Chapter Text
[Above the outer atmosphere
Of a world he's never seen
And looking down to his new home
He feels the rising of a wave and knows at once
He will not weather it]
~Hozier: Through Me (The Flood)
Crowley had been awake for a while, but he’d decided not to wake Ema, even if he was nearly bored out of his mind, trapped inside their unconscious brain.
The old lady at the church had wished them a blessed Easter, and Ema had only just managed a nod and a smile, before fleeing the church. “I hate it,” they’d mumbled the second the doors had closed behind them and they’d started walking back home. “Blessed by whom? God doesn’t give enough fucks to bless anyone or anything. So… Jesus? Why?” They had sighed deeply and looked up to the dark, starless sky. “It’s always like that. Jesus will save us! Jesus will guide us! Jesus take the wheel! I will do the thing if Jesus wants me to! Why can’t people save themselves? Or think for themselves? How do you know if Jesus, or God, or whoever, wants you to do something? Why not just trust your own mind? And… I can’t do anything. I’m not who they’re praying to. And the one they want is dead and can’t do anything, either. It’s all just an excuse to not take responsibility for themselves.”
After that, they hadn’t said much more, preferring the company of their own thoughts to Crowley’s. He couldn’t blame them.
They had found themself some food in the fridge and mostly poked rather than eaten it, before giving up and burying themself in bed at only just after nine, wordlessly staring into the darkness of the room for what had felt like an eternity, until they had slipped into a fitful, restless, sleep.
Now, it was morning. There were things to do, an exorcism to get and a world to save, but Ema had only truly found rest shortly before sunrise, and likely wouldn’t be of any use during the day if he woke them now. So, Crowley was left to his own devices within the confines of their sleeping body and the reddish darkness behind their eyelids.
A faithless Messiah, then.
There was a strange, twisted kind of kinship there.
Even though he was Fallen, Crowley never truly had stopped talking to the Almighty. Not that They had ever answered him, not like Before, but over time, he had come to regard Them as a more or less sentient rubber duck, to unload all of his misgivings onto. But did he have faith in Them? Not really, capital letter or no. There was no trust between him and Them. Unlike Aziraphale, who had always kept that little bit of conviction. Which was probably the only reason he hadn’t Fallen yet.
To find the Child of God to have none of that, no innate belief that God would come to their aid, had been a shock. Crowley would have expected them to have the strongest Faith of them all, human or angel. Instead, there was only the desperate loneliness of a human who knew for a fact God existed, and at the same time believed Them to be completely and fully indifferent.
Crowley knew both to be true, and he’d made his peace with it a long time ago. But that didn’t mean the knowledge didn’t still hurt. And he remembered the despair after his Fall, to be so utterly and definitively cut off from the Almighty.
The difference was - They had cut him off.
Ema had done it to themself. And they probably weren’t even aware of this.
Yesterday, they had told him you were there when he died. I remember. Crowley remembered, too. Vividly. The pain etched into the three men’s faces as they hung on the crosses, the sun beating down on them, crows and vultures already waiting in the sky to claim their feast. And Yeshua’s last words, a wretched scream towards the Heavens, of why have you forsaken me?
Words that Ema had carried with them probably since the day they were born.
No wonder they hadn’t told Crowley and Aziraphale who they were. They probably wished for nothing more in the world than to never have carried those memories.
Yes, Crowley had been angry with them at first. But now, he had nothing but sympathy for them.
Be that as it may, repairing their relationship with God was the best bet they had to stop the Second Coming. It took priority over ending his possession of them. But with how deep the pain ran, Crowley doubted he’d be able to fix things in time.
Picture that. A demon, sympathising with the Messiah and coming up with plans to make a human believe in God again. Had you told him this just a year ago - no, scratch that, a month, a week even, he would have laughed you in the face and called you a lunatic. Well, apparently, the joke was on him.
It wasn’t a funny one.
At long last, Ema stirred with an unwilling groan. All in all, if Crowley’s accounts were correct, they had slept for maybe four hours total over the course of the entire night. To his knowledge, humans needed twice that. Not that he could relate, seeing as his naps could take weeks, and a proper sleep might span decades. But when the light of day stung Ema’s eyes, blurry and bleary, he could almost feel their exhaustion in his own, nonexistent, bones. He stayed quiet for a moment, while they adjusted to life again.
“...time izzit?” they mumbled into their pillow after a long time blinking at the world as if surprised to find it still there.
“Not sure. Probably around eight?” Crowley told them, based on how long he thought the sun had probably been up.
“... fuuuuck.” Ema pushed their face into the pillow and groaned against the fabric. “Y’re still ‘n there.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that.”
A weary sigh later, Ema raised their head just enough to prop their chin on the pillow instead of having to suffocate in it. “‘D kinda hoped ‘t was jus’ a dream.”
“Doesn’t seem like it.”
“... hnnnnng.”
“I fully agree.”
“Any chance you’ve figured out how to leave overnight?”
“Nope.”
“Ah, fiddlesticks.” With a lot of gratuitous noise, both from their throat and their joints, they heaved themself out of bed and into the bathroom, where they stared into the mirror for some time, then at the toilet and the shower. “... any chance we find a way to get you out before I have to pee?”
“No more than last night, I’m afraid. I can close my eyes and sing a song, if you want.”
“My eyes, you mean.”
It was awkward. It had been awkward yesterday, and it was somehow worse today, but they got through it somehow. Well, awkwardly was how they got through it, but the important bit was that they did.
After an unenthusiastic breakfast, Ema left their plate and cup in the living room. “Doesn’t matter either way, does it?” they asked the room. “Either I can do it over the weekend, or I won’t have to wash dishes ever again. I honestly wouldn’t mind not having to wash dishes ever again, but I’d kind of hoped it would be because I got a dishwasher next time I moved house.”
“Come Saturday, you’ll be so annoyed at yourself.”
“Come Saturday. If there is a Saturday to come.”
Hissing with indignation, Crowley demanded: “So, you’ve just given up? Not even the tiniest bit of confidence?”
“Once we get you out and able to do stuff again, maybe. As it stands… I don’t see much reason for confidence.”
Crowley wasn’t able to argue while Ema brushed their teeth, but when they pulled on their shoes to finally go to the library, he told them gently, doing his best to mask how difficult it was to say: “Look, I understand. I really do. I’m Fallen. I know what it feels like to lose Faith. And yes, I do understand the irony in me, a demon, telling you this, but… the point is, I won’t be able to change a thing, even without being stuck in your head. The only one who can is you. You just need to have… well, Faith. In God. Or the Powers That Be, anyway.”
They rolled their eyes. “Crowley…”
“Just - try to reconnect! You can do it. I know you can. Try praying again.”
Ema paused for a moment, then straightened up, laid their palms against each other and stared up at the smoke detector on the ceiling. “Dear God,” they deadpanned, “it’s me. Could you, you know, not? Thanks. Bye. Uh, amen.” After a brief moment of intense silence, they dropped their hands again and shrugged. “Oh, would you look at that? Nothing happened.”
Not that Crowley was surprised. Ema’s divinity had barely even twitched. A prayer without Faith behind it is, after all, little more than a monologue. To make a point, he decided to not only roll his eyes mentally, but actually use Ema’s. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“I don’t, actually.”
“It’s not going to work if you don’t believe it. Mustard seeds and mountains, and all that.”
With a sigh, Ema finished tying their shoelaces. “What is there to believe in? God doesn’t care either way. If He has a Plan, that Plan will happen. If He doesn’t, then it’s all just random. No way for us to know. If there is a Plan, we can’t change it. If there isn’t, He won’t interfere with whatever’s going to happen, because Him not interfering would be the point of not having a Plan. Whatever the case, petitioning Him won’t do anything.”
“And you’re really the one who got upset with us about not doing enough?” Crowley remembered quite vividly sitting on Ema’s couch with Aziraphale and being told that they needed more than a plan A. And Ema had been right - however, that had been when there was still time. Now, plan A was the only thing left.
“Because you can actually do more. You’re the ones with the power to change things. I’m just over here, trying to stay alive.”
When they reached for their keys, Crowley held them back. Not restraining, just resisting a little. “Wait. Just a moment.” He released their arm, and, after a moment of hesitation, they dropped it. “Try one more time. Really try. I know you can do it.”
“... I can’t.”
“You can!” It felt like arguing with Jim about remembering. Except his memories had been fully locked away, with no real way of accessing them without Beelzebub's fly. Ema, on the other hand, had cut themself off by sheer force of… what? Disdain, maybe. Or despair. Years of bitterness and disappointment had clogged the line, until Ema had finally broken it of their own accord. Crowley’s and Aziraphale’s joined miracle had theoretically unblocked the line again, but it was up to Ema to reconnect it. “Try. Not pretend. Actually try.”
“It won’t work.”
“Not with that attitude. Literally.”
The moment stretched on in silence, while Crowley waited with metaphorically bated breath for Ema’s reaction. They stood, seemingly unable to decide between wanting to argue and giving in.
Finally, they lowered their head and brought their hands together again. Like yesterday at the church, they didn’t speak. But they didn’t need to for Crowley to know. There was that feeling of reaching out again, of Ema’s divinity trying to connect with the Divine. Stretching, grasping, pushing - and pulling back again, curling in on itself like a wounded animal. It hadn’t come as close as yesterday, from what Crowley could tell.
Instead of a sob, Ema let out a weary sigh and said, with a tired shrug: “I can’t.”
“You almost had it!”
“Don’t try to give me hope where there is none. That’s just cruel.”
Crowley was just about to tear his own hair in frustration, before remembering that that would be pulling Ema's hair. As much as they deserved it, it was probably a bad idea. So it was all he could do to growl at them from their own throat. “Again.”
“Why can't you just let it go?”
“Do it!”
They threw up their hands. “Alright, fine, no need to shout. We're wasting what little time we have left, but fine.”
This time, it took them a while to settle into it, frustrated as they were. But then, their divinity began to resonate again. It searched, feeling around, growing towards its goal.
It didn’t even make it halfway before retreating.
“Keep going,” Crowley urged.
Ema frowned, but reached out once more. Further, and further, and- stopped, falling back into themself. They shook their head. “It's not working.”
“Because you keep interrupting yourself before you get there!”
“And if I get it to work, what happens to you?”
It took Crowley a moment to get over his surprise at the question. “Me?”
“Yeah.” They grabbed their jacket from its hanger and pushed their arms into the sleeves. “If I make contact with… whoever or whatever is on the other side, what happens to you if you're still possessing me?”
“... that's what you're worried about?”
“Not just that, but yes, I worry about your safety.”
Crowley was speechless. Of course his presence alone might already be interfering with Ema's fragile connection to the Almighty. But he'd forgotten to consider it from the other direction. “Erm.”
Ema just rolled their eyes and left the house.
When he noticed the direction they were walking in, he told them: “We can take the car.”
“We're not taking the car.”
“She's right there.”
“And the bus is right over there. Also, I don't have a license.”
They began walking towards the stop, when a loud groan came from their mouth. “You don't have to drive, I can drive.”
“Nope. You're not driving with my body.”
“We can't talk on the bus.”
“Oh nooo! Whatever shall we do?”
He stopped their feet. “Come on. Just a little drive.”
“Let go of my legs, please. Also, I know how you drive, and without your powers, you have no way of preventing me from getting a ticket for driving without a license.”
“You're-”
“-no fun, I know.” Frustrated, Crowley let go of their legs again, and they resumed walking, ignoring the grumbling that didn't quite reach their mouth but that was definitely happening somewhere inside.
Once they reached the bus stop, they checked the times. “There should be one in just a few minutes.”
“Should.” Even without visible eyerolls and expressive brows, Crowley managed to exaggerate his sarcasm.
Ema shrugged. “Maybe we get lucky.”
They didn’t. The bus didn't show up at the scheduled time, and when Ema checked the app, it had apparently been canceled. “Oh come on, really? Did you do this?”
“No powers, remember? Anyway, since we're failing either way and the world is definitely ending tomorrow, you won't need to worry about tickets.”
Now it was Ema's turn to grumble. “Alright, fine. But if I do get a ticket, you make it disappear the moment you're out and get your powers back. If we survive tomorrow, that is.”
The library was massive, of course, but whenever Ema came here, they couldn't help but be a little bit disappointed. It never quite lived up to their dreams of monumental, curving staircases, beautifully crafted wooden bookshelves with ladders, and warm, cosy lighting.
Yes, many parts of it still retained their old, Victorian charm. But then there were stretches with stacks so close together a larger person would have trouble fitting through, metal grating in the floors, cold neon lights and the odd, strangely profane, emergency exit sign.
To Ema, it always felt too… well, not clinical, but maybe industrial. It lacked the atmosphere the word library conjured up in their mind.
It made up for its lack of vibes with its contents: rows after rows of books, neatly sorted.
With the help of a grumpy employee, Ema made their way to the section housing religious books. “Anything stand out to you?” they murmured when they were alone in front of a shelf, tracing the titles with their eyes.
“Try the Rituale Romanum. It should have descriptions of a Great Exorcism.”
Ema looked around for a bit, and found the title. It was rather old, but the imprint told them it was a relatively recent reprint, and that the original stemmed from 1614. They opened it on the table of contents. “It's in Latin.”
“Do you know Latin?”
“I remember bits and pieces. I took French in school, but Yeshua knew some. Comes with getting colonised. Can you fill in the gaps?” Sometimes, those strange, foreign memories came in handy. Ema was quite sure their woodworking classes would not have gone half as smoothly if they hadn’t remembered the feeling of woodgrain and sawdust under their fingers from another life.
“Sure.” Crowley scanned the chapter titles with Ema's eyes. They still hated the feeling when he took over any part of their body, including their mouth for speaking, but they let him. “Go to De Exorcismis et supplicationibus. Should be in there, if I recall correctly.”
Ema obediently turned to the appropriate page. “So… sign of the cross, sprinkling with Holy Water…”
“Not a good idea.”
“Why? You said before you'd prefer Hell to Holy Water before, what does it do to you?”
Crowley sneered with their face. “Have you ever seen Raiders of the Lost Arc?” When Ema nodded, he continued: “Do you remember what happens to that Nazi who opens the Arc?”
It took them a moment, but then Ema shuddered. “Ew. Okay, no, no Holy Water.” They returned to the text. “Apart from that, there's just a whole bunch of talking, reading, and asking God to remove the demon. Or telling the demon to leave in the name of Christ.”
“And showing the crucifix.”
“Would that do anything?”
“Touching it might burn a little. But being on consecrated ground with you didn't burn, either, so it might not.”
After a moment's consideration, Ema took a photo of the pages and reshelved the book. Crowley pointed them to another, more recent one. It detailed much the same rites, except with one addition: “Psychiatrists? Now that's a word I didn't expect to see here.”
“Huh. Looks like they learned something, after all.”
“Have you ever been mistaken for mental illness?”
Crowley snorted. “Depends on whose mind you're talking about, and who you ask. Aziraphale might say yes.”
Ema had to clap a hand in front of their mouth to muffle the sudden bout of laughter bubbling out of them. Even so, an annoyed looking face poked around the corner. “Sorry,” they whispered, and the other person retreated. Still grinning, they scolded the demon within: “Don't make me laugh like that, this is a library!”
“Worth it.”
Shaking their head, Ema read on. What they found was quite sobering. “Oh… People actually died from exorcisms? I thought that was a horror movie thing. No wonder they bring in secular specialists nowadays.”
“Yeah. And I can guarantee that most of them weren't possessed, either.”
“I almost expected as much.” With a sigh, they reshelved this book as well. “Do you think we'll find anything useful here? I mean, I can try performing a rite myself, sans Water, but… do you think it'll work?”
“Not if you don’t believe the prayers you're saying.”
This again. “I could believe as hard as I want, it's not going to change the outcome if God doesn't listen.”
“Would it hurt you to be a little more optimistic?”
Ema shook their head. “Optimism doesn't come easy to me.”
“Come on! Not just faithless, but hopeless, too? What kind of Messiah are you?”
“Shh!” Annoyed and frustrated, they ground their teeth. “None at all, if it was up to me. Right, let's go. There's nothing here.”
“Wha- no, wait! Where are you going?”
“Finding an angel. If Faith is what we need, we need someone who's better at it than me.”
“I thought you didn’t want to involve any angels?”
“I want you out.”
It was a mere fifteen-minute walk to the bookshop, or it would have been, if Crowley hadn't insisted on driving again. But at this point, Ema didn't even mind the breakneck speeds. The faster they got rid of the unwelcome presence in their mind, the better. Then Crowley would be able to focus on saving the world, and Ema would be able to focus on not getting in his way.
The worst part was his insistence that they pray away their problems. It had never worked before and it wouldn't work now, how was that so difficult to understand? Was it Ema's fault that God had given up on Humanity? Was it their fault that He didn’t care enough?
If thoughts and prayers could save the world, they wouldn’t be in this situation.
By the time they arrived at the bookshop, Ema had worked up quite an anger, and they threw open the doors so heavily it made their glass panes clatter.
A startled Muriel poked their head out from behind the stacks. “Oh,” they exclaimed, “hello Ema! I, erm, I'm afraid Azir- I mean, Mr Fell isn’t here.”
“Better that way,” Ema grumbled. They halted and took a deep breath. Muriel didn’t have anything to do with their frustrations and didn’t deserve to take the hit for them. “Look… sorry, I'm having a bit of a rough day.”
“Oh no, do you want to sit down and talk about it? I can make you some tea!” And with that, Muriel herded Ema over to the sofa and disappeared into the back of the shop, without giving them a chance to protest.
Ema sat down heavily and looked around. The shop truly was a treasure trove for anyone interested in, well anything. Sculptures and artifacts from all ages of Humanity, books and scrolls. The desk was strewn with papers and more books and artifacts, and there was a cup holding pens, pencils, biros, and a few quills made from different kinds of feathers.
Amongst it all, a black concrete vase holding yellow tulips, red anemones, willow branches, and a dark crimson, rose.
“Look-”
“Shut up.” They let their eyes linger on the flowers. It had been weeks since Muriel had told them where they had come from, but they still looked the same. Not even dust had gathered on their petals. Ema had gone into a little rabbit hole researching floriography. They'd had a vague understanding of floral symbolism before, thanks to having had to analyse painting after painting during their time at university, but flowers in the Renaissance didn't necessarily mean the same as flowers in Victorian times. “You really are a cruel bastard. Do you know that?”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
They sighed and buried their face in their hands. “The sooner you're gone, the better. Then we can all go back to actually useful things.”
“If you'd just-”
They shook their head violently. “Stop trying to force the impossible! It's not working! It's never worked before and it's never going to work! Save your breath. Or mine, rather. It doesn't matter how often you make me do it, it's not going to work.”
Crowley stopped just short of grinding Ema's teeth. “I'm telling you, it can work! You just need to believe in it!”
“Manifestation is horseshit, and you know it.”
“It's not manifestation!”
Muriel chose that moment to come back with two steaming cups of dainty blue-and-white porcelain, turning a translucent eggshell colour where the warm light from the windows hit them. Ema wanted to study and paint the play of light through the china and tea, but the moment was brief, and there were more important things to do. They accepted their cup and stared at it darkly.
“I thought I heard Crowley talking,” Muriel remarked as they sat in the old armchair and looked around. “Did I imagine it?”
“No.” With a sigh, Ema leaned back. Faced with Muriel's innocent curiosity, their anger seemed to simply evaporate, leaving their mind tired and their body heavy. “You didn't imagine it.”
“Are you on the phone with him? I've seen Nina speak to Maggie like that a few times. It's very practical! She sometimes has Maggie on her screen, too, so they can see each other while they're working.” They peered around the little nook between the shelves and desk. “Where's your phone, then?”
Ema couldn’t help a smile. Maybe that was what angels were supposed to do: soothe the weary simply by virtue of their presence. No miracles, no magic, no blessings. Just a little kindness and warmth. Be not afraid in its purest form. They shook their head. “I'm not on the phone with him. He's right here.”
“Where? Has he turned invisible?” Visibly confused, Muriel eyed the spot on the couch next to Ema, seemingly looking for an indication of an invisible butt on the leather.
“Here,” Crowley spoke up. “Erm. Hi.”
Muriel startled. “Wha- how- erm… I mean, hello, Crowley, uhm… why are you talking with Ema's mouth?”
“Long story.”
“Not that long, actually.” Ema waved a hand at themself. “He's possessing me. He didn’t mean to, but here we are.”
“Possessing-” One moment, Muriel looked surprised, the next, terrified. “But- but that's not allowed!”
“No. Which is why Heaven and Hell can't know about this.” Leaning forward again, Ema set down their untouched cup and fixated Muriel in their gaze. “Can you help us? He can't get out by himself.”
“I…” Muriel chewed on their bottom lip, thinking. “I'll try.”
Most of the preparations for the Second Coming were complete. Only a few things needed to be done now, before Aziraphale was expected to give the order for proceedings to begin. Once given, it would be impossible to reverse, so he had tried to stall. Prolonging meetings, changing details last minute, demanding additional information - anything he could come up with to win time for either Crowley and Muriel or for himself to find some new solution.
Nothing had worked in a way that mattered.
Uriel had left the problem with the Messiah's file to Pravuil to oversee the purification of large quantities of Holy Water, and to double check the placement and targets for the humans’ weapons. Meanwhile, Michael had supervised the Host's training, and, alongside Sandalphon, inspected the weaponry. Saraqael had mostly stayed on their post surveilling the Earth, corresponding with Sabriel and keeping track of the souls that would go to either side - according to them, it was looking rather dire for Heaven. But not even this had deterred any of them from their current schedule.
Now, the Archangels had gathered again. Not for a simple meeting this time, but for an excursion to Earth. One of the last things that needed to be done. It had been Aziraphale's idea, actually, and he'd hoped there might be some discussion about it at least. It was a rather bad and pointless idea, after all. But to his dismay and surprise, the Archangels had accepted it without question. He still didn't understand why, but it probably didn't matter either way.
Aziraphale was flanked by Michael to his right, Uriel to his left, with Saraqael and Sandalphon on the outside, as they waited. All armed to defend against threats, Holy Water within reach, their weapons just outside their grasp, ready for summoning. There was a certain decorum to it, he supposed, although it was hard to spot with the five of them standing silently in the empty space of Heaven.
Finally, the silence was broken by distant footsteps, and Pravuil came into sight, approaching them at a measured pace. Aziraphale willed her to walk faster, but there was probably decorum there, as well.
To tell the truth, he just wanted to get it over with.
As Pravuil came closer, the object she was holding slowly came into focus. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what he had expected, exactly. But he certainly hadn't thought it would look so… ordinary.
At long last, Pravuil stood before the Archangels.
“The Book of Life,” Uriel announced reverently.
It seemed like any old book. Or, any really old book, not unlike many in Aziraphale's collection. Beautiful, certainly, but nothing truly special. A heavy leather cover, embossed in gold, the Enochian writing on its spine worn away by age. Its edges were gilded and carried an elegant, gothic-looking pattern that caught the light. Even without touching it, Aziraphale was sure that, were he to open it, a second edge painting would be revealed underneath the gold. Maybe even two, depending on whether it was opened from the front or from the back. An almost lost art on today's Earth.
Pristine, ancient, and strangely human. As large as some of Aziraphale's oldest Bibles. And heavy with billions of stories.
Bringing it to Earth would do no good. But it was too late to take back the suggestion now.
Hesitantly, Aziraphale reached out and Pravuil placed the old tome in his outstretched palms. “I entrust the Book of Life to the care of the Supreme Archangel,” she declared, “knowing he will keep it safe. From one keeper of books to another.”
He swallowed and desperately tried to keep his voice from wavering. “I… I thank you. Rest assured that no harm shall come to it and that no one shall have access to it who isn't authorised.”
She nodded and stepped aside.
“Well then,” Aziraphale said to no one in particular, “I suppose we… should be off, then."
The other Archangels followed close behind him, like bright white shadows, as he steered his steps towards the stairwell of the London main entrance.
Muriel didn’t know whether they were supposed to be upset or amused. They were currently watching Ema argue with Crowley. Which, aurally, made sense. But visually, the human was simply getting angry at themself. It was slightly confusing, especially since it was difficult to tell who was crossing Ema’s arms, or grumbling something unintelligible.
As an angel, Muriel was quite sure they should step in and stop the argument, soothe tempers and maybe offer some kind of comfort, but they were thoroughly unsure how to do that. Especially since the demon, of all beings, was making some excellent points, even if Muriel felt like they were lacking some significant context.
They had tried to miracle Crowley out of Ema. They had recited the appropriate psalms and incantations. They had even lit some real candles, only to immediately blow them out again when it hadn’t worked - that glare had definitely belonged to Crowley.
Muriel had no idea why nothing was working. By all means, Crowley should have been a separate entity by now, or even back in Hell.
Crowley, on the other hand, seemed to know quite well. “I am telling you,” he snarled at Ema, “it's you with your not believing in miracles thing. If you put even just a fraction of that conviction towards- well, towards other things, you could do anything!”
“And I'm telling you that that's stupid!” they snarled back. “As if I had the power to stop you or Muriel or anyone from using your powers.”
“You do! That's the whole point!”
“I don't! If I did, do you really think we'd be here?”
“Yes! That is exactly why we're here!”
It was a kind of circular argument, which had been going on for several minutes already, and seemed to have the potential to go on for quite a bit longer.
Finally, Muriel felt like they needed to interfere, as voices rose and Ema - or Crowley - started pacing the bookshop. “I’m not sure what's going on here,” they interjected as one of them opened their mouth again, “but if it's about faith… maybe it's different for humans, but that's how our miracles work.”
Ema stared at them, frozen mid-argument, and blinked.
When no other answer came forth, Muriel continued: "It's pretty much just believing something should be a certain way, and then summoning power from Heaven to make it real. Or, well, Hell, I guess,” they added with a little gesture to Crowley-in-Ema. “Sometimes it even happens without thinking! For example, yesterday, I was looking for a book for a customer who wanted something about dinosaurs, and I found it in the science section. I only remembered afterwards that I'd actually categorised it as fiction. But the customer was so insistent that I just assumed it had to be there, and, well, there it was.”
“Same here. I haven’t bought petrol for the Bentley in, oh, sixty years. Haven't even thought about it, for the most part.”
Ema blinked again, then shook their head. “... alright. Sure. But why is she still running when you don’t have your powers right now?”
“She knows better than to run out.”
There was a beat of stunned silence as Ema seemed to process this, then they began to laugh. “Sure. Okay, you got me. Fine. Angels and demons can work miracles simply by believing in it. Why not? But I'm human. Humans don't get to do that.”
“I don’t know,” Muriel answered. “I've seen humans do some pretty incredible things when I chronicled their lives.” Their eyes fell on a stack of books they'd been reshelving when Ema and Crowley had come in, and they remembered the conversation they'd had with Aziraphale weeks ago. “I worked on some of the men in the Trojan War, you know. And Achilles… I mean, obviously, he wasn’t a demigod. And he wasn’t invulnerable, either, but he believed it so deeply, he might as well have been.”
Ema's smile turned sad, and they sat down on the floor, amongst the extinguished candles. “And he got killed by a poisoned arrow, anyway. Most of the people who set out to do stupidly heroic things do so believing they'll come back. I mean, I cross the road every day believing I'll make it to the other side without getting hit by a drunk driver. But that's not what keeps me alive.” They shook their head again and picked up one of the candles, turning it over in their hands, probing at the soft wax around the wick with a fingertip. “Achilles just got lucky, until he didn’t.”
Just as Muriel opened their mouth to respond, the bell behind them rang. Ema looked up, eyes going wide, and they muttered, quietly but with emphasis: “Oh, fuck!”
The Bentley stood outside the bookshop, which was bad. It meant that Crowley was there, too, and that, in turn, meant that, with the other Archangels there, Aziraphale would have to reprimand Muriel for associating with him. And it meant that he would have to throw Crowley out. Even if Aziraphale had managed to somewhat convince Michael that their collaboration was fully above the table, he doubted the Archangels would accept him there for their task. Especially with Crowley’s new title. With any luck, he was just at Nina's to get some coffee.
Steeling himself, Aziraphale pushed open the door and stepped inside, the other Archangels filing in behind him.
A faint, almost fully dissipated curling haze of smoke and soot hung in the air, along with the smell of burned beeswax, mixing with the more familiar scents of the shop, and Crowley’s unmistakeable presence. Muriel was standing with their back to the entrance, half turned around to look, cradling a book in their arms. In front of them, at the centre of the gateway to Heaven, an unhappy looking Ema sat, fiddling with an extinguished candle, of which there were several more surrounding them. Outside the circle lay a stick of chalk, which had obviously been used to modify it. Aziraphale himself had never used this particular arrangement, his preferred method for expelling demons being telling them to please leave since he had work to do, but any angel would have recognised what was happening here.
An exorcism.
Which meant…
“Oh, fuck!” It had been quiet, but in the tense silence, it might as well have been a cannon shot. Chances were, Ema hadn’t even meant to say it, judging by the way their eyes widened. “Great.” They disentangled their limbs and stood with a forced smile. “I, erm, I guess I’d better go. You know, stuff to do and all that.” With a look to Muriel, they added: “So, uhm… yeah. Thanks for the help. I… I’ll let you know how it goes.”
Muriel blinked a few times, then nodded a little too enthusiastically. “Oh! Yes, please. And thanks for coming over!”
“Yeah.” Waving awkwardly, Ema started moving towards the exit, giving a pinched smile and curt nod to Aziraphale.
He stepped out of the way, in a hurry to let them, and by extension Crowley, presumably, out of the shop, before anyone could object. But just as he opened his mouth to give a short take care, Saraqael raised their voice: “What in Heaven is going on here? Muriel?”
In an instant, Muriel’s expression switched from nervous to panicked. “Erm, well. That is-”
“They were helping me with my research.” Ema had stopped, a hand on the door, and was looking straight at Saraqael, doing their best to appear unbothered. “I’m a freelance artist, and I was looking for, uhm, resources for a project.” Aziraphale could only hope the Archangels hadn’t learned to spot lies since the matter with Job. Ema was not a very good liar. Their eyes flickered to Aziraphale, then Muriel, then back to Saraqael. “It’s, well… it’s for a commission. People sometimes request strange things.” They laughed in a desperate attempt at levity. “You know how it is.” Awkwardly clearing their throat and shrugging, they continued: “But, uhm, I guess you have business here, so… I won’t keep you any longer. So… yeah. Have a nice day!” On this, they spun around to the door again and pushed it open, obviously in a hurry to escape.
“Wait a moment,” Saraqael called after them.
Hesitating, Ema stopped and turned to them again. “Yes?” They looked more nervous by the second as Saraqael floated up to them and looked them up and down. Again, they glanced at Aziraphale in what was definitely a silent scream for help.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” he told Saraqael. “Now, we do have business here, and I believe it would be best for everyone here if we got on with it. Right? I’m sure this human here needs to go back to their job, as well. We would not want to keep them from their commission.”
“Forgive me, your Beatitude, but with all due respect - I know that in your function as a Guardian, you have a lot of experience in prevention of sin and, well, demonic activity." Saraqael seemed to be the only angel in Heaven who had properly mastered the art of sarcasm, and Aziraphale hated it. Especially when it was directed at him. "I’m a Watcher, though. I know all about the aftermath.” They sized up Ema again. “And this human has something demonic about them.” Narrowing their eyes, they added: “Something familiar, too.”
Ema laughed, a little hysterically. “Demonic? Me?” Their laughter ended in a startled cough when Saraqael extended a hand towards them, and they awkwardly tried to shimmy out of reach, only to bump into the door behind them.
Aziraphale shook his head. “It’s probably nothing. I don’t know how much time you’ve spent down here recently, but there’s a lot of low-grade evil about, especially in London. That’s probably what you’re sensing. Trust me, it doesn’t mean this particular human is especially sinful. In fact, some of the most virtuous people I know here-”
“Crowley.” Saraqael, still with one hand hovering only an inch or so away from Ema’s arm, smiled dryly. “That is you, isn’t it?”
“What?” Ema’s own smile grew ever more strained. “I- who’s that?”
“I don’t know what he told you, child, but you really shouldn’t be protecting a demon.”
“I’m not a-”
“A Duke of Hell, no less,” Michael spat. “Who is very strictly forbidden from possessing humans.”
“I’m telling you,” Ema cried desperately, “it’s for an art project. I’m just here for research! I have no idea what on Earth you’re all talking about!”
“There you have it,” Aziraphale said quickly, and went to stand next to them. “They don’t know anything about any possession. Or about the demon Crowley. And even if Crowley was truly possessing a human, I’m sure Hell would want to deal with that themselves.”
Now, Saraqael’s sharp eyes landed on him. “We can’t just let this stand. A human, possessed not just by any demon, but a Duke of Hell? Who would we be, if we just let that happen?” They focussed on Ema again. “The sooner you come out, the sooner we’ll be done here.”
For a moment, the Archangel and the human simply stared at each other, one expectantly, the other, visibly frightened. Then, Ema’s posture changed into more of a relaxed slouch. “For the record, I didn’t mean to possess them. It was an accident.”
Saraqael sighed, in a manner Aziraphale had mostly observed in disappointed human parents so far. “Hello, Crowley.”
“Yeah. Hi. Now, in my defense, we were just trying to get an exorcism when you came in.” He sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “Didn’t work. As you can see.”
“Of course not. Muriel is a 37th rank Scrivener. I doubt they have enough power to go against you.”
With a shrug, Crowley replied: “Wasn’t as if I resisted. Trust me, I want nothing more than to get out. Turns out, I’m stuck.”
“Stuck?” asked Uriel. “I’ve never heard of a demon getting stuck in possession.”
“Yeah, me neither. But here I am. Stuck.” He shoved Ema's hands into their pockets.
“We’ve been trying everything. I even went to church with him,” Ema said quietly. “We’d hoped maybe Muriel could help.” Before any of the other angels could reply, they added, louder: “He really didn’t mean to! It was my fault. I got in his way, and, poof, demon in my head.”
“Well,” Aziraphale said kindly, “then we best get him out as fast as possible, before he leaves stains on your soul. No damage done.” He ignored Crowley’s growled remarks about stains, and gently ushered Ema back into the circle, placing the Book on the counter as he passed it. If only they could resolve this quickly, he might be able to convince the Archangels to let it go, since their visit here had a purpose.
Sandalphon snarled. “No damage? A demon of his rank is forbidden from possessing humans. Accident or not, there need to be consequences!”
“And I’m sure Hell will be able to think of some,” Aziraphale replied tetchily, “I hear consequences are their specialty.”
Crowley snorted at that, earning himself an angrily hissed “stop it” from Ema.
“I was on my way back down there, anyway. Just get me out and I’ll be out of your hair. Or, well…” Aziraphale could tell Crowley was about to make a snide remark on Sandalphon’s hair. Whether he thought better of it, or whether Ema stopped him, he couldn’t tell, but either way, it was definitely for the better.
“Exactly. Now, let’s see.” Aziraphale took the book from Muriel, which turned out to be a Bible. One of his old Naughty Bibles, in fact. Not that it mattered, since the relevant passages should all be the same. But just in case, he gave it back. “Be a dear and fetch me a different one, would you? Perhaps from the other side of the shelf.”
Muriel nodded and scurried away between the stacks.
Sandalphon stepped closer to where Ema and Crowley were standing. “No need to wait for Hell. Or to trust him,” he nodded at Crowley, “to go there himself. We can just get this done quickly.” He put his hand in the pocket where Aziraphale knew he held a vial of Holy Water.
“No! There really is no need for that,” Aziraphale all but shouted and hastened to stand between Ema and Sandalphon. “I’m sure not even a Duke can withstand an exorcism performed by five Archangels, now, can he?”
Even without looking at them, he could feel how scared Ema was. And even if Crowley affected his usual nonchalance, his presence was wavering as well. Not that Aziraphale himself was any calmer, try to appear confident as he might.
Muriel returned with a different Bible, this one devoid of any unfortunate misprints. Satisfied, Aziraphale helped them set up the candles again. He really didn’t like the open flames, but didn’t want to risk straining the already tense situation any further by going to look for the battery-powered ones.
Motioning for the other angels to take position beside him, he opened the Bible.
Together, the six of them went through the steps - besides the sprinkling of Holy Water. They spoke the appropriate prayers, slightly different from their human counterparts, recited the fitting parts of Scripture, or what over time had gone from angelic teachings to human writings, let their miracles flow into the ritual. Their angelic powers alone should have been enough to expel any demon.
After they were through, they all looked at Ema expectantly. “And…?” Aziraphale asked.
Ema blinked a few times, then grinned a bit too widely. “Oh, would you look at that, my head is completely demon free again! Awesome!” They gave a too-cheerful thumbs up. “Yay! Now that that’s done, I’m just going to-” They tried to step out of the circle, but were stopped by Saraqael once again.
“Let me see.” They held out a hand again and hovered it over Ema’s body.
“I’m telling you, it’s fine.”
Saraqael frowned, first in concentration, then in confusion. “It didn’t work,” they muttered. “Why wouldn’t it work?”
“Uhm,” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Well, you see, ever since we did that unblocking miracle, miracles have been a little, uhm, iffy down here. Maybe we just need to try again.”
“Iffy?” Uriel asked. “Why didn’t you say? We should have had the area cleansed, then, before coming here.”
“Well, I didn’t expect the effect to last this long! It’s been more than a week, after all.”
“Clearly, you were wrong.” Michael folded her hands, possibly to keep herself from reaching for her sword where it waited in the ether, if her white knuckles were any indication. “We absolutely need at least this neighbourhood cleansed. And we need to do away with this demon as soon as possible.” She, too, reached for her vial.
“Stop!” Aziraphale commanded. “We will not be executing a member of the Dark Council! We do not have the authority to do so, nor do we have reason. We will find a solution for this, but-”
“We do have a reason,” Michael hissed. “Unauthorised Possession of a Human by a High Ranking Demon. This goes against all laws that exist between Heaven and Hell.”
“I know that! But since it seems to have been an unfortunate accident, we can’t just jump straight to capital punishment.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Just because this particular demon happens to be your… favourite,” she practically spat the word at his feet, “you can’t make an exception for him. Otherwise, one might think you didn’t take Divine Law all that seriously.”
A cold shiver shook Aziraphale. He took a deep breath and chose his next words carefully, meeting Michael’s eyes straight on. “I forbid you from exacting punishment. There are extenuating circumstances, and he has a right to a trial. We’re angels! We represent Heaven! We can’t just skip these steps, just because you happen to harbour some personal resentment.”
“Exactly. We’re angels. We act in the Almighty’s name, and we do the Right Thing.”
“Exactly,” Aziraphale repeated. “We do the Right Thing. And that means, we don’t go around executing demons for no reason!”
“I wouldn’t call it no reason,” he heard Sandalphon say behind him. Damn it all, he had been so focussed on Michael, he’d all but forgotten about the others.
Before Aziraphale had fully turned around, he heard the squeak of a cork in glass, a gasp, and Crowley shouting “No! No, no, no n-”
There was a splash, and a splutter, and then Aziraphale was faced with Ema, dripping wet, coughing and stumbling backwards, wiping their face with a sleeve. “What the Hell was-” they shouted, then froze. One moment passed, then another. Their eyes lost their focus as they looked inwards, then widened.
“Oh no,” they breathed.