Chapter Text
Life, recently, has been good. Gabriel owns a yoga mat now, and a smartphone with one of those apps that track your health for you, and he’s discovered a little shop down the street that sells bloody good quinoa salad. Who knew that living as a human could be so fun?
Of course, he’s not actually human. Neither is his girlfriend, who’s also his boyfriend on some days, and who’s technically a terrifying demon and a prince of hell on all days. But ever since they moved to Philadelphia, they’ve been able to pretend, and that’s good enough.
They’re renting a flat located between a nail salon and a shop that sells something called a cheesesteak, which either proves that humans have a sense of humour or that they’re rotten to the core, and Beelzebub is thinking of adopting either a small lizard or a small dog or a small human, and Gabriel has joined a book club and is working his way through The Exorcist, and life is exactly as it should be: good.
Then the doorbell rings, and for the first time in his long, long existence, Gabriel feels a sense of foreboding. No one ever rings their doorbell, especially not since Beelzebub disabled it.
But there it is now, ringing. Gabriel thinks that it kind of sounds like a nightingale being slowly tortured to death.
Wary, he opens the door.
Standing on his doorstep with a suitcase and a plant is a rather familiar demon.
Gabriel closes the door in his face.
WHO IS IT, HONEY? Beelzebub asks. She’s at the grocery store, so she asks it directly in his head, which always makes certain human parts in Gabriel’s anatomy stir and which also, more embarrassingly, makes his wings twitch.
“No one,” Gabriel says quickly. “Wrong address.”
“Go on, open up,” Crowley yells from outside. “I know you’re in there, you bastard.”
I WILL BRING YOU A TASTYCAKE, Beelzebub promises, and she’s gone from his mind before Gabriel can ask what that is.
He takes a deep breath. Angels don’t actually need to breathe, but he finds that it calms him. Another breath. Another.
“If you don’t let me in, I’m reporting you to Heaven,” Crowley threatens. “See how long your little illicit romance lasts when your girlfriend is waterboarded with holy water.”
Gabriel opens the door again to frown at Crowley. “Heaven doesn’t waterboard people.”
“You say that now, but-“
“Besides,” Gabriel adds, “Heaven and Hell have no jurisdiction in this place.”
At this, Crowley, who had clearly been working himself up into something, pauses and tries to look over Gabriel’s shoulder. “What, your flat? Protection spell, is it?”
“This city,” Gabriel clarifies. “Treaty from the nineteenth century. Our sides couldn’t recall who was responsible, so it was declared neutral territory. Think of it as Switzerland.”
Crowley thinks this over for a second, then says decidedly, “Nah, Switzerland’s one of ours.”
Gabriel sighs. He’d been in the middle of making dinner before Crowley showed. “Is that all?” he asks. “Because I’ve got salmon in the oven, and-“
“Salmon sounds lovely,” Crowley says and pushes past him with his suitcase and his plant. “Cheers.”
Gabriel sighs again as he follows Crowley inside. He’s not entirely sure what just happened, but whatever it is, he has a feeling that it’s only going to get worse.
*
Crowley’s had a rough few weeks. He thinks it’s quite possible that no one in the history of all existence, Heaven, Hell, and Earth, has ever suffered as much as he has, and God and Satan don’t even have a bet about him.
It’s just unfair, isn’t it? It’s unfair that everyone should get a happy ending except for him. He walks past thousands of humans every day, holding hands and laughing and chatting, and what have any of them ever done for the good or bad of humanity? Nothing much. And they still get to live their stupid lives, with their stupid partners, being stupidly happy and buying new carpets and kissing in the rain and making a ton of babies. Crowley’s never been much for babies, but he thinks that he would’ve liked the rest of it.
And even that, he could live with – he’s a demon, after all. Demons don’t get happy endings, that’s basically in the contract, and the only reason no one’s ever complained about it is because angels don’t get happy endings either. They don’t get endings, period. It all just goes on exactly as it was, forever. Literally for eternity. Crowley would’ve been okay with spending eternity in a bookshop drinking wine and scaring away customers.
But then, Gabriel. Gabriel, whom Crowley has never liked, even before he tried to kill his best friend, and Beelzebub, who is the sole cause for Crowley’s migraines. Two of the worst beings he knows had the audacity to fall in love and get away with it. That’s what’s unfair. That’s what really kills him. (Metaphorically speaking.)
He kept thinking it over, these past few weeks. He couldn’t stop. He kept thinking of the way they’d looked at each other, and the way it’d just been so easy for them – giving up their whole lives, or non-lives, just so they could be together. They’d made it seem like it was nothing. They’d made him think that it was possible for everyone. They’d made him think that- well. Doesn’t matter now, does it?
It's only yesterday that he realised something else. This misery he’d been feeling, this complete and utter desperation – there were three beings responsible for it. One’s in Heaven, but people don’t exactly go around yelling at the Metatron.
The other two, though. The other two, word had it, hadn’t gone very far. Not very far at all. And Crowley, well. Crowley’s still living in his car, because Hell hasn’t returned his flat to him, and because he couldn’t bring himself to go back to the bookshop. Without a job, a flat, and, most recently, a friend, he’d found himself with nothing left for him in all of England.
So why not go to the land of opportunity? Besides, he’s spent days babysitting Jim. Gabriel owes him one. And there’s never been a favour Crowley hasn’t come to collect.
*
“You want to stay here,” Gabriel says flatly. “With us.”
“Not for long,” Crowley says, like any period of time longer than five seconds is even remotely acceptable. “I’m thinking no more than a decade or so. You have a guest room, right?”
Gabriel watches helplessly as Crowley opens a door he’s never seen before, and enters a room that definitely wasn’t there this morning. There’s a waterbed in it, and a signed movie poster of James Bond on the wall. Crowley’s suitcase is already unpacked and stored on top of the brand-new wardrobe. Only the plant is still in the living room, emitting a vaguely menacing aura.
Gabriel needs to stop this now, before Crowley transforms their entire flat into a James Bond-themed greenhouse.
“Listen,” he says, “perhaps I haven’t made myself clear. There is simply no way-“
“Look, Jim,” Crowley says, and Gabriel freezes. “Clause twenty-two-thousand-three-“
“Yes,” Gabriel snaps.
“-hundred-forty-one,” Crowley continues. He is looking very pleased with himself. “Paragraph four.”
There is a small beep from somewhere. It takes Gabriel a moment to realise the sound is coming from his phone. He pulls it out and sees that he’s just received a notification that his blood pressure has spiked. This seems strange, seeing as he doesn’t, technically, have blood, but it still makes him feel like a failure.
Crowley, unaware of Gabriel’s existential crisis, is still talking. “It says that any favours distributed by either side must be repaid in full at the involved parties’ earliest convenience, so as to not-“
“-upset the eternal scales of Good and Evil,” Gabriel finishes, because Crowley’s voice is grating on his nerves. “I know. I am an archangel.”
“Well, there you go, then. I did you a favour, now you have to repay me. I know we usually just exchange souls, but there’s nothing in that clause that says we can’t change it up a bit. So this is what I demand as repayment, and you can’t do anything about it, and it is not an exaggeration when I say that I have literally never been happier in my entire existence.”
“Let’s say I allow this for now,” Gabriel says slowly. “What’s next?”
“Next?”
“Does Aziraphale move in, too? Am I to spend eternity with the two most obnoxious beings I know? Are you going to turn my guest room into a sushi restaurant?”
Crowley, for some reason, falls off the waterbed. “We’re the most obnoxious beings you know?” he exclaims once he’s gotten up. He’s actually smoking a little in his exasperation, which is just annoying. He’d be poisoning Gabriel’s lungs right now, if Gabriel had any. “Us? Are you joking?”
“I am,” Gabriel says seriously, “never joking. I don’t much care for jokes.”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about, anyway,” Crowley says, and suddenly, there’s something bitter in his voice. Something distinctly unhappy. Gabriel almost smiles. “The angel and I aren’t on speaking terms at the moment. He’s made his position quite clear.”
The urge to smile becomes stronger. Gabriel has a beautiful girlfriend-slash-boyfriend-slash-prince-of-hell, he’s recently mastered crow position, and also, Aziraphale and Crowley aren’t talking. Life has never been sweeter.
“My,” he says. “How terrible. In that case, do feel free to stay.” At least, he thinks, until he figures out who he has to kill in order to erase that nonsensical clause from the contract of Good and Evil.
“Brilliant,” Crowley says, instantly recovered. “Now, where was I? Right- where do you keep your wine?”
*
Being supreme leader of the archangels is a bit tiring, if Aziraphale’s being honest. It’s important work, of course. Very important. But he can’t help but feel that he’s meant for a lower-stakes job. Less responsibility, fewer working hours, plenty of opportunities to make himself a nice cuppa and get some cake from the bakery.
Come to think of it, he’d like something that’s exactly like his old job was. Perhaps he just wants his old job, period.
But you don’t say no to a job offer from the Metatron, and once you’ve said yes, you don’t just quit. Quitting is not a done thing in Heaven. Not if you want to remain an angel, that is.
Aziraphale does want to remain an angel. He could just do without the archangel bit, is all.
“We’re working on rewriting the bible as we speak, sir,” says an angel from the lower ranks, interrupting his musings.
Aziraphale clears his throat, certain he’s misheard. “Pardon?”
“We’re replacing Gabriel’s name with yours,” the angel explains. “A traitor has no place in the holy book.”
“Quite,” Aziraphale agrees weakly. “It’s just- I hope you don’t mind me asking, but- won’t people remember that, er, it wasn’t me? Surely they’ll remember that it wasn’t a fellow named Aziraphale who brought Mother Mary the good news.”
“We’re working on that, too,” the angel says. “No need to worry, sir. Once we’re done with the bible, we’ll move on to humans’ memories.”
“Splendid,” Aziraphale says. He waits until the angel has left before he sinks his head into his hands. Censorship. Heaven is performing censorship on his behalf. Surely there’s a rule against that somewhere. Crowley would know, he thinks abruptly. Crowley was always good at remembering the tens of thousands of rules Heaven and Hell have accumulated over the last few millennia.
Crowley isn’t here, though. For some reason, Crowley refused to even consider the idea of coming back to Heaven. Aziraphale is still not sure why. What’s better than Heaven?
Well, okay. Sushi, for one thing. And operas, and complicated coffee orders, and scones with lemon curd. But Hell doesn’t have those things, either! They’re only on Earth. And Crowley…
“Is on Earth,” Aziraphale mutters. “Er, excuse me?”
The angel from earlier instantly appears again. “Yes?”
“Would it be possible for you to locate a certain individual for me? He’s a demon, and he’s probably somewhere in London. Very probably. I’m almost certain. I just want to make sure that-“
“You’re talking about Crowley, right?” the angel says.
Aziraphale blinks. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Are you two back together? Only I’ve a bet on it.”
“We aren’t- we weren’t- a bet?” Aziraphale really wishes angels would stop making bets. Then again, he supposes that God isn’t exactly setting a good example. “Don’t tell me,” he says hastily before the angel can elaborate. “If I don’t know, I’m not involved. I really don’t want to be involved. So- Crowley?”
“Not in England, sir,” the angel says immediately.
Aziraphale blanches, which shouldn’t actually be possible for an angel to do. “So he’s in- is he in Hell?”
“Depends on how you want to look at it, sir.” The angel pauses, then adds, “Our sources indicate that he's in Philadelphia.”
Aziraphale frowns. “Oh dear.”
*
It has only been two days, and Gabriel is already sick of having a guest.
WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO KILL HIM FOR YOU, MY SWEET? Beelzebub asks directly into his mind, presumably because Crowley is only sitting a few feet away, lounging on their expensive leather couch and drinking something called a Coors Light, which Gabriel is starting to suspect may be liquor.
“Just the thought of you draining the life out of him and erasing him from existence gives me a greater pleasure than you could possibly imagine,” Gabriel replies, lightly caressing Beelzebub’s cheek. The touch stings slightly, but not in an unpleasant way. “Unfortunately, you can’t. It’s part of the treaty.”
“Oi,” Crowley yells, “are you talking about me?”
“Yes,” Gabriel says.
“We are discussing the possibility of slowly torturing you to death,” Beelzebub explains.
Crowley nods morosely and takes another sip of his drink. “Go on, then. Hurry up. I think I’m- what’s the word?”
“Obnoxious,” Gabriel offers.
“A traitor,” Beelzebub hisses, a swarm of flies accompanying the words, which, Gabriel thinks, might just be a tiny bit hypocritical coming from someone who is currently, as they say, on the run.
“Depressed,” Crowley says. “Do you think I should see a therapist?”
Gabriel and Beelzebub exchange a look.
“Yours?” Beelzebub asks.
“Probably,” Gabriel says, though he’s not altogether sure. He does know though that if Crowley is going to start seeing a therapist, Gabriel will, too, and he’s going to be better at it than Crowley.
Crowley, meanwhile, has finished his bottle and conjured up another one. This one says Budweiser.
“Is that beer?” Gabriel asks.
“When in Rome,” Crowley mutters. Gabriel and Beelzebub exchange another look, this one completely blank with incomprehension.
Even he has to admit that this is odd behaviour, though. Over the past few millennia, Gabriel has always made a point of avoiding lesser beings – humans, obviously. Demons, naturally. Certain individuals, especially. Aziraphale is one such individual. Gabriel has no patience for people who think hot chocolate is an acceptable thing to put in their bodies. Aziraphale’s demon friend is another example, although until two days ago, Crowley was usually at least seen drinking wine. (Seen by Gabriel’s spies, that is.)
(Disliking someone doesn’t mean he won’t keep an eye on them.)
Wine is a good drink. It’s practically a celestial drink. Too many calories for Gabriel’s taste, but at least it’s mentioned in the bible.
Now, though, Crowley’s tastes have seemingly changed. This is a red flag. Which would be fine, if Crowley weren’t also sullying Gabriel’s home with it.
“Jesus didn’t turn water into beer,” Gabriel mutters under his breath.
“So?” Crowley says. “I told you. I’m depressed. Depressed people don’t deserve wine.”
Gabriel is starting to feel like he’s getting depressed, if Crowley stays any longer. Having Crowley around is like living with a black cloud of misery. Literally. The cloud follows Crowley everywhere he goes, and this morning, it drenched Gabriel’s breakfast omelette (whites only, with sun-grown tomatoes and a pinch of hand-harvested sea salt).
CROWLEY, Beelzebub says. Outside, a bird that had been flying past the window drops dead mid-air and falls to the ground.
“What?” Crowley asks.
“How long are you staying?” Beelzebub asks ominously in a voice full of thunder, which is promptly matched by actual thunder. Gabriel smiles. He’s always happy to support his lover like this.
Crowley shrugs. It looks odd on him, like perhaps this is the first time he’s ever coaxed his human shape through the motion. “Couple of decades, maybe. Perhaps more. Who’s to say? I’m just biding my time until someone gets his head out of his arse and realises that Heaven’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
Beelzebub cocks his head. He’s been experimenting with those sorts of things recently – seeming more human, for one. Using pronouns, for another. Gabriel, who took a good, long look at Earth six thousand years ago and promptly felt deep in the place where a human heart would be that being a man comes with many advantages, can’t say he relates, but he is supportive. Whatever the light of his life wants is what Gabriel wants to.
“Someone,” Beelzebub repeats. “The angel?”
“Aziraphale has returned to Heaven?” Gabriel asks. For once, he’s actually, properly shocked. “Aziraphale? To Heaven?” He knew that there was trouble in paradise, so to speak, but he’d simply assumed that Crowley and Aziraphale had fought about whatever it is they normally fight about, probably which pub sells the cheapest liquor. But this? This is unprecedented.
Crowley’s beer bottle has, at some point, turned into a martini for some reason. He takes a sip now, grimaces, sets it down on the neat stack of books on the couch table (Gabriel winces), and says, “He got promoted.” His sunglasses make it impossible to see his eyes, but there is a mean tinge to his voice when he adds,
“Supreme Leader, I’m told.”
“Aziraphale?” Gabriel says again, sure he’s misunderstood. “Supreme Leader of the Archangels? Aziraphale?”
“The very one,” Crowley says cheerfully. He says something else, but Gabriel is no longer listening. In a split second, his entire existence flashes before his eyes as he thinks of everything he carefully built up over six thousand years – everything that is now going to get ruined by one bumbling fool who wouldn’t know where to find a bespoke suit if it him in the face.
Aziraphale. Gabriel knew they’d replace him, of course, but – Aziraphale. Has Heaven gone mad?
He breathes in, breathes out, breathes in again. When he breathes out, he turns to Beelzebub. “My darling,” he says. “Close your eyes and cover your ears, I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“Like what, my love?” Beelzebub asks.
“Like this,” Gabriel says before squaring his jaw and looking straight at Crowley. “What would you recommend to someone who is interested in getting what I believe you’d call ‘blackout drunk’?”
Crowley smiles like a snake. “I thought you’d never ask.”