Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been a week since the angel returned to Heaven. While Muriel greeted the usual customers with a cheer and delight, Whickber Street had begun to feel the absence of the soft, brilliant bookseller. The bakery down the road had lost their most prized customer, Maggie, although relieved to hear that her rent continued to be covered, missed her cheeky exchanges with the angel, and Mr. Brown's lips curled to a frown as he held his clipboard like a barrier between him and the peppy new shopkeeper who was all too eager to discuss the concept of Christmas lights. 

But of course, no one missed him more than Crowley. Not that he’d admit it, of course. Standing in line at the coffee shop, Nina had tried to coax the feeling out of him.

“It’s okay to be upset, you know. That he left.” 

Crowley’s grip on the counter had tightened, the you left unspoken yet lingering at the end of the phrase. 

“I’m not.”

“But-”

“I’m not.”

The stone cracked under his grip. Nina stood with arms crossed, unimpressed as Crowley mumbled an apology and waved a hand over the break and left it good as new.

Oh Lord, heal this countertop.

Crowley twitched slightly at the thought, choking out a small thanks as Nina handed over his cup and he staggered out of the shop. He could see Muriel puttering excitedly through the windows of the bookshop, circling a blonde woman with an armful of books who, to her credit, looked only slightly unsettled at the angel’s more than intense enthusiasm at the prospect of completing a purchase. 

Crowley sighed— He’d have to talk to them about that. 

At the wave of a hand, the woman straightened up and set the books down on the desk, suddenly reminded that she was late to an appointment. Muriel’s smile dropped until he stepped through the threshold, sipping his espresso in the largest cup Nina would give him these days. 

“Oh, Mr. Crowley! I-“

“Just Crowley, an- Muriel,” Crowley ran the back of  hand over his face as a drop of coffee threatened to make its way down his chin. “No need for the mister. Not a mister anyway, really, s’just a human thing.” 

“Okay. Crow-ley ,” Muriel sounded it out, “What a pleasure to see you today.” 

“Ngk. Sure.” Crowley dropped himself into the armchair near the window, casting a glance out to the busy street. “Just wanted to check up on the bookshop. Make sure you weren’t selling any books.”

Muriel’s smile dropped again. “Am I not supposed to do that, as a bookseller? Sell…books?”

“Not as such.” Crowley turned back to the angel. “It’s more of a library than a bookshop, even though it’s called that. You’re actually supposed to chase the customers out. Politely, of course.”

“Hm.” The angel paused for a moment to think. “So it’s like a magic trick I’ve been reading about. You say something is one thing when it’s really something else the whole time!” 

“I-” Crowley furrowed his eyebrows. “Sure. A trick. You trick the customers into thinking they don’t want any books. No books are to ever leave this shop, got it?” 

“Right!” Muriel’s cheery demeanor returned, rocking on the balls of their feet. “I’ll be happy to try one of these tricks with the next human. Mr. Aziraphale told me humans love tri-“

“Do not say his name.”

Crowley’s voice was almost a hiss, low and yet filled with venom. Muriel snapped their mouth shut at the sound, unsure of what to say. After a moment, they settled on a decision.

“I’m sor-”

“Don’t bother.” Crowley was already standing, making his way towards the door. “Not your fault. Just don’t sell the books, yeah?”

“Yes, Mr…Yes, Crowley!” Muriel stood a little straighter as the demon left, “I’ll do my best!”

The angel’s voice echoed out as the door to the shop swung shut. The Bentley was already waiting on the curb as he descended the single step, engine humming softly. Crowley patted the steering wheel as he slunk into the driver’s seat.

“Right, let’s go, old girl.”

Tires screeched and the car sputtered, tearing down the street in the direction of the Mayfair flat.

He was happy to get it back from Shax once she’d left Earth, who was all too eager to scuttle back down to Hell for whatever scraps of power were left in Beelzebub’s absence. For the most part it had been left untouched, which was partially the problem. All the plants that couldn’t fit in the back of his car had stayed in their room, which looked like it had been abandoned by the other demon. The leaves still shook when he entered the room, but the feeling had changed. No longer did the shakes feel of fear, but of a pallid weakness as the stems drooped and spots danced along the wrinkled leaves that covered the walls. Crowley did his best to instill the fear of, well, him back into the plants, but didn’t quite have the human cardiovascular organ to hiss threats or flash pointed teeth. After all, it hurt to be abandoned.

After slamming the empty cup onto the kitchen counter with a satisfied hiss, Crowley sauntered to the plant room. The second he opened the door, he could already sense a difference. There was a faint scent of a miracle that had settled along the floor. Cinnamon and honey. 

Angelic. 

Crowley wrenched off his sunglasses, eyes flirting around the room for the sight of an intruder. He’d long since warded the flat from both angel and demon, but any celestial being could certainly try. Especially if they already knew what his flat looked like. Or, if they’d been let in once before. 

Aziraphale.

Crowley’s breath quickened, inhaling the notes of old books and the bergamot in a cup of earl grey. The angel wasn’t here, that much was obvious. Crowley would be able to sense him if he was. But the angel had been here, in his plant room, in his flat. 

But what for? 

Crowley closed his eyes and inhaled deep, letting his senses lead him to the spot in the room to where the miracle smelled strongest.

He opened his eyes to find himself facing the east wall, inches from a big, bright, flowering-

Flowering?

The plant was unlike anything Crowley had ever placed in the room himself. It had flowers, Crowley didn’t have flowers. Crowley had respectable plants that were becoming of any other demon, not pretty, fragile little flowers. Fields had flowers. Humans had flowers. Demons did. not. have. flowers. 

And yet, here they were, stems leaned slightly away from the wall, allowing the blooms to flow with any movement in the air that passed through the still-open door. The leaves, in their teardrop shape, pointed down to the floor but the petals stood proud, open like a scalloped shell while its tendrils swirled towards the ceiling. Soft pinks, purples, and white cut through the shady green that filled the rest of the space, plants which were now glowing in the wake of the miracle. It looked so delicate amidst the sea of large leaves, stems so thin and yet so strong.

He gently tapped one of the petals with the tip of his finger, watching as it bounced and swayed at the simple touch. 

The Supreme Archangel of all Heaven had come down from Heaven to…send him flowers? Fuck that. 

He left. He left and all he can do is come back and mess with his plants? 

Before he could stop himself, Crowley grabbed the flowers by their slim necks and yanked them from the wall. Immediately the room rattled with the shaking of leaves, terrified as they watched the new plant, roots and all, be thrown to the floor.  He crushed the petals under his heel, feeling slightly guilty as the scent of bergamot perfumed at the action. 

He shook it off quickly, yelling out into the room. “Don’t even think I can take care of a garden without you, do you? Just a big bad demon, me, nothing ssssso evil could be trusted with taking care of God’s precioussss creations .” The tone of his voice laced the mocking sarcasm with pain, and if the plants noticed, they did nothing to acknowledge it. 

As expected, the room did not answer. 

Crowley snatched what was left of the flowers off the ground, holding them up towards the ceiling. 

“Well, this is what I think! Great pustulent, mangled bollocks to God’s great, precious little flowers.” He threw them down again, stems stretched out in either direction, broken and angular. 

Stalking out of the room, he heard the plants shudder again. As the door closed with a click, he whispered softly to no one plant in particular.

“It’s alright. The fall’s the worst part, anyways.”

Chapter Text

It had been a week since the angel left for Heaven, and by Her it had been the worst week of Aziraphale’s life. 

He’d forgotten just how sterile Heaven could be. It consisted of empty white corridors that lead to empty white walls of empty, white rooms. He missed his bookshop, filled to the brim with stacks and stacks of books, smelling of aged manuscripts and worn out covers. He missed the spiral staircase, the yellow columns, and sitting in his favourite chair with a view of the humans skittering about outside the window. He missed popping into Maggie’s shop for a new Shostakovich record to listen to while he drank his tea and ate sweets from Nina’s over the road. He missed his dinners at the Ritz and late nights drinking with Crowley. 

And God , he missed Crowley. 

At his desk, the angel rubbed a hand over his face, sighing as the pads of his fingertips brushed his lips lightly. 

Aziraphale wasn’t normally one to shy away from tragedy, in fact as a patron of the theatre arts he often encouraged it. But on stage it seemed much easier. Up there, in front of hundreds, as two characters embraced each other in a moment of mixed grief and passion, Aziraphale was unashamed to shed a tear in the name of love. 

But their first kiss had been awful, not at all what he pictured it to be. 

And yes, he’d pictured kissing Crowley. The demon had a habit of slamming him up against walls and sneering in his face, putting their lips centimetres from each other. At this distance, Aziraphale could smell him clearly, a soft sandalwood with a hint of fiery smoke. He could see the ever so slight curve of his lips as he twisted his face with indignation that never truly met the eyes. Oh, and what lovely eyes they were. A warm amber, so comforting and homely. There was a reason the bookshop was yellow, after all. 

He’d wanted to kiss Crowley many times. In the Bastille, when the demon draped himself along the ledge of the cell window in that sinfully red coat. In the church, or what was left of it, when he’d handed him back his leather bag of books that he had saved like it was nothing more natural than the ducks swimming in the pond. In the Bentley mere moments after, driving through columns of fire on their way to the West End. In the dressing room, riding the high of Fell the Marvelous and his dashing assistant pulling off a fully miracle-free act. In the bookshop, too, as they toasted to trust felt deeply between…friends. Once again when they’d danced in the main room while a horde of demons milled around, lying in wait for an Archangel to appear from behind the glass. 

Do you remember Jane Austen? She had balls, cotillion balls. People would gather and do some formal dancing and then realize they had misunderstood each other and were actually deeply in love. 

Aziraphale had been foolish to think that it would work. It was a work of fiction, after all. 

In reality, Crowley had tasted of desperation. Aziraphale could feel it as he smashed their lips together, tugging tightly onto the lapels of his jacket. Whether he meant to be or not, Crowley had been the Original Tempter. He had offered Eve a taste of freedom with the apple, and now here he had been offering Aziraphale in spades. 

He didn’t mean to be cruel, of course. Crowley, despite strong and sputtered denial of the sentiment, had always been quite a nice demon. But the kiss was not a simple gesture of love. It had been a last stand of sorts, except this time they’d not been trying to avert the apocalypse, standing hand in hand with the Antichrist to face off against Satan himself. No, this time there had been no flaming swords or tyre irons, no prophecies, and no body swapping. There was only a thin set of lips pressed against his own, imploring him with every fibre of his corporation. 

Stay. Choose me. Choose us. Stay.  

Aziraphale couldn’t, of course. He wasn’t so naive as to let the seething glares between Crowley and the Metatron go unnoticed. He hadn’t forgotten what Jim had said to him that very first day in the bookshop, sitting naked as the day he was formed on his favourite armchair. 

I just felt that so long as I came here, the Something Terrible might not happen to me. 

Heaven was up to something. Something more than their usual plan. Gabriel had been the Supreme Archangel of all Heaven, and while Aziraphale in his particular tastes would have to take several moments in order to think of a nice thing to say about the angel, he had been important. Gabriel was irritating, brutish, and uncaring, but many of the Archangels were the same and it would have taken a great betrayal to discard one of their own so high up in the ranks. So whether great, magnificent, or even holy, Aziraphale was inclined to believe that it would be anything but a Good Plan that Heaven was putting into motion.

And so he’d taken the Metatron’s falsely sweet, almond syrup flavoured olive branch, listened to him speak, fought with Crowley, and then shuffled into the elevator. He’d hated that Crowley waited until the doors closed, giving him one more chance to step back onto the pavement and choose their side. But Aziraphale was first and foremost a Guardian, placed on Earth to protect the humans with the blessings the Almighty afforded him. So he dutifully sat at his desk, attended the meetings, prepared himself for the celestial onboarding process of becoming the next Supreme Archangel. 

But in his own small moments, in the seconds stolen back from the blank walls and the bleak spaces, he cast his gaze down to the earth. To London, to the neighbourhoods of Soho and Mayfair. To the interior of the coffee shop where he sat in the corner, hissing at any humans who tried to sit too close. 

He hated seeing Crowley in such a state of disarray. He wanted to brush a thumb over his cheek and smooth out the scowl that seemed to now sit permanently upon his face. He longed to send him a message, but the other Archangels had been closely monitoring his scrolls. He’d been reprimanded for the short note he’d sent down to Muriel, asking them not to rearrange the Austen’s like Crowley had suggested, which was in alphabetical order according to the first letter of the last word in the novels. 

My dearest Muriel, 

It has come to my attention that the demon Crowley has given you a false impression on alphabetical organization. Alphabetical organization of books by the same author should be organized by the first letter of the book title, not the words contained in the book itself. I’d appreciate you returning the Austens to their original state on the shelf, if you please. 

Warmly, 

The Supreme Archangel Aziraphale

Not moments after he’d waved the note down to the bookshop, alarm bells rang in Heaven for the second time that month. He’d been interrogated by Michael, who continued to regard him suspiciously as he’d left her office with nothing but a stern warning that any contact with the demon known as Crowley would be severely reprimanded. No, any plain note to Crowley would be far too risky. 

Looking back to the Earth Observation screen, he watched Crowley stalk back to his car, coffee in hand, brushing past a gaggle of humans spilling out of Marguerite’s, whose tables always sported a lovely bloom from the flower shop down the road.

Hmm.

He’d tried the marks of the Regency era before. Perhaps it was time for something slightly more modern. 

He closed his eyes, thinking back to the few books he had in his shop. Although it had fallen out of style, much like the Gavotte, there had been a time where the humans were quite taken with sending each other secret messages in the form of flowers. 

Who, after all, could object to the appearance of God’s creation? Surely not angels, especially when one-miracle limits did not exist for Supreme Archangels. 

And so Aziraphale sat up a little straighter and, with his hand under the desk and away from prying eyes, did a quick wiggle of his fingers to miracle an appropriate flower into Crowley’s plant room. Nothing extravagant, straight to the point. 

I’m so sorry I had to say goodbye.

He watched as Crowley entered the flat and strolled over to the plant room. He watched as he stiffened upon entry, eyes darting around the room and alert at the smell of the miracle. He watched as Crowley tore them from the wall and pulverised them under his foot, yelling all the while.

Oh. Oh, dear.

That time hadn’t gone quite how he’d wanted, either.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale kept trying, of course. He’d sent bellflowers about a week later, their purple-blue blooms standing tall and proud in betwixt the surrounding vines. They had a semi sweet smell that perfumed the room and Aziraphale smiled to himself as he imagined the scent becoming entwined with that of the demon’s home. A second way to send his message. 

Crowley, I think of you. 

But these too had been crushed under a sneering heel and promptly thrown in the bin. A few weeks later, he tried again with two small, variegated tulips that held strong brushstrokes of yellow amidst their red cores. He’d blushed to himself while the miracle took hold and the flower formed right in front of the demon, who had finally snuck back into the room after weeks of what Aziraphale could only describe as active, petty ignorance. These flowers were spared, if only for a few seconds, as Crowley jumped back with a yelp at the sudden intrusion. After regaining his balance, however, he again ripped the plants out of the wall, throwing a glare up to the ceiling as he did so. 

Aziraphale waved his hand with a sigh, closing the viewing window and leaning back in his chair. The last month in Heaven had been rather horrible and it was making itself known to his corporation in ways that were getting harder to ignore. His body felt heavy, aching from the slumped posture it had assumed as he’d carried himself through the stacks and stacks of paperwork. His eyes were tired, slightly pink with irritation from rubbing in fatigue, and his face had gone rough as a stubble had begun to form in the absence of his wonderful barber. Aziraphale was sure that he must, well, look like shit.

“Aziraphale.”

The angel shook himself out of his thoughts at the sound of his own name, much colder of a sound up in Heaven than it ever was on earth. 

“Metatron.”

The Voice of God hovered in the doorframe for only a moment before stepping into the room. Aziraphale felt himself shrink back in his chair and slightly into himself. He could almost hear Gabriel’s voice in his ear, all bright and positively fake, mocking his reaction.

Come on, Aziraphale. You’re the Supreme Archangel now, champ! Show a little backbone. 

He’d managed to straighten himself up a tad as the Metatron reached his desk, peering slightly to look down at him. Like his voice, his face was also cold, showing no emotion except for a small twitch of the mouth before he spoke. 

“I’d have hoped you’d be settled in by now.” He regarded the former principality with a storminess Aziraphale couldn’t quite place, looking him up and down slowly in a manner that made his skin crawl. 

“Ah, yes, well-” Aziraphale tried to speak, but was cut off.

“Perhaps it’s these human garbs,” The Metatron mused, reaching out to tug a button off of his jacket. Aziraphale forced himself not to jerk or cry out in indignation but couldn’t stop a short, quiet whimper from leaving his lips. Thankfully, the Metatron seemed to ignore this in favour of twirling the button over in his fingers like a silver coin. “I should think that no angel in Heaven would need to be so attached to such…earthly possessions.” 

Aziraphale gulped. He was quite fond of his clothes, and everything in Heaven was downright dreadful. It was all grey or white or gold and it just didn’t feel right. Human clothes were made of love, spun from fabrics that required care to make and source. Miracled clothing was all but a mirage of celestial energy. Like everything else in Heaven, it felt icy to the touch. He brushed his fingertips over the spot where the button once was, feeling out the now-frayed thread.

“I think they’re holding you back, Aziraphale.” The Metatron cleared his throat as he spoke, causing Aziraphale gaze to snap back up to the angel. “And I think you would do well to let this, too, go.” 

Aziraphale knew that tone. It was the same tone that Gabriel used before giving him a particularly harsh clap on the back and the very same that Uriel used to call him ridiculous just before the Armageddon that didn’t happen. Underneath the veil of control it was forceful and sharp, its intentions quite clear. 

Do this now, Principality. You won’t like what happens to you if you don’t. 

Gulping, Aziraphale answered. “O-of course, Sir.” 

Hand shaking, he waved slowly over himself. His shoes went first, finding themselves neatly tucked back into the bottom of his wardrobe in the bookshop. Then disappeared his socks, and subsequently, sock garters. They were replaced by sleek black loafers, adorned with a golden winged buckle. His trousers were next, finding themselves neatly folded on the chair beside the bed while a pressed dark grey set appeared in their absence. His shirt, waistcoat, and jacket faded into the same gloomy colour as the last of his real clothes found themselves clean, pressed, and hung up behind closet doors. He afforded himself only one luxury: a yellow tie without the slightest hint of gold. 

The Metatron gazed at him, eyes dancing along his frame and coming to settle on the colourful accessory. “What a lovely choice.”

“I-It is quite nice, to have reminders of her warmth and of her love in such a lovely hue.” Aziraphale cursed himself for stuttering but was pleased with his own answer. Most angels tended to prefer the metallic shine of gold on their person as a symbol of Her Grace but it wasn’t too uncommon to see a cherub or two in solid colours every now and again. 

“Of Hers, yes.” 

Thankfully, the Metatron seemed satisfied enough with his changes and turned instead to gesture at the still mountainous pile of paperwork sitting on the desk. He reached out to tap the corner of the topmost paper, nudging it slightly back into a now perfect, even stack. “We’d like to move forward with the project soon, Aziraphale. Have you made any real progress on the preliminary paperwork?”

“Oh, yes, of c-course,” Aziraphale’s voice rose, “I-I-I’m getting the hang of things much faster now. It’s been a while since I’ve had a desk job other than writing my reports, you understand-”

“Perhaps I should send Michael over to assist. Or, I hear Sandalphon is-”

“NO!” Aziraphale exclaimed, then smacked a hand over his own mouth and brought it back down just as quickly as the Metatron whipped around at the outburst. He gathered himself together under the angel’s narrowed gaze. “No, no that won’t be necessary, I assure you, I am quite capable of finishing the paperwork myself.”

“Good.” The Metatron’s smile was toothy. “I knew I had just the angel for the job.”

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale let out a weak laugh as he watched him head for the door, “Quite.”

“Oh, and Aziraphale?” The angel stopped just short of the doorframe, back still turned to the bookseller. “If I catch wind of you…fraternizing with that demon Crowley ever again to interfere with Her plans, I’ll make him watch when I tear your wings out to make you Fall myself .”

He didn’t wait to watch Aziraphale’s eyes go wide and gasp, leaving just as silently as he’d appeared. 

Oh, fuck. That wasn’t good.

The second he was out of sight, Aziraphale slumped in his chair and whimpered. He reconjured the small observation window into the shape of an orb and cradled it between his hands. Crowley was driving, sunglasses on, scowling at the traffic in front of him.

Oh, Crowley. How I wish I could see your eyes right now, my dear. Don’t shut me out, please .

Chapter Text

For an angel that left six thousand years of friendship just to cavort back up to Heaven, Aziraphale didn’t give up easily. Crowley found himself gritting his teeth as flowers continued to pop up in his green room. As the weeks went by he’d found himself sneaking into his own flat to water the plants, shoulders tense with the fright that he’d round the corner and be smacked in the face with a bouquet of the Supreme Archangel's newest attempts to raise his blood pressure. Not that he had one, really. That was a human thing.

“But is it an angel thing?” Crowley mused out loud as he draped himself over the chair in the bookshop, watching Justine from the restaurant across the road place a single red rose in each table vase. 

“Is what an angel thing?” Muriel popped their head around the bookshelf they’d been inspecting. After Aziraphale’s note they’d been pleased to report back that the bookshop was looking quite neat and tidy, save for the former principality’s desk, which they didn’t dare touch. It felt wrong, somehow, to move such things around that the bookseller had personally placed just-so for his own use. Muriel’s own things, now consisting of a self-titled mug and a container of hot chocolate to match, sat beside the desk on a small side stand. 

“Plants. Flowers. Leafy green things.” He watched another rose drop into a vase. 

“Well, God did make all of them, so, I think it would be a Heaven thing?”

Crowley sighed, letting his sunglasses slide ever so slightly down his face as he rubbed his eyes exasperatedly. “Not like that. I mean like, giving peo- giving angels plants. Do angels give each other plants?”

Muriel frowned “I don’t think so.”

“So-”

“Although,” Muriel continued, voice away from Crowley, “I am just a 37th level scrivener. I was alone for 300 years once before I saw another angel and that was a short trip up to help with the staffing needs on the Prayers level. I saw a few plants there! So maybe it is an angel thing.” 

Crowley gaped at them. “You were alone…for three hundred years?”

“Yep!” Muriel’s voice regained a lighter tone, as if pulling themselves back to the present, “Anything Michael needed me to know was left as a miracled note on my desk. An archangel’s time is precious, you know!”

Crowley grumbled at that. “So it would seem.” He made a mental note to set Michael alight in hellfire next time he got the chance. For his angel and this one. 

Not that he cared, though. Not in the slightest. 

“Why do you ask, M-Crowley?” Muriel was getting better at catching themselves on the formality, but they were still getting used to the dynamic with the strange demon. He must be alright, if Mr. Aziraphale had spent time with him, but his presence as a celestial being still put them at slight unease. But that wasn’t Mr. Crowley’s fault, he had been mostly nice, much nicer than the Archangels, at least. Muriel ought to tell him that one day. 

“The Supreme Archangel ,” Crowley raised his voice in a mocking tone, “has been miracling flowers into my flat. Without my permission. And he won’t stop, no matter how much I curse up at His Holiness. Just about every week there’s always some new… thing in my plant room, the one I’ve spent the last century trying very hard to cultivate to perfection, by the way. And he’s ruining it with his-his… angel-ness .”

Muriel blinked, ignoring the last part of Crowley’s rant. “Oh, like the humans do?”

“They wot?”

“Like the humans! They give each other nice looking flowers to say nice things about each other.”  

Crowley glanced out the window back towards Justines. “They do not . They get each other flowers if they want to bone or if someone’s died. End of story.” 

“But they do! I read all about it in Jane Aust-en.” Muriel enunciated excitedly and began to grin. “One of those human books! When a person wants to show their feelings, they send flowers. It’s a human thing.” 

Now that made Crowley scoff. “I hardly think that the Supreme Archangel of all Heaven is spending his celestial lunch breaks sending a demon flowers because of some feelings .” 

“Heaven is…lonely.” Muriel’s tone dulled again, wringing their hands as they bowed their head slightly. “He might just need a friend.”

“I mean, if he wants a friend so badly, he can come down and say whatever he wants to say to my face like a big boy.”

“Maybe it’s not about wanting. Maybe it’s something he can’t say out loud.”

That made Crowley pause. “Still doesn’t make it right.”

“Well, is there anything you’ve wanted to say to him that you weren’t able to tell him out loud?”

I can’t imagine living without you Let’s run off together

And I would like to spend the rest of my existence in your arms Just the two of us

Please choose me What do you say?

Please don’t go, Aziraphale. I love you. Don't bother. 

“We said loads of things to each other. Me being ultimately hilarious, him being unintentionally funny. Never shut up, that one.” 

“In any case,” Muriel seemed to accept that Crowley wouldn’t be answering their question properly, but pushed forwards anyway, “They did it because they had secrets to keep. Maybe Mr. Aziraphale-”

“Don’t say his name. ”

“Maybe he ,” Muriel tried again, “Just wants to tell you a secret too.” 

“Well, he can take his secrets and shove them up his holy arse!” Crowley caught himself gritting his teeth, canines flashing for a moment as he opened his mouth to bark out the words.

Muriel was silent for a moment, their shoulders dropped low and looking partially frightened. It was the same look they’d had on their face when the Metatron had waltzed into the bookshop, coffee in hand. Crowley cursed himself for inspiring the same instinct.

“I could show you the books on it, if you’d like. To help.” Their voice was just louder than a whisper, sparing a glance up to Crowley, who briefly let his gaze go soft to lock eyes with the smaller angel. 

“Well you’re the bookseller now, Inspector Constable. Lead the way.” The demon hopped up from his spot and followed on the heels of the shorter being, who’d regained their pep at Crowley’s acknowledgement and bounded towards the eastern corner of the bookshop. 

They brought him to a smaller shelf and pulled a short, blue book from between two others. The title shone softly in the sun, its gilded frame catching the light and showing the barely-there texture on the cover. The demon ran his hand over the grooves where flowers curled their way around the text, falling just short of the edges of the cover. 

The Language of Flowers by Robert Tyas, with coloured illustrations

“Here it is! In its alphabetical place in the correct section, exactly where a human bookseller would put it.”

“That it was - good job, kiddo.” Crowley gave them an awkward pat on the shoulder, holding the book gingerly in his other hand.

Muriel preened under the praise. “Oh, thank you! I was hoping I was doing a good job.” 

“Well you are, congratulations.” Crowley tucked the book into a newly materialized pocket in his jacket, “I’ll be going now. Got dastardly stuff to do, me. Might tempt a human. Glue a coin to the pavement.” 

“O-oh, of course,” Muriel looked downcast, “But, Crowley?”

“Yea?” He hovered in the doorway, casting a glance to the Bentley parked across the street, whose lights had flickered to life at the sight of him.

“Perhaps, next time you’re here, you’ll have a…cupperty with me?” 

“Sure, kiddo.” Crowley threw up a hand in a chaste wave as he crossed the threshold, to which Muriel returned excitedly, “We’ll have tea. Maybe we’ll take you for a pint at the pub, too.”

“What’s a pint?”

“Err,” Crowley stepped onto the pavement, “Ask Nina over the road.” 

____________

Back at the Mayfair flat, Crowley leafed through the book on his throne. The thing was dusty, just like everything else in that damn shop. Without his demonic presence, the dust and dirt had gotten a little bit too comfortable again. He’d have to teach Muriel about human cleaning standards.

A few illustrations caught his eye. While the drawings had managed to keep their bolded colours vibrant all these years, the pages had turned a well-worn beige and were brittle around the edges. He was careful while flipping through; if the Supreme Archangel did ever choose to return to Earth, he’d have Crowley’s head for ruining a book. 

It was organized alphabetically, but by the plant's scientific names. Crowley had seen a few before, having posed as a university’s botany professor as a means to relocate and rehabilitate his spottier plants without losing his stern reputation and firm grip upon the others. And, of course, to tempt the students into growing their own…special plants. While he hadn’t gotten a commendation for that particular burst of demonic wiles, he’d at least become a bit more familiar with the way the humans classified them. The illustrations sat on the pages opposite to the names, which included the meanings, some uses, and the occasional anecdote from the author. Crowley felt bad for the bloke who's roses withered within the day he was meant to give them to his lover. 

Lonicera xylosteum

Lotus corniculatus

Lotus maritimus

Lunaria

Wait- He knew this one. 

Pushing himself up from the throne, he sauntered over to the plant room. Despite the unfortunate experience of having another unexpected plant pop up around the vines that morning, it hadn’t flowered, instead sporting bright green oval pouches that blended well amongst his plants. They’d nestled themselves in amongst them rather nicely, so Crowley thought he’d at least wait until dinner to pluck them from the wall. Or, at very least until he had gotten the chance to complain to the angel he knew would be bouncing off the walls of the bookshop.

This entry was rather worn, the ink a warm, ashen grey that Crowley’s eyes had a hard time distinguishing upon the page. Some of the text was simply too hard to make out, but he could make out the title and a few of the meanings above the folklore and facts that prattled on down the page.

Lunaria

Symbolic Meanings: Am I forgotten, Fascination, Forgetfulness, Honesty, Repelling monsters, sec-

Crowley huffed, thumbing over the seed pod. “A bit dramatic, Angel. I haven’t forgotten you. I’m just pretending you don’t exist.”

Another two plants sprung to life next to it, brushing his hand as they grew before his eyes. Crowley was able to identify them as bear weed and arugula - a holy herb and a leafy green meant to symbolize rivalry.

Muriel was right about the angel trying to tell him something. He could almost picture the angel’s warm, occasionally and sassily condescending tone, teasing him with a sparkle of those grey-blue eyes.

I am an angel, my dear, we’re hereditary enemies. I suppose it's time we acted like rivals.

“Just picking up what you’re putting down, angel.” Crowley grumbled softly to himself. Despite the quiet tone, another two plants sprouted suddenly. The demon, after a few minutes, found these to be the common sorrel and rue, a mixture of ill-timed wit and regret. He could imagine the cheeky, only half sincere apology from the angel all too well. 

“S’fine. Well, actually, it's not fine and I still hate you for leaving me, but at least I know what you mean now. Right cryptic bastard of an angel, you are.” Crowley shut the book. “I think that’s enough for today.” He walked towards the door, pausing at the frame to look at the newcomers and then looking away just as fast. 

“I know I can’t stay mad at you for long. You know I can’t stay mad at you for long. But, whether you want to admit it or not, I am right now. You’ve always had three reasons for calling me - boredom, gloating, and disaster.” Crowley’s voice got quiet, “So if you’re going to talk, it better not be the first two. I’m…I’m not really ready to just chat.”

The room stayed quiet in response. 

“So sure, you can talk to me if Upstairs is getting just as stuffy as I know it to be. But just don’t expect a response or anything. My plants are just for me.” 

With that, he shut the door, enclosing the vines, and their new friends, into darkness.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale wiggled in his seat as he watched Muriel hand Crowley the book. 

He’d been wrong to assume that Crowley already knew the convoluted, floral codes, having imagined that the demon had at least had an influence on their invention as a means to spread mischief and confusion among the humans. But thankfully, Muriel was much smarter than the other archangels gave them credit for, and had guided Crowley perfectly to one of his literary treasures that would help decipher his clues. 

He was quite thankful to be getting a do-over, as it were. His original communications were a touch bold, much faster than Aziraphale’s usual pace, and after hearing Crowley actually talk about his side of things, he was grateful that Crowley hadn’t understood his previous affections. They may have driven the demon to more sorrow than tenderness, given just how strained their relationship seemed to be. Aziraphale couldn’t blame him for that, either. They’d orbited around each other on Earth for six thousand years, Crowley himself learning to endure the pain of being cast out and Aziraphale with the nonchalance of Heaven’s lower management while desperately trying to cling to his faith in Her despite their cruelty. As general outcasts to their kinds, they’d been each other's only friends since the Earth’s creation and, after becoming friends and forming the Arrangement, had also been each other’s rocks behind closed doors. And, after the apocalypse that hadn’t happened, they’d been…something else. Not on the side of the angels nor demons, just the two of them on Earth’s side. Their own side. Just the two of them.

He could still hear Uriel’s mocking tone as he was cornered beside Justine’s restaurant just before his untimely discorportation.

Don't think your boyfriend in the dark glasses will get you special treatment in hell …

They hadn’t talked much about it in the short amount of time that had passed before Gabriel showed up on his doorstep, but after they’d both retired from their respective head offices, the energy between them had certainly shifted. Aziraphale would wring his hands less when out in public with Crowley and Crowley in turn would shift closer to the angel as they walked down the street. They hadn’t a need for clandestine meeting spots or rendezvous points anymore but the bench in St. James park remained frequently visited to feed the ducks or go on walks. Slowly, Crowley had spent more and more time at the bookshop, simply lounging while Aziraphale puttered about to organize books, talk a few humans right out of the shop, or work on a repair. 

It had been unspoken, their new closeness, but Aziraphale had been made quickly aware just how widespread the word of their Arrangement had become on the very day he’d returned to Heaven. While corresponding on the lower levels to pick up his preliminary paperwork, he’d caught whispers of demon fucker and traitor as he passed through the halls. He tried to ignore them, keeping his head down, but his grip tightened on the files with every step. 

So when Crowley had commented on his cheeky response and chaste apology, he listened. He listened when Crowley pointed out that it was hard to hear from him after being abandoned and didn’t want to be part of any idle chit chat. And while it hurt to hear that Crowley would likely not be communicating in response, it was the demon’s right to do so and Aziraphale would wait as long as he needed to.  

He was about to send another flower, an affirmation of his understanding, when the cold rap of knuckles stirred him from his focus, closing the observation window. 

“Aziraphale.” Michael regarded him with an upturned nose, tapping her white, heeled shoes on the spotless, polished floors. “We have a meeting.” She didn’t wait for the former principality to respond, simply turning on her heel and walking in the opposite direction. 

“Right! Right, yes.” Aziraphale jumped up from his chair, hurriedly smoothing out his jacket and following the other angel. 

She led them to an open space, where Uriel, Sandalphon, and the Metatron were already gathered, speaking in hushed tones. At the sight of the two of them, Uriel waved her hand to conjure up an oval glass table. The archangels flanked their sides while the Metatron and Aziraphale took their places at each end. Aziraphale could feel Michael’s pointed glare on his cheek as she tapped her fingernails on the glass. 

“I’ve called this meeting in regards to the Second Coming,” The Metatron began, miracling five identical file folders onto the table. Aziraphale picked his up with shaky palms, a forced smile plastered onto his face, and skimmed the first page. 

Second Coming, destruction of Earth, sharp sword, striking down the nations-

“Regardless of the fact that our new Supreme Archangel has been…taking his time to settle in, plans are still very much on track.” The archangels who had previously been ignoring his presence were definitely looking at him now as the Metatron gazed at him from the other side of the table. “We will bring the Son of God back to Earth to restart the Apocalypse. The humans have recorded the prophecies of the Second Coming in the book of Revelation as being started by a grand descent from Heaven flanked by our angelic forces. We’re in agreement that they’ll be much more receptive to their demise if it’s similar to what they’ve come to expect, so this is how we will begin the event.”

“You mean to say that we’ll be going down to… slaughter ?” Aziraphale squeaked. 

“Of course not!” The Metatron let out a booming laugh and Aziraphale’s nervous chuckle followed, his smile shaking. “That’s where Hell comes in. By restarting the Apocalypse,” More pointed stares came his way, “We can resume plans to end our eternal battle once and for all, and the Earth’s destruction in the process will allow our hands to remain clean. Hell’s legions will not be able to resist partaking in the fated destruction of the world and Heaven will remain triumphant when it is all over. And this time it will be-” 

“I-If I may,” Aziraphale cut the Metatron off hesitantly, as the Voice of God and the rest of the archangels turned to him, “Isn’t this all a bit…much?”

“Much ?” Uriel leaned forward, her disdain obvious, “If it hadn’t been for your meddlesome business with that disgusting demon pet of yours, we wouldn’t have the need for a second plan in the first place-”

“Despite obvious…setbacks in the original arrangement,” The Metatron spoke loudly, causing Uriel to lean back into their seat, still glaring at Aziraphale, “The Second Coming is necessary to fulfill the Great Plan. The Divine Plan.”

“But peo- but the humans have barely just entered the 21st century!” Aziraphale sputtered, “They’ve just started to figure out partially how to get along with each other a little better as a result of sustained Heavenly influence and-”

“And nothing , Aziraphale.” The Voice of God was firm as he spoke. “The Second Coming is, how did you put it? Ineffable. It will commence within the coming months after your paperwork is filed and the proceedings are finalized. The Son of God will be briefed on the new plan and the squadrons of angels will train under Michael in the meantime. This is final .”

Meeting absolved, the angels stood and the table disappeared, leaving the vast, white expanse just as empty as always. Aziraphale clenched his fists as he stared down at his feet. 

Think like Crowley. Fix this. Think like Crowley. He always has a plan to get out of a mess, think like Crowley, think like Crowley, thinklikeCrowley-

He recalled what the demon had said in the wake of Hell’s legions stationed outside his bookshop on the night of the ball. 

Alright, I’ve just made up a rule they’re too stupid to check-

“Give me thirty years!” Aziraphale shouted and the retreating angels rounded to face him once more. 

“For what? So you can go running back to your boyfriend back on Earth and enjoy a little carnal temptation before we go down there to plunge a sword through his wicked little heart?” Uriel stomped towards him, “He used to just have problems with Hell but now it is personal, and I won’t hesitate to carve those infernal, sickening eyes out from that snake -”

“For the Second Coming .” Aziraphale gritted his teeth but stood up straighter, doing his best to not allow his fury at Uriel’s threats to seep through in his posture, “How much more valuable would our triumph be if we were able to send Christ back as a child, same as before, choosing a suitable candidate for immaculate conception, and have his miraculous influence on Earth gain us three more decades worth of righteous souls before he came of age to start the final battle?”

“Please,” Uriel laughed, “Like any of us actually believe-” 

“With Beelzebub gone, the legions are rudderless.” Aziraphale surprised himself with how assured his own voice sounded. “Shax is completely incompetent and Hell is already understaffed, they won’t have the resources to bring enough demonic influence to counteract Christ’s holiness bleeding out into the humans around him. In return for our patience, more souls will be won over for Heaven. Hell will resent us for it and, in the final battle, forgo any strategy to lash out harshley in response for extra decades worth of what they’ll believe to be showboating. You said you wanted something the humans will recognize: They’ll recognize this.”

“I agree with Aziraphale.” Michael spoke, surprising the former principality. “The prayer level is constantly barraged by humans pleading for Christ’s return as they’ve studied it. In addition to giving them something their minds can digest, we let Hell run itself into the ground so that by the time the battle occurs, there is no meaningful force to combat. Our squadrons will have the upper hand and make a swift victory for the Lord while turning over countless more souls in the process we would have otherwise lost.”

“And you, Sandalphon?” Uriel rounded back to her fellow archangels. “How do you feel about this insane plan?”

Sandalphon shifted his weight as both Michael and Uriel sharpened their stares. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to win on higher ground. Climb every mountain, and all.” 

“I cannot believe it! All of you!” Uriel yelled angrily, “He’s playing you! Biding his time to come up with some other way to-.”

“That’s quite enough, Uriel.” The Metatron waved a hand and the sputtering archangel fell silent. “Don’t forget that we appointed Aziraphale as Supreme Archangel for his unique perspective and experience with Earthly affairs. If he thinks that it would be strategic to shift Christ’s return to something more traditional, we should at least let him try.” 

The Voice of God turned to Aziraphale, who drew himself up to his full height, straightening his tie. “You’ll have a month - Uriel will search the Eastern continents while Sandalphon scours the West, looking for suitable candidates to host the immaculate conception based on a set of qualities you ordain necessary based on your time there. Once found, granted you have finished your paperwork and make a formal, convincing proposal in that time, we will adjust the plan accordingly. But if not, we proceed as originally planned without complaint. Understood?”

Aziraphale smiled weakly under his gaze. “Understood.”

“Good. Uriel, Sandalphon, with me. We’ll discuss your postings further at the model Earth.”

The three angels began to walk away, leaving only Michael and Aziraphale standing in the blank room. 

“I appreciate your support on my proposal, Michael.” Aziraphale turned to face her properly. “I’ll correspond with the Prayers department to-”

Her lip quirked. “I know what you’re up to.”

Aziraphale gulped. “Y-You do?”

“You’re still too soft to start Armageddon and you’re biding time to figure out how to stop it with that demon of yours.”

“I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re-”

“But I’m fine with it.”

Aziraphale gaped at her. “What-”

“It was clear from the beginning that I was meant to be the Supreme Archangel. As Duties Officer I assumed Gabriel’s responsibilities when he went off gallivanting with that demon of his. Clearly you want to do the same.”

“Now, really I-”

“And you can go right ahead and do it. As you so obviously fail at fulfilling your ridiculous plan, the Metatron will finally be unable to ignore your incompetence and pass the position along to me.”

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.” Aziraphale huffed. “The Metatron chose me to oversee the project because of my experience on Earth. I’m simply trying to do my job.”

“The Metatron chose you to keep you in line, principality . Don’t forget it.” Michael leaned in, making Aziraphale bristle. “Maybe I’ll just find proof of what you’re doing and speed the whole process up and then you’ll be seeing your little boyfriend a lot sooner than you thought.”

Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat as she pushed past him, heels clicking in her wake. He’d bought himself a month’s worth of time. A month to figure out how to stop the Second Coming after his plan did, eventually, fail. He’d send Uriel and Sandalphon on a wild goose chase for a suitable candidate to carry the Christ child based on a set of contradictory qualities, something he knows no human could ever possess. Hopefully that would give him enough time to come up with a better plan, even while Michael breathed down his neck. But, in the meantime, he had Crowley to thank for his fast thinking. 

At the same time he thought this, somewhere in Mayfair, a peach coloured rose bloomed and a demon’s mouth curled into a soft smile. 

Chapter Text

As it happens, a month of time on Earth passes a hell of a lot faster in Heaven. Aziraphale found his duties to be slightly easier without Uriel’s loud disagreements, but the larger task at hand was still rather daunting. Michael had been keeping a close eye on him as he worked on his proposal, maintaining a tight lipped sneer as he passed her in the halls. On this day he kept his head down, shuffling back to his office with another box of stationary in tow, stammering something about more supplies for the Prayer Department. He could feel her eyes on him as he turned the corner, speeding up once he heard her heels click down the hall in the opposite direction. Glancing once, then twice at each end of the hall, he muttered in hushed tones as the box in his hands slowly faded into nothingness. 

Miracles were always much more difficult without Crowley. As the Supreme Archangel he now had unlimited access to Heaven’s miracle reserves, yet he found the process to be much more physically taxing without being able to share the workload with the redheaded demon. It didn’t make it any easier that he was dealing with holy material, either. 

He slumped along the wall, panting to catch his breath. 

He had seven days. Seven days to present a better case to Michael and the others. Seven days to convince the soldiers of Heaven to stand down from their war postings and see the injustice of it all. Seven days to try and reason with the angels who never cared for Her creations in the beginning, and much less now. Seven days to change minds set in stone for a millennia.

He gulped as he stepped back into his office. 

________________________________________

Meanwhile, on Earth, Crowley was getting antsy. It had been a few weeks since he’d last spoken– well, communicated with the Supreme Archangel. He could sense some sort of angelic movement around the globe, but it was faint. A cold sensation, one that never settled. It certainly wasn’t his angel. 

Something had changed and he had to figure out what. 

By muscle memory he was getting in the Bentley, running his hands over the steering wheel as he settled into the car. The Bentley jumped to life at his touch, taking it upon herself to pull out onto the street and set a nice, albeit faster than the law would allow, speed. His sunglasses glinted in the harsh sunlight of the afternoon as they whizzed by the shops, headed on the well-trodden path to Soho. 

Unwilling to make a beeline for the bookshop, he settled for darkening the doorstep of Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death, which was bustling inside. As he stepped through the threshold he quickly spotted a frazzled Nina behind the counter, struggling with the steamer on the side of the coffee maker. As he approached the counter, her curses got louder, accompanied by a bang of her fist to the side of the machine. 

Crowley cleared his throat, voice lilting as he spoke. “Problem?”

Nina glared right back at the demon. “Just peachy, thanks.”

“Funny,” He leaned over the counter slightly, poking the milk frother. “Most humans are truthful about the woes of their workplaces.” 

“And don’t most supernatural beings have better things to do than harass local business owners? Topple a corrupt government, maybe?”

“I’m a demon, me,” Crowley drawled, “Not meant to be fermenting…goodness.” 

Nina stared back at him, clearly unimpressed. “Some of my customers are extremely lactose intolerant.”

A snap of his fingers set the frother to rights. “That’s the spirit.” 

“So how’s it going with your angel?” Nina had already begun setting the machine for his ungodly amount of espresso. “Patch things up?”

Crowley chose this moment to stare down at the counter to the little venus flytrap sitting cosy next to the till, reaching out to caress the small heads of the stems. “Still not my angel.”

“Right, he’s just your lifelong best and only friend you’ve known for millennia who you hold absolutely no feelings for but have spent the last seven weeks grieving over like a middle aged widower.” Nina smacked his outstretched hand away from the plant, pressing a few buttons on the register.

“I’m not sure I like your tone.” 

“And I’m not sure I like your whole old, distressed gothic-gay vibe, yet here we are. That’ll be six pounds.”

Crowley blinked. “I’m a supernatural being, your monetary system is beneath me.”

“All the more reason to give it away. Six pounds.” Nina crossed her arms. 

“You’re a fiery one, coffee human.” He snatched his cup from her grasp, dropping a tenner into the till.

“It’s Nina, not coffee human, and if you’re already here you might want to tell that other one– the squirrely one– that the mail’s been piling up. Maggie’s grabbed the last pile for them but she can’t hold it forever”

“Oh?” Crowley peered at her from over his glasses. “Inspector Constable’s not come to collect?”

“Haven’t seen them for about a week,” Nina waved him off to the side, taking the next order from the odorous man behind him he recognized as the carpet seller a few doors down. “Just let them know Maggie’s got it, won’t you?”

“Not my job-” Crowley protested, but at the sight of Nina’s glare opted for a small nod instead, retreating back to the Bentley parked just outside. Collapsing into the driver’s seat he stared at the bookshop, which had never looked so lifeless. Aziraphale always kept a lamp on in the back of the shop so Crowley, even with his limited vision, could see he was there, a warm light he’d come to miss dearly since the angel’s departure. Not that he’d admit it to anyone. 

He sighed, running a hand over his face, and started speaking in nearly a whisper. 

“Angel? Aziraphale?”

He was met with silence. 

Crowley sighed, getting louder. “I’m not sure if you can hear me, angel. And for Satan’s sake I wish you’d just speak to me like normal. But by Her we know you’ve never been great with words, hey?” He smiled to himself as he flicked a bit of settled dust off the Bentley’s steering wheel. 

“Point is, you’ve been gone for a while. It’s the longest you’ve been off of Earth in…well, since ever I’d imagine. We both got here pretty early on. And I know we’ve been apart for much longer than this but this is the first time it’s been your choice. So, ngk-” Crowley slouched and tipped his head back, making a soft thunk on the top of the seat, “Just let me know what’s going on soon, yeah? I know I said I wanted a little space from your antics but I didn’t expect you to take it so to heart. I can’t imagine only speaking to those wankers Upstairs for this long.” He chuckled to himself. 

It was still only his voice that filled the Bentley as he stared at the bookshop’s lifeless exterior, missing the glow of light that had often emanated from it. He waited for a sound or a sign, perhaps the smallest bit of foliage to find its way onto the dashboard. But the air stayed silent and no flowers bloomed in the Bentley. 

“Speak to me again soon?” Crowley hated how timid his own voice sounded. “I…I miss you, angel.” 

He spared one more glance at the bookshop before starting up the Bentley, who purred as they began their journey back towards Mayfair. 

Meanwhile, Upstairs…

“A-as you can see, the demon Crowley made a prayer to the S-Supreme Archangel today.” 

Jophiel, a scrawny cherub in the Prayer Department, gulped as Michael looked over his shoulder, peering at the typed transcript. The monotone clacking of typewriter keys filled the room as he sat, tense, watching her eyes gleam as they moved down the page. 

“Well done, Jophiel. You were right to come to me immediately with this. I’ll see to it that you receive a commendation for this.” 

The cherub smiled weakly under Michael’s wicked grin as she snatched the pages from his machine, marching towards the door. It slammed with such a vigour that the entire room jumped, falling silent for just a moment until the sound of pressed keys filled the room once more. 

In his own office, Aziraphale wiped the sweat from his brow, hand trembling as it hovered above the desk. He’d saved the hardest for last, straining to shrink the large book before him. As it took its new form he made a final snap of his fingers and, with a pop, it disappeared. He sat back, gasping as he sunk into the chair. He’d done it. He’d actually done it.

Playing with fire, indeed.

With his contingency in place, he could now begin on actually starting some of this blessed paperwork. He was still hoping to solve this with words, after all. Staggering to his feet, he couldn’t hear the door swing open over the ringing in his ears as he struggled to maintain balance, stumbling towards the filing cabinet in the corner of the room. Leaning against the wall for support, he tipped a hand into the first drawer, fingers tapping the folders as he went through one by one. Each tap felt sharp on his shaking hand, counting the unlabelled dividers. 

One, two, three, four, five, six-

“Oh, Aziraphale.”

The angel froze and jerked his hand back as a wrinkled yet strong hand clamped onto his shoulder. He spun around immediately, being met with the shadowed faces of Uriel and Sandalphon, who rushed to pin his arms to his sides. He wriggled in an attempt to get free yet, still fatigued from the miracle, quickly slumped in their grasp.

“I had such high hopes for you. But I suppose what goes up must always come down.” 

The Metatron’s stoic voice was the last thing Aziraphale heard before a heavy weight came down on his head, plunging his vision into a sharp darkness.

Chapter Text

“I have to admit, Aziraphale, I thought you were smarter than this.” 

Aziraphale awoke with a stinging feeling on his cheek. He groaned softly, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the harsh light. His body was still sore from earlier exertion, burning as he attempted to move. He tried to stretch his arms and hissed at the resistance, a sharp pain digging into his biceps. Looking down, he saw they’d placed him in a chair, bound to the back of it by a faintly glowing chain. It pulsed red, angry as he tested his range of movement once more, sending another stab of pain into his torso. 

“Like them? Since you’re so comfortable with fraternizing we figured there could be a little… collaboration in this matter. And there were plenty of demons willing to have a hand in getting to play with an angel.”

Aziraphale lifted his head to see Michael standing smugly before him. The room was blindingly white, like every other space in Heaven, except there seemed to be no entrance. Encased by smooth, bright walls, they appeared to be almost nowhere at all. Aziraphale had heard of these rooms before and had thought them mostly a spot of gossip amongst the cherubs. Used for correctional matters, an angel could be held in this place for tens, no, hundreds of years, should they step out of line. He felt his throat tighten.

“Now, Michael, surely this is a misunderstanding–” He began, cursing the way his tone wavered.. 

She took a step closer to him.

“I assure you it is not. You, Principality Aziraphale, are being held for treason.”

“Treason!” Aziraphale sputtered, “I’ll have you know that I have been following my duties to the letter and even improved productivity in–” 

“It has nothing to do with your position.” Michael sneered down at him, “And everything to do with your collaboration with the demon Crowley.”

Aziraphale blinked. “I haven’t spoken to Crowley since I accepted this position.”

This was, in part, true. Aziraphale had indeed spoken no words to Crowley since he’d returned to Heaven. 

“None that we’ve caught, perhaps, but he’s certainly spoken to you.”

Aziraphale’s lips tightened. “If Crowley is choosing to address me, surely it is not my responsibility that he chooses to do so if I do not answer.”

“Perhaps not,” Michael turned away from him, “But I think you’ll find this one of particular note. Jophiel! Bring the tape.”

At her call, a small pop echoed through the room and a skittish cherub appeared behind her. With trembling hands he offered her the recorder, which she snatched from his hands. He let out a small yelp as she did so, taking a few grateful steps back as she stalked towards Aziraphale. 

“We received this little communication through the main channels just a few hours ago.”

Aziraphale frowned. “No one has ever prayed to anyone other than Her or a saint, Michael, you of all people should know that.”

“Precisely.” Michael pursed her lips, “Which is why the Prayers Department alerted me immediately when a prayer of a different kind came through the lines. Your demon got sloppy.”

She waved a small tape recorder in front of him, hitting a small black button. 

“Speak to me again soon? I…I miss you, angel.”

Aziraphale winced at the sound. He hadn’t heard Crowley’s voice that soft, especially not sober, since a few centuries before. The fourteenth century was difficult for Crowley, so difficult in fact that he’d chosen to sleep through the majority of it. Aziraphale saw him off, of course. He’d stayed in the room at the foot of the bed until Crowley nodded off into a deep sleep, but not before he mumbled out a quick goodbye. 

“Stay…stay safe, angel.”

He sighed. They had always been so careful. Perhaps their grand trickery in failed Apocalypse had made them both get a touch too cocky. Or, perhaps, Crowley didn’t know the channels weren’t direct. 

“Speak to you again… soon ?” Michael’s tone was accusatory, snapping him back to the present. “So you have been in contact with the demon Crowley.” 

“N-Nonsense-” Aziraphale tried to avoid her gaze but she grabbed his chin roughly, jerking his face towards her. “I-I–” 

“In light of this news,” She tightened her grip as she spoke, making the angel wince, “We’ve done a little check in on your progress towards the Second Coming. We spoke to all of the angels who have seen you recently. Records, Prayers, Armoury . And we’ve found a few peculiarities.” 

Aziraphale felt himself shrink slightly under her gaze. This was decidedly not how things were meant to play out.

Suddenly, a door materialized. Michael stepped back from the bound angel, turning towards the sound as a thunderous voice boomed from the threshold. 

“Where. Is. It.”

The room fell into an ugly silence as the Metatron, Sandalphon, and Uriel stepped into the room. Jophiel squeaked and ran out, door dematerializing in his wake. 

Aziraphale gulped. “I haven’t the foggiest idea of what you’re referring t-”

“ Do not- ” The Metatron was by his side in an instant, backhanding him. The angel’s lip took the brunt of the hit, splitting from the impact. “Do not test me, principality. You know exactly what I’m referring to.”

“The Book of Life,” Sandalphon supplied from behind the Voice of God, unhelpfully, “It’s missing.”

At this, Michael rounded on the two angels. “It can’t be. I checked it myself this morning and it was proper and accounted for. And we’ve had him,” She gestured to the bound angel, “Ever since.”

“Then perhaps I need a new Duties Officer, Michael,” The Metatron’s voice was cutting as he threw a large book onto the ground. It flickered there for a moment, once, twice, before revealing its true form. 

Kane and Abel, written by Jeffrey Archer. 

Michael drew an uneasy breath, face pale. “How long.”

“We don’t know. What’s worse, we cannot find the demon Crowley anywhere.”

Aziraphale smiled at this, blood dripping down his chin. “Oh?”

This time Sandalphon was the one to deliver a blow, knocking the wind out of him as he aimed his fist just below the chains, hitting the angel squarely in the belly. “Shut it.”

“Sandalphon and I combed through London before returning here,” Uriel chose this moment to speak, “It was completely devoid of any notable demonic presence. He must have fled.” 

“My bet is that the demon has the book.” Sandalphon tutted. “And I think he,” He gestured to Aziraphale, “Knows where that filthy little thing is.”

Aziraphale’s face hardened in an instant, eyes turning to ice. “Don’t speak about Crowley like that.”

“We’ll speak about that creature any way we choose.” Uriel leaned in, sneering. “I knew it. I knew you were still a dirty little traitor from the moment you stepped back through these gates-”

“Enough.” The Metatron waved them both aside as he approached Aziraphale. The room darkened as he came close, curling his fingers around Aziraphale’s throat. He squeezed slowly and Aziraphale registered faintly that a buzz of angelic power pulsed through his calloused fingers. 

“Did you, Principality Aziraphale, take the Book of Life?”

“Y-Yes.” The angel’s miracle was too powerful to resist, especially in Aziraphale’s weakened state. The archangels murmured to themselves at the revelation, but the Metatron pushed on.

“Is it still in Heaven?”

“N…No.”

“Have you been in contact with the demon Crowley?”

Aziraphale met his gaze slowly, coughing as his split lip curled up into a signature, bastardly grin. “N-not as such.”

The Metatron growled, releasing his throat with a harsh push. Aziraphale gasped, sucking in lungfuls of air as the older angel clenched his fists, moving towards the others. 

“I haven’t got time for this. Uriel, Michael, I want you both on high alert. Send teams out to scour the globe, we need to recover the book as soon as possible. Without it, we cannot start the Second Coming. And Sandalphon?” He clapped a hand on the stout angel’s shoulder. “Perhaps you can persuade our Supreme Archangel into being a bit more cooperative.”

Sandalphon’s golden tooth glinted as he smirked darkly. “With pleasure.”

With that, the three other angels disappeared, leaving only Aziraphale and a sneering archangel, who circled him like a fox. In his hand glinted a short knife, glowing just as the chains binding him were. 

The angel squeezed his eyes shut, taking in a shuddering breath. 

Oh, Crowley. I’m sorry, my dear.

Chapter Text

Six months later

The corner of Whickber Street had been rather quiet for some time now. The bookshop didn’t hold regular opening hours, but it was even empty by the old bookseller’s usual standards of preference. The Bentley hadn’t taken up its usual parking space in quite some time and passersby were beginning to wonder to themselves whatever happened to the grumpy fellow that drove like a demon. Unbeknownst to them, after a few weeks of frankly embarrassing silence from the Supreme Archangel himself, Crowley had resolved himself to a bit of a nap. Well, perhaps more than a bit. But as a being having been on Earth for about 6000 years, a few months wasn’t much time to the demon at all. He’d curled up in his black silk sheets and allowed his eyes to droop, heart rate slowing as his breaths became more and more relaxed. 

Over the years both himself and Aziraphale had gotten quite accustomed to sensing each other. It was something all celestial beings could do if they concentrated hard enough to tune out the essences of the humans around them, focusing only on the most holy or darkest auras. Those with particularly keen skills could sense others from a whole continent away, although it was quite rare. Most angels and demons became quite overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle of Earth and, as such, preferred to locate their fellows from above or below before making the trip. Ever since the invention of digital technology demons preferred to channel hop to contact their operatives, which required no sort of tracking at all. He hadn’t been hard to locate for the last two hundred years, having taken up a near permanent residence in London, but being the only demon on Earth made the system favourable. And if he spent more time in the technology free bookshop as a result, it was all for the sake of efficiency. 

For Crowley, however, tracking had never been an issue. Paired with his heightened serpentine senses, Crowley possessed a fierce determination that served him well when it came to locating other beings. It became a second nature, which came in handy whenever he and Aziraphale scheduled a nightcap that would be ceremoniously gate-crashed by a bulky, purple eyed archangel with a rather unhelpful outlook on miracle limits. But he’d never needed his extra senses when it came to the angel. Despite the thousands of years they’d spent together, Crowley could sense Aziraphale wherever he was in the world. His essence felt different than the other angels– while holy auras tended to emit the slightest burning sensation to the nerves, Aziraphale felt like a wave of sunlight to his bones. In the more despairing centuries he’d craved the angel’s presence, letting his aura wash over him as they danced around their duties, pretending to be enemies. He could even sense Aziraphale when he was asleep, which made his time in the fourteenth century all the more lovely. There’d be a moment where he could feel the warmth of genuine laughter so vividly or see a smile so blinding it couldn’t not be angelic. It appealed to his senses, surrounding him in a glow that only seemed to blossom when the angel was near. He could tell when the angel was far, too. His dreams became bland and turned colder, no longer enjoyable. It was most often these visions that stirred him awake, the angel’s own distress rippling into his mind and pulling him out of his stupor. 

By the time he roused from this particular slumber, winter had begun. His head felt heavy as he awoke with a small shiver, feeling the chill from the outside. Instinctively he leaned into the beam of light streaming through the window, sitting up with his elbows and turning to look at the nightstand with a groan. The book that Muriel had lent him glittered in the yellow light of the sunset, its gold embossed title catching the light. He swiped it from the table as he rose from the bed, tucking it into the pocket of his loose fitting pyjamas. The set was ever so slightly too large, hanging off of his slender frame, but he preferred the sense of freedom. And if the neighbours were a bit scandalized by a peek at Crowley’s lower hips, they hadn’t said a word to date. 

Passing through the hallway, he found himself slow at the door of his plant room. Running a tired hand through his hair he pushed it open slowly, peering in through the opening. The room looked brighter than ever, no doubt feeding off of his recent rest, but no other flowers or vines than what he’d personally planted had taken root inside. Crowley let out a dejected sigh, pushing the door shut. Shuffling into the living room, he threw himself onto the couch, snapping his fingers to turn on the television. While he’d never admit it to anyone else he had a certain pash for the Golden Girls and a bit of Betty White would do him some good. The screen flickered to life and the sounds of live audience reactions filled the silent apartment as the girls prattled about their living room. He took a slow sip from a miracled glass of macallan whisky, sucking air through his teeth as he swallowed. 

“Still sulking, traitor? Haven’t got anything better to do?”

Crowley’s programme crackled and froze, distorting Blanche’s face into one much, much uglier. Crowley grimaced and set his glass down on the side table just behind his head. He threw his arms up, stretching languidly like a cat before turning his face to meet the gaze of the other demon.

“Go away, Hastur. If I wanted to watch something with ugly mugs I’d find a reality channel.” 

“I’m not even there to begin with,” The other demon retorted, crossing his arms. “And am I even interrupting something?” He gestured to the glass just past Crowley’s head.

“You never know.” With a flick of his hand, Crowley’s glasses materialized onto his face, shielding his eyes from view, “Could have been enjoying some quality time without any smelly bastards stinking up my living room.”

“Once again, not there. But I'm happy to comply.” Hastur lit up a cigarette in an instant, blowing a puff of smoke through the TV screen. Crowley coughed lightly, waving a hand as the smoke dissipated.

“Evidently, your smell isn’t bound by the laws of human physics.”

Hastur tsked, leaning back onto the sofa. “So where’ve you set up shop this time, Crawley? Fancied America this time?”

Crowley raised a brow, swiftly glancing sideways at his very-much-still-in-London apartment. Hastur didn’t give him long to puzzle, though, moving on just as fast. 

“And how’s your angelic boy toy? Gotten any new perks from the promotion?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Crowley brushed off the taunt, unwilling to address it as he used the back of his thumb to push his glasses up higher.

“I think I rather would, considering what I’ve heard.” Hastur sucked in another puff, breathing out slowly. 

This made Crowley stiffen up, if only a bit. “Oh? Anything of note?”

 “ Wouldn’t you like to know. ” Hastur mocked in a pitchy tone. “We’ve been hearing lots of strange things through the backchannels. Tasty little rumors.”

“Such as?” Crowley reached for his glass, aiming for an air of nonchalance, however his grimace gave him away. 

“Seems like you two have inspired a bit of sharing between the companies, as it were,” Hastur tapped his cigarette against Dorothy’s shoulder pad and dropped it on the hideous rattan couch. “Higher ups from Upstairs have been asking us for a few things in return for holy water. Cursed things.”

“Things?” Crowley’s brow furrowed. Aziraphale would never dirty his hands dealing with cursed objects unless they were books he planned on exorcising. Or, at least, would never have. He wasn’t sure what the angel was newly capable of since his return to the golden gates. “What kind of things?”

“A few weapons, some restraints. The fat fellow came to pick them up. Said they were ‘specially for the Supreme Archangel.”

The demon grit his teeth, frowning. “Likely story.”

“Now now, Crawley,” Hastur sneered, getting up from his place on the couch, “Just because you’re not the only demon your angel’s paying attention to anymore doesn’t mean you need to get all worked up about it.” 

Crowley growled, tightly clenching his drink in his fist. “ Not. My. Angel. ”

“Maybe I’ll take the delivery Upstairs myself next time, see if I can convince his royal wankwings for a few minutes of quality time, see what he can really do with his-” 

“ Hastur .” Crowley’s eyes were sharp, sunglasses tipped down to expose his fury, “I’m only going to say this once. Get. Out. ” 

Hastur’s lip curled upwards, revealing his yellow-grey teeth. “Hit a nerve, did I? You know I’ve always wondered what an angel felt like when-” 

“ Get out! ” Crowley roared and threw his glass at the screen, causing the television to shatter. Hastur’s smug grin fell apart into shimmering pieces as the whiskey glass, still somehow intact, hit the floor, spreading the amber liquid into the carpet fibers. Crowley swore to himself, snapping away the mess, but not before a firm rap sounded on the door. 

“Crowley? Are you in there?” Maggie’s tone was concerned, coming muffled through the door. 

“Why the fuck is everyone bothering me today?” Crowley groaned, “ Go. Away! ” 

“Listen up, fuckwit,” Nina’s voice came moments after Maggie’s but sounded much harsher. “You don’t talk to her like that. Open the damn door.”

Crowley sighed and, with a snap, the two shop owners tumbled through the door. Nina dusted herself quickly, helping Maggie off of the floor with a pointed glare in the demon’s direction. 

“Not my fault you lot were eavesdropping.” 

“First of all,” Nina swatted Crowley’s legs off the side of the couch, smacking down a gigantic bag of envelopes, “We weren’t eavesdropping, we were just trying to see if we could hear of anyone inside. Second, the other one– the scrawny one- never collected the mail, so that’s your problem now. We tried coming by last week but no one was around.”  

“Right, ngk-” Crowley sat up properly, rubbing his neck, “Wasn’t around much last week. And I haven’t heard much from anybody in a while.”

“Then who were you just talking to?” Maggie took the opportunity to sit between the lanky demon and the large sack of letters. 

“Ugh, Hastur ,” Crowley rolled his eyes, “Very unpleasant, smelly demon. Dumb, too. Bugger can’t even remember I live in Mayfair. It’s been two hundred years for Satan’s sake… ” He mumbled the last part not so quietly to himself.

“R-Right.” Maggie nodded but the confusion in her eyes betrayed her neutral expression. “Anyways-”

“This isn’t a social chat.” Nina plopped herself down onto Crowley’s fancy coffee table, ignoring the demon’s pointed glare at her close proximity. “We’re worried about you.”

The demon scoffed. “I’ve been on Earth for longer than all of your ancestors combined.”

“Be that as it may, we haven’t seen you in months. In fact, no one’s been in the bookshop for just about half a-”

“Wait-” Crowley cut her off. “Not even Muriel?”

“No, why do you think we brought you the Vesuvius-sized pile of mail?” Nina gestured to the mountain of letters, “The last time anyone even went near the bookshop was when you stopped in for your last cup of heart-stopping espresso. That was six months ago .” 

“Crowley,” Maggie reached out to pat him on the knee, which the red headed demon begrudgingly allowed her to do, “We think you should check up on Aziraphale.”

Crowley laughed, loud and deep. “Oh, fat chance of that. His angelic highness hasn’t been taking my calls, as of late.” 

Nina and Maggie exchanged concerned looks. 

“Are you sure? It just, well it seems–” Maggie stuttered, wringing her hands. 

“It’s obvious you two are– were something.” Nina interjected, drawing Crowley’s attention forward as he hissed slightly. “You might as well admit it.”

Crowley grumbled at that, once again pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’ll do nothing of the sort.”

“ God , for a supernatural being you are one stubborn son of a bitch.” Nina ran a hand through her hair, exasperated. 

“Do not use Her name in my home.” Crowley bit out, digging his nails into the couch, “I’d rather not hear it.”

“Well, we’re here for what you need to hear, not what you want.” It was Maggie who spoke up this time, surprising the demon. She sat up a little straighter, looking him dead in the eyes. Nina smiled, looking on proudly at her partner. 

“Crowley,” she began, “We’re worried. No one’s been around the shop in ages and we just think someone should have a poke around to make sure everything’s alright. We know it isn’t exactly our place, but–”

“You’re damn right it’s not your place. Don’t forget he was the one who left me in the first place! And now you want me, the one he abandoned, to go check up on the bookshop, which he also abandoned.” His face grew redder as he spoke, heaving. 

Maggie did her best to ignore the demon, who felt almost as if he was radiating heat. “Muriel used to be at the shop every day and then they just…disappeared. No explanation, no note, they even left the door ajar. I had to use the spare key Mr. Fell gave me for emergencies just to lock it up. And then they never came back.” 

A silence befell the apartment as Crowley thought to himself. Muriel was certainly…free spirited when it came to Earth customs but the newly appointed Supreme Archangel had given them quite clear instructions. It wasn’t likely that they’d leave so abruptly without any goodbyes, much less abandon the bookshop in disarray. Last time he was in he’d caught them reorganizing Aziraphale’s teacups in order of antiquity, for Satan’s sake. 

“Please, Crowley.” Maggie’s voice was soft. “You know him better than anyone. Some of the neighbours have begun to think it’s all a bit strange and we figured…well, we thought if you came by, he might notice.”

“We heard him say, once,” Nina placed a gentle hand over her girlfriend’s, rubbing soft circles onto her skin, “That he could feel everything that happened in the bookshop. Like you do with that vintage car of yours. And Muriel accidentally let slip what that old rune under the carpet is really for, so I know you’ve got the means to call him up if you really wanted to.” 

Maggie cleared her throat. “And we think that if you went back, you might get the chance to talk. Get him to pop in, as it were.”

“Or at very least get the neighbours off of our backs.” Nina added. 

“Fine.” Crowley ground out, jaw tight. “I’ll go tomorrow. But to be clear, I am not showing up for him. I’ll go in, flick a few lights on and off a bit, and then you can tell all your nosy neighbours that he’s fucked off to Switzerland and fell into a coma or something.”

“That’s wonderful!” Maggie stood up and clapped her hands. “Thank you, Crowley.”

“Do not thank me.” He huffed while Nina shot him a look. “Now please leave.”

“We’ll see you tomorrow!” Maggie smiled as Nina ushered her through the door, recognizing the strain in the demon’s voice. “Stop by to say hello!”

The demon made a noncommittal sound as the door shut, leaving him alone once more in the apartment with a newly acquired mountain of mail and a broken TV. A snap of his fingers flicked the lights off as he threw his sunglasses to the side. By now the sun had fully set and only the faint glow of the streetlights illuminated the apartment, catching the edges of broken glass still clinging to the television. He rose from the couch, legs carrying him to the plant room. He pushed the door open for the second time that day, a thin blanket of moonlight dripping off the vines. The room remained green as it always had been.

Crowley sighed, melting into his snake form. With pyjamas now in a heap on the floor he slinked forward and up, draping himself along the nearest cluster of vines that had once borne flowers. He breathed in slowly, imagining that familiarly warm scent of bergamot and the droll crackle of a jazz record spinning languidly upon a gramophone. It wasn’t long before he nodded off, sleeping for just a half day longer. 

Meanwhile, in Heaven,

“I hope, for your sake, you’re feeling cooperative today, Principality.”

The Metatron sat before him, blowing gently on a cup of steaming tea as Aziraphale struggled to keep himself upright. They’d done away with his chair many months ago, swapping the cursed bindings for shackles that prevented escape. He could conjure only small miracles, perhaps to heal a bruise, but he’d been far too weak to attempt anything grander. While angelic corporations did not require sustenance Aziraphale was quite used to his time on Earth and the energy it gave him. Without it, he felt himself feeling fainter as the weeks pressed on, especially after enduring countless visits from the Archangels. 

They’d never given him anything to tell the time but Aziraphale, never one to sleep, had dutifully tried to count the days. He suspected that they’d visit him at least once every 24 hours but there was truly no way to tell. The white cube slowly lapped up the stains from his wounds and the walls were still blindingly light that he could never sleep unless knocked unconscious.They’d mostly stuck to the classics— cuts, stabs, or a spot of whipping, which the angel was no stranger to from his time on Earth. The broken bones and beatings were almost second nature, save for a frequent touch of asphyxiation, which seemed to be the Metatron’s preferred method of trying to coax information out of him. And it was the Voice of God that sat in front of Aziraphale now, tutting at his struggling form. He waved away the teacup with a miracle, making to stand and walk towards him.

“Don’t…” Aziraphale began, coughing, “Don’t rush on my account.”

The Metatron trapped his chin between thumb and forefinger, jerking his face upwards. The blood from Aziraphale’s still-split lip trickled onto his nail as he did so, coating it a strange, shining red. 

“There’s no use in holding on, Aziraphale. He’s not coming for you. He would never come for you.”

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut. He knew.

They’d almost tricked him with it, too. A few sessions in Crowley had burst into the room, a blubbering mess of apologies and sweet nothings. Aziraphale’s heart soared at the sight of him as he closed the distance between them. He’d barely moved to lay a careful hand on Aziraphale’s cheek when the angel stiffened, withdrawing from his touch.

“Aziraphale? Angel, are you alright?” Crowley had leant in, voice laced with honeyed concern. 

“It’s not right.”

Crowley ran a soft hand through his hair. “I know, love, I know. We’ll get the bastards back for this, I swear. But for now, we’ve got to go. The book-“

“ No .” Aziraphale’s voice was shaky.”You’re not right.”

“We can argue semantics about sides later,” The demon made towards his shackles, “Let’s focus on escaping now, yeah?”

The angel jerked away, scooting backwards along the floor until his back hit the wall. He sniffled as Crowley simply stared, blinking. “You didn’t get his smell right. Or his walk. The way he drags his vowels. A-And he’d never call me love…”

“Well, fuck.” The facade of Crowley quickly melted into Uriel, who seemed rather disappointed by the whole ordeal. “I was hoping to at least get you to the door. I owe Michael now. I thought a little sweetness might’ve sold the whole thing better.”

Aziraphale began to weep silently as Uriel pressed closer again, grinning. 

“You should have seen your face— Oh, the moment when you let yourself hope he’d actually come for you. Priceless.” She leaned in close as Aziraphale sniffled, attempting to draw himself up to full height. She grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled, drawing a hiss from the angel’s lips. 

“We’ll find him soon enough, little principality. And when we do, we’ll turn you both over to Hell for a little fun.” Her smile was unbecoming of one of God’s creations. “In fact, perhaps you’d like a familiar face to give you a sampling.”

With her free hand she waved across herself, slowly morphing back into Aziraphale’s demon. His grin looked wicked on her, not at all filled with any of the demon’s usual cheekiness and charm. But it was especially painful to watch his face, not hers, seem to glow with every grunt of pain the angel uttered. They’d done it a few times after Uriel’s first visit, Sandalphon himself becoming all too comfortable with slipping into a mirage of the demon’s complexion as he dragged knives scorched in Hellfire across his skin. Yet there was never a time that ‘Crowley’ stepped into the room that Aziraphale didn’t smile, grateful for at least one, even fake, glimpse of his demon. 

“Not listening?” The older angel dug his nails into Aziraphale’s skin, drawing him back to the present. 

“Perhaps you should try being more interesting.” Azirapale mumbled.

“Perhaps you should try being more cooperative.” His backtalk did not go unpunished, earning him a crushing blow to his ribs. He felt one crack cleanly, forcing a wail of pain past his lips. “I’ll ask you for the last time. Where is the demon Crowley hiding and what have you done with the Book of Life?”

“I’m not sure.” Aziraphale looked up, pretending to ponder. “Are you sure you’ve checked everywhere?” He said, haughtily. 

“ Where is he, Aziraphale. ” The Metatron placed a thumb on a second rib, fingers wrapping around his waist as he did so. 

“I’d never tell you.” Aziraphale’s voice was breathy as a crack cut through the heavy silence of the room. He winced, drawing a shaky lungful of air as the Metatron gazed at him, furious. “I’d never give Crowley up. Never.” 

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the older angel’s fist clench with anger, almost radiating heat of its own. “I grow weary of this, Aziraphale. I told you many months ago what would happen if you disobeyed me and I’m beginning to think you’d quite prefer a change of scenery. I’ll ask only once more. Where is he?”   

“You’ll never find him. He’s smarter than all of you. You won’t have your war and you certainly won’t have him.” Aziraphale pitched forward in pain, keening as he caught himself on his hands. 

“We won’t?” The Metatron laughed. “Heaven always triumphs, Aziraphale. You of all angels should know this.” 

Aziraphale looked up to see the Metatron crouching on the balls of his feet, leaning forward to grab a handful of his dirtied blonde hair. “Not this time. Never again.” 

A fist snaked into his curls, lifting his head higher. “I won’t ask again, Aziraphale.” 

“Fuck you. ” Aziraphale enunciated the curse as he spat at the older angel. 

The Voice of God looked genuinely stunned as he wiped away Aziraphale’s blood-mottled spit from his cheek. Slowly, however, his eyes turned dark, brewing with a fury that Aziraphale had never before seen in an angel. He leaned back and snapped once, the sound resonating around the small room. Aziraphale was suddenly jerked from his hands and knees, shackles receding further into the walls and stringing him up into the air like a ragdoll. His knees scraped along the floor and the angel groaned from the pressure along his shoulders and the stretch to his ribs. 

“It didn’t have to happen this way, Principality.” His tone seemed almost disappointed.

“G-go…go to hell.” Aziraphale’s tone was weak but resistant as he gazed at the older angel, eyes still ablaze with as much defiance as he could muster. 

His tone was met with only silence before the Metatron stepped behind him, plunging his hands into his True Form and pulling his wings back, forcing them to present themselves. Aziraphale let out a howl of pain before he could stop himself, his essence burning with discomfort at the sudden intrusion. As the Voice of God leaned forward he clamped his lips tightly shut, letting out only a small whimper. Still, he felt the older angel’s face pull back to a smile at his noise of pain.

“Go to Hell?” The Metatron whispered, nails digging into his wings. He brought one foot upward and time stood completely still as he wedged the heel of his leather shoe into the small of Azirapahle’s back, wriggling to find the best foothold.

“I insist you go first.” 

The words were punctuated by a scream Aziraphale dimly recognized to be his own. He felt his humerus bones snap as the Metatron yanked, attempting to pull his wings from his corporation. Bile built up in his throat as the older angel pulled again and again, stretching each fibre of his muscles as he did so. Aziraphale felt them strain as they were pulled past what they could bear before tearing cleanly, separating from the tendons that bound his wings to his back. Blood poured from his wounds, trickling down his spine as he gulped and gasped, eyes squeezed shut. The agony was all he could feel as he heaved for air, head dizzy and fogged with pain. His voice was hoarse, pushing out a final silent wail as the Voice of God gave one last twist before stopping. In the end he hung limply from his restraints, supported only by the miracle holding the chains. His wings, now stained yellow with gold ichor, were thrown then at his feet with a dull thud.

The room was filled with only his whimpers until the Metatron spoke flatly.

“Get up and carry them.” 

The chains supporting him disappeared with a snap and Aziraphale fell face first to the floor. He gasped at the impact, the stinging consuming his senses. He laid there for several moments, twitching. Seeing him paralyzed, the Metatron tutted disappointedly. 

“Sandalphon, Uriel. Help him up.”

As he spoke the two angels stepped into the room. Aziraphale lifted his head weakly to see them approach his pale, shivering form. They each grabbed an arm and tugged, despite Aziraphale’s yelps of pain. He was dragged from the room, away from his wings, away from the older angel sporting a wicked yet plain smile. His head lolled back as he blinked, fighting to stay awake amidst the blinding pain. 

“Bring him to the main room. We have some things to discuss with our counterparts.” 

The supposed voice of God rang in Aziraphale’s ears as he surrendered to the pain, letting consciousness slip from his grasp. The principality went limp in the two archangel’s arms as they dragged him, leaving behind a trail of red and gold that pooled at the feet of the Metatron. Glancing down, he performed a swift miracle, cleaning his shoes before stepping out of the room after the others.

Chapter Text

True to his word, the demon had slithered out of the plant room in the late morning, tucking Aziraphale's book into his pocket before setting course for Whickber Street. It laid heavy near his heart as he drove, unsure of why exactly he was bringing it. Perhaps he’d set right back to its place on the shelf– he certainly hadn’t a need for it in many, many months. Yet something about the small guide seemed to make him uncharacteristically hesitant to part with it.

By the time he’d finished pondering over what to do with the book, he found the Bentley pulling up across the street from the bookshop. Maggie, noticing the familiar rumble as he pulled up in his vintage car, gave him a smile and a wave as he’d parked, which he returned with a falsely cheery smile and a two fingered salute from the steering wheel. The bag of mail they’d dropped at his apartment sat opposite him, which he snapped to reduce in size. Crowley grumbled as he slunk out of the Bentley, grabbing the bag and slamming the door. 

“Stupid. S’all stupid. Stupid humans and their stupid fucking postage service-”

For the first time in months, the small bell jingled as a redheaded demon stepped through the front doors into the only antique bookshop in Soho. Unlike Maggie he didn’t need a key for the shop, the doors were always open for him. He inhaled deeply, nose curling at the overwhelming smell of holiness in the room. It was nothing like Aziraphale’s scent– far too sterile and bleached for his liking. Flicking out his tongue, he tasted the air. Nothing sinister was present to speak of.

The shop itself was in quite a state. Without the bookseller’s incessant tidying a thick layer of dust had accumulated atop the furniture and on the angel’s desk. The bookshelves themselves were looking quite grey, completely covered in dust webs that stretched over every inch of the shelved titles. Aziraphale would have an absolute fit if he saw the place in such a manner. Crowley sighed and waved a slow hand, melting the untidiness away. He tossed the bag of mail onto the sofa, which returned to its normal size upon impact. A few envelopes slid out, fluttering onto the coffee table that held two empty glasses of wine. Crowley traced the one he’d drunk with one finger, recalling their last nightcap. It seemed to have happened so long ago, in a different world entirely. The shop had been filled with the warm light of the angel’s antique lamps, which were scattered across the main floor. Aziraphale even decorated with a few electronic candles, at the demon’s incessant request. He’d held Crowley’s gaze for just a moment longer than usual as his eyes crinkled when the demon asked him once more to not use open flames in the shop. He thought they’d understood each other, then, as indirect as they were. Speaking in a language of their own: chaste glances and soft whispers, pointed words and double entendres. But the glasses now collected dust instead of wine and the warm light of the shop came in only through the window. Crowley turned away from the table, his jaw tight.

It was then that he peered deeper into the shop, surprised to be met with box after box of office supplies stacked up in the furthest corner of the room. Aziraphale rarely stored anything other than books on the main floor of the shop, choosing instead to sequester much of his stationary or book mending chaos to the backroom or in the upstairs flat. As such, their presence here was quite unorthodox, even if hidden behind multiple shelves. Crowley stepped closer to the mountain of cardboard, gagging as he rushed to pinch his nose. They positively reeked of Heaven, most likely causing the stink he smelled from the door. Shaded from the light, the demon raised a hand into the air swiftly and snapped. 

Let there be light. 

Immediately this corner of the shop filled with a warm orange glow, causing the boxes to warble. Crowley frowned, taking another step forward to peer at the strange, golden glint coming off of the mountain of pens inside the box. He ran a finger slowly over the rough cardboard edge of the closest box, which began to shift under his finger. He blinked, slow and confused, as the ballpoint pens seemed to grow, twisting into the shape of a-

“Aw, fuck!”

Crowley yelped, jumping back just in time from the wave of metal that spilled from the box. Swords, knives, daggers, and spears all bubbled up from their hiding place, clattering to the floor with a cacophony of metallic sounds. He toed one with his snakeskin boot, which sizzled at the touch. 

That clever angel. 

It appeared, Crowley thought to himself, that Aziraphale had concealed and moved what appeared to be the entire contents of Heaven’s armoury into his bookshop, which was no small feat. The cloaking miracle for the sheer quantity alone would have taken up a significant amount of energy, the replacement of said items even longer. Perhaps Aziraphale had made a few positive changes after all. He whistled low, smiling to himself with pride in the angel. Yet the feeling of pride quickly melted into a pit of unease upon realization of the Supreme Archangel’s actions. Aziraphale had never stolen anything in his life, much less robbed an entire celestial army. The angel spent years miracling slugs out of his walking path, for Satan’s sake. Something was awry. He frowned to himself, thinking. 

I’ll have to find Muriel later. See if they know what’s going on. 

Turning away from the pile, Crowley willed the light to dim, fading with a small sound of rushing air. He strode towards the door with purpose, glancing back only to gaze once more at the glasses sat primly on the low table. Their silence and disregard frustrated the demon greatly and a miracle whisked them away from his sight. 

“Might as well grab a coffee,” Crowley mumbled to himself, “S’least Nina could do for my troubles.”

All at once he felt a twinge of holiness descend upon the bookshop. The demon was immediately on edge, eyes flitting around the room. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the feeling that emanated weakly, seeming to quiver along his senses. As the feeling sharpened a pop sounded to his right, just at the edge of the angel’s desk near the door, the one he’d preferred to sit there most often on the busy days so he could control the amount of humans that trickled through the entrance. Crowley’s eyes flew open just in time to watch a yellow vase materialize into being, packed full of a vibrant assortment of flowers. It teetered on the edge of the wood, tipping over from its uneven balance on the surface. Striking as quick as the snake he was, the demon’s arm shot out, snagging a vase just before it met the floor below. A bit of water sloshed out onto his sleeve, which he willed away as he set the glass to rights. A close call.  

Heaving out a sigh of relief, Crowley straightened up, placing the bouquet properly onto the flat surface of the desk. A white ribbon attached a note to the vase, which he teased open the folds with his middle finger. 

Keep it safe. Forgive me. 

Crowley’s stomach swirled with unrest as his corporation worked on autopilot, loosening the ribbon and pulling the card towards him. The letters looked shaky, as if written in haste. As he inspected the words, the flowers called his attention back to the desk, a sweet yet confusing smell wafting upon the air. He clenched the paper in his hands as he stepped forward to inspect them. 

The assortment of blooms were as colourful as they were chaotic. The arrangement was much more haphazard than anything that Aziraphale had willed to bloom in Crowley’s plant room. Sparse orange blooms entangled with bright yellows, surrounded by springs of fresh tarragon. Flecks of pink, both in singles and groups, curled around spiked white petals, paired starkly with almost violet-like clusters. He reached out for the vase and his unease deepened, a spark of pain flickering through his chest. He reached out for the edge of the desk to steady himself while leaning in closer to inspect the flowers. With one hand he reached into his breast pocket, retrieving the angel’s book and placing it onto the desk. He spoke to it softly, in a low tone. 

“ Show me what he means.”

The book fell open to a small yellow bloom that Crowley recognized well from the grassy paths of St. James Park. 

The buttercup flower, a heavenly chief . 

Aziraphale, even as the prim bastard he occasionally was, certainly wasn’t one to showboat, which likely meant that he was referring to the Metatron. Crowley scowled as he remembered the older angel’s tight lipped glare in his direction as he’d entered the bookshop, coffee cup in hand. Aziraphale shouldn’t have listened, shouldn’t have trusted that pompous wanker. But Crowley watched from his place on Whickber Street as Aziraphale stepped willingly into that elevator, to the glee of the Metatron. So composed and agreeable. The demon shuddered lightly at the memory. 

The pages then moved, drawing Crowley’s attention back to the book. It flitted quickly between two drawings— the dragon’s herb and the wind flower.

Terror, suffering, and withering hopes.

The pit in Crowley’s gut worsened. He read faster, pushing his miracle deeper into the pages. 

What are you up to, angel?

The blood flower— a call to duty, difficult lessons learned, leave me . Some asphodel, I will be faithful until death . Milkweed, for hope in misery. 

A single azalea dangled low, almost touching the desk.

Take care of yourself for me. 

Crowley choked down the growing panic in his throat, reaching out for the low hanging bloom. Its petals shuddered once, then twice, dropping into his outstretched hand. 

As soon as they touched his skin, pain exploded in his torso, causing him to double over. His chest tightened further as he clutched them in his hand, twisting away from the desk. His eyes grew glassy as he staggered towards the door frame to steady himself. Agony rippled through his spine, driving him down to his knees. He groaned, eyes scrunched shut. 

“Angel…”

And, for the first time in months, he heard a voice speak back. 

“C-Crowley…”

“ Angel !” Crowley struggled to get to his feet, dashing out of the bookshop doors. The street had gotten incredibly busy as the morning drifted into the afternoon, now swarmed with humans running their errands. Many shouted in indignation as Crowley shoved past, staggering towards his car. He hissed at them in response as his hands trembled with pulses of pain, fumbling with the keys of the Bentley. “Angel, where are you? Are you-“

“Crowley, please…” 

His voice sounded weak, but much louder this time.

The Bentley clicked open on its own accord and Crowley wrenched the door open, breathing out a thankful sigh. “Angel just tell me where you are, I’ll come get you, we’ll make it okay, just-“

“Cr’wley-“ 

The demon’s name had never sounded so feeble upon the angel’s lips. The sound alone drove Crowley to a place of further agony, heart wrenching at the sound. He called out once more, desperate. 

“Angel please , I-“

“ Crowley !” 

The voice in his head screamed loud and fell silent just as fast. The pain in his chest ceased as he shouted for Aziraphale with no answer. 

Crowley’s chest heaved as he drew a deep breath, focusing on his senses. His mind, fogged from the aftershocks of the pain, struggled to clear itself. He scrunched up his face, willing his head to do better . A few moments passed before a flicker of angelic essence sparked, flickering along the astral place, before fizzling out. The first sight alone, however, was enough to pinpoint the location. 

Mayfair. Home. 

Crowley’s grip on the steering wheel tightened.

I’m coming, angel. 

_______________________

“Nina, love,” Maggie said distractedly, looking out at the bustling street from her seat at the window of Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death . “I think that Crowley’s not well.”

“Oh?” Nina slowed to a stop by Maggie’ stool, looking in her direction as the Bentley tore away with a screech of tires, nearly slamming into four pedestrians as it moved at a speed completely inappropriate for a busy London street. “Perhaps it didn’t go to plan, then. That’s a pity.”

“No, I mean unwell .” Maggie locked eyes with her partner. “He looked positively green as he left the bookshop and bumped into a fair number of people along the way to the car. He looked like he was talking to himself, too…” She trailed off thoughtfully. 

Nina placed a comforting hand on her girlfriend’s shoulder and Maggie leaned into the touch. “We’ll stop by tonight, angel. See if we can get the bastard to open up a bit. 

Maggie smiled softly. “Sounds perfect, dear.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale. 

Crowley tripped over his own feet as he practically leapt from the Bentley, which knew better than to not park itself properly as it screeched to a halt in front of his building in Mayfair. The demon made a mad dash for the elevator, which was miraculously waiting for him in the lobby as he sprinted through the entrance. The ride felt like an eternity before he tore open the door to his flat, pushing aside anything in his way as he made his way inside. The apartment looked worryingly normal for the assaulting wave of occult energy that greeted him as he passed the threshold. He flicked his tongue out, hissing as he pinpointed the source of it. Of course . Gritting his teeth through the pain, he staggered towards the plant room, slumping against the doorframe to steady himself. 

The sight that greeted Crowley was enough to drive the demon to his knees. The walls were grey, far from the lush green he’d coaxed from the plants ever since he’d moved into the brutalist apartment. Their essence had been sapped from the room like it had been burnt, yet he thankfully smelled no fire. They were simply shrivelled, devoid of any of the life they once held, either in fear or in spite of the demon himself. The stench of death was so potent it made Crowley sick. 

Aziraphale. Angel. No, no, no, no, no.  

The angel lay in a heap on the floor, cushioned by a set of wings no longer attached to his body. Crowley twisted his body to the side to wretch, stomach churning as he stared at the angel before him. His clothes were shredded– what was left of a sad, grey suit hanging off of his thin frame. His pale skin, usually soft to the touch and perfectly smooth, was mottled with bruises, including a sizable set of handprints circling his neck. A mixture of gold and red dripped from his chest from lacerations that covered his legs, his torso, his back- 

And his wings, oh God, his wings.

Aziraphale’s back oozed steadily of ichor from the two gaping wounds that sat on either side of his spine. Surrounded by other small cuts, the wounds were rough and gaping. It was clear that there was no surgical precision in the removal of the angel’s beautiful wings, now charred and broken in several places. It looked like someone had grabbed him and twisted to-

Crowley threw up again. 

Angel, my angel, oh, Angel-

“Crowley?”

“ I’m here! Angel, I’m here.” Crowley shook himself out of his stupor at the sound of Aziraphale’s voice, calling up to him as a weak sound. The demon pulled himself to the angel’s side, careful not to jostle his shivering form. Reaching out gingerly, he dipped a hand into the mass of fluffy blonde strands, stained a slight pink with blood, hoping to coax calming sighs from the angel. 

Instead, Aziraphale whimpered, a shallow, needy noise in the back of his throat that died just as quickly as it came. Crowley wanted to tear the ears off his corporation at the sound. 

“Crowley.” Aziraphale whispered his name. “Cr’wley.” 

“Shh, shh, angel,” Crowley’s hand shifted, placing his hands gingerly on either side of his head to lift gently and guide himself under, letting the angel rest his head on the surface of his thighs. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

The angel pressed into his touch and oh, God , this wasn’t how Crowley wanted to do this. 

“Y’re not real…but, s’nice.” Aziraphale was blinking up at him.

“Oh I’m real, angel. Real as a heart attack.”

“Mmm.” The angel shivered again, coughing. “Angels don't h’ve hearts.”

“The one I’m looking at does.” Crowley spoke softly, pressing the warmth of his hand into the angel’s cool, clammy cheek. “Biggest one I’ve ever seen, for millions and millions of years.”

“Crowl’y,” Aziraphale’s eyes had closed as he breathed shakily, which sounded like it took a considerable amount of effort from the angel. “H-he wants Crowley. Can’t have him. Won’t do it. Won’t give up Crowley.”

“You haven’t, dove,” The demon continued to pet his hair lightly, “You haven’t. I’m here, I’m fine.”

“W’s horrible,” The angel sniffled in his lap, attempting to shift upwards. Crowley pressed a hand to his sternum, adding soft pressure to will the angel to stay still. His body was in such poor condition that he wasn’t sure what even the smallest amount of escalation would do, and by the looks of it, Heaven certainly wouldn’t be issuing Aziraphale another body if he was discorporated. Crowley waved a hand over the angel’s chest, letting the miracled cloth disappear. What lay underneath was a mosaic of bruising amidst a smattering of wounds both past and fresh. His ribs appeared broken in a few places, if the bruising told Crowley anything. The demon decided he’d start there. 

“Was h-horrible to him. Tried to make it better.” Aziraphale groaned as a familiar warm tingle set into his chest as Crowley pushed a miracle into his body.

“Tried to make what better, sweetheart?” Crowley furrowed his brows in concentration, desperately trying to ignore the pained gasps from the angel as his ribs knit themselves together once more. The pet name came naturally, somehow, and Crowley swore he saw Aziraphale’s eyes crinkle into a smile, if just for a moment, at the sound of it. Embarrassment be damned, he’d say it again a thousand times to bring a glow back to the angel’s stormy gaze.  

“Heav’n.” Aziraphale was slurring his words more now, eyelids fluttering open just long enough for Crowley to catch a proper glance at dilated, unfocused pupils. “Ddn’t w’nt to stay…but someone h’d to stop it. Th-...Second Coming. G-gave him the Book. N-not happy w’th me.”

The last rib popped back into place and the angel groaned in pain, soothed by Crowley’s hand settling back into his curls. With each pet he pushed a bit more healing power into the angel’s corporation. At this, the angel’s shoulders seemed to sag in relief as the muscular strain melted away, fading the blue-green marks that marred his upper body. His lip was no longer split as celestial magic stitched the angel’s skin back together, leaving no trace of the injury. Crowley frowned at the handprints around Aziraphale’s neck, stubbornly remaining, along with the hundreds of lacerations that covered the angel’s body. He pushed more of his powers into the miracle, grunting with exertion. 

Aziraphale squirmed in his arms in response, his corporation fighting the strength of the demonic miracle. For a brief moment, Crowley swore he saw a flicker of recognition in the angel’s eyes as he weakly tried to grab Crowley’s wrist. “Didn’t wanna go. Wanted to be here w’th you.” 

Crowley blinked through the pain, determined as he was tired. The angel’s use of contractions concerned him, but his words hit hard. The stoic look on the angel’s face as he’d stepped into the elevator popped into Crowley’s mind. He looked so different now, a spectre of the angel he’d been as he’d stood by the Metatron’s side, glancing at Crowley for one last time all those months ago. 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, began to mumble as if speaking to himself. “D-did my best. Did my part. Just gotta…Crowley…take care of Cr’wly. Protect…protect Crowley.” 

Crowley could feel the tears at the edge of his eyes, threatening to burst forth at the angel’s weak pleas. He wasn’t exactly sure what had gone on Upstairs, but it was clear that they’d threatened him somehow, along with the world they both loved. And Aziraphale, beautiful, brave Aziraphale, had somehow come to the rescue, had protected the Earth, had protected him . And, evidently, paid the price for doing so. 

The hand in Aziraphale’s hair stilled while Crowley caught his own breath, shaky as he regarded the angel. His eyes were closed again, still shivering in the demon’s lap. He looked so frail, so unlike the angel he’d met on the wall six thousand years ago. So far removed from the warrior who’d given away his flaming sword, who’d lied to the highest angelic powers in order to save Job’s children. He looked more like the bodies the demon had seen, littered across time, who’d come face to face with Death in his many faces and forms. He looked utterly, terrifyingly, human . 

“Crowley?” The angel’s voice broke him from his stupor. 

“ Yes ,” Crowley immediately resumed petting his hair, locking eyes with the disoriented angel. “Yes, it’s me. It’s Crowley.”

“ Crowley .” Aziraphale seemed to whisper the name to himself, a flicker of recognition finally settling in his gaze. 

“What is it, angel?” Crowley brushed a stray hair out of the blonde’s eye, staring down at the glassy eyed angel. 

“H-heal me?” Aziraphale’s tone was meek as he struggled to keep Crowley’s gaze, blinking alongside pained gasps. 

“I’m sorry, dove,” Crowley used his thumb to rub Aziraphale’s brow soothingly, “I-”

“Please?”

The earnestness of his angel, who never asked for anything in a straightforward manner, touched Crowley. He tried to pour as much affection into his tone as he could. “Angel, I can’t.”

The angel squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling shakily. He curled in on himself slightly, despite Crowley’s protests at the strenuous movement. “I– I see. M’sorry…”

“Angel?” Crowley’s confused tone momentarily broke through the angel’s mumbles. 

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale sniffled in Crowley’s lap, head turned to hide his tears from the demon. “M’sorry Crowley, I am, p-please- ”

Crowley’s heart shattered at the plea. The angel thought that he wouldn’t heal him as…as punishment for being away. The demon was struck with a sudden need to throw up again. 

“Dove, it’s not that-” Crowley began, attempting to uncurl the angel. “It would never be that. Ever . I would if I could, I swear to Her , Aziraphale.” 

The angel only cried harder, sniffling to stifle his pleading. The sight made Crowley desperate, calling out to the delirious angel below him. “Aziraphale, can you hear me?”  

The blonde whimpered as Crowley moved to wipe an angry tear from the corner of his own eye. “Your wounds are cursed, dove, my miracles can’t heal you. I did what I could but I can’t-” He hiccuped, more tears threatening to spill as he clenched his fists in frustration, “ I can’t. If I could do it I would, angel. I swear. Please believe me. Please .”

“O-oh.” Aziraphale uncurled slightly trying to turn back towards the demon. His tone was still wet, words slurred as he reached for Crowley’s clenched fists. “S’okay then, dear. Not to w’rry. ”

“No,” Crowley tightened his fists until he broke skin. “It is most certainly not okay.”

Weak fingers ran over his palms as the angel reached upwards, mending the skin. “It’s ticket…tickety boo, dear.”

“Angel!” Crowley shouted, admonished. “Don’t waste your energy like that. Not on me. Never on me.”

The angel smiled warmly as he shuddered again, eyes crinkling into that same smile before they rolled back as the angel lost consciousness. “Always for you, love.”

The word washed over Crowley like a tidal wave, striking him deep within his corporation. Love . 

They’d never quite said it out loud before. Crowley got close, once, as they’d sat in the bookshop after a lovely evening spent at the Ritz just after the supposed, now averted, end of the world. The angel had looked so pleased with himself as they’d shared a glass of wine, a bottle the demon himself had pulled out of storage. The gramophone had crackled out a soft tune, one Crowley recognized despite the absence of the call-and-answer choral vocals and a tantalizing drum beat. A small voice inside the demon began to sing the words to himself.

Can anybody find me someone to love? 

“Is this Queen, Angel?”

The angel’s face turned flush at the demon’s accusatory gaze, hands immediately trembling as he set his glass down to fiddle with his bowtie. “A-Ah yes, my dear. Maggie found it for me.”

“Not allergic to bebop anymore, are we?” Crowley’s tone was teasing but the angel tensed under his words nonetheless.

“I’m-“ Aziraphale looked positively flustered as he wrenched the bowtie from his neck, discarding it onto the table. “I asked Maggie for some recommendations that…that you’d enjoy. If you’d prefer something else-“

“No-“ Crowley shouted, startling the angel. Aziraphale regarded him warily as he put down his own drink, running a hand through his fiery red locks. “I, ngk— I mean, it’s good. It’s good, angel.”

I’ve spent all my years in believing you, and I just can’t get no relief, Lord-

They sat in silence for a moment more until the song ended, changing into something even more familiar.

“I get to take a little credit for this one, you know.” Crowley commented lazily, swirling his glass in his hand as he slouched on his side of the couch.

“Oh?” The angel’s eyes met his. “How so?”

“Knew Freddie back in the day,” Crowley turned towards the gramophone, “Hell wanted him to stir up a little more trouble amongst the humans. Make the songs raunchier. He knew me as a bloke on the production team but we became fast friends. Never met a better human, I reckon.” He smiled to himself at the memory.

The closeness of Aziraphale’s voice startled him as he turned back towards the angel, who seemed to have shuffled closer to the demon’s spot on the sofa. “A-and this song?” His voice held a hesitation that he scarcely heard from the bookseller unless he was sampling a new dish at a restaurant.

“He wanted to hear about my life. I didn’t have much to tell him about, me being a demon and all, so I told him about our-“ His eyes darted over to the angel’s intent gaze. “Our evenings.”

The music finished its swell at the chorus, slipping back down into the verse. With a courage he didn’t recognize in himself, he sang out softly along with the piano. 

Dining at the Ritz we’ll meet at nine precisely, I will pay the bill you’ll taste the wine. Driving back in style in my saloon will do quite nicely, take me back to yours that will be fine.  

The music continued as Crowley flushed, embarrassed at the angel’s silence. Turning, he brought his glass back to his lips, taking a languid sip. Aziraphale was staring at him now, gaze flitting down towards his mouth. He could feel a drop of wine threatening to dribble down his chin and reached up a hand to be rid of it. Before he could, the demon felt the soft pad of fingers not his own drag across his bottom lip, removing the offensive drop. The angel held his gaze as he dipped his own thumb into his mouth, tasting the wine as Crowley sat, dumfounded. 

His paralysis didn’t go unnoticed by the angel, who scurried up off of the couch as soon as the gramophone crackled to a stop, signifying the end of the side. With music now righted, he returned to his place on the couch, if not even closer. Crowley felt the hairs of his arms stiffen as the angel seemed to lean in his direction, stifling a yawn.

“Crowley?”

Crowley gulped. “Angel?”

He was rewarded with a lapful of angel as the bookseller slumped forward, his tired voice floating to his ears. “I lo…” Aziraphale had stopped himself then, stuttering as he drifted to sleep, “I do so enjoy our evenings, Crowley.”

Crowley smiled to himself as the angel’s breathing slowed to a calm pace. It wasn’t often that the angel slept, but surviving execution attempts by body swapping was indeed an exhausting affair. He was surprised the angel held out this long, in all honesty. The demon’s hand had twitched, restrained from reaching out to caress Aziraphale’s soft curls as he snored lightly. The word had been on the tip of his tongue then, just as the wine had been. Ready to spill, threatening to stain. And just the same as before, the angel had stolen it just moments before he could let it flow, gushing out into reality. 

Of course, that had been before Jim, before Shax, and certainly before the Metatron. It all felt like centuries ago, yet having the angel in his arms again pulled him temptingly close to the memory. He pulled the angel close as he had then, listening to his breath coming out in sparse puffs. Crowley chose this moment to peer into the angel, past his human corporation through to his True Form. 

The True Form of angels and demons varied drastically. Crowley’s, as far as he knew, was like a mass of tendriled smoke, shifting red and grey. Aziraphale said that it moved like he had in the garden, sleek and confident with every swivel. The angel’s, in stark comparison, was a great amassing of yellow light. Just looking at it had almost blinded Crowley the first time he’d spared a look, the holy light simply far too intense for his eyes. The light always glinted, too, reflecting flecks of blue which, at first glance, almost reminded him of the angel’s eyes as he blinked. 

Now, though, Crowley had to remove his shades to squint at the angel’s form. What was previously a blinding ball of light was now reduced to a flickering flame, raw with reddened marks that matched the cuts on the angel’s skin. Crowley felt a growl rise to the back of his throat as he inspected the angel’s own, which appeared to be the darkest part of his form. 

Hastur’s words from the day before trickled into his mind. He reached out for one of the reddened marks. 

A few weapons, some restraints. The fat fellow came to pick them up. Said they were ‘specially for the Supreme Archangel.

As his fingers grazed the mark, the angel below him let out a strangled moan, shuddering as his True Form flickered in time with him. Demonic power that surged through his corporation, a familiar heat settling there.

Hellfire.

Crowley’s jaw tightened. The angel’s corporation was far too weak to be fighting off the bits of Hellfire lodged in his True Form by the blades. It would continue to eat at his essence, devouring his holy light like an insatiable darkness until there was nothing left.

The demon took comfort in the angel’s relieved exhale as he used the last of his strength to push him into a deeper slumber. Gathering the angel up in his arms, he rose from his spot on the floor and gingerly carried his limp form to his bedroom. He carefully laid Aziraphale down on the mattress, turning him to his side braced with a miracled mass of study pillows. The angel’s back had ceased bleeding, wound closed by his miracle, but was bound to still ache deep within the angel’s essence. He ran a final hand through the angel’s hair as he left the room, striding to the phone with purpose. He had a few calls to make, favours to call in. And, later, havoc to wreak, but first he had to tend to Aziraphale.

And Her as his witness, Heaven would burn before they took his angel from him.

Chapter Text

By the time Aziraphale awoke, head spinning, he could hear multiple voices far off into the distance. One in particular pierced through his veil of dizziness as he struggled to sit up, hissing as the skin of his back stretched taut. He opened his eyes, blinking as a blurry image refused to come into focus. Four blobs stood near the threshold, speaking in hushed tones until one rose over the murmur. 

“You don’t understand!” The familiar voice roared, “You don’t understand how I found him. In my own flat-“

“Crowley, they’re just trying to help.”

“No.” The first voice was back, sounding hoarse. “No one touches him. He’s had enough.”  

“Mr. Crowley-“ Another voice cut into the mix of sound. “I should really-“

Aziraphale’s eyes finally focused, bringing Crowley, Muriel, Maggie, and Nina into view. The demon was struggling against Nina’s grip as she tried to prevent him from blocking Muriel’s way into the bedroom. As the small angel made to step forward his arm shot out to the other side of the door frame. Maggie let out a soft gasp as the concrete crumbled under his grasp, knuckles turning white. 

“No.” The sound of Crowley’s cold, furious protest ripped through the room, rendering everything else silent. “You don’t fucking touch him. I’ll be damned by Her twice if I let any shred of Heavenly influence anywhere near him again.”

“My dear,” All heads whipped over to Aziraphale, who hissed again as he straightened himself, “T- That’s not very fair. Muriel’s only trying to help.” 

The smaller angel in question looked as if tears were about to spring forth as they embraced the bookseller, wrapping him in a gentle yet passionate hug. Crowley growled, the sound low in his throat, and made to pounce but Nina swatted his arm as Aziraphale embraced the scrivener, patting them twice on the shoulder. “Hello, dear.”

“Mr. Aziraphale,” Muriel’s voice was wet as they let go, beginning to cry, “I wasn’t sure if I'd see you again. The Metatron, he— he ordered me to leave the bookshop and go back to my original post. I tried to clean before I left but, but—“ They sniffled as Maggie helped detach them from the injured angel, who smiled warmly at her. 

“Think nothing of it, Muriel. You did such a wonderful job. And I’m sure dear Maggie and Nina looked after my shop while you were away.”

“No thieves, no vandals, not a scratch on her, Mr. Fell.” Nina smiled, stealing the angel’s gaze from her partner as she gave him a brisk nod. The angel returned it as Maggie let a snivelling Muriel to a seat. “Maybe a bit of dusting to do, though.”

“Unlike him.”

All eyes turned to the demon scowling in the doorframe, glare ablaze with fury. “You’ve got a bit more than dust to deal with, angel.” 

The angel met the demon’s eyes. Underneath his anger Aziraphale spotted something he hated seeing on Crowley’s face. It was visible only to him, carefully etched only into the grimace in his cheeks and pursing of thin lips, tongue darting.

Fear. Pure, unbridled fear. 

“Crowley.” The angel patted the mattress beside him. His head swam with a wave of dizziness as the demon strode towards the mattress.

“‘M not a dog.” The disdain in Crowley’s voice didn’t quite meet his eyes as he perched on the bedside regardless, still giving Aziraphale space. “And you’re in no shape for visitors. You’re injured, quite badly might I point out-“

“Hush,” Aziraphale shuffled closer to place a hand on his knee, effectively silencing him. “Maggie and Nina are always welcome. And I invited Muriel myself.”

Crowley pulled back from his touch at this. “Wot?”

“I invited them myself. In the instructions I left Muriel at the beginning of my post, they were to visit you at your flat should they ever receive news that the Second Coming was being placed on hold.”

“Why?” 

Aziraphale sucked in a breath. “Because a pause means my plan is working. And with or without me, they’ll need you to finish it, my darling demon.” 

The term of endearment did nothing to soften Crowley, who still looked at Aziraphale with wild eyes. “With or without you?”

The angel did not return his gaze this time, sighing deeply. “We both know the risks one takes to save the world, darling.”

“Do we?” Crowley’s tone became a bit venomous, stiffening his posture. “Because last I checked, one of us was stuck here, left to wonder while the other ran off right back into the lion’s den.” 

“Crowley.” Nina snapped. “Don’t you think this can wait until he’s better?”

“No, no, it’s quite alright.” Aziraphale threw Nina a comforting smile, “Crowley has every right to be angry.” He turned to Crowley, grunting in pain as his back contorted. Leaning closer, he placed a shaky hand on his cheek. The demon flinched at the sudden touch before slowly relaxing, leaning into the cool sweat of Aziraphale’s palm.

“Darling, I’m so sorry for leaving you. It was never my intention to pain you so. I don’t regret what I did-“ Crowley shot him a look at this, which softened at the feeling of added pressure from the angel’s hand, imploring him to hear the angel out.  “I don’t regret what I did because no one else could have done it. No one else sees this world like we do, Crowley. And the humans need someone to stand up to those…those-“ He seemed to be struggling for the right words. “Those bullies.”

The small tear that rolled down Crowley’s cheek was quickly wiped away by the angel, knowing just how much the demon hated showing vulnerability. “But I missed you, Crowley. I missed you every day, more than anything. More than my books, more than any sweet or scrumptious food this world has to offer. And I tried hard for you, darling.” Aziraphale’s own voice became choked. “I even put up a suggestion box.”

Crowley let out a wet laugh, the sound pushed out almost like a cough. “Y-you wot-”  

“They could make me be apart from you but they could never,” his words were punctuated by a stroke of his thumb against the corner of the demon’s mouth, “Ever take my love from you. Since the garden, since Paris, since 1941. Since we stared Death in the eye and faced eradication in each other’s place. I’ve always been yours, love.” 

There that word was again. Love. The word sounded so natural, so easily formed on the angel’s tongue that Crowley had half a mind to believe he’s practiced saying it. His shy angel, always stuttering around admittance of liking anything other than duty, now sitting across from him on a firm mattress, letting the sound of unbridled adoration flow like a waterfall off the edge of his lips. 

He leaned into the angel’s touch, blinking slowly as the angel moved to embrace him properly.

A voice cleared its throat from the other side of the room. “We’ll, er, just leave you two at it for a while. We’ll go make ourselves comfortable in the living room.” 

Maggie, Nina, and Muriel made moves to shuffle out of the door, but Aziraphale held up a trembling hand to stop them. “I-I’m afraid there’s no time for that. Now that we’re reunited it…it won’t be long before Hell finds out Crowley is still in London and Heaven notices Muriel is missing. We’ve got to get to the bookshop.” He made to swing his legs off the mattress as Crowley put a warning hand on his knee. 

“Angel, you shouldn’t be moving.” 

Aziraphale scoffed lightly, pushing Crowley’s hand away. “I’m perfectly fine, my dear. You did a bang up job healing me.” 

“Well forgive me if I don’t believe you,” Crowley snarked, eyes rolling, “But you were just bleeding out in my plant room a few hours ago. And-”

“You really should rest, Mr. Fell.” Maggie piped up. “If you need something, we could go and get it for you? Nina and I would be more than happy to help.”

“A kind offer, dear girl, but unfortunately what I require isn’t exactly portable.”

“Are you sure? I mean, between the three of us-”

“He’s using the bookshop like a makeshift armoury for the mountain of weapons he stole from Heaven.” Crowley deadpanned. Maggie and Nina shared a look of confusion as Muriel gasped.

“Crowley! Do be sensible.” The angel huffed. “It’s more of an…extended transfer of storage in a safe place.” 

“Right. And Jane Austen only wrote books.” 

“She did.” Aziraphale protested lightly. “Regardless, we’ll need to keep an eye on that, see if anyone comes looking. The wards I have there are as ironclad as the ones I placed here, I believe, but I don’t know what kind of force they’d be willing to throw at them if they find out just what I’ve got in there. And they’ve certainly been…eager, lately.” He subconsciously ran a finger over a particularly large gash in his arm.

It was Crowley’s turn to scoff. “If that’s what we’re calling it these days.”

The demon then paused, running Aziraphale’s words through his head a second time. “Wait, the wards you placed here?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks coloured a slight pink as he struggled to meet Crowley’s gaze. “I may have placed a few here on the elevator ride up. Nothing fancier than what I have on the bookshop.” 

The demon’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing fancier, hm? And would this entirely…unfancy level of warding have anything to do with the reason Hastur was asking if I was in America? ”

Whilst grimacing in pain, the angel still managed to throw Crowley a small pout. “Don’t look at me like that, Crowley! You know how they are. They…they just show up, uninvited, and you hate uninvited guests. And you know they’re angry,” Aziraphale glanced down, getting quiet, “So if I wasn’t here to protect you, I needed to make sure you’d be okay.”

His admittance softened Crowley’s glower, if only slightly. “I can take care of myself, angel.”

“Oh, I know you can,” Azirapahle huffed, making a vain attempt to cross his arms before letting them drop to his sides, wincing, “But I can’t very well leave Heaven’s most prized possession in the charge of their most hated demon and then leave it to work itself out, now can I?”

Crowley gawked. “I have-”

“The Book of Life? Yes, dear, do keep up.” 

Crowley heard Nina snicker behind him. He threw her a glare, sneering. “Shut it, coffee human.”

“Make me, disaster gay.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale hissed, swatting him on the arm with what little strength he had. “Be nice. And yes, you have the book. It’s my understanding that you’ve, ah, been keeping it quite close.” 

Crowley’s hand was reaching into his jacket before he was aware of himself, pulling out the small booklet stored carefully in his breast pocket. He waved a hand over it and it grew, stretching into a leather book so large it easily slipped from his grasp. He let out a small grunt, catching it just before it hit the floor.   

“What’s the Book of Life?” Maggie wondered, stepping closer to inspect the large book.

“It’s a ledger of sorts, of all souls in existence.” Muriel supplied helpfully, moving forward to pluck it from the demon’s lap. “It’s something only She or the Metatron have the power to use. Erasing a name from it would effectively be like erasing someone’s entire existence. While nothing changes on Earth or with time, per se, it would be as if that person had never existed. It’s not meant to be used like that, though. It’s just meant to, well, be.” 

“Heaven was planning to use it in the next battle, to-” A small groan left his throat, “To ensure a swift victory that ended in the eradication of all demonkind. But I couldn’t let them do it,” Aziraphale paused to look at Crowley. “I couldn’t let them take both of my worlds.”

Crowley felt his cheeks burn hot, turning back to face the angel. “Was it always like this?”

“No,” Aziraphale looked away from him. “I swapped it shortly before I was found out.” 

“And how long ago was that?” Crowley’s eyebrow was inquisitive.

The angel sounded timid as he answered. “J-Just…just before you prayed to me.” 

“Oh.”

The reality of the angel’s words sunk in slowly. His ears began to ring as Nina and Maggie whispered to themselves. 

Just before you prayed to me. 

Muriel’s face paled at Aziraphale’s words. “You prayed to Mr. Fell? But all prayers are monitored, surely someone would have-” 

Aziraphale was quick to throw the scrivener a look, eyes pleading with them to stop. “Muriel, we-”

“Oh, God.” The word burnt Crowley’s tongue as he spoke but he found that he couldn’t care less. “I’m the reason you were stuck up there. The reason you’re hurt.”

Aziraphale turned to face him, his brow soft. “Darling, it’s-” 

“I slept,” Crowley spat the word, “while they tortured you.” His words were strained as throat seemed to close on its own accord. “I-i–”

“My dear,” Aziraphale scooted closer as he piled Crowley into his arms, embracing the redhead’s lanky frame. “It’s alright. Breathe for me, darling.”

Crowley, still careful to avoid the angel’s injuries, allowed himself to sink into his arms. The angel raised a shaky hand to his hair, petting the demon’s wine-red locks. Crowley melted at the touch, leaning into Aziraphale further. The angel hissed as he brushed his ribs, causing the demon to recoil just as fast.

Aziraphale tutted. “I won’t have any of that, I’ve waited far too long to have you in my arms. Come here, you silly creature.” He opened his arms slowly. 

“Next time just tell them, angel.” Crowley’s head was in his hands as he curled into Aziraphale, more gently this time. “Tell them whatever they want, whatever they need to hear to leave you alone. M’ not worth it.”

Crowley could practically feel the indignation in Aziraphale’s chest as replied. “You are worth it, Anthony J. Crowley. You’re worth everything.”

Crowley placed his head on Aziraphale’s collarbone, poorly suppressing another small sob. He came to himself not a moment later, sniffling as he wiped the remainder of his tears on his jacket sleeve. “Bit sappy, angel.”

“For you, love,” Aziraphale pressed a small kiss to his head, “The sappiest.”

Muriel looked positively delighted as Maggie squealed quietly, smacking a hand over her mouth after she realized what she’d done. Nina, to her credit, looked less impressed, but there was no hiding the secret smile that worked its way onto her features.

“Come on lads, up you get.” She ushered Crowley off the angel’s lap, offering Aziraphale a steadying hand. “We’ve got a bookshop to get to. Let me help you up.”

Aziraphale made to sit up fully even as his back screamed at the exertion, swinging his legs off the mattress with Nina’s assistance. He’d barely begun to try standing before he pitched forward in a fit of pain. Crowley lunged for the angel at the same time Nina did, barely cushioning him with his own body before he hit the floor. Brushing a stray lock of hair from those blue-grey eyes, he attempted to flash the bookseller a reassuring smile. 

“Woah, steady on, angel. Wouldn’t want you to hurt that pretty head of yours.”

Wouldn’t want you to hurt that pretty little head of yours. 

Aziraphale gasped as he was jolted back to that blinding white room, forced onto his knees as his arms were jerked above his head. Sandalphon, no, Crowley, stood above him. Eyes glinting, sneer identical, blade in hand with intent to cut and maim and hurt. Yellow eyes boring down into his own, offering very little of the comfort the sight once gave him. Tongue darting out to taste the air as the smell of smoky Hellfire wafting just under his nose. Face so…beautiful, but wrong, wrong, wrongwrongwrong-

“Such a shame, angel, that you’ve chosen to be so unhelpful.”

The drag of a knife, the steady metronome of ichor dripping down onto the floor, those high-pitched whines of pain he recognized faintly as his own-

“What’s happening?”

“Fuck, shit, Aziraphale-”

He knew the rules. He had to stay still. If he stayed still, he wouldn’t burn. He wouldn’t.

“This could all go away if you just chose to help me. Why won’t you help me, Aziraphale?”

“S’not real, you’re not- oh, God,” Aziraphale moaned, low and sustained, as he fought the hands that grasped his shoulders. 

“Damn it, Aziraphale, stay still!”

“Crowley, I think he’s having a panic attack. Quick, can you-”

“I thought you loved me, angel. Don’t you love me?”

Tears dripped hot and fast down the angel’s face as he babbled, whimpering at the mirage playing out in front of him. “P-Please, I don’t-”

“Because I don’t love you, Aziraphale. I could never love you.” 

Another languid slash, this time just below the ribcage. The demon laughed darkly as Aziraphale struggled to stay upright, torso twitching as his arms screamed at him to slump forwards into the flames. 

“Crowley, you need to-”

“You left me, angel. And I’ll make sure you spend every last day of the rest of your existence regretting it.”

“Maggie, quick, grab him before he tears his cuts open-”

“Angel, you deserve this. Say that you deserve this.”

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes tight, still trying to wiggle out of the hands that held him firmly in place. “I-I deserve this.”

“Aziraphale, come back to me, dove.”

“You’re a bad angel.”

“I’m a bad angel.” 

“Mr. Fell-”

“You’re a disgrace.”

“I’m a disgrace.”

“Crowley, it’s not working, what-”

“And everyone in the whole fucking universe would have been better off if you’d have just shut your stupid mouth and died in that column of fire. But that wasn’t really you, was it? Lucky for us, God’s all about second chances–”

“Damn it, Aziraphale, snap out of it!”

Aziraphale wrenched his eyes open with a sob, letting four horrified faces come into focus. Muriel had tears in their eyes as Maggie and Nina stepped back, releasing their grip on his arms. Crowley kept him cradled in his arms, worry bleeding from every crack in his usual blasé facade. 

“Angel.” Crowley’s voice was barely a whisper. “What…what was that?”

Aziraphale ignored his question, turning his head into the demon’s midsection to breathe in his scent. Sandalwood. Smoke. Not good enough. 

“Angel?” Crowley tried again. 

“What did you tell me?” Aziraphale’s eyes were pleading as he grasped the sleeve of Crowley’s jacket, tugging, “What did you say to me t- the night we found out about Adam?”

“What, angel, you’re not making any-”

“What did we say!” Aziraphale shouted, clinging to him harder, “What did you say when we said we’d be godfathers?”

“You…you said ‘I’ll be damned’ and I replied ‘It’s not so bad when you get used to it.’” The demon whispered, moving to intertwine his fingers with the angel’s as his grip weakened. “Why, angel, what’s so important about it?”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s relief was palpable as he slumped into the demon’s hold, ignoring his question. “I- I’m sorry, my dear. I don’t know what came over me.”

“I do.” Nina piped up from the corner, rubbing a soothing hand on Maggie’s shoulder, who looked close to tears. “You had a flashback, Mr. Fell. A bad one, by the looks of it.”

Aziraphale was silent, face burning hot at the four figures waiting for him to explain. “I-”

“What was it about?”

Aziraphale wanted to ignore the question. “N-nothing important, my dear, I-”

“It could help, Mr. Fell,” Maggie’s tone was cautious, “To talk about it.” 

The angel looked rather uncomfortable, eyes flitting between the concerned faces staring back at him. “I really don’t-”

“...I used to get them about Lindsay.”

Everyone turned to Nina, who was subtly clutching her girlfriend’s hand for support. “It happens, sometimes. When something slips off the counter and breaks in the shop or…or when my phone starts going off and just won’t stop making noise. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. Fell. We won’t judge.”

Crowley threw the barista a thankful look as he drew the angel closer. “It’s okay, dove. You can tell us.”

“In H-” Aziraphale cut himself off. “Up there, they had a…special way of trying to get me to tell them what they wanted to know.”

Crowley nodded along encouragingly. “What was it, angel?”

“The first time it happened, I thought I was dreaming.”

Aziraphale seemed to be almost talking to himself, eyes unfocused as the room stayed silent. Crowley drew small circles into the back of the angel’s hand as he drew a ragged breath. 

“I think I’d only been in the room for a few days. Sandalphon had come in to get acquainted with me, of course, but it was mostly common punishments. Mostly whipping, if you must know. Nothing I haven’t seen outside of a standard performance review.”

Muriel gasped at his words as Crowley growled, the sound tangible on Aziraphale’s cheek as the angel pressed into the demon, avoiding eye contact. 

“Then one day, the door just…opened. And there you were. Looking so dashing, mind you,” The angel chuckled to himself, “So frenzied. Desperate to know where the book was, to get me out of the chains and back to the bookshop. Except you leaned in and you weren’t…right.” 

“Angel,” Crowley started slowly, “I-I’m sorry but I…I was asleep. I didn’t know you were being held. You did dream me, love. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you. I-”

“No, not dreamt.” Aziraphale sniffled, squeezing his eyes shut. “They chose their faces wisely.”

As soon as the words left his lips, the air grew tense and heavy in the room. The angel could feel the white hot fury seeping out of the demon as he put the pieces together.

Muriel paled, also understanding. “They didn’t.”

“They did.” Crowley snarled. “Because of course they would.”

“Sorry, what are we missing?” Maggie sounded embarrassed to intrude.

“Back just after the world almost ended-” The declaration earned him a squawk from the humans in the corner, “Aziraphale and I got into deep shit. Heaven and Hell were not happy that their perfect little apocalypse got interrupted and needed heads on spikes to make examples out of. We knew it was only a matter of time before they came for us, so we swapped bodies. Attended each other’s executions, quite literally went through trials by fire, and then swapped back here at the flat once we’d convinced our respective sides that we’d somehow evolved to be immune to holy water and Hellfire.”

“We got a bit of a tip off,” Aziraphale made a valiant effort to rise and meet eyes with the pair before he was pushed back down gently by the demon above him. “By a witch of old and her book of prophecies - Prophecy 5004, to be exact. ‘When alle is sayed and all is done, ye must choose your faces wisely, for soon enouff, ye will be playing with fyre.’”

“So they-”

“Yes.” Aziraphale spared Nina the need to explain, sensing the deep discomfort in the shopkeeper. “Most often, at least towards the end, when they wanted to hurt me, they’d do it wearing Crowley’s face.”

Crowley stiffened as Maggie’s hand flew to her mouth, a short gasp escaping her. “That’s-”

“Not very heavenly? Oh, you’d think.” Aziraphale said lightly, shifting to meet the eyes of his beloved demon. “Crowley, darling? Say something, please.”

The demon slowly retracted his hand from Aziraphale’s, simply letting his legs be the sole supporter of the angel’s head. His heart panged, confused as he watched the demon shrink in on himself, trembling. “Crowley? Please, I’m sorry-”

“I would never.”

The words were so quiet it was almost as if he hadn’t made a sound, and yet as timidly as he began, Crowley couldn’t stop the dam bursting, spilling forth a desperate plea to the angel on his lap. 

“I would never, angel. I would never hurt you, please, you have to know this, I would never-”

“My love,” Aziraphale reached a struggling hand upwards, “Of course I know. And even if I didn’t,” He took a deep breath in, “They could never get your scent right. So warm and inviting, dear.”

Crowley let out a pained chuckle, looking fondly down at the angel below him. It was clear that he was still agonized by the thought of having any part to do in Aziraphale’s torture yet was touched at the other’s admission. 

“They couldn’t get your walk right either,” Aziraphale giggled to himself, waggling his eyebrows in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Much too rigid and very obviously haven’t been on the receiving end of that sinful sway of those hips of yours. And don’t get me started on your-”

“Alright,” Crowley gently reached back out to the angel, helping him sit upright. “You’ve made your point, angel. But we will be talking about this later.”

Aziraphale nodded once, firm as he met the concerned eye of his lover. “Of course, my dear.”

Muriel’s sniffles were the first noises the celestial pair were aware of, drawn back to the reality of the room they were in. 

“I’m s-,” They hiccuped, gasping for air, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Aziraphale.”

“Just Aziraphale,” The angel gently reminded, “And-”

“I should have looked for you!” Muriel wailed, hot tears slipping down their face as Maggie and Nina moved forward to comfort them. “T-They told me you were just busy so I stayed away but I should have tried a-anyways.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale threw her a comforting smile as he shakily rose to his feet, “You had no way of knowing and no reason to believe they were lying to you. It’s not your fault.”

Gently, he embraced the scrivener, who tenderly hugged him back. Crowley caught the eye of Nina over their shoulders, who narrowed her gaze at the demon. He shook his head lightly at her.

“We should get going,” Aziraphale announced, slowly breaking his embrace with the other angel. “We need to start preparing."

“For what?”

“For the end of the world…again.”

Maggie laughed uneasily. “You make it sound so trivial, Mr. Fell.”

“Not trivial,” The angel sighed, turning to the doorway. “Just…unfortunately familiar.” 

He took all of three steps towards the doorway before pitching forward with a retch. Crowley was at his side in a flash, steadying the other with a firm yet careful grip to his torso. 

 “I-I’m afraid I might be a little worse for the wear at the moment.” Aziraphale forced a light chuckle between coughs of pain as Crowley guided him back to the edge of the bed. “Might we travel in a bit more of a magical way?”

The red haired demon scowled at the small moans that fell from Aziraphale’s lips before the bookseller could catch them. “I’ll take us.”

“You will not.” Aziraphale huffed, “You’ve practically spent all of your energy trying to heal this stubborn corporation of mine-”

“Which was my fault-” 

“On the contrary-”

“Gentleman.” Nina’s stern tone cut through their bickering. “Perhaps we’ve forgotten there’s another celestial being in the room than just you two?”

They all turned to Muriel, who smiled sheepishly. “I’d be happy to take us! I’ve gotten rather good at my transportation miracles from my time here.”

“Oh, thank you, Muriel.” Aziraphale offered them a weak smile between coughs. “If you could aim to put me in that armchair I like, the one near the window, I’d be ever so grateful.”

“You’ve got it, Mr. Azir-” Muriel caught themselves at Aziraphale’s raised brow. “Aziraphale.”

“Wonderful. Are we ready?” 

“Whenever you are, Mr. Fell.”

“Crowley?”

There was a fire alight in the angel’s eyes that set Crowley’s own heart aflame. His angel was so strong, so determined, so utterly good. So fierce in the face of certain danger. 

And yet it was this fierceness that bore into him, so strong he could almost taste it in the air between them, as Aziraphale squeezed his hand knowingly, holding his gaze, their touch zinging through his corporation like a bolt of lightning. A fierceness that engulfed his chest, warming it, setting his own into motion. Letting the feeling wash over him, Crowley felt himself slipping comfortably into himself, that dangerously imaginative demon who’d sooner brave an ocean of holy water than to go quietly. So, ever so gently, he squeezed the angel’s hand back. 

Aziraphale smiled, all teeth. “Perfect. Then let’s go.”

Chapter Text

Their travelling to the bookshop went on, surprisingly, without a hitch. Despite the small stature of the angel, Muriel had grown quite well into their inspector constable uniform, the well practiced miracle proving to be of partial ease. And if Crowley spotted a small furrow in the scrivener’s brow as their feet solidified onto the firm carpet of the bookshop, he decided to keep it to himself. 

Upon their arrival Aziraphale relaxed immediately, an extra tension he’d not known he was carrying as he settled into the familiar embrace of his favourite armchair. The winter sun, still able to provide him with a small bout of warmth, settled down gently onto his skin. 

“Here, angel.”

Aziraphale glanced down to find his usual attire once again adorning his corporation. He ran a hesitant thumb down the seam of his coat, feeling the ridges of the beige threads as he hummed a low note to himself. The shirt, although rigid, felt like a firm hug from an old friend to the angel’s torso. It had been so long that the bookseller hadn’t quite realized how much he missed things that felt real– were real. Things that had been made with love and care, painstaking craftsmanship that made the angel believe that much more in divine gifts. Artistry was truly one of Her greatest creations.

“S’one of your back ups from the upstairs wardrobe.” Crowley moved to lounge in the chair beside him, seemingly reading the angel’s mind. “I know you hate miracled clothes.” 

“I’ve never worn it before,” Aziraphale mused, still focused on how the garment felt between his fingers, “I only intended to get one, but the tailor insisted they come in pairs.” 

“Probably because you used to flash your pound notes around like gossip leaflets, angel.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Even still. I only ever meant to wear the one.”

The subtle frustration in his voice made Crowley sigh. “I’m sorry, angel.” 

“Whatever for?”

“That they…” Crowley seemed to be having trouble getting the words out. “That they took so much from you. I…I was so mad at what I’d lost I didn’t think much of what you had lost, too.”

“My dear,” Although too far to reach for the demon, Aziraphale’s caring tone settled atop Crowley’s shoulders like a comforting weight. “I did miss my clothes, yes. But there were certainly more important things to miss than waistcoats and button downs.”

The unspoken you seemed to float between the two celestial beings as they settled into a comfortable silence, neither being quite ready to disturb the odd but welcome sense of peace that blossomed between them. The last time they’d been in this room together, eyes both wet with tears that threatened to spill, had been, objectively, Crowley’s worst day on Earth. They’d come so, so close to finally halting the expertly light dance they performed around each other. Impulses hot and overwhelming as they’d shared a knowing look while an archangel and demon sang softly to each other, fading away to a part of space and time known only to themselves. Desire thrumming in the brush of hands and near-hopeful smiles exchanged as the forces of Heaven and Hell bickered around them. Pride seeping out of his corporation as he watched Aziraphale whip the others into shape, just before that pompous, sorry excuse for an angel had stepped through the threshold, coffee in hand. And Crowley could picture it clear as day the way that Aziraphale’s voice had cracked, pleading the demon to accompany him. The way his eyes sparkled with wetness, breath coming out all hitched and gasping as he watched Crowley shut down, sliding his sunglasses back onto his face. The way his face had looked, nervous but determined, when he’d watched him get into that elevator. Giving him one last chance to come back. 

He hadn’t missed the smirk in the elevator, either. The way that the Metatron had quirked his brow at the demon, settling a hand onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, who stiffened immediately. Perhaps his corporation had known of the impending trails to come before the angel’s own bleeding heart. 

“I did.” 

Crowley raised guilty eyes to meet the angel’s own. “I-”

“You mumble. And even if you didn’t, it wouldn’t take a genius to deduce that train of thought from your head, dearheart.”

“Oi.” The demon cried indignantly, cheeks reddening ever so slightly at the moniker.  

“I mean to say only that you wear your heart on your sleeve, my love,” Christ, was the angel trying to kill him with the pet names? “And right now you look positively murderous.” 

“I am.” He could tell his own corporation was taut as a bowstring, the bookshop doing little to relax him. 

“You’re angry.”

“I’m pissed.” 

“You’re angry.” Aziraphale corrected, tutting at vulgarity. 

“No, actually,” Crowley’s teeth gnashed together as he drew in a slow breath, seemingly self-regulating. “I’m fucking pissed. And I’m trying, I really am, to not be so fucking pissed that you left but I still am. And then you–” He was losing the battle within himself, heart rate shifting into a gallop as he tightened his grip on the arm of the lounge chair, “You just say it so casually.” 

“Say what?”

“That you knew.” The demon’s voice was heavy. “You knew that they-”

“Were most likely going to hurt me? Yes,” Aziraphale’s palms felt cold against the top of his thighs as he twitched under his companion’s gaze, “I did. You know why.” 

Aziraphale never talked too much about his time in Heaven prior to the failed apocalypse. There were months, years, even, where the angel would disappear without much more than a note taped to the bookshop window or slipped under his apartment. If the locals of Whicker Street, both present and very much past, had ever made note of the way that the shop would find stewardship in a flaming redhead, they’d find the memory soon replaced with the bumbling bookseller they’d grown quite used to. Aziraphale never asked for more than a cloaking miracle, something to keep the humans away while he was gone, but Crowley would slip in on some nights, nursing a whiskey while he waited for his friend to return. Most often he would come and go, only running into the angel upon their next assignment. He preferred it that way, citing to the demon that he needed a small bit of time to adjust his senses to the steady pulse of a bustling city. But one time he’d been on the settee when light flashed and spit out an angel, shaking and shivering onto the rug-covered floor. He’d frozen when he’d seen Crowley, all but throwing him out forcefully, slamming the door to the bookshop with an apology enveloped in hurriedness and a promise to visit his flat the following week. 

The demon hadn’t pressed, at the time. Aziraphale quietly clearly had not wanted to speak about the matter, this instance being no different. But he’d seen speckles of red and gold on the angel’s coat, seen the way he limped to the armchair before collapsing into it. He recalled their teasing at the retired convent, the angel’s pout doing a damn good job of distracting him from the splatter of paint now littering their clothes. 

I’d always know it was there. 

Crowley watched as the angel tugged on a sleeve– just how many stains had he removed from the garment himself over the last few hundred years?

“Then why did you go?” He heard himself speak after a moment, still looking down at the angel’s sleeve.

Aziraphale said nothing for a moment, turning to look blankly out the window beside him. Faintly, the demon could hear Muriel searching a cupboard as the kettle gasped out its pitchy note, Nina laughing at the remark of her partner. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it almost sounded domestic. 

“I went…” Aziraphale began, head turning back to the bookshop as the demon refocused his attention to their little corner of the room, “I went because someone had to, Crowley. Someone had to do the work. And we both know it couldn’t– no, it wouldn’t have been anyone else.  

“We could have gone. We could have picked up and left this place behind, found another giant ball of rock to set up shop. Sure, it wouldn’t be the same but fuck, angel, I’d-” He sighed, “I’d invent cultures for you. I’d plant new plants, make new foods, Satan, even write some books. I’d have moved universes for you, angel. You know that.” 

“I know you would.” The angel said it so easily. “But you deserve better than some…false miracle, Crowley. You love this place–” He shook his head, correcting himself, “We love this place. And we deserve better, don’t we? We deserve a rich history forged by the centuries we’ve lived through, foods passed down from generation to generation. We deserve phenomenal artistry, music made by real people with bleeding hearts and fury,” Another tug at his jacket, “And proper craftsmanship. We deserve the world. This world.”

“Not at your expense, angel.” It seemed incredibly apparent to Aziraphale that Crowley’s anger spiked at any mention of his predicament, the way his jaw clenched when reminded of just how fragile the angel truly was at present. “It doesn’t mean anything to me without you here to enjoy it.”

It was no secret that Crowley liked to indulge. A luxurious nap here, a lengthy drive there, Hell, even a spot of onanism when the situation– or rather, corporation– arose. But his favourite indulgence had and always would be the simple act of witnessing. It began in Job’s cellar but had flourished as the world kept turning, spitting out new artists and authors, tailors and chefs. Over the years it had become less and less disguised under the notion of heavenly duties but oh, did Aziraphale love to soak up all the world had to offer. And Crowley loved to watch him. He had first sampled food like a wounded animal, deeply distrusting of the offered ox rib, yet had taken to gluttony faster than the demon could have imagined. And he had imagined it. 

Now the angel ate without fear, having mastered the art of savouring a good meal. That smooth, satisfied hum buzzed around in Crowley’s brain for years after he’d first heard it. And as he discovered more, the angel gave away the noise more freely. Post failed apocalypse, Crowley found himself ensconced in a choir of the pleased tone. He’d never loved a century more. 

So when the angel observed that he loved the world, it was, of course, true. But he loved the world for what it did for Aziraphale, not the other way around. 

The angel was letting the gears turn in his head, choosing to stay silent as Crowley stewed. He knew the angel was right, in a way. Not a single angel up above saw the world like his own. Not even Muriel, although they’d been progressing wonderfully in their understanding of Earth. It truly could only have been Aziraphale, as gentle and considerate as he was, to take up the mantle left in the wake of the Archangel Gabriel, despite the heavy personal cost. To not only have a watchful eye up in the highest place but to know it viewed with compassion and not in blind faith. God’s most empathetic angel, perched higher in the roost and governing with a gentle hand. 

“It’s hard to accept,” Crowley admitted, easing his grip on the chair, “even if I see your point, angel.”

“I can understand that.” Aziraphale hummed in agreement even as he fidgeted, clearly still nervous. “I don’t think I need you to accept it as long as you can still accept me.”

Crowley threw the angel what he hoped to be a reassuring smirk. “That I can do, angel.”

Relief flooded Aziraphale’s features as he drew his coat closer, returning Crowley’s smile. “Good.”

They fell into a silence yet again. For a few moments, as the cars whisked by and the heavy fall of hurried heels hit the pavement outside, Crowley could close his eyes and almost imagine something familiar. Something normal. 

It was then that the trio descended from the bookshop’s spiral staircase, teacups in hand.

“Gotta say, the house tour’s much nicer without a flock of demons trying to eat us during a perfectly ordinary street-wide meeting.” Nina threw a pointed look at Aziraphale, who grinned, albeit slightly sheepishly.  

“If you’re trying to get me to apologize for doing an Austen proud, dear, then I think you’ll find we’ll be waiting here much longer. And we don’t have that kind of time.”

Muriel nodded solemnly in agreement as they deposited a teacup at Aziraphale’s side, who gave them a thankful nod as he raised the steaming cup to his lips. “Aziraphale is right. We’ve got to make a decision on what to do.”

The angel’s lips were pursed as he sipped lightly, sighing to himself. “I suppose we should start with the elephant in the room.”

“...Are we talking about the stolen book with the power to rewrite existences, the mountain of celestial weapons stored in the back corner, or the fact that you were dying on the floor of my flat less than two hours ago and now we’re just sitting here like it didn’t happen?”

Aziraphale threw a pointed look at Crowley. “My dear.”

“What?” Crowley threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Just checking.”

The angel’s eye roll was barely hidden. “We should discuss the weapons first, I imagine. The book is fine where it is.”

It was, currently, burning a hole through Crowley’s breast pocket. 

“Well then,” Crowley kicked up his feet, “What to do about those?”

“I hate to ask, Mr. Fell,” Maggie started, “But just how much– erm, contraband are we getting rid of, here?”

Crowley pursed his lips haughtily, turning to the angel. “Yes, angel, how much?”

Aziraphale looked like he wanted to kill him. “...All of it.” He mumbled.

“What was that? Couldn’t quite hear you.”

“All of it.” 

The angel was scowling at the demon, who, for the first time since seeing the angel, seemed to be taking quite a pleasure in riling him up. 

Muriel, however, was less enthused. They stared at Aziraphale with wide eyes, mouth slightly agape. 

“You…” They trailed off at first, not knowing quite how to word their question. “You are storing the entire celestial armoury here?”

Aziraphale hummed. “Well. I suppose not all of it.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Personal weapons unable to be snatched by an unassuming miracle don’t count, angel.”

A deep sigh left Aziraphale’s lips. “Well. Then I suppose all of it, yes.”

Nina brought a hand up to her face, pinching her nose. “Do we even want to know how much that is?”

“Best not.”

“Right,” She nodded her head, “And I’m guessing we can’t just throw ‘em in the Thames.”

“Unfortunately not.”

“There’s only really one way to get rid of them safely.” Muriel was nodding to themselves. “We need to absorb them.”

“...And what the fuck does that mean.”

“Language.” Maggie swatted Nina, apologizing to Muriel, who seemed unaffected by the swearing. 

“All of the weapons for angels are, technically, forged in connection to Her holiness. That’s what makes them blessed and especially dangerous to anything demonic or occult.” 

“So Crowley’ll just be sitting on his ass for this one.” Nina mused. 

“Guilty as charged.” Crowley winked at her. 

“And how did you even get away with taking these?” Maggie asked Aziraphale.

“Hiding them is actually quite simple - we don’t allow them to radiate a specific energy because that’s something that you humans can pick up on. And in order to prevent items of any power or significance from falling into the wrong hands, it’s stayed that way for the entirety of Earth’s existence.”

“Angelic steel is still tethered to Her light,” Aziraphale explained, “Just tucked away in a different corner than usual. It’s almost like stepping into a cold room without seeing a source of the draft: You may not be able to see it but you’re still aware it exists.”

“But the moment one is disposed of, the Heavenly Host can feel it.” Muriel nodded along, turning to Aziraphale. “Once the bond between holiness and object is severed, the release of it is easily traceable in large quantities."

“Becoming an archangel had some perks,” Aziraphale admitted, “It increased my corporation’s capacity to channel holiness, as well as my essence’s…ability to redirect it.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it’s possible for holiness to be transferred or harnessed,” Muriel chirped, turning to face the confused humans. “It’s a direct tether to Her light, giving angels the ability to grant larger blessings and prayers while in corporeal forms— things that can’t be performed with simple miracles. But there are limits.”

“Like what?”

“Outside of Herself, corporations and essences are…” Aziraphale struggled for the right words. “Fragile. And if you try to get too big for your britches, well.” He made a popping sound with his lips.  

“So basically,” Nina set down her cup on the table, “Anyone looking to make themselves quite literally holier than thou would…explode.”

“Something like that, yes.”

“Bur we could do it? Here?” Maggie asked.

Aziraphale bit his lip. “We may be a bit of a strong word.”

“Can’t Muriel help you?”

The angel sighed. “While Muriel has done an excellent job here, I fear their corporation isn’t built to be a suitable vessel for the amount of output we’re talking about.”

“And is it safe?”

The room was silent for a moment.

“Theoretically, I should be able to channel the influx of holiness into myself and then expel any excess energy safely over a large area– in our case, London. It will, however, undoubtedly attract some attention.” He poked his pointer finger towards the ceiling.

Crowley leaned in. “Theoretically?”

Aziraphale let out a high pitched noise. “Well, technically speaking there is a chance that the energy will be too much for my corporation to withstand and cause discoportation, however-”

“Right, so I’ve heard enough.” Crowley stood up. “Not happening.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale stood up to meet his eyes. “This is not a matter of discussion. This is the only way we can ensure that Heaven does not have the tools to start another apocalypse. We already have the Book, this is the last piece of the plan.”

Crowley blinked at him in disbelief. “If you discorporate, they will never give you another body. And we don’t have an antichrist we can run to this time to fix our fuck ups.”

“Crowley-“

“They would never let you leave.” Crowley hissed. “Never.” 

“We have no choice!”

“We do!” Crowley yelled. “For fucking once, you could choose yourself.”

“Not at their expense, Crowley!”

“Right, of course. Just of ours. Over and over and fucking over again.” He thrust his cup of tea into Muriel’s hands. “Right. You can come get me when it’s done, then, because I’m not sticking around for this.”

Nina made to grab his arm. “Crowley.”

“No. Absolutely fucking not."

“Crowley, we don’t have much choice.”

“And I don’t fucking care.” Crowley seethed. 

“Crowley!” 

Aziraphale’s voice bellowed through the bookshop. The demon turned slowly to meet the watery gaze of his companion. Fuck, this was too familiar. 

“Crowley,” The angel started, “I understand that this is hard for you. Believe me, I do. But I need you to be strong for the both of us right now. Literally.”

“Angel.”

“When I’m finished, I will be spent. Quite literally depleted of any remaining energy. We both know I am injured– I cannot maintain the wards on this place and attempt this task. Muriel will help, but we need you here. With us. To protect us. Please.”

Crowley’s voice came out much more shaky than he’d have liked. “Angel-”

“When the miracle is complete, they will know. I don’t know how quickly, but they will. And I need you–” Aziraphale’s breath hitched, “I need you to be here to help in case…in case I can’t.”

“Please, for the love of Someone, do not make me choose between you and this place.” He cast a wary eye to Nina and Maggie. “Please do not make me the bad guy here.”

“You never were.” Aziraphale looked like he wanted to wrap him up in his arms. “I’m not asking you to choose this time. I promise to you, somehow, I will still be here when this is all over. Perhaps weak, yes, but still here. I will not leave you.”

“You can’t know that.” Crowley sounded angry, yet he took a step back towards the group.

“Well,” Aziraphale moved to meet him, “I happen to know a very stubborn demon who’s been teaching me about the power of imagination.”

Crowley grunted, low in his throat, and stepped forward into Aziraphale’s embrace. “I”m going to be so fucking pissed if you get discorporated in here. Again.”

“Believe me, I wasn’t a huge fan of it either.” The angel’s voice was quiet in his ear as they held each other. “But I’m not going anywhere this time, Crowley. I promise.” 

The look in Crowley’s eyes was that of an unconvinced man, yet he stayed in place, letting Aziraphale drag him back to the plush furniture. They sank into the larger chair together, Aziraphale tucking himself into Crowley’s bony lap. 

“Gross.”

All heads turned to look at Nina.

“What? Just because the world’s being threatened I can’t call it like I see it?”

Maggie shook her head lightly. “Give them a break.”

“I’ll give them a break when that one–” She pointed to a sheepish looking Crowley, “Apologizes for sulking in my shop for the last fucking forever about our resident bookseller.”

Crowley’s sunglasses were suddenly back on his face, feigning nonchalance. “No idea what you mean.”

“Whatever,” Nina huffed. “Mr. Fell, do you need the boxes over here?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “They’re fine where we are, Nina, dear. Thank you.” 

He turned to face Muriel, whose face was beginning to look a tad pale. “Muriel. Would you come here, please?”

Muriel inched forward to stand by the angel’s side. “H-How are we doing this?”

Aziraphale took their hand. “We are going to hold hands, like this,” He gestured with their clasped hands, “And I am going to begin the process. We will both perform the same miracle to remove the holiness from the weapons and you will let go of my hand once you feel it become overwhelming. I will perform the rest. ”

“Mr. Aziraphale–”

“You will let go.” The firmness in the angel’s voice made it evident that the plan was not up for discussion. “Once I’m done, Crowley will get rid of the lot. Put it somewhere safe, darling.”

“Would you prefer a scrapyard in New Jersey or New Hampshire?”

Aziraphale looked thoroughly unimpressed. “A pocket dimension will do, darling.”

Crowley shrugged. “Not as fun, but practical. Fine.” He turned to his angel, “And you’re sure that the cursed wounds won’t like, mix with this tidal wave of heavenly power and make you explode?”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “Pretty sure.”

The demon looked as though he was going to have his own medical emergency. “Right, right. Sure. Cool. Very cool.” 

Aziraphale pressed a warm kiss to Crowley’s cheek, who had the decency to flush a bright red colour. “You’ll want to move, my dear.”

“Ngk. Yeah.”

The demon wiggled his way out of the seat to give the angels space as they clasped hands. 

“Ready?” 

Muriel looked worried but incredibly determined. “Ready.”

“Okay. In three, two, one-”

The snap of both their fingers sent a shockwave of energy through the room. Nina and Maggie staggered with the force of it, quickly moving to find solid purchase on one of the bookshop’s many lounge chairs. A faint glow began to radiate from the pair of celestial beings as a steady thrumming could be felt under the skin, pulsing at the beat of Crowley’s increasing heart rate. 

It wasn’t long before Muriel gasped, releasing Aziraphale’s hand as their knees gave out. Crowley dove across the coffee table to catch them, barely snagging their wrist and pulling them upwards before they could hit the floor. He laid them down gently on the bookshop’s carpet, sneaking a glance up at Aziraphale. 

His angel’s eyes were closed, screwed shut as he concentrated. The thrumming was getting harder to ignore now, almost beating through his skull like a bad headache. He suspected that his demonic essence was not a particular fan of being in this room while this kind of celestial procedure was happening, but his corporation also knew better than to be defined by the usual rules and logic of demonkind. 

A metallic tear caught the light in an awful way as Crowley realized Aziraphale was crying ichor, body obviously struggling to sustain the influx of holiness being absorbed into itself. He itched to reach out, to place a steadying hand on Aziraphale’s glowing shoulder, but he restrained himself from doing so. 

No use to Aziraphale if you’re dead, Crowley. 

Time passed on agonizingly slow, Crowley closing his own eyes as Aziraphale began to let out small whimpers of pain, curling his hands into fists. The glowing was getting brighter, which he hoped meant that the plan was working.

“Almost there.” Muriel croaked next to him, seemingly reading Crowley’s mind. “Just a little bit more.” 

Crowley forced his breaths out in small puffs, preparing himself for the moment Aziraphale collapsed.

Surprisingly, it never came. 

All at once the thrumming came to a stop as the glowing light vanished. It felt like the air had been ripped from Crowley’s lungs as he swayed with the change in atmosphere. “Angel?”

Aziraphale was shivering lightly in the chair, panting. “Crowley, I-”

Crowley wasted no time, wrapping him in a tight hug as he flicked a hand, willing all of the disguised weaponry to fuck off to another planet. “Thank God you’re okay.”

“Language, my dear.”

Crowley stuck out his burnt tongue. “Worth it.”

Muriel rose from their spot on the floor, making to stand with the help of the coffee table. “That was…strange.”

Aziraphale stood shakily, blinking away the remaining tears. “Indeed. I think I–”

He cut himself off abruptly, face paling considerably. “Oh, fuck.”

Faintly he could hear the sounds of concerned voices rushing to him, grabbing his arms, helping him back into the chair, but all he could feel was pain. Bright, hot agony stabbing him from the inside as his ears rung with the sound of a vengeful, achingly familiar voices of the Heavenly Host. 

Aziraphale.

Well, someone’s been naughty. 

We’re coming for you.

“Angel, are you hurt?” His demon was at his side, checking wounds frantically to see if they’d reopened. 

“N-no,” Aziraphale managed to spit out, breathing heavily. “It’s them.”

“Who’s them?”

“They’re coming. He heaved, feeling bile rise into his throat as the voices got louder. “They want me to know they’re coming.”

Crowley swore as he wrapped his arms underneath Aziraphale’s and hauled him up to the chair. The angel’s head lolled as he slumped into the plush material gratefully. “Right. You all need to leave. Now.”

Muriel took a step forward. “Mr. Fell–”

“Fuck no. We’re not leaving you.” Maggie swore, attempting to reach for the pair. 

“Muriel, please,” Aziraphale made to grab at Muriel’s shoulder as he cried out in pain, “Please. Take Nina and Maggie, get them out of here. Cr-” A sharp cry was wrenched from his lips as he tried to ignore the awful choir of mocking voices blaring inside of his head, tugging at his essence. “Crowley and I will handle this.”

“Angel, no, you’re spent. We’ll go and we’ll–”

Principality. 

No where left to run. 

Be a doll and let us in? 

“They’re here.” He wailed, leaning his head back against the floorboards. “Crowley, they’re here. There’s nowhere safe to run. They will get in and we will have no choice but to fight.” The angel was hyperventilating now, breaths coming out sharp gasps. “They need to go. Now.”

Crowley threw Muriel a helpless look, who nodded at him briskly and moved quickly, grabbing the indignant-looking couple and whisking them away with a weak snap. 

Aziraphale let out a relieved sigh at the sound, which quickly dissolved into a fit of coughs. “Fuck.”

Crowley’s concerned face ducked back into view. “Language, angel.”

His joking didn’t match the look of pure terror in his eyes. 

Right on time, there was a sharp rap of knuckles upon the door. 

“Fuck off, we’re closed.” Crowley growled, eyes not leaving Aziraphale. The angel had stopped crying out, blinking wearily as the pounding in their head racketed down.

“Well,” Michael’s haughty voice floated in, ever so slightly muffled from the outside. “This is a bookshop. And there’s one very special book we’re interested in taking back with us today.”

“Well,” Crowley mocked her tone, “Unfortunately we don’t sell to pompous asshats so many apologies, kindly fuck off, and never come back.”

Sandalphon’s nasally scowl had Crowley rolling his eyes. “We have come to retrieve what is rightfully Heaven’s sovereign property.”

“Whatever.” He lightly tapped Aziraphale’s cheek with his fingertips, willing the now semi-unconscious angel back to coherence. “Fuck fuck fuck. C’mon Aziraphale, wake up.”

“We’ve decided we don’t care, you know.” Uriel was speaking now, sounding entirely too pleased. 

“Care about what?”

“The Second Coming.” 

That had Crowley sitting up straighter. “Oh?”

“Quite. Right now,” Uriel sounded closer somehow, which was worrying. “We’re focused on a little something different.”

Suddenly, the Metatron’s voice pierced through the walls like a gunshot in all directions, making the demon wince. Aziraphale’s eyes hot open, darting around the room for the source. His breathing quickened immediately, curling in on himself as the Voice of God spoke. 

“Right now, we really only care about hurting you.”