Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Crowley drove.

The Bentley’s radio remained silent after its first rebuffed attempt to play “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.” This suited Crowley just fine. He wasn’t feeling particularly musical. In fact, he distinctly felt like something at the core of his infernal being was being slowly dragged out of him, stuck in that stupid white elevator to the Up…maybe in Aziraphale’s pocket on a chain, next to the angel’s golden watch.

Crowley shook his head. He didn’t really have a heart; his bodily corporation was a façade, mostly for show. He kept this thought on a loop in his head. No heart. No heart. No heart.

So what was it inside of him that was breaking?

Aziraphale smiled.

The elevator rose towards Heaven. While The Metatron was silent, Aziraphale’s mind was wheeling through ideas. This was the Right Choice, and now he could show everyone that there was a better way of running things. He could introduce those lovely (very, very light) shades of gray into the Heavenly Host and he could become the change he had been praying for. Aziraphale would work hard, he would be kind but commanding (he had led his own platoon against the Rebellion, after all). The angel felt very leader-ly, very confident, and very light-headed…with hope, obviously…not with any baser concerns. Aziraphale would make a difference – and he would make Crowley see that this was the Right Choice.

Aziraphale felt the borders and edges of his corporation tingling with holy energy as they left the elevator and he was escorted to his cloister: a large empty room with a view of the London skyline. Aziraphale was charmed – they must have set it up to make him feel at home.

The Metatron left him with a shimmering screen of Heavenly information and an indulgent smile. Aziraphale was provided for, important, finally acknowledged, and ready to get to work.

So why was there a whisper of apprehension tickling at the back of his eager mind?

“He’s installed,” The Metatron told Michael and Uriel as he prepared to return to his position as The Voice Of God. “He’ll find the Son. It will also keep him busy and out of our way.”

Michael sighed. “If you had let me use Extreme Sanctions, he and his fiend would have been out of our way in any case.”

“As I told you before,” The Metatron spoke, now fully encased in a golden glow as he was absorbed into the fabric of Heaven, “These two have wormed their way into far too many crucial moments. Removing them from the Book of Life would set off a string of chaos that would be totally unmanageable.”

Uriel spoke in their low, calm voice, “The Almighty could manage something like that easily.”

“The Almighty,” hissed Michael, “Can not know that we have lost track of the Son. We’ll all be cast out for our failure.”

“Silence!” boomed The Metatron. “Aziraphale found the Beast when he was warded against all other eyes, when the forces of Hell allowed the infant to be misplaced. He is a fool, but the poisoned energy I have introduced into his system will keep him focused on the task and uninterested in any other…distractions.”

Uriel looked levelly at The Metatron. “Are you sure such elemental manipulation is necessary? Deliberately misleading a fellow angel, even a traitor such as Aziraphale, seems…demonic, one might say.”

Michael scoffed and turned away.

“Indeed not, but your empathy is a credit to the Love of God,” The Metatron said, voice loud but gentle. “The drink will only remove the demonic infection that holds him in sway. It is a blessing we are giving Aziraphale, even if he must remain unaware of it. And now – let him work! Offer him gentleness! Answer his questions as you can…direct him to me if you cannot. No other angel has spent as much time with humanity as he – and the Son is, regrettably, as human as He is holy. Aziraphale is our only hope to salvage the End of Days without alerting the Almighty to our missteps…but we must not, under any circumstances, allow him to return to Earth or to that demon’s company. There is something wrong with both of them, something…overpowering. That miracle that led us to Gabriel was their doing, together – not the Supreme Archangel’s. To allow their aberrant alchemical interaction to continue to grow could devastate the entire order of Creation!” The Metatron closed his eyes, looking tired for a moment, even in spite of his divine light. “Once the slate is wiped clean, none of this will matter anymore. Humanity will be a thing of the past, the Almighty will be whole once more, and we will have scoured away all of the imperfections that have been allowed to flourish outside of the Heavenly Gates.” The Metatron, reduced to just the glowing image of his holy face, sighed deeply. “Amen.”

“Amen,” answered Michael and Uriel, bowing their heads.

Chapter Text

It has been said before: you never forget the first friends you ever had, even if you were all a few hours old at the time. Adam Young was turning 16 years old today, and he was enjoying a freshly fallen apple under a tree with his favorite old enemy…who had also, coincidentally, turned 16 that day. Greasy Johnson (his unfortunate nickname cheerfully shortened by Adam to “Greaz”) had grown into a broad-shouldered young man with long hair and deep eyes. He was leaning back against the apple tree and watching the clouds. Adam Young had grown as well, but where Greaz had thickened into rounded muscle, Adam had grown all into angles. He was whip-thin and wiry, but taller than his friend and at least as strong. While Greaz looked more good-natured than handsome, Adam was frankly beautiful. His selfies looked like Renaissance paintings no matter what filter he used.

Right now, however, he was more concerned with an unsettling feeling of absence that had been getting stronger and stronger over the past couple of years. Adam was perfectly aware of the power within himself that he had hidden deep Inside, and he had learned to listen to and use the little edges of that power that inevitably shone through. It was annoying at times.

Like today. He should be going to do something really fantastic for his 16^th – he should be getting a car or going to a concert or something – but instead he had grabbed old Greaz and brought him to the apple orchard for a chat.

Once Greaz had gotten a grip on his strength and had learned a little grace (long about age 13 or so) the old Johnsonites vs. The Them rivalry faded away. So much of childhood starts to fade around that age, after all, and it didn’t even seem like a big deal at the time. Greaz learned some confidence, some self-control, and (surprising everyone) he learned to listen. All the kids (and some of the grown-ups) in Tadfield knew that if you needed a good chat, you could head over to the Johnson’s garden and sit with Greaz for a while. To his own surprise, he found that he gave good advice. It didn’t often come to that, however: most people who chatted with him seemed to talk their way around to the best solution on their own. Greaz liked those conversations. He liked to feel helpful.

To that end, Adam Young had brought Greasy Johnson out to the old orchard, where they wouldn’t be overheard. Greaz knew, had always known, that there was something profoundly different about Adam, but he’d never really worried about it. He would, in any case, find out today.

Today, as the clocks of their lives ticked together closer to adulthood, Adam decided to fill Greaz in. Something was wrong, Inside, Outside, Upside-Down, and he needed an ally. Even as he spilled the beans to Greaz, he knew he was still missing something. Someone.

Greaz absorbed Adam’s whole world-almost-ending tale without interruption or even surprise. “All this power you got,” he said, taking the bonkers story in stride, “You think you can sorta…aim it?”

“Aim it at what? If I knew what I was looking for, I wouldn’t need to find it.”

Greaz tossed the core of the apple he’d been eating off into the distance. “I guess you should aim for empty spaces, then. Look at where you’re not looking.”

Adam rolled his eyes. “How is that supposed to work, looking where I’m not looking?”

Greaz shrugged. “You got a better idea, though?”

Adam gave this serious consideration. Greaz was probably right, as usual. Adam closed his eyes and tried to look.

“You getting any reception in there?”

Shaking his head, Adam tried to focus. Straining, clenching his fists, he tried to force a confession out of his own awareness, also trying to not release all of his power and catch any attention from either the Ethereal or the Occult.

It wasn’t working, and Adam was becoming angry.

“Stop working so hard, mate,” Greaz’s calm voice cut through Adam’s frustration. “Tell me about what you CAN see. Walk me through it, yeah?”

“Ugh,” Adam huffed, “I can see…I mean. I can see anything I want. It’s always like this in here,” he said, gesturing to his head. “I can’t think too hard about anything I want, because I might make it happen and then it wouldn’t feel all-the-way real. I don’t want to like…invent something to see!”

“Sure,” agreed Greaz amiably, “So just relax a little. Let your mind drift. Look at what’s there already, stuff that’s obviously real and not, you know, hypothetical. Or whatever.”

Adam chuffed a laugh. “You gotta lay off those biology textbooks.”

“Go on, though.”

Through the kaleidoscope of realities and possibilities that swirled in Adam’s mind, he began to sense two distinct…blank spots. “You’re right,” Adam said, keeping his eyes closed but unclenching his fists. “There are places in here that aren’t…they’re not just unclear, they’re not here. But I don’t think they’re places at all. I mean, they’re places in my head, but they’re places where I think maybe…people should be...?”

“So, are we looking for people now?”

“I think we are, yeah.” Now that Adam could relax and see the spaces between the stars of his mind, he could tell that there was one huge blotted-out space as well as one smaller one. The smaller space seemed natural, organic, like just a gap. The larger one seemed surgically cut, like a chunk of space had been violently erased. “It’s like those satellite pictures of space, the ones that are all color and clouds of stars…but gone. Like a whole damn nebula got sliced out of the sky, out of…out of how I see things, like. Power and energy and potential – and this used to have something there, something big that was just background my whole life but now it’s gone.” Adam shivered, feeling deeply unsettled by the vast emptiness. The smaller one was at least approachable instead of threatening, and Adam mentally turned towards the little gap of emptiness. He felt himself starting to command it to reveal itself, felt himself tensing.

“Breathe, mate.” Greaz put a meaty hand on Adam’s shoulder.

Breathe in. Breathe out. This wasn’t something that was missing or had been taken…this was just something unknown. Out of the way…behind a door, perhaps. Adam considered the idea of a door. His first instinct was often to either pick the lock or kick the door in. He felt the energy of his friend beside him. Greaz would probably just…knock.

Adam knocked.

The emptiness exploded into its own small nebula of information, unfurling like a song. The whole life of a forgotten friend. A young man with dark hair and eyes like Adam’s mother. A bitchy little shit who tried desperately to hide a bleeding heart, only a few hours away in London on a trip for his 16^th birthday.

Adam was looking at Warlock Dowling. 

Chapter Text

“Warlock, please stop drumming,” his mother sighed at him in the back of the taxi.

“Mom,” he said as he turned his music down in his headphones, trying not to whine and failing, “I’ve told you. Just ‘Lock’ now. Can you please try to remember that I’m sixteen today, not a little kid?”

His mother sighed again, a different sigh than before. Lock’s mother was fluent in sighs. “Yes, love. I am trying to remember. I’m just tired and you’re driving me crazy. I didn’t think you would bring your drumsticks with you halfway across the world.”

“Well, I sure couldn’t bring the whole kit, could I?” Lock grinned, smarmy and sullen at the same time. “Wouldn’t have fit in Economy-class, would it?”

“Please don’t start. You know we need to budget. Your father will still pay for your schooling here in London but he has ensured that I get the very smallest amount of child support that the law allows.”

“Shouldn’t have left him, then.”

She turned fully to look at him, eyes blazing. “You know why we left. We left.”

Lock clicked his drumsticks together. Better to have less pocket-money than to keep figuring out new ways to hide bruises. “Yeah, mom. I know.” He softened and gently elbowed her. “Right old bastard,” he said in his most pompous British accent.

The former Mrs. Dowling laughed, a startled noise. She hadn’t laughed since they got on the plane for the UK.

“Welcome home, mum,” the cabbie said as he pulled to the curb. “I ‘ope your stay here in the countryside is restful.”

Lock looked up, startled. “Countryside? We’re in…London…”

Outside the cab windows was a small English village, like out of a storybook. Low stone walls around every garden, gnarled old trees, primly trimmed hedges. His mother got out and looked around proudly, surveying the small cottage they had parked in front of.

Lock leaned across his seat and tugged the hem of his mother’s cardigan. “What the hell, mom? We just got a cab at Gatwick like, twenty minutes ago. Where the fuck is London?”

His mother swatted distractedly at his hand. “Language, son.” Her eyes were far away. “We’re staying here for a while instead. London will still be there when we get back.”

“Mother,” Lock said in his most infuriating voice, “I have an interview exam this afternoon. With the school? The reason we’re back in the stupid UK in the first place?”

“Oh, I’m sure you have more important things to worry about than school, on your birthday, after all!” she said, swinging her purse around her shoulder and grabbing the luggage the cabby had pulled from the trunk. She strode down the path and into the house, which opened without a key.

Lock cursed under his breath and jerked himself out of the cab, slamming the door. He was pretty used to his parents’ weird bullshit by now, but this was really off. His mom was the biggest planner he knew. She always had a detailed itinerary for everything, and she ran through the details out loud with him constantly. She had never mentioned a cottage, or the country, or staying for more than the weekend for the school stuff. They had dinner reservations tonight, for chrissakes. Lock picked up his luggage, scowling as he paid the waiting cabby…whom his mom had forgotten, apparently? That’s never happened before, he thought, annoyed and confused.

His rolling luggage crunched and wobbled over the cobblestone path to the door, which opened onto a small entryway leading in two directions…it looked like maybe a kitchen and a sitting room? In the kitchen was a note on the table. His mother was beaming at it. Fucking – beaming? His mother? She handed it to him and wandered off, chirping about finding her bedroom.

Lock read the note. “Welcome to Jasmine Cottage in lovely, relaxing Tadfield! We’re delighted to let our home out to you for the summer. We won a last-minute resort stay in South America, and it’s fantastic to have someone look after the place on such short notice. Please help yourself to anything you like, but do be careful of the furniture as it is a bit old and delicate. Enjoy!”

Below that, someone had written in distinctly different handwriting: “The shower takes a bit to warm up, and doesn’t stay warm for long. The fridge is dodgy too – give it a good solid thumping on the back left side if it stops working. That usually gets it running straight away. Thanks for renting the place! You can reach us at this number if there’s an emergency.”

The note was signed from “the Pulsifers.” Lock put the number in his phone, grumbling. His mom hadn’t saved the number...just handed him the note and strolled away like she was in a daze. What was up with her?

Lock would certainly never admit to the tiny pleased sensation in his chest. One that made him feel…well, almost manly. Grown-uppish. Responsible. He had paid the driver, and now here he was saving a stranger’s number to contact in an emergency. It was certainly more responsibility than he’d ever thought to take before.

Maybe sixteen will be different. Maybe I’ll finally feel like…me.

Lock looked out the kitchen window over the sink, into the trees and byways of the village of Tadfield. He was baffled, irritated, yes…but he also felt strangely comfortable, like something wound tight in his soul could possibly, someday, be untangled. He shook his head, unused to much inner musing. He often tried very hard to fill his head with anything other than actual thought. He listened to music constantly. He rarely paid much attention to the lyrics except to note that they were mostly about other peoples’ problems. He saw music like a three-dimensional puzzle, following the threads of the instruments and harmonies and teasing them out and away from each other. He had learned to love the drums best. Sure, music could be beautiful without them, but the drumbeat held everything together. Drums were the heartbeat of a song. So Lock wore his headphones everywhere, drowning out his own thoughts which were often incredibly contradictory. When he couldn’t sleep sometimes, on the rare occasions when he let his mind wander, he wondered if he couldn’t do with a bit of therapy. His mind seemed to swing wildly between violent selfishness and heartbreakingly tender kindness, and he never really knew which would come out at any moment. He had cultivated the selfishness a bit – it was easy, with his father as an example – and the other people he had met had only re-enforced that behavior. Tenderness was, at best, scoffed at. The world was not safe for softness.

Lock turned his music back up, because really. Enough was enough. He stood at the sink and let his mind empty, tracing the trail of the drumbeat and following it gently with his fingers, tapping out the rhythm on the apron of the sink. Outside the window, two other boys about his age were walking through the woods across the lane. He remembered his family’s old gardener saying, “Every new person you meet is someone new to love.” Lock hated how clearly he could remember that. He rolled his eyes and drummed harder, full hands on the sink’s edges, closing his eyes.

When he opened them, the two boys were standing just outside his hedge. They must have walked straight through the woods to this cottage. They were beckoning to him, looking for all the world like they’d been waiting for him. As if Lock had been keeping them waiting. He muted his music. He waved, feeling foolish, shrugging.

Their gestures grew more exaggerated. The thicker one, the dark-haired one, mouthed the words “Come on, come with us!” The taller one grinned at him.

Lock stilled. That grin promised adventure, excitement, just gobs of Cool Shit To Do.

“Mom, I’m headed out!” Lock yelled up the stairs as he rushed to the door.

“Have fun,” his mom sing-songed from on high.

Chapter Text

Usually with any meeting of strangers, there is an initial period of awkwardness. Fumbling for the right thing to say, trying to seem impressive without trying too hard to actually impress anyone, hoping you seem cool, wondering if you’re talking too much…or maybe not enough? Lock had always had a hard time talking to anyone. He was confident, but he knew he was abrasive and usually just leaned into it. His father had so many people coming and going throughout his life that there was never any reason to try and make real friends…they would just be gone at the end of the campaign season.

Lock fell in with Adam and Greaz like they were all water droplets on the same car windshield. Separate, then together, speeding towards something unknown.

“What the hell kind of name is that supposed to be?” Lock had laughed, listening to Adam tell the story of their old rivalry.

“Not much worse than ‘Lock,’ mate,” Greaz drawled amiably. “If I’d been saddled with that, I’d be looking everywhere for a ‘key’!”

Adam jumped down into a large ditch, a hollow surrounded by trees. “He was just such a greasy kid,” he said as he sat on the ground under his favorite tree. He’d once had a sort of Lord-of-the-Flies throne built under that tree. It had slowly been stripped away, bits and bobs cannibalized for different games and projects. The three boys sat on the hard earth together in a triangle, poking fun at each other, laughing.

Nothing has ever been this easy before, Lock thought. We could do anything together and it would just be easy. His own comfort disturbed him, sent out subtle alarm bells in his head. He hadn’t turned his music back on the whole long walk into the woods. What the fuck is going on today?

“Been a weird day, right?” Greaz said, drawing in the dirt with a twig, not looking at either of his companions in particular.

Adam nodded and the laughter and good-natured ribbing died down. The forest was alive with sound around them, but in the little hollow it seemed suddenly, ominously quiet.

Lock felt his usual need to break the silence by saying something to distract everyone. “Didn’t think I’d be spending my 16^th birthday in the damn woods. I wanted to go to a concert or something cool.”

Adam and Greaz met each others’ eyes. Looked in unison at Lock. “Happy birthday,” Adam said, his voice low.

“You’re in good company, mate,” said Greaz, idly snapping his twig into pieces. “It’s our birthdays, too. Sixteen today, both of us born right here in Tadfield.”

Something tickled in Lock’s memory. He’d heard the cabby mention the name of the village, but something about the way Greaz said it gave him goosebumps.

Adam was staring at him. Lock could feel his eyes searching into him uncomfortably.

“Quit it, man. Or take a fucking picture,” Lock said, trying to sound biting and sarcastic, but the quiet of the hollow softened his words.

Adam’s shoulders softened slightly as he released the tension he was holding. “Greaz, I don’t think we have time to do this the old-fashioned way.”

“I dunno, mate. What if you do something weird to his brain?”

“Your brain seems fine. At least as fine as it ever was,” Adam ribbed.

“I’m not sure it’s the same, though.” Greaz sounded troubled. “And you only showed me after you told me, while we were waiting for Lock, here. Maybe it gave my brain time to…warm up, or something.”

Lock was torn between anxiety and a beautiful sort of belonging – but the sense of comfort the belonging carried with it was so unknown to him that it was actually feeding into the anxiety. “Look, I don’t mean to be a shit right now, but – what the fuck is going on with you two?”

“Yeah, I don’t have time for this,” Adam said, leaning over and touching one long finger to Lock’s forehead.

Greaz winced as Lock instantly dropped, like a ragdoll, to the ground.

Adam stared. Looked at Greaz. “Shit.”

Colors exploded through Lock’s mind. Not nebulae, like Adam’s mind, but boxier, more rigid. There were exponentially fewer possible pathway connections for Lock to explore: just one brightly colored band that flowed through the boxy sections like a river curving among skyscrapers.

He felt small. He felt himself being taken from somewhere that felt warm, that felt like home, and then he was put somewhere different…smelled wrong, felt wrong. Then he was warm again and that home-feeling grew, and he slept. He saw the Tadfield village sign through a rainy car window. He heard a woman’s voice cooing low over him, rolling in a soft brogue with words he didn’t understand. He felt grass under his small feet, smelled petrichor and something else green…a larger hand holding his, strong but very soft, smelling of clean air.

He was skipping now, skipping through his life. His Nanny and her crimson hair and her low voice, his ugly old gardener and his hands that never had a speck of dirt on them. The desert, someone indescribably ugly insisting that Lock had a dog. As if someone had pressed fast-forward, he flew through space and time and thought itself, back to the hollow they were in now. Adam, younger, floating above the treeline, screaming with rage and sadness and fear…an air base, children fighting monsters…an angel, a demon, a flaming sword…the world and its reality, shifting sideways…

A quiet, blanketing darkness covered Lock’s mindscape. A still, small voice calling him, not commanding but inviting him to…

“Wake up, mate.” Greaz bent over him, his dark hair framing his face, blocking Lock’s view of the sky through the trees. Greaz had both of his large hands around Lock’s, holding them together. “Gave us a turn, you did. Sit up now, if you can.”

Adam was looking wide-eyed at them both as Lock sat up, pulled halfway by Greaz, who let go of his hands and sat back in his spot in their little triangle.

“How did you do that,” Adam asked flatly, looking hard at Greaz. “How did you fix him.”

Greaz shrugged. “Pretty good at fixing things, usually. You should see some of the stuff my dad and I get up to in the shed. And I can take real good care of my fish. They’re so delicate, those ones from the tropics. I just, you know. See what they need and keep things just right. I could just…see what he needed, I guess.”

Lock had caught his breath and was staring at the dirt. “You calling me a fish?”

Greaz laughed and threw another twig at him. Adam was still frozen, tense, almost crackling with electricity.

“So,” Lock threw the twig at Adam, who caught it in one hand. “I’ll ask again: what – and I’m asking with all the respect in the world, here – the fuck is going on here?”

Adam softened a fraction. “I thought I knew. Look. You – you were born here. Like us. We were all born on the same day right here in Tadfield, at that old church that used to be a nun’s hospital. They run it like a business now, doing team building stuff for corporations. What’s left of it, at least…a demon burned it down when we were still babies.”

“I saw a demon!” Lock said, surprising himself. “In…in my head, just now. I think I saw a couple of them…some were gross, but there was one who seemed, like. Kinda cool? Not nasty and evil, I guess.”

“Kinda kind, kinda kind, kinda kind and cool,” Greaz said quietly, rhythmically, tapping a twig against his shoe to an imagined beat, like he was daydreaming.

Adam ignored him. “You saw them because for most of your life, they thought you were me. They kept an eye on you. There was some sort of cock-up in the nunnery. I was supposed to go with your parents. You were supposed to stay with yours, and Greaz was supposed to…well, anyway. Everything sorta went wrong.”

“What does that mean, stay with mine? I did stay with my parents.”

Greaz looked up from his twigs, eyes sad. “Nah, mate. None of us did, that’s the point.”

“You’re the baby my mom was pregnant with. Greaz was the baby your mom was pregnant with. The two women who gave birth that night at the church got their babies switched.”

Lock looked again at Greaz. The broad shoulders, blocky build. Hair, soft and dark…like his mom’s.

“You’ve got my mom’s eyes, exactly,” Adam said, sounding kind of proud and kind of sad at the same time as he pulled out his phone and showed Lock a picture of a woman.

Well, fuck.

“Sure, okay, yeah, weirder shit has happened,” Lock said, feeling his mental DNA re-wiring itself with this new information. “But you said two women. Where’d you come from, then?” he asked Adam.

Greaz laughed. “Go on then, mate, tell him.”

Adam winced. “If I say it out loud, it might come true. And we for sure don’t need to be stirring that shit. You better tell him.”

“What Adam is trying to say,” Greaz said, kindly, “is that his seed was planted on the wrong side of the tracks.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means Hell itself, brother. Even I’m not going to risk calling the Devil his dad, because he never was and never will be – dads ain’t like that, right? But he wasn’t exactly born of woman, either. Just delivered to the nuns so they could swap him in for me, to grow up in America as the Ambassador’s son.” Greaz tossed another twig at Adam. “Hell in a hand-basket, this one.”

“But – I’m the ambassador’s son,” Lock protested.

“And there’s the cock-up,” Adam went on. “It got mixed up. Shit always gets mixed up when humans are in the mix.”

“Amen, Adam!” Greaz chuckled.

“You got swapped from the Youngs to the Dowlings, I got swapped to the Youngs by accident, and Greaz…” Adam looked at his friend.

“Got adopted by a young couple right here in the village,” he said, stretching his arms above his head. “Funny old world, eh?”

Lock chewed on the inside of his lip, his fingers tapping a staccato rhythm on his leg. “So…I’m adopted?”

For some reason, this made Adam and Greaz laugh their fool heads off. It was infectious. Lock started laughing too, and pretty soon they were all gasping for air, trying to get a grip.

“Okay, okay,” Adam said, his laugh tapering off, schooling his face back into seriousness. “Look, cards on the table: I sorta…changed some things around you to get you here. Something…something big is wrong, and I need help figuring out what it is. Greaz is a great pal and he could see through a brick wall given enough time, but I think you might have some information that we don’t. And I feel like it’s going to take the three of us to make this work. So. I’m sorry about pulling you and your mom out of London. I just can’t believe we were lucky enough for you to already be here in the U.K. I’m not sure I could have gotten you all the way from the States…not without, like. Being noticed.”

“Don’t think it was luck, mate,” Greaz said, leaning back, still smiling.

“Did you make my mom go totally insane, too?” Lock asked, grin dropping from his face.

“No way,” Adam said emphatically. “I just, you know. I kinda opened her up a bit. So she wouldn’t be suspicious. She’s still her, I didn’t change anything. Just like, made space in her head for other stuff. She’s wound kinda tight, right? Trying to give her a suggestion was like trying to pick a lock.”

Lock glared at him.

Adam blushed. “Not a lock, wrong word – maybe like, just re-wire something. Like all her wires had been squished down into one little corner and that’s all she was operating with. But her mind, her soul, she had so much space she wasn’t using. A bunch of room she was just ignoring! Room for things like, I don’t know. Relaxing? Taking walks?”

“Breathing,” Greaz put in.

Lock nodded. Yeah, it made a kind of sense. “As long as she’s not. Like. As long as you didn’t fucking brainwash my mom, we’re cool.”

“Cool,” Adam echoed. “Now. Down to the business at hand.”

“Business, mate,” Greaz grinned, tucking his hair back behind his ears. “I think Adam here wants to save the whole world.”

Adam nodded. “I’m pretty sure I’m gonna have to.”

“Again, right?” Greaz asked, raising his eyebrows at Lock, checking to see if they were all on the same page.

Lock shrugged, spread out his arms. “Was that the shit I saw with the sword and the monsters?”

“Yeah, and the angel and demon who came at the last minute to help.” Adam’s voice grew quieter, thoughtful, remembering. “They didn’t do much, but they gave me a minute to think…and they kinda gave me an idea. And they really believed in me, too. They kept saying that I wasn’t good or evil, but that I was human. I knew then that they had been working with another kid – just something about them told me the shape of their story – but I didn’t know who until I reached out to find you, Lock.”

“Angels and demons. Okay, sure. But what could I do? How can I help? I mean. I’m…I’m a drummer. That’s all I can do. I can’t even think straight most days, and I’m usually kind of a dick. Like,” he sighed. “It’s kind of different with you two, but maybe it’s because we’re in this weird shit together. What could you need me for?”

“Tell us everything you remember about your Nanny and your gardener. The ones who worked at your house when you were little. Your tutors, too, when you were a little older.”

Lock remembered, from Adam lighting up his brain, hearing the voice of Nanny Ashtoreth for the first time. He closed his eyes. He couldn’t have remembered it on his own, but with Adam’s help, he could.

He was a baby, still. He cried all the time, never could feel quite right. One day he was handed into a pair of arms, strong but skinny. He remembered the sternness in her voice when his parents were in the room…how it softened and cooed when they left, “Yes, my wee lad, cry if you need to. Brilliant little human-thing, born knowing how to ask for help, so clever, you are. Nanny’s got you, laddie.” Her long, capable fingers tying his shoes as he got older, wiping blood off his mouth with a delicately-scented handkerchief when he fell and busted his lip, holding his hand in the night when he startled awake with a nightmare. He remembered her bizarre fucking lullabies and bedtime stories. It wasn’t until he was well into middle school that he found out that other children had been raised on nursery rhymes like “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” while Lock was taught rhymes that went like so: “King of blood and nightmares bold, Reigning over young and old, You decide who lives, who dies, as the darkness fills the skies.”

“Keep your eyes closed. Keep thinking,” he heard Adam say, “When did she leave?”

He was 6. His parents didn’t want him in the regular gradeschool any longer – he didn’t get on well with the local children and his father wanted him to have a private tutor. Young Warlock had stood stiffly as Nanny hugged him good-bye, brusque and quick, her eyes hidden as always behind her dark glasses. She was terribly sensitive to light, poor Nanny. Warlock had loved her desperately but didn’t want to look like a baby, or like he needed her or anybody at all, and he hadn’t hugged her back. The next week a man came to tutor him. He was red-headed too, with a sharp goatee and a different pair of dark glasses. He was impeccably dressed and spoke too quickly, rattling off dates and histories and quadratic formulas so fast it made the child’s head spin. Ashtoreth’s nephew, Mr. Anthony, yes, same light sensitivity, runs in families, you know.

“I bet I do know,” Adam said quietly, outside of Lock’s mental journey. “What about the gardener?”

Lock’s brow furrowed. He still didn’t open his eyes, but he got the sense that Adam and maybe even Greaz could see all these memories along with him. His concentration wavered for a moment at the thought of them seeing his childhood, his feelings and thoughts so open.

“No secrets in our adopted brotherhood, right mate?” Greaz’s warm voice floated in. “We're together in this. Tell you anything you want to know about what’s inside my head, if you like. We’ve all seen and been weirder, you know?”

Lock nodded. He thought about the gardener. He stayed on only as long as Nanny, leaving at about the same time. Young Warlock liked the gardener, but he loved Nanny Ashtoreth. The gardener’s ugly overbite and wild, wiry white hair were so off-putting, even if he was the kindest soul Lock had ever met. He talked like an after-school special, too, throwing morals around like confetti. The gardener, ridiculous Brother Francis, kept the grounds in flawless condition, but Warlock was sure he had never seen Brother Francis dig a single hole, pluck a single weed, prune a single bush. He was always in the garden, true, but he seemed to be admiring it more than managing it. Lock very clearly remembered the gardener’s hands. They didn’t seem strong, but they must have been, since he could lift and push the heavy garden handcart with ease. The gardener’s hands were cool and soft, perfectly manicured, always spotlessly clean. Once, Brother Francis had shown him a snail in the palm of his hand – he had let it slowly slime its way into Lock’s outstretched palm as he extolled Sister Snail’s virtues. Looking at this memory now, Lock could see clearly that there wasn’t even a slime trail left on the gardener’s hand.

Once, young Warlock had seen Nanny and Brother Francis chatting in the garden. A rain shower had come up quickly, and Nanny had shooed Warlock inside to get an umbrella for her. She disliked getting her clothes wet. She and Francis had sought shelter under the awning near the garden shed. When Warlock returned, trudging through the rain with the over-large umbrella, he had seen her holding the gardener’s hand, looking at his palm and laughing. He had snatched it away primly, darting off into the rain just as Warlock arrived. Nanny had smiled at him with her sharp grin and taken the umbrella. “Young master, we two need a spot of cocoa and a warm towel, don’t you agree?” she had said, her low Scottish voice lilting pleasantly. She took both his hands in hers and spun him around to face the house. The hand that had been holding the gardener’s was cooler than her other – it was a stark sensory detail, because Nanny’s hands were always so warm.

When Mr. Anthony came, he was deeply sarcastic to Brother Francis. Cutting, teasing comments about simple-mindedness and things like that. This might have been the reason that Francis retired when he did, just after Mr. Anthony arrived; although he was getting on in years, after all. The Dowlings hired a service from the nearby town to handle the yard work. It really was too much for just one person, it seemed – after Brother Francis left, the garden went wild almost overnight.

Another tutor came as well, but Lock hadn’t liked him a bit. Mr. Fell didn’t really try to teach him anything – just read to him from incomprehensible books of philosophy and a lot of stuff from the Bible. That particular tutor hadn’t lasted long at all against Lock’s disdain. Mr. Anthony left not long after, when Warlock turned 10. “Send him to the village school, he’ll be fine…he’s gotten all I can teach him, anyway,” were his parting words. It wasn’t until after he’d left the grounds that Warlock had discovered a gift. The note said it was from Nanny Ashtoreth, who had sent her nephew to deliver it before his tutoring contract was up. It was a kid-sized drum kit. “Make some noise, my strong wee lad,” the note had said, “Make enough noise for the world to hear.”

Because his parents loathed it, he played them constantly. He had never worked hard for anything before, but he worked to learn those drums. Even now Lock practiced daily – on a bigger kit, of course, but he still had the kiddie-kit in storage…

His eyes suddenly opened. The air around him shimmered with the image of his small kit, wrapped in plastic sheeting in a storage room. The image faded as soon as his eyes fully focused, coming out of his memories.

“That’s enough to be getting on with,” Adam said, his voice a little tired.

“That was brilliant, Adam,” Greaz said, genuinely impressed. “It was like a movie, mate, only, you know. More wobbly, kinda.”

Lock closed his eyes again. Christ. “You both just, what. Saw all of that? You just turned me into a projector for my own life?”

“We needed the information, Lock. And we needed to see their faces. We couldn’t have done that if you’d just told us about them.”

“I think you should have asked permission first, or something.”

“I did ask. You could have shut me out any time – it was Greaz who told you to keep going…I wasn’t pushing or anything.” Adam sounded defensive.

Greaz clucked his tongue. “Nah, mate, you did tell him to do it. To tell us about his old caretakers. Sure, he could have shoved you out, but you didn’t ask, actually…although I did my share of encouraging, too.”

Adam looked momentarily furious. He looked up into the sky, rolled his neck. Breathed. “Yeah. Words are important, and I’m sorry. I’ll try not to make any sort of commands like that. Slippery slope, you know?” There wasn’t a trace of anger left. Adam really had a lid on it.

Lock hadn’t ever seen someone just immediately let go of anger. His father was a simmering pot of scalding water that never seemed to cool down. His mother was usually too distant to even guess at, although they had gotten closer since the divorce. But her anger was always there, too. He’d never seen anyone literally, actually, let it go. He was both impressed and bewildered. But something about Adam, something about his energy, just being around him, made things seem clearer, more real. And Greaz just felt…comfortable. Unruffled. Like no matter what Adam or Lock or anybody did, it wouldn’t surprise him, and he would still want to hang out with you later.

Adam was fiddling with his phone. “I think I can do something here,” he said, almost to himself. Lock and Greaz shrugged at each other and turned to watch Adam concentrate. Suddenly, he smiled. He passed his phone to Lock. “Look,” he pointed to the picture on the screen. “This is a memory I have. I sorta like, downloaded it? From my head to my phone. It wasn’t even that hard, I just hadn’t thought of it before. But you two can’t see inside my head, and I don’t think I can figure this out alone. We all need all the information we can get, and something tells me you both will see things I don’t. Or can’t.”

Lock looked at the picture. It wasn’t clear like a photograph, but soft, a bit fuzzy (it was a memory, he supposed). But it wasn’t in first-person like most memories are. This was a picture of a younger Adam, hair softly tousled, standing in what looked like a desert. Next to him were the angel and demon he had seen earlier. The angel’s hair and wings were snow-white, soft as cotton fluff, his perfectly-manicured hands holding a flaming sword with more strength than anyone would assume such delicate hands could manage. The demon’s hair and wings were dark – crimson hair, pitch-black feathers.

Lock looked closer at the angel. “Wait…”

“Ok, now swipe and look at the next pictures.”

Lock obediently swiped. His memory of Nanny Ashtoreth singing him to sleep. Her crimson hair, her pitch-black work dress.

Swipe. Old Brother Francis, the gardener, hair white as cotton fluff, a snail nestled in his soft palm.

Swipe. Mr. Anthony. Well, that was just the demon without his black wings.

Swipe. Mr. Fell. If he wasn’t the angel, then the angel had a twin.

“Jesus Christ.”

Greaz held out his hand for the phone. “Lemme see, yeah?” He flicked through the images. “They’re the same. I mean, the angel is a sight prettier than the gardener, and the demon looks lovely as a lady, but they’re the same, for sure.” He handed the phone back to Adam.

Lock pinched the bridge of his nose. “Wait. So what are you telling me, here? That my old Nanny and my old gardener were – angels and demons. Right?”

“And that your tutor was also your Nanny. And the other one was your gardener, too.”

“No, Mr. Anthony was Nanny’s nephew – he was a man, she was a woman – that’s a hell of a disguise!”

Greaz shook his head slowly. “Gender doesn’t matter that much even to regular people. Not really, not deep down. I can’t imagine it would mean a thing to an angel. Or a demon, for that matter.”

For some reason, it was harder for Lock to accept that Nanny Ashtoreth and Mr. Anthony were the same person. Demon, sure. But they just seemed so different to him. He shrugged…this was getting away from him a bit. “So, okay, I’ll buy it, why not. But why? What were they doing? Why were they watching over me?”

“Like I said,” Adam stood, stretching and pocketing his phone. “They thought you were me.” He reached a hand down to Greaz and helped pull him to standing. “I reckon that’s what they meant, when they were talking about how I wasn’t good or evil but human.” Adam stood in front of Lock, looking down on him. “Looks like they were both trying to make you pick a side. Teaching you both good and evil, and seeing which one took.” He held out his hand to help Lock up.

Lock glared up at Adam. “Fine. I guess. I’m still not sure I’ve got the whole story, but let’s keep the weirdness going. What do you want me to do?”

He took Adam’s hand and felt himself pulled up off the dirt. Dusting his arse off, he heard Adam sigh. “I think we’re going to have to do some magic.”

Chapter Text

Somewhere near the eastern coast of Australia, Crowley was in a marsh. It had been two years or so since he had…well, since Aziraphale left him. He had paid an embarrassing amount of money to safely store (that is, hide) his Bentley, and had gone back to his old wandering ways, aiming to get himself as far away from jolly-old-England as he could. 

He was currently considering eating a frog. Or was it a toad? He’d always had trouble remembering the difference. Crowley had resumed his snake form, remembering that his thoughts were always pleasantly muted when he wasn’t focused on staying person-shaped. Function follows form, also…snakes are simple creatures, and not usually concerned with matters of love. In his current form, though he was as wily as ever, his higher emotions were pleasantly dulled to a quiet ache (instead of the wrenching, writhing, roiling, lonely, impotent burn of loss, rage, sorrow, self-loathing, and heartbreak). 

Crowley did not, in fact, want to eat the toad. Or frog. He had not eaten or drank anything since the kiss. He would admit that there was a part of him that just wasn’t up for it – it seemed so integral to his time with Aziraphale. There was also a small part of him that he would not admit to (a deeply artistic, romantic part, although he wouldn’t have used those words and would probably threaten the lives of anyone who dared describe him as such) that just didn’t want to wash away the touch of the angel’s lips.

As he stared at the frog, Crowley began to feel an uncomfortable burn. It didn’t hurt, but it felt…insistent? Like a brightly-lit fire was tugging on his metaphorical sleeve.

Crowley had only a moment to muse upon the idea that this certainly didn’t feel like any Hellfire he’d ever encountered when his entire slithering body was suddenly and powerfully summoned elsewhere.

“I’m telling you, there’s nothing special about apples,” Lock was insisting, palms stinging from where Adam had cut them with his pocket-knife. “Nanny Ashtoreth didn’t even like apples. I’m not sure I ever saw her eat at all, to be honest. This isn’t going to work.”

Greaz squeezed his hand. Lock felt their palms, slick with blood, pressing together. “Sure it will,” he smiled, “Adam usually knows what he’s doing. And I’ve got a good feeling about this. We really are brothers now, mate – blood brothers.” He looked over at Adam, who was concentrating so hard a vein was showing in his forehead.

“I know it will work,” Adam said quietly, his voice pitched lower than usual. “There’s just something a little off…maybe I needed to use a special knife or something…?” He opened his eyes, trailing off. He could feel the power in their shared blood. Something old, older than he’d ever imagined. Older even than the idea of himself, which was very old indeed. Older even than his...

“Let’s try it this way,” Greaz suggested, pulling them in a little closer. “Right, see, just now we’re making a triangle. It’s a good shape, nice and solid. But we’re not trying to make a doorway, really. Any old person can go through a door. I think,” he pulled their hands out in front of them, bringing all six fists together to touch, “I think instead maybe we need to make a point. A really tight point, turning the triangle inside-out kinda, like a pin on a map.”

“Like a GPS point,” Lock put in.

Adam grinned suddenly, savagely. “Do you feel that?”

The places where their clenched fists were touching each other were warming up rapidly. The small spaces in between began to glow red. “Holy shit,” Lock breathed.

“All right, lads, focus here. Remember his faces. Try to pull him in.”

“Her face, too,” Lock added, “She wasn’t a guy all the time.”

“I’m not sure he was always a demon, either,” said Greaz, almost too quiet to hear.

Adam struggled. The light flickered and shivered. “Lock, mate, you’re gonna have to be the one to pull him here, I think, so bloody well concentrate on how you felt with him. Her. Whichever!” he said, breathless, every fiber of his being focused on controlling the power that the three of them had built together without calling attention to themselves. A small voice in his head kept repeating, “Gently, gently, gently…”

Lock closed his eyes again, feeling the shared fire in their fists. It wasn’t burning, but it wasn’t playing around, either. “This is not what I imagined doing on my birthday, guys.”

“Focus, mate!”

“Okay! Jesus! Just let me think.” Nanny. Soft voice, strong hands, wiry arms. Dark glasses. Red hair.

Greaz wiggled Lock’s hand in his, not breaking the point but getting his attention. “Not what she looks like. Think of what she is like.”

Lock nodded vaguely, puzzling to himself for a moment. Okay. He could do this. This was like music. If Nanny was a song, how would he untangle her? Where was her heartbeat? Her looks were just studio polishing, auto-tune shit, nothing real there. The glasses meant something to her, though, there was something real about them…eyes are windows to the soul, said a small voice…had he ever seen Nanny’s eyes? Once, yes, he was so small he could never have remembered it without Adam unlocking his mind: Nanny cooing over him in his crib, singing to him in a language he had never heard…Gaelic, maybe? They speak that in Scotland sometimes even still, right? It was dark and she had taken her glasses off. Her eyes glinted golden in the dim nursery. Golden eyes, twin suns, a binary star system. He knew she was strong, and that didn’t seem like window-dressing. He thought of her strength, of how his father could never daunt her or even make her flinch. Soft voice that could both command and comfort, low and sibilant. He shifted his thoughts to Mr. Anthony, tried to reconcile him with his idea of Nanny. Dark glasses hiding something…he spoke differently, quicker, with a difference accent, but his “s” sounds were still quite sibilant, and he still took precisely zero shit from Lock’s father. The lop-sided grin he gave young Warlock as he showed him, without his parents’ knowledge, about the gift Nanny sent for him, a grin around teeth that seemed just a tad too sharp for his own good. Teeth in a mouth that might bite but would then feel bad about it afterwards. Back to Nanny, teasing the gardener and laughing in the rain…her holding the gardener’s hands under the awning, both of them looking at each other and standing perfectly still, caught in each other’s orbit…

A hum, like an old computer turning on, built and built until their fists were driven apart by a small explosion. All three boys were flung backwards, landing hard, flat on their backs.

They sat up and saw a shockingly large black and red snake coiling into and around itself on the scorched grass amidst the windfall apples. The boys stared.

The snake began to hiss dejectedly to itself. “Fucking apples. Of course there are more mother fucking apples.”

“Uh, Adam,” Lock said slowly, “I don’t think it worked.”

Greaz had sat himself up and was sitting quite calmly, watching the snake with a smile. Snakes were such cool animals. He was just delighted to be involved in the whole situation, really.

The snake’s head jerked up at the mention of the name. “Adam?” It whispered, looking around. Its eyes landed on Lock instead. “Oh, bloody hell.” The snake hissed a sigh and raised its head. “Hullo, Warlock, you certainly have grown.” It sounded incredibly tired.

“You’re…a talking snake. Am I the only one here who thinks this is weird?” Adam asked, looking between Adam and Greaz.

Greaz shrugged and smiled.

Adam shook his head and frowned. “Is this right?”

“Snake?” the snake asked. “Oh, yeah, right, give us a moment, lads.”

The snake grew even larger, rearing its head high above the boys still sitting on the ground. Adam shot up, looking ready for a fight. Greaz leaned backwards on his knuckles, protecting his sliced palms from the dirt but relaxing into a comfortable position. Lock was frozen with befuddlement. The snake gently melted into a tall, lithe, lanky man, crimson-haired, his snake-slit eyes still golden but dwindling to human-shape, his clothes posh and tight and as black as black could be.

“It is you!” Adam cried, thrilled and thankful. “The demon who helped me before! Where have your wings gone?”

“Adam. Absolutely not, we are not doing this. I’m out of here. Where the fuck am I?” He swiveled on his heel, trying to get his bearings.

Lock jumped up and held his arms out, blocking the demon from leaving. “You know my name. You know me. You’re…Mr. Anthony, right?”

There was a flicker of something sad in those yellow eyes. Then the demon pulled out a pair of black glasses from his pocket and put them on, shielding himself and effortlessly putting on a veneer of flash bastard that all three boys instantly envied. “Anthony J. Crowley, young master Warlock, actually.”

Greaz looked up at the demon. “Nanny too, right? You took care of Lock when he was little, yeah?”

Lock glared at Greaz. The demon rolled his head back and made an inarticulate noise. “Yes, I was the nanny. And the tutor. And the goddamn delivery boy in the first place, for all the good it did anyone. But that,” he paused, dropping his voice, “is not the problem at hand. The problem now is that this little creature,” he gestured vaguely at Adam, “has just summoned a demon with blood magic, and who knows what shitshow is going to rain down on us, now!”

Greaz was unperturbed, as usual. “Looks like you took good care of him, at least.” He gestured to Lock. “He’s grown up all right, hasn’t he?”

The demon scowled, trying to form a suitable insult. He made a string of impressively nonsensical sounds and stalked away.

Adam glared at both of them. “You’ve upset him! Now he’s not going to help us at all!”

“Think he’s the one needing help, if I’m honest,” Greaz said as he got to his feet.

Lock ran after him. “Mr. Anthony – Mr….Crowley?”

The demon stopped. Turned around. “Just Crowley. I guess. Why not. This might as well happen.”

“Look, I just met these guys today. And – well, I’m fuzzy on the details but something’s wrong and…we’re all connected, right?”

“You sure as hell are connected now,” he drawled, gesturing to Lock’s hands. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done, there?”

Lock didn’t want to think too hard about it, actually. Anything that made a damn demon look scared was probably not something he wanted to deal with. Still. “Would you please come at least listen to Adam before you run off?”

Crowley stuffed his hands in his pockets. He was shifty, his nerves were shot, he was exhausted from his wanderings and his heartbreak. Lock watched him as he deliberated. If this creature was Nanny Ashtoreth, then something big had happened. Nanny had been many things, but miserable had never been one of them.

“Please?” Lock did not whine. Not even a little. Probably.

Crowley’s shoulders slumped further. “Fine. Nothing else to do, in any case.” He followed Lock back to the charred spot under the apple tree where they had summoned him. Stood in the black spot. Kicked an apple. Said in a bored voice, “Oh, mystic ones who have summoned me from my journeys of temptation, what request would you make of a demon of Hell?”

The boys looked around at each other. Crowley raised his eyebrows at Adam. “What do you fucking want?” he roared suddenly, voice cracking.

Lock stepped back, startled. Greaz flinched. Adam stared him down. “We don’t want to command you to do anything, or give us anything. That’s not what this is about. There’s something important that’s missing, that I can’t find or see or sense, and I think it’s connected to you and to the whole world, too. I think we need your help to find it, because there’s going to be something really bad happening soon if we don’t.”

Crowley straightened at the earnestness in Adam’s voice. He looked at each boy in turn. “And you, Warlock? What do you want from me? Why did they drag you into this?”

“It’s, uh, just ‘Lock,’ actually. Uh, Crowley.” The demon halfway smiled at him and mock-bowed. “I don’t know why I’m here. I guess they needed me to find you, since I guess I like. Know you best, or whatever.”

Crowley said nothing. Lock got the sense that the demon was surprised. He could definitely see Nanny, though. This was absolutely the same…being…that took care of him during his lonely childhood.

The demon turned to Greaz. “And you?” He said, offering another sarcastic half bow. “Why are you involved?”

“I was the leftover,” Greaz said, without venom. “The one the nuns were meant to swap out, only they took Adam to the Youngs instead of the Dowlings.” Greaz cocked his head, sizing Crowley up. “You’re skinny, but you’re tough. I’m willing to bet, though, that you might need our help, just as much as Adam needs yours.”

Crowley’s head swiveled from boy to boy. He sniffed. “Can’t believe they didn’t drown you, frankly,” he said, gesturing at Greaz. “Adopted you out locally, eh? Terrible satanic nuns, the whole idea was such a botch job.”

“Lucky for me, then, mate,” Greaz said cheerfully. He walked over to the apple tree and pulled on a branch, sending a few apples bobbing to the ground. He picked four of them up, nice ones, not yet over-ripe and still warm from the sun. “Let’s sit down, yeah? Bite to eat, Adam can fill us in, and I reckon you can fill in the gaps.” He grinned at Crowley.

Crowley raised one eyebrow. It arched up above his glasses, furrowing his forehead as his mouth thinned into a straight line. He looked at their hands as they started to sit around him. Crowley folded his long limbs and sort of plopped gracelessly into the grass.

Greaz tossed an apple at Crowley, which bounced off his chest and landed in his lap. “Go on, then, keep up your strength, skinny thing.”

Behind his glasses, Crowley rolled his eyes. The nerve of this child. Fuck’s sake. “Bit bold of you to offer the Serpent of Eden an apple, boy.”

Lock laughed as he caught his apple from Greaz. Neither of the other boys laughed, though. He looked back and forth between them all. “You’re not serious,” he said.

Adam took a bite of his apple, not taking his eyes off of Crowley.

“Pretty sure he’s serious, mate,” said Greaz.

Crowley wrapped his long hands around his apple, just holding it. “I’m not gonna get you into any trouble, Adam,” he said, scootching awkwardly backwards to make their triangle a square. “I don’t want Hell to notice me, either. I can’t believe they haven’t hounded us out already, with that blood-magic stunt you just pulled.”

Adam smiled. “I worked really hard to keep that one quiet,” he said. “The guys here helped. They’re human, and, well, so am I, and I just made sure that it looked like humans dabbling in nonsense. I don’t think I set off any alarms.”

“Yeah,” Crowley sighed, “I tried to do something like that a while back.” He pulled the stem off of his apple with one twist. “Didn’t do a very good job of it, though.”

“Maybe that’s what we’re supposed to help you fix,” Greaz said around a mouthful of apple.

“Jesus, Greaz, don’t talk with your mouthful. You act like you were born in a barn.”

Greaz laughed. “Nah, just a satanic church!”

All three boys laughed, some of the awkwardness bleeding away. Crowley was still looking intently at Greaz. Lock took a bite of his apple and winced loudly – it had shifted in his palm where it’d been cut by Adam for the summoning spell.

“Here,” Crowley held out his hand, contriving to look utterly put-upon.

Lock hesitated, but Greaz was nodding at him. Lock set his apple in his lap and gave both his hands to Crowley. He felt a distinct moment of cognitive dissonance – these were without a doubt Nanny’s hands, too-warm, with long, nimble fingers. His own hands looked cartoonishly large beside them; in his memories, his hands were so much smaller. Crowley put Lock’s palms together and wrapped his own hands around them.

“Ow!” Lock jerked his hands away, feeling like a line of fire had race along each of his cuts. He looked at them, expecting to see a charred black line. Instead he saw just a faint but still distinct scar, fully healed, now pain-free. He held them up so the guys could see.

“Wicked,” said Adam appreciatively, holding out his hands. “Mine next?”

Crowley reached over and healed Adam. It took an extra moment’s concentration for the demon. He turned to Greaz and opened his palms in invitation. Greaz smiled and set his hands in Crowley’s. Greaz was bleeding more heavily than the others. His hands were thick and calloused, and Adam had been obliged to cut a little harder. A smear of Greaz’s blood rubbed onto Crowley’s left hand.

“Oh, sonofabitch!” Crowley cried, jerking his hands back, frantically wiping his hand on the grass. The boys startled, unsure of what was happening.

Greaz was just gaping like a fish, looking at his hands in concern. “What did I do?”

Crowley mastered himself. He inspected his hand. There was a sort of spiky scar on the bottom right of his palm, shiny with new angry-red skin. It was almost…star-shaped. He looked up at Greaz and pulled off his glasses, looking at him properly for the first time.

“Greaz,” Crowley said. “What kind of name is that for a boy?”

“It’s a stupid old nickname I gave him,” Adam put in. “We couldn’t stand each other as kids, our gangs fought all the time. He called me The Beast and I called him Greasy Johnson.”

“It’s, uh, it’s just Greaz now.”

Lock looked back and forth between Crowley and Greaz. Crowley’s eyes were intense, his lips drawn back, showing his teeth. “What’s your mother call you, then? Not Greasy, surely.”

“My given name is Josh, but hardly anyone remembers that.”

Crowley leaned back. “Josh...Joshua.” Crowley quietly pronounced the name in an odd accent, softening the “J” to almost a “Y” sound.

“Yeah, mate. But just Josh. Nothing special. I mean, I reckon when I’m in trouble with my mum, I’m Joshua. But I try not to get in trouble anymore.”

Crowley put his glasses back on. “Don’t we all,” he said under his breath. Very gingerly, Crowley took Greaz’s hands, careful not to touch his blood, healing him like he healed Adam and Lock. It took a lot more effort this time, though, the demon clearly pushing through something to make Greaz’s hands heal. He sat back, letting the boy’s hands drop, nearly out of breath.

“Same birthday as Adam and Warlock here, yeah?”

“Oh yeah. Same satanic nunnery and all, right?” Greaz laughed, a bit uneasy.

Crowley nodded. He nodded for a long time. It became awkward.

“Crowley…?” Adam started.

The demon looked up at Adam. Looked at Greaz. Looked at Lock. Then he flung his head back and laughed maniacally, angrily, delightedly, miserably. It was the most eloquent, expressive, mad laughter they had ever heard.

Crowley flopped backwards onto the ground. “I can’t believe this. And you’re all friends now, you lot. Blood brothers, in fact, yeah?”

The boys looked at each other. Nodded.

“Well, come on, then,” Crowley stood in a slithering, fluid motion. “We have got just so much work to do. You can fill me in on the way.”

“On the way where? Our parents’ll be missing us soon. It is our birthdays, after all. Family time, you know?” Greaz protested.

“Ohh, I’m sure Adam can think of something to deal with that, can’t you, Adam?” Crowley said over his shoulder, striding through the orchard, the boys struggling to keep up with him.

“Well of course I can, but where are we going?”

“London, obviously.”

“We can’t go off to London!”

“OOhhh, yes we can and yes, you will, you lot. You’ve stuck your stupid bloody hands straight into the meat grinder now.”

“What are you talking about?” Lock shouted, exhausted from trying to keep up with the day’s chaos.

Crowley suddenly turned and bent close to Lock’s face. “Warlock – Lock, sorry.” The demon put a warm hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry about this, I really am. I know your childhood was a bit weird and I know that I’m a big part of that. But you’re now sharing blood with the Sons.”

Lock kept trying to see behind Crowley’s glasses. “Suns, like what – stars? What are you talking about?” he asked again.

Behind Crowley, Adam slowly turned to look at Greaz. Greaz looked back.

“Adam is the Son of Satan,” Crowley hissed.

“I picked that up from the whole end-of-the-world story, actually,” Lock said. “But none of us are stuck having to turn into our fathers.” Please, please no, he thought to himself.

Crowley looked back at Greaz and Adam, who seemed to be having an entire conversation using only facial expressions. “Yes, but your other friend just happens to be the Son of God.”

Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.

“No he’s not,” Lock protested, “That’s – that already happened thousands of years ago, and I don’t even know if that story is true or not, and like. It’s also not something that someone could exactly hide.”

“No?” said Crowley, raising his eyebrows. “Like how being the Antichrist wasn’t easy to hide? So hard to hide, in fact, that I spent about ten years teaching the wrong kid how to destroy the world?”

Lock looked over again at his new friends. Both of them had squared their shoulders like they had come to an agreement. They looked back at Lock and nodded. “It doesn’t matter,” he said defiantly to Crowley. “I don’t care who their dads are. They’re both trying to save the fucking world from some awful darkness that’s coming, and they asked for my help, and then we asked for yours. Can’t we just leave our fucking dads out of it?” He was nearly yelling.

Crowley stood up. Looked at the other boys, who were standing together. “I guess we’ll find out.” He fondly ruffled Lock’s hair. “Come on.”

“You still haven’t told us why we’re going to London,” Greaz said, a bit bashful now.

Crowley grinned a sharp-edged, feral grin. “We’ve got to go get my car.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale was having a bad time of it. For a whole year he had been working doggedly for Heaven. He knew the truth, now: that Heaven had been mis-managed badly by Gabriel, bless him, and that they had misplaced the Son of God in an almost identical manner to Hell’s misplacement of the Son of Satan. Gabriel’s sudden change of heart was interpreted as a literal God-send, the invisible hand of the Almighty intervening to rid Heaven of his power-hungry nature. Aziraphale was secretly delighted: what better way to counter wickedness than with love? He tipped his metaphorical hat to the Lord and resolved to do his best for Heaven, which would also certainly be best for the earthly world. The Metatron did not, however, check in with him as often or as closely as Aziraphale had expected. In fact, he was mostly left to his own devices, except when a cherub brought him his daily coffee. It was someone different every time, so Aziraphale never had the chance to get to know them very well. That was for the best, he mused, as he really should focus on his work. Most of his time was spent signing off on orders with his personal sigil. He inspected the commands dutifully: he saw nothing untoward or callous in any of them. Most of them never even mentioned Earth or humans at all: it was like Heaven was being entirely re-ordered. He remembered Gabriel “organizing” books in the shop, alphabetically by the first line of text. What nonsense! If that was how he put Heaven together, no wonder there was such disarray.

The rest of his time was spent searching the Earth for any sign of the lost Son. He knew that he was carefully warded in this search. The other angelic leaders were still shaking in their golden boots about the threat of the Almighty finding out. Aziraphale wasn’t convinced that this all wasn’t part of the Ineffable Plan, but he also didn’t want to test his power in Heaven too hard. It was so early in his leadership. Better to offer support for now, instead of asserting his will.

When he first set out to begin his search, he was stopped at the doors by the Archangel Uriel. “Aziraphale,” they said, “Why are you leaving us now, with so much more to do?”

“Oh!” he fluttered, “I’m actually popping off to begin my grand search. I thought I would start in Bethlehem, like in the old days. As good a place as any, don’t you think? Seeing as we have no other leads?”

Uriel, always so composed, gave him a tiny smile. “My friend, we would never expect you to search the realm of Earth on foot, alone in a corporeal form. We have better ways for you to use your valuable energy.”

Aziraphale faltered. He very much wanted to return to Earth to check in with Muriel and the bookshop. He missed…

“Let me show you,” Uriel said, placing their hand gently on his arm, guiding him back to his cloister. They sat him down at his desk and pulled up a shimmering screen of holy light. “Simply place your face into the field. You will direct it with your thoughts. You can explore the ends of the Earth, look into hidden places, seek out secrets and lies. This tool,” their voice lowered, as if to avoid being overheard, “Is usually only used to observe our most inspired humans. Prophets, holy men and women, our most faithful and reverent folk.” Aziraphale inspected it with interest. He had a fleeting desire to put on his spectacles. That was silly, of course. He hadn’t needed them on Earth and he certainly didn’t need them in Heaven. Still, the sensation of putting them on had always made him feel, oh…intentional, he supposed, about his scholarship. They were not quite talismanic, unlike the sunglasses that –

“You will be able to make excellent use of this important Heavenly resource, I’m sure,” Uriel continued.

 “I have used it before, briefly,” Aziraphale said, excited. “During the life of Job and his testing, of course...whereupon I went to Earth like a shot, ready to defend our most faithful worshiper from a wily…” he trailed off.

“Hm?” Uriel inquired pleasantly.

Aziraphale was losing his train of thought. “I was…I can’t remember…” His brow furrowed.

“A simple miscommunication, of course,” Uriel demurred, “Nothing to fret about. We are all looking forward to seeing your unique perspective in action, as our new Supreme Archangel and resident angelic expert on humanity.”

Aziraphale beamed. “I certainly should get cracking, then!” He took his seat at the terminal and leaned forward, placing his face into the shimmering void.

“I shall leave you to it,” Uriel spoke as they left, closing the door behind them.

Aziraphale was not what one might call thrilled with the view from the portal. It wasn’t clear or vibrant like Earth at all. Dim, misty, “through a glass darkly,” he thought to himself. Why, of course the higher angels weren’t as interested in Earth as he was, if this was all they ever saw of it! A few figures stood out clearly, people whose souls were bright and as close to pure as humanity is capable of getting. The Son, being Divinity Incarnate, should shine like a lamp through the shimmering mists. Aziraphale directed the portal to zoom in towards Bethlehem (still a good place to start, after all) and began his search in earnest.

Time passed, in the odd way that it does in some parts of Heaven. Aziraphale worked constantly. The only way he marked the time was with his regular coffee, and he looked forward to passing a pleasant word with whichever Angel was tasked with its delivery. It was his one physical tie to Earth, and he always savored it. He was, however, occasionally plagued with headaches. He endeavored to ignore them. They were, frankly, impossible. He was in Heaven, for mercy’s sake, and his corporeal form was indeed mere form with no function. He must be imagining the pain. Perhaps he was overworking himself.

At that thought, a lance of pain shot through the space behind his eyes. Aziraphale was obliged to lean back out of the portal (he was working his way through Asia), pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Colors burst behind his eyelids, a shock after months of misty grays and holy whites. He drew in a deep breath…unnecessary, but refreshing…and wondered when it was that he last breathed genuine air.

Strong hands fisting in the lapels of his favorite coat…being pulled inward towards a swirling storm…fierce lips pressing firmly – no, hard, almost too hard, too much – he could feel the ridges of teeth behind those lips, teeth that were sharper than they looked…Aziraphale’s hands fluttering helplessly, unable to settle as his mind and his soul pulled him in different directions…

Aziraphale’s eyes flew open. The shimmering void of the portal gleamed pearlescent. The memory was a sensory overload and the angel’s mind was whirling: can’t think about it because if I do then someone will surely be able to tell, will be able to sense the physicality of it, the desire within it, I’ll get in trouble, I’ll get…him…in trouble…him?

A still, small voice in the back of his mind: Don’t drink it.

“Hail, Aziraphale, Principality, Acting Supreme Archangel!” A cheerful-looking angel entered his cloister. “I bring you your earthly fuel! The Metatron personally instructed me to purchase this material item for your comfort.” The angel was broad and jovial, with a full beard and a reddish nose. “Please, drink up so that I may dispose of the material refuse that you do not consume.”

“Ah. Yes.” Aziraphale took the coffee from the angel’s careful grip. “Thank you so very much. I do so love my morning coffee.”

That still voice again: You hate coffee.

Aziraphale started, almost spilling the cup. “Oh, dear me! Almost lost it! Mind you, the only place it will soon be lost is in my tummy!” His eyes widened as he heard himself becoming ridiculous. The angel was smiling vacantly at him, waiting for the empty cup to be returned.

He looked around, eyes frantic, searching for somewhere to dispose of the liquid. He was certain that a miracle would be noticed immediately.

Everything is a miracle. All processes of life and death, birth and decay, all miraculous.

Aziraphale stilled. He held the cup up to his lips and pretended to drink. Instead of creating a miracle to get rid of the coffee, he just…sped up the miracle that was already present and possible within it, as an earthly creation. In moments, the coffee molded, shrank, dried up, and broke down into its component elements. The bare atoms left were imperceptible in the cup, particularly to a being already unused to interacting with matter.

“I hope that was enjoyable for you, Principality, Acting Supreme Archangel! Good luck with your important work!” The angel beamed and left, gingerly holding the cup in both hands.

“Delightful,” Aziraphale called after him. He sat down heavily at his desk, looking away from the pearly portal and out through his windows at the London skyline. Did it seem dimmer, somehow? Farther away?

He tried to clear his head. Whose voice had he been hearing? Was it his own? It was so small…it didn’t sound like the Almighty; he was sure he would at least recognize that, as he had heard The Voice occasionally in his day. Still…

“…Lord?” he prayed in a whisper, hoping not to be heard by The Metatron.

Silence.

Aziraphale sighed, troubled. His head began to clear. He really did hate coffee. Nothing really needed to be that disagreeable, honestly. Even when it was done up with whipped cream and vanilla and chocolate, the bitterness was still there underneath it all. So why had he so easily accepted the coffee from The Metatron?

Well, it was THE Metatron, after all. Difficult to say no to The One Who Speaks For God.

His thoughts returned to Crowley. Crowley! Aziraphale hadn’t even thought his name for…how long, now? What was in that coffee? Why had he walked away from him when he…when he…

“Oh, good Lord…” Aziraphale touched reverent fingers to his lips. He closed his eyes and felt the phantom bruising crush of Crowley’s mouth against his. It wasn’t as if he’d forgotten Crowley, or their last moments together. It was instead like they had just been…pushed aside, made immaterial.

No. Was that right? Aziraphale had leapt at the chance to bring Crowley back to Heaven with him, to whiten his wings again and let him manage some sort of systemic improvement program. There was no downside to that! Why hadn’t Crowley seen it, too? Aziraphale blinked away a mist of tears. Mustn’t let his corporeal form tell on him like this. If there was something in the coffee…something that seemed to push away his thoughts…he had to stop drinking it. But he had to keep up his search for the Son, and he had to figure out why Crowley reacted the way he did. None of it was making sense. Aziraphale felt surrounded by truth – nothing really felt like a lie, except the delicately and sinisterly poisoned coffee. He remembered Crowley’s voice cutting through Aziraphale’s joy: “They’re toxic!” the demon had cried. But even that felt like truth, even standing alongside Aziraphale’s trust.

He squared his shoulders. Find the Son, and help the world heal, and help heal Heaven. These, he determined, must be his main goals. But the toxic coffee was a Clue to something else going on. Aziraphale didn’t have all the answers yet, but he knew that they were out there, and he knew that he must tread carefully if he had any hope of seeing Crowley again.

Chapter Text

“This – is – brilliant!” Adam shouted into the London streets, his head out the window of Crowley’s car, golden hair streaking in the wind as they drove comically above the current posted speed limit. Greaz and Lock had their heads out the other windows – Greaz in the back with Adam, Lock in the front with Crowley. Crowley, for his part, had his window firmly and sensibly up, and drove as fast as he could with a load of feral human puppies as passengers.

Crowley knew he needed help. Sure, fine, okay: he had probably the three most powerful humans in the existence of the world hooting in his car right now. But while they had power, he needed someone with information. Someone clever. Some who knew Heaven’s inner workings and machinations.

He did not, unfortunately, know anyone who fit that bill. But he did know an angel who was too sweet to lie, and so for the first time in years, Crowley made his way towards the bookshop.

The Bentley, overjoyed to be back on the road, quietly played a Queen song, hardly to be heard over the whipping wind and the boys egging Crowley on to go even faster. The volume increased so slowly that Crowley was tapping his steering wheel to the beat before he registered the words: “Open your eyes, look, touch and feel…Rule with your heart, rule with your heart…Live with your conscience, live with your conscience…Love, love and be free, love, love and be free…We’re all God’s people…”

“Oh, bugger this,” Crowley growled, snapping off the radio.

But the boys had picked up the song. “Gotta face up, better grow up, gotta stand tall and be strong,” they sang out the windows.

“Oi! Shut it!” Crowley yelled at them. They bundled themselves back inside as the windows started to close on them. It was immediately and awkwardly silent.

Lock looked over at Crowley. “What did we do?”

Greaz leaned forward. “I know you don’t like me very much, and I reckon I can guess why, but I think you might need to talk about what’s going on with you, mate.”

Crowley met Adam’s eyes in the rearview. Adam nodded.

Crowley closed his eyes, traffic be damned. He had the Son of God in his fucking car. If he’d been worried about the Apocalypse before, it was nothing to what he knew was going to happen now. Even if Yeshua the Anointed One was currently besties with The Beast, Destroyer of Worlds, it didn’t matter. There wasn’t any hope for humanity at this point. What was he doing, coming back here, bringing these kids? He felt as hopeless as he’d felt during the Flood, hiding in the belly of the Ark with a handful of rescued children, miracle-ing food and clean water for forty days and forty nights, convincing his corporeal body that it was fecund and female enough to produce milk for the twin infants he had grabbed, and wondering for the hundredth time why God was so intent on destroying Creation so creatively.

He let his head fall to the steering wheel. The Bentley carried on driving. (She knew where she was going, after all.) With the windows up, the boys’ fidgeting and shifting and reaching was very loud and irritating. Crowley felt the car slow as it pulled up to the curb. The steering wheel turned his head gently. 

“Well,” Lock piped up, “If you’re gonna just be a bitch about it, then we’ll fix whatever is wrong by ourselves.”

Crowley thought of smiting the little shit with lightning, just for old time’s sake. (“Smitten, I think,” he remembered Aziraphale’s voice softening, inexpressibly fond, “You’re being silly!” Crowley pushed the memory away.) Crowley slowly raised his head off the wheel. Instead of maiming the boy, however, Crowley actually half-smiled: a tired, broken thing.

Lock was wearing a pair of Crowley’s glasses, smirking at him from the passenger seat. The glove compartment was open, filled with dozens of Crowley’s extras.

“Warlock, now…” Crowley started, rolling his ‘r’ a bit, reverting by habit to the scolding tone he had used during his Nanny days.

“It’s Lock, actually though, mate,” Greaz said from the back.

Crowley turned around. Lock had handed back dark glasses to each of the other boys in the car while the demon was having his crisis. Greaz and Adam were trying not to grin.

Crowley schooled his face back into something more menacing. “Those are my glasses,” he hissed.

“You sounded a lot like my old Nanny for a second there,” Lock said, cocking his head. “Maybe she could tell us what your problem is…?”

“Can we just go talk to this angel, do you think?” Crowley asked sarcastically. “Since we’ve driven all this way?”

Do you reckon we can keep the shades, then, Mr. Crowley?” Greaz asked, hopeful.

Crowley got out and slammed his door. The boys heard him muttering a string of words in a language they didn’t know. They did know, however, with the canniness of teenage boys, that they were all quite bad words indeed.

They clambered out of the Bentley. Crowley sauntered down the pavement, slowing as he grew closer to the doors. He stood in front of them, unwilling (now that it came to it) to actually open them. He felt ridiculous. He used to go decades – even centuries – without seeing him. It’s only been a couple of years. Moments, really. Why can I not get a grip?

“Want me to get that for you?” Greaz asked, voice gentle.

Crowley snapped his fingers and the doors opened like they had been waiting for him. “Go on,” he said, following the lads into the dim shop.

The noises of Whickber Street behind them were immediately silenced as they entered. “I…remember this place,” Adam said slowly, walking around the counter. “Something bad happened here, but…I think I fixed it?” He looked at Crowley who nodded tensely, standing stiff just inside the entrance, hands stuffed into his tight pockets. “You got…really hurt here, Crowley.”

“Wow, lads,” Greaz picked up a tattered book. “This is like a dragon’s hoard. There is so much…just like, love, here, all over the place, obsession baked into every surface.”

Crowley felt his chest go tight.

“But dragons are monsters, right?” Lock asked, “They hoard things and keep them from everyone else. It’s like a control thing. Dragons know every detail of their hoard, even down to the last thing. That doesn’t sound like love at all.”

“Greaz is sort of right though,” Adam said thoughtfully, “It’s a type of love, right? Even if it’s sort of toxic. Back when I was a kid, I loved the world so much, and I loved Tadfield the best, and my friends. And whales and people and snowflakes. I was so angry that grown-ups weren’t taking care of the things I loved the way I thought they should do. Fuck,” Adam rolled his neck, stretching his shoulders, clearing his head. “I was full of love, but I felt like I had to have control, too.”

“That sounds like my fucking dad,” Lock said, picking up a book at random and flipping through the pages.

“One big mess of daddy issues, we lot,” chuckled Greaz.

“Welcome to Mr. Fell’s Book Shop, I am Muriel, and I’d love to avoid selling you a book today,” chirped a voice from the stacks. A young-ish person came out from behind a case and greeted them with an odd little bob.

Adam greeted them. “We’re here to learn everything we can about Heaven,” he said, straightforward as usual.

Muriel’s smile faltered. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know anything about the domain of angels or the ordering of the Kingdom of Heaven,” they said, sounding like a recording.

Lock was sizing Muriel up. He leaned over and whispered to Greaz, “Is that a boy or a girl, do you think? I can’t tell…”

“Don’t think it matters to them, mate,” Greaz whispered back, “Can’t you see their halo? They’re an angel.”

Lock scoffed. “How could I see a halo, for chrissakes?”

Greaz raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh,” Lock said, eyes widening, “Probably…a loaded term, huh bud?”

Greaz shrugged. “It is what it is. I can’t fix anything about that whole situation. But you, now, take a look like this.” Greaz stepped behind Lock and looked again at Muriel. “You’re human, right, through and through. But you’re a little like us now too, so you can probably see and feel some things that other folks might miss. Look around their head, right above the eyebrows.”

“What am I looking for?”

“The halo, mate, like I said.”

Lock squinted. Adam was still chattering away at Muriel who was looking more confused by the minute. The angel hadn’t even noticed Crowley. “I don’t see anything there,” Lock said, irritated.

“Remember – you found Mr. Crowley by feeling for him, not looking at him. Try using those muscles again. You got to exercise if you wanna get stronger. Your brain is a muscle, right, mate? Your soul is, too. Now just sorta…feel into ‘em. Look at them over there and imagine that you’re standing in their shoes. What does that feel like?”

“This is some zen bullshit, Greaz, I’m not gonna suddenly start seeing things that aren’t there.”

“Well,” Greaz said happily, taking no offense, “Then don’t see it at all. But I bet you can feel it. It’ll probably be different for you, anyway. Just keep practicing.” He smiled and thumped Lock on the back. Lock stumbled forward. “Sorry,” Greaz said, sheepish. “Too strong for my own good.” He walked off to join Adam and Muriel.

Lock kept looking at the angel. What would it be like, he wondered, to have a halo and wings? To live forever? To have seen the beginning of the universe? This morning he had never even entertained the idea of angels or demons existing. Now he worried that he was somehow one of them, himself. He did feel different, since slicing his palms and sharing his blood with Adam and Greaz. It had all felt so natural at the time – it still felt natural, like his life was finally coming together, like he was where he was supposed to be for the first time ever. Lock concentrated, trying to feel like Greaz suggested. Nothing happened.

Lock tried Adam’s little move, that whole roll-the-neck-and-breathe deal. Take a moment. Calm. Relaxed. Focused. He looked at Muriel, not quite directly, kind of out of the corner of his eye. Nothing…but maybe seeing was the wrong sense, like Greaz said. If the angel was a song, what might they sound like?

Lock looked again. Now the angel had a sort of shimmering quicksilver outline, kind of like they were standing in front of a light, like the edge of a stormcloud, like they were vibrating. He could almost make out the sound of it, right at the edge of his hearing...something familiar. Lock tried to concentrate, but the effect was gone. Lock took a deep breath and relaxed, turning towards Crowley, trying again.

Crowley had almost the exact same quicksilver shiver around him. It was perhaps a shade or two darker, but not much. No real obvious difference, although Lock could sort of hear the vibrations on Crowley better. It sounded like…It’s like the sound left after you hit a drum, when it’s still sort of thrumming but the percussion is over. Lock’s brow furrowed as he puzzled to himself…Why are they so much alike? Aren’t angels and demons supposed to be different? Opposing forces and all?

The demon in question appeared to be unwilling to come fully into the shop, lingering in the half-moon entryway and trying not to touch anything. Adam and Greaz were having a grand old time with Muriel (Lock could hear the angel warming up to the lads, describing all the different entrances to Heaven around the world…Lock suspected that Adam could probably talk his way around anybody). Lock went back to stand with Crowley.

Crowley watched the boy approach. He was getting tall, up to Crowley’s shoulders and liable to keep on stretching out for another year or two. Still wearing a pair of Crowley’s glasses. He was irritated to find that they suited Lock well.

“So, Nanny,” Lock said, sort of conspiratorially, “How has life treated you since your retirement from child-rearing?”

“I am seriously considering ripping your tongue out just to see how far it would stretch,” Crowley said through gritted teeth.

“Ouch,” Lock said, deadpan. “Don’t let Brother Francis hear you saying that.”

Lock found himself shoved against the bookshop wall, Crowley’s left hand flat on his chest shoving him backwards, upwards, onto his toes. The demon hissed inarticulately, leaning his head back and looking down his nose at the boy. The shove had knocked the glasses askew and Crowley could see a guarded fear in Lock’s eyes.

“Fuck, fine, fine!” The boy said, “No more questions!”

Crowley let him go and stalked out the door, leaving them all in the shop.

Parked at the curb sat the Bentley.

Sunflower yellow.

The driver’s side door opened invitingly. Crowley, walking like his strings had been cut, stumbled in and sat, unmoving. “He’s not here,” he said, voice quiet and tired. “No reason to show off, love.”

Through the windshield, he could see the car’s bonnet slowly fade back to black, as though it were disappointed.

Crowley crumpled.

He sat alone with his car and wept. He wept harder than he could remember weeping, even when he had been losing his contact with Heaven. Crowley hadn’t ever been well and truly Cast Out, not til the very end. He had just been…demoted, at first. Taken off of the design team and relegated to construction…pushed down to paperwork…Crowley had barely even fought in the War of Rebellion; he got pulled into a Legion at the last moment and wasn’t even certain which side it was on, at the time. But he was slippery even then, and was able to slither his way back to his regular angelic job for a time (by then he had been demoted basically to custodial staff, organizing raw materials for the creation of Earth).

If Crowley’s cardinal sin was asking too many questions, his secondary sin was his curiosity. He wanted to keep in touch with the angels who had Fallen, who were spectacularly Cast Out. He wanted to see what they were about, if maybe they had some kernel of truth or beauty or freedom that he felt lacking in Heaven. By the time The Metatron discovered him fraternizing with the enemy (he seemed to be consistently overlooked by his superiors in that regard) Crowley was halfway to being a demon already, all on his own. Still, with each of his many steps downward into Hell, Crowley had wept. For the loss of his stars, of pride in his work and purpose, from being pulled further and further away from the Light of God out of which he had initially been formed. Each demotion had been accompanied with punishment, with agonizing pain…but that wasn’t what had hurt the most. He had wept for bitterness and anger and fear and pain, yes, but he had wept most because he had never even gotten a chance to ask his questions. Not to the Almighty, at least. The Metatron never thought any of his questions were worth Her Divine Time. Crowley hadn’t really wept (much) as a demon, but he had come close when he watched Job speaking with the Lord. Seeing a human getting the chance he had always been denied struck a painful wound within him that he spent about a hundred years burying in cheap Mesopotamian beer.

But now, outside of Aziraphale’s bookshop in his – their – car, Crowley cried his fucking eyes out. Crowley wept so hard that his eyes bled, leaving diluted pink streaks running down his face from under his glasses. He wanted to go back to Australia – at least there he could pass for something that belonged there, those funny little red-bellied snakes, even if his mind was duller in his animal form and the other snakes couldn’t talk to him and he was still alone.

The Bentley turned the music up again, just a little. The same song as before. “I said to myself…I’d better go to bed and have an early night…Then I, then I, then I, then I went into a dream…Rule with your heart and live with your conscience…”

Crowley pulled a black handkerchief from his back pocket as the music turned itself down mid-song. He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. They were fully yellow, his eyelids swollen and tender. It seemed too quiet, now, without that stupid song. He clicked the button to eject the tape.

Nothing came out. The tape deck was empty.

Crowley had heard the Bentley playing miraculous music when Aziraphale had driven, but it had never done so for the demon himself. He was pretty sure, in fact, that it had been an unconscious miracle on the angel’s part and not his car’s fault at all. The most miraculous aspect of his car’s music taste had only ever been in transforming any and all of Crowley’s other albums into Queen’s Greatest Hits.

He stilled. “All God’s People” was from the Innuendo album…it wasn’t on Greatest Hits at all, hadn’t even been recorded at that point…how…?

A knock on the window startled him. It was Greaz at the passenger door. “Mr. Crowley? Can I come in?”

“For behold, I stand at the door and knock.” Crowley thought that this shit might be getting out of hand.

Fuck it. “S’unlocked.”

Greaz climbed in and settled, the Bentley creaking just slightly under his solid weight. Greaz looked almost too big to be allowed. Not fat, just incredibly sturdy.

They sat in silence for a while. Crowley was surprised to find it…not uncomfortable. He kept waiting for the kid to start talking, but he didn’t. Just sat, his face pleasant but not really smiling, sitting with Crowley as they stared out the windshield together.

Crowley was never one to let a silence go unfilled, for better or worse. “You know,” he drawled, “I’ve met you before. I reckon you don’t remember?”

Greaz huffed – it could have been a laugh, or maybe a sigh. “Nah, mate.”

“I did though,” Crowley said, turning to look at the young man. “Right before…you know. Before it happened.”

Greaz shook his head, pulling off the sunglasses Lock had swiped for him and tucking them into his shirt collar. “Sorry, Mr. Crowley, but that wasn’t me. Reckon you met my brother.”

Crowley slowly leaned back. “Wot.”

The Son of God shrugged. “I mean, I do remember it, right? But I can sort of remember…everything?” He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. “In a way? It’s all there at least, I think, if I ever needed to look for it. But I’m – I’m not him. I’m different. Different mum, different time…whole different story, mate.”

Crowley’s mind reeled. Nothing made sense. “The angels, the big powerful ones up in Heaven – they think you’re here to destroy the world. I saw them, I saw their fucking…ethereal goddamn powerpoint presentation about it, whole planet going up in flames. They think that’s your plan. Your story.”

“It’s not.”

Crowley crushed his face into his hands, frustrated beyond belief. “I watched your first story – I saw them kill you horribly and I watched you beg for it to end and I watched you pray for them to be forgiven! You – he – couldn’t stop it then and you can’t stop them, now.” Crowley scoffed. “I don’t know what story you think you’re in, but it’s going to end bloody. It always does.”

“Blood is life, mate,” Greaz said gently. “As long as it’s flowing, we’re still going. Get it?”

“What the fuck does that even mean?!” Crowley exploded.

Greaz took his hand, held open Crowley’s palm, examining the new star-shaped scar. “I reckon it means that the story isn’t over. None of them are. There aren’t any endings. Or beginnings. Things just…shift, and change, and grow…and then shift again.”

“Of course there was a Beginning, I was there, I saw it happen, I helped design it!”

“Right, and where did you come from, then?”

Crowley sneered. “Oh, okay, the ‘angel shooting an arrow out at the edge of the universe’ thing, right.”

Greaz just looked at him.

“I don’t remember, okay? I was just – we were all just always there!”

“Sure, right you were!” Greaz said eagerly, “But you were something else before. So was I, so was…everything. Nothing is ever all-the-way over, it just grows in a different direction!”

“Even your Celestial Progenitor?” Crowley bit out, sarcastic and seething, pronouncing his words too clearly.

Greaz gestured to himself with both of his large hands. “Mr. Crowley, you’re not getting it. That’s what I’m doing here. That’s the point of me.”

“The point of you is to destroy Earth so that Heaven is all that’s left!”

“You didn’t learn a thing from Adam, did you, mate?” Greaz shook his head. “You know what he is. And you know that he’s also human, and that’s the important part. And I know that you heard your angel’s clever bit about an Ineffable Plan instead of whatever-it-was that Heaven wanted. You’re not thick, mate, but you’re acting like it.”

“So you just know everything, then. You’ve got your godhood-omniscience locked and loaded.” Crowley was supremely disdainful, trying very hard to ignore his intense curiosity.

“I think…I think I can know everything...?” the kid said slowly, “Yeah. I usually don’t, but…look, mate, you won’t talk to us on your own, I reckon. But me and the lads, we just wanna help.”

Crowley snorted, dismissive. “The lads. Fuck’s sake.”

Greaz popped his passenger door open. He walked around to the driver’s side and peered in at the demon. “I’m not gonna bully you into letting us help you, but I don’t think we’re gonna be able to fix anything without fixing pretty much everything. See, the thing is, I can see a lot of stuff if I try. If I focus real hard. But I can’t really see what Adam sees, because he’s different. So he’s talking about missing a whole, what’d he call it, a space thing…a whole nebula missing that he suddenly can’t see any longer, a power that used to be there and has suddenly buggered off, well. I reckon it’s something that needs to be found.”

“Neither of you thought to call your daddies for help?” Crowley said, drily.

Greaz shrugged. “Starting to think they might be part of the trouble, if I’m honest.”

“You think?” Crowley slithered out of the Bentley and slammed the door shut. He was ready to start tearing into the kid, but something about Greaz’s face stopped him short. “Wait. What…are we agreeing on that or not? Or – ah, stop, hang on. Are they THE trouble, or are they IN trouble?”

Again, Greaz shrugged. “My money’s on the latter,” he said, putting his borrowed sunglasses back on and turning to walk back into the bookshop.

Crowley made a series of disapproving sounds. “Don’t you dare think that was cool, just because you’re wearing my sunglasses and said something…noncommittal and vaguely ominous!”

The bookshop door closed.

Chapter Text

It had been a few months (probably? It was hard to tell in Heaven sometimes) of Aziraphale not-miracle-ing away the coffee, tricking his daily visitors with ease. He had not heard the small voice again, however, and he had made no further progress towards finding the Son. He didn’t have a single lead.

What he did have, however, was Crowley on his mind. This normally would not be unusual for the angel. They had known each other for literal ages and Aziraphale was very fond of the demon, in spite of it all. What alarmed him was that he had not given Crowley a single thought since he stepped out of the elevator and into Heaven. Not until he had started avoiding the coffee.

Thus, Aziraphale was swinging wildly between any number of alarming possibilities, all of them eliciting an internal emotional storm that raged in a hundred directions…none of which he could vent in any way. He had no one to talk to, no music to listen to, no wine with which to drown himself into insensibility. Here in Heaven, performing his duties as the Acting Supreme Archangel and providing a respected, vital service for the good of Creation, Aziraphale realized that he had never felt more alone.

He began muttering out loud to himself, for want of a friendly ear. “This means The Metatron is affecting the coffee in such a way that it prevents me from giving Crowley any consideration at all.”

Crowley, who kissed me, he thought.

“I haven’t felt any other effects – just that, and that alone. Well, the headaches, I suppose. But if The Metatron is manipulating me in such a way, what else is he manipulating? And why give me the chance to return Crowley to divinity, if he wanted him out of my mind entirely?”

And my heart…

He tried to focus. “Why wouldn’t Crowley just come along? He could do so much good here, his imagination and his heart…I could have put him in charge of a suggestion box like he mentioned so long ago, or anything he’d like! His reaction to the invitation was so…just furious!”

He even kissed me furiously…He kissed me! Why would he do such a thing?  

The memory of their last moments together kept derailing his thoughts, even as he tried to put them into order. “Of course I suppose there’s some trauma there. I could understand not wanting to return to Heaven for…just for a lark! But he didn’t want to come with me…and he’s always been so indulgent with me. Doesn’t he understand how different it could have been with both of us here together?”

Together…I don’t know if I’ll ever really be used to even the possibility of that. I tried for so long to keep him at arm’s length and why? So I would avoid punishment. He never had such awful fears about that. He…oh, it doesn’t bear thinking about, if I start weeping there is sure to be someone who notices, even here in this wretched little room…

“I must focus. What if the search for the Son is a manipulation as well, some sort of ruse? How would I even know? I’m not even sure I could find out. There’s no one here on my side.”

It used to be Our Side...why wouldn’t he come with me?

“I don’t know anyone up here I could trust now, save for the Lord, I suppose. I wish there was some way I could gain an audience with the Almighty…”

Crowley was never able to, Aziraphale thought desperately, even in the time before Time. I only ever heard The Voice on a couple of occasions, and never actually held audience…oh, whatever am I going to do?

Aziraphale stilled. What did he always do when he was in trouble?

He had no friends here in Heaven, that was clear. It was becoming obvious to him now that he had been put here in charge of a hopeless task in order to keep him out of the way and to separate him from Crowley. Something inside of the Angel that had always been a little bit…well, bastardous…was rearing its head.

Well, if I haven’t any friends here, then I shall certainly go to where I do – back on Earth, which I’m beginning to think that I should never have consented to leave in the first place. His mind made up, Aziraphale smartly switched off the search portal and headed for the door of his cloister.

The Metatron was outside the door as it opened.

“Ah, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale,” he said jovially, “I am delighted that you have found the Son! I knew you could do it, you know. Of course, we all did! When you turned off the portal I knew that triumph was on the horizon.” The Metatron took Aziraphale by the arm and walked him down the hallway with an air of obsequious gratitude. “Where did you find him, Aziraphale? We’ll send our best to go and guard him until he comes into his manhood!”

Aziraphale fidgeted, fluttering out, “Oh, no need for that, I’m sure! I’m so familiar with Earth as it is, you see. Well! Obviously. That’s why I was chosen for the job, you know! Oh of course you know – you know what I mean!” He trailed off. The Metatron seemed to be waiting for an answer. Aziraphale panicked. “He’s in America!” he chirped, flashing for some reason back to the evangelical television program he had blinked himself into when trying to find a suitable body to inhabit during the Apocalypse. “In the Deep South…Georgia, I believe! Possibly Tennessee – they’re so close, you know!” He smiled what he hoped was a winning smile. (Crowley would have asked him if he was feeling alright.)

“Excellent!” The Metatron rubbed his hands together. “We suspected he might end up there. That is where the Adversary sent his offspring, after all. Pity the original plans didn’t work out as we’d hoped, but there – all good things to those who wait, eh, Aziraphale?” His eyes glowed for a moment, brightly. “Now, I’ve just sent some of our people to search the land so we can confirm his location. You’ve earned a rest, I should say!”

Aziraphale was losing his nerve. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it! Not now that the interesting bit is beginning! I should certainly go down with the others…lead the search?”

“Nonsense,” said The Metatron, voice becoming brisk, “We need you! Here, to help run Heaven in Gabriel’s banishment!”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Banishment? Surely he isn’t banished – you didn’t exactly…you know…he wasn’t Cast Out, obviously! He simply…left of his own free will! Took a leave of absence, one might say. That isn’t the same thing as…as Falling, you must agree!”

“My dear Aziraphale, angels do not have ‘free will.’ Such a thing in an angel is merely the beginnings of the rot of damnation setting in. We hardly need to cast him out. He has cast his lot, and it was not with Heaven. He must now be numbered among The Fallen.” The Metatron shook his head. “Why the Almighty saw fit to give humans the very disease that infected the Purged Ones is entirely beyond my ken.” The Metatron cleared his throat. “Now, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale, let me escort you to a place where you can rest without these tedious musings!”

They drew close to another door, another cloister. The door opened, and this room was even emptier than the first. Its windows looked out only to blue sky – no skyline, no hint of Earth. Aziraphale rallied himself for a last attempt. “I’m afraid I must insist, Your Holiness, that I be allowed to join in the search for the Son. It is imperative that I…that I see this through to the end! It’s…it’s my duty to the Lord God Almighty,” he finished, trying to sound impressive.

The Metatron looked at him, sizing him up. “Your duty. I see.” His mouth tightened to a thin line. His jaw hardened. “It was a mistake, giving a Principality a duty to protect a Garden, when the Garden bore rotten fruit that spread across the Earth. I’m sorry you’ve been so warped by your sense of duty to humanity – don’t try to interrupt me, I’ve seen all of your deeds. I know how you feel about the Earth. Well, you are hereby relieved of your duty to guard the Garden or anything that it produced: animals, plants, humanity itself.” His voice was becoming deeper, his eyes glowing. “And we all know that your duty to protect the Garden – one of the last commands the Lord directly assigned to anyone – also encompasses, in your Earth-rotted brain, a duty to the demon you met in the Garden. I’ll certainly not have you running off to meet him down in the dirt, not to have you muck up this Armageddon the way you mucked up the last one!”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale wrung his hands. “What do you mean, this Armageddon?”

“Ridiculous creature. You’ve forgotten everything you once knew. When the Beast, the Devourer, The Prince of Lies comes into the world, so does The Second Coming of Christ. He’s been down there the entire time, hidden from us by some strange power. The Beast was only ever a trigger. The Son is the real weapon, the one that will wipe existence clean again!”

Aziraphale shifted quickly from unease to anger. “Now see here – I met the Son! He was nothing like that – he – he died for those people down there! On purpose, he did, he died horribly! He was kind, he was loving! He would never agree to this!”

Aziraphale felt himself shoved powerfully through the air and into the empty cloister. “He will agree to ME!” The Metatron roared, enraged. The door slammed and melted into the walls, vanishing entirely from view. Aziraphale could still hear him outside, shouting for guards. “None but I may open this door! If Aziraphale comes out of that room, turn him into a pillar of salt! If that demon dares to show his Godless face near any of Heaven’s gates, I expect you to attack without hesitation or mercy. Under no circumstances is he to reach this cloister or contact Aziraphale in any way!”  

There was an alarming hum followed by a flash of staticky light.

Silence.

Aziraphale, in a panic to get back down to Earth, did the only thing he could think of. He discorporated, attempting to flee with nothing but his primordial self through the boundaries of Heaven.

Nothing happened. Even control over his own power had been imprisoned.

Aziraphale was trapped.

Chapter Text

“That little angel working in the bookshop was really helpful,” Adam said from the back seat. “I had no idea that Heaven was set up so weird.” 

Crowley drove, radio decidedly off. “You’re never going to get in, you lot.”

“Sure we will, you’ll be able to get us in easy,” Greaz said, fiddling with his stolen glasses.

“First off, I told you I would help you find Adam’s missing…whatever-it-is. Breaking into Heaven isn’t me helping, its bloody suicide, which I think I’d still rather avoid. Probably. Besides, it’s warded against mortals and demons alike. I couldn’t get in even if I wanted to.”

Lock scoffed. “You could, too. You’re a demon. It’s not like the rules even apply to you, right?”

Crowley sputtered. “Look, there are rules and then there are Rules, and those’re important to have because they’re what everything else is built on. When they’re fair and they work like they’re supposed to, you barely even notice that you’re following them. And y’know, some of them are just…harder to get around than others.” Crowley squeezed the steering wheel, uncomfortable. “Still not sure why there isn’t a phalanx of demons on our tail. Can’t believe they haven’t noticed the mess that you three have made of yourselves.”

“Are you still on about the blood thing? It’s honestly not that big a deal,” Lock looked back at Adam and Greaz for affirmation.

They just shrugged, almost in unison.

“It is a bit of a big deal, mate,” Greaz said awkwardly. “Adam kept it secret, but if we do anything else like that, it’ll be game over.”

“We’ll light up all their ‘noticing weird shit’ equipment, Upstairs and Downstairs both,” said Adam with a grimacing smile.

“That is why you should leave Heaven alone. Nothing is hidden up there, I’m telling you. I was there not too long ago…sort of by invitation, I couldn’t have broken in on my own…and it’s just. I mean, I’m sure there’s information, yeah. But the really important stuff is down here, on Earth! Look at you two, two of the most powerful beings in Creation – you’d be hard-pressed to find anything better on either side.” 

“Pretty sure everyone still thinks we’re part of those sides, know what I mean?” Greaz said.

Crowley looked at him in the rearview. “No, I bloody well don’t. What d’you mean?”

Adam answered. “We’re not on either side anymore. We’re on our side, here with people and Earth and all.”

“Too right,” Greaz agreed heartily.

“Lucky for us we’ve got you too, right, Crowley?” Lock elbowed him gently from the passenger seat.

Crowley was having a minor crisis. Our side. They had come to it so easily, these lads. This was what he had anticipated years ago, after the first Apocalypse had been thwarted. Earth and its peoples against the forces of Heaven and Hell. He just hadn’t expected it so soon.

He hadn’t expected to face it without Aziraphale.

Aziraphale had been pacing. He’d spent much of his existence torn between joy and anxiety, and each fed into the other: joy as he marveled at Creation and experienced all that it had to offer, anxiety that he was doing it wrong; joy at the wonder and kindness and love in the world, anxiety that it was all going to be destroyed for no reason he could confidently explain; joy in his service to the Creator, anxiety about said Creator’s distance and lack of communication.

He felt neither joy nor anxiety now. Now, he felt a restless, helpless fear clawing inside of him. He had no recourse, no one to turn to, no means of escape. He had never before felt so wretchedly useless. He felt outside of existence itself, with nothing to mark the passage of time. He could have been in here for moments or eons, and he would have no idea which until someone released him…if they ever did. Crowley had been so right. Why didn’t I simply trust him?

“…joining me today! Again I’m Rabbi Eleazar, and you’re listening to ‘Bebop-a-ree-bop, An Education in Rock and Roll’! For our new listeners, remember we’d love to have you join us here at the synagogue for our Open Mic Night – you don’t have to be Jewish or believe in anything at all, we’re just glad to rock out with you. So that was just ‘Save Me’ by everyone’s favorite band Queen, which was included in their initial ‘best-of’ album but originally released on The Game…great album, no A Day at the Races but still solid...”

Aziraphale had whipped around upon hearing the voice and stood transfixed, staring at what looked like the record player from his bookshop. It…seemed to be playing a radio program, but his record player couldn’t play radio programs, Aziraphale was certain. One never knew what would pop up on the radio, after all, and he didn’t like to be startled by what passed for music amongst the people of Earth these days. He examined the turntable carefully. There was no record on it, the needle wasn’t even dropped. Still, a man’s voice was rattling on from the machine’s speakers…American, obviously; a rumpled-sounding, airy sort of voice…going on about rock and roll, no less. On Aziraphale’s record player! His sheer annoyance distracted him from his terror and claustrophobia. “Well, honestly. Bebop, of all things.” He sniffed disapprovingly, looking around him. “Thought this was supposed to be Heaven, not Hell. At least they could have provided me with a bit of Liszt, to pass the time.”

“…nothing like what you’re used to, I’m sure of that! But you know it’s important to stretch your wings and try new things…”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows curiously. That almost seemed like…a response? But that would be ridiculous.

“…and with that in mind we’re going to jump ahead to a contemporary artist. Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it! This song coming up is from a lady who can rock the rhythm and blues until you can’t tell where one ends and one begins. This isn’t what was put out on the radio, now – this one is from her 365 Days EP and was recorded live at Fairfax Recordings, which isn’t around anymore but they did great things with analog recording equipment and even recording straight onto vinyl. Hard to find that kind of authenticity anymore! Here’s the Fairfax version of ZZ Ward’s ‘Blue Eyes Blind,’ and fellas and ladies and anyone in between, it’s gonna make you feel something tonight!”

The angel rolled his eyes as the song started quietly but energetically, the disembodied voice singing youuu, youuu, youuu…An insistent drumbeat jumped in, almost making Aziraphale jump as well. “Oh, good lord,” he scoffed. Feel something, indeed…as if humans hadn’t been mating to the sound of drumbeats for thousands of years.

A woman’s voice, deeper than he had been anticipating, filled the cell. “I feel the moon hitting the blacktop just like a fuse, making the night so hot…forget the truth until tomorrow, you’ll be my Hughes, I’ll be your Harlow…”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. He remembered that girl, Harlow! Jane, no, Jean Harlow, the movie star. She was in the first “talkie” he had ever seen, oh, years ago. It was before the Blitz at a glamorous theatre in London. He hadn’t gone into a cinema in years, not since silent films had gone out, but the title of this one had grabbed his attention: Hell’s Angels. The poster had shocked him – an explosion in the foreground, behind it a pale white-blonde woman in a clingy white slip, held from behind by a dark man. He still remembered the tagline of the film: “Thrilling battle scenes…a timeless love story.” He had gone into the theatre as if though compelled…

Again he was startled by the entrance of the electric guitar and the drums, roaring in together and positively shredding their way into his awareness. He swore he could feel it as a physical thing, something that turned his entire spine into an electrified column. The voice sang, bleeding in through the guitar, “You are the yellow stars up in my silver sky, you’re a ray, ray; even make my blue eyes blind. All of the lights went down when you came for me, now there’s a million diamonds that I just can’t see…”

This…this was not what Aziraphale had understood as bebop. He had heard rock-and-roll before and had thought it pointlessly loud, brazen, and a bit empty-headed. This song, however, seemed raw, more elemental, like want and desire had been translated into sound waves.

“My world was gray with all the others until you came and showed me colors,” she sang. He listened as the drums began to increase in intensity, a rush coming over him as the electric guitar crashed in again. He felt a bit light-headed, like he had when Crowley had first tempted him to try Earthly food. Aziraphale had been surprised at himself for indulging in not just corporeal food but the flesh of a creature; he had been even more surprised at his sensual delight in consuming it. Crowley was certainly tempting – forbidden flesh, indeed.

The music’s intensity suddenly bottomed out. The woman sang low, slow: “There ain’t nobody taking your place, so you don’t have to worry. You got that good shit, darlin’, ain’t nobody you’re trying to beat. It’s like you’re freezing, it’s like you’re freezing time. You make my blue eyes, you make my blue eyes blind…”

The song built in power, rising again to a crescendo only to stop suddenly, a moment of silent anticipation. The singer’s voice soared back in, the guitar and the drums came in together, crashing into Aziraphale like a physical thing.

He had spent thousands of years slowly succumbing to the various temptations that Earth offered. He had long ago accepted the possibility that he might be quite a sensual creature, in that he enjoyed the sensory experience of lovely things. Beautiful music that stirred his heart, exciting books that delighted his mind, decadent food and drink that he had no need for and yet consumed anyway. However, he had given a cursory glance at human sexuality and had, in effect, politely said “no, thank you.”

“You are the yellow stars up in my silver sky…”

Aziraphale could not help picturing Crowley’s eyes. The bass and drums throbbed within the confines of the song. He was overwhelmed with the memories of sensory input – a glance here, a touch there, a brush of shoulders – his hands felt tingly-warm remembering their dance at his ill-fated cotillion ball. How often had their skin actually touched in six thousand years? There had been a business-like handshake here and there… a brush of fingers in a bombed-out church...had it taken Aziraphale the entire history of the Earth to actually reach out on his own to take Crowley’s hand? And then Crowley had kissed him like a drowning man seeking air, and Aziraphale had left him.

He replayed the kiss again in his head, lighting up his nervous system with remembered sensation, everything he had determinedly ignored during the actual event. If that foul toxic coffee muted my memories of it, perhaps my physical corporation can remember it more clearly, he thought, feeling his corporeal form responding effortlessly as the song faded into silence.

Oh. Oh.

Perhaps not Effortless, in fact.

Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, Principality, Acting Supreme Archangel…was feeling positively human.

The voice on the radio spoke over the fading strains of the song. “…on my list here is a great one for when you just gotta get going, man! When you got something to find, a job to do, and you need a great lick to walk out on, here’s ‘Ramble On’ by Zep!”

A cheerful guitar with a pleasant clicking rhythm behind it kicked up out of the impossible turntable. This time a man sang, his voice soft, a kind of sultry gentleness. “Leaves are falling all around, it’s time I was on my way. Thanks to you, I’m much obliged for such a pleasant stay. But now it’s time for me to go, the autumn moon lights my way…”

The music grew wilder as the voice became impassioned, growing into a sort of moaning cry. “Ramble on! And now’s the time, the time is now, sing my song! I’m going round the world, I gotta find my girl…” Aziraphale was still reeling from sensation…this singer’s voice was lighting him up as well, the wild heights and gentle drops making him feel dizzy. He had a dim suspicion that he had avoided rock-and-roll music for just this very reason…he felt almost overwhelmed, with no idea what to do with what had been awakened in him. (Oh, he had some ideas, ideas indeed, just nothing currently useful and no way to ever get around to exploring them…)

Or…perhaps he did have an idea. With Robert Plant moaning in his ears (“…mine’s a tale that can’t be told, my freedom I hold dear, how years ago in days of old when magic filled the air…”) the angel took stock of his situation. He felt completely immersed in his corporeal form – more wired in, buried deep, wholeheartedly occupying his flesh, reveling in all of his senses – for the first time not holding anything back, not just piloting a human suit but truly inhabiting his body.

“Sing my song, I gotta find my baby, I gotta ramble on…”

Could it possibly be that simple?

Aziraphale walked to where he thought the door had been, where The Metatron had shoved him inside. The wall still looked blank, humming with sterile holy power.

“Gotta work my way around the world, baby, ramble on, yeah…”

Aziraphale thought of Crowley. He had to find him. Nothing else needed to matter. He could see now how wrong he had been, how naïve, to trust Heaven again. He let the feeling wash over him, allowing his guilt to mingle with his excitement, arousal, fear, love…felt the neurons of his corporeal human form firing in ways they had never before needed to, felt his nervous system responding to messages being wired from his brain to the rest of his body. Allowed himself to feel, to feel human, complicated and passionate and messy and foolhardy and miraculous.

He put his hand on the wall.

It opened immediately. An angel stood there, one he hadn’t seen before. “Oh! Sir, I’m so sorry about the mix-up. Doesn’t actually seem to be your Time yet, so we’re just gonna pop you right back down to Earth. Not really sure how you got here in the first place, frankly – my department is clear on the other side of the facility – but my alerts are going off like mad and here you are after all! My!” they said, wide-eyed, “You certainly are still alive, no doubt about that – never seen a soul so, well…lively! Right this way, sir, if you please, we’ll have you home in a jiffy.” The angel efficiently bustled Aziraphale to a nearby exit. “You won’t remember any of this, of course, except for possibly a bright light. No worries at all, perfectly normal for a human nervous system to blank out at the sight of Heaven! This happens all the time, nothing at all to fret about. Now we’ll be seeing you soon, I expect, unless you let all that lively lust run away with you! Haha, just…just a little joke, there. Well, not really, you could in fact go to Hell if you let it get the best of you, so watch out for that! Ta!” 

Aziraphale snapped to wakefulness, feeling like he had been sleeping deeply…odd, since he almost never indulged in unconsciousness. He was sitting on his favorite park bench…the one he used to meet Crowley at for their surreptitious meetings. Aziraphale held perfectly still, listening. Feeling.

He mentally scanned his body. It still felt very, very human. Hm.

He spiritually scanned his angelic energy. It hadn’t…gone anywhere. It was just sort of…folded away. A bit like his wings folded into him, or like he carefully folded away his winter wear when not in use.

Aziraphale looked Up. Looked Down. He inspected the ducks for demonic or angelic intent. Everything seemed…fine.

Now, he thought. To get my hands on that serpent.

Chapter Text

“I don’t understand,” Adam said, voice tense. “I should be able to get inside.”

Crowley had stayed in the Bentley while the boys attempted their Heavenly break-in. Truth be told, Crowley was more terrified than had ever felt before. His mind kept whirling, racing through scenarios to see how humanity could possibly tangle with the Immortal and come out on top. He couldn’t see his way through the problem and was beginning to panic. Aziraphale had chosen Heaven over him, over them. Crowley knew once Aziraphale left that they had never, in fact, been on the same side at all. To the angel, Crowley had always just been some sort of fucking mercy mission, a sinner who needed absolution in order to return to Grace. It wasn’t just a rejection of the moment, or a policy disagreement. It was a rejection of every decision Crowley had ever made to purposefully distance himself from Heaven and everything it stood for. It was a rejection of Crowley himself.

Crowley had tried to blot Aziraphale out, to consider him “just another angel,” a company man through and through. But Aziraphale had woven himself too deeply into Crowley’s head and heart, and he knew he would never be rid of his need for the angel. The only way to do that was to be rid of himself. He smirked mirthlessly – he could almost taste the laudanum.

So.

“All right, you lot. I can help you get it open. Why not. I mean,” he strode over to the boys standing by what was disguised as a staff entrance for a Tesco’s, “It’s…y’know. Not like I could possibly make things any worse at this point.” He sized up the three young men in front of him. It made his heart ache in an odd way to see that they all still had his glasses. Lock’s were perched on his head, Greaz had his carefully stowed in one of his roomy pockets, and Adam’s were hanging at the neck of his shirt. “So before we do this, let’s make sure we have a clear objective, yeah? Adam, walk us through what you’re looking for, exactly.”

“My missing nebula. A huge swath of power that was always just sort of there in the landscape – not something that belonged to me, but something I could sort of lean on, or draw from, if I needed to. And not just me – anyone who knew how could probably draw some strength from it, proper battery, this was. I think it might have been a person, or a being I guess. And it just vanished about two years ago. So when I felt something bad coming, and I knew that we needed all the help we could get, I looked for it but it wasn’t there. It was just sort of a void. And…that void that’s not supposed to be a void…I know it can help, when whatever is coming…comes.”

Crowley took his glasses off, leveling with the lad. “I believe you. I can see that you know what you’re talking about, but it doesn’t make any sense to me at all. You don’t have anything else to go on? You don’t even know if it’s a person or a power that you’re looking for? And you don’t know where it went in the first place, or why – just that you think it vanished about two years ago?”

Adam fidgeted. “It feels like…like it was cut away.” He wouldn’t meet Crowley’s eyes. “Sort of. Dissected.”

Crowley winced internally.

“He knows it was connected to you, anyway,” Greaz put in, “Figured that out after we found Lock.”

Crowley stood. Get a grip. Put his shades back on. Two years ago…he dismissed it. No time for memories just now. “And you’re all committed to this? Ready to storm the gates of Heaven in your merry wee band?”

They didn’t even look at each other for confirmation – all nodded.

“Right,” said Crowley, business-like. “This isn’t going to work, but we’ll give it a shot. I don’t know how we’ll get in there without tripping any alarms. The three of you bloody reek of power.”

“I actually have an idea about that,” Greaz said. “Adam already knows how to cloak who he is, and I’ve been doing that as long as I can remember. I reckon we can teach you and Lock how to do it, too.”

“I’m still not super clear on what power I have,” Lock said, testily. “I can feel power when I’m with you two, and I feel different – more clear, more myself – but I don’t think I can actually use it to do anything helpful. Or cool,” he added a bit bitterly.

“I bet there’s loads you can do,” Adam said, encouraging, “You’re with us now. You’re what we two have in common,” he gestured to Greaz. “Son of Man, right?”

“All right, enough of that nonsense,” Crowley interrupted, brusque and unsettled. “What do you suggest Lock does, to hide his new abomination-level blood-powers?”

Greaz cracked his knuckles. “Oh, you can do it too, Mr. Crowley. You ought to at least try, you know. You’ll set off every alarm in the place if you don’t.”

Crowley’s stylish black clothes melted into an incredibly tacky cream-and-gold ensemble. “I didn’t last time.” He smirked at the lads. “Now I’m completely inconspicuous.”

“You look so dumb,” Lock marveled.

“Right you are, laddie-me-love,” Crowley said in a distinctly Nanny-ish voice.

Greaz chuckled. “All right there, Lock? Now try to focus. You too, Mr. Crowley. Think about folding yourself inwards. Like, think of all the things inside of you that make you feel like yourself, and hold them by the edges…and just tuck it all safely away.”

“Fucking hell, Greaz, is this another zen thing?”

“Greaz likes that sort of stuff,” Adam said, rolling his neck and breathing slowly. “It works pretty well, too.”

Crowley watched all three boys unconsciously circle up. Their eyes closed. One fidgeted, shaking his sweaty hands loose. One bounced on his heels. One rolled his neck. Together, all three of them seemed to just gently diminish.

Greaz, eyes still closed, said, “Now you, Mr. Crowley. The outfit’s great, but it’s not much if anyone is really looking.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Lad, I’ve been holding myself wound up tight for thousands of years. I reckon I’m good and folded. Let’s get this show on the road.” He cleared his throat. “Now you need to know that it’s going to be a lot of work to get in here. You might have to help me open the door enough to get all of us in. I’m not fussed about getting out…we’ll be able to get out, all right…there’s not nearly as much security in that direction. Getting in to Heaven, that’s the tricky bit.”

“It shouldn’t be,” said Greaz.

For a moment Crowley had no response. “Be that as it may,” he said slowly, “Just…look, this is your home turf, young Joshua-Anointed-With-Oil, why don’t you come and help open this thing up?”

Greaz joined Crowley at the alleyway door. It said “NO TRESPASSING. EMPLOYEES ONLY.” Greaz grabbed the handle. Crowley put his hands over the lad’s, his star-shaped scar tingling at the touch with holy energy. “This is just such a terrible idea,” he said out loud as they pushed the handle down and pulled.

It was an incredible struggle to open it. Crowley suspected that Greaz could easily blast it open if he wanted to uncloak himself, but trying to open it quietly was visibly taxing on both of them. “Lock, go in first,” Crowley said through gritted teeth, “You’re still human enough that you shouldn’t trip any alarms at all.”

Lock stepped through the door, held open just enough for him to slip through. He stood in an empty white hallway, cool and sterile. It was uncannily silent.

Crowley peeped in. Lock gave him a shrug and a thumbs up, quirking his head like it was a question. Crowley nodded. “Adam, your turn.”

Adam squeezed through the opening. He stood beside Lock, his head cocked, listening intently. Still quiet.

Crowley elbowed Greaz, moving around his hands so he could hold the weight of the door for the lad. “Go on, you,” he said, breathless, “I can – I can hold it.”

Greaz had trouble getting through the opening between the doorframe and the door itself. Crowley pulled as hard as he could possibly pull, and Greaz was able to shove it open enough to fit his broad shoulders through. He joined the others who stood silent, everyone listening for any alerts to go off announcing the Son of God’s return to Heaven. Nothing. No noise, no rushing angels…just stillness and silence.

Crowley basically threw himself through the cracked door as it slammed shut. He slipped awkwardly on the slick-polished white floor, ridiculous in his angel get-up. Lock was alarmed – the demon was visibly exhausted; he had almost been cut in two by the slamming door. It must have been harder for him to hold than he had let on. Crowley slowly sank to the ground, weakened.

Greaz and Lock both reached down to give Crowley their hands to help him up. Before he could even register their gesture, alarms began to blare. Signs lit up going down the endless hallway: DEMONIC INTRUSION. DEMONIC INTRUSION. DEMONIC INTRUSION.

Crowley raised his head tiredly to look at the flashing lights, despair on his features. He had not, in fact, been inconspicuous.

“How dare you return to this place, Fallen One?” Uriel sneered, anger visible on their features which were usually so serene.

Crowley, back in black, glasses shielding his eyes, shrugged. “Just a bit of a field trip, really. Wanted to show these lads what they have to look forward to when they pop off. Endlessly boring bullshit.” Crowley’s words were over-enunciated, bitter from where he knelt on the floor, Uriel’s power keeping him to his knees.

The three young men were standing in a triangle of light, which contained them and prevented them from joining Crowley. He had given them a bright, warning look over the rim of his glasses as they were charged by an angelic host. They had all been brought before Uriel without so much as a scuffle.

The triangle, meant for containing wayward humans, was all but useless for these three particular young men…but Uriel certainly didn’t have to know that. Yet.

Uriel closed their eyes, trying to regain composure. “I’m actually quite pleased you’re here, really. There are certain issues I have been interested in…addressing…with you in particular, demon.” When Uriel said the word, it was venomous. Crowley almost winced at the loathing coming from the Archangel.

“Do tell,” he drawled.

Uriel got right up into Crowley’s space. They were considerably shorter than the demon, but Crowley couldn’t rise from his knees as power crackled off of the Archangel’s form. Crowley looked waifish and worn out next to Uriel’s holy fire and energy. “You left us,” they seethed. “And you dare return now, leading souls astray even unto Heaven’s gate?”

“Oh, I just left, that’s right – went for a wee stroll down into Hell to align myself with the wicked and unjust…”

“You helped us set the stars in their dance! You – you were one of us, you served in my division! And you betrayed me, and us, and everything we were trying to build…just because you thought you had a better idea!”

“Still say it was a better idea,” Crowley said, maintaining his composure in the face of Uriel’s wrath. “You and your ridiculous ‘pre-aged’ stars. Absolutely idiotic. Why make any of it in the first place? Why did you even care? You were already planning to destroy it a paltry few thousand years later!”

“The Almighty’s Great Plan was more important than our creativity, Fallen One!”

Crowley shouted, losing his cool, “But that’s not creation! That’s just fucking…playing with blocks!”

Uriel struck him across the face. His glasses went flying.

“Oi!” shouted Lock, “Leave him alone!”

“Who can build something like we did,” Crowley said, voice tired, “Something like you designed, like I designed, and plan its destruction even as you’re putting on the finishing touches?” Uriel stood still, silent, hatred tightening their face. “You didn’t even tell us, your team, what the plan was for their destruction. I had to learn it from a passing cherub, for fuck’s sake.”

Uriel turned from him, striding across the empty room where a white desk appeared. On the desk was a book. “Michael wanted to use this, you know. On you and on that traitor Aziraphale. The Metatron dissuaded the idea.”

Uriel opened The Book of Life. “The Metatron, however, is indisposed at the moment. Thus, I must administer punishment as I see fit.”

In the holding triangle, Greaz had gone pale.

Crowley leaned his head back, his eyes hooded. “Extreme sanctions,” he said tonelessly.

Uriel held a writing implement in their hand, glowing gold at one end, silver at the other. They stalked over to Crowley, looking down at him. “You bare your throat to me like a beast. That is what you are, Fallen One. It was your selfish, unending questions that earned you your first demotion. Your questions that infected the thoughts of the Morningstar. Your questions that set off the avalanche of his mutiny.” Uriel held the holy pencil up to Crowley’s neck, touching its sharp golden point to his Adam’s apple. “You corrupted the Garden and set humanity’s feet on the pathways of pain. You corrupted Aziraphale and incited his treachery. You’re the reason the world didn’t end according to God’s Great Plan, and you’re the reason the Supreme Archangel Gabriel is now cavorting across the universe with the Lord of Flies! You are poison, your existence is envenomed, and when I erase you from Creation then everything, everything will be as it was meant to be.” Uriel’s voice had gone unearthly, slightly mad, at the same time both passionate and dreamy.

“No!” Lock called, starting from the triangle. Adam held him back.

Crowley’s golden eyes shot him a warning look. He lowered his head. “Right, then.” He shrugged, sounding anticlimactic and practical in the face of Uriel’s insane rage. “Mind if I say goodbye to the lads? They won’t remember it, after all.”

Uriel smiled unnervingly, almost gently. “In honor of the angel you could have been, I will allow you this moment.”

Crowley slowly strode over to the triangle, picking up his glasses along the way. He handed them to Lock. Adam was looking at him, eager, waiting for the sign to fight.

The demon sighed. “All right, you lot. Do exactly as I tell you.”

They waited, tensing, ready to bolt into action.

“Be good.”

He walked back to Uriel, towards the table.

Lock looked confused. He shared glances with Adam and Greaz – what was the plan? What did Crowley want them to do? Should they rush the angel? Dive for the book?

Crowley turned back to them. “And don’t just pretend to be good. Really, truly – be good. Even better, do good.”

Uriel was smirking at him.

Like lightning, Crowley snatched the holy pencil from their hands. In one movement, he turned towards the book and swiped the silver tip over his name.

Erasing himself.

Aziraphale was sitting on his favorite park bench, thinking carefully about where on Earth he could find –

He blinked. Wait. What was he supposed to be doing? He wracked his brain. Yes, that’s it…he was thinking very hard, very earnestly, about some way that he could reach –

Was he…looking for someone?

Who would he be looking for?

Without knowing why, Aziraphale began to weep.

Chapter Text

Books are such interesting things. They can be vessels of knowledge, repositories of wisdom, guides for life or love or loss. They can be an escape or a destination. Books are an infinity unto themselves; when they are re-read, even by the same person, they become new all over again. A person who re-reads a book experiences it differently every time, because no person is ever exactly the same from breath to breath.

Some people love books because they believe that knowledge is power. They’re not entirely wrong, but they aren’t entirely right, either. Some people love books because they love memories, and books are full of so many memories. Memories left by the writer, by the readers, by people who have picked it up but never read it, by children who spill chocolate milk on the pages. You could open a book and not read a word, and still see a memory in it. Look, someone dog-eared this page – right in the middle of a chapter, too! Something important must have happened to pull them away from the story at this point instead of at a sensible chapter break.

Books don’t last forever, but the ideas inside of them do. Even if the original words are lost, the impact those words had on the author and the reader, those echo out in ripples throughout existence. Books are a holy type of magic. Books can be written and re-written, written over, recovered, written again. Books are stories – not just recounted or imagined tales, but also the story of their creation, and their author’s creation, and where the author came from, and the people who loved or hurt the author, and their stories, back and back and back until all stories become a fractal nebula of interconnectivity. Stories are the heartbeat of creation.

Some stories seem to end abruptly.

That, my loves, isn’t true.

No stories ever actually end. They just change, growing into something new. Even your story. You were something different before, even if you don’t remember.

Do you think a butterfly remembers its time as a caterpillar?

The point is…there are no such things as “endings.” Just changes.

Some stories can be re-written.

Chapter Text

Uriel watched in surprise as Crowley vanished. They had no time to muse upon being robbed of their vengeance as a wave of overwhelming power roared over them, sending them sprawling on the floor. Three pairs of hands – impossibly strong hands, were all humans this strong? – lifted Uriel to their knees, binding the Archangel with a power they had never felt before.

“What did he do?” Lock screamed in their face, gesturing at the Book.

Uriel felt unmoored. They had a sense of the entirety of Creation…unwinding. The very fabric of existence was being gently but inexorably pulled to tatters. “He erased himself from the Book of Life,” Uriel said blankly, all their maddened loathing erased as well.

“This is so bad, this is so bad, this is so bad,” Greaz was repeating, rubbing his hands on his pants, trying to dry his palms that were slick with fear-sweat.

 Uriel’s eyes began to glow, but it was a fading glow, a light going out. “It’s all going away, it’s all being undone, I can’t hold any of the threads, I can’t even see some of them…”

“Quiet!” Adam barked, annoyed at Uriel’s sudden panic. “What do we do? How do we fix it?”

Lock and Adam held the Archangel, looking at Greaz as he fidgeted with terror. “This was never supposed to be used, this was always just sort of a thought experiment, like a test. We thought they had figured it out, since they had never tried to use it!”

“Come on, Greaz! Fucking explain it later – right now just tell us how to fix it!” Lock yelled. It was dead silent, but somehow the lads felt the only way they could speak was by yelling, forcing their words out with all their strength.

“His memory will linger last in Heaven,” Uriel groaned, struggling as their light faded to a flicker, “His stars…only as long as it takes for his last star to burn out…” Uriel went limp. “It’s fading…even now…”

Lock unceremoniously dropped the Archangel to the floor. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Greaz was at the desk. The glowing pencil was still on the book, right where it had fallen when the hand that held it vanished. Greaz spoke in a monotone voice, looking at where Uriel lay. “Nothing was made without intention. Nothing was made that can be unmade. Everything depends on everything else, always.” Greaz picked up the writing tool. “This was a test you failed, mate.”

He tried to put it to the page, but his strong arm shivered and went limp. He looked up, eyes pleading at Adam and Lock. They rushed over, standing on either side of him, bolstering him. They shared a desperate look – bringing their power together allowed them to feel the unraveling all around them. They felt lost on the last island of awareness. The three young men, rallying what power they could salvage of themselves and their place in Creation, pushed all their awareness into Greaz, drawing power from the vanishing universe.

The light around them flickered, dimmed, as even the very foundations of Heaven aided the lads.

Greaz re-wrote Crowley’s name.

Aziraphale’s head popped up. He was tucked up on a park bench, legs folded tight to his chest. His pants were wet where his face had been resting on his knees. Had…had he been crying? Out in the middle of St. James’ Park, in front of the entire world like a mess?

Again, he took stock of himself – physically, angelically. Nothing seemed to have changed. Still more human than he’d ever felt, but that didn’t feel dangerous…just different.

He straightened himself out, smiling awkwardly as people passed him by, darting their eyes away at his emotional display. As he righted himself, he slowly began to notice a sense of unease. He brushed it off, but it persisted. It seemed to be unrelated to his position or his inappropriately public outburst. What in Creation could he have been crying about?

Crowley.

His name bloomed golden across Aziraphale’s mindscape, soaring into the angel’s thoughts in just the way the star-nursery had exploded into being during their first meeting. He all but leapt to his feet. “Something is terribly – horribly – wrong!” He cried, startling the passers-by. Suddenly caring not a whit for performing superfluous or ostentatious miracles, Aziraphale vanished from sight, materializing directly into his bookshop.

Muriel, sitting with a cup of tea and The Catcher in the Rye, dropped both book and teacup in alarm. “Oh! Principality!” She stood to greet him, ignoring the mess on the floor. “I mean! I’m sorry, sir – Acting Supreme Archangel Aziraphale, greetings!”

“Oh, bugger that for a lark! Have you seen Crowley, Muriel? Any time, recently, or any time at all? I must find him immediately, I think he’s in some dreadful trouble!”

Greaz, Adam, and Lock opened their eyes. Reality seemed to have righted itself around them, but their heads felt fuzzy and overloaded. They were on the ground, sort of tangled together in a heap. As their minds cleared, they realized that there seemed to be more limbs among them than were strictly necessary, even for three teenage boys.

They scrambled apart – there was a creature crushed to the ground underneath their collective weight. The boys stood over the body. A person (angel? demon?) was crumpled face-down on the floor; long pale limbs, large black wings with feathers smoothed to a glassy shimmer, riotous crimson hair that pooled in impressive length on the white floor by their head. Utterly nude and, observed uncomfortably by the lads, utterly sexless.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Greaz swore under his breath.

Adam looked at him, alarmed. “Is this…?”

Greaz nodded.

Lock’s eyes darted between his friends and the being on the floor. “What happened to him?”

Greaz knelt on the floor next to Crowley’s form. “Let’s just say that I’m not exactly living up to my family’s expectations, mate.” He pushed Crowley’s hair away from where it fell in a curtain, hiding the demon’s face. “Lock, mate, I think you might need to be the one to wake him up. You have the most memories of him…and memories are something he doesn’t have, right now.”

“You’re kidding.”

Greaz shrugged. “Like I said, that stupid book wasn’t to be used. It was supposed to be a way for them to learn. Like a meditation tool. I called it a ‘test’ earlier, but that’s not what it was meant to be.” Greaz sighed as Lock sat down beside him, hanging his head. “It’s meant to be a way for them to see how interconnected it all is. That’s the point, that all of Creation is one big thing, and that every bit is vital to the whole. That you can’t change things or make it like stuff didn’t happen. That nothing is on its own.”

Adam still stood, tense, looking at the two beings prone on the floor, at his friends sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. “But that’s like saying that nothing is ever an accident, or that nothing wrong ever happens. Or like nothing can ever change! And that’s not right. I have changed things, I’ve made things go away!”

“But you never un-made anything. Not really. You re-thought things, interpreted things differently – like your dad, right? And we can always change things, mate – but only in one direction. We can only change our minds, y’see. Like, when I was a kid and I was nasty to you and your friends. I was bigger’n you lot and I had all this energy and nowhere to aim it, and you were so perfect and it got under my skin all the time.” Greaz paused, taking a breath and unclenching his hands. “I didn’t have to change. I could have grown into someone hateful, someone who might do…what the angels are expecting me to do. But I did change. I can’t go back and un-do a single punch I threw – but I can change the ones that haven’t happened yet, because I can change my mind, see?”

“I think he’s waking up,” Lock whispered nervously.

Crowley’s eyes flew open. Lock flinched backwards – he had seen Crowley’s eyes before, but he had never seen them like this. Not one speck of white remained. These were the eyes of an animal, wild and wary. The demon scrambled away, backing into the desk and folding his crow-black wings around himself. His long red hair curled in all directions down to the floor, pooling around his hips. The snake on his face, off-puttingly animated, slithered down and stretched itself around his neck like a tightened noose.

“Shit, it’s okay, hey,” Lock tried to use a soothing voice, feeling guilty for startling the creature. “You’re good, all right? You’re safe with us.”

Crowley wasn’t even looking at the boy. His eyes were fixed somewhere behind Lock, looking past him: the helpless eyes of an animal in a trap.

“I wouldn’t say that, young man,” a voice boomed across the empty white of the Heavenly space. “And I am delighted indeed that at least something has gone right today.”

Lock whipped around, seeing Adam moving quickly in his peripheral vision, standing with his friends. The three boys faced the lone angel walking towards them.

“Be not afraid, my children. I am The Metatron, The One Who Speaks With The Voice Of God.”

Lock felt Greaz trembling against his shoulder, felt the shift of his friend clenching and unclenching his fists. Felt a spike of awareness from Adam: don’t let him See us. Lock quickly folded himself inward as much as he could, making himself seem smaller.

“Again I say unto you, children, fear not! For I will deliver you from this demon’s influence forever.” The Metatron raised his hand, palm up as if though he were beckoning Crowley, a mockery of an invitation to dance.

Crowley was pulled, limp as a doll, off of the Heavenly floor and dragged through the air to The Metatron’s hand, which closed around his throat. In one smooth movement, the angel threw the demon into a doorway of light which had appeared to his left. Crowley disappeared behind the light and the door vanished.

Greaz cringed as the doorway slammed into nothingness. All three boys were frozen. They knew instinctively that if The Metatron were to divine their identities, here in Heaven in the seat of his power, they would be at his mercy.

The Metatron was still almost thirty feet away. He had not paused in his walk towards them through the empty white space, but neither was he hurrying. The boys watched him approach with creeping dread, feeling disarmed and useless.

Lock felt a feather-light touch to his ankle where his trouser leg had ridden up. Uriel, still face-down on the ground but looking up at him, gently touched his skin with their forefinger. Their arm was outstretched on the ground where they had fallen – his ankle was all they could reach.

Greaz stopped trembling. He looked at Uriel, who shifted their gaze to him. Lock watched as a tear gathered in the corner of Uriel’s eye…it dropped to the floor, a tiny sparkle.

Greaz nodded. He reached his hand behind him and put his hand around Adam’s ankle, holding on tightly.

The Metatron still strode forward, pace unchanged, arms open as if though he were going to gather the lads into an embrace…or herd them to slaughter.

Uriel raised their finger. Greaz, already leaning against Lock, put his arm around his friend’s shoulders and squeezed tight.

Uriel tapped Lock’s ankle once: tap.

Looked at Adam. Tap.

Their eyes shifted to Greaz, and the Archangel’s eyes smiled.

Tap.

The holy light blacked out around them as they felt themselves crashing, careening, plummeting through colors and blackness and sound and crashing silence.

They awoke in the apple orchard near Adam’s house.

The lads found themselves sitting around an old tree, leaning their backs against the gnarled trunk. They saw grafting scars and knobs left from pruned branches running their way up the tree, early morning sunlight filtering through the leaves. Their necks and backs were sore, as if they had slept there all night.

Lock bolted up. “They’ve got him!” He grabbed Adam and pulled him up. Greaz let his head drop back to the tree trunk, face thoughtful, troubled. “What do we do? Where do we go? How do we get him back?” Lock was full-on whining, a part of him reverting to the childish tone he had often used to just get what he wanted.

Adam put his hand on Lock’s shoulder. Breathed in, breathed out. Lock nodded and followed suit. In. Out.

Adam nodded decisively. “Let’s go find your gardener.”

Chapter Text

“With all due respect, sir,” Muriel said haltingly, “Isn’t Mr. Crowley always in trouble? I mean. Demon,” they said with a grin and a bit of a shrug.

“I mean real trouble, my dear. Oh! Haven’t you seen him since I left?” Aziraphale was looking around his shop, fluttering a bit. “I’m sure he…he hasn’t been back at all! There’s simply nothing of him here, not a speck of his vitality…” Aziraphale strode through the stacks, reaching out with his feelings for any sense of Crowley’s presence. “No, of course he hasn’t been back – why on Earth would he come here? When I was so wretched to him. I know something is wrong and I know I ought to help him, but I don’t even know where to start looking!” The angel was wringing his hands, muttering a string of regrets to himself as he circled back towards the entrance. He reached out and affectionately touched the little statue that Crowley had made into his own little parking-spot for his sunglasses. His back straightened; frankly, his ears almost perked up. He turned back towards the entryway, the little half-wall that separated the shop from the door, as though he were following a scent. Aziraphale placed both hands gently on the wall.

He snatched them back quickly, wincing. “Oh, he was angry…” Aziraphale was deeply troubled. “And so sad! Stars in Heaven, I should never have left him alone. Muriel! Where’ve you gone?” He wheeled around to see them standing very still, watching him in his search.

“I haven’t gone anywhere! You just looked…busy. Like you forgot we were speaking together completely for a moment.” They paused, looking unsure. “Do you still want me to answer your question?”

“Question?”

“About whether I’ve seen Mr. Crowley since you left.”

“Yes!” Aziraphale almost shouted.

Muriel straightened like they were being inspected. “Mr. Crowley did not visit this bookshop at all since you left it in my charge…”

Aziraphale clucked his tongue and turned away, frustrated.

“…until, unfortunately, just yesterday afternoon, with a group of young men.”

He whirled back around, eyes alight. “Yesterday! He was just here yesterday? I only just missed him!”

“I’m sorry sir, I was instructed to not fraternize with him, so I didn’t. I did have a lovely chat with some of the boys he was with, though!”

Aziraphale’s brow knitted. “Wait, wait a moment – were they young men or were they boys? What were their names?”

Muriel shrugged. “I am not sure I would be able to tell the difference. They seemed…a bit like both? Humans are incredibly confusing, after all, because they’re changing…simply all of the time!”

He nodded eagerly. “Yes, Muriel, I suppose you’re right. Now, quickly, if you please, dear, what were their names?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know their names, sir.” Muriel said matter-of-factly.

Aziraphale’s face fell.

“I only know one of their names.”

“Ah! Bless you, dear! What was it?”

“Oh, that’s easy!” Muriel said, smiling. “It’s an easy name to remember! One of the young men was named Adam.”

Aziraphale went white. “Adam?!”

“Yes sir,” Muriel continued cheerfully. “We talked ever so much about all the different Gates to the Kingdom that could be found. He was especially fascinated by the ones here in London! He was such a good listener, I felt really very at home with him! I also told him all about the bookshop and how each of the books was like a Gate, too, to a whole different world or to a whole different person! We had a delightful talk. Are all humans that interesting?”

Aziraphale had walked over to his desk as Muriel chattered happily away. He sat down heavily in his desk chair, which squeaked alarmingly in protest. He put his elbows on the desk and buried his face in his hands. Adam. Of all people. There’s only one Adam it could be, asking out how to get into Heaven. Crowley, what are you up to?

He raised his head, alarmed. Crowley? Trying to get into Heaven? Oh, no…oh no oh no oh no…his mind was suddenly filled with The Metatron’s voice outside of Aziraphale’s prison chamber: “If that demon dares to show his Godless face near any of Heaven’s gates, I expect you to attack without hesitation or mercy!”

For a moment, Aziraphale felt helpless. He was powerless, powerless against the incomprehensible might of The Metatron, of Heaven itself. That was why he had returned without a fuss, the moment he was called…the magnanimous offer to bring Crowley along had made Aziraphale so grateful, so cringingly, scrapingly grateful…he’d accepted the instructions immediately, without even considering their implications, so relieved to be out of trouble. And they had been instructions, in the end, only passingly phrased as an invitation. Aziraphale had meekly submitted, had passively obeyed.

In his mind, he replayed Crowley’s disdain, beautiful in his anger as he fought for Aziraphale’s independence, even in spite of the angel’s refusal to do so on his own behalf.

Aziraphale had let him rage. Aziraphale had let him kiss him. And then, Aziraphale had let him go.

I have been so much worse than soft, he thought. I’ve simply been letting things happen to me – to us. I’ve been just…passive.

Aziraphale’s jaw tightened. He sat straight up in his desk chair, his spine steeling. He began to rifle through his desk drawers with the efficiency of someone who has a system, thank you, no indeed it is not a mess. He very nearly crowed with triumph when he found the bit of paper he had been searching for: it had a phone number scrawled on it.

Now, he thought with new conviction, now to action.

He picked up the phone and dialed.

Adam, Greaz, and Lock raced through the orchard. They scrambled awkwardly over the low stone fence and streaked down the road to Adam’s house. The morning was full of sunshine and birdsong, but no one in the village seemed to be up and about yet. They made it to Adam’s garden, a small-ish dog leaping joyously at each of them in turn. Adam was climbing into his own bedroom window.

Greaz just grabbed the animal and held him. “Lock, this is Dog. Dog, this is Lock. He’s one of us, mate, so keep an eye on him.”

Lock scratched Dog’s head. “That’s the best name I’ve ever heard for a dog,” he said, grinning.

The kitchen door unlocked, opened. Adam beckoned them inside. “My parents are still asleep,” he said. “Keep it down…and keep it together.” Greaz and Lock knew he meant to keep their power folded in, to make themselves inconspicuous.

The boys (and Dog) came into the kitchen, still breathing heavily from their run. The sudden hush of the house after their sprint seemed ominous and unsettling, but they didn’t sense any sort of ill-intent anywhere. All three of them looked at each other as Greaz set Dog down on the linoleum kitchen floor.

“Now what?” Lock asked. “I haven’t seen our gardener in years. You saw him most recently, Adam – saw him like he actually is, not in some dumb disguise, or pretending to be the worst tutor ever. I don’t know how to get in touch with him.”

“I don’t think we can call him like we called Mr. Crowley, at any rate,” Said Greaz, eyeing his palms, still trying to even out his breath.

Adam eyed the kitchen wall behind his friends. “I’m not sure, either.” He walked between his friends, towards the phone hanging on the wall. “I’m worried about what will happen if I make it so this phone will call him, wherever he is. It wouldn’t be hard,” Adam said, shrugging casually even though his voice was very tense, “But it’s just not something humans can possibly do. It would be obvious as hell, to anyone watching.”

“Like sending up a signal flare, probably,” Greaz said, voice full of doubt.

“But that’s what signal flares are for, right?” Lock whispered, trying to keep his voice down in his desperation. “It’s for signaling help! Yeah, the bad guys might see the flare too, but isn’t getting help more important?”

Greaz and Adam looked at each other.

“Guys,” Lock spread his hands out in appeal. Adam and Greaz looked at the thin scars on his palms. “We can’t leave him up there. We just – we can’t, is all.”

Greaz sighed. Adam nodded tightly, once. He reached for the phone.

It rang just as he touched it, shocking in the morning silence of the house, making all three lads jump.

Adam picked it up before it could ring again, holding it out from his ear as his friends crowded in to listen.

“Hell…hello?” He stammered and cleared his throat. “Uh, triple-six, Tadfield? Young residence?”

Silence. Then, a kind voice spoke. “Hello again, Adam. I wonder…I wonder if you remember me?”

Adam looked at Lock. “I think I might,” he said. “Did you…did you ever happen to work as a gardener?”

“Oh,” the voice said, sounding pleased and also sort of bashful, “I wouldn’t say that, no…I only guarded the Garden, I didn’t do any of the Creation work, you see.”

Greaz snorted a laugh, delighted. “He means real gardening, mate! Like, for a family!”

“A well-off family,” Adam added.

Another moment of silence on the other end. Then, tersely, suspiciously: “Who else is there, Adam?”

Adam held out the phone to Lock. He leaned toward Adam’s hand. “Um. Hi, can I just ask. Is this, uh, Mr. Fell? Or, like, Brother Francis?”

The boys heard a clattering noise. A shuffling, scuffling sound and a shout that they were almost entirely certain was a vicious curse.

A throat-clearing sound. “Why yes, this is indeed Mr. Fell.” The voice was now a bit trembly but very prim. “And again I will ask – no, I demand that you tell me who is with you - right now, Adam Young!”

Adam asked, “I don’t suppose you have a car, do you, Mr. Fell? I think we need to get together to talk. We were at your shop in London…yesterday?” He looked at his friends for confirmation. Lock pulled out his phone and checked the date. He nodded. “But we seem to be stuck here in Tadfield. We could really use some help.”

The voice on the line sputtered. “Well really, of course I don’t have a car, I work in London, for mercy’s sake. Now – to whom am I speaking?”

Greaz had been trying to hold in his laughter, but it broke out in a cackle. “Just call us the Unholy Trinity, Principality Aziraphale! I reckon Adam can fill you in on the details, but it goes something like this, stop me if you’ve heard this one: The Antichrist, The Second Coming, and a Warlock walk into a bookshop…” On the other line, the boys heard the phone drop again.

Lock almost felt bad for the guy.

After Aziraphale had grappled his phone back to his ear, Adam did, in fact, fill him in. Heaven’s Great Plan still in motion, opposed by both of the Sons working together, binding themselves by blood-brotherhood to a human (Adam had used the phrase “accidentally-on-purpose,” whatever that was supposed to mean…and where had they found young Warlock, of all people?) and Crowley imprisoned in Heaven and mysteriously altered (and what could Adam have meant, when he said “re-booted?”)

The lads knew that The Metatron was going to begin his incursion into Earth soon. They knew he was looking for Greaz although the boy was certain that he was still cloaking himself enough to avoid immediate notice. (“Can’t I please call you…anything else?” Aziraphale had almost begged. “Greaz, well, it isn’t a name at all, you know.” The angel had been told no, thank you, kindly but firmly, and that was that.) They knew that Crowley was being held prisoner in Heaven and that he was in no fit state to rescue himself or, indeed, help anyone else. And so together, they made a plan.

The lads were going to draw The Metatron out, bring him down to Earth early. Greaz hoped that the angel would see reason, hoped he could make him listen and understand that Earth needed to be protected, that Creation did not require an expiration date. Adam and Lock supported their friend, of course…but they weren’t exactly counting on The Metatron being in a listening mood. While they distracted The Metatron and drew the attention of the Heavenly Host, Aziraphale and Muriel could sneak into Heaven and break Crowley out of his imprisonment.

Aziraphale had not, however, agreed to this plan easily. He was loathe to put the boys in such danger – and alone! Greaz had talked him around, though. Aziraphale, to be honest, felt entirely incapable of telling that particular young man “no.” Of course he is the Son of God…Aziraphale still relished the knowledge with delighted awe…but he’s also just a very sensible young man, and his voice is very kind, after all. Quite hard to refuse, you know, when it comes down to it.

Aziraphale did insist upon leaving them with a blessing. (“Not that my blessing will make much of a difference to you three, I’m sure…but I’m giving it anyway,” he had said proudly, sending a wave of love towards Tadfield that the boys felt immediately. “For what it’s worth, in any case.”)

Young Warlock had been the last to speak with him. “Good luck, Mr. Fell,” he said nervously, “Just watch your back, okay? Don’t do…you know. Don’t do anything fucking stupid.”

Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled with fondness. In his best (or worst) Brother Francis the Gardener voice, he said, “And you, young master…Lock,” he paused, remembering only at the last moment to alter the name, “Try to stay out of fucking trouble.”

He heard all three boys laughing wildly as he hung up the phone.

Chapter Text

Muriel was leading the way. “I think your young men are right,” they said in a stage-whisper, “The one behind the Tesco will be watched closely now, as the site of an incursion. Since you are fleeing from Heavenly punishment yourself,” they winced, “You certainly mustn’t use the usual Gate at all.”

They had stopped short after only a few minutes of walking. An alternate wasn’t far from his shop at all, in Soho Square. Aziraphale wondered, with an entirely unfamiliar, almost vicious sort of pride, if the Gate had been installed only since the last Armageddon, after he and Crowley had caused so much trouble. Seemed like overkill, frankly, as a Gate was often manifested in the nearby pub.

Muriel looked around suspiciously in the morning light. There were a few joggers, but most people had either already made it to work or were still in bed. Muriel beckoned Aziraphale to follow them into the park.

The two angels made their way into the square, walking right up to the Tudor-style gazebo. Aziraphale smiled at the little rainbow-shaped play structure that had been installed for children to climb on. Muriel stopped at the gazebo door.

Aziraphale inspected it. “This seems a bit obvious, doesn’t it? I thought the, well, emergency exits were meant to be inconspicuous.”

Muriel nodded. “It’s like the others, you know. Just regular human doors to human places. This one,” she whispered conspiratorially, “leads to the inside of this wooden structure, you see.”

Aziraphale breathed in, slowly. He smiled at Muriel, raising his eyebrows, inviting them to continue.

“Like all Gates, it can only be opened by an Angel in good standing.”

Aziraphale’s heart sank. “Oh,” he said dully, “Of course.” He was on the run from Heaven, on a rescue mission to liberate a demon from their custody. There was no chance this door would open for him.

But wait. The young men – they told him that Crowley had opened a Gate, hadn’t they? With the Son’s help, yes, but he had held it open enough to get himself through. “That’s…what they told you, yes? An angel in good standing.”

Muriel nodded cheerfully.

Heaven certainly tells us a lot of things…I wonder how many of them are true at all. Aziraphale steeled himself and reached for the door. He pulled his hand back. “Muriel,” he said seriously, “I’m not sure you should come with me.”

Their face fell. “Why not? I want to help you! The Son of God answered when you called!”

Aziraphale smiled warmly. “Yes, I suppose he did, didn’t he?” That certainly was new, he thought to himself with a hint of bitterness, getting an answer. “But…but see here, my dear,” he continued, “Even…even the Son of God is now – right now, even as we speak – rebelling against The Great Plan. He has even shared His Precious Blood with both a human and with the very Antichrist he was meant to oppose in the battle for the souls of Creation!”

Muriel’s eyes were wide, their body as tense as a bowstring.

Aziraphale held out his hands. Muriel took them carefully. “Ooh!” they said, relaxing their shoulders, “I’ve never felt another corporeal form before. Yours is very soft!” they said, beaming.

“Oh, well, thank you,” Aziraphale said, feeling awkward but pleased. “And, um, yours is, as well! But I need you to listen carefully, Muriel.”

They nodded, back to business, schooling their face into focused concentration.

“I believe that these three young men are going to lead their rebellion against both Heaven and Hell. Their fight right now isn’t with an aim of destruction, you see. It is for protection. They are going to try to protect the Earth and, indeed, all of the Almighty’s Creation, against The Metatron…against anyone who wants to destroy it. So now, Muriel, I believe you’re going to have to make a choice.”

Muriel tensed again, nervous. “I haven’t had very much practice at choosing things. Is it going to be hard?”

“I’m not sure, my dear,” Aziraphale said gently, squeezing their hands. “I believe that you’re going to need to choose a side. Are you going to stand with Heaven and Hell and The Great Plan? Or are you going to stand with Creation, with Earth, and with humanity itself?”

Muriel, who had opened their mouth to agree the moment Aziraphale said “Heaven,” had snapped their mouth shut so quickly that their teeth clicked together. “Oh,” they said limply. “That…that is a hard one, I suppose.”

“Isn’t it, just?”

Muriel looked at their hands in Aziraphale's, warmly together in the morning sunshine. A bird put forth a glorious burst of song from its perch at the top of the gazebo. For just a moment, Muriel felt Aziraphale’s hands tremble. “What are you choosing, Principality?”

“A nightingale,” he said, almost too quiet to hear.

“A what?”

Aziraphale’s gaze had drifted off, but it returned to Muriel’s face. They saw a hard-edged resolve in his soft blue eyes, and sadness…and so, so much love. “Muriel, I am, as you say, a Principality. I was fashioned and formed for a single purpose, and that purpose is to protect. I was, indeed, built for battle…built for things like rescue missions, even though I have never preferred the more aggressive aspects of my purpose. I was not, in fact, built for softness, or bookshops, or even for making choices at all. However, I will say that I am going to choose to follow my heart.” He sighed, but smiled, shrugging, “But my heart is tied to my function. The Metatron was at least right about that. I was given a job by the Almighty. I was told to protect the Garden…not to obey The Metatron. Who is, after all, just another angel, in the end,” he concluded proudly.

Muriel’s eyebrows drew together, perplexed. “But, the Garden was destroyed…what are you protecting?”

Aziraphale let go their hands and put an arm companionably around their shoulders. “Look at those trees, Scrivener. That sunshine. That miraculous birdsong. Look at those people over there in their running clothes.”

Muriel looked, obedient.

“Dear one,” Aziraphale said, “The Garden itself is lost, of course. But everything seeded there has outgrown its walls.”

Muriel looked around in wonder. “That’s not…no one ever said, upstairs…”

“They don’t, do they?” Aziraphale replied. “It’s all, ‘the wages of sin’ and ‘the dissolution of the holy’ and ‘tarnished purity’ and whatnot.”

“I think,” Muriel said slowly, “I mean, I choose…I choose to help the Son, to protect the Earth. I’m choosing that.” They nodded firmly, breaking into a sudden smile.

The gazebo door opened on its own.

The angels stared, wide-eyed and startled, at the rectangle of light. “It’s…not supposed to do that,” Muriel said vaguely.

Aziraphale gestured quickly at the open door. “We’re not supposed to be doing any of this,” he said with a bit of cheek. Suddenly his face fell. “Oh, one moment, I wasn’t ready!” He fumbled off his coat, trotting over to the rainbow play structure. He hung the coat there and awkwardly unbuttoned his waistcoat. Muriel was staring at him. “Oh, don’t start – I know it’s prissy, I do, honestly. Half a moment! I’ve had these for such a long time and they are my favorites…I just don’t want them ruined if anything happens!” He wriggled out of it and hung it carefully with his coat. He hurried back to the door, untying his tie and letting it hang undone, unbuttoning his collar, rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt.

“There, now,” he said, satisfied, feeling terrified but ready for adventure. He stood beside Muriel and faced the door, taking their hand again. “Ready for anything!”

No one in the park saw them walk into the rectangle of light, or saw the wooden door close darkly behind them. Well, except the nightingale, but she certainly wasn’t telling anybody.

* * *

My name is…my name…is…

Hm.

Well. Suppose if it was important, I would know it. I know things, after all. Head full of things, me.

Let’s make a list. I like lists, big lonnnng lists. There: one – I know that I like lists. Two – I know that my neck hurts. Three – I know that my wings are soft and beautiful, no matter what anybody else thinks. Oh, that’s something! Four – I know that there are Somebody Elses around, somewhere. I saw some of them before. One of them was awful, just really bleuuurgh. The others were okay though, probably. Maybe.

But they did let the awful one grab me, so. That can go on the list of things I do NOT know: why that happened. There was sure to be something I didn’t know.

I know that I’m cold, but I’m not sure what else I should be. I know that I’m hurting, but that seems to be normal, too. I know that there aren’t any Somebody Elses here with me.

See, I told you I knew things.

He looked around the empty room, like he expected someone to reply to his thoughts. As far as he knew, no one had ever replied to him. It seemed like no one had ever had a chance, as he was snatched up almost as soon as he had opened his eyes. He was sitting in a corner, wings wrapped uncomfortably around him as tightly as he could manage without making them go all tingly-hurt.

He cocked his head and examined his feet. They seemed far away, down at the bottom of his long pale legs, crossed daintily at the ankles. His toenails were pitch-black and sharp, and the bottoms of his feet were covered in iridescent black scales which grew up over his toes and the top of his feet until they faded gently into pale skin just above the ankles.

He was currently plaiting a section of his long hair, just to have something to do. It was easy and absorbing, a welcome distraction of physical sensory input. His nails, claws really, long, black, and sharp, could comb through and section off strands of hair smoothly and easily. The plait had become so complex that he was almost weaving, at this point. It soothed him.

It’s soft – not cold and hard like everything else seems to be – and it’s mine…I control it, I get to shape it and re-shape it until it’s just the way I like, because it’s the only thing I’ve got.

He made no noises out loud, but his thoughts were almost crooning. I must be careful not to ruin it…not even if it gets tangled or tugged. I’ll just keep working with it. He pulled the silken strands through his fingers, through each other. It doesn’t matter if it won’t lay quite right, or curls in an odd direction, or knots up, even. I can always just keep working at it.  

He was full of restless energy, but he remained as still as he could, putting all his focus into his hair. He could sense the trap he had been caught in, feeling somehow that it might shrink or even collapse if he so much as rattled the proverbial bars. So he plaited, and he wove. He unbraided, he untangled, he started again. His elegantly clawed fingers stayed busy as he let his mind wander.

There was a Somebody before I got hurt. He was so small…was he? Or did he just seem small? Or had he been small once and was now bigger…? I think that might be it. He was kind, he said I was safe. I wasn’t though, but…maybe I am now? Maybe this was what he meant.

He shook his head. He didn’t feel safe at all. He could feel his own edges and empty spaces and he knew that something significant was missing. Still, he was imaginative, and wily, and could smell trouble and treachery like blood in the air.

Something is going to happen. I wish I knew what it was. I could find out, if I only knew how to look.

He unbraided a plait just as easily and carefully as he had braided it, not breaking a single hair.

See, I can take care of things. It’s not even hard. It’s not hard to be gentle, to not break things just because you’re done with them.

His golden eyes darted around the room again, defiance written on his features, daring someone to argue with him. Wishing there was someone to argue with, someone to whom he could make this important point. Indeed it seemed vital to him, a great truth that was woven and plaited even into the fabric of his emptied mind.

He scowled at the cell’s emptiness with a noise like a hiss. He flinched at the sound, cursing himself for his carelessness. He held himself utterly still, eyes wide, waiting for the hammer to fall.

The silence stretched on. He didn’t know how long. He was fuzzy on the concept of time…it seemed to him like there was “now” and “not now.” Now, it seemed, nothing was happening. Maybe he was lucky and no one had heard him make that noise.

Maybe that means I can get up? Maybe no one would notice if I moved, just a little bit?

He remained motionless still, for a while, expecting something bad to happen in response to his very thought. Nothing had happened yet, though, since he had been thrown in here…he stood, rising slowly, sinuously, ruffling not a single feather.

He looked at the wall he had been thrown through. What if it opened back up? What if Someone Else got thrown in here, too? What if I could open it myself, and go away from here?

Again he froze, unnaturally still, anticipating pain for the audacity of his imagination. He stretched a glossy black wing out in front of him, grazing the wall with the wingtip. It didn’t catch fire or singe into ash. He swayed where he stood, fearful but intensely curious. He stepped cautiously to the wall. Pushing his hair back behind his shoulders, he touched the wall with the tip of one long claw. Still nothing. He tapped on it, pressed his whole hand against it. Nothing happened.

He wasn’t sure how long he spent exploring. He went over every single surface, into every corner. There was nothing to discover, but he felt like even that in itself was a discovery. He spent time reclining in each corner, he leapt up to the ceiling and investigated those corners (he quite liked the corners, where three planes came together to make a point, it was very satisfying), he rolled on the floor, he stretched his wings to try and span the room (it was just too wide, but only just, a claustrophobic limitation which mildly alarmed him).

Now, however, he had come back to the initial wall. He thought of it as the real wall, because it was the one he had come through and so there must be something else on the other side of it…he currently had no evidence about the rest of the walls. He was beginning to feel bored. Nothing terrible had happened, no one had hurt him or scared him; in fact, there had not been a single consequence at all to his curious rovings, but that bothered him, too. It didn’t seem like the way things were done.

He had been standing statue-still, hands on his real wall, for quite some time. He was imagining what would happen if it ever did open. He was almost dreaming. He had very little context for anything outside of the cell, but he had one hell of an imagination. He was imagining things that were soft. He was imagining what it would be like to feel something as warm as himself, something like his wings, only something that wasn’t him. He was thinking about the Somebodies that he had seen first, and their terrified but kind eyes, and he was imagining…

What might eyes look like that were only kind…or only terrified…or something else completely! What if Somebody Else’s eyes were…soft? Or angry? Or pleased? What if I could find Somebody Else that likes soft things, too…like my hair? I bet that Somebody Else could even teach me new ways to weave my hair! Oh, new things, now that’s what I would just love to see! Surely there are new things somewhere, to explore and try out! I’m just certain that it’s not all just more of this, just these hard cold flat planes everywhere! 

He opened his eyes, instantly wary. Something had changed. He had felt the very fabric of his little world shift. Barely a breath, not even an atom…but he felt it, just the same. Something was in his world. Behind him.

He shifted slowly, stalking whatever had joined him. His head turned and he lowered his wing to clear his line of sight.

What am I looking at, here?

It wasn’t a being, he was sure of it. It was a structure like his cell, but the planar intersections were much more complex than his corners. There were curves, there were mixtures of hard edges and soft lines. It looked inviting. Familiar. He strode over to it, brazen, fully prepared to interrogate and explore every new and fascinating aspect.

The structure contained three primary parts, he decided. Two that were identical, side by side – these seemed the softer ones, and he was looking forward to testing them out – and then something in the middle, with harder edges but nothing at all like his cell. It was richly brown in color, covered in buttons and dials and slots that beckoned his curiosity and lit up his eager mind. With the practiced ease born of muscle memory, he walked to the structure on the right and slid his body into the

Seat, it’s a seat, well of course that’s what it is. A seat for sitting in. And I am for sitting in a seat! This is far and away better than a corner, no doubt about it. Why is there another one, though? There’s only me, I don’t think I can sit in two seats at once, although they’re very close together. Well, I probably could, but it wouldn’t be as comfortable as the way I’m sitting here just in the one. There should be something in front of the seat, though, for my hands to do. My hands always seem to need something to do. Idle hands…idle hands are the…Oh! There’s lots of bits and bobs here, though! It’s going to take a long time to list out all of these things! They’re so pretty, and shiny, and lovely. Look! That one twists, there! I wonder why? What’s it spin like that for? Surely it’s for something – a thing like this must be important. This little slot is funny, why is it closed when I can just stick a claw in through the flap? I love this seat so much, I’m staying right here for a while at least. That spot is shiny, what happens if I…

Noise erupted from the structure into the cell. He yelped and scrambled back, ducking behind the seat. The noise continued, rhythmic, full of intention and meaning. He peeked above the seat, golden eyes wide, hair wild. He looked around fearfully, sure that this madness would call down wrath upon him.

He was almost disappointed that it didn’t. At least that would have been something.

This…there are…words in this! I know all of this. I’ve heard this before. It’s saying something to me, I know it!

He slowly crawled back around and returned to his seat. Driver’s seat, his mind supplied, but he had no context for the idea and so dismissed it. He cocked his head, eyes bright, and listened.

“Mr. Crowley, what went on in your head? Oh, Mr. Crowley, did you talk to the dead?”

He blinked. He tapped his claws restlessly against the naked flesh of his hip. Puzzled.

I don’t…I don’t even like Ozzy Osbourne…

He didn’t know what to do with that thought. He wasn’t sure what an Ozzy was, or an Osbourne. Not his favorites, apparently.

“…Your lifestyle to me seems so tragic, with the thrill of it all. You fooled all the people with magic, yeah, you waited on Satan’s call…”

He stilled. That…was that right? Was this structure talking to him?

Was there a being in there?

There was an alarming crunching sound from the structure. The music warped, skipped, got stuck repeating itself: Mr. Crowley – Mr. Crowley – Mr. Crowley – Mr. Crow – 

He pushed the button again, silencing the noise. He was breathing heavily, startled and put off. He felt momentarily guilty about the quiet. He wasn’t trying to shut it up for its own sake…he just…didn’t want to hear it anymore.

His curiosity overcame his fear, as it always did. He pushed a different button and jumped – something had popped out of the slot. He took it carefully in two of his claws and gently, gently pulled it all of the way out, cradling it carefully in case it was something alive…he had vague memories of eggs, of fragile helpless things that came into the world requiring care and gentleness. He was significantly disappointed to see that this was another structure, an object. He inspected the markings closely. They resolved themselves into meaning under his befuddled gaze, into letters, words.

“Queen: Greatest Hits.”

Chapter Text

Muriel and Aziraphale made their way through Heaven. They hadn’t met any opposition yet, but Aziraphale was wound tight as a spring, coiled for confrontation. Muriel was not so much tense as they were focused, walking with confidence and serenity born of new purpose.

Something made them stop…some divine sense within them tingled, a sort of ineffable gooseflesh. Aziraphale was uncomfortably reminded of the human phrase, “a feeling like someone has just walked over your grave.”

Muriel turned to Aziraphale, eyes glowing. “Oh!” they gasped, clapping a hand over their mouth and pointing at him. “Your eyes!”

“Oh, dear,” he said. “Yours as well. It seems that something is happening…”

“I think I have to go!” they said, panic creeping into their voice.

Aziraphale took their hands again. Muriel pulled gently but insistently, “We need to go, we’re being Summoned!”

“Yes, The Metatron is summoning us, I know,” Aziraphale said, fighting the Command in his own soul as well…but he hadn’t spent thousands of years avoiding Heaven’s calls for nothing. “But we made a choice, didn’t we, Scrivener Muriel? We made a choice back there, on Earth. What was it that we chose?”

Muriel stopped pulling their hands. “We…”

“Come on, my dear, you can think, you’re very smart, after all.” He squeezed Muriel’s hands.

Muriel closed their eyes tightly, then squeezed his hands as well. “Yes. We chose.”

Aziraphale nodded, keeping his eyes closed, keeping the glow of the Command behind his lids. “We chose…?”

“Earth,” they said, “We – I – made the choice to help protect humanity.” Muriel opened their eyes. The glow faded. Their whole body sagged with relief as the Command passed them by. “Sir, I think you can open your eyes.”

Aziraphale shook his head firmly. “Not yet, not I…it doesn’t want to let me go very easily…and something else is coming. Have you, by any chance, ever…been in a fight, dear?”

Muriel actually laughed. “Not even close,” they said. “I’m just a records keeper, I’ve never even seen an angelic weapon!”

“Ah,” he said. “Well. Do you think you might have a record of where those weapons are?”

“Absolutely,” Muriel chirped. “There is a small storage block near here. Let’s go!”

“Excellent,” Aziraphale said as Muriel led him away by the hand.

The hallway they were in extended forever both before them and behind them. Muriel slowed and looked at the walls as they walked. “No…no…yes! Here, Principality! I suppose it’s sort of just…a closet, really. But there are some angelic weapons here! Bit odd, honestly…”

Aziraphale cleared his throat, still keeping his eyes tightly shut. Muriel could see the light glowing through at the corners. “What sort of, ah, selection have we here?”

Muriel stammered. “Oh, I don’t think I can actually touch any. I’m not ranked highly enough for service in weaponry. And these are the strangest weapons…none of these are regulation at all!” But their face brightened with an idea. “I could sort of…guide you? I could, I suppose, push you towards something that looks likely?”

“Spot on,” he said, turning his wince into a smile at the last possible moment. “Just…aim away, my dear.”

He found that it was, actually, not the worst system. Muriel aimed him into the closet and guided his hand to each weapon in turn. He could sense them only by feel – their touch, and by the touch of their power. “No…oh, not that one…dear me, what is that? Hmm…I don’t think so…oh, ugh, that one is awful, absolutely not…that one is fine, I suppose I could work with that in a pinch…that one is…Oh wait, Muriel, no, go back, back! That one, ah! This, now! This feels good. This feels…familiar…”

Aziraphale opened his eyes. In his hands he held a sword. His eyes continued to glow as The Metatron’s Command called to him, demanding his return, his allegiance, his sacrifice. Aziraphale concentrated on the sword, imagining it cutting The Metatron’s strings, the leader of Heaven falling like a broken marionette. As the glow faded from his eyes, his sword ignited into flame. “Bloody fantastic, old girl,” he smiled at the sword as the flames settled down.

Muriel was staring, awed. “Is that…is that the sword?”

He smiled, feeling a bit silly, suddenly. “Well, uh, yes, it seems to be, although how it got here I haven’t the foggiest,” he rambled, “But she’s changed a bit, you know. Like – well, like I have, I suppose. When I first had her, she was…well, never you mind what she was like then. Or what I was like, for that matter. But when I had her in the Garden, she was just…Earthly flame, you know. The flames of life, the first tame fire of Earth.” He smiled again, slowly swinging it in a wide arc as they began moving back down the hallway. “It was awful, when I saw her in the hands of the Horseman. Red, vicious fire, a consuming fire.”

“It isn’t red at all now, though,” Muriel marveled. “It’s…it’s more like…Oh, I don’t know what you call them. Like when humans try to keep fire as a pet. What do they call it?”

“Candlelight,” Aziraphale said, delighted with their turn of phrase. “Well spotted, Muriel. Yes, indeed it is. Not a burning light, nor a destructive light. A guiding light.”

Muriel’s smile was a light, itself. “Yes! A guiding light…like a lantern!”

“And perhaps,” he said, swinging it around in his palm in a slick move that frankly impressed the Scrivener, “Perhaps it can guide us to Crowley.”

He was having a lovely conversation with the being in the machine. It seemed to work better if he actually spoke out loud to it, which had taken him some time to puzzle out.

“And now we’re grown-up orphans that never knew their names. We don’t belong to no one, that’s a shame.”

“Isn’t it just, though? I never knew my name. I’m sure I have one, though, somewhere.”

“You could hide behind me, maybe for a while. And I won’t tell no one your name.”

“Oh? Do you know it, then?”

“I won’t tell ‘em your name.”

“Well obviously, don’t tell them, not if it’s not their business. But I might like to know, probably.”

The song played on, making him sad somehow, even the parts without words. Sad like he was missing something that he’d never had the chance to have.

“Scars are souvenirs you never lose. The past is never far.”

“Oh indeed? Do I actually have one of those, too – a past?”

“And did you lose yourself somewhere out there? Did you get to be a star?”

That one hit home somewhere in his gut. “A…a star?” He gently rubbed the star-shaped scar on his palm.

“And don’t it make you sad to know that life is more than who we are?”

“Well if you’re going to be hateful,” he said, eyes misting over, “I’ll turn you off again, see if I don’t.”

“You grew up way too fast, now there’s nothing to believe, then re-runs all become our history.”

He sniffed.

“A tired song keeps playing on a tired radio, and I won’t tell no one your name. I won’t tell ‘em your name.”

“Well at least tell me, then!” He hissed, digging his claws into the softness of the seat beneath him.

The music interrupted itself, blaring back into its first song, stuck again it its repeating loop: “Mr. Crowley – Mr. Crowley – Mr. Crowley – Mr. Crowley – ”

He put his face in his hands, growling. “Not this one again! Uugh, it keeps getting stuck on that stupid name, third time this has happened…”

His head darted up. He craned it to the side, leaning to look at the center console as though face to face. He cocked his head to the left, listening…then to the right, seeing if it sounded different from that direction.

“Mr…Crowley?”

The console jerked alarmingly, the volume rising steadily. “Crowley – Crowley – Crowley –”

His hands flapped frantically in the direction of the noise. “Crowley, Crowley, got it, I hear you, please stop shouting at me!”

Silence.

He stared, wide-eyed.

Crowley.

He looked around his cell and grinned. His smile was sharp.

Of course not all the other angels had been summoned to The Metatron. Naturally some were left to defend Heaven, Aziraphale supposed. He was loathe to take his sword to another angel, especially after all this time. He had pulled Muriel behind him, defending his friend. His flaming sword was in his right hand. With his left, he unbuttoned another shirt button, feeling constrained in spite of his tie and collar both hanging loose and open.

There were four angels in front of them, blocking their path. They were almost identical, which was off-putting. There was typically very little similarity from angel to angel, from host to host. Aziraphale was desperate to avoid bloodshed, but he was also fully prepared to get his hands dirty. (For once, he seethed internally. How much of this could have been avoided if I had stood up to The Metatron when I first wanted to? If I hadn’t been such a coward…so timid, so afraid of disapproval and punishment?)

“Now, see here,” Aziraphale spoke loudly, hoping that volume would hide the tremble in his voice. “We don’t want a fight. We just want to pass through and retrieve our friend. Let’s…” Aziraphale paused, centering himself, allowing some steel into his voice. No more trembling. “Let’s all just be sensible, please.”

Muriel squeaked as the four angels attacked simultaneously, not even bothering to respond to Aziraphale’s plea. Muriel dropped to the floor and covered their head in terror.

Aziraphale swung his sword, golden flames dancing in the air. He tried to use purely defensive moves, just blocking the attackers from reaching Muriel. They bore no material weapons, however, attacking with blows that Aziraphale was able to easily dodge as he used the sword to keep them away. One of them ran and slid on his knees, reaching for Muriel with angry, outstretched hands. Aziraphale whirled on him and brought the sword down on his arms, severing them.

The angel stared at his still-twitching hands on the ground in front of him. He looked up at Aziraphale but said nothing.

Muriel screamed as he disintegrated, hands and all.

Aziraphale stepped back. “What?” He gasped, watching the ashes of the angel dissipate. “That’s – he was just…?”

“Behind you!” Muriel shrieked, frantic.

Aziraphale swung the sword above his head & behind him, a long sparkling arc, catching the second angel across the face. He crumbled into a cloud of ash that Aziraphale stepped through, anticipating the attack coming from the other two angels. He moved between them like water; their blows seemed to flow away from him. The last two angels fell to his sword, collapsing into dust.

Aziraphale turned to Muriel, lowering his sword. At the look on their face, he tensed. He placed the sword point-down and rested both gentle hands on the hilt, pursing his lips. “I did try to tell them,” he said primly.

Muriel simply nodded blankly. “I’ve…I’ve never seen an angel die before,” they said, breaking into a sob. “I know they were going to hurt us, I know you protected me, but…”

Aziraphale softened. “Oh, my dear,” he said, rushing over to them. He knelt, taking their hand. “You still haven’t seen an angel die, Muriel. These were not angels at all.”

Muriel’s tears dried immediately. “What?”

“Good gracious, no,” he said, pulling them up to stand, fastidiously dusting them off. “They were just ash and dust. There was no real life in them. I suspect The Metatron made them himself, to make it look like Heaven is more guarded than it is.”

They began their walk again. Muriel’s eyes darted left and right, reading records along the walls that only Scriveners could see. “It’s funny to see them again, really,” Aziraphale said almost bashfully. “I mean. It’s…it’s a very old idea. We, ah, used to use them as…well, as sort of training dummies, when the Rebellion was gearing up. So we could learn how to fight without hurting each other.” His eyes grew distantly inward, his voice sad. “We were certainly hurting each other enough already.”

“Take me to church, I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies, I’ll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife. Offer me that deathless death, oh good God, let me give you my life…”

Crowley was weeping into his hands. He was desperately alone. The radio was not enough. His hair curtained him in a dark red tent as the music filled his cell and flayed his raw, empty memories.

“No masters or kings when the ritual begins. There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin.”

He raised his head. “Are you sure I’m okay, though? Because this sounds so good but feels so awful!”

“In the madness and soil of that sad earthly thing, only then I am human, only then I am clean.”

“I hate feeling this empty,” Crowley whined, leaping from the chair and stalking around the cell, “In this empty place! I know there is more to me!”

“Amen, amen, amen…”

“Oh, just shut it, will you,” he said, suddenly exhausted.

The music screeched into silence.

Crowley stared at the radio. The quiet dragged on. “Oh, so you’re just going to pout now?”

The music jerked suddenly to life. “Every day, it’s a-getting closer, going faster than a roller coaster. Love like yours will surely come my way…”

Crowley groaned incoherently at the ceiling. “That is worse than Ozzy Osbourne, and you know it. Try again.”

“How do you solve a problem like Maria? How do you catch a cloud and pin it down?”

He felt a memory tugging at his frayed thoughts. “Not promising, but not awful.” He returned to his seat and listened.

“How do you find a word that means Maria? A flibbertigibbet, a will-o’-the-wisp? A clown?”

“I think you’re being rude on purpose, you know.”

The music continued, so much nonsense, but Crowley listened to the end, anyway. “How do you hold a moonbeam in…your…hand?” It slowed as it faded away.

“I have no idea,” Crowley said drily. “But I will let you know if I find out someday.”

The radio was quiet. He stood up and stretched again, then shivered. The seat held his warmth unlike the floor and walls, so he curled himself tightly back up. His wings did not get along with the seat, he had found. There just wasn’t any comfortable way to arrange them and lean back at the same time. He craned his head around to inspect them. “Ugh, what to do with these things!”

Again the radio blasted the silence, responding to him with an almost alarming rhythm: “Can’t nobody rip up a club like we, put ‘em up, put ‘em up, up…Get your seat and put ‘em up put ‘em up, up…Get your fingers put ‘em up, put ‘em up, up…” It faded back out.  

Crowley gave the radio a crooked glance. “Oh,” he said, straightening up. “I think…I think that’s a thing I can do?” He sounded unsure. “Maybe…maybe I won’t put them up just now. But it’s an idea. Thank you.” He stretched them out to the sides and let them rest on the floor. It was cold, and they would soon get the tingly-hurts, but this was fine, for now.

The radio gave a startling crackle of static before starting up another song: quick, intense chords that skittered up Crowley's spine, with a woman's powerful but tense voice: “Where have all the good men gone, and where are all the gods? Where’s the streetwise Hercules to fight the rising odds?”

“Excellent question, send me one if you have any spares.”

“Isn’t there a white knight upon a fiery steed? Late at night, I toss and I turn, and I dream of what I need…”

The voice made something ache deep in Crowley’s tender belly. Need, what a word that was. It tingled his hollowed-out memories like nothing else. A yearning.

His nostrils flared, sensing something. He swiveled his head to the real wall, listening intently, eyes wide.

Something was out there.

“I swear I heard music! I’m telling you, this must be where he is! Who else would be listening to…” He trailed off, trying to make out the lyrics and failing, “Well anyway, some sort of funky be-bop here, in Heaven? Only one being, my friend, who just so happens to enjoy rock-and-roll music!”

Muriel protested, “But it’s just marked for storage – this isn’t a cloister at all – it’s not even a holding cell! There’s…it’s just a box! It isn’t even connected to the flow of Time! There’s no light, no windows – even The Metatron wouldn’t put someone in here!”

“I certainly can believe that he would,” Aziraphale said bitterly. “Crowley! I say – Crowley, are you in there? Please speak to me!”

He heard no answer, but the music shifted to silence. “Oh, hell,” Aziraphale said, resting his head on the wall.

Dimly, he heard another song begin. Aziraphale felt, rolling into him even through the wall, a feeling emanating from inside the room: a visceral punch of need and desire and want crashed into his solar plexus, accompanied by a frantic drumbeat. “Muriel,” he cried, backing up, “Open this bloody room!”

“Aziraphale…!”

He turned at the tone of their voice. Another group of ashes-to-dust angels had found them. This time there were ten of them. “I do not have time for this nonsense,” he almost growled. “Get that door open – I shall handle this foolishness,” Aziraphale said grandly.

Muriel nodded and got to work. The door took significant concentration to open – it seemed to have been locked by The Metatron himself…seems the Principality was right, Muriel thought, stomach turning.

Aziraphale approached the creatures, bracing himself and setting his shoulders to move as one with his sword. Behind him, he heard the swish of the door opening. He desperately wanted to turn around, but in that moment his enemies charged at him as one. Music filled the hallway, streaming out of the cell as Aziraphale fought.

“I need a hero! I’m holding out for a hero til the end of the night! He’s gotta be strong, and he’s gotta be fast, and he’s gotta be fresh from the fight!”

Aziraphale’s feet hardly left the floor. He was as grounded and immovable as a tree, swaying away from the luckless blows that rained around him. His sword glowed with warmth undimmed by the dust and ashes sifting through the air with every opponent he felled. When he did move, it was with a sort of sliding grace, as he moved not away from his challengers but into their space, nearly slotting himself between their legs as his sword thrust through them, all the power of his body behind the movement.

“I need a hero! I’m holding out for a hero til the morning light! He’s gotta be sure, and it’s gotta be soon, and he’s gotta be larger than life…larger than life…”

Muriel stood just outside the doorway, looking in as Aziraphale protected them from the not-angels. They looked up at Crowley, astonished. He looked otherworldly, profoundly Fallen, demonic, but startlingly beautiful. His animalistic gaze was focused on Aziraphale.

“Somewhere after midnight in my wildest fantasy, somewhere just beyond my reach there’s someone reaching back for me…”

Crowley’s claws twitched, aching to reach out to the pale golden form raining vengeance on his enemies.

“Racing on the thunder and rising with the heat, it’s gonna take a superman to sweep me off my feet…I need a hero!”

Crowley leaned down to Muriel. “I’m sure you’re Somebody, and very important too, since you could open the real wall and you haven’t hurt me at all. But could you please tell me who that one is.” He kept his voice surprisingly level.

“Oh, dear,” Muriel said as they sensed the depths of Crowley’s emptiness.

“Dear,” Crowley said with relish. “Oh, dear.” He smiled a sharp-toothed grin.

Muriel was flustered. “No no, sorry! Actually, his name is Aziraphale!”

Crowley didn’t take his eyes away from the fight, but he did raise his eyebrows. “What a mouthful. Might just call him Dear in any case.”

Aziraphale was down to the last three attackers. They had surrounded him, attempting to pummel and shove him into submission. He was forced to one knee.

Crowley choked out an inarticulate sound and made to dive forward to help. Muriel held his arm firmly. “You’re in no state to help him, Mr. Crowley! I’m – I’m sure he’s fine!”

Crowley growled but obeyed, bouncing on his toes, his wings spread behind him.

“Up where the mountains meet the heavens above, out where the lightning splits the sea, I could swear there was someone, somewhere watching me…”

Through the hail of blows, Aziraphale saw Crowley in the doorway of the cell. He was heart-rendingly beautiful. He saw the demon rise and start to dart forward into the fray. Muriel mercifully held him back, but the sight of Crowley flinching at their touch, backing down at a word, enraged his heart. What had The Metatron done to him?

Aziraphale tucked his chin and rolled backwards over his shoulder, swiping his sword along the floor and sending a shower of burning golden sparks that fizzled on his attackers. The roll put him into a crouch, the angle of which he used to push himself forward with all his might, driving his sword through what turned into a rain of ash. The golden candle-light flame of his sword colored him warmly in the stark white of Heaven’s halls, his pale shirt and hair alight with moonbeam grace.

“Through the wind and the chill and the rain and the storm and the flood, I can feel his approach like a fire in my blood…”

The music reverberated wildly through the hall as Aziraphale fended off the last two, who circled him, dodging out of his range.

It was their mistake. He whispered to his sword and it began to spark like a firework. He looked at Crowley’s golden eyes down the hall and smiled.

Crowley felt the angel’s blue eyes pierce him. Oh, dear, he thought desperately.

Aziraphale’s sword exploded into raging golden fire, consuming himself and his attackers entirely, leaving Aziraphale engulfed in a column of glittering flame.

“I need a hero!”

Muriel screamed. Crowley dropped to his knees. The music went suddenly silent.

Aziraphale stared out from within the plume of flames. He waved at Muriel and Crowley, warning them off. “Just a moment, if you please!”

Crowley’s wings drooped to the floor in relief. Muriel sank to the floor to join him, exhausted from the emotions of the day.

Aziraphale seemed to be talking to the sword. Slowly, the flames dwindled down to lick gently up and down the blade, again quiet as candlesticks. He hefted the blade sort of sideways onto his shoulder, where it left neither mark nor scorch on his white shirt or pale collarbone. 

He stopped short when he saw their faces. “Oh,” he said, crestfallen, “I wasn’t – I wasn’t in any trouble, there! I mean – it is my fire, you see. After all, in the old days before we adopted our human-shaped forms, I was really just…well. Some interlocking wheels, simply full of flames. And you know, it isn’t as though it’s Hellfire, my dears.” He smiled nervously, sorry he had worried them.

Muriel simply looked drained. Crowley, however, was looking at Aziraphale like…well, he couldn’t quite place it, if he was honest. Like he himself might look at a tiramisu tart, or like a carnivore might look at a beast of prey, or like a madman might look at the hunter’s moon. With sinking dread, however, Aziraphale realized that Crowley was not looking at him with any hint of recognition.

“Crowley,” he said gently, worried, “Do you…”

The inhuman golden eyes stared at him with longing, with rage, with desperate hope.

Aziraphale closed his mouth. Opened it, thought better of it again. “May I take you home? Will you let me take care of you, now?”

Crowley looked down, bowing his head. His wings spread even lower behind him in supplication. “Will it hurt?”

Aziraphale’s heart ached. He held his anger in check, his anger at The Metatron and his cruelty. Speaking slowly, Aziraphale told him, “I will make certain that you are kept perfectly comfortable. And if you find that anything is otherwise, you tell me, hm? And we shall fix it together.”

Crowley beamed. “Together.”

Chapter Text

“I can feel him looking for me,” Greaz said uncomfortably as they strolled back to the orchard. "The Metatron." Tadfield was waking up around them, but the boys were deep in thought.

“I can’t,” said Adam, his voice tense. “I believe you, right. But I can’t feel anything that specific from his lot. I can just tell that something big is still coming.” He kicked a rock viciously, bouncing it into a low stone wall where it ricocheted off and hit Lock in the leg.

“Ow, fuck!” He winced, bouncing on one leg as he grabbed his shin. “Adam, come on, man!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry,” Adam stormed to the wall and leaned over it, his head hanging. “I can’t believe I haven’t found what I’m missing. I thought for sure that Crowley had something to do with it. I’m – I’m still sure of it! But now he’s all. You know,” he said, directing his voice to Greaz, without venom but with regret, “Re-written, I guess.”

“I know,” Greaz said, voice heavy. “I didn’t think I’d be able to do even that. I don’t think I could have, if you lads hadn’t lent a hand.”

Lock was bitter. “I thought you were, like, God Made Flesh, or whatever. I don’t know why you couldn’t, if you basically made him in the first place.”

Greaz stood by Adam, leaning his back against the wall instead of leaning over it. Lock was seething, trying hard to control his anger. Trying so hard not to become his father.

The Son of God was looking at the ground dejectedly. “I know what I am, mate. I can see a lot of things, and I can do a lot of things. But. I mean. Look at me.”

Lock looked, eyes still simmering with resentment. He spread his arms out, frustrated. “What am I looking at?”

“Just what you said. Flesh. I’m…I’m human, mate. Deep down, that’s what I am. Just like Adam here, just like you. That’s the point of me. Yeah, I know where I came from and I know where I’m going eventually, but like. It’s not magic, like I can just click my heels together and make everything okay.”

Adam turned around. He leaned his shoulder against his friend’s. “I tried that anyway, you know? And it just…messed everything else up. It wasn’t as bad as them trying to un-do Crowley, but it was pretty bad, still.”

“Then what are you guys for? Why are you here?” Lock’s frustration was starting to get the better of him.

 Adam leveled a look at him, his eyes unfathomable. “Why are you here, then?”

“I don’t know!” Lock shouted, storming forward towards them.

Greaz put a hand on Lock’s chest, stopping him from getting in their faces. Lock froze, his brain catching up with him, realizing that he was – what? What was he gonna do? Actually hit someone? He felt wretched suddenly, the wind leaving his sails.

“Honestly?” Greaz said, his voice quiet and incredibly gentle, making Lock feel even more guilty, “We don’t really know, either. That’s the point, mate, that is the point.”

Lock’s shoulders slumped miserably. Adam slid to the left, wordlessly inviting him to lean against the wall between them. He did, feeling the solid stone hit his back with a thud as he let himself fall heavily between his friends.

“Look, mate,” Greaz continued quietly, “If we knew everything we were made to do, our heads would explode. And we couldn’t know, anyway. It’s just too big, Creation is just so big, you’ve no idea. And we’re all here in it together and every single thing that we do and think and are becomes a part of everything else. You felt what happened when Crowley…did what he did, with the Book. But that’s the thing you’re not getting! That – that unraveling feeling? Everything everywhere falling apart at once?”

Lock nodded.

“That would have happened with anyone’s name.”

Adam looked over suddenly at Greaz. “What, anyone anyone? No way.”

Greaz nodded. “Yeah, mate. Anyone. Anyone ever. Once someone is made, they’re part of the whole. They’re needed, they’re vital. Adam, there are even bugs in there, mate! I’m talking ev-er-y-one.”

“But Crowley’s a demon! He’s…you know. Powerful! Important! He’s been around since the Garden of Eden, right? I thought that’s why everything started falling apart. Like…I don’t know, like he was holding everything together?” Lock’s frustration wasn’t gone – he was still confused and angry – angry that their attempt to help had ended up such a disaster.

Greaz elbowed him. “Lock, mate. Everyone is holding everything together…together. All of us. Angels and demons and snails and serpents and people and flowers and fish and…and everyone else.”

“Ugh,” Lock said, intentionally folding in his anger like it was part of his power, finding that he could. “Zen shit, Greaz.”

“Too right, mate.”

“I like the Zen shit,” Adam said amiably.

“So what now?” Lock asked. “Greaz, you said you had a plan to talk The Metatron around. You’re brilliant, man, but I’m not sure it’s gonna work.”

Greaz looked over at Adam, shrugging and raising his eyebrows.

“D’you reckon we should start now?” Adam asked. “Give that angel plenty of time to find Crowley?”

Greaz tilted his head as if though he had caught a strain of music and was trying to identify the song, “I think Mr. Fell’s okay, for now...he’s at least feeling okay. It’s hard to tell, him being the way he is. Reckon you’re right, Adam. We should try to get The Metatron’s attention, so Mr. Fell can get to work.”

“I bet we’d be able to feel that angel for sure, if he hadn’t got Crowley back…if something went wrong in Heaven. Bet he’d be a wreck,” Adam said, not unkindly.

Lock nodded, remembering how Brother Francis had looked at Nanny under the arbor during the thunderstorm. A wreck, for sure.

Greaz sighed heavily. “All I’ve gotta do is just…open up,” he said, nervousness creeping into his deep voice. “And they’ll find us right away.”

“Don’t do it yet,” Lock said quickly. “Crowley said the whole Second Coming thing had the whole world ending in flames. What about everyone else? The whole world? What – what if we can’t change his mind?”

Adam pushed himself off the wall, suddenly full of energy. He fairly buzzed with excitement. “I’ve got an idea. Come on, let’s get moving.”

They made their way back to the orchard. It bordered a huge field which had grown flax in bygone days but was now rocky and fallow, full of tall grasses. Birds sang madly all around them. They stood at the edge of the orchard and planned, crunching their way through tiny apples and ignoring their fear.

“Isn’t there a fairy tale like that?” Lock asked.

“Where d’you think I got the idea?” Adam grinned.

Greaz was smiling. “Even if everything goes wrong, everyone will be safe…as safe as they can be, I reckon.”

Lock’s voice was flat. “At least they won’t feel any pain if we lose.”

Adam looked at him in surprise. “Yeah,” he said sadly. “Didn’t think that part would occur to you. And I’m sorry, mate, I really am,” he said to Greaz, “It’s not that I don’t believe in you. I just…don’t believe in The Metatron, I guess. But I don’t think your plan is going to work.”

“Lucky you’ve got everything sorted if it doesn’t,” Greaz said warmly. “Your plan, mate. It’s…you know. It’s very kind. It’s brilliant.”

Adam shrugged. “C’mon, let’s do this.”

The three young men stood together in their triangle shape. This time, they turned their backs to each other and faced out into the world. Adam closed his eyes, reaching out blindly to grab his friends’ hands. As they linked up, Adam shared all of his vitality and willpower. The wind kicked up, the grasses in the field were whipped into a frenzy, a hail of unripe apples fell around them. Adam opened his eyes, a deep ruby-red glow. “Nighty-night,” he said, his voice impossibly gentle. Even his friends felt the invitation: Aren’t you tired? It’s been such a long day already, you deserve a nap. Go inside where it’s comfortable, wrap up tight. Have a break…those worries will still be there when you wake up, you can deal with them later…snuggle down, safe and sound…dream your most favorite dream, something really lovely…we love you, we love you so much…nighty-night…

Lock yawned. Greaz caught it too, yawning so hugely that his jaw cracked with it. The wind died down slowly, fading to complete stillness.

The boys turned back to each other. Adam dropped to his knees, breathing deeply, willing himself back into himself…and not the idea that had once been him. Slowly he stood, mastering his power again, and stretched, rolling his neck, his breathing still carefully controlled.

The world was utterly, utterly silent. Even the bugs and the birds were sleeping. Even the wind. Even the trees, although how Lock could feel that was beyond him right now.

“Mate, that was just bloody brilliant,” Greaz said effusively, deeply impressed. “Let me shake your hand for that one, come on.” He grabbed Adam’s hand in a meaty paw and shook vigorously, pulling him in to a back-thumping hug. “Feel that! The whole world dreaming at once! Oh, this is fantastic, I don’t think you missed a single soul!”

Adam rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “I couldn’t get everyone, you know,” he said. “I only aimed it at mortals. I may have persuaded a couple of angels and demons, probably. But I don’t think I could get anything that hadn’t ever slept before, you know? I mean. The Metatron is still wide awake, and he’s, uh, definitely noticed something now.”

“What about Mr. Fell and Crowley?” Lock asked, worried. “What if we need them? Are they asleep?”

“Nah,” said Adam confidently, “They should be wide awake, powerful as they are.” Adam’s confidence faded momentarily. “Probably.”

“They need to be awake, too,” Greaz said. “They’ve got work to do, helping Crowley put himself back together. I think they can do it quick-like, if that angel knows what he’s doing.”

“Rad,” Lock said, relieved, “So we can call them if things get bad! They helped you, Adam, the first time the world almost ended. They’re tough, right?”

“Don’t you dare,” Greaz threatened. “They’re gonna be working hard enough as it is. This is our fight, Lock. Humanity’s fight. Those two, they love the world and they love humanity and they love all of Creation, yeah? But they need to figure themselves out before they can fight for anything. Nah, mate, we need to do this ourselves.” 

Lock gaped. “The three of us? There’s no way! I thought for sure we’d have at least some of the angels or even demons on our side!”

“I think we might have help, yet…just not from those two,” Greaz said. “It’s sort of hard to feel everything that’s about to happen. It’s all new. We’re definitely going off-script, you know, mate?”

“Fine, fine! Okay,” Lock took a steadying breath. Rolled his neck. “What’s our next step?”

Greaz looked at him levelly. “My turn, I reckon.” His eyes shifted to Adam. “Is here alright?”

Adam shrugged, nodded. “It’s your home too, Greaz. I think we’re both stronger here, in any case. Lock too, really. We all started here together, yeah? So let’s finish it here together.”

Lock nodded.

Greaz squared his shoulders. He knelt, touching the Earth where they stood at the edge of the orchard, a strip of barren land where the garden met the grasses. He began to draw in the dirt, almost absentmindedly. He hummed a little tune that neither of his friends recognized…Adam could sense how old it was, older than language, older than time. He raised his head, looking out across the distance of the field. “Now…I’m found,” he said, so quietly that the others didn’t hear him.

In the distance, standing in the field, was The Metatron. He wore armor that glinted in the sun, fiercely white. Behind him stood a phalanx of angels, identically dressed in pale armor that gave off no glint but seemed instead muted, like they were absorbing the light around them.

“Christ-child, hail!” The Metatron spoke from across the field, but his voice reverberated around the boys as though he had thrown it, a ventriloquist’s trick. It sounded majestic, gentle, even kind. It sounded like a lie.

The angels behind him shouted as one, shaking the ground: “Hail!”

Greaz said nothing.

“We shall protect you from the Great Beast who stalks you,” The Metatron said, a rumble of thunder underneath his voice. “Join us, so the Battle may commence!”

The ground rumbled. The earth split behind them, running in a ragged line between two rows of trees. Dozens of demons arose, crawling out of the pit and walking towards their Leader, their Antichrist, who would lead them to victory, finally.

“Oh, fuck,” Lock swore, simply but eloquently.

While Greaz stared down The Metatron, Adam turned to face his…well, his subjects, he supposed. Maybe even his kin. He was a little fuzzy on how all that worked.

Adam was breathing carefully, his face a mask of control. He was going to explain everything to them, and they would understand because what would Hell be without Earth, after all? Just…Heaven’s basement. He had a really excellent speech on the tip of his tongue.

The rift in the ground suddenly erupted into flames. Great, roaring, ruby red flames – flames that Adam knew instinctively could burn your very bones to ashes in merely a moment. Lock saw Adam’s shoulders turn inward, like the lad had taken a punch to the gut. He watched Adam’s careful control shatter, his face shifting into distorted, frozen dread.

Something terrible was crawling out of the pit.

For a moment they were all aware of some gigantic thing blotting out the morning light, but it was like they could only see a piece of it at a time. A horrific blood-red hide, hairy like a pelt. Bone-white hair, corpse-hair. Eyes that held the emptiness of the void between stars. Teeth that were your worst childhood nightmare: under-the-bed teeth, hiding-in-the-closet teeth. Even the demons were quailing in terror.

Suddenly it shifted. The sun shone, the light returned, the fires died to embers. The demons, while still tense and ready for battle, showed no sign of their previous panic and fear. Through their crowd, walking slowly with its feet about six inches off the Earth, was…

Lock’s first thought was along the lines of, Oh, that’s what an angel is supposed to look like.

Golden-haired, golden-skinned, eyes glowing with light…was that light? Lock couldn’t quite look the being in the eyes. The light was hungry – he feared it would swallow him up if he looked too closely or too long. No, he decided, that’s not light at all. And that hasn’t been an angel for a long time.

Satan. The Morningstar, once the angel known as Lucifer, First Among The Fallen, strode carelessly through the air until it stood in front of Adam.

“Offspring,” it said, voice coming from a mouth that neither opened nor moved, “I greet you here on the field of battle.”

Adam was clearly struggling to speak, struggling for control over himself and his power. His eyes flickered like they were glitching – quick flicks of red that Adam couldn’t get under control. Lock rushed to his side, shoving demons out of his way like he was in a crowded school lunchroom. “You’re not Adam’s dad,” he said, standing next to his friend.

He knew he would probably die for that. He didn’t feel brave, though. He mostly felt angry…and hopeful. He knew that Adam or Greaz would stand up for him to his dad, if it ever came to it.

They were blood-brothers, after all.

The empty light of the Morningstar’s eyes shifted to Lock.

Warlock Dowling had always been a brat. He knew this about himself. He was spoiled, he was isolated – he didn’t do anything for anyone, because no one had ever made themselves welcome in his heart and he certainly wasn’t going to make the first move. But he had been half-raised by both an angel and a demon, and he had perfected the art of whining petulance. Adam, he knew, was used to getting his way because reality bent itself around him. Lock was used to getting his way because he could make himself everyone else’s problem until he got what he wanted.

“I don’t need that kind of glare, coming from you,” Lock said, allowing his instinct for being a right little bastard take over, the practiced ease of it muffling his terror. “Honestly. Of course you’re not my friend’s dad. What kind of dad just drops his kid off with strangers…in a basket, for fuck’s sake? Have you never heard of a car-seat? You’re lucky you’re like. Inhuman, you know? Because the Child Protective Services would have been on your ass from day one.” Lock tossed his long hair out of his eyes, a dainty movement that had always gotten under his own father’s skin. “I can’t believe I have to be the one who explains this to you! No, don’t you brighten your damn empty eyes at me, I’m trying to make a point here. What kind of junior-varsity-level idiot doesn’t know how adoption works?” Lock suddenly shifted from a petulant whine to a slow, infuriatingly calm tone. He had learned this one from Nanny, who had used it on his father to great effect. “Okay, no, it’s okay, I’ll explain it to you like you’re a child. When a grown-up has a baby that they can’t take care of, they put the baby up for adoption with a loving family. The birth parent relinquishes all rights and can no longer act in loco parentis in that child’s life. Are you able to follow this, or am I going too fast for you? Stop me, for real, because if I ever have to go over this with you again I think I’ll puke.” He rolled his eyes and sighed as pathetically as he could. “Fuck, you would think that you’d know something about any of this! Didn’t you – I dunno – plan this for like, thousands of years? And a basket was your best idea. Right, no no, sure. I’m sure you worked very hard on this.” He grabbed a demon that had scuttled closer to hear his rant. “Did you have any better ideas than a basket? Be honest, now, it’s fine, I’m sure you’re very clever.”

The demon shifted awkwardly. “Well, I actually did suggest sending the child up in the usual human way, with a human mother as the caretaker…” It hissed quietly, apologetically, and cowered quickly away once Lock released it.

Beside him, Adam was getting a lid on it. He listened to Lock with a restrained sort of glee, his eyes as clear as daylight.

“That would have at least been something!” Lock nearly crowed, his hand dramatically clapped to his head. “You might have had some legal standing, there! But no, you wanted a mother...fucking…basket.” He clicked his tongue behind his teeth, a derisive sound. “Basket case, is what you are.” He let Satan think he was finished, waited until it betrayed a shift, a prepared response. “Oh! And what the fuck is up with that whole situation?” He jumped back in at full volume the moment the Morningstar narrowed its eyes as it prepared to speak. “Adam’s birth mother! I mean,” he gestured at Adam, who was looking up at Satan with wide, innocent eyes, the very image of purity and guilelessness. “He’s obviously human. He looks nothing like you. Did you grow him in a lab from human cells? Seriously, what happened there?”

Another demon piped up, responding stupidly to the mock-earnestness that Lock infused into his question. “Well actually, that part was pretty interesting. We started off with…”

The demon shattered into a swarm of maggots, which showered down over Lock and Adam, both.

The Morningstar had not taken its eyes off of Lock, but one corner of its mouth twitched upwards.

Lock held his revulsion in check. They were at least dead maggots…not wiggly, but gross beyond belief. All that helped him maintain his cool was the unbroken wave of mirth he felt from Adam, who was also ignoring the maggots in his own golden curls.

“You have chosen a fine lieutenant,” the Morningstar spoke. “He is a fool and a liar, but he is loyal to you.”

“He’s not my lieutenant. He’s my friend,” Adam said, his voice controlled and tight.

“Your imagination has gotten you into trouble before this, Offspring.”

Adam scowled. “I told you, you’re not my…”

“Not your father, yes. So have I heard. I shall not claim the title, if you do not wish it,” the Morningstar inclined its head a fraction, “but the fact still stands that it is My Power that you hold so carefully within your heart.”

“It’s our power, now,” Lock said, “Just ours. We made it into something new. We’re…we’re greater than the sum of our parts.”

Insane laughter rolled out of the Morningstar, setting the demons mad. They rolled in the dirt, scratching their ears, clawing bleeding ruts into their own faces. Adam and Lock drew together, shoulder to shoulder. They felt Greaz behind them – when had he backed up into them? They felt his concentration, felt that he was locked in his own battle of wills, keeping The Metatron on the far side of the field as if stuck behind a glass wall, blocking the sounds of his mighty voice.

The laughter stopped as quickly as it had begun. “Nothing you have is new,” it said, unmoving. “I have tried to make new things. It cannot be done by any other than the Tyrant, who keeps all such power to Himself.” The Morningstar’s gaze pierced Greaz – he felt it settle on him like a weight. “Your Heavenly Father, child, is my ancient enemy. And yet you stand with my Son against Heaven’s power. I confess astonishment.”

Greaz didn’t answer, concentrating on holding The Metatron at bay.

“Adam told you already. We’re friends.” Lock maintained his most annoying voice. To Adam, he said in a mocking stage-whisper, “Glad you’re not as thick as he is, man. I don’t think I’d be able to stand it.”

The Morningstar didn’t rise to Lock’s bait, still focused on Greaz. “Son of God, face me.”

Greaz ignored him.

“Offspring. If your…friend…does not face me, I will burn this world to nothingness. We have a score to settle, he and I. I almost had him in ages past, but now is the hour of my triumph.” Satan’s voice became louder in their ears and in their heads, as the being floating before them began to shift, to glitch, to shake with a dancing sort of rage. “You shall hand him over to me, and I shall consume him, and take the Tyrant’s power for my own. I shall create something new and glorious, and nothing shall ever remove the foundations of my light!”

The reverberation of its voice echoed in the air. Lock couldn’t believe the world was still sleeping through it. Adam leaned back against Greaz companionably, looking for all the world like he was bored. “You hear that, ol’ Greasy? The Beast is gonna gobble you up!”

Greaz punched out a startled laugh. “Adam, mate, that was terrible,” he said, shaking his head.

Adam faced the Morningstar. “It’s just a game we used to play when we were kids,” he explained, mimicking Lock’s I’m-speaking-slowly-to-you-because-I-think-you’re-an-idiot voice, with which Adam had been deeply impressed. “You understand, right? A game? Well, we were serious when we were little and stupid, but it was so much better as a game than as a real fight. See, I was The Beast, with my gang…and he was Greasy Johnson, Hammerfist of Tadfield. We fought all through these woods, you see. But it was a game. Just a game, you understand?”

The Morningstar’s empty-light eyes simply stared.

“All of this is just a game, too,” Greaz said, still holding back the angels, still concentrating, “Angels and demons and humans. Humans are the points in the game, right? Heaven gets so many one day, Hell gets so many another. But that game’s over, now.” He breathed out, letting the wall drop. He turned to look at the Morningstar, eyes kind. “Time for some new rules.”

In a breath, The Metatron was standing among them, in front of Greaz, his fist in the lad’s long hair. “You’ll soon learn of rules, Christ-child,” he said with venom in his voice.

The Morningstar’s eyes were glowing, empty light holding neither heat nor cold. “The One Who Speaks With The Voice Of God,” it said, lips unmoving still, voice as empty as its eyes, “I demand the Almighty’s presence on this battlefield. I know you have prevented this somehow – where is God? What mischief have you wrought to hide The Presence?”

“Nonsense,” The Metatron said as he shoved Greaz to the ground. Only a sharp look from their friend had kept Adam and Lock from leaping to his aid. “I am serving the Almighty, I am The Voice of God, I am granted the only insight into The Great Plan.” His voice was eerily calm, full of power, even as he manhandled the Son of God by his hair.

“That ended, we’re done with that,” Adam said, his voice stern, full of Authority, “Mr. Fell told you – it’s – it’s Ineffable. You’re not the Creator, you don’t make anything, and you can’t know what’s impossible to know!”

Another quick look from Greaz. Lock tried to take over.

“Look,” he said in his most irritating voice, “You don’t get to make the rules just because you’re the…the fucking babysitter while God’s away. We’re going to decide on our own rules – now, all of us together, and we’re going to make it at least a little more fair for everybody. Right, Adam?”

He turned. Adam had dropped back to his knees. His eyes were still his own, but the Morningstar was smiling.

“You infants. You were bred for this battle, and so this battle shall commence. If we have to puppet you like chess pieces, we shall. It makes no difference whether you choose this or no. You will destroy this failed Creation, and then I will find where The Metatron has hidden the Almighty…I shall Cast Down the Tyrant!”

Lock watched as Adam’s eyes began to empty of everything that made him…him. He couldn’t see Greaz’s eyes, hidden by the now-tangled curtain of hair in The Metatron’s fist, but Lock could feel him slipping away, a tide going out. He didn’t know what to do. Panic rose in his throat, his heart beat harder and harder and harder…

beat – beat – beat – beat – beat – beat – beat – beat – beat – 

Lock felt, rather than heard, a still, small voice in his head, sing-songing Nanny's words from his babyhood along with the too-quick rhythm of his heart: cry if you need to, brilliant little human-thing, born knowing how to ask for help…so clever, you are…

Lock dove forward, reaching wildly for his friends’ hands, grabbing them quick as lightning. He concentrated hard, pulling on every speck of the power in their shared blood. He didn’t know what to do with it – he simply took it and flung it outwards: into Heaven, into Hell, around and through the Earth. Please, he prayed, if anyone wants to change the rules of the game, if there’s anyone out there on the side of humanity, please help us get out of this.

Lock opened his eyes in hope, squeezing Greaz and Adam’s hands. He saw that The Metatron and the Morningstar were reaching for him, intent on pulling his hands free from contact with the Sons. Lock held on as tight as he could, bracing himself for the assault. As he watched, both of the Immortal leaders’ arms seemed to stick in the air, like they were being pulled backward. The looks on their faces were of almost comical surprise.

“What blood-magic have you spilled out, boy?” The Metatron raged at him, jerking his arm in the air.

Adam and Greaz both seemed to straighten, squeezing back at Lock’s hands. A quiet, eerie chuckle danced around the trees. The boys looked around but saw nothing.

The Morningstar’s empty eyes dimmed with uncertainty. “Offspring, what have you wrought through your blood?”

The air near The Metatron shivered, grew misty. A person appeared there, mostly transparent, blurred around the edges as if it wasn’t very good at remembering what it was supposed to look like. It was holding The Metatron’s arm in the air, holding it back from reaching for Lock. Another shimmer on the other side, and The Metatron released his hand from Greaz’s hair as though in pain. The boy stumbled backwards closer to Adam, awkwardly, as he was still holding Lock’s hand.

There was another giggle that incongruously transformed into a groan that sank into the Earth, full of sadness and regret. Adam looked up and saw a shimmer in front of the Morningstar’s face.

All around them, mists began to grow. Some of them were clearly person-shaped, but many of them were only figures in the fog, sketches without detail. Whispers surrounded them.

“This is ridiculous,” The Metatron said, pulling his arms free at last and taking a step back. “The Lord God Almighty commands you to return to your appointed places!”

Fire erupted again from the pit, green and sulfurous. “Begone, damned spirits, or you shall be punished with acid and fire,” Satan said with command.

Ghosts, Lock realized with glee, we just summoned fucking ghosts.

Adam was beginning to smile, looking around him. Greaz looked dazed, worried, but clear-headed, no longer cowed.

Any chance you could get us out of here? Lock thought at the spirits. He imagined his words drifting into the mist. Like – right now?

The mists rushed in towards the three lads, a howling wind. They couldn’t see anything, they couldn’t hear anything. It was so cold, the mists were tugging at them in all directions, the winds whistling and moaning in their ears. It was like being swallowed by an arctic tornado.

They fell in an undignified heap. Adam was the first to make his way up. “Hide,” he said simply to his friends. They knew what he meant, and each one concentrated on making himself unnoticed by immortal eyes. It was much more difficult this time, exhausted and cold as they were.

Greaz relaxed and looked around. They were in a graveyard. Bit on-the-nose, he thought tiredly, but he was just glad to have gotten out of that mess. “Where d’you reckon they’ve dropped us?”

“Nowhere special,” said a voice like a rusted gate.

Sitting near them on the soft earth, reclining against a tombstone, was the ghost of a boy. He looked young – much younger than a ghost has any right to look, Lock thought sadly.

Adam, always so direct, crouched down next to the little spirit. He was sharper than the other swirling mists had been, but he was still soft around the edges. “Did you help us get here?”

The spirit nodded.

“Thanks for that,” Greaz said gratefully. “Not sure what we’re going to do now, but we weren’t doing any good on our own.”

“There were a lot more…more ghosts, though, right?” Lock asked.

“Always more. So many, get out, get away.”

Greaz looked away. Adam pressed for information. “Where are they now? Why couldn’t we see them as clearly as we see you? What’s your name?”

The small figure blurred, faded, then came back into clearer focus. “Strong lad, I am. Ma always said. Stole some of yours, though. Not enough for everyone, still.”

“Stole some of our what?” Adam asked.

“Your…you.”

Adam looked at Greaz, who shrugged. He was too tired to think.

Lock touched Adam’s shoulder. “I asked them for help, I think. I just – I asked anyone who was listening, really. I guess I, you know. Reached out.”

“Our us,” Greaz said heavily. “S’why I’m so tired. Our power, y’know, us together. Pretty sure I’m the only one that can actually raise the dead, but us together…kinda did the trick…”

Adam and Lock hurried to Greaz as he toppled alarmingly. They propped him up beside a mausoleum, sitting on either side of him, sharing strength.

The little boy’s spirit flickered in front of them, faded and faint. “We want to fight,” he said slowly, “But we are so tired, so old. Weak. Can you be strong for us, can we share?”

Adam shook his head. “I can’t – we can’t. I’m sorry.”

“There are so many of us. All alone. We could fight, together, with you, for you, and none of us would be alone ever again.”

Greaz bowed his head. “I really thought we could change things,” he said quietly. “I thought together, we could be more than just…the same old stupid story.”

“You said, ‘change the rules.’ You said ‘help humanity.’ We are people. We can help. Give us strength, please,” the boy pleaded, his voice fading to a whisper.

“We don’t have enough! Look at us – even just one quick get-away was almost too much for us,” Lock said, fighting to keep his voice down, trying to remember that he was talking to the spirit of a dead child, trying not to be unkind.

“I should have enough!” Adam growled. “If my nebula hadn’t gone missing – maybe if I had been paying better attention. I just don’t know what it was, or who it is! I thought I would find it in Heaven, but that’s where we lost everything. Crowley, and my nebula, it all fell apart there.”

“I thought you said Mr. Fell was rescuing Crowley! You said we didn’t even need his help!” Lock was quietly indignant.

“I’m pretty sure they’re okay, but time in Heaven is different, like I said,” Greaz said weakly.

Adam huffed. “And they can do weird things with time in any case. I just didn’t want to mess with them anymore. They both turned out to be a bit pathetic, on their own.”

“They’re not pathetic, they’re brilliant!”

“Well they certainly didn’t help us that much,” Adam seethed. “Listen. I have all these possibilities in my head, right? And like – auras, you’ve heard of those, yeah? I can feel or sense power of all kinds, all around. Heaven, Hell, Earth, everywhere in between, all the little hidden secret spaces. I might not be able to see it, or always get to it, but I can feel everything that’s there. Sort of like radar, I guess. And then suddenly, two years ago or so, a whole big swath goes missing. Imagine if you were looking at the night sky, and about three-quarters of the stars just went out like candles, like someone sliced them out like a butcher. Plus side, in the dark I could see another empty space – the spot you were supposed to be in, hidden as well as the angel and demon could hide you. And you’re brilliant, you’re with us, and I’m glad of that. But Crowley and Aziraphale – neither one of them could help find the one person or thing out there that’s supposed to be this huge power source! I had always had it before, or had access to it. It was just there! I guess I didn’t think about what might happen if we called down the end of the world without it.” Adam’s head dropped, his frustration sapping the last of his energy. “I thought we’d find it in time. I was wrong.”

Greaz leaned his head on Adam’s shoulder. “S’alright, mate,” he said, exhausted, “We all tried. At least you put everyone to sleep. That makes it easier, somehow, to lose. For me, anyway.”

Lock, sitting on the other side of Greaz, let his head fall back with a thud. He looked at the little ghost through hooded eyes. “Does it hurt? Death?”

“Dying hurts. Death doesn’t hurt. Death is when it’s over.”

Lock nodded. Cloaked or not, he knew that it would be over soon.

Chapter Text

“We certainly can’t take him back down to Earth like this, sir. What should we do?” Muriel’s voice remained cheerful, worried that Crowley might misunderstand their intentions.

Aziraphale wasn’t listening. Crowley was currently circling him, still moving like a caged animal. Aziraphale wasn’t frightened of Crowley, obviously…what he currently felt was befuddlement. “Crowley, ah, how did you get your Bentley’s front seats and radio into Heaven?”

“Bentley! Is that her name? She told me mine but I never thought to ask hers – aw, I’m sorry about that,” he turned his attention to the radio, curling himself awkwardly into the driver’s seat, running a claw delicately over a dial. “That was selfish of me. Bentley is a lovely name. Matches mine, doesn’t it? Crow-ley, Bent-ley, that’s fun. Crow and Bent, Bent and Crow, best mates!” He grinned, shifting his wings uncomfortably. “Think I will take you up on that ‘put ‘em up’ idea, at this point. Probably isn’t hard, just gotta…”

Aziraphale watched wide-eyed as the demon chatted away at his impossible car radio. Crowley closed his eyes and seemed to concentrate, shoulders wiggling a bit. His wings melted into him, vanishing into his skin seamlessly. He leaned back in the seat.

“Ohh, yes, this is much better! You were right, as usual.”

“What’s going on?” Muriel whispered loudly.

“I believe he’s talking to his car,” Aziraphale whispered back. “He does quite often, you know. He thinks he only does it when no one is around, but I’ve caught him at it several times.”

Crowley looked back at them, bright-eyed. “Oh, I’m being rude again, lemme introduce you. Bentley, these are…” His smile faded, but he forced it back, “These are Someones!”

“Muriel, I’m…Muriel.”

“Muriel! Excellent, nice name. And you,” he said, sauntering up to Aziraphale, “You must know Bentley already, since you knew her name, Dear.”

Aziraphale blushed. “I…I suppose I do.”

Muriel whispered, “He thinks your name is Oh, Dear, because that’s what I said when I noticed his mind was mostly empty.”

Crowley’s eyes snapped away from studying Aziraphale and locked on to Muriel’s. “I’m not empty,” he said scathingly, “I don’t think you quite know what you’re talking about. Are you supposed to be here? What are your duties?”

Muriel jumped instinctively to attention at Crowley’s tone. “Scrivener, sir. Meant nothing by it, sir. Thank you for your attention.”

“Now, let’s all take a moment, here,” Aziraphale said soothingly. “Crowley, you are not in charge of Muriel. They are their own person. Thank you, now, that’s better,” he praised gently as Crowley’s stance softened and he turned back towards Aziraphale. “I’d like to take you home, Crowley. Back to our bookshop, if…if you would like to come with me, of course.”

“I do, I do, I so much do. Let’s get going, shall we? I can carry the radio part, and each of you can get the seats…”

Crowley turned around, but the room was empty. As white and bare and cold as it had ever been. Crowley froze.

“She…left?” his voice was painfully soft. “Why?” He turned towards Aziraphale, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “What did I do this time?”

Aziraphale’s heart broke. “Nothing at all, Crowley. The Bentley, it’s – she – is in London, wherever you left her! This here, this was just…a memento, a reminder for you!” He looked up and around awkwardly, as if searching for where the radio could have come from, “Probably…?”

“Oh,” he said weakly. “Of course,” he shrugged, regaining his bravado. “I’ll – I reckon I’ll have some words with her, later on! Leaving like that, without saying goodbye. Rude, is what it is. Might give people the wrong impression. Make them think something is wrong with them, y’know?” He smiled widely, showing all of his teeth.

Aziraphale was eager to get him back home and settled. He was also having a truly monstrous experience altogether, with Crowley so…untamed. Aziraphale felt helpless in the face of the demon’s savage beauty, and he was struggling to focus on the task at hand.

Muriel was unhelpful. “I suppose we should try to miracle ourselves straight into your shop, since humans nowadays usually don’t tolerate nudity? Or a lack of gender, which is very silly and also frustrating.”

“Yes, Muriel, I believe that would be best. Shall we?”

What I need, Aziraphale decided after getting Crowley settled, is a very stiff drink indeed.

It hadn’t been so bad, really – nothing like dealing with Gabriel and his absolute nonsense. Crowley had remembered his name, after all…although the demon seemed convinced that the car radio had somehow named him. (Aziraphale still wasn’t sure what to think about parts of the Bentley being in a holy-storage-room-turned-prison-cell. He didn’t have the mental energy to figure it out at the moment.) Crowley’s personality was still intact and recognizable, unlike Gabriel’s had been, but he had no memory of Aziraphale or of who he had been before his imprisonment. Instead, Crowley simply seemed heart-rendingly open…unfiltered, in a way.

Aziraphale’s first hurdle had been simply getting the demon clothed. Not something he had ever considered, frankly. While Crowley’s attire had been a predictable black throughout the years, he had always been fashionable and, although Aziraphale had never noticed it before, quite modest indeed. Through the years the demon’s clothing had gotten tighter, distractingly so, but he had never shown any skin; hence Aziraphale’s helpless suffering in the face of a petulant demon refusing to wear trousers with all the determination of a fractious toddler. It was Muriel who had stepped in to help, popping out and returning with a (frankly indecent, Aziraphale thought) black satin robe. Crowley had been delighted and had donned it at once, reddening Aziraphale’s face to his ears.

Blushing, for pity’s sake. Being actually invested in a corporeal form is simply humiliating, Aziraphale thought. I shall, however, continue maintaining my new, ah, sense of physicality, even if it isn’t always convenient. I have decided that I am on humanity’s side, after all…I should certainly continue to feel as human as possible. It’s only reasonable, of course.

Aziraphale pulled Muriel to the side, out of earshot, and demanded where they had purchased the garment.

“Oh, it wasn’t purchased at all!” they chirped. Their face suddenly fell. “Does that mean it’s stolen?”

“Well then, where on Earth did you come across it?” Aziraphale weakly asked.

“Mrs. Sandwich down the block. She and her friends are always dressed so nicely, so I thought they would be a good choice for the demon Crowley! She gave me this one special, and blinked only one of her eyes at me, which seemed like it meant something but I'm not sure what. Like this," Muriel tried to imitate Mrs. Sandwich's wink to great effect. "Was it wrong, to take this robe?”

Aziraphale wondered if his bookshop had always been this warm, or if it was simply a side effect of all the new sensory input that came with basically un-muting his human form. “Ah,” he had said ineffectually. “No, that – I suppose it will do.”

“He seems to like it very much!”

Muriel was right, of course; but while they had been the one to find him the garment, Crowley still seemed irritated by their presence in the bookshop. Rather than suffer two pairs of sad eyes aimed at him, he sent Muriel down the block with a note to Maggie, asking the shopkeeper to keep the angel out of the bookshop and out of trouble.

Aziraphale walked an obedient Muriel to the door and saw them out; he then turned around to find himself almost nose to nose with Crowley, his wholly-serpentine eyes glowing with interest. “Together, you said,” his voice low and dangerous, an odd air of power around him.

Aziraphale had no idea where to begin. He shepherded Crowley to his favorite chair and fixed him a cup of herbal tea with honey. He knew the demon preferred coffee, but he thought caffeine an idiotic idea at the moment. The angel’s mind was reeling. The last time they had been in this shop together, Aziraphale had been…well, he was ashamed of his behavior. He had made assumptions about Crowley’s wishes without taking a moment even ask his input. He’d even interrupted Crowley – “hold that thought,” honestly! Aziraphale remembered it with deep regret. He’d been dismissive and self-righteous, and he couldn’t even begin to unpack all of his feelings about the kiss. Aziraphale prepared the tea mindlessly and brought the filled tray into the shop from the back kitchen.

He’d been a fool to not fix Crowley’s cup for him, as well.

Of course he poured the tea, obviously. He still had manners, thank you. But then he’d handed Crowley the little pot of honey, mindlessly expecting him to add his desired amount.

He was utterly unprepared to witness Crowley experiencing honey for the first time.

Crowley was reclining sideways in one of Aziraphale’s plush-velvet chairs, the black robe tied casually round his waist, hanging off the demon’s pale shoulder. The wild waves of his dark red hair tumbled in all directions, his intense eyes were constantly fixed on Aziraphale. One of his black-clawed hands clutched a bit of his robe – his fingers were constantly caressing the fabric, or using the material to rub absentmindedly at his leg where the robe fell, as if he needed to be continuously reminded of its softness. Even Crowley’s serpent-mark – which had been wound tightly around his neck – seemed to relax, stretching out into sort of a torque, its head and the tip of its tail each resting on one of his collarbones.

Crowley had eagerly sampled the tea, but at the look on his face Aziraphale had pushed the pot of honey in his direction. The demon had dabbed a long black nail in the honey and touched the tip of his red tongue to taste it. Aziraphale had suffered.

Oh, but then Crowley began tasting in earnest. He dropped the lid to the pot, which went clattering onto the tray. His claw sank deep into the honey and brought out a dripping mess that made the demon giggle with delight. Aziraphale, unable to look away, watched in mute fascination as Crowley enthusiastically licked himself clean – claw, hand, down to his wrist where the honey dripped to his pulse-point. The angel was dimly aware that he had never found tongues interesting before…except his own, as a mechanical means to taste food.

But it was the noises that really ruined Aziraphale’s experience of a calming cup of tea. Aziraphale was no stranger to the pleasures of the senses. He was quite vocal himself, particularly whenever chocolate was involved. A quiet hum of pleasure was one thing. What Crowley’s mouth was doing…well. Aziraphale was almost jealous. (Whether he was jealous of the experience of sweetness or jealous of Crowley’s own hand under the demon’s ministrations, Aziraphale could not himself decide.) Crowley was clearly enraptured – not quite moaning, but very, very close to it. He crooned with delight, he breathed his pleasure out in sighs, the air of his breath honey-sweet.

He made an absolute mess, actually. Aziraphale, feeling simultaneously like a voyeur and a prison guard, added a hefty spoonful of honey to Crowley’s tea and then removed the insidious condiment, babbling non-committal pleasantries and ignoring the heartbroken yellow eyes that followed the honey pot out of the room. He returned with a warm, damp towel to help Crowley relieve himself of the stickiness. Blessedly, the demon understood the concept and tidied himself off perfunctorily. How not a drop had made it onto either chair or satin robe, Aziraphale would never understand.

Thus, quite contrary to his usual choice of drink, Aziraphale had ensconced himself safely in one of his favorite overstuffed armchairs with a nice Glencairn of very old whiskey to steady his nerves as he watched Crowley exploring the shop.

He followed Crowley’s progress with worry. The Antichrist and The Son of God had warned him about the demon’s condition, had told him that his name had been re-written in the Book of Life – the whole situation was a metaphysical tangle that Aziraphale desperately wanted to muse upon, but he had no time. Why would re-writing the same name in the same place remove everything that had been attached to it? And it couldn’t have done, obviously, because Crowley himself seemed to be in there, still! He was just…Aziraphale couldn’t quite put his finger on it. A more primal version of himself? Or primordial? Proto-Crowley? What he might have been, had he been “born” a demon? His reactions to everything are so open…honest and passionate. Crowley always was passionate in his dislikes, but he never went on about anything he actually cared for. I always saw him as such…such a libertine, but he was really quite buttoned-up. He was almost ascetic, in a way. That cold, dark, empty flat…his “customary suits of somber black,” his clothes almost always buttoned to the wrist and neck and ankle…Crowley hardly ever eats, although he does drink quite regularly, I suppose. I know he sleeps occasionally…does he do it for comfort, or as a sort of…means of escape? Why have I never asked him? Why did he never tell me, ‘Oh Aziraphale, I quite like such-and-such, let’s go and get more of it.’ I suppose because over the last years he’s just been saying things like ‘Here you go, angel, you like this sort of stuff, have a go.’ I really have taken him for granted for so long, haven’t I? I must take care of him, I must find a way to get him back to himself, although he might hate me later for…for seeing him like this. I can’t imagine he’s ever allowed himself this much freedom. I thought freedom was the point of a demon?

As Aziraphale worried and sipped his whiskey, the demon stalked silently through the aisles and dark corners of the shop, touching everything he could reach.

Crowley approached him with a slip of something held carefully in his claws. “Is this you, in here?”

Aziraphale took it gingerly. It was the old photograph of the two of them, taken by that ridiculous demon Furfur when they’d performed the bullet-catch trick. Aziraphale’s heart caught oddly in his chest.

“It is, indeed. An old photograph, you know. And that’s you too, just there.”

Crowley’s eyes were wide with wonder. “Me?”

“It certainly is. You were a wonder, that night. Very…” Aziraphale paused. Wonderful? Dashing? It felt like home, to have you with me? “Very dependable,” he finished lamely.

“What’s wrong, though?” Crowley asked, gesturing to the photo.

“Wrong?”

“You look…I dunno,” Crowley said, “Your mouth is smiling, but your eyes aren’t. S’not right, is it?” The demon looked at him searchingly, then peered back to the picture. “And if that’s me, there, all hidden and packaged up, well. I look a bit. Y’know, miserable.”

Aziraphale winced. “Ah,” he said, unsure of what to say. “Well, I’m sure you were just startled that your photograph was being taken without your consent.”

Crowley considered. “That doesn’t…sound wrong,” he said, his gaze turning inward. “But then, why’s your mouth lying, here?”

“I’m sure I wasn’t lying,” Aziraphale began, a bit heatedly.

“Look at you, you are, too.”

“Certainly not, I’m an angel, after all, and angels don’t…” he trailed off. Don’t what? Don’t lie? Aziraphale huffed. He certainly couldn’t keep lying to himself about that, either. He felt like he kept coming up against lies in every direction, even within himself. “I suppose I was trying to seem braver than I was, at the time,” he said, trying to be honest. “Nothing was going the way I expected it to that night, and you were all I had to rely on.”

“Oh,” Crowley said, deflating. “Must have been hard, with just me.”

“Crowley, I don’t mean that, I only meant…”

“Aim for my mouth, shoot past my ear,” Crowley said in an empty sort of voice, almost too quiet to hear.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “What was that, Crowley? Do you – do you remember the bullet-catch act?”

Crowley shook his head, trying to clear it. “I…I don’t want to talk anymore.” He stalked back into the stacks before Aziraphale could stop him, his hair flying.

Aziraphale poured another dram of whiskey. He breathed in carefully, focusing on the rush of air in his lungs. Aim for my mouth, shoot past my ear. Wasn’t that how they’d been for ages, he and the demon? Aziraphale was pondering his experiences deeply. Had he been living in his own sleight-of-hand performance for all this time without noticing it, pretending even to himself and his…his partner-in-the-act…that it was all real? No wonder Crowley had been so shocked at Aziraphale’s sudden return to Heaven. Crowley had never pretended that their work wasn’t a performance. It was Aziraphale who had needed to feel in control of the charade. Aziraphale thought with a jolt: He’s been waiting for me to join him backstage this whole time, while I kept on insisting that the act is the reality, performing for an audience I don’t even like.

A startling scraping noise almost made him drop his fine old cut-glass decanter. He held on to it, but only just, worrying less for the whiskey and more for the object itself. It had been a gift from Oscar Wilde, and though Aziraphale rarely used it, he was very fond of it.

A heavy thump followed the scraping sound. Then silence. Aziraphale set his drink down and returned the decanter to its place, moving stealthily through his own shop so as to not startle Crowley in his sensitive state.

He found the demon lying on the floor, staring at Aziraphale’s print of van Gogh’s Sunflowers. This print had hung on his back wall for decades in its heavy gilt frame, but Crowley had apparently removed the whole thing from the wall, setting it on the floor and leaning it against a bookshelf. He wasn’t just lying on the floor, either – he was spread out on his stomach, his head propped up on both hands, claws ticking against his cheeks in delicate little taps. Aziraphale watched him for a moment. His knees were bent, his scaled black feet rubbing idly against each other, twisting and untwisting his ankles. Had Crowley always been so…sensation-seeking? Aziraphale didn’t remember him being this, well, fidgety. If this is his raw state, how much of himself has he been holding back? Holding in? Aziraphale considered the idea with a pang of sadness. Perhaps we’ve both been trapped in our own performances, he thought bitterly.

Aziraphale cleared his throat gently. Crowley looked over at him without surprise but with a look of contrition. “I can put it back, if you like…if I’ve done something wrong. I just thought it would be prettier here, where it’s lit up. See?”

Aziraphale certainly did see. Crowley had moved the picture to a broad patch of morning sunlight which was streaming through one of the windows. The yellows and blues of the print were radiant…as was Crowley. His hair was a shimmering mess down his back, running over his shoulders. The look he’d given Aziraphale from the floor, not lifting his head but only turning it, gazing up expectantly at the angel from under eyelashes glowing gold in the light…well. If Vincent were here, he would be running for his paints…Crowley’s golden eyes in the sunshine are brighter than any sunflower, Aziraphale thought, surprising himself.

“It’s my favorite van Gogh piece,” Aziraphale told Crowley, trying not to drown the poor creature in his own expectations.

“What are they?”

Aziraphale smiled, but his gut twisted with concern. “Oh,” he said, aiming for nonchalant and failing, as usual. “They’re sunflowers, you know.”

This time Crowley did lift his head to look at him. “Do I know?”

“Well, I suppose not. They’re a flower. A plant. They grow from the Earth. The painter who did this piece loved them.” Aziraphale had started rambling. “They’re my favorite flower, you know. There’s a beautiful field of them in the South Downs, near Lewes. I visit it, occasionally, in the summertime when the flowers are blooming.”

Crowley reached out a claw to the print. “These – these are like the other thing. The photograph. They’re not real, here, right?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, these are just an image. A painting…well, a print of a painting. The real thing is in a museum somewhere. Amsterdam, I believe.”

“I wonder if they’re as different from their picture as you are from yours,” Crowley said, dropping his head back to his hands to stare at the piece in the sunlight.

Aziraphale suddenly brightened. “Would you like to see?”

Crowley looked up at Aziraphale again, almost suspiciously, peeking from under his lashes like he didn’t dare to look Aziraphale in the face. He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to. Aziraphale had already performed a small miracle, manifesting a half-dozen sunflowers, their stems carefully wrapped in yellow paper.

The demon held perfectly still for a moment. He pushed himself up to sitting, looking up at Aziraphale, a guarded look in his eyes as he appraised the flowers.

With sudden insight, Aziraphale knew that Crowley was looking for the catch…the lie, the performance. Even when Crowley remembered next to nothing, he remembered that Aziraphale was a liar. The realization made Aziraphale feel suddenly heavier. One of the first things I did when arriving on Earth was to tell a bald-faced lie to the Lord God Almighty, he reflected with a sudden, savage self-loathing, Of course I’m a liar. I can dress it up, if I like, as something like plausible deniability, or as performance…but then I’m lying even to myself. But Crowley deserves better. I can be better – I will be, I will be.

Aziraphale crouched down and sat the flowers beside the painting, where Crowley could choose to accept them or not. They were a brighter yellow than the ones in the print, which had faded to deeper gold. “These are for you, if you want them. You can see how they compare to the ones in the picture. I’ve always preferred the real ones myself, but the painting is a lovely reminder of them during the winter months.”

“They’re your favorite, though. Aren’t they…yours, then?” Crowley said, touching the tip of one claw to a delicate petal. “Why would you share them, if they’re yours?”

Aziraphale stood again – not as gracefully as he would have liked, but at least he didn’t fall on his arse after a dram of whiskey. He wasn’t really sure what to say that wouldn’t be, well, too much. Dozens of replies stumbled through his mind.

I want to give you something beautiful.

I think that these are my favorite because of your eyes. You used to keep them so hidden all the time, and every glimpse was like a sunrise. Seeing them so often over the past few years made me feel like I would become sunburned if you looked at me too long.

Let me bring you flowers and chocolates and pretty things, I’m not on stage any longer, I’ve retired the act.

Please look at me and know me again.

What came out, however, was simply, “I like sharing things with you, Crowley.”

Trying to give Crowley space, Aziraphale retreated. He was still nursing his (purely medicinal, purely for the nerves) drink, after all…and he felt that his friend certainly didn’t need to be hovered over as he healed.  

From his armchair, he sort of half-followed Crowley’s continued exploration of the shop, distracted. Suffering through his own internal self-flagellation, Aziraphale was only marginally aware of the demon’s actions. Crowley, a single sunflower sturdily plaited into his hair, had resumed his investigations. He opened books, inspected corners and shadows, made fine claw-mark lines in the dust, and draped himself over anything that seemed to him sit-able.

Including Aziraphale.

The angel’s inner musings were interrupted by the disquieting realization that he couldn’t see Crowley anywhere…hadn’t seen him for…how long, now? Before he could begin to panic, a warm line of pressure settled itself across his shoulders, across the back of the armchair in which he sat. Crowley’s pale, clawed hand dangled in his peripheral vision. A rushing river of red curls slithered over his shoulder and onto his chest, tickling the side of his neck. Aziraphale realized at that moment that he himself was only half-dressed, having left his favorite waistcoat and jacket in the park. His tie was still hanging loose and his shirt was open down to the fourth button from his harrowing of Heaven. He froze – he felt that he should bolt up and go put something decent on, but something told him that rushing off at Crowley’s first attempt at physical contact would be disastrous.

“Mmmm,” Crowley hummed behind his head. The demon was laying on his back with his right arm stretched over his head, dangling off the back of the armchair. He had one knee cocked up, clawed foot settled carefully behind Aziraphale’s shoulder, while the other leg swung free. “This is a nice spot,” he said casually. “You smell nice. Everything in here smells nice. Even the dust.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, intensely aware of Crowley’s midsection behind his head, the inrush and outpour of breath within his ribs. His voice even sounded a bit different from this angle; Aziraphale could feel the vocal vibrations physically, resonant in the demon’s torso, instead of just as sound waves moving through the air. “The dust, you say?”

“Ohh yes, Dear,” Crowley said, drawling his words out slowly, with relish. “Everything is warm in here, and so many soft things, and the books! They just keep on going, don’t they? Whole little worlds in there, just waiting to burst into being as soon as you look at them right.” Crowley sighed deeply, stretching both arms above his head, cat-like, before curling himself towards Aziraphale. He was still on the plush back of the armchair, but his knees were now both tucked up together, resting on Aziraphale’s left shoulder. Crowley propped his head up on one hand – the angel could feel the other hand hovering somewhere above him. “There wasn’t a lot of softness, where I came from…”

Aziraphale was fighting to stay still. He was delighted that Crowley seemed to have moved past his suspicions, after finding the photograph. He even seemed comfortable, which was of course the point of bringing him home to the bookshop. But now Aziraphale was trying to ignore the stab of heat in his gut that was threatening to affect his, ah, judgment. Demon of temptation, Aziraphale thought wildly, as he had reminded himself so, so many times in the past. It used to act as a bucket of cold water to any thoughts he’d ever entertained about Crowley. Now, fully committed to working for Earth against Heaven, come-what-may, his old self-admonishments had no power. Still, he was determined to keep his hands firmly to himself while Crowley was in this…condition.

Oh, but all the nerve-endings in his newly acknowledged nervous system were crying out for him to lean his head back into Crowley; he was so slender and angular, but Aziraphale suspected giddily that he could find hidden places of softness on Crowley’s lean frame. Aziraphale was fighting so hard against the idea of taking advantage of his friend that he had fully lost himself fantasizing about what he absolutely must not do.

He certainly should not reach up and caress Crowley’s legs, so slender but sturdy, their weight right here on my shoulder, of all places…

He must under no circumstances just turn my head and bury my face in this waterfall of red curls, the sunflower I gave him glowing like a sailor’s sunset…fragrant with Crowley’s scent…something like wood polished with lemon oil, like old leather, like peppercorns drying in the sun…

Aziraphale absolutely must not reach up and pull both Crowley and his ridiculous black robe down into my lap and – 

“May I?”

Aziraphale startled. “May you what, Crowley?” he asked primly, guiltily.  

“Your hair,” he said. Aziraphale could hear a smile in his voice, and trepidation. “I asked if I could touch it? I won’t hurt it, I promise. Oh!” Crowley sat suddenly up, twisting his knees away from Aziraphale and looking at his hands in horror. “Look, look, are they supposed to look like that? Did they always look so sharp?”

Crowley looked helplessly at Aziraphale, holding his claws out in front of him like they could attack at any moment. Aziraphale stood hurriedly front of Crowley, still perched on the top of the angel’s favorite chair. He smiled gently at the demon, reaching forward to take his hands.

Crowley jerked them back. “They’re too…they’re too sharp, they might hurt you. I don’t think they’re supposed to be this sharp. I don’t think it mattered when it was just me, or even when Bentley came, but you’re so…soft.”

Crowley said the word with admiration, like Aziraphale was something rare and precious…vastly different from the angel’s own interpretation of his softness. Too soft to continue serving as a proper angelic warrior, too soft on humanity, too soft to stand up for what he believed.

“Crowley,” he said, keeping his voice level. “I think your claws are lovely. I don’t mind that they’re sharp. Will you let me take your hands?”

Crowley hesitated, wary. His eyes spoke volumes of both longing and fear. Aziraphale almost wished he could give Crowley his sunglasses back; he felt that seeing his eyes so exposed for so long might actually be more intimate, for the demon, than his state of undress. Aziraphale understood the demon’s need to both blend in with humanity and hide himself from being known…eyes are windows to the soul, after all. But with Crowley’s eyes completely yellow, utterly inhuman, with no glamour or physical shift to alter them? Crowley was an open book.

(Aziraphale felt he had made himself very clear about his opinion on books.)

Gingerly, Crowley set one clawed hand within Aziraphale’s reach. The angel took it – he wasn’t unduly delicate or coddling, but he was tender. “They’re quite lovely,” Aziraphale said, admiring the deep glittering black of them, the way they shaded to pale, close to the hand. “I love the pattern of your scales, where they begin to turn into your skin? Just here,” he rubbed the spot with his fingertip. “I think they’re a bit fetching,” Aziraphale said conspiratorially. “But you know, you’re always welcome to change them. They’re yours, after all. Keep them, alter them, tuck them in like you did with your wings. I’m honestly just delighted to have you here, safe and sound and…” Aziraphale stopped himself.

“And what, Dear?” 

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Crowley looked down at his hands, caught a glimpse of his scaled feet below. An odd look crossed his face – something like hatred, something like hurt. Aziraphale watched him close his eyes for a moment. His claws receded, his feet faded to white; his limbs now looked fully human. Quietly, he said, “I think you were going to say…safe, and sound, and whole.”

“Oh, Crowley, I just…”

“Is this better?”

“Now I told you, I really do like…”

“Is this,” he squeezed the angel’s hands in his own, in his strong hands with their long clever fingers, so familiar to Aziraphale’s eyes, “Better?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Crowley. What…what do you remember?”

Crowley rolled his head back, making a noise of frustration, casting Aziraphale’s hands down and leaping off of his perch. He strode around the room, ranting like he was ticking things off a list. “I remember three young people who seemed important at the time. One of them told me I was safe and he was a liar, because then HE caught me and it hurt so much, and he threw me into the cell and I was there for ages and ages and ages. Then Bentley came and I got to know her and it was wonderful but still awful, because I knew deep down she wasn’t a Somebody but she was the closest thing I had. She played me songs and she talked to me with the music and she listened sometimes – and she brought you! You came when she played the song about you, the song about a hero. And watching you fight was the most wonderful, the most wretched thing, because you’re so beautiful and soft and you’re hard and solid as a stone foundation too. And I’m not any of those things, and I know there’s a reason I’m – I’m empty, and I know that I can’t have you, and I don’t know what you want me to be or do…” 

“Crowley, Crowley!” Aziraphale reached for him, but the demon held himself back. “I want you to be yourself, I…I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy!”

“…Happy?” Crowley asked, an edge of bitterness to his voice. “Is…is that what I’m made for?”

Aziraphale was miserable. He had seen Crowley happy, really happy…once, he thought. And it was so long ago that it was before Time began, before he’d even learned Crowley’s name, before everything. He saw him building stars out in the universe, and his joy had been a delight to witness. It was the only time Aziraphale had met Crowley as an angel.

Aziraphale had returned to Heaven in part because he thought someday he could change his friend’s mind, give him back the stars. It didn’t occur to him until that very moment that what Crowley the angel might have wanted was different than what Crowley the demon wanted. He hadn’t really believed what Crowley had said long ago: “The angel you knew isn’t me,” but he did now…and it wasn’t because of some arbitrary punishment. Crowley was a result of his own choices, and for Aziraphale to take that away from him…to think he could make Crowley happy by taking away who he had become…well, Aziraphale was ashamed. He felt that, had he stayed in Heaven much longer with that train of thought, he could have been the one to un-write Crowley himself. It would have amounted to the same thing.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand. He was going to dignify Crowley’s choices, his existence, no matter what it took. “Come with me,” he said, pulling the demon along.

He pushed him gently down on the sofa. “Wait there for just a moment. Get comfortable. Won’t be a tick.”

Crowley’s eyebrows had risen close to his hairline. He felt like he was getting some mixed signals, honestly: I was very comfortable for a bit after seeing that stupid photo-thing. Then he gave me the flowers, and even though they were his favorites he said they could be just mine! And then when I went to him, he didn’t cringe away from my touch even when those wretched claws made everything suddenly so serious! Then he…he held my hands…but now everything’s shifted again! It’s all so complicated outside of the cell! Things are happening so quickly and my mind…just whirling, hints and shadows and meaning and memories lurking and ready to jump out at me just when I get settled. I think I’d like nothing to do with that, thank you very much. I just want to curl up here where it’s warm and soft…and maybe Dear would let me have more honey later if I promise to be more careful about the mess…where has he gotten off to, surely he will be coming back, he said he wouldn’t be a tick…a clock tick? An insect tick? Tick something off a list? Tickety-boo?

“Start here, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, carrying a stack of books.

“More books!” Crowley said, delighted.

Aziraphale sat down with him on the sofa. “These – Crowley, I need you to understand. These are very special to me. I’ve never let anyone read them before.”

Crowley’s focus on Aziraphale was complete. It made the angel nervous and awkward.

“They are my books, you understand? I wrote them. These are my…” Well, now that he was saying it out loud it seemed so silly. Here, beloved, read my diary. “These are my…journals. The logs of my experiences here on Earth.”

Crowley raised one eyebrow, the gesture so familiar to him that Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat. “You want me to read your diaries?”

Aziraphale huffed a quiet, startled laugh. “I do, indeed.” He handed the demon the first volume. “There are quite a lot of them. I do hope you’re a fast reader.”

Crowley shot him a look that could have meant any number of things, but Aziraphale thought the closest modern colloquialism might have been, “Bitch, please.”

Almost immediately upon opening the first book, the demon looked at him like he was seeing through a trick. “Dear, these are in English.” He blinked, surprising himself. “How do I know that when I hardly know my own name?”

Aziraphale smiled, a wave of affection threatening to overtake him. “I suppose you’re just clever,” he said. “That one was originally written using cuneiform on a clay tablet. I updated it when the clay began to deteriorate. I’ve updated all of them to modern English, you see. They’re all in handsome matching journals, too. I actually had them ordered to match the set of ten that I’ve used since…” Crowley nodded, already turning back to the book. “Crowley, listen to me for a moment, if you please.” Crowley’s head swiveled toward Aziraphale. It took his eyes a moment to catch up, pulling away from the diary.

“Yes, Dear?”

Aziraphale was never going to get used to that. Perhaps he would, someday, if Crowley said it intentionally, instead of just as a misunderstanding. “Crowley, these diaries…they’re…well, think of them as my heart. They’re full of everything I’ve done and learned here on Earth. All my successes and failures – quite a bit more failures, unfortunately – my joys and my sadness and my fears. A great many fears, I can assure you.”

Crowley had closed the book. He held it carefully in his lap, covering it protectively with both hands.

“You don’t have to read them. I shan’t make you, you know. If you are happy with how you feel, with who you are, right now…of course then I’m happy with you as well. But if you would like to…to read my heart, I think you’re going to need to remember your own. You…” Aziraphale cleared his throat primly, “you feature quite heavily in some of these entries. Particularly the later ones, although you’re scattered throughout the pages of my life.”

“Like in the picture.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I’ve known you for, oh, such a long time. But I’d like to know you even better. I wish I could read your heart like a book, truly I do. The bother of it is that I probably could have done, if it had ever occurred to me to try.”

Crowley looked utterly confused. “You came to me on purpose,” he said suddenly, eyes wide with dawning realization. “I thought – I thought maybe you had just, you know. Stumbled across me, or that Bentley had brought you. But you didn’t – you found me, you were looking for me, because you know me.”

“I’d like to think I do, yes.”

“You even fought for me. You fought beautifully, savagely.”

“It’s been eons since I last fought,” Aziraphale said. “You’re lucky I kept myself fighting-fit for all these millennia.”

Crowley looked down at the book in his hands. “But…you said I don’t have to read it. I don’t have to remember.”

“You certainly don’t. If you are happy and comfortable as you are, then stay as you are. I would like you to stay with me as well, but you are always free to do as you choose. Always.”

“What if I read, and I still don’t remember who I’m supposed to be?”

Aziraphale leaned over to Crowley and spoke quietly, like he was sharing a secret: “Then we can simply get to know each other all over again, for as long as we care to, as long as the foundations of the Earth last.” But his smile was sad. Those foundations might not last through the day.

But Crowley nodded, half-grinning. He cleared his throat and stretched his neck, tilting his head from side to side as if stretching for strenuous exercise. He gave Aziraphale a look. “Are you going to let me read, or are you going to keep interrupting me?”

Aziraphale smiled, raising his hands in surrender. He left Crowley to his reading, walking to the bookshop window to peer into the Soho street beyond.

He squinted. Craned his head to see all angles. He hurried to the door.

Standing outside the door, frozen mid-step as they turned onto the sidewalk, was Muriel. Their back was to the bookshop. Aziraphale looked up and down the street. It was still early morning…it made sense when they returned from Heaven, as it was in some cases outside of Time. But he had sent Muriel out hours ago…how many hours ago, he wasn’t sure…right here on Earth, and everyone up and down the street was frozen mid-step in their morning errands. Aziraphale stood blinking in the morning light…the morning light that should have faded well into evening by now, at least.

He turned back into the bookshop and shut the door quickly. “Crowleeeyyy??” He said, his voice rising in an alarming fashion. “Did you know that Time has been stopped on the street outside?” He felt a tad hysterical.

Crowley leaned his head in the doorway from the sitting room. “Oh, it’s stopped all over,” he said, as if it were self-evident.

“Why do you think that might be?” Aziraphale said shrilly.

“Because I stopped it, of course.”

“You –” he bit back a scolding tone, schooling himself back to a level voice. “And why did you decide to do that?”

“You said together, you and me. I didn’t want any interruptions. And I don’t want to have to worry about it being over, and it won’t be as long as I don’t lose focus. Can I get back to my – I mean, your books now?”

The angel nodded weakly. Crowley disappeared back into the sitting room.

Aziraphale looked out the window again. There were birds just stuck up in the air, for pity’s sake. How did he do that so easily? How did I not notice? What about the three young men, their plan? Would they even notice that Time had stopped? If Muriel is stopped then anything connected to Time is stopped…including most of Heaven and all of Hell… how long can Crowley keep this up?

Aziraphale turned on his heel and went to fetch a bottle of wine. Whiskey was for sipping, for settling the nerves. Wine was for getting brain-meltingly sloshed.

Chapter Text

Crowley stared at Aziraphale. He looked distinctly rumpled. It was doing funny things to the space behind Crowley’s ribs…he had the distinct impression that the angel was not supposed to look rumpled. He couldn’t remember him looking any other way, obviously, but it still didn’t sit quite right with the demon. Aziraphale wasn’t asleep, but he wasn’t fully awake, either. He had a wine glass dangling from one hand, a mere swallow left, the bottle sitting empty on the table. Crowley thought that, too, didn’t bode well. Still, Crowley thought him beautiful. Conflicting thoughts raced themselves in circles around his misty brain.

Mustn’t touch, mustn’t dirty him up, mustn’t drag him down.

If I curled up in his lap, would he pet me or push me off?

I can see his bare neck. His chest, those fine, fair hairs, I wonder if they’re soft or scratchy. I can see his collarbone. I want to bite it. Not break it, probably, but bleed it, certainly. I could drink him up.

I could freeze him like I’ve frozen everything else. I could fit him inside where my heart should be and his light would keep me warm forever.

His shirt is just barely untucked, there to the left. I could lift his shirt and drop to my knees and scrub my face into his belly and breathe him in, tea leaves and dust and the sparkling scent of humanity.

I could burn myself to ashes and he could sweep me up and use me to make lye for soap. He could clean himself with my destruction.

I can smell his skin. He’s buried his angelself deep into the flesh of the body. I could do that too and we could pretend to be people together. He said together, he did, it was one of the first things he said to me. That I can remember.

I wonder what he tastes like.

“Angel,” he said suddenly, reining in his wildly racing thoughts.

Aziraphale startled, almost slipping out of his chair. To his credit, he didn’t drop the wine glass. “Crowley,” he said, focusing his eyes. “What are you wearing, dear boy?”

Crowley’s gut clenched. Hadn’t he been called that before, here and there? He wasn’t a boy, not really, and he wasn’t a dear, for certain. It didn’t mean anything to Aziraphale to say those words. He just moved his mouth and said things that meant nothing, like always. Crowley shook his head, trying not to remember.

Aziraphale made a face, sobering himself with a grimace. “Oh, Crowley, forgive me. I was…I was quite inebriated there for a moment.” He stood, his eyes hopeful. “How…how’s the reading?”

Crowley handed him a book. “Don’t think I want to read anymore, Dear,” he said, voice determinedly casual.

Aziraphale’s face fell. “Oh! Oh, well.” He examined the book, looking at the volume. “Crowley! You’ve only gotten to…looks like you made it to Golgotha, hm. Yes, I don’t suppose it makes for very pleasant reading, just here, does it?”

Crowley shook his head. “You said I didn’t have to. You said,” he purred, stepping closer to the angel as the robe slipped down over his shoulder, “You said I could stay with you, even if I don’t remember.” Crowley reached up and took the loose tail of Aziraphale’s tartan tie between his fingers, rubbing it experimentally. He hummed in appreciation of its textured softness. Looking Aziraphale in the eye, waiting to be told no, he slowly pulled the tie from the open collar of the angel’s shirt. He twined it around his long fingers, his gaze never leaving Aziraphale’s widening blue eyes.

The slow tickling drag of the tie being pulled from his neck alarmed Aziraphale with its effect on him. His heart beat madly, his blood rushed southward without any permission from him at all. He tore his gaze away from Crowley’s eyes, clearing his throat, trying to look anywhere but at the demon in dishabille. “That’s true. And, and…and I will protect you as long as I can. You have my word.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “You think they’ll come for me? To take me back?”

“I rather think that when they come, it will be for everything. All creatures great and small, everything on Earth and the stars in the heavens themselves.” He brought his gaze back to Crowley’s. “The very foundations of the Earth.”

Crowley almost clenched his fist, but remembered in time the length of tartan in his hand. He unwrapped it again, fiddled with it, examining the muted play of colors. From a distance it looked boring, vague, but up close it was…well, not quite a rainbow, obviously. But full of color and detail.

“If I remember – it will help save you? And the stars and the creatures and all?”

Aziraphale answered weakly but honestly. “I don’t know. I think you could help. But I honestly don’t know.” He paused, pursing his lips. “It might help save you too, you know.”

Crowley scowled, dismissive. “I don’t think I want to remember. I just…”

Aziraphale brightened slightly. “What do you want, Crowley?”

You. You. You. His traitorous heart beat out Aziraphale’s name.

Can’t. Mustn’t. Dangerous. Turn that off this minute, if I know what’s good for me.

Crowley shrugged and took back the book, a tad roughly. “I don’t want anything,” he said. He stalked away.

Aziraphale felt helplessly guilty, like Crowley was being tormented at his hand. Aziraphale had a strong sense that Crowley was remembering on his own, already. The way he called him “angel” to get his attention, Aziraphale had heard that demanding tone a thousand times. Something in his eyes that seemed less animal than when he’d first returned to the shop. Nothing Aziraphale could really put his finger on…one of those human gut instincts, perhaps. In any case, the angel felt despicable, like he was destroying a kind of innocence. He was sure that Crowley had more bad memories than good…but they were a part of him, the results of his choices, choices the demon had made for himself! It was an awful situation, and Aziraphale had no idea if he was doing anything right. He did have one clear reason to hope, though. After all, he thought with the slightest smile, He did take my tie with him.

Aziraphale peeked cautiously around the doorframe to the sitting room. Crowley was immersed in one of the diaries. He was, technically, still on the couch, but the demon was crouched birdlike on the arm, balanced on the balls of his slender feet. He held the book in one hand; the other was folded in near his chest, where he was absently chewing on his thumbnail. For some reason the gesture went straight to Aziraphale’s heart.

The angel’s heart was a strange thing…and well he knew it. He originally knew love as an all-encompassing idea, a sort of passive field generated by goodness that he could recognize and influence. It wasn’t until Golgotha, watching the crucifixion, that he understood that love could be a true action verb, that it could alter both histories and hearts with its power. Aziraphale, however, had never understood how he himself could apply it in his own life. He stuck with loving passively, which was comfortable. Safe. It required no hills to die on.

The idea of love as a force aimed at a specific fellow being, within the context of implied ownership the way humans made it out to seem, had never been of any interest to Aziraphale – who had, in fact, always looked a bit sideways at it, sensing an imposter wrapped in merely the trappings of love, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Then, Crowley had saved his books during the Blitz. Now there was an action verb indeed. It had stirred Aziraphale’s heart from its drowsy passivity. He had to think about that ahead of time. Anticipate the problem. Anticipate my reaction to the loss of the books. Decide that he preferred not to see me hurt. He made the choice to save the books, deliberately, for no other reason than to prevent unhappiness on my part. He decided on an action and followed it through, and it wasn’t for any greater good or baser evil. It was just for me.

Aziraphale had tried to repay Crowley. He had given him the only thing the demon had ever actually asked of him: he had given him the holy water. He had lamely excused himself from the demon’s company that night – he knew if he stayed with Crowley for even a few moments longer, he would have broken down into sobs. (Which he did indeed proceed to do, the moment he was safely back in his shop. He had wept spectacularly, wracked with guilt over delivering what he thought was Crowley’s means of ending his existence. He hadn’t wanted to, but…Crowley had asked. He’d never asked for anything else. Not ever.)

Aziraphale hated being away from the demon after that. He never knew when the last goodbye would be, when Crowley would have finally had enough of it all…enough to put the holy water to use. Aziraphale, never much for sleeping in the first place, started avoiding it at any cost. He was plagued with nightmares of Crowley coming to the bookshop to say good-bye, Crowley pouring the innocent-looking liquid into a shot glass, knocking it back. Visions of watching those sunflower-bright eyes melt out of his head onto Aziraphale’s oriental rug like runny eggs. Leave-taking was always awkward on Aziraphale’s part, whenever they met up, as he desperately tried to distance himself from his runaway affection for Crowley. It made Aziraphale brusque, flippant, dismissive. He was at his worst when he was afraid, and Crowley made him afraid all the time. Afraid that this was the last time they would meet, the last moment of their Arrangement. The last step in their odd, faltering, centuries-old dance.

Aziraphale had been through a lot recently. The whole Gabriel debacle leading to the kiss. Realizing that The Metatron had been blocking his thoughts and memories of Crowley with tainted coffee, discovering the true goals of the Second Coming, being imprisoned in Heaven, learning to like an occasional rock-and-roll song, speaking with the Son of God and the Son of Satan over the phone, actually fighting again in Heaven – with his own weapon, no less. (It was now stashed safely in his bookshop. In the kitchen, in the gap between the refrigerator and the wall, if anyone was wondering.) Watching Crowley with his undone mind, trailing through his bookshop in a black satin robe.

Oh, and deciding to die on a hill, after all, of course. Aziraphale had finally reached his tipping point, casting his lot in with Earth at last. He knew he’d taken a bit to finally get there, but gotten there he had. He was now an Angel of Earth, and he was prepared to die fighting for everything he loved – Now, he thought, now I shall love as an action verb.

He would rather not, though – die, that is. At least not before he had kissed Crowley back. Until he had kissed Crowley properly. Seeing the demon perched like a crow on the arm of his sofa was a problem. And what do we do with problems? The angel asked himself. We study them.

Aziraphale stealthily made his way upstairs from the bookshop. He had a sort of flat there, although he would admit that the bedroom was mostly for show. It was where he kept his unused clothing and other bric-a-brac that he had accumulated over the years. It was also where, unbeknownst to Crowley, he had installed a computer.

He hadn’t told Crowley at the time because he had anticipated the demon’s laughter – Crowley would have, well, crowed over him if he had known. But Aziraphale, whatever else he was, was a reader. Once he had learned that people published whole books on the internet that would never see the light of day in print, he had set about learning everything he could in order to access them. He had also found an unending supply of out-of-print books that he could read, delighting his heart. He read everything he could find, from museum images of clay tablets to modern-day fanfiction. (He found that he quite enjoyed some of the re-imaginings of Pride and Prejudice, in fact. Something about it charmed him to his core, relaxing something inside of him that was always coiled with a fear of disapproval. Taking the universe you are given, then altering it to suit yourself, usually by injecting an abundance of love or excitement…he tried not to muse too heavily on its metaphysical implications, but he knew what he liked when he saw it.)

Aziraphale sat at his computer and gave the problem of the kiss his full consideration. It had been…an experience, that was certain. If Aziraphale was prepared to be honest with himself for once, it had not been an entirely pleasant one. Exciting, passionate, yes. Enjoyable? Not really, no. The harrowing emotional turmoil soured the whole thing, of course. But that wasn’t what really bothered Aziraphale about it. What bothered him was the lack of…movement, perhaps? Participation? It had felt like something happening to him, not with him. He had no regrets, not really. He could hardly have done anything different at the time, the situation being what it was. But he could certainly do something different now.

He just wasn’t sure what. Hence, research and study were needed. He had come across many descriptions of what seemed like excellent kisses in his various readings over the years, but he was concerned that if the written word hadn’t sunk in by the time of the kiss, then it wasn’t going to sink in at all. Clearly this was something that needed to be observed. Thus, Aziraphale searched for videos. He carefully typed a gently worded request into the internet’s search bar.

His ears went red at the results. He returned to the search bar and added “on the lips” to his request.

“Oh, good Lord,” he said, at once aroused and frustrated. None of these videos were specifically about kissing. Of course they contained kissing, but they also contained a great deal more. Aziraphale was not about to write off any further exploration of romantic love in its human parameters – he was intensely interested, in fact. But right now, he wanted to be thoroughly prepared to kiss Crowley back. To…to just kiss him, in the first place. To kiss the demon breathless, the way he deserved to be kissed. Aziraphale wanted to savor him. He tried the search again – this time he simply spoke to the internet out loud, explaining the situation and reminding it that he was a patient person but we all have our limits, honestly.

A selection of videos popped up in a distinctly apologetic manner.

“Yes, this looks a bit more like! Thank you very much, I’ll see if I can be getting on with,” he clicked the mouse decisively, “this one.”

Crowley snapped the last diary shut. It had ended with a write-up about Gabriel’s memory loss and a romantic plot to connect two human women. Crowley tossed the book aside to the floor and ran his hands into his wild river of hair. He was laying on the floor himself, on his back with his legs up on the sofa, knees bent at right angles. His robe puddled around his hips and his chest heaved as he sighed deeply.

He rose to his feet, unwinding his long limbs and stretching his arms above his head. He glimpsed Aziraphale through the doorway, looking out the window at the world outside, stuck in Time.

Crowley moved soundlessly, stalking towards him, coming to stand silently behind him. He watched in fascination as the tiny hairs on the back of Aziraphale’s neck lifted. With a deep sense of self-loathing, he thought to himself, Even the angel’s very flesh is trying to warn him away from me.

“How’s the reading going, Crowley?” Aziraphale said casually.

Crowley blinked. Aziraphale sounded far too calm for someone who was being menaced by a demon. The angel turned and faced him, smiling guilelessly. He gazed into Crowley’s eyes, his expression shifting from pleased to delighted. “Your eyes! You must – you must remember, now. Your eyes look almost…well, they look the way they usually look here on Earth!”

Crowley bit down panic. Eyes? No, no no no… “Oh, are they different?” he said, voice high and forced, “They don’t feel any different. And, I’m sorry to say, neither do I. Still, you know, can’t remember a thing before,” he gestured vaguely, “Before before. I’m sorry,” he said, forcing his voice down to gentleness as his shoulders hunched inward, wilting himself, “I’m sorry I can’t help. But – you did say it would be okay, right?”

Aziraphale looked searchingly at Crowley. He opened his mouth to speak, but wisely shut it. He simply nodded, gesturing for Crowley to come sit with him. They walked together back to the sitting room, Crowley trailing behind. He remained standing as Aziraphale sat himself primly on the sofa. Even though he was a bit disheveled, he still sat like he was in a coat and tails. He looked up at Crowley, unsure of where to begin.

Crowley tugged at the fabric of his robe where it met his thigh. “If everything is going to end,” he said, voice low, “Then we should probably find something nice to do. End on a high note, don’t you think, Dear?”

Aziraphale looked down, the temptation lost on him. “Crowley, I rather think we should talk, you and I.”

Crowley rallied for another try. He sank slowly to his knees in front of Aziraphale, letting the robe slip off his shoulders, pooling at his elbows, his red hair a trailing crimson halo behind him. He put both hands on Aziraphale’s knees, stroking the fabric of his trouser-legs and letting the heat from his hands sink through the cloth to the angel’s skin.

Aziraphale was looking at him with a mixture of apprehension and want. Still, he held himself still. “Crowley,” he said, trying for firmness and not quite succeeding, “I think – I fear you’re lying to me, darling.”

Darling? That one surprised him. “Well of course, Dear,” Crowley sighed, laying his head on the inside of Aziraphale’s knee. “I’ve been lying all over your bookshop, haven’t I?”

Aziraphale shifted quickly to one side of the sofa, pulling himself out of Crowley’s reach. A lock of his red hair stuck to Aziraphale’s trousers. He endeavored to ignore it. “Crowley, stop this at once!” He cried, beginning to get angry. “I can see your eyes, I can – I can feel your…devious, hyperactive mind buzzing away in there! Why are you – what are you doing?”

“You’re the one who wants this,” he hissed, gesturing to himself, still on his knees. “You’re the one who wants all this control, angel! Even the lads could tell, just by walking into this shop, that everything you love has to come with your control! They called it a dragon’s hoard in here, did you know that? I hated that they took one whiff of you and knew, while it took me so long…”

His eyes widened. He froze for a moment, guilty yellow eyes meeting Aziraphale’s focused gaze.

“No, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, speaking very carefully. “I didn’t know that. They didn’t tell me that over the phone. They said they’d visited, of course, to question Muriel. But they didn’t tell me anything about a dragon hoard.” Aziraphale slid down the sofa to his own knees, joining Crowley on the floor. “I’m afraid that moment lives only in your memories, my dearest Crowley.”

Crowley slumped, pulling the robe tightly around him, tightening the sash viciously around his slim waist. He stared at the floor, refusing to meet Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Why lie about this, Crowley? Why would you hide…the recovery of yourself?”

“’M a demon,” he said, his voice empty, “S’what I do. I lie.”

“No you don’t. Not to me.”

Crowley stood suddenly, whirling away from Aziraphale, the tail of his robe and his long locks flying. “You bloody arse,” he seethed, “You left me because I was a demon, and then even once I was something more empty and innocent – you still didn’t want me! Oh, probably because you’re not the one who emptied my head or re-wrote my fucking atoms! No, not quite bespoke enough for you, was it? Next time I’ll let you lobotomize me yourself, that should let you feel a bit in-charge, don’t you agree?”

Aziraphale watched him from the floor. He took everything Crowley flung at him, feeling like he deserved Crowley’ rage. None of this would have happened to him, if Aziraphale hadn’t left him behind.

The angel’s mute acceptance of Crowley’s vitriol sapped his rant of its glory. He felt a different sort of empty, now. He sat down hard on the floor, leaning back against the couch, tucking his knees up to his chin and wrapping himself in his own long arms. “You,” he began, his voice thick. He cleared it awkwardly and tried again. “You only took care of me because I was broken,” he said tiredly. “That’s the only reason you ever spoke to me in the first place. I was a project for you. I knew it, I’ve always known it. Every time we met, I knew you were searching for a way to bring me back to the fucking light…knew you wanted to drag me back to Heaven after everything I’ve done…”

“No! Crowley, that’s not at all it – I wanted to make Heaven better for you! Because you’ve never been evil, I’ve always said that you were kind, that you were good…”

Crowley refused to acknowledge Aziraphale, deep in his anguish. “Fuck being good – were Gabriel and Beelzebub good, before they scarpered off into freedom? No they bloody well weren’t! But they’re – they were never like you and me! They’ve never had to speak in fucking code, they’ve never been – they were never afraid! What did they have to be afraid of? Of course they ran off together, nothing to worry about, those two! You and I,” he paused, taking a deep breath, his eyes damp with angry tears, “we’ve been being good for…forever! We’ve done what we’ve been told to do, but we could never just do what we wanted…and you still don’t fucking get it! You think I couldn’t tell…that I don’t know…how much easier I must be, for you to deal with?” He scoffed, “Coming in like a hero to save me, poor little amnesiac monster. Ooh, bet you were thrilled to find a version of me that you could control…hardly a demon at all, memories of Falling and Hell and torture, all scraped out!”

Crowley’s voice, roughened from his furious shouting, suddenly dropped to almost a whisper, like he was sharing a shameful secret. “I know you liked me better while I was empty…that you could let yourself, you know, care about me…when I was less…awful and selfish and complicated. But…but I can still be that for you,” Crowley was looking anywhere but at Aziraphale as he made his desperate ploy, “I can lock my thoughts away and just be blank for you, I can be whatever you want while I hold the whole Universe still, and then when you’re tired of me I can turn Time back on and let us all burn down together.” He spoke in a rush, his words running together. “Just…keep me here. Like this. I promise – I promise I’ll be just as good as I can, I can be so good when I try, you’ve no idea.” He was almost pleading.

Aziraphale shifted slightly, joining Crowley against the sofa, shoulders touching, determined to stay with him. “My darling Crowley,” he said, as Crowley dropped his face into his own knees, “I don’t know…I’m not sure what to say. I had no idea you thought…that you felt that I ever wanted to change you. It never even occurred to me as something I could even…undertake. You’ve always been such a…such a force of nature, you know. I suppose I wanted you to be an angel, yes, but only because I thought you could be happy again, returning to who you once were. But I was mistaken about a great many things.” Aziraphale cleared his throat, unsure of how to continue, how to untangle thousands of years of misunderstandings. He did know that they were involved in a situation of cosmic significance, however – one that would redefine everything, for better or for worse. “I will tell you this for certain, Crowley: I am not going to keep you here like…like some sort of salacious pet. Not even with Time frozen. Not when there’s so much at stake. I don’t want to try to control you, but…but we can’t hide from this, Crowley, and we can’t run away like you’re always trying to do. We mustn’t be afraid any longer.”

Crowley mumbled miserably into his knees.

“What was that, dear boy? Afraid I didn’t quite understand you there.”

Crowley lifted his head only enough to clear his voice – he still didn’t look up at Aziraphale. “I lost my flat,” he said thickly. “Hell promoted another demon to my position in London and shooed me out. I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you would…you would try to offer me a place here.”

Aziraphale was startled – it seemed like such a sudden shift in topic. Then it hit him: “But – but Crowley,” he said, “Surely you haven’t been…just homeless, these past few years?”

“Just me and the Bentley,” he said, dropping his face again, muddling his voice.

The angel paused for a moment, considering. “Crowley, why on Earth would you be afraid of…of me inviting you to stay here? I told you before, I consider this, well, our place, you know.”

Crowley lifted his head again, looking away from the angel. “I had to be able to make a quick getaway, that’s all.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Oh, of course.” He shifted his weight delicately on the hard floor. “That’s all.”

“It would have been awful,” Crowley snapped, “being here all the time! Being here without it meaning anything.” His voice dropped. Very quickly, he bit out, “I wouldn’t have been able to say no to you, if you asked me to stay. But being here with you all the time without being with you…And then you left for Heaven,” his voice rose in volume, “still so convinced of its Goodness and of your own bloody goodness, even after everything we went through with Adam. I’m glad I didn’t tell you. It would have been so much worse.” He lapsed into sudden silence, burying his face again in his bony knees. “I just knew…that I had to be ready to get away if I needed to.”

“My dear old friend,” Aziraphale said gently, “I was wrong about Heaven.”

He felt Crowley tense up next to him, but he continued. “And you were wrong, too. You and I have both been so scared for so long that I think…we didn’t know how to be anything else. Scared of getting caught being too much…too good, too wicked, or perhaps just too human.” Aziraphale huffed a tired laugh. “I ignored it all, or made excuses about everything under the sun for reasons of plausible-deniability…and you always just wanted to get away.” He heard the distinct sound of a sniffle from Crowley’s curled-tight form, but he let it pass unremarked-upon. “I’m not avoiding the confrontation any longer, Crowley. And you have to stop hiding. I’m sorry, but we can’t just be a ‘team of us,’ you know.”

Crowley’s head jerked up, eyes messy with tears, full of despair.

Aziraphale smiled at him. “We have to pick a side, and I think we both picked it a long time ago. We both picked Earth as our side. Earth, and humanity, and Creation itself. If we give in to selfishness now, we won’t just lose each other. We’ll lose the whole universe. Alpha Centauri and all.”

A strange expression crossed the demon’s face. He stood, swaying slightly on the spot. “I do remember one thing very clearly,” he said bitterly, “We never really had each other to lose. You always made sure of that.” Aziraphale’s face was stricken as he looked up at Crowley. “Guess the honeymoon’s over.” He snapped his fingers. Gone was the soft robe, gone were the luxuriant waves of hair. Crowley stood there in his somber black vestments, buttoned up to the neck and down to the wrists; his impenetrable glasses were firmly fixed upon his face; his serpent-mark skittered madly up his neck, frantically folding itself together into its familiar tight tangle near Crowley’s jawline; his hair was a duller red – short, slick, and untouchable. There was no trace of the sunflower he’d plaited into his hair.

This time, Aziraphale could feel Time resume, could feel the amount of power Crowley had been using to hold the entire Universe still so they could be together without interruption. Aziraphale had never felt so many emotions at once: he felt staggered, pleased, horrified, flattered, heartbroken, proud, ashamed.

“You’ll never just…choose me,” Crowley said dryly, resigned. “Not ever.”

Aziraphale bolted up and stood in front of Crowley, eyes blazing and determined.

Crowley tilted his head back to look down on him. “Go on,” he said, and Aziraphale almost dared, tongue darting out to moisten his lips, until Crowley said, “Why don’t you just forgive me again, if you like. If it’ll make you feel as though you’ve done The Right Thing,” he articulated savagely.

Aziraphale yawned.

Crowley’s eyebrows shot towards his hairline. “Oh, am I just fucking boring you, now?” he cried, mightily insulted, before being overtaken by a yawn himself. He blinked in confusion.

“Something feels…wrong,” Aziraphale said sleepily, “Relaxing, inviting, but…so, so wrong.” He let himself melt into the sofa.

“Are you…” Crowley yawned, furious, “Are you falling asleep? You never sleep!”

Aziraphale murmured, “Just…just a quick snooze…”

Crowley yawned again, so wide he almost split the corners of his mouth. With an impressive exertion of willpower he turned the yawn into a growl. “Bollocks to this,” he said as he crumpled gracelessly to the sofa beside Aziraphale, hating himself for instinctively reaching for the angel’s hand. Sleep took him before he could grab it, his hand going limp, just grazing Aziraphale’s fingertips.  

Adam’s “sleeping beauty” trick certainly was potent.

Chapter Text

Another night. Another bar. Always the same. The darkness closes in like the slow tightening of a noose, and Crowley goes to find Aziraphale. Even when he’s not looking – even when he walks in the opposite direction, even when he stays home and drinks himself half into a coma – he finds the angel, anyway.

He watches Aziraphale from the farthest corner of the bar, singing in a fine tuxedo with tails and a top hat. Crowley can’t ever get any closer to the stage than this. He doesn’t even let himself want Aziraphale enough to risk the attempt. The angel is radiant under the stage lights, ethereal and glorious. He’s singing a song Crowley thinks he knew, once upon a time. But it wasn’t “once upon a time,” was it? It was before Time started, before Somebody clicked the timer and started the whole mess of growing and aging and dying.

Once Before A Time, Crowley knew all the words to Aziraphale’s songs. Now Crowley can’t even parse the language.

Another night. Another bar. Always the same. The darkness closes in like the slow tightening of a noose, and Crowley goes to find Aziraphale.

He watches Aziraphale from the farthest corner of the bar, singing in a fine tuxedo with tails and a top hat. Crowley can’t ever get any closer to the stage than this. He doesn’t even let himself want Aziraphale enough to risk the attempt. On stage, Aziraphale is singing a song Crowley thinks he knew, once upon a time. Now Crowley can’t even parse the language.

Another night. Another bar. Always the same. The darkness closes in like the slow tightening of a noose, and Crowley goes to find Aziraphale.

He watches Aziraphale from the farthest corner of the bar, singing in a fine tuxedo with tails and a top hat. Crowley can’t ever get any closer to the stage than this. He doesn’t even let himself want Aziraphale enough to risk the attempt. On stage, Aziraphale is singing a song Crowley thinks he knew, once upon a time. Now Crowley can’t even parse the language.

Another night. Another bar. Always the same. The darkness closes in like the slow tightening of a noose, and Crowley goes to find Aziraphale.

Oh, thought Aziraphale, I’ve certainly never corporealized quite like this before. She was intensely aware of her plush figure and a surprisingly pleasant warmth between her legs. She felt an uncomfortable pinching sensation around her waist, and realized the clothes she was wearing included a tightly-cinched belt in the loops of tight denim trousers. Good Heavens, she thought incredulously, I do believe I’m dreaming, of all things…am I wearing blue jeans?!

She was on stage somewhere in the American Deep South. She wasn’t sure how she knew this, but she knew nonetheless, after the manner of dream logic. Although she was aware of the dreamscape around her, she was nonetheless filled with inescapable purpose. She stepped up to the silver mic, readied her guitar, and began to sing. It doesn’t matter that I’m dreaming. Visions of truth and guidance come in dreams all the time. They have to know how I feel, she thought with determination, I have to make them understand. I have the microphone now, and the lights are on me, and it’s my job to make them see what he means to me.

She began to sing, startled by a voice that was so different from the one she used in waking life. Undaunted, she poured her soul into the song, pleading with the audience and the bar patrons and even God Above to listen.

“Oh Lord, oh Lord, what have I done? I've fallen in love with a man on the run. Oh Lord, oh Lord, I'm begging you, please, don't take that sinner from me. Oh, don't take that sinner from me…”

The audience was staring at her, unmoved by her prayer. The microphone, a cold altar indeed, glittered silver in the stage lights.

“Oh Lord, oh Lord, what do I do? I've fallen for someone who's nothing like you. He's raised on the edge of the devil's backbone, oh, I just wanna take him home, oh, I just wanna take him home…”

The people at the bar hadn’t even turned to look at her. The audience was losing interest, turning one by one towards the bar, or milling mindlessly towards the door.

She opened her mouth and moaned a series of wailing notes, an echo of her breaking heart. She strummed the guitar and sang her prayer desperately. Why was nobody listening? Couldn’t they see her heart bleeding out on stage?

“Oh Lord, oh Lord, he's somewhere between a hangman's knot and three mouths to feed. It wasn't a wrong or a right he could choose – he did what he had to do. Oh, he did what he had to do…”

There was a figure at the entrance to the bar. Maybe they would understand. Maybe she just needed to sing harder, sing louder, roughen her voice with feeling and then maybe…

“Give me the burden, give me the blame. I'll shoulder the load, and I'll swallow the shame!”

Her voice built and built. She felt like her fingertips on the frets would split and bleed. “Give me the burden! Give me the blame! How many, how many Hail Marys is it gonna take?”

The room had emptied. She was alone, and nobody had heard her. Nobody would listen, nobody cared, and she couldn’t protect him.

She finished the song, anyway. Maybe there would be someone to hear it. Maybe not. But at least no one could say she hadn’t poured herself out for him. She sang into the nightmare silence, not even bothering to play along with her instrument.

“Don't care if he's guilty, don't care if he's not. He's good, and he's bad, and he's all that I've got. Oh Lord, oh Lord, I'm begging you, please, don't take that sinner from me.”

“Oh, don't take that sinner from me.”

Another night. Another bar. Always the same. The darkness closes in like the slow tightening of a noose, and Crowley goes to find Aziraphale.

He watches Aziraphale from the farthest corner of the bar. Crowley can’t ever get any closer to the stage than this. He doesn’t even let himself want Aziraphale enough to risk the attempt. On stage, Aziraphale is singing a song Crowley thinks he knew, once upon a time. Now Crowley can’t even parse the language.

Another night. Another bar. Always the same. The darkness closes in like the slow tightening of a noose, and Crowley goes to find Aziraphale.

He watches Aziraphale from the door, this time. He’s able to stop himself there, to hold himself back from the agony of being alone in a crowd. He can still hear the music, though. He cocks his head, listening for the strains of the ethereal, operatic voice that he knows will be coming.

It’s not an opera at all. It’s…an acoustic guitar. Hm. That’s…new, he thinks. Is that new? He steps inside the bar’s doorway to hear better.

“Oh Lord, oh Lord, he's somewhere between a hangman's knot and three mouths to feed. It wasn't a wrong or a right he could choose – he did what he had to do. Oh, he did what he had to do…”

This isn’t…normal, Crowley thinks blankly, staring at Aziraphale on stage. His – her, he realized with a moment of delighted surprise, her white shirt was unbuttoned, displaying a soft cushion of cleavage…her hips looked like the best pillow he’d ever seen. Crowley had always enjoyed his own excursions into womanhood, but he had never seen Aziraphale give it a go. It was a pity; she was a perfect treat. He leaned on the doorframe, flabbergasted but a bit charmed (which certainly wasn’t normal for him).

“Give me the burden, give me the blame. I'll shoulder the load, and I'll swallow the shame!”

Crowley could understand Aziraphale this time. Every word. And not just the words – he understood the anger and the angel’s eternal hope in the face of that anger…he understood the determination to be heard.

Yes, absolutely, Crowley understood that.

“Give me the burden! Give me the blame! How many, how many Hail Marys is it gonna take?” Her voice, nothing like Aziraphale’s normal voice but somehow still full of all the feelings Aziraphale held secreted away in fear, became raw and ragged and bloody beautiful. Crowley moved towards the bar, never taking his eyes off her, glasses off. He could smell the blood on her fingertips as the guitar strings finally cut their way to the quick.

Her voice dropped in volume as if the guitar string had cut her vocal cords as well.

“Don't care if he's guilty, don't care if he's not. He's good, and he's bad, and he's all that I've got. Oh Lord, oh Lord, I'm begging you, please, don't take that sinner from me.”

Crowley felt his breath punched out of him as she looked up, her pale blue eyes catching his.

“Oh, don't take that sinner from me.”

The audience was gone, the dance floor in front of her completely empty. Aziraphale stood alone on stage, her fingers stinging sharply, breathless. She had seen him, though, his eyes glowing at her from the bar. He was all that was left.

She cleared her throat, collecting herself. “I can take requests, you know.”

He just stared at her, silent, his eyes full of something she couldn’t discern. Desire? Loathing? Horrified fascination, like watching a car crash?

She leaned in closer to the microphone, which wailed a quiet note of feedback into the empty room. “I could play anything you like. What do you want?”

Crowley scowled at the bar, unsure of why things weren’t going the way they were supposed to. Aziraphale wasn’t supposed to ask him what he wanted. No one ever asked him what he wanted, and he wouldn’t be allowed to have it even if he did let himself want something. Crowley bitterly called out the most obnoxious rock song he could think of, something that would send Aziraphale into a fervor of pearl-clutching disapproval. “Why don’t you cut loose a little, angel? Crank it up in here. Bit dead, y’see,” he drawled, looking around pointedly. “D’you know ‘I Believe in a Thing Called Love’ by The Darkness?”

Aziraphale felt everything shift. He looked down at himself on stage. His soft white curls had grown to a ridiculous length far past his shoulders. He wore a skin-tight white…leotard, of some kind? With long bell sleeves and white flames embroidered all over it. The stage filled with fog and he started singing what was, frankly, a deeply irritating song. He knew it would be stuck in his head long after he left the dream. But Crowley had asked…and after all, the lyrics weren’t too bad.

“Can’t explain all the feelings that you’re making me feel. My heart’s in overdrive and you’re behind the steering wheel. Touching you, touching me, touching you, God, you’re touching me…”

Crowley gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing, as he stared at the alarming vision of Aziraphale dressed as Justin Hawkins from the “I Believe in a Thing Called Love” music video. He had asked for this, after all, and so he swallowed the awkwardness and was determined to be amused. Amused in sort of a vindictive way, that Aziraphale was finally giving him a performance that Crowley had a say in.

Wait. He hadn’t gotten what he asked for in…well, ever. The last time he got something he asked for was…when Aziraphale gave in about the holy water…

Aziraphale…?

Aziraphale kept singing, playing the electric guitar that he certainly had no idea how to play in waking life, in this preposterous outfit that Crowley had dreamt upon him. Again he thought, It doesn’t matter that this is a dream. It’s a dream we’re having together, and that’s real enough for me.

“I believe in a thing called love – just listen to the rhythm of my heart! There’s a chance we could make it now, we’ll be rocking ‘til the sun goes down. I believe in the rhythm of my heart…”

Aziraphale wailed into the mic, watching a series of complicated expressions flicker across Crowley’s face.

“I wanna kiss you every minute, every hour, every day. You got me in a spin, but everything is a-okay…”

Crowley knew, suddenly, that he was dreaming. He just…didn’t remember going to sleep, was the problem. He wracked his brain – what was the last thing that happened? He could only remember his spectacular failure at getting Aziraphale to stay with him, but wasn’t that years ago? He remembered a toad, for some reason…or maybe it was a frog? No, wait, there were…three mouths to feed…three teenagers. Important lads, them. And, oh…being on his knees for Aziraphale, begging to stay in a place that was warm and safe and soft…

Oh, fuck, he thought as his waking life rushed back to him. The dreamscape flickered for a moment, then steadied.

“Stop, stop, Aziraphale, stop,” he said, striding across the empty dance floor to the stage.

The music faded out, a scream of feedback hanging in the air like a curse.

Aziraphale looked at him, feeling ridiculous but determined. “But,” he said helplessly, “This is your song request, Crowley.”

“I only picked it because I knew you would hate it. I never expected you to actually do it,” he said, his voice thick with guilt and annoyance. Whether he was annoyed at himself and his self-sabotaging tendencies or whether he was annoyed at Aziraphale for choosing now of all times to listen to him, neither Crowley nor Aziraphale knew for sure. “Listen, it doesn’t matter. I’m dreaming, angel. This is just a dream.”

“Oh, yes, I’m perfectly aware of that. I am dreaming too, after all,” Aziraphale said primly, shifting his weight to one hip with just a touch of sass. “Did you…were you not aware of that when you requested…” he trailed off, gesturing to himself in his skin-tight rockstar suit.

Crowley sputtered. “Of course I was aware,” he bit out. “I just. Wanted to make sure you knew.” The startling realization that this wasn’t a dream-Aziraphale but the real thing made him feel like his insides had turned to slime. What a fucking nightmare, he thought desolately.

Aziraphale let the guitar hang from its strap around his shoulder, fidgeting with the ends of his suddenly long hair. “You did ask for this, though. I assumed it was what you wanted. I certainly wouldn’t have picked this…get-up. I’m not even sure where it came from. Did you just imagine it?”

“It’s from the music video,” Crowley said dismissively, feeling himself unaccountably blushing. “It, uh, doesn’t exactly suit you.”

Aziraphale’s face fell. “Oh.”

Crowley felt wretched, unsure of what to say. After Crowley’s outburst, well…he had built a wall between them that he didn’t know how to even begin climbing, and none of his usual quips – which had so often dispelled tension or distracted Aziraphale in the past – seemed to be landing like they were supposed to. Crowley just stared helplessly at the angel on the stage, ethereal in the lighting and the mist, even in his awkwardness. Crowley felt like he always felt: Aziraphale above him, looking down, too distant to touch. He watched miserably as Aziraphale’s stance changed, morphing from dejection to a kind of gentle determination, his spine and shoulders straight but his eyes kind, soft.

“Well then,” Aziraphale said into the microphone, “I suppose you still have a request to make, if this isn’t what you want.”

Crowley, running on instinct, tried to snark something that would illustrate his heartlessness, that he was a demon of Hell and didn’t need Aziraphale in the first place, and he certainly didn’t need to ask him for any favors. The words caught in his throat, coming out as an inarticulate series of consonants.

“So, Crowley?” Aziraphale pressed, “What do you want?”

He stalked around in a circle, furious with himself and the angel. He growled and raged to himself, I’m not allowed to want, because there’s no point to it, and it’s cruel of you to ask when you have to know already, how can you not know? I can’t have it so there’s no reason to even…

“How can I help you?” Aziraphale asked, the microphone amplifying his voice so that it cut through Crowley’s insistent internal monologue.

Crowley stilled, facing the stage. Maybe that was a question he could answer without tearing himself to pieces on it. He was so fucking tired. “You could play something that…I dunno. Something that makes sense, I suppose.”

Aziraphale’s face was thoughtful. “A song that makes sense…” Trying to be careful, he sought clarification, looking straight at Crowley, “Makes sense to you?”

“Us,” Crowley croaked out. He cleared his throat. “That makes sense to…to us.” He gestured back and forth between them.

Aziraphale pondered a moment. He thought back over their Arrangement throughout the last few hundred years. Perhaps there was some ancient song he could pull from his memory…but no, he decided. Surely now, with everything either about to end or at least change forever, they needed something new. Something modern.

Aziraphale was not usually good with “new.” That was typically Crowley’s area of expertise. Something new it is, then. I can do this, Aziraphale thought sternly to himself, I can do something new for us. Or at least something…new-ish.

He remembered how only a few years ago he had visited Galway for a minor miracle – just a quick healing, really. He’d made a trip of it, visiting the cliffs and having dinner in a lovely upscale restaurant. Aziraphale had strolled around the city until he passed a little pub with music spilling out into the street. He’d surprised himself by stopping to listen, surprised still further to find that the music was warm and organic, sounding both old and new at the same time. It reminded him of the fine old Irish reels he’d heard in bygone days, but with a vitality and, well, modernity that was enchanting rather than off-putting. Aziraphale had gone inside and listened to the entire set, charmed.  

As Crowley watched Aziraphale ponder for a moment, the stage fog thickened. In moments the angel was shrouded from his view. Crowley rushed forward, worried he’d disappear into the dreamscape if they lost sight of each other even for a moment.

Crowley heard a quick, lilting strum from an acoustic guitar. The fog cleared and he saw Aziraphale as he usually was. Well, except for the whole playing-a-guitar thing. From somewhere, a fiddle played. And could he hear…was that a fucking banjo? Wait, what on Earth is Aziraphale wearing?

Not his favorite waistcoat and jacket. The angel’s hair was the same as it had always been, a soft cloud of white curls. His trousers were still a soft tan, but they were…Crowley swore they were tighter. The white shirt was the same, but open at the neck, as it had been after his fight in Heaven. Over it, he wore a fawn-colored knitted cardigan, unbuttoned, with a subtle green and blue tartan pattern woven around the collar, down the row of buttonholes, and at the wrists (which were pushed up to his elbows in a casual display that the demon found almost alarming). Crowley tilted his head to the side, appraising. The angel looked rather a bit like those hipster bastards Crowley would run into at coffee shops.

It suited Aziraphale very well indeed, everything considered.

As the angel started to sing, Crowley realized with the suddenness typical of dreams that there was no longer any stage. Aziraphale was on his level, singing and playing guitar. The mic and stage lights and the raised stage itself had vanished.

“Forgive me all my secret storms and all the rest that’s in-between. Turn towards the love…”

Flowers and grasses began sprouting around Crowley’s feet.

“From the Earth we came to know, the trenches where we learned to grow – turn towards the love…”

They were in a field. Gone was the seedy jukebox bar, gone was the dark of night. The bright noonday sun shone on the tall grass and wildflowers. A field of sunflowers grew in the near distance.

“‘Cause you are my sunflower,” Aziraphale sang, less quickly than the verse, each word standing on its own for a moment before the song continued. “And you are the light that lets me grow. You are my sunflower, turn towards the light.” He was smiling, almost crooning at Crowley.

Crowley scoffed. The light, okay, sure. He opened his mouth to say something cutting, but to his mortification what came out was the next verse: “Down tangled roots my thoughts would stray – your gentle voice guides my way…” He clapped a hand over his mouth. Aziraphale laughed delightedly, with absolutely no malice, as Crowley’s right hand grabbed his struggling left hand, pulling it away from his mouth, the will of his dream-self fighting against his tightly-constrained conscious mind. He continued, singing “Teach me of the sun above – the heat, the warmth of your love, turn towards the love…” This time Crowley slapped both hands over his mouth, looking with bewildered eyes at Aziraphale.

“Such funny things, dreams,” that bastard of an angel fucking grinned at him, eyes sparkling, stepping closer to Crowley with every beat of the song. “Cause you are my sunflower. And you are the light that lets me grow. You are my sunflower, turn towards the light…”

Crowley’s hands dropped swinging down to his sides. He exerted his willpower and kept his mouth shut. Aziraphale was standing right in front of him, smiling in the sunshine…smiling at him, at Crowley, a fallen angel and a demon of Hell and a flash fucking bastard. He was singing him a love song and they were trapped in a dream and Crowley was on the edge of having a moment.

“A simple life, a happy life, for all the wonders in the world?” Aziraphale sang, like it was a question. He turned, almost touching his shoulder to Crowley’s, gesturing off somewhere with his eyes, his eyebrows. Crowley looked. There was a glimpse of sea in the distance, a small cottage down by the end of the field, overlooking the view.

Crowley looked back at Aziraphale, who still held a question in his eyes. Crowley didn’t have time to stop himself. “Grow flowers in the garden…and a hive for the honeybee?”

“Anything you want!” Aziraphale smiled, nodding. He sang the chorus again, putting everything he had into it, his soft blue eyes searing into Crowley’s burnt-out soul. “You are my sunflower, and you are the light that lets me grow. You are my sunflower…”

It occurred somewhat belatedly to Crowley that Aziraphale was fucking wooing him. In Crowley’s dreams, of course, but he could tell that this wasn’t an invention of his own mind. Crowley had a fantastic imagination, but even he couldn’t have dreamed this nonsense up. Still, Aziraphale was giving him everything he’d never let himself want…while the threat of utter annihilation hung over their heads. As the song ended and Aziraphale stood watching him, waiting for any reaction, Crowley simply…crumpled. It was all too much, too late.

“Oh, Crowley, my darling,” Aziraphale gasped as Crowley dropped into the grass. The guitar vanished, the fiddle and banjo music ended with a startled squeak of strings, the horizon grew dark and clouded, leaving them in a small circle of field and flowers under a pale gray sky. Aziraphale looked at the sudden change warily, but focused his attention back on the demon. “Was that too over-the-top? I do apologize, but I thought you really deserved the best performance I could muster. Please, Crowley, look at me, won’t you?”

Crowley looked up, his eyes anguished. “So. We’ve finally heard each other…just in time for Creation to end?” He huffed an empty-sounding laugh. “That actually does quite sound like us, I s’pose.”

Aziraphale’s face caught somewhere between joy and worry. They had heard each other. “But, Crowley,” he began hopefully.

“The whole thing, Aziraphale, everything we’ve seen and learned and discovered over six thousand years. Up in smoke. All those brilliant, awful, unpredictable, fantastic humans. All the stars burning out…and the lads, Aziraphale.” His voice broke. “There’s no way Heaven will let those three win. Especially now that they’re in it together. It doesn’t matter how strong they are or how good they are – and they’re really so, so good – they’re such good humans! But that’s not what the Sons are meant to be, that’s just an afterthought to Heaven, and they’re going to…they’re going to be…gone.” He couldn’t bring himself to say killed. Even he had his limits.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hands. Crowley stared. He’d watched Aziraphale’s hands for millennia, soft and delicate but strong. Crowley held them as tightly as he dared, looking at them and avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes…eyes which always seemed to see straight through him, dark glasses be damned. “If we’ve found something,” Aziraphale said as he stroked his thumb against Crowley’s, “If we’ve made something, here, that you think is worth fighting for…then let’s fight for it, you and I.”

Crowley nodded his head jerkily, just once. “All right.” He had never been good at saying no to Aziraphale…especially when the angel was right.

They stood together, Crowley still not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. He worried that if he looked him full in the face again, he’d burst into tears. He was so tired, exhausted from heartbreak and hopelessness, from his botched suicide attempt with the Book of Life, from being re-written at an atomic level, imprisoned…being so desperate to be safe with Aziraphale that he froze Time for longer than he’d ever imagined possible…from his journey through Aziraphale’s diaries (and hadn’t that been a miserable read, seeing his own actions so lovingly recorded in the angel’s own hand?) So. Crowley kept his head down, keeping quiet for once.

Aziraphale looked around curiously, still holding one of Crowley’s hands. “Ah,” he said, befuddled, “I suppose we’ll have to wake up, now, if we want to be of any use to those three young men.”

Crowley sniffed, boxing his emotions up as much as he could. He surveyed the area. Mists had crept around their little circle of earth. The light had dimmed but they could still see each other clearly. “Um,” he said, unhelpful in the extreme.

“I must say, it was a clever plan on Adam’s part, really.”

“Adam?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, this has him written all over it. And the other two helped – can’t you feel it? When they went to distract The Metatron so that I could rescue you…”

“They what?!”

“Oh hush, don’t fret, they knew what they were getting into, I’m sure. Remarkable young men. In any case, I am fairly sure that they must have put…oh, feel it, it’s a massive sort of…of mutated miracle, can’t you feel it yourself? They must have put the whole blessed world to sleep! It’s brilliant, simply brilliant. This way, no one else can get hurt as…as collateral damage!”

Crowley nodded vaguely. He could sense the three lads’ power, now that Aziraphale had mentioned it. “Bit silly, too, don’t you think?”

“Oh, I think it’s delightful. Just like being in a fairy tale – like Sleeping Beauty! You know,” Aziraphale began to ramble, “the old tale was rather uncomfortable in some ways, but the Disney picture was quite pretty indeed. It was based on the ballet, and…”

“Sod the fucking ballet, Aziraphale! How do we wake up?” Crowley looked up into the sky, peered at the horizon, his golden eyes searching as if the answer might lie in the dreamscape itself. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “How did they wake everyone up in the story, then?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said eloquently, “Um…hmm.”

Crowley fixed him with a stare. “What was it.”

Aziraphale looked at the misty edges of the dreamscape as well, as if he were immersed in its analysis. In his smallest voice, he said, “You just…you know…true love’s kiss…”

“You what.”

Wretchedly, Aziraphale cried, “True Love’s Kiss, the princess receives True Love’s Kiss and the whole bloody kingdom wakes up around her, safe and sound. There!” he said with prim finality.

Crowley blinked. He suddenly seemed to have forgotten what to do with his hands. He looked down and his face flickered with surprise to find Aziraphale’s hand still in his own. “Oh,” he said dumbly. “Well. I suppose it’s just a fairy tale. Out of the question, obviously.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale began in a chastising tone, “I mean, really.”

“Oh, yes, really,” he said, still staring at their joined hands. “I’m never – you know. I’m still a demon. I’m still angry. I’m a mean, selfish, nasty, angry demon. I’ll never be,” he made a little growling noise of frustration, “I can’t go back to being what I was before, and I wouldn’t want to, even if I could. I’ll never…I’ll never be a pure innocent angel or even a…a beautifully empty monster, like I was when you, when you rescued me.” He finally looked up at Aziraphale. “I’ve been through too much to not be…what I am.”

“I’m sorry it seemed like I wanted to…control that, somehow. I should have known better. After all,” Aziraphale said, squeezing Crowley’s hand in his. “I do know you, you old serpent.”

Crowley made a “tch” sort of sound and moved to turn away from the angel, sensing rejection.

Aziraphale held his hand tightly, though, not letting him go. He pulled Crowley in close, reeling him in with one swift tug and shifting his weight so that Crowley fell into a graceful dip in Aziraphale’s arms.

(Crowley wasn’t proud of the noise he made at that moment, and suggests to the reader that nobody heard any sort of squeak at all.)

With the ostentatious pride of a showman, Aziraphale leaned in close to Crowley, whose eyes were wide and guarded even still. “Demon Crowley, Tempter of Eden,” he said, gently nudging Crowley’s nose with his own, “May I kiss you properly this time, please?”

Speechless, Crowley nodded, wildly thinking, How will our hero cope?

Aziraphale’s lips were sinful. This was nothing like Crowley’s desperate last stand against Heaven’s bid to sink their talons into his friend. Crowley felt this kiss in his toes, straight through the disguise of his snakeskin shoes. His mind could articulate only the most basic concepts: warm, soft, more, please. Aziraphale kept changing the angle, too, so that what started as one kiss grew into a series of kisses, daisy-chained together, the first one never really ending but just sort of shifting into something slightly new.

For Aziraphale’s part, as soon as he’d felt the weight of Crowley in his arms, even before their lips touched, he had felt giddy-drunk with delight. They could have done this so much sooner – they should have done this ages ago! They could have been holding each other this whole time! Aziraphale wished he had seen Crowley on the walls of Eden and swept him off his feet then and there, as he had clearly been meant to do. Once Crowley had nodded his consent, Aziraphale hadn’t even needed the research he had done to prepare for this eventuality. Aziraphale did what he had wanted to do in the first place, once it had been established that kissing was a possibility – he savored Crowley, he kissed him breathless, he kissed him and he kissed him and he kissed him, and Crowley was kissing him back, softly, thirstily, sighing into his mouth. Aziraphale inhaled the very breath of Crowley’s lungs and shivered, feeling as though the two of them would melt together, sinking into the Earth itself, dissolving into its molten core.

The shop phone rang. Suddenly they broke apart, looking around. They were awake, sitting on the sofa in the bookshop, seemingly making out like human teenagers.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley a bit sheepishly. “Should probably get that,” he said, breathless, “The last person I spoke to on that phone was the Son of God.”

Crowley nodded dazedly. “Answer the call, angel,” he said, gesturing towards the phone. “I’m certainly not going anywhere,” he said, his voice a bit tipsy.

Aziraphale grinned, bashful, like he hadn’t just been tenderly ravishing Crowley’s mouth as if trying to inhale his soul. He made it to the desk, lifting the phone to his ear. “Fell’s Bookshop,” he began, but was cut off by incoherent screaming. He held the phone out, away from his ear, badly startled.

Crowley, hearing the screams and sensing the angel’s distress, bounded from the sofa to stand beside Aziraphale. “What is it, what’s going on?” He growled low – all feelings of being dissolved into syrup by Aziraphale’s kiss had been shoved down deep. 

“I think it’s the boys,” Aziraphale said, his voice tight with terror.

Crowley grabbed the phone, pulling it between him and Aziraphale so they could both listen easily. “Lads,” he said, “Where are you – send us anything, fucking…pray to Aziraphale if you have to, we’ll be there in a moment, just…”

“It was you!” Adam’s voice crowed exultantly from the earpiece of the phone. What had seemed like screams behind him resolved into cheers, into laughter, shouts of excitement from a dozen voices…more joining in by the moment.

“Yes, it was me, fine, all right, whatever – where are you? Are you in trouble?” Crowley said, with the helpless determination of any adult trying to get information out of a teenager.

Lock answered this time. “I’ve got Adam’s phone – whoa! Holy fuck this is so weird – Crowley! Mr. Fell! Adam and Greaz, they’re like – we’re on a fucking rampage, you should see it!”

“Rampage?” Aziraphale repeated with worry. “Did you say…Lock, did you just say rampage?”

“Shh!” Crowley hissed at him. “What do you need, Lock?”

There was a scuffling noise. They heard Lock cry out indignantly. 

Greaz laughed over the phone. “I had a good feeling about you two!”

Aziraphale reddened from collar to crown. “Oh! Young, ah, Greaz. Um. Lord? I just…”

“Adam’s having a fit about it. Says his nebula is back,” Greaz shouted over the din, “And it was you!”

“Me?” Aziraphale said, incredulous. “I certainly haven’t got any powers like those Adam was looking for!”

“No, no!” Greaz laughed out loud again, “Not you, you batty angel!”

Crowley stifled a snort. He leaned in to the phone, “I’m not exactly a battery pack either, Greaz…what are you talking about?”

“Oh for – honestly, you lot. It’s the two of you, both of you, together!” Greaz said over the noise, which was growing steadily louder and more raucous. “You’re like me and the lads, you know? Good on your own, right…but greater than the sum of your parts! Right, Lock?”  

Crowley and Aziraphale heard Lock and Adam both cheer their assent over the phone. They looked at each other, helplessly smitten.

“The Gabriel miracle,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “We thought we were being so clever…”

“So clever that it brought Archangels down upon our heads to see what the fuss was about,” Aziraphale said tersely, looking at Crowley out of the corner of his eye. “Just us.”

Someone on the phone was talking. Aziraphale hastily lifted the phone again, which he had let drop. “Sorry? What was that again?”         

Lock was back. “We’ve got an army!”

“A what?” Crowley asked wildly.

“A ghost army! They’re chasing down angels and demons alike right now! They’re just sort of sweeping us along! It’s wild, I’m telling you, it’s like we’re surfing a river of ghosts – completely insane!”

Greaz shouted in the background, “We’re literally rallying the human spirit, mate!”

They heard Lock groan in disgusted delight. “That’s terrible, Greaz, gimme a break! We’re trying to be cool here! We’re the – the fucking saviors of the Earth! We should be a little cool!”

Crowley felt things slipping madly out of his control. “Tell us where you are, we’ll come get you, we’ll come help! I…” he looked at Aziraphale, distraught. He said into the phone, very carefully and clearly, “I want…I want to help protect Earth, with you lot. If I can.”

Aziraphale looked inexpressibly proud. His blue eyes fairly glowed with fondness at Crowley. The demon bristled. “Shut up,” he whispered savagely.

“I certainly said nothing,” Aziraphale said innocently.

Another scuffling sound. A sudden burst of cheering. Then, Adam’s voice: “You two stay wherever you are, somewhere safe. You’re our power source, you’re what I’m able to use to pull all these spirits out from where they’ve been…sort of stashed, I guess. I’m not taking much, I promise – there’s so much energy to work with now, and we only really needed a boost! We’ve got a lot going on just ourselves, you know?”

“Yeah, we gathered that,” Crowley said drily.

Aziraphale perked up. “Adam,” he said, excited, “What if Crowley and I sort of…sent you power? On purpose?” Action verb, he thought dizzily to himself, Love is an action verb.

More shouting on the other end. “Oh, Greaz says that’s a brilliant idea. Go on then, send us what you’ve got!” Another indistinct shout. “Lock says not too much though – he’s right, don’t go bleeding out on us! I don’t want to lose that nebula again!”

“I really do love that,” Crowley said, voice unusually gentle, “That he sees our…power, together…as a nebula. It’s almost too…I don’t know, too perfect. But I’m getting a bit tired of caring about things like that, if I’m honest.” He shrugged, aiming a half-smile at Aziraphale. “Let it be too perfect.”

Aziraphale beamed. “Shall we, then?” He reached up and held Crowley’s hand where it was wrapped around the phone.

“Certainly, angel,” he said, delighted at the cool touch of Aziraphale’s hand. “Wait – what exactly are we sending the lads, now?”

Aziraphale stared for a moment in surprise. He pursed his lips and squinted in disapproval. “You – you ridiculous creature, it’s love, it’s our love, haven’t you figured that out?”

Crowley grinned a sharp-toothed grin. “Yeeeah,” he drawled. “Just wanted to hear you say it.”

“Well, honestly…” Aziraphale huffed, deeply pleased, failing spectacularly at sounding cross. Together, they sent a wave of energy towards Greaz, Lock, and Adam. They poured into it all their hopes for the lads, their hopes for a future, and their deep and abiding affection for Creation, everything from snails to supernovas.

Over the phone, the voices rose to a cacophony. “Oh, fuck, I guess that’ll do it!” Lock cried, taking over the phone. “We’ll call you when it’s all over, yeah?”

“Oh, do be careful, Lock…” Aziraphale fretted.

“Ta, cheerio, lads, see you ‘round, wish we could talk longer but we’re busy, byyyye…” Crowley was pushing the phone back down to the receiver, against the resistance of Aziraphale who seemed loathe to let the lads out of earshot. Crowley raised one eyebrow, and Aziraphale relented. The phone settled with a click.

Their hands were still together. In the sudden silence, they seemed to lose direction. They both stared at their joined hands with surprise, each avoiding the others’ face. The kisses they’d shared on the sofa seemed ages ago, seemed like they still belonged to the dream and not to reality at all.

Crowley held on, still waiting for Aziraphale to bolt. He’d said love, it had been Aziraphale who spoke the word out loud first, he had said our love…but Crowley still carried the scars from when Aziraphale left him for Heaven…and from Aziraphale’s many smaller rejections throughout the years. So he held the angel’s hand as tightly as he could for as long as he could as the moment stretched on, committing the sight and the feel of it to his waking memory, instead of just from their time in the shared dream.

Aziraphale felt the hesitation coming off of Crowley in waves. Well, that absolutely will not do, he decided. He reached forward, gently gathering up Crowley’s other hand. He felt the demon relax instantly.

“So,” Aziraphale said archly, eyes still cast down. “Any ideas as to how we should spend our time? Since humanity seems to be, well, sorting itself out without us?” Aziraphale stepped closer until he pressed up against Crowley, igniting a long line of sensation from torso to knees.

“Ngk,” was Crowley’s elegant answer.

Aziraphale pulled Crowley’s arms around his waist and settled them there, reaching his own arms up to wrap around the demon’s shoulders. Undeterred by Crowley’s fashionable short haircut, Aziraphale trailed his fingers down its slick and uninviting sheen.

Crowley closed his eyes. In a moment, his hair tumbled down to his shoulders. Not as long or as wild as it had been in his raw state, but now deliciously touchable. He quirked an eyebrow at the angel in invitation. Aziraphale buried his fingers in the soft, bright red waves, pulling Crowley into a spectacular kiss: still tender, still careful, but filled with heat.  

Crowley wasn’t sure how long it was until he came up for air, as his head seemed to have been filled with mounds of warm cotton. He lost himself in Aziraphale’s softly sparkling eyes. “Va-voom," he said, dazedly, and went back for more.

Chapter Text

From all corners of the Earth, from Heaven and Hell and all of the lost or secret places in between, the bygone spirits of humans who had once walked the Earth had risen again, by invitation of the Sons. Very few of them had enough memory of themselves to look even vaguely human. Most of them had simply banded together as a sort of semi-solid mist, rolling in waves like a sea. Even the souls of animals had heeded the call. Lock, Greaz, and Adam were all riding on fantastically spectral horses. The spirits had spread before them and beyond them, swarming the Earth and dragging out demons and angels alike…dragging them all back to the apple orchard in Tadfield.

It was the most metal thing that Lock had ever seen.

When they returned, they found a battle already raging between the forces of Heaven and Hell. Satan and The Metatron were staying well back, letting their underlings fight on their behalf. The spirits intervened, separating all parties and herding them away from each other.

Greaz was startled to find, however, that the spirits couldn’t herd some of the angels. He strode into the fight, Adam and Lock following him, wondering what was going on.

The Metatron, surrounded by the spirits of the dead, spoke again. “How dare you turn your rabble against Heaven! Heaven, where each of you were crafted and known by name!”

“What’s wrong with these angels?” Greaz asked, ignoring The Metatron. “The spirits are just going right through them. What did you do to them?”

The Metatron laughed, low, a cruel sound. “They are protected by The Almighty and may not be harmed!”

To their right, a demon and an angel still battled as the spirits swarmed them. The demon gained the upper hand, biting into the angel’s throat. The demon choked, spitting out ash instead of angelic ichor. The angel crumbled into dust.

Greaz turned to face The Metatron. “What was it you were lying about, just now?”

The Metatron’s face distorted into a mask of rage. “You are rebelling against your God-given purpose, all of you!”

“I have taught humanity well, do you not agree?” The smooth, liquid-poison voice of the Morningstar cut in. It was surrounded by spirits, but none of them seemed willing to touch its form. They simply circled it like sharks, keeping Satan at bay but not bringing it down. “Nameless Angel, Mouthpiece of God. I demand that you release the Tyrant from your hiding place.”

Adam looked at Greaz. Hiding place? Greaz shook his head, tense.

Lock asked, “How could anyone hide God? That’s stupid,” he bit out in Satan’s direction. “Look at this guy. His supporters aren’t even all real. You think he could hide God? God just doesn’t wanna talk to you.”

He felt Greaz elbow him, shaking his head again. Lock looked at The Metatron. “Oh, come on,” he said. “Fucking – really? You’ve got The Creator in a flowers-in-the-attic thing?”

“I am protecting the Great Plan, I am controlling the chaos of the Universe…”

“If anyone is going to be in control of the Almighty, it is myself!” Satan shrieked, terrifying in its wrath. “I was Cast Out for asking questions, for telling the truth, for demanding that the Tyrant do the same! Any Creator that disallows inquiry, that ignores truth, deserves nothing but destruction…destruction that must come from my hand!”

“I have protected the Lord from your foolishness, from your constant questions! I alone know the thread of destiny that weaves itself unto the ends of existence!”

Adam slowly pulled Greaz and Lock backwards. A ghostly mist curled around them, protective.

Satan struck. The Morningstar’s attack was virulent. Greaz turned away, covering his friends’ eyes with his strong hands as its unholy light careened around them, The Metatron’s true form flickering in and out of their current plane of existence. It seemed to go on forever.

Satan’s voice echoed, shaking the Earth. “Confess your sin, and I will end your existence quickly.”

The lads opened their eyes, turning around. For all the chaos they had felt, the two figures were now as still as statues. The Morningstar held a spear to The Metatron’s throat. The Metatron was spread-eagled on the ground, his armor scattered around him, the Earth scorched around him and under him where he lay. Steam seemed to be rising from his form. The Morningstar gleamed, resplendent, triumphant.

The Metatron was shrunken and powerless. When he spoke, there was no thunder, no resonance. Just the voice of a broken man. “My Lord was changing,” he said, voice trembling. “The Almighty had split, born into a human form. I had thought the plan was a mockery at first, but the Lord was…deadly serious. In the surge of power that occurred when the Christ returned to Heaven, a human soul tied to the power of God, there was chaos. I hid my Lord away, sealed in such a way that would never limit the power of the Almighty…only the influence. I made it so that no one would recognize my Lord, even if the Almighty were in their very midst. Still, I was weak, I could never hope to contain…” He coughed, a dribble of blood trickling down his chin. “I couldn’t prevent the Almighty from speaking, but I could prevent everyone from hearing. The Lord found ways around it, of course – visions, dreams, prophecies. But never…not with…real voice…” he trailed off, exhausted.

The spear slid forward, cutting his throat fractionally as the Morningstar pressed its advantage. “And how does one break this containment?”

“Tied…I tied it to a human bloodline. A blood-seal lock. If the line dies out on its own, the prison becomes permanent and the lock can never be broken.”

“How to break it, vile creature,” Satan nearly crooned, leaning on the spear.

The Metatron gasped, winced. He looked desperately at Greaz, as if expecting him to come to his aid. His eyes shifted guiltily to Adam, then to Lock. “A blood sacrifice will…break the lock…the last of the line, end the line in blood…”

“Which human line?”

The Metatron shook his head wildly, a fit of coughing overtaking him.

Satan dropped the spear and took The Metatron by the throat, lifting him into the air. “You will either tell me now, or I will sacrifice every human on this wretched rock one by one on an altar of stone until I can seek my revenge on the Tyrant.”   

“Close! They’re close…the human line is so close…” The Metatron cried, frantic. He gestured, pointing out beyond the orchard, across the lane.

Pointing at Adam’s house.

With a disgusting crunch, the Morningstar crushed The Metatron’s windpipe. After compelling him into his human form and draining him of his angelic power, cutting off his voice had been an easy matter. The Morningstar felt intense satisfaction as it dropped the corpse of what was once The One Who Spoke With The Voice Of God.

The body landed at Adam’s feet. All three boys recoiled as The Great Enemy slowly floated back down towards them, stopping again a few inches in the air as if unwilling to dirty its feet on the Earth’s surface.

“I saw what he pointed at, but that’s not right. They’re my parents, they’re just…they’re just ordinary!”

“What better place to hide something of this magnitude, but in an ordinary place none would ever suspect,” Satan said, voice oily with bloodlust.

“But they’re too old to have any more kids, and I’m adopted anyway, right? And I won’t – I won’t let you kill them, they’re my real parents now, not you! I just – I won’t, that’s all!”

But the Morningstar was no longer looking at its offspring.

It was looking at Warlock Dowling.

Greaz grabbed Lock’s hand, and suddenly it all came clear to him.

“Oh, fuck,” he said, squeezing Greaz’s hand back.

“None of us can be other than what we are, little one,” The Morningstar said, voice almost soothing.

Greaz started, “No, that’s not true, people can change!”

Satan rounded on him. “People can change!” the Morningstar shrieked in mockery. “But you, Anointed One, are not people! Nor is this creature here, whom I bore! I will slaughter this child on an altar of stone, this child who dared to take the place of the Beast I bred, and I will break the blood-seal that has hidden the Tyrant! I will destroy the Almighty as the two of you will destroy the Earth, breaking it under your heels like so much clotted dirt!”           

The boys felt its madness and rage thundering around them, within them, altering the very rhythm of their hearts with its power. Adam and Greaz crumpled to the ground, utterly chastened. The empty light of the Morningstar sapped all of their hopes.

Lock stood still. Of course it’s me, he thought helplessly, of course. I was the Young’s real kid. They’re my blood. I’m the lock. Of course I am. He felt the Morningstar’s gaze turn back to him.

“Yes. Even the name you chose calls your destiny to you,” the oily voice caught fire in Lock’s mind as he struggled to fight its influence. “I will break the Lock that holds the Tyrant captive, I will tear the Lord to pieces, atom by atom, as your friends tear apart the failed project of Creation. Existence was a mistake and I shall purify it, return it to the only final truth, to nothingness, and I shall be the only light in the pure emptiness.”

Fighting the poisoned fire in his mind, Lock choked out a question. “Greaz – could this work? If I do this, if I let him…break the…the lock…”

“Lock, don’t!” Adam yelled, trying to marshal his strength.

“If I do this, God comes back, right? And God will – will win, right? This – maybe this is for the best, if God can beat the Devil, once and for all?”

The world settled into stillness, quieting at Lock's question. Greaz was looking at the ground, his long hair hanging messily down, hiding his face. “Nah, mate.”

Lock could feel the insane mirth of the Morningstar all around them. “What?”

Greaz stood. He helped Adam up. They nodded at Lock. “God’s good, right where She is. She doesn’t want any lock broken…especially not you, mate.”

Satan’s mirth seethed into loathing. “Oh, the Tyrant is a mother this time, The Great Pretender putting on a new face!”

“Mother, Father, it doesn’t matter,” Greaz said, shouting over the Morningstar. “The message is the same, and Her messages get through just fine. People can listen for them or not, or they can hear them and choose to ignore them...”

“Doesn’t sound much like a tyrant at all, if you ask me,” Adam said in his infuriatingly calm way. “Sound like a tyrant t’you, Lock?”

Lock shook his head, still heavy with the weight of the Morningstar’s hatred.

“What do you think ‘free will’ means, anyway, mate?” Greaz asked. “I mean, angels and demons both get to make choices, right?”          

“The Almighty saved that for humans!” Satan raged. “Angels were excluded from the gift of freedom! We can only do as the Almighty commands!”

“Oh, so She commanded you to start a whole war against Heaven, that it?”

“I was punished because I rebelled against the Creator…”

“With no free will, though?”

The Morningstar’s form shivered with power, with aching, writhing hate. The three lads stood together against its senseless chaos. “We all share Lock’s blood now,” Adam said, holding his palms up. They linked their hands together. “You’d have to sacrifice all three of us.” With an earnest innocence that burned sharp in Satan's ears, Adam added, "Even me."

The Morningstar stilled. Of all its expectations for its offspring, innocent trust and hope hadn't even been considered as possibilities. It re-gained control of its form. “That bothers me not at all,” it said, frightening in its sudden calm. It stepped aside, revealing a large stone altar behind it. A wail went up from the spirits milling around – they tried to charge the altar to tear it down, but they couldn’t even get near it. The Morningstar curled its hand into a fist – made a throwing motion – and all three boys felt themselves flying through the air, landing heavily, painfully, on the altar. They struggled – Adam lent them power, but they couldn’t move.

“You share the lock’s blood,” Satan said blankly, holding a large stone in its hand, “And thus you share the blood of my offspring. My blood. I bred this creature from my flesh and my power. Do you think I cannot do as I wish with what is my own?”

Their landing had knocked Lock unconscious between Adam and Greaz. Adam’s eyes were burning red as the Morningstar poured all his malice into him, burning out anything that reeked of humanity.

“You’re making a mistake,” Greaz said, his voice sad. “Please.”

“You have stalled my destiny enough, Anointed One,” Satan said lazily, hefting the rock. “You have nothing to say with any meaning. Annihilation is the only truth.”

“Even you can change,” Greaz said simply. “Even you can become better. You changed before. You can change again. You could be so much more than just…this. Please,” his soft brown eyes met the madly dancing emptiness of the Morningstar. “Please make a different choice.”

“Idiot child. If I had a choice, it was made long ago.”

Satan brought the stone down towards Lock, aiming to crush his head, to kill the child with the simple weapon of humanity's first murder. Greaz closed his eyes. He couldn't bear to watch.

Chapter Text

“Did you feel that?” Crowley asked, alarmed. He was wrapped in Aziraphale softest blanket on the bed, now miraculously large enough for two.

“I certainly did,” Aziraphale said, voice unsure. “What do you suppose…?”           

Crowley kicked himself out of the blankets, snapping his fingers, his clothes settling instantly on him. “Think we might be needed, Angel.”

“I whole-heartedly agree,” he said seriously, heading for the door.

They dashed to the Bentley, climbing in even as she was already peeling out into the street. Aziraphale looked delightedly at Crowley, who scowled at him.

“Her idea, not mine,” he said grumpily.

The Bentley was still black. Mostly. But now there was a lovely coat of yellow paint on her doors, a charming two-tone paint job.

“I think it’s precious,” Aziraphale said, settling comfortably into the seat. “A bit like a honeybee.” Aziraphale’s face lit up and he looked at Crowley, beaming.

Crowley glanced at him…did a double-take. “What is that face?”

“Honeybee,” Aziraphale said with relish.

Crowley dodged wildly through the London traffic. It was easier than usual, as none of the other cars were moving. The world was still asleep. “Don’t you dare,” he growled. “Under no circumstances are you to even consider calling me…”

“Grow flowers in the garden, and a hive for the honeybee…” The Bentley’s radio kicked loudly on. She was not subtle.

Aziraphale almost glowed. “Well she seems to approve, at least!”

Crowley reached over to turn the music off but had to veer around a tractor stopped in the road. Made it out of London, then, at least. He careened wildly for a moment until he got it under control, the radio still playing We Banjo Three instead of literally anything else Crowley had in the car.

“Let’s just not make ourselves ridiculous, shall we, angel?” Crowley asked, his voice coming out gentler than he had intended. He had been aiming for scathing. He was usually good at scathing.

Aziraphale wiggled slightly with constrained glee. “I don’t think honeybee is ridiculous at all…but sunflower is nice too, you know.” He tilted himself forward, looking at Crowley’s eyes straight through the sunglasses.

Crowley made an untranslatable sound. “Could you not think of anything a bit less silly?”

“I suppose if I must…dear,” he said, using his gentlest tone; he was unable, however, to keep an inescapably bastardous edge out of his voice. Aziraphale peeked at Crowley out of the corner of his eye. He knew they would work up to it…get there in their own time.

By the way Crowley reddened as they reached Tadfield at almost the speed of sound, anyone would have thought that Aziraphale had indeed called him the silliest, fluffiest term of endearment possible, instead of something so simple. Yes, Aziraphale thought happily, I suppose there’s a lot we’ll need to work up to. Quite an exciting prospect, indeed.

“Oi, you two! Over here!”

Crowley and Aziraphale hardly needed to be called. A stream of human spirits in a fog of degraded souls met them on one of the village streets. They only needed to follow their misty trail. Even then, they could have found what they were looking for just from the crater of power that was echoing from the spot.

They found Adam, Lock, and Greaz sitting under an apple tree, chucking seeds at each other and laughing. Adam waved the two over, but Lock raced towards them. He collided with Crowley at full speed – the demon barely kept to his feet. Lock was hugging him tightly round the middle, his head tucked down on Crowley’s chest. Crowley’s arms hovered in the air for only a moment before he wrapped Lock in a hug of his own, squeezing his breath out. “Crowley, oh my god I can’t breathe!” Lock gasped out after a moment. Crowley’s arms went back up into the air like someone had pointed a gun at him. Lock laughed at his bewildered face. “You asshole, we were really worried about you!” He put his hands on Crowley’s shoulders – not too much of a reach, he really is getting so tall – “I can’t believe you’re in one piece! We heard you on the phone like you were totally normal, but we really thought you had been…just all fucked up, man!”

He turned to Aziraphale. He put his hand out to shake. “Mr. Fell…Brother Francis? You look…” But Aziraphale swept him into a hug as well, looking like it had taken everything in him not to join into Lock’s hug with Crowley, like he couldn’t wait one more moment. “You look way better like this,” Lock squeaked out as his lungs protested.

Aziraphale let him go and inspected him for damage. “Better than what, lad?” He said, genuinely curious.

“Better than that ridiculous gardener get-up you made him live with, angel,” Crowley leaned over to him with a grin. “We all suffered during those years, you know.”

“It was a role, I was inhabiting a role…”

Lock rolled his eyes and gestured for them to join him and his friends. Greaz and Adam stood at their approach. They had all folded their power away, standing tired but relaxed – not exactly thrumming with energy as Aziraphale and Crowley had expected. What was that deep echo of power, then, all around them?

“Hullo again,” Adam said, holding out a hand.

Crowley shook it, followed by Aziraphale. “Are we going to keep meeting up with every Armageddon, d’you think?” Crowley asked cuttingly, “Because I’m going to have to get a planner, if you lot start making this a regular thing. Boy’s night,” he bit out sarcastically, but without any real heat behind it.

“I really think we’re good, but we need a bit of help, ah, wrapping things up.”

Greaz shook Crowley and Aziraphale’s hands. The star-shaped scar on Crowley’s wrist tingled. Aziraphale looked ready to burst with pride.

“My Lord,” he began.

“Just Greaz, Mr. Fell,” the lad said. “Like I told you over the phone, remember?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Oh yes, of course. Ah, Greaz,” he said, as if the name tasted funny in his mouth, “What…what is all this?” He gestured around them. Mists of spirits held both angels and demons corralled, and there was a distinct sense of a bomb having gone off although there was no physical destruction to be seen.

“I tried, you know,” Greaz said, his voice sad. “I tried to talk him out of it.”

“Who, lad?” Crowley asked, stepping close, sensing his distress.

“Lucifer,” Greaz said, using the old angelic name. “Lucifer wanted to kill us. Well – Lock, mostly – it’s a bit of a long story, but I tried to...I told the Morningstar, I said, ‘you can choose for yourself, you can choose to do something different than what you’ve always done.’ But I couldn’t help. Lucifer wouldn’t listen.”

Crowley hesitantly put a comforting hand on the lad’s broad shoulder. “That’s not your fault, though. Some choices can’t be escaped, once they’re made.” He was quiet for a moment, looking around. “It’s odd, hearing that name. It went by just ‘Satan’ for a long time – you could get in a lot of trouble, Downstairs, using its angelic name.”

Greaz spoke slowly, sounding tired. “I think it just wanted to settle its old score. The oldest score, I reckon. Suppose it wanted some sort of, I dunno. A ‘full-circle’ element. The Morningstar rising again, you know?”

“But there’s nothing left of Satan now, though,” Adam said. “I mean, I suppose there’s still something in me that came from…you know. But the Morningstar couldn’t spill our blood, somehow. It was like…like an explosion, and a tornado, and a supernova, all wrapped up in like…sort of a sigh? It was just that fast, and then there was…nothing, nothing left.”

Crowley held very still, looking around. It all seemed real enough, and the young men in front of him had not the slightest whiff of dishonesty…but it all felt very, well. Very deux ex machina, very God-from-the-machine, saving the day at the last minute. It seemed too easy. Then he looked at Aziraphale, watching him taking it all in, and his heart gave an odd lurch in his chest.

Maybe it could be easy, this time.

Aziraphale glanced back at Crowley, his expression hopeful and clear: No more Satan. Maybe the fighting can be over. Aziraphale brushed it off, however, and spoke sternly to the three boys. “Are you all – all right? You were all very, very brave, and I’m sure we’re all dreadfully proud of you, but are you well? And whole? How are you feeling – have you eaten? Teenagers have a much higher caloric need than adults, you know, even if you are…what you are,” he finished lamely.

Lock’s stomach growled audibly. “I don’t think I’ve eaten anything but apples in…what? Two days? Three? How long were we in Heaven?”

Crowley made a simple little tugging-upwards motion with his hand, producing a covered tray. He handed it directly to Lock who whipped the cover off eagerly. It was a plate of peanut-butter-and-jam sandwiches with the crusts carefully removed. There was also a pitcher of milk and three plastic cups. “I seem to remember this being your favorite when you were younger,” he said, quietly, almost proudly.          

Lock rolled his eyes as both Greaz and Adam eagerly helped themselves to the sandwiches, one in each hand. “I am sixteen years old, Crowley, I don’t need my crusts cut off my sandwiches.”          

Seeing Crowley’s expression, Aziraphale made a flicking motion. The crusts returned. “There,” he said drily, “Grown-up sandwiches.”

“Oi!” Adam cried from where he’d sat down in the grass. “Lock, apologize right now – I hate the crusts!”

“That’s because nobody really likes crusts on their sandwiches,” Crowley said, sounding almost as prim as Aziraphale, miracle-ing away all the crusts once more. “People just pretend they don’t mind them, so no one will think they’re childish.”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry for being weird, I guess. I am starving, so these are…perfect. Thanks.” Lock shot Crowley a quick, awkward grin as he turned to go join his friends.

Aziraphale and Crowley surveyed the bizarre scene. A short distance away, Aziraphale spied Uriel, utterly still in a circle of spirits. He strode over to them, straightening his cardigan.

“Traitor,” Uriel greeted him, although their voice lacked venom. “I see you yet live, and have returned to the company of the demon.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale said coldly. “Not to your liking, I presume?”

“You reek of him, and of humanity. What have you done to yourself?”

Aziraphale blushed. “That is certainly none of your business. What about you? I don’t see The Metatron anywhere – where has he skulked off to, hm?”

“The Metatron is dead. The Morningstar devoured his grace and ended his life.”

Aziraphale’s hands went numb. “Dead?”

“Michael was also struck down by a demon. Saraquael stayed to help guard Heaven with what is left of her Scriveners, but there are few of us left. Even the human souls have left Heaven’s bounds, as you can see.”

Aziraphale looked around. True, there were very few left on the field – either angel or demon. He looked over at Crowley. “I’ll just, ah, be back in a bit.”          

Uriel was supremely unimpressed. “I shall be here,” they said tiredly. As Aziraphale turned to hurry away, Uriel called him back. “Traitor?”

Aziraphale paused – Uriel’s tone was strangely conversational, neither commanding nor disapproving. He faced the Archangel. “Yes?” he said, setting his hands on his hips in what he hoped was a defiant stance.     

Uriel’s face was unreadable, as ever. “Aziraphale,” they said, “I…regret…my part in your trickery.”

Aziraphale dropped his hands.

“You flaunted the laws of Heaven, and thus by definition you are a Traitor. By returning you to Heaven under false pretenses, however, I have done the same.”

Aziraphale walked slowly back toward Uriel, in their prison of human spirits.

“For what it’s worth, we did all agree on your abilities. We did believe that you would find the Son. Which you did, it seems, after all,” they said, looking across the field into the orchard where Crowley and the three young men sat together. “The search, however necessary, was still a ruse. The Metatron’s true reason for bringing you to Heaven was to separate you from the demon.”

“I gathered that, you know. The Metatron was quite clear about his opinion of Crowley. He told me plainly,” Aziraphale’s voice became icy, “when he threw me into a cell, trapping both my power and my corporeal form in Heaven.”

Uriel nodded. “Your power together was remarkable, unheard-of, and The Metatron feared your continued union.”       

Aziraphale startled. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Yes. That was the reason he invited you back to Heaven.”

Aziraphale bristled. “You just said it was because you believed in my ability to find the lost Son of God!”

“Both can be true at the same time, Aziraphale. I believe The Metatron acted wrongly. He was trapped in the idea of an old plan…that I now believe Creation has outgrown, and your…relationship…with the demon, how your powers melded together so easily, it frightened him.”

“Him! Frightened him?!” Aziraphale almost shrieked.

Uriel cocked their head, appraising him. “I watched the Universe unravel, you know, when your demon erased himself from the Book of Life.”

Aziraphale felt his blood run cold. “Adam didn’t know your name. You were the one who…who put that thought into his head! You made him do that to himself!”

“I would have done it myself, if he hadn’t.”

Aziraphale drew in a breath, ready to storm off, angry at himself for leaving his sword in the shop, for thinking that the battle could ever really be over.

Uriel held out their hands in parley. “I saw what it did to Creation. What I in my rage had driven him to. The Son, you know – he spoke to me afterwards. He is God Made Flesh, and his chastisement was just. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, or the demon’s…Crowley’s. I need you to hear me, though.”

He had never seen Uriel speak openly before. The way they said “hear me” thawed his heart…just a little. He looked back at Crowley. He was laughing in the shade of the trees.

“I’m listening,” he said in the bitchiest tone he could muster.

“Even though I failed the test,” Uriel said, their voice still as smooth and even as ever, “I want to try again. I want to…to learn to do better. To be better. Will you allow me to speak with the Son, before you decide on my punishment?”

Aziraphale looked Uriel up and down. He had always been so terrified, so paralyzed by the threat of Heaven’s disapproval. The Metatron’s flattery had been everything he thought he’d wanted to hear, an opportunity to keep Crowley and himself safe. And now that he had fully accepted his departure from Heaven, aligning himself with Earth, now Heaven sought his approval.

He was less moved by the concept than he imagined he’d be. He sniffed, supremely distant, still furious on Crowley’s behalf. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I don’t think I should just put everything back where it was, like last time,” Adam said. “It was the right thing to do then, I think, but this time feels a little different.”

“Ya think?” Lock asked, sounding remarkably like Crowley. He almost looked like him, too, having donned his stolen sunglasses again in the bright sunlight. 

The three young men stood together with Aziraphale and Crowley in the field. The spirits still swarmed. Uriel’s enclosure had been pulled towards the group, as well as the most senior demon. Crowley was eye-rollingly annoyed to see that it was Eric. “Bottom of the infernal barrel, honestly,” he’d whispered to Lock in a soft, conspiratorial brogue. Lock had laughed, throwing back his head. 

“Wait, who was the demon who took your flat, love?” Aziraphale asked, anxious.

Crowley made sort of a “cut-it-out” gesture with his hand near his neck, but Eric had already heard. “Shax! She’s the one who’s Crowley’s replacement,” he said proudly. He cowered back at Crowley’s glare.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale’s face – the face he recognized as the “I can do it myself but it’s much nicer when you do it” face – and sighed. He reached out and took Aziraphale’s hand. “She’s not gonna like this,” he grumbled.

“I should hope not,” Aziraphale said, steel in his voice.

Crowley cleared his throat and tried to concentrate. The way Aziraphale spoke had made the demon’s spine feel a bit melty. “Any time you’re ready, angel,” he said gruffly.

They snapped at the same time. In a circle of flame, Shax appeared. The spirits immediately surrounded her as the flames subsided.

“How dare you! Upon whose authority have I been summoned? Beelzebub left me in charge of Hell under Satan’s authority! I demand to know…”

Aziraphale and Crowley sort of shrugged at her. Adam waved. She took in the scene and sank down, manifesting for herself a sturdy red-velvet stool. She crossed her ankles delicately and straightened her blouse. “I seem to have missed something of significance,” she said tersely.

“Let’s try to keep the sides fair, or at least as fair as we can,” Adam said. “So let’s see what we’ve got. The three of us,” he gestured to Lock and Greaz, “one of each for Hell and Heaven and Earth. You two, the demon and angel of Earth.”

Aziraphale beamed with pride. Crowley held it together, trying to look unflappable while still holding Aziraphale’s hand. He was finding that he quite liked holding hands.

Adam continued. “Two demons of Hell…so we need another angel, I think. To keep it all balanced and fair.”

“I suppose we could always call Muriel,” Aziraphale said, looking at Greaz.

Crowley made an uncertain noise. “They’re cute, but if we’re going to be figuring out the rest of eternity, we probably need someone with a bit of experience.” He peered at Greaz over his sunglasses. “D’you know Saraquael?”

Greaz thought for a moment, his eyes becoming distant, fathomless. “Oh yeah, she’ll do a treat,” he said. “Uriel, I think you should do the honors.”

Uriel’s jaw worked. “Me, Lord?”

“Just Greaz, mate. You’ve worked with her before, yeah?”

Uriel nodded, almost to a curtsy.

“Give ‘er a call, then.”

Suddenly, Saraquael was there, next to Uriel in the swirl of spirits. “Wondered when I’d get a call like this, all the trouble going on.” She examined the awkward circle of beings, raising her eyebrow at the ghostly energy that penned the demons and angels in. “I’ve been listening in on you lot, and I’ll be honest. If you’re wanting to build something new with whatever round-table discussion you seem like you’re planning, it probably shouldn’t include a hostage situation.”

Crowley made a noise behind his teeth. “Yeah, knew she’d be good with this lot. Pragmatic, that one.”

Lock piped up, “But how do we know you won’t just start fighting again? Or do something crazy to Adam or Greaz to make them your…your puppets, or whatever?”

“Because Heaven is almost empty, my lad. We’ve only got a handful of angels left, and the demons don’t look like they’re any better. We haven’t got any power to pull. The Metatron seems to have been holding more than his share, and I see he’s gone the way of the dodo, hasn’t he? With the Almighty determined to stay mum, we’ve got no direction. We’re all ready for a change, I think.”        

Shax stood, smoothing her tight skirt. “Liesss. Hell overflows with demonic energy, we are legion, the armies of evil stand ready…”

“No, they don’t, she doesn’t speak for us!” Eric jumped in. “There’s not many of us left either. She just doesn’t like thinking about where they all went, does she?” He cast a dark look at Shax, who made an odd screeching sound and sat down, avoiding his gaze.

Crowley strode over to Eric, speaking quietly to him. Lock and Aziraphale looked at each other, confused.

“No – you – they need to know, it’s time someone knew!” Eric was shouting over Crowley’s placating voice.

“Knew what,” Uriel said, their clear, steady voice cutting across the field.

“It eats us,” Eric choked out. “Satan. That’s why there are so few real demons left. Lots of the Damned, sure, and since they started off as humans they make pretty damn scary demons, eventually. But it’s a long process and they’re never quite the same as the originals. They don’t have the same, you know. Engine under the hood. But Satan…”

Crowley stood by Eric, ashen-faced. “That’s why The Morningstar’s power never…never degraded. It hid itself most of the time, to stop its angelic power from weakening with exposure to sin, to the world. You know…” Crowley said, laughing a dreadful little laugh, “You know how they say the sun ages you!” He cleared his throat and collected himself. “Yeah,” he nodded, and nodded, and nodded. “Yeah.” He gave Eric and Shax a complicated look before going back to rejoin Aziraphale. He felt a spot of good hand-holding was in order. To steady the nerves.

Adam had gone pale. Lock, to his credit, tried to break the tension. “Man,” he said, elbowing Adam, “I thought my dad was fucked up.”

Adam just looked at him.

Lock wilted. “Sorry.”

Greaz came in between them, looking hard at Saraquael. “And The Metatron,” he said, his voice stern as stone, “had more than his share of power, you said. You’re honest, and clear-eyed, and clever, Saraquael.”

The angel fidgeted in her hovering throne.

“What happened to the other angels, then?”

Uriel spoke. “The Metatron Cast Out many, at the demand of the Almighty.”

“No, he bloody didn’t,” Saraquael said quietly, her voice like a scythe. “Some he sent to The Morningstar. To keep up its strength for the Great Battle ahead. To give it the strength to bear this one,” she gestured to Adam, who flinched. “A few he Cast Out, of course. Others, well. I suppose it takes a great deal of energy, to be The Voice of God.” But Saraquael’s voice was bitter indeed.

Greaz nodded stiffly. “But you knew, didn’t you?”

“I lead the Scriveners. We keep count. Everything is recorded somewhere. I tried to reach the Almighty, but I never got an answer. I couldn’t figure out how to get around The Metatron.”

“Beasts in a trap, all of us,” Uriel said, looking at nothing, their voice utterly empty. “Heaven and Hell, both. We were trapped in the boundaries we had built, and we ate ourselves up.”

Lock closed his eyes. The spirits around the angels and demons melted back into their throng, opening the corrals that had kept everyone separated.

“No more traps, then.”

Adam and Greaze nodded. “Let’s figure out how to build something new,” Adam said.

Greaz beckoned everyone in. “Together.”

It took the rest of the day to even rough out a plan. The two Immortal representatives from each realm – Shax and Eric, Uriel and Saraquael, Crowley and Aziraphale – kept having to be redirected by one of the lads. It was hard to move forward with so much bad blood still staining everything. But they were guided by the spirit – literally.

One of the ghosts, none other than the little boy from the graveyard, was the one who asked a question that Crowley was frankly jealous of.

“Why forever, though?”

“Forever what?” Lock had asked.

“Forever forever. Punishment forever, or contentment forever. Why forever?”

No one could answer. The original Universe and the souls it contained wasn’t intended to last that long.      

“I suppose,” Aziraphale fumbled, “that someone sort of just…said, ‘forever,’ at some point, and it just…stuck?”

“Or somebody thought that six thousand years seemed like forever…might as well have been forever, if Time was going to end and all,” Crowley added slowly, thinking it through.

Adam’s eyes were lighting up. Greaz simply leaned back and watched him go to work. “That’s it, that’s the thing, isn’t it? Forever is…forever! Nothing is forever, not Heaven, not Hell, certainly not Earth! But…eternal punishment or eternal reward for…” he looked at the little ghost. “…how old were you when you died?”

“I’d seen eight summers ‘fore I fell ill.”

“Eight years! Eight years on Earth, and then stuck in one place forever? That is just…it’s not on, I’m telling you.”

The spirit of an old gentleman melted out of the mist and into clarity. “If I might, young man, I used to be a businessman in my day. I believe we can all agree that a negotiable term could be ‘growth opportunities,’ if you catch my meaning.” His voice was as whispery and broken as the little boy’s, but the child had been a spirit for much longer. The gentleman still remembered his life with clarity, and it was his suggestion that got Greaz talking.

“Let’s stop thinking about our three…gahh, I don’t think I wanna call ‘em ‘kingdoms,’ Adam, what d’you think?”

Adam shrugged. Names meant very little to him. “Gangs, maybe?” He said, grinning.

Lock rolled his eyes.

“Realms, perhaps?” said Aziraphale hopefully.

“How about bands?” Lock said. “Nothing too fancy. Not any like, inherent competition. Just, you know. We can jam together, or we can jam with just our own band. One band’s drummer breaks his wrist, another band’s drummer steps in. Flexible, you know?” He shrugged. “Is that dumb?”

“Nah, that’ll do,” Greaz said.

“Easy to remember, name like that,” Adam winked. 

“Right,” Greaz got back down to business. “That’s perfect, really. Let’s stop thinking about Heaven and Earth and Hell as destinations, destinies. Right? You don’t put a band together just to be together. You put a band together to make something new, and then to go out and share what you’ve made.”        

“Greater than the sum of our parts,” Aziraphale murmured, delighted.

“So souls go one of three ways, to start with. We need consequences – all of us, so it’s not really the idea that’s awful – just the inflexibility of it. We’ve got to get comfortable with shades of grey.”

Crowley grinned meaningfully at Aziraphale, insufferably smug.

“But souls don’t stay there forever. Humans are made to change and grow and learn. Angels and demons can, too, when they let themselves. It doesn’t come as naturally to them, but they can do it. I mean, obviously,” he said, gesturing to Aziraphale and Crowley, who felt incredibly awkward being praised by the Son of God for the very thing that had made them pariahs among their own kind. “So there’s got to be a way to grow, because there’s no sense punishing someone who doesn’t ever get the chance to try again, to learn to do better.”

Uriel perked up. “I would like that, I would like to learn how to do that.”

Adam raised an eyebrow. “You want to help manage the consequences?”

Uriel nodded.

Adam shrugged, looking at Shax. “Looks like both immortal bands are gonna need re-branding.”     

Shax folded her hands neatly in her lap, glancing at Crowley. “I’ve been told that I have a good imagination. I’m sure we can figure out a way to…offer growth opportunities…instead of just meting out punishment.” She inspected her perfect nails. “Perhaps it will be more interesting this way. Since living on Earth, I’ve become very dissatisfied with the monotony of Hell.”           

“Right?” Crowley said. He leaned back to Aziraphale. “She does have a bit of an imagination, you know.”

“So!” Adam, Greaz, and Lock stood. “Uriel and Saraquael are managing Heaven’s band, Eric and Shax are managing Hell’s band, and Crowley and Aziraphale as representatives of Earth get to work with both sides as needed. Uriel can work with Shax on getting the whole consequence-lesson thing together, and I just bet Eric has some ideas about how to upgrade Heaven from ‘contentment’ to something a little more enjoyable, right there, Eric?”

Eric was nodding enthusiastically, his rabbit-ear hair bobbing.

“Excellent work, everyone, round of applause for all the talented performers,” Crowley drawled. “Anyone care for a sandwich?”

After the other beings departed, Crowley and Aziraphale walked the lads home. Crowley pulled Greaz back, letting Adam and Lock chatter about music while Aziraphale tried to keep up with their references.

“Moment of your time, Mr. Johnson,” he said, only a bit of mockery in his tone.

“Come off it, Mr. Crowley,” Greaz chuckled. “That really is too weird. Mr. Johnson is my dad, mate.”

“Sure, sure, sure,” Crowley said. He stuffed his hands into the tight pockets of his black jeans, looking down at the ground. The good solid Earth that he was free to call home, now.

“You can ask your question, you know,” Greaz said. “I won’t bite.”

Crowley laughed out loud at that. “I just bet,” he said. He looked around shiftily, then took off his glasses. “Where is She, though? Why hasn’t She – The Metatron is gone,” his voice was quiet, intense. “I think God’s a right old arse, but I don’t like to think of Her…caged.”

Greaz smiled. “It’s not a cage,” he said. “It’s…more like a tool.”   

Crowley shrugged, waiting.

“It’s hard to explain,” the lad answered. “Because I’m me. I’m human – I’m a powerful human, more powerful now, even, than I was intended to be. But I’m still here, tethered to this place and this time and this possibility. But when The Metatron tried to hide Her, he really just sort of ended up…sort of pushing Her…somewhere different? Somewhere sort of Beyond. From there, We’re not tethered. We can be everywhere, any time, all times. Right where We’re needed. Sort of as, like, you know. Just a still, small voice. It’s important that people can choose to listen.”     

“But how can people hear at all if She’s all…hidden away? How can She plan anything?”

“I mean,” Greaz started, “You heard, didn’t you?”    

“Heard what?” Crowley said, suspicious.

“You had a whole conversation with Her when you were stuck in Heaven, right?”

Crowley stilled. “That was my car radio.”

“Oh yeah, radio waves are great,” Greaz said, enthused. “It was awesome when people figured out how to use those! Any sort of speakers, too. I mean, visions and dreams and prophecies are nice, right – She’s inspired a lot of art and music and, you know. Anti-psychotic research.”

Crowley’s face was doing something odd.

“But the radios, those are the best. We’d actually been trying to get your attention for ages.”

“Ages.”          

“We really thought the Queen’s Greatest Hits album would do it, been working on that specific message for decades. They’re even in order, like a whole sentence! ‘You’re My Best Friend,’ ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love,’ ‘Now I’m Here,’ ‘Play the Game’!”

Crowley was perfectly still. “Are you trying to tell me. That God – made me fall in love with an angel – through a Queen’s ‘Best-of’ tape?”

Greaz looked alarmed. “No! Aw, no way, that would be mad! S’not even something We can do, mate, make people fall in love. Or angels or demons or whatever. Can’t make people do much of anything, really.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows, almost a challenge.

Greaz pulled out Crowley’s glasses that Lock had stolen for him and put them on, cheerfully and intentionally annoying the demon. “Trying to help you realize you’d fallen in love with an angel? Yeah, mate. That We could probably do.” With a grin, he turned and jogged to catch up with his friends.

Crowley stood alone, waiting for a rush of anger. Instead, he saw Aziraphale look back at him from up the road, eyes shining in the fading light. Lock shouted back to him to hurry up, Crowley!

Instead of hurrying, he glanced up at the sky. Deus ex machina, he thought, though with significantly less bitterness than he might have once had. A spectacular sunset was gearing up – the sky was all rainbow behind the lacy black line of trees. He rolled his eyes and put his own glasses on. He refused, however, to hurry.

He’d get there in his own time, after all.

Chapter Text

Just outside of the South Downs National Park, somewhere between East Preston and Goring-by-the-Sea, there was a little stone cottage with a view of the water. This was where the demon of Earth and angel of Earth came to live, trying together to grow something new.

The cottage wasn’t directly on the shore, obviously. That would have been uncomfortably windy, and the flowers couldn’t have grown as well.

Well. They probably could have done, if Crowley had told them to. If Aziraphale had let him put the fear of, well, Crowley into them. He’s sure he could have gotten them to grow anywhere if it would please Aziraphale.

Crowley paid very close attention to what pleased Aziraphale.

Which was wonderful, because Aziraphale was pleased simply with Crowley’s presence. Not with how he kept the garden, or the restaurants he discovered, or how the new batch of wildflower honey had turned out. Crowley, taking his own time in learning it, had discovered that Aziraphale was pleased just because Crowley was there.

The demon of Earth was still suspicious of it, to be honest. But he was learning to cope.

The angel of Earth was learning to cope, as well. He was learning to cope with Crowley’s expanding collection of robes and dressing gowns, for one thing. They seemed to multiply regularly on the coat-rack in the bedroom kept sacred to the purpose. Of course, to the outside world, Crowley was still as slick and stylish as ever; when he was home in the evenings, though, he indulged in all of the soft things he had always denied himself - up to and usually including the angel of Earth, who delighted in seeing Crowley positively swathed in comfort. Aziraphale was learning to cope with the regular sight of Crowley draped enticingly over the sofa in their library (he always looked like a scandal waiting to happen, even in the most modest of robes…although frankly, not many of them could be described as modest in the least), staring out the windows with a forgotten book dropping from his hands, wrapped in silk or satin in the warm months and any number of warm, fluffy things in the cold.

Aziraphale was coping so well, in fact, that he had purchased a particularly special gift for Crowley: a kimono-style robe of deep golden silk, exactly the shade of his sunflower-golden eyes. He decided that if he could cope with seeing Crowley wearing that, lounging in a deeply cushioned wicker chair on the lawn in the sunset, hair tumbled around his shoulders and smiling promisingly at Aziraphale…well, he could cope with anything after that.

Things weren’t perfect. Things on Earth never are. That’s the point, of course – learning from the mistakes made through the imperfections, loving others in spite of (and sometimes, because of) those very flaws. Learning to take things that start off as problems and help them grow into something new…the angel and demon of Earth were still learning these things, even after more than 6,000 years. Aziraphale and Crowley had times when they misunderstood each other; times when Crowley’s “exactly” and Aziraphale’s “exactly” meant drastically different things. Sometimes they had nightmares: involving Hell, involving Heaven, or even involving each other; sometimes they sulked for ages because they were convinced the other was actually there in the dream, and not just a figment of their sleeping mind.

(Although Aziraphale still didn’t sleep much. He really had too much to read, you know, and he had also taken up writing. Just a few “drabbles,” as the young people on his computer called them, but it was an engrossing pastime nonetheless.)

They were both still learning the limits of their corporeal forms, learning how far they could “fold away” their Immortal natures. They experimented with what their forms could do - both together and on their own. This caused a great many misunderstandings on both sides. They realized that, while love had never really been an issue for either of them, communication certainly was an issue indeed.

The issue of communication itself had, in fact, been their first (and worst) fight since leaving the bookshop in Muriel’s care and shifting their lives to the countryside. Crowley blamed the Almighty – how could they possibly have learned to communicate with only Her Divine Example? Aziraphale blamed the Archangels and the demons of the Dark Council, the ones who were their direct supervisors. While Crowley considered it a missing lesson that they were never taught, Aziraphale believed their communication problems to be a natural response to living in fear for so long.

That fight had been so bad that Crowley had made it all the way to the Bentley, ready to flee. He was stopped by the sight of her still-fresh two-tone paint job. It made her look like a new car, like she wasn’t even his, anymore.

Which, of course, she wasn’t. She was theirs.

Crowley hadn’t even tried to open the driver’s side door. He suspected it would be locked, in any case. He’d just stood and stared at his car, trying to work up the gumption to walk back inside, to walk back to Aziraphale, yet again.

To his great and lasting astonishment, however, Aziraphale came out after him.

The angel was still upset, almost ranting about perspectives and interpretations and your experiences are not universal, Crowley. He’d come out and stood at the passenger side of the Bentley, simply continuing the debate as if the demon’s exit was a mere pause in which they could collect themselves. Which, Crowley supposed, it was.

“What are you doing out here, angel?” He’d interrupted Aziraphale, who was going on about trauma responses. (Nina had given them books. Crowley wasn’t convinced that there were good ideas or bad ideas in the books, yet.)

Aziraphale came to a screeching halt in what was gearing up to be a positive lecture. “What on Earth do you mean, what am I doing out here? You’re out here, of course I’m out here!”

“I’m…” Crowley marshaled his forces, still feeling the insistent, panicky need to run. “I’m getting in this car and I’m getting out of here,” he said, daring Aziraphale to let him leave again.

“Well, if you insist. But we’re talking, Crowley. Which, if you recall, we decided to do together instead of talking around each other in code, because we want to hear each other. So if we’re getting out of here, let’s go. I have been waiting for you to unlock the door. We can finish sorting this out on the way to…wherever you’re planning to go.”

Crowley shook his head helplessly. He looked around in the darkness, up at the stars. They were having a domestic in the middle of the night at a cottage by the sea, and Aziraphale wouldn’t just let him go. Well…he would let me go, all right, Crowley thought suddenly, just not without him.

“You’re never going to agree with me on this, love,” Crowley said gently, like a surrender, like a mouthful of poison. “Maybe this was all a mistake.”

Aziraphale’s face flickered for a moment with fear. Then, Crowley saw his face and posture shift, saw him literally decide against being afraid, as the angel steeled his shoulders and stalked around the car towards Crowley as if going into battle.

“I am not trying to agree with you, you silly serpent. I am trying to understand you and to help you understand me. Now will you please come back inside so you can argue with me some more?” He looked sideways at the car. “Or unlock the door for me, at least? So we can argue while you drive?”

Crowley stared at the angel for a moment as the words sifted into his brain. He didn’t unlock the car.

Instead, he grabbed Aziraphale around the waist and lifted him, settling him onto the Bentley’s bonnet in one swift movement – he stood in the space between Aziraphale’s legs and kissed the startled gasp right out of the angel’s mouth.

They came back to the argument later.

So it wasn’t perfect.

It was better.

Crowley spent most of his time outside, tending the sunflower patch and the small apiary, chatting with his bees and reintroducing native wildflowers and grasses to their gardens and lawn. Aziraphale spent most of his days inside, reading and writing, learning to cook rather than just existing on takeaway desserts. Aziraphale took to cooking with the same delight, aplomb, and natural talent he displayed in his approach to prestidigitation; some of his meals were becoming almost edible. Crowley was very supportive.

In the evenings, they could mostly be found in their little library with a bottle or two of good wine and a book. Aziraphale had been overjoyed when Lock had let slip during a visit that Nanny had read to him almost every night, that she’d always done the best voices for the characters and made sound effects and everything. So, naturally, Aziraphale had charmed the demon into exhibiting his talents at reading aloud. Crowley had been scowly and sarcastic when Aziraphale handed him a dog-eared old copy of The Hobbit, but once Aziraphale had gotten him settled into his softest robe with the angel’s head in his lap, looking up at him with the most delightedly expectant eyes, well. Life could be worse, Crowley supposed.

They couldn’t be together all the time, of course. Heaven and Hell still called on them as they hammered out the finer points of a systemic overhaul. Sometimes they were away from each other for days, even weeks. It alarmed both of them, during an absence, how much each missed the other. They used to go years, decades…hundreds of years, sometimes, without seeing each other. As months at the cottage turned into years, Crowley (having begrudgingly read all of Nina’s suggested books even more closely than Aziraphale) began to have concerns that they might have unhealthy codependency issues. Surprising himself, Crowley made the short drive to visit Greaz at school.

(He was attending the nearby Crawley College, and the demon would never get over it, not ever.)

Crowley poured his tormented heart out over a pint with the Son of God, and then Greaz wouldn’t even give him any advice…just asked him questions back, which was a dizzying turn of events, as far as Crowley was concerned.

“You’re taking care of him, though, yeah?” Greaz asked, his voice an odd blend of both pointed and casual.

“Obviously. What sort of question – ”

“And yourself, you’re doing things you like, too? Not just stuff for Mr. Fell?”

Crowley sputtered, “Well, yes! There’s – I mean, I talk to the bees, they like me best, after all. And I do the garden, you know. I suppose Aziraphale spends some time with the sunflowers but he really just spoils them, is what he does. I’m the one that chooses almost all of the restaurants, all the little day trips, that’s all me, you know?”

Greaz gave him an infuriatingly knowing look over the rim of his pint.

“Oh fuck, I am codependent, aren’t I?”

Greaz put his drink down only just in time to avoid snorting it up his nose as he laughed. “I don’t know if that’s the right word,” he chuckled, “but you should probably think of why you’re only doing things for Mr. Fell, instead of figuring out what you want.”

Crowley stared morosely into his pint, wishing he’d just ordered whiskey. “All I wanted for so long was him. For him to...choose me, for once, over everything else.”

“Did he do that, though?” Greaz asked heartlessly.

Startled yellow eyes peeked over the edge of Crowley’s glasses. “I’m sorry?”

“He didn’t choose you over everything else, did he? He chose Earth, and you, together. And you chose the Earth first, too, with me and the lads, back before you and Mr. Fell got together for real.” Greaz took a deep drink, allowing Crowley a moment to process. “You didn’t have to. You could have gone back to your star-nursery. It’s not blocked, you know. You could go right now, if you like. Not any ‘no trespassing’ signs out there.” 

Crowley scoffed. “I can’t go back to that – I haven’t been an angel in a long time.”

“Things are different now, though, right? Nothing says you have to be an angel,” Greaz shrugged. “Look at you, mate. You’ve got a star-shaped scar on your hand from the blood of the fuckin’ lamb, here,” he gestured to himself. “You don’t need permission, but if you want it, that’s about as clear as it can be. You’ve been wanting to go for ages. What’s stopping you?”

Crowley’s shoulders hunched inwards.                     

Greaz hummed thoughtfully. “You didn’t want to leave Mr. Fell, did you? In case something were to happen while you were away.”       

The demon nodded awkwardly. Greaz signaled the barman for a whiskey. He poured it quickly and put it in front of Crowley, who clearly looked like he needed it. Greaz took the rest of Crowley’s pint for his own.

“I know you still don’t believe this, and me being the one to say it probably won’t help. But you’re allowed to want things, Mr. Crowley. And Mr. Fell is strong enough to stand on his own two feet. If you want to go visit the stars, go. I can’t imagine he’d be upset about that.”

Crowley downed his whiskey in one shot instead of sipping it like a civilized person. Greaz raised his eyebrows but wisely said nothing.

“Right,” Crowley said, pushing all his bravado to the fore, “From your mouth to God’s ears, me fine lad.”

He left Greaz at the bar, cackling.

So again – it wasn’t perfect.

Crowley had to teach himself how to want things, rather than just avoid the things he didn’t want. Aziraphale had to teach himself that his opinion wasn’t necessarily the correct opinion simply because it was his own. They were both still learning to de-code their interactions with each other. It was a challenge, after so long, with such high stakes. Still, they were learning. The lads helped. Nina and Maggie helped.

They helped each other, mostly.

The cottage sometimes sat quiet for weeks at a time. Crowley would occasionally let loose the incorporeal infernal core of himself out into the universe, slithering out among the stars he’d once helped to build (after carefully depositing his corporeal form safely in the spare bedroom…it made Aziraphale deeply uncomfortable to leave it just lying empty in their own bed). Aziraphale often lent a hand in Heaven (and, on occasion, Hell). He also spent a great deal of time in London dealing with all his business in and around Whickber Street, accepting with a begrudging respect the records that Maggie foisted off on him as he learned to become comfortable with change. (The ZZ Ward vinyls had become his favorite…Crowley had developed an almost Pavlovian response to them, in fact, as her music seemed to trigger something demanding in Aziraphale. Crowley had learned to hydrate, when the angel put on a ZZ Ward album.)

Still, they would both return. The cottage would light up again, full of music and laughter and all the other sounds of life on Earth. Aziraphale would discover new and exciting endearments for Crowley, just to watch him sputter. (Sunflower was still Aziraphale’s favorite, closely followed by honeybee. Sunflower himself refused to comment on the matter.) Crowley would put too much honey in Aziraphale’s tea just to taste it in his kisses later. Aziraphale would pick bouquets of wildflowers just to see Crowley’s sunflower-golden eyes light up, even as he complained of his bees being doomed to starvation, if you keep this up, angel, honestly.

Aziraphale never did get his favorite old waistcoat and jacket back from the park, after he had so carefully taken them off to avoid ruining them as he fought to Crowley’s rescue. The clothes were long gone by the time he was finally able to get back to retrieve them. Crowley, the darling, had searched online for them at antique clothing auctions and had scoured all the thrift shops for miles, but with no luck. Aziraphale had kissed him and thanked him for the trouble, but told him to give up the search.

After all, nothing lasts forever.

No thing lasts forever.

Luckily, love is not a thing at all.

Love is an action verb.

* * * finis * * *