she didn’t press further. Instead, she set the flower crown on her head and turned back to her weaving. Crawley watched her in sielende.

---

It happened a week later.

“Eve,” Crawley called, his voice sharp.

She turned to look at him, startled. “Crawley! I was just…”

“Don’t,” Crawley said, stepping closer. His voice was low, pleading. “Please. Don’t do this.”

Eve’s hand wavered, her expression torn. “But why? What’s so terrible about knowing?”

“It’s not just knowing,” Crawley said, his eyes locking onto hers. “It’s losing. Losing this, the way things are now. Once you eat, you can’t go back.”

Eve’s brow furrowed, her gaze flicking between Crawley and the fruit. “But what if knowing is worth it? What if it’s… better?”

“It’s not,” Crawley said firmly. “It’s pain. It’s grief. It’s everything you’ve never had to feel. And you don’t want it, Eve. Trust me. You don’t.”

For a moment, she hesitated. Her hand dropped to her side, and Crawley felt a flicker of hope. But then a voice whispered softly from somewhere he couldn’t see—a whisper that was not his own, one that filled the air with quiet inevitability.

Eve turned back to the fruit, her hand trembling as she reached for it again. Crawley’s breath hitched, and he stepped forward, his hand outstretched as if to stop her.

“Eve, don’t—”

But it was too late. Her fingers closed around the fruit, and she plucked it from the branch. The world seemed to hold its breath as she brought it to her lips and took a bite.

The change was immediate. Eve’s eyes widened, her breath catching as the knowledge poured into her, sharp and unrelenting. She staggered back, dropping the fruit as though it had burned her.

Crawley watched, helpless, as Adam approached from the other side of the clearing. Eve turned to him, her face filled with a mix of wonder and fear.

“Adam,” she said, holding out the fruit. “You have to try it.”

“No,” Crawley said, his voice trembling. “Not you t—”

But Adam took the fruit from her hand and bit into it.

The Garden shuddered.

Crawley staggered back, his knees buckling as the weight of it all crashed down on him. He watched as Adam and Eve clung to each other, their eyes wide with newfound understanding—and with it, the first flickers of shame, of fear, of grief.

Aziraphale appeared beside him, his face pale, his wings trembling. “It’s done,” he whispered, his voice hollow. “It was always going to happen.”

Crawley let out a shaky breath, his hands trembling as he ran them through his hair. “I tried,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “I tried to stop it.”

Aziraphale placed a hand on his shoulder, his touch light but grounding. “It’s not your fault.”

Crawley shook his head, tears burning in his golden eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”

Without another word, Crawley stepped away, his body shimmering faintly as he began to shift. Scales rippled over his skin, his form twisting and shrinking until he was a serpent once more. He slithered away into the shadows of the Garden, disappearing without a sound.

Aziraphale stood alone, watching the humans as they wept beneath the Tree of Knowledge. His gaze drifted to the darkness where Crawley had vanished.

He wanted to follow, to comfort, to say something—anything—but he stayed where he was.

The trees in the garden began to tremble. A faint breeze rustled the leaves, but there was no peace in it—only the muted echoes of what had been lost. The Tree of Knowledge stood tall and unyielding in the center of the Garden, its forbidden fruit untouched save for the single missing piece that had changed everything.

Adam and Eve stood near the gates, holding each other tightly. Eve’s hands rested protectively over her stomach, her eyes brimming with tears as Adam’s arm wrapped around her shoulders.

Aziraphale stood nearby, his flaming sword lowered but still casting a warm, flickering light. His wings drooped, and his face was pale with grief. He kept his eyes on the humans but didn’t approach. He knew what was coming.

Then She arrived.

A hum of divine presence filled the air, a warmth so vast and overwhelming that Aziraphale had to lower his gaze. The Almighty’s voice came softly, like the rustle of wind through trees, but it resonated with a weight that could not be ignored.

“Adam. Eve.”

They turned toward the presence, their faces streaked with tears. Eve stepped forward first, her voice trembling. “We didn’t mean to disobey—”

“And yet you did,” She said, Her tone neither harsh nor forgiving. “You ate from the tree I commanded you not to eat. Do you understand what you have done?”

Adam’s voice cracked as he answered. “The serpent… it told us the fruit would make us like You, knowing good and evil.”

“And now you do know,” She replied. “You have chosen to seek knowledge over trust. You have brought suffering into the world, for with knowledge comes pain, and with understanding comes the weight of consequence.”

Eve sobbed softly, her hand tightening over her belly. “We didn’t know…”

“No, but now you will.” Her voice softened, almost tender. “You will feel the pain of labor, Eve, but through that pain, life will grow. And you, Adam, will toil under the sun, and the earth will yield to you with difficulty. But through your labor, you will sustain those you love.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and the humans fell to their knees, weeping.

Aziraphale’s heart ached at the sight. He stepped forward, his voice trembling. “Is there no forgiveness for them?”

The Almighty turned toward him, Her presence washing over him like a tide. “Forgiveness is not withheld, Aziraphale, but neither is consequence. What they have chosen cannot be undone. The Plan moves forward.”

Aziraphale nodded reluctantly, his gaze dropping to the ground.

“You will guard the eastern gate, Aziraphale,” She continued, Her voice gentle but firm. “To keep them from returning to the Garden.”

A lump rose in Aziraphale’s throat, but he bowed his head. “Yes, my Lord.”

Her presence lingered, and Her voice softened. “You and Raphael—” She paused deliberately, and Aziraphale’s breath hitched. “You and Crawley have done well.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, his voice unsteady. “I… I don’t know if we have.”

“You carried out your tasks faithfully, even when the path was unclear. That is enough.”

The silence stretched, and then Her voice came again, lighter this time.

“Do you have something to confess, Aziraphale?”

His heart raced. He glanced toward Adam, who still held the faintly glowing sword. Aziraphale’s mouth opened, but no words came.

“Nothing, then?” Her voice held a trace of knowing, but She did not press.

Aziraphale’s throat tightened, and he lowered his head. “No,” he said softly. “Nothing.”

She lingered for a moment longer, as though waiting for him to speak. But when he didn’t, Her presence began to fade, leaving only quiet behind.

---

Aziraphale stood at the eastern gate, his flaming sword now blazing brighter than ever. Adam and Eve walked slowly toward him, their tear-streaked faces turned away from the Garden. Eve’s hand remained on her stomach, and Adam’s grip on the sword was firm but uncertain. They passed through the gate without a word, their steps heavy with sorrow.

Aziraphale’s heart ached as he watched them walk into the barren land beyond the Garden. Animals roared in the distance, the shadows of predators looming over the horizon. Adam glanced back once, his face filled with both longing and guilt, before turning away again.

Eve stumbled slightly, and Adam caught her, his arm steadying her as they moved forward.

The sun began to set, casting long shadows over the wall of the Garden. Aziraphale closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to reconcile his duty with the pain in his chest. He didn’t hear the quiet hiss at first, but when he opened his eyes, he saw a serpent coiled near the base of the wall, its copper scales glinting in the fading light.

The snake slithered up the wall, its movements deliberate. As it reached the top, it shimmered, its form shifting and twisting until Crawley stood there, his golden eyes shadowed and weary.

Aziraphale stepped closer, his voice soft. “You’re back.”

Crawley didn’t look at him immediately. He stared out at the horizon, watching Adam and Eve disappear into the distance. “Didn’t think I’d stay away forever, did you?”

Aziraphale’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “No. I suppose not.”

Crawley sighed, running a hand through his dark curls. “Well, that went down like a lead balloon.”

Aziraphale blinked, startled. “Sorry? What was that?”

“I said, well, that went down like a lead balloon,” Crawley repeated, his tone dry but lacking his usual bite.

Aziraphale glanced toward the horizon, his expression heavy. “Oh. Yes, it did, rather.”

Crawley crossed his arms, his golden eyes narrowing. “Bit of an overreaction, if you ask me. First offense and everything.”

Aziraphale hesitated, his wings shifting. “I suppose. But it’s… significant.”

Crawley snorted. “Significant? Please. It’s knowing the difference between good and evil. Hardly the crime of the millennium.”

“It must be bad,” Aziraphale said uncertainly. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have been involved.”

Crawley rolled his eyes. “They said, ‘Get up there and make some trouble.’ So I did. It’s what I do, remember? Demon and all that.”

Aziraphale frowned, his voice quiet. “Not very subtle of Her, though. A fruit tree with a ‘don’t touch’ sign. If He really didn’t want them to eat it, She could have put it on the moon.”

Crawley chuckled softly. “Yeah, not the best hiding spot.”

Aziraphale hesitated, his voice faltering. “Didn’t you have a flaming sword?”

Crawley’s golden eyes glinted. “You did. It was flaming like anything. What happened to it? Lost it, have you?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed faintly. “I… I gave it away.”

“You what?” Crawley’s brows shot up.

“I gave it away,” Aziraphale admitted, his voice trembling. “They looked so miserable. And there are vicious animals out there, and it’s going to be cold, and she’s expecting already… I said, ‘Here you go, flaming sword. Don’t thank me. Don’t let the sun go down on you here.’” He paused, his voice heavy with doubt. “I hope I didn’t do the wrong thing.”

Crawley stared at him for a moment before letting out a soft laugh. “You’re an angel. How can you do the wrong thing?”

Aziraphale’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s been bothering me.”

Crawley’s expression softened, his smirk fading. “I’ve been worrying too.”

“About what?” Aziraphale asked.

Crawley hesitated, his gaze drifting back toward the horizon. “What if I did the right thing? With the whole apple business. A demon can get into a lot of trouble for doing the right thing.”

Aziraphale smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Funny if we both got it wrong, eh?”

“Not really,” Crawley said softly, his voice heavy. “Not funny at all.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the first drops of rain began to fall. Aziraphale didn’t hesitate. He stepped closer, his wings spreading as he draped one over Crawley’s shoulders, shielding him from the storm.