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Chapter Text

“Oh... Shit.”

A perfectly reasonable saying in these modern times, whether yelled out loud when stubbing a toe or whispered under one’s breath when realising you sent that email to the exact wrong person, it wasn’t something that generally caused too much of an uproar - depending on one’s audience - but as far as swearing went in this day and age, it was a very minor offence.

Depends on who’s saying it, of course.

Which is why when this particular angel said it, Crowley's blood ran even colder than its usual tepid. Ice trickled from his scalp to his toes and his head snapped over, “what?”

Warm brown eyes, wide with shock, stared at him back, “did you feel that?” Muriel asked in a rushed, quiet voice, looking to the dusty tall ceiling. The book in their hand was set down on the edge of a shelf and forgotten, feet taking her to the centre of the room and they continued to stare at the ceiling.

“Muriel,” Crowley was in front of her in a flash, “Oi!”
He had never heard her come close to swearing, not in the handful of months she had been here.
“What is it- oh,” the sweeping, sickly feeling swept through Crowley too. A feeling he hadn’t felt in… in years. In millenia. A familiar, horrid feeling that caused instant anxiety down to his bones.

Something Big. Something Falling. Something Falling that started Up, which Muriel had felt, and had descended Down, which Crowley was now feeling. This wasn’t sauntering vaguely downward, no, this was crashing and burning, a comet encased in the hottest of flames, exploding and coming back together in a warped wave of furious celestial intent.

The surrounding BANG as it thudded from the mighty Above to the murky Below was felt by all supernatural entities, occult and ethereal.

On a bustling street in Soho, the Bentleys alarm wailed. In a dusty bookshop on Whickber Street, the lights flickered.

In a deep pit of hell, Aziraphale burned.

Chapter Text

Time passed differently down here.

Fast yet slow at the same time, but if you focused too much it stopped altogether, suspending you in the time and place where your thoughts raced but nothing else happened around you. Except for the pain. Fury. The fire.

He hadn’t known how It would happen. Falling, in its physical sense, was fairly self explanatory. Falling, in the biblical sense, was also something he knew of, to a degree. Crowley had certainly never gone into detail, and the very few times Aziraphale had tried to bring it up, he regretted it when he saw the pain and anger and hurt that swept across the demon's face before it settled into a mask of annoyance.

He wish he had never, ever asked.

It wasn’t as much falling as it was being thrown, or perhaps tossed, into a vortex, the pain instant and the fire unbearable, the moment his body and essence left the Highest Plain. His whole being tore apart, his skull from his spine, his brain from its stem, his heart from its arteries, his eyes from his sockets, his Heavenly Grace from... him. The stench of sulphur engulfed him. Remnants of his already torn halo shattered around his temples, etching into his burning skin like shards of glass. His wings served no help, catching alight in a blaze of pure white, a blinding fire so hot that he had no throat to scream from, no sight left to see, just the feeling of pain, burn, falling, pain-burn-falling, painburnfallingpainburnfalling-

His burning and boiling extremities flailed, a horrid smell drowned him, and he felt like he was being sucked down in a thick vat of tar; he had no chance of swimming against the pulling tide. How could he, when he couldn’t even register having any arms, or legs, or anything that resembled a corpse to stop himself from going under. Surely this was drowning? Or was he still burning? Falling? Gravity, if such a thing existed right now, was still working against him and he was indeed still going down.

But then it changed.

It didn’t get better, persay. It didn’t subside. But it did indeed become something different. He was out of the gloopy burning tar. Had he swam? Or had it simply drained around him? The scorching fire went out as his useless wings flailed around him in a wreck of bones and charred feathered stardust, his body was stitching back together in a painful puzzle, like a toddler jamming the pieces that didn’t fit together while having a tantrum. Now that he could form a thought, he wondered if perhaps it was like this for all fallen angels, or just reserved for those who sat at the highest, just to fall the furthest.

Crawling, he dragged whatever he could away from where he had landed. The pain didn’t pass. If this was dying, he wished it to be over. To be nothing. Send him back to the thought and breath of which he very first was created. Any torture to come after this would simply be a relief.

From the very beginning of his plummet, only 6.32 seconds had passed on Earth.

Aziraphale was now on the damp floor of a cell, the fire and darkness swallowing him.

-

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK,” Crowley shot around the bookshop looking for anything, something, fingers gripping his hair. Muriel was frozen to the spot, staring after the demon who was turning into a smoking blur.
“The lift,” he suddenly spat out mechanically, yellow eyes blazing even behind dark glasses, “the Donkey. The Lift. Now.”

They practically ran across to the lift, the doors closing and they both hit a button. The thing is, they both hit a different button - Muriel’s palm squashed the capital H while Crowleys fist had punched the button far, far beneath that. Crowley ripped off his glasses and glared at her, barely able to get the words past his teeth, “what… are you doing…”
“If that was who we think it was,” Muriel's voice rambled an octave higher, “then something is seriously wrong up there.”
“I don’t care! That’s a Them problem! He went down, we’re going down!”
The lift still hadn’t moved. Muriel shook their head a little, “no. Mr Crowley I can’t go down-“
“Then GET. OUT.”
“Are we sure it was him-“
“IT WAS HIM!”
Muriel’s had tears in her eyes and the doors opened back onto Whickber Street, stepping out she looked at Crowley, “I’m sorry.”
He was in no state of forgiveness. Not right now.
He punched the button again, lift closing and descending down the Dirty Donkey, leaving Earth.

—

Aziraphale was sure it had been days. Very sure, yet, his breathing had only just returned to normal as if mere minutes. Strange, how a learned thing like breathing to keep his vessel ticking was still a necessity. He didn’t know if he was within the confines of a vessel anymore. He must be something tangible, he figured, since his wings still crackled as they feebly tried to heal. An involuntary noise escaped him, rough and quiet, but a noise nonetheless. So he was 'something'.

Consciousness came and went in jarring waves.

A heavy knock finally arose him, as if someone trying to blast the iron door down, and for a hazy moment Aziraphale thought only ‘Crowley, Crowley, Crowley...’
But his eyes wouldn’t open yet and his mouth wouldn’t move. A wing twitched and he groaned.
“Aziraphale,” a brash voice began with the air of reading something quite official, “former supreme archangel of heaven, former principality of the eastern gate, former custodian to the flaming heavenly sword, bla bla bla,” Dagons voice echoed, “you have fallen tremendously and in doing so have been stripped of your connection to the Holy Host, severed of your ties to everything Good. We welcome you to your new post as a demon in the legion of Hell.”
The sound of a scroll snapping closed. Dagon sighed, “got all that?”
Aziraphale could barely muster a nod. He understood the words, however his heart and mind refused to let them sink in just yet.
“Alright well once you’re done having a moment, give us a scream and someone will come fetch you.”
“Right,” Aziraphale finally breathed out.

He didn’t remember how or when but he was upright, swaying a little on his feet. The floor was so incredibly damp, he realised, and it was cold. Even in his state he knew he really didn’t like that and needed to move. His eyes peeled open and it was dark all round - not pitch black which was somewhat helpful - but the source of light was not discernible either. Actually, all things considered, he could see rather well.

His hands felt a door and he could barely lift his arms to press against it, let alone knock. After a few attempts to clear his throat he finally came out with, “I'm ready. Let me out.”
The heavy door clicked and swung open, Dagon grinning with a mouthful of sharp teeth, eyes alight with glee, “glad to hear it. I’ve got some questions for you.”
Aziraphale sighed, “torture. Fantastic.”

Chapter Text

Crowley stepped into the hallway, halogens flickering and buzzing as he stormed through the place, a hiss stuck at the back of his throat, demons moving out of his way and just staring after him. No one said a word.
If… IF… memory serves correctly and God knows it did for him, then Aziraphale would be deep in a pit. Not your usual fallen angel, no, he would be under lock and key-
“Crowley,” a static laden voice called over the scratchy speaker in the hallways.
Crowley ignored it and kept walking.
“He’s not there,” the voice said again and he stopped, fists clenched.
“Where is he Shax?” He growled out. She appeared beside him, “he’s being debriefed. By Dagon.”
“Debriefed?” Surely that meant torture. It took all his willpower to keep his mouth in check, lest he hissed through his fangs at her, “where?”
“Hmm,” she pulled a punched card out of her pocket and read it, “Level 8, Chamber 3.”
He didn’t have the patience to wonder why Shax actually told him and he most certainly did not have the decency to thank her. They were in Hell, after all.

He practically threw himself down flights of slippery stairs, a tiny voice in his mind saying ‘oh well at least he’s not on Level 9, the last circle of Hell’ that circle was reserved for... well, for Satan.

Aziraphale found he was slowly regaining his senses, even as Dagon spoke to him he was able to keep track.
“There’s usually a few job openings,” she watched him from behind a desk but he refused to sit, “and I’m not in recruitment. But this is different,” and she seemed happy about that fact, “I mean an archangel? That’s something. Only ever had two of them fall down here.”
Two? He thought blearily but just nodded.
“Three definitely is an institutionalised problem,” she continued, “so what exactly did you do? Or what didn’t you do? You know,” she leaned over her desk to him, her stench making him cringe, “the more you tell me, the easier this gets for you. I’m a Duke, Aziraphale. My word holds weight. So, tell me what happened.”
And then she did something that would be considered decent. A tattered black robe appeared and she passed it to him.
Oh they were desperate. They needed something from him. Alarm bells went off in his fragile mind.
But, he was indeed naked, the shame hadn’t quite hit him yet. But the dampness of Hell had and he was stupidly uncomfortable so he took the robe and pulled it over, realising his wings weren’t in the way. Perhaps they fell off. Perhaps they folded away. His nerves were so raw he couldn’t even tell.

“I disobeyed,” he would have to say something, even paint them half a picture, let them come to their own conclusions. He was good at that. He’d done it to heaven for millenia.
Dagon rolled her eyes, “obviously,” she sat back and crossed her arms over her chest, “we’ve all done that.”
“It was something big,” he reiterated.
“Big?”
“Big.”
“So big that the almighty cast you down Herself?”
Aziraphale shook his head, “no. Well I mean yes, She must have. But not Herself, no.”
“Right. Didn’t want to get her hands dirty. I respect that. And so what? What did you say no too?”
Aziraphale blinked, his eyes dry and sore, “war.”
Dagon looked far more interested now, “war? Against Hell?”
No. Not really.
But Aziraphale shrugged, “I don’t know the exact details. Perhaps that’s why I asked too many questions - and no one gave me answers. So-“
“Ah. Right,” Dagon seemed to understand whatever Aziraphale was (not) telling her.
The Duke stood and came to full attention.
“Head Torturer.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a good position. A well sought position. A position that a big shot such as yourself ought to have.”
Aziraphale didn’t understand. Why? Why was Hell being… nice? Well, their approximation of nice anyway. He thought he’d be tortured in a pit of fire for the rest of eternity.
“Might suit your new demon identity,” she continued on, rounding her desk with a crumpled manila folder that she passed to Aziraphale. He took it without really seeing it.
Then he frowned, “hm? My what?”
Dagon smirked, “actually it’s kind of ironic really. Upstairs did always have a sick sense of humour.”
A deep seated Very Bad Feeling settled into Aziraphales stomach. “I don’t-"
Dagon spun him to face the grimey but reflective window.
Aziraphale almost dropped the folder and he stepped closer, seeing himself properly.
He was.. well he was indeed him. He recognised most of it. But the changes, they were startling to say the least. He hadn’t thought about this, had never given much thought to what his demonic nature would be, why would he? The only mention of something even close to that thought was Crowley watching him devour a succulent roast turkey around Christmas in 1981 and teasing him that his demonic nature would be something of a warthog.
Aziraphale had glared at him and Crowley had smirked.

But now, no. No warthog. No tusks. But he had teeth, mostly the same, though his canines were sharp and long - almost too sharp - his tongue running over one and retracting quick at the point. He would tear his lip open if he weren’t careful.
His hair, once so white that it almost glowed, was now a fraction darker. Warmer. Rather more blonde than white, almost dark at the roots.
Oh. His eyes. His ears!
He took a step back at the unfamiliarity - pale yellow-green eyes, so different from his clear blue, stared back at him, the pupils retracting to slits before expanding again as his terror grew, head turning slightly - his ears. Pointed and angled further back, a creeping black at the very tips. He’d never had as much as a five o’clock shadow in the past century and now he had a fuzz, a shade darker than his hair.
“I.. what..”
He tried to unstick his throat. No other words came out for a while.
Dagon was annoyed at the slow uptake.
“A predator, casting fear in lesser creatures around them. A terrific hunter yet almost unassuming. Fiercely protective and aggressive. There are worse things to be. But like I said,” she laughed, walking out the office and Aziraphale couldn’t will his legs to follow.
“Ironic?” He called after her and she stopped and turned to him, annoyed, “get a move on.”
He took a few steps toward her, voice firmer now, huskier than it had been, the happy bounce in his cadence now rather flat, “how is this particular beast ironic? What… am I?”
Dagon laughed again, so devoid of actual humour that Aziraphale felt a shiver up his spine. His newly sensitive ears twitched at the harsh noise.
“Hmm. A cat? I believe it’s a lynx if those ears are anything to go by. A bobcat. Don’t know what you’re complaining about. Could’ve been a worm, or a slug. A dung beetle. The dung that the dung beetle rolls down hill.”
Aziraphale still didn’t understand the significance.
Dagon stepped forward and gripped his remnants of robe around his shoulders, “a natural enemy of the snake. Let that irony stew for a moment.” She let him go and Aziraphale felt himself shake.
“Once you’ve had your little cry, open that folder and follow the instructions. Do your job. Or go back to that pit. Those are your choices.”
And there she left him, the dim lights overhead quivering as she disappeared.

—

Crowley didn’t realise he could sweat down here.
Of course he could exert himself beyond his normal capabilities and sweat like a human, but it was muggy and damp and his already tight pants were sticking to him like anything. He almost had half a mind to toss his jacket. But, no, this wasn’t about him.
“How am I only on level 6?!” He snapped in a sudden outburst, the exit sign above the door buzzing, “why isn’t there another fucking lift?!”
It was Hell, he reasoned as he flung himself down another flight of stairs, his hair in an absolute hive of mess, feet miraculously not tripping despite the puddles of stagnant goo.

Aziraphale just stood like a statue. Stood and stared down the dark hallway.
So this was it. This was his Hell. The true consequence.
What came next was beyond what he thought he was capable of feeling in that moment, he was feeling grief and loss and confusion but fury, a dark deep fury was building up his belly and spine, singing to his brain and it sparked into a full blown roar that started in his chest and escaped out his mouth - a sound no human or animal could make. It echoed, it travelled, it blew globes in lights and left sparks in its wake. He had never felt an anger like this before. Anger at himself. Anger at Up above. Anger at those that were meant to have been his cohort. His brothers, sisters. Anger at their ignorance, their callousness, their absolute idiocy! Their wrath! Their utter contempt for human life! Their blatant disregard for what was Good and just doing what they thought was Necessary! Blinding, seething rage bubbled through him and despite the cramped quarters he released his wings, the searing pain on par with his own wrath. Darkened feathers dropped as new ones took their place, a smog of black engulfing them with each step down the hallway with no destination in mind - just move out the way or be moved.

Crowley almost slipped as the feral noise reached him and he gripped the handrail. Why did Hell care for handrails?
He had reached the door of Level 8. It was cold down here. Cold and eerie. But what the hell was that noise? Surely The Beast was levels lower, any noise dampened?
Something in his senses tingled, a warning. Urgency. He ran back and ducked before he even knew why, and suddenly the door blew off its hinges and splintered into a heap, the frame giving way and grey dust and matter clouded his vision.
Crowley covered his eyes with his arm and stood, the gritty dust in his mouth, “that was a bit rude! I was on the other side of that bloody door!”
But the being that walked through just came to a stop, the dust settling.
“Crowley?”
Crowley stared. He stared some more.
“Angel?”

Chapter Text

Crowley straightened, mouth unable to shut itself. It was Aziraphale, most definitely, without a doubt. But it was not Aziraphale the angel.

This being stood before him with fists by its side, dark and twisted wings open in a menacing display - pale yellow-green eyes stared at him through slits, shocking Crowley to his core.
“Oh my God.”
“Not really,” Aziraphale replied bluntly, broken wings folding messily back into their own reality, “What…” his face softened, teeth shortening as his fury receded, “Crowley what are you doing down here?”
“Me?!” Crowley spluttered, “rescuing you of course! Angel what have-“
“Not an angel anymore,” Aziraphale murmured, taking a step closer, “I believe that much is obvious, my dear.”

Crowley wanted to crumple and fold into a heap before him. He wanted to cry. He wanted to go upstairs and grab someone, anyone, by the throat and toss them like a rag doll.
“I’m sorry,” was all he could manage, “I’m sorry this is what… happened.”
“You warned me,” the former angel said simply, picking debris out of his hair, “and I didn’t listen.”
He was right of course, and Crowley couldn’t tell him otherwise. The red haired demon nodded once but then shook his head, almost whispering, “you… you fell.”
“Tremendously, I believe is the word Dagon used. I fell tremendously. The higher you’re up, I suppose…”
“Dagon,” Crowley growled, seeing red, “that slimy git-“
“Didn’t hurt me or torture me.”
“What?”
“In fact no one has down here. Yet.”
Crowley was relieved of course. Even if that was highly unusual.
Aziraphales lip twitched, “it’s a lot, isn’t it.”
Crowley had been staring, though not particularly seeing anything, but now he focused. He glanced over Aziraphale, taking in the hair, the eyes, the teeth so similar to his own - and those ears.
What was the deal with them?
“Do you have stubble?” Crowley asked dumbly, hand reaching out of its own accord and touching the soft but thick layer of hair - fur perhaps was closer - on Aziraphale's jaw.
Aziraphale closed his eyes and pursed his lips, moving his head away a fraction so he was away from Crowleys fingers.
The red-haired demons hand fell back to his side.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispered, foreign eyes looking back up to him and the sorrow there was palpable, it pulled Crowley's insides painfully, “for everything. I was a fool. I thought… well I didn’t understand how what I said was so hurtful until just recently. I was blinded by my pursuit of trying to mold heaven into what I thought it should have been. I was an idiot. I never,” he swallowed and tears brimmed in his eyes, “I never meant to sound as if what you are, who you are, was not enough. I never sought to fix you, or change you - I just wanted them to look at you the same way I do,” Aziraphale didn’t seem to be able to stop, the words articulating themselves as he carried on through tears, his speech that he had previously memorised was out the window.
Crowley was stunned into silence.
“I should have listened. You were right. You were always bloody right,” Aziraphale muttered, wiping the tears away and looking to the wall, “heaven never wanted me back to make things better. It was never part of The Plan. I was ignorant, and selfish, and naive and-“
“Aziraphale,” Crowley stopped him, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing so gently. How could the angel even have it in him to put all this into words? After just falling, how was he thinking of Crowley and what Crowley needed to hear? What Crowley should have been told months ago?
Had it really only been a few months?
It felt like aeons.
“I want to hear this. I’m listening,” Crowley reiterated, “but not here. Not in this Hell hole.”
Aziraphale looked at their surroundings and wiped his face again, “right. Right of course. It says here I’m meant to-“
But Crowley grabbed the filthy manila folder and threw it over his shoulder, the folder turning into ash.
Aziraphales eyes widened, “Crowley-“
“Not. Here.”
“But this is where I-“
“If you finish that sentence,” Crowley hissed, right in Aziraphales face, “if you dare finish that wretched sentence Aziraphale so help me I will drag you back to that bookshop by your hair.”
Aziraphale threw him a look that was so much like the angel that Crowleys annoyance went from 10 to a mild 3.
“What do you propose we do?”

—

In Aziraphale's mind, he was going to be under lock and key until a time where he was no longer deemed a problem. Or a hazard. Or whatever the reason was that Hell wasn’t ripping him to pieces. He was expecting some Great Escape but again, no.
He and Crowley simply walked up those stairs until they reached the door of Level 2. The hallway of Level 2 was busy, no real flow to the traffic, just demons and beasts of all types running or dragging their feet or meandering or conspiring with each other. They barely paid attention to Crowley, dragging Aziraphale by the hand and weaving in and out of the bodies.
No sign of Shax, Dagon or anyone of import. Just the demons and the damned, a groaning mess of smells and limbs.

The lift dredged the two of them up slowly, breaking through the crusts of space, time and Earth, not a word between them. Aziraphale felt the atmosphere change, and half expected a sort of physical jolt but none came. He stayed the same. He glanced down at his torn robe but said nothing.

Beside him, Crowley was seething. Silently seething mind you, since he didn’t want to combust in the lift and then have to certainly deal with paperwork from all factions.

When they stepped out of the lift, the streets were quiet, night had truly fallen.

“What day is it?”

“Hm? Oh. Uh, Thursday? Come on,” Crowley gently led him across to the bookshop, very much aware of their surroundings. The door clicked open before either could reach the handle, the shop welcoming back its rightful custodian. Aziraphale gave it a weary smile as he passed through the threshold, “sorry I left.”
Warm lights glowed in response, the temperature rising to perfect comfort. All wet and cold seemed to steam away.

Crowley closed and locked the door behind them and muttered to the air, “not one soul is to come in here until I say so. Not one soul, one angel, one demon, unless it’s me or him.”
A deadbolt snapped loudly at that and Aziraphale jumped nervously but covered it with a jittery laugh, looking around, “just as I left it. No problems I assume? And Muriel, how is she? Not too overwhelmed I hope, first time here and all and then the added responsibility, poor thing, must be-“
“Muriel,” Crowley cut him off, “is doing fine. They're fine. The shop's fine, the world is fine. You, you are not fine.”
He watched as Aziraphales pupils dilated and retracted rapidly, eyes glancing around the shop.
“I’m simply overwhelmed.”
“Well of course you are! It took me… it took me a long, long time. Down there,” he struggled to push those words out, long legs pacing him around the room, hands on his hips, “time moves different down there, very different, and it felt like… well it felt like a bloody millenia until they came and said get up there, cause some trouble.”
Aziraphale hadn’t heard that before. Hadn’t heard more of that version.
Crowley stopped pacing and looked to Aziraphale, unable to stop the words before they fell out of his mouth, “what... Are you?”
Aziraphale was taken aback, unsure at the sudden turn of conversation and he replied quietly, “I’m not sure? Just a fallen angel I presume? A demon?”
“No no I mean… the whole… are you a cat?”
Aziraphale felt his face redden but Crowley rushed to clarify, “not that there’s anything wrong with that-
“You despise cats.”
“So you ARE a cat?”
“Not exactly-“
“When I eventually came round I was a snake. S’how I woke up. Initially.”
Another surprise.
“Oh. Well. I didn’t wake up as a cat.”
“Why a cat anyway, doesn’t make sense-“
“The lynx,” Aziraphale started, unable to meet Crowley's eyes, “has many enemies. They tend to conquer over most of them - rodents, birds, smaller mammals. It’s quite famously known to… to take down snakes. A natural enemy, as it were.”

Crowley had seen documentaries on them. He wasn’t totally daft. He liked the idea of animals, just not in cages, or houses, or anywhere particularly close to him.
“A… bobcat.” Explained the peculiar pointed, black tipped ears then. And here Crowley was wondering who had a Lord of the Rings fetish.
“Indeed.”
“Natural enemy of the snake.”
“Yes,” and the former angel looked away in shame.
Crowley however, snorted very ungraciously and it turned into a laugh, “oh that’s rich. That’s just… really? They thought… wow. As if that would stop us,” he froze. “What I mean is, c'mon, natural enemies? As if we haven’t been ‘natural enemies’ for thousands upon thousands of years-“
“I found it quite disheartening, actually,” Aziraphale mumbled, playing with his tattered robe.
Crowley lost his smile. Disheartened was mild, compared to the clear heartbreak in front of him.
“Angel-“
“I need a moment. Alone. And I think I need to bathe. And find some suitable clothes, since mine burned into… into nothing.”
And without waiting for a reply, Aziraphale went up the stairs and left Crowley at the bottom, the demon collapsing into the red paisley chair with his face in his hands.

-

This was not how he envisioned a reunion.

He was thinking a big fight, a big apology, a little apology dance, more of a fight, another apology, perhaps a kiss that picked up where they had last left off. A real kiss that wasn't just a painstakingly desperate attempt to get that bastard to just stay.
Because an apology was always on the cards. Despite his own hurt, his anger, his everything falling apart - he knew deep down that come Hell or high water, they would see each other again.
When he thought of ‘our side’, he just had no idea how right he was.
He swore under his breath and looked at the bookshop, listening to the water hammer in its old pipes.
How could he have known that the angel would fall? After everything that absolute naive, wonderful idiot had done for those winged, righteous arseholes, after all the blind faith he instilled millenia after millenia-
Twenty minutes later and the water was still running.
Crowley got to his feet.

-

Aziraphale wondered if he could drown.

He had no wish to try, but the thought passed through his mind regardless. An awful thought that made him sit up a little straighter in the tub.

The last time Aziraphale had been in it would have been a good forty years ago, for a reason he couldn’t quite recall. Usually he miracled away any soil to his clothing or body, and the tub remained unused.
Right now, he needed something sensory, something tangible to keep his mind grounded to right here in this bookshop. In this flat. It was the first miracle he had performed since falling, making this tub bigger. He needed to be able to sink down, feel the bubbles pile up around him, feel the heat of the water up to his ears. The water ran and ran, another touch of a miracle (which he realised he was subconsciously pulling from Down instead of from Up) so that the rush of echoing stream would soothe his mind.
He needed the grime off of him, he needed the stench of hell off his body, he needed to be cleansed in a very human way.
Speaking of grime -
With quite a decent pull of effort his wings unfolded, folding over the edge of the tub and rolling out onto the floor. The black smog had gone and the feathers were trying to grow back, singed remains still floating to the floor. They ached.
The smell of sulphur and ash hung heavy in the air.
“Oh bollocks,” he grumbled, wondering again what the point of all of this was.
There was a soft knock at the door. Aziraphale didn’t even bother opening his eyes or answering.
Another knock.
“Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale frowned, unsure why he deserved such a gentle voice to beckon him.
“Yes, Crowley.”
“I'm coming in.”
The demon opened the door and made his way in, bottle of red in one hand and two glasses in the other, kicking the door closed behind him.
“1946. You know the one,” he murmured, almost missing a step at the sight.
No. He couldn’t comment on it right now. He went over, not making a big deal about the wings at all. It was overwhelming enough without him prattling on and fussing over the former angel.
Crowley sank down to the floor next to the tub, leaning against it as he poured them both a glass, handing the much fuller one to Aziraphale, “thank you. For everything.”
“Me? Pfff. I didn’t do anything.”
“If you hadn’t gone down there and got me out-"
“You would have come back up here and given Muriel a mouthful for selling a book, regardless of whether I saved your arse or not. You would’ve realised you didn’t belong down there.”
“Neither of us do,” he replied quietly, inhaling the wine deeply, an involuntary sound rumbling through his chest.
Crowleys lip twitched, “don’t tell me that was a purr over the ‘46 Grand Cr-“
“Not another word,” Aziraphale muttered but he had a small smile on his face, drinking rather hastily.

They sat in silence for a few long minutes, Aziraphale eventually holding out an empty glass to Crowley, who filled it obligingly as well as his own.
“Crowley?”
“Mm?”
“Look at me.”
He did. He watched Aziraphale, looked into his eyes, now a softer reflection of his own. He looked to his hair, the ivory fluff of every direction was wet and darker, still trying to stick up despite the water. The sharp ears, the black so very dark against the pale skin. His eyes trailed from wet shoulders to the long and now black wings that laid behind Aziraphale, sparse as they tried to heal and grow. He mourned for them. He mourned them much like he mourned his own.

“I’m so very sorry,” the former angel whispered, catching Crowley's free hand gently, continuing when he didn’t pull away, “I did the wrong thing. Not just in the grand scheme of things. I did the wrong thing by you. By us. And you have no business in forgiving me, that I am very sure of. But I just wanted you to know even if it’s far too late and very unfair of me - you mean the world to me Crowley. And you’ve given me far more than I deserve. I meant it when I said I needed you,” his voice caught in his throat, eyes brimming with tears and he found he couldn’t hold the other demons gaze any longer, looking down at the bubbles as they sizzled and popped quietly around him.

Crowley squeezed his hand, “I know, angel.”

Chapter Text

It didn’t take much convincing to get Aziraphale to sleep.

Crowley waited patiently in Aziraphales room, moving a stack of books off a chair so he could sit in it, staring out the dark window. Aziraphale eventually made his way in, dressed in the comfiest clothes Crowley had ever seen him wear (since togas slipped out of fashion).
“Didn’t know you knew how to wear clothes without a bow tie to hold it together,” he teased lightly and Aziraphale rolled his eyes, hands patting at his thick patterned blue jumper, “says the demon who’s pants are perpetually glued to him.”
Crowley raised a brow, “glued?”
“They may aswell be,” Aziraphale sat on the edge of the bed, knee almost knocking against Crowleys.
“It’s called fashion, Aziraphale.”
“Oh yes, I know YOU call it that,” he chuckled but then lost his smile.
He’d said sorry and yet it wasn’t enough. He could feel within himself that it wasn’t enough. He had expected Crowley to be more… closed off from him. But here he was, sitting as indecently as always (not that he noticed) and just watching Aziraphale with a very neutral expression. No hint of hostility or disappointment.
He didn’t deserve the kindness.

“You don’t have to stay here. I owe you more than you know. But I don’t expect you to stay here and feel like you have to protect me - I got myself into this mess and I’ll be damned- well- well I surely don’t want you involved in this.”
Crowley exhaled slowly and looked to the small globe that sat upon the walnut bedside, “right. Trying to make decisions for us again, are you?”
Aziraphale frowned, “excuse me?”
“Are those new ears painted on? Aziraphale, I’m not going anywhere,” he said, holding onto some semblance of patience, eyes back on the former angel, “I’m here. I have nowhere else in this forsaken planet to be.”
Aziraphale softened, “I’ve hurt you.”
“Yes. You did.”
“I didn’t listen to you.”
“Nope. You did not.”
“I will make things better.”
Crowleys mouth twisted, “you’ve said that before. And you fell.”
“No, not up there,” Aziraphale shuffled forward and took Crowleys hand, “right here. I’ll make things better right here.”

He leaned forward and gripped Crowleys hand to his chest, pulling the demon off the chair and kissing him, lips crashing together.

It was just as hard as their first, with as much anxiety and desperation, yet it melted into something soft and warm and Crowleys brain needed a kickstart just to get going again. Aziraphale was kissing him. It felt like an apology, a hundred times over, more than the apology dance was worth by far. He pulled away just barely, Aziraphale letting his hand go and sitting back, face flushed. But this time there were no tears, no confusion. Aziraphale just looked… expectant. Not in a good way either - because he was waiting for it, waiting for the absolute rejection, waiting for Crowley to get up, say something vile and heartbreaking and saunter his way out, leaving Aziraphale to wallow in his own stupidity and sorrow.

Crowley licked his lip, sitting back in the chair, trying not to give away the fact that his head was spinning and his heart was beating in his ears, “as far as apologies go, that was pretty ...remorseful.”
Aziraphale felt a knot loosen in his spine.
“I don’t know if I can ever truly express how sorry I am.”
“I think we’ve got a few thousand years left up our sleeve for you to make it up to me.”
Aziraphale nodded with a small smile, and then he frowned as a yawn came over him, hand covering his mouth at the foreign reflex, “oh my word.”
Crowley shook his head, “a yawn? Bloody hell, get some sleep would you?”
Aziraphale obediently pulled back the covers and climbed in, “Don’t let me sleep for longer than is necessary. Please.”
Crowley snorted, “I’m not a good judge of that. I might let you sleep for months. Years. You’d be surprised how much a decade long nap helps.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“I’d like to think I’m practical.”
“Mm,” another yawn stifled and Crowley got up, taking the empty glasses with him, “night, angel.”

Creep was technically part of the job description. Technically.
Creep, creepy, creeper, spook, spooky, spooker? Spookier. Crowley should have felt right at home, watching Aziraphale snooze like a creep. No wait, he wasn’t watching him snooze, he was… protecting him, while he was in a vulnerable state.
Perfectly reasonable, considering what could have been happening around them. Was Heaven plotting something? Did they know he was back on earth? Had they relied on Hell to keep him down there? And why wasn’t Hell looking for him?

Not one demon was sighted through the night walking down the street, nor an angel. It stayed quiet. Crowley liked this type of quiet. Nothing spooky happening (though he was indeed a spooky fan).
Just the still night, a small crescent moon outside the window and Aziraphale breathing slow and steady, a small rumble from his chest every now and again. Crowley would never admit it, but it was almost a soothing noise. Like the Bentley. He ached for a drive, just the two of them.

The sun was suddenly rising and Crowley frowned at it, chin in his hand, elbow resting on the cluttered desk under the bedroom window. How rude, to have to awaken Aziraphale when he slept so soundly.
Crowley almost expected him to snore but he didn’t so much as roll over. His ears twitched every now and then, and Crowley didn’t find it adorable in the absolute slightest. Nope, no, not at all.
“Bobcat indeed,” he grumbled, getting up and going downstairs to make some tea, muttering to himself about apex predators.

Aziraphale woke in somewhat of a daze, taking a moment to catch up. Ah. He was laying in his bed. The bland ceiling above was cast in a warm glow, the sun slowly welcoming the day. He sat up and slipped his feet into some slippers, padding over to the mirror and glancing at himself.
So much the same, so very different.
He stepped forward and looked into the foreign yellow-greenish eyes, watching his pupils change when he moved in and out of the direct sun. The slits narrowed as the sun hit a particularly reflective spot in his vision and with a startled noise he realised he may have to adopt Crowleys use of sunglasses. He would attract far too much attention. Oh and those blasted ears…

“I can hear you coming up the stairs,” he called out, noticing the very gentle click of Crowleys shoes as he tried to be silent. The click stopped, “really?” He called back, having only taken three steps up.
“Indeed,” Aziraphale called back, coming out and walking down to meet him, taking the mug gratefully.
“Thought you would’ve slept longer.”
“So did I,” Aziraphale agreed, sipping the tea with a sigh and moving around him, taking in the bookshop.
Not much had changed, not really. Not enough to rev him up and throw a hissy fit, which he had indeed done many times before.
Crowley followed his gaze, “You surely don’t plan on opening today, do you?”
“Oh no, definitely not. No I… I don’t have it in me right now,” the former angel leaned against a pillar, sipping his tea again.
Crowley was relieved. Getting back into the regular swing of things just didn’t seem appropriate right now.
“You’re not still living in the car, are you?”
Crowley shook his head, “nope,” popping the ‘P’, “went back to my flat for a bit. Didn’t really like being there either.”
“What? Why? You love that abomination.”
“Too crowded,” he muttered, finishing his tea. Aziraphale didn’t understand how the very minimalistic mausoleum-esque flat could possibly feel crowded so didn’t comment further.
“I was thinking, if you’re up for it, maybe we can go for a drive,” Crowley offered, staring out the window.
“In our car?”
Crowley glared at him over his glasses, Aziraphale hiding a smile.

After checking the coast was definitely clear, they locked the bookshop, crossing the street and Aziraphale stared at the ground as they walked. Crowley nudged him, holding out a spare pair of his glasses. Aziraphale slipped them on and with a whisper of a miracle they changed into a brown framed pair with dark lenses, more subtle than Crowleys usual black yet just as protected.
“What am I going to do about these ears?” He asked when they got into the car, flipping down the mirror and looking at himself.
Crowley sighed, “I don’t know. But look, the longer I was on earth, the more I could… blend in.”
“How so?”
“Dunno really. Just became more… naturalised?”
“Which took you several thousand years.”
“I could try a miracle?”
“Please by all means,” Aziraphale sat still and Crowley concentrated, very very carefully, and snapped his fingers.
Nothing happened.
“Look it’s not that obvious,” he tried to placate him as they pulled out onto the street, “if you’re that conscious of it, then maybe a hat?”
“I suppose,” Aziraphale replied, a tad sour, watching out the tinted window, “if it’s just you and me then it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
“Doesn’t matter to me one bit. Do you have a tail?”
Aziraphale looked to him in horror, “I most certainly do not!”
“Oh calm down,” Crowley smirked, “besides, I have a tail. S’not so bad.”
“Yes but that’s an extension of your whole body! It doesn’t seem to start or end when you’re in that form! And you don’t have a tail right now. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation…”
“What? Why? We might as well get it out the way. Don’t want you spontaneously combusting into a bloody mountain lion in the middle of hors d'oeuvres at the Ritz.”
“A mountain lion? Oh please,” Aziraphale scoffed, “also I’m unsure how talking about this... this condition helps at all. Wait, are we going to the Ritz?”
Crowley rolled his eyes, “no. I wouldn’t think that’s wise.”
“Right. Too right.”

-

The streets of London melted away, what with Crowleys incessant need for speed, and Aziraphale tutted at him but otherwise didn’t really mention it, just fell into his habit of hanging onto the handle until his knuckles turned white, newly sharp fingernails digging into his palm.
They didn’t often come to the countryside. They didn’t need to, really. And it was rare that Crowley drove anywhere of a distance, instead flying through space and time in barely a second to materialise wherever he was needed. The Bentley was for the city, he reasoned, if he was going to be seen as a flash bastard then that was the way to do it.

The Bentley and the two demons seemed to relax when the countryside rolled by them, lush greens and flecks of yellows, Aziraphale loosening his grip.
“I’m not looking forward to remembering a new name, by the way.”
“Hm? Pardon?”
“If you decide on a new name. A demonic whatever type name.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale shook his head, “I don’t think I’ll bother with that sort of thing. A new name won’t change who I am.”
Crowleys lip twitched but he nodded once, dropping the subject instantly.
“Besides, what would be suitable?” He grinned to Crowley, sharp teeth shining, “Bob?”
Crowley made a noise of revulsion in his throat, “I would think the fuck not.”
Aziraphale laughed, a proper belly laugh, unable to stop himself and it was contagious, Crowley sniggering and the two laughed until there were tears, Aziraphale taking off his glasses when he finally calmed down, wiping his eyes, “oh my.”
“Hey,” Crowley still chuckled, trying to calm down, his hand stopping Aziraphales when he tried to put the glasses back on, “s’just us. No need to hide them - not that different from mine really.”
He tried to be offhand about it but Aziraphale obliged all the same, sliding the glasses into his breast pocket, “perhaps you should consider doing the same?”
Crowley hesitated but then shrugged and tossed his glasses into the glove compartment, rattling with several other pairs.
They stole a glance from each other, pale gold-green eyes to striking serpentine amber.
Crowley focused back on the road, “you’ll get used to it.”
“Perhaps. Will you? Get used to it?” Aziraphale asked tentatively, eyes straight ahead.

Crowley wanted to tell Aziraphale that he wouldn’t care if he had the eyes of a bloody goldfish, he’d still love him.

The Bentley lurched at that, revving a little and Queen’s 'Break Thru' shifted into the speakers.

Crowley growled under his breath and Aziraphale raised a brow, waiting for an answer, unsure of the cars sudden outburst.
Crowley turned the volume down and sighed, “I’m already used to it. It’s still you, angel. Couple of bells and whistles never bothered me. Don’t seem to recall you ever having to get used to me with what I am and how I look. You never looked at me any different.”
“I always found your eyes quite lovely. Expressive,” Aziraphale avoided them now, feeling heat in his cheeks although he tried to Will it away, “it's a shame you have to hide them.”
It was Crowley's turn to blush, pulling off down a dirt road and coming to a stop on the side after a few metres.
“Couldn’t scare the natives now, could I?” He replied lamely, getting out the car.

Chapter Text

It was a nice day, the first one in a few weeks, and the irony wasn’t lost on them. The sky was a perfect blue, fluffy white clouds here and there, barely enough to stop the suns warm rays.

They sat under a tall elm, the shadows of the swaying leaves dancing on the tartan picnic blanket (it was only their first time using it - Crowley maintained that he had a real issue with ants and picnics in general, and there was no underlying meaning, no none at all) and with a wave and a thought, a wicker basket appeared. Aziraphale sat on the blanket across from Crowley, eyeing him curiously. He wanted to outright just ask if this was a date - not like dates they had before. A date that had a real word behind it, a real date. A date that had a label, since it appeared now that they perhaps also had a label. Things were open now, weren’t they?
Or, perhaps they weren’t.
Perhaps this was Crowley trying to placate Aziraphale.
Perhaps there was something untoward behind it-
The former angel wanted to shake himself. Where was this inane paranoia coming from? This was Crowley. Pain-in-his-arse, wicked, wonderful, considerate, caring, Crowley.

The red-haired demon watched the green fields afar, leaning back on his elbows, ankles crossed. The perfect picture of apparently being completely unbothered. But Aziraphale could see the sharp jaw was tensed, eyes narrowed just enough that he was very sure the infinite cogs were ticking over in Crowleys mind.
“When was the last time you ate?”
Well that certainly wasn’t the question Aziraphale had expected. He had to think for a moment.
“A… a while, I suppose.”
The basket flicked open, the rich and buttery smell of warm pastries instantly wafting over.
“Have at it.”
“Oh. Oh no I’m okay.”
Crowley half rolled over to stare at Aziraphale, “wot?”
His stomach didn’t grumble, yet his body wasn’t satiated either. It was a very empty feeling.
“Do demons not have an appetite?” Aziraphale asked.
Crowley sat up straight rather quick, “are you pulling my leg?”
Aziraphale glanced down at one of the demons long legs but then realised what he meant and he shook his head, “no, no. I’m not joking, if that’s what you mean.”
“There is a warm, flaky pain au chocolat in there and I will set this field alight if it goes ignored,” he threatened lightly.

Aziraphale was about to comment on Crowleys complete lack of finesse when it came to temptation these days but decided against it and pulled the pastry out. It was indeed flaky and fresh and the smell was positively delightful. His body didn’t react the way he hoped but perhaps he just needed to actually eat it. Perhaps this new body just needed a little kickstart when it came to earthly indulgences.
The crunch of the pastry melted around his teeth, the chocolate barely oozy yet rich and dark, tongue tasting the butter and the sugar and-
“Oh my,” he mumbled around the mouthful. He was brought back to trying that ox rib, his first meal. Again, tempted into it by Crowley.
This was somehow far better.
Crowleys shoulders relaxed, and he laid down, “don’t ever scare me like that again, you bastard.”
Aziraphale swallowed and laughed, thumb swiping the chocolate he could feel on the corner of his mouth, “apologies. It’s wonderful. One sin ticked off from the handbook.”
Crowley groaned, “they don’t still do that do they? Dagon didn’t sit you down with that chart?”
Aziraphale snorted, “I was joking! Demon humour.”

It was just as bad as his angel humour, and far worse than his human humour.

Crowley rolled his eyes, “you don’t need to be a demon to check off those sins anyway. And humans do it all on their own.”
“And then some angels, if a demon has been tempting them into it for several millenia.”
“Oi, I have not.”
Aziraphale held up fingers as he ticked off, “gluttony.”
“Something tells me you would’ve succeeded in that one on your own-“
“Wrath.”
“Oh please, you have all the wrath of a butterfl-“
“Sloth, greed, pride. Most definitely experienced all of those.”
Crowley was interested now, sitting up properly, “greed and pride definitely blend into one when it comes to you and that bookshop. I’m not even going to touch sloth-“
“Envy.”
“You?” Crowley raised a brow, “envious? Of who?”
“A few things. You, your perception of the world. Humans, and their… their free Will. Don’t think I’ve ever said that out loud.”
Crowleys mind was stuck on that first bit though, “me? No point of being envious of me, that’s just ridiculous.”
“Oh come on now,” Aziraphale frowned, “you may not have been free but you experienced a freedom I had no hope in achieving. And you could ask questions, granted you wouldn’t probably get answers, but just being able to ask-“
“You were doing your job! Unflinching loyalty and all that.”
“I’m sure some flinching occurred, considering I’m here now.”
Crowley pursed his lips at that.
Aziraphale pulled himself out of this conversation which was surely turning into an argument any moment.
“So you see, all your temptations were accomplished. You would have received golden stars on that chart.”
“Lust,” Crowley blurted out, “you forgot one. Guess you can pile it in with gluttony, if it’s more of the same to you.”
“It’s not,” Aziraphale replied just as quickly, “it’s not more of the same.”
Silence fell between them, both of their eyes diverted to some very interesting blades of grass or threads of tartan on the picnic blanket.

“So no full marks for me then. Only six gold stars.”
Aziraphale looked to him but Crowley was very interested in the blade of grass between his fingers.
“Are we… doing that thing where we’re both saying things but not really… saying… things?” It was convoluted and his cheeks reddened but he knew that Crowley knew exactly what he meant, for the shredded grass drifted to the blanket.
Crowley didn’t answer.
Aziraphale tried again, “Are you indirectly asking me if you’ve tempted me into lust?”
Still no answer.
Aziraphale huffed, “fine, I suppose you don’t want my answer then.”
“I never tried to tempt you with lust.”
“You didn’t need to try, you silly old thing.”
Crowleys brain and mouth attempted two different things which resulted in a ‘Ngk’ at the back of his throat and his pupils to blow out just enough that Aziraphale raised a challenging brow, “are you alright?”
“Hang on, what does that mean? I didn’t need to try? Try what? I just said-“
“Oh I know what you said. Did you understand what *I* just said?”
“More of an attempt of your ‘demon humour’?”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, somewhat of an annoyed growl rumbling through his chest, “There was nothing funny about it at all.”
Crowley frowned at the noise, half wanting to laugh and yet just bewildered at the turn of conversation. He replayed it in his head, the words turning over.

You didn’t NEED to try…

“Ah- Oh. Oh. Wait, are you,” and he grinned, “are you flirting with me?”
“Honestly thousands of years as a demon and not just any old demon but a demon always by my side and you didn’t understand I was giving you a compliment? Stroking your ego, as it were? I honestly cannot tell if you’re being this naive on purpose or if you’re just trying to embarrass me!”
Crowleys grin widened at Aziraphales frustration, “oh dear, kitten's getting those claws out-“
“Oh for fuck sake, Crowley! You-"
“Oooh tetchy! Aziraphale that was some downright nasty language-"

And Aziraphale growled at him. A top tier, bottom of the chest to the front of his teeth growl that reverberated into the air between them, sending a very real chill down Crowleys spine.

They both blinked and then roared with laughter, Aziraphales cheeks reddening quickly as all ire turned to mirth, embarrassed at the little outburst but he couldn’t be at all angry when Crowley laughed like this - a true laugh that was not at all conventionally attractive (it was loud and rhythmless and snort-y) and yet the brightest and most beautiful vision he had seen and heard in a long, long time.

When they finally simmered down, Crowley scooched a little closer, “where were we?”
“Oh very good tactic,” Aziraphale commended him playfully, “we were discussing sin, and I was trying to tell you how you invoked lust without even trying. Before you tried discorporating me with embarrassment.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right. Invoked lust, hm?”
“Don’t be naive, you wily serpent. You own a mirror.”
Crowley rolled his eyes, “the packaging wasn’t exactly a choice.”
“No, but how you present it is,” Aziraphale murmured.
“Explain that to me.”
He was pushing buttons, he knew that. And where this confidence to push those buttons exactly came from, he wasn’t sure, or maybe he was - but if he actually took the time to sit back and realise this was possibly how it could be from now on, then perhaps that was setting the bar too high. Giving too much hope. A small, annoying niggling feeling set into the back of his mind but he was determined to squash it.
He had just got the angel back. They were, for the moment on their own side. Willingly.

Willingly? The small voice pressed and Crowleys jaw tightened. Fell willingly? I don’t think so.

Aziraphale didn’t notice the inner turmoil and instead answered the question, “well vanity is one of your strong points. I remember 1962 quite well, you know. Men flocked to you, women wanted to be you. Pleasing to the eye, but I had the advantage of knowing you even when those particular looks were cast aside. Quite attractive on all accounts.”
Crowley took a moment to catch up but then nodded slowly, “right, right. ‘62.”
“Rather fetching when the dress style was very short and your legs are very long. A turning point in fashion, I believe. Turned many heads, anyway.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Liar.”
“Honest!”
“Turned my head,” Aziraphale mumbled.
Crowleys negative inner voice was effectively silenced - he was fully immersed back into the conversation, digging through memories in a rush to remember.
“Really?” He asked in quiet awe, all teasing gone.
“Oh yes. Definitely felt Envy that day. Didn’t quite have the same confidence as you to show that much skin.”
“Dunno why not, you did just fine during the 1500’s.”
“Oh that was a different time-"
Crowley sighed in reminiscence, “The paintings… it was the only thing to improve one’s foul mood after the terrible two hundred years that preceded it.”
Aziraphale scoffed, “the paintings? You hated the paintings!”
“Not all of them, but cmon, Titian?”
Aziraphale sighed fondly as he remembered, “some lovely work.”
“Big fan of those muses, I was. I seem to remember one,” he clicked his tongue, “I went and saw Titian late September in 1517, temptation if I recall, went sifting through some of their ongoing work and seeing this absolutely heavenly muse, wearing not much except blue silk… dunno if that one ever came about…”
An odd noise and Aziraphale burned scarlet, remembering posing for that exact painting, the feminine body he presented himself in at the time was desired in many circles those days, though he didn’t understand why at the time. He was just doing Titian a minor miracle, a tiny blessing. He had no idea Crowley even knew about that particular painting.

Crowleys lip twitched and he looked over with nothing less than a devilish but indulgent grin, “the 1960s had nothing on 1517.”
“Oh lord,” Aziraphale covered his face, feeling himself glowing, “that painting was never meant to see the light of day.”
“It didn’t, if that makes you feel better. It stayed unfinished and only saw candlelight. Titian, me and you, it will be our little secret.”
“Still, it doesn’t detract from the fact that seven gold stars for seven deadly sins was certainly accomplished by you, bravo,” they’d come full circle and Aziraphale was very much done with having attention on him.
Crowley very gently slipped his cool hand into Aziraphales warm one. The former angel squeezed just enough to feel the dry yet smooth slide of Crowleys skin - no ridges from scales but certainly a similar and unusual feel.
Crowley wanted to just melt into the heat and turn into a puddle of serpentine goo, Aziraphale's hand was warmer than the usual human and softer, yet the usually perfectly manicured short nails were longer, just as manicured but pointed and sharp.

Crowley frowned as he noticed something, bringing their joined hands closer to his face, “what’s this?”
“Hm? Oh…”
Around Aziraphales pinky, where his gold ring had lived for an eternity, was a blackened scorched scar, the golden ring gone.
“Couldn’t hold onto something heavenly, you know, part of the process I assume… must’ve burned up when I… burned…” He tried to be matter of fact, tried to push past that odd feeling in his throat that threatened to choke him. He forced a smile which was empty of any happiness, “wouldn’t have suited me anymore anyway, I don’t even own any jewellery, would have been rather moot.”
Crowley brought the hand to his mouth and very softly with barely a whisper of pressure, kissed the scorched mark, causing Aziraphale to let out a soft noise of surprise that he quickly tried to stifle so it wouldn’t turned into the sob that was trying to creep its way into his voice.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley started gently, still holding his hand but letting it drop between them, “do you want to talk about it?”
He did not. Did not want to talk about any of it. The before, the during, the after. A part of him, that he didn’t acknowledge, was telling him to tell Crowley ‘you go first then, go on, tell me about how you fell and we can swap war stories’, but he knew that was just a part of him that was deeply hurt.
“I don’t. Not right now. I hope you understand.”
“I do. I do understand. Do you want to perhaps give me the very short version of what happened before it? What… caused it? I mean back in my day you just asked questions and then hung out with the wrong people but you… I mean you were trying to restore all the Good. You weren’t rebelling or anything. How could they do this?”

Ah. Hadn’t he? Hadn't he rebelled? Rebelled against The Plan?

But Crowley wanted the very short version, presumably the version that would at least put his mind at ease, so Aziraphale obliged.

“The short version my dear is that they wanted… in short, Armageddon. Again. But not the way you’d think… not heaven versus hell. It would be both factions against… everyone. The humans. All of it. The Second Coming, a very real Plan apparently. The more I learned, the more I… well I couldn’t do that. And angels were turning to me for advice, for guidance, and they couldn’t see a flaw in the plan! They thought it was the Right thing, that surely there was a Good reason…”
Crowley felt Aziraphale squeezing his hand tighter and simply squeezed back, holding on as the angel spoke and their eyes going a little wide with panic, “I… I did some research. Some snooping. Some… well I attempted some thwarting. But then Michael found out-“
Crowley hissed quite audibly at that and Aziraphale swallowed, “Michael was relentless. They’re corrupt,” he whispered, “in ways you can’t begin to imagine.”
Crowley snorted, blood boiling, “oh no, I can imagine it jusssst fine.”
“I was no match for Michael.”
“You fought Michael?! Oh Aziraphale,” he whined, knowing where that lead to.
“I was supreme archangel. I had the power of heaven in my hands. I thought… I thought I was doing the right thing! But Michael is respected. Feared. Has allies and soldiers in places I couldn’t have ever imagined. No one believed what I had to say. Even the Metatron. So they passed down my sentence. Michael cut my halo using my own sword. P-Poetic, they probably thought…”
He couldn’t speak anymore, horror at the memory making him cringe, teeth gritting and Crowley sprung into action, shifting to kneel in front of Aziraphale and hug him tightly, too tight but it seemed to be the necessary glue to keep them both from falling apart.
Aziraphale's breathing came out in shudders into Crowleys neck and shoulder, gripping onto him and finding purchase in his jacket and the demon soothed him by rubbing circles into his back.
“S’okay, you’re here now. With me.”
Aziraphale nodded, trying to get his throat to produce words again, even just a ‘thank you’, but nothing came out. Just a horrible whine that caused Crowley's skin to ripple.
“It explains why we were able to come up here with no one bothering us from Down there,” he murmured, “they’re bloody terrified of you.”
“History repeating itself,” Aziraphale finally whispered, “that’s what Uriel said.”
It made perfect sense, if you stripped it down to just the bare actions.
Supreme archangel, doesn’t agree with The Plan, asks questions, won’t fall in line, gets cast down by Michael…
“Not like you tried gathering a full blown rebellious army though to storm heaven like last time with you-know-who though. I mean that was lunacy.”
“Oh yes I did try saying that, but as soon as I said His name, Michael was a thousand eyes and complete fury. Haven’t seen them that angry in a very long time. I hit a nerve, I’m sure.”
“I bet. One archangel is a thing, but three?” Crowley exhaled loudly through his nose, sitting back and watching Aziraphale, “and they still don’t get that they are the problem.”

A faint bell went off in Aziraphales mind and he frowned with a slow nod, “three?”
Dagon had mentioned there were already two that had fallen during the rebellion - Lucifer was a given, but then who was the other? Apart from the Morningstar, the other angels who fell were below that of an archangel, or so Aziraphale thought. Then again, he was a cherubim at that time, and learned long ago that he and 99% of the cohort were on a strict ‘need to know’ basis.

Crowley had slipped up. Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit-

“Yeah. Something like that,” he shrugged as if it was absolutely no big deal, “don’t really remember.”
“Not one being has mentioned another fallen archangel except for you and Dagon. Which means that Hell knows and majority of Heaven doesn’t.”
Crowley didn’t like where this was going, “that’s probably for the best, isn’t it? Poor bastard is probably down there with Lucifer right now.”
Aziraphale's eyes flickered upward at the name, whether he realised it or not, knowing that just saying the name was absolutely forbidden. Well, forbidden for angels anyway.
Habits do indeed die hard.

Crowley was still strung as high as a harpsichord.

He forced himself to deflate, “anyway… look, bottom line is for the moment you’re safe. We’re safe. I’m sure Hell will come sniffing around, they always do, but we’ll be prepared. Or gone. Out of the way, at least. Only bit I'm concerned about is what’s going on Up There now that you’re gone… what’s their plan?”
Aziraphale sighed heavily, “I don’t know. I suppose my responsibilities will be pushed onto Uriel. Or Michael. They strike me as the type to self delegate.”
Crowley hissed with a vibration in his throat reminiscent of a hive being kicked forcefully, “let’s do usssss both a favour and not mention that angelic arseholesss name for the ressst of the day.”
Aziraphale looked to him, very gently gripping his chin between a thumb and forefinger, “deal. Don’t go getting yourself tied into a knot on account of them.”

The thing is, when Crowley forgot himself and got worked up, he could get carried away. Despite a half reasonable attempt to calm down, his quick forked tongue escaped his mouth and tasted Aziraphale's thumb of its own accord.
It tickled and Aziraphale hid a small snigger, letting his chin go, “perhaps we should make our way back, before I get constricted and the London Zoo gains a very dangerous beast.”
Crowley cleared his throat in embarrassment, getting to his feet in a rather slippery and unnatural way, trying to shake off the demonic surge bubbling beneath the surface. He held a scaly hand out to Aziraphale, who took it and got to his feet, brushing off his jumper from the flaky pastry.
“Want me to drive?”
Crowley hissed at him, which wasn’t nearly as intimidating as he had hoped, and for once Aziraphale didn’t tut him, in fact the former angel just laughed and snapped his fingers so their little setup was tucked away in the Bentley, ready for their journey home.

Chapter Text

In hindsight (which is a very fickle thing) Crowley should have seen it coming.

Maggie and Nina had well involved themselves in the little bubble of 'the extraordinary that consisted of Crowley and Aziraphale' and Crowley didn’t realise just how involved until they returned to the bookshop. They’d barely closed the door behind them when there was a feverish knock and Maggie calling out, “Crowley! It’s Maggie!”
“And Nina,” called a more patient voice, “did we just see Mr Fell with you?”
The two demons looked to each other, Aziraphale unsure but Crowley sighed in annoyance, “if we’re being fair, then we owe them the peace of mind-“
“Too right. I think we owe them,” Aziraphale agreed, slipping his shaded glasses on and opening the door.
Maggie looked relieved but Nina’s eyes narrowed, “how was your... trip?”
“Awful,” he answered politely with a smile, moving aside to let them in.

Maggie went inside and looked around, about to ask something but Nina interrupted with a sharp poke to Aziraphale's chest, “you have some explaining to do, you know that right? That idiot,” she pointed to Crowley who looked just as shocked at being addressed, “has been crawling into my shop day in and day out, absolutely pissed, scaring the customers and being an absolute wreck because of you!”
“I wouldn’t say I crawled-“
“I’m not done,” she snapped and he retreated, even Maggie letting her continue though she looked to Crowley in apology. Aziraphale however just stood and let Nina’s speech plow forth, “just up and vanish when he tells you how he feels! The absolute nerve you have Mr Fell, I don’t know what the hell is the matter with you-“
“Nina, it’s okay,” Crowley interjected, “it’s a bit of a complicated sort of… thing…”
“Not from where I’m standing! You’re the one who said you’d known each other forever and what, first sign of anything close to actually communicating and he just decides it’s too hard? Men, honestly-“
“You’re right,” Aziraphale replied a little loudly to stop the onslaught, “you’re right Nina. Not about the men thing, we don’t bother with that sort of- well anyway, you are right. I made a very, very big mistake. Biggest one of my existence, and believe me, I’ve made many,” he stepped back and slid off his glasses, looking to Crowley, the women jumping a little as they fully took in everything that made Mr Fell seem a little off, “and I know that no amount of apologising with words is enough.”
“Angel-“
But Aziraphale held up a hand and looked to Nina, “thank you for taking care of him. I owe you both so very much.”
“You do,” Nina said, voice not as strong as before as she took in his sincerity, arms crossing over her chest.
“You should probably consider getting a big bunch of flowers for Muriel, too,” Maggie added, “they've done a marvellous job.”
Crowley felt a stone sink rapidly to his gut.
Aziraphale looked to him, “where is Muriel, by the way?”
“Oh, FUCK.”

“Wait she’s where?” Maggie asked as Crowley paced around, not telling a full story but randomly snapping things out like ‘up’ ‘disagreement’ ‘might’ve yelled a bit’ ‘heaven’ ‘fuck’ ‘shit’.
Aziraphale blanched, “why did she go back up there?”
Crowleys fingers gripped his hair as he explained, “when you fell we both kind of lost the plot! We got in that bloody lift and then I kicked her out cos she wanted to go Up even though I knew you went Down!”
“A lift?” Nina looked to Maggie for clarification but Maggie just shrugged, eyes wide with confusion.
“So she got back in and went to Heaven? You’re absolutely sure?”
Crowley nodded, “she figured something had to have gone wrong! Is she in danger?”
Aziraphale thought. He thought about the discussions up there. But Heaven was Heaven, and a 37th order scrivener was of no concern to them.
“No. No I don’t believe so.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“They don’t care about her. They don’t really care about any of us. You know that,” Aziraphale murmured and Crowley went over and gripped him by his collar, “put us aside for one second, just one. We’re the anomalies. Think. Really think. Cos if there’s even the slightest chance, the tiniest risk that she’s in danger from those… those angels then we need to find her.”
“He’s right,” Maggie said, even though Aziraphale was trying very hard not to focus on Crowleys cool hands near his neck. He gently put his own warm ones over his and gave a squeeze and Crowley let go but his manic energy remained the same, back to pacing around the shop in an angry buzz.
“I think we’re a bit out of our depth,” Nina muttered, watching the flaming red hair walk in a circle.
Aziraphale, however, pursed his lips, “I have… an idea. Are any of you devout?” He asked Nina and Maggie. Nina threw him a look one would give a toddler who was eating dirt, and Maggie shook her head, “no. Bit hard, you know, keeping your faith in a place where you’re not accepted.”
Crowley hissed, “hallelujah.”
“But you understand the gist of prayer, yes?”
Crowley looked confused now, “you do know that you’re a demon now, right?”
Aziraphale waved a hand to shush him, “prayers are powerful things. Strong acts of devotion. Love.”
“Allegiance,” Crowley grumbled and Aziraphale threw him a snarky look that made him stop his pacing and commentary and just listen.
“Angels feel them. Acutely,” Aziraphale brightened, going over to his desk and the three looked to each other, equally at sea.
He pressed on, looking through drawers, “Muriel may be drawn to it. She’s a low-end scrivener, unknown to the world, so I doubt she’s had anyone truly pray to her specifically before. Even if she’s in Heaven, this will get her attention like a moth to a… light?”
“Flame,” Crowley offered, “in this case, a bonfire,” he caught on and went over to help Aziraphale find some candles.

Nina was not brought up in a religious household, something which she was grateful for as she got older. The more people she met, the less patience she had for things that, in her opinion, squashed said people of qualities like responsibilities and generosity and instead introduced a sense of entitlement. Entitled people were the worst. She was as polite as her patience took her of course, but it wasn’t far. She’d had religious folks bother her at the shop before by pointing out her worn out pride flag sticker on the far wall, to which she had responded with a very brisk “it’s my wall and I’ll do with it as I please, and if God has a problem with my wall then She can start paying rent,” which always left them with sour pinched cheeks and a glare that was on par with Crowleys (minus the glowing yellow and accompanying hiss).
So when a small altar was made upon Aziraphales desk - which she felt very weird about - she sat back and let the others discuss the plan. Seemed simple enough but she was having a hard time accepting words such as ‘summon’ and ‘angel’ and ‘possible wrath’.
Maggie seemed onboard though as she went over to a bookshelf and brought over a burgundy covered book, placing it on the slapdash altar.
“She loves that book. Big fan of murder mysteries too.”
Aziraphale looked a little shocked, “really?” But he smiled, “oh good for her. Books are really fantastic, I found once my collection started it was quite hard to-“
“Oi, can we get a move on?” Nina felt itchy.
Maggie turned on the candles and they took a step back, watching the man made flames flicker in their tiny bulbs.
“Alright. Now I need to try and remember my catholic upbringing,” Maggie sighed, thinking it over, “do you think we’ll need a bible or anything?”
Crowley shook his head, “that book was her bible. Wait a sec,” he clicked in the air and a rush of the shops gold dust swam over to him from its corners. The women gasped at the particles and Crowley spoke to the glittering air, “that little angel has been very good to you these past few months - took care of you. Anything you can do to, er, encourage a response will be helpful.”
The dust gathered in a dance that sent it soaring to the tall ceiling, before cascading in a spiral downward to their altar and forming rays of makeshift sunshine, brightening the desk and its contents.
Even Nina found it reverent. “Wow.”
“Maggie, whenever you’re ready.”

Maggie had given up on the act of prayer many years ago, in high school she thinks, when they started becoming desperate and she found them desperately unanswered. Her parents instilled in her a sense of ‘good people go to church, bad people flounder’ which she now knew to be complete rubbish. Bad people did bad things, regardless of church, and good people did good things for simply good reasons, regardless of the ‘payoff’. That’s what she felt was true good, anyway - selflessness.
Which she believed Muriel to be in her entirety, hence why she was giving this the best shot she could.
She stepped forward, “alright give me some breathing room.”
The other three retreated a quiet step back and watched.
Maggie exhaled in the same way a yogi would instruct and she closed her eyes, hands together to her chest.
She would have to be genuine, which wasn’t hard.
Muriel, she thought, Muriel I pray you hear me. It’s Maggie, your friend. I’m not going to play silly buggers here - fact is we’re worried about you. You’re possibly one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, and I envy the way you look at this crazy world-

Crowley and Aziraphale felt a shiver. It caused fine scales to ripple up Crowleys spine to his neck and Aziraphales sensitive ears rang with the after effects of standing directly in front of a speaker at a Rolling Stones concert (not that he'd ever know).
“S’working,” Crowley whispered, the tingling, the warning that an angel was approaching was getting stronger, alarm bells that he had silenced long ago sounded in his head. Aziraphale stood his ground, despite this new feeling of absolute distress wanting him to run and hide or stay and fight. He quite literally swallowed down the nerve and kept his feet planted firmly on the ground.
Maggie opened her eyes and in a bright flash of gold and white light, an angel appeared before them - dark curls adorned its face, many eyes blinding white until they slowly became just two, white wings open in a glorious display - it was Muriel, enrobed in billowing white and gold as she touched down.

Crowley gripped Aziraphales hand, “don’t let go,” his whispered over the cacophony of bells the Host was bestowing into their demonic beings, Aziraphale squeezing painfully tight in return.
“Muriel?” Maggie practically squeaked. Nina stood next to her, ready to throw herself between them if necessary.
The glowing stopped, wings relaxing and the bells chimed one final time before it fell silent and the batteries fizzled out in the candles.
Muriels eyes blinked to warm brown and she grinned in recognition, “Maggie! Oh wow was that you? You prayed for me! Wow that was.. oh it felt amazing! No one’s ever done that before and-“
She was happy as punch, wings flapping once and disturbing some papers before folding back into their own reality.
Nina’s head spun. “Well fuck me.”
She looked a little green and Crowley stepped forward, gently taking her elbow, “take a seat, I’ll get some wine.”
“Gin,” she breathed, “big. Big gin.”
“Muriel, are you alright?” Aziraphale asked as Nina took a seat, Maggie gently rubbing her partner's shoulder.
Muriel’s smile dimmed and he recognised pity there, “Aziraphale. I’m alright. I’m sorry about… what happened.”
“Nothing to be sorry for, you did nothing wrong. In fact you’ve done a wonderful job,” he smiled gently and extended a hand to her, “I can’t thank you enough.”
She recognised the gesture and shook his hand, Aziraphale recoiling at the sharp zap when they clasped.
“Oops. Sorry.”
“Quite alright dear,” he shook his hand a little and opted to keep them at his sides, “we were worried about you.”
“Me? Why?”
“Cos we thought it would be a madhouse up there,” Crowley had come back in with a bottle of gin and a glass (he had popped some ice and a tiny umbrella in it) but Nina ignored the glass he offered and took the bottle instead, spinning off the cap and having a generous gulp.
“Oh,” Muriel shrugged, “no it’s been… the same, I guess? Back to scrivener, but 29th class now which is fantastic.”
Crowley nodded once, “Congrats. So wait, no questioning? No nothing from Michael?”
Muriel shook her head, “I think Michael has more important things than to talk to me. Word is that there’s some tension…” she cringed a bit, “I don’t think I should be telling you this…”
“We have no one else to tell,” Aziraphale placated her patiently, “you’re our only angel friend.”
Muriel melted like butter.
“Awww that’s so lovely. You’re all my friends too. Yes even you, Mr Crowley,” she grinned and Crowley rolled his eyes and did his absolute best to hide a smile behind a scowl which he most definitely succeeded in doing, thank you very much.
“Anyway, tension,” she continued, going over to the laceleaf on the window sill and checking it over, “lots of yelling. Michael and Uriel mainly. Uriel sounds upset… something about Michael losing staff. I think this needs water,” she said, picking up the pot lovingly and walking to the back room.
Everyone except Nina followed her.
“Losing staff? Surely they’re not referring to me,” Aziraphale was confused - Uriel had been all for getting rid of him. But, perhaps, all these supreme archangel problems were starting to look suspicious. Not that anyone would dare question their decisions.
Crowley didn’t really get it either, “losing staff.”
“Yep,” Muriel replied with a nod, putting the freshly spritzed plant on the small table, turning it this way and that, seeing if the setting suns' rays hit it through the kitchenette window, “Uriel said something like ‘that’s the second weapon you’ve lost’.”
“Weapon?” Everyone looked confused.
“Mhm. Yup. Losing staff, losing weapons.”
“A physical weapon to wield?” Aziraphale asked the room, “or a metaphorical weapon? I don’t think they’re talking about me, I’m no weapon.”
“Metatron thought you were,” Crowley murmured, “otherwise why’d he pick you, just for him to go back to letting Michael be supreme archangel once you were gone?”
“I don’t know.”
“They really told you nothing? Nothing at all?”
“Not enough for me to understand anything about losing staff and weapons!” Aziraphale snapped in frustration, trying to think back, think about anything it could possibly relate to.
Muriel didn’t like conflict. She pursed her lips and gathered her white robe* so she wouldn’t step on it as she headed back to the main section of the shop, “I should go.”
“Go? Back up there?” Crowley pulled a face, “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“It’s my job. My home,” she said simply with a small frown, “you wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh I understand, I understand very bloody well. Fine. Good. Go.”
Maggie went over and hugged Muriel, “ignore him. He’s just a bit… tightly wound. Just be safe.”
“Yes please be safe,” Aziraphale asked and Muriel nodded but her eyes were on Crowley, “I will.”

-

“I do hope she’ll be alright,” Aziraphale fretted a little, the shop quiet once more.
Maggie had gathered up quite a tipsy Nina and bid them both good night, a rushed ‘gladyourbackMrFellwishitwasunderbettercircumstancespleasedocomebytheshop’ as she half carried her out the shop, the bell singing loudly.
Crowley had plonked himself in the red chair, legs hanging over the side, deep in thought.
Aziraphale couldn’t stand the nonchalant attitude any longer and made his way to the back room, pulling out a bottle of wine and miraculously finding two clean glasses, going over and pouring them both one as he said, “please tell me what you’re thinking.”
“Losing staff and weapons. Doesn’t make sense.”
“Mm. And the fact that it’s the second weapon… what could that mean?”
“Michael never did something outlandishly stupid and lose their sword…?”
“No, no. They have that blasted thing hanging up in the Sanctum,” Aziraphale said disdainfully.
“And losing staff? Could just mean Gabriel,” Crowley suggested, having a generous gulp of wine.
They both sighed, one high one low, then drank deeply from their glasses.

Aziraphale took in the bookshop. Really took it in. It was the longest he’d been away from it in decades and despite his bravado he had before he left, he missed it. It was as much a part of him as his own arm.
The sun set outside the window, the warm gold glow turning a faint pink before darkness washed over. A wave of his hand and a few lamps turned on, the chandelier chiming at the tiny movement when it too lit up. Odd, he’d never heard it do that before. He kept listening - the antique grandfather clock ticked in perfect time, the ticking however seemed much louder than usual. He could hear two very far away voices saying goodnight to each other, somewhere along the street. The wind that blew sipped through the tiniest crack under the doors and the smallest whistle followed.
He could hear Crowley swallowing his wine, and if he really concentrated, he could hear his tongue tracing the taste off his teeth.
Aziraphale blinked and pushed those noises out of the forefront of his mind, letting them drown out.
Crowley watched the pointed ears twitch, curious but also keeping his distance as Aziraphale seemed frozen on the spot.
Eventually he murmured, “sensing trouble?”
“No,” Aziraphale sipped his wine and shook his head, “no trouble. Just adjusting to all these sounds that the earth apparently makes when you really listen.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm,” he scratched behind his ear, wincing when he forgot how sharp his fingernails were. He eyed them reproachfully, “my manicurist will have a stroke when they see these.”
“Let’s see.”
Aziraphale offered his hand to Crowley who looked over the long nails that drew to a tip, thick and not friendly to flesh.
“I don’t think a nail file has a chance against these.”
“Oh,” Aziraphales face fell, “you think so?”
“Want me to paint them?”
“Paint them?” Aziraphale chuckled, “that’s more your ‘scene’ than mine.”
“Last time I checked, we’re on the same scene now,” Crowley rose a brow.
“Crowley…” Aziraphale began, unsure how to put into words what he wanted to ask.
Crowley, trying very hard not to be a pessimist but it was well ingrained, thought back over his words.
Was that too fast? Saying they’re on the same scene? ‘our side?’

Surely not… not again…

Aziraphale could see Crowleys face shutting down, lips drawn to a thin line, jaw hard. He quickly continued, “Crowley I know you’ve had that flat a long time, and I know you enjoy your space. And minimalism, even if it looks like a crypt, but… well I mean I hope I’m not asking too much too quickly-“
“Too quickly?” Crowley scoffed, “you?”
“Oh let me finish, you fiend, before I lose my nerve.”
“Carry on.”
“Move in. With me. Live here… with me.”
Crowley blinked. He blinked again.
A million questions ran through his mind, and he tried to pick the most important one, but all he came out with was, “when?”
Aziraphale watched him hopefully, “whenever you see fit. I know this place isn’t exactly your… your style and my flat isn’t up to snuff in regards to sharing space, I’ll obviously need to upgrade a few things, amenities, a bed. Your own, if that’s what you… want…” he rambled on, losing his way with words fairly quickly.
Crowley unfolded himself from the chair and stood up, stretching a little and thinking, staring at the far side of the shop. This came out of nowhere, seemingly. Or had it? Our car, our bookshop, our side -
“Hm. Live here, eh?”
“I won’t be offended if you decline.”
“Don’t give me the option to decline.”

Aziraphale frowned for a moment but then took on the challenge - for once he understood. Crowley wanted him to make this decision. He wanted, or perhaps needed, to hear this. He needed Aziraphale to put his foot down and demand Crowley to be within his space - not just hanging around or lurking, but an active part of here. This home. This section of the world he had carved out for himself. Crowley needed to hear that he was wanted, without any doubt.
Aziraphale tried his best to be somewhat stern, “Crowley. I want you to move in with me. I want you to… to pack up that Bentley with your worldly possessions and I want you to share my home with me. If you refuse, I’ll make good on my word and never speak to you again. And eternity is an awfully long time for me to pretend that I don’t want to be with you. So, come on then, get yourself organised. No dilly dallying. Are we clear?”
He exhaled in a huff of finality.

The demon simply turned on his heel, marched out the door, and within seconds the Bentley was screeching down Whickber St., it's only destination was a spacious flat in Mayfair.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale was upstairs, staring at the disjointed space that he hadn’t really bothered with over the last century.
The initial room was that of an office or spare room - things shoved away, or piled to the ceiling, or boxed here and there. It was overwhelming.
“Right. Right okay. Focus.”
He willed himself to relax, and with a concentrated pull from his navel to his chest, the semi-circular room was cleared - save the coffee table, rug and built in bookshelves. A skylight had appeared so the night sky could be seen.
Onto the next room.

-

“Worldly possessions?!”

Crowleys voice echoed to the tall dark ceilings of the flat. Nearby a fig shivered.

He didn’t even know where to start. Did he just snap his fingers and miraculously plonk everything into the bookshop and sort it out there? Did he meticulously go through every drawer? Did he bring his phone and set up a new line? What about his acquired art works? Was there any wall space left in that place that wasn’t covered from the ground up with books? Did Aziraphale even have wifi for fuck sakes?
“Pack it all into the Bentley?!”
Crowley was then little more than a blur of black and red, a frenzied coil of action that bounced around the flat at a frightening speed.

-

His sleeves were rolled up, shirt untucked and hair as unruly as ever, but, Aziraphale was done. The bedroom now actually resembled a bedroom - the room itself had expanded by almost double in both width and height - the inch thick dust was very much gone, along with some of the furniture. He had kept any important or sentimental things on a bookshelf, which had taken an embarrassing amount of time to sort.
Shying away from the word ‘hoarder’ was something he was quite good at, until faced with the reality.
There was so much free space. The single bed was gone, and he had froze when he considered what he was going to put there to replace it.
With quite an undignified noise, he decided that would be Crowleys decision (for all he knew, Crowley may not have bothered upgrading from his waterbed from 1979) and he quickly made light work of the bathroom (a thorough miraculous clean, widening of windows, a working exhaust fan) and even a shelf that he considered Crowley could put plants on.
Did they need a kitchen?
That was where he was stuck.
He was back downstairs, happy with his efforts upstairs, but he was unsure how to proceed.
They reserved things like eating for occasions where they left the house, save for a dessert they would bring back and enjoy with a wine or a rare tawny. Aziraphale had never cooked a single thing in his existence. Perhaps Crowley had? How did he not even know that? So silly, in the grand scheme of things, but he was stumped. Crowley ate foods only when Aziraphale did - his forte was very much the alcoholic liquid kind.
He left the kitchenette as it was. The laceleaf on the small table waved at him appreciatively.
“Yes I think that’s another decision that Crowley may need to help me with,” he said to it, giving a leaf a stroke absently as he thought.
“You don’t think this will be too imposing on him? As much as he meanders around here, he does enjoy his space. His quiet time.”
The laceleaf flittered under his fingers.
“Oh yes, we both know that,” Aziraphale chuckled, bringing the laceleaf over to the kitchen counter, “perhaps just a tad more inviting?”
A blink and the small round rickety table was now more sleek, a touch bigger and sturdier, a cream tablecloth just over the edges and a bottle of wine there with two glasses. A single rose in its perfect stage of bloom sat in a tiny crystal vase. Another chair appeared adjacent to its twin and tucked themselves in neatly.
“Better? I think so.”

-

A black no name moving truck pulled up to the bookshop.
A middle aged woman with cropped hair and a dark blue one piece work outfit jumped out with her iPad, going over and knocked on the door.
Aziraphale answered it, “…sorry we are most definitely closed.”
“Movers and Shakers here, Mr Fell. Just sign here,” she offered him the iPad, waiting patiently.
He took the iPad, unsure what to do with it, “I’m sorry?”
“Just use your finger, sign on the line. Initial is fine. Mr Crowley has organised us to collect the truck tomorrow evening at 5pm, if you need any longer then give us a bell.”
“The truck?” He looked passed her and slowly nodded as things fell into place, “oh. Oh this is… all of... Mr Crowleys belongings…?”
“Sure is. Would you like to check and make sure everything is accounted for? We do guarantee our work and cover any-“
“No, no that’s quite alright I trust everything is in order.” He signed and passed the iPad back. She gave him the keys and bid him goodnight.

The Bentley screeched back into view only moments later, a dishevelled Crowley exiting, fingers running through his hair which had fell ungraciously into somewhat of a mop.
Aziraphale hadn’t even realised how it had grown in only a few months.
Crowley took in the ex-angels unkempt state, the two of them were looking very much two sides of the same coin.
“How did you go?” He asked the same time Aziraphale said, “everything here?”
“Yep.”
“Good. Jolly good. Did you want to come upstairs and have a look so you can get an idea of what you want to put where?”
Crowley rocked on his heels for a moment, “yeah. Yeah that’s probably a good idea.”

He tossed the keys to Crowley who caught them with lightning reflexes, the two making their way upstairs.
Aziraphale stood back and let Crowley look through the spaces, the red-haired demon eyeing each room silently but thoughtfully. He went to go walk out the bedroom then did a double take, “no bed?” He called out and Aziraphale went to the doorway, “that’s the only thing that’s been giving me grief. Did you… want your own bedroom? I barely use mine so you’re more than welcome-“
“I’ve got a bed,” Crowley sounded a little restrained, “bigger than yours. About a hundred times comfier too. It will fit here. In our room.”
And that was that. Aziraphale didn’t even question it… he didn’t think he had to. It was a heavy silence but it spoke for itself.
Aziraphale wondered if he should adopt Crowleys habit of randomly sleeping.
Perhaps he was just looking for an excuse to share the bed.
It was suddenly quite warm in the room and he stepped out, “I know you enjoy your art decor so please set them up as you wish.”
“Decor,” Crowley grumbled, because calling his priceless pieces ‘decor’ was certainly offensive. ‘Bebop’, ‘decor’… oh this angel - former angel - was going to learn.
“You didn’t bring that throne, did you?”
“Oi, I like that throne.”
“Oh it’s in such bad taste,” Aziraphale teased, “it will look very out of sorts up here.”
“Haven’t even moved my stuff in here and you’re already criticising. Let me set it all up, then you can have a conniption about it. Deal?”
He held out his hand and Aziraphale rolled his eyes but smirked, “I’m sure deals are sealed with a kiss, no? Or are you so out of practice on your soul-snatching technique-“
Crowley ignored the jibe and pulled Aziraphale close, “you’re insufferable.”
“I think you’ll find you tolerate me quite well,” Aziraphale leaned up just a tad, pupils dark, “after all you have years of experience in doing so.”
Crowley found himself in somewhat of a daze. He gulped softly but Aziraphale heard it and chuckled, “no deal then?”
“Cheek, honestly,” he mumbled, kissing him gently.

This whole kissing thing, he decided, was a lot better than their initial, forceful one. It wasn’t a last ditch, desperate attempt to get Aziraphale to fucking stay here anymore, because now he was staying. He was here. They could do this properly, in the way it should be done. He didn’t regret the first one (demon handbook said regret was for humans, okay?) but he was glad, over the moon really, that they had this opportunity to actually explore this whole kissing thing.

A soft flick of a tongue on his lower lip brought him out of his mental gymnastics and a noise of surprise escaped. He didn’t dare pull away.

He returned the soft flick, tongue tasting Aziraphales with the softest pressure but it was almost too much - with tastebuds much more sensitive than the average demon, he could taste everything - a scent that he was sure would’ve disappeared with Aziraphale's falling but no, it was still there, that sunshine-stardust-frangipani-bloom with a hint of the dry, fruit driven red wine from earlier. God- Satan- someone, fuck it, it was good. And his lips were so soft, the fuzz on his chin and upper lip not distracting at all, rather just adding another sensation that he would get used to.
Crowley suddenly felt his shoulders brace against a wall, which wall he wasn’t totally sure, and Aziraphale's warm body pressing to his, the kiss deepening and he gasped - tongue forking and he pulled away for a breath that he was sure his body didn’t actually need, “ssssorry,” he hissed and attempted to restart his brain.
But Aziraphale wasn’t having it, “for what?” He asked, voice unexpectedly rough and he pulled Crowley back down again, sharp teeth giving the tiniest nip and Crowley hissed again without warning. The sound wasn’t a threat, it was keen.
Oh Satan this was embarrassing. Was kissing always like this?
Aziraphale pulled back this time, face red, “sorry!” He apologised now, thumb tracing Crowleys lip gently, “did I hurt you?”
“No! Not hurt. No. But you might bloody disssscorporate me, angel.”
“Apologies.” He allowed some breathing space, “I may be getting ahead of myself.”
Too fast? Crowley wanted to laugh. How the tables had flipped. Turned? Turned.
“Wassssn’t expecting it,” came Crowleys honest answer, “it’s very niccce- good- you know what I mean.”
“I agree,” Aziraphale cleared his throat, straightening up and looking a little more put together, “I’m sorry. Truly. I had this notion that there was lost time to make up for. Of course perhaps I should have discussed that with you first.”
Crowley felt his tongue slip back to something more human and he licked his lips, the taste of Aziraphale still lingering.

“Just surprised me, is all… do I want to know where you learned to kiss like that?”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, “coming from you! How many humans have you had to tempt? I’m sure I’m far from the first being that you’ve-“
“You are. The first. Well. Proper, first one. You know. I'm sure a peck here and there in customary greetings or a little temptation through the ages doesn’t count.”
Aziraphale stared at him. Mostly to make sure he wasn’t joking.
Crowley continued with a frown, “pick your jaw up off the floor, Aziraphale.”
So it appears they were indeed having A Conversation.
“Just so we’re clear. Besides the, uh, kissing. You’ve never…? I mean, completely none of my business-”
“Nope. Why would I? And who with? Humans are out of the question,” he felt himself going red, collar suddenly too tight, “have you?”
Aziraphale snorted indelicately, “of course not! Im an ange- I was an angel. We’re not even meant to make The Effort.”
Crowley felt immense relief but then rose an accusatory brow, “feels like you’ve certainly kissed before.”
“Oh come now. I’m not completely naive. And besides, I read, my dear. I’ve read a lot. And you and I have seen that many movies and stage shows and re-enactments, don’t you pay attention?”
“Not usually to the sappy stuff!”
Aziraphale shook his head, “oh please, don’t try and downplay your romanticism now…”
Crowley feigned outrage, “downplay romanticism! Don’t have a romantic bone in my body!”
Aziraphale gasped but there was humour in his eyes, “how dare you look me in the eye and lie so blatantly?”
“Oh come off it, angel,” Crowley smirked, walking around him and Aziraphale very much watched those hips walk away, as he had for the longest time.
They both felt a sense of relief. And slight dread. And also very curious.

If there was very subtle flirting and the tiniest of lingering touches between them while they moved Crowley's belongings into the flat, they went unsaid. They had always gone unsaid, however this time instead of outright ignoring them, there was acknowledgement with the slightest glance or a flush of colour on the cheeks, or Crowley turning away and wishing he could hide behind the safety of his glasses.
A few bottles and many hours later, the sun was up and they were done - the truck was empty, the flat was full, and the two stood there with hands on their hips and admiring their handywork. They had hardly used miracles (Crowley was fast at organising and rearranging and Aziraphale was far stronger than he looked - he carried that throne with the ease of someone carrying a handbag) and it felt satisfying. It was mix'n'match, and it was far from perfect, but it belonged to them both.

Chapter Text

“Can I tempt you to a spot of breakfast?” Crowley was laying across the tall throne, twirling his glasses in his fingers as he waited for Aziraphale to get changed.
He stuck his head out the bedroom, “once we’ve checked on them, certainly. Any place you had in mind?”
“Yeah, kinda. Something different. Was thinking of something like… a date.”
“A date?” Aziraphale stopped midway through pulling on pants, “how formal of a date are we talking?”
“Don’t need a suit, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Crowley called back, staring at the Banksy on the wall as he waited.
Aziraphale eventually came out in brown plaid slacks, a tan knit jumper and a white collar poking out underneath. He went to go adjust the ring on his finger, only to remember it was gone, the blackened scar serving as the only reminder.
Crowley pretended not to notice.

“Not driving?” Aziraphale asked as he locked up the shop and slipped his sunglasses on.
“Nah, take too long. Too much traffic.”
“Oh?”
“Figure we could just... fly?”
Well that was interesting. Aziraphale was stumped.
They crossed the road and entered Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death and waited in the short line.
Nina was exhausted. Her head hurt. Her mouth was dry. She was trying to desperately run on autopilot but she was sluggish and more blunt than usual. When the two demons got to the front of the line she sighed, “espresso times 6, cappuccino with a shot of caramel, extra chocolate topping?”
“Yes please, takeaway,” Aziraphale got out some cash and Crowley (who had no interest in carrying actual cash) watched Nina, “big night, eh?”
She tried her best to glare at him, “my brain was turned inside out. My liver is struggling. Big night is an understatement.”
“Sounds fun.”
“It was absolutely fucking not,” but she sighed, the grinder spitting out a ridiculous amount of ground coffee beans, “at least you two are okay, yeah?”
“Oh yes,” Aziraphale agreed, “very much okay. We have a new resident on Whickber,” he grinned. Nina shivered a little at his teeth. He hid them quickly.
“That so? What, the empty spot next to the music shop?”
“No, no,” he nudged Crowley who focused back on the conversation, “hm? Wot?”
“He moved in?” That perked Nina up. She looked between the two, “right. Good. That’s good, yeah?”
They both nodded.
Another sigh, “congrats. Don’t blow the street up.”
That day Nina received tips in her little jar from every single customer.

Now that it was confirmed that Nina, albeit a sore head, was indeed okay and Maggie was apparently just her usual bright self, the two demons walked down Whickber, coffee cups in their hand. Crowley shoved his other hand in his pocket, Aziraphale casually doing the same. His hand tingled. Perhaps one day they’d walk this route and be holding hands.
Holding hands wasn’t a new thing, in the sense that it had been done for thousands of years. Even the two of them had held hands, as was just a routinely thing that men did at a time, without any romantic attachment. Aziraphale was quite sure it was still common in certain parts of Europe, though these last few decades he hadn’t ventured far from London.
Walking the street, without looking over their shoulders, just holding hands. It sounded blissful. Aziraphale sighed.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Crowley murmured after a long sip of his coffee.
“Adjusting,” Aziraphale replied, a half truth. Adjusting to walking freely with Crowley, not having some sort of plan already half-made in his mind if they were caught.
Crowley nodded but didn’t answer.

Take all the time you need, he thought, his mind leading to a much darker place of adjusting to being fallen; you need to take your time.

Which brought him up short and Aziraphale stopped next to him, glancing around, “what is it?”
“I’m an idiot.”
“… I’m not disagreeing but also not quite following…?”
Crowley rolled his eyes at the jibe, “I said fly but maybe that’s not a smart idea.”
“Oh?”
“Are you up to it? If not I could teach you this fancy teleporting thing us demons have up our sleeve.”
“Manipulating your atoms to fit elsewhere in space and time isn’t exactly a demonic concept,” Aziraphale chuckled, “but don’t let me stop you from taking credit.”
“Hang on, you mean angels can do that? Why didn’t you ever?” He spluttered.
“In case we got it wrong and discorporated ourselves. The paperwork alone, as well as the indignity of it. Besides, there weren’t many of us on earth and there’s no earthbound atoms to speak of in Heaven.”
It made sense. Still, Crowley shook his head, “hang on to me and I’ll take you.”
He tossed his empty cup and extended a hand. Aziraphale held onto his cup (he couldn’t unhinge his jaw and gulp it down like Crowley could) and his other hand clasped Crowley's tightly. For a long moment, they just looked at each other.

Aziraphale smiled. Crowley short circuited.

It only took a second, but in that second their atoms bent and warped and shrunk and twisted in a very odd way, like one stuck in a tumble dryer but knowing when to exit so they wouldn’t go through another rotation, and suddenly they were corporeal and standing on old cobblestone. The weather was warmer. Their surroundings had changed. The air tasted different - Lillies in bloom, and freshly baked bread, ripe tomatoes, fragrant coffee, mild pollen. Aziraphale inhaled appreciatively, “oh my. Italy.”
“Been a while,” Crowley kept his hand and they walked down the narrow street, admiring the architecture that had defied the passing of time.
Aziraphale squeezed softly, feeling his hand, smooth and cool long fingers entangling with his in such fitting way.

The scents grew stronger, each step bringing them closer to the slow noise of the morning, stepping out from the shadow of the alley into the warmth of the sunshine. Crowley noticeably relaxed, soaking it in. Aziraphale simply stared as the serpents hair shone aflame in the morning light. Angelic, was his first thought, thinking of exploding stars and warm atmospheres, but no, angelic didn’t even cover it. Not truly. Angelic was tainted in his mind now, and this being was far from.
“I-" he started, but his voice broke. A loud beep from a passing motorcycle snapped his concentration and they both moved out of its way.
“Bit busier than last time I was here,” said Crowley, annoyed at the motorcyclist and watching the traffic for more as they crossed the street. Aziraphale snapped out of his reverie and followed dutifully, keeping a hold of Crowley's hand. No one batted an eyelid or looked at them twice.

Breakfast was wonderful. Pleasant.

The market slowly filled up with patrons, young and old alike, some doing their daily shop of fresh produce while others just helped themself to a treat on their way to work, and then there were the tourists who bought a bit of everything and wandered off to enjoy the sun and sights. Crowley and Aziraphale sat and watched, not saying much at all (apart from Aziraphale commenting on how magnificent his sfogliatelle was, icing sugar decorating his moustache and beard causing Crowley to snigger).
“You have far more experience in facial hair than I,” Aziraphale muttered, using the napkin to pat at the crema trapped at the tip of his moustache, “do I bother shaving it or will it just miraculously grow back?”
“Hmm,” Crowley hesitated before reaching over, touching the smooth yet wiry hair that now lived across Aziraphales jaw, “guess you could give it a try. If it bothers you.”
Aziraphale smiled tenderly. How easy it was now for Crowley to show affection. How easy it was becoming for Aziraphale to receive it.
How easy certain demonic tendencies rushed to the surface.
He needed more practice on how to keep a lid on those - he took Crowleys outreached hand into his own, placing them on the table between them gently.
Though inexperienced in the physical act, he understood lust. He understood it in a very human way, the way he thought it would only be. As an angel, he had… urges? Sure. Not all-consuming, and not enough that he thought about putting in the Effort and dealing with those desires. Enough that they did take up a considerable amount of his infinite brain space though, that much he could admit.
But now, as a fallen angel.. as a demon… things seemed to rise quite quickly and forcefully. Anger, an emotion he would pride himself previously of being in control of, flooded his entire being and he had to put in a fair bit of restraint to ensure he wouldn’t lash out. Sadness no longer seemed to be just sadness, it was enveloping and dark.
Lust however gave him a physical jolt and even he felt the rush of blood fill his cheeks when something set him off. And things were setting him off a little too easily.
Like Crowley's cool long fingers touching his short beard, caressing in a very innocent way and yet Aziraphales eyes fluttered and an odd kind of beat developed in his heart and down his stomach. It went from 0 to 100 quickly, and his mind was overwhelmed with imagery and desires that would perhaps shock even Ms Sandwich down the street.
Perhaps shock even Crowley.
Crowley, completely unaware, watched their hands on the table. He gave no notice to the quickening of Aziraphale's heart.
“How do you control yourself?” Aziraphale asked, unable to stop the words as they escaped, face reddening, “as an angel I felt quite comfortable in my restraint and now I feel as though I’m very much…” out of control? On edge? Wishing to tick off every sin somehow at the same time and most definitely with Crowley?
“Got easier. Gets easier,” Crowley replied, looking over his glasses at Aziraphale, “feeling a little on edge are we?”
“Out of sorts, yes.”
“It helped having a very level headed companion for 6000 years.”
“Ah, so you suggest I now need to rely on your wily ways to keep me tame?” Aziraphale teased.
Crowleys brows almost met his hairline, “oh by all means, don’t let me stop you from letting your hair down.”

A waiter came and took their empty cups and plates, Aziraphale thanking them (his Italian was far better than his French).
They got up and made their way down the street, the words playing over in Aziraphale's mind. He had no desire right now to do anything dastardly or evil, in fact he was very content, but perhaps when a particularly strong emotion exploded within him then he would look to Crowley for guidance.
Y’know, the demon who started catching fire in the middle of Whickber and got struck by his own lightning when he got vehemently annoyed.

-

Heaven, as a general rule, did not change. It updated as the times went on but its foundation was immovable. Angels, as a general rule, hated change. Change was scary. Change was not planned, and everything was part of some Plan, wasn’t it?
But then, it was to say, if a change did happen then surely that was also part of a bigger, most ineffable plan?

-

* A FEW MONTHS AFTER AZIRAPHALE ACCEPTED HIS NEW ROLE *
(aka the second to last day of his new role as Supreme Archangel)

Aziraphale was exhausted.

Mentally. Spiritually. Emotionally.

The only thing that didn’t suffer exhaustion was his physical or angelic self, which was brimming with a power so hefty, so divine, so ominous that in all honesty? It made him a little ill.

He stared at the revolving globe, watching the clouds form around various countries, covering them in a fluffy grey or white blanket, greens and browns and blues poking through every now and again as it rotated ever so slightly.
He sighed. The sound echoed in the vast white hall.
He ached.
His heels - of his fancy and downright too perfect - shoes clicked evenly as he walked down the hall, hands clasped behind his back. He turned down an unfamiliar hallway and stopped as he felt a particular swoop of energy land next to him.
“Aziraphale,” Uriel addressed him.
“Uriel,” he nodded, voice quiet.
“You missed the meeting this morning.”
“Apologies.”
“You’re about to miss the afternoon meeting,” they said, looking at a gold watch on their wrist that had three different dials, all at odd times but it made sense to them, “it begins in three minutes.”
“And the agenda is…?” He asked, trying not to let his dread seep into his voice.
Uriels eyes narrowed before smoothing out again, “the Second Coming, of course.”
The same it had been for days now.
“I’m sure you-“
“I am not supreme archangel,” they cut off the same argument they had yesterday with tested patience, “and neither is Michael. You were chosen. You are our leader. So, lead, Aziraphale.”
And they disappeared.

He didn’t attend the meeting.

They instead acted as if Uriel had never been there and simply walked down the hallway, turning as they reached the end and staring at the vision before them.
A wall as tall as the eye could see, stretching out of sight and decorated in such a fashion that it would certainly take months to even look at every artefact and weapon that lay upon it. Rows after rows of swords - quite plain and simple but promising a burn of heavens light to its enemies, and above that shields made of intricate gold, made to defend its owner from a front on attack. Aziraphales wings opened and he flew up to the top of the wall, the weaponry growing more and more deadly and stunning, pausing at his own sword. It would have previously been amongst the other unknown swords towards the bottom rows, yet now it stood amongst the other supreme heavenly weapons, it’s unremarkable hilt was now embellished with gold and Aziraphale silently thought it was actually all a bit ridiculous.

A gentle uplift and he frowned, hand reaching out to an empty second row - odd.

And above, at the top row that shone with an ethereal glow was the Sword of Michael.

Aziraphale didn’t touch it. He had no reason to, yet he could feel the swells of energy pulsing off of it, the power laying dormant and yet always ready.
“Uh… Supreme Archangel?” A voice echoed from below. Aziraphale glanced down, “yes?”
“Sir, you have an appointment in five minutes,” called a younger angel, sounding very uneasy about it.
Aziraphale glided and touched down, gold tipped wings folding away. He forced a smile and took the clipboard from the angel, “of course. Thank you.”

-

Chapter Text

Crowley paced.

He didn’t particularly have a middle ground - he was either on the constant move with a sort of upbeat, slithery energy or he was so deeply at rest that he’d seem quite at home in a morgue.
His pacing was a stark contrast (as they usually were) to Aziraphales calm, sitting in his chair, looking over a first edition that had clearly seen better days.
He had let Crowley pace for a few days now, after he had finally told him about this whole Second Coming business.

The demon didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all.

Aziraphale knew he’d had to tell him eventually, even if he didn’t think it as an imminent issue, and he was taking a ‘sooner rather than later’ approach which was probably for the best because Crowley took to it like a duck… taking to whatever it would consider the opposite of water.

And Crowley had set his sights on trying to spread the manic energy, clearly too tightly strung to consider deflating to something more rational, “you,” he began in a snappy, accusatory tone, which was his current default setting and had been for a few days, “are being far too calm about this!”
It was beginning to sound like a broken record. Aziraphale sighed and glared at him as such, “I am calm because it’s not going to happen.”
“They,” Crowley jabbed a finger to the ceiling with a hiss, “will make sure it starts! You know what they’re like!”
“There are events that must take place in order for it to begin.”
“Sun burning up, heaven going dark, Big J making a reappearance, the dead rising - zombies, Aziraphale! We don’t need fucking zombies! Did you ever consider that you Falling may be what sends Heaven into darkness!”
Aziraphale actually snorted, “my dear you are putting me on a pedestal, that quite frankly-“
“Angel-“
“Crowley,” Aziraphale got up from his desk, “do you remember the prophecies about the Second Coming?”
“Course,” he frowned, still very unsure how Aziraphale wasn’t freaking out and blowing steam from his ears about this.
“I was thinking about what Muriel said last week.”
He blinked, “losing staff?”
“Losing weapons,” Aziraphale made his way around the bookshop, a book sliding out of a very tall shelf and gliding down to his hand. He blew the dust away and very gently turned the pages, looking them over.
Crowley watched over his shoulder in interest.
“Is that… in Enochian?”
“Mostly. Some Sumerian. Some Aramaic. I translated it into Latin but that copy was destroyed some years ago now.”
“You translated Enochian into Latin,” Crowley repeated in awe. He knew Aziraphale was clever but that was downright brain numbing.
“Indeed. Ah,” he found the script he was looking for, sharp finger tracing carefully down the silky thin paper, reading a passage in Enochian. Crowley had somewhat lost the tongue for it many years ago but understood the gist of it.
“Kingdom of heaven… Sun enters… Aquarius? Children of God shall proceed unto the new heavens… glory and power…?”
Aziraphale read the passage, “And the Children of God shall proceed unto the new heavens, bestowing glory and power, and with all of Heavens weapons drawn shall rid the old world to make way for the Second Coming. No man spared, no sword sheathed, and that is when the Lord shall come forth the last judgement.”

They were both silent for a moment, cogs ticking in Crowley's brain.

“You think… these weapons they’ve lost… are necessary for this whole thing to start?”
“I highly suspect, yes.” He closed the book, “no weapons, no Second Coming.”
“It can’t be that easy,” Crowley reasoned, resuming his pacing, hand running through his hair, “it just can’t.”
“Muriel told us that Uriel and Michael were having a row over Michael losing two weapons. If it were something as simple as a standard issued angelic sword, why fight over it? Why shake heaven up to the point where the lower levels could hear every word?
You know…“ Aziraphale frowned as he remembered, “I was in the Sanctum. Avoiding a meeting,” he answered Crowley's inquisitive stare, “and I looked at that wall. That blasted wall of heavenly weapons. Brutal, honestly. And Michael's sword was almost fear incarnate, couldn’t even- hang on-"

The empty row.
The long empty space, ornate handles meant to hold something, important surely, just under Michael's sword. Next to where Gabriel’s-

“Oh. Oh my.”
“What?! Aziraphale, what?” Crowley was in his face again, watching the former angels expressions go from confusion, to horror, to realisation.
“Crowley… what do you say about a quick trip to Alpha Centauri?”

Now, as a rule, Crowley was not against Alpha Centauri by any means. He loved that bloody system, it’s three points so beautiful as it sat closest to the sun. Glowing, blinding, a true spectacle.
There was a reason he didn’t want to go there now, and he was being very stubborn about it, despite Aziraphales assurances.
“We can’t just go there!”
“I don’t see why not?”
“Do you really think Gabriel and Beezlebub went there? You really think they’re just… wafting around as demonic and celestial intent and enjoying the bloom of the red dwarf?” Nice time of year for it, but that wasn’t the point.
“I think it’s a good place to start.”
“They won’t be happy to see us. They want to be left alone. They don’t care about this bloody planet!”
Aziraphales patience, which had for a long time been as eternal as himself, was now waning finite, “they care about each other. About their own existence. If nothing else then I’ll plead to that. Besides, we’re only going there to ask questions, I don’t expect them to buck up and help us. Weren’t you the one who has been worrying themselves into an angry ball of worry for the past 72 hours?”
Crowley glared, ripping the glasses off his face, “and what do you propose we say? Excuse me former supreme archangel who was given the royal boot-“
“He is still an archangel,” Aziraphale interrupted, “he didn’t fall. He may still hear things, know things.”
“Like what?”
“Like what happened to his horn! It wasn’t there, where I suspect it should have been. Under Michaels sword was an empty row, and Gabriel’s horn was nowhere in sight. How do they herald a Second Coming without it? It’s one of Heavens mightiest weapons.”
“Maybe he stole the blasted thing and threw it into the sun!”
Aziraphale could feel his temper shooting past mild annoyance to outright aggravation. His teeth grew sharp against the inside of his bottom lip, temperature spiking. He took a step back and inhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose, “the sun couldn’t destroy a heavenly weapon. Now, would you calm down. Please.”
1,2,3,4,5….

“Well for what it’s worth, I think this is a bad idea,” Crowley grumbled, watching him. He could feel the spike in demonic energy, a low rumble in the air only felt by the occult. He forced himself to try and relax, if only for Aziraphale's sake.
“Do you then suggest we sit here and do nothing, which is what I said in the first place?” Aziraphale asked patiently, “do you think that a wise decision?”
“If it keeps us alive then yes,” Crowley replied honestly.
Both demons were quiet for a long moment.
“And the world?” Aziraphale eventually asked softly, the dark spike in energy easing, “I’m not suggesting we go on some kind of… of crusade… I’m suggesting we simply talk to Gabriel. Ask him if he has the horn, if yes then great. He won’t give it to them, I’m sure of it. If he’s destroyed it somehow, then even better - that would solve everything.”

Crowley leaned against a pillar and stared at the tall ceiling.

One week. He hasn’t even had one week of domestic bliss with the ange- former angel and they were once again in the centre of a bloody world altering conundrum.
The world that they lived in.
He couldn’t go losing that.
He watched Aziraphale move around the bookshop, really watched him through eyes that were not of this world - he could see the dark wings, alert and still healing in some spots, halo shattered into shards that could almost resemble a crown. The once myriad of blue and gold eyes were now empty sockets, endless and dark - but his aura wasn’t a black swirling void. It was still bright and warm, tempting Crowley to get closer.
Aziraphale felt the strange zing in the air and looked over, knowing Crowley was looking at him - truly looking at him. He felt self conscious, cheeks flaring and threw a spark of energy his way, “stop that.”
“Ow,” Crowley flinched at the zap, looking away, eyes refocusing back into this dimension.
Aziraphale didn’t apologise. He looked through the new book in his hands, flicking until he settled on a page about Gabriel’s Horn.
Crowley spoke up, “I have an idea.”
“Does it involve further gawking?”
“Gawking?” Crowley snorted but ignored it otherwise. Clearly Aziraphale wasn’t in the mood for more back and forth - probably his fault, though Crowley would never admit it.
“No. No gawking. I was… thinking… well instead of going to Gabriel, why not just summon Beezlebub? Seems like the less deadly option.. there’s not a doubt in my mind that they’d be together. Maybe they both come.”
It would be on our turf then, instead of being a wave of interwoven cosmic beings in Alpha Centauri with an archangel and the lord of the flies, Crowley thought.
The former angel looked thoughtful, “That’s actually not a terrible idea.”
“I was bound to have one eventually.”

There wasn’t much difference between praying for an angel and summoning a demon.

The basics were much the same - candles, ritual, concentration - however summoning a Duke of hell (former) came a little easier to them than summoning a holy servant of Heaven.
Crowley stepped back and admired his handy work, an intricate circle of symbols that, when arranged in a particular way, would bring forth the requested demon in a rather forceful way.
He knew Beezlebub wouldn’t appreciate it, but he also knew that Beezlebub no longer used the usual communication channels of Hell, so picking up the phone and simply dialling would prove moot. He lit the one dark candle, standing back next to Aziraphale, “ready?”
“Ready.”
Crowley exhaled sharply, letting his more demonic sides hair down so to speak - tongue forking, a trail of black and red scales rippling up his spine. The snake on his cheek hissed and came to attention, watching with interest.
Aziraphale felt the sway in atmosphere, a force beyond his control pulling him until he was almost growling with every breath.
Crowley looked at him, Aziraphale catching his eye, both staring at each others true forms.

Concentrate, Crowley snapped silently at himself.

Oh shit, Aziraphales brain tingling into murky waters. His senses heightened. Oh dear.

Crowley murmured words that he had not murmured in a very, very long time but knew in some deep part of his brain, a monotonous calling, a dark brewing sweep of energy, the bookshop filling with a low buzz and a cold breeze that sent the hairs standing on the back of their necks.
A fly landed on Crowleys nose. He twitched.
“Lord Beezlebub?”
“Retired Lord,” a voice replied, flies erupting into a black swarm of noise until it resembled a slightly more humanoid shape. Within seconds the candle dimmed and the circle caught alight in a blue flame, not quite singeing the floor and Beezlebub took form and stood before them, flies disappearing and falling silent. They looked much the same as they had a few months ago.
Crowley didn’t relax. Neither did Aziraphale.
But the bookshop seemed to take a breath, warmth filling the air once more.
“Crowley,” the former grand Duke of hell greeted, not happily. Neutral. Suspicious. They raised a brow at Aziraphale, “oh. So that was a fallen angel that we heard. Echoed throughout time and space, that did. I would say welcome, but that’s not my job anymore,” they brushed stardust off their shoulders, “what do you two want?”
“Beezlebub,” Aziraphale started politely, “hello. I was.. we were wondering.. if we may have a word? It’s about Gabriel-“
“What about him?” They asked with a sneer.
“Is he… around?”
The former duke eyed them distrustfully. A fly buzzed around their head angrily.
“Why.”
Crowley stepped forward, “alright look, simple question, does he or does he not still have that blasted horn?”
Beezlebub was properly surprised. This was not at all what they had expected.
“His… horn? The… actual horn?”
“Yes. Yes the gold infernal trumpet that he’s tooted off a few times. Does he have it?”
A loud snort, “not that I’ve seen. Doesn’t want anything to do with Upstairs anymore. I would think that includes the horn. What’s he going to do with it anyway? Play me Three Blind Mice?”
Crowley rolled his eyes, Aziraphale looked politely confused, “so he doesn’t have it?”
“They have it, don’t they?” They jabbed a thumb upwards.
The two demons looked at each other. Beezlebub raised a brow, “Interezzzting. They don’t have it?”
“No,” Aziraphale answered honestly, “they don’t.”
The formers dukes smile grew, “look at you, very forthright with giving up your heavenly knowledge. About time you picked a side.”
“I have not picked any side,” Aziraphale huffed, even when Crowley nudged him as if to say ‘shut the fuck up’, “I’m on humanity’s side. Heaven no longer possess the horn, which we hope means that-“
“That the Second Coming won’t actually come. Good. What an unnecessary bloody drama that would be. Gabriel already told me that the staff was missing, probably for the best that the horn goes too. Less arsenal for those winged arseholes, anyway.”
Crowley felt his tepid blood run ice cold, “staff?”
Beezlebub eyed their dirty nails in apparent disinterest, “mhm, Staff of Raphael or something. Went missing aeons ago.”
“Oh!” Aziraphale squeezed Crowley's arm, “staff. That’s what they meant? Staff! A physical staff!”
“Y-yeah, angel, I’m getting that..”
“So with two of the holiest weapons out of the picture, what’s the problem?” The Duke asked, “Second Coming isn’t coming. Unless heaven obtain those two. Until then,” they shrugged, the fly landing on their finger, “don’t worry your nasty little heads about it. Not very demonic of you, anyway.”
And with that, the former Duke of Hell erupted into a chaotic swarm of flies and disappeared into a swirl of black, leaving nothing in their wake.
The candle extinguished. The room brightened. The bewitched circle simmered until it too disappeared.

Crowley was frozen to the spot, Aziraphale however was practically bouncing around the place with newfound vigour, “oh my that is interesting news! But… oh it’s also a worry. Michael to be blamed for losing two weapons? And the staff, I didn’t even think! It makes perfect sense though, that missing row, it certainly had provision to hold both the horn and the staff… but for them both to be missing, what could that mean? They were stolen?”
The red-haired demon however, didn’t answer. He didn’t really know, for once, what to say. Aziraphale continued with his theories and questions as he packed away the black candle and some rogue books, seemingly unaware once again of Crowley's inner screaming turmoil.

How, after 6000 years of… well not exactly blissful, but ignorance all the same, was this all just coming to light?

And that bloody staff, that stupid, pointy golden spear, fucking rod - missing? Since when?
It made sense that Michael was getting the blame - they were once the leader of the heavenly armies, overseeing all in the matter of war. Gabriel wasn’t overly interested in the weaponry back then. Means to an end, that was it.
A warm hand touched his lower back and he just about jumped out his skin, “wot?”
“Dear, are you okay?”
He shrugged away from Aziraphales touch, “fine. I’m fine. I… I need some air.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale dropped his hand with a nod, “please, go ahead. Sure the Bentley needs... attending to.”
Great idea.
Best idea.
Yes.
Crowley nodded stiffly and left the bookshop in just a few long strides.

-

Chapter Text

When it came to alone time, personal time, separate hemispheres time, Aziraphale understood. Although he wasn’t exactly thrilled that Crowley chose that moment to go, he wasn’t going to stop and berate him for the sudden change in behaviour. The demon clearly needed a moment - or several - to clear his mind. It was indeed a lot to take in.
The former angel thought perhaps this was a good time to prepare something rather alcoholic.

-

Aziraphale was, for lack of a better word, shitfaced.

He had forgone the usual somewhat classy red wine and instead had made himself a cold, crisp martini (big olive fan, him) which soon turned into four martini’s, then crept up to six, and he had approached double digits when he decided to make his way upstairs with the much grateful assistance of the handrail.
He sat in Crowley's ridiculous throne and laughed, leaning back into the velvet with a sigh, looking around at the room that he was slowly becoming to recognise as a shared space. It had Crowley written all over it - from the 60” flat screen to the Banksy on the wall to-
“Oh surely not.”
That infernal statue sat, perched in the corner. How hadn’t he noticed?
Evil ‘triumphing’ over good, as it were.
He didn’t think triumphing was the word for what was actually occurring, but he got up all the same and went over, eyeing it from a few feet away. Crowley had tried telling him that it was a gift from Hell when he first acquired the flat, which Aziraphale now realised was utter rubbish, because Hell giving out priceless gifts was like Michael turning around and suddenly giving Aziraphale a heartfelt commendation. It just wasn’t on.

Aziraphale was trying to figure exactly what about the statue was making him blush when suddenly the TV turned on to a channel of white noise. The static wail pierced his eardrums and he covered them with his hands, martini glass smashing as it hit the floor.
“Aziraphale,” a voice called through the TV as the static settled. He growled, drink wasted on the ground, glass spread across the floor, “oh bollocks.”
“It’s Shax,” the voice continued on as if he hadn’t spoken, “Grand Duke of Hell. You may remember?”
“I remember perfectly,” he replied, the glass and drink righting itself and fitting neatly into his hand once more, “how can I... help you?”
“I… was wanting to see how you were settling in on Earth?”
Aziraphale frowned at the jumping static line on the offensively big TV, “Shax, I’ve been on Earth for a very long time. No adjustment time was needed.”
“Adjusting to being one of the Fallen, then,” she snapped impatiently.
He sighed, sitting once again on the throne, “about as well as you can imagine.”
“Hm. Have you considered Dagon’s offer?”
“Offer?”
“Position as Head Torturer of the Damned?”
Aziraphale rose a brow, “not for me, I’m afraid.”
Apparently that was not the correct answer.
“We can’t just have two of you running around!” Shax snapped, “between you and Crowley, two free agents is just… it’s… it cannot be allowed!”

Aziraphale felt a stone sink into his stomach. He knew this dance well. He just had to make his steps carefully.
Unfortunately, his mouth moved before his brain could properly consider the words that were coming out.

“Free agents? Oh, I think you’re quite mistaken, Lord Shax. Surely your, uh, contacts filled you in…?”
The TV went quiet. He almost thought Shax had left, but then the line of static bounced, “go on…?”
“Oh I just assumed they… 'they' being your contact… had advised of our duties, considering, uh, everything that’s coming to... fruition?”
Quiet once more. Aziraphale gave another tiny nudge, “I was supreme archangel not a week ago, my Lord. Don’t think I’m not aware of certain arrangements in place. I just assumed that Michael had-“
“Alright, alright,” she hushed him, “not the most secure line, Aziraphale-“
“Well...?”
“I… yes. Yes. I’ll follow up with… my, the, contact in question. Yes...”

-

Crowley almost considered not answering, though he stared at the phone screen as it read ‘Aziraphale’.
He hadn’t done deliberating yet. Hadn’t quite let his minor (major) meltdown pass. If he thought about it rationally, none of this had been a problem for years, and with some key factors missing for the all important Second Coming to begin, it could stay in the ‘not a problem, better off forgotten’ category. But-
Another shrill ring. The phone buzzed in his hand.
“Yeah?” He answered.
Aziraphale was in hushed tones at the other end of the line, “Crowley, wherever you are, be careful.”
“What?” He glanced around but it was truly just him and ducks at the park.
“I just received a visit.”
“Up or Down?” He asked, knowing both answers were bad.
“Down. Shax. Poking about. Not happy.”
That caught his attention and he sat up straight, "and? Are they still..?"
"No. But I... Crowley I don't know! I thought up something on the spot and I'm afraid it went over a bit too well."
"You lied?" There was a smile in Crowley's voice.
“Not the point. Come home.” A long pause. Crowley's heart skipped a beat at the request. Not the 'my bookshop', not 'here' - just 'home'.
“Crowley?”
“Mm? Yes. Yep. Okay, be right there.”

A fresh martini sat between Aziraphales fingers as he waited, staring at nothing across the room. In the heat of the moment, it had sounded like a great idea - making Hell believe they weren’t in on some big secret. Second guess themselves. Make them think that Aziraphale and Crowley knew more than they let on.
At first he had thought it would just lead to some tail chasing between the two factions, trying to figure out ‘who belonged to who’, cancelling each other out. Now that he really thought about it, what if they didn't chase each other in circles, but rather circled Crowley and Aziraphale?
He should’ve just told Shax to bugger off.
But he didn’t possess that sort of courage and swagger that Crowley could pull off with an immaculate lie, even if not one ounce of it was genuine.
He should’ve waited. He glanced at the now blank TV, overcome with a sudden urge to smash it.

Aziraphale stood and drained his glass once more as the bell to the bookshop dinged, footsteps coming to a stop, “angel?”

-

Crowley leaned on the desk, arms crossed over his chest as Aziraphale undertook Crowley's usual role of pacing. The former angel couldn't understand how Crowley was being so damn casual about this.
"...And then she was worried that the line we were speaking on wasn't secure... I assured her that we were doing as we were told and she was... well, she was fine! Bid me a terrible day and told me not to say a word of our conversation to anyone!"
Aziraphale ran a nervous hand through his hair, teeth worrying his bottom lip. If they actually checked? If they went to Michael?
"So let me get this straight," Crowley sighed, "you're worried because you lied to your superiors about a job you may or may not be doing? Aziraphale how is that any different to what we've both been doing since the beginning of time?"
"This wasn't lying about a tiny miracle or blessing throughout the ages to help a struggling artist or wile a young dictator, Crowley! This is about the Second Coming! It wouldn't be just a slap on the wrist from either faction, it would be fury from both!"
"Alright, alright, let's think about this," Crowley stood in front of Aziraphale to stop the incessant pacing, hands on his shoulders. Aziraphale took a deep breath and looked up at him, "I'm listening?"
"Did you tell her, word for word, exactly what our supposed 'job' is?"
"...No...?"
"So you didn't mention the Second Coming, or... or weapons or anything like that?"
"No. I mean, I heavily implied, but-"
"Heavily implied?"
Aziraphale nodded.
Crowley felt his whole body loosen up. It was the perfect lie. Those idiots could think whatever they wanted - they really had no idea. A warm, gentle hand touched his cheek.
"I've done enough damage, I just don't want you to suffer the consequences," Aziraphale murmured, "forgive me."
"No need," Crowley murmured, letting the heat permeate throughout his entire being, "s'nothing to forgive."

-

The thing is, Aziraphale is actually indeed quite clever (even though in certain situations he can also be rather... stupid), and while Crowley tries to project a constant sense of 'unbothered' is actually bothered by a few (many) things.

So, despite their state of being somewhat of a know-all and perpetual mild paranoia, what they actually hadn't counted on was a few things:
1) Shax was a determined demon. One of the most determined. She may not have been savvy in regards to certain earthly mannerisms, and her demonic braincells weren't constantly being used to their full capacity, but what she lacked in knowledge she made up for with sheer go-getter-ism.
2) Michael can't stand Shax, but shares their ruthless way of thinking.
3) Gabriel's Horn was not destroyed. It was just conveniently moved elsewhere into storage.
4) The Second Coming was still coming.

Chapter Text

The next three days consisted of walking on eggshells. Not literally of course, but Crowley noted that with the way Aziraphale randomly jumped at noises only he could hear, that maybe a tiny egg being stepped on wasn’t too far out of the question.

The bookshop remained closed, and when customers would knock or try and peer through the window, the bookshops' blinds would roll down with a snap seemingly on their own. Aziraphale blamed Crowley's influence (“You can’t influence everything into being sentient, Crowley!” “Don’t look at me, I’m a bad influence if anything!” “An influence nonetheless!” “Oh I’m sorry, shall I let them inside? See if they’re interested in buying some books?” “Come on, now you’re just being silly…”)

Though no angels or demons visited, it didn’t settle Aziraphale's nerves, and it seemed that nothing Crowley said would settle them either, until-
“Alright, that’s it,” he declared, getting up from the chesterfield in the backroom, pushing a pair of sunglasses up his nose. Aziraphale looked over to him, “what? What’s it?”
Crowley looked at his watch, “a table has just become available at the Ritz in... twenty three minutes.”
Aziraphale frowned a little, “you think it would be wise-?”
“No one’s going to approach us in a crowded bloody restaurant.” Not if they they knew what was good for them. Also, the Ritz had just brought out its Summer menu, matching fresh gourmet selections with light wines. He was very sure that Aziraphale couldn’t pass on that.

They had enough time and so opted to walk, the sky not quite blue but holding the promise of no rain all the same. Fairly busy for a weekday, plenty of people walking about and ducking in and out of shops, the cafes that spilled onto the footpath had patrons in almost every chair, everyone seemed to be out and enjoying the possibility of warmer weather.

The Ritz was appropriately filled with natural light, the inside decor bright and various floral arrangements echoed the change to warmer weather. Aziraphale inhaled appreciatively as they were shown to their table, taking in the fresh scents, keen senses able to smell the food wafting by as dishes were brought out around them. Their flutes were filled with champagne (Crowley had apparently wasted no time and ordered the bottle before they had even sat down) and he held his glass up. Aziraphale copied him, “to what do we owe a toast to?”
“Well, being here for the first time in ages, for one. Being here… under better circumstances, I s’pose?”
“Being here together, then?” Aziraphale offered, “so perhaps, here’s to us.”
“Right,” Crowley agreed with a small but indulgent smile, “to us.”
A tiny, shimmering clink as their glasses touched and for a quiet moment, they drank.

They drank fine wines with little regard to cost, and they ate fine food with much regard to taste - Aziraphale was very pleased with the new menu, each small plate brought out to them seemed to light him up from the inside until he was practically glowing by the fifth course, feline eyes watching Crowley behind glasses, making sure that he could also detect notes of caramelised fig and candied macadamias in the sweet and savoury bite sized tarts that sat between them, made so meticulously picture-perfect that it was almost a shame to devour them. Crowley wasn’t usually one for food, but on this particular occasion he decided that watching Aziraphale smile genuinely (if not a little sharply, becoming just a little too relaxed as he indulged) for the first time in days was worth every ounce of stickiness trapped between his teeth.

Aziraphale thanked the waiter as the last paired glass (an old rare tawny) was poured, the table cleared of the empty plates, both demons just a little flushed from the alcohol.
“This is wonderful. Those petit fours were just sensational.”
Crowley nodded in agreement, chin balancing on his hand, elbow on the table and he listened to Aziraphales praise of the menu and pairing options. Some things, gratefully, never changed.

The tawny was rich, sugary with a hint of smokiness, the texture and taste reminiscent of maple syrup in the back of the throat. Aziraphale sat back, small glass between long nails, “I’ve missed this.”
Crowley rose a brow and Aziraphale clarified, “the Ritz. You and I. It gives a sense of normalcy, despite everything.”
Crowley didn’t want that perceived normalcy bubble to pop just yet so he lifted his glass which miraculously filled back up and he sipped it before murmuring, “normalcy, eh?”
“As close to ‘normal’ as we can be considered.”

Lingering just outside of this bubble of perceived normalcy was one of the wait staff, taking a short smoke break. They worked part time at the Ritz while studying for, hopefully, a gilded career in journalism - which they took fairly seriously and as such had subscribed to various independent and mainstream outlets, the marvels of currently technology meaning getting notifications within seconds whenever a story broke or something went viral.

The cigarette burning between their fingers went unfinished, dropping to the ground and they went back through the side door, eyes glued to their phone as they found their closest colleague, who joined in their hushed chorus of ‘what the fuck?’
Another phone dinged with a notification.
Another screen had eyes glued to it.
Little pops and bells bounced around the hotel, bar and restaurant, the sound reaching Aziraphales ears, which twitched and he glanced around. Crowley frowned, an odd tang to the air that could only be described as fear and heightened excitement, in a very Not Good way. Aziraphale felt it too.
“Something's going on,” Aziraphale whispered, though he hadn’t needed to - it was obvious. There were small gasps and people looking to each other, concern, confusion, panic all at varying degrees.
Crowley pulled out his phone, opened Twitter and scrolled impossibly fast and read in a way no human could possibly keep up until he reached a video.
Aziraphale leaned in to watch, feeling his stomach drop, “oh. Oh dear.”

-

The first video, taken at a funeral in Western Australia, only went for 20 odd seconds, but it was enough, especially when two other videos followed shortly after of the same scene from two separate angles - one from nearby CCTV and the other from another phone. Upon first viewing, it could have been mistaken for a horror movie - but the terrifying seconds that followed and the piercing screams of shock could not be faked.

-

The two demons took off down the street, Aziraphale half jogging to keep up with Crowley's long, ardent strides as they headed into the direction of the bookshop.
“This is insanity!” Crowley hissed, people moving quickly out of their way unless they were glued to their phones, which accounted for ninety percent of them, the demons weaving in and out of them, “they can’t just start raising the dead!”
“I just don’t understand! We knew it was coming but I was so sure that they needed the Horn to signify-“
“Signify to Heaven and Hell, maybe!” A car beeped at them as they jay-walked, Crowley not even paying them mind but Aziraphale held up an apologetic hand.
“Are you saying that you believe it’s starting here? On Earth? No… no forewarning? That's impossible! That's not how it's written!”
Crowley threw his hands up in the air, “how should I bloody know! Maybe it’s not like Armageddon where it was years in the making but all over within 24 hours - maybe it starts with zombies and then over days or weeks or even months more things just... just pop up!”

A cyclist swerved, distracted by their phone, almost hitting a car which beeped loudly and veered off the road, hitting a parked van. The alarm wailed. Aziraphale stopped, as if to go and assist the fallen cyclist but Crowley gripped his hand and tugged, “come on angel, bigger things to worry about.” But even as he said it, a small miracle trickled out, ensuring that there was no concussion or injury, just a lengthy argument with the driver and an exorbitant insurance excess payment.
“Those… people… in the videos didn’t look like your regular damned, Crowley,” Aziraphale huffed, thinking bout those undead Nazi's from 1941. They turned the corner and he was grateful that the shop was in sight, “did they?”
“No, they didn’t. Definitely not zombie material. They looked human. Dead then, well, not dead.”
“So, not the work of Hell?”
They reached the stairs to the shop and all Crowley could do was exhale sharply out his nose and say, quite honestly and more than a little fearful, “I don’t know. I really don’t.”

-

Chapter Text

Muriel counted themselves lucky.

Even with their promotion to a (slightly) higher level, they were still mostly invisible. No one bothered them, things just appeared on their desk, and so far they hadn’t got caught sneaking a chapter here and there of a book they had borrowed from the bookshop*.

Lucky they were, that they could go up some stairs, up a lift, across a hall and approach the furthermost, largest lifts without being stopped - and there were plenty of angels about who could have stopped them - Muriel hadn’t seen this many around the place since the morning of the Armageddon that was suppose to happen a few years ago. They rushed about, draped in grey or white or beige fitted suits, flanked by other angels of varying levels, whispers and purposeful walks all around her but she ignored it, just gripped the book to her chest and slipped into the lift and quickly pressed the down button.

She exited onto a busy street, her Heavenly uniform had transformed into a deep blue button up shirt tucked into white chinos, dark boots clicking the pavement quickly as they dashed across the road to the bookshop. Muriel tried to open the door but it was locked. They huffed and stood back, staring at the facade, “this is kind of urgent?”
The bookshop didn’t respond. She knocked loudly.

Crowley got up from his slightly mangled slouch on the chesterfield and walked over silently, picking up the rather solid statue on the way that was usually reserved for holding his glasses but would serve as a half decent knock to the head if wielded with enough force.
“Aziraphale!” Called Muriel’s voice on the other side of the door, knuckles rapping loudly, “Mr Crowley!”
Crowley relaxed and opened the door, eyeing Muriel up and down, “why do I always get a Mister and Aziraphale just gets Aziraphale?”
Muriel frowned a little, “I… I’m not sure? Don’t humans usually think it’s respectful?”
Respecting a demon, eh?
“Get in,” he stood aside and they walked in, looking around as he closed and locked the door.
Muriel looked around to see if Aziraphale was there but Crowley nodded up the stairs to where the TV was yammering on an Australian channel that seemed to be covering the risen body.
“I’m guessing that was your lot?” He called after her but Muriel didn’t answer as she jogged up the stairs to where Aziraphale sat on the throne, completely absorbed in a book, a small tower of ancient scrolls and hardbacks sitting next to him. His pale yellow-green eyes were slightly manic as they traced the pages, fingers pausing when he looked to Muriel in greeting, the TV muting. “Muriel?” He noted her alarmed expression and closed the book, “dear, are you alright?”
“Good question! Not really. I think I need a cup of tea,” she replied, smile tight and voice high.
Crowley took that as his cue and made his way to the kitchenette, kettle boiling.

Muriel glanced at the muted TV screen, the image playing over again and she swallowed hard, “things are happening,” she took a grateful sip of tea, Aziraphale doing the same. Crowley had swiped the bottle of tawny from the Ritz and so had settled with that, sitting next to Muriel on the small sofa.
“We can see that,” Crowley nodded to the TV, “two bodies popping up in one video? Have you lot forgotten what technology is like these days? The whole world has seen this ten times over in 4K!”

Little did Crowley know, that perhaps, that was the point.

The video that had taken over all matters of media throughout the world was that of a joint funeral - a heart breaking, somber affair of a father and young daughter tragedy involving a drowning on a cattle station. They lived in the remote outback, and so the video was meant to be used as a livestream so family and friends who couldn’t make it could still be part of it.
Now it was broadcast to the whole world as undeniable evidence of the dead rising.

Muriel ignored Crowley.
“Do you remember how I mentioned that…” She seemed to be having trouble spitting it out, “there were, um, disagreements?”
They nodded.
“It's got worse. Much worse. The Metatron hasn’t named Michael as Supreme Archangel. Told Michael it wasn’t their place.”
Crowley snorted, “bet Michael loved that.”
“No,” Muriel replied in a panic, “no Michael did NOT love that, Michael has been on a tirade ever since, they won’t listen to anyone. And then yesterday, Metatron put forth the call that the Second Coming was imminent and that teams would be despatched to Earth to procure the first weapon.”
Aziraphale felt his blood run cold, his stomach twisted in a horrid way and he gripped the arm of the throne, nails digging in and ripping the fabric. Crowley sucked in a sort of hitched noise and after a long minute said, “despatch? Teams?”
Muriel nodded, words tripping over themselves, “yes. Teams of angels, sent down to Earth to look for Gabriel’s Horn. They need it, to officially start the… the event.”
“Two bodies rising seems plenty official,” Crowley croaked, eyes staring through Muriel, unseeing.
“That’s for the humans, I guess? They won't hear a heavenly weapon being used - I think that’s just for us. And you guys.”
“Us guys?”
“Uh. Demons and, such?”
Crowley was just a little unhappy that Muriel lumped him and Aziraphale into the ‘demons and such’ pile but this wasn’t the time to get uppity about things.
“So the Horn is on Earth, for certain,” Aziraphale concluded, “it wasn’t destroyed and it’s not Up or Down. Muriel, surely the angels could feel the weapon? Even if it’s not being used? Detect it?”
Muriel’s fingers gripped her book, teeth worrying her lip, “uh…”
“Muriel?” He pressed.
Muriel’s eyes dropped to the ground, “please don’t tell anyone you heard this from me. I was never here.”
The two demons looked to each other with a nod.
Crowley sat a little closer to her, voice gentle, “Muriel,” he began, “whatever you’ve got to say, we won’t say a word to anyone. You were never here. We don’t even know you,” he said very plainly and she looked at him hopefully, “thank you. I already feel awful about this. For stealing.”
“Stealing?” Aziraphale walked over, “what exactly-?”
Muriel opened the very worn copy of The Borrowers and out fell a folded tan folder, which miraculously sprung back to its A4 size and sat crisply on the coffee table. On the front it read, ‘GABRIEL’S HORN.’

“Where did you find this?”
“In a first order Scrivener's office. I can’t open it, but I thought you could?” She looked to Crowley. Aziraphale raised a brow in bewilderment, “sorry, what?”
“He was able to open Gabriel’s case file,” she reasoned, “so I thought he would be able to open this too.”
The room went oddly quiet.
Muriel felt uncomfortable suddenly and wondered what the odd feeling was. Awkwardness? Gosh it was unpleasant.
Crowley avoided Aziraphale's eyes.
“Aziraphale can open it,” he murmured, “he was Supreme Archangel.”
Aziraphale didn’t move. He simply stared, brows pulled together, still not understanding but feeling something was just... off. How-?
Muriel looked between them, that very strange feeling rising, “did I say something wrong?"
“Not at all,” Aziraphale broke out of his thought process and with a swipe of his hand he opened the file. Information in the form of paper and photos and moving images swirled throughout the space in the room, as if watching a globe spin from the inside.

The three stood and examined the floating menagerie of information, Crowley flipping through diagrams and angelic photos, pulling one down and looking the Horn over. It was indeed all about the Horn - brass with ornate gold etchings, but the shape was nothing quite like an instrument found on Earth. It looked like it belonged in the Louvre behind thick glass and only available to view from 10am-2pm from behind the safety of a rope and three security guards.
Crowley remembered the sound of it well.
He shuddered.

“Says here that the location of it now is definitely on Earth. So Michael must know that, if it’s documented,” Aziraphale said as he read, “but obviously they did not keep an eye on it.”
“Michael always underestimated Earth,” Crowley replied, throwing the diagram back up into the room, “probably stuck it somewhere thinking no angel or demon would find it, but didn’t count on the fact that humans would see it as a priceless object. Probably been sold and bartered and stolen and sold again plenty of times.”
“And for Gabriel not to know…?”
“Maybe he didn’t want to know. Or maybe he lied to everyone and knows exactly where it is. Maybe Beezlebub lied to us,” Crowley was growing frustrated at all these variables, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, “how exactly do these angels plan on finding it?”
Muriel pursed her lips as she thought, “I thought the answer would be in here,” they looked to Aziraphale, “what you said about feeling it - I had thought that too. Like that feeling when you walk into the Sanctum. It’s not a nice feeling but it’s something big and… consuming.” That felt like the right word.
He nodded in complete understanding, remembering the feeling when he had looked over Michael's sword. Remembering the feeling of his own sword in his hand, the power that coursed through his entire being and brought him to a higher level of holy.

Crowley understood it too.

“Slight problem,” Crowley said in a voice that was only a small step away from helpless, “we’re demons. Holy essence is not meant for us... It feels... wrong."
But Aziraphale looked thoughtful, “perhaps… Or perhaps it will work in our favour. As demons, we would be inclined to get as far away from that feeling as possible, yes?”
“I… guess…?”
“As an angel, I could feel love. As a demon, I feel… well… not the opposite of love,” he tried to find the words as he collected the papers from the air, “but we are still in tune to many things. Maybe we need to tune ourselves in to something that feels very, very wrong to us. Polarising, even.”

Muriel listened and as she did, she had somewhat of a brilliant stroke of an idea. Their face lit up, “you’re right. You’re right! Think about it, when they go searching, they won’t know exactly where to look. There's so many places on earth that have a holy essence that angels will be drawn to - it will take them forever! Well, maybe not, but a very long time. And they don't know Earth like you two do.”

Crowley froze as he took in their expressions; despite being on the cusp of an absolute terrifying precipice that was unfolding in the universe, Muriel’s warm eyes were sparkling and Aziraphale had a bright sense of adventure in his returning smile.
Crowley groaned, “are you two seriously suggesting that we go and find the Horn before they do?”
“Like the Three Musketeers!” Muriel bounced on the balls of their feet.
Crowley muttered something that sounded a lot like ‘the Three Stooges'.”

-

Chapter Text

While the three scoured over the information for anything that could help their cause, things started unfolding on Earth around them that late afternoon.

For one, angels were descending.
They weren’t making themselves physically obvious to the humans, but their presence was duly noted in the way of various odd weather patterns occurring all over the world wherever they landed in small clusters.

Hail hit the desert. Snow fell in the outback. A tsunami in the north. Glaciers reforming in the south.

A particular swoop of divinity rang a little too close to home, only a few miles from Soho. The three fell quiet and looked to each other.

“Muriel, maybe it’s not safe for you right now. How will you explain this if they find you here?”
Muriel looked between them. She had already thought of this too.
“I have an idea,” she glanced at Crowley guiltily, “you gave me the idea, actually.”
He looked dumbfounded, waiting to see what he was going to be blamed for, “me?”
“Bees. Remember?”
“Bees…? Bees. Mn. Hive. Yes?”
“Maybe I could be a bee,” she said slowly, as if waiting to make sure someone wasn’t overhearing them, “in your hive. And no one will even know I’m here. If you understand what I’m trying to say without saying it?”
Realisation dawned on Crowley's face and he gave her a wicked grin, “oh I knew I liked you. And here I thought you’d be incorrigible. Right,” he stood up, rubbing his hands together, “any requests?”
Aziraphale hadn’t the faintest clue what was going on, “can someone please fill me in?” He huffed.
“They won’t even notice! Not with all the energy spikes going on from them all flittering around down here,” Crowley was still grinning like an idiot.
Muriel, however, blessed Aziraphale with knowledge, “angels won’t find me if I’m not an angel. They already know you two live here, so another demon isn’t too far out of the question. I just need help looking the part.”
Aziraphale was torn between looking impressed and worried. This was dangerous.
“Muriel. I know you are quite capable of handling yourself. But you’ve already done plenty and if they found out-“
“Gah, fuck them! Angel you’re forgetting, Muriel has us! Besides, she can hold her own. And they’re not looking for her, not with this whole mess coming about.”
“But Michael’s wrath-“
“Michael's wrath won’t be the worst of what happens if we fail,” Muriel said, sounding rather wise despite her perpetual bubbliness, in fact her jaw was quite strong as she spoke, “If this is all God’s plan, then She’ll let us know, right? If we’re... If we're wrong?”

Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t know what to say.

That was ineffability for you.

Muriel took that as said and she stood in front of Crowley, trepidation falling back into her features, “this isn’t going to hurt, right?”
“Not at all. Just a very clever disguise,” he held out a hand to Aziraphale, “you going to help me with this? If we can hide 'Jim' then I have no doubt in our abilities.”
Aziraphale sighed, as if he had any other option at all, and took Crowley's hand and got to his feet.
“Shall we stick to the bee theme?”
Muriel nodded with a grin, only the tiniest bit nervous.

The two demons concentrated, twisting demonic energy into something miraculous - the change happening right before their eyes.
Short antennae grew from Muriels curly hair, twitching attentively, and her warm brown eyes flooded black from pupil to sclera. Her outfit changed to something more Crowley's style; dark jeans, boots and a blazer that had two very sharp stingers on either shoulder. A pair of small, yet useless, albeit very accurate, bee wings sprouted over where her angelic wings would usually lie. She gave them an experimental flap and their whole body buzzed rapidly.
“Not bad, actually.” Aziraphale looked on, rather impressed.
“That’s an understatement, you look like a harbinger of sin. A real devil,” Crowley assured with an encouraging fist bump to Muriel’s shoulder.
She beamed, patting down her smart blazer and looking to her boots, “thanks! I feel very… spooky.”
“Spooky always gets a big tick from me.”

With that all settled and the bookshop secured, one of Crowleys' albums playing in the background and a bottle of red open, they got to work.

-

Chapter Text

Crowley didn’t enjoy reading like Aziraphale did.

For one, his attention could only be held for so long. He had to stop constantly skimming ahead to something that piqued his interest, and Aziraphale kept not so gently reminding him that he could miss vital information.
Secondly, he grew argumentative with books, which didn’t argue back, meaning he was annoying anyone within earshot.

He was relieved when Aziraphale took the heavy book from under his nose, but then pulled a face when a small black one replaced it.
“What’s this?”
“Contacts. If you’re going to be vocal then at least put it to use. There’s a lot of telephone numbers in there for dealers I’ve come across over the years who are in the business of procuring unique items. Not just books. Tell them you’re calling on behalf of me,” he thought for a moment, “they’ll either be very helpful or hang up immediately.”
Crowley nodded slowly, “ask them about the Horn?”
“Yes. Or see if they’ve heard anything along the grapes.”
“Grapevine,” Crowley corrected with an eye roll, pulling out his phone and getting comfortable. Aziraphale stroked his red hair softly and pressed a kiss to his head, causing Crowley to stare at him owlishly, pink blotching his cheeks.
The former angel looked pleased with his efforts and went back to his chair, nose in book.

Once Crowley's brain caught up, his fingers went to work and before he knew it, he was calling people from all over the world (meaning he was also waking up very grumpy people in different time zones). He used parts of his brain that he hadn’t used in a while - like the part that told him to be polite to people on the phone, and the part that spoke fluent Arabic.

It took hours.

Aziraphale could only watch (discreetly yet indulgently) as Crowley shifted into different spots on the couch, each phone call he would uncurl himself and his feet were either up on the arm of the couch, or ankles crossed on the coffee table, or his head hanging over the back of the other arm, finger twirling his glasses expertly around and around. Muriel also looked hard at work, a small dent between their brows in evident concentration, their now black eyes shifting page to page and jotting down notes here and there. Next to them sat four half drank cups of tea.

Aziraphale wasn’t use to sharing his space and yet, this felt right. Not imposing, or annoying, and he wasn’t scrambling to find an excuse to kick them out or excuse himself just for a moment alone. He felt immense gratitude and Muriel looked over at him questioningly before smiling to themself and looking back to their notes.

Crowley suddenly shot up, speaking quite fast in Russian, his hand waving in the air. Muriel, knowing this universal (quite literally, it happened in Heaven) sign for ‘someone anyone pass me a pen!’
They passed him a pen and a scrap of paper, Crowley cramming the phone between his ear and shoulder so he could jot down notes.
A few 'thank yous', 'yeses' and 'no worries' and Crowley hung up, a spark in his yellow eyes.
“I have something.”
Muriel was fully invested, “In Russia?”
Crowley nodded, “there’s an auction. Very discreet, very hard to get an invite to. But I got one.” He held up the scrap of paper, his scrawl with a time and an address.
Aziraphale looked positively over the moon, grabbing the piece of paper, “and the Horn is there? For sure?”
“It will be. Uh. There’s one, tiny, little thing though, not overly important really...”
Aziraphale sensed a scheme brewing and groaned, “which is?”
“My way of invite was the promise that I had something to auction. Something one of a kind.”
Aziraphale's mind went straight to Crowley's acquired art works. It would be an absolute shame. Or, he thought in horror, perhaps Crowley had promised them a book from Aziraphale's most private and prized collection.
Muriel however was revelling in this, as if reading one of their murder mysteries and absolutely not able to wait and see what the next clue was, “and? What are you bringing?”
Crowley cleared his throat nervously, looking between the two before his gaze settled on Aziraphale, “do you trust me?”
Aziraphale nodded slowly, already feeling in his gut that this was not going to work in his favour, “absolutely.”
Crowley seemed to relax, “good, good…”
“Am I going to regret it?”
Crowley was trying his hardest not to smile, “nah. Don’t worry angel, it’s just a tiny little demonic intervention…”

-

Chapter Text

“You told them what?!”

So much for a 'tiny little demonic intervention'.

Muriel sat back, sinking into their chair as tensions rose.

“As soon as we get the horn, we’re out of there! It will be a few hours!”
"So many things could go wrong, Crowley!"
"Of course they can, but it will go far more bloody wrong if someone else gets to it first!"
Crowley was at the pleading stage and Aziraphale was nothing sort of pissed, arms tight over his chest, glowering at Crowley.
“Did you think, for even a moment, about consulting me first?”
Crowley groaned, “there just wasn’t time.”
“And your first and only succinct thought was to offer me up as a prize?”
“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” Crowley reasoned, smile just a little too tight to be charming.
Aziraphale sighed heavily, staring at the notes levitating around them. He batted one away gently that hovered a little too close to his head.
“Fine. Fine, but only because this is dire circumstances.”

-

“The trick is to let go.”
“Let go of what exactly?”
“Everything. In Italy you told me about feeling on edge? You need to let yourself go over that edge. Embrace it. Or get so angry that you’re going to explode. Mind you, you almost did that in Hell, probably not the best option...”
Aziraphale didn’t like either of those options.

Muriel had perched themself on the couch, watching intently. The two demons stood in the empty space of the room, Aziraphale a picture of unease and Crowley trying his best to explain, “once you do it the first time, it will be a lot easier.”
“Easy for you to say. What if I get it wrong?”
Crowley gave Aziraphale's shoulders a gentle but encouraging squeeze, “don’t go doubting your abilities now, weren’t you just the all powerful supreme archangel?”
Aziraphale frowned unhappily, “I’d rather not take the ‘so angry I’m going to explode’ route, thank you very much.”
“Wasn’t my intention. Just…” and he hated how much he sounded like one of those shoddy hypnotherapists on a reality show, “close your eyes. Concentrate.”
Aziraphale huffed and closed his eyes.

How to dig into his demonic nature?

Aziraphale for years had always kept himself in check, in every regard. He was guarded, in a lot of ways. He couldn’t open up, mainly because the only being he ever wanted to open up to was Crowley and that was never an option. It was something inconceivable to him, something he had to bury away and hide - hide from himself, from heaven, even from Crowley. He was fairly good at bottling things up, or at the very least, redirecting his thoughts into telling him that what he was thinking or feeling was something else entirely.
Like all those years ago, realising that what he felt for Crowley was love. And not just generic, angelic love, it was different. It consumed him in a way that an angel's Love For All Things never could. It made his heart beat erratically. It made him incoherent. And angry. And soft. Happy. Fearful. Hopeless… and, sometimes, hopeful.
Which, in turn, he had to squash down, even when he saw disappointment in Crowley's eyes whenever he did.

Crowley sighed at the immovable statue before him, “c'mon, just try.”
"I. Am. Trying."
“Shall I try damning him into oblivion?” Muriel suggested, trying very hard not to smile at their odd little bickering. Crowley sighed, “if he can’t do it then maybe you’ll have to.”
“Oh please I am right here!”
“What did you say about Italy before?” Muriel asked, closing their book and watching them. Crowley looked thoughtful.

Italy. Right.
Aziraphale cleared his throat and when he finally replied his tone was somewhat strangled, “Muriel, perhaps what I do need is a clear mind. A bit of calm to help me concentrate. Do you mind seeing if Nina has any eccles cakes left?”
“Sure! Do you think I might scare the customers though?”
Crowley shook his head, “they won’t notice a thing.”
And they surely wouldn’t, because Crowley willed it.
As soon as the bell chimed to announce her departure, Crowley turned his confused stare to Aziraphale, “Eccles cakes, really?”
“No,” Aziraphale mumbled, cheeks pink, “not really. I just didn’t think you’d appreciate a public display in front of Muriel.”
“Public display? I- oh- but,” his pupils dilated and his throat made an odd noise as it dawned on him, “Italy?”
“Italy,” Aziraphale breathed, feline eyes locked on Crowley's, the serpent for once in his long life suddenly feeling very much like the intended prey. He took a tentative step forward and Aziraphale matched him, gripping Crowley's collar and yanking him down, “forgive me.”
Aziraphale didn’t receive a reply, and didn’t particular expect or care for one either - his pulse was beating in his ears, heart in his throat and his lips crashed against Crowley's urgently.
Crowley's moment of recognition only came half a second later as he kissed back, the undeniable and intoxicating taste of sin, of lust, danced along Aziraphale's tongue as it fought against his. He let him win, even though his possessed a dexterity that only a forked tongue could give. So this is what Aziraphale was talking about in Italy - what he struggled to convey in words.
This was Aziraphale letting go, in the least heinous but perhaps most demonic way he knew how. Crowley drew in a shaky breath as Aziraphale's lips and tongue left his, pressing to the corner of his mouth, across his cheek, nipping a particular spot on his jaw that elicited a noise that he had never made in the company of someone else.
It had the opposite effect on Aziraphale, the shocked moan sending a shot of molten satisfaction down his spine, feeling Crowley's hand dig into the back of his shirt. He nipped again, a little sharper just under Crowley's ear and the answering groan vibrated low as it reached his own ear,
And then-
He felt it.
He felt that demonic imbalance pull him and he let himself be yanked under, pushing his consciousness into a different frame of mind; into a different nature altogether. As he let the last of his forced control wane, his vision slipped from crystal clear into double and Crowley was breathing hard against him, no room for oxygen between them and yet he whined, “angel?”
His voice sounded far away. Too far away.
It was getting further out of reach until Aziraphale was suddenly horizontal, the floor underneath him in a very short span of time. It was surprisingly comfortable. He could sleep-

Crowley tried to catch him but Aziraphale quite literally slipped through his fingers.
Rapidly silken fur sprouted and the creature was laying on the floor, breathing evenly.
Not quite grey nor blonde nor brown, the lynx had a fluffy white belly and chest, dark spots decorating the body in symmetrical patterns, with large paws and short thick legs. Crowley kneeled down very slowly, looking him over in shock, "so you do have a tail," was all he managed lamely, eyeing the bobbed tail.
He heard a gasp behind him and an eccles cake fell to the floor, "wow! he did it!"
"Indeed he did."
“Is he okay?”
“He’ll be alright. I think. Pretty sure.”
“I thought he’d be… scarier. Bigger?”
The lynx still slept soundly, Crowley resisting the urge to card through its fluffy fur, “wait until he wakes up.”
His tone of caution went over Muriel’s head and they simply grinned, “Can’t wait!”

-

Aziraphale felt groggy. Groggy and a little cramped, as if he had used muscles that hadn’t seen anything close to strenuous in years.
He could hear Crowley and Muriel talking, could smell them both and he breathed in the dust on the wooden floor.
He heard an odd low noise leave his chest and he pried his eyes open, trying to sit up, “what happened? Did I faint?”
But the noise that came out his mouth was a garbled meowing noise.
As his vision righted itself, he slowly stood up - which wasn’t very upright at all. Crowley had got to his feet and slowly backed off, and Aziraphale's eye level was now somewhere at Crowley's knee, which was disconcerting. But he felt sturdy, his footing very sure of itself and he risked a glance at his feet. Paws. His claws flexed and he must’ve made a sound of panic because Crowley took another hasty step backwards.
“Aziraphale?”
“I think it worked.” But his voice was just another growl.
Muriel poked their head around Crowley, “is he trying to talk?”
Aziraphale made a noise of frustration and did his best to convey a nod.
Muriel, braver than Crowley, went over to Aziraphale and kneeled down.
“Well you did a great job,” they said encouragingly, “you didn’t even need the Eccles cake. I think you really need to try and concentrate on trying to speak something more human - we don’t speak cat. Do you think other cats can understand him?”
Crowley rose a brow, trying not to snigger, “I don’t think other cats will give him the time of day for a conversation. He’ll get there, just takes a bit of time.”
Aziraphale sat and stared at Muriel. He would need to try something - they weren’t mind readers - as convenient as that would be right now.
“Mmmm-“
Muriel looked expectant.
“Mmmurrr..eeerrr…”
“You’re very close,” they said, “can’t you do a little miracle to help him?”
Crowley shook his head, “nah, tried that already with hiding the ears.”
How was Crowley able to speak to Eve so readily? Aziraphale wondered, remembering the soft low hiss that was certainly from a snake and yet completely understandable in the garden.
He had to do this. He tried again, “Murrr…iel.”
Muriel gave him a happy tap on the head*, “excellent.”
Crowley seemed to find courage from that and went over, “keep that up angel, it’s our ticket** into the auction.”
Aziraphale paled, and then said in a growl of perfect English, “excuse me, ourrr what?”

Chapter Text

Muriel didn’t know exactly what to expect when they had summoned up the courage to help Crowley and Aziraphale and come back to Earth, but it wasn’t this. Not exactly.

They observed intently, thinking that this whole adventure was turning out a lot like one of the books they had read, full of clues and twists and turns, just more… real. Tangible. A little scarier too, because the consequences were real. A little more silly too, they thought, as she watched Aziraphale pad around the bookshop as a big cat, very cleverly perfecting his English by continuing to bicker with Crowley, who seemed to be having a hard time keeping a straight face.

Muriel hummed a song and sipped their cup of tea, stacking up their notes and books neatly, Aziraphale jumping up onto the throne and watching.
“What song is that?” He asked, following her movements.
“Hm? Oh, it’s a Queen* song. Crowley let me borrow some of his music while I was looking after the shop. I didn't realise how different music is here. It's all so unique!”
His head tilted, “you enjoyed being on Earth.”
Muriel nodded, stacking the last pile and leaning against the desk, looking a little troubled, “I did. I really did. I felt useful. And happy. And I feel like I have friends here that actually care about me. Not to say Heaven doesn’t care about me,” she rushed to clarify but it wasn't overly convincing, “I mean, I’m sure they do. They have to. Care. About things. Us.”
Aziraphale understood her stress, “you do have friends herrre. There’s no shame in being friends with humans. Or demons, for that matter. And no shame in enjoying Earth. It was created by Her, after all.”
Muriel smiled at him, feeling a little more at ease, “I know. I just hope I’m doing the right thing.”
Aziraphale made a small sort of barking noise which was his approximation of a laugh, “I’m not the best judge of that, I’m afraid.”
“Judge of what?” Crowley asked, coming out the bedroom and looking very smart indeed - black on black suit, thick black and red scarf, dark gold rimmed glasses and a heavy gold snake brooch on his lapel. It looked expensive.
“Rrright and wrong,” Aziraphale answered with an unintentional purr. Crowley grinned.

The three left the bookshop as night fell, Crowley and Muriel dressed in their dark, sharp suits, Aziraphale following them with senses all on high alert. The streets were mostly empty which was surprising for such a mild night - but he knew why. The three could feel that pulse of energy that echoed from the angels landing on earth. Silent to the humans, but it still left an effect of uneasiness.
“It’s very quiet,” Muriel finally broke the silence, thankfully because Aziraphale found himself getting a little too distracted by a mouse that was finding dinner behind a large bin.
“The humans aren’t stupid,” Crowley murmured, looking around the empty streets as they crossed the road, “they don’t know exactly what’s going on, but they know somethings happening. They’re on edge.”
They turned down another street and came to a stop.
“Ready?”
Muriel and Aziraphale nodded, Crowley taking Muriel’s hand and he reached down to place his other on Aziraphales head, the three disappearing.

Where they landed was the city of Kazan, one of the largest industrial and financial centres of the region.
It was cold, surely only 2-3 degrees, Muriel pulling their blazer around them securely. Aziraphale however was comfortable, fur keeping the chill away as they walked, Crowley looking around to gather his bearings.
“Why here?” Muriel asked.
“A long time ago, Kazan was a centre of trade. Known for a lot of gold, and a lot of money in their palaces. And mosques. Then Ivan the Terrible happened and that all went down the drain. Mostly. Apparently there are some factions that survived, going quite literally underground…” He stopped and pulled out his phone, turning it this way and that.
“Are we lost, dear?” Aziraphale asked and Crowley frowned, “no, no not lost...”
But Muriel wasn’t listening to them. They had walked a few steps ahead then become quite still.
Aziraphale followed them, “what’s wrong?”
“Can you feel it?”
He waited. “No, feel what?”
Muriel looked down to him, “I keep getting these flashes. Pulses. I think it’s the Horn.”
“Lead the way.”

It took an hour but Muriel led them to a a side street - inconspicuous, just some dark buildings that appeared abandoned and a man leaning against one, smoking a cigarette.
As they got further down the street, the two demons started to feel it. The presence that Muriel could feel from the Horn (‘it feels… hopeful. And a little intimidating’) was proving to be a complete opposite feeling for Crowley and Aziraphale.
It was foreboding.
Crowley's jaw clicked shut, his body struck with something that in human terms would be on par with anxiety. His whole being did not want to get any closer, but he forced his feet to keep walking. Aziraphale felt something of the same, but in his current form it was less complicated - simply fight or flight mode. His hackles rose, ears flattening and Crowley touched a hand between his shoulder blades, “easy, angel.”

The man smoking the cigarette flicked it onto the road and walked over as he watched the interaction, taking in Crowley's suit. “Can I help you?” He asked in heavily accented English.
“Actually yes, I think you can help us,” Crowley replied silkily, “we’ve been invited to tonight’s event.”
“Name?” The man asked, pulling out his phone, putting it to his ear.
“Anthony. On behalf of Mr Fell.”
The man repeated it into the phone, eyeing Muriel, “and them?”
Crowley had already thought about this, “the handler.”
The man looked between Muriel and the lynx who had sat very patiently next to her.
He hung up the phone, “come with me.”
They followed him down some concrete stairs, through two doors, past a security guard (who gave Aziraphale a very wide berth) and further down to another door. The man glanced up to the camera hiding in the corner and gave a nod, the door clicking as a heavy bolt unlatched.
He stood aside, “see to the front desk and enjoy your evening.”
“Thanks,” Muriel said just a little too kindly, the three walking in.

It was what appeared to be an underground bunker that could fit a fifth of the metro population of Kazan. Perhaps, that’s what it had been used for a long time ago, but now it was something of a massive warehouse. Bright lights hung evenly in the space, leading them to a desk where a young woman with very dark makeup sat in a deep red suit, her expression carefully neutral as she stood.

“Mr Anthony Crowley?” Her faint accent couldn’t be placed. He suspected it was fake, probably for her own protection.
Crowley nodded, “on behalf of Mr Fell.”
“And Mr Fell is where?”
“London. Ill. Sends his regards.”
Her gaze fell on Aziraphale, “and this is your item?”
Crowley's eyes narrowed at her condescending tone, but thankfully his glasses didn’t betray him.
“Yes. The item.”
The woman look unconvinced, “a lynx is hardly rare in these parts. Especially as a pet.”
Aziraphale hissed a little.
“He’s quite unique,” Muriel said.
“So I’ve heard,” the woman smirked, “says here that he talks. You understand meowing is not speaking, yes?”
“I’d say it’s rather more than a meow,” Aziraphale piped up, smug as the woman’s face turned an unpleasant shade of grey, “and as for being a pet? That’s quite rrrude.”
The woman leaned against the desk for support, passing Crowley his bidding number with trembling fingers. He smiled at her politely, though his teeth were a little too sharp, “Спасибо.”**

Chapter Text

Aziraphale had acquired some of his prized collection via auction. Many years ago, when it was a very normal and common affair, and the event encouraged people from all walks of life and wealth to come and bid or simply watch. As the world continued to turn quite fast around him and technology boomed, auctions soon followed the trend and buying online was the way to go, much to his annoyance. He had a computer which he used to do his taxes to perfection every year but it too was starting to age. Crowley suggested something more slimline but Aziraphale was insistent that the old clunky thing worked perfectly fine (which it did, somehow without an internet connection) and so it stayed and collected dust, the fan whirring like a decrepit helicopter that belonged in a museum.

This wasn’t like any auction he had been to. For one, almost every punter was dressed to the nines. There was an unbelievable amount of security. No assets were shown beforehand.
No one spoke to anyone outside their own party. There weren’t those little paddles with the buyers number on it that you held up, you simply kept your number and if you won the bid then two suited (and armed) people would quickly whisk you away for payment in a more discreet setting.

As the auction progressed, Aziraphale grew very aware that a lot of these items were illegal, or stolen, or a combination of both.

Far from the days of estate sales, charity galas and treasured antiques.

“I can’t believe you’re going to sell me,” he whispered to Crowley, Aziraphale sitting on the chair beside him. They watched as the next item was brought out.
“I’m sure you’ll be worth every dollar.”

Another thing about this auction - cash or express transfer only. Everything in US dollars. Crowley never carried cash, however Aziraphale had an abundance hidden in a very secret safe in the shop. Crowley had taken it upon himself to almost clear him out so they could use it (even if it miraculously appeared back in the shop the very next morning).
A bejewelled crown sold for close to a million dollars and Crowley snorted, ankles crossing as it was carefully carried off the stage by a person with white gloves. Some of this stuff was rubbish. Or fake. But very good fakes.
Muriel seemed fascinated, and took in every single word and action of the auctioneer, mesmerised. They were in truth, a captivating auctioneer, with a demeanour that was calm yet precise, quick yet not threatening. They’d been doing this a long, long time.

Religious artefacts started to make an appearance next, the three exchanging glances as a series of fake objects were brought out, one after the other. Supposed nails from the cross Jesus was crucified on. Scriptures written by a disciple (it was definitely a fake, Aziraphale had the real one in storage), and gold upon gold upon gold, apparently uncovered deep beneath the Vatican (good luck trying to get that).
Just as Crowley went to comment on the poor sod who spent seven figures on the Vatican gold, a presence entered the room.

What had been an anxious reverb constantly in Crowley and Aziraphale's ears now coursed through their entire beings. Muriel had to physically restrain themself from standing up to full attention as it was brought out - Gabriel’s Horn.
“Definitely real,” she whispered, black eyes glowing gold before they reined it in, staring at their feet to break the connection that beckoned them.
Crowley gritted his teeth, tongue forking at the horrid feeling, “no shit. Aziraphale, sssit down,” he hissed, gripping Aziraphale around the scuff to stop him from leaping off his chair.
The lynx retracted their claws, forcing himself to relax, “sorry, sorry, it’s still-“
But then another item was brought out with the Horn. A long gold staff, at least 5 and a half feet in length, the intricate details wove up and around it much like the horn but at the top of the staff was a slender almost snake like winged figure protecting a golden sphere.
Muriel gasped.
Crowley let go of Aziraphale.
Aziraphale was stunned, “No- Surely not- Muriel is that real?”
Muriel looked lost for words, “I.. I can’t tell. It’s too close to the Horn!”
The people sitting in front shushed them and Muriel looked distressed.
The auctioneer had already began describing the Horn and was now turning their attention to the other item, “…to be sold together, as one entity. The Horn of the Archangel Gabriel and the Staff of Archangel Raphael. Both certified, with impeccable attention to detail - only one owner since the beginning of time,” he smiled and some of the crowd chuckled at his attempt of humour, “the Staff of course is said to have the power to heal, the profound power to utilise and weaponise its stored cosmic energy. It is said that it could save humanity or bring the world to its knees. If you believe. And for the right believer, we will start the bidding for this pair at 10 million.”
“It’s fake,” Crowley finally breathed.
Aziraphale looked to him.
Muriel looked around as the price quickly began to rise from the various bidders, “how do you know?”
“It doesn’t matter, what matters is the Horn is real. And we need it,” he raised his hand just enough that it caught the clerks eye and he received a nod of acknowledgment, soon meeting everyone’s bid. Within a minute it was up to $15 million, going up by $500,000 each bid, and it was down to Crowley and one other bidder in the room.
Crowley was relentless.

20, 24, 28 million -

The short American man who was very quickly becoming the underbidder suddenly stood up, face quite red and expression vehemently annoyed, “30 million dollars.”
The crowd whispered around them. Crowley stood up, “40 million.”
The man clenched and unclenched his fists, “45.”
The auctioneer looked both enthralled and apprehensive. Security moved in subtly from all sides of the venue.
Crowley rose a brow, “50 and the lynx.”
“A lynx?! The hell are they gonna do with a lynx?” The man shouted back, all manner of decency gone.
“Whatever they like. He’s a bit small for a rug. Maybe just a companion? Someone to have a yarn with?”
“Yes I’d rather not be a rug,” Aziraphale threw in for good measure.
A gasp echoed throughout the room as the large cat spoke and the auctioneer slammed down his gavel with a boom of, “SOLD!”

The stunned crowd watched as the three were escorted out of the room, their prizes wheeled away out of sight.

“50 million dollars,” Aziraphale huffed as they walked, “you’re mad.”
One of the security guards swore as they walked and one murmured, “I agree with the cat…”
Crowley ignored them.

Soon they were in a small guarded room, Crowley handing over stacks of cash - no one noticing that he’d walked in without a briefcase and now had one that he seemed to be emptying like it belonged to Mary Poppins.
“We’re going to be here for a while,” said one of the clerks, clearly disgruntled that this wasn’t done electronically, putting the stacks into various counting machines.
One of the security guards came over, “where should we put the cat?” He asked the other.
“Have we got a cage?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Crowley interjected, the thought of Aziraphale locked in a tiny cage made his skin prickle uneasily, “part of the deal was he’s very receptive. Obedient. He’ll do as he's told.”
Muriel patted Aziraphale on the head encouragingly. He resisted swatting their hand.

The intense presence filled the room once again as the Horn and Staff were brought to them. Crowley and Muriel stiffened, Muriel trying to read Crowley's expression for some sort of instruction but his eyes remained hidden.
“Aziraphale, can you hear me?” Crowley barely breathed, so low no human ears would be able to decipher it, especially over the noise of the counting machine. Aziraphale looked to him attentively, an ear twitching.
“I'm going to freeze time. We won’t have long.”
Aziraphale stayed still, glancing around the room.
Crowley suddenly stood, security moving towards him but then he threw up his hands and pulled-
The room stopped. Notes that were flickering paused mid-flip. Time had froze. Muriel looked around and got up quickly, “what-?”
“Remember that address I told you?”
Muriel nodded although they looked terrified.
“Take the Horn. Go there. We’ll find you.”
She hesitated and looked at the frozen humans but then saw the concentration on Crowley's face. Muriel went over and hoisted the Horn from its podium, her demon disguise melting away as she did so.
“It’s fine,” Crowley said throughout gritted teeth, the effort causing a vein to throb in his temple, “take it and go. We’ll meet you there.”
Muriel wrapped her arms around the golden Horn and disappeared.
Crowley went to grab Aziraphale but the lynx nodded to the Staff, “are we taking-?”
“Nope, leave it. Those bastards can chase a decoy,” Crowley picked up Aziraphale and they disappeared.

Time restarted, the money counter machine jamming as it flicked notes that no longer existed. Security almost ran into each other. The clerk swore. Within seconds a button was pushed and an alarm sounded.

Some 3,000 kilometres away the three reappeared at the door of a small flat above a florist in Munich.

Chapter Text

As far as things like contingency plans go, Crowley was slowly becoming somewhat of an expert. Of course he was no stranger to quite literally slithering out of a sticky situation, but he hasn’t been too much of a ‘break in case of emergency’ guy since the holy water debacle.
That was more to do with the fact that Aziraphale hadn’t spoken to him, but still, it just wasn’t something that had come up too often. Getting into bad situations came with the part and parcel of being a demon, after all.

But since Armaged-didn’t, he had sort of thought about a few ‘break in case of emergency’ plans. He, of course, liked his default setting of buggering off to another solar system, but if he were being completely honest, leaving Earth just didn’t seem right.

About a month after Aziraphale took his new post in Heaven, and Crowley was realising how much he was growing to hate his Mayfair flat (or at least the feeling of absolute loneliness it gave him) he had a sudden brainwave of a back up plan. In case it all went to absolute shit and he needed a way out. Somewhere no one would find him, if he didn’t want to be found.

The three stood at the door of the flat, a small staircase to their right, a window to their left and a tiny light illuminating the door. Crowley set Aziraphale down and pulled a knife out of nowhere, pricking the tip of his finger and touching the door. The only way to get in.
The door swung open and they got in quickly, the door closing with an otherworldly click behind them that seemed to shut out every sound that the rest of the world made.
It was very quiet.

Muriel stood in the centre of the room, still gripping the horn to their chest but with a shaky hand she clicked and murmured, “l-let there be light.”
Every light source in the room illuminated, from the rangehood above the stove to a small lamp on the hallway table.
“Muriel? You can put it down,” Crowley said gently, Aziraphale momentarily distracted from looking around the small room and watching them.
Muriel was sweating.
“I can’t,” they whispered, “I can’t let it go.”
“What?”
“I want to. I want to put it down, but it wants me to keep it safe.”
Crowley took off his glasses and slowly made his way over to them in the least threatening way, “it is safe. You’ve done a wonderful job. The best. Worthy of every commendation in the book. You can just put it down here on the table.”
Muriel nodded, finger twitching as the horn glowed faintly, “I- yes- why is it-?”
“Probably the first time an angel has held it in a long time,” Aziraphale reasoned, voice gentle, “try to relax. Perhaps it feels your anxiety.”
Muriel closed her eyes and spoke out loud to the horn, “I’m going to put you down, but I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe with us.”
The horn didn’t answer, not that horns could talk, but it didn’t do anything else either. Muriel loosened their knuckles and lowered it to the table before stepping away quickly.
The three exhaled, Muriel panting like they had just done an Olympic sprint as they leaned against a chair.
Aziraphale watched in surprise as Crowley hugged Muriel, in a way that he thought would be awkward because Crowley didn’t hug anyone, ever - but Muriel simply melted into him. A reassuring hand rubbed her back gently, “great job Muriel.”

-

Muriel had never slept a day in their long life. Never needed to, or necessarily wanted to either.
But they found themselves horizontal on the small burgundy lounge, eyes blurring a little and closing with heaviness. Their body relaxed and seemed to sink, feeling the comfort beneath them, the air that was being pushed and pulled from their lungs slowed and they yanked a blanket up over their shoulders. Muriel slipped out of consciousness.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale, now in a more human presenting form albeit a few spots on his face that he couldn’t seem to shake right now, drank deeply from his glass. He was tired and very, very sore.

Crowley had tried to help him with less-than-encouraging words ('imagine yourself with feet', 'I do have feet!', 'right right imagine yourself less… hairy?') and they had got there in the end and Aziraphale had been able to stand on two human feet and talk with a human mouth.
Now they both sat, drinking wine with little to no enthusiasm, with Muriel snoring softly, and the horn perched innocently up on a bookshelf across the room with a blanket over it. The blanket seemed to dull the ache that it gave the demons, whether Crowley had willed it to or not.

“It had quite the hold on Muriel,” Aziraphale eventually said thoughtfully.
Crowley nodded, body far less lax than the others’. His brow remained as furrowed as it had back in Kazan. His yellow eyes were troubled.
“How did you know?” Aziraphale asked after what seemed like three glasses of wine later.
“Hmm? Know what?”
“The staff. How could you possibly know it was a fake?”
Silence fell between them for a long moment.
“You felt what the Horn did. I wasn’t getting the same feeling from the staff.”
Aziraphale returned his frown, sitting up a little straighter, “no.”
“No?”
Aziraphale thought back to that moment and shook his head, “no. That doesn’t… Muriel is an angel, and even they couldn’t tell. I certainly couldn’t, not with how overwhelming the Horn was. But I saw the look on your face; you knew instantly.”
“No, I didn’t.”
The lie hung heavy in the air. Aziraphale could almost taste it.

Deceit had a certain tang to it, like licking a coin.

“You know, for a long, long time, I wondered why you made it known to me whenever you lied. At first I thought it was because perhaps you thought I was naive and wouldn’t pick up on it, or that maybe you thought me too kind, and know I would rather you point it out than me accuse you of being a liar. But, I think I’ve come to realise that it’s just because you’re a terrible liar. Always have been.”
Crowleys nose scrunched, “I’ve been deceiving others since the beginning!”
“Then I shall rephrase. You’re a terrible liar because you don’t like to lie. Well, not to me, anyway.”
“Really? You only just figured that one out?” Crowley grumbled, drinking his wine and refilling his glass.
“Then why are you even trying to lie to me right now?” Aziraphale asked softly.
Crowley groaned through gritted teeth, “why is that bloody staff so important to you?”
“It should be important to both of us, Crowley. Doesn’t it concern you that there was a fake one with the real horn? Who would do that? And why?”
“My guess is that one human had the horn, another human had the fake staff, they sort of match don’t they? All the same little angelic sigils and wanky decorum? So they found each other, probably on something ridiculous like eBay. Who would do it? No idea. Why? Who cares.”
Aziraphale blinked, “there weren’t any sigils on the staff. There were patterns and details but not one sigil, not one scribble of enochian.”
Another heavy silence hung between them, that desperate tang of deceit seemed to vibe off Crowley in waves as he shrugged, apparently unbothered, “I must’ve just… assumed. Would make sense, wouldn’t it? Have two matching holy weapons.”
Aziraphale looked to the ceiling, holding his frustration back with a slow exhale.

What was going on? What wasn’t Crowley telling him? He’d been off for a while now. Something wasn’t adding up and Aziraphale, though clever as he was, just couldn’t do the math.

“You are beyond frustrating sometimes,” he threw back the rest of his wine and got to his feet, “I may not have earned back your trust yet, Crowley. But this,” he pointed to the Horn, “is bigger than us. So whatever you believe is so important that you need to lie about it, despite all this, just know that-“
“It has nothing to do with this!”
“I really think it does!”
Muriel made a noise in their sleep and rolled over, the two demons watching her. Neither moved.
“Has it crossed your mind at all that Heaven may already have possessed the staff again? Hence the dead rising?” Aziraphale whispered.
Crowley shook his head, “nope. Impossible.”
Aziraphale was about to open his mouth again but Crowley simply got up and nodded to the bedroom, Aziraphale following and shutting the door softly. He wished he had time to appreciate the quiet moment in the small, warm space but-
“Impossible?”
“They don’t have the staff. And if they did, they couldn’t raise the dead,” Crowley said plainly, “s’not what it’s for.”
“What it’s made for and what Heaven will use it for may not be the same thing. You know as well as I do-“
“It can’t raise the dead Aziraphale - it can do a lot of things, but it cannot raise the dead.”
Aziraphale was at his wits end, “How can you be so sure?!”
“Because I was told so when the Almighty gave it to me!”

So there. There it was.

Aziraphale's eyes searched Crowleys, mind oddly blank with surprise. He felt his heart drop to his stomach before skipping a beat. He heard what Crowley said, he heard and he understood each individual word, but he just could not grasp the implication behind it.
As hard as he tried not too, the pieces came together anyway, he already knew what this meant and yet his mouth couldn’t move. He couldn't form his thoughts.

Crowley felt his ire ebb away, replaced with a flood of panic as he watched Aziraphale's face go from shock, to misunderstanding, to realisation and then… Sadness. A small wrinkle between his eyes, lips pursed and then it settled into distrust.
Crowley wanted to hit himself. He wanted to crawl up into a ball and cease to exist.

“Gave it to you.” Aziraphale finally said, voice devoid of anything. Strangely hollow.
Crowley had expected something more… Theatrical. This clinical reaction made him uneasy.
“Yes. In the beginning.”
Aziraphale took a step back, eyes lowering to the gold serpent that still shone on Crowleys lapel.
Crowley had never thought this would come up. It wasn’t meant to, that was the promise. The threat (really - a threat was what it was meant to be) - to never be remembered as who he was. A punishment, prior to any sort of Fall. For him to remember and everyone around him to forget.

That’s when he realised that perhaps the Almighty, his creator, had not really understood him at all - because being forgotten as the Archangel Raphael was not a punishment to him. It was a reprieve.

“When the staff was given to me, I was explicitly told what it could do. What I could do with it. Seemed alright at first, harnessing energy and all that. But when Gabriel was given that horn and Michael was given that sword, I wondered why they were talking about them as if they were weapons. Couldn’t figure it out. Asked Her and was told how they all… Complement each other. Michaels sword was to destroy, my staff was to heal. Course, I asked why we would need weapons. No one liked that,” he huffed, “caused a bit of a stir. You know what they’re like about asking questions; it’s all meant to be-“
“Ineffable.”
“Ngk. Right.”
Aziraphale was staring off at the blank wall opposite them and so Crowley continued, if only to fill the deafening silence and to try and get Aziraphale to understand, “She started creating the rest of the angels. Loved that, I did. She gave them all jobs, and I thought how incredible… A big family. All working together for Her cause. Didn’t feel so alo- didn’t feel so bored anymore.”
“I’m sure I would remember meeting you. As.. as him,” Aziraphale said quietly, the steel in his voice slowly melting, “why can’t I?”
Crowley sat down on the bed, Aziraphale sitting too yet remaining a good arms length away.
“Long story short… I wanted to create with the staff. All that power, why not create something for all of us to enjoy? So I asked.”
“You asked God?”
“Well first I asked Lucifer what he thought. Big fucking mistake that was. But he brought up a good point… why give me a staff to heal? Why hand out weapons? Who were we fighting - it was only us. No humans yet. No demons. No danger. That’s when I realised that obviously there was a plan which foresaw us using the weapons on each other… I looked around me and thought nah, can’t do that. I asked the rest of the archangels what they thought, and Michael blew up. Big fight between her and Lucifer. I mean they were always carrying on anyway,” he shrugged, “and I told God that I didn’t want to be a part of it. Didn’t want the staff, didn’t want the responsibility. None of it. Course, couldn’t be any issues amongst the others so She said yes but… well. You know the rest.”
Aziraphale stared at him.
“You… She erased the memory of you. Any memory or record we had of you being Raphael.”
Crowley cringed a bit at the name, “Basically, yeah.”
Aziraphale had tears in his eyes and he looked away with a small sniff.
Crowley got a bit closer to him, “it was a long time ago. Besides, I was happier after that. No one knew me. I was able to create as I pleased; threw together bits of the universe and was mostly left to my own devices.”
“No one wondered where you were? Michael or Gabriel…?”
“Oh Raphael still existed, everyone just thought he was off doing his own thing. But no-one really remembered what he looked like, or sounded like. What he did. Then they thought he was killed in the war, even though no one saw a thing. Course, Michael kept the staff. Probably glad to have another notch in her belt. Even though it seems they lost it pretty quickly, from what Beez said.”
“But… Dagon knew… Hell knew another archangel fell…”
“Guess I made a big splash,” Crowley murmured.
Quiet fell over them again. Aziraphale dried his eyes.
“Aziraphale-“
“How did I not know this? How did I… how couldn’t I…?”
“No one was meant to know.”
“But that was who you were!”
“It wasn’t,” Crowley said, shifting closer so his thigh touched Aziraphale's and he took his hand with a squeeze, “I may have been him. Been.. That. But it wasn’t who I was.”
“You were an archangel,” Aziraphale tried to make sense of it, “you were a supreme archangel! One of the first!”
He looked into Crowley's yellow eyes, seeing nothing but open honesty. A silent plea for Aziraphale to try and understand.

Aziraphale wanted to. He desperately wanted to understand - to try and make sense of all this - to try and figure out why Crowley was only just telling him this now. And why did it hurt. Why did it hurt Crowley, which Aziraphale could clearly see, and why did it hurt himself? It was a feeling akin to rejection, as if Crowley had withheld this huge part of himself from Aziraphale.
But now there was no hint of the golden brown eyes Aziraphale had met who showed him the brilliant stars. Perhaps Raphael truly no longer existed.

“That’s what I was. Not who I was. Please. Please understand what I’m telling you, Aziraphale.”
“After thousands of years, after everything we have seen. Everything we’ve gone through, experienced, everything we’ve felt!” He let go of Crowleys hands as if burned, “and you couldn’t have told me this? Couldn’t have entrusted me with this even after millenia of trusting you? Even when trusting you was against everything I-”
Crowley recoiled now, “trust you? Angel I trusted you with a hell of a lot, but for you to know what I had been would’ve got us both in trouble! You were loyal to Heaven and If they had found out-“
“You mean, if I had told them?”
“That’s not what I said-“
“Oh you didn’t need to say it-“
Crowley growled in frustration, “Of course I bloody trusted you, but there was no point in telling you because the angel I was doesn’t exist! I’ve told you that! I made who I am today, not them up there, and not Her. I’m not Raphael and haven’t been for a long, long time, so accept who I am! Is that so hard? Or-“
Aziraphale held up a hand to interrupt, “Accept you? Is that what this is all about?”
“Yes! For Heavens sake that’s all I ask!”

“Crowley.” And his voice was remarkably gentle, “you absolute fool, of course I accept you as you are. I love you, and always have loved you, exactly as you are, if you haven’t noticed.”

Crowley simmered down immediately, losing all steam. He deflated into something that didn’t have quite a coherent brain. He blinked and in a strange voice said, “pardon?”
Aziraphale however sighed heavily and gently took Crowleys hands, tracing the sharp knuckles with his thumb, “you infuriate me to the ends of the Earth. But I would never wish for you to be anything or anyone else than what you are right now.”
“I- mn. But-“
“I don’t think there’s much else to say, really,” and with that he gently pulled Crowley to him and pressed the softest kiss to his lips.
“I’m sorry,” Crowley whispered against them.
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
“Do you get why I didn’t tell you?”
“I think so. And I’m trying not to be hurt, but I feel terribly hurt.”
Crowleys hand went to Aziraphale's chest, tracing up the tartan jumper to his neck, his fingertips lingering in the warmth, “wasn’t my intention to cause hurt.”
“Would you have ever told me otherwise? If we weren’t in this position?” It wasn’t an accusation, it was soft, but Aziraphale's eyes were teary, “or would you have held onto this for eternity?”
“Knowing what I know now.. I would’ve told you earlier if I knew it wouldn’t change anything. If it didn’t change our partnership. Friendship? Well, relationship and, and such. But even then, I couldn’t put you in that position, not while you were an angel. The Arrangement was already precarious enough.”
Honesty was best, he figured.
He caught a tear that was slowly making its way down Aziraphale's cheek.
“Please don’t cry,” he whispered, wishing it would stop. Aziraphale wasn’t meant to cry. He was meant to get mad, he was meant to storm out and say he was never speaking to him again, and Crowley was meant to go after him and put on the best fucking apology dance of his existence.
This wasn’t anger he was witnessing. This was heartbreak.
Demons weren’t meant to feel heartbreak. Cause it, perhaps, but not feel it. It wasn’t in the mold of demonic DNA.

Then again, neither of them had fit either of the molds they were created to be in.

And so Crowley gently let go, and Aziraphale brushed away the tears with his sleeve and pretended they were never there.
“Right,” Aziraphale said after clearing his throat, getting to his feet, “I say we finish off that bottle and figure out what we are going to do with that Horn.”
But the sky was still dark and the bedroom lights emitted a warming glow, and Crowley wanted nothing more than to curl up and forget about this disaster for at least a few hours. He moved towards the pillows and patted the spot next to him.
“I have a better idea.”

-

Chapter Text

Waking up for the first time ever is startling.

And not just the normal ‘I don’t remember falling asleep and now I don’t know if it’s 6 in the morning or evening’ type of startling. It’s jarring, which Muriel realises when their eyes open and their face is being consumed by a soft green pillow, their mouth open and dry.
It’s a lot of sensation at once for an angel who hasn’t done so much as nap, let alone sleep. Muriel sits up and looks around, their mind taking a moment to catch up with their body.
Okay. Yes. That’s right. Munich, Germany, Europe, population of some 1.579 million people-
They were in a flat in Munich, with Crowley and Aziraphale and the Horn.
She looked over to the table in a panic, getting quickly to their feet before feeling the hum of power coming from a different point of the room. Muriel exhaled a shaky breath as they realised it had simply moved approximately 2.14 metres away from its original spot and was now neatly tucked into a small throw blanket atop a bookshelf, which did quite a nice job of repelling the headache and anxiety that it caused when Muriel got a bit too close.

It was warm in the flat. Perhaps stuffy, which was a useful word that they had picked up when Nina had described the bookshop one day. Stuffy meant a window needed opening.
Muriel crossed the room and pulled back the red velvet curtain, revealing a small cross-paned window that opened with a creak. Cool air blew through and they relaxed, relieved at the fresh breeze that circulated quickly around them.
It was also quiet in the flat.
Muriel was sure Aziraphale and Crowley hadn’t left - Muriel could feel their demonic auras nearby and she went to the first door to check. No, just a bathroom.
Next door they opened and was about to step in when they froze.
They were indeed still in the flat. They were soundly sleeping.

Muriel wondered why they slept the way they did - was it how they had observed humans to sleep? Or perhaps they were cold? No but it was stuffy in this room. Maybe Crowley liked it warmer, being a snake and all. It would explain why he was being held close by Aziraphale, the former angels' short beard tickling the back of Crowley's neck as they breathed in sync, an arm wrapped securely around Crowley's thin waist and Crowleys own hand over the top.

Muriel kept watch, wondering how these two peaceful creatures were demons. Demons, as a general rule, were meant to be evil.
Muriel knew she was not learned in the ways of Earth, even though friends had tried to help over the course of a few months, but Muriel knew enough to know that these two demons were not evil in the way they were made out to be - they cared about things in much the same way humans did. Perhaps that was the problem? Perhaps they did not care about things the way angels were meant to care, which lead to this? As Muriel watched them, she thought deeply, and in turn their true eyes watched the demonic auras entwine. They should have been horrific, scary, they should have put Muriel on high alert but… They didn’t. The demons were peaceful, their auras bright and happy and swimming with… Love.

Oh.

Suddenly Muriel understood.
They loved each other.
But, more than that, they loved this world.
They loved it more than Heaven, and certainly more than Hell.
That’s why they were doing this.
Muriel had a deep seated feeling in their gut* that they were doing this for all the right reasons.
But with that feeling, also came a certain sadness - if they wanted to save humanity and avoid bloodshed, why didn’t Heaven want that too? Why was it making more sense to follow this journey with two who were Fallen, than to follow the orders of Heaven? With Armageddon averted, what was the point in the Second Coming? If one was meant to happen, but did not, then surely the Second Coming also had no reason to take place?

And truly, why should it?

Muriel closed the door quietly and went back over to the open window, staring out at the street below where people were beginning their morning. They looked smaller from up here. Muriel held their hand out - from this perspective, she could squash the humans like ants beneath their thumb.
Erase them.

Was that truly God's will?

"Well? Is it?" Muriel asked outloud.

Muriel suddenly felt an itch. A very annoying itch. Muriel reached towards her shoulder blade and scratched, but what was itchy was in a deeper form on another plane of existence. They reached into that otherworldly ether and scratched and felt the feather between their fingers and with a sharp movement, plucked it - it was soft and beautiful.

It was flecked with grey.

Chapter Text

When Aziraphale awoke, he was only sure of two things. One, he was not in the bookshop and two, he was very much cuddling into Crowley.

In his drowsy mind, his first instinct was to let go, roll away with a mild ‘oops sorry about that my dear, this is why I don’t sleep!’ but as his mind finally joined the present land of the living, he became aware of where they were. How they were laying. And that the room was stifling hot.
Yet, he didn’t move. He’d never been this close to Crowley in this way, especially while in such a vulnerable state. Aziraphale's nose was being tickled by the red locks of hair, the scent of Crowley filling his nose in a very pleasant way.
He’d smelled Crowleys cologne or perfume over the years, along with the underlying ‘otherness’ that supernatural entities tended to possess, but never at this depth - one would assume by Crowley's current decade of appearance that he would smell sharp and masculine and dark, but the scent here was honey, vanilla, caramel, sandalwood, the ocean, some sort of citrus and berries? Soft yet rich. Aziraphale could spend far too much time trying to pull the elements apart and figure out Crowleys particular brand*.

It wasn’t until Aziraphale pressed a kiss to the snake tattoo and his short beard brushed against Crowleys cheek that he felt Crowleys even breathing falter and the sleeping demon groaned, squeezing the arm that Aziraphale held around his waist, “w’s’th’time?”
Aziraphale hummed, unable to see anything that suggested a clock, and a heavy curtain covered the window but he could see a sliver of light on the ground, “it’s day time.”
“Mmf,” came the muffled reply, Crowley lifting his arm to glance at his ridiculous watch, “w’s’tha’say?”
“10:44am. Shall I go make you a coffee?”
“No,” Crowley mumbled, unashamedly pressing his back into Aziraphales chest, “did I say I wanted coffee?”
Aziraphale chuckled, easily embracing him and revelling in the fact that he could embrace him without retribution, “no. Do you think Muriel is awake?”
Crowley seemed to freeze as if finally remembering the night over and he groaned, exhaling the air from his body, “mm. I’m sure they are.”
He rolled over, catching Aziraphale by surprise at how close their faces were. Despite their never aging appearance, Aziraphale thought Crowley looked less lined and worrisome in the first moments of consciousness. His yellow eyes were almost childlike in their attempt to wake up.
Aziraphale gently cupped his cheek, causing auburn eyelashes to flutter, “would you like to sleep a little longer and I’ll get up? It’s awfully warm in here.”
“S’nice.”
“Too warm for me, I’m afraid.”
Which was true - Aziraphale could feel his curls sticking to the back of his neck, and he had already shucked off his jumper and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Crowley eyed where he had undone a few buttons at the neck but then nodded, “suit y’self. Check on Inspector Constable, make sure they’re not being indoctrinated by the Horn.”

Muriel was standing at the window, holding a cup of tea and just watching the morning unfold. The noise of people and traffic was building up, and the sky was a crisp blue with not a cloud in sight.
Aziraphale sighed in slight relief at the coolness of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.
“How did you sleep?” Aziraphale asked, going over to her and looking at whatever was catching her eye.
“Better than I thought. Bit weird, though, sleeping. Just closing your eyes. What I imagine being dead is like, except you just wake up suddenly. And your mouth gets dry. How was your sleep?”
Aziraphale looked bemused, “refreshing. I don’t sleep often, but Crowley enjoys it. He doesn’t sleep like the humans do, sometimes he sleeps for months at a time.”
“Do demons dream?”
“Hmm. I didn’t last night. I’ve asked Crowley that before, and I recall him saying that dreams are wasted on him.”
“So he does dream then.”
“I suppose he must.” Now that natural light flooded the room, Aziraphale took it all in - it was an odd choice for Crowley, he thought. He was used to thinking of Crowleys space a certain way with sleek modern lines and dark shapes but this flat was cozy and had deep warm colours of burgundy and emeralds, the furniture dated and homely. The bookshelf held only a handful of books, all in German, and at the end sat the horn wrapped in a soft throw blanket.
“What do we do with it?” Muriel asked, following Aziraphale's gaze.
“I wish I knew the right answer. What do you think?” He asked and Muriel looked surprised, “you want my opinion?”
“Of course.”
“Oh. Well. I… I don’t know. Do we just keep it?”
“I think it should be destroyed. Considering Gabriel has no need for it, and it is his weapon, I see no reason for Heaven to reclaim it, if their only intention is to use it to destroy life on Earth.”
“You want to destroy it, completely?”
They looked at each other. Muriel seemed nervous. Actually now that Aziraphale took in their appearance properly, Muriel seemed to be fairly frazzled.
“If you have a suggestion, Muriel-“
“No, no I just… is that Her will? I…”
“Muriel,” he began gently, “we cannot truly know Her will. I wish we could.”
There goes that blasted ineffability again.

Muriel swallowed against an odd feeling in their throat, a feeling that instead of going down, seemed to burn as it went up and behind their eyes.
Aziraphale looked concerned, “oh dear-”
Muriel felt the burn in their eyes turn into something of a blur, and a warm tear slowly streaked her cheek.
“Oh,” she touched her face, noting the way her voice had changed. It was wobbly, “am I crying?”
Aziraphale nodded, taking the cup of tea out of their hands which were gripping it a little too tightly.
“It’s alright to cry, Muriel. You’re in a very hard situation.”
Muriel felt another tear push out of their eye, another streak of warmth that cooled on their cheek. They reached into their back pocket and with a flick of their wrist, a long feather appeared.
“I… this morning… I was just- just wondering about a few things- and then this-“
Aziraphale stared at the darkened spotty feather as they spoke and realisation dawned on him with a soft sigh.
“-all I did was ask, just one tiny question, I knew I wouldn’t get an answer but I was just so- so frustrated and.. and lost, and- oh what if I’m falling? Am I falling?!”
“No, no-"
But Muriel was panicking, the soft breeze that blew through the window picked up and had something of a force now, rattling the old window frame, “And destroying Gabriel’s Horn! I’ll.. I’ll definitely fall.. this is ridiculous! I'm just a Scrivener, I'm not anything, I shouldn’t be doing this!”
Aziraphale reached a hand out and gently held their shoulder, “listen to me Muriel, you can decide to leave anytime you wish. We certainly aren’t asking you to choose this - you can leave the Horn with us, and if you truly wish to go back to Heaven, we will understand. You’re our friend,” he snapped his finger and the window shut.
Muriel sniffed loudly, hands wringing the feather and she moved out of Aziraphale's touch, “and then what? What if someone finds out? That I left the Horn with two demons? And not just any demon - the traitor! Ohhh I’ll be in so much trouble-“
“No, you won’t,” said a grumpy voice and the two looked over, Crowley pulling his hair into a small bun as he leaned in the door frame.
“Won’t?”
“You won’t be in trouble if you leave. If anyone up there asks, you came down to the bookshop and we weren’t there. No one was. You tried to find us, to see if we knew any information that you could tell Heaven, but you couldn’t find us anywhere.”
“But-" Muriel held up her feather, “they’ll see-"
“Muriel you are not the only one up there with a tainted feather, trust me. Surprised Aziraphale's stayed as white as they did all these years,” he yawned and made his way to the kitchen.
Muriel wiped her face, looking back to Aziraphale with a trembling lip, “I don’t know what to do.”
“We can’t make that decision for you, my dear. You’re a very competent angel, but-“
“I think I might just need some time to think. If that’s okay. Can… can I go to the bookshop?”
Aziraphale miracled the key to his hand, “please. Go ahead. But lock those doors, and don’t let anyone in.”
“Seriously, no one,” Crowley reiterated, coming back with a glass of water, glasses pushed up his nose, “can’t trust them.”
“They’re angels, I’m sure-“
“They were more than willing to burn Aziraphale in hellfire and watch with a fucking smile on their faces,” Crowley said in a low voice, barely more than a hiss, “you can’t trust them.”
“But you’re asking me to put my faith in you, is that it?”
Aziraphale hands twisted together nervously, “I don’t understand, where has this come from? You’re the one who came to us, to help!”
Muriel's eyes went wide but their cheeks were red, “And I have helped. Helped more than maybe I should have!”
“Muriel, just go,” Crowley muttered, “go to the bookshop and sort y’self out.”
Muriel flinched. Aziraphale held out the key to them and Muriel took it with a small frown and disappeared, the room rumbling for a moment before falling quiet.
Aziraphale looked appalled, “that was not very nice of you, Crowley! They were clearly distraught and scared-"
“I know. That Horn is setting them off and they didn’t even know it. And seeing that feather would’ve sent her over the edge.”
“What are you saying?”
“That infernal Horn is sending them batty, that’s what I’m saying.”
“It… it’s impacting Muriel’s judgement?”
“Yup," he said, popping the 'p'.
Aziraphale stole a glance in the Horn's direction, “you’re sure?”
Crowley drank his water in one gulp then nodded, “mhm. Once she saw that feather I bet that stupid instrument started creeping in to Muriel’s psyche, detecting doubt. It’s doing its job - sending a message, keeping them loyal and all that.”
Aziraphale shivered a little at the thought.
“Did… was the staff…?”
“Nah. Not to that degree. The Horn was used to spread the word, that's why it's being a pain in the arse.”
“And you’re sure Muriel will be alright?”
“Oh yeah. S’long as they keep their head screwed on they’ll be fine. Probably already wondering what she was so worked up about.”
Aziraphale sighed in some relief, fingers running through untamed curls in his hair, “I do hope so.”

Chapter Text

The florist beneath them had been open for a few hours now. A small shop that sold various bunches of seasonal flora, with tiny pots of ornamental varieties in the small windows. The owner - an interesting woman somewhere in her thirties with wild hair and an adornment of metal in her ears - was playing a mix of 70's & 80's rock that was a bit too loud for such a quaint shop. But she wasn’t bothered, in fact it was almost soothing while she sang along and prepared matching bouquets for a friends' wedding due the following day.

The sound of a door closing above her and the telltale creak of her staircase leading from the flat to the shop had her turning the dial down to a more bearable level, her senses detecting the presence of two supernatural beings. She watched from behind her desk as the tall red haired demon made his way down with a shorter, blonde haired man in tow. No, not man, another demon.
Hmm. She frowned.
“Morning,” Crowley greeted her and she nodded, “hallo Anthony.”
A particularly healthy Venus fly trap leaned towards him inquisitively and she clicked at it, “stop that. I’ve warned you before.”
The plant drooped and leaned the other way indignantly.
Aziraphale looked between them before saying, “hello! I’m-“
“Anthony’s friend,” she raised a brow at Crowley and said in German, “I thought you said he was an angel?”
“He was. He also speaks German.”
She switched over to English and looked Aziraphale up and down though not apologetically, “you’re Aziraphale? Hm.”
“Aziraphale, Matilda. Matilda, Aziraphale. She owns the flat upstairs.”
Aziraphale extended a hand, “oh, a pleasure!”
She took it, shook it, and eyed his hand curiously, finger running along the blue vein of his wrist and delivering a sharp zap.
He jumped and pulled away, staring as his veins raised violently then went back to normal, “what on earth..? Are you a demon?”
Matilda snorted, grabbing her watering can, “no, not a demon. Nice to meet you. Last I heard, you were an angel? And now you’re a demon. Did you do something evil?” She watered a nearby creeper as she spoke, Crowley hiding a smile.
She was blunt and he liked that in a human. No beating around the bush with this one.
Aziraphale looked a little flustered, “well no, not really. I thought I was doing the right thing, actually.”
“Right, wrong, it’s all subjective,” Matilda waved a hand dismissively and grabbed an empty pot, making her way to the backroom. Aziraphale watched in confusion as they followed her.
“Perhaps,” he answered, “sorry what exactly are you?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Not a demon, kicked out by the witches. Certainly not an angel.”
“Immortal?” He asked, fascinated by her distinct aura.
“I don’t think so. I age, same as any other human.”
“You talk to your plants,” he nodded as the tendril of a chain of hearts looped itself around her hand, “and they listen to you.”
“They do. But, who knows what I am and who really cares? I like being mysterious,” Matilda grinned, blue eyes looking between the two, “speaking of mysterious, would you like to tell me what brings you two here? I was under the impression that my hospitality was only for… dire circumstances?”
Crowley nodded, “it’s a long story.”
“Does the story involve why the angels are chasing you?”
Aziraphale balked, ears twitching nervously, “beg your pardon?”
“I assumed that’s why you’re here?”
“What bloody angels?” Crowley hissed.
“Perhaps it is coincidence then, that you are hiding here, protected by magic, while they roam the streets? I’ve seen already maybe ten this morning.”
The demons looked at each other, Aziraphale wide eyed and Crowley tight lipped.
“Did they come in?” Crowley's voice strained.
Matilda snorted, “absolutely not. You think the magic I showed you was simply for the flat? No, my shop simply passes them by as if not here, unless I ask them to come in.”
Aziraphale raised a brow, impressed.
Crowley however wasn’t soothed by this information, “we need to go.”
“Go where, Crowley? The bookshop? And leave our… belongings… behind?”
“The 'belongings' are safe here. We can’t go dragging it around.”
Matilda huffed at their attempt of secrecy, leaning against the bench, “there better not be a body in my flat.”
Aziraphale frowned, offended, while Crowley simply ignored her, “we leave it here, where it can’t be found by anyone but us. I have an idea.”
“Oh?” Aziraphale looked hopeful.
Crowley backtracked, “I didn’t say it was a good idea.”

-

It wasn’t a good idea.
It was barely an idea at all really, more of a ‘hope and a whim’, which wasn’t really how most demons operated but Crowley wasn’t most demons.
Something he had become sort of proud of, actually. And hey, Pride was a sin, so feeling it couldn’t certainly be breaking the Infernal Code.

Crowley's ‘hope’ was that a certain archangel (Gabriel, aka Jim, aka Former-former Supreme ArchArsehole) was willing to give them information about another certain archangel (Michael, aka Duty Officer, aka Corrupt ArchArsehole) which may lead to the whereabouts of the Staff.
The ‘whim’ part was getting to the said archangel without being seen.

Earth was now crawling with angels, whether the human inhabitants knew it or not.

Astronomers were becoming confused at the changing universal activity, where new constellations and systems formed within moments and ancient ones exploded before their eyes.
Activists were overjoyed when the Earths' arid, drought ridden bodies of land were now refilling and flowing with water and melting glaciers reformed.
Arborists were waking in absolute wonder at the growth of their endangered tree specimens, having matured ten years in only ten hours.

The only occupation that seemed to be unravelling at a worrying pace was that of the Undertaker; for the dead were still rising.

-

Chapter Text

Getting out of Germany was remarkably easy. Too easy, Aziraphale thought, as they reappeared at St James’ Park on their usual bench.

Crowley stiffened and pulled a slight face at the sting of holy righteousness in the air - the waft of Heaven. It was different to Aziraphale's old angelic scent - one he had grown accustomed to - this one was clinical and jarring to the senses. His tongue stayed against the roof of his mouth to curb any unwanted smells from making his body itch.
Aziraphale didn’t seem to be faring much better with his nose slightly crinkled, “what is that smell?” He looked around as if he could find the answer.
“Angels. Heaven.”
“Oh. I see.” He hadn’t realised he had been subjecting Crowley to years of smelling like a bucket of bleach.
As if reading his mind, Crowley said, “you never smelled like that. But this is angels in a more concentrated form, they must be everywhere. Makes me itch.”
Aziraphale now understood what he meant; it was like little ants crawling up the back of your knees that you couldn’t slap away.

He was about to reply when he came to a realisation - it wasn’t just the ants. Everything sort of felt, well, off. The general noise that earth emitted was dulled, somehow.
Where were all the ducks? Where were all the people?

A cold, jagged stone fell rapidly into his gut.
“Crowley… where is everyone?”
Crowley looked around at the odd emptiness that encompassed the park and stood with a troubled frown, extending his hand to the angel, “c’mon. Best not to stay in one place too long.”
“You think it wise,” Aziraphale asked as he took his hand, walking with him, “to go back to the bookshop?”
“I did, until about eight seconds ago.”
“Maybe you should explain this idea of yours rather quickly then. Pub?”
A pub would be safe, he figured. It wasn’t exactly a holy place, fit to store a heavenly weapon. No one overhearing them that would give them trouble.

Aziraphale had expected the Dirty Donkey, which in hindsight was a very foolish idea, so shouldn’t have been too surprised that they appeared in a small, dark pub somewhere in Dagenham.
“Sherry?” Crowley asked and Aziraphale shook his head, “I think something stronger may be required.”
“Read my mind.”
Aziraphale sat in a booth, thinking of putting on glasses to cover his eyes like Crowley had, but they were alone in the pub, apart from the bartender. The ancient jukebox was drifting into a Johnny Cash song. The scratched windows were in need of a good clean.
The bartender eyed Crowley disdainfully but when he tossed over some cash he passed him a bottle and two glasses.
Aziraphale eyed the bottle of Macallan and sighed, “I suppose I walked right into that one.”
“Might be our last stiff drink for a while, everything considered,” Crowley said unhappily.
“Then cheers.”
“To what?”
“I… Hm.” But Aziraphale didn’t have a good answer. In fact, he was feeling quite hopeless.
“Ooh I know. Cheers to Matilda.”
“Oh certainly," they clinked glasses, Aziraphale having a sip and Crowley knocking his back with nary a flinch.

It took to the last quarter of the bottle before conversation finally circled back around to Crowley's plan.
“Right, right, yep so.. so… well, okay. S’like I said, not a good plan.”
“Any plan I am all ears,” Aziraphale poured his glass freely with zero concern for measuring his drink, “literally, all ears these days. Can hear the bloody cars ous'side… Not many though, guess everyone’s staying in, can you blame them? God it’s… it’s all… hm. Not good.”
“Going to shit, I’d say,” Crowley agreed, cheeks tinged pink, “but, but! We’ve got one up on them, for now.”
“I do hope so. What’s the plan?”
“Well,” Crowley leaned in conspiratorially and Aziraphale leaned to meet him, “I think we need to talk to Gabriel. Actually talk to him, and ask him some questions.”
Aziraphale leaned back into the booth with a huff, a small splash of his drink hitting the table, “what?”
“Mhm. He’s gotta know where that Staff is. I don’t think Michael lost it, I think, I really think, do you know what I think? I think Michael hid it. On purpose. S'what I think. S’like this, Michael uses the sword for war, right? And my- the- Staff was meant to heal. Michael didn’t want to heal, they wanted to set examples. They all did, even Gabriel. So why keep the one thing that’s gonna heal angels?"
“But… Why hide it and not find it now? When they actually need it?"
“Cos Michael’s a bastard and doesn’t want to find it! What’s’it gonna do? It’s another war! They need the Horn, sure, but after that then it’s all properly begun!”
“Okay, okay,” Aziraphale took a steadying breath, “let’s say you’re right. How are we going to get Gabriel to tell us anything helpful? What makes you think he’ll help us at all?”
“M’gonna tell him the truth.”
“Th’truth? Heh?”
Crowley drained his glass and licked his lips, “M’gonna tell him that his prodigal brother is alive, we’ve found him, and he needs his help.”
Aziraphale felt some part of him sober up in shock.
“Crowley…”
“Hey, don’t start. We gonna save this blasted sphere or let it get wiped out just cos those dickheads didn’t get their first Armageddon? Dunno bout you, but I’m sick of these zombies already. Did you see the TV?” He nodded to a cracked flatscreen near the bar, fixed on a news channel with subtitles on. “Fourteen now. Fourteen! It’s only taken fourteen bodies for the world to lock themselves away again, just when y’though Covid was fucked…”
“And here I thought your- our lot started that one.”
Crowley snorted loudly, “nope, can’t take credit for that one.”
They’d gone off track again. Of course they had.
“My dear, I think-“
But Crowley put up his finger, knowing exactly what Aziraphale was about to infer, “I cannot be sober to talk to Gabriel and tell him… tell him everything. Nah. If I’m sober I might still punch him in his smug face.”
The hum of the jukebox played somberly and Crowley wondered in his bleary mind if he should buy another bottle for the occasion.
“He owes us,” Aziraphale said quietly, surprising Crowley.

It was true. Despite the treatment he’d put up with his whole life, he took Gabriel in when he was at his most vulnerable. If he were a lesser angel (the type of angel he was constantly told he was) then he could’ve left Gabriel to deal with the amnesia on his own. He could’ve just sent him on his way with a post-it note stuck to Gabriel’s naked arse that said ‘not my problem, return to sender’ and let someone, or rather something, else find him.

“The least he can do is give us some sort of information. Something that can-"
“Can what?” Came a familiar voice, sitting at the bar.
Aziraphales brows flew up in surprise, watching as the former Duke of Hell sat at the bar, ankles crossed and tequila in hand, flies lazily circling their head.
Crowley eyed them and sighed, moving over as Beelzebub came over and slid into the booth next to him. “Last hurrah?”
“Doesn’t have to be,” Crowley mumbled.
“Might be, if you actually plan on trying to punch Gabriel in the face," they said conversationally but their eyes were dark, “but it doesn’t sound like you two are planning your last days, so what exactly are you planning? And what’s Gabriel got to do with it?”
“Alright. M’not gonna beat around the bush. We need to speak to him. Can you help us?”
“What makes you think he wants to talk to you?” Beelzebub threw their shot back and the glass refilled, “he’s had enough visitors over the last few days.”
“He has? Who?”
Beelzebub eyed Aziraphale narrowly, “who do you think? God Squad trying to find that Horn. He told them to shove it,” they said proudly, watching the liquid move about in the small glass between their fingers. The flies buzzed loudly around their head.

Aziraphale eyed Crowley uneasily. Heaven wouldn’t have liked that, if it were true. Gabriel was still an archangel and so was bound by his duty to heaven and defying the Second Coming not once but twice was surely grounds for severe punishment. But it did flicker a sense of hope within Aziraphale - perhaps this meant Gabriel may indeed help them, now that they were technically fighting for the same side, as bizarre as that notion was.
Crowley however was not as convinced, and still very much drunk, “you’re saying Gabriel, probably one of the Almightys' favourite little tools, is throwing his whole… his entire… pff,” he made an indignant noise in his throat, “and for what? ‘Cos of you? Throwing the whole book out the bloody window?”
Beelzebub's lip twitched, “so hard to believe? As if you two haven’t already done that?”
Crowley looked over his glasses at them, eyes glowing faintly, “yesss, actually, I think it’s bullshit. And maybe you’re blinded by your... your whatever it is you think he is…”
Aziraphale cleared his throat, feeling the tensions rise as the flies multiplied and buzzed angrily.
“Crowley,” he said carefully, as if to remind him that all this was actually his plan to begin with, “we need his help.”
Crowley pushed his glasses up his nose and glared out the dirty window, muttering under his breath.
Beelzebub eyed him with nothing short of murder but turned to Aziraphale, “what sort of help.”
“We need to speak to him about Michael. About the Staff.”
“Staff?”
“Raphael’s Staff. We have reason to believe that Michael has hidden it. And if we can find it, it can be used to destroy the Horn.”
Beelzebub raised a brow, leaning a little closer to him, “and you think he can help with that..?”
“He was Supreme Archangel. He may know where Michael hid it all those years ago. Or may at least have an idea of where Michael would want to hide something like that.”
“What would be the point? You can’t use the Staff, it’s an angelic weapon. Only an angel could wield it, and Gabriel won’t use it. They won’t just make him Fall, he’ll be erased from the Book for doing that. Or, I suppose it could be used by the angel who it belongs to, and that’s not an option.”
Aziraphale leaned in to meet them, “what if it was? An option?”
Beelzebub grinned with sharp teeth and laughed, drinking another shot, “Raphael was destroyed in the war, and there’s no angel who would help you. No angel strong enough to use it, anyway.”
Crowley's head snapped over, “answer the question. What if it was an option?”

Now, Crowley had dealt with many demons, many no-name doers of sin on all spectrums of evil, and one thing he grew to realise was that with his imagination and tendency to squirm out of situations, he usually was able to get his answers without having to resort to default demon settings like violence or threats.
Beezlebub was not like most demons. They didn’t allow room for squirming away.

“What exactly are you suggezzzting,” they buzzed in warning, “careful what you say.”
Crowley unclenched his jaw and huffed, staring at his empty glass, “what if Raphael is an option. What if he wasn’t destroyed like everyone thought?”
“Not possible.”
“You’ve heard the rumours of a second archangel going Down before the War. They’re not rumours.”
“Prove it.”
Black eyes bore into yellow, the two unblinking.
Aziraphale cleared his throat again and said far more bravely than he felt, “we can. But we need to speak to Gabriel first.”
Beelzebub looked away for a long moment, staring at nothing in particular. Suddenly they sighed heavily and a fly buzzed close to their cheek, the former duke speaking to it, “go get him.”
The fly buzzed out of existence.

Aziraphale miracled himself a full glass and drank it with pinched cheeks, sudden anxiety brewing. His shoulders stiffened.
He may have helped Jim, but this was Gabriel. Trying to unwind millenia of Gabriel’s harsh words and punishments wasn’t going to happen in one bout of saving the amnesiac archangel.
Crowley felt the tension rolling off of his partner and within a blink he was next to Aziraphale, the two sitting quite snug in the booth.
Beelzebub eyed them, “if this is some ploy to get back at Gabriel, know that we will destroy you both.”
“Don’t you think we have bigger problems than that right now? Revenge can wait,” Crowley necked his own drink with a hiss between his teeth, “besides, if anyone has a backstabbing ploy waiting in the wings, it would be him. He’s the only one that’s still an angel. Bound by duty, and all that.”
Beelzebub couldn’t look more offended if they tried, a fly buzzing around Crowleys ear that he couldn’t swat away no matter how fast he batted at it.
“Gabriel’s duty is to God. Not Heaven. If you can’t see the difference, then you’ve got a lot to learn, Crawly.”
His teeth gnashed at the name.
But Crowley did understand. That’s exactly what he’d been trying to tell Aziraphale for years.
God and Heaven weren’t working hand in hand anymore, they just couldn’t be, not with all the awful stuff that had transpired and everything that was to come. God may be ineffable, but Heaven was not.

Despite that, he said nothing.

Suddenly, flies buzzed in a low chorus from the dirty vent in the ceiling, growing until it was almost a rumble that only the three demons seemed to see and hear, the insects descending rapidly into a humanoid shape that sat next to Beelzebub, expanding and changing until the former-former-supreme archangel Gabriel sat there.

Crowley eyed him distrustfully. Aziraphale raised a brow, the difference from their last meeting was startling.
Gabriel was much the same, and yet somehow so different. His eyes were no longer brimming with the power of supreme archangel, and so were a friendlier green-blue instead of piercing violet. He wore a suit, yet it was navy on navy with no tie, and a deep red pocket square. The same red in Beelzebub's hat. His usually chiselled clean face now had a smattering of short greying hairs that were building towards a beard. Even his body language had shifted, his hand squeezing Beelzebub's before resting on the table.
His smile was tight, wary.

Aziraphale controlled his breathing and forced a smile, though even he knew it was too demonic, teeth sharply skimming his lip, “Gabriel.”
“Aziraphale. Crowley. Do you… want me to put on the whole ‘it’s nice to see you’ thing or are we taking that as said?”
“Oh no please, humour us,” Crowley said dramatically, arm slinging over Aziraphales shoulder in an effort to appear unbothered, “you’re welcome, by the way.”
“I am grateful. Truly, I am,” and he seemed it too, “it all worked out in the end.”
Beelzebub and Gabriel smiled at each other. Crowley held back a very snarky remark and instead said, “it’s your lucky day then. You get to show us how grateful you are.”
Gabriel frowned, “I don’t have the Horn, if that’s what you’re getting at. And I have no intention of finding it. Or helping anyone find it.”
Crowley put on a smile that was devoid of anything remotely happy, “you don’t need to find it. See? Easy favour. You just need to tell us where Michael hid the Staff.”
Gabriel raised a brow, “the Staff? Michael wouldn’t hide it. Last I heard, Michael lost it. That’s what the official documents say. Lost it after the War. Understandable, really, considering all their responsibilities at the time-“
Crowley held up a finger, “nope. Try again.”
“Excuse me?”
Beelzebub interrupted, “get on with it. Tell him what you told me. About Raphael.”
Gabriel’s looked between them all, eyes wide and troubled, for a moment looking remarkably like Jim. “What about him?”
The soft tone didn’t escape Aziraphales notice, “what do you remember about Raphael?”
He felt Crowley tense next to him, hand gripping Aziraphales shoulder slightly.

Gabriel exhaled, eyes a little unfocused as he seemed to shift through memories that had long passed, “not much. I don’t even remember what he looked like, or sounded like. I remember he was smart. Creative. Considerate. Committed, boy was he committed to Her. But he also asked questions and had opinions. Probably best that he took off when he did and changed departments before he had ideas that would get him in big trouble.”
Crowley held in a snort.
Gabriel sighed, “And then he was destroyed in the War. Guess he couldn’t hide forever.”
“Hide?” Crowley snapped, “hide from what?”
“His responsibilities, obviously.”
Crowley saw red, and before Aziraphale could stop him he growled, “Well, newsflash Gabriel, he wasn’t destroyed. And we need your help to find that Staff so he can use it and turn that bloody Horn back into burning atoms and stop this Second Coming from turning this planet into dust.”
The booth fell quiet. The jukebox coughed out mid-Paul Anka and the quick strumming of Run Run Run (The Velvet Underground) filled the stale air.
“What are you saying?” Gabriel’s guarded demeanour was back, eyes cold and locked on Crowley, “Is this some kind of trick? You telling me lies to try and get my help?”
“Oh for Heaven's sake!” Aziraphale felt electricity pulse through his tongue as the curse/blessing left his mouth, “Crowley, love,” and at that, Crowleys attention was on Aziraphale, “please,” Aziraphale begged quietly, “this was the plan. Just tell him.”
“Tell me what?”
Aziraphale gave Crowley an encouraging nod, watching the serpents Adam’s apple bob in his neck with a nervous swallow.
Crowley slumped a little, fingers running through his hair, “s’me. It was me.”
“What?” Gabriel’s temper turned to confusion, “what was you? What did you do?”
“It was me. I was… I was him,” Crowleys voice broke a little and Beelzebub seemed to click, eyes wide and mouth slack.
“Wait… wait, what? You?”
“Yesss. Me.”
“No,” Beelzebub looked to Aziraphale and he simply nodded, “it’s true.”
Gabriel’s fist hit the table, composure slipping as the lights overhead flickered, “damn it, what’s going on?!”
“I wasn’t always a snake,” Crowley replied as evenly as he could manage, yellow eyes locked onto Gabriel’s, “before the war. Before any fighting. Before the cohort. God's very first children."
The colour seemed to drain from Gabriel’s face as realisation set in, “…that’s impossible.”
“No. It’s not.”
“But. But Raphael was my brother, he was-"
“He was,” Crowley agreed, no longer able to meet his eyes, “I was.”
Gabriel said nothing for a long time before mumbling, “prove it.”
Crowleys lip curled, “why would I lie about this?”
“He’s telling the truth," Aziraphale interjected, trying his absolute best to keep the peace, “he has no reason to lie. Why would he risk his existence to tell you this?”
Gabriel’s fist clenched, “And you knew? All this time?”
Aziraphale sat back at the ferocity, ears twitching, “no, I-"
Crowley reached across the table suddenly and gripped Gabriel’s wrist, “watch,” he hissed, eyes glowing.

The room came to a stand still and Gabriel saw something no one else could see, heard things no other could hear.
Memories played only to him, memories that were wiped in his own infinite mind and ones that were long ago buried into Crowleys.

It showed a time before Time itself was a concept, when the first of God's creations knew only each other and their Creator, where they marvelled at the things to come. He watched as his mind was able to reform things that had been forgotten - an archangel with red curls and a wide grin and beautiful wings spoke and laughed with him and joined him in their sworn duty to God.

Gabriel pulled himself out of his minds' eye and the room restarted, Aziraphale and Beelzebub none the wiser. Crowley was breathing a little fast at the effort, cheeks flushed as time ticked on once more.
Gabriel blinked and looked down where Crowley's fingers pulled away from him as if burned.
“Raphael?”
“Crowley,” Crowley corrected him, hoping his voice sounded as strong as he hoped, “that’s who I am now. Not him.”
“But-"
“No, Gabriel.” His tone suggested absolute finality.
To his horror, Gabriel’s eyes looked glassy, and he looked away. Beelzebub looked as though they were about to yell and ask what the hell Crowley did to him but then Gabriel collected himself and stared at the table as they spoke, “After the war, Michael was overcome with what they had done. Both with grief but also with the power. She had fulfilled her duty to God. She had done what was asked, and she did it better than anyone. She cast out those who had defied their Creator, as what was written. She wore her scars proudly and expected those who had survived to do the same - be proud of winning the war. The Staff was of no use to her. She had no aspirations to create, not like… like you. And she had no desire to heal. I never saw the Staff be used by anyone but yo- Raphael. There’s no doubt that Michael intentionally misplaced it, despite what was recorded down.”
“Where would Michael put it?” Aziraphale asked gently, “if you were Michael and you wanted no one to find that Staff, where would you put it?”
Gabriel pursed his lips in thought, “somewhere no one would bother looking for it. Michael isn’t very sentimental. I doubt she’d harbour it anywhere of significance. But…” he paused, looking to Beelzebub then to Aziraphale and Crowley, “we’ll help you find it.”
Beelzebub looked at him up and down, “we will?”
“You will?” Crowley asked in disbelief.
“Yes. But,” and of course there was a but, “I won’t go up to Heaven. That's where I draw the line.”
“Deal,” Aziraphale said quickly, “we have no plans to return there.”
Gabriel’s face brightened, clasping his hands together, “look at us, huh? Who’d have thought!”
Crowley felt regret seeping into his bones, “who indeed.”

-

Chapter Text

The sky in Dagenham was growing darker, the pub only kept open because of four strange individuals that sat in a booth, in the middle of quite a serious sounding conversation. The bartender would’ve complained by now, but the money that filled his till and previously empty tip jar was enough that he had called the wife and told her he would be closing up late tonight. She had told him to be careful, because ‘things were weird out there.’ He almost had half a mind to comment that things seemed weird enough in here.

The shortest of the four, who had successfully put away a bottle and some of tequila, was now butting heads with their partner, the tall one with the navy suit, and neither appeared to be winning. The blonde and red haired who sat across from them gave an almost identical eye roll. The blonde played with the empty glass in front of him, avoiding resting his wrist on the sticky table.
“Michael would not stick that thing at the bottom of the ocean,” Beelzebub reasoned, “cross that off the list.”
“I still think we should try and find the human who had the Horn,” Crowley stifled a yawn.
“They were a black market antiques dealer, and there’d be no point,” Aziraphale pointed out for the third time, “they have the fake, without even knowing it's a fake. The real one is not with them.”

They had, in the end, told their unwilling associates that they knew the whereabouts of the Horn. If they were going to work together, then they had to tell them something. Gabriel had taken it quite well, all things considered, and Beelzebub was snarky but then quickly got over it, realising that despite the danger, they indeed had the upper hand over Heaven and Hell for the moment.

“And you can’t just… feel it?” Gabriel asked Crowley.
Crowley pulled a face, “course not. Wouldn’t be in this mess if I could. Besides, can you feel the Horn?”
Gabriel sighed, discouraged, “no. But there’s so much activity on earth now, it probably wouldn’t work. Waste of time.”
“Time we don’t have. Not with all these angels scouring the planet, looking in every holy nook and cranny in existence for that bloody horn.”
“And you’re positive they won’t find it?”
“Positive. Bunch of angels walked right past it and didn’t even blink,” Crowley shrugged, “it’s safe, as far as I’m concerned. Until we need it.”
Beelzebub stared at their empty bottle, “so what do we do? Split up, go look for the Staff? Hope we don’t get eviscerated by Heaven?”
“Gabriel, where should we begin?” Aziraphale asked, “did Michael have any connections on Earth at all? Or anywhere they regarded as safe? Sacred? You know Michael better than any of us.”
Gabriel tapped his fingers on the table, “Rome? Isn’t that where their statue is? Could start there.”
“You think Michael would be so vain-“
“Yes,” Gabriel and Crowley said in unison.
“Right,” Beelzebub scooted out of the booth and stood, “off we go then.”
Gabriel went to go slide over and join them but Aziraphale interrupted, “I think it best that we go together. It’s the safer option.”
“The four of us bouncing around Earth? It’s risky enough for four of us being in the same room right now! There might be plenty of occult activity but we will be spotted,” Beelzebub seemed very sure of themselves.
Crowley looked between them with a sour look.
He didn’t trust either of them as far as he could throw them.
Aziraphale seemed to read his mind.
“Crowley, perhaps you should go with Gabriel, and I’ll go with Beelzebub.”
The archangel frowned but then a thought must’ve crossed his mind, for his jaw softened just enough and he nodded, “fine.”
Beelzebub however looked outraged, “what? You trust them to not to-“
“Kill me? I’m sure he won’t. They need our help,” he reasoned, “and if Crowley does try and push me out a window again-“
“I didn’t push you out the window!”
“Oh of course, you’re right, you just heavily suggested I jump out of one while I had no memories or common sense.”
“You told him to jump out a window?” Aziraphale asked, but at this point the shock he should’ve had in his voice was replaced with polite curiosity.
“Ngk. Maybe. But then I made him a hot chocolate.”
“Soft,” Beelzebub muttered, “can we get on with it then? Save the world or whatever it is you two do?”

-

Chapter Text

This was not on Crowleys bingo card for this year.

Mind you, neither was anything else that had transpired in the last few months.

But if you had told him that he’d be standing on the edge of the river, staring at St Peter’s with warm lights illuminating the night sky and Gabriel yammering on next to him, he would have laughed at a pitch only dogs could hear.

“It was easy, really,” Gabriel was saying, hands clasped behind his back, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet as if he was some kind of tourist enjoying the sights, “Constantine was, I heard, a visionary however-"
Crowley's patience was wearing thin. This was the eighth country they’d been to in the last two hours, and Gabriel had for some reason felt the need to continue with his commentary on every single friggin' thing that apparently came to his head.
“Gabriel,” he cut him off, “I remember Constantine. Who do you think swayed him to paganism before your lot whispered in his ear?”
Gabriel raised a brow, “you obviously weren’t very persuasive in your ‘swaying’.”
“Free will,” Crowley muttered, really wishing that whatever was giving Gabriel the need to keep talking would just leave and never resurface.
“You’ll need to go and do this one. Alone.”
“Oh,” and Gabriel actually looked a little… disappointed, “really?”
Crowley looked over his glasses at him, “unless you wish to lather my sulphuric feet in ointment for the next few days?”
Gabriel pulled a face, “I see."
“Get a move on, I’m already itchy.”

It only took a few minutes before Gabriel rounded a corner, walking back to him quickly, "nope, nothing. Angels have been here recently though, far too many unneeded blessings performed, I wonder who is staying on top of that in the office? Seems like a waste-"
Crowley cleared his throat, lip curling in annoyance and Gabriel gave him an apologetic smile, "sorry, I believe the phrase is 'old habits die hard'."
"Apparently not hard enough. Come on."

-

Aziraphale and Beelzebub were having even less luck than their counterparts, the two demons now sitting on the ground on the outskirts of a small city in the Middle East. It burned their noses to even breathe the air, the sting of Heaven's presence making their eyes water.
Aziraphale was sweating, a hiss between his teeth as Beelzebub looked over his hand.
“You’ll live. Might take a day or two.”
It was red raw, a smell not unlike a smouldering electrical fire emitting from his palm. It blistered around the edges of his skin, fingerprints all but burnt away.
“Didn’t even think,” he winced as he tried to flex his fingers, “so silly, even before I touched it, it felt… well, it felt-"
“Holy. Bit too holy, I reckon. Bloody daft, you are. If it smells Good then it’s bad for you, you’ll need to get used to it.”
Aziraphale sighed and Beelzebub dropped his hand, taking off their hat and running fingers through dark lanks of hair, “how many other places can there be? Michael is a conniving bastard but Earth isn’t their strong suit. I thought you two would be better at this.”
Despite the very backhanded comment, they got to their feet, popped their hat back on and extended a hand to Aziraphale, him using his uninjured hand to take theirs and they quickly separated once vertical and began walking away from the city.
“You’re both really dedicated to all this,” the former duke gestured to the night sky, the land, their surroundings, “aren’t you?”
Aziraphale nodded, looking around, “I suppose we are. Crowley and I have both been here for so long. It’s our home. And home for the humans, too. If it ceases to exist, then what was the point?”
Beelzebub glanced to him, “you already thought that way, before falling, didn’t you?”
Aziraphale gave a tight smile, “indeed I did. Even… perhaps back in the garden. I certainly didn’t acknowledge it at the time, but something Crowley said did keep me up at night, so to speak.”
“Mm?”
“The tree. The fruit. And to allow Crowley in, to allow humans to experience temptation, commit the first sin… Well, it’s just all a big test, isn’t it? Or, as Crowley called it once, a big science experiment.”
“Remind me again how you two have been going at it for this long and you only just fell?”
Aziraphale shrugged, reminiscent of Crowley he replied, “I went as far along with Heaven as I could go.”
Beelzebub looked somewhat impressed. They walked in silence for a while longer before they drew in a long breath, “sometimes I wonder…” But they stopped for a moment, face contorting in discomfort. Aziraphale recognised it as them wanting to speak about something that was probably a touch vulnerable. Crowley had the same expression now and again.
“You wonder?” He encouraged gently.
“How Gabriel hasn’t fallen yet,” they said quietly, eyes flickering upwards as if making sure the whisper wasn’t heard by unwanted ears, “they could find us again, if they really wanted to. Swoop down, destroy me, take him and break him.”
Aziraphale fought down the horrid memory, pushing his own Fall far out his mind.
“Perhaps it’s not Her will,” he murmured, voice thin.
Beelzebub frowned and stopped walking, giving him a look nothing short of disbelief and disgust, “Aziraphale. Wake the fuck up.”
His brows reached his hairline as they stalked forward, gripping his shirt into a fist, “do you believe the rubbish coming out of your mouth? Honestly, do you think this,” Beelzebub grabbed his injured hand, “is Her will? You think that God honestly had anything to do with your Fall? Or to do with any of this? God hasn’t been around for a long time. She doesn’t move the chess pieces anymore!”
Aziraphale took his hand out of their grip roughly, pointed ears pinned back, “I understand you’re upset and scared, but there’s no need for that sort of-"
“Oh Satan, they really did a number on you, didn’t they,” but there was no pity in their voice, “all this time on Earth… don’t you get it? Either God is truly ineffable to the point of spiteful and callous, or, She has nothing to do with this freak show anymore. You really think raising the dead is God's Will? Inciting fear and panic? That’s Hell’s job, you know, the place that is meant to be the exact opposite of Heaven and Earth! You were a supreme archangel, come on mate, did you even see or hear from Her once? Because I can tell you that Gabriel hasn’t heard a peep since the War!”
“That’s because it’s all written! She doesn’t need- She doesn’t have- She… really?” He deflated, voice small, “nothing from Her directly at all?”
Beelzebub snorted indelicately, hands on their hips, “have you?”
“Once. Once outside Eden She asked me where I put my flaming sword. That was it. Never… nothing else ever again.”
“Oh well aren’t you special. You got the last word in, it seems.”

Beelzebub began walking again but Aziraphale stood, frozen, the wind in a dry gust around them.

“He won’t Fall,” Aziraphale eventually called out, “I can feel your fear, but Gabriel won’t Fall unless he chooses to. If he Falls because of their doing, then the whole institution will collapse, and not for the better.”
It would certainly work against the whole 'ask and don't tell' thing that Heaven always had going. Aziraphale was an easy target to make an example out of - 'been on Earth too long, traitor, consorted with demons', but Gabriel was their leader.
If he fell, the Host would have questions that even Michael wouldn't be able to answer.

Beelzebub stopped, fists unclenching at their sides and they turned to him, “I don’t feel fear.”
“We all feel fear,” he replied, walking to stand with them again, “you feel fear because you love him.”
Beelzebub bared their teeth, “you have a lot of nerve, talking to me about that sort of thing.”
“Love? Or fear?”
“Both! I don’t feel fear, I incite fear. I was a Duke, I showed others what it meant to be scared.”
Aziraphale huffed, “Hell itself incites fear, not always necessarily those who reside there.”

Hell, the place, the state of mind, was fear.
Anxiety, hopelessness, torture.
A place that you couldn’t bear to step in; it was part of its core. The foundation of Hell was rooted in misery, in horror, fear, it wasn't there to make you feel anything close to 'good', even as a demon.
Especially as a demon.

Aziraphale gasped. Beelzebub turned, expecting something akin to an army of angels judging by his suddenly reaction, but no one was there.
“What?!”
“Oh my. I.. I think I may know where the Staff is.”

Chapter Text

Between the four, they covered an overwhelming amount of ground. Crowley had long grown weary of compressing his atoms into minuscule, lightning speed blotches of matter that reappeared across the Earth and was now leaning against against a graffitied wall in a narrow alleyway, desperately wishing for the backroom of the bookshop to put him to sleep. Gabriel eventually found him, almost walking straight past him before coming to a quick stop, “there you are.”
“Here I am.” He didn’t even bother asking Gabriel if he’d had any luck, the answer was obvious.
He peeled himself off the wall and the two blended into the bustling footpath, weaving in and out of people.
“I don’t know where else we can look. That was my last suggestion, and even that was scraping the bottom of the… The…?”
“Barrel,” Crowley offered unhappily, wishing he had Aziraphale here to ease the last ten hours of tension.
Well, tension on Crowley's behalf. Gabriel had been very noticeably putting in the effort to talk, and Crowley was too tired to bother continuing to tell him to shut up.
“Very crowded,” Gabriel noted, despite both being reasonably tall they still got bumped into, “I never realised how dense the population would grow - thought they’d be more spread out, making the most of the land.”
“They buy every square inch and build on top of it until it is structurally impossible to do otherwise. Don’t you remember Babel? Humans like building things. A lot.” Crowley navigated the crowds a touch more easily; whether it was due to the natural fluid movement he possessed or the fact that Gabriel expected people to just move out his way, he couldn’t tell.
“Not really,” Gabriel answered honestly, “I think Uriel oversaw that project.”
“Huh,” came the uninterested reply.
“You were there? For Babel?”
“Yep.”
“Watched it being built? Or come down?”
“Both.”
“Bet your side were surprised of the silver lining in that one, who knew that it would result in such a positive outcome, really the humans just-"
“Gabriel,” Crowley said sharply, stopping in the middle and people actually walked around them instead of outright bumping into them.
Gabriel rose a questioning brow, “yeah?”
“What are you doing?”
Gabriel frowned, glancing up and down the noisy street, “walking?”
“I mean why are you talking to me? You don’t have to pretend to tolerate me y’know. It’s…” Crowleys nose scrunched, “it’s weird. It’s disingenuous,” he wished Aziraphale was here, he liked that word, “we just need to get this done then you and Beelzebub can bugger back off and not have to look back once. Let’s just sort this out before they send Him down,” he poked a finger up to the sky, both knowing exactly who he was referring to.
Gabriel straightened up, “I’m being polite. Shouldn’t I be polite?”
“But you AREN'T polite! In fact you’re actually a real wanker!”
“If I was, then why didn’t you turn me in when I lost my memories? Why did you do a miracle to protect me?”
Crowley groaned, fingers pushing between his brow bone to stop a long-standing headache, “I did it so Aziraphale didn’t get destroyed by Hell, and because he bloody asked me to help! For what reason, I do not know, even though you’re the most sanctimonious prick who has looked down on him throughout his entire existence; he still felt the need to protect you!”
“So you’re saying, you didn’t help because you think I deserved help, you only did it for Aziraphale?”
Crowley got in his face, a menacing hiss at the back of his throat that escaped his teeth, “you didn’t deserve his kindness. Not a shred of it. Now stop trying to be my friend and let’s get this done so I can go home and spend the next decade asleep in that bookshop. Got it?”

Gabriel’s tight jaw loosened. A flicker of something crossed his eyes - for a moment Crowley almost thought it was hurt, but no surely not - and he stepped back.
“I understand. I just.. I just wanted to talk. See if it…” he exhaled through his nose and Crowley rolled his eyes, taking the bait, “see if it what?”
“Jogs my memory. Of before. Before Time.”
Crowley shook his head, walking away, “un-fucking-believable, honestly…”
“What!” He half jogged to keep up, “what did I say!”
“You are the same self-centered dick you’ve always been, you know that? I told you about my,” he struggled to come up with a word that didn’t grit his teeth, “my past so you’d help us, not so we could reconcile and play happy family. I have no interest in taking a trip down memory lane, not with you, not with anyone.”
“Is that why you never told Aziraphale?”
Crowley turned down another street, wishing Gabriel would accidentally (and yet very successfully) walk into oncoming traffic.

He suddenly stopped and Gabriel almost bumped into him as he spun around, “please, for the love of Someone, just stop,” he growled, and Gabriel sighed heavily, shoulders sagging.
Crowley straightened his blazer, eager to get as far away from this conversation as possible, “right. Where next?”
“I don’t know. There’s nowhere- oh- hang on-"
A sudden shift of atmosphere had him pausing, and across the street appeared two demons. Crowley slumped in relief and walked across the road, getting beeped at but not run over, Gabriel at his heels.
Aziraphale slid on a pair of glasses and almost had the wind knocked out of him when Crowley crushed him into a very unexpected hug.
"Oh! Everything alright?”
Crowley nodded, slowly letting him go, “please tell me you found something. Anything.”
“He did,” Beelzebub said, giving Gabriel a slight squeeze of his hand in greeting, “smarter than he looks, that one. If he’s right.”
“It’s a bit of a stretch,” Aziraphale warned, mimicking a pinch of his fingers to reflect how small (or not small) the ‘bit’ was and Crowley gripped his wrist lightly, “what happened here?”
His hand was still blistered and raw with the scabs not having enough time - or indeed power - behind them to heal.
“Ah, yes. Forgot I was a demon for a moment but that pesky statue in Saidnaya reminded me very effectively.”
Crowley had the sudden urge to blast that statue into rubble, “Always hated that statue.”

Gabriel’s wordlessly reached over and touched Aziraphale's shoulder.

A very uncomfortable warmth sank into his bones and travelled down his arm, but then his injured palm was completely healed. He flexed his fingers and Crowley let him go in surprise, eyeing Gabriel narrowly.
“Oh,” the relief on Aziraphales face was palpable, “thank you.”
“So, what did you find?” Gabriel asked, the four moving out of the busy walkway and down a side street.
Aziraphale glanced around and said quickly and quietly, “I think perhaps the Staff isn’t on Earth at all. I think it’s,” he looked down pointedly.
Gabriel and Crowley had identical expressions of confusion.
“It makes sense,” Beelzebub said just as quietly, “Michael doesn’t make many trips Down, but when they do, no one questions them. Been in cahoots with too many Dukes for too long for any demon to dare question them.”
Gabriel pulled a face, “do I want to know about your cahoots with Michael?”
Beelzebub threw him a withering glare and continued, “they could’ve put it there years ago and no one would ever know. No other angels would detect it because no other angels would ever go down there. And demons wouldn’t be able to tell the difference because Hell is Hell.”
Realisation dawned, “the power it sets off would just feel like Hell, no matter what. Hell's atmosphere would mask the Staff from demons,” Crowley rubbed his chin, the pieces coming together and he looked at Aziraphale with a small smile, “how’d you think of that, you clever bastard?”
Aziraphale tried his best to be bashful, but pride shone through, “I can’t take all the credit. Beelzebub had some strong opinions that gave me the idea.”

Despite their exhaustion and patience wearing very noticeably thin, the air between the four was noticeably electric with hope. Even Beelzebub had cracked a smile (though it was more diabolical than relieved).
Gabriel inhaled deeply, straightening up to his fullest height and in true Gabriel fashion he said, “so, we storm Hell, get the Staff, destroy the Horn, avert the Second Coming. Yes?”
“Storm Hell?” Crowley scoffed, “you idiot. Can't just storm Hell. This is going to take finesse and a whole lot of bullshitting.”
A Crowley-tier plan then.
Aziraphale grinned, teeth sharp and eyes glinting, “then lead the way, my dear.”

Chapter Text

The bookshop would be a terrible rendezvous spot.

Though Aziraphale didn’t know it, angels had stationed themselves at the front doors and were keeping an eye on the place.
It didn’t matter to them that there was already an angel looking after the bookshop, in fact their orders specifically instructed to keep said angel within the bookshop at all times. Muriel had suspected that was the case when they realised that Maggie and Nina had tried to come over twice, only to turn on their heel when they reached the footpath and walk away, confused and apparently not wanting to go in at all. People who were out and about walked by the old building, not giving it a second glance. No one tried to buy anything, no-one tried to come in - it was almost like the bookshop wasn’t there at all.
If not for the fact that Muriel sat, locked within it with angels guarding the doors and unable to leave, they would almost believe it didn’t exist anymore either.
The phone didn’t work. The TV didn’t even turn on (not that Muriel had worked out the remote) but thankfully, the kettle boiled and whistled just as loudly as it always had.
So they sat, with half drank cups of tea on almost every flat surface, wondering what was to come.

-

A shop bell dinged harmoniously, jingling at the door to alert its owner that they had company. Matilda frowned, hearing the bell clang a little longer than usual. Odd, especially at this hour. She kicked her feet off the back room counter so her chair would roll over and put her in line with the door.
She flicked off the Blondie song that was taking up most of the decibels in the room and got up with a frown, “I’d hope not to see you again.”
Crowley offered a tight apologetic smile, “bit of an emergency.”
“I figured as much. Who’s your friend?” She nodded to Beelzebub, who was eyeing the Venus flytrap with utter contempt.
“Beelzebub, Matilda - Matilda, Beelzebub.”
Beelzebub only looked up to say, “we need to let him in.”
“Who? The angel waiting at my front door?” Matilda asked, arms crossing her chest.
Beelzebub raised a brow and eyed Matilda up and down, “what’s she?”
“Don’t know, long story,” Crowley said in a rush, “he’s with us, can you pull down your-,” he flourished his hand as if he were a cartoon witch casting a spell, “-thing?”
Matilda huffed and simply opened the door, grabbing Gabriel’s wrist and tugging him over the threshold (which resulted in an invisible force making a sharp sound, much like a rubber band being flicked) and shutting the door with a snap.
Gabriel rubbed his wrist, “um. Thank you?”
Matilda looked at him up and down, squinting, “jeez, which one is this?”
Gabriel held out his hand, “Gabriel.”
Matilda looked at his hand then up at him, not shaking it but looking a bit worried all the same.
He dropped his hand slowly, “oooo-Kay. Crowley said this is a safe place?”
“It was for me until you four showed up,” Matilda muttered, gesturing them to follow her into the backroom where she shut and locked the door.

It wasn’t exactly 'teamwork' - it was determination that formed the plan. Beelzebub had vast knowledge of Hell, Aziraphale and Crowley could go there without raising too much suspicion, and Gabriel could detect the staff if they got close enough. That was the risk though, they couldn’t exactly go traipsing through hell with Gabriel without alerting every single demon, Duke and probably archangel.
“If he is spotted, they’ll find out,” Crowley said, elbow leaning on the table, “Michael will come down straight away. They’ll know it has something to do with the Horn.”
“I’ll lie,” Gabriel said confidently, “I’ll lie and say I’m there on behalf of Michael, then no one will call them.”
Beelzebub shook their head, “won’t work. It’s known knowledge that you’re a traitor. Shax would be in very close contact with Michael.”
“Could we not put Gabriel inside a fly again?” Crowley asked, holding his tongue before he finished with ‘and leave him as one.’
Beelzebub shook their head again warily, as if they had already thought of this, “too risky. Could turn around and someone’s eaten him.”
Aziraphale pulled a slightly horrified face and Matilda snorted before covering it with a polite cough, suddenly very interested in the peeling paint on the wall.
“What if…” Gabriel eyed Crowley suddenly, “what if Michael was there?”
“What?”
“You know, I remember things you told me, when I was Jim. When you told me to jump from that window-"
“Oi, come on!”
“Just before that, you told me what I said. That day in Heaven, when Aziraphale escaped punishment. You said you were there… and I think I know why.”
Aziraphale glanced to Crowley in silent panic - not that it mattered now, in the scheme of things, but it still set his heart beating double.
Gabriel continued, looking between the two, “probably the same reason Aziraphale withstood the hellfire and you bathed in holy water without being destroyed. You switched, somehow, right? At first we all thought that you’d both somehow gained or lost power from being acclimated to earth, or perhaps each other, or maybe the Antichrist had done it. But I’m starting to think you were in Aziraphale's place. Now I know why you were so angry at me,” and he actually looked somewhat guilty at that, looking between them.
Crowley didn’t offer any sign of forgiveness.
“Are you suggesting that you take Michael’s form? An illusion of some kind?” Aziraphale asked once he had found his voice.
“And then what? You just walk out of Hell with the Staff?” Crowley asked with a frown, “it can’t be that simple.”
“You keep anyone from following me or talking to me, it will be easy. Like you said, who’s going to question Michael? No one.”
Beelzebub mumbled ‘I don’t like this’ that no one heard except for Aziraphale. He offered them a small smile. They rolled their eyes in return.
It seemed no one liked the plan, and yet Gabriel had a smile on his face in a very ‘well that’s settled’ fashion that had none of them placated, instead introducing a new worry - if Gabriel fucked this up, how do they save an archangel in Hell?

-

Beelzebub, Crowley and Aziraphale walked through the glass doors and stood at the escalator, watching the revolving metal stairs go down on its conveyor over and over again.
The main entrance. Aziraphale looked at the opposite escalator, wondering if by chance an angel would walk up or down it.
“Oi,” Beelzebub clicked their fingers in front of him, “don’t go getting nostalgic now.”
“Apologies. Right. So I’ll take level 1-3, Crowley 4-6, yourself 7-9 and then somehow we relay any information to Gabriel so he’s not wandering every level of Hell looking lost.”
“Leave the secret messages to me,” Beelzebub nodded, flies buzzing at their command.
Crowley shook his head, staring at the ceiling, “this is well and truly fucked.”
Aziraphale bravely took his hand, “indeed it is, but it's your plan remember. Shall we?”
And together they descended into darkness.

Hell, much like Heaven incidentally, did not change. It got worse periodically, never getting 'better' or evolving beyond its basic nature, which was kind of the point. ‘Better’ was definitely not within the vocabulary surrounding Hell.

Aziraphale wishes he could say that he walked confidentially down the main hallway amongst the other doomed beasts but that would be an outright lie. His breath was suddenly jammed between his lungs and his throat, a squeeze in his chest and a cool creep that travelled down his neck in the most unpleasant way.
He had half a mind to turn around and say ‘bugger this’.
The only thing that ensured his feet followed each other one step at a time was Crowleys firm grip in his hand. Crowley, as usual, walked effortlessly through the place with a general mood of being completely blasé to the whole thing.
Inside his own mind was a different matter, but no one needed to know about that.
No one looked at them sideways. Everyone seemed to be completely apathetic, ignorant, or oddly enough, running around in a panic, carrying clipboards or notes - one demon even had a pager beep off that sent them running the direction from which they came.
The same un-motivating posters peeled the walls, the same questionable sludge dripped between cracked and the same bleary halogens spluttered and sizzled above them as they flickered on and off. Crowley had not missed it at all.
A foul smell reached their nose and as they turned a corner Dagon was standing there, almost running into them.
They rose a brow in surprise, “fancy seeing you two down here.”
“Demons in Hell, who would’ve figured,” replied Crowley smoothly.
“I suppose you’re running, like the coward you always have been,” Dagon snapped, “things get a little too hairy up there and you throw in the towel? Slither yourself into a hole and wait it out?”
Aziraphale sensed tension rising and cleared his throat, “you’re right,” Crowley frowned but Aziraphale continued, “things up there are indeed getting… hairy, as you say. No place for a demon to be roaming about. Probably best we stay where we belong.”
Dagon looked between them before their icy eyes landed on Aziraphale, “I knew you were the smart one. Well, make yourself useful or you’ll be doing Admissions for the last few days of your existence.”
Dagon stalked around them, walking down the hall and out of sight.
Aziraphale let out the breath he’d been holding, feeling the squeeze in his chest loosen, “oh my word…”
They looked around to ensure the coast was clear of any higher ranking demons and then at each other. Crowley looked somewhat impressed.
“Glad you took the ‘bullshitting’ part of my plan upon yourself.”
“Well looks like it’s your turn then.”
“Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

The first level was the busiest, naturally, and despite its long corridors it still warped around corners wildly and had all the makings of a haunted maze - demons lurking behind each corner, the occasional lost soul looking for the line to Admissions, and a series of locked doors that seemed to only hold screams or paperwork behind them.
Yet, Aziraphale persisted.
He looked behind every door he could, and when he felt eyes watching him a little too closely he would pick up a folder and carry it with him, only to dump it in the next room.
Crowley had told him, like he had done for years, he just had to fake it. Make it look like he knew exactly what he was doing and where he was going. If any demon (bar a few) questioned him, just be rude, or hiss, or glare. Something vaguely demonic.
Aziraphale hadn’t had to do that yet and he rather hoped he wouldn’t have to.
The two flies that buzzed around his head had now settled onto his shoulder and he sighed as he opened yet another door filled to the ceiling with mould, broken furniture and old files.
“Absolutely no order,” he muttered and the flies buzzed with utter lack of sympathy, sounding remarkably similar to Beelzebub's annoyed sigh.
Onto the next door.

-

Crowley's journey involved slightly less traffic, his movements more snakelike by the moment as he slinked in and out of rooms, becoming almost one with the walls and if you blinked you’d miss him.
His pair of spy-flies followed him seamlessly, zipping in and out of rooms as fast as he was.
Same shit, different room.

He was about to open the door to the staircase and slip down to the next floor when a figure in the form of maggots put their hand on the door. Crowley knew that infested hand anywhere.
“Hastur,” he greeted in the most even tone he could manage, turning to the Duke and giving the slightest nod, “been a while. Looking well.”
He did not in fact look well; he looked revolting and slimy, skin green and puckered with oozing warts and maggots. Black, endless eyes regarded Crowley with nothing short of contempt. He blew the smoke from his cigarette into Crowley's face, Crowley doing his absolute most to not flinch.
“Crowley. Bold of you to show your traitorous face here.”
“Wouldn’t say bold, not really. Kind of squirmy actually, squirmy behaviour. Earth's going to shit, can’t be much worse down here, yeah?”
Hastur was growing less impressed by the minute, “where’s your friend?”
“Friend? Hm? Don’t have any friends, me.”
“The angel.”
“Nope, no angel friends.”
Hastur stepped closer, almost nose to nose, “you know the one I mean,” he breathed, Crowley gritting his teeth against it.
“Oh. Oh that friend. Aziraphale? Demon now, so, down here. Naturally. We must be doing something right, eh? All the supreme archangels giving Heaven the boot-"
“You’re up to something.”

Now usually when confronted directly, Crowley lied. Of course he did, right? But his lies were never good. But in this moment, he didn’t need a good lie, he just needed to be the right amount of ‘something’ to make Hastur second guess himself.
He decided to go for pitiful.
He hated doing ‘pitiful’.
He sighed dramatically, “alright. You’re right. Thing is… I’ve been on Earth a long time. Done a lot of things, thwarted a lot of… angelic… deeds. Caused a lot of trouble. And now what? This time it’s actually being destroyed and there’s nothing I can do, except be down here and… be, uh, sad. About it. Okay? So the only thing I’m up to is… just hiding and being a moaning, pitiful… snake.”
By the end of his off-kilter speech, Hastur's expression had indeed gone from disgust, to mildly confused, and slipped into a deeper form of disgust and stepped back.
Crowley laid it on real thick, putting his hand on Hastur's shoulder.
“Maybe if I had someone to talk to about it all, I wouldn’t feel so-"
“Gah!” Hastur flinched away from him, “you really are pathetic!”
“Oh. Aw. But-"
“Just go, be someone else’s problem! For Satan's sake…” And with that he walked away, grumbling under his breath and vigorously brushing off the spot on his shoulder where Crowley had touched him.
Crowley smirked and slipped through the door.

-

Beelzebub didn’t walk through the halls of Hell; Beelzebub swarmed.
Flies upon flies spread in ominous black buzzing clouds, finding cracks in walls and under doors, a continuous low hiss of noise that had already scouted through the seventh floor and was well into the eighth. No one dared confront them, despite being as much of a traitor as Crowley. No one looked them in the eye, they’d just see the growing swarm and duck or hide until it was over, as if worried that the flies would pick their bones dry like locusts in a field.

They passed the chambers with the sulphur hanging pungent and thick in the air, hearing the boiling pits bubble and pop throughout. All the offices adjacent were empty, files left unattended, seats vacant. Beelzebub picked through random files, flipped over cabinets, emptied drawers onto desks - just pens, post-it notes, scrunched up paper, a cut off pinky finger, more post-it notes…
The huffed in frustration and then watched as the light flickered. It flickered again.
The flies buzzed excitedly as a familiar angelic presence swept into Hell.
Beelzebub grinned, a few flies leaving them and going to find the archangel as the former Duke turned level eight upside down.

-

The demons didn’t so much as move aside as run away when ‘Michael’ walked through the place. Grey suit pristine, hair immaculately coiffed, gold dust glittering on their face. They walked with purpose, low heels clicking and chin held high - they had no reason and yet every reason to be here.
The only issue was, this particular Michael didn’t know their way around Hell. They didn’t know which hallway to turn down to avoid the grate of hellfire that sat in a common area, and they didn’t know where to walk to avoid being heckled by the majesties of Hell.
Luckily, a fly had tucked themselves neatly in their hair and gave directions.
That was, until, a demon with dark hair and long black eyelashes approached them, iPad in hand.
They did a sort of nervous half bow, causing Michael's face to lift a thin brow.
"Hi. Welcome, uh, your… Excellency?” Eric the disposable demon stammered out, “we weren’t expecting-"
“No, I suppose you weren’t,” Michael's voice came out sharply.
“Lord Shax has asked me to-"
“I’m not here to see Lord Shax.”
“Oh. Er. But-"
He didn’t have to stammer much longer; Shax appeared before them and offered Michael a tight red-lipped smile, “Michael.”
Gabriel controlled his mask, “Shax.”
“Shall we?” And the Grand Duke pointed to a door, which Gabriel had no choice but to walk through.
Shax sat on somewhat of a makeshift throne behind a desk, Gabriel sitting across from her. Once the door closed Shax eyed them up and down, “things must be happening, then. Because last time I saw you, you were… dishevelled. To put it mildly.”
That was interesting news to Gabriel, though he didn’t let it show. He’d never ever put 'Michael' and 'dishevelled' in the same sentence.
“Things are progressing, yes.”
The Grand Duke's eyes lit up, “then you’ve found it? The Horn?”
“And why would I tell you that?”
But Shax simply laughed, “angelic humour, I’m getting used to it.”
Gabriel forced a sort of smile and Shax sighed happily, painted talon tapping on the arm of their chair, setting off small sparks, “I assume there’s not much time left then? If you have the Horn, we’ll move things into motion to trap Gabriel for you. Eliminate Beelzebub so there’s no push back, and then let what’s-his-name descend-"
“Trap Gabriel?”
Shax stared at the sudden surprise in ‘Michael’s’ voice.
“Is that no longer the plan? What’s changed? You said your boss needs him.”
“My boss? God?”
Shax snorted, “God? Metatron. You told me yourself that God no longer writes the Book. I figured the Scribe had it written out, or whatever the big plan is…”
Gabriel stood rather abruptly, “I see. Yes, well. I need to go. Meetings, you know.”
Shax frowned but stood as well, “very well. Shall I see you out?”
“No. No, I know my way around.”
“That you do.”

-

Aziraphale almost bowled Crowley over as he pushed through a door, out of breath, Crowley spinning around and gripping the rail for support and breathing just as hard.
“Angel! Oh thank Someone. Come on,” he tugged Aziraphale's sleeve, “Gabriel’s gotta be around here somewhere.”
“I know,” they went down another flight of stairs, Aziraphale's hair sticking up wildly even as he tried to flatten it, “have you seen Beelzebub?”
“No! And my two little companions buzzed off a few minutes ago without a word!”
Aziraphale looked worried, “so did mine.”
“Shit. Shit, shit.”
They stopped on the landing of level eight, Crowley gnawing his bottom lip as he paced, “what do we do?”
“Shh. Stop moving. Let me try and see if I can hear them.”
“Who?” Crowley hissed but stopped moving, “Beelzebub?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and nodded, exhaling shakily. His heart thumped loudly in exertion but then he could hear further - could hear the steady drip of questionable goo as it travelled down the walls to the ground, the obnoxious hum of the lights, the closing of filing cabinets. Heels clicking. Souls screaming. A deep, horrid rumble beneath them. But closer, he could hear a tinny, light, buzzing noise. And two voices speaking hurriedly.
He opened his eyes, “they’re somewhere here, on this level.”
Crowley nodded and - in a strange bout of irony that he wish he had more time to think about - Aziraphale gently pushed the recently repaired door to the eighth floor open.

Chapter Text

“What do you mean, leave? What, now?” Beelzebub hissed.
Michael - Gabriel rather - nodded, a worried pinch between their brows that seemed very out of place on the archangels usually stern gaze, “now.”
“Because of what Shax said?”
Gabriel took Beelzebub's hand and squeezed gently, “please. I don’t ask anything of you. This is the one thing. We need to get out of this mess and go, right now.”
Beelzebub pulled their hand away, swallowing hard. The offer was tempting. So, so tempting.
“We’ve come this far,” they found their voice again, “I'm not scared of Shax or her hoard of idiots. You are the archangel Gabriel! You… you’re not scared of a bunch of scum demons! They wouldn’t dare try and trap you, that would be suicide for them.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about!”
“Oh stop that! Eliminate me, pfff. They can keep dreaming!”
“Beelzebub. Love. Pl-“
But Beelzebub shook their head, seeing Crowley and Aziraphale running towards them.
Gabriel stepped back, “you’re risking yourself for them?”
“Aren’t you an angel?” They hissed, “shouldn’t you be proud of me or something?”
The two demons skidded to a halt in front of them, Crowley exploding with, “what’s the issue?!”
“We need to go,” Gabriel said abruptly.
“I heard what you said,” Aziraphale panted, “every word. Just help us find this, then you can go. Go hide.”
“Hide?” Crowley said, looking between them, “hide? From who?”
“Everyone,” Gabriel said, Michael’s voice wavering and then suddenly their body warped and changed into their usual self. He straightened his suit jacket.
“Hell and Heaven are after them,” Aziraphale offered to get this conversation out the way so they could get what they came for, “there’s nowhere else to look. If it’s not below us, then it’s not here and we’re.. We’ll be.. Well, we’ll be fucked.”
Beelzebub looked to Gabriel and then walked around him, opening the door with force - dust blew off its hinges and it creaked, as though hadn’t been open in many years.
The door to the staircase that would take them to level nine.

An odd hum rang through the air.
A wash of warmth came over Gabriel, but to the demons it was nails on a chalkboard. Their senses heightened and they looked to each other with wide eyes.
There was no denying the divinity that rang out of a weapon of heaven.
“It’s here,” Aziraphale breathed in relief, ears twitching.
Beelzebub however blanched, teeth digging into their lip, “small problem though.”
But they knew, they all knew where it must be and that’s where the problem would lie; below them, Hell's lowest pit rumbled with the agonised howls of hellhounds, it shook with the roars of a dark beast, and locked within would be their master - the first Fallen. The Morningstar.

-

No one else walked down the stairwell, their footsteps seeming to echo obscenely loud. It was somehow even colder down here, Crowley seeming to feel it more than the others, teeth almost chattering at the chill. Or, perhaps it was fear.

A final door confronted them, a mundane green and white ‘EXIT’ sign flickering above it. The door was locked in at least seven different ways, Beelzebub producing a ring of keys, their shaking hand the only telltale sign that they were either as cold or as scared as the others.
Aziraphale gently tugged Crowleys sleeve and their eyes locked, scleras blown and small spots had started to appear on Aziraphale's fuzzy jaw.
“If we-"
“Nope,” Crowley whispered as the locks clicked and opened one by one, “don’t even try and do the whole ‘if we don’t make it’ rubbish. We’re going to be fine. It’s only, y'know, hellhounds and Satan. We’ve faced worse.”
It was a lie, but all the same, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Aziraphale's warm lips, wishing desperately that time would halt here and now.
Aziraphale kissed back, committing everything about Crowley to absolute memory, down to the feel of his lips and the taste that lingered there.

The last lock snapped open and Gabriel stood in front of Beelzebub, ready for anything.

Chapter Text

Now, from what Aziraphale supposedly learned from Heaven, he expected that the door was going to open into some kind of brimstone-clad, fiery, Hellish narrow path that would be crawling with Hellhounds and demons and all kinds of evil until they reached a cage that held its eternal prisoner. He prepared himself for bubbling sulfur pits, for endless screams, for horror beyond comprehension.

Before them was a void.

They could hear the howls of hounds and other spine chilling echoes, but directly in front of them was complete nothingness. Even Aziraphale's keen senses couldn’t see past the black abyss.
Beelzebub sent a swarm of flies into it and they waited.
Minutes passed.
None returned.

“I’ll go in,” Gabriel said, in what he thought was a brave voice, but they could all hear the smallest wobble, “I’ll fly in, see where I can land.”
Crowley didn’t offer any alternative. Aziraphale didn’t try either, but the worry was etched on his face.
Beelzebub nodded wordlessly and Gabriel touched their face before stepping into the void. He seemed to fall into absolute nothingness, the three looking through the door frame.
Beelzebub looked ready to jump but with a heavy woosh of air, Gabriel hovered before them, grey wings beating to keep him afloat.
“Coming?”
It did nothing to calm any of their nerves, but Crowley released his wings and Beelzebub followed suit, their own a magnified version of a flies'. They twitched rapidly.
Aziraphale felt a twinge in his back.
“Give me a moment,” he breathed, pulling his own wings into view with gritted teeth.
They were black but patchy and still scabbed, beating once weakly.
“I’ll carry you,” Crowley offered.
“Oh that's not necessary.”
“Angel-"
But Aziraphale waved him off and the three fell through the door, wings catching them and beating - or buzzing - to stay airborne.
It was an odd assembly. Two fallen angels, a former Duke of hell and an archangel who answered to pretty much no one, slowly diving towards what they thought would be a tangible surface.
Gabriel snapped and pulled a tiny miracle to bring them light, but it didn’t work. No light could penetrate.
“Now what?” Beelzebub asked into the abyss, the blind descent seeming endless, “I can’t see a thing.”
“Neither can I,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley shot a bit further downwards, wings coming close to his sides, the air getting cooler and cooler until his face felt numb. Gabriel appeared next to him, dark hair flying wildly out of its usual respectable slick, “I have an idea.”
Their wings opened like a parachute to bring them to a halt.
Gabriel exhaled and pursed his lips, a blinding ring of light emitting from around his head.
Crowley squinted and with a strong beat of his wings, backed away, “are you mad?”
“Do you have a better idea?” Gabriel grunted, pulling his halo off his head, “I won’t blow it up, just..” and he tossed it lightly, the four watching the ring flip over and over as it fell before eventually disappearing.
“Fuck sakes,” Beelzebub hissed but as they did, the ground far, far beneath them illuminated in a misty white.
Gabriel smiled in a way that made Crowley want to punch him.

The dark black ground was like an illusion, seemingly covered in an inch of inky water yet it wasn’t wet. The swell around their feet rippled gently.
Crowley rubbed his arms as they walked, thinking of the sun and the bookshop and hot chocolate. A battered wing stretched and hugged around him, Crowley looking to Aziraphale who offered a small smile that silently spoke of times just like this.
Heaven. The wall of the Garden.
Crowley huddled a little closer into the warmth, following the beam of Gabriel’s halo that the archangel had scooped up when they had landed and was now twirling in their hand, reflecting off the ground and illuminating the way ahead.

It took some time - and time worked very differently down here, so it could have been hours or mere minutes - but then Beelzebub held up their hand, signalling them to stop, the cohorts wings opening silently and stiffening in alert as a low gradual noise reached their ears. Aziraphale frowned, recognising the buzz as the flies that Beelzebub had sent out earlier. The former Duke let out a sigh of relief as they swarmed back towards their master - but they didn’t stop there. At top speed, they flew right past them and upwards, towards the exit which was now invisible in the reaching darkness.
“They didn’t seem too happy,” Gabriel pointed out, if only to break the sudden heightened tension.
“No,” Aziraphale agreed, “they did not. Something's wrong.”
Which was certainly a given, considering their current location, but they knew what he meant. The darkness was suddenly no longer an ongoing stretch of emptiness.

They had company.

Aziraphale's wings folded away and out of sight, the others following suit as he muttered something about a flaming sword. Crowleys tongue tasted the air, picking up the revolting tang of sulphur but also something else. Animal. He had smelled that before.
A rumbling snarl not too far in the distance confirmed his fear.
Gabriel gripped the burning gold halo in his hand, the brightness illuminating to a blazing white but Beelzebub gripped his arm, “no! Don’t throw it! There could be dozens down here!”
“It will decimate all of them.”
“Along with the three of us!” Crowley reminded him.
Gabriel looked torn but then put it back on his head, staying bright but secure, spinning on its axis in a mirage of gold. Just as they were about to move forward, Gabriel froze. His halo spun ridiculously fast above his head.
Beelzebub looked ready to duck, “Why’s it doing that?”
“The staff,” Aziraphale breathed, and they looked to where he was staring.
Yards ahead of them, across the expanse, was a wall of black slate - and wedged into it, throwing the tiniest reflection from Gabriel’s halo was -
“Holy shit,” Beelzebub blasphemed.
The four stared at the gold reflection in the distance.
Until a black beast ran across their line of sight, and they all took a step back.
Gabriel took a defensive position in front of them, “how did Michael get it down here? With all these hellhounds?”
“They weren’t always here,” Crowley breathed, feeling a ghostly chill down his spine as the hounds seemed to be closing in, “more security over the years.”
“How many?”
Beelzebub shook their head, “m-maybe ten?”
“Ten?” Gabriel hissed, “one could maybe be handled, but ten is- AH-!”
Gabriel hit the ground hard, his navy suit torn across his chest and the air knocked clean out of him.
“Fuck!” Crowley grabbed Aziraphale and ducked as a hound jumped at them, missing them by a hair.
The dogs circled them, jowls drooling a viscous goo, teeth pointed like a shark, each dog the size of a horse and yet moved like a cat - raw muscle and reflexes quicker than the human eye could see.
Even in the minimal light, their red eyes glowed.
Crowley swallowed. Even if they manifested their wings again, the dogs would be faster. They could jump in the air and take them down, like a retriever to a pheasant.
6000 bloody years, just to end up in the deepest pit of hell, within jogging distance of the staff he relinquished eons ago.
All the imagination he’d accumulated over his long, long life was now out the window. He may have kept the Bentley together with a hope and a dream, and he may have stopped time, but this was different.
Now he had no imagination.
No thought of how they would escape.
His hand found Aziraphale's and he squeezed as tight as he would allow, “I was wrong before. It wasn’t rubbish. Saying goodbye. It’s been…” his voice came out strangled from between his teeth.
Aziraphale squeezed back.
But his face didn’t hold the same fear that Crowley had.
Crowley didn’t know, couldn’t see how Aziraphale wasn’t two seconds away from tears like he was; he could feel them stinging his eyes.
“Love you, angel.”
And Aziraphale smiled, “I love you too. But no time for that. Best you hurry up and grab that staff.”
“Wot?!”
And Aziraphale let go, gave Crowley a push into Gabriel and Beelzebub, and he did something Crowley had never seen him properly do.
He ran.
Aziraphale ran and was out of sight within seconds, the darkness swallowing him and the large padding paws of the dogs began chasing him.

“AZIRAPHALE!”

But Gabriel’s arm tightened around Crowleys waist in an iron grip, “you heard him! We need to get that staff!”
Crowley heard none of it, he threw as much of his weight around as he could but Gabriel held onto him and dragged him towards the wall where the gold staff was wedged between the slate, the angelic sigils on the rod dancing as they got closer.
Beelzebub pushed him as Gabriel pulled, Crowley swearing and yelling trying to escape them, the growl of the hounds getting further away yet more vicious and the broken noise that escaped Crowleys throat was on par with their howls.
“You idiot! You… you! AZIRAPHALE! BASTARD! Holier than thou, absolute BASTARD!” His voice was growing hoarse and shaky, eyes burning, his glasses falling off somewhere along the way, “YOU-!”
“Crowley,” Beelzebub called out over his cries, coming into view and dodging his haphazard kicks. Their face was… oh God, no, it was almost grief, thought Crowley, suddenly reminded of those funerals where everyone meets the newly-widowed and pulls the same, grimaced ‘I’m sorry’ face.
His stomach turned at the thought, enough to make him stop thrashing, heart beating ferociously in his ears even though it felt like it had been split in two. An ache coursed through him that caused his breathing to come out in odd little huffs of noise.
This couldn’t, shouldn’t, be happening. Aziraphale couldn’t just, he wouldn’t -
“Let me go,” he was unsure if he even said it out loud, but he hoped his mouth was working and then, a bit louder, “Gabriel, let me go.”
“No. I can’t, we need-"
And Crowley turned to him, face to face, too close for either of their comfort but Crowley's mind had ticked over into darker, murkier territory. The yellow of his eyes bled to his sclera, black scales rippling up his arms and body, spreading to his cheeks, “let me go or I’ll make sure you never leave this placcce,” and his voice was an echoing hiss, the same hiss that filled Eve’s innocent ears in Eden, “if you ever cared for me as my brother, let me go.”
Gabriel’s eyes were glassy and he held Crowley all the tighter, “that’s not fair,” he breathed, even though Crowley seemed to somehow be constricting him tighter than he was holding him, “Crowley, please, we need to get the staff.”

Beelzebub had had enough.
They walked around them, gripped the staff and pulled, but it didn’t budge. The slate held onto it, the staff encrusted within its immovable rock face. They yanked, they put their feet on the slate, they yelled.
It didn't move.
Hellhounds barked, out of sight, as if just realising what was happening at their Masters' door.
Crowley ignored the sound of the hounds getting closer and instead fixed his stare on Gabriel, clawed hand gripping his cheek and using all occult power to mentally overthrow the archangels willpower, but an ear splitting yelp made him pause and look out to the darkness.
Another yelp, a loud thud.
A keening scream from another dog.
Another loud thud.
Growls erupted into the air and the three were frozen against the wall, the sound of a dozen paws bounding toward them followed by a low, thunderous roar that shook the foundation and caused the inky surface to dance and ripple under their feet.
Crowley unfroze.

He had heard that roar before.

Red eyes were coming toward them, but only getting a few metres before slipping out of sight, the air filling with awful noises of torn flesh and thuds and cries and yet none of them could look away.
Gabriel let out something of a scream and pulled Beelzebub to him as a giant beasts' eyes, twice as high as the red ones yet were pale yellow-green, regarded them. The beast was grey and white, with red and black smattered around its mouth and matting its fur, a hiss coming between its bloody foot long fangs.
Crowley had never been so relieved and so terrified in his life. He felt his body decompress from around Gabriel, two feet once again on the floor.
“Aziraphale?” He asked the beast weakly, feeling his utter hopelessness begin to ebb away, replaced with a spark that began to swell in his chest almost painfully.
The giant demonic lynx nodded its head once, ear twitching at a noise, and with agility that no animal that large could possess, quickly turned and pounced into an incoming hellhound.
It was an unfair, dirty fight.
Beelzebub looked like they were about to be sick, eyes squeezed shut. Gabriel could only watch on in horror.
The last pathetic howl of a hellhound was cut short with a feral gurgling noise.
The giant lynx came back into view, sat down in front of them and licked one of their bloody paws, wincing a little.
“Well?” It purred in a voice so deep it vibrated the slate.
“You’re absolutely, completely, psychotic,” said Beelzebub, somewhere between impressed and utterly terrified, hand over their own heart to make sure it was still beating correctly.
Gabriel let them both go, collapsing against the cool slate, “oh my God. Did you..? Are they all dead?”
Aziraphale blinked heavily, each eyelid a little out of time from the other, “I believe so. The staff?”
They turned to look at the inoffensive weapon.
The gold still gleamed like new after all this time, the rod thin and long, etched with sigils and a pair of gold wings shone in the reflection of Gabriel's halo. It hummed like the purr of a powerful, idling car.
Crowleys throat unstuck, “s’missing.”
“What?” Beelzebub asked sharply.
“There’s… a thingy…” The words refused to come, shock of the last few minutes blurring his reality.
“The symbol. The serpent,” Gabriel looked to Crowley, “where could Michael…?”
Aziraphale laid down, his hot breath metallic on the back of their necks, “Crrowley,” he grumbled.
They all turned to look at him, Crowley trying to focus, “mn? Yeah?”
“Are you not the serrrpent?”
All eyes turned to Crowley. He blinked once, twice.
“Er…”
“Pull that bloody thing out and let’s get out of here!” Beelzebub snapped, seeming to be the only one who was realising that they were still on a time limit - if demons stormed the place now, where would they go? There was only one way in and one way out. Surely someone had heard all this commotion?

Crowley cleared his throat, “Right. Yep, right,” they moved aside and Crowley stood in front of the staff, hands on his hips. Serpent was missing. Staff was emanating that wretched feeling for the demons. The gold wings sat atop the staff innocently. Bloody Excalibur looking… Over the top piece of...
Serpent, Serpent…
What was he meant to do? Change and slither up the damn thing?
Just miracle a snake into existence and tell it to...?
Wait.
Oh.
OH.

“Ah.”

The black snake tattoo on his cheek uncoiled from its intricate ‘S’ shape, waking up. The snake slithered its way across Crowleys jawline, down his neck where his pulse lay and disappeared beneath his shirt only to re-emerge up his wrist and onto his hand, twirling around his finger. He sighed, silently praying to someone - anyone - that this would work and he wouldn't explode, and then gripped the staff with shaking fingers.
The slate trembled violently, black rock breaking off and falling in small pieces around them.
But the staff glowed considerably, bright and warm.
Heat bled into Crowley's fingers and spread to his palm, the snake seeking the heat and instantly becoming a large, tangible, black serpent as it left the comfort of Crowleys body, muscles rippling when it coiled its way around and around the staff until it reached the wings with a triumphant hiss. It froze into solid gold.
Crowley slid the staff out of the rock with ease.
Everyone took a few steps back.
The feeling of dread vanished with a soft sigh of relief from the former Duke, shoulders relaxing. Aziraphale slowly stood up on shaky paws and sighed. This, this is what they had come for. They were right. They could do this.
His body shrunk and transformed, fur rapidly falling away until he was in a more human form and he inhaled gratefully but winced, feeling the full effect of his injuries. Perhaps that wasn't the best idea.
He fell to one knee, pain riddling his body the more he tried to gulp down air and his vision dimmed to blotches of light.
Crowley almost threw the staff to help Aziraphale but Gabriel put a firm hand on his shoulder, “you can heal him now. With the staff.”
“Me? Demon using the staff?” His brows knitted in worry, pushing Gabriel’s hand off but going to Aziraphale and kneeling with him, looking over his injuries, “fuck... fuck, Aziraphale? You hear me? You brilliant, wonderful idiot,” he held his face, watching the feline pupils fall out of focus, “Oi, Oi! Stay awake-“
“Use it,” Beelzebub said in a soft voice that made Crowley actually listen. He gripped the staff tight and closed his eyes.

Chapter Text

A free fall is what it felt like.
And Crowley knew a thing or two about falling. But this was different.

That sudden drop, when the clicking of the roller coaster stops at its peak and there’s those two or three seconds when you’re waiting for the rest of the carriage to go over the precipice and send everyone into a downward plunge that swallows your gut, makes your head spin and lifts your arse out the seat. You don’t have time to suck in a breath before you’re off again, the track catching you and following a steady yet just as thrilling course.
Crowley felt it in his core, down to his very essence.
He saw nothing but explosions of light, felt nothing but this raw power tapping into him and tingling the ends of his nerves in a painfully good way.
Through it all, he had clarity. Pure, simple clarity.

Help Aziraphale.

His heart leapt and sent a rush to his fingers, his grip readjusting and with a motion of muscle memory he swung the Staff and tapped it into the ground with an almighty BOOM.

Aziraphale gasped.
His slashed skin weaved together, and grew taut. His puffy, bloodshot eye widened and cleared. Hidden wings stitched together and reformed as feathers and tissue regrew.
His pain immediately receded in a wave of warmth, fueled by a strong sense of divine love that he was sure he had lost when he Fell.
“Angel?” Crowleys voice was cautious. Aziraphale reached for him and the gold light dimmed.
They looked at each other, breathing hard.
Aziraphale felt his stomach, where a wound had been oozing blood, but it was smooth and whole and soft. Relief sunk into his bones and he threw his arms around Crowley, face buried into his neck and hair, “o-oh my dear…”
“Can’t believe that worked,” Crowley mumbled but there was a smile in his voice as he hugged back, Staff staying right where he wedged it into the ground.
When they finally let go - after a huff from Beelzebub and an apologetic smile from Gabriel - they stood and Crowley gripped the glowing Staff. It hummed happily, finally reunited with its true owner.
They had come this far. They had done it.

So why did it feel like the hardest part was yet to come?

-

The night air was still in Munich, the florist keeping the window open just a crack. It was too quiet outside, considering it was barely dinner time.
There were no people walking by, or on their way out for dinner, or maybe for a drink, not even tourists getting around and sticking out like a sore thumb.
The quiet scene was setting her teeth on edge, senses sharpened in a state of hyper vigilance. Matilda closed her fridge which she had opened and closed for the fourth time today, only to retrieve nothing from within it. She was hungry, and the four beers, half block of cheese, one egg and spoonful of jam in a jar just weren’t screaming out to her. She supposed she could go to her herb garden and find some chives, dice that up with the cheese and scramble it with the egg and make yet another omelette. It would be the sixth time this week.

Movement out of the corner of her eye made her get to her feet and silently move to the window, watching as two beings in beige suits walked along the footpath, their footsteps not making a sound. The street lamp they walked past fizzled before righting itself to a clinical, white glow that had previously been orange and warm.
The two heavenly beings stopped and looked across the street as three other beings appeared out of nowhere - they were demons. The five regarded each other in a silent stand off before they walked away, the polar opposite groups leaving in opposite directions. Matilda let out the breath she’d been holding and closed her window, locking it, checking it, and then going back to her fridge. Maybe beer was tonight’s answer to dinner.

Well it would have been, but she barely got a mouthful in before there was a knock at the door.

Matilda gathered her wits, grabbed a garden hoe and walked over, throwing the door open and swinging - it connected with a sharp CLANG against something solid and gold.
Anthony J Crowleys face came into view, “Good arm, might make the team. May we come in?”
“Oh for the- yes, come in, for goodness sake,” the three piled in and she had to tug Gabriel by the hand to break the protection spell momentarily.
She closed the door and set the hoe down, “if you aren’t bringing me good news, so help me Anthony- what is that?” She eyed the gold Staff with furrowed brows.
Crowley looked to it, “long story. We need to go upstairs.”
“With that? Wait… when I asked if there was a body up there, I meant a dead one, but…”
“There’s no body,” assured Aziraphale, “but perhaps it’s best you stay down here for a moment. Please.”
Matilda didn’t get the chance to reply as the odd entourage made their way up the back staircase to the upper flat.

Chapter Text

When they walked back down the stairs, they had a lumpy, incandescent blanket in tow. Matilda frowned, putting her beer down and going over, “what is that?”
“Uh… it’s a trumpet.”
“A trumpet. A trumpet?! You had me holed up in here to protect a trumpet?!”
Crowley grimaced and Aziraphale bit his lip, “it’s a rather important trumpet.”
“Well obviously! It’s glowing like anything, like that golden pitchfork!”
Gabriel looked concerned, “you can see that?”
Matilda growled in frustration, “yes, yes I can see that! Ugh, I’m never helping you lot out again.”
There was a knock at the door.
Everyone froze.
“Don’t answer that,” Crowley whispered.
Matilda rolled her eyes, “angels can’t get into this place, it must be a human.”
“Or a demon,” Beelzebub hissed.
There was another knock at the door and a muffled yet familiar voice called out, “Crowley? Mr Aziraphale?” The five stayed quiet until the voice continued, “I saw you go in… it’s me, Muriel?”
Aziraphale took a step but Crowley put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head. Matilda looked between them and threw her hands up in the air, mouthing ‘what do I do?’
“Please?” Muriel called through the door, voice shaky, “please I’m scared. The- the bookshop, it’s-"
“The bookshop?” Crowley said a little too loudly.
Muriel knocked insistently, “please!”
“Prove it’s you,” Gabriel called out. There was silence and then Muriel sang in a small voice, “a-all we have to do now… is take these lies… and make them true, somehow… all we have to see…”
Matilda looked bewildered, “George Michael?”
“Yes!” Muriel called back in relief, “George Michael!”
Everyone looked utterly confused but Crowley nodded, “it’s Muriel. Let them in.”

Matilda opened the door and her face fell when she saw the angel on the other side. Aziraphale sighed softly and even Beelzebub pursed their lips and looked to Gabriel.
Muriel’s bright, rosy cheeked demeanour was replaced with unkempt curls and a strict white and beige uniform, which accented their bruises immensely. They were sporting a purple eye and a swollen jaw, their usual warm brown eyes were dark and lifeless.
Aziraphale was brought back to a time of war Upstairs, the memory making him shudder with a turn of stomach that he held back with gritted teeth.
Crowley tried to be angry, he tried to be snarky and brave but when he spoke all he came out with was an uncharacteristically hoarse, “what happened to you?”
Matilda offered her hand and Muriel flinched.
“You need to take my hand to come inside,” Matilda said.
“Oh,” Muriel took her hand and stepped over the threshold. The battered angel looked around, eyes settling on Crowley before their shoulders sagged and she walked forward, feet heavy and Aziraphale catching them securely. Muriel wept quietly, the room staying silent. Aziraphale patted their back in what he hoped was a soothing way, feeling Muriel shake in their arms but he felt acid in the back of his throat, a dark anger sweeping through however he held it together for the moment, if only to keep Muriel steady.

Matilda went to go shut the door but Muriel suddenly let go of Aziraphales arms and went over, “no! No wait!”
Matilda looked confused, “it’s cold..?”
But Muriel pushed her away, barricading themself in the open threshold, fingers gripping the door frame, “I’m sorry,” they said quickly, voice high and fast with panic, "they’ve been tracking you,” Muriel pointed to Gabriel, the rooms eyes following, “they’ve been tracking your miracles! They couldn’t figure it out, they didn't know what you were doing, and thought you would look for the Horn so they started tracking you, then they saw Beelzebub and C-Crowley in- in Hell and then the Duke down there spoke to Michael- and M-Michael found me and the b-bookshop… and… I didn’t tell them, I swear, b-but they told me if I found you then they wouldn’t… they…” Muriel began hyperventilating and Beelzebub stalked forward, “what did you do?” They shook the angels shoulders, Muriel’s eyes filled with tears but they couldn’t respond, only whimper when Beelzebub doubled their efforts with a hard shake, “what did YOU DO?!”
“That’s enough,” Crowley yanked Beelzebub back, the former Duke furious and shoved him off.
“This angel, your so called friend, sold us out!”
Panic had set in but he tried his best to keep calm, “no they didn’t… Muriel? What-" But it was no use defending them. Crowley could see it in their bruised face.
Muriel’s tears spilled, “they’re coming. They know you’re here,” and with a shaky hand they reached into their breast pocket and pulled out a transparent, glowing angelic phone.

The call had been active for three minutes and counting.

“Oh Muriel,” Aziraphale stepped toward them but they stepped back, “I had to, I had to! They wanted information, but I-I didn’t tell them, I didn’t tell them anything, but they said they’d kill him if I didn’t find Gabriel.”
“Kill who?”
Muriel nodded to Crowley and Crowley sighed heavily, “oh shit… Muriel…”
“We need to run. Now,” Beelzebub had grabbed Gabriel and Gabriel gripped onto the Horn.
“It’s no use,” Muriel mumbled, hanging up the phone and letting it slip from their grip to the ground with a tinkling smash.
Gabriel looked to the ceiling, eyes wide as the chorus of an approaching heavenly ensemble became imminent.
“I’m so sorry,” Muriel choked out, and suddenly they were flanked by angels, headed by Uriel. The archangel stared at them all from outside the door, their expression as dark as a storm.

“Gabriel. Come with us.”

Chapter Text

Matilda was the first to make a noise.
She cleared her throat, “I think you should all be leaving my shop. Right now.”
Uriel barely gave her a glance, turning to the tall angel next to them, “deal with the human.”
“Woah, Hang on,” Crowley stepped forward, subtly putting himself between the angels and Matilda, “deal with the human? Got nothing to do with her! Bit of an overreaction if you ask me-"
“You’re right; no one asked you,” Uriel snapped but then saw what Crowley was holding. Their eyes glowed, teeth bared, “what… are you doing with that… how?”
“It was given to me,” he said honestly, adding to Uriel's confusion and suspicion.
“Enough of this. Let us in this instant,” Uriel grabbed Muriel and Muriel squeezed their eyes shut, ready for the onslaught.
“Wait,” Gabriel said loudly, “Uriel. This isn’t the way we do things.”
“We?” Uriel growled, their usual deadpan demeanour was replaced with anger, “there is no ‘we’. You are a disgrace. And yes, this IS the way things are done. You know that better than any of us.” Uriel nodded to a demon in their entourage, who stepped up and with a flick of their wrist fire gathered in their palm, dangerously close to Muriel.
Everyone held their breath.
Muriel cried out as the flames almost licked their face.
“Okay! Okay, I’ll come with you,” Gabriel said, making his way over, “let them go. I’m surrendering.”
“No!” Beelzebub went to follow but Crowley stopped them, “Beez-"
“It’s okay,” Gabriel placated his partner but his forced smile didn’t reach his frightened gaze, “it’s alright.”
Uriel was done with the little shows of affection, clearly disgusted, “Oh don’t worry, your betrothed is coming too. Everyone. OUT.”

Everything went rather dark when they crossed the threshold.

-

“Let’s start at the very beginning… a very good place to start… when you read you begin with A B C, when you sing you begin with Do Re Mi…”

The bright tones of Julie Andrews echoed hollowly, rousing Aziraphale from his current tranquil state. Too tranquil but not at all relaxing and certainly not at all like sleeping, no this was like those horror stories where people mentally wake up during a procedure but physically the anaesthetic is still taking hold, and so they can hear everything happening around them but are powerless to stop it.
Luckily for Aziraphale, before panic could set in, he heard a familiar groan and a voice mutter, “at least do the raindrops on roses one… C’mon…”
With a Herculean effort, Aziraphale forced his eyelids to open, only to peek between his lashes against the offensive searing white light.
So, Heaven then. Great.
“I always took you for a 'Maria' fan actually,” Aziraphale replied, feeling restraints weigh down around his wrists.
Aziraphale heard a sigh of relief and a very unimpressed, “figured they wrote that one about you. Got the ‘late for chapel but her penitence is real’ bit right.”
“I always knew you liked the movie.”
“Shut up.”
“If this is our torture then I suppose we’d better get comfortable… or start screaming for mercy,” Aziraphale huffed, eyes finally adjusting and he looked to his left where Crowley was similarly cuffed a few metres away.
Crowley half smiled, “could be worse.”
“Oh?”
“Could be actual celestial harmonies. Can't carry a tune to save their lives.”
Aziraphale's lip twitched in obvious agreement.
He glanced around the room and realised he recognised it. It was slightly different, with no podium or tables and the windows had been blocked off, but they were indeed in a council meeting chamber.
Just an endless, pristine white room with ridiculously tall ceilings. They were sat in uncomfortable floating chairs, as if at a doctors office, except they couldn’t fidget or move around - their wrists were bound together, angelic - or demonic - cuffs holding them securely.
Crowley pulled his wrists apart experimentally but they clanged back together like powerful magnets. His nose scrunched and he swore under his breath.
“I hope Muriel is okay,” Aziraphale said, teeth worrying his lip.
Crowleys face grew dark, “they’ve been torturing them for information. Not very angelic of them, eh? Obviously desperate.”
“I know,” he whispered, feeling ill at the thought. Guilt gnawed away horribly at his stomach.
Crowley looked around the room, jaw tense, “where d’ya think they’ve taken Gabriel and Beelzebub?”
“I don’t know.”
“So now Heaven have the Horn and the Staff. Fucking fantastic, best outcome,” he said scathingly, tugging at his restraints again, “and I can’t even change into something limbless!”
“Probably a miracle blocker on the room. Or on us.”
“Bah!” Crowley stopped thrashing and threw his head back, glaring at the ceiling, breathing hard through his nose.
Aziraphale knew exactly how he felt.

A guitar strummed. The tune restarted. Crowleys eyes opened impossibly wide, “oh COME ON!”

“Let’s start at the very beginning… a very good place to start…”

Things weren’t faring much better in the next room over. For one, it was a room as bland and clinical as the other. A white box, its only accent was the demon and archangel that sat within.
Beelzebub appeared to be bored, if not for the fact that their pulse was hammering in their neck, mainly because they had lost their hat and had no idea where it had gone.
Least the pathetic angels could do was slap it back on, just common decency really. But no, angels weren’t meant to be common or decent. It wasn’t within their repertoire and probably never would be.
Gabriel however had his eyes closed, in what appeared to be a state of meditation. Their cuffs were slightly different to the ones the demons wore, likely infused with some sort of hellfire if he tried to yank them off. He refrained.
Beelzebub was growing impatient, their glare trying to penetrate the eyelids of their partner. Eventually Gabriel opened one eye, “I can feel you attempting to burn a hole into my retina.”
“What are they waiting for? They’ve got the Horn and the Staff, are they just going to leave us in here and go for it?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Okay well then what?”
Gabriel opened both eyes, “they need me to start it. Not just anyone can use the Horn. They can try, but the Almighty bestowed it upon me and it is written that I will deliver the message.”
“Then why keep me alive?”
Gabriel hated to say it, but, “I assume you’re my motivation.”
Beelzebub snorted ungraciously, “blackmail. Remind me again how demons are the bad guys?”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re a bad guy.”
Beelzebub groaned at his stupid, playful smile, “keep going like that and I’ll eliminate myself before they even get a chance.”
A flicker of light and they looked to the ceiling, then to the opposite wall as it melted away. Across from them was Aziraphale and Crowley.
A collective chorus of ‘so you’re alive’ and ‘what’s happening' and ‘fuck this place and everyone in it’ between them - before a giant, floating head appeared in the middle of the room.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale and Gabriel had become used to it, but Crowley and Beelzebub almost jumped out their seats.

The giant floating head of the Metatron regarded them all with soulless eyes, their lips just a straight tight line of distaste.
Then his voice boomed, much different from the calming tones his corporal body spoke with, “Commencing the trial of the former Supreme Archangel Gabriel, former Supreme Archangel Aziraphale, the demon Crowley and former Grand Duke of Hell Lord Beelzebub.”
“Trial?” Crowley spun in his wheel-less chair to the other three, and the Metatron glared down at him but continued, “for crimes against Heaven and its Host, for crimes against-"
But Aziraphale interrupted, “I think it goes without saying that we’re obviously guilty? Otherwise we would be within a fair trial, with someone to defend and mediate us. And I certainly don’t see anyone-"
Despite what could be taken as an admission of guilt, the Metatron continued, “for crimes against humanity-"
“Humanity?” Crowley spluttered, “we’re trying to save humanity!”
“-AND CRIMES AGAINST-"
“Can we speed this up?” Gabriel said, “tell us what you want.”

The Metatron stared between them with barely restrained patience. No one had dared interrupt him before with such insolence. The Metatron looked to the side and a door opened; Michael, Uriel, Saraquel and Muriel entering, along with two uniformed angels who each held the Horn and the Staff.
A white table materialised and the weapons were each laid upon it ever so gently, the no-name angels leaving and locking the door behind them.
Muriel looked as if they hadn’t stopped crying, with puffy red eyes and unkempt curls, but their bruises and injuries were healed.
Uriel and Saraquel looked same as ever - stoic, quiet, regal - yet Michael looked… jarring.
Their hair was pinned into somewhat of a severe Mohawk, her usual grey suit now the heavenly equivalent of a Generals uniform, adorned with angelic badges and padded shoulders, tailored to their body within an inch of its life and cutting a striking silhouette. Their makeup was just as severe, in black and glittering gold.
The most alarming change though was the sword sheathed upon their hip, a vibrating glow commanding silence as they stepped forward.
“It’s not as simple as what we want,” Michael said, voice somehow retaining its high, almost sweet register despite being as sharp as steel, “it’s about what is written. About what Heaven needs.”
Gabriel looked upon his sister, expression indecipherable. Aziraphale thought he saw pity there, or perhaps sadness, but a stubbled chin jutted out in what he now realised was false confidence, “what Heaven needs? Michael, look at you,” Gabriel said but his tone was nothing but reverent, “you’ve prepared the whole of Heaven for war. A war against who? Hell? Despite conspiring with them since the Beginning?”
No one reacted to this information, or at least not the way that Gabriel had hoped. Uriel was the only one to raise a brow, “conspiring with Hell? I think you’re mistaken. We only confer with our enemies when absolutely necessary, when it concerns the Almightys' word.”
Beelzebub scoffed at that and Michael's glare snapped over to them, “you wish to speak, Beelzebub?”
“Oh I’ve got nothing to say to your face, Michael. Or your other face, for that matter.”
Michael's cheeks flushed high under their eyes and their hand twitched to their sword, but made no further movement.
“If this is truly a trial,” Aziraphale said gently to try and simmer the room down, “then we have the right to defend ourselves and present evidence.”
“Evidence?” Asked Saraquel, though their tone wasn’t unkind, just indifferent, “evidence of what nature?”
“I’m sure I can prove that there are no crimes committed against humanity. But also, it reasons to question why you are even holding a trial for us at all? We don’t fall under your jurisdiction. We’re demons,” he nodded to Crowley and Beelzebub, “therefore not under your rule.”
“Ah, but your crimes against Heaven are of the highest severity, and Lord Shax has advised that any ruling by me holds as much precedent as them,” Michael said with a small yet vicious smile, “besides, Hell cannot make decisions regarding the Book of Life.”
Gabriel frowned, “and neither can you.”
Michael lost their smile immediately and stepped forward, “I most certainly can-"
“With WHAT authority? You aren’t Supreme Archangel!"
“I AM the authority!”
A quick brow raise from Uriel and a purse of Saraquel's lips went unnoticed to everyone except Aziraphale as the bickering continued.
“You?” Gabriel asked, looking at Michael up and down, “God is our authority.”
“Our? There is no ‘our’! You abandoned your post!”
“I abandoned Heaven, not God.”
“They are one and the same,” Michael growled and Crowley piped up, “well actually-"
But the Metatron silenced them all; “THAT is quite enough. Let us proceed. Uriel,” and Uriel stepped forward, picking up Gabriel’s Horn, showing it to the other angels and then the Metatron.

Aziraphale would usually take things like this with utmost sincerity and respond accordingly, however he had endured months of meetings, of hearings, of these sorts of things day in and day out. Never to this extreme, but all the same… he should have been in fear for his life, as he was most certain that it was hanging in the balance, yet he found himself almost distracted. He looked at the Horn in the same manner as everyone else but his eyes drifted to the Staff. Gold, perfect, silent. Except-
He frowned. It looked different to when he last saw it-
A quick look over to Crowley and he couldn’t help the small smile. Well firstly, because it was Crowley and despite everything he just couldn’t help himself, but also, a perfect small tattoo was back in its place along his cheek and coiled perfectly beneath his sideburn.

Perhaps, a very small chance but a chance nonetheless, perhaps they could stall this long enough for them to somehow break free, or at least place doubt into the Archangels' minds.

Nothing put angels in a state of unease more than doubt.

“Gabriel’s Horn. Found upon their persons. Clearly stolen,” Uriel said, placing it back down.
“Stolen how? It belongs to Gabriel,” Beelzebub said.
“It belongs to Heaven,” Michael countered.
“Actually,” everyone’s eyes snapped over to Muriel. They cleared their throat and tried again, “a-actually, officially, according to what is written, it is called Gabriel’s Horn. U-using, um, possession in its title.”
“That’s true. The paperwork clearly states Gabriel’s Horn,” Aziraphale added in support, seeing as the archangels seemed to glare a hole through Muriel’s head for daring to speak.
Saraquel however looked momentarily thoughtful before a wave of the hand and a familiar tan folder labelled GABRIEL'S HORN was in their clutches.
They flicked through the folder with nimble fingers, reading over a page at lightning speed.
“Hmm. It’s true.”
Michael couldn’t have looked more displeased, hand on her hip as she stared at Saraquel, “I’m sure the name is solely for inventory purposes.”
“And your sword?” Gabriel asked innocently, “Is it just named Michael’s Sword for inventory purposes, or…?”
Michael’s mouth opened then closed. The blotches of colour on their cheeks deepened.
“Well I can’t find them guilty of stealing that particular heavenly weapon,” Saraquel said reasonably.
“Nor can I,” Uriel said, surprising everyone, “it does stand to reason how it was lost from Heaven in the first place.”
Aziraphale and Muriel shared a silent look.*
Michael's lip twitched and Uriel continued, “perhaps it is worth looking into our cataloguing procedure when it comes to inventory. There is always room for improvement, especially when it concerns something so… essential to following the Great Plan.”
A few nods around the room and even the Metatron seemed to be thinking it over.
“Which brings us to our next matter… formally initiating the Second Coming. Gabriel,” the floating head turned a disproving gaze unto him, “it is written that you are to use your Horn to herald the message of our Creators Son returning to earth, hence officially beginning the Second Coming.”
Gabriel pursed his lips, “I hear you. Uh, but has anyone considered the fact that none of this is happening in the order of what was supposedly written?”
“Supposedly?” The Metatron asked sharply.
But Michael cut in, “and why do you think that is?! We’ve had to work around a few things because of you lot!”
“Us lot? These three had nothing to do with it,” Gabriel replied.
The three demons looked at him - Crowley was carefully blank, Aziraphale with a small shake of his head, and Beelzebub with silent outrage.
“In fact, it’s a waste of everyone’s time and resources for them to even be here. They’re only here because, well, Beelzebub liked the idea that I was thwarting heaven and had told Crowley and Aziraphale about it, and hey what demons don’t enjoy a… good… thwarting? As we well know...”
The archangels looked at each other.
Uriel actually stepped forward, “you’re actually willing to lie to our faces, under oath, in front of the word of God, for three demons?” Their voice wasn’t their usual deep harsh tone. It was genuinely curious, if a little baffled.
Gabriel said neither yes nor no but simply replied, “I’m willing to do the right thing to save you from prosecuting innocents. You don't need that guilt on your shoulders.”
“Hardly innocent,” Michael scoffed, “Beelzebub is a former Duke of Hell, Aziraphale is a well known traitor and disgraced former archangel-"
“-Supreme Archangel,” Aziraphale said, to really dig it in.
Michael pointedly ignored him, “And the demon Crowley is exactly that. A demon. The original bringer of sin to Earth!”
“But that’s not what they’re on trial for,” Gabriel pointed out.
“He’s right,” Saraquel cut in before the bickering could continue, “let us continue. Gabriel’s sentence will be handed down at the conclusion, pending his decision to cooperate. I suggest you think it over carefully,” she warned, “our next point of order… the demon Crowley.”

Chapter Text

“What?” Aziraphale asked sharply, a tug on his wrists causing a hiss of pain.
“Me?” Crowley looked aptly confused, “what did I apparently do now?”
“You were discovered wielding a stolen heavenly weapon,” Uriel said, “as witnessed by myself, Muriel and two other angels.”
“I didn’t witness him steal anything,” Muriel rebutted but Michael snapped at them, “silence.”
“Another mysteriously stolen or lost weapon from Heaven, not having the best luck are we?” Crowley said and the Metatron was the one to reply, “and what of his sentence? Extermination?” He said it neutrally enough but Aziraphale's lip curled at the hint of smugness in the word.
“Oi! This is a trial not a bloody execution!” Crowley cried out, “wouldn’t you like to know where I got that? And how it came to be there?”
A chorus of ‘no’s’ except for Uriel who came out with a clear, “yes, in fact. I wonder if it was stolen when you infiltrated Heaven a few months ago?”
“Are you daft? How could I walk into the Sanctum and walk out of here with an archangels weapon? You went down that elevator WITH me! Wouldn’t you have seen me carrying that around? Besides it’s been missing for eons, everyone here knows that!”
Gabriel nodded, “it’s true. It’s been unaccounted for since-"
“Gabriel, your time to speak has passed,” the Metatron hissed, eyes narrowing but Uriel was the one to interrupt again, “then how did it come to your possession? You said it was given to you, which is clearly a lie.”
It wasn’t a lie, but that’s not what they were asking.
Crowley looked from the Metatron to Uriel and then addressed Uriel directly, “I stole it from Hell. Thats where it had been planted, a long time ago. It’s been in Hell, this whole time. Only an angel could have put it there.”
"Perhaps an angel with ties to hell? An angel who has been consorting with a demon since the beginning of time on earth?” Michael snarled, their hands clenching into fists.
Behind them, Uriel and Saraquel exchanged an odd glance.

He knew Michael was deferring to simply unload the guilt to him, and Aziraphale may socially inept in many situations, but right now he had a keen sense of what was silently going on.
Gabriel and Beelzebub shared a similar look and that confirmed it for him - Michael was reaching the end of their tether. They just needed her to snap and this whole thing would turn into a particularly unhinged circus.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, pale yellow eyes shining in utmost innocence and voice far too gentle as if chiding a toddler, “Or perhaps an archangel who won a battle - but lost the war - was completely blinded by their own sense of superiority that they felt that their own weapon was strong enough to rule heaven, therefore discarding a clearly much more powerful weapon? Putting it in a place no angel could find it?”
Interest piqued around the room, a nudge of an elbow into Uriel's side from Saraquel, a twist of lips into a smile from Beelzebub and suddenly Michael was in front of Aziraphale. Quick as lightning, her stance changed and a fist landed heavily into his stomach. It was a cheap shot, but Michael wasn’t known for their tact.
Aziraphale felt the air push painfully out his chest in a loud heave of breath, a loud CRACK when her fist connected to something inside him, seeing white in his vision and heard Crowley hiss like a striking cobra, swearing in a stream of ‘sssssss’.
“You're pathetic, Michael!” Beelzebub growled as Michael stood in front of Aziraphale, breathing roughly in rage as if she too had been winded.
Aziraphale eventually regained his breath, feeling the squeeze of his body feebly attempt to heal but it was no use. He tasted something warm and metallic at the back of his throat and he swallowed the bloody back painfully.
“Michael,” the Metatron said, though not chastising. If anything, it was bored.
Michael walked back to their spot, ignoring the raised eyebrows from their cohorts. They straightened their suit and wiped their hand on their pants, as if punching Aziraphale was a somewhat dirty activity that required cleansing.
“Y’alright?” Crowley whispered in a strained voice and Aziraphale nodded once, “fine my dear, tickety-boo.”
Crowley groaned quietly at that but set his sights back on Michael. He took a deep breath, a fire ignited behind his eyes.
“So, what exactly am I getting accused of? Oh right, stealing a heavenly weapon?”
“Yes,” Michael replied, their voice back to that sickly sweetness that made him want to grind his teeth.
“No,” Gabriel said, “no, he was accused of wielding it, not stealing it. You can’t change your mind now on which law was broken.”
He was right.
“Yes,” the Metatron agreed, “a demon wielding a heavenly weapon, with admission that it was in fact stolen.”
“That’s a law? Come off it,” Crowley said, “you’re making that up! Tell me why that law would ever be created in the first place? When would it have been foreseen that a demon would wield a heavenly weapon? If Lucifer barged in here and took Michael’s Sword, you really going to sit him down and say ‘look pal, you actually can’t do that, need to write you up a ticket for that one’, no!”
“Are you questioning the Almighty's omniscience?” The Metatron challenged.
“Actually,” Crowley snorted, “kinda the reason I’m here, yeah? Be up here twittering around with you lot if I hadn’t.”

Anthony J Crowley wasn’t inclined to be synonymous with the word brave. A lot of sarcasm, general snarkiness and sometimes clever ideas over the years would maybe lead some (who didn’t know him well) to assume that he exuded confidence and was capable of sticking up for himself with no regard to consequences.
It wasn’t true. Confidence in some things, perhaps, but sticking up for himself generally led to scathing defensive remarks or shutting down completely.

In this moment, he had decidedly borrowed some of Aziraphale's newfound confidence (which, in Crowley's mind, was the bravest he had seen Aziraphale in a long, long time. Maybe ever.)

He may have also been simmering to a boil under his collar in anger at seeing Michael punch the former angel, making him see red yet somehow his words weren’t coming out in a shaky, blubbering mess. He was actually a little proud of himself for that.

Aziraphale wasn’t surprised. He was however a little worried.
Crowley wasn’t answering many questions, just asking a hell of a lot of them.

“How exactly was he wielding it?” Saraquel asked.
Uriel turned to them with a frown, “brandishing it like a weapon, ready to strike and utilise its power against us.”
“May I interrupt for just a moment?” Aziraphale called out and Uriel raised a brow at him, “you may not.”
“Pick up Gabriel’s Horn,” he implored, eyes on Uriel, “pick it up again, like you did earlier.”
Uriel glanced to Michael and Michael gave a curt nod.
They picked it up, looking it over. It glowed faintly in their hands but did nothing else.
“And…?”
“Let Gabriel touch it.”
“He’ll touch it soon enough when he has to use it,” Michael snapped but the venom wasn’t as impressive as it had been a few minutes ago. They almost seemed nervous.
Uriel however seemed curious, “why should I allow him to touch it?”
“I am getting to my point, however perhaps it is easier to show you. You may need to uncuff him or it may prove moot.”
“Absolutely not,” Michael said.
“What could I possibly do if you did?” Gabriel asked, “one of me against all of you? I don’t think so. And leave Beelzebub here chained up? You really think I’m a total idiot?”
Crowley raised a brow behind his back as if to say ‘well, actually’, but Uriel seemed to weigh up their options and Gabriel’s hands fell slack, free from their restraints.
Uriel carefully placed the horn into Gabriel’s hands and Gabriel held it expertly - the Horn glowed vibrantly in a white light, the sigils that adorned it danced happily along the lead pipe and followed around all the way to the bell. The valve keys sprung up, previously hidden from view and only activating at Gabriel’s touch.
He had the rooms attention but he looked to Aziraphale, “it seems to be in order…?”
“Yes, very good,” Aziraphale said patiently, “Uriel notice the difference from your touch to Gabriel’s. It knows its rightful owner.”
“I see that,” Uriel replied, “as to be expected.”
“Now, see what happens when you hold the Staff.”
But Saraquel got to it first, holding the Staff and watching it glow a little. They looked questioningly at Aziraphale, “if you’ve got a point then I suggest you get there very quickly, Aziraphale.”
“Right, indeed,” he replied very seriously but Crowley saw that familiar twinkle in his eye - even in its different colour and shape, that barely bottled up nervous energy was dancing behind his pupils with very much an air of him discovering something rather clever that no one else had figured out yet.
Crowley suddenly caught up. He felt panic settle in.
“You may notice that the Staff’s response is rather flaccid,” and Crowley actually groaned with a visceral cringe at that one, even if noone else in the room did, but Aziraphale carried on, “so Uriel, what led you to the conclusion that Crowley was going to use its power against you?”

A strange look came over Michael's face.
Perhaps they had figured something out too.

“Well it…” Uriel thought for a long moment, “I could feel it, it was charged or… or something. It was ready for battle. I could see it!”
“But how could a demon cause such a reaction from the-" but a bellowing sound stopped Aziraphale in his tracks, the room cackling with violent angelic activity as the Metatron boomed, “we have entertained your ridiculous questions for too long! This line of thought is irrelevant to this trial and I will not stand for any further distractions!”
The Metatron's usual stoic mannerism had cracked and he was beyond irritated, if not a little manic. The white orb that enveloped his head almost had an audible pulse.
“We are to sentence! And for-"
“I think I want to hear… the end of this,” everyone watched on in utter surprise at Michael, who had been the one to interrupt the Metatron.
They looked stern yet thoughtful and she held out her hand to Saraquel, who passed the staff over.
The Metatron stuttered, “Michael, as Supreme Archangel-"
“Except I’m not, am I,” Michael said matter of factly. “According to God's Will. According to what you say is written.”
“You can be! Once the Second Coming commences you will be commander of heaven!”
“As I should be. But, you were adamant I will not be, that is what God said to you, was it not? But this trial should be continued for the sake of justice. I will not be seen as unfair.”
Gabriel took a step forward as if to say something but Michael gave him a look of warning before she approached Aziraphale with the Staff, maintaining some distance.
“Continue with your musings, Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale swallowed, having lost his nerve. He tried again, “well... you see, it stands to reason… the staff, it’s a rather powerful object in the wheelhouse of heavens weapons, a-and…” he cleared his throat and took a calming breath under Michael’s gaze.
“Doesn’t it look incomplete, to you?”
Michael nodded without even looking at it - they knew what it was meant to look like.
“It has looked incomplete for quite a long time now,” she said quietly, “care to explain why Uriel felt threatened by it? They’re an expert swordsman - I doubt a simple gold Staff would scare them.”
“I think you may already know why, Michael. I think it was in the hands of its true-"

Another boom sent the ground shaking and the room looked on as the Metatron shrank down into a corporeal form, storming over with his overcoat swishing and face red, “Michael, stop this at once. Gabriel has the Horn, these three are disposable. They are demons,” he said loud and clear, “they do not deserve a fair trial, we are simply doing this as a courtesy which I am now revoking. Give. Me. The. Staff.”

Chapter Text

Michael was silent for a beat, then, “why?”

'Why'.

At that, Aziraphale held in the sigh of relief that rattled his sore chest. That's all they needed, and it came from the highest point of order in the room. Michael said the forbidden, absolutely-condemnable-by-falling word, the word that angels worked their entire lives to never, ever say. And that three letter word was all they needed.

The tension in the room cranked up to an eleven.

The Metatron was beyond flustered, “Why? WHY?! Michael I am the Word of God, the Scribe of your Creator, if I tell you something then-"
“Then what?”
“It is to be obeyed!”
A pin dropping could’ve been heard, the room has fallen so quiet.
The Metatron held out his hand, “give me the Staff, Michael. There is a reason it has been gone from Heaven's Sanctum, it is not meant to be here.”
Another question from Michael, “What gives you that impression?”
The Metatron blinked and it was so oddly unnerving, “Because I hid it after the war."
"You... did? Why?"
"Because the Almighty commanded me too!"

Another deathly silence, but nothing spoke louder than the look on Michael’s face.
The Metatron was lying, and Michael knew it.
Michael had been the one to hide it.
Perhaps - perhaps - they didn’t need Michael to reach the end of their tether after all.
They just needed Metatron to be caught out in this blatant lie. The three demons could feel the big lie hang in the air like thick smoke, confirming the indecipherable look on the archangel's face.

“You hid it in Hell? Where?”
The Metatron waved her away with a humourless laugh, “where is not of importance, what matters is-"
“You heard her, where’d you shove that when you, apparently, snuck down to Hell?” Beelzebub asked loudly.
“Tell us where and I’ll gladly hand it over,” Michael said reasonably.
The other archangels read the room quickly and knew immediately their best chance was to flank Michael and be a united front.
The Metatron retreated a half step back, “you think I would remember something as... as insignificant as that? You child, you have no idea what is required of me.”
“I’d remember it, if it were me.”
“These demons can tell you where they found it if these unimportant details matter so much to you.”
“Hang on, didn’t you call us disposable a moment ago?” Crowley asked and Beelzebub nodded, “pretty sure he did, now he wants us to corroborate his bullshit story? We know you didn’t put it down there!”
Michael tapped the staff to the ground, holding up a hand for quiet.
“I’d still like to hear what Aziraphale has been trying to tell us which the Metatron is intent on keeping hushed up.”

Aziraphale watched the unnecessary pulse beat in the Metatron's neck. His soulless eyes flickered between Crowley and Aziraphale, the gaze resting on Crowley for just a second, but in that second it was pure disgust.
Aziraphale blinked.
He blinked again and let out a small gasp, “you knew. You knew the whole time. When you… when you asked me, you knew he would’ve said no because you knew!” Everyone looked understandably confused except Aziraphale who was wide eyed, cheeks flushing in anger even beneath his light beard, “and that’s why you don’t want anyone to know now!”
The Metatron refused to meet his eye, instead very pointedly ignoring him.
“Knew what?” Saraquel asked, now also regarding the Metatron with suspicion.
“About…” and he looked to his partner who looked just as out of his depth as everyone else, serpent eyes wide, “about Crowley. He has that damn Book of Life, so he knew about Crowley's past, and when he offered me that outrageous position he knew that Crowley would say no to me, and that I would still go. And that I would fail, and the Second Coming would unfold with nothing in the way to stop it. If I weren't in Heaven, and if Crowley and I weren't together, then who would stop it? No one." His gaze fell back upon Michael, “Michael let us go. Or at least, let Crowley go, so we can show you.”
Michael looked hesitant, about to answer but suddenly the Metatron's hand struck out from nowhere and gripped the Staff.
Michael held on with barely a flinch of effort.

No one moved.

Muriel gasped.

The ceiling groaned and cracked.

“Give it to me,” the Scribe said in such a low venomous voice that he seemed possessed, voice strange and echoing.
“Absolutely not,” Uriel helped Michael and gripped the staff. They were in a deadlock.
Heaven's footing shook dangerously.
Aziraphale panicked but then Beelzebub (ever the reasonable and level-headed one) called out, “Gabriel! Let Crowley out!”
Gabriel spun into action - he shifted the Horn in his grip and with a snap of his fingers, Crowley was released. He looked at his free hands in shock before looking to Aziraphale for some sort of clue, instruction, something! What was he meant to do!
“It’s yours!” Gabriel yelled to him over the continuous rumble, “just take it!”
“Take it?!” Crowley stared in horror at the struggle between the Scribe and two archangels, electricity of supernatural proportions bouncing throughout the room in cracks of lightning and claps of thunder, shaking dangerously around them like an earthquake.

Take it, just grab it, right?

It belongs to me, thought Crowley, it had bloody well listen to me!

With a yell of effort and a mighty throw of energy, the snake that had secured itself on his cheek sprang to life once again, unravelling down his body to his arm and striking the few metres distance to the squabble with its tail linked around Crowleys wrist while its body coiled around the staff.
Uriel let go with a yelp of fright and the black snake hissed and spat wildly with fangs beared, weaving its way between Michael and Metatrons grip. When the tip of its tongue reached the wings atop the staff, they fluttered and the gold rod turned white, a burning force so strong that both had to let go with a yell of pain.
The snake coiled back with a tight twist to bring the staff into Crowleys hand, turning solid gold and the room came to a stop and the white dust settled.
Crowley held in a cry at the force of power, just holding onto the staff tightly as the light pulsing from it washed everyone in the room in bright gold.

For the first time, fear swept the Metatron's face.
Recognition set on Uriel's.
If Michael were human, they may have fainted. As it were, she swore and instead found herself being caught at the elbows by Uriel to keep her upright as the light dimmed and hummed.
“There’s no way…” she whispered and Crowley watched her, tense, waiting for the onslaught. His fingers flexed around the staff. Michael didn't move.

“Let’s get a few things out the way,” he said, now he had the full attention of the room. He rose the staff just a few inches and everyone flinched. Oh, well keeping their absolute focus would be easy.
“Firstly,” he tapped it against the ground and Beelzebub and Aziraphale's restraints disappeared, the two slowly getting to their feet and wisely standing behind Crowley. Gabriel joined them, holding the Horn securely.
“Secondly, you, Scribe, are a big fat liar. Biggest liar I know. No true voice of God would lie and deceive the way you do - She and I may have had our disagreements, but She is not a liar. Also, you’re just… you’re just really not nice! How do people put up with you?” Aziraphale made a small noise behind him and Crowley continued, “right. Right and… okay Michael, we know you’re the one who hid it in Hell. Just makes sense, yeah? It was you?”
Michael nodded and eventually found their voice, “yes. Yes it was me. I’m sorry, I didn’t know-"
Crowley pulled a face, leaning against the staff as if it were some very tall cane, one ankle crossing over the other, “no need for the whole 'I’m sorry' thing. Look, this has really, REALLY unnecessarily escalated. And the Second Coming… C’mon. I think,” his mouth went dry but he pushed on, “I think if God really wanted it, then She would tell us, and not use this… this lying mouthpiece," the Metatron flinched at the words and suddenly seemed a lot smaller in his stance, avoiding everyones eyes, "What else has he lied about? Since when does God's Ineffable Plan include ever-changing instructions and timelines? This guy is… he’s a bloody con artist! A good one though, could sell water to the Pacific!”
Gabriel stepped up next to him, if only to quash his ramblings which had started strong but turned somewhat into Crowley-esque anecdotes, “I think we can all come to an arrangement.”
Aziraphale looked relieved at Gabriel's interruption, “yes, yes! An arrangement.”
“An Arrangement?!” The Metatron looked between them, finding his voice, “you cannot be serious! This isn’t some playground! I have worked years, YEARS, to try and achieve order! This is about-"
Crowley lifted the Staff once more and the Metatron glared at him, mouth snapping shut with a growl under his breath.
“Thing is, Metatron, I wasn’t including you in this arrangement. Michael?"
Michael looked shocked at being addressed, "yes...?"
"I think we oughta vote."
"Vote on what, exactly?"

Chapter Text

Aziraphale couldn’t believe how the tension in the room changed.

In a silent decision not ten minutes earlier, the Metatron was restrained, courtesy of Crowley using the Staff to draw enough angelic grace out of him to keep him powerless.
So now he sat in the corner of the room, mouth taped (courtesy of Beelzebub) and cuffed. Michael had made some calls, and within moments Shax had been escorted through the door with Eric the Disposable Demon and together they stood, anxious, and after a moment Eric slunk away and sat in a chair next to Muriel at the end of the table. They exchanged a nod of greeting before both turning to their respective note taking - Eric on an iPad and Muriel with a transparent heavenly tablet of some kind with an additional pen and paper (just incase).

It was a very strange assembly indeed.

They were now all sat around a long white table - Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Gabriel, Uriel, Michael, Saraquel, Shax, Muriel and Eric. Gabriel thought this may be the new face of bureaucracy between them all, one that he may actually be a part of (only if Beelzebub also wanted to).

When Michael began the meeting*, you’d think it was their first, not their thousandth (and then some) and they were nervous, but with an encouraging nod from their cohort they laid out a set of topics to talk about and instructed Muriel and Eric to take everything down.
Shax was evidently surprised and suspicious but listened mostly without interruption, and surprisingly few objections.
Saraquel was a stern but fair voice of reason, and it soon became apparent that they had ideas and plans that they had been considering for years yet had not voiced them, and finally with opportunity, they raised a lot of helpful suggestions.
Uriel took a back seat and it was clear to everyone around them that they intended to follow Michael - whatever bickering that had been going on between them over the last few weeks was now pushed aside in favour of the bigger picture.

Crowley, in all honesty, sometimes had the attention span of a fly. His feet kind of itched if he stayed in an unwelcome place too long and he was never one for meetings. He tried to get through them with the motion of well-timed ‘yeps’ ‘ah huh’ and ‘absolutely, that’s what I was about to say’-s but he still struggled to maintain any sort of interest. Aziraphale once upon a time ago, had pointed this out during a particularly unenlightening phone conversation that had tipped well over the three hour mark and so had gone over Crowleys made up (but very real) bed time.
Right now though, even with his chin resting in his hand, eyes on the snake wrapped around the staff which lay innocently on the table in front of him amongst a crowded room, he found his attention waning.
The buzz of discussion had died down and suddenly it was Aziraphale's hand gently covering his, “Crowley?”
His attention snapped back into focus and he realised they were waiting on him.
And, shit, he had no glasses.
A quick snap and his eyes were covered and he sat upright and forced himself to be present, “sorry, what was the question? Or, er, statement?”
“The Metatron,” Uriel said, and no one even bothered looking at the being in question.
“You have the staff. Are we to… eliminate him?”
“What?” Crowleys brows rose to his hairline, “kill the Metatron?”
For a fleeting, tempting, devilish moment he considered it. His brain latched onto it for a split second as he thought about That Moment in the bookshop that never would have occurred if the Metatron had just stayed Upstairs. The thought breezed away as he exhaled heavily.
“Nah. Nah can’t kill him. Wouldn’t be right.”
Uriel considered this, “then, do we demand he fall?”
“What, no! That’s even worse! Then they'd be stuck with him,” he jabbed his thumb to the demons.
Shax pursed her red lips in complete distaste, “I have to agree. We don’t want him. Can't you just eviscerate his memories and send him down to a lower order?” The Metatron seemed to have a strong opinion on this according to his muffled cries but no one paid him any mind.
“May I suggest something?” Aziraphale asked.
Beelzebub nodded, “go on, you seem to be the brains behind this operation.” 'This operation' being himself and Crowley, because Crowley seemed to be once again just staring at nothing (hard to tell, now that the glasses were back in place, but Beelzebub had no doubts).
“I think wiping his memory will not prove useful. He’s demonstrated that he could be quite cunning, and because nothing is ever destroyed in heaven, one day he may come across some information that triggers a… resurgence. It wouldn’t be pleasant.”
A few nods of agreement.
“If Crowley agrees, then I believe the best course of action is to rid him of his heavenly nature and he can live out the remainder of his life on earth. However long that may be.”
“Remove his angelic grace? Hmm,” Uriel nodded slowly in approval, “human. Quite useless. I vote yes on that. Anyone else?”
Muriel threw their hand to the sky, “I vote yes! Oh, if uh, if I get a vote.”
“Of course you do,” Aziraphale said kindly before anyone dared to object.
Everyone raised their hand to this except Crowley. They waited for him.
“In theory, great idea. Responsible, humane, gets him out of everyone’s hair. Only problem is, when the Staff absorbs essence, it needs to be redirected. It can’t just stay in there and… fester. Needs to be put to use. Can’t exactly throw it out into the universe - might cause a wormhole. Again.”
The room took this into thoughtful consideration.
“Well,” Saraquel eventually said, “we will need a new Scribe. Someone to lead the other Scriveners and be the Voice of God, if She decides she’s still speaking to us.”
“Oh. Uh. You mean, create a new angel?” Crowley stared at the staff, teeth worrying his lip.
“Or reinstate an old one. I’m sure there’d be no objection,” Saraquel nodded to Aziraphale, “if that’s what you’d like? I think you’d make a fine Voice of God, Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale blanched as the rooms eyes watched him. He refrained from shrinking back into his chair. His fingers went to fiddle with a the gold ring that no longer resided around his pinky finger, finding only a scorched black mark there.
Crowley looked to him, eyes unreadable behind the glasses.
Aziraphale suddenly stood, “give us a moment?”

Once outside the confines of the room and in the empty white hall, Aziraphale let out a deep breath as Crowley clicked the door closed. The snake had followed his hand when he left the table, leaving the staff and was now rejoining his sideburn, Aziraphale watching it slither into its usual spot aas he waited for Crowley to speak.
When Crowley said nothing, Aziraphale opened his mouth and words fell out, “I know what you’re thinking and it’s a big, big offer and I would like - well, that is to say - I mean, if you -"
“If it’s what you want, I’ll do it.”

Everything inside him, every fibre of his being was screaming at him to shut up - he did NOT want to do it.

But he would.

Silence hung heavy between them. Aziraphale licked his lips and tried again, “you’re not… you’re-"
“I'm not angry. Not even disappointed. How can I be? You’ve always been an angel, Angel. I’m not gonna be selfish,” as much as he’d very, very much like to, “and it’s… it’s okay. Really. I get it.” He really, really did not want to get it.
Aziraphale's face slowly went from blank, to shock, before his mouth closed with a little snap and then a familiar grin formed and his eyes crinkled.

Crowley felt something drop in the pit of his stomach. He thanked Someone that he was still wearing his glasses.

“Come on,” Aziraphale tugged his hand and Crowley forced his feet to walk back into that room and sit numbly in that chair. The snake on his cheek stirred but he made no move to touch the Staff. His stomach was turning unpleasantly, teeth firmly snapped shut so he wouldn't be sick with anxiety.
This was somehow a worse feeling than before, months ago; this was him telling Aziraphale that this time it would be okay to go, even though Crowley knew it was the complete opposite of okay.
It would truly be the end of Their Side.
But the former angel had smiled that brilliant smile and Crowley could only keep his despair to himself and his face carefully blank.
“Have you decided?” Michael asked.
Aziraphale nodded with a bright but nervous smile, “indeed. It’s a great honour, and one could not take that position lightly. Thank you, Saraquel, for believing that I could be worthy of such a task. The truth is - I could never accept it.”
Crowley's head snapped up at that, staring at the side of Aziraphale's face.
“The facts are these - the Almighty and I clearly have an ongoing Arrangement in where She and I disagree on many things, and I walk the line of disobeying time and time again, yet by some miracle I still end up exactly where I belong. And it’s not here, in Heaven. I’ve never truly belonged here, as hard as I may have tried. I don’t belong in Hell, either. I simply belong on Earth, whether as demon or angel; I don’t think that matters anymore.”
He sat, nodding to himself as if he just gave the speech of his life, and in a lot of ways he had.
This little speech didn’t rock anyone’s world like it just had for Crowley. Talk, noise, conversing continued around him in a blur of complete unimportance and all he could do was stare at the side of Aziraphale's face, eyes tracing every strand of white blonde curls on his head and every wiry blonde-grey hair on his jaw, following up to the striking point of his ear with its tuft of spiky black fur.
Aziraphale could feel his stare and the corner of his mouth turned up just enough that Crowley followed the movement of that too. Crowley's hidden eyes burned and he dragged in a quiet, shaky breath in utter relief as his heart kickstarted again.

Something tapped the back of Crowley's head and it broke his reverie, swinging around to see what it was. A pen lid sat on the desk and he looked at Muriel at the other end of the table who mouthed, ‘tone it down’.
No one else was looking at him (in fact, everyone was very much NOT looking at him), but perhaps he’d been letting off some strong vibes (he hadn’t, exactly. Love, yes, but also he was staring so close and intently at Aziraphale that frankly it just creeped people out, he probably didn’t even know he was doing it). A warm hand suddenly squeezed above his knee gently and he squeezed back.
His whole, glued-back-together heart squeezed back; his whole body wanted to squeeze Aziraphale's and never let go. It’s like the snake had slipped off his face and slid around his ribcage and tightened until he was dizzy and trying to remember to breathe.
When he let go of Aziraphale's warm hand, his own hand tingled with tiny pins and needles, like a shot through his nerves he couldn’t quite shake.
A good pain, he decided.

Because Aziraphale had chosen, and this time - finally, FINALLY - he chose Earth, which meant he chose Crowley. That’s what it was always about, wasn’t it? Earth, Crowley. That’s what he had tried and failed to say so many times.
Their side wasn’t Heaven or Hell, it was Earth. That giant sphere of land and water and atmosphere and people that they called home and had done since forever.

Someone was trying to get his attention and once again he had to tune in, pushing his glasses firmly up his nose, “hm? Wot?”
It was Michael, they had nodded to the door and stood. Crowley hesitated but then followed her out the door, awkwardly standing there as she closed it softly behind them.
“So…?”
“So,” her hands fiddled in front of her, Crowley recognising the signs of nervousness.
“Is there… something you want?”
“No. Yes. I-I don’t remember you. You know. I’m guessing that was Her doing. Or maybe yours. Did anyone know?”
“Nope.”
She watched him in disbelief, “Aziraphale? Surely...?”
“Nope. Not an inkling that I was, well, him. No one did, that was the deal.”
Michael nodded, eyes looking past him as she asked, “did I do something wrong?”
“You?” He almost snorted, “how could you? Never did a thing wrong back then.”
“Then what?”
“It’s a long story, Michael. Asked too many questions, let’s leave it at that. But while I’ve got you - what is going to happen about the Second Coming? You seriously going to still go through with it?”
Michael sighed, pinching the bridge of their nose. Today was the most stress and emotion Crowley had seen the archangel have in millenia.
“What are my options? It is written, despite the Metatron's messing around.”
“Well, Armageddon was written, kinda messed that one up. Did God come down and smite everyone because of it? Nope.”
“I can’t just ignore it, Crowley,” the name fell oddly from her lips and he realised that’s the first time in his existence that she had addressed him directly by that name.
Crowley leaned against the wall, thoughtful as he looked through the glass - Gabriel's Horn sitting on the table, with the Staff further down, “Well, I do have an idea. My original idea. The whole reason we even ended up in this spot right now.”

Which seemed… huh. Weird. It all went so, so wrong and yet, they had ended up in precisely the predicament they’d hoped for.

Ineffable? Hm. Probably not.
Surely not.
Maybe?

Chapter Text

The meeting concluded, Shax and Eric leaving (with Shax almost having to drag Eric away from Muriel by their ear - the two were in a deep discussion about the importance of humans losing and growing teeth) and the remaining angels and demons had assembled in the Sanctum.

In the end, destroying the Horn was a small affair, with only Gabriel, Crowley and Michael in the room.

After all this time, all this running and hiding and fighting, they were a sort-of united front, staring at the innocent instrument as it sat upon a small white plinth. Crowley struck it with lightning speed, the wings upon the tip of the staff flaring to reveal a sharp point that stabbed through the Horn, and Heaven shook, a final but completely ineffective boom sounding from the Horn as it crumpled; its dying note.

Gabriel smiled, “Well, that’s that. Who’s going to tell Jesus?”

On Earth, angels were retreating, taking lifts and escalators back Upstairs. Demons were sinking down into the murky depths.
The atmosphere had shifted from the End Times into… something else entirely, perhaps, or something that didn’t quite remember End Times and the Earth seemed to take in a giant breath of fresh air. Of Freedom. No longer within the iron clutches of the Second Coming.
A loud, single blast from a particular Horn sounded its dying note, a note that reverberated across the Earth as it was struck and destroyed with a particular Staff.
The resurrections ceased, and with a few cleverly orchestrated miracles from both sides (Hell would claim this and be very smug about it), the news of rising bodies quickly turned into a laughed-about international hoax conducted by an up and coming paid subscription service.

Aziraphale stood in the common area near the front desk of Heaven, where the lift was opening every one minute or so with a handful of angels. Most walked straight past him with barely a glance, some eyed with distaste, one or two gave him a tight smile. Not much had changed at all from his time as being Supreme Archangel then.
A sigh behind him made him jump a little and he turned to see Beelzebub leaning against the desk, fingers knocking the white pens out of their gold basket one by one and watching them hit the floor or roll off the bench. The basket automatically refilled with more pens as each one fell.
He smiled at the former Duke politely.
“Never thought I’d see the day that I’d be back in this place,” they said, eyes watching the pens fall, “well, not burning it to the ground, anyway.”
“There’s still time,” he joked and Beelzebub's mouth twitched, “you’re alright. For a demon. Ex-angel. Whatever you are. Doesn’t seem right calling you one or the other. Too weird for either.”
“Person, perhaps? Alright for a person?”
“Yeah, guess that works.”
“You’re alright for a person too.”
Beelzebub rolled their eyes, “I’m not saying thank you, so don’t push it.”
Aziraphale held back a pleased grin, watching the elevator as it dinged and went back down to retrieve the next batch of returning angels, “so what will you and Gabriel do now? Back to Alpha Centauri?”
They shrugged, swiping the last pen and pocketing it, “maybe. You?"
“Home. I hope.” He craved home - it beckoned him.
Aziraphale’s body and soul begged for something normal. Routine. Warm, happy, comfortable. Tasty. Alcoholic. Something yellow and red; and he wanted THAT particular something for the rest of his days.
“So selling books to humans and drinking hot chocolate?”
Aziraphale chuckled, “something like that, yes.”
Beelzebub snorted, straightening up as familiar voices came down the hall, “boring. Come on, let’s get out of this sanctified dentist office and bugger off back to Earth.”

-

“It’s just… it’s weird, is what it is. Feels like that whole thing blew over a bit too easy. Feels like it went on for ages,” Nina shook her head as if it would clear the fuzz inside it like an etch a sketch.
Maggie knew she wouldn’t win this one so she changed the subject and dragged some tables around, “it was good to see them sorting their problems out.”
“Yeah, no doubt their lovey-dovey crap is what filled my tip jar nicely yesterday.” Yesterday? Was that really yesterday?*
Maggie stopped her unstacking and watched out the window thoughtfully, “it’s nice. I mean, obviously something not-nice happened, considering Mr Fell is.. uh.. well, not how he used to be, but maybe that’s what they needed to sort their shit out.”
Nina snorted in disagreement, “no way, I bet Crowley kicked his arse into gear,” it was a lie, but she felt the need to support her sort-of-friend in his absence.
Maggie hummed, “let’s agree to disagree.”

-

Once the lift descended, the goodbyes were short-lived. Aziraphale tried thanking Gabriel and Beelzebub but Beelzebub rolled their eyes, “Yeah yeah, couldn’t have done it without us. We know. Never forget that, right?” It was a half-arsed threat but Aziraphale nodded seriously despite the twinkle in his eye, “Oh of course! We are in your debt, Beelzebub.”
Gabriel shrugged, “Nah, I think we’re pretty even.”
Crowley obviously thought very differently about that but stayed quiet with a growl under his breath that only Aziraphale could hear.
The two disappeared, hand in hand, in a short burst of energy and the two demons felt their combined presence leave Earth’s atmosphere. Despite how they had worked together as - regrettably - a 'team', Crowley and Aziraphale still relaxed significantly when they left.
“I think Beelzebub is growing on me, and I, them.”
“Sounds like a fungus,” Crowley pointed out as the two crossed the road towards the bookshop.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t a bookshop that greeted them when they opened the door.

It might have been, in a previous life where it was well loved and cared for, but what they stepped into was closer to the landing site of a raging hurricane intent on destroying every single object in its path.

Paper was strewn like confetti, vintage furniture was broken into sharp obscure planks that it was almost impossible to tell what had been a table and what had been a chair. The shelves were mostly collapsed, any remaining books having fallen to the floor. In the centre were a few smashed tea cups, the ceramic shards splattered with ochre angelic blood; Muriel had evidently put up a fight. The strong smell of Heaven's fury - that bleach and ozone scent that burned nostrils and sent eyes watering - was overwhelming.
Crowley took a few careful steps in, feeling the shards of glass, wood splinters and paper crumple under his feet. There was almost no surface without some sort of irreversible damage.

Aziraphale’s feet refused to follow.

With a shaking hand, Crowley pulled with a mighty tug of power from Hell and then snapped his fingers crisply.
Nothing changed. Not a single thing repaired itself, not one book righted itself back into one solid tome of paper and words.

Crowley tried again.
He took a few steps forward, and tried again.
And again.
He swore, he felt sweat tickle down his neck, and he tried again.
Again.
AGAIN.

Eventually a warm hand came over his, and a shaky voice said, “stop. Crowley, stop.”
“No,” Crowley snarled, pulling his hand away and stalking around the shop, Aziraphale cringing with every crack of shattered glass, every rip of paper as they moved.
Aziraphale found the remains of his red paisley chair and very carefully sat, staring at what used to be his desk. His bureau. His mug. His history, his memories.
To his right, somehow the old grandfather clock still ticked in perfect time.
Crowley was still trying, but his movements were getting more desperate, and with a mighty WOOSH Aziraphale looked over and saw black wings open, a few rogue black feathers falling in distress but ready to take flight.
“Crowley! What are you doing?” He got up quickly, the chair falling apart as he did so and Crowley spun around, tears and unbridled rage in his glowing eyes, teeth bared dangerously, “they’re going to fix this, and they’re going to fix it right NOW.”
“No,” Aziraphale shook his head, reaching out and gently touching a wing, “no. They won’t. And I won’t ask them to.”
“I’ll… I’ll turn back time, I’ll-" (he couldn’t if he tried. Stalling time was one thing, rewinding it was another - besides, rewriting time was a fickle thing that could unravel the fabric of reality. Not that Crowley was thinking about consequences right now.)
“No you certainly will not. Crowley, don’t you remember what I told you?”
“What? When?” Crowley desperately wanted to stay angry, so so angry, but tears fell and instead of rage-filled they were verging on hopeless.
“Before I made the biggest mistake of my existence. Remember what I said? Nothing lasts forever. Maybe I was right.”
Crowley shook his head stubbornly with a sniff, hand wiping his face, “no, you weren’t bloody right! What are you on about?! This… this shouldn’t have happened.”
“Yet it did. Maybe it was meant to.”
Crowleys head snapped up, “meant to? Don’t you dare even say it-"
He didn’t. He didn’t say a certain 9 letter word starting with ‘I’.
“Maybe this is our fresh start,” Aziraphale whispered, “maybe this is us, starting over.”
Crowley was in his face then, fingers wanting to grip onto him and shake him, “How can you even think like that, Aziraphale?! You... you and you’re… Romanticising something as awful as this! They've destroyed EVERYTHING! How can you even think…?”
“I... I have to believe-"
“Why! WHY do you-??"
But Aziraphale took a step back, “Because if I don’t try and look at this from another point of view then I will drown in our grief, Crowley!” Aziraphale suddenly shouted, his own tears falling freely, “if I hold onto this hatred in my... my heart, my soul, then it will consume us both. And we’ve been through enough. I’ve put us through enough. No more.”
The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the resounding silence.
Crowley's wings drooped and a desperate, sad whine escaped his throat.
Aziraphale slowly, carefully, ran his fingers through feathers and a wing slowly encircled him and protecting them both from their stricken surroundings.
“This was our home,” Crowley breathed in their dark confines, a crack in his small voice, “it was ours.”
“And it still is. It can be, if that’s what you truly want. But this was a place of love, and I can not fix it with wrath.”
Crowley stared into Aziraphale's eyes, even in the low light he could easily making them out - shining and beautiful. And hopeful.
“How do you do it?” He asked, touching Aziraphales cheek. Aziraphale leaned into the touch, “hm?”
“How do you not let what they did to you turn you into…” He wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence.
Fortunately, Aziraphale knew.
“Because I made a very clear decision. When I cut off my ties with them, I had only one being in mind, and it wasn’t me. If I hold resentment, it’s a waste of my energy now. Energy I'd rather put into something - someone - who is worth every ounce of my energy for the rest of our eternity. Energy much better spent with only love in mind, I think.”
Crowley inhaled, deep and long. The tears had stopped and he gave Aziraphale a small, watery smile, “you really are an angel.”
“You silly serpent,” Aziraphale chuckled weakly, reaching up and giving the sweetest press of lips to the others, “you think I learned love from being an angel? Now who’s romanticising.”
“Oh shaddup, c’mere.”

-

Many things had transpired over the whirlwind of the last two weeks and - more importantly - the last 24 hours, if how hours worked in Heaven and Hell was anything to go by.

For one, the Metatron was no longer the Metatron. He was just a man, not that this was inherently a bad thing (for he had been simply a man a long time ago), but he was just a regular, senior human who had been unceremoniously stripped of his heavenly mojo and dumped upon a very large island called the United States.
Unfortunately being decidedly obnoxious, opinionated, educated, unpleasant and a man, he still had the opportunity to lead a somewhat normal human life for however many years he had left.

Muriel had been 'offered' (no one dared question Crowley's offer) the powers of the heavenly Scribe, which they had accepted under very strict conditions. First and foremost, they did not reside in Heaven. In fact, they could reside wherever they damn well pleased and no one would say a thing. They would undergo strenuous trials and lessons to become the new Word of God, with their final notch in their ethereal belt being accepting the actual, physical word of the Almighty. If She decided to do so. Muriel did not accept any apologies from the angels, and in fact had renounced any sort of familial tie to them. They were their own being now and lived outside of the Archangels' jurisdiction.

Crowley only granted them this power with his Staff once Muriel had privately assured them that this was in fact what they wanted, and he believed they’d do a bloody good job, too.
His only stipulation was that they come down to the bookshop (when he was under the assumption it was still a bookshop, and Muriel didn’t tell him otherwise) and show him more George Michael records and water their plant (which somehow stood untouched and undamaged on the window sill in the kitchenette).

Michael, Uriel and Saraquel began a new regime in Heaven - each as equal as the other, each with as much say and authority, none above and none below. It would take Michael some time to adjust, but they would get there. Maybe. Eventually.*

Gabriel and Beelzebub made no promise to ever return to Heaven nor Hell, or perhaps even Earth, which suited everyone - especially them.

-

The world, once again, didn’t end.
And on this particular occasion, Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t end up toasting at the Ritz.
In fact, that night they spent their time simply sitting on the dusty staircase and holding each other, sharing a (rare and miraculously unbroken) bottle of wine and they were quiet, their touches soft and their voices gentle - the only bright sound was a light tapping on the window several hours later. Crowley complained of the birds, but Aziraphale closed his eyes, breathed in deeply against his beloveds shoulder, and listened to the Nightingale's hopeful song.