Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The lift stopped. The Metatron, looking so human that Aziraphale failed to find anything horrifyingly bureaucratic about him, made a gesture that roughly encompassed the whole, go on, get out the lift that his language had not said.

Heaven hadn’t changed, Aziraphale realised. It was still just as white and sleek and empty as before. Nobody was here.

“Well, come on,” the Metatron said. “We haven’t got all day. She’s waiting.”

“She?” Aziraphale said. “I thought you were the most senior angel? Or were you agreeing with me about Michael?”

“I’m not taking you to see another angel,” the Metatron snapped. “Now, hurry. You’ve dawdled too long already. She really doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Aziraphale hurried to keep pace, but the Metatron was walking rather awfully fast, and he was struggling a little. “So, uh, Metatron,” he began. “I was wondering if you could tell me what this new job would entail.”

The Metatron spared him a cursory glance. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d explained it all before. Jesus the second, the end of the world, the worthy picked out from the unworthy with none of that nasty fighting.”

“The—the end of the world?” Aziraphale said. “But I thought we’d moved on from that. No more Antichrist, and all that. And Christ was a good fellow, I doubt he’d want the world to end. And you had Muriel looking after my bookshop.”

“Hurry up, man,” the Metatron said. “For God’s sake, hurry up. Literally.”

“Literally?” Aziraphale blinked, slowing, then un-slowing at the Metatron’s annoyed glance. “But nobody’s heard from Her since—”

“Job, yes. Except me, of course. Now hurry up, unless you’d like to lose your chance to see Her.”

“No, no,” he said, tripping over his own feet in his haste. “It’s an honour.”

“Well, yes, obviously.” The Metraton unlocked his office door with a tap, ushering Aziraphale inside. “It will only be a moment.”

The Metatron was the only angel in Heaven to have an office behind a closed door. Most, like Michael, had a glass desk in the middle of nowhere, which meant that Aziraphale had no idea what to expect from what was behind it. He’d never asked.

He wasn’t sure anyone had.

The Metatron’s office looked like a cross between the tidiest office desk of all time and like an avalanche had erupted within it.

It was rather larger than expected. The standard glass desk sat just to the right of the door, were one to stand at the back of the office, and just to Aziraphale’s left, who had his back to the door, having just entered. It was mostly empty, although it did have a computer, also glass and currently see-through, and a filing cabinet on its far side. It came with a chair, of course, and a cup holder, and then there was the rest of the room.

It looked a little like someone had been experimenting with just making stuff. There were vines covering half the back wall, and what looked like a melted person, and an anthill, and a lot of sludge. Crystals were forming in places; mushrooms in others, and there were a concerningly large number of insects.

Aziraphale blinked.

Yep, there were a lot of insects.

And, in the centre of all that mess, there was a circle rather similar to Aziraphale’s circle for talking to the Metatron. It was a little different—the lines were gold, for example, not chalk—but mostly the same. There were also no spaces for candles.

The Metatron knocked on the edge of the circle. “Hello,” he said. “He’s here.”

There was a blast of white light that formed into the shape of a little girl. She looked to be about six or seven, wearing a white dress, barefoot, gold ringlets pulled up into a ponytail, with extremely blue eyes.

“Well?” she demanded. “Where is he?”

“Here is Aziraphale, our new Supreme Archangel,” the Metatron said.

“I don’t care about the stupid Supreme Archangel,” she said with a scowl. “Gabriel was stupid and dumb anyway. Where is he?”

Goodness, Aziraphale thought. She’s remarkably unpleasant. I wonder what she’s doing here?

“I did say he wouldn’t come,” the Metatron said, helpfully.

“He cares!” the angry little girl said, stamping her foot. “After everything, he still cares!”

“And that’s why he won’t come.”

“But he’s my favourite toy!”

“I know.”

“I want him!”

“I know.”

“Bring him to me!”

“Do you want me to kidnap him?” the Metatron asked.

She scowled. “I don’t like that word. Call it an abduction.”

“Would you like me to abduct him?” the Metatron asked.

“I’m not a kid,” the little girl said. “We’ve had this discussion before.”

“Of course,” the Metatron said. “You are, after all, the oldest one here.”

“Yes, obviously,” she said. “Now bring him to me!”

“Would you like me to abduct him against his will?” the Metatron asked.

“I’m not sure you can abduct someone willingly,” Aziraphale said. “I think the premise of abduction is the whole, ah, unwilling thing.”

“I don’t want him to be forced here,” she said, pouting, arms crossed. “I want him to come running back into my arms, begging for forgiveness. I want him to be mine again. I want him to forget he ever even dared to think about forsaking my name.”

“Didn’t he do something like that a few years back?” the Metatron said. “Before the mess that was supposed to be Armageddon, I mean.”

“Well, yes,” the girl said. “But he was with Hell, then. And Satan gets really annoyed when I swipe people.”

“Why does what Satan want mean anything?” Aziraphale asked with a frown. “I mean, we’re Heaven. We’re the good guys. We’re supposed to be better than them.”

“I need a drinking buddy, don’t I?” the little girl said. “And someone to make bets with. Can you imagine making bets with this tool?” She gestured towards the Metatron.

“Not really,” Aziraphale admitted.

“Exactly! So, Satan.”

“I’m not sure that’s the logical next step,” Aziraphale said. “And, ah, what’s going on?”

“Well, I wanted my favourite toy back again. He keeps getting so close!” she said. “He was here only a few hours ago, and I want him back. I want him to be mine again.”

“You were the one who kicked him out,” the Metatron pointed out. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“He was being annoying!” she said. “And this is why I don’t like you. You’re boring. I want my toy.”

“Are you, ah,” Aziraphale began.

“We’ll really have to do some convincing,” the Metatron said. “More than some basic trickery. He really does have a grudge, you know. A little unreasonable, but perhaps deserved.”

“Are you talking about Crowley?” Aziraphale asked.

“I don’t care what the cost is! Bring me my Raphael!” God snapped, stamping her foot, gold ringlets bouncing.

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, there was God.

She wasn’t actually God yet. She had the same powers, just not any actual ability to make people worship Her, because there were no people. Or things. Or anything, actually. There was just vacuum, and this slow bleed of white light.

Sometimes, when She was lonely, She would tell herself stories. Many of them. Repeatedly. Hundreds and thousands of stories, with other gods to entertain Her, and subjects to worship Her, and people to play with.

And then, later, it occurred to Her that She could make Her stories come true.

The first person She made was a friend. A second blob of white light to entertain Her, but one that was perfectly sentient, albeit not as powerful, as Her. She called it Lucifer.

The second thing She did was give them both bodies so they could talk. Lucifer was interested in Her, of course, but She’d made him to be a friend, and thus he didn’t have everything She wanted. She’d made a personality that fit banter, not worship.

So then She made the Metatron. He was not designed to worship Her but to guide her, and to be the person that would deal with all the new people She was going to make to write Her story. She didn’t want to bother Lucifer with that, obviously, and the people wouldn’t get to talk to Her. Like, ever.

“I want to write a story,” She said, and the Metatron created a notepad to take notes for Her.

“Go on,” Lucifer said. “I love your stories.”

“It’s gonna start with these people called angels.”

The first angel She created wielded a sword. That was imperative, She’d insisted, because She wanted a big, dramatic battle. She wanted it to destroy the whole world, which meant that She had to create people who could fight.

“That’s definitely a Michael,” Lucifer said, lounging behind her. “I mean, just look at it. It gives off Michael vibes.”

She shrugged. She hadn’t gotten far with thinking of names.

The second angel She created was gifted with glowing purple eyes. “This one will be the Supreme Archangel,” She explained. “He’ll do all the thinking that’s too lowly for even Metatron.”

They both turned to look at Metatron, whose notepad had extended into a fifteen foot long scroll.

“Is he recording every single word verbatim?” Lucifer asked, a little incredulous. “Is he going to write up a SparkNotes record afterwards?”

“Obviously,” She said, then clicked Her fingers in front of his face. “Come on. Names.”

“Gabby.”

“No.”

“Gabriella.”

“No.”

“Gabrielle.”

She sighed. “I like the sound, but not the way you’re spelling it. Can’t you make it, like—” She waved a hand. “—Cooler?”

Lucifer rolled his eyes all the way around in his sockets, because whilst She had told him about rolling his eyes, She had not shown him what She meant. “Gabriel?”

“I like it!” She said, clapping Her hands.

The third angel She made was by far Her favourite. She obviously intended Her side to win in the war, so She needed to create a healer.

She had sculpted this angel with pride, glowing gold eyes and long red hair so everyone would be able to see where the healer was when they needed it, and finished it off with a staff so it could still defend itself. It looked good, even if She said so Herself.

“The staff needs something on it,” Lucifer said from where he’d conjured a bed to drape himself across. “One of your ideas for animals.”

“Hm,” She said. “Which?”

“You know which one’s my favourite.”

“A snake?” She said, pouting. “But why?”

“I like them,” Lucifer said, as though this were any real response. “Wiggle fucking wiggle.”

“Fine. But I’m naming this one.”

“You have an idea for names?”

“This one,” She said proudly, “is Raphael.”

“I mean, sure,” Lucifer said. “What’s next?”

She continued the angel making process until She had twelve angels, named almost entirely by Lucifer.

The Metatron’s scroll was now a hundred foot long.

She cast a large figure—phenomenally large—out in front of Her, then unfroze them. “I am your Mother,” She said. “I am the Almighty God, whom you love and obey. Soon it will be your turn to raise a new batch of angels, with the help of My guide, the Metatron. You will listen to him.”

“Who’s that guy?” Raphael asked, pointing behind Her.

“That’s Lucifer,” She said, internally cursing him for asking so early. They hadn’t figured out a cover story yet. “He’s your—”

“Big brother,” Lucifer said, cheerily. “Don’t worry about me.”

And then they went on making the rest of the angels, Lucifer still naming all of them.

“Last one,” She said. “Out of name ideas yet?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Absolute blank. I did like the name Uriel, though.”

“You’ve used that twice already with Nuriel.”

“And I’ll use it again,” he said. “I’m calling this one Muriel.”

“Sure,” She said, and that was that.

The problem with all the angels being cooked and ready to go with the Earth plans was that now She had to create a whole batch of demons, which was so tiring. She’d already made angels, and now She had to do it again? She wanted to play, not to set up forever and ever and ever!

“Well, I could stir up dissent,” Lucifer said. “Have a grand ol’ battle. You throw me through the floor, I make myself look big and scary, and all the angels that agreed with me can become demons, and I’ll keep them in line and also dumb so they can lose a war.”

“Hm,” She said. “I like that.”

And so off Lucifer went, merrily asking annoying questions until it caught like a flame to metal left in the microwave—explosively.

She then discovered that setting things up can be fun when setting things up means throwing people off a balcony at high speed. They were going so fast they caught fire!

And then—and then—Her beloved Raphael had the audacity to try and speak to Her directly rather than through the Metatron, who, as Raphael had correctly deduced, was not actually passing on messages unless they were funny.

“What’s wrong with being curious?” Raphael had asked Her, about a month ago, when She’d come to see his nebula. He didn’t seem to jump for joy, which was annoying, because She never visited anyone else. “You made all the humans curious.”

Mostly so they’d eat the apple.

“You will see, My child,” She said, and then promptly vanished.

Today, Raphael said, “Mother, why must the universe die after six thousand years all because of Earth? We’ve been working very hard on it.”

And so She dropped him too. He’d learn how to worship Her down there in the grime and the dark—Lucifer sent Her photos, as well as a list of titles pending approval—and then he’d come crying back, and he’d stop acting like the effort he put in meant anything when Her work was more important.

*

Then Raphael didn’t come back. Raphael let go of his name. Raphael let go of his eyes. Raphael let go of his staff and took the animal into his form. Raphael took his wing change in stride. Raphael made a friend.

*

And then Raphael ruined Her big plan.

*

Aziraphale found himself being rushed into an office. Gabriel, of course, had never had an office, but this was also behind a closed door, which was nice, so Aziraphale found himself feeling rather pleased. This was the perfect place to begin reforming Heaven and to start asking what exactly they meant by the end of the world—Aziraphale had met Jesus Christ (or Josh, as he’d been going by) very briefly and had concluded that he was a rather polite young man with good intentions, and almost certainly wouldn’t end the world.

No, it was just a rather large misunderstanding, Aziraphale knew that.

And it seemed that God Herself wanted Crowley back as an angel, likely because She’d seen that Crowley was innately good (and perhaps better than Aziraphale, occasionally) and that Crowley’s side was innately bad, and that Crowley would be in a much better situation without all those awful people. Crowley could be happy again.

Besides, hadn’t Crowley known the young Christ? Perhaps they’d have some interesting conversations, and Aziraphale would get to see Crowley smile again.

“Now,” the Metatron said. “You’ll be staying here and meeting with me and Christ occasionally to get things sorted. We can’t have all of Heaven thinking they can just do whatever they want, so you won’t be meeting with them.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “How am I supposed to get everything done if I can’t discuss it?”

The Metatron gave him a grandfatherly smile. “We’ll be giving you a mode of contact, of course. Just don’t mention your name.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. That was not particularly conductive to reforming Heaven, but he’d find a way to make it work. He was very resourceful. He’d gone to search for clues by himself.

“Was there anything else you wanted to know?” the Metatron asked, looking at his watch. “I’ll send Christ over if not, and you’ll have a little time to familiarise yourself with your office.”

Not that there was much to familiarise himself with. A clear glass phone, a desk, and a lot of white wall.

“What was that about Crowley?” he asked. “I mean, we were going to bring him up, but—”

“Of course you will have another chance to convince Crowley to come Upstairs,” the Metatron said. “The Almighty misses him, and as soon as the bulk of the planning is out the way, we’ll send you right back down. He’ll miss you enough by then to agree to at least one trip.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” Aziraphale said. “I know Crowley can be difficult, but he’s lovely at heart.”

He was always lovely, Aziraphale thought. If only he’d been able to convince Crowley that they could fix Heaven, everything would’ve been fine.

“Christ will be here soon,” the Metatron said. “I’m sure you’ll get along just fine.”

*

Crowley was dreaming again. Of light, and tongues that didn’t make sense even to his ears, and worlds that had never existed. Of swirling nebulae bursting to live and then dying. Of black holes exploding and becoming white holes again.

Of the end of the world, but from the universe’s point of view.

The Pillars of Creation crumbling to dust.

He woke up. It’d only been two days, he realised, horrified. He could normally will away nightmares, but—

These were not normal nightmares. He’d been there, lucid, touching the stars as they screamed.

He looked up at the sky and cursed.

She wasn’t going to smoke him out, no matter how many dreams She sent him; it wasn’t the first time and, unless he was really lucky, it wasn’t going to be the last. At least he was dreaming in his bed again instead of his car.

Speaking of his flat, he needed to leave. As soon as possible. If they had his flat and his car, they could track him, and if God wanted him again, so did Satan; he’d figured that out by the time of Job.

Somewhere at the edges of his memory, flattened and pressed down and swept to one side, he remembered Lucifer lounging behind Mother before everything else began, older than all of them and not the same.

Crowley reached out for one of his many galaxies and flew.

*

Someone knocked on the door. “Hello?” they said. “Is this the Supreme Archangel’s office?”

Come in, was on the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue, but he remembered to heed the Metatron’s warning. “Who is it?” he called.

“Uh, Josh?” they said. “Jesus Christ. I was told I was being born again.”

“Oh, do come in,” Aziraphale said, warm. “We’re to arrange the Second Coming, with involves you rather a lot.”

The door opened to reveal someone that was certainly Christ, though he was looking a lot more alive since the last time Aziraphale saw him, which was remarkable, considering he was actually a lot deader. He looked young, although his eyes gave the impression that he was old, and his smile was a little weak.

“This isn’t going to involve me being crucified, is it?” he asked. “That wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences.”

“Oh, but the good thing about this,” Aziraphale said, leaning forward conspiringly, “is that you get to help design the plans.”

“So, no crucifixion?”

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale said, then miracled up a tablecloth and a second chair. “Come on in, sit down, let’s talk.”

Chapter Text

Crowley landed on one of the most solid sections of his third favourite nebula and was greeted with a long groan for his troubles.

“What do you want, Crowley?”

“Some peace and quiet would be nice,” he replied. “A bottle of wine, or three, or seven.”

“You only get wine drunk alone when something’s happened between you and your angel.”

“Ugh,” Crowley said. “You’ve grown to know me too well, Cain.”

Cain shot him a lazy grin and saluted him with his glass of whiskey. “You’re the only damn bastard I ever get to see, these days.”

“That’s your own fault,” he replied, sinking into the armchair he’d just conjured. “I could’ve just left you on Earth to die.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Cain said, clicking his tongue. “You could’ve just let me die from whatever plague was spreading around when you found me. You chose to heal me.”

“You would’ve had plenty of other chances to die of plague if I’d left you on Earth.”

Cain shot him a lopsided grin. “You always did have a soft spot for people that loved the stars.”

*

A very long time ago, Crowley had been sent an assignment to tempt the people of a town—so old that it didn’t have a name—into sinning. It had been a particularly repulsive assignment, mostly because the town itself was ravaged by plague and the people were dying, and he was expected to waltz in there and ensure that their suffering would never ease.

He’d been wandering about, wondering how to botch a temptation in a way that meant he could claim it was because they were dying, when he saw a man on the brink of death unceremoniously kicked out of the tent they were using as a hospital.

When he saw the mark on the man’s forehead.

It was a brand, yes, but a signature that he recognised.

God said, This one is mine. God said, Anyone that harms this one will feel the same harm back seven times. God said, Cain will die of natural causes.

He looked at the dying man, who had taken a rock and slaughtered his brother, who had not known that death and killing was possible, and cursed under his breath.

He was going to heal Cain.

Fuck.

“‘Scuse me,” he said, in the dialect of the town. “You feeling like dying here, or you’d prefer not to?”

Cain gave an indistinct groan of pain.

Crowley sighed, and pressed a hand to Cain’s just and healed him just a little bit, so he could talk to him and check in on whether he wanted eternal torture or not. Crowley himself had, in the usual fashion, been asking questions; the main one had been did he know, before he raised that rock? Did he ever actually know?

God, in Her usual fashion, had not responded, and he had drawn his own conclusions.

“Cain, son of Adam and Eve, brother and killer of Abel, let me ask you this: do you want to die?”

Cain, bleary eyed and coughing up mucus, had murmured, “Don’t do the mercy killing thing. It won’t kill me, and it’ll hurt you way more.”

“You’re dying anyway,” Crowley said, a little exasperated. “Do you want to die or do you want me to save you?”

“Depends on whether there’s hellfire and damnation after all this or if I get a break.”

Crowley brushed back some of the hair from his forehead, looking at the brand and—no, yep, he was damned as fuck. “I don’t think you’re getting a break.”

Cain gave a long, extended, “Fuck,” before attempting to roll over. “I just wanted to get away from this whole God thing.”

And Crowley, who had been wanting to heal him pretty much the entire time he’d been with him, took that as permission. He snapped his fingers, and stripped every inch of disease from Cain’s body, stealing the mucus and the dying cells and the pustules away.

Cain breathed, a long, relieved gasp of air, and sat up. “Who… Who are you?”

“I am the demon Crawly,” Crowley said, for then he had been called Crawly. This was early Ancient Egyptian days, but unfortunately they were nowhere near Ancient Egypt, and were instead in a plague-riddled village, long before the Roman Empire and long before Job. “You didn’t seem like you were in a hurry to die, so I cured you.”

“Why?” Cain asked, and scrambled to his feet. “I have no wish to partake in any further evils, and I can only die from natural causes.”

Crowley hesitated, wetting his lips as he considered the question. He didn’t think you were suffering, and you were at my feet was a good enough answer, and certainly not one that Cain would accept from a demon, but Cain also wouldn’t be in any hurry to trust him if he said he wanted help in evil. I have no wish to partake in any further evils.

Cain was still looking at him, looking almost like he wanted to bolt.

Crowley made his choice. “I was curious,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to ask. Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“Did you know that you were about to make yourself a murderer?”

Cain took a step back, something like hurt and anguish crossing his face. “How could I have known?”

“That’s what I thought,” Crowley said. “C’mon.”

“What?” Cain said, pulling back further. “I’m not going with you.”

“You said you wanted a break; I’m offering it to you. C’mon.”

There was a fearful tremor to Cain’s step, one forward, one back. “I—I can’t.”

“Why not?” Crowley asked, turning back to look at him properly. “Do you not want a break after all?”

“If I go with a demon, God will never undamn me! I can’t go with you, Crawly. I can’t.”

Crowley turned back to look at Cain, branded by God yet desperate to please Her. Nobody pleased God, though. Nobody. And here was this poor, damned human, who only hurt because he was unaware what hurt was, picked up and cast aside and cursed and damned and all the lot of it, who thought that maybe he could please God.

“Kid,” he said, gently. “She’s never going to forgive you, and She’s never going to undamn you.”

And then he could pinpoint the exact moment that Cain crumpled. “Then what’s the point?” he snarled, scrubbing his hands across his face, covering up tears. “What’s the point of it all if I can’t even work to save myself?”

“That’s what I asked, a long time ago,” Crowley said, still keeping his tone gentle. “She never answered. She just let me fall.”

*

“What happened with your angel?” Cain said, sitting cross-legged in the plush armchair Crowley had miracled up for him years ago. “C’mon. It can’t be worse than the holy water incident.”

Crowley snapped his fingers, and the wine bottle started pouring itself. “It is so much worse,” he said. “Do you remember Gabriel?”

“Ugh, how could I not? He was the bastard that tried to kill Aziraphale, right?”

“Yeah. ‘Sabout it.” Crowley took a long drain of his wine glass. “It’s just. It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?” Cain asked. “C’mon, Crowley, don’t leave a man in suspense.”

Crowley blew a long breath of air through his nose, and started pouring more wine. “He lost his memory. And obviously Aziraphale had to go and protect him, and then Heaven and Hell were both trying to find him, and then he went and ran off with Beelzebub.”

“Beelzebub? Beelzebub, like your ex-boss Beelzebub?”

“The very same.”

Cain blinked at him, then reached for the bottle of wine. “I don’t think I’m drunk enough for this. But are you upset about the Gabriel thing?”

 “Forget Gabriel, good for him.” Crowley shook his head, dropping it into his hands as he did so. “Aziraphale is the Supreme Archangel now.”

There was a significantly longer pause, and then Cain said, very flatly, “What.”

*

On a small mountain not too far from the village, Crowley was sitting on a rock with the first murderer, and the first murderer was staring at the stars.

“You alright?” Crowley asked.

“It’s so beautiful up there,” Cain said, still staring upwards. “Whenever someone else I love dies, I look up. The stars never change.”

“Some of ‘em do,” Crowley said. “I mean, they should. I designed a load of them that way.”

“You—” Cain stared at him, agape. “You made the stars?”

“Well, someone had to. Plus, it was the most interesting thing we could do up there.”

“All of them?” Cain said, still looking upwards. “But there’s so many.”

Crowley laughed, looking up at the sky with Cain. “Nah, not all of them. There were hundreds of us on star making duty. But I made the nebulae.”

“Nebulae?”

“Stars that make themselves,” he explained pointing up at the one he could see. “See that pink swirl there? That’s a star factory. It makes baby stars.”

“Must be nice,” Cain said, “to make things instead of destroying them.”

Crowley gave him a sideways look. “Kid, what, exactly, happened with Abel?”

*

Cain told his tale well. They had fought often, as Crowley had learnt that human siblings tended to, and often physically; this was apparently more due to the fact that they were both farmers and thus used to solving problems physically. It had been a stupid argument, but Abel had suggested that he would always be the better son—and Cain had considered throwing a rock at him an equal response.

Which, considering, was the pretty much the way a lot of the angels fought: if you couldn’t think of an insult strong enough to beat the other person, you threw shit at them. It was a pretty foolproof method.

And so Cain had thrown the rock at Abel, and Abel had fallen. Cain had then stood there and shouted insults at him, until the insults turned into shouts to get up and do some work, and he’d stormed off in a huff that his brother would nap instead of doing work and still claim to be the favourite.

And then Cain had gone back to work, which was the same as always, until God showed up. She didn’t literally show up, Crowley discovered, but a hole parted in the clouds and dazzling light shone through, and She had spoken to him.

“Cain, where is your brother?” She had demanded.

“I dunno,” Cain had said. “Do I look like I follow my brother everywhere?”

“Do not lie to me, foul creature,” She had snapped, which Cain said he’d thought was pretty unfair and, quite frankly, Crowley agreed.

“I’m not lying!” Cain had said, thinking very hard about Abel sleeping and really not wanting his brother to get in trouble with actual God. “I don’t know where he is.”

And technically, he argued to Crowley, he hadn’t been lying, because for all he knew Abel had gotten up and walked off. There was no way he could guarantee that Abel was still sleeping, and God probably wouldn’t be happy with it anyway. So, what was the harm in keeping quiet? He’d been instructed to take care of his brother.

“Are you not your brother’s keeper?”

“No,” he said. “He’s his own keeper.”

And then God’s light had streamed down so brightly that it hurt Cain’s eyes, and She said, “Take me to where you last saw your brother.”

Cain, out of excuses, led Her to where he had last seen Abel, and, to his horror, saw Abel still sleeping.

“He’s not normally like this, I swear,” Cain said. “He’s actually a very hard worker. I’m sure he’ll get up in a minute.”

“You, Cain,” God said, voice booming, “Are a vile, disgusting creature, and a cruel sinner. Explain yourself! How could you do this?”

“I don’t understand,” he said. “I’m sure I can wake Abel up if you give me five minutes.”

“Abel will not be waking, sinner. You have slaughtered him.”

Cain explained that this was before humans even ate meat, and that nothing had ever died before, and he’d had no idea what slaughtered meant.

“Um, your Godliness?” he said. “What does slaughtered mean?”

“You have killed your brother, sinner. He is no more. He has ceased to exist.”

“But he’s right there!” Cain had said, tears welling up in his eyes. “He’s just sleeping! He’ll wake up, I promise. Just give me a bit. Maybe he was really tired.”

“Enough!” She commanded. “I tire of your foolish excuses. You, Cain, are the first murderer, and I brand you as the sinner you are. You will never cease in your suffering, but you will see what you have created spread. You will watch people die, sinner, and one day you will find that only damnation awaits you.”

And then, Cain explained, he’d been hit by horrible, burning light, and had woken up on the floor by Abel, who was now gathering flies. His mother was shaking him awake, saying, “Cain, oh, Cain, God told us that you had destroyed Abel.”

“I don’t understand,” Cain said. “Mother—”

“Carry his body,” Eve had said. “Your father is digging a hole in the ground in which the flies won’t be able to bother him anymore.”

They’d been understanding, apparently, and neither one of his parents had condemned him. But a week or so later, God had shown back up and demanded that Cain be sent from the land—he was a wretched sinner, and a pollution on the world.

Adam and Eve were the first victims of God’s wrath, or so Cain explained. Neither of them were due Heaven, and neither of them put much stock in God’s moral judgements, but they both were afeared of Her wrath, and so off Cain went.

This had been some hundred years ago.

*

“That sucks,” Crowley said, finally, when Cain had finished the whole sordid tale. “No, yeah, that really sucks. What’d you do after that?”

“I wandered about a bit,” Cain said. “And I’ve been here for about three years, and then this damned plague hit.”

“And you can only die of natural causes,” Crowley said, nodding. “You want to see the stars?”

“I can?” Cain said, eyes wide. “How do I do that?”

“I’ll take you up there. Bring you food and drink and entertainment and stuff, and you won’t ever be in a position to die of natural causes, and you’ll get to watch the stars be born. Sound good?”

Cain hesitated. “I won’t be able to come back, will I?”

“Unlikely,” Crowley said. “I might be able to give you a couple trips back, but nothing permanent.”

“There’s—a woman,” Cain said. “I’ve been staying with her. Her name’s Lottie, and I like her a whole lot. She’s dying, though, with the plague, but you saved me, right, so you can save her too?”

Crowley took a moment to weigh the pros and cons. “Yeah, kid. Alright. But she can’t come with us—your mark is what lets it work.”

Cain swallowed, then nodded. “I had suspected.”

And he folded the first murderer into his arms and flew, and then he held Cain as he beheld the beauty of the universe and wept.

*

“She came on special recommendation from the first murderer himself,” Crowley said, later. “I saved her so she could spread sin across the land. I thought it would be more effective.”

“Hm,” Beelzebub said, but there wasn’t much ze could do against Cain’s own recommendation.

*

“Just to be clear,” Cain said. “Supreme Archangel?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “Yeah.”

“But,” Cain said.

“Yeah,” Crowley said.

“Heaven isn’t very good.”

“Yeah.”

“And Aziraphale is.”

“Yeah.”

Cain shook his head. “Then why?”

“Well,” Crowley said, readjusting his position to tick off points on his fingers. “Well. Number one, the angels of Heaven are taught that Heaven is Good, and Hell is Evil, and everything else is going to be sorted into those two categories. Aziraphale thinks that everything that goes wrong with that is some kind of—y’know, a glitch.”

“How on Earth—”

“Nothing on Earth, actually,” Crowley corrected. “Only humans—only humans ate from the Tree. The knowledge of good and evil—true knowledge—exists only within humanity. Angels never got that.”

“What about you?” Cain asked.

“I’ve been watching you lot for a very long time.”

“And you think you know what good and evil is?”

Crowley watched an asteroid pass by in a streak of light. “No,” he said, finally. “No, I don’t.”

“So?”

“I know that it’s not as simple as Heaven is Good, Hell is Bad.” He shook his head. “Most demons know that much.”

“So,” Cain said, slowly, to try and get his words not to slur. Possibly they had drank too much to be talking philosophy. Possibly being drunk was the only time when talking philosophy wasn’t incredibly painful. “You don’t know what good and evil is, but you know what it’s not?”

“Not neces—necessess—necessarily,” Crowley said, triumphant as he made it through the syllables. “I know your lot’s laws tend to stay roughly the same. Murder is bad is the top one. Lately, a lot of people have been bringing up sex crimes, and things that happen to children. But, throughout time, that’s the big one. Murder.”

Cain turned to look away from the stars and instead directly at him. “Is that what you think evil is? Murder?”

Crowley looked back. “Y’know what?” he said. “No, I don’t.”

*

“Just to be clear,” Josh said. “I’m definitely not being crucified again.”

“Of course not!” Aziraphale said, reminding himself that the boy had been crucified last time and it was only natural for him to be scared. “Pain is an inherent evil. We’re Heaven, we’re the good guys, we don’t do that.”

“It’s just—it happened last time.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “Well. That was the humans. They’re probably in Hell now, and it was almost certainly a mistake. That’s why we’re planning this time, so mistakes don’t happen.”

*

“Do you know what I think?” Cain asked, much later. “I don’t think there is a good or an evil. Mistakes happen. People get hurt. Sometimes people do nice things when you wouldn’t expect them to. Sometimes the opposite. I think it’s just that—being alive.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, sprawled out on the floor. “I think I like that one.”

*

“I hope they’re not,” Josh said.

“Hope they’re not what?”

“In Hell.”

“They hurt you,” Aziraphale pointed out, remembering the cold, dark halls of Hell and all the people within that had hurt Crowley, remembering the seeping, angry desire for vengeance that unfurled inside him. Avenging angel, he thought. He could be that. “They hurt you for kindness. What kind of person does that?”

“All the same,” Josh said. “I hope they’re not in Hell. I forgave them a long time ago, and I’d forgive them again.”

Aziraphale swallowed, then tried for a smile. “I think that’s a very good thing for you to do.”

*

“What was the second thing?” Cain asked. “You said the first, but not the second. What comes after knowledge of good and evil?”

Crowley was still looking at his beautiful stars. “All these stars,” he said. “All these stars to burn because of one tiny planet. Where’s the justice in that?”

“I don’t follow.”

“‘Swhy I fell,” he said. “That’s what I asked. Or something along those lines, anyway.”

“So—why would your angel want to make that happen?”

“No, no. It’s—She wants me to come back.”

“Oh,” Cain said. “Oh, no.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m not going back.”

“That much was obvious.”

He looked back up at his stars again. “I’m going to run.”

“It’s a long time to run.”

“What else can I do?”

“What about the universe?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said. “I don’t know.”