Archive of Our Own

Aziraphale sighed loudly, for what seemed to be the umpteenth time in that hour, and Crowley was sick of hearing it.

“Alright, what’s wrong?” Crowley grumbled, closing the erotica book that he took from Aziraphale’s shelves with a loud snap. He sat up properly, taking his legs from where they rested on the coffee table (that he usually used as a footstool), and fixed his eyes on Aziraphale’s back.

To his credit, the angel just folded his reading glasses and put them down on the book that he was also perusing on the desk. “Nothing, I just feel some… tension…"

“Tension?”

“On my back,” he explained, reaching back and pointing to the back of his shoulder blades. The spot in question was hard to reach, and he just gestured vaguely to the area. “I usually get them when I stay hunched over for so long.”

Crowley frowned as he stood up, stepping forward to check his back with his hands. “You’ve been reading too much, angel. Have a rest.”

“It’s not that,” he mumbled, and Aziraphale’s cheeks colored pink. “It’s… my wings.”

A pause. “Your wings.”

“Yes. Well. They haven’t been groomed for some time.”

Crowley hummed. “Yes, yes, if you don’t stretch them out every once in a while, they tend to hurt. I remember the last time I groomed your wings.”

And here Aziraphale blushed even deeper. Wing grooming etiquette was the same between angels and demons. It was a deeply intimate practice that they usually did alone, or with a parent, or a partner. Aziraphale wasn’t vain, but he prided himself in grooming his wings, taking extra care to smooth out each individual feather, making them shine as bright as his hair.

He usually groomed his wings alone, as it took the better half of a week to get everything sorted just the way he liked it. Plus, with the position, he usually took a lot of care with how he oriented his body to try and get the hard-to-reach areas. But in the years past, he had turned to Crowley for help. He remembered being entirely too flustered when he complained, drunkenly, that he didn’t have enough time in between their favors to groom them anymore.

Crowley had taken initiative, pressing his thumbs to his back to ease the tension from his physical body for the wings to subconsciously manifest, and had groomed them back into place. Aziraphale nearly fell asleep on his lap at that point, the feel of his fingers carding carefully through his feathers sending chills up and down his spine. 

Even the memory alone was enough to make him flustered. “I, yes, well…”

Crowley looked at him sternly, entirely unflustered about yet another dimension of their Arrangement. “Don’t tell me you haven’t groomed since then…?”

Aziraphale squirmed on his seat, silent.

“Angel!”

“I was busy,” he stressed, hands wringing a little in frustration. “We had to stop Armageddon –”

“The last time I groomed you was when I called you up to make a plan for Warlock, wasn’t it?” The demon groaned, growing concern evident in his amber eyes. “How long ago was that?”

“…Fifteen years." 

“Fifteen – “ Crowley sputtered, some of his usual noises of confusion escaping his lips as he tried getting his thoughts straight. “Aziraphale, you usually groom it every ten!”

“Yes, well, I was preoccupied.” He huffed, crossing his arms and pouting at him.

Crowley just shook his head, then closed the open book on Aziraphale’s desk, careful to pull the string down between the pages to bookmark the place he had left on. “Come on, let me.”

And Aziraphale didn’t need to be asked twice; he sighed quietly and led him to the backroom, making sure to draw the curtains, enough to shield any curious onlookers, but not enough to block out the sunlight. His heart thumped as Crowley locked the door for good measure and as he started to strip his suit top. He had a neutral outlook on his physical body, but somehow, after thwarting Armageddon, the thought of him removing his clothing in the vicinity of Crowley – especially in the guise of having his wings groomed – was something that made his heart lurch in his chest. 

To his credit, Crowley didn’t seem to mind. He only removed his glasses and sat at the edge of the modest four-poster bed in the middle of the room where Aziraphale slept when he wanted. “Take your place, angel. This might take a while.” 

He nodded and sat by the head of the bed, making sure to have a certain amount of pillows prepped between him and the wall. With a small groan and rolling of shoulders, his wings unfolded from his back, seemingly out of thin air, and stretched beyond the bed, the wingtips touching the carpeted floor and swathing Crowley in a circle of white feathers.

At once, Crowley went to work, leaning forward in his position to start on the most obvious parts that needed grooming. “Your plumage isn’t looking as healthy as I remembered.”

He held his breath. “Just from five years of not grooming?”

“Naw, angel, I doubt it. Maybe the stress had something to do with it, as well.”

Aziraphale hummed, closing his eyes and resting his cheek on the down. “Are they a lost cause?”

“Not if I can help it.” And he believed Crowley, whose expert fingers stared combing and straightening the feathers that had been bent out of place. For someone who was a demon, Crowley had had a lot of experience in grooming wings, but he explicitly said he never groomed any wings from a demon. Only his own, in his own time.

Some hours had passed, and the sun's setting rays were filtering in through the window more. Aziraphale miracled them a bottle of wine each to pass the time, and finally asked what had been in his mind. “Crowley, why do I never get to see your wings anymore?”

The demon paused in the middle of brushing the longer feathers of his left wing. It was only for a second, but Aziraphale definitely noticed. “Oh, you… you wouldn’t like it.”

“Absurd!” He turned his head to level him with a glare over his shoulder, but it didn’t have the desired effect, because Crowley was determinedly not looking his way, merely shrugging his shoulders for effect. “I have seen your wings, before. In the Garden, and when you stopped time for young Adam.”

“Yes, they’re black, and rake-thin, and not as beautiful as yours.”

“They’re obsidian, and elegantly so.” Aziraphale insisted, blushing at the compliment. “ You know, my dear, I would like to groom them, if given the chance-” 

“No!”

Aziraphale yelped, as Crowley tugged painfully at his feathers. Crowley’s hand pulled back as though burned with fire.

“Oh, f-fuck, fuck, I’m sorry—”

“It’s alright, dear…” Aziraphale reassured him, blinking away the tears that had sprung up on his eyes. The sting had already abated, but there was a dull throb somewhere under the layers. “It’ll go away in time.”

“I didn’t mean to.” Crowley look dejected, his hands lying uselessly on his lap. “I should, I should stop –”

“Please, dear, don’t. I would like it if you continue. Just… don’t pull at them?”

Crowley looked up at him, his eyes shining golden in the light of the sun setting over the horizon, before he restarted again, even more careful than he was the last time. “Look, angel, it’s sweet of you to offer, just… I don’t want anyone to see my wings.”

“Not even me?” The small amount of hurt was evident in Aziraphale’s voice.

“No.” Crowley just leaned forward again, starting at the right wing this time. “Especially not you.”

“Crowley, my dear…”

“It’s nothing personal, Aziraphale, believe me,” he said quietly. There was something in the demon’s voice that made Crowley somber, but Aziraphale couldn’t place what it was. “It’s just... not a good look, demon’s wings.”

“Do you hate to look at them?”

“All the time,” he whispered, and his breath was so close it made Aziraphale’s back turn into gooseflesh. “If I had a choice, I would have wished for them to be ripped away." 

They didn’t say anything more after that, staying in relatively drunken silence as Crowley continued carding his fingers through his feathers. Aziraphale’s last thought before he fell into a light doze was that Crowley would have logically wanted for the wings to be ripped away, as they were a constant reminder of how different angel’s wings were from a fallen one.

The allure of a demon to an angel was nonexistent, yet somehow Crowley was different from all the demons Aziraphale had encountered.

He didn’t know why that was, if he was being honest to himself. Crowley was mischievous, but so was every other demon in Hell, always up to no good as demons are wont to be. Perhaps it was the way that he wasn’t really paying attention to the consequences of his actions, or that he didn’t really aspire to be downright demonic or evil. He just liked causing minor inconveniences in a wider scale – sort of like establishing a domino formation, then push the first domino over. Everything else would just fall into place, a grand design that was intricate and undeniably genius.

And all throughout their six-thousand-year-old friendship, Aziraphale had noticed a few things:

One; that Crowley, like he, liked to indulge in the finer things that humanity had to offer. Whether it be the hottest fashion trends or exotic cuisine, Crowley liked to have his hands dipped in as many bowls as possible. He tried to chalk it up to demon behavior – the wider the circle of influence, the more people they could influence into doing something evil. But that thought was easily dispelled when the angel had come face-to-face with Hastur, who he thwarted on several occasions trying to influence a priest to leer at the young boys participating in the church’s youth choir.

“Ten years of continuous demonic influence and he’d be ours,” Hastur rasped, black eyes blown wide and head swiveling this way and that at a pitiful attempt to creep Aziraphale out. The angel merely snorted and snapped his fingers; at once, the pipe organs stored above the whole choir started playing a ghostly tune, snapping the priest from his perverted thoughts and effectively stopping any of Hastur’s influence to continue.

The demon just snorted. "This isn't over."

The cheesy villainous line made Aziraphale want to clock somebody. "You know, I don't want to be rude, but is this your plan to tempt somebody? Just casually checking in for a temptation every week or so, for ten years?"

Hastur merely squinted at him. "Yes. Why?"

"Doesn't really sound quite... practical."

"You angel lot are just as prissy as always. What do you know about Temptation, hm?"

Enough to know that tempting a single man for ten years is probably not a good use of time, he thought as he walked into the church, somewhere the demon could not follow.

Aziraphale didn’t want to question him any more about his methods (lest Hastur got any better ideas at influencing humanity into Hell), but he did get the gist that what Crowley does was entirely within a path of his own making. Not Hell’s, not Satan’s, and definitely a path that no other demon treads through.

Second; that Crowley had an aversion to explain a lot of things about himself. During the many times that they had stayed in (whether on Aziraphale’s flat above the bookshop, or at Crowley’s modern studio; it didn’t matter, they had stayed at each other’s houses long enough), they would usually just curl up together, doing whatever they needed to do and enjoying each other’s company in relative silence.

It’s not as if they had changed routine; if he was being more accurate, it’s that they enjoyed more of their time together for majority of the day, and would often just stay in whoever’s house they ended up spending the evening in. This would usually consist of either Aziraphale reading or making them a beverage (tea or cocoa, if he had not brought some wine), or of Crowley going around, grumbling at the lush, green houseplants that were very nearly overgrowing their little respective corners of Crowley’s living room (he grumbled, because he couldn’t raise his voice anywhere near Aziraphale).

Aziraphale knew that he was happy, happier than he had ever been, and he could see Crowley was feeling the same. He caught the demon smiling more, worrying less, sauntering around with less frustration and a less severe pout. So when he’d have mood swings, it was one thing for Aziraphale to notice easily. It was entirely another for Crowley to share his thoughts on the matter at hand.

And the increase of time spent together showed, especially in the little things – at some point, Crowley had added some more lush greenery in the bookshop and in the bedroom, with wall-mounted flowers and small little succulents on Aziraphale’s desk to keep him company. For his part, Aziraphale would leave his books on Crowley’s bedside, as well as two matching mugs and a plethora of hot cocoa tablets in the kitchen for their perusal. They made room for each other in their own little private houses, and at some point they found their own living quarters to have a little niche corner of the other. (Crowley and Aziraphale called it co-habitation. Their shared circle of human friends described it as increasingly domestic.)

And of course, the angel noticed the little things about Crowley himself that he’d never notice had they not extended their friendship beyond their pre-determined Arrangement many centuries ago; all waved off with such a lame excuse, as well.

Like how Crowley kept his sunglasses on his face as much as possible even when indoors (“We’re high up, angel; my eyes are still sensitive to the light shining off of buildings.”); Or how Crowley sat awkwardly on any surface, whether the plush duvet that he owned, or the high-backed ornate chair he’d usually prefer using when he was in a contemplative mood (“It’s the pants, angel; Really isn’t that comfortable, but it brings out my hips and makes temptation a teensy bit easier.”); Or how Crowley always preferred sleeping or lying down on his stomach (“Have you ever seen a snake belly-up? Have you seen it alive?”); Or how he had an acute insecurity about his wings, a memory still fresh in Aziraphale’s mind.

And third; that Crowley was definitively lying about the specifics of his Fall. It would make sense that his Fall from Heaven would become a touchy subject, and more than once, when Aziraphale tried to broach it (or even poke at it with a proverbial ten-foot-long stick), the demon would even walk out in the middle of the conversation just to completely avoid talking about the issue. But the angel couldn’t help it, because his accounts were conflicting.

He’d usually say that he had been at the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong crowd. Crowley didn't emphasize, and ignored Aziraphale’s request when he asked for more information. He didn’t really want to get into details, was what he always said, and he’d change the topic as soon as possible.

But there were other times he’d let slip some information that didn’t coincide; such as that it felt unfair for him to be punished for something so menial as simply asking too much. That, had he known the consequences, he would have picked what he described as ‘the other option’ instead of choosing to Fall. And – last, but not the least – that he had never been named Crawly by God in the first place, and had simply chosen it as he took upon his Serpent form.

All of these were particularly curious to Aziraphale, who had no distinct memory of participating in the First War in Heaven that cast all the rebellious angels out. Crowley had told him that he most definitely had been there, in one way or another; because God made all the Angels in one swoop, not in batches. But he had clammed up when Aziraphale tried to ask for more details, because he knew, deep down in his soul, that if he had encountered Crowley before his Fall, he would have recognized him by now, but didn’t.

And so, armed with a burning desire to know more about his friend, he set off on what he thought was an incredibly touching and equally incredibly idiotic mission.

His first trip was to Heaven, of course, because he had a better chance of weaseling out information from his home base.

Aziraphale sidled up to the Holy Archives, which made him giddy just peering down the seemingly endless hallways of bookshelves, filled to the brim with knowledgeable tomes from all eras and languages. It reminded him of the Library of Alexandria, and it never ceased to amaze him, no matter how many years he had spent within its walls in between recovering from a sickness or being untimely discorporated.

An angel was attending to a stack of books behind a counter not unlike those that Aziraphale had seen in many libraries. He cleared his throat, and the angel looked up at him with a mildly disinterested look. “Yes?”

“Hello,” he said, smiling faintly with his hands behind his back. “I would like to know if there is a chance to see any records about the First War?”

The angel – Dina, as her nametag suggested – leaned back and shook her head. Her thin, black hair moved as if it was underwater, having their own rules of physics. “Those are restricted to the public eye.”

“Ah.” His smile faintly faltered, but he forged on. “But you see, my dear, I’m trying to do some research, and – “

“I’m sorry, but if you do not have any express permission from the archangel Raziel, then I can’t help you.”

“…Raziel.”

“Yes.” Dina hummed, leaning forward once more to continue reading the scroll of pure gibberish that she had been engrossed with. “They are in charge. Until you get their permission, you are unable to view those records. If you still want to push through, there is a request slip on your left that you may fill in.”

A clipboard filled with little slips of paper appeared to Aziraphale’s left.

He frowned. “And how long does it usually take for a request like this to be approved?”

“A couple of centuries.”

“Centuries?!”

“Give or take a few decades.”

Aziraphale had a few choice words in his mind about the idiocy of bureaucracy, but decided against it, instead thanking her automatically for her service, before walking out. He didn’t know how to get any direct counsel with Raziel, one of God’s archangels and the keeper of the mysteries of Heaven. The only person he had a direct connection with was someone he loathed, but if he was to move forward, he’d have to swallow his pride and ask.

“No. Absolutely not.”

Aziraphale grimaced up at Gabriel’s stone-cold face. The other angel was still in his usual gray suit, purple eyes squinted at him as though trying to make out just what was in Aziraphale’s head. Finding nothing that could be used as clues from his facial features and body language, the archangel continued. “Why are you even asking this?" 

“I want to know,” he said clearly, already having rehearsed his lines dozens of times in front of the mirror he had at home. “About myself. And about the demon Crowley, before he Fell.”

“Your…friend?”

At this point in time, after the Armageddon-That-Wasn’t, there was really no point in denying. “Yes.”

“What, so you can try and argue his reinstation into Heaven?” Gabriel snorted softly in amusement, rolling his eyes. “That’s never going to happen. He’s a demon. Once he’s Fallen, he’s never going to be able to climb back up. A consequence I’m sure you understand very well.”

Aziraphale’s hands curled into fists behind his back, but he let go of his anger quickly, ignoring the thinly-veiled threat. “I’m not trying to reinstate him in any way. I want to know what happened to him during the First War specifically.”

“But why?” Gabriel’s eyebrows scrunched up together. His smile was tight-lipped as he obviously looked down upon his request. “What’s it to you as to what happened in the First War? We won that one with no problem. The second one didn’t even happen, thanks to you and your boyfriend.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips at the last word, not because he didn’t like the thought of Crowley being his boyfriend (and if he looked deep down and reflected, he might realize that he actually inherently wanted it to be true), but because of the malice that Gabriel injected in every syllable. “He told me something… that I had participated in the First War, and that he specifically remembers me. But I don’t have any recollection whatsoever.”

That got Gabriel’s attention. “You… you don’t?”

The angel just shook his head, worried lines appearing on his forehead as he frowned. “Not one bit. The earliest, most distinct memories I have were my first days in the Garden of Eden, already with Adam and Eve –"

“With your flaming sword,” the archangel added, then he leaned back on his heels. He was mumbling under his breath, eyes darting all over the place. Aziraphale leaned it to catch the last sentences of his gibberish onslaught. “-surely, She wouldn’t…? No, of course not… But had She? Maybe it was the Gift…?”

“Gift?” Aziraphale prompted. “What Gift?”

“Your sword,” he replied absently, then shook his head. “Fine. I’ll put in a word with Raziel, but you may not speak of this to anyone.” He turned around, a look of worry on his face. “It was probably too strong at the time…”

 “Were you there?” he asked, and immediately regretted as Gabriel became obviously amused.

“Yes, I was.”

“And… was I…?”

“Oh, yes, I remember it very well. I can’t even fathom why you would forget such an important event.” He started walking again, but Aziraphale was not allowed to follow, so he didn’t. Just before he rounded the corner, he smiled at him with no mirth, only underlying knowledge that Aziraphale desperately wanted. “After all, you weregiven the title of Principality for your service and participation.”

Before Aziraphale could demand more information, Gabriel disappeared.

The angel lost count of how many paces he took, trying to process the information that Gabriel had just dropped, when another angel finally came into view.

They didn’t walk insomuch as glide through the white tiles of Heaven. Aziraphale noticed that their hair was white, blindingly so, long and flowing down their backs with a small wreathe of silver laurel leaves atop their head. They had piercing red eyes, and a very small mouth, one that didn’t move even when Aziraphale heard them speak.

“You are Aziraphale?”

He nodded weakly, bowing a little. It seemed appropriate, but the archangel didn’t so much as budge nor acknowledge his effort. “Yes, the Principality, Aziraphale.”

“My archangel name is Raziel, keeper of the mysteries of Heaven.” They tilted their head minutely, almost imperceptible that Aziraphale doubted they ever moved. “I also generally oversee the Archives, something that the archangel Gabriel has told me you wanted access to. May I ask for what purpose?”

“Yes, w-well, I seem to have forgotten my participation in the First War,” he stuttered, finding himself not being able to look the archangel in the eyes. Perhaps it was because of their form; it was so inhuman, more like a facsimile made by someone who had only readabout human features but never got to see one. “And, I, well, I am an acquaintance with a demon, Crowley, who Fell and distinctly remembered me.”

If the archangel had eyelids, they would have blinked. But they didn’t, and just continued staring at him, hyperfocused. “I remember you faintly from the First War, as well. It’s most curious that you have no recollection.”

“Yes, and that is why I want to study what happened.”

Raziel paused for several minutes, then turned back to where they came. “Follow me, please.”

Aziraphale didn’t need another prompting. He quickly followed them as they glided forward, making sure he was two or three steps behind them. “Thank you very much.”

“I have several theories as to why this must be the case, but I cannot say for certain which is true,” the archangel said, their voice ringing in Aziraphale’s ears even when he knew that the mouth on his form did not so much as move an inch. “Where is your sword, Aziraphale?”

“Ah.” His cheeks colored a little. It had been the subject of many discussions among the angels, especially the platoon that was supposed to lead in the battle that he eventually stopped from happening in the first place. “I… lost it.”

Raziel’s gliding paused for a moment, and they turned around just to view him from over their shoulder. “You lost it.”

He stayed quiet, eyes downcast. The archangel restarted again, leading him through a maze-like structure of hallways without pause, and he had to focus as to not lose them in the number of dizzying twists and turns. “Yes, terribly sorry for it. They took it out of my celestial wages.”

“It fell into the hands of one of the Horsemen,” Raziel mused, and Aziraphale nearly stumbled when they said it.

“I promise you, War was not the intended recipient.”

They finally came into a large room that seemed to have no ceiling. It was filled with lush greenery, and ghost birds twittered around with their songs even if no leaf was rustled with their wings. Aziraphale followed them across still water, stepping carefully on the large, rectangular slats of polished grey stone, further and further into a slice of paradise that the angel had never seen after the Garden of Eden. 

Further within, there was a waterfall; or a facsimile of it, anyway. There was no sound of rushing water, no foam at the bottom from where the water crashed into the pool. It all just started at a point in space, the water gliding downwards and merging with the water without so much as a ripple. Raziel led him behind it, and Aziraphale was surprised to see a box-like room that was entirely made out of glass except for the floor, which was made of reddish wood. Floor-to-ceiling shelves dominated the room where it didn’t let in the natural light, and the shelves were basically cubby holes, with the cupboard doors no bigger than Aziraphale’s closed fist.

Raziel hummed as they held up their arm, one ghost-white, elongated, emaciated finger gliding along the cupboard doors as if looking for the right one. After a while, they finally opened one, pulling out a parchment scroll tied tight with a golden thread. “Here.”

Aziraphale looked at the size of it, held it in his hand when the archangel handed it over. “This is it? All the accounts of the First War?”

“Of course not. It may have happened before the concept of Time was created, but its magnitude surely cannot be written only in one piece of parchment. No, this particular scroll only pertains to your participation.”

He chewed his lip, worried. “And, and the demon… Crowley? Went by Crawly for a few millennia.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know anyone by that name. The records do not hold this ‘Crowley’’s existence.”

“Right.” He nodded, his spirits sinking a little. He unlaced the thread (which stopped glowing as soon as the knot was undone), and he proceeded to unroll the scroll. It was written in ancient glyphs, and Aziraphale had to take a second before he could translate everything:

And an Angel, of no specific purpose,

Bore down and saw the Rebels,

Fighting in their vanity and pride,

For God’s Favor.

The Angel bent down,

And grasped the hilt

Of a sword swathed in flames,

Which power overcame him

Just in time – for he was to face

An archangel, and,

In one Fell swoop -- win.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows met in confusion, trying to make head or tails of the scene and coming up with a load of bupkis. He turned the scroll, trying to look for more. “Is this all?”

“Yes.”

“T-That can’t be-“

“It is what it is.” Raziel rasped, more monotonous now. “You were never explicitly named, but that is to be expected; your participation in the War was never planned. They gave you the Principality title as a commendation, and let you keep the sword. I believe God stationed you to Earth to protect the Garden with it shortly after.”

Aziraphale stepped back, not knowing how to process everything. “No, that can’t be. I have no memory of it.” And it was true; try as he might to conjure up the scene that this scroll was saying, he couldn’t even try and imagine it. “And for me, to face an archangel… no, no, this is absurd!”

“I was one of the few archangels who did not Fall,” Raziel mused, and Aziraphale stilled. “I can assure you, you faced an archangel. And won, might I add.”

“Hold on.” He looked up at them, eyes wide. “What did you say? Do you mean to say… an archangel…Fell?”

Raziel didn’t answer.

“But that can’t be… the Order of the Archangels –”

“Is merely an Order,” Raziel supplied, but they felt agitated. “I must not say anything more. I have already said more than I am supposed to.”

“But –”

“Go, Aziraphale. We are done speaking. If you so much as mention what I have just said, I can make all memories of this room, and the scroll you’ve just read, disappear. Am I understood?”

Aziraphale wanted to argue, to demand an explanation, because right now he felt that a rug had been pulled under his feet. But the archangel Raziel had already turned their back on him, snatching the scroll from him and replacing it into the cupboards. He already had a breakthrough, of information, and he knew it was wise for him to leave with this little new information instead of his memory being wiped clean.

And so he only thanked the archangel and walked out, finding himself back to the endless stretch of tiles that he usually faced when reporting to Gabriel and the others. He went down the escalators, his form shifting back into the human features and human clothes that he wore as A.Z. Fell around London, all the while turning over the last bits of information he acquired.

If the scroll had been true, and there was no reason to believe otherwise, then that meant Aziraphale had fought an archangel – and won. But the problem was that the Order of the Archangels of God had been constant ever since he had distinct memories; there was Gabriel, and Raziel, of course; then there was Ariel, Azrael, Chamuel, Haniel, Jeremiel, Jophiel, Metatron, Michael, Raguel, Raphael, Sandalphon, Uriel, and Zadkiel.

Their image and likeness were more recognizable than God’s Herself, as they were the ones who were the more front-facing angels to enforce God’s visions and the plans for the universe that She made. And so if that were true, then logic follows: one, that the Order of the Archangels that he knew was not the original Order when the Universe was created; two, that there were Archangels who rebelled and subsequently Fell; and three, that the angels now known as the Order were only filling in titles, and only donned the name as such.

Once at the bottom of the escalator, he found himself not being able to move, too overwhelmed by the sudden clarity. His eyes were trained on the reverse reflection of the escalators going ever deeper. He inhaled sharply, and, before he could think twice, stepped forward again, this time descending.

If Heaven wasn’t going to give him answers, he might as well try Hell. 

It was comical, really, how easy it was to navigate the putrid, cramped hallways of the Underground. But Aziraphale relented that the wide berth the demons gave him helped immensely.

He didn’t know why, because, really, demons weren’t burned when they touched an angel. Crowley, in his many drunken episodes, had clung to him all snake-like, long limbs wrapping around his torso and shoulders and legs, refusing to let go unless Aziraphale miracled his hangover away. And yet the demons gave him space anyway, especially thinning out at the back, as though he was going to manifest his wings in a show of power.

He saw someone ahead in a trench coat, all stained with a dark, green-ish goo and maggots crawling up and down their pale, saggy skin. “Hastur." 

The demon looked up, squinting at the flickering light above him to get a better look at the foreigner. “Crowley’s angel.”

“My name is Aziraphale.”

“I don’t need to learn your name.”

The angel sighed, relenting. “Right. Well. I need to speak with your boss.”

“And to what do I owe the pleazzzure, Aziraphale?” The twangy, buzzing voice of Lord Beelzebub, Prince of Hell, came. The demon strutted into view. Short as they were, they exuded authority that all of the demons respected. He saw the flies buzzing around their head and mouth and suppressed a shudder. “Why have you come all this way?”

“I need to talk to you about Crowley.”

At once, there was an uproar from the demons in the immediate vicinity. The din was almost deafening, and Aziraphale had to cover his ears with his hands to try and block out the noise.

“ZZZILENCE!” As soon as Beelzebub yelled, the demons quickly fell into place, their shouts and screams quieted to a chorus of discourteous grunts. They tilted their head forward and stomped away, Aziraphale following closely behind.

The Prince of Hell led him to a dark, damp room with only a single flickering lightbulb overhead, and a decrepit table with two equally sad-looking chairs on either side. Beelzebub sat one, and Aziraphale hesitantly sat on the other.

“These are trying times in Hell,” they said, obviously agitated. They would sometimes slip into buzzing, but tried to keep the cool, calm demeanor they were known for. “After Armageddon, there’zzz been a lot of unrest, especially concerning Crowley.”

“I-I would imagine.” Aziraphale tried not to smirk at the memory of their body switch, how they had saved each other’s hides from the likes of hellfire and holy water.

“Yes, and so I would like this discussion to be as quick as possible.”

“Of course.” He nodded. “I would like to ask you about the First War.”

Beelzebub’s face twitched painfully, as though the very utterance of the words had sent a jolt of pain throughout their system. Aziraphale thought it was true, seeing the fire in the demon’s eyes. “What about it? I thought you were asking about Crowley.”

“Partly.” He sighed. “You see, I don’t know about the First War. I have no recollection. I want to know of Crowley’s Fall; he hasn’t told me about it.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Beelzebub mumbled to themselves. “Have you tried –”

“The Holy Archives, yes, I just came from there.” He waved their suggestion away. “But I only left with more questions than answers. And I believe you could help me.”

Beelzebub glared at him, their icy-blue eyes squinting suspiciously at Aziraphale across the table. He stayed quiet until they leaned forward, head tilting menacingly. “And what do you offer?”

Aziraphale stilled. “Offer?”

“In exchange.” Beelzebub grinned, their mouth being overtaken by several hundred crawling flies. It all looked like a grotesque, moving thing on their face. “Information like that, withheld by the Holy Archives, that means it’s zzzomething valuable.”

The angel stood up, frustrated. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake –”

“Name your price, angel,” Beelzebub demanded, standing up as well.

Aziraphale winced, not used to any other demon apart from Crowley to call him that. The flickering lightbulb overhead suddenly shone steadily. “Fine. You want a price, I’ll give it to you. You tell me everything I wish to know, and I’ll shut up all rumors in Hell regarding Crowley and his failure of a trial.”

Beelzebub went deathly still, and Aziraphale knew he had hit a good spot. He continued. “I’ve heard a lot of demons have started rallying their support behind Crowley, instead of you.”

“T-That’zzz not true.”

“I’m afraid so,” he said, pretending to be sympathetic. “They see him as a new, more deserving Prince of Hell. They say that the only reason he didn’t burn and die from holy water was because Satan himself had given him his personal favor.”

A frustrated, strangled buzz escaped Beelzebub’s throat, and the demon started pacing, agitation rife in their body language. “That zzzimply cannot be true, there was no indication apart from him going native that holy water couldn’t pozzzibly touch him – “

“Oh, but you know how rumors go,” Aziraphale goaded, not an ounce of guilt in his conscience as he riled up the demon. “It doesn’t matter if it’s the truth or not. What matters is if the idea has taken hold. And I am telling you, it has.”

Lord Beelzebub’s hands flew to their hair, ripping out chunks of hair that seemingly grew back immediately. Aziraphale let them do as they wanted, until the screaming had died down, and the demon was reduced to a panting, babbling mess.

The angel merely leaned forward, smiling innocently, expectantly.

“Fine,” Beelzebub hissed, sitting back down, with their elbows on their knees and leaning forward. “Azzzk away. But nothing too broad. I have demons to wrangle up. No time playing story-teller."
 

“Excellent.” Aziraphale brightened and sat down. “Well, can you tell me about… about Falling?”

Another painful twitch. “What about it?”

“How was it?”

The demon pursed their lips, thinking it through. “It’s… different for every demon. Not everyone Fell in the same way, and in the same place. Some were pushed. Some were thrown. A select few were eased overboard, fleeing a fight. I was one of those.” Beelzebub’s sparse eyebrows met. “And… And so was Crowley.”

There was a pause. “Crowley was fleeing a fight?”

“Oh, yes, quite a vicious one, too.” They nodded sagely. “Awful, really. Quite awful what happened to him.”

“Please.” Aziraphale leaned forward, already at the edge of his seat. He didn’t know what he wanted to hear, but he wanted to hear it nonetheless. “I need to know.”

“Angel, when I say it’s different for every demon, the procezzz of Falling, I mean it.” They looked up at him, their blue eyes a little sadder than what Aziraphale was used to. Their lip even trembled a little. “There’s the process of Falling, there’s the place where you’ve Fallen, there’s the woundzzz – “

“Wounds?!”

“ – and the method of recovery,” Beelzebub concluded, their face suddenly darkening. “If at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some demons sustained more damage than most,” Beelzebub explained briefly. “They are usually given the personal favors of Satan, as they proved to be the onezzz who were loyal to the cause the mozzzt.” They started undoing their cravat, unbuttoning their uniform.

“Oh, please, I don’t –”

But it had already been done. Beelzebub had opened their uniform, and there was a bright red, shiny scar taking up majority of the demon’s chest. There was no one inch of pale skin that was unmarred, and the scar stretched up to their neck, where the cravat usually hid it well.

Had Aziraphale not known, he wouldn’t have guessed. “Oh, my… that looks…”

“Painful.” Beelzebub offered, rebuttoning their uniform back to their usual appearance. “It’zzz why I have this buzzing and hoarseness in my voice. But not everyone suffered as much. Hastur, for example, was tied behind his back and was pushed over the edge back-first into Hellfire. Took him ages to escape his restraints, and his hands were burned, so’s why he’s got an affinity for fire.”

Aziraphale worried his lip, not knowing whether or not to pose the question in his mind. But it’s what he came for, and that’s what he’d do, no matter the gravity of the situation. “And… and Crowley?”

Lord Beelzebub tapped the table with a finger, with a blackened fingernail. “The demon known as Crowley was a formidable angel before, but as I’ve heard, God’s hatred was a bit more personal. Something about questioning Her vision of the Universe too much.”

Unbidden, the vision of Crowley’s amber eyes suddenly came into his mind. “Was he…?”

“I remember when he was still recovering, yes.” They nodded, their pallor actually looking sick at the memory. “It was awful. He’d sustained the most injuries out of everyone who Fell. I only ever saw him once while weakened.” There was an audible gulp before they continued. “His eyes were slashed to blindness. He had to gouge them out himself.”

It was like someone had given a strong, forceful blow to Aziraphale’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He imagined Crowley, in the tatters of what once must have been a blinding white angel’s tunic, emaciated. Head down, blind, turning this way and that with hollow eye sockets still bleeding from such a fresh injury, only being able to hear the souls of his fellow damned angels.

“Satan himself gave him the snake eyes he had now, ” Beelzebub supplied. “But it wasn’t all of the injuries he sustained. Like I said, he dealt the most damage. Some of those damages even Satan himself couldn’t heal.” There was a sick, twisted smile now on their face, but it was more self-depreciating than evil. “Must be nice, having his favor.”

At this, Aziraphale was positively sick. He couldn’t have imagined that Crowley had been under such distress and such pain in the millennia after the First War. There was no indication whatsoever that he was ill, or was still nursing a wound thousands of years old.

Suddenly, he started seeing red. He couldn’t imagine what he would do to the angel that had given his friend cause for suffering for millennia on end. Aziraphale wasn’t one to start a fight, but this one was personal; they hurt someone so unnecessarily, and so viciously, that not even Satan himself could reverse the damages.

Beelzebub stood up as if to leave, but Aziraphale stopped them. “Stop! Stop, please…”

“I’ve given you enough information, angel Aziraphale.”

“No, please, one more.” He swallowed audibly, hands balled into tight fists as he tried to calm himself down enough to ask the next question. “Do you know who did it? Who wounded him? Who he was fighting?”

And at this, Beelzebub grimaced, as though trying to remember. “I didn’t get to see which angel it was, but it was certainly someone strong. Maybe one of God’s favorites.”

They shrugged nonchalantly and opened the door, already walking out and leaving Aziraphale behind in the room. “I mean, after all, they were wielding Her flaming sword.”

By the time Aziraphale had gotten out of the building that housed the main entrance to Heaven and Hell, it had begun to rain.

It wasn’t even the light kind of rain, but torrential, coming down in endless sheets. Passersby opened their umbrellas or cowered under awnings of restaurants to escape the downpour. Aziraphale, however, just walked past as though in a trance, the rain dripping onto his hair and drenching his coat. He didn’t look both ways before crossing the street, but he didn’t need to; Londoners would shout at him to be careful, but the very moment he was about to cross, the traffic lights would suddenly favor him, long enough for him to pass.

He didn’t know where his feet took him, and it was a few minutes before he stopped in front of a modern-looking residential building. He snapped his fingers and the door unlocked and opened. By the time he had crossed the threshold, he was still sopping wet.

Crowley answered his door at the first three knocks.

“Angel,” was all he could say before Aziraphale barreled past without another word. The demon sputtered in confusion before he closed the door, following him with the plant spritzer on one hand. “Hey, I know I don’t have a carpet, but you’re trailing water everywhere.”

Aziraphale didn’t answer, merely stood in the middle of the room with all the houseplants that Crowley managed. When Crowley stood in front of him, trying to glean any information on his odd behavior, he turned away, not looking him in the eyes.

“Look, Angel, I don’t know what happened, but let me at least help you out. Yeah?” He said, as gently as he could, setting down the spritzer and helping the angel out of his wet clothes. “I know you can just warm yourself up, but our human bodies don’t like rainwater and staying cold. We gotta get you out of these.”

One by one, the layers of Aziraphale’s clothes were peeled off, lying on a wet heap on the ground. When Crowley moved to take his pants off, the angel just shook his head and snapped again, the moisture evaporating from all of his clothes. Little water droplets went to cling onto each and every leafy fern instead.

The demon sighed, a little amused. “So you just made me do all the work, huh.” He circled Aziraphale unconsciously, checking to see if he was hurting anywhere. “Aziraphale, clearly there’s something wrong. I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what’s going on with you.”

And those words did it. The fire in Aziraphale’s eyes blazed, and Crowley took a step back, and another, and another, as the angel advanced angrily at him. They stalked through the revolving wall, and the demon was effectively cornered against the ornate chair he had set up. “W-Well, hey now, what’s, what’s…?!”

“You,” Aziraphale growled, voice low and menacing. Crowley didn’t know what to do, or what he did this particular instant to anger the angel. His hands shot up in surrender at once. “You, h-how could you…?”

“Is it, it the holy water?” He gulped, nervous. He had never seen Aziraphale so angry before. He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see him like this. “I-I’ll call off the robbery to get another vat, so please—”

His words were cut off when he felt a pair of lips on his own.

It was Aziraphale’s, insistent and needy to the touch. Crowley would have mumbled a surprised “oh” if his mouth wasn’t so busy having a mind of their own and kissing back. His glasses slipped sideways and got knocked to the ground, but it didn’t matter. Crowley’s hands were wrapped around Aziraphale’s neck, and the angel was pulling him flush against his chest. 

“A-Azira…?” he choked out, leaning back for a second for air, but the words died in his throat as a moan crawled its way out. The feel of Aziraphale’s hot, wet tongue on his neck was sending fire down to his loins. It didn’t help one bit that Aziraphale was wet from the cold rain, and moist to the touch.

He didn’t realize but Crowley’s thin, long-sleeved gray shirt was already being tugged up and thrown aside until it had literally gone over his head. Panic laced his voice. “Wait, A-Aziraphale, stop –” 

The angel leaned back, blue eyes glossed over. Crowley gulped audibly, not wanting to look away but he knew he needed to. He tried straightening out, avoiding letting anything show. “C-Can we slow down, and –”

“Show me.” 

Crowley blinked. “Beg your pardon?”

“I know,” Aziraphale whispered, and there was something so soft about his features. One hand cupped Crowley’s cheek, the thumb brushing over his eyelid, fluttering against his eyelashes. “I already know.” 

The demon could only shudder. But he knew Aziraphale wouldn’t let up now. And so he leaned back and turned around, his back facing the angel. His hands gripped the back of the chair, not sure what he expected Aziraphale’s reaction to be.

There was silence and no motion as they regarded each other. Crowley imagined what he was doing – Aziraphale’s pale blue eyes roving over the marks on his back; a giant tattoo mark of a black and red serpent, winding and coiling from the top of his spine to the small of his back, as well as two red, shiny slashes on either side of his shoulder blades, long enough for them to go from the back of the shoulder blades to way past his other hip. 

“Raphael,” Aziraphale whispered, and the name sent shivers down Crowley’s spine.  “You’re Raphael.”

“I was Raphael,” Crowley corrected, his voice small. He had tried to forget that name, had made sure that no one knew. It was a miracle that Aziraphale hadn’t recognized him, but in demon form, all those years ago when they first met in the Garden. He had tried so hard to hide it, but the cat was out of the bag. He didn’t know if it would be freeing or alarming. “Of course, they couldn’t have me keeping my archangel status after I Fell, now could they?”

“I-I thought…”

“Don’t stress,” he mumbled, leaning his chin against the chair. He wanted to turn back and see Aziraphale’s face, but thought better of it. This was an important moment for him, for both of them. “Nobody knew that the Order of the Archangels was simply an Order. Their names are not originally Gabriel, or Michael, but gifted unto them by God.”

“And when you rebelled…?”

He shrugged lightly. “There were open positions to fill. It was best that everyone still had the Order of Fifteen. Heaven would be incomplete and unbalanced otherwise.” He exhaled lightly, closing his eyes. “I was one of the first, and one of the closest to God. My name was Raphael from the moment I was Created.”

“The archangel of healing,” Aziraphale mumbled in awe, his fingers tracing the snake head on his skin. “I couldn’t believe I oversaw it…”

“That the familiar was a snake?” He smiled bitterly. “I mean, it’s common knowledge, but it’s hardly a point to associate something good like healing to something bad like temptation.”

There was silence once more between them, and he felt his fingers brush over one of the two scars that formed a scary ‘X’ across his back. Crowley shuddered at the reverence that Aziraphale was giving him.

“Manifest, please,” he whispered suddenly.

Crowley shook his head. “Angel, I mean it, you wouldn’t – “

“Please.” There was an almost imperceptible amount of desperation in Aziraphale’s voice. It was so eerily out of place that Crowley paused, not sure what was happening. “Please, I need to see it.”

The demon bit his lip, amber eyes darting anywhere and everywhere else in the room to try and distract himself. His heart was thundering in his chest, so loud that he thought even Aziraphale would hear him. “You’re going to hate it…”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t,” he mumbled. “They’re yours.”

There was a press to a knot on his back, and Crowley shuddered, trying to keep it in.

“Please,” Aziraphale begged again, his lips ghosting on the back of his neck. Another press of his thumbs at the knot, and Crowley relented.

He hadn’t manifested in a long while, too caught up in doing literally anything else other than being reminded of what he was. So when he finally unfurled his wings, it took a little time and a lot of pain. By the end of it, Crowley was gripping the back of the chair so hard, his knuckles were turned white and he had bitten his lip hard enough to bleed.

It must have been a sight to behold for Aziraphale: a wingspan that was double his own, with large, black and shiny feathers, but those healthy areas were sparse. Majority of Crowley’s wings were mangled, and bald; there were spots, especially with the membrane and the wingtips, where they were obviously burned. There were even some spots where half of the feathers were burnt to a crisp, never to regrow. There was only very few patches wherein Crowley obviously groomed, but the rest was a nightmare to behold.

And as if it couldn’t get any worse, it did; for Aziraphale only noticed after a minute or two of inspection, that Crowley was hissing in pain with every effort of flexing his wings. Because at the juncture where his wings were supposedly attached to his back, there was a deep cut, almost severing his wings halfway through. 

There was a gasp, and a clap of skin when, he presumed, Aziraphale clapped his mouth with his hands in horror. Crowley had seen it several times, and was sickened everytime, but this was especially wicked to behold, given the circumstance that Crowley received them.

“W-Why are they not healing?” were the first words that Aziraphale uttered, still horrified at the brutality of the situation.

Crowley shook his head. “The weapon was forged by God Herself, and that’s saying something.” He bit his lip, not wanting to jump the gun. How much did Aziraphale know? “It never really mended, or healed, and so they’re stuck like this. Half-chopped off. It’s excruciatingly painful, especially when I groom them. Usually I don’t, a-and that’s why…. That’s why I never show you.” He gulped. “Because I know you wouldn’t like them.”

“B-But what about…?”

“Those times at the Garden, and with Adam?” he smiled to himself a bit bitterly. “Demonic illusions. Easy to use, especially when I’ve already mastered it.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale bemoaned leaning forward. Crowley could feel his body heat against his back, and there were small kisses planted by the angel on his shoulders, peppering his skin and spine, as well as the muscle grown taut around the bases of his wings. Crowley didn’t know how to react, especially with such a soft reaction to what must be undoubtedly a terrible thing to see.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale kept repeating, his name – or the name he had assumed, had answered to in such a long time – sounded not as hellish as it seemed when it came from quite literally an angel’s mouth. It was whispered softly, after each and every press of his lips to his skin. “Crowley…”

And after the kisses came the tears. Crowley recognized the warm teardrops falling on his skin as Aziraphale shuddered behind him, his hands squeezing his shoulders to try and get him to get it together. “C-Crowley, I… I’m sorry…”

It must have become obvious to him by now; why Crowley's posture wes messed up, why he'd even cover up even in the hottest days, why he'd sleep in his stomach. Everything he did revolved around easing his reliance on his back, perhaps out of a phantom pain that lingered.

“Angel, you don’t have to apologize – “

“It’s my fault,” he hiccupped, and Crowley’s stomach fell, because fuck, he found out. He had found out who had attacked him, had wounded him, and had effectively thrown him off of Heaven.

It was Aziraphale, overwhelmed and glowing in an orange light as he swung God’s flaming sword high, arcing over his head and against the bones of then-Raphael’s wings. The scream that he had let out was inhumanly loud, full of agony, but the job was not yet done, and his wings were still attached, albeit bleeding copiously and painfully useless on either side of him.

Raphael had crawled, bloody and bruised and broken, to the edge of Heaven, and tried to strike out, swiping against Aziraphale’s feet to knock him off balance. It worked, but the possessed angel retaliated quickly, reflexes lightning-fast; still holding onto his sword, he slashed out, catching Raphael’s eyes with the sharp end of the blade. He howled in pain, feeling the searing heat overwhelm him as he lost his eyesight. He blundered blindly backwards, lost his footing, and went over the edge, his wings catching on fire as it flapped uselessly all around him.

The next thing he knew was that he had landed, somewhere, he couldn’t discern, but he already felt the loss of God’s power and all Heavenly jurisdiction. All around him were the screams and wails of tortured pain. Overwhelmed and still bleeding, he reached up at his face, crying out and joining the din of pained souls as he forcibly clawed out his useless eyes. He couldn’t see, he was in extreme pain, he had blood dripping down his face and his back, and he could smell the scent of burning feathers.

The rebellion had been a failure, and Raphael had Fallen.

And now, seeing the current Aziraphale, the very same one who had struck him down like it was nothing, crying and bawling over the hurt he had caused, Crowley sat stock still in silence. He knew Aziraphale hated himself, and Crowley hated himself more for what happened. There was really nothing to say to each other until the tears have abated, and the memories had all but been forcibly dispelled from the mind.

“Why can’t…” Aziraphale started, his breathing uneven. Crowley finally dared to look over his shoulder at the angel, whose face was red and splotchy with tears. “Why can’t I remember…?”

“It was probably the sword,” he whispered. “That sword wasn’t meant for you to hold. It was for Gabriel, or Michael, but I had stolen it. I questioned God, and Her vision of the world. She planned the world to live out millennia of humankind, but bring about the End of Times with a flaming sword at the helm.” Crowley shivered at the thought. “I opposed, because there was no need for such violence and destruction. I stole the sword… but you happened to see me.”

Crowley closed his eyes, imagining. Aziraphale was a nobody, and had happened upon him stealing the sword, wrapped in a flame-resistant cloth, and going somewhere far enough that God couldn’t reach. The other angel had been running from the direction of the Holy Archives, had seen him, and had tried to pursue him. He eventually caught up, Raphael being sprawled to the ground. Before he could warn him, Aziraphale had panicked and had picked up the only weapon around that he could use to defend himself with.

“It’s not your fault you don’t remember,” Crowley said in a hushed tone. “I heard you got the Principality primarily because you found a traitorous archangel – that’s me – and had retrieved God’s sword. They were impressed by your skill that they gave it to you permanently and stationed you in Earth, to oversee the plan to its fruition.” He smiled wryly. “Imagine my surprise when I saw you again, and you didn’t recognize me, and you told me explicitly that you had given your flaming sword away to the first Humans.”

Aziraphale didn’t find it amusing. If anything, he started crying even harder. His hands clutched at the healthy patches of Crowley’s obsidian wings, his fingers fondling the feathers. Crowley could feel, more than hear, him whispering apologies and sweet nothing into his destroyed plumage.

Warmth enveloped him as Aziraphale moved closer, his wings having manifested on their own from distress. They encased the both of them in a whirl of black and white feathers, hidden to God, and Satan, hidden to the world. And as Aziraphale begged for Crowley’s forgiveness, the demon’s tears were finally let loose, rolling down his cheeks as he lamented, once again, what he had lost in Heaven, and how painfully ironic his situation was with the angel.

The one that had caused him so much suffering. The one he yearned for. The one he loved.