Chapter 1: Vestige
Summary:
She spoke to him once.
She left something behind for the other.
Neither of them expected Her to still be listening.
Notes:
Hello, dear readers.
Here I am again.
This story is a little different from the last one — I’m trying to explore more of the Good Omens universe.
I hope you enjoy it as much as I’m enjoying writing it!Please kindly note that English is not my first language — thank you for your understanding.
Thank you for reading.
See you very soon.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
[LONDON - CROWLEY'S FLAT]
Crowley had reclaimed his old London flat like one might retrieve an ancient coat: tattered, out of style, smelling of mildew — but undeniably his.
The space was dark, stuffy, steeped in decades of shadow and stubbornness. The curtains hadn’t been drawn since his return. Actually, it was like they never had. The air smelled of damp books, aged leather, and the faintest trace of sulfur. Perfect.
He lay sprawled on the sofa like a body that had surrendered to gravity, feet on the table, shirt unbuttoned down to his chest, and a bottle of Scotch dangerously balanced between two grimoires. The record player scratched out something low and dragging, impossible to identify — perhaps on purpose.
“Well then,” he muttered to the walls. “The glorious rebirth of a lonely demon.”
He raised his glass and toasted the void.
The ceiling light flickered. Once. Twice. Then died with a lazy pop.
“Of course,” he murmured, unmoving.
He considered snapping his fingers and making it vanish, or light up, or explode — anything. But what was the point in fixing what was bound to break? Nothing lasts forever.
Drowning in the memory of those words, he felt the couch turn to swamp beneath him, swallowing him whole. He should be used to loneliness by now. Shouldn’t he? Then why the Hell did it feel like even loneliness didn’t want him around?
He was irritated. Cornered by his own ghosts and the things he wouldn’t say out loud.
That was when he felt it.
A different scent.
And the light, which had just died, lit up again — but not with ordinary light. It glowed with something golden, warm, soft like an autumn sunset.
It wasn’t sulfur.
Nor celestial roses.
It was chamomile.
Crowley turned slowly.
And there she was.
She didn’t wear the same appearance as last time. But it didn’t matter. The aura was unmistakable — like a chord that, once heard, can never be forgotten. She sat in a floral armchair that definitely hadn’t existed a second before, dressed in pajamas, white hair loose, whale-shaped slippers on her feet. She was drinking tea from a mug that read:
“I created the world and all I got was this stupid mug.”
“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” Crowley hissed, eyes narrowed.
God. The Almighty. The Creator. Sitting in his living room like a grandma visiting an old friend with time to spare and zero formality.
“Nope,” she replied, calmly flipping a page of some thick literary tome. “You’re the one trying to pull off this whole wounded cynic act. Honestly? It’s a bit much.”
She tilted her head, gesturing as if to point out something obvious in his outfit.
“I saw you cry to Changes by Black Sabbath. On day three.”
“I did not cry,” Crowley said, offended.
“Yes, you did. I made you, remember?”
“You didn’t make me. You… assigned me. And then tossed me down with an apple and a confusing order.”
“Oh, the drama,” she sighed. “It’s like watching a Shakespeare play that’s been dragging on for six thousand years.”
Crowley snorted, rolling his eyes.
“Great. Shakespeare. So who am I in this tragedy, huh? Falstaff ? This script is getting predictable. Get out.”
She smiled, unbothered, and took another sip of her tea.
“ Falstaff ? You think you’re that cool?” she laughed. “You’re more like a jester who forgot he’s still on stage.”¹
Crowley mumbled something unintelligible and took a generous swig from the bottle.
“So? What’s the trick? Here to smite me for speaking some truths? Or just to humiliate me?”
“I’m retired, dear. I don’t interfere anymore. I just watch. Occasionally,” she said with a gentle smile, almost conspiratorial — the kind a grandmother gives when sliding a fifty under the table. “And you were simply too boring to ignore.”
“What an honor,” he muttered, returning the sarcasm like a coin thrown into the wrong well.
She looked over her glasses.
“Still thinking about him?”
Crowley froze. He knew exactly who she meant. But he wasn’t about to give in.
“Which one? I’ve got a list. Angels, humans, ’70s rock bands…”
Silence.
“Oh, him . Of course you are.”
More silence. Thicker, now.
“Why are you here?” he asked, this time with less venom. “Seriously. If this is another ‘it was all part of the plan,’ save it. I’d rather swallow glass.”
“Metatron’s been pulling strings. With you. With him. With the world. Thinks he speaks for me. Thinks he knows what I wanted. But truthfully… I’m not so sure anymore.”
“Inspiring,” Crowley said flatly.
She placed her cup on the arm of the nonexistent chair.
“You don’t have to forgive him.
But you don’t have to pretend it didn’t hurt either.
That’s… a human thing. And the two of you are starting to look a lot like them.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“No. It’s a warning. And maybe… a vote of faith. Sometimes, loving means letting go.”
She smiled again. No fanfare. No trumpets. She simply… vanished.
Only the scent of tea remained.
Crowley stayed on the sofa, half-melted into the worn leather, staring at nothing.
He’d always imagined what it would be like to meet God again.
But never, under any circumstances, did he think it would involve pajamas, slippers, and a stupid mug.
[HEAVEN - CELESTIAL LIBRARY]
Aziraphale walked in silence through the Celestial Library, as if every step might tear the delicate fabric of divine order.
The sound of his own shoes echoed like an embarrassed whisper.
He was surrounded by everything he’d always wanted — knowledge, unrestricted access, the books once reserved for only the highest-ranking archangels.
And now that he had them… he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them.
He spent hours there. Perhaps days. Time in Heaven was a loose concept, bound only by routine and hierarchy.
Truthfully, he had been disappointed by God’s retirement.
Even more so by the realization that being the Supreme Archangel meant, in practice, wearing a crown made of tinfoil. A title without power. An ornament without substance.
What was left for him?
The books, perhaps.
The Library stretched like an infinite cathedral — columns of shelves that disappeared into the heavens, invisible staircases, reorganizing rows guided by current moral tides. The tomes moved on their own, floating silently from place to place.
But none of them felt alive.
On Earth, he heard them.
Felt their sighs, their desires. Books were creatures. They had souls.
Here… they were merely objects.
The pages turned themselves, obeying celestial logic. But the sound was dry. The touch, cold. None of them whispered his name.
Aziraphale tried reading. Then tried praying. He was in Heaven, after all. But even prayer felt unfamiliar. The words rang hollow — like they belonged to another language. Or another Aziraphale.
That was when he noticed it.
A note.
Folded neatly between the pages of a compendium titled Minor Miracles in Urban Environments , there was an aged slip of paper. It could’ve been left there by chance — or carefully placed, waiting for him.
Handwritten, in a slightly trembling feminine script:
“Love cannot be archived. — G.”
Aziraphale looked around. No one.
The silence was absolute. Not the warm hush of an earthly library, but a dense, heavy stillness — like the walls were made of condensed cloud.
And there, standing in the middle of endless corridors, he felt something.
A thin crack — invisible to the eye, but deep.
A splinter in the marble.
A tremor inside himself.
As if a name — a name he no longer dared to speak — had tried to escape.
A memory pushing between his ribs.
An old wound, prodded with a gentle finger.
[HEAVEN - METATRON'S OFFICE]
Heaven had changed.
Not in any explicit way — the corridors were still too white, the smiles too wide, the light so bright it seemed to cauterize any trace of individuality. But something was different.
Sharper.
A silence that wasn’t reverence, but surveillance. Since the Almighty’s retirement, the celestial hierarchy had grown less symbolic and more… functional. Under Metatron’s leadership, Heaven operated like a well-oiled machine. And any part out of line would be promptly replaced.
Metatron walked among the angels like a shadow wrapped in light, wearing perfection like one born to command. He held a gleaming clipboard, jotting down notes in silence, never smiling. He didn’t need to. His presence alone was a constant reminder of order.
He reached his office — a chamber of translucent walls, geometric and cold, aspiring to be a throne room. On the desk, a new folder awaited.
“AZIRAPHALE & CROWLEY — CONFIRMED SEPARATION”
Metatron exhaled softly. The corner of his mouth almost curled into what might resemble a smile.
“Finally.”
He pulled the folder toward him with surgical precision, like handling a sacred artifact. And began writing. Titles flowed easily into his mind:
“Emotional Sub-Level Angelic Reintegration.”
“Correction of Unproductive Bonds.”
“Elimination of Affective Resonances.”
Still not enough.
The truth was: he believed .
More than any other angel, perhaps even more than Heaven itself. Not in God — not the silent figure who’d vanished without warning. But in the Mission. The Plan. The purity of order, of obedience. The conviction that if God had left him in charge, it was because He expected him to lead.
Like Moses without the tablets.
Like Abraham with the knife raised.
Like Luther, but without doubts.
He closed the “Confirmed Separation” file.
Opened another.
“REHABILITATION — Phase 1: Elimination of Emotional Residues.”
The title shimmered in gold, magically engraved on celestial parchment. And still, it wasn’t enough. This wasn’t just an administrative task. It was an act of faith.
Metatron stood.
He walked to the artifact he used to observe the lower world: an old mirror with a golden baroque frame. A relic he’d requested to keep — not out of sentiment, but as a reminder of who he had been. Of who now ascended the throne in God’s absence.
It wasn’t magic.
It was surveillance.
It was zeal.
The image flickered: Crowley’s dark apartment, the Library where Aziraphale wandered among mute books. Two chess pieces still resisting the board.
But not for long.
He watched in silence.
Then murmured, like a prayer meant only for himself:
“Vulnerable angels are easier to reshape.”
And he smiled.
A smile with no warmth.
No teeth.
Just structure
Notes:
¹ Falstaff is a character from several of Shakespeare’s plays, known for his wit, cowardice, fondness for drink, and comic presence. Crowley likening himself to Falstaff is ironic — he’s not quite the jovial fool, but he’s certainly the tragic one who masks pain with sarcasm and wine.
Special thanks to all readers for joining this journey. More chapters coming soon—stay tuned!
Chapter 2: The abyss
Summary:
A glass half full. A voice from the past. Smoke, silence, and something neither of them dares to name.
Some encounters are accidents. Others are inevitable.
Notes:
Hello, dear readers.
This little story got away from me — started as a scene, turned into something stranger, darker, maybe softer too.
I’m playing loosely with canon and having fun with it.
No idea if this will end up long or short. The plot’s all there in my head — let’s see where it goes
Thanks for being here. More soon. 💫
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
[LONDON, RANDOM PUB]
The pub was dark, smoky, and filled with souls who likely had unresolved business with the law, morality, or both — just the way Crowley used to like it.
Tonight, though, everything felt washed-out. The drink no longer burned the way it used to. The music sounded like background noise. And the company… invariably dull.
Until he appeared.
“You’re still drinking that?” asked a voice — hoarse, amused, as if laughing at a joke only he understood.
Crowley looked up from behind his sunglasses. The face was familiar — more than he cared to admit.
Abadon looked exactly as he remembered: hair black as pitch, with a hint of blue under the neon light; skin pale and translucent, like old porcelain. His eyes, golden like melted amber, had that unbearable gleam of someone who knows too much. The wine-red suit — unnecessary, yet immaculate — only emphasized the feline grace with which he moved, like a waltz being danced in slow motion.
The smile came easily. And brought danger with it. He was probably here to take Crowley’s place now that Shax had gone back to Hell — but the old demon always liked doing things his own way.
“Abadon. Well, look at that. The Abyss himself. I thought you’d evaporated in one of those revolutionary riots you love so much.”
The other smiled. Lazy. Poisonous. A whisper of chaos behind perfect teeth.
“You know how it goes. Revolutions pass. I remain.”
“Poetic. Gonna print that on a t-shirt?”
Abadon pulled out the chair like he owned the place. Sat across from Crowley and crossed his legs with the theatrical elegance of someone who had once enchanted kings and devoured emperors.
“Still so bitter. I bet humans find it charming.”
Crowley took a sip of his drink, then spun the glass in his hand, distracted.
“Humans see what they want. Until they don’t.”
“And the angel?” Abadon asked, as casually as one might comment on the weather. “The bookshop, the little play… all over?”
Crowley laughed. Dry, humorless.
“‘Over’ is a strong word. Let’s just say I finally accepted the role I was given.”
“Ah. The old Crowley. Rebellion, sarcasm, and self-destruction. Delicious. I missed you.”
Crowley stared at him. And for a moment, the memory pierced him like shrapnel.
Paris. July 1794.
The Bastille in ruins, but the Terror still marching.
The scent was gunpowder, sweat, and blood. Bodies piled in alleys. Torn flags. Screams stifled at every corner. A smell stronger than death itself.
Crowley walked among the wreckage like an elegant shadow. His mission was simple: sow doubt, instill fear, make the fanatics distrust each other. He didn’t need to kill — just a little push. Most of the time, humans did the job themselves.
Then he saw him.
Hell had taken a particular interest in that conflict; many demons roamed Paris at the time. But Abadon was the closest. A little more refined — and much more charming — than the others.
He was reclining on the altar of a ransacked chapel, bare feet resting on an overturned chalice. A young cleric knelt before him, trembling. Tears streaked the boy’s face. And blood marked Abadon’s lips.
“Go on, Father. Beg for your sister’s soul,” he whispered, tracing circles on the man’s temple. “Or would you rather watch her die like the others?”
Crowley stepped closer, his face a mask of disdain.
“This isn’t corruption. It’s torture,” he said in a voice that mixed contempt, disgust, and perhaps a hint of admiration.
“Corruption is just the polite word. I’m tired of euphemisms.”
“You’ve crossed the line.”
“Lines are for angels. And cowards.”
Abadon rose with calculated slowness, his golden eyes glowing in the light of dead candles. He approached Crowley with the stealth of a cat ready to pounce.
“I bet you’re offended. But fascinated too. You remember how it felt, don’t you?”
Crowley didn’t answer. He just turned his back and left.
“Remember the Bastille?” Abadon said now, like reminiscing about a nostalgic summer.
Crowley let out a bitter huff. He remembered the Bastille. Remembered Abadon. The chaos. But the memory that had pierced him was of saving Aziraphale from being beheaded.
He now thought he shouldn’t have interfered.
“I remember you urging the guards to shoot their own brothers,” he said at last.
“Art,” Abadon replied, shrugging. “And you? Whispering doubts into the ears of the condemned… But you left before the fun started.”
“It was boring.”
“You were having regrets,” Abadon corrected him, smirking. “Even back then, you were soft. Always pretending you’re still a good demon.”
Crowley leaned back.
“And you still pretend you have a heart. Who’s really fooling who here?”
Abadon studied him for a moment, as if waiting for something more. Then he propped an elbow on the table, head tilted, eyes locked. The whiskey glass sparkled under the bar lights.
“You always leave before the end. You show up, make a mess… and disappear.”
“I don’t like endings. I’d rather vanish before the drama.”
“Is it that, or are you afraid to stay too long?” the Abyss asked — provocative and charming.¹
The silence that followed was thick, heavy with things unsaid.
“You’re feeling nostalgic. That’s new. Lost a satanic cult to the neo-Pentecostals?”
Abadon laughed, leaning back in the chair with theatrical indifference. He enjoyed Crowley’s sarcasm — and gave it back just as easily.
“Nothing makes me more nostalgic than meeting a demon who once looked at me like he wanted to kill me. Or kiss me, maybe?”
Crowley didn’t react at first. Just observed him — slow, feline, offended, irritated, and intrigued. All at once.
“The difference between those two is sometimes just a breath,” he said at last.
“Or a century.”
Abadon’s eyes gleamed. And there was something almost gentle in them — almost.
“Do you still remember the smell of the chapel?”
Crowley emptied his glass like he was trying to swallow the memory.
“I remember what you did there.”
“So do I. It was beautiful.”
“It was grotesque.”
“It was real. Not like your little display-window romances.”
Crowley leaned forward slowly, pupils narrowed behind his sunglasses.
“You don’t want to provoke me, Abadon.”
“Don’t I?” he whispered, leaning in until their faces nearly touched. “Are you sure?”
The tension between them was almost visible. A rope stretched too far. A thread never cut — only twisted across centuries.
Abadon stood. Smoothed his suit like drawing the curtain on a performance.
“Well. If you change your mind… I’ll be around. Corrupting politicians, enchanting preachers, you know… the usual. Nothing you haven’t done — just with more style.”
Crowley didn’t reply. Didn’t look up. He just stared at his empty glass like it might say something.
At the door, Abadon turned one last time.
“Oh, and Crowley… next time you dream of me, don’t pretend it was a nightmare.”
And he was gone.
The silence left behind was thick as the smoke in the air.
Crowley blinked slowly, inhaling the sweet scent of temptation Abadon left behind.
“Son of a bitch.”
[HEAVEN - CELESTIAL LIBRARY]
Aziraphale ran his fingers along the book spines like someone searching for something they no longer know how to name. The Celestial Library was vast — infinite, perhaps — but that afternoon, it felt suffocating. The silence, once a comfort, had become absence. A void whispering questions without answers.
Every shelf held volumes he had read dozens of times. Today, none of them said anything to him.
He was tired.
Not physically — angels don’t tire that way — but spiritually. As if something inside him was always on the verge of breaking.
Faith, maybe. Or hope. Maybe that’s what hurt so much.
He sat in an armchair, between two glowing orbs that cast no shadows. His eyes stung. He’d spent hours rereading mission reports, searching for any sign he had made the right choice.
He found nothing.
Only a voice.
“This place really has become… unbearable.”
He looked up, alert.
There she was: an old woman with wild white hair, a colorful shawl over her shoulders, holding a book marked with a peacock feather. A plate of cookies floated beside her, scenting the air with butter and vanilla.
“All-Mighty?” The words came out slowly, heavy with doubt.
She waved a hand, like brushing off a fly.
“Call me whatever you want. But if you could avoid the grand titles, I’d appreciate it. I’ve been plenty, for more eras than I care to count.”
Aziraphale didn’t answer. He kept his gaze cautious and steady.
“What are you doing here?”
“Visiting an old employee. Or maybe… the last idealist in the building.”
“I didn’t think you cared.”
She raised an eyebrow, an enigmatic smile on her lips.
“You’re not surprised.”
“I was. Many times. Now I’m just careful.”
She chuckled softly.
“Fair.”
“Did you come to give orders?” he asked, almost defiantly.
“Me? No. Retired from that a long time ago. I just came to talk. Observe.”
He didn’t look away.
“Talking requires trust.”
“And you don’t trust me?”
“Not anymore.” The words came slowly, heavy. “Last time I was told I was doing the right thing, I lost everything I loved.”
She nodded, ancient sadness in her eyes.
“You don’t seem like the same angel who used to quote scripture at me.”
“Maybe because I’m not. Or maybe I never was.”
Silence. Dense.
She sat beside him. The chair appeared as if by magic.
“Even so, you stayed. Why?”
Aziraphale chose his words carefully.
“Because if I left, something far worse would take this place.”
She smiled — part tenderness, part melancholy.
“So it wasn’t out of faith?”
“I stayed out of responsibility. And… maybe fear of what the world would become if no one stayed.”
He looked away, avoiding the name that weighed in his chest.
“I’m not Metatron, if that’s what you fear,” she said gently. “I don’t want to use you. I just want to see you.”
He hesitated.
“I no longer know what to believe.”
“That’s a good start.”
She took a cookie from the plate.
“May I offer a piece of advice? Stop looking for answers in Heaven. The ones that matter, you already know. You just don’t have the courage to accept them.”
She smiled, then added, playfully but with depth:
“Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul.”
Aziraphale blinked, surprised.
“That’s… Oscar Wilde.”
She laughed, delighted.
“Oscar was an old acquaintance. Had a divinely irritating sense of humor. Do you know what he used to say?” — she looked at him, amused — “That the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”²
Aziraphale remained looking at the floor, thoughtful, eyes glassy, refusing the easy tear.
When he finally looked up, she was gone.
In the place where she had sat lay a single golden feather.
And a perfectly round, still-warm butter cookie.
Notes:
Abadon (or Abaddon) is a figure traditionally associated with the “Angel of the Abyss” in the Book of Revelation. In some interpretations, he is a destroyer; in others, a symbol of irresistible chaos. Here, he embodies Hell’s lethal charm with a touch of Oscar Wilde and Lucifer.
² Oscar Wilde was a 19th-century Irish playwright, poet, and novelist, known for his sharp wit, aphoristic style, and critiques of Victorian morality. The quote about “the only way to get rid of a temptation” comes from The Picture of Dorian Gray, his most famous work.
Chapter 3: Good Intentions and Ominous Omens
Summary:
Crowley drowns in whiskey and wicked company. Aziraphale, now Raphael, walks the sterile corridors of Heaven as a stranger, chasing answers no one wants revealed. The distance grows. But so does the ache.
Notes:
Hey, lovely readers 💫
Thank you for being here for another chapter — this one is a bit different in structure. I’ve added small interludes throughout the scenes to help guide the emotional atmosphere and highlight the contrast between perspectives.
Each shift is intentional, reflecting how distant Crowley and Aziraphale have become… and how close they still are, in all the ways that matter.
Hope you enjoy the ride — things are only getting deeper from here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
[EARTH - LONDON - CROWLEY'S FLAT]
Crowley stumbled back into the apartment, so drunk the floor felt like a personal enemy. Everything was too much.
His mind was still trying to digest events that had slipped through his grasp: the angel’s departure, God’s unexpected visit, the casual — or perhaps not-so-casual — encounter with Abadon.
He felt like his choices balanced on a wire. God had told him that maybe it was time to move on. Hadn’t she?
Still sulking, still bitter, he reached for something to make him drunker, more numb — as if he weren’t already teetering dangerously close to the point of no return. For months, he’d kept himself in this state — sobriety didn’t seem like a viable option, and the taste of alcohol, sweet and seductive, offered a relief that didn’t heal, only numbed.
Irritated, he drank straight from the whiskey bottle and smashed it against the floor in anger. Shards and liquor scattered — as if the floor deserved to feel something too.
Nothing could calm his mind. He felt agitated, on the verge of collapse.
He thought of the plants and went to the room where they lived. They trembled at the sight of him. Before, a spot on a leaf was enough for him to toss one into the compactor. Now, any excuse would do: not green enough, not breathing properly, not growing the way I expected.
The silence in there was thick. It tasted of mildew and swallowed bitterness.
Crowley paced back and forth, as if he could wear down the floor until he found a spot where it hurt less.
He felt like he’d been ripped from his own skin. The world spun — but he didn’t. He remained still, unmoving, and alone.
That’s when he saw it.
A seedling.
Small. Fragile. Still bearing the handwritten tag in a fine, elegant script:
“Keep near the window. Likes classical music.” – A.Z.
Crowley froze. The silence in the apartment thickened, like an avalanche on the verge of collapse.
He remembered. Aziraphale had given it to him days before Gabriel showed up — no fanfare, no speech. Just appeared with the plant wrapped in kraft paper and said, like one comments on the weather:
“I thought it might keep you company. Or, well… something close to that.”
Crowley, of course, had feigned disinterest. Left it in the corner. But the plant had stayed. Just like the phrase that kept echoing inside him.
“Something close to that.”
Suddenly, everything inside him turned to rage. Blind rage and searing pain.
The heart that kept stubbornly beating in a body that didn’t quite feel like his seemed to have been torn in two.
That memory had sliced him open, crushed whatever was left of him.
He grabbed the pot violently, soil spilling through his fingers. Marched to the kitchen, turned on the garbage disposal. The metallic roar screamed like a sentence passed.
The plant trembled in his hand. Small. Fragile. Timid.
He raised his arm. He was going to throw it in.
End it — that memory disguised as a gift.
Crush the thought. Destroy the—
…he couldn’t.
He stood still. The disposal roaring. His arm frozen midair.
The seedling weighed nothing — and at the same time, it weighed everything.
He turned off the disposal with a snap. Silence returned, broken only by his ragged, hot, trembling breath.
Crowley looked at the plant, his eyes burning.
“Damn you,” he whispered. “For still being alive.”
He took it back. Slowly. As if carrying something wounded.
Placed it gently on the windowsill and watered it with care. Opened the curtains for the first time in weeks.
Outside, the city went on, indifferent to the broken demon inside the apartment.
But there, in that window, a plant began to breathe light again.
Crowley stood there for minutes — maybe hours — staring at the plant in the pale sunlight until it finally set.
He could swear it was staring back. Judging. Waiting.
Waiting for what?
He scoffed, turned around, and went to the bar — one of the few places in the flat still in order, or at least with a purpose. He stepped over the shattered glass from the last bottle, unfazed.
Poured a glass of whiskey. Downed it. Another. One more.
But the taste no longer had any effect.
The memory was still there. The soft voice. The brief touch. The silence full of unspoken words. The little plant on the windowsill, small and alive.
“Fuck it,” he muttered, tossing the empty glass to the floor, adding to the mess of shards and spilled regrets.
He grabbed his phone. Stared at the screen. The contacts. The names.
He stopped at A.B.A.D.O.N. (He’d written it that way on purpose — to look like an entity, not a person.)
If you change your mind… I’ll be around.
He thought. Drank. Thought again.
The Bentley waited outside. But not tonight.
Tonight, he just wanted to stop being himself.
And then he clicked.
Within seconds, Abadon answered. Crowley could picture the cynical grin on the other end of the line. He’d been waiting for this, hadn’t he?
“Hey, Serpent,” came the husky, mocking voice. “I thought you were busy nurturing your depression and self-pity.”
Crowley didn’t laugh.
He’d avoided Abadon’s company for centuries, always too distracted by the angel… and now, the only being who seemed to want him around was a walking invitation to trouble.
“I’m bored. And pissed off.”
“Oh, the classic combo. I love it. Recipe for chaos.”
“Come get me? I want to… go out. Make noise. I don’t know.”
Abadon didn’t ask why. Or who. Or how much have you had to drink.
He just said:
“Ten minutes. Wear something black. Or nothing at all. I don’t care.”
Crowley hung up. Finished another glass. Ran a hand through his hair. Adjusted his glasses.
He loved driving his Bentley. It was one of the few constants he had left.
But tonight, even that felt too far — and he knew that in his current state, getting behind the wheel would be suicide. Literal or not.
Maybe that’s the point. Maybe chaos will help drown out the rest.
⸻
[LONDON STREET – NIGHT]
The noise stopped before the car even appeared.
While Crowley loved vintage cars, Abadon embraced modernity.
And even Crowley had to admit — the bastard had style, irritating as his showiness might be.
Gliding down the street with the solemnity of a royal procession came a Rolls-Royce Spectre — black as polished coal, shimmering under the lamplight like every curve had been sculpted by an artisan with eternal time.
It made no sound. It didn’t need to. Silence was part of the performance.
The tinted windows hid the interior, but the sleek, merciless lines made it clear: this wasn’t a car. It was a prophecy on wheels.
On the back, the personalized plate made no room for doubt:
DE•ABYSSO
(From the abyss.)
Crowley recognized it before the door even opened.
The air around that car changed — a blend of expensive leather, bottled sin, and tailored menace.
When the door finally opened, it made no sound. It simply allowed itself to open, as if the metal bowed to its passenger.
Abadon stepped out.
He wore a tailored crimson suit in a deep tone that gleamed like wine spilled on velvet. The cut hugged his muscular frame like a veiled provocation.
The black tie was slim, perfectly centered. The onyx-studded cufflinks sparkled in the moonlight.
Like Crowley, he wore sunglasses — despite the night. Not to hide anything. Just because he could.
And the smile…
That was the kind of smile that had ended wars — and started new ones. A smile carved from hellish marble, polished with lust and cruelty.
The kind of smile that made monks forget vows and CEOs sell more than just stocks.
There was something magnetic about Abadon.
And an air of superiority, like he walked expecting the ground to rearrange beneath his feet.
He glanced around with practiced disdain, the buildings still and silent under the moonlight, like he was scanning a dull menu.
“I thought this place would be more… profane,” Abadon mocked, surveying the building with theatrical scorn. “My penthouse seems much more interesting.”
He paused. Smirked.
“Not that Hell didn’t offer me this little dump of yours,” he added, biting. “But you were so utterly miserable that — look at that — they decided to give you back. A true act of charity.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow, dryly amused and irritated at once.
“An electric car, for a demon?” he retorted, sharp. “Of all Hell’s creatures, I thought you’d be the one most committed to global warming.”
Abadon laughed, like someone receiving an unexpected gift.
The night was promising.
——
The following hours would blur into red lights, dangerous laughter, clinking glasses, empty flirtations, and destruction disguised as fun.
Abadon was a master at that.
He knew where to go. Which filthy dive bar served absinthe at midnight. Which gothic club ignored celestial authority in exchange for the right bribe.
What kind of human would agree to play with fire — or with demons — for a night.
Crowley laughed. Screamed. Danced. Drank until his soul ached.
But sometimes, between sips, his eyes betrayed him.
On the way to some random club, his gaze lingered on a bookstore. One of those modern ones, nothing like A.Z. Fell and Co, but it was enough to sour his mood for a while.
It didn’t go unnoticed by the other demon, who watched him with strict attention, even amid the chaos.
When they reached the club, he couldn’t resist a comment.
“Your angel would hate this place,” Abadon said, smiling with venom.
“Yeah. That’s why I’m ordering two rounds.”
Abadon laughed.
Crowley didn’t.
They entered the club. Crowley went quiet. Stared at his drink, swirling the liquid like he might find some answer in it.
“I bet he wouldn’t even step in here,” Abadon went on, in that playful tone that cut like glass.
Crowley smirked, lopsided.
“Aziraphale won’t even step on grass.
Didn’t stop him from stepping on me.”
Silence.
Only the pulsing bass of the music filled the space between the words.
Abadon raised an eyebrow. Almost respectfully.
He seemed to be enjoying himself far more than Crowley was.
“You’re sharper tonight. Delicious.”
“I’m drunk. And I’m more dangerous when I’m hollow.”
[HEAVEN – REPORTS OFFICE]
Heaven’s light was too bright.
No shadows. No corners to breathe in.
Aziraphale — or Raphael, as they now insisted on calling him — sat behind a translucent desk, surrounded by endless ethereal stacks of documents.
Reports on souls. Reconciliation forms. Records of angelic interactions with the lower world — Earth and other inhabited planets.
Everything was as orderly as it was sterile.
He spun a golden pen between his fingers, eyes fixed on a suspended screen in front of him.
A hidden mirror. A sort of tiny window.
Crowley, in some ridiculous bar. Laughing too loud with that demon. There was something in that laugh that felt like a slap — even if he couldn’t hear it. Just the image of it was enough to twist his stomach. It felt like, even after everything, Crowley still knew where he belonged — and had chosen not to belong to him.
Aziraphale said nothing. He just closed his eyes for a second.
The door opened with too much force for a place where time didn’t hurry.
Michael stormed in like a steel hurricane.
Uriel followed, reserved, lips tightly pressed.
“Still watching your little sinner?” Michael fired, acidic.
Nothing he did seemed to go unnoticed.
“Monitoring the imbalances of Creation,” Aziraphale replied, sweet as poison. “Someone has to do it.”
Uriel crossed her arms.
“This isn’t a bookshop, Raphael. Your job isn’t to observe. It’s to order.”
“Order,” he repeated, bitterly. “Lovely word. So clean… as if there wasn’t any blood behind it.”
Michael stepped closer.
“You may have returned with a new title, but don’t be fooled. A real archangel wouldn’t hesitate. Wouldn’t be distracted by impure memories. Wouldn’t tremble before difficult choices.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” he said, standing. “Maybe a true archangel should know how to hesitate.”
Michael shot him a look that could incinerate.
Uriel looked away.
And both left — leaving behind an unspoken warning.
[SHORTLY AFTER – SAME ROOM]
Alone, Aziraphale breathed slowly.
As if holding himself together was the only way not to fall apart.
That game of power exhausted him. He wasn’t made for this.
The light shifted. The air, too.
Metatron had arrived.
He spoke with the same calm as always. A voice as smooth as an unwanted prayer. A touch both gentle and cold.
“Raphael. You’re doing well. It takes time… to adjust to your higher nature.”
“It’s not my nature that brings discomfort.”
Metatron smiled — the kind of smile predators wear when they pretend to be patient.
“I know it’s hard. But you were chosen for a reason. The world needs order. You can restore balance. Prevent the mistake that almost cost us everything.”
Aziraphale remained still. But his eyes trembled.
“I didn’t ask to be this.”
“And yet, you are,” said Metatron. “You were given a choice.”
Then he gestured to the screen.
A clip from the night before:
Crowley, laughing with some random demon.
His head thrown back.
His face distorted by excess.
“You still care, don’t you?”
Aziraphale didn’t trust him — but he also knew denying it would be pointless.
“Of course I care,” Aziraphale said.
And saying it hurt.
“Then take care of Creation. And let him destroy himself, if that’s what he chooses. He had the choice to follow you, didn’t he?”
Metatron smiled, satisfied with the silence that followed.
But what he didn’t say — what Aziraphale wouldn’t say aloud either — was that the other’s silence had also been a kind of no.
And that no hurt more than any divine judgment.
—-
Before leaving, the herald touched a hidden surface.
A new report began to generate:
Name: Raphael (formerly Aziraphale)
Status: Stable, but emotionally compromised
Risk Level: Medium
Notes: Still maintains emotional ties with Demonic Entity [CR-01]
Recommendation: Continuous surveillance. Possible intervention in upcoming cycles
Notes:
If you were curious about Abadon’s car — yes, that was a Rolls-Royce Spectre, the first fully electric ultra-luxury model from the brand. It’s sleek, silent, and terrifyingly elegant. Like him.
Thanks for reading — and for letting me have fun with the details.
See you in the next chapter.
Chapter 4: Echoes
Summary:
In a world where angels and demons struggle with love, loss, and the weight of destiny, Crowley spirals into self-destruction while Aziraphale faces a crisis of faith.
Notes:
Hello, dear readers.
This chapter explores the behavior Crowley has exhibited so far — a descent into self-destructive chaos inspired heavily by Ed (a.k.a. Blackbeard) from the beginning of Our Flag Means Death Season 2. That mix of heartbreak, denial, and raw vulnerability is central to understanding his current state.
Alongside that, we see Aziraphale wrestling with impossible choices and a profound crisis of faith — the tension between duty and doubt, freedom and surrender.
Thank you so much for reading. I hope this chapter resonates with your own storms and silences.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
[LONDON, GIVE ME COFFEE OR GIVE ME DEATH]
The bell above the door jingled at a moment suspended somewhere between dawn and daybreak.
Cold morning light spilled into the café, revealing empty tables, chairs out of place, and an air saturated with freshly brewed coffee.
Why he had come back there, he wasn’t sure. Had it been his idea? Or Abadon’s? He couldn’t quite remember.
Nina, in her apron and with a face like she’d already seen too much of the day, froze in the middle of the room like she’d seen a ghost — or, well… a demon.
“Crowley?”
The demon walked in with crooked sunglasses, disheveled hair, and a thoroughly wrinkled suit. He reeked of alcohol and self-pity. He was… smiling? That, in itself, was already unsettling enough.
“Don’t make a scene. Just came for a coffee before I evaporate” he said with a theatrical wave. “Miss me?”
Behind him came Abadon — tall, provocative, eyes gleaming like a cat about to knock something off a shelf. Crowley looked like a mess, but Abadon… Abadon was immaculate. While Crowley kept his sunglasses on, Abadon had removed his — and his golden-yellow eyes sparkled with malice and power.
Nina narrowed her eyes.
“And this is…?”
“No one. Temporary problem. It’ll pass.”
“Hey” Abadon cut in, offended with a flair for drama. “Problem” is what they said when you showed up at Creation. I am a collapse of charm and delightful company” he turned to Nina with elegant courtesy “you may call me Abadon.”
Crowley dropped into one of the chairs with a sigh that seemed to stretch for days. He propped his elbow on the table and rubbed his face — tired, still slightly drunk, spent, and clearly deep into a season of bad decisions.
“Do you want me to pretend you didn’t say that?” he muttered, exhaustion dripping from his voice.
Nina turned back to Crowley, trying her best to ignore the unsettling presence of the other one.
“Six shots of espresso in a large mug?”
Crowley simply nodded.
Abadon chuckled and picked up the menu as if he were at a delicatessen in Paris.
“Who orders eccles cakes? That should be a crime” he asked Crowley directly, who ignored him entirely.
Nina kept watching them, suspicious. Abadon had been polite, charming even — but something about him set her on edge.
“So… you disappear for months. And now show up with Norman Bates himself at my café?” her gaze turned to Crowley, firm. “This has to do with Mr. Fell?”
Crowley froze.
The pause lasted too many seconds.
“No.” His reply was curt, almost harsh. Then he tried to soften it with a forced smile. “Just a little reunion between old friends. Like the good old days. You know how it is.”
Abadon let out a low whistle and leaned against the counter like he was claiming the space as his own.
“Ah, the angel. The infamous one. “He laughed with chilly courtesy. “You should see how Crowley reacts when someone mentions him. His jaw locks, eyes narrow… it’s almost poetic. Freud and Jung would’ve ended up in a fistfight trying to analyze him.” ¹
Crowley shot him a sharp, threatening look.
“Abadon.”
“What? I just think it’s… fascinating. That kind of attachment. So… human.”
Nina crossed her arms, now genuinely intrigued.
“Are you telling me he disappeared because of the angel?”
Crowley stood up suddenly, the chair scraping against the floor. He didn’t want to talk about it. He hadn’t talked to anyone .
“Nina, can we not?”
The tension cut through the air for a moment, but she pressed on.
“ I just thought you two were, I don’t know… together. After everything. After the bookshop.” Her voice faltered. “He seemed…”
“He seemed like a lot of things” Crowley interrupted. “And then he left. End of story.”
Abadon couldn’t help himself. He picked up a sugar packet, rolled it between his fingers, and said softly:
“Didn’t even leave a note, huh?”
Crowley extended his hand with a subtle, invisible gesture — and the packet exploded in Abadon’s fingers.
“Ow! Fuck! It was just a question.”
Maggie appeared at the back door with a dish towel and the kind of dark circles that came from too many sleepless nights.
“What’s going on here?”
“Infernal theater” Nina answered, still watching Crowley closely. “And the lead actor is pretending his heart hasn’t been ground down like overused coffee beans.”
Crowley sank back into the chair, now silent. His hands trembled slightly, though he pretended it was just the cold.
It was only then, in the silence that followed, that he realized the choice he had made — or the mistake. The café. That place. It had once been theirs. His and Aziraphale’s. The smell of coffee, the painted ceramic cups, the mildly tacky soundtrack — all still held traces of what they had been.
As if absence could be replaced by presence.
He had brought Abadon there. As if trying to prove something — or forget something else. Abadon watched, amused.
Nina, hurt, took a step back.
“I thought you two actually cared about each other.”
Crowley didn’t answer. Just stared out the window, where the sky was slowly brightening — as if morning itself didn’t want to admit it was happening. The door to the bookshop remained closed across the street. There was still an angel inside. He knew that.
But it wasn’t his angel.
[HEAVEN, ARCHIVES]
Aziraphale began to walk again. What else could he do at this point? Maybe drowning himself in work would help. Everything was white, translucent, eternal. The Archives had no smell of paper, no muffled comfort of earthly bookstores. Words here had no texture. They were data — cold, precise, dead.
He was there to review a manuscript titled “Protocols of the Apocalypse in Cases of Second Manifestation.” He needed to understand the Second Coming, to figure out if it was truly something good for Earth. A floating pile of scrolls awaited him, encoded with divine seals that dissolved at his touch. But he couldn’t read a single line.
His fingers trembled.
“Focus,” he murmured to himself, as if repeating the command would be enough to tame the chaos in his mind. But everything in him felt like sailing through a storm at sea. Since returning to Heaven, he felt like a disguise of himself. An angel among angels — but he no longer knew if that was true. The new robes weighed on him like golden chains. The title of Raphael felt like a label hastily slapped onto a soul that didn’t recognize it.
And inside, the constant echo of something unresolved:
The choice.
The kiss.
The leaving.
“You knew what you were doing, didn’t you?”
“You knew he wouldn’t follow. You knew you shouldn’t ask.”
“But you asked anyway.”
“As if words alone could remake the world.”
He tried to find a purpose that justified his presence there.
Work. Duty. Order.
Things that once filled him like light — now felt hollow, like shattered stained glass. But he had to believe. He had to find something that made sense. Something that made it all worth it.
The Archives opened before him with a shimmering whisper. He searched for hours. Maybe days. Time there didn’t obey clocks. Nothing seemed right. Until one fragment caught his attention.
“Second Manifestation: universal harmonization of moral discrepancies.”
Aziraphale frowned.
The scroll seemed older than the others. Part of the text was encrypted — but his angelic signature unlocked the hidden layers. As the words revealed themselves, his heart grew heavier.
“The New Creation shall be governed by Absolute Order.
The Will shall be One.
Free Will, matrix of chaos and doubt, shall be sealed by Mercy.”
He reread it.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
“Sealed by Mercy.”
His hand trembled.His throat went dry. That wasn’t redemption. That was silencing. The end of choice. The end of doubt.The end of humanity as he knew — as he loved — it.
This new peace would not be achieved, but imposed .
No flaws.
No falls.
No forgiveness.
And what value would goodness have, if it were not a choice? He remembered a human author. He had once read him in secret, hidden between dusty shelves of French philosophy. Jean-Paul Sartre.
“Man is condemned to be free.”²
Condemned.
Because freedom was anguish. It was responsibility. It was what made every soul a miracle — or a mistake. And now, Heaven wanted to free the world from it. To erase the dilemma. Erase love, fear, desire. Erase everything that escaped the Plan.
“Absolute peace,” they said.
But he knew.
It was peace as anesthesia. Peace as prison. Peace as an end.
He stepped back, as if the words on the scroll burned him. The Second Coming was not a new beginning. It was a polished, quiet ending. Not an apocalyptic cataclysm — but an apocalypse of ideas . Of free will.
He stopped again before the observation mirror — a surface accessible only to the Supreme Archangel. A surveillance interface. Perhaps the very first in the universe. And, like an old addiction, he activated the coordinates he’d memorized the day before.
That street.
That bar.
That demon.
Crowley.
Once again.
With a crooked shirt, some random demon beside him. That look — lost between rage and abandonment. He was self-destructing. That wasn’t Crowley. Not his Crowley.
And deep in Aziraphale’s chest, a painful certainty:VCrowley was the last truly free being he knew among the celestial or the damned.VThe last one who dared to defy orders.Who carried the weight of free will like both blessing and curse. Who stumbled and rose again of his own volition.
All the others were trapped — in dogmas, in duties, in roles forced upon them. But Crowley? Crowley still chose .Even if those choices were wrong, self-destructive, desperate. He was freedom made flesh — and for that, the loneliest of all.
Aziraphale placed his hand on the glass. The image wavered, then settled. He whispered, as if speaking to a dream about to vanish:
— I tried…
And he no longer knew if he meant the world, redemption, or love. But the image didn’t reply. Didn’t blink.
Certainly didn’t forgive him.
Notes:
¹ Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung were two of the most influential figures in the early development of psychoanalysis. Though they collaborated for a time, their relationship famously fell apart due to major theoretical disagreements. The line plays on that historic rivalry, suggesting the character is so complex that even they would clash trying to figure him out.
² Jean-Paul Sartre was a 20th-century French philosopher and one of the leading figures of existentialism. In his essay “Existentialism Is a Humanism,” Sartre argues that, without a predetermined human nature or divine plan, each person is radically free—and therefore entirely responsible—for their actions and the meaning of their existence.
Thank you for reading. I’m grateful for your time and your heart. Comments, thoughts, and existential crises are always welcome. 🌙
Chapter 5: Shattered
Summary:
While Crowley sinks into the dark, Aziraphale climbs a ladder of glass. Both are bleeding. Neither can look away.
Notes:
Hello, dear readers.
This chapter is a descent.
Crowley is not fighting — not because he doesn’t care, but because he no longer remembers how to keep going.
Meanwhile, Aziraphale is surrounded by light and rules and silence, but none of it feels like Heaven anymore.
If there’s a miracle left, it might be the fact that something between them is still holding on.Thank you for reading, and for walking with them through this.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
[LONDON, SOHO]
Crowley walked out of the café with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his blazer and his shoulders hunched, as if carrying the weight of a thousand centuries, while Abadon walked ahead—feline, cautious, with a strangely predatory air.
That conversation had deeply irritated him. Things were already bad enough without others meddling in his life. Maggie called his name once, hesitantly, but he didn’t respond. She tried again, more softly this time, and added:
“If you ever need to talk… I’m around.”
He stopped and turned his face toward her, but the sunglasses hid whatever human emotion might still have lingered in his expression.
“I just wanted a coffee, but apparently everyone knows more about my life than I do,” he said, and the sarcasm dried the air between them.
Maggie stepped back, unsure of how to respond. Sad for him. Sure, he was grumpy, but when the angel was around, he used to be different. Lighter. More whole.
Crowley kept walking. He didn’t look back. He got in the car with Abadon, who dropped him off at his flat after taking the longest possible route. He didn’t bring it up again, but there was a malicious smile on Abadon’s face. And that displeased Crowley more than anything.
⸻
[CROWLEY'S FLAT]
He was completely sober now—maybe for the first time in days.
He looked around the apartment and felt a quiet disgust at having let things deteriorate to that point. The dimness was thicker than he remembered. Heavy. Almost alive. He lived among frightened plants and a sunken couch.
There were too many empty spaces. Shards of glass on the floor. Books stacked at random. A plate with remnants of something that didn’t deserve a name. The smell was of fermented loneliness.
Crowley yanked off his sunglasses, ran a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply. His head throbbed with an uninvited hangover—though it wasn’t just the alcohol. It was the absence. The anger. The lack.
“What the hell is this,” he muttered, snapping his fingers in irritation.
In an instant, the mess began to rearrange itself. The dishes vanished. The plants straightened themselves with a last show of dignity. The dust turned to smoke and drifted away. The trash disappeared into its proper place.
The apartment was once again his little refuge: tasteful, refined, modern furniture and his belongings in order—but no less empty.
Maybe even more.
He took a bath. Scrubbed the dirt from his skin with force through the white foam of the tub, but what he truly wanted to remove was still there — inside.
He looked at himself in the mirror: he looked defeated. Uneven stubble. Puffy, hollow eyes. Disheveled red hair nearly brushing his shoulders, clearly in need of a trim.
He fixed that too.
He shaved. Combed his hair and tied it up in a high ponytail. He lay down and slept for a bit. It had been a long time since he’d rested in his own bed. But sleep didn’t last.
When he woke, he returned to the living room and collapsed onto the sofa like an ancient being trying to imitate the shape of a man.
He turned on the TV. Flipped through three channels. Turned it off. Turned on the radio. Jazz was playing. Let it play. Ten seconds later, turned it off. Silence was more honest. And more cruel.
For a moment, he thought he might fall asleep again.
But then the image came—sharp, intact—of the bookshop window. The reflection of a time when he still knew where he stood, and someone knew his name without fear. It looked like a sanctuary, untouched and immaculate. Crowley shut his eyes.
“Idiot.”
No one answered.
⸻
The phone rang in the late afternoon.
Even before looking at the screen, he knew who it was.
“Don’t tell me you weren’t dying of boredom,” came Abadon’s silky voice on the other end. “I’m about to cause a small theological collapse in front of a church. You should come. Nothing too dramatic, I promise. Just a bit of… doctrinal entertainment.”
Crowley thought about saying no. Thought about hanging up. But he just looked at the sofa. At the ceiling. At the now-clean, orderly and… lifeless apartment. Was there anything left for him?
“Fine,” he said dryly. “Why not.”
⸻
[LONDON, RANDOM CHURCH]
The church sat on a narrow cobbled street, surrounded by Victorian mansions. A mass was underway, but they didn’t go in. Holy ground.
Abadon was leaning against a lamppost, smoking a cigarette that smelled of apricot and sulfur.
“I thought about making the crucifix weep blood, but it felt too medieval. So I improvised,” he said, winking at Crowley.
He pointed to one of the stained-glass panels: the once-beautiful, sad-eyed baroque angels had been transformed into demons in obscene, profane poses. Crowley didn’t reply. He leaned against the stone wall and watched the flow of parishioners—most of them indifferent.
A nun passed by and, upon locking eyes with Abadon, forgot where she was. She stopped in the middle of the street, confused, murmuring disjointed prayers.
“This is just warm-up,” Abadon said, amused. “A little light chaos. Nothing like the old days.”
Then the child came.
She was maybe seven, perhaps younger. Yellow coat. Clear rain boots. Colorful socks. She had wandered away from her parents to get a closer look at the colorful stained-glass figures.
Abadon crouched down, his smile slicing across his face like a blade.
“Did you know children who don’t obey go to that place?” he pointed to the distorted figures.
The girl looked at him, frightened.
“Did you know that sometimes, when you pray and no one answers… it’s because they’ve already forgotten who you are?”
Crowley stepped away from the wall with a slow but firm movement.
“Abadon. Not with children,” he said, voice low and hoarse, like thunder in a bottle. But the damage was already done. The little girl was crying in fear, too scared to call for her parents, clutching some toy tightly to her chest.
Abadon raised his hands, theatrical.
“Oh, come on. It was just a question.”
“The wrong question.”
“You’re too sensitive, Serpent. I thought it’d be more fun.”
Crowley didn’t answer. He just turned and started walking. But before he rounded the corner, he slipped a hand into his pocket and snapped his fingers. A minimal miracle. Discreet. Almost imperceptible—and forbidden, of course.
The girl stopped crying.
Light broke through the clouds and landed on her like a soft touch.
Her parents found her seconds later, and she smiled as if nothing had happened. And in her little mind, nothing had. She’d never remember it.
⸻
[CROWLEY'S FLAT]
Crowley returned home unsure of what hurt more: the silence waiting for him, or the knowledge that not even Hell wanted to hurt him the way he hurt himself.
He stepped inside, took off his sunglasses, dropped his coat on the floor, and let himself sink into the couch like someone saying goodbye to their own self.
A bell rang in the distance.
And for a moment, he believed he’d been forgiven. Even if it was one of those lies we tell ourselves… just to keep existing.
[HEAVEN, CORRIDORS]
The long corridors of Heaven were lined with mirrors that looked like small mysterious portals. Aziraphale couldn’t help but look, but wasn’t sure he liked what he saw. He could barely recognize himself. The tailored suit was flawless, his hair combed to a sleek perfection that hid his golden curls—but what struck him most were his eyes. On Earth, they said eyes were the window to the soul—so why did his look so empty?
He still felt troubled by what he had seen, tired of a title that meant nothing and of being surrounded by beings who clearly hated him. Michael didn’t bother hiding it—neither did the others.
The Golden City felt cold and lifeless. The solemnity of celestial melodies made him miss music that had soul. But here, liking something wasn’t allowed.
He reached into his inner coat pocket and found the photograph. The only object he’d brought with him, because it had never really left his side.
He looked at it for a moment, as if blades were cutting through his heart. It was the photo Furfur had taken of him and Crowley, so long ago it felt like another life. The joy in their eyes was almost insolent. He had needed someone he trusted to pull off that trick, hadn’t he?
But that millennia-old trust had been suddenly broken.
He felt his eyes fill, but held back the tears.
He thought of the conversation he’d had with the Almighty—but wasn’t even sure it had been real. He’d searched for records, transcripts—nothing. Everything was confusing. His promotion came with a promise, and yet nothing was being done in Heaven. Just cold, mechanical bureaucracy.
And since Gabriel had left, everything felt… unstable. As if Heaven had lost its axis, but pretended otherwise. No one spoke of him. He was not mentioned in meetings. His name had been erased from the records with surgical precision—as if he’d never existed.
But Aziraphale remembered. He remembered the rigidity, the vanity, the blind devotion… and, in the end, the rupture. The brave (or reckless?) decision to leave everything behind for love. And that echoed in him. Not as temptation—but as an uncomfortable mirror.
Aziraphale had believed he could make a difference. He’d been excited when Metatron spoke of the Second Coming.
But now… nothing made sense. Taking away human free will felt too cold—even for Heaven. In search of answers—or maybe just a spark of reality—he decided to descend to Earth.
Gabriel used to do it all the time. In theory, so could he. Right?
He made his way to the Descent Portico with quiet steps, like someone trying not to disturb a temple that no longer hears prayers. He told himself it was for administrative purposes. There were books he wanted to retrieve. Forgotten objects.
But he knew.
Deep down, he knew.
It was the shop window. The creak of the stairs. The wrong glass of wine. The gravelly laugh.
It was him.
Crowley.
The Portico’s mechanism groaned under his touch, as if it hadn’t been activated in ages. A pale halo lit up for an instant, hesitated… and went dark.
He tried again. Silence.
The door behind him opened quietly. Uriel appeared, her wings visible and aligned like a fence of snow. Her voice, trained to sound neutral, carried a thin layer of artificial courtesy:
“Apologies, Archangel. The Metatron has requested a temporary pause on travel. Security protocols, you understand? Just while we stabilize… the new order.”
New order. New hierarchy. New boundaries.
“Of course,” Aziraphale said softly, his false courtesy hard as stone. “Naturally.”
He didn’t argue. Didn’t protest. He simply walked away, accepting the refusal with the resignation the role demanded. But on his way back, he felt the weight of the photo against his chest like a small surviving miracle.
He reached his office and narrowed his eyes at the stack of documents on his desk. More bureaucracy. Wonderful. At least something hadn’t changed.
While he was signing, he didn’t notice he had company.
Michael entered without hurry, her steps with almost military precision. She observed him from a distance and only spoke once she was sure he felt her presence:
“Silence is a virtue, isn’t it? One some of us learned early. Others… preferred music. Or company.”
The reference didn’t have to be direct—Gabriel hovered between them like an inconvenient specter.
Aziraphale didn’t respond. He simply closed the book with care.
“I never meant to take this place,” he said at last. “I was assigned.”
“Of course,” Michael replied, her voice like a blade in its sheath. “Heaven knows what it’s doing. Even when it acts… unexpectedly.”
She walked slowly to one of the record columns, her fingers gliding along the celestial spines like one stroking old wounds.
“Curious, though. So many millennia of service, so many battles fought, hard decisions made in the name of obedience… and in the end, a mere Principality gets promoted.”
The sentence weighed more than any book in that hall.
“If the criterion were violence, maybe I wouldn’t be here.”
“It’s not about violence, dear,” she said without turning. “It’s about loyalty. Knowing when not to hesitate. Not… becoming attached.”
The response lingered too long between them. Michael turned, stepping closer than necessary.
“You know, sometimes I think… the Metatron chooses like spinning a roulette. Not by merit, but by… temporary usefulness.”
Aziraphale held her gaze.
“And still, you obey.”
“Because that’s what angels do,” Michael said, and for a second, her expression revealed something that wasn’t obedience—but exhaustion.
He almost pitied her.
“Maybe that’s why we stopped hearing God,” he murmured.
Michael tilted her head slightly, as if weighing a reply she perhaps should not voice.
“Or maybe She fell silent because some of us started listening too much to ourselves.”
“Or because the few who dared to listen to Her… are already gone,” Aziraphale whispered.
She stepped away then, without waiting for an answer, her steps echoing through the library.
Aziraphale remained there, between columns of light and eternal pages, carrying the weight of a title he hadn’t asked for—and the bitter echo of Gabriel’s absence, not as nostalgia, but as a sharp rupture.
A constant reminder that perhaps all that was left of Heaven was appearance. And no one remained to speak the truth aloud.
Notes:
This was not an easy chapter to write — Crowley didn’t want to be seen like this.
But if you look closely, you’ll notice: the old Crowley is still in there, somewhere. Just hurt. Just tired.Thank you for sitting in the dark with him.
Aziraphale will try to bring light. Whether it’s enough… we’ll see.And thank you, truly, for reading.
Chapter 6: Fragments of the Unspoken
Summary:
A demon spirals. An angel waits. And somewhere between coffee cups and divine mirrors, choices begin to take shape.
Notes:
This chapter is a quiet storm — fragmented, reflective, and drifting through different corners of pain and longing. We follow Crowley down, watch Aziraphale hesitate, and listen to Muriel trying to hold a thread between two broken ends.
This story unfolds at a slower pace — because some wounds run deep, and healing takes time. If you’re here for the long haul, welcome. Let’s walk this road together, one fragile step at a time.
Thanks for reading — and for holding space for these characters as they fall, stall, and maybe begin again.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
[Give me coffee or give me death]
The doorbell chimed with its thin, familiar voice. Muriel entered as if afraid to disturb the air, hugging a worn book to her chest like a newly discovered relic. She wore a mustard-yellow coat, slightly askew, and her eyes held that naive gleam of someone who still believed words could save the world—or at least soothe it.
Over the past few months, Muriel had become a constant figure at the café—a sweet, if slightly disheveled, presence during long afternoons of hard work. At first, Nina had thought she was too odd to be real, but Maggie, with her endless patience, had convinced her to give the girl a chance. Now, between one batch of cookies and the next, Muriel showed up with strange books, inappropriate questions, and smiles that never asked for forgiveness.
Maggie worked with Nina and ran the record store almost entirely online. And when the café emptied out, the three of them often shared confidences—even if Muriel didn’t always understand which things were meant to stay secret.
“Hello!” Muriel said brightly, as if that moment was always her favorite part of the day. “I brought the book I promised! Poems That No Longer Rhyme. I found the title… tragically honest.”
Nina looked up over her cup and exchanged a glance with Maggie. There was something comforting about Muriel, even when she seemed slightly out of time. Like a character who had wandered out of a different book—perhaps one with fewer wars and more tea. Her innocence amused them—especially because, without realizing, Muriel often let slip far too much about angels and demons. At first, it all sounded like fantasy from someone who read too much. But over time, they realized Muriel simply didn’t understand the concept of lying.
“You’ve got a rather… strange taste in literature,” Nina said, attempting a smile. “But sit down. We need to talk.”
Muriel sat with the caution of someone afraid the chairs might take offense. She placed the book on the table like an offering and rested her hands in her lap, almost childlike, like a shy child being introduced to their parents’ childhood friends.
“Talk? About poetry? Or about that grilled cheese sandwich with the unpronounceable name?”
“Not exactly,” Maggie replied, leaning in slightly. “It’s about Crowley. He stopped by few days ago. He was… not well.”
Muriel furrowed her brow, eyes blinking slowly. The mention of the name seemed to stir some half-filed memory.
“Oh. The Demon,” she said softly, like someone speaking the forbidden name of a poorly told story. “Isn’t that what he’s called?”
“Not by us,” Nina replied, her tone sharper than usual.
Muriel blushed, her hand going instinctively to the collar of her coat.
“Sorry! It’s just… in the records, that’s how he appears. ‘High-class demon, gold standard, dangerous due to temptations and high levels of irony.’ Something like that. But… he was kind to me. Lied to me and all that, sure, but he didn’t treat me badly. Just a bit… sideways. And he always seems… sad, even when he pretends not to.”
“So you do know,” Maggie said, gently pressing her fingers around her cup. “You let things slip sometimes, you know? Like when you said time ‘dances when no one’s looking’… or that Mr. Fell ‘got a promotion, but left his heart down here on Earth.’”
Muriel looked down, almost embarrassed. The words had clearly escaped without permission.
“It’s just… I like to talk. And people actually listen here. Up there… they only hear what they want. Please don’t tell anyone about this.”
“He was in bad shape, Muriel,” Nina said now, her voice careful but firm. “And even without knowing everything that’s going on, we can tell when someone’s falling apart. You’re his friend, aren’t you?”
Muriel hesitated. Then nodded timidly, as though confessing a sacred secret.
“I don’t think that’s allowed.”
The silence that followed grew between them like ivy on old walls—slow, dense, full of unspoken questions.
“He looked… lonely,” Maggie added. “And we know Mr. Fell hasn’t been around for a while either. Is he… different?”
Muriel glanced at the book on the table, as if searching for answers inside it.
“He’s in a very high place. Literally. And… isolated. I think he’s forgotten what people are like. Or maybe he remembers too well, and that hurts.” She took a deep breath. “But I can’t interfere. I’m just a bookseller now. Technically. And he… is a demon.”
“You don’t have to break any rules,” Maggie said, her voice warm, almost maternal. “Just remind someone of what they forgot.”
“Or pay a visit,” Nina added. “You’re good at that.”
Muriel seemed to think for a moment. Then her eyes lit up with a soft glow, like a candle protected from the wind.
“Maybe… maybe I could try to talk to him. There’s a communion circle in the bookshop. It almost never works properly”—she paused, as if weighing the gravity of striking matches in the dark—“but sometimes… it’s the intention that matters, isn’t it?”
She stood with the same care she used to handle very old books—adjusted her coat, glanced one last time at the volume on the table, and left it there. Not as forgetfulness, but like a ciphered note waiting to be decoded.
“I’ll light the candles. Just to see if anyone’s listening. Even if no one answers. I don’t know if he’ll hear me. But sometimes, it’s in silence that we hear the most.”
And then she smiled—that kind of smile made of morning light—and walked out of the café.
Nina followed her with her eyes until she disappeared around the corner, and only then said:
“That girl is going to end up saving the world without even realizing it.”
Maggie nodded slowly, stirring her tea.
[LONDON, RANDOM PUB]
Crowley felt caught in a spiral of bad choices, but he was too lost to know what to do anymore. He’d felt genuine disgust watching Abadon scare that little girl, and decided maybe it was best to stop seeing him for a while.
He went to a bar alone this time. Small, unfamiliar, but strangely pleasant and familiar all at once. He leaned against the bar, a nearly empty glass in front of him, his gaze lost in the amber liquid that shimmered under the flickering lights. The low music filled the air, but he wasn’t listening. Not to it. Not to himself. He felt like he was living on autopilot.
He pulled the glass closer, feeling the warmth of the alcohol slide down his throat like a promise he didn’t believe in. Ordered another round, drank. Ordered one more, drank again.
Without warning, a shadow approached from behind. A familiar presence that needed no announcement. Abadon was there, wearing that crooked smile that spelled trouble and chaos. And Crowley had absolutely no patience for it.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, voice smooth and full of hidden meanings.
Crowley didn’t turn. His silence was answer enough.
Abadon slid into the seat beside him without waiting for permission, like someone who takes what they want, unapologetically.
“Alone again?” he teased, his fingers lightly brushing Crowley’s hand, sending a shiver he tried to ignore. “I thought we were having fun.”
Crowley moved his hand away, the motion sharp and deliberate.
“I’m not alone. I’ve got my drink.”
“Ah, the old faithful companion,” Abadon smiled, leaning closer, his woody cologne intoxicating. “But I’d say you deserve better company than that.”
Crowley finally turned his face, locking eyes with him—a look caught somewhere between exhaustion and challenge. He had clearly come looking for him. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be in that bar.
“What do you want?”
“Just a little fun,” Abadon replied, his eyes gleaming. “But if you prefer, I could be your personal disaster.”
A thick silence fell between them as the bar carried on its indifferent murmur. Crowley felt the weight of that stare, the promise wrapped in a presence that wouldn’t leave him be. Why wouldn’t he leave him alone?
He looked away, back at his glass.
“You’re a walking hell.”
“And you?” Abadon leaned in, voice low and velvet-smooth. “A fallen angel who still thinks he can fly. You know… serpent—” he touched Crowley’s shoulder with a mix of seduction and mystery “—there are other ways to forget.”
Crowley snorted, but didn’t reply.
Abadon leaned even closer, his face now so near Crowley could feel his warmth, his breath nearly grazing his ear.
“You know you can’t send me away,” he murmured, voice husky, equal parts invitation and challenge.
Crowley gripped his glass, heart pounding harder than he’d like to admit.
“I can try,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt.
Abadon’s hand slid across the bar, lightly brushing Crowley’s wrist in a teasing touch.
Crowley pulled his hand back quickly, but Abadon’s gaze locked onto his—saying without words: “I see what you don’t want to show.”
“You’re always so bad at admitting what you like,” Abadon teased, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.
“I don’t like you.” The words came out curt, dry—but without the conviction he wished for.
Abadon laughed, a slow, deep sound that echoed through the quiet bar.
“Liar.”
He leaned even closer, their faces almost touching, that woody scent overwhelming the fallen angel’s senses.
Crowley closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the world tilt, the line between control and surrender dangerously thin. Giving in made perfect sense.
“Don’t provoke me,” he muttered.
“You can pretend all you want,” Abadon whispered, voice low and dangerous, “but I know you want me. Want to forget. Want… anything.”
Crowley closed his eyes again, feeling that desire tighten in his throat, press against his chest. A knot formed in his soul—how could he give in to someone else when the smile of the one he truly loved haunted him day and night? A wound still bleeding.
He pulled his hand away from the demon’s touch, subtly.
“Pretend all you want, serpent,” Abadon said with a sly smile, “but in the end, it’s still about the angel, isn’t it?”
“Don’t speak for me,” Crowley murmured, voice rough, nearly breaking.
“Oh, I do. I see it.” Abadon chuckled, low and cruel. “And while you try to run, I’ll be here—to remind you.”
Crowley turned his face, eyes narrowing behind his dark glasses.
“I’m not your game.”
“Aren’t you?” Abadon asked, a hint of challenge in his voice. “Every game has its time. You’re the one who called me, remember? You don’t escape the abyss after letting it in.”
The bar seemed to shrink, the lights dimming slowly as the music faded into a nearly tangible shadow. In the end, the bitter taste of the drink wasn’t enough to drown what burned inside him.
It all made sense now. Abadon wasn’t like an abyss—he was the abyss. While Crowley had been an angel who didn’t exactly fall, but rather slipped downward, Abadon was the opposite. He hadn’t just fallen—he’d plunged. His role was to spread chaos, to absorb humanity’s pain and misery… and why not those of celestial and infernal beings, too?
And Crowley? He was an all-you-can-eat buffet.
He had, indeed, let the abyss in—and now he had no idea how to get rid of it.
[HEAVEN, AZIRAPHALE’S OFFICE]
Aziraphale had no idea what steps he was supposed to take next. With the descent gate sealed shut, there wasn’t much he could do to fix the situation he’d found himself in.
His office, empty and silent, felt like it might swallow him whole. The weight of his own poor choices rested heavy on his shoulders—decisions that had once seemed like virtues, but now sounded more like betrayals.
Crowley was his opposite, and he knew it. While his partner drowned in self-destruction down on Earth, Aziraphale was trapped in a sea of intrusive thoughts, suffocating under the enforced stillness of Heaven.
He couldn’t see how things could ever be mended between them. Everything had been so sudden, so wrong, and the hurt—deep and persistent—had lingered on both sides. Crowley had chosen to stay. Aziraphale had chosen to leave.
And in the middle of it all, there was still the kiss.
That desperate act. The final gamble that didn’t work.
A farewell disguised as a plea.
It was in that oppressive silence that the silver mirror at the back of the room began to hum.
Aziraphale looked up, startled. That hadn’t happened in centuries. A faint hum, flickering, almost… shy.
He approached slowly. The surface of the mirror shimmered. A small circle appeared in the lower corner—unstable, uneven, like a child’s attempt to sketch a connection between worlds.
With a simple gesture, he answered.
“Um…” the voice was quiet, nearly a whisper. “Hello? Mister Raphael?”
Please call me Aziraphale—he corrected softly. The title didn’t suit him anymore, not really.
He blinked. The image that flickered into view was blurry, shaky, like it had been captured on an old security camera. But it was her.
Muriel.
She was sitting on the floor of the bookshop, knees drawn to her chest. The rug had been pushed aside. The summoning circle he used to rely on when he still lived there glowed with a soft celestial blue.
“Muriel?” he asked, voice caught somewhere between astonishment and tenderness. “How… how did you manage that? Everything’s supposed to be sealed…”
Is it? she asked, confused. Maybe not from this side.
Aziraphale smiled—tired, but genuine.
“It worked.”
Muriel hesitated, then looked around and whispered, even though there was no need to.
“I know I shouldn’t be calling, sir. But the demon Crowley came to the café. He looked… very sad. Maggie and Nina were worried. So was I. I know he’s a demon, but… he also seems to be your friend.”
The angel swallowed hard. Those simple words, spoken with such innocence, pierced straight through his defenses like an arrow.
“He is. Or… was.” The words cracked before he could stop them.
Muriel watched him with her wide, sincere eyes.
“Do you want me to try speaking to him? Because I… I could try.”
He took a while to respond. Then he shook his head, barely.
“No. You did well to call me.”
Muriel smiled, relieved. And as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she added:
“If you’d like, I can try keeping the channel open. The circle here in the bookshop… it’s still unstable, but I can keep adjusting it.”
Aziraphale inhaled deeply, like someone remembering how to breathe after far too long.
“Do that. But carefully. And… thank you, Muriel.”
The image vanished with a soft hiss.
Aziraphale stood there for a moment, motionless before the darkened mirror.
Something stirred deep within his soul. Fragile. Unsteady. But still alive.
Hope.
Notes:
Let me know what you thought of this one — especially Muriel’s moment in the café and Crowley’s scenes with Abadon (I’m curious which hit hardest).
We’re entering a turning point soon. Quietly, but inevitably.
See you in the next chapter.
Chapter 7: Broken Reflections
Summary:
Tensions rise as unseen forces shift, and old bonds are tested between heaven and earth.
Notes:
Thank you for joining me on this journey through shadows and light.
This chapter moves with a slower, more reflective rhythm — a moment to breathe amid the chaos, to linger on the fractures beneath the surface.
As old bonds strain and unseen forces shift, the story’s deeper currents begin to stir, promising revelations and turmoil ahead.
So settle in, and let the fragments speak.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
[CROWLEY’S FLAT]
The Bentley lay abandoned on the sidewalk — doors ajar, the radio faintly playing Queen’s “Under Pressure,” broken by demonic interference. The rain fell heavily, washing the streets as if the sky was trying to forcibly fix the world. Inside the apartment, however, the air was dry. Dense. Charged with something more than just repressed humidity.
Crowley entered like a minor storm. His glasses slipped down his nose, his jacket clung to his skin, his shoes clicked on the floor with each step. He threw the keys hard against the table and snarled:
“Great. Not even going to lock this bloody thing.”
Then he saw Abadon.
He was on the couch, as if part of the furniture. Legs crossed, a glass of dark wine in hand, a hardcover book on his lap — one of Aziraphale’s favorites. The Picture of Dorian Gray. Of course. The book had stayed in the car, but Aziraphale had left before Crowley even had the chance to return it.
“You’re really coming in, huh? Make yourself at home. Want the remote? The Wi-Fi password?”
“I’m already connected,” Abadon replied, with a wicked smile. ”You let me in. Literally and metaphorically.”
Crowley rolled his eyes and went to the closet, grabbing some random bottle. The liquid burned his throat, as it should.
“ You always show up when I least want you and you talk like some unresolved, sexy riddle. Never just: “Hey, Crowley, how’s it going?” — he took another sip. — “There’s a whole hell to haunt, Abadon. Why do you insist on me?”
Abadon looked up from the book. Now he was smiling with his eyes.
“Because you provoke me, even when you pretend not to. Because among all the failed demons, you still have the glow of an angel. A dirty glow. Distorted. That’s what fascinates me.”
Crowley laughed without humor.
“Fascination. Oh, what an honor. The abyss wants me as its mascot.”
The silence wasn’t empty. It was thick, almost tangible, as if the air itself refused to circulate. Abadon closed the book slowly and stood, walking toward Crowley with soft, feline steps. Almost… sensual.
“You know you’re emptying out, don’t you? You’re weaker. More bitter. And all this because he didn’t stay. Because you weren’t enough.”
Crowley leaned against the wall, eyes half-closed.
“And you’re here to remind me of that? How charitable. Going to offer me a hug or want me to just jump off the balcony?”
Abadon stopped inches from him.
“I am what comes after the fall. And now, you let me in.”
Crowley’s fists curled tight, his whole body wound like a spring.
“You sound like it’s all over before the game even started. Like I’m already doomed. You know nothing about me, huh?” He scoffed. “Not a clue.”
He let out a bitter laugh.
“Look at you—your home’s a monument to giving up. Sleeping on a couch that probably hates you back. Feeding on booze and grudges. And still babbling to ghosts like they owe you rent.”
Crowley stepped closer, face inches from Abadon’s.
“I’d rather deal with a thousand ghosts than some demon who fancies himself a deep philosophical idea. Think you’re gonna devour me? Better bring your best chewing skills.“
Abadon smiled. Slow. Lascivious.
“As you wish.”
And vanished.
The silence left behind was cutting. Crowley stayed there, breathing hard, wine burning in his stomach, cold sweat trickling down his neck. He looked down.
Aziraphale’s book had fallen. Its cover stained with a dark liquid. He didn’t know if it was wine. He didn’t know anything anymore.
But he knew this: he had let the abyss in.
And the abyss — now — seemed far too comfortable inside him.
⸻
[HEAVEN, AZIRAPHALE’S OFFICE]
The office remained in absolute silence. No knocking at the door. No noise from Heaven outside. Heaven rarely made noise. It was the kind of place where silence was deafening.
Aziraphale sat at the desk, hands clasped over the blank paper before him. A paper that should hold a plan, an answer, a salvation. But there was nothing there. Only the weight of a choice that, deep down, had already been made.
Then She appeared again — or rather, made herself present. The scent of chamomile filled the air. The comforting, welcoming presence wrapped around him like a fraternal embrace.
“So,” said a voice both maternal and ruthless, “have you made your decision?”
Aziraphale didn’t turn. He just closed his eyes. He would recognize that voice anywhere in Creation. The last visit had been real, he now realized.
“I’m… considering,” he answered with the formality of one who knows there is no real choice.
God stirred her tea carefully and sipped calmly. She looked at him with kind eyes and a knowing smile. There was so much mystery in everything she said.
“You’ve always been slow to decide, Aziraphale. Even when the world was on fire.”
“I only want to do what’s right,” the angel murmured.
“And what is right, now? To serve Heaven? Or… to serve something you’re not even sure you believe in anymore?”
He lowered his gaze.
“I still believe,” he said softly, almost a whisper. “I just don’t know if I believe in you.”
God laughed. A short, dry, almost mocking laugh.
“Believing in us was never the point, dear. Free will, remember? But between you and me…” — she lowered her voice conspiratorially — “I’m mostly retired. This whole business? Not really my thing anymore.”
“You’re trying to destroy it,”Aziraphale said with a firmer tone. “The Second Coming. Metatron…”
“Metatron is good with spreadsheets,” she said with cutting boredom, “terrible at everything else. But efficient.”
There was a pause.
“And Crowley?” she asked, as if speaking of a lost piece. “Are you still thinking about him?”
Aziraphale clenched his fists.
“I always have,” he said quietly, fists tightening.
“Then go.” The voice softened, as if tired. “Go down. See what’s left of him. And of you.”
The presence began to fade, but before silence returned, she left one last comment hanging in the air:
“Just don’t expect easy answers. I was never very good with happy endings.”
And with that, she disappeared. Leaving the words hanging.
The silver mirror still shone, vivid and translucent. On the other side, the portal remained energized — which meant that perhaps it was the only open portal between Heaven and Earth at that moment.
He wanted to go back as much as he didn’t want to. If he returned, he’d have to face the weight of his decisions; if not, he’d torment himself — for how long? And there was still Metatron, scheming something. Wanting to topple the already fragile balance — but that would come later.
He touched the surface of the mirror; it felt like molten silver, except the sensation was cold to the touch.
But he didn’t step through immediately.
He stayed there, fingers resting on the shimmering membrane, his heart beating in a rhythm neither celestial nor human — just a heart afraid.
Afraid to return and find everything exactly as he left it.
Or worse: to find nothing at all.
He breathed deeply. An ancient sigh, full of memories, white wine, and muffled laughter among shelves.
And then, he crossed over.
Aziraphale materialized in the center of the bookshop with the delicacy of one returning to a sacred place. The space was quiet, enveloped in that thick silence only books can keep. The air smelled old, almost alive — the unmistakable scent of cedar shelves, faintly sweetened, soaked into the boards and pages like an echo of better times.
It was his home.
Every shelf watched him silently, as if the books recognized him. He, in turn, recognized that scent as if it were his own soul whispering: welcome back
⸻
[HEAVEN - SUPREME ARCHANGEL’S OFFICE]
Hours later, the office remained in shadow. Heaven had no sunlight, only functional brightness — but in that room, the lighting always seemed too artificial. As if the very idea of comfort was considered a threat to order.
Metatron opened the door with surgical precision, expecting to find Aziraphale at the desk. Expecting filled papers, ongoing actions, quiet and discreet submission.
But he found only emptiness.
The chair was pushed back.
And in the center of the room, the silver mirror flickered in dull shades. The surface no longer gleamed with the same intensity: the portal had been used. And had already closed.
He approached, eyes half-closed. He touched the mirror with his fingertips and felt the faint, residual energy. An echo of disobedience.
On the table lay a new report — unfinished.
RE: Second Coming / Partial Progress
Notes on the absence of resistance from lower orders. Adjustments underway.
Archprince Aziraphale’s emotional instability under review.
Priority: maintain unified narrative.
Status: In progress.
Attachment: temporary absence of the responsible archangel — investigation ongoing.
Metatron read it all silently.
He clenched his fist hard over the report, crumpling the paper with the precision of one who tolerates no variables outside the script.
“So this is it…“ he murmured, staring at the mirror now fading completely.
He turned, expression stone-cold, eyes blazing. Posture straight, rigid like a sentence.
Notes:
Thank you for reading so far. Your presence gives life to these quiet moments.
The pace remains deliberate, a slow unfolding of shadows and truths, where every whispered secret carries weight.
The fragile bond between two unlikely souls will be tested, stretched thin by absence and unspoken desires.
The delicate balance between worlds trembles — softly, but inevitably.
Stay with me. The journey continues, one fragment at a time.
Chapter 8: No way back
Summary:
Crowley wrestles with his own demons while a familiar shadow challenges him. Aziraphale confronts changes that weigh heavy on his heart, surrounded by quiet support. Both face crossroads they can’t ignore.
Notes:
Hey, friends!
Welcome to Chapter 8 — a little dive into worn-out souls, sharp words, and uneasy truths. Grab a cup of tea (or something stronger), and let’s get into it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
ST JAMES’S PARK — LATE AFTERNOON
The wooden bench felt cold beneath Crowley’s coat, but he didn’t care. Hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, he held a small cup of peas — handpicked. It felt like centuries since he’d last fed the ducks. This was his own crooked, silent way of trying to get back to normal.
He tossed the little green spheres into the water with almost meditative motions. A plump duck waddled closer, eyeing the offering with suspicion. Crowley sighed.
“Go on, trust a demon for once in your life.”
He wasn’t expecting an answer. But it came — in kind.
“Trust is a double-edged blade. You should know that.”
The voice was soft as velvet and cold as ice. Abadon.
Crowley didn’t need to turn. The other was already there, immaculate as ever, settling beside him on the bench like someone certain this was the stage for his small victory.
“Five minutes of peace, is that too much to ask? The afternoon was almost pleasant, you know?”
“Peace?” Abadon gave a low laugh. “You lost that long before this world was made, darling.”
“And you lost your bloody sense of timing. Should’ve shown up with thunder and a choir.”
Silence. The sky was darkening, the lake reflecting a pale melancholy. The world insisted on surviving, even with so much broken in it. And Crowley… Crowley was exhausted.
“I like you like this, serpent,” Abadon went on. “Stubborn. Still convinced you’ve got control.”
“Yeah. I like me too. Get in line.”
He paused. The smile on his face was cruel and intimate.
“Like you? That’s not what it looks like. You walked right into my game.”
Crowley turned his face toward him, expressionless.
“Your ‘game’… boring. Tell me another.”
“Oh, come on. All that drunken rage, the café meltdown, everything we did in those days of chaos, the people we tried… so profane. You danced every step to my tune. And didn’t even realise you were following the melody.”
Crowley squeezed the cup so hard the peas jumped in silence.
“Want a trophy for that?”
“I know you’re tired. Alone. That you want to destroy everything just to see if you still feel something. I only gave you… a little push.”
“And do you rehearse that speech in the mirror, or does it just come out like that?”
Abadon leaned closer, eyes glinting.
“Your sarcasm won’t save you. You know the best part? You accepted it. Not out of fear. Out of desire. You wanted it to hurt. You wanted to lose yourself.”
“You’re bluffing,” Crowley whispered, a barely perceptible tremor in his voice.
'Am I? Then why are you here, feeding ducks like some childish good deed could cleanse you? You feel something’s about to end. And you’re right. I just think it’s a shame we didn’t have more fun. I would’ve fucked you into surrender, shattered every last piece of control you cling to. But your loyalty to that angel who abandoned you is almost… pitiful.”
The plump duck quacked impatiently. Crowley tossed it one last pea with a trembling hand.
“They sent me, you know?” Abadon said. “Dagon. Hastur. Wanted me to break you. And look — I barely had to get my hands dirty.”
He rose slowly, smoothing his immaculate suit. His shadow stretched grotesquely behind him, as if Hell itself were lying in wait.
“You’re already mine. Already on the path. There’s no way back now. Enjoy… your last days on Earth.”
With a mocking wave, he turned and disappeared among the trees.
Crowley was alone. A duck pecked at his shoe, as if to remind him of the cold reality. The empty cup slid from his hands. The chill felt as if it had seeped beneath his skin.
Strangest of all — most ironic — was that Abadon was right. He no longer had the strength to resist. That was that.
His heart clenched at the thought of the little plant on the windowsill — but the real memory was Aziraphale.
The blond curls, the easy smile, the clever literary references only he had read, the habit of touching his arm, that night they’d danced in the bookshop. Crowley had sunk deep into the hurt caused by his rejection. His chest still ached. He’d tried to hate him. He really had. And now… with the possibility of being erased from existence, all he wanted was to see him one last time, wearing that ridiculous tie and doing some shabby magic trick.
[A.Z. FELL AND CO]
The morning light crept slowly into the bookshop, slipping through the yellowed curtains and spilling in warm beams over the spines of books. The familiar scent of cedar and old paper lingered in the air, like an ancient whisper of memories kept.
These books seemed to welcome him; they had souls, and wanted him just as much as he wanted them.
Aziraphale awoke in the velvet armchair where he had fallen asleep, still caught between dream and waking. For a moment, his eyes searched for a presence, a familiar shadow — but found only thick silence, heavy as the emptiness inside him.
It took him a while to move, as if the place could hold him there, keeping him from returning to a routine that no longer existed.
The soft creak of the back door brought a quiet relief. Muriel entered, two cups in hand, steam from the tea curling lazily upward. She smiled, warm and knowing, like someone who understands that sometimes the most urgent word is silent companionship.
“You took your time showing up,” she said, setting a steaming cup on the table beside him.
He offered a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Waking up was never my specialty, Muriel.”
She sat nearby, her gaze heavy with more than mere curiosity.
“Thank you for calling… I want to know what people are saying about him,” he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper.
Aziraphale closed his eyes, feeling the knot tighten in his throat. He didn’t want to admit it, not even to himself, but it was time to face it.
“Crowley… isn’t well,” Muriel went on gently, avoiding words that might wound further. “The girls saw him with someone — by their description… a demon, perhaps. He’s been drinking too much, and not just wine.”
Aziraphale drew a deep breath, trying to impose order on the chaos of his emotions.
“He’s always had his destructive impulses,” he murmured, voice faltering, searching for some justification though he knew there was none.
“But now it seems no one’s there to hold him back,” Muriel’s words cut, though she hadn’t meant them to.
Silence settled between them — comfortable and painful all at once.
“It’s worrying,” she said.
Soon after, the doorbell rang, breaking the moment with the arrival of Maggie and Nina. Their presence brought a familiarity Aziraphale longed for, even if he wasn’t sure what it meant that day.
“I took the liberty of calling them so they could tell you what happened,” Muriel explained, “while you were sleeping.”
Aziraphale gave a restrained thanks.
Nina stayed quiet, studying Aziraphale with an almost investigative focus, as if she could decipher every crease in his tired expression.
Maggie, however, asked why he had come back. Trying to keep things light, Aziraphale forced a smile and used the metaphor he’d rehearsed so many times in his mind.
“Let’s say there’s been a restructuring in upper management,” he began, his voice carrying a thin thread of irony. “The position sounded important, but the targets were far too aggressive.”
Maggie frowned, not entirely convinced.
“Restructuring? You mean… your leaving… Heaven?” she asked carefully.
He swallowed hard, looking away.
“Let’s just say there’s been a change of headquarters,” he replied evasively, “and some decisions were… less than ideal.”
Nina crossed her arms and got straight to the point.
“We spent months thinking Crowley had gone with you, and now he’s back. Completely wrecked.”
The silence that followed was thick, almost tangible.
“No. And I… didn’t stay there either,” Aziraphale admitted, his voice low, almost a whisper.
Nina smiled, understanding, with a touch of levity.
“You look like someone who thought they were doing the right thing, and only later realised they’d messed it all up.”
Aziraphale gave a sad smile — part laugh, part grief, part nothing.
“That’s a fairly accurate description,” he agreed, his eyes shining with restrained emotion.
“Mr. Fell,” Maggie began, “you need to talk to him. Emotional responsibility, you know? He’s hurting, and keeping bad company. And you seem to like him too. You two need to talk.”
Aziraphale stared at the floor. He had hurt Crowley badly, but few seemed to grasp that he was hurting too. He drew a deep breath, tried to think clearly.
“Who was this person?”
“They had a strange name,” Nina said. “Abolon, or something?”
“Abadon?” Aziraphale’s spine went cold.
“That’s it.”
The angel had never met him, but the name carried a reputation. Known for cruelty, brutality, and crossing lines even Hell found distasteful.
Maggie touched his shoulder gently, offering silent comfort amidst the swirl of conflicting emotions, while Nina gave him exactly what he needed at that moment — space to simply exist, wordless.
When he was alone again, Aziraphale held his tea in trembling hands, feeling the warmth trying to thaw the cold inside. His eyes landed on a hat forgotten in the corner decades ago, a silent reminder of someone he wasn’t ready to seek — but would, nonetheless.
For a moment, he let himself feel the full weight of longing and guilt.
Deep inside, he knew returning was the right thing to do. But he also knew the path wouldn’t be easy — the Creator had warned him.
He sighed, carrying every hope and fear, every scrap of faith and doubt, and turned his gaze back to the door, as if still expecting it to open at any moment.
Notes:
Thanks for sticking around!
Hope this chapter stirred something in you — be it a shiver, a sigh, or a smirk. Catch you soon for what’s next. Take care!
Chapter 9: Whispers in Hell
Summary:
Between shadows and memory, Abadon lingers, caught between fascination and revulsion, watching a story that refuses to end
Notes:
Hello, dear readers! 💛
In this chapter, we get up close with Abadon. It’s a chance to step into his mind, uncover his thoughts, quirks, and motivations. Seeing how he acts now will matter later, without spoiling what’s coming.I hope you enjoy this glimpse into his perspective and savor every little detail!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
[LONDON — SOMEWHERE BETWEEN NIGHT AND HELL]
What Abadon liked to watch most wasn’t the fall itself.
It was the instant before: that frail thread of breath before impact, when the illusion of control still clung by a hair. The tense silence of someone convinced they could remain whole.
There was a fragile beauty in that almost — something between hope and folly. He had always admired that kind of poetry. For others, it might be cruelty. For him, it was study, tinged with amusement.
At that moment, the object of his attention was unraveling emotionally — plain to anyone curious enough to look. Even behind dark glasses, threadbare sarcasm, and countless glasses of whisky, it was unmistakable.
Crowley.
Hell’s most irritating serpent. Heaven’s most defiant angel.
A broken being, held together by pose, memory, and a personality as exasperating as it was captivating. And then there was that — an absurd fixation on someone who had abandoned him. For Abadon, it was almost unbearable to watch: the blind, intact loyalty to Aziraphale, even if Crowley refused to admit it. Any other demon would have burned the bridge — and perhaps the angel along with it.
Abadon studied him like someone dismantling an old machine, searching for the precise point where the rust began… yet sometimes he allowed himself to be drawn to the fleeting gleam of the metal.
That same gleam had existed in the moment before his own fall: whole on the outside. Fractured on the inside.
No haste.
No guilt.
Only an intense curiosity, sharp as a scalpel. He had seen him dance with pain. Now, part of him wanted to witness the collapse.
⸻
[HELL]
Hell didn’t just smell of sulfur. It reeked of rotting flesh and despair simmered in oil. The corridors radiated a clammy, viscous heat — as if the very air were decaying. The taste of mold crept in uninvited.
Abadon walked through the place at leisure, appearing only from time to time. He wore a vivid purple cloak that trailed across the dark floor like a streak of soot. He belonged here, made no illusions otherwise, and hated it with the conviction of someone who sees themselves in a mirror and spits at the reflection.
Sometimes, he remembered the other place: Heaven. Different air. A light too white, a voice too calm, a judgment without appeal. Short memories pierced his mind like blades: ozone-scented air, burning bones, absolute silence before the push. His fall.
The room awaiting him was a chamber with fossilized bones in the ceiling, sludge dripping rhythmically. No throne — not since Beelzebub’s departure — but two figures sat with absolute authority: Dagon, skeletal, with a smile of wounded desire; and Hastur, corpulent, slick, with eyes like raw viscera. Dukes of Hell.
Hastur simmered with impatience. Dagon toyed with a dagger carved from human bone, clearly bored.
Abadon, for his part, seemed at ease — like someone who had memorized the script of a cheap play and was merely waiting for the cue. He was accustomed to doing their dirty work.
“It’s working,” Dagon said, not lifting her eyes. “The angel is silent. The demon drifts. Humans remain predictably inattentive.”
“Will there be time?” Hastur growled. “The Second Coming is counting down. If we don’t break him now, we may never get another chance.”
Abadon tilted his head, listening to something no one else could hear. Then he smiled. Slow. Clinical.
“So much hurry to get rid of a single demon?”
Hastur growled, spitting the words:
“He’s no ordinary demon. He’s a traitor. Time and again, he acted against us, helping that angel. The Second Coming cannot begin with him at large.”
Abadon tilted his head again, as if perceiving something invisible, and smiled — slow, almost intimate.
“Second Coming…” he paused, letting the silence hang. “Not a very infernal name, is it? Do you really think this operation belongs to you?”
Dagon raised an eyebrow.
“He knows.”
“It’s not the Devil who issues the orders anymore,” Abadon continued, his voice sharp as a blade. “Lucifer, if he still cares for anything at all, is likely too busy with operas and frivolous wagers. You answer to another.”
He didn’t need to say the name. They all felt it hover — cold, precise, bureaucratic.
A flash passed through his mind: cutting light, cataloging every flaw; the sensation of being weighed, measured, found wanting. That voice too calm, too sharp. The one responsible for his fall. His mouth turned bitter, but his expression remained indifferent.
“And doesn’t it bother you?” he continued, addressing Hastur with disdain. “Being instruments in Heaven’s hands?”
“As long as the blade cuts,” Dagon replied, her smile not reaching her eyes, “it matters little who wields it.”
“Your job,” Hastur growled, “is to break Crowley. Quickly. No questions.”
Abadon crossed his legs and lifted a goblet of black wine before him. He observed his distorted reflection; his eyes shone with something like excitement and a fleeting trace of something else he hurried to ignore.
“My job,” he corrected softly, “is to finish what he himself began.”
He ascended the stairs with calm steps. He needed to return to Earth, to complete what had been started. Close the cycle — or perhaps, open it a little further. As he climbed, memories flooded his mind.
⸻
PARIS — BASTILLE, 1789¹
Paris burned with the chaotic enthusiasm of the Revolution. In the Bastille, the air smelled of metal and fear, and the shadows swallowed their own echoes.
Abadon moved with the precision of a hungry crow through the damp corridors, following a call he did not understand. There were always rumors of a captured angel. And where an angel was in danger, a certain demon usually appeared. This had caught Hell’s attention, and Abadon had been sent with the sole purpose of observing that serpent.
He saw him before even realizing it — and made sure Crowley didn’t notice he was being watched.
Crowley, silent. Hands opening a cell as if he had done it a thousand times before. Inside, the angel trembled and puffed… seemed so… benevolent? Good? He wasn’t sure, but there was something in him that hadn’t existed in demons and that he had long forgotten.
The strangest — and perhaps most fascinating — thing was that his eyes still shone. And worse: they shone at Crowley. Abadon felt a shiver run up his spine.
The demon murmured something. A brief touch. A swap of clothes with the executioner — and the angel’s skin was safe. There was care in those gestures. Real care, like handling antique porcelain. No hesitation. Aziraphale went with him, smiling idiotically.
Abadon followed them through the streets, hidden. He saw Crowley adjust the angel’s collar. Saw him smile — not the usual cynical smile, but a small, genuine, weary smile. And saw them sit together, like clandestine lovers, sharing a crêpe. There was nothing between them while, at the same time, there was everything.
The scene made him viscerally sick. Honey over blood. Fingers brushing. Aziraphale’s saccharine smile as Crowley made a witty remark. Absurd tenderness amidst chaos.
Nausea and revulsion surged within Abadon. He also felt something else. Subtle, almost scientific curiosity.
What kept them from devouring each other like any other angel and demon? Why this ridiculous display of affection? Why hadn’t they destroyed each other yet?
The answer came sharply: because they didn’t want to.
And, for some reason he still didn’t understand — and perhaps never would — that held him.
He could have reported them. Could have condemned them. But he didn’t. He chose to wait. To observe. To see how far this flaw in the system would go before it imploded.
⸻
[PRESENT, LONDON]
In the small, shadowed room where he hid, Abadon stared at the ceiling as if awaiting divine punishment or perhaps a sign that everything was still under control. He felt opposing forces waging war within him.
The weeks alongside Crowley had been everything he hadn’t expected: irritating, chaotic, disconcertingly intimate.
The demon was a puzzle of sarcasm, grievance, and misaligned loyalty, and the more Abadon tried to take him apart, the more layers he revealed. But there was one thing he couldn’t swallow: how Crowley, even abandoned, carried Aziraphale within him. It wasn’t strength. It was a weakness of ridiculous proportions.
There were moments when he seriously considered destroying him. And othersv— rarer, but no less real — when he merely thought to listen. To see how far he would go. To know what would happen if that body, that voice, that gaze turned to him, even for one night.
Deep down, he knew he hadn’t truly broken him. He had only opened the seams of something neither Heaven nor Hell had ever managed to mend.
And perhaps, just perhaps, he was beginning to understand the reason behind that choice — saving the angel, taking risks, sharing a crêpe in Paris while the world fell apart.
He didn’t like the conclusion of it all. Even less did he like knowing that Hell now obeyed the orders of the being he despised most. That alone made him want to rethink his entire strategy so far.
Abadon, against all infernal logic, still wanted to see what would happen if no one stopped him. He fed on misery and despair, and Crowley was a feast.
It really seemed a waste that Hell wanted to erase such a fascinating creature. And, despite living by his own rules, Abadon knew he had to follow orders to stay in the game. It was, indeed, a pity.
Notes:
¹ - The flashback at the Bastille nods to episode 3 of Good Omens’ first season, when Crowley saves Aziraphale from decapitation during the French Revolution. Here, we see it through Abadon’s eyes, emphasizing his mix of clinical curiosity, fascination, and disgust at the unlikely connection between Crowley and Aziraphale.
See you in the next chapter!
Chapter 10: Fragmented Streets
Summary:
Aziraphale and Muriel confront the weight of impossible choices, navigating trust, duty, and the fragile threads that tie them to others. Meanwhile, Crowley wanders the city, haunted by memories and uncertainty.
Notes:
Hello, dear readers!
I hope you’re all okay.
This chapter marks a turning point in the story, though it will still take some time for things to fully settle, as some wounds run too deep to heal all at once. Thank you for following this journey, and I hope you enjoy the read!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
[A.Z FELL AND CO., LATE AFTERNOON]
Muriel was already inside when he returned. She sat in one of the armchairs as if she belonged there, holding her teacup with both hands, trying to disguise her restlessness. She had learned to appreciate human pleasures, and among them, a good cup of tea. The past few months on Earth had made her feel more alive than all her eons in Heaven. She was a different person now, another being.
Sunlight spilled through the curtains in hesitant gold, scattering reflections over the books. Each page seemed to glow with its own, almost shy, light. Aziraphale entered slowly, removed his hat, and draped his coat over the back of a chair, his fingers still trembling from the cold or the nerves, he wasn’t sure which. He had walked the city in search of Crowley, in disguise, of course, but found nothing. He hadn’t seen him at the apartment, nor in St. James Park, nor at the pub, much less at the Ritz. During the walk, however, he realized he needed to deal with Muriel. He had dragged her into this mess, and it was unlikely she wouldn’t face consequences. He felt selfish, and avoided looking at her directly.
“So?” she asked without preamble but with kindness. “Any news? What will you do now?”
He paused for a moment, as if unsure he could answer. Then he sat down across from her and met her gaze in silence. By now, they surely knew of his escape. Still, if he could protect her, he would.
“The truth is, I don’t know.” His voice was calm, yet carried the dense weight of a glass about to overflow. He ran a hand across his face, smoothed the fabric of his shirt unconsciously, feeling a pang of guilt rise from his stomach to his throat, as if each thought were a knot tightening. “Heaven has turned into a house of mirrors. Nothing seems real. Nothing seems safe.”
Muriel clutched the porcelain between her fingers. There was a growing unease within her regarding Heaven, something she would come to understand later, but which, at that moment, made little sense.
“You descended without permission. They will find out. And if—”
“If necessary, I’ll let them find out.” He leaned forward, looking at her gently. His trembling hand barely touched hers for an instant. “But you cannot be involved in this.”
Her eyes widened, frightened. She had known it would come to this. The moment she had allowed herself to be persuaded to contact the angel, perhaps there was no turning back. She sighed, tired and thoughtful.
“I’m already involved, Aziraphale. From the moment I called you to speak.”
He smiled sadly. The corner of his mouth barely lifted, and he looked down before meeting her eyes again. His heart beat faster than it should, each thump a reminder of how human he was becoming.
“Then you know exactly the risk.” He paused. Swallowed hard, nearly choking on the weight of his own words. “That’s why I need you to report me.”
Muriel blinked, confused.
“What do you mean?”
“Contact Metatron. Say you saw me here, that it was I who called, that I opened the portal, that I tried to convince you to stay silent, but you did what was right. This will protect you, keep you away from questions, from punishment. It’s only been a few hours since I left… you can say you were waiting for me to leave, that you were afraid, that my judgment didn’t seem normal…”
“But that’s a lie!” she interrupted.
“And yet, it is more true than everything they are trying to force us to believe.” He drew a deep breath, feeling the tension rise from chest to throat. A slight tremor ran through the hand resting on the back of the chair. “I know you have nothing to do with this, but things are very wrong up there.”
Muriel looked at him deeply, noticing nuances she had never seen before. It was like seeing, for the first time, the shadow of a war in a pacifist’s eyes. And she understood that the choice had already been made.
“You came here for him, didn’t you?” she whispered.
Aziraphale hesitated. His hand trembled slightly on the chair. Then he spoke, in a voice as low as a prayer,
“I came because I couldn’t go on… away from myself.”
Silence settled between them, dense, almost tender. The air seemed too heavy to breathe.
“Will you do it for me?” he asked.
Muriel nodded slowly, eyes misty, gripping the cup until her knuckles turned white.
“But, Aziraphale… if they do something to you—”
“Then it will have been worth it.” A small smile passed his lips but vanished before it could take shape.
[LONDON, LATE AFTERNOON]
Crowley drove aimlessly. It wasn’t as if he were going anywhere—it was more as if he were trying to postpone the arrival. Where exactly, he didn’t know. He only knew he wanted to see, one last time, the places where he had been happy.
The Bentley glided through the gray streets with the melancholy of an unanswered prayer. The city seemed older than usual. Or perhaps it was him. Perhaps it was his own heart that had aged over the past months. The alleys, corners, and bridges carried remnants of memories that hurt less than they should.
He had spent the last few nights alone, or rather, accompanied by full glasses, by emptiness, by Abadon and his infernal laughter. He knew something was coming. He had been warned, but more than that, he could feel it. He knew he would not emerge unscathed. He had betrayed Hell twice. And in Hell, traitors find no mercy.
Perhaps that was why he turned onto that street almost without thinking. He hadn’t intended to return to Soho, but there might have been no other chance. It was an almost unconscious act, like muscle memory, that made him twist the wheel in that direction.
Perhaps he just wanted to see the façade.
The bookstore rose at the corner like a reliquary of brick and silence. The golden letters looked older than the world, yet still gleamed under the faint light, as if resisting out of sheer stubbornness.
Crowley let his eyes wander across the windows as one might study a beloved face about to be forgotten: every detail a scar, every crack a testament to survival. A knot rose in his stomach, forcing him to swallow hard. His hand on the wheel was slick with sweat. A shiver ran down his spine. A bitter taste rose from his stomach, making him nauseous. He gripped the steering wheel until his fingers were rigid.
He wanted, yes, to see it one last time.
Just see.
He would not have the strength this time to resist whatever Abadon had warned him about. He knew it.
What he hadn’t expected was that, against all odds, Aziraphale was there.
The brake was instinctive. His body stiffened to guard his heart. The car skidded half a meter, tires screeching against the asphalt. A cyclist cursed, a taxi honked behind him.
Crowley heard nothing. His senses were completely numb. The whole world shrank until it fit within the shop window’s frame.
There, behind the glass steamed by the late afternoon light, the angel was speaking with Muriel, as if he had never left, as if he still owned that small universe of wood, tea, and poetry.
Time stopped.
He couldn’t look away, no matter how much he wanted to.
There were simple gestures — the way Aziraphale leaned to listen to Muriel, the way he touched her shoulder with almost paternal gentleness, the way his face still carried a trace of genuine concern — that hurt more than a thousand words ever could.
Crowley felt a pang in his stomach, air trapped in his chest as if punched. His glasses slipped down his nose as he ran a hand across his face in a futile attempt to hide. The taste of bile rose sharply, almost turning him pale.
Then, inside, alerted by the noise, Aziraphale turned.
Crowley felt his skin burn. It was as if the angel had heard his silence, as if he had felt the tremor running through every fiber of his body.
Muriel had looked first. Then him.
For a moment, Crowley’s hand hovered inches from the gearshift. His fingers trembled. If he gave in, he might enter. He might open the door. He might say something. But what could he say? Hadn’t he said everything months ago? Hadn’t he opened his soul to him and yet been rejected?
Fear won.
He shifted into gear and drove off.
The Bentley roared down the narrow street, windows closed, eyes burning with a pain as banal as it was ancient. Inside, his heart beat like a cornered animal.
Inside, Muriel broke the silence.
“It was him, wasn’t it?”
Aziraphale didn’t answer immediately.
He just walked to the window. His delicate hand touched the glass as if it were a boundary between worlds. He had been there seconds ago, braking hard, tires squealing.
“It was.”
Muriel approached slowly. He didn’t see her. He was too fixed on the now-empty street.
“Will you go after him?”
Aziraphale sighed softly, looking at the empty street.
“That’s why I came back… this and because ‘nothing ever fatigues me but doing what I do not like.’¹”
Outside, night was beginning to fall over London, covering everything with a bluish shadow.
Inside, the angel remained by the door, as if waiting for a miracle about to happen, yet aware that someone would still have to lift the latch.
Notes:
¹ “Nothing ever fatigues me but doing what I do not like.” — Jane Austen, Mansfield Park
Thank you for reading! I truly appreciate you following along, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter.
Chapter 11: Whispering Shadows
Summary:
In a night thick with fog and whispers, alliances are tested and the threads between Heaven and Earth stretch thin. Muriel, Aziraphale, and Crowley face the echoes of decisions that cannot be undone
Notes:
Hi everyone! Today’s chapter takes us through foggy streets, a quiet bookshop, and the delicate lines between Heaven and Earth. Crowley is worn, Aziraphale is cautious, and Muriel steps bravely into the shadows to do what must be done. Abadon lingers, bringing a chill that might make you shiver.
Expect emotional intensity, moral dilemmas, and subtle manipulations. Nothing too graphic, but the tension is real.
Take a deep breath, curl up with a cup of tea (or wine), and enjoy the chapter! Sending lots of love and hugs to all my wonderful readers. 💛
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
[BOOKSHOP INTERIOR, NIGHT]
The night felt heavy, as if even the books were holding their breath. Muriel didn’t much like Aziraphale’s idea, but she couldn’t see any other option. The angel had gone after Crowley, and she had a feeling this wouldn’t end well. She took a deep breath.
Then, she closed the bookshop door, turned the key carefully, and walked to the center of the floor, between the neatly stacked piles of bound volumes. She pulled the rug back, lit the candles in a ritualistic motion, made a subtle gesture with her fingers — learned in silence, repeated in secret — and the summoning circle glowed with a bluish-white light. Rarely was it used. Even less for this.
She knelt beside it and let the words spill out reluctantly. Like a child forced to tattle on a playmate who had deliberately stepped on someone’s foot.
“Direct invocation. Archangel Metatron. Priority: denunciation.”
The light rose in spirals. The space around her seemed to stretch for an instant, as if reality were being examined from the inside — and then, he appeared.
Metatron.
Untouched. Unshaken. Intolerant.
He took his human form, full-bodied, which was rare enough in itself. His robe was immaculate, newly woven, but his eyes held the color of indifference. He looked around with the faintest hint of disdain, as though the bookshop were a sickly anomaly, something outside Heaven’s authorized catalog. Muriel watched him warily, certain that perhaps now she was seeing more of the real Metatron.
“Muriel,” he said, in a tone that sounded more like: Oh. You. “How curious of you to summon me just now. Is everything all right? Lost your little rulebook?”
Muriel swallowed hard. The way he spoke to her as if she were a child made her stomach churn.
“No, sir.”
Silence fell as she searched for words. She drew a deep breath. She wasn’t betraying him if she was doing exactly what he had asked, was she? Then why did she feel she should erase the circle and run?
“It’s about Archangel Raphael. I mean… Aziraphale.”
Metatron made a sound like a muffled laugh — or a bored sigh.
“Ah. Of course. Our little soft-hearted deserter.”
Muriel hesitated. She still weighed whether to continue, but remembered Aziraphale’s own words.
“He’s here. On Earth. I thought you should know—” Her voice was fearful, not of Aziraphale but of Metatron himself, yet perhaps it would be enough to bait him into the conversation. “He called, asked me to leave the portal open, I didn’t know it was treason… his mind isn’t in the right place. He’s… very strange.”
Metatron clasped his hands behind his back. He observed the fragile outlines of the summoning and said, in the tone of someone addressing a child who had brought home a poorly drawn picture:
“What a darling gesture, Muriel. Well done.” That patronizing tone lingered. “Always so proper. So… predictable. I was right to send you to Earth.”
She wasn’t sure if it was praise.
“I thought it was the right thing to do,” was all she managed.
“Naturally. It’s what we expected of you. And don’t trouble yourself over Raphael. He’ll return to Heaven soon enough, once this little phase of foolishness is over. It is already written.”
Muriel blinked. She was incredulous at the firmness in his voice. As if he knew what he was saying.
“He… will come back?”
“Of course he will. And the demon… well… he won’t have much time for tricks this time.”
Something inside her trembled. His tone was light, like small talk about the weather — but his words were a death sentence.
“What do you mean by…?”
“The demon’s days are numbered. And believe me, that’s best for everyone. Even for him. This story has gone on long enough.”
Muriel lowered her eyes. She thought of the past months she had spent on Earth and how that experience had changed her within.
“So… it was all in vain?”
“It was all necessary, Muriel. So that things may finally be set right. Trust the plan. And most importantly: continue to be useful.”
The light began to fade. Before Metatron’s form vanished completely, he added:
“Oh, and congratulations on your loyalty. It’s not a common virtue these days.”
And then, he was gone.
The bookshop sank back into darkness.
Muriel remained kneeling for several seconds. The lines of the circle still glowed faintly around her, like an afterimage — or a scar of light.
She rose slowly, walked to the back of the shop, where the smell of old books was stronger, and sat in silence. Her face was serene. But something inside her had cracked. She would not speak, could not intervene without arousing suspicion. Not yet.
But she thought — and the thought was clear as a beam of light through an ancient stained-glass window: If this is Heaven… then it is painted with shadows that should not exist.
[DARK STREET — SOMEWHERE BETWEEN SOHO AND THE END OF THE WORLD]
The fog crept along the street as if trying to hide the filth. It was a damp night, the kind that clung to the skin and to thoughts. The lamplight stretched long shadows across the sidewalks, and the few cars that passed seemed not to belong to this world. Or perhaps it was he who no longer belonged.
Aziraphale stopped at the entrance of the alley. Crowley hadn’t gone far — he’d caught up. The Bentley was there, motionless, like a wounded creature withdrawn into its own body. The angel felt a pang in his chest — he couldn’t tell if it was worry, anger, or longing. Perhaps all of it, with a touch of despair.
Crowley sat in the driver’s seat, shoulders hunched as if carrying an invisible weight, his forehead resting against the steering wheel, his glasses askew on his face. The windows were rolled down, and he seemed to be trying to breathe without success. When Aziraphale approached, there was no startle. The demon simply lifted his gaze slowly, as if he had always known he would appear.
“So?” he said, making no effort to hide his exhaustion. He removed his glasses to look at him. “Here to take inventory of the loss?”
Aziraphale hesitated before replying.
“I saw your car. I couldn’t… ignore it.”
Crowley raised a brow weakly, almost lifelessly.
“You managed before.”
The words were dry, but there was something beneath them. Something cracked, however faintly.
The angel stepped closer. The demon climbed out of the car. Now nearer, Aziraphale could see better: Crowley was different. His serpentine yellow eyes were sunken. His hair unkempt and dull, his skin pale, dark hollows beneath his eyes. His suit was wrinkled as if he had slept in it for days, hanging loosely on a visibly thinner frame.
“You look…” His voice faltered, unable to finish. There were no euphemisms.
“Defeated?” Crowley finished with a crooked smile. “Go on. I’ve heard worse. From you, even.”
Aziraphale pressed his lips together. He didn’t want to fight. Not now.
“You’re hurting yourself, Crowley. And you’re not even trying to hide it.”
“And why would I hide it? There’s no one left here worth the effort.” He huffed, exhaustion plain in his voice. “Tired of playing God, are you?”
Silence fell between them like a blade.
“I didn’t come to fight,” Aziraphale said, his voice low but steady. “I’m wounded too.”
Crowley laughed bitterly.
“You have Heaven. Your mission. A shiny new chance to be the perfect face of Celestial Order. Don’t tell me you’re wounded just because you miss me.”
Aziraphale closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deep. When he spoke again, his voice was unsteady.
“Do you think it was easy? Do you really believe I left for… convenience? You left me with an impossible choice. And then you hate me for making it.”
“I gave you the chance to run. You chose… a stupid promotion.”
“I chose… survival,” Aziraphale countered. It was the first time he had ever said it out loud, even to himself.
Survival. The word hung between them. Both knew the weight it carried. Both knew it was a confession.
“Let’s talk,” the angel urged. “I…”
He opened his mouth, but the words stuck.
Then, a new presence entered the alley — discreet, yet as dense as a cloying perfume. The air seemed to shift in weight. The sound of elegant shoes against wet pavement.
Abadon.
He appeared as though he had been there all along, merely waiting for the right moment to be noticed. The smile he wore was not exactly threatening — but neither was it kind. It was calculated. Like a poisoned invitation.
“Ah,” he said, feigning surprise. “Am I interrupting something? No one told me your angel would be here.”
Crowley turned slowly, as though his body obeyed reluctantly. His face hardened. There was an almost ancestral weariness in his eyes, but also something fierce — a spark reignited in the presence of the intruder.
“What the fuck do you want?”
“Just checking if you’re still in one piece.” He shifted his gaze to Aziraphale. “Or did your illustrious celestial guest finally take you apart for good?”
Aziraphale frowned, unsettled by the presence of a demon who radiated both familiarity with Crowley and a kind of disdain disguised as elegance. This was the same demon he had been seen with.
“Who is he?” the angel asked, staring at Crowley, though he already knew the answer.
Silence was the only reply. Crowley said nothing. His gaze fixed on the void between them, too drained to translate the truth.
Abadon stepped forward, smiling like someone savoring the taste of something bleeding.
“Don’t worry, Raphael. I won’t steal your toy. Not yet.”
Aziraphale stiffened. The name hit like a punch. The instinct to protect, to fight — but also to retreat. Because he knew there was something about this demon that placed him at a disadvantage. It wasn’t power. It was knowledge. The longer he looked at Abadon, the more certain he became that this demon knew what lay inside his soul.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Aziraphale said, trying to keep his composure.
“And should you?” Abadon countered, affably. “After everything? I’m exactly where I should be. You, I’m not so sure. Did you like my work with Crowley? Personally, I think I’ve outdone myself this time.”
Aziraphale turned to Crowley again, ignoring the irritating presence.
“If something is happening, tell me. Please.”
Crowley pulled a flask from his jacket pocket and took a long drink.
“Go away, Aziraphale.”
Even his name carried weight. Crowley rarely called him that. It was always angel.
“Not until—”
“Go away,” the demon pressed.
Silence thickened, viscous. The angel took a step back. For the first time, not out of pride, but out of fear — fear of actually hearing the answer he sought. God had warned him this wouldn’t be easy.
Abadon smiled. A smile that did not belong to the night, nor to humanity.
“Don’t worry,” he said, with cutting courtesy. “This is only the beginning.”
And this time, he didn’t leave. He simply leaned against the Bentley as if it were his. As if he had been part of this story far longer than anyone here cared to admit.
Notes:
Thank you so much for reading! 💛
Sorry for making them suffer so much, angst is a lifestyle, after all. But I promise, little by little, things will start to get better.
I’m always thrilled to hear your thoughts, reactions, or favorite lines, but no pressure. Just enjoy and take care of yourselves. Sending big hugs and all the love to my wonderful readers!
Chapter 12: A Spark in the Chaos
Summary:
In the heart of London’s shadows, silence turns heavy enough to break worlds. Old enemies step forward, old vows are tested, and one fragile stand may change everything.
Notes:
Hey everyone 👋
Thanks for coming back for another chapter! This one’s a little intense, lots of tension in the air, and a couple of familiar faces making choices that might sting. Don’t worry, no spoilers here, but let’s just say it’s not all doom and gloom… there might be sparks in unexpected places.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
[DARK ALLEY, LONDON]
The silence that followed Abadon’s smile wasn’t just the absence of sound, it was a void heavy enough to foretell catastrophe. A pause so charged that every sense of Aziraphale went on high alert.
Crowley didn’t move. He leaned against the Bentley as if it were the last solid thing keeping him in this world, while Abadon reclined beside him with a dangerous ease. The demon’s eyes were half-lidded, chest rising and falling with a narcotic slowness. The scent of wet asphalt mingled with a faint trace of sulfur, heralding what was about to unfold.
Abadon raised a hand.
Not hurriedly, but with the grace of someone who knows exactly when to draw or lift the curtains in a theater. Like someone who understands that the final note of an opera need not be violent to shatter everything.
“Come,” he whispered. “Everything is in its proper place.”
The ground trembled, almost imperceptibly, a shiver crawling down the spine of the world. It was neither spell nor ritual. It was an ancient, primal summons.
And Hell answered.
They arrived, one by one, without haste.
Dagon came first, carrying the scent of dead seas and drowned promises. Her eyes were empty mirrors, and yet they seemed to see far too much. Hastur followed, emerging from the shadows like a living fissure, his smile too sharp for any human face. He bore the ancient anger of the forgotten. And then Shax, wrapped in an elegance that amplified, rather than masked, the cruelty she carried within. Each step was a calculated poison verse.
They didn’t speak.
Crowley watched, unmoving. No surprise, no fear, only the bitter recognition of one who always knew this moment would arrive. He had the gaze of someone witnessing their own trial, without jury, without defense, without time.
Abadon broke the silence, his voice steeped in ironic solemnity:
“It’s done. He’s lost both essence and purpose. He won’t cause trouble anymore.”
Dagon nodded with theatrical gravity and laughed, a sound icy as the depths of the ocean.
“Good work. He’s rotten inside. And rot spreads.”
Hastur laughed with contempt, a sound that seemed to come from multiple mouths at once. He had never liked Crowley; now it tasted sweeter than ever.
“We always knew he was unstable. Now he’s just a shell. Not even worth fearing.”
Shax examined him as a restorer studies a ruined painting.
“Sad, almost… poetic. But far too flawed to stay on the wall.”
Then Aziraphale stepped forward.
Not quickly. Not rashly. But inevitably.
The sound of his shoes on the alley floor echoed like a small bell, delicate yet weighted.
He positioned himself between the four demons and Crowley, like a stained-glass window, fragile and luminous, trying to contain a fire, the disadvantage so clear it was almost tangible.
“You shall not touch him.”
His voice was calm, almost gently restrained, yet it carried a note ancient and unavoidable, a resonance not heard since the walls of Jericho fell¹. Every word sent ripples through the air, awakening long-silenced echoes and memories of destruction.
Abadon raised an eyebrow, amused.
“Oh, look at that. The archangel has finally stepped down from the wall.”
“He is under my protection,” Aziraphale said, firm. “Any attack against him will be treated as a direct violation of the heavenly order.”
Crowley closed his eyes. He didn’t want to hear it anymore. If this was the end, let it come. For a fleeting moment, he wished the angel hadn’t said a word. Not because he didn’t want protection—who would?—but because he knew the cost.
Shax’s half-smile was sardonic.
“Is that a bluff?”
Aziraphale lifted his chin; determination burned in his eyes.
“No. It’s a vow.”
Inside, he trembled.
He wasn’t afraid of the demons, but of the meaning behind his words. He was alone. Heaven was corrupted. There was no one to back him. And yet, there he stood, placing himself between a broken demon and the relentless engines of infernal retribution.
Abadon spun the ring on his finger, a gesture of near-bored disdain.
“And who endorses this vow, Raphael? The same Glory who now refuses to answer your prayers? The same throne that watches silently as everything fractures inside?”
“I endorse it,” Aziraphale said, steady. “And for now, that is enough.”
Dagon emitted a sound like the echo of a wave crashing inside a sunken ship.
“You still don’t understand, archangel?”
Then Shax, ever precise, voiced the unspoken truth:
“We didn’t come on our own.” She paused, deliberate. “This order… didn’t come from Hell.”
A leaden weight sank through Aziraphale’s body. Every cell tried to deny it, but he already knew. It was the only explanation that made sense.
“What do you mean?”
Hastur grinned, all teeth. His slick, pallid skin gleamed, eyes black as tar with satisfaction.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know, Supreme Archangel. The order came from above. Above you.”
Shax confirmed with a cruel glint.
“It came from Metatron.”
The word fell among them like the return of a long-forbidden curse.
For a moment, the alley held its breath. Even the wind paused. Even the mist hesitated.
Crowley lifted his eyes. He met Aziraphale’s gaze. No anger remained, only profound exhaustion, and, deep down, the silent question: did the angel know all of this? The answer was no. But it hurt as if yes.
Still, Aziraphale did not flinch.
He advanced half a step. Small, but decisive.
“I don’t care where the order came from. If you want to touch him… you’ll have to go through me.”
For a moment, there was no reaction.
Crowley looked at him as if witnessing the impossible. As if recognizing something long forgotten. As if facing a belated miracle. He felt every crack, every wound, every hurt inside, yet a faint light still glimmered deep within, behind all the walls he had raised in his heart.
He murmured, hoarsely:
“You’re an idiot.”
Aziraphale’s eyes held steady.
“Always have been.”
Something unexpected existed there, between the defeated demon and the resolute angel, something that could make all the difference later: a spark of greater strength, clinging stubbornly to life, shining defiantly in the chaos.
Notes:
¹ The walls of Jericho: according to the biblical account in the Book of Joshua, the Israelites brought down the fortified walls of the city of Jericho by marching around them for seven days, blowing trumpets, and shouting. The event is often invoked as a symbol of divine power breaking through seemingly unshakable barriers.
And that’s where we’ll stop for now. Thank you so much for reading, I hope the mix of shadows and sparks kept you hooked until the end. As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Until next time.
Chapter 13: Broken faith
Summary:
Blood, miracles, and bitter truths.
Notes:
Hi everyone! I know it’s been a little while since the last update. Life has been really busy and I’ve been working a lot, so I haven’t had as much time to sit down and translate properly. Thank you so much for your patience, it means the world to me. Wishing you a lovely reading! 💛
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
[DARK ALLEY, LONDON]
Aziraphale was clearly at a disadvantage. He knew that if he had to face them, this clash would be nothing like what had happened at the bookshop with the lesser demons. This time, it was the higher ranks of Hell before him, Hastur and Dagon were dukes, and Shax was climbing ever higher in the infernal hierarchy. As for Abadon… he wasn’t sure anymore. But one thing he knew: that demon was dangerous.
There was tension in the air, a waiting silence, as though everyone stood still for the first move. Dagon, Hastur, and Shax looked ready for battle, but Abadon… Abadon was merely watching, as though studying some object under glass.
“You’ve always been a traitor,” Hastur snarled.
“And you’ve always been predictable and boring,” Crowley shot back. He lacked the strength to sound insolent, but tried anyway.
The quarrel was short-lived. Hastur had long since lost patience with Crowley and had always wanted vengeance for Ligur. There was no more room for words, only the old crackle of damnation in the duke’s eyes, as though the decision had been carved into the stone of ages, simply waiting to be carried out.
Hastur lunged.
Out of the darkness, his hand emerged, clutching a crude blade of human bone. The weapon seemed to breathe the same rancid hatred the demon had carried since the Fall. It gleamed with a dead, short, cruel light, made not for battle, but for final judgment. This was no ordinary wound in the making; Crowley would not simply die like mortal flesh. He would be discorporated, his essence ripped away, condemned to trial in Hell with no hope of defense.
Aziraphale’s cry came too late. It arrived after, delayed, an echo torn from a scene already sealed.
Hastur buried the blade in Crowley’s abdomen with the precision of one fulfilling destiny. There was no proclamation, no sarcasm, no triumph, only the intimate, horrifying sound of flesh tearing and of breath cut short when it should never have been.
Abadon did not move. His eyes stayed fixed on Crowley. A dark fascination coursed through him, mingled with raw anger at being bound by Metatron’s orders. Every command was humiliation, a reminder of the burden he carried. Somewhere deep down, he wanted Crowley to escape. He also wanted to taste his fear, his despair. And part of him secretly delighted in this proximity, in the vulnerability laid bare. Desire and contempt mingled, burning like acid, toward Crowley, toward himself, toward the hatred he nursed for Metatron. Each second in that silence was both torment and sadistic pleasure. Even if he wanted to save Crowley, he could not do it without condemning himself.
Crowley gasped, eyes wide as though the universe had split silently inside him. His body recoiled in denial, but his legs buckled. His hand reached for the wound, trying to stem the flow of eternity dissolving in red between his fingers, trying to work a miracle on himself. But it was useless. He was too weak now, so weakened that even that was failing. The blood ran hot, almost luminous, as though each drop carried the memory of a profaned miracle.
He collapsed to his knees. And for the first time in centuries, he looked small, not the petulant demon, not the cunning serpent, but only a fragile creature, on the brink of being erased from history.
“Coward…” he whispered, breath ragged.
Dagon crossed her arms, unimpressed.
“Dramatic as ever. I thought he’d put up more of a fight.”
Shax laughed softly, elegant as a vice.
“He was already broken. We only gave him the final push.”
Aziraphale still hadn’t moved. He stared at the blood on the ground, as though his mind refused to process what he saw. His eyes wide, his breath stuck. An instant of paralysis, of denial. Crowley couldn’t be discorporated, not now. Not when he had just found him again.
It was Abaddon who broke the silence, his voice lower than usual, with hesitation in its tone, almost involuntary.
“That’s enough.”
Dagon sneered at him.
“Changed your mind?”
“I said that’s enough. He’s already down. This… isn’t necessary.”
“Since when do you care about ‘necessary’?” Shax mocked.
But Abaddon didn’t answer. His eyes remained fixed on Crowley. There was no compassion there, not yet, but there was no longer pleasure either. For the first time since Crowley had seen him again, he wasn’t enjoying himself. The image didn’t match the rage that drove him. It felt wrong.
Crowley tried to speak, but his voice came out weak and garbled, the pain almost unbearable. Aziraphale finally moved. He stepped forward, hesitant, then again. In millennia, he had never seen Crowley’s body wounded like this, and now, in such a trivial way, he might lose him forever.
A glimmer of despair began to creep over his face. If Crowley was discorporated, he would go straight to Hell, and Aziraphale had no idea how to follow him there, nor whether there would be time to stop him from being obliterated.
“No. No…” he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, trying to think.
The other demons laughed.
“Going to cry for him, archangel?” Hastur jeered.
But Aziraphale didn’t answer. His blue eyes turned to the shrouded sky. His hands trembled. Something ancient began to stir within him. He knelt beside Crowley, ignoring the blood staining the ground, his coat, his hands. He tried to press against the wound, as if he could hold back the inevitable.
“I… I’m here, I’m here, my dear…” he whispered, his voice a thread.
The words spilled out, tangled between panic and prayer. Crowley, even on the edge of unconsciousness, cracked one eye open. Just one. And still found the strength to growl:
“You going to write that on a card?”
It was weak. But there was no hesitation.
Aziraphale closed his eyes, as though that resistance hurt more than the wound itself. He didn’t answer. He simply pressed his bloodied hand against the ground. The decision had been made.
“Leave him alone!!”
“Foolish,” Dagon mocked, realizing what he was about to do, knowing there would be no time to stop him. “You can’t hide him from us forever.”
“Perhaps not.” Aziraphale’s voice rang out with dangerous clarity. “But long enough.”
The last look Aziraphale saw before the miracle flared was Abadon’s hesitation flickering there. And perhaps that hesitation alone bought them the time they needed.
The space around them warped. The air vibrated like glass about to shatter, and an unseen force swept the street in silent violence. And then, the bookshop. The dry crack of reality rearranging itself. The familiar warmth of the place. The fine dust, the smell of old books. Home.
Crowley breathed with difficulty, but did not yield to the pain. He would not give Hell that satisfaction. Not after knowing Heaven wanted him gone, too.
One miracle at a time, Aziraphale thought.
[BOOKSHOP — SOMEWHERE BETWEEN MIRACLE AND DISASTER]
Aziraphale was still kneeling, Crowley now slumped against his chest. The bookshop looked almost the same, except for the silence. A heavy, suspended silence, as if the whole world were holding its breath. Crowley was half-conscious, fighting with all his strength not to slip away forever. He was still breathing.
Muriel hurried down the stairs but froze at the sight.
“Stay with me.” The angel’s voice barely came out. “Please, stay with me.”
His trembling hand slid over the demon’s body, just above the wound. A faint warmth began to rise there, like the first ray of morning sun slipping through a crack in the window. It wasn’t a full healing — Aziraphale had already done too many forbidden things that day — but it was enough to staunch the bleeding, enough to keep his physical form intact.
The warmth flowed from his palm into Crowley’s body. Crowley shuddered, eyes half-open, trying to focus on the angel’s face above him. Consciousness crept back as the pain eased, though it did not vanish.
“This doesn’t buy my forgiveness,” he muttered, voice rough, almost a laugh, utterly defensive.
Aziraphale exhaled, relief and guilt mingled. Relief that the miracle had worked. Guilt for letting things come to this point.
“I know. Take a rest, Crowley. We’ll talk later.”
Carefully, he laid Crowley onto the sofa, removed the bloodstained coat, and covered him with a blanket. Then he rose with effort, legs unsteady, heart pounding so loudly he feared the entire Whickber Street could hear it. He went to the door of the bookshop and spread both hands against the frame.
One miracle at a time, he repeated to himself.
The walls seemed to shiver in response. From that moment on, the bookshop would be a refuge. Perhaps the miracle would work better if Crowley helped, as when they hid Gabriel—but Crowley wasn’t strong enough for that now, and there was no guarantee it would work anyway.
Something cracked inside Aziraphale. This miracle wasn’t only a shield; it was a rupture, an unspoken farewell, a silent break with the orders he had sworn to follow for millennia.
The energy pulsed once more, then stilled. Aziraphale leaned his forehead against the wood of the door. He stayed there for several seconds, breathing as though trying to hold himself together.
Behind him, Crowley breathed slowly. Still alive. Still his.
“Muriel,” he called, weary.
She, who had been watching from a distance, finished descending the stairs with cautious restraint.
“I know it’s asking a lot, but… could you look after him for me? I need to think.”
She glanced at Crowley, half-conscious on the sofa, then snapped her fingers, carrying him to the upstairs room.
“He’ll be more comfortable there. I’ll keep an eye on him,” she said with gentle kindness.
⸻
[BOOKSHOP — AT THE FRONT DOOR]
Aziraphale truly did need to think.
He was still processing the revelation. Metatron giving orders in Hell as well? What was happening? He felt suspended in a void, the echo of that truth reverberating through his mind with almost physical force. A single being commanding Heaven and Hell, a single voice. Centuries of certainty, the duality, the holy war, the balance between Light and Darkness, collapsed like a crumbling theatre, and he found himself absurdly small, foolish, naïve even, before the stage play. If Heaven and Hell were two sides of the same lie, then what in Heaven’s name had he been believing in all this eternity?
The silence of the shop was broken by a subtle sound, a faint knocking at the door.
The atmosphere shifted. The air grew denser, colder, as if the veil between Heaven and Earth had thinned.
Aziraphale froze between the shelves, feeling the weight of a presence that didn’t need to cross the threshold to be felt. His eyes fixed on the entrance, where the frosted glass revealed the unmistakable silhouette of Michael, motionless outside.
Her hand rested on the handle, but she didn’t push, the miracle Aziraphale had wrought would not allow any celestial or infernal being to enter against his will.
Michael’s voice sliced through, sharp as ice and sarcasm:
“The door is locked, Aziraphale, but I don’t need to come in for you to know I’m here.”
She smiled, but it was cold, almost cruel.
“You and your little traitor won’t be protected from Heaven forever. You’ve always been too stubborn to see the world has changed.”
“What do you want?” he asked, unsettled by the unexpected visit. He made no move to open the door.
“I’m not opposed to the Apocalypse, you know?” Her voice was sharp, almost amused. “I see it as inevitable. But the Second Coming… that’s another story. If Metatron keeps pushing forward, he’ll turn Earth into chaos and drag Heaven down with it. You’re a deserter, you have nothing to lose if you choose to stand against the plan.”
Michael tilted her head, as though granting a favor.
“That’s why I’m here. Not to ask anything of you, but to warn you. The post you abandoned… I’ll take it. Someone needs to fill the void you left.”
She raised an aged envelope and let it fall to the ground, pushing it under the door like something filthy.
“Here’s what you need: Metatron’s plans, orders, steps. Call it a gift, if you like. But don’t fool yourself, Aziraphale: you no longer lead anything. You never really did.”
Aziraphale shut his eyes, feeling the weight of the taunt.
“And you think real power is simply filling someone else’s place?” he replied with bitter irony. “First Gabriel’s, now mine… Perhaps I’m tired. But I am no coward.”
Michael laughed softly, a joyless sound.
“Very brave, for someone with such an uncertain future. Think about my warning, deserter. Your half-baked miracle won’t hold forever. He has methods, contacts in Heaven, in Hell… and who knows where else.”
She turned away, disappearing into the night.
Aziraphale stood motionless, staring at the bundle at his feet. A poisoned gift, wrapped in worn paper and silence. Unveiling the truth might cost more than remaining in ignorance.
⸻
[BOOKSHOP — UPSTAIRS ROOM — NIGHT]
Crowley was propped up in bed, body pale, marked by dried blood, his eyes distant. The faint light of the lamp cast long shadows across the walls, tinting the room with warm, melancholic hues. The scent of fresh tea mingled with the old perfume of books, creating a strangely comforting atmosphere for someone who had been drowning in chaos.
He desperately needed a bath, but the pain was too sharp to move much. That would come later. For now, all he could do was try to rest, though his mind kept spinning with muddled thoughts.
Muriel sat at the edge of the bed, calm, delicate fingers holding a cup and saucer. The heat from the porcelain seemed to bridge the silence between them, a gentle, steady presence.
“Are you all right? I… brought tea.”
Crowley looked up. He said nothing but sipped. It hurt to swallow, but he didn’t care.
“Perfect,” he replied dryly.
“He… was worried about you,” Muriel ventured, not quite sure how to start.
A bitter laugh escaped Crowley’s lips.
“If he was that worried, he shouldn’t have left this bloody planet. Don’t think this changes anything.” His voice was harsh, full of resentment.
“I understand. I didn’t expect another reaction… but I wanted to show you something.”
She pulled a box from the corner of the room filled with leather-bound volumes. Even before she explained, Crowley already looked bored. But she smiled serenely, almost maternally, her eyes glowing with patience. She drew a deep breath, letting the silence stretch before she spoke.
“I didn’t realize diaries were such personal things. I ended up reading Aziraphale’s, by accident.”
Crowley arched an eyebrow, suspicion flashing. She had his full attention now.
“You… read his diaries?”
“Yes,” Muriel admitted, a shy, almost embarrassed smile. “It wasn’t my intention to pry, but there are things in there… things you might need to hear.”
She opened one, showing pages filled with impeccable handwriting, sketches, and notes.
“Listen to this, for example: ‘Crowley is a walking contradiction, with a gaze that carries both disdain and a sadness he tries to hide even from himself. It’s always fascinating to speak with him.’”
The demon listened closely, clinging to each word.
“And this: ‘Sometimes, when he thinks no one is watching, he lets the mask slip for just a moment, and you can see the weariness of centuries on his shoulders—delicate and heavy all at once, as though silently asking for a little care, a little kindness.’”
“That’s utter nonsense,” Crowley retorted, but he didn’t tell her to stop.
“Oh, I love this one: ‘Crowley is a true mystery, vulnerable and intense at the same time, a soul torn between protecting himself and letting his own flames warm him—fragile yet whole, even in his confusion. And for an instant, I saw the emptiness he carries, that silent space that not even time has managed to fill. I wished, somehow, to offer something there: a presence, a word, any gesture that could lighten the weight he insists on bearing alone.’”
Muriel turned the page with care, Aziraphale’s handwriting softening.
“And this one, particularly special: ‘That night in the church, when the shadows of the Reich threatened everything I loved… my books, my safety, Crowley appeared without warning. I simply couldn’t believe he stepped onto holy ground just to save me. He entered like fire bursting out of nowhere, strange and terrifying, but with a determination only he has. He saved me, saved my books, when I was already ready to give up and deal with the paperwork later. I don’t know if he realized it, but there was something in that instant a force, a warmth that made me feel safer than I expected, though I couldn’t name why.’”
Crowley stared at the pages, tension carved into his face. Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea for Muriel to read this aloud. It was all so… vivid. Memories flooded back, from what felt like another lifetime. A happier one, never to return.
“Why? What do you want from this?” he managed.
Muriel closed the diary gently, meeting his gaze.
“I just wanted you to know he cares more than he lets on. That you’re not alone in this.” She sighed. “Please, don’t tell him I showed you.”
She tried to touch his hand, but he pulled away. The truth was, Muriel had grown fond of Crowley through Aziraphale’s words. As though she knew him, understood him. Maybe that’s why she reached out to Aziraphale when Maggie and Nina told her what was happening. There was something alive and beautiful in the angel’s words about his friend, something she didn’t quite understand, but that still warmed her heart.
“Maybe if you two could understand what lies behind the silence, you could find a way. You know… he’s been writing these diaries for centuries, maybe millennia, and you’re always there. Never with anger, never with contempt. Even though you’re a demon and he’s an angel… that surprised me.”
Crowley looked away, still bitter, muttering:
“He’s a complete idiot.”
Muriel smiled patiently.
“Maybe. But an idiot who still cares.”
Crowley brushed his hand over the diary’s worn leather cover, holding it like a sacred relic. It sparked a fragile thread of hope to soothe the storm raging inside him. She didn’t ask for it back, and he clutched it to his chest, pensive.
Without another word, Muriel left. The room remained quiet, the kind of quiet that doesn’t just come from the walls, but from within the soul. The demon felt adrift, unsure of what to do, though a small certainty began to stir timidly in his heart. Aziraphale had returned, and though there was pain, hurt, and endless regret, it was still better than when he hadn’t been there at all.
Notes:
Thank you so much for reading, and see you in the next chapter!
Lily15 (Guest) on Chapter 4 Sat 02 Aug 2025 08:35PM UTC
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Fuzzbucketsss on Chapter 4 Sun 03 Aug 2025 01:21PM UTC
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DoublecursedAngel on Chapter 13 Tue 09 Sep 2025 12:33AM UTC
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Fuzzbucketsss on Chapter 13 Wed 10 Sep 2025 12:15AM UTC
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