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Having a corporation was very, very weird.
When Muriel got assigned this body, it had been terrifying. First, there were the sounds— everything made sounds. Before they got used to it (and before they discovered that the sounds of the world were able to drown any other noise) they could hear their blood rushing, their voice sounding different coming from vocal cords and not echoing from a ripple of light. Sometimes they would close their mouth a little clumsily — talking was something new too — and they would hear their teeth clanging, and their whole body would shiver in horror. Having a tongue also felt so weird, and there was nowhere to rest it that felt right. They could even hear the air that the body needed coming in and out, like a machine. Everything worked at once without their input; heart and blood and air and eyes and ears and nose, all at once, with little choice to be made.
Breathing was an entire beast. When their lungs filled for the first time, air bursting into their chest and making space like an uninvited guest, it hurt, and they were frightened. They stifled a whimper, because it wouldn't do to complain about such a gift Archangel Saraqael and the General were giving them, and tried to keep quiet as the higher-ranking angels explained something. For the first time, Muriel hadn't been able to focus on their superiors. All their attention went into trying not to breathe too much and failing. At least their too-new lungs were aching a little less at each breath… And that was something new too, the hurt.
They noticed their eyes were in pain. Instinctively they blinked — that's what humans did, right? — and the pain got a little less during the brief second things went dark, only to come back when they opened their eyes again. It was… the lights. Muriel learned then that lights (something they were made of) could hurt too. The headache, a sharp zing that buzzed progressively louder inside their skull and threatened to split it in two, was proof of it.
After the Archangel and the General went out of sight, Muriel dared to take their first steps. Their body knew what to do, but they definitely didn't. One step after the other, balance uneven, they were so focused on their own feet that they hadn't seen the edge of the desk. Their little pinky toe had kicked the unforgiving foot of the table. A stifled yelp echoed, and they had been introduced to how fragile a corporation could be, if the irradiating pain that flared from their pinky was any indication. Immediately, they miracled clothes, and sturdy foot wear to protect their toes from any other accident.
And wasn't that another hel— another trouble entirely.
All the textures, all over their body. The way fabric wrapped around them, how the belt compressed their waist a little, how the shirt rasped against their skin as they moved… and of course that made noise too.
Needless to say, Muriel had been in a complete state of overwhelm even before they arrived on earth. And when they did, they had done their best to just deal with it; even so, the noises seemed to only get worse. And now… there were also smells and colours and movement and people and so fast and was that a cat and cars and wind and ugh, something stuck on their boot when they walked and please can you stop honking and why is the sun so bright and if you could all be a bit less loud—
Mister Fell was nice.
The bookshop was very nice. Quiet. There were still so many things to look at, but it was dim. And it felt… comfortable. The couch upholstery hugged their body, the cushions dipping under their weight and delightfully warm from the sun before so harsh but now almost comforting coming from the windows. Just then they noticed that their legs had been aching, probably from standing for too long. The prospect of having anything inside their already feel-weird mouth was horrifying, but the feel of the delicate porcelain on their hands was grounding.
Muriel liked the bookshop.
Over time they got used to it— or at least most of it. Corporations tend to do that, they learned. Breathing turned out to be quite relaxing, and the sounds of their own body went mostly unnoticeable. Eating and drinking were still something they weren't interested in, but all the chaos in Whickber street was weirdly pleasant; from inside the bookshop, or in Nina's café, they could watch without getting too involved and feel less lonely.
They never thought too much about loneliness before. Time passed differently in Heaven. It was infinite, and stretchy, and wholly unremarkable — they spent centuries and centuries without seeing another being, without speaking even. Only focusing on the archives and, sometimes, letting the time pass with something like sleeping, something like blinking out of existence.
By contrast, now they could recognise it had been terribly lonely. A kind of loneliness that was hard to describe; it was an absence of everything, in a way. Their existence could be summarised in the brief and punctual moments they had been called for duty, and everything else was just a blur.
Had they even existed when there was no one around? Does a tree falling make a sound if there is no one to hear? They couldn't be sure.
On Earth, it was different. They weren't ever truly lonely. There were always people passing by, and during the nights when humans slept, there was still noise and there were still books. And books, really, were just like people. Only smaller.
They couldn't be more pleased with The Metatron's decision to let them take care of the Heaven Embassy. They didn't know what they did to deserve such a gift, and they gave their best to keep it pristine — well, not really pristine, given that Mister Crowley was certain that the bookshop’s natural state was dusty — to assure they'd stay there.
Muriel was getting comfortable inhibiting their body, but most of all, comfortable inhibiting this world. The first step to that had been a change of clothes. They watched the humans go by in all their different regalia, and felt off looking at themselves surrounded by starched white. They… didn't need to wear a belt that dug into their belly when they sat, or a fabric that was stiff. They could wear a soft wool like Maggie, and they did so with a little miracle.
Humans hugged, and kissed, and held hands, and touched. Humans touched a lot. They were always touching something; playing with the hem of their clothes, reaching for books, tapping on screens, playing rhythms on table tops. Muriel didn't particularly like all that. There were too many textures that made their skin itch or their jaw clench with a weird sensation in the back of their skull. So, as rule, Muriel avoided touching anything new.
There were some things they enjoyed touching, though.
The paper on the books was really nice, when they weren't dusty; Muriel always made sure to use a little miracle before taking any book from the shelf. Smooth porcelain was also great, as long as their nails didn't touch it; actually anything that touched their nails was, as a rule, terrible. Keeping them short was a must, and they were glad they didn't need to grow like the humans’ nails. If they had to ever file them down they thought they wouldn't be able to contain the scream that would rise in their throat.
The feel and the weight of a pen in their hands, sliding over the paper, and the sounds it made was an absolute favourite. They often spent their time doodling, filling pages and pages with all manner of shapes just to hear and feel it.
Until they found Mister Fell’s drawings, and that gave them an idea.
Muriel started sketching the humans they saw. That one with the orange jacket that always crossed the street at 8:30; the kid with pony tails that wore a dinosaur jumpsuit; the man with long lashes and hair buns like a rabbit, that they often saw lurking around the bookshop windows. One time they even waved at him, but that startled him, making him hide again. Muriel was disappointed.
Their favourite subjects were the shopkeepers, though. They could see them more often, get more details. Learn their different expressions — which they often tried to mimic — and how their own bodies behaved.
And that's how they experienced their first hug.
Nina's café was cosy, and warm, and Muriel had spread their pencils and colourful pens on the table as they drew. The first time they did that, Nina scolded them and Muriel learned that they needed to order a cuperty to look at if they wanted to stay around; she seemed happy enough after the couple hundred pounds they left in the tip jar.
Maggie and Nina were talking, and Muriel didn't even need to be an angel to see the love there. Nina’s usual scowl went soft for a fraction, and Maggie was radiant like a sunny summer day; children's giggles, birds singing, and all, bright enough to melt ice cream and Nina's grumpiness. They memorised that exact moment without even noticing, feeling warm all over from their smiles. Their hand moved on instinct, committing to paper all they saw.
“Muriel! Hi!”
They were too focused. They had been learning how to shade, and they applied everything they knew. All the practice and time and effort was clear in their last pieces, and Muriel felt proud. It was the first time they were doing something that felt like… them. Something they actually learned and did not come with the factory settings, like their old job in Heaven. This was a choice, just like their clothes.
They kept working on the drawing until they heard a quite dramatic gasp.
“Oh! Muriel!”
They looked up, and found a teary-eyed Maggie.
“This is gorgeous!”
“Ah— Hi, Maggie… Do you like it?”
She clutched her hands against her chest, lip wobbling.
“No, Maggie, please don't cry—” Muriel got up with jolt, not knowing what to do. “I'm sorry, I won't draw you anymore, I prom—”
In a second there were arms around their shoulders.
“It is wonderful Muriel! Thank you so much!”
It was… weird. But not in a bad way. Muriel could smell her perfume — something floral and sweet — and she was warm. The pressure of her arms around their shoulders and their back was grounding, and good. Truly good. Their arms kept stiff by their sides, unsure what to do, but happy to keep still and let Maggie hug them.
When Maggie let go, Muriel shot them the best of their smiles — even if this one was still a bit confused and stunned.
“You could… keep the drawing if you want?”
Did humans like that?
Bunny-hair man was around again.
They had seen him from the corner of their eyes earlier, and now that they knew, they could feel something… different.
So, a demon then. Their demon-identification skills had sharpened after spending so much time with Mister Crowley, and now they could whiff out one if they focused.
Why would they be hiding like this? Maybe lurking was a demon thing, but Muriel should still investigate. In this embassy, only one demon was allowed.
Brisk steps took them in the direction of the door, but were halted once Muriel glanced at the desk. There all their drawings were neatly stacked. Maybe… maybe he'd appreciate them just like Maggie did, and maybe Muriel could exchange them for some answers?
Papers in hand, they appeared right behind him.
“Ello, ello, ello! What's all this then?”
The demon yelled, plastering his back against the window he had been spying through.
“Please, please, please don't kill me!” His eyes were wide, and they could notice the shaking in his hands. “I know I shouldn't be here but—”
He kept blabbering on, but Muriel was unable to follow. There was distress in his voice, actual fear in his every movement and the way his eyes widened. Muriel knew that because they had been reading about emotions, and had experienced fear in this human corporation a few weeks back — it was only a cockroach, but they never had seen one, and wasn't expecting them to be so fast.
“— please, not holy water.”
“What? I would never!” That was a horrific thought. “I only really wanted to know why you're here and… to give you this.”
Maybe that would help calm him down. They lifted the first paper, to show a sketch of him smiling. Muriel remembered this one; they had caught a precious moment of curiosity from him. He had been distracted by a birdsong, and had smiled with wonder when he found the culprit.
Slowly, his hands, that were still by the sides of his head in surrender, relaxed and lowered. He was still wary, and looked suspiciously at Muriel.
“What is your name?”
“E-Eric…”
“Hello Eric! I'm Muriel! Would you like a cupperty?”
They hoped Mister Crowley wouldn't mind that another demon would be momentarily allowed there.
Some days everything felt a little too much. The Christmas season proved to have many of these days.
It was cold, and Muriel discovered that their corporation was prone to joint pain, and that their skin liked to ache when the cold was biting or the wind blew. The season also bore a million of new stimuli that, especially experiencing for the first time, was not something they knew how to deal with.
The street was covered in lights. They flicked in many colours and differs patterns, and some were too bright. Nina also didn't appreciate it if the constant grumbling was any indication, but for Muriel it was worse. They made them confused sometimes, or gave them a headache, or distracted them. Worst of all were the blue lights, that seemed to occupy their entire vision and made their eyes hurt. They would agree with the humans that there was beauty there; the golden and gentle lights Maggie had put on her shop were Muriel's favourite, but still, in the midst of all that chaos, it was difficult.
There was music all the time too. Muriel loved music, and most of Christmas songs were pleasant —at least the first few times you listened to them, and before a particularly annoying section got stuck on their mind in a loop. It wasn't even the entire song, just those few notes and rhythm, over and over again murmured under their breath.
There were also a lot of new smells. The cafés and bakeries were brimming with seasonal foods, and footraffic had worsened in the days leading to Christmas. Customers were not listening to Muriel, storming into the bookshop with every opportunity.
Right now, even, they were trying to enter.
Muriel had turned the sign to definitely closed, but apparently the ones interested in buying books didn't know how to read. They knocked on the door incessantly.
They winced at the new row of knocks, their eyes closing, their hands covering their ears to try to muffle the sound. The cars honked on the street, music played in the distance. The lights flashed in many colours through the windows, still flickering behind their closed eyes.
The knocking.
Kept.
Going.
They couldn't think. It was too much, and their body trembled as they crouched on the ground and tried to calm down. Mister Crowley had said breathing helped, but right now it seemed impossible; their chest felt to tight, their ears were ringing, and their hands kept shaking. They needed to get away.
They ran towards the back of the bookshop, and hid in the storage closet. It was dark, it was more silent, and it was small. The walls protected them, closing off the world around.
“Do you want to see my colours collection?”
Muriel bounced on their feet, clapping their hands.
“Alright—”
They squeaked in delight, immediately turning to walk.
“Come with me Eric! I didn’t have anywhere to put them, so I was storing them in a crate. It wasn't good at all, because they ended up always getting on top of each other… but then, I got a room all to myself, and Mister Crowley helped me find a drawer—”
“So that's what you were doing last week?”
“Hm?”
“…’s only that I came here and didn't find you.”
Muriel recalled last week. Maybe one of those knocks had been his.
“Hm, maybe. Mister Crowley found me in the closet, and then he helped me.”
“Are you alright?” Eric made them stop walking, holding their arm. He was very touchy, much like the humans. Muriel found that they didn't mind that.
“Hm? I— I am. It's just that it got too much, so I hid. And now the closet is mine!”
Their smile was beaming, and they pulled Eric inside the cramped room.
There was a little window in it now — Mister Crowley had insisted, something about mold — but no more shelves. Just a comfortable little sofa and a drawer, their little crate tucked in a corner, filled with books they had been reading.
This room they kept pristine, not a spec of dust to itch their skin. The light was warm and dim, the window often closed with a heavy curtain. The quilt thrown on the sofa was their favourite, and the headphones were great for when they wanted to isolate themselves. Mister Crowley had insisted for them to take a bigger room, the one Jim had occupied but they didn't want that. They liked how small it was, and that they could see the now-blue walls close. It was very different from the undefined space they had inhabited Up, where there hadn't been any walls to be seen.
They made Eric sit on the sofa. His little confused frown turned into a smile as he watched Muriel flutter around.
“This is all mine! Isn't it nice? Here on the first drawer I have my pencils and my papers. In that bottom one I have my crocs— they are so comfortable! I have a yellow one, a black, and a purple and a green… But here…” they sat next to him, and pulled the drawer in the middle, that was at the perfect height for them to see sitting, “are my colours.”
There was an assortment of random objects, occupying the whole space, all neatly organised to form a hue colour gradient.
“Those red glasses were the first ones. Someone forgot them here in bookshop, and I kept it. Then there were the green apple pins Maggie gave me, and the blue coffee cups form Nina…”
Each colour had a little story, and all of them spoke of Muriel's time on earth. After an eternity archiving, they couldn't stop now. They hoped if they ever were made to go Up again, they could bring their little collection with them.
“What is that one?”
Eric pointed to an outer-worldly looking blob. One would think it was a stone at first glance, but there was something very weird about it; like a drop of paint made of light was being kept trapped by invisible walls.
“Ah, well—” Muriel looked sheepishly at the sides, a faint embarrassed blush on their cheeks. “One day I saw a very pretty scarf. It was orange, and so, so beautiful, Eric! I couldn't possibly ask the human to give me it of course… so I, ah, bother. I stole the colour.”
“You stole… the colour?”
Eric averted his eyes from the blob, and stared at the angel by his side. His eyes grew wide and a surprised smile slowly took over his features.
“I really needed that colour.” They nodded slowly.
He laughed, throwing his head back against the upholstery.
“Can you imagine! The human arriving home and suddenly noticing the scarf to be colourless.”
“Ah, no! I couldn't leave it colourless!”
“So what did you do?” Eric inclined towards them, sitting sideways to look at Muriel.
He held their hand, excited to hear whatever they had to say. And that wasn't unusual, neither the excitement nor the touching. He was touchy, just like the humans, and they found that they… liked it. Eric was always eager to listen to them, always asking questions, and every time Muriel answered he seemed to glow. The first time he had asked something (“Why don't you sell any books? Isn't this a bookshop?”) it had been tentative, full of fear. Like he was waiting not for an answer, but for something terrible; when Muriel took their time and actually gave him an answer (“The books are Mister Fell's, only he can sell them.”) he smiled like they had just gifted him the most beautiful thing, and the stream of questions that followed would rival a five year old with ADHD that found where their parents stored sugar.
Muriel made a distressed sound. “Mmmghp. I— I took just a little bit of blue from the sky. No one will miss it right?” They looked for reassurance, squeezing Eric's hand back. “The sky is so very big. No one will notice if there is a bit a missing, will they?”
Eric's eyes turned softer. “No, I don't think they will…” His smile got more wicked. “…And we should do it again.”
“What?!”
He seemed to bounce and shift in place, like there was too much energy in him and he was moving too fast, or as if there were three of him on the same spot, one layered over the other.
“Yes! Maybe not get the colours…” Eric said.
“Unless you want one of course…” A second voice joined.
“…but can you imagine the faces the humans will make once their pants are the colour of their hat…” Everything said at the same time.
“And the hat the colour of their shirt?” He finished.
“Humans can make very funny faces,” Muriel agreed and smiled, but just a little.
The rooftop turned to be the perfect place for it. That week a new Whickber street cryptid was born, the event discussed at length on Reddit and hour-long video essays.
“Constable, what did you do?”
“Mister Crowley!” They bounced on their feet all chirpy, putting the book they had been reading away. “I found that book you said you wanted and—”
“No, I didn't come here because of that— and drop the mister already will you?”
“Ah—” Disappointment weighed their voice, and they got a little dim.
“Ngh— No, nono no. I didn't mean— Look, I'm very happy you found it, so proud of you. Didn't expect you to be this fast.” Crowley spoke with haste, trying to comfort them and watching their smile grow bigger at each new word. “You get a gold star.”
“I do?”
“Yes. Now tell me, what did you do?”
Confusion took over their expression. “I— looked at the bookshelves until I found it?”
“No—” Crowley sighed heavily, and draped himself over the couch. “Apparently, there's something weird happening here. Clothes changing colours, hm? Would you know anything about that, Constable?” Crowley's words were biting, pointed at Muriel like daggers.
Muriel however, could only giggle. Crowley was making funny faces too.
“Ah, that!” More giggles. “Eric and I were playing around. Humans are so funny!”
“Wait, you and Eric— so it wasn't a Heaven mis— wait, Eric?!”
“Hm, yeah, Eric?” Muriel mimicked his hair style, putting their two index fingers over their head. It looked more like horns than Bunny-hair, but Muriel didn't know that.
Crowley got up with a jolt and approached slowly. He spoke low, almost a whisper. “The demon Eric?”
Muriel nodded, their beaming smile unrelenting. "Yes! He is very fun.”
“And, is he here now?”
They turned to look around, a pensive hum as they imitated Crowley's secrecy tone.
“I don't think so.” They leaned towards Crowley, whispering back.
“Since when has he been around?”
“Since I've been assigned in the bookshop. I think." They thought back to when he only lurked in the windows. "Why are we whispering?”
“Because we don't want anyone to hear.”
“Why don't we want anyone to hear?"
Crowley huffed, and the biting tone came back. “Because. He. Is. Dangerous. You should've told me sooner Hell was around."
Muriel frowned. They stopped whispering.
“Eric isn't dangerous. He is my friend.”
It took a bit of convincing — and a very scared demon hiding behind Muriel — but in the end they had won him over. After all, the colours event had been harmless, and Crowley wasn't ever against harmless fun. In fact, he was often in favour of fun, harmful or not, he had added.
Muriel didn't hear what Crowley discussed with Eric in the other room, however.
Mister Crowley’s visits got few and far in between after the new year. He said something was brewing, although Muriel couldn't guess what a beverage had to do with him being away, and that he trusted them to take care of things. They were filled with pride hearing that. Muriel had earned his trust— Eric and colour incident not withstanding.
On other hand, Eric didn't visit anymore. He didn't need to, since one of him was always there. Sometimes, even two. Muriel was never alone anymore; he'd stay there, being quiet (or at least giving his best shot at it) when Muriel needed quiet, and talking his heart out the other times. He was by their side when they wanted to visit the ducks, and when they crossed the street to draw people in Nina's café. He always was the best inventing stories about the passers-by, or dubbing what they were talking with silly voices; Muriel had never laughed so much before they met Eric.
Eric was also there when things got too much again. He'd keep his distance, ward off the people if they were around and give them time alone in their room — and when Muriel appeared again, there he was, with the same smile. He was never mad when they needed time by themselves.
Sometimes, it was the other way around and Muriel was the one to give him support. They didn't notice at first when he needed it; he was very good at hiding when he was upset, but upset he often was. They never doubted Hell was a terrible place, but they thought at least the demons had— had a home. Turns out it hadn't been that different from Heaven in the end.
When Eric was feeling bad — Muriel had never been privy on why — he never wanted to be alone, so Muriel stayed by his side. Sat with him on the couch and held his hand. Sometimes they'd tell him stories they had read on the archives, or in the books. Sometimes they'd show their collections again. He, who always talked a lot, preferred to only listen when he felt unwell.
One time, when he was feeling particularly bad — something about teeth, they heard him murmur. Teeth are always so bad— He had leaned his head on their shoulder as they sat together in the couch, the one at their feet had slept on their knee, and the third one had curled on Mister Fell's chair, watching as they petted the hair of the sleepy one with tears in his eyes. That day, Muriel had learned that there were many more than two Erics, and that all of him needed someone who cared.
“Muriel, please listen— I need you to take that book and come to Edinburgh.”
That's how that day had started. Muriel had been startled by a loud ring of the rotary phone in the middle of the night, when they were rearranging their collection. Crowley’s voice had been urgent, stressed in a way they had never heard before. They had needed to stop their sorting ritual in that moment, immediately understanding that Crowley was in need of their help. Even so, they were disturbed by the interruption, and by having to leave their collection disorganised.
“Eric—” He was sleeping in one of the bookshop’s couches, with his phone on top of his face. He had probably let the device fall from his hands as slumber took over him. “Eric!” They poked his shoulder.
“I wasn’t sleeping, sir, I sw—” He sat up in surprise. “Oh. Hi Muriel.” He blinked, looking around and finding their distressed face. “Everything alright?”
“I have to go to Edinburgh. I don't know how to go to Edinburgh. Can you help me?”
It wasn’t a normal day.
One could say none had been ever since Muriel joined Earth, and there had been more than seven months of them. Still, this one took the cake.
For some reason the humans seemed to be running away from London. It had been impossible for them to get a train or a bus, and Muriel had almost gotten lost in the crowd two times, until Eric held their hands — one of him by each side—, making so that the crowd had to get through him first. At some point Eric gave up and stole a car, and that's when things really started to get out of control.
Eric drove fast, not caring about a single thing on the road. That, however, didn't scare them— they knew nothing about traffic laws anyway. What scared Muriel was the reason why he was doing it. They clearly had been followed by something. Be it forces of evil or good, none of them felt safe; the book on Muriel's hold, guarding whatever it was guarding, seemed to burn on their lap, and glowed through the fabric of their bag.
Screams from their throats filled the cramped space of the car — in the stress, more of Eric had appeared — as they reached a chasm in the street, filling with water. Eric swivelled the car around, barely escaping falling into the pits.
What followed was all a blur in Muriel's memory; running, sweat, dirt and dust. A chase and hiding, and sounds— so many sounds. Yelling from Eric, yelling from them; yelling from their chasers— plural. Up and down, humans in between. There had been explosions at some point, and sirens, and they found themselves amidst a battle ground.
It was complete chaos.
Their routine had been interrupted. There were all kinds of things sticking to their skin. Even the clothes, that they had chosen for being comfortable, felt stiffling and stuck because of the sweat and grime. They barely knew what was happening anymore.
This was worse than the Christmas lights.
Every step hurt, and it was like something was crawling under their skin. It was too much. The sun was too bright, the angels and the demons fighting were moving too fast, the noises were too loud. They forgot why they were there, only following Eric's nervous guidance as he tried to get through the chaos towards… somewhere, or someone. Muriel wasn’t able to focus, only held the book closer to their chest. There was the smell of the city, one that they had gotten used to, but also one that overwhelmed them; blood and ichor. Someone shrieked. The sound rung deep in their bones, rattling their teeth and their ears.
Their heart was racing too fast, their jaw clenched viciously. They didn't notice when they crouched on the ground, when their legs refused to keep following Eric. Arms tight around themselves and the book, Muriel closed their eyes and made themselves as small as possible.
“Shit! Muriel we have to keep going! It's dangerous—” Eric yelled, trying to raise his voice above the cacophony.
It was useless, he was muffled by the chaos. He crouched next to them, trying to pull them up, even less effective than the shouting. Muriel could only shake their head non-stop in negative, mumbling. The words were hard to come by.
“Fuck! They're getting close—”
The noises lessened.
“It's gonna be alright, I'm gonna protect you. Breathe.”
There was pressure around their torso. It helped. The world was less bright. It was warmer. There was still too many smells, but there was one familiar very close. They nuzzled into a soft scarf, and the arms around them got tighter.
“It's going to be alright, it's going to be alright. You're safe,” Eric kept mumbling just for them to hear.
He rocked with them back and forth, calming them down by degrees. They let their body weight be held by him, tried to control their breathing. Muriel didn't know how much time passed, but after a while they chanced a glance around.
Black feathers, almost no light coming through the barbs. They whimpered, and the cocoon around them both got tighter, Eric's wings closing as much as possible.
“Shh shh, it's fine.”
They closed their eyes again and shifted uncomfortably, worried, shaking.
“The— chasers—”
“It's alright. You're safe. They can't—” he winced, “—get through all of me this easy.”
Muriel shook their head again. “N-No! No! I don't want you to hurt!”
A chuckle erupted from his chest, making Muriel rock a bit with him again, but was a watery and sad one, that cut deep inside them. His arms around them got softer, his thumb running soothing circles on their arm, his other hand cradling their head close to him and scratching their scalp. It felt too nice.
“It's alright, Muriel.” His voice was as gentle as his touch. “They can't hurt me in a way that matters if you're safe.”
Muriel shook their head again, whimpered, tried to get impossibly closer to their friend. Tears streamed down their face.
“Shh. It's alright.”
The rocking came back, as did the gentle mumbles; gentle mumbles that turned into humming. The songs Maggie had shown them in turn for the drawings, and that they listened relentlessly.
Outside, there was a crowd of him — all of him, for once — that surrounded Muriel. The noises were muffled by the feathers and what was probably a miracle, but they could still hear the noises. Sometimes Eric would wince, hug them tighter, but not once did he let go or stop the hushed singing.
At some point things went quiet. Too quiet. Eric was silent too. And the only noise was a couple voices outside yelling — something about apples, another about God's will, or about a book. They could recognise some of those voices; Mister Crowley, Mister Fell, The Metatron, even if his voice was different. Weak.
“Eric, let us get the book!”
Mister Fell said, and Eric's grip around them tightened.
“No. You have to wait.” Some of him talked in choral. “Muriel is overwhelmed.”
“We need it now!” Mister Fell's voice was distressed.
“It's over, isn't it?! Everyone can wait!” There was anger in his voice even if he still kept the soothing circles in their arm. “I didn't get to do it last time, but I swear I will punch you — I will punch anyone who dares to take a step closer! You can wait for this dammed book! Do you have any idea what they went through today? YOU CAN FUCKING WAIT.”
“Angel—” Now it was Mister Crowley. “It's all fine. We can wait now—”
“But—”
Muriel didn't hear the end. They were causing distress to Mister Fell and Crowley. That was wrong. They took deep breaths, gathered all the energy they had to will their heart to calm down. It took a while, but they spoke.
“Eric, let's…” they fought to get the words out, their tongue refusing to cooperate, their throat tight and dry. “Give them the book.”
“Are you sure?”
They nodded, willing their muscles to release the death grip they had around themselves and the bag.
“Okay. Close your eyes, it will be bright when I open my wings.”
He did so. One of him got close, and knelt by their side, retrieving the book. They didn't see or hear what happened then. The wings closed, and they relaxed; finally their mission had been accomplished, and finally they would be able to go home.
The bookshop was very empty.
They had gotten used to it being full. Now, even the tiniest of sounds could be heard, and their voice echoed eerily. So did their footsteps, and even their breathing, somehow. It made them think about Heaven, and they didn't enjoy that thought one bit.
Even so, this definitely was miles better. The bookshop smelled of lavender, and not ozone; their clothes were soft; it wasn't cold… and they could hear Eric whistling in the other room.
It was a few months after the almost-end-again. Half a year, more precisely. It didn't take that long for all of them — the Erics that hung around, Muriel, Aziraphale and Crowley — to notice the bookshop felt too small. It had been weird to share that space with someone that wasn't Eric, which was even weirder considering that the bookshop wasn't… theirs. The discomfort was also clear on Crowley; he was worse at hiding his feelings, Muriel supposed. It wasn't long before the two of them decided to move.
And they left the place for them. To do whatever they wanted. They didn't know what they wanted, but the first step was to take all the dust off, which was easy without all the books.
Still, it was weird. Everything was so empty. A blank canvas that made them nervous. The changes made them nervous. The nervousness was beginning to make their skin itch, but they knew they could ask for help.
They climbed the stairs, and found Eric finishing the cleaning of the guest room.
“Eric, I was thinking—” He turned on his heels and stopped the whistling, “— Could you hug me again?”
“Of course!”
He wrapped his arms around them. Warm, and solid, and there. Not alone.
“And can I hug you back?”
He leaned away just enough to look at them and raise an eyebrow. They had never done that, their arms always stiff by their sides or close to their chest. But they wanted to do this; they liked having him close.
“I think I'd like that.”
And they did. Slowly pulling him close, resting their head on his chest. The fabrics of his clothes weren't as soft as theirs, but they didn't mind it. Eric took a deep breath; Muriel hadn't noticed before that he was holding it, and his body shook a bit with relief, his arms clutching them more tightly.
“Ye-Yes. This… this is nice.”
Muriel agreed with a soft hum. Some time passed, and it got uncomfortable to keep standing in the same position; but they didn't want to stop holding their friend.
“Can we sit down for a bit?”
“You— want to cuddle?”
Muriel beamed at him. “Ah, that is a nice word isn't it?”
“Ha, a doodle of poodles in a puddle of cuddles.” He chuckled nervously, and they giggled back. Eric was so silly sometimes.
They moved a bit awkwardly, since Muriel refused to let go, but soon they were together on the couch. It was nice having him around. Muriel didn't mind he was loud, that he was touchy, that he was always around. They liked it. And they discovered they liked hugging him back.
“What do you think we should do with the bookshop?”
“…We?”
“Yes. What do you want to do?”
“Isn't— it yours?”
Muriel looked back at him, brows furrowing in confusion.
“Yes, but not only mine? It's ours— oh, you don't want it? Are you leaving too?” Their voice went a little watery.
“What? No, no! Definitely no— it's just that— I didn't think—”
And suddenly there was more of him hugging them. He was crying too, but just a little. No sobs, and smiling. It was weird. and it looked like that expression Maggie had when she first hugged them.
“Are you sad?”
“I'm not.”
“That's okay then.”
The shop became many things, except for a shop. It was a collection of colours, a collection of books. A place to paint and draw, a place to play video games and to listen to music. Somewhere to hold Eric close as he tried to teach them to dance. He was horrible at it, and always made Muriel laugh. A place to return to after a trip to somewhere they read about in the books, or that Eric saw in one of the ticky tockety.
It turned into a home.