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Chapter Text

Crowley

Crowley woke with a start, his landline echoing shrilly through the halls of his flat. He scrambled out of bed—not before glancing at the clock on his bedside table—knowing that there was only one angel who’d call at this hour. 

Or ever, really. 

“What?” he answered, feigning irritation. 

“You won’t believe what I’ve just happened upon,” Aziraphale said, his excitement palpable.

“Not another apocalyptic event, I hope.”

It had been about six months since the Apocalypse that wasn’t, but the beginning of the rest of their lives felt an awful lot like a countdown, and most days it seemed like only Crowley could hear it ticking. 

“What? No, Crowley, of course not.” Aziraphale sighed. “A first edition copy of A Separate Peace has just come into my possession!”

Crowley rolled his eyes, of course it was about a damn book. He took a steadying breath, willing his anxiety to dissipate. Had he been human, a heart attack would have taken him months ago.

“And you couldn’t have told me this after the sun came up?”

“Why? What were you doing?”

“Sleeping!”

“Really? Why?” Aziraphale’s genuine confusion made him roll his eyes again.

“Pass the time.” Crowley tried to sound nonchalant when he said it, but the stark truth of that statement made him cringe. 

“Right, well, there are more productive ways to spend your time, Crowley.”

“Are you… are you trying to tell me off for sleeping?” 

“Why don’t you come to the shop? I’ll show you the book,” he said, sounding suspiciously coy. “I read it back in the 60s, it had a great impact on me then.”

“You know I don’t read, and there are definitely more productive ways for me to spend my morning than looking at an old book I’ve never heard of,” Crowley grumbled. 

Silence. 

It wasn’t the first time they’d done that dance, but Aziraphale had stopped taking his bad attitude personally about eighty years ago. It was a constant that Crowley hoped to one day feel secure in. 

“See you in ten minutes then,” he said, breaking the silence. Shaking his head at himself, he thanked the powers that be that Hell was no longer watching. Hopefully. 

"Very good," Aziraphale replied, satisfied.

He hung up the phone, waved a hand over himself so as not to appear too disheveled, slid on his sunglasses, and walked out the front door. 

A morning like any other.

Aziraphale

Aziraphale put the telephone receiver down and glanced out the window; the sun wasn't even up yet. Perhaps it was a little early, but one couldn’t blame him for being restless.

He cradled one of the most precious novels in his library against his chest and walked to the couch, sitting down and opening it carefully. A Separate Peace had been one of the few novels he’d managed to choke down during the Dark Years after 1941— in a way, it had reminded him of the Dark Years before; after St. James’s Park, before Oscar, and then after Oscar again. He looked down at the title page now, lightly tracing the words, a melancholic smile on his face. They’d come so far. Nearly far enough.

He took a deep breath in, releasing it slowly as he dared a glance upwards. “You would have liked this one. I do hope he does as well,” he whispered, immediately feeling foolish. 

All things considered, it was quite unlikely that Oscar had ever made it to Heaven. Either way, he had no desire to find out. The pain of not knowing was markedly less than the pain of an unpleasant truth.

He was jolted from his reminiscence by the tinkling of the doorbell. He stood to see his friend fighting against the heavy door, trying to shuffle inside, sunglasses sliding down his nose, a coffee tray in one hand and a small brown box in the other. 

“Yep, don’t help me or anything. I’ve got it,” he said sarcastically, resorting to kicking the door fully open and jetting through. 

“This bookshop is quite antique. I’m sure there was a better way to do that,” Aziraphale scolded. 

Crowley shot him an incredulous glare, walking past to set everything down on the desk before unceremoniously throwing his sunglasses onto the couch. Aziraphale didn't waste a moment before going to the box, opening it and picking out a small pear muffin.

“I still don’t know a single good cafe that opens at this hour,” he said, taking a bite. It was delicious.

“I may have suggested new opening hours for the place by my building,” Crowley said, moving his sunglasses again before taking their place on the couch. “You’ll find I can be quite persuasive.”

“Mmm, don’t I know.”

Crowley cleared his throat, moving to put the glasses on before seemingly changing his mind at the last moment and occupying his hands with the book that Aziraphale had left on the sofa instead.

“Oh, yes, the book!” Aziraphale exclaimed, not knowing where to take his train of thought. “You really should read it.”

“You know I’m not gonna do that.”

“Well, you really ought to!” He finished the muffin, sitting down beside Crowley and taking the book from his hands. “It’s a marvellous story of enduring friendship, and… forgiveness. During a time of war.”

“War?”

“Mmhm. The second one.”

Crowley frowned at him, opening his mouth as though he wanted to speak but then thinking better of it, before shaking his head and standing up. Aziraphale’s eyes followed him as he picked up one of the coffee cups and sat down at his desk. The empty space to his left felt immense.

“The other one’s tea, if you want it,” he said, taking a sip. 

“Oh, thank you.”

Aziraphale remained seated, looking down at the book in his hands. It felt heavy. When he glanced back at Crowley, he was gazing out the window with a frown creasing between his brows. He wanted to reach out and find the millennia of unspoken truths buried deep in the lines of his friend’s face. He leaned back instead, opening his book and beginning to read, the burning unknowns a familiar warmth between them. 

It was, after all, a morning like any other. 

Crowley

Crowley was exhausted. He had been exhausted since stumbling out of that elevator, down from Heaven, shaking in a body that wasn’t his own. 

Waiting. 

Until the elevator dinged again, and Aziraphale finally stepped out, the stagnant reek of Hell still clinging to his soul. It had taken everything within him not to close the millennia-wide distance between them and wrap his arms around him— finally just give in. Had the angel been wearing his own face, he may not have been able to resist. But then Aziraphale had smiled, and Crowley saw his own eyes soften in a way so foreign to the face he usually saw in the mirror. He had to turn away. 

And then they’d taken up their own masks again, and then they had dined at The Ritz, and then the life they were still living now slowly began to form around them— and then, and then, and then. He never found another opportunity to wrap his arms around the angel. 

Aziraphale seemed comfortable enough. He never brought up the Apocalypse or the preceding eleven years, and he certainly never brought up what—if anything—had become of their friendship. Crowley always just assumed that it was because nothing had become of their friendship, that Aziraphale was just happy to settle into a stress-free life amongst his books with Crowley as a footnote, finally free of the obligation that their arrangement had put upon him.

Until all the late nights in the bookshop, until all the plays and operas that Aziraphale always managed to get them front row seats to, until he invited him over at five o’clock in the morning only to use some obscure novel that he knew Crowley would never read as an excuse to bring up World War II. 1941. A time that Crowley had grown to view as the greatest blunder of his existence. 

Yes, Crowley was fucking exhausted. Six thousand years and he still felt as though the two of them were playing the longest, most frustrating game of charades known to man. Even God herself would have thrown in the towel by now. But when he looked down at Aziraphale—nose-deep in his book—he knew that he never would. 

“How’s the book then?” he asked. 

“‘It was quite a compliment to me, as a matter of fact, to have such a person choose me for his best friend.’” Aziraphale glanced up, a distant look in his eyes. 

“I— what?”

“The line I was reading when you interrupted me.”

Crowley sighed, standing up. “Right. I should head off. Got a… thing.”

“Oh, I’m quite finished anyway. I’ve read this novel too many times.” He closed the book gently, standing up as well. “Take it. It’s really very good.”

Crowley stared at the novel in Aziraphale’s outstretched hand, his head spinning. “Not your old fancy copy.”

“I have a few other copies.”

“You’ve never given me a book before.”

“I don’t give anyone books.”

The statement hung in the air between them, fragile and dangerous. Crowley scrambled to remember where exactly he had crossed the line in 1941. It felt closer than ever. He frantically tried to sort through every possible meaning behind Aziraphale’s words, grasping for an innocuous one that he could use to slam on the brakes before it was too late again.

“But I’d like to give you this one,” Aziraphale continued, carefully. 

Crowley reached out mechanically, taking the book. Aziraphale didn’t let go. They were flying down the highway now. Maybe 1941 hadn’t been a blunder. Maybe it was just too soon. The wrong time. Maybe this was the right time. Aziraphale’s eyes were locked on him. Crowley couldn’t read the expression behind them. Did he want to run the red lights? Was he terrified? Probably both. Satan give me strength.

“Hey, do you want to— I mean, only if you want to. Tomorrow’s the… 13th… isn’t it? It is. Shall we have dinner? I’m sure I can... work a Ritz miracle. For us,” Crowley stuttered out, all the red lights blurring in his peripheral vision. 

Aziraphale blinked, frowning in apparent confusion. “Of course. That would be lovely,” he began, taking his hand off the book, “we haven’t been in far too long.”

“Yeah. Lovely. Really?”

“Well, yes.” He smiled, turning to pick up Crowley’s sunglasses from the sofa and handing them to him. 

Crowley nodded, carefully plucking them from his hands and sliding them back on. “I’m not gonna read the book.”

Aziraphale smiled even wider, and Crowley swore he saw a hint of affection on the angel’s face. Maybe this was really happening. “Take it regardless.”

He nodded, dumbly looking at the book in his hand. “See you tomorrow night then? 7 o’clock?”

“7 o’clock.”

Crowley walked back to his car in a daze, climbing in and gently placing Aziraphale’s book in the passenger seat. As he gripped the steering wheel, his dazed state turned into an unfamiliar fluttering in his stomach. He felt like he was going to be sick— he had a sudden urge to run several laps around Soho. He rested his forehead on the wheel, concerned about the practical functionality of his human form. He hoped it wasn’t about to give up on him— his heart was beating worryingly fast, and he swore he could feel the blood pumping through his body. After a few deep breaths, he turned on the Bentley, who immediately blared Queen’s Play The Game far louder than necessary. He hoped it wasn’t audible in the bookshop. 

“Alright, settle down,” he muttered, both to himself and the car. 

The familiar act of reckless driving slowed his heart to a rate that probably wouldn’t discorporate him, and he allowed himself a small smile. He’d done it. He’d run the red light, he’d made his intentions clear, and Aziraphale had said yes. 

Saint Valentine would be proud.

Aziraphale

Aziraphale watched the Bentley race off, gazing out the window until it was out of sight and then lingering a few moments longer still. Just when he thought he was finally beginning to understand Crowley’s heart, the demon had to go and prove him wrong. It had been damn near eighty years since the last time he’d snuck a glimpse, and not a day went by where he didn’t regret how that had played out. He’d spent years after 1941 blaming Crowley, and even longer blaming himself… but then the moment had passed, the 60s came and went, and it seemed the only regret Crowley felt was ever trying at all. Aziraphale certainly wasn’t worth further damnation for an ex-angel already so far fallen. 

Until the Apocalypse, until dining at The Ritz, until Aziraphale began to understand that whenever he called, Crowley came— even for matters well beyond his realm of interest. It scared and exhilarated him in equal parts. Then months passed without Heaven or Hell checking in on them, the fear became a footnote in his life where Crowley had quickly become the main character, and he was getting tired of pretending otherwise. He just needed a way to be sure that he hadn’t misread the situation, that Crowley’s heart was still in the same place it had been in in 1941. 

He’d had that copy of A Separate Peace for some time now, but he figured that there was no way for Crowley to know that, nor did he think his friend would question the logic behind him miraculously obtaining a brand new first edition book before 5 o’clock in the morning. And to his credit, he had been right. Crowley had stopped questioning Aziraphale’s idiosyncrasies about eighty years ago. 

He wondered now if it had been the right thing to do. He knew Crowley wouldn’t read the book—that was a given—but he’d hoped that by reminding him of 1941 in a more stable environment, he could get a read on how he felt. Perhaps push him to action again. How wrong he had been. He had only gotten just the answer he’d feared, that being a non-answer. A deflection. A confirmation that he simply wasn’t worth the risk. He sighed, carefully sitting on Crowley’s side of the sofa, leaning back and closing his eyes. Oh well, he thought to himself, I’ll take dinner at the Ritz, sharing this life with you as a friend. It’s already more than I ever dared to hope for. 

***

Satie’s Gnossiennes danced through the bookshop, adding to the (electric) candlelit ambience. Aziraphale was sitting in his armchair, reading Wuthering Heights for the 48th time, waiting for Crowley. He felt at peace—as much at peace as was attainable for him, anyway—and was just grateful to be spending an evening with his dear friend. When the front door slammed open, he sighed, going to meet him. 

“Antique bookshop, Crowley. Really!” he exclaimed, exasperated for a moment before taking in his appearance. “Are those real clothes?”

Crowley had never appreciated the human routines and rituals that Aziraphale revelled in, choosing to live in an essentially bare flat and using his miracles to avoid the inconveniences of showering and clothing himself. But this evening, he had walked (barged) through Aziraphale’s door in a very real cashmere turtleneck, tucked into black trousers and an almost formally appropriate suit jacket. 

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug. 

“Well, you look very nice.”

“Really?” His face lit up with a smile that tugged at an ancient celestial string in the deepest chambers of Aziraphale’s heart. “Anyway, flowers.”

Aziraphale’s attention shifted to the small ceramic pot in his hands that grew with white carnations. Crowley had gifted him various houseplants over the months, insisting that they added to the atmosphere of the shop. Aziraphale wasn’t sure that he agreed, he just liked having something around to remind him of his friend. He took the carnations from his hands, thinking that they’d make a lovely addition. 

“Well, you’re early,” he said, walking to place the flowers on a small, round table. 

“You could offer me a drink in the meantime,” Crowley suggested, following him to sit with the carnations.

Aziraphale agreed, going to rummage through his cellar before settling on a vintage bottle of Chambolle-Musigny that he’d had since the 50s. When he returned to Crowley, his sunglasses were off and he was resting his chin on his hands, staring at the flowerpot. He didn’t move when Aziraphale poured them both a generous glass and sat down opposite him, the carnations between them. 

“You know, there was a rumour floating around—back in the 1890s—that Oscar befriended a magician who turned those carnations green,” Crowley said, shaking his head. 

The corners of Aziraphale’s lips twitched upwards as he waved a hand over the petals, watching Crowley’s eyes widen when they turned from white to green. “Yes, he began that rumour himself, however much I advised him against it. A grand story always mattered so much more to him than practicality or truth.”

Crowley leaned back with a sigh. “Never one for doing as he was told, was he?”

“No, and I respected him for it. I respect-” I respect you for it too “I respect that… that worldview.”

“And what worldview would that be?”

Aziraphale paused, picking up his wineglass and swirling the contents around. “Radical authenticity.”

Crowley picked up his glass too, holding it above the green carnations. “To radical authenticity, then. Long overdue.”

They clinked their glasses together and drank. Aziraphale snuck a glance at his friend, thinking that something about his demeanour had shifted overnight. He seemed so open. They had even managed to briefly discuss Oscar without a single eye-roll or verbal offence. He wasn’t sure what was behind Crowley’s state, but whatever it was, it was captivating. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, enjoying the music still filling the air around them. 

“I’m glad we’re doing this, you know,” Crowley eventually said. “I was worried I’d missed the mark, all these… six thousand years.”

Aziraphale frowned, wondering why it sounded like a confession. “Yes, of course.”

“You met Saint Valentine, right?”

“Oh, yes,” he began, thoroughly confused now, “I was assigned to him back in, uhh…”

“269, yes. I was as well. What a year!”

“Shame about that Claudius.”

“My side loved him, they’re big fans of today. Not sure the humans realise how macabre it all is,” he said with a contemplative frown. “Sort of like the birthday thing, really.” 

“What happened today?” 

Crowley paused, his wineglass suspended halfway to his lips. He put it down again, leaning forward with an eyebrow raised, as though waiting for the punchline. Aziraphale just looked on blankly until Crowley’s eyes flashed with something akin to panic. 

“Saint Valentine’s Day?” he said, his stare penetrating and hopeful. 

Aziraphale leaned back, the puzzle pieces slamming together in his mind with a boom that made his ears ring. The clothes, the carnations, the primordial angelic energy that Crowley had exuded since barging through his door. 

Oh. 

Oh.

“Crowley,” he said clumsily, clearing his throat. “Crowley. Valentine's Day is tomorrow.”

Crowley inhaled sharply, his eyes widening briefly before narrowing into a frown. “But they took him out on the 13th.” He shook his head in disbelief. 

“They most certainly did not.”

“They bloody well did! February 13th! 269! It was a rather mild evening, all things considered. I was there!”

“As was I, Crowley. It was the 14th. Humans have celebrated Valentine's Day on the 14th for a long time now.”

“Since when?”

“Well, probably since Chaucer.” Crowley just stared at him. “The 14th century writer?”

“Oh you know I wasn’t bloody conscious during most of that damned century!” he hissed, shoving his chair back and leaping up, starting to pace around. “It was the 13th. We have extensive paperwork downstairs, you wouldn’t believe the amount of files we keep! It was the 13th. You didn’t know it was the 13th… when I… when we… but it was. It was the 13th. It’s today.”

Aziraphale just watched him; felt the weight of the invitation he had been given yesterday morning. Felt Crowley’s joy and realised he wasn’t willing to let it turn into anger again. They were safe. They were free, weren’t they? There were a thousand words he wanted to say, but each one caught in his throat until he felt like he couldn’t breathe. When he looked up, he didn’t even know who he was pleading with anymore. 

“It was the 13th,” Crowley said one final time, standing still now, unable to meet his eyes. 

Aziraphale opened his mouth, only to close it again, letting out a quivering breath. The unyielding faith upon which he was built refused to shatter beneath him, but he was terrified to notice how many cracks there truly were. How far would his fall from grace be? He figured that he was already halfway there. Crowley finally dared to look at him, and Aziraphale knew that he had to take the leap of faith. 

He looked to the Heavens once more and then stood to face the world waiting before him. “Crowley-”

There was a knock at the door. 

Crowley

Crowley rocked back on his heels—bracing for the impact of another rejection—when the air around him suddenly shifted. He froze, frantically looking around the room for the source of the Hellish stench. 

Then there was a knock at the door. 

“No, stop,” he said to Aziraphale, who was muttering to himself as he started walking towards the sound.

The angel stopped in his tracks, meeting Crowley’s wide-eyed stare, a look of horrified recognition on his face. All else was quickly put aside. Crowley grabbed his sunglasses before racing to the front door. He slowed down as he approached it, noticing a silhouette outside that he couldn’t quite make out. His doomsday countdown stopped as he grasped the door handle. The silence was deafening. 

“Whoever it is, they cannot come inside without an invitation,” Aziraphale said shakily. 

Crowley looked back at him, taken aback by the fear in the eyes of The Angel of The Eastern Gate. “Not like they’re just gonna leave, are they?” Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply, but Crowley cut him off with a shake of his head, turning away from the future he was stupid to ever hope for. “I’ve got it.” And he went outside, closing the door behind him. 

He stepped down onto the unnaturally empty footpath, looking around for the silhouette. He’d been anticipating this moment for months, had known that the chances of Heaven and Hell leaving them alone was near zero— but now that it was here, he was thrown by his fear. 

“Come on now, enough of the act. Who’s there?” He hoped he sounded thoroughly unbothered. 

“Hello, Crowley.”

He spun around to face the voice that had materialised behind him and found himself face-to-face with a demon wearing the face of a middle-aged woman. She was looking at him smugly, her garish red outfit standing in stark contrast with the dark evening. 

“Who are you?”

“You don’t know me?” she asked with a saccharine smile, which didn’t quite have the effect she probably wanted it to, considering her rows of pin-sharp teeth. 

“Sorry, don’t take it personally,” he began sarcastically, “I meet a lot of people.”

“Shax. Former admissions demon, now Hell’s newly appointed plenipotentiary to this corner of Earth.”

“Right, right, but what the heaven are you doing here?”

“Wanted to hand you this myself,” she said, producing a manila folder out of thin air. “I thought you’d be here when the flat was empty.”

Crowley snatched the folder and opened it, skimming its contents. “I mean, I’d taken the fact that I was fired as a given, but thanks for the paperwork. Good luck with the job.” He tossed the folder over his shoulder and turned to walk away.

“Fired and evicted, Crowley. That flat is paid for by Hell to be used by Hell’s representative here, so, me.”

He froze, shooting her an exasperated stare over his shoulder. “What are you on about?”

The folder was in her outstretched hand again and he sighed before turning back to grab it, reading more thoroughly this time. It took him a while to get through the poorly formatted eviction notice, riddled with spelling errors, but the point was clear nonetheless. The flat wasn’t his anymore. He tried to keep his expression impassive. 

“Is that all?”

“Where’s your friend? Your little elopement is quite the story downstairs.” Her words washed over him like holy water. 

He stormed over, leaning down until he was right in her face. “You stay away from him!”

“Oh, I have no interest. I’m sure Heaven will replace him soon enough, now that Hell has replaced you.” She bared her teeth, staring pointedly at the bookshop. “That quaint little establishment may be under new management sooner rather than later.”

Crowley yanked off his sunglasses, glaring into the demon’s soulless eyes. “Good luck with that,” he said, letting every drop of the evil and malice that he was built upon ooze into his words. 

“That’s all.” She shrugged, taking a step back. 

He slid his sunglasses back on, vibrating with agitation. “I’ll be at the flat to get my stuff soon.”

“Don’t bother, it’s all out on the street.” Shax shot him another grin before turning and disappearing into the darkness. 

Crowley didn’t breathe until she was out of sight, exhaling shakily when she was. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at it in frustration. He wasn’t surprised— of course he wasn’t surprised. He’d just hoped to have a little longer than six months. He glanced back at the bookshop in anguish, wondering if they still stood a chance, knowing that they didn’t. That they never had, not really. Aziraphale would undoubtedly use this as another justification as to why, and perhaps he was right. He trudged back to face his fate. 

When he got inside, Aziraphale was still standing right where he’d left him. They stared at each other in silence. The weight of the unsaid was becoming too much for Crowley to bear. He had no idea what he was going to do about Shax, about his flat, about any of it. The only constant he’d ever known was standing in front of him, and he was so desperately tired of pretending. He took off his sunglasses and stepped forward. 

“So I take it we’re not going to make it to The Ritz,” Aziraphale said breathlessly. 

Crowley stepped forward again, giving in to the intrinsic magnetism that had always sat heavy and dormant between them. One more step forward. Aziraphale still didn’t move. Crowley could hear his rapid intake of breath. He licked his lips, and Aziraphale’s eyes flicked towards the motion. All it took was one more step forward, and then he’d be right there. Close enough to touch. Close though to- 

He took a grounding breath, his mind racing. He was certain that he was about to be rejected, but now Aziraphale wasn’t moving back. If he didn't take the final step now, he knew that he never would.

He was briefly distracted by a flash of white over on the desk. The carnations.

“You changed the flowers back?” he accused. 

Aziraphale blinked, taken aback by the subject change. “Well, yes. I didn’t know who was coming. And…” he trailed off, making a vague gesture with his hands. 

“You really think a demon is going to understand the significance of green carnations?”

“You did.”

Crowley frowned, glaring at the flower pot. The words were a slap in the face. A stark reminder that no matter how much they pretended, Crowley would always be fallen. A demon. Nothing more.

“It’s too big a risk, Crowley. If Hell is still watching, then Heaven is too,” Aziraphale said, his words loaded with an eternity of faith. “I’d hate for celestial prying eyes to look in and get the wrong idea.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He took a step back. “Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, would we?”

“You know I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Oh yeah? How’d you mean it then?”

Aziraphale looked at him again, his lips pressed into a thin line. Crowley saw betrayal behind his eyes, and how dare he? How dare he have the audacity to feel as though Crowley had betrayed him when he’d been the one yearning, begging for the angel to take a risk on him. He knew they could weather anything together. They always had, in a sort of backwards and unspoken way, but they’d done it nonetheless. And how tired Crowley was of being an illicit footnote in the life of the one angel worth falling for. 

“Thought so,” he muttered, putting his sunglasses back on and turning to leave. 

“Wait! Where are you going?”

“Away. Lest you’re tempted to take any more risks.” 

“Crowley, no! Nothing… nothing has to change,” he said, barely above a whisper. 

Crowley looked over his shoulder. Aziraphale was wringing his hands, his face painted with a thousand emotions that he didn’t have the courage to express. Say it, Crowley thought, say what you really mean and I’ll never walk out these doors again. Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth, his eyes flicking skywards before meeting Crowley’s. 

“I don’t think anyone up there is listening,” he said flatly, watching Aziraphale’s eyes widen when he realised that Crowley had noticed the gesture. “Hell has a new representative here now, so there's no need for me to stick around. Good luck.” 

He walked out the door without looking back.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale

The invitation came eleven months, three weeks and one day after the apocalypse. 

Not that Aziraphale was counting. 

That morning was, after all, one like any other. Perfectly ordinary. Just as all his mornings had been for the past five months, three weeks and five days. So when the gentle click of the mail slot called him to the bookshop’s front door, he was more than a little surprised to see a dark purple envelope amongst his perfectly ordinary post. He glanced at the miraculously still radiant white carnations on his desk, allowing himself to indulge in a dash of hope, quickly sequestering it beneath a well-worn blanket of shame when he turned the envelope around to reveal a crooked sticker depicting the face of a dog plastered across the back. 

He shuffled to his desk on unsure footing, the mild spicy aroma of the carnations making him shiver as he sat down. The sensation turned to ice in his veins when his eyes glided across the familiar Tadfield return address above the dog sticker. 

“Oh dear,” he muttered to himself. 

He had never been wholly convinced that Heaven and Hell had both simply put a halt to their apocalyptic ambitions, but he had certainly thought that they would require more than a single year to regroup.

He brandished his 19th century letter opener and gently unsealed his fate.

Now, perhaps with the benefit of hindsight, expecting news of the second Apocalypse to come in a purple envelope from Tadfield with a dog sticker on the back was not necessarily the most logical conclusion for Aziraphale to come to... but one couldn’t blame him for worrying. In fact, the reality of what he now held in his hands was debatably far stranger. 

Mr Fell,

You are invited to Adam’s 12th birthday party!

Saturday 15th August, 10am

Please bring a gift (not a book though)

“Oh dear.”

***

Three days later, Aziraphale picked up the telephone, unsure fingers hovering over the rotary dial. He would ring them. He would ring Adam’s parents and clear up this misunderstanding. They would answer in a state of confusion, Aziraphale would chalk it all up to a wrong number, and his quiet little life would continue to trudge along.  

Or they would answer in a state of confusion, tainted with the distant memory of something dark and dangerous and real. Further straining the oh-so-fragile fabric of reality that their son had woven back together the previous summer. 

He sighed in frustration, placing the telephone receiver down with slightly more force than was perhaps strictly necessary. He didn’t even have time to apologise to it before it rang indignantly. There wasn’t a single fibre of his being that wanted to take the call, but every fibre of his being knew that he had to. 

“Fell’s bookshop, how can we be of assistance?”

“Mr Fell! Sorry to ring you at work, Adam was just getting a little anxious that you hadn’t gotten his birthday invitation. It’s this Saturday, you see.”

Aziraphale blinked out of confusion more than necessity, trying to find the appropriate words. 

“Are you there Mr Fell?”

“Y-yes, Mrs Young, yes. Of course I am. I do apologise. Let me just ask for some clarification, beginning with how precisely you got this number?”

Mrs Young laughed, the sound tinny and distorted through the phone line. “Oh, goodness, here comes Adam now, he’ll want to talk to you himself.”

“I don’t think that would be entirely-” he began, but Mrs Young had already removed the receiver from her ear and was shouting across the room at her son to come say hello to ‘funny Mr Fell.’ He figured that he should probably just hang up, but of course he didn’t.

“Hello Aziraphale,” Adam greeted, after what sounded like a considerable struggle to get the telephone in his hand.

“Adam!” Aziraphale could not deny the care he still felt for the former Antichrist, the relief that came along with the word former was profound. 

“Are you coming to my birthday party?”

Ah, yes. No time for relief. “Adam, I was under the impression that you returned the world back to its original state last summer.”

“I did.” Aziraphale could hear the shrug in his nonchalant tone.

“If that were true, your mother and father should not be aware of my existence,” he said gently.

“‘Course they should.” He spoke with the simple innocence only tangible in childhood. “You and your friend were always meant to be with me. It’s not my fault you followed the wrong kid.”

Aziraphale was considerably taken aback. “I- I don’t think that maintaining any ties to your… former parentage is particularly safe, Adam.”

“Whatever, I know you’ll come.”

“Adam-”

“Anathema told me so. Anyway, you owe me twelve years of birthday gifts,” he stated.

The corners of Aziraphale’s lips twitched upwards at the little rascal’s cheek, despite himself. “And what precisely have you told your parents?”

“In the normal world we've always known you, so I don’t need to tell them anything,” Adam replied, clearly becoming exasperated that he was so slow to catch on. “Your friend said that you’d come if I told you mum’s making a Victoria Sponge.”

Aziraphale tensed, the smile falling from his face. “You’ve spoken to Crowley?”

“Yeah. He said you haven’t talked in a while, but I know you’re both meant to be here.”

“Yes, it has been…” five months, four weeks and one day, “a while.”

“Okay. I need to go with my friends now, bye!” 

There was another scuffle at the end of the line before Mrs Young picked the phone back up again. 

“Sorry about that, he’s just raced out the door with those friends of his… Adam don’t forget your sunhat!… All over the place, he is! See you on Saturday then?”

Aziraphale paused, stuttering for a moment before resigning to Adam’s own ineffable plan. “Of course. I shall look forward to it.”

After he hung up, he spent longer than he’d care to admit glaring at the blasted telephone. 

***

Aziraphale thought that modern trains were one of humanity’s greatest inventions, particularly when an empty first-class carriage always seemed miraculously available whenever he required it. As he reclined back, gazing out at the clear blue sky, he thanked the powers that be for the technological advances he had seen since Richard Trevithick’s time. 

But technological advances gave way to comfort, and comfort gave way to thoughts. Thoughts of his last visit to Tadfield, his last encounter with Adam Young, and the string of rather unfortunate events that followed. All that buildup to the end times, and for what? Half-freedom and a solitary little life? Rather anticlimactic when he thought about it. 

He sniffed, chastising himself. Of course it had been for something. Something bigger than himself, bigger than Adam Young, bigger than Heaven and Hell combined. His ennui was merely an irrelevant side effect. It had been for the world.

When the train slowed to a halt, Aziraphale’s blanket of calm shifted, leaving him exposed. He huffed in disdain, standing with a flourish and shaking off the sense of impending doom. There really was no need for all this fuss over a child’s birthday party (even if that child did happen to be the former Antichrist) and whoever else may or may not be in attendance at said birthday party was neither here nor there. 

Crowley

“Oi! Posts here!”

Crowley grumbled together an incoherent string of profanities made up of at least four languages before lobbing a half-empty glass of sherry at the door. It shattered on the manky carpet near the others.

“Oi! Mister? Post for ya!” The Inconvenience began pounding at the door and Crowley pondered (not for the first time) the ethics of murder. “Aye, whatever. You want to keep makin’ a holy show of yourself… it’s in front of the bloody door.” 

“I am not bloody holy!” Crowley growled after the receding footsteps, which then subsequently began to recede quite a lot faster.

It wasn’t the first time they’d done that dance, but Crowley reckoned that the poor sod was beginning to get sick of it. He dragged himself into an upright position—the ancient mattress springs protesting at every step—and squinted around the small room, sniffing with distaste. With a quick snap of his fingers, the carpet returned to its former glory— which wasn’t saying much, but it was better than broken glass and sherry. He spent a moment wishing that his useless form was capable of truly feeling the effect of all the things he’d put into it, and then he got up.

It was, after all, a morning like any other.

Well, not exactly like any other. He never got mail anymore— in fact, he never stayed anywhere long enough for anyone to write down his address these days. So when he found himself standing in the doorway of his crappy inn of the month, staring down at a purple envelope with a dog sticker and an all-too-familiar Tadfield return address on it, he had several questions. He snatched it up with urgency and slammed the door shut behind him, tearing it open. 

Mr Crowley,

You are invited to Adam’s 12th birthday party!

Saturday 15th August, 10am

Please bring a gift

Several questions indeed. He dropped it at his feet and made a beeline for the telephone. 

“Hello, this is Adam Young.”

“Antichrist Adam, yeah?”

“Oh, hi Anthony,” the boy replied a little too casually. 

“Who? Ah, never mind. Quick question, how’d you find me?” 

“Dunno actually,” Adam said, pausing for a moment to think, “I just knew. You’re coming to my birthday party, right?”

“Won’t mummy and daddy have questions?”

“No, everything's gone back to normal, hasn’t it? They’ve known you since I was born,” he said it with such certainty that it almost made sense, “you and your friend.”

Crowley blinked, unwilling to be haunted by demons—well, angels—from his past. 

“D’you think he’ll come too?” Adam asked.

“Errrr, we haven’t exactly spoken for… a while, look, there’ll be cake, yeah? Make it a… Victoria Sponge.”

“Wicked. You owe me twelve years of birthday gifts, by the way.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, slamming the phone down hard enough to break it— but by some miracle, it remained intact. 

Bloody Antichrist Adam. He probably shouldn’t go. He should just get out of this shithole and find another shithole until he was so sick of shitholes that the prospect of living in his car might finally feel like a reprieve.

Going to Tadfield was an inarguably stupid idea, but so was every other idea he’d had since February, so why the heaven not? 

***

Crowley leaned back, flipping through his vast CD collection, letting the Bentley take the wheel. He tossed three different copies of The Game to the side, haphazardly managing to slot in a Tchaikovsky collection that he hoped would shut up his mind. He grabbed the wheel back half a second before an animal transporter collided with him head-on. 

“Come on, pay attention!” he chastised his car. 

The Bentley responded by defiantly blasting Play The Game despite Crowley’s music selection. Brat. He tried unsuccessfully to turn it down and sighed, checking how far he had left to drive. Not far.

The English countryside wrapped around him, it was suffocating. He had an overwhelming urge to swerve the Bentley into a nearby field so he could get out and shout at some cows— externalise his chaos so he could sit in the eye of the storm and catch his breath for a moment. 

“I will sell you for scrap parts,” he hissed as Need Your Loving Tonight came on. 

In what he convinced himself was an entirely unrelated train of thought, Crowley thought of Aziraphale. He doubted that the angel would be daft enough to involve himself in Antichrist Adam’s or his life again, which was probably for the best. Definitely for the best. He’d made his position quite clear the last time they’d seen each other. It was still too big a risk, Crowley was too big a risk. Especially with Shax poking about. 

Never look back in anger indeed. Crowley really couldn’t stand that song. 

He cruised past the Tadfield sign as Don’t Try Suicide faded into Sail Away Sweet Sister and pulled into the car park of the town's only inn shortly after. The 'No' on their vacancy sign quickly went dark with a snap of his fingers. 

“Sorry about that,” he muttered to himself, walking past a confused couple rushing out the inn’s front door, their holiday miraculously cut short. 

He paused at the threshold, eyes narrowing behind his dark glasses. Aziraphale was the one who’d always said that Tadfield had a certain… strange aura to it. It was an air of something grand, something sacred, in the most human sense of the word. Crowley had never felt anything out of the ordinary before, but now it hit him like an out-of-control animal transporter. He instinctively glanced to his right, finding nothing but empty space and his own chagrin. 

“Whatever.” He sniffed, shoving his hands into his pockets and sauntering up to the front desk. 

Aziraphale

Aziraphale felt Crowley’s presence before he saw him. It was an energy that he had grown to recognise since The Beginning. A steady constant perpetually humming through his being like white noise, as long as they were in the same realm. In the moments when Crowley reported to his head office—of his own volition or not—it shut off like a switch, and Aziraphale’s head would be flooded with an eerie silence. It was the kind of silence that cut like a knife, leaving him bleeding out for days, weeks, or years at a time. When Crowley was nearby, it felt as though the energy was tied off like a tourniquet around his chest, bringing attention to the useless organ at the centre. It made him feel almost human. 

His hand hovered over the doorknob of his miraculously vacant room, his thoughts at war with his instincts. He wanted to run around the building, searching like a madman and right his wrongs. He wanted to run out of the building, change his phone number and never look back. He wanted to just walk into the damn room and go about his evening normally. He wanted to stop wanting. 

The door next to his crashed open suddenly and a couple stumbled out, half-packed suitcases in their hands, muttering about someone named Susannah back in Liverpool and how desperately and suddenly she required them to end their holiday to assist with an unknown emergency. Aziraphale scanned their glazed-over eyes and brows creased with confusion. He sighed, snapping his fingers to ensure that they would be reimbursed for their failed holiday in full and granted an opportunity for a do-over soon. 

It provided a much-needed—albeit brief—distraction from his thoughts. He shuffled into his room before he could start thinking again, standing with his back against the closed door. He heard the cleaners rush into the room next door, he heard them leave again, and then he heard familiar footsteps go in after them. Crowley never seemed to sense Aziraphale in the same way that Aziraphale sensed him, but he was still paralysed with fear that if he so much as breathed his old friend would somehow just know.

Know and do what, exactly? He asked himself. Kick down his door and start their last argument all over again? Leave the inn without so much as a thought? He wasn’t sure what scared him more. He chastised himself for his ridiculousness. They were both here for perfectly valid reasons that had nothing to do with each other. There really was no need for the theatrics. He huffed irritatedly, clinging to this logical train of thought and resolving to go about his business as though everything was just fine and dandy, because everything was just fine and dandy!

He took a grounding breath, trying to force his awareness away from his self-aggrandising nonsense and back into the perfectly ordinary present moment. He moved to venture further into the room, but his mind had not yet reconnected with reality so his eyes didn’t see his own briefcase that he had dropped at his feet. 

“Oh-” he exclaimed, flailing his arms out and grabbing onto whatever was nearest to him. 

Unfortunately, this happened to be a floor lamp, and while Aziraphale managed to unceremoniously stop himself from falling to the carpet, the poor lamp did not survive the ordeal. He winced as the floral lampshade shattered against the corner of a wall, the sound ringing through his ears. It was easily fixed with a swish of his hand, but he could not erase the sound. He very much hoped that the inn walls were more soundproof than they appeared. 

Crowley

The inn walls were paper-thin, leaving nothing to the imagination. So when Crowley heard the unmistakable sound of glass shattering and whispered frustrations coming from the room next to his, he didn’t need three guesses to know who its inhabitant was. 

He knew before the ruckus, as he always knew when Aziraphale was nearby. It was something about the way he breathed. Too intentional and restrained to blend in with the rest of humanity. The soft sound always hummed safely in the backs of his ears— he did, after all, have a phenomenal sense of hearing. Aziraphale of course did not know this. Crowley would never let such a telling detail slip, not when it seemed as though this strange ability was embarrassingly one-sided. 

He heaved a great sigh, tossing his sunglasses onto the tartan bedspread (someone’s idea of a cosmic joke) and paced back and forth around the room a few times. It was small and tacky and smelled like a retirement home, but at least a minibar had miraculously been installed before he checked in. He took out a too-small bottle of Merlot and flopped back onto the bed, staring up at the stained popcorn ceiling. 

There was no way that tomorrow was going to go well. What had even possessed Aziraphale to come here in the first place? Sure, Crowley was here, but recklessness and bad decisions were part of his job description. Head office loved Crowley’s bad decisions, he frequently got commended for them before the failed Apocalypse. 

He chugged half the bottle of Merlot in one go and frowned. What was he actually going to do upon seeing Aziraphale again? The angel certainly wasn’t going to be happy to see him if he was already smashing up his room at the mere hint of his presence. Crowley figured that he couldn't blame him for it though. He wanted to look back in anger—true burning rage—but he couldn't quite muster it. Aziraphale had made himself perfectly clear through the ages, it was Crowley’s fault for not listening, for not being satisfied with the small bubble they’d carved out together. He always wanted more while Aziraphale consistently begged for less. Crowley ran every one of his red lights and then had the audacity to be affronted when they crashed.

Well, maybe now was his chance to pick up the pieces and try welding them back together into something resembling the life they’d tentatively shared before the Apocalypse. Before Valentine's Day, before 1941, before Oscar. Before all of it. If sharing a planet as… acquaintances? Friends? If that was all Aziraphale wanted… well, it was certainly better than this post-apocalyptic Cold War. 

What was Crowley going to do upon seeing Aziraphale again? He was going to slow down, he was going to follow the script, and that was going to be enough. 

Chapter Text

Aziraphale

Even if angels did need sleep, Aziraphale would not have gotten any that night. After his ordeal with the lamp, he’d crawled into bed and remained there, lying completely still, stubbornly staring at the ceiling and thinking around any unwanted demonic intrusions. Tomorrow was going to be fine; he was going to celebrate Adam’s birthday, remain perfectly cordial with everyone in attendance, and then return home. Nothing had to change. He gritted his teeth in a smile that no one saw. It was a good thing. This was fine. 

Every time his eyes flicked towards the digital clock on his bedside table it taunted him with the slow passage of time. He considered pacing around the room, getting ahold of some alcohol, leaving Tadfield entirely and never looking back. But of course, he stayed. He looked at the clock again, closing his eyes with a sigh as though not actually seeing the red numbers displaying 3:14 might miraculously change them to 9:00— the time he had decided would be a reasonable one to get up at.

Then when the clock finally did display the right numbers, Aziraphale wished he had just a few more minutes. But a plan was a plan and even though he didn’t feel like he would make it through the morning, he was certainly going to pretend. 

Lovely day for a party, he thought to himself with false cheer as he pulled back the thin curtains before pottering around the room aimlessly for a bit, trying to keep his thoughts in order. This day was about Adam, and despite everything else, he was glad for an opportunity to check in on the boy. He’d never asked to be dealt such a daunting hand in life, and to see him thrive in spite of it was heartening. Perhaps there was something to be said in favour of nurture over nature. For humans, anyway. Part-humans. He still wasn’t entirely sure what Adam was.

Eventually, he had pottered all he could, organised his thoughts well enough, and figured that he could not put off leaving any longer. He picked up the gift he had wrapped for Adam and slowly opened his door, feeling utterly ridiculous as he peeked into the hallway before stepping out fully. Right then. He straightened his bowtie, painted on a pleasant smile, strolled past reception, and out the front door. A bus stop was around the corner, but he never reached it. 

“Need a lift?”

Aziraphale had imagined exactly how his next meeting with Crowley would go many times over the past six months and two days. He imagined him bursting through the door of the bookshop, no longer willing to accept Aziraphale’s trepidation. He imagined himself locking the bookshop behind him and not resting until he had finally tracked the demon down. He imagined a variety of dramatic and unlikely scenarios because fiction was easier to put aside than the reality of what he had lost. And now what he had lost was casually leaning out the window of his Bentley, wearing sunglasses and a dark grey shirt—unbuttoned at the top—with one hand resting lightly on the steering wheel. Cool and suave as ever. 

There was so much that Aziraphale wanted to say, but he was acutely aware that he couldn’t say any of it. Not now. Maybe not ever. “Is that a new shirt?” he blurted out instead. 

Crowley looked down at himself, a frown creasing his brows beneath his dark glasses. “I mean… it’s a shirt. Do you need a lift?”

Aziraphale just nodded, berating himself for the stupid question as he walked over to the passenger side. The Bentley’s door swung open with such intensity that he had to briefly jump back before carefully climbing in, at which point it slammed shut just as fervently. Crowley wasted no time taking off down the road and Aziraphale kept his gaze firmly locked on his hands, which were clasped tightly in his lap. 

He hadn’t been near Crowley in… well, six months and two days, and he felt it in every cell of his form. It was like walking through the ruins of a crumbling castle, filled with melancholia for what once stood so awe-inspiringly tall. He had never been so unsure of how to behave around him, lest he break down those precious ruins even further. It was not their longest period of separation—not by a long time—but it was their most intentional, their most estranged— since 1862, anyway. Aziraphale couldn’t stop the insidious voice whispering in his ear that that had been his fault too. 

He was shocked out of his reminiscence by an unreasonably loud song screaming guitar at him out of the Bentley’s speakers. Before he could properly react, Crowley slammed a hand against the stereo a few times. When that failed he took both hands off the wheel to try again, muttering something about driving the car into a landfill. 

“Keep your hands on the wheel!” Aziraphale exclaimed, gripping his seat. 

Crowley ignored him, shutting off the song with a snap of his fingers as a last resort, just as the singer was midway through lamenting about missing an old love. He then took back the steering wheel with white knuckles, swerving back onto the correct side of the road and casually clearing his throat, gaze locked directly ahead. Aziraphale could only stare at him, baffled, getting whiplash from his old friend’s transition from cool, calm and collected to willing to have a head-on collision because of a song I don’t like and now back again. The silence quickly became deafening. 

“So, how’ve you been?” Crowley asked a little tightly.

Aziraphale blinked, opening and closing his mouth as he searched for the right words. Quite terrible, he thought. “Yes, quite alright,” he said, “and you?”

“Yeah, yeah. Grand.” 

Aziraphale nodded mildly, pressing his lips together in a strained smile. Thankfully it was a short drive to the Young residence. When they pulled into the driveway, Crowley could not get out of the car quickly enough. Aziraphale tried to follow suit, but his door appeared to be stuck. 

Crowley

Stupid bloody car, Crowley thought to himself, rushing over to the passenger side and forcing Aziraphale’s door open, about ready to rip the damn thing off its hinges.

“Old car, you know. Gets… stuck on things sometimes. Anyway.” He awkwardly gestured in the general direction of the house and Aziraphale climbed out, still staring at him as though he had two heads. 

Not that he could blame him, Crowley had been behaving like a crazy person all morning. It started when he ran out of wine at around midnight, at which point he lay face-down on his bed in anguish for another hour or so, then he paced around the room for a bit, then he considered kicking down Aziraphale’s door but didn’t have much of a plan beyond that so then he just considered leaving Tadfield altogether. He’d made it out to his car at about 3:30 in the morning, at which point he just sat there in stillness and silence until he saw Aziraphale leave the inn at 9:45. Then he’d waved a hand over his form—giving himself a slightly less dishevelled appearance—and drove up behind the angel as though them leaving at the same time was pure coincidence. 

He quietly tried to regain his composure (not that he’d had any to begin with, but he figured he was decent at faking it) as he pulled a bag of gifts out from between the boxes of houseplants in the backseat, under Aziraphale’s watchful stare. 

“He said I owe him twelve years of birthday gifts,” Crowley said with a shrug. “Come on then.”

“I don’t believe that he was being literal.” 

“Well what’d you get him then? A book, no doubt.”

“No, not a book,” Aziraphale began sternly, “graphic novels.”

Crowley turned to him, eyebrows raised as he walked backwards for a few steps. “So, a book.”

“I’ll have you know that this is a very rare collection of original Dr. Strange graphic novels,” he said proudly. 

Crowley had to laugh, and damn did it feel good. For a moment it almost felt like they were them again. He turned around before Aziraphale could read his mind— not that he could do that (as far as Crowley was aware, anyway) but today he didn’t want to risk it. 

He knocked on the Young’s front door twice, and Antichrist Adam answered with a smile. 

“Happy birthday Adam,” Aziraphale said with characteristic sincerity. 

“Thanks,” the boy replied, taking the gift from his hands. “This looks like a book.”

“Funny that,” Crowley teased, handing him his own gifts. “For the past twelve years, as requested.”

“Wicked!” 

They followed Adam inside, passing through a wall of noise; the kind of piercing noise only attainable by a house full of children with pure sugar running through their veins. Adam’s mother waved them down when they neared the kitchen.

“Thank you both for coming, I know how much it means to Adam,” she said, pulling first Crowley and then Aziraphale into a hug. It was the first time he had been hugged since 1967. Crowley caught Aziraphale’s eyes, finding his discomfort mirrored there. Mrs Young remained unaware. “Everyone is sitting outside, help yourselves to anything!”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale smiled tightly, leading the way.

Crowley followed him to the garden where a table was set up with more food than was reasonable to have in one place, and various strangers were sitting around engaging in pleasantries while Adam and his friends ran around engrossed in some obscure game. He and Aziraphale looked at each other again, and Crowley knew that the angel felt just as out of place as he did. 

“Hey, you two!” They both turned towards the voice. 

“Hey, Book Girl!” Crowley exclaimed.

“It’s the people who hit me with their car,” Book Girl said to the man beside her, whose name Crowley also didn't care to try and remember.

“I think that’s overstating things,” he said defensively. “Also, it’s really just my car.”

“I must interject,” Aziraphale began, concern clear on his face, “and ask what exactly you remember about the… events of last summer? Because I was under the impression that it was supposed to be nothing.”

“Oh, well, it’s everything.” Book Girl shrugged casually.

“How?”

“I don’t know, you’re the angel, you tell me.”

Crowley snorted. “She’s got you there.”

“It really doesn’t make sense,” Aziraphale muttered.

“Adam made the world he wanted. What does and doesn’t make sense is of no consequence to a twelve-year-old former Antichrist,” Crowley said.

He could tell that Aziraphale was still thinking, but Adam’s father approached them then.

“You are a bookseller,” Mr Young stated, very seriously. 

“That I am,” Aziraphale replied. 

“Fantastic. It just so happens that I have a rather urgent question pertaining to the works of Oscar Wilde.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed, bringing a hand to his heart as though scandalised.

“Good grief,” Crowley muttered, knowing that he wouldn’t even notice if he walked away now. “Any chance of finding a drink in this place?”

“No, obviously not,” Book Girl snapped, “this is a kids' birthday party. And it’s not even 11am yet.”

He sighed, stalking off to find an empty chair to sit in while staring into space and trying to ignore the noise. A difficult feat. After nowhere near enough space-staring time, Book Girl and her man friend came to sit by him. 

“You know, Oscar was not that interesting of a guy,” he said to neither of them in particular. “There is something so implicitly pretentious about insisting that art doesn’t actually need to be clever. Bloody aestheticism. Never would shut up about that, Oscar.”

“Oscar… Wilde?” the man friend asked, clearly confused. 

“Nah, a different one.” Crowley sniffed, watching Antichrist Adam and his hellhound run circles around a sprinkler. 

Book Girl fell into conversation with her man friend, gently reminding him of what exactly Crowley was. Perhaps Adam’s miraculous memory recovery trick wasn’t airtight after all. He was just glad not to be involved. He tried to subtly look around for Aziraphale, but he couldn’t spot him. At least no one else tried to talk to him for a while. The sun was shining hot and bright, so he rolled up his sleeves and tried to enjoy it. 

He hadn’t noticed Book Girl and her man friend leave, but they must have because Aziraphale eventually returned to sit in one of their seats. He was practically vibrating with excitement. 

“What?” Crowley asked with a sigh. 

“Nothing at all.”

He didn’t need to look at him to sense the smile on his face. “Alright.”

“Mr Young has come across a very rare and valuable first edition copy of Salomé in the original French. One of only fifty copies printed!” Aziraphale blurted out anyway, giddy. 

“Ooooh, right, 1893 yeah?”

“Yes, exactly! You remember how I… lost the copy Oscar gave me himself and… well, needless to say, I am very pleased.”

The corner of Crowley’s lips twitched upwards. He’d always been enchanted by the angel’s pure enthusiasm. Even matters that didn’t hold his interest would appear fascinating when viewed through Aziraphale’s eyes… maybe even Oscar bloody Wilde. He crossed his arms, trying to maintain a level demeanour. 

“Doing business at a party, Angel? I’m shocked.”

Aziraphale tensed at the once familiar nickname. Crowley hoped that he didn’t notice him notice. 

“Yes, well,” he cleared his throat, “Mr and Mrs Young are looking to do some home renovations. I wager to bet they’d have found it extremely difficult to refuse enough money to nearly complete their projects in exchange for a book that neither of them will ever appreciate.”

“Good job.”

Aziraphale beamed, and the sunlight already caressing Crowley’s skin enveloped him completely.

Aziraphale

Good job indeed. Aziraphale had been yearning after that script for more than a century; too ashamed to search for it properly, but not put off enough by that shame to stop entirely. Oh, Oscar. What a beautiful life he had suffered. He glanced at Crowley out of the corner of his eye, who was looking directly up at the sun with his arms tightly crossed. He looked away quickly before his shame could turn to guilt. 

“Presents time!” Adam tore past them. 

Crowley stood, following the boy and his friends inside without a backwards glance. Aziraphale took an extra moment to readjust the smile on his face before following.

They ended up in the living room, backs pressed against the wall as they and all the other adults in attendance formed a messy circle around Adam and his comically large heap of gifts. The former Antichrist sat in the centre like a king with his friends scattered around him. Mrs Young rushed to her son’s side, fussing over his messy hair and damp clothing as she called her husband over, directing an older relative to take some photos. 

Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile— genuinely this time. The all-encompassing aura of love had not left Tadfield after Adam put a halt to the Apocalypse. In fact, it had only evolved. Where it once wrapped itself tightly around Aziraphale—near suffocating him—it now merely lingered at his side like an old friend, warming him to the bone with something true and tangible and unequivocally human. He stole another glance at Crowley, who was—as usual—seemingly unaffected by the inner workings of his heart. 

“This one’s from Mr Fell,” Adam announced, picking up Aziraphale’s package. 

He watched him tear it open, frowning at the contents.

“These are actually books,” he said, turning the graphic novels around in his hands. 

“Graphic novels, dear boy. Very rare… graphic… novels. Right.” He trailed off as Adam haphazardly tossed them aside, moving on to his next gift. “Decently expensive graphic novels, mind,” he added under his breath.

“Good one,” Crowley said sarcastically. 

Aziraphale didn’t grace him with a reply or even a glance in his direction. He then nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt someone's hand on his shoulder, turning to see Mrs Young behind him. He was no longer used to humans and their careless, casual touch.

“He loves them really,” she whispered. “I bet you anything he’ll be up all night reading through them. It’s just a phase. Some of the older boys down the road have been making him feel small for reading so much. You know what kids are like, it’s silly.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said with a frown. “Well if he ever needs to rekindle his love of literature, you do know where to find me I hope.”

“Thank you, Mr Fell, you’ve always been an angel.”

“Yes, I rather have been.” He smiled as she went to her son again. 

“You do know that inviting the kid to hang out with you in a bookshop is only going to get him bullied even more, right?” Crowley asked. 

“Not at all! Books are very cool.”

Crowley opened his mouth, closing it again and shaking his head instead. Aziraphale wished that he could read his mind. They watched Adam unwrap five more packages before grabbing Crowley’s gift bag. 

“Oh, there’s a… system. Here,” Crowley exclaimed, slinking through the crowd to sit in front of Adam on the floor. “Twelve years of missed birthdays, yeah? Figured I should try and accurately represent those years, so…” he reached into the bag, pulling out the first gift and handing it to the child. 

Adam was smiling, looking at Crowley with curiosity in his eyes as he unwrapped the small package. It was a purple teddy bear with the words ‘Baby’s 1st Birthday’ embroidered on its stomach. He blinked, before bursting into laughter, the crowd around him joining in. Mrs Young picked up her camera, enthusiastically taking photos as her son relived his last twelve years. Aziraphale looked on fondly, enamoured as Crowley’s enthusiasm grew. They got to his fifth birthday (a plastic tyrannosaurus that roared when you pressed a button on its head) when Anathema approached him. 

“He’s sweet.”

“Yes, quite a lovely little boy, all things considered.”

“I mean your…” she trailed off. 

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, panic rising in his throat. “Friend! Acquaintance, really. Old friend. Very old… friend. Barely.”

“Sure.” She nodded knowingly. 

“And I don’t think he would appreciate that assessment.”

“Well, he is. Sweet, I mean.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked imperceptibly upwards before landing back on Crowley, who was in the middle of explaining the mechanics of a small remote control Bentley (seventh birthday). Sweet was too small a word for the rebellious kindness on display. It was astonishing, yet not surprising. Radical, yet entirely natural. It was all so very Crowley. 

“Wicked! Can I ride in your car sometime?” He heard Adam ask, inspecting the mini-Bentley with awe. 

“Yeah, why not. I mean, I haven’t crashed it yet… not really, anyway. Do you know of the band Queen, perchance?”

Aziraphale found Mrs Young in the crowd, frantically shaking his head at her in panic. She just rolled her eyes in return, gesturing for Adam to continue on to the next gift. How Crowley had managed to keep that ticking time bomb of a car intact for all this time with no casualties, he truly did not know. It was all a bit of a miracle, really. Whose miracle specifically? Well, he didn’t have an answer for that either.

“He’s really good with kids,” Anathema said.

Aziraphale pressed his lips together in a grimace, trying and failing to appear nonchalant. Stupid, he scolded himself. Thinking about Crowley being good with anyone made him lose his better judgement. He wondered how rude it would be to ask Anathema to leave, or at the very least to stop talking. 

“You wouldn’t think so by looking at him,” she continued, either entirely unaware or annoying hyperaware of Aziraphale’s discomfort, “but he really is great. Don’t you think?”

“Excuse me for a moment.” He smiled politely, going off in search of the restroom. 

Don’t you think? Goodness! Of course Aziraphale thought—scratch that, he knew—that Crowley was good. Great, even. Sweet, kind, nice— all of it. And what a dangerous thing that was to know. 

He locked the restroom door behind him, staring at his treasonous expression in the mirror. He turned on the cold tap, splashing some water on his face like he’d seen humans do in films.

Now he was stressed and wet. Fantastic. He dried himself off and stared into the mirror again, frustrated at the being behind it for not cooperating with his rationale. 

“Just act normal. Everything is fine. This is a lovely day,” he whispered, trying to reason with his reflection. He sounded quite disturbed. 

A knock at the door made him jump. 

“One moment!” he said, hoping that he had managed to level out his tone a bit. 

He glared at the mirror one final time, thinking, behave! and then exited the restroom, smiling mildly at the unfamiliar woman waiting on the other side. When he got back into the living room, all of Crowley’s gifts had been opened. Thank goodness. 

“There you are,” the demon exclaimed, coming to his side. “They’re cutting the cake in a minute.”

“Lovely. What did you really get him? For this year, I mean.”

“Some Star Wars LEGO thing. It’s a movie,” Crowley said with a shrug. 

“Yes I know Crowley I wasn’t created yesterday.”

“Alright!” he said, affronted. 

Aziraphale ignored his tone and followed everyone back outside. A few minutes later Mrs Young appeared, carrying a very large Victoria sponge cake topped with whipped cream and fresh raspberries. She had followed through on Crowley’s bribe to get him here, but the cake looked so delightful that he didn’t even have the heart to be irritated. Mr Young joined his wife, leading a disjointed choir of party guests in singing Happy Birthday. 

These little human traditions had always warmed Aziraphale’s heart— although he’d never quite thought of birthdays the same way since 1941 when he and Crowley had engaged in a very heated discussion on the macabre nature of celebrating one’s journey to the grave. One would never imagine that it was the same demon who now stood at his side, dutifully singing along as the grand cake was placed before Adam. They both clapped and cheered along with everyone else as the song trailed off and he blew out his candles. 

“What did you wish for then?” his friend Pepper asked. 

“Nothing.”

“You can’t wish for nothing!” she admonished. “You’re lying.”

“No, really. Nothing.” Adam shrugged. “What else would I wish for?”

“Oh, Adam!” his mother said tenderly, wrapping him up in an embrace. 

Aziraphale saw more of Heaven in that simple gesture than he had seen in a lifetime of angelic duty. He clasped his hands together in admiration, daring to think that a few of his old colleagues could learn a thing or two from a true mother’s love. 

“Alright,” Mrs Young began, not-so-subtly dabbing a tear from her eye, “who wants cake?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to eagerly reply, before noting that only the children around him shared similar enthusiasm. He pressed his lips together and looked to his feet, his human form betraying him with flushed cheeks. 

“Shall we?” Crowley gestured to a pair of empty seats, a repressed grin making his lips twitch. 

Aziraphale shot him a half-hearted glare before they sat down, patiently waiting their turn to get some cake. An elderly couple sat beside them on Crowley’s side, shooting both of them vaguely accusatory glances.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met,” the man started, “I’m John, Arthur’s father. Adam’s grandfather.”

“Charmed,” Crowley said without looking at him. 

“Or perhaps we have met,” John said with a frown, Adam’s manufactured memories likely causing confusion. “My memory isn’t what it was!”

“We haven’t,” Crowley said. 

“Of course we have, dear!” The woman knocked her husband on the shoulder. “Back in… well, you remember!”

“Oh, yes, of course I remember Marge. Back in, ummm, yes. I do recall!” 

“The twelve years of gifts was quite the gimmick,” Marge said, leaning in with a wink. 

Crowley looked to Aziraphale with an expression that he didn’t need to translate. It said: cover for me before I start behaving like a demon. Aziraphale laughed a little too loudly, drawing attention to himself. 

“Not a gimmick at all, Madam! Just a thoughtful overcompensation,” he said, smile still firmly plastered on. 

“A thoughtful overcompensation?” Crowley hissed.

“Just for being so… busy! So… unavailable! For all this time!”

“Oh, yeah, because I’m the unavailable one.”

Aziraphale didn’t think they were talking about Adam anymore.

“What is it you do that keeps you so busy?” Marge asked. 

“If I told you, I’m afraid I would have to kill you,” Crowley said, very seriously. 

Aziraphale sighed, briefly closing his eyes in exasperation before forcing another bout of laughter. “Oh, him and his jokes! I, for one, am a bookseller.”

“Of course you are, Arthur was telling me about that Dorian Gray book!” John said with a smile. “You certainly offered him a generous amount for it.”

“Actually, Oscar Wilde is the author, Dorian Gray is a different one of his works… but yes! I can assure you that I only paid what it is worth.”

“Well aren’t you clever,” Marge added with a mildly condescending smile. 

Crowley sat up straighter then, blocking the couple entirely from Aziraphale’s view. He tutted, fighting the urge to gently push him back, unsure if he was allowed to touch him anymore.

“And what do you do?” Crowley asked in a tone that Aziraphale knew to be dangerous. Unfortunately, no one else ever clocked it before it was too late.

“Oh, retired now. Thank God, right?” She laughed. “I taught GSCE biology, though.”

“A teacher! In charge of educating the next generation of impressionable young minds. You must be quite clever yourself, Marge.”

She giggled, mistaking his threat for a compliment. Aziraphale sat up straighter himself, leaning around Crowley to speak. 

“What a noble profession that is! I take my hat off to you, Professor!”

Crowley scoffed, but took Aziraphale’s cue and petulantly slunk back down in his seat.

“What an odd pair you are!” Marge smiled.

“So I’m told,” Crowley muttered, standing up in one fluid motion. “Cake, Angel?”

Aziraphale glared up at him, hoping that pain wasn’t the most visible emotion on his face. They’d both been on Earth long enough to understand the implications that came along with that silly nickname. It was easy enough to dismiss if either of their coworkers came knocking, easy enough to dance around when it was just the two of them. What was one more ambiguity? After all these years? But Crowley knew just as well as he exactly what humans heard when he said it, and quite frankly, he resented its use in this context. He resented Crowley’s entitlement to play it as some sort of card, but more than that, he resented the fact that it still worked. 

“It has been lovely making your acquaintance,” Aziraphale said to Marge and John—forced smile still stubbornly painted on—before following Crowley to the cake, which sat at the centre of a table still laden with food.

His original sin.

Chapter Text

Crowley

There was no greater satisfaction than watching Aziraphale eat. Watching his eyelashes flutter rapturously as the rest of the world seemed to disappear around him, watching him savour each bite as though it were his first. It had been thousands of years since Uz—since Crowley’s most sacred temptation—but every time he bore witness to the lasting effects of that temptation, the fire that had sparked deep in the pits of his stomach back then only flared even hotter. He told himself it was smugness, pure self-gratification, being able to look upon an Angel of God giving in to one of the most base human desires and say: I did that. It made him wonder if this was what temptation felt like from the other side. 

“Don’t you like it?” Aziraphale asked.

He looked down at his own untouched slice of cake. “Errr, not really in the mood,” he said, aiming for casual.

“Well, I for one am always in the mood.”

Satan help me now. He was grateful when Mr Young approached them. 

“Alright?” he awkwardly asked.

Crowley just shrugged, words still failing him. 

“Look, I just wanted to apologise if my parents were… unfavourable towards you two. They’re a little old-fashioned, you see.”

“Not to worry Arthur, they were perfectly pleasant,” Aziraphale lied. 

“Good, good. I’ve got that book all packed up for you too. Shall I pop it in your car?”

“Wonderful, yes please!”

“My car,” Crowley muttered under his breath. “The Bentley. It’s unlocked,” he added, louder. 

Mr Young nodded enthusiastically at the prospect of seeing his car up close, practically running away towards it.

“I do hope the car lets him in.” Aziraphale frowned. “It seems particularly temperamental today.”

“Should be fine.”

Crowley gave up on pretending like he was going to eat the cake and tipped his full slice onto Aziraphale’s empty plate, who reacted with such disproportionate joy that it made Crowley grimace. He was surely losing his mind. He stood up, thinking that moving his body may ground him slightly. He restlessly shifted from foot to foot, it didn’t help.

“Why are you standing?” Aziraphale asked.

“Why not?”

“You’re getting restless.” Aziraphale nodded. “We can leave soon.”

“I didn’t say that, you said that. I'm fine,” he said with a tense shrug. 

“Of course you are.” 

He stalked off, trying to look unapproachable as he paced around, purging a couple of the cardinal sins from his mind. Aziraphale found him again relatively quickly, insisting that they make the rounds and say goodbye to everyone before finally leaving. Crowley just trailed after him and tried to smile at the right moments. 

He waved to Book Girl when he saw her though, who smiled in return. “It was really nice to see you two again,” she said sincerely. 

“Under much better circumstances,” Aziraphale warmly replied. 

“If you’re ever in the area again, don’t be afraid to stop by.”

“It would be my pleasure, Anathema. Have a lovely afternoon. You as well, Newton.”

Anathema and Newton! Crowley was not going to remember that. They made their way to the front door, where Adam and his parents were seeing people off. 

“Thanks for coming, and thanks for the presents,” Adam said when they approached. 

“I’m gonna assume that it’s me you’re thanking and say you’re welcome.” Crowley grinned, ignoring Aziraphale’s exasperated glance. 

“It’s been so lovely to see you both.” Mrs Young smiled at them. “Don’t be strangers now, you know where we are!”

“It’s been a wonderful day, well done,” Aziraphale said with a nod. “And if you do ever find yourselves in London, or in need of some fine literature, you also know where to find me I hope.”

“I’m sure Adam would love to visit the shop.” Mrs Young tousled her son’s hair, who leaned away with a grumble. 

“Well, he is always most welcome. And thank you again for that copy of Salomé,” he said to Mr Young. “You can’t imagine how meaningful it is to me.”

Crowley resisted the urge to roll his eyes as Mr Young awkwardly accepted the thanks. It wasn’t that he was still petty about the Wilde thing—or that he ever had been—it was just a simple matter of not liking the man. He had been a pretentious, self-aggrandising dreamer; so as to say he was an artist. Until the very end, he had been an artist. 

He followed Aziraphale’s lead in saying one final goodbye to the Youngs and led the way back to his car. He got in while Aziraphale carefully picked the package containing Salomé up off of the passenger seat, cradling it in his arms before sitting down himself. Crowley tore out of the driveway without a word. 

“That was nice,” Aziraphale eventually said. 

Crowley made a noncommittal noise of agreement. “Are you going back today?”

“Tomorrow morning, and you?”

“Yeah, same.”

A Damoclean question hung heavy in the air between them. Crowley gripped the steering wheel tight, sitting rigidly in his seat. He was always the one to cut the thread too soon, too late, too fast. He had found out time and time again what it felt like to have the sword fall through his heart at his own clumsy hand. This time was meant to be different. He was going to slow down, and it was meant to be enough. He was going to meet Aziraphale where he was because sitting beneath the sword together was better than sprawling across the throne alone, and for the past six months, he had been so, so alone. 

When Crowley dared a glance in Aziraphale’s direction, he found the angel already staring at him. “Do you want to get a drink?” he blurted out, slamming his foot down hard on the accelerator in a desperate bid to outrun the falling sword. 

Aziraphale

Thank you, Aziraphale thought, thank you for still asking the questions that I never can. 

He answered Crowley without hesitation, “Yes, I think I’d quite like that.” 

“Oh really? Yeah. Grand. I think there’s a pub somewhere here.”

Aziraphale smiled tightly as Crowley somehow managed to speed up even more, the Bentley roaring towards the village centre, where they found Tadfield’s only pub. The car door opened easily this time, and Aziraphale followed Crowley inside. 

“Two sherries, please. Best one you’ve got,” Crowley ordered. 

“We’ve only got one kind, Sir,” the bartender replied, bored. 

“Right. The only one you’ve got, then.”

Aziraphale shot him an incredulous glance. “Since when do you drink sherry?” 

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up as he tried to formulate a response. “Since a life-changing trip to Spain,” he said sarcastically, taking the glasses from the bartender’s hands and leading Aziraphale to an empty table beside a window.

“Cheers,” Aziraphale began, “to Adam.”

“To the world’s worst harbinger of the Apocalypse.” Crowley raised his glass, gently clinking it against Aziraphale’s. 

The subsequent silence was frustrating in its wrongness. Things hadn’t been this strained between them since after 1941. In a universe born from divine entropy, Crowley had always been his touchstone; his constant. Even when he was sure that he had pushed him away one too many times or set too firm a superficial boundary, he never went far. As sure as the sun rose in the east and set in the west; when Aziraphale called, Crowley came. It was the guiltiest of all comforts, the most shameful of needs. Aziraphale’s eyes strayed skywards, as they tended to do when his thoughts ran away from him. He wondered if there was any forgiveness left for an angel stuck in the trenches between heavenly duty and earthly desire, or any grace left for a demon caught in the crossfire.

“So, you’ve been to Spain?” Aziraphale asked, the small talk nearly making him physically cringe.

“Briefly, a few months back,” Crowley replied with a shrug. “I’ve been here and there. Just came from Ireland now.”

“Ireland? Doing what?”

“Spot of evil, you know how it is.”

“No, Crowley, I can’t say that I do.” 

Crowley frowned at him, and Aziraphale felt the weight of all that was left unsaid threatening to crush them both. 

He drank deeply, unable to bear it any longer. “I have missed you,” he said recklessly. 

Crowley’s frown only deepened. He ran a finger along the edge of his glass, appearing deep in thought. Aziraphale looked down, grip on his own glass tightening. When Crowley muttered a reply, he couldn’t make it out. 

“What was that?”

“I said, you have a funny way of showing it,” Crowley said, louder now and filled to the brim with venom. 

“Whatever do you mean?” Aziraphale asked tightly. “You left, if I remember correctly.”

Crowley reeled back. “I never-” he began, shaking his head as he cut himself off. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.” His shoulders sagged and he finished his near-full glass of sherry in one go. 

“Are you coming back to London soon?” Aziraphale tried not to sound too hopeful. 

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh.”

It was probably for the best. With another representative of Hell in the city, London was likely the last place Crowley wanted to be. He probably can’t stand to be near you anymore either, his insidious internal voice added. The truth was, Aziraphale never really knew what Crowley was feeling. What he needed? Yes. What he was planning? Always. In fact, they had nearly mastered the art of nonverbal communication during high-stress moments. Even what he was thinking wasn’t that big a mystery. But what he was feeling? The true inner workings of his heart? Aziraphale had spent the first few thousand years of their companionship convincing himself that demons didn’t concern themselves with such frivolities, and the last few hundred years trying to convince himself that angels shouldn’t either. 

But for all the things he was, Aziraphale was not stupid, and he was not blind. If he didn’t know—deep down, at the very core of his soul—exactly what word a human being might use to describe how he felt for Crowley, then perhaps he would have more to say than oh. Perhaps he could have stopped looking to the Heavens six months ago. 

Oscar once told him that he could never successfully hide that which he refused to acknowledge, and Aziraphale had certainly spent enough of his reckless past not daring to speak the name of the fragile human emotion clawing away at his chest. But after 1941 he had become rapidly, dangerously aware— so then he spent the next eighty years building up walls and mazes that not even he could find his way out of anymore. 

When he gazed upon Crowley’s perpetual frown and tight shoulders, he knew that it was too late. The sun had set one final time and the dark maze which Aziraphale had been lost in since February was to remain his new constant. Good, he thought to himself, I have no right to put him in danger for my selfish desires. 

“I should head off,” Crowley said, refusing to meet his gaze. “Do you… do you need a lift back to London tomorrow?”

Aziraphale wanted so badly to say yes. The feeling was selfish and dangerous and far too fragile to grasp onto with both hands like he so desperately wanted. “No, best not. I have a train ticket.”

“Yeah, thought so.”

Aziraphale quickly finished his drink and followed Crowley back out to the Bentley.

Crowley

Crowley wanted to scream. He might have done it if he thought it would make a difference, but as usual, it was too late. There was no speed fast enough to outrun the inevitable, and if there was it would only scare Aziraphale off even more. It didn’t matter how much Crowley longed to return to London; hell knows he would live in his bloody car outside the angel’s bookshop if it meant being near him… but not if he wasn’t wanted. Not when he had so pathetically asked and begged and taken— all to no avail. He was so tired of following their strained reconciliation script, of hoping that one day things might change. He had come to Tadfield with the script in hand one final time, but there came a point when he had to just accept Aziraphale’s words at face value: he didn’t want him around anymore. 

When he turned on the Bentley, Queen’s Save Me blared through the speakers. Crowley let it play and drove back to the inn without saying a word or even looking in Aziraphale’s direction. When they arrived they got out of the car in silence too, standing on opposite sides, staring at each other over the roof. 

Aziraphale’s eyes always betrayed so much, and he saw tragedy in them then. It was an expression that Oscar Wilde would have stored in an inkwell and used to write his poems. Crowley never did understand those poems. 

“Guess that’s that then,” he said, more coldly than he’d intended. 

“Yes. I suppose it is.”

Neither of them moved. Crowley stared Aziraphale down, daring him to take the first step away. Begging him to. Yearning to know what this looked like from the other side, wondering if it would hurt more or less. 

But that had never been the angel’s role, he had always been the good one, so Crowley climbed back into the car without another glance. 

“I thought you were leaving tomorrow?” Aziraphale asked, having the audacity to sound disappointed. 

“Nothing to stick around for.” Crowley watched, detached, as the blow landed. “Safe travels, Angel.”

As he drove out of Tadfield—for the first time in nearly ninety years—the Bentley refused to go a single mile over the speed limit.

Chapter Text

26 June 1890

To the Editor of the St. James Gazette,

This letter comes in response to your criticism of Mr Oscar Wilde’s story: The Picture of Dorian Gray, an article that I—a respected bookseller and learned gentleman—find to be as puerile as it is inaccurate.

Your critic begins with an audacious personal attack, which shows at worst the plebeian nature of a man ill-suited to hold the position he currently occupies, and at best, a purposeful foolishness brandished as a weapon against a manner of art which one does not wish to understand. To downplay Mr Oscar Wilde’s successes and to lampoon his poetry collection as your critic has done is simply silly, and only a man capable of such philistinism would go on to say what he does regarding The Picture of Dorian Gray.

The facetious use of the term ‘Puppydom’ would prove comedic if your critic did not entirely misunderstand the point— that the main cast of characters are intentionally written as such. Their youthful faux pas and arrogant immorality being vitally important parts of their eventual actualisation of an age-old lesson: no sin goes unpunished. As a man of God, this is a truth I hold in the highest regard, and Mr Oscar Wilde has undoubtedly succeeded in narrating this truth to a modern readership.

Your critic admonishes Puritanism but uses it as a basis for condemnation, inferring that Messrs Ward, Lock & Co. should be ‘ashamed’ to circulate The Picture of Dorian Gray and that Mr Oscar Wilde ‘derives pleasure from treating a subject merely because it is disgusting’ as though this should not be allowed. To that I must ask: is the artist himself disgusting for creating something that brings discomfort? Is the publishing house corrupt for publishing a work based on artistic merit alone? Or are both parties merely doing their jobs: to make one feel and think in ways that are outside his realm of comfort in order to face stark truths about the world around him. What is art if not a tool for the expansion of the mind and the soul? Censorship based on moral reprehension is the antithesis of art, and the heart of Puritan thinking— something which I, as a man of literature and of God, must unequivocally execrate. 

For your critic to then dismiss The Picture of Dorian Gray as too stupid and dull to be considered dangerous goes in direct contradiction to his call for censorship and his thinly veiled threat of prosecution. Either Mr Oscar Wilde has crafted a work so scandalous and bold that, in your words, it should be ‘chucked into the fire,' or he has failed at his intent to do so and instead has published nothing but drivel. You cannot hold these two juxtaposed criticisms together and expect your readership to take anything you have written on the matter seriously.

I do greatly implore all people to read The Picture of Dorian Gray and decide for themselves but I, for one, am quite certain that the only thing your critic’s ludicrous review reveals is ‘the singularly unpleasant mind from which it emerged.’

With kindest regards, 

Mr F.

Purveyor of Books to The Gentry.

———————————————————————

1 July 1890

Dear Mr A.Z. Fell,

You have taken such little care in concealing your identity that I can only conclude you wish for me to find you— and found you I have, in this titillating game of cat and mouse. I have many contacts in and around Soho, and your little bookshop has quite the enigmatic reputation among them all. 

Your impassioned defence of The Picture of Dorian Gray has charmed me so, that when I imagine the face behind the words the portrait I conjure is equally as charming. I wonder if you would consider this to be a true assessment of your person? Would you tell me if it were? Either way, I should very much like to meet you and decide for myself. You will be most astonished at what a charming face can become in the mind of an artist— or if you are familiar with my work, perhaps you won’t be. 

In any case, I do hope to hear from you soon, your bold words fascinate me so. Believe me sincerely yours, 

Oscar Wilde. 

———————————————————————

10 July 1890

To Mr Oscar Wilde, 

I must apologise for my audaciously inappropriate review of The Picture of Dorian Gray. I did not assume that the St. James Gazette would ever publish such a thing, let alone that you would see and respond to it. Please do accept my sincerest apologies. I am but a seller of stories, and am therefore wholly unqualified to form any such assumptions about your artistic intent in writing them. If it would provide any understanding— you must know that I was not in my right mind when writing and submitting the aforementioned review. 

I did however thoroughly enjoy your story, and I enjoyed your subsequent defence of it to the St. James Gazette just as much. You write more articulately than I could ever aspire to. Do not feel duty-bound to meet with me, and again please do accept my sincerest apologies. 

Yours sincerely, 

Mr A.Z. Fell. 

Purveyor of Books to The Gentry.

———————————————————————

11 July 1890

Dear Mr A.Z. Fell, 

Your apology wounds me more deeply than anything I have read in the St. James Gazette or any other such publication. Have you read my most recent response to the Scots Observer’s asinine critiques? I thought of you as I wrote it, as many of the defences I have, you appear to have considered first. You astonish me in this way.

For a man to have the courage to act audaciously inappropriate in these modern times is the highest form of artistry, and of course you were not in your right mind when performing as such, I should be concerned for your soul if you had been. As for duty? I am bound only by the laws of nature and the vastness of beauty therein— moral duty is the pyre upon which beauty is burnt, and I implore you not to start that fire, lest you disappoint me so by contradicting the arguments used in your defence of Dorian Gray.

I was dining in Soho with a dear friend of mine this afternoon, and the topic of your establishment happened to come up in conversation. It is said that you bear a striking resemblance to your father before you—uncannily so, down to his most unique idiosyncrasies—along with sharing his exact initials. I find this most fascinating, and insist again that we should meet soon so I can explore your Delphic existence. Perhaps Kettner’s for lunch on Sunday, or The Savoy, if you would prefer.

I eagerly await your correspondence. Believe me sincerely yours,

Oscar Wilde.

———————————————————————

6 August 1890

To Mr Oscar Wilde, 

It is against my own best judgement that I continue our correspondence, as I had sworn to myself I would not. Now I again find you in a position that requires an apology of me, for offering you nothing but silence in nearly four weeks. I do hope you will not be offended, although if you are I should of course understand. I fear I write to you concerning artistic matters: to tell you that I travel to Paris tomorrow, to procure a painting that means a great deal to me. Did you ever make the acquaintance of one Vincent van Gogh? I shouldn’t be surprised if your answer is no; he was a rather eccentric and obscure Dutch artist, who shot himself last week near Paris. Nevertheless, he was exceptionally talented, and while it would undoubtedly take a miracle for his legacy to be memorialised in the history books, I have exceptional faith that it will be so. But I digress— my literary hand will never be so careful and succinct as your own. 

The painting I seek is one Mr van Gogh completed in May of this year, I met with him briefly then, and deeply regret not doing more to help change his tragic fate, but alas— I digress yet again. It is a simple painting that reminds me of someone I dare not call a friend, but to call him a foe would be equally dishonest. I would very much like to write to him and share this news, but I am currently unaware of his whereabouts and have been for some time. I fear he is no longer in England. 

I wonder why I tell you this, just as I wondered why I was so compelled to defend The Picture of Dorian Gray. Perhaps because you remind me of him. He too saw endless beauty in a cruel world, and was unjustly punished for it. My hand shakes as I write these words, I wonder if you can tell? I fear he has made me a sinner, and I fear for the repercussions of such unholy truths. I do not know if I shall send this letter, I fear again that I am not in my right mind, yet I would like very much for you to visit my shop when I return from Paris. 

As for your response to the Scots Observer, I have thoroughly enjoyed all of your correspondence with the editor, however silly of a man he appears to be. I took particular notice when you said that ‘it is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.’ This is the most profound of statements, the most thoughtful and bold of assertions. I again look back upon my own review of The Picture of Dorian Gray and wonder with great trepidation what I might see were I to dare a glance into that mirror. I shudder at the thought, and wonder what the artist himself sees when he gazes upon it.

Yours with discretion, 

Mr A.Z. Fell.

———————————————————————

7 August 1890

Dear Mr A.Z. Fell,

I hope this reaches you before you have returned to your right mind, for the radical authenticity of your wrong mind tantalises me so. First order of business: I must know your first name. I grow weary of these formalities and wish to address you as a friend. Second order of business: while I have not met Mr van Gogh myself, I must see this painting you speak of, for I believe it will tell me more about your lost boy than words ever could. Is it of a garden? Is it presumptuous of me to assume so? I feel as though your letter has acted as a window to your soul, and I already know you like a dear friend.

I should like to know everything about your boy. If you will be so brave as to share your heart with an artist, I shall swear to store it safely between lines of sonnets and prose. Men such as ourselves are not unfamiliar with the art of discretion. And as for the mirror you so fear to gaze upon: you needn’t witness your own self to create art, for your life will imitate your art, naturally. The true artist merely holds a mirror up to the world and composes sonnets for the flowers reflected back, changing the shape of the landscape upon which they grow. 

If I do not hear from you by next Sunday, I shall endeavour to visit your shop regardless. I grow restless, I must meet with you soon. Believe me yours, 

Oscar Wilde.

———————————————————————

10 August 1890

To Mr Oscar Wilde, 

I write to you from Paris where I have taken a suite at the Grand Hôtel de l’Athénée, it is very much to my liking, although my French language skills leave something to be desired. The last time I was in this city was with my aforementioned old acquaintance. I shan’t bore you with the details, but he very much saved my life, and we enjoyed a fine lunch of crêpes shortly thereafter. 

I received your letter shortly before my leaving, and I am most pleased that I did, but I worry that my words have left the wrong impression upon you regarding my acquaintance. We were merely old colleagues from rivalling companies, perhaps nearly friends for a time, until we both saw how unwise this unlikely acquaintanceship was. There is no heart to be held or art to be made, there is only the status quo— which is as inconsequentially certain as the undertone of questionable morality pervading your works, and to argue for or against its existence would be as futile to it as the silly critiques levied against your character are to your art. I hope I have not offended you with this comparison, that was not my intent. 

In any case, to the more pressing matters of your letter: the initials I present as my name are but a rather clever play on words. I fear that giving you my true name would be foolish, but I shall do it regardless as I share the feeling you described: that we are inexplicably already dear friends. However, my life has been long, and I have not one dear friend to show for it, so perhaps my feelings on the matter are not to be trusted— they very rarely are! But my name is Aziraphale, I will show you how to correctly pronounce it when we meet. 

As for the painting, it is not of a garden, but of flowers. A bouquet of brilliant blue irises in a golden vase against a radiant yellow wall. I hate to disappoint you with the lack of artistry in my life, but my reasons for liking it are truly very dull. I simply like it for the aesthetics, there is no grand story. The late Mr van Gogh’s brother is accompanying me to view it tomorrow! I do hope that the sale goes miraculously well and I can be back in London shortly, perhaps by next Sunday, although I cannot say for certain. 

Yours sincerely, with discretion, 

Aziraphale.

———————————————————————

15 August 1890

Dear Aziraphale, 

I speak your name aloud as I write, and I should think I do so with utter reverence and correct pronunciation. I feel the weight of it on my tongue, I trace the shape of it upon my page. I mourn that Homer should have failed to mention your presence upon the celestial peaks of Mount Olympus, for there is no place worthy to utter a name as sweet as yours but amongst the Gods and their ambrosia.

I will send this letter to your bookshop, although you are undoubtedly still in Paris. I most sincerely hope that when you read my words you are in ownership of your iris painting, and I hope you will tell me which colour it is that reminds you of your boy. Is it the blue of the petals? Oh how mad one can be driven from gazing into the Aegean depths of a beautiful boy’s eyes. And no, offend me you have not, I am in fact quite tickled at your unartistic attempts to rationalise the irrational. Of course the status quo in love is as inconsequential as morality in art: so as to say that both are to be acknowledged in their absolute truths and then ignored entirely. How else can one be expected to create beautiful things?

I must also say how deeply it saddens me to imagine one as lovely as yourself without a single person to call ‘dear friend.’ Why has your own boy left you so wounded? Is he quite the Narcissus? I shan’t be angry with him if you do not wish for me to be, perhaps he is a Hyacinthus, I picture you now as a radiant Apollo. 

I am to begin work on a play, but inspiration escapes me, I grow unbearably eager to see you, perhaps then it can return. Please do write to me the moment you finish reading this letter. Believe me, boldly yours, 

Oscar.

———————————————————————

18 August 1890

Oscar,

I haven’t the words to express how profoundly moved I was by your letter, so I shall simply answer your questions and extend you an invitation. Firstly, I am still quite sure that you have formed the wrong impression of myself and my old acquaintance— or is this merely the cadence of an artist and I am the one misrepresenting your perceptions? Either way, the star-bright yellow should eternally remind me of him, and I must apologise because I shan’t explain why. He has always been yellow where I’ve been blue, these have always been our roles, and I fear they forever will be. And secondly, you mustn’t be angry with him, not even for one moment. I beg you to aim your anger towards me, for he left only due to my carelessness and the unfortunate circumstances in which we found ourselves.  

I’d hoped to be home by Sunday, but there was business to attend to in Paris. In any case, I am home now, and I hope that you will be free tomorrow morning to join me at my shop for tea. Say, 10 o’clock? I would like to show you my new painting, and would be very interested to hear more about your play. 

Your most sincere friend, 

Aziraphale. 

———————————————————————

18 August 1890

Aziraphale, 

I write to confirm your invitation, and should think that this letter shall be with you before the sun goes down. I shiver with anticipation at the thought of finally gazing upon your face, it feels as though I have known you my whole life, perhaps longer. Is that mad? This sensation is quite frightening in its intensity, but equally thrilling.

I look so forward to discussing your letter over tea tomorrow morning, for now, believe me, truly yours, 

Oscar.

Chapter Text

Crowley

Crowley had been driving for nearly six hours and the Bentley had been petulantly moving at a snail’s pace for over half of them— so as to say he was driving at or under the recommended speed limit. He'd hoped that the damn thing would agree to speed up a bit after spending Saturday night parked on the edge of a field a few miles north of little Adam Young's house, but neither he nor the car had managed to calm down so when the sun rose on Sunday morning, they stubbornly crawled on. Thankfully it had finally given in somewhere around Cumbria, and Crowley gained back full control once they crossed the Scottish border. 

He didn’t know where he was going, not consciously anyway. His head was too full of too many emotions for which he didn’t have the words. It felt like his iron grip on the steering wheel was his only remaining tether to reality, and he worried how much farther he would fall once he let go. 

It wasn’t as though anything that had happened over the past day or so had been a surprise. He knew that Aziraphale would never change his mind, after all this time, he had to know that. God would always come first, and really he was the stupid one for expecting anything else from an Angel of The Lord. The only thing hurting him was his own foolish optimism, beyond all rationale. Slowing down wouldn’t be enough, not when they’d already crashed so many times. He had to accept that. He would accept that. He didn’t need anyone but himself. 

“Don’t you bloody start!” he exclaimed as the Bentley began to slow down again, but when he focused on his surroundings, he knew he’d reached his destination.

It was a place he hadn't seen since 1827 and although human innovation had changed the landscape, he recognised it right away. He took a moment to sit in his now stationary car, preparing himself to let go of the wheel. A trip down memory lane felt like the last thing he needed. All he wanted to do was find a pub somewhere and drink until he felt like himself again. The Bentley pointedly flung his door open, letting him know that that was not on the cards. Not yet anyway. 

“Alright then,” he muttered with a sigh, releasing his aching hands and flexing his fingers before uncertainly stepping outside.

The graveyard was still and quiet, as though suspended in time. He walked through it slowly, each step heavier than the last. The silence around him only accentuated Aziraphale’s absence. He hated himself for not being used to it by now and longed to externalise his shameful rage. When he arrived at the place he didn’t know he was seeking, the rage had become all-encompassing. It cut through him with a blade sharpened by more than six thousand years of heartache, and he was now looking at the one who had twisted the knife.

He glared up at the gaudy, tasteless statue, wondering if art truly imitated life or if Oscar had been right after all. Gabriel had been around for far longer than the ugly thing, but he reckoned that it being here only made him worse— inspired the worst kind of self-idolatry. The kind that was so much worse than anything Crowley had fallen for. He kicked the base of the thing, wishing he could tear it down entirely. 

“Fuck you,” he said in a voice so rough and raw that it surprised him to hear it. “Fuck all of you.”

He walked a circle around it, trying to prevent his angry mask from slipping, as rage was a familiar comfort compared to what was simmering beneath the surface. When he was in front of the stone angel again, he removed his sunglasses. If looks could kill he would have been standing before a pile of rubble, he was certain that even the real Archangel Gabriel should have felt a slimy tendril of the hatred that oozed out of him then.

“He’ll never escape from under your shadow, do you know that?” he asked, shaking. “Your holy fucking shadow.”

He kicked the statue again, harder this time. Gabriel’s smug, loveless face twisted into a smirk in his mind. 

“Why don’t you shut your stupid mouth and die?” He was shouting now and noticed an elderly woman quickly backing away from a grave in his peripheral vision, a bouquet of flowers still clasped in her hands. 

He didn’t care. He had never felt more like the demon She made him. Was this Her ineffable plan? Tear off his halo and steal his creations? Curse him with a heart made only to be broken? Not even Satan himself could think up such a cruel and everlasting punishment. He felt the foul yellow of his irises contaminate the whites of his eyes and moved reflexively to put his sunglasses back on, stopping himself before they touched his face. She had done this to him. He had done this to himself. Had he always been a monster? He dropped the glasses at his feet, crushing them under the heel of his shoe. 

“Why even bother creating an angel always destined to fall?” he rasped, staring at the shards of his shattered shield on the grass.

It wasn’t that he wanted to be an angel, or a demon… or even a human, really. He just wanted to be. To love and to be loved. To be something worthy of such unholy fantasies. Why did She have to uniquely punish him with the burden of wanting? Of longing. 

“I bet you’ve never thought about any of this shit, huh? Must be so beneath you.” He tried to bury his sorrow with a sneer in Gabriel’s direction before it all spilt over. “Must be nice.”

The clouds parted and a ray of sunlight shone through, illuminating Gabriel’s hideously perfect grey face. He wished he could take back every star from the sky and bury them in a grave marked with his old name. He wished he could lie down there too. A ragged gasp tore through him, and he lunged forward with a closed fist, punching the hard stone statue with all the strength he could muster. His human form betrayed him, and he didn’t even have a moment to appreciate the jagged hole he left behind before falling to his knees with a cry. 

Crowley hung his head, shoulders hunched over as his frantic breaths made the grass shudder between his clenched fists, one of them bloodied and mangled. The tears fell traitorously, leaching venom into the earth beneath him. He looked up beyond Gabriel’s statue, beyond the clouds and the stars, beyond the universe— forged together by his own ancient hands. 

“I didn’t make it for you.” He spat in the face of the Almighty, knowing that She wasn’t listening, feeling Her absence in the deepest recesses of his wretched heart.

He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that they ached. I made it for us, he thought. He opened them again, forcing his gaze back to Gabriel’s stone face. 

“You don’t deserve him,” he hissed, heaving a great sigh, “but neither do I. Neither do I.”

He unclenched his fists—both looking perfectly normal again—and gritted his teeth together resolutely, refusing to let any more tears fall at the feet of something holy. He knew that he didn’t deserve Aziraphale, but the Archangel fucking Gabriel certainly didn’t deserve his tears. She didn’t deserve to see the heart She had forced upon him break into pieces. If She was even watching. Unlikely. No one was watching; no one cared. And why would they? He was well and truly alone. 

He suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder and flinched back, whipping his head around to see the elderly woman with the flowers now standing directly behind him, a sad smile on her face. He reached for his sunglasses in a panic, remembering that he had broken them. She didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, holding a single yellow tulip out to him.

“My English is not so good,” she began in a thick French accent, “but I have also lost.”

Crowley scrambled to his feet, taking a step back. He felt Gabriel’s statue digging into his spine. 

“Take it, please. Perhaps your lost one will also like such a thing.” He took the flower with a shaking hand, blinking furiously as though that would prevent her from seeing his horrible eyes. “The tulipe jaune was the favourite of my husband. He died just the day after our cinquantième anniversary, now the… uh, the gold. The gold eternally remind me of him.”

He stopped blinking. He stopped breathing. The tulip was heavy in his uncertain grip. She reached out a hand, laying it upon his cheek, wiping away a stray tear. His eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment he couldn’t help but lean into the touch. When he opened them again she was smiling, kindness radiating from every line on her weathered face. 

“You remind me much of my son. I wish you peace in this life.”

“Merci,” he managed to force out, his voice weak, “toutes mes condoléances.”

She just smiled even more broadly—her eyes twinkling with a lifetime of love—and nodded before turning to walk slowly away. He stared after her, deeply awed at the limitlessness of human compassion. How could he ever wish to take the stars away from one who carried them in her heart as much as he did? Maybe even more. 

He looked up to Heaven again, wondering if She had sent the old woman to make a point, and then felt deep shame at his cynicism. His eyes flicked downwards then, pleading with whoever was listening that she had played the game of life well enough to not end up there. Not that Heaven was a much better outcome. Life truly was the most grim coin toss imaginable. 

Neither Heaven nor Hell would ever understand the simple human kindness of a single yellow tulip. But Crowley did, and no matter what either of them did to him, he always would. He held the flower close to his broken heart and sauntered back to the Bentley with his head held high. 

Aziraphale

Aziraphale unlocked the door to his bookshop with shaking hands, hesitating as the lock clicked open. One step inside and it would be back to his quiet little life. The life he had so painstakingly forged for himself, the life he had been so proud of. Since the 1630s when he first purchased this land, he’d always had an end goal in mind: to build a home. And although he didn't dare admit it to himself until centuries on, homes were built to be shared. He pushed the door open with a grimace, wondering when home had become synonymous with the worst kind of solitary confinement. 

The door swung shut behind him and he dropped his briefcase at his feet, looking around the bookshop and seeing nothing but all the empty spaces where Crowley had once existed. The loss of him was palpable and all-consuming, and frustrating in its intensity— after all this time. God had forced him away with Aziraphale’s hand so many times, and each time he left it stung just as keenly as though it were the first. But it’s different this time because you know he’s not coming back, his inner voice jeered.  

He shook his head, grasping Salomé tightly to his chest. Why would he come back? He’d said himself that there was nothing to stick around for. Whatever Aziraphale did or did not feel was of no consequence. Even if he were able to speak its name, what was there to be done? The last time he nearly dared to listen to his conniving heart Shax had shown up at his doorstep, as though the powers that be sensed the shadow of sin emanating from his soul. And even though he’d dared to hope more than once that Crowley longed to share in his sin, he was now well and truly put off by Aziraphale's continued trepidation.

Which was a good thing.

He moved the briefcase aside, taking slow and careful steps into his home. He knew this building like the back of his hand; every crack, every shadow, every page— all held lifetimes of memories between them. Late nights shared with wine and laughter, early mornings scented with coffee and pear muffins, midday schemes to avoid the sale of his precious books. He sighed sadly at the thought of building the next 220 years of memories alone, already resigned to the inevitability of it. This was how the unlikely story of a partnership between an angel and a demon would end. It was always going to end this way, he just hoped they’d have more time. Not that any amount of time would ever be enough.

He ended up at his little circular table and sat down heavily, an eternity of exhaustion finally catching up to him. The bookshop was dead silent, as though the walls themselves were preventing the outside world from touching his grief. He sat in complete stillness, allowing the loneliness to settle over him like an old friend. It was the only friend he had left, and he welcomed it back with the stoic grace of Job.

Salomé was still cradled in his arms. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his heartbeat through the ghost of Oscar’s touch upon the pages. When he inhaled shakily he half expected the once-familiar aroma of lavender and woody bergamot to invade his senses and envelop his pain as it had done so many times in the past.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “One world was not enough.”

He set the book down gently before him, gazing over it at the empty seat now occupied by his oldest friend. He didn’t know where to put his feelings for Crowley, he never had— not even when Oscar tried so hard to provide a place for them. All he’d succeeded in showing Aziraphale was what happens to a man who dares to speak its name, and then those very same feelings had been locked up in prison alongside the artist. For a time he thought they’d even died with him. But loneliness? He knew exactly where to put that, and when he nodded at the empty seat opposite him he was flooded with a sense of manic familiarity. Nothing had to change. It never did, not really. 

“Right then,” he said, standing to make his way to the cellar. 

He had liquor from every stage of humanity, the oldest bottle of wine dating back to 2500 BC, held together by an intimate miracle forged from his most vivid memory. He would never touch it, he just liked to remember. Today he was after something a little more recent anyway, and he found it quickly, carefully picking up his last bottle of absinthe from the 1890s. He brought it back to the table, tracing a gentle finger along the wax seal. He’d hoped to save it for a special occasion but seeing as there would no longer be any of those in his foreseeable future, he figured; why not?

He opened it as slowly as he could manage, trying to appreciate every step of the process, even managing to find a moment of peace in the routine of preparing his glass. As the sugar melted through a silver absinthe spoon that had once belonged to Robbie Ross, he forced the last of his grief to melt along with it.

“Let us hide ourselves in our palace, Herodias,” he muttered, raising his glass to Salomé before walking towards his desk. 

He stopped in front of the white carnations, still as vibrant as the day he had received them just over six months ago. He glared as though they were to blame. Perhaps if he’d left them alone Crowley never would have walked away. He pondered this for a moment, taking a sip of his absinthe, the herbal intensity transporting him back to another life. A life where he may have recklessly revelled in the thrill of displaying a bouquet of green carnations— a life he had just willingly melted away for the final time. Before he could think it over too much more he lightly waved a hand over the petals, walking away without looking at the flowers that were now as green as the spirit in his glass. 

He moved to the front door, flipping the sign hanging there from closed to open before finishing his drink, painting on his best smile and neatly filing away the events of the last 48 hours deep in an already overflowing cabinet inside his mind. 

Nothing had to change.

Crowley

Crowley was driving to the pub, his yellow tulip resting on the passenger seat beside him. The old woman had helped him bury all his rage in the graveyard and now he was empty, so he figured a large bottle of whiskey was in order to begin filling the void. The Black Angel’s Death Song played softly through the Bentley as he pulled into the first pub he found. 

“What the hell even is bebop anyway,” he muttered, shutting off his car and the music along with it, being sure to grab another pair of sunglasses from the glove compartment before stepping outside.

He walked into the thankfully near-empty pub, almost colliding with an exasperated-looking repairman muttering something about ‘ancient bloody technology’ on his way to the bar. The bartender seemed entirely too distracted to question Crowley when he ordered a whole bottle of Talisker for himself, so he took it quickly and sat in a dark corner near a partially deconstructed jukebox before he could take notice.

He leaned back in his seat, sighing deeply, not looking up or down but straight ahead at the future before him, which at the present time greatly resembled a rather large bottle of Talisker. It wasn’t too bad a prospect, all things considered. 

He reached forward to open the bottle, finding some semblance of peace in the familiar gesture. It felt like a sombre new beginning. It was not the first new beginning he’d been forced to forge for himself, he just hoped that it would finally be the last. This lonely existence he had chosen was much easier to swallow than another six thousand years of rejection. And he wasn’t alone, not really. He had an old woman’s kindness, a yellow tulip, the stars. He had the world, and that would have to be enough.

“To the world,” he said, raising his bottle to the empty seat opposite him, not bothering with a glass.

When he drank he barely tasted it—barely felt it as it went down—he just closed his eyes and waited for the glorious empty-headed numbness to take over. Unfortunately, it would take far more than one bottle to get there, but he had all night, and the pub would stay open for as long as he wanted it to. It was going to be a long night. He made a mental note to tip the bartender generously. 

His planned evening of dulled anguish was interrupted when the jukebox to his right blared the first few bars of Girls Just Want to Have Fun. Had he been in slightly better spirits he may have even chucked at the incongruity, but he was at least three bottles short of that kind of reaction. He sat up straight instead, opening his mouth to shout at the repairman working on the machine, but the song changed before he could get a single word out.

“Oh for fucks sake!” the repairman exclaimed, looking like he was getting ready to kick the old thing into submission. 

“Might I suggest a song?” Crowley asked. 

“You can bloody well try! The damn thing only seems to play this shite now.”

It was a song that Crowley didn’t recognise or like, with vaguely ominous lyrics masked beneath a grating jingle. 

“Every day it’s getting closer,” he said with false cheer, raising his bottle to the poor repairman.

“The only thing I’m getting closer to is smashing this fucking thing to bits!” He gesticulated wildly, swinging some kind of tool around. “Been going on for days, it has!”

Crowley nodded, already bored of the conversation. “Good luck,” he said, taking another swig of whiskey as he pointedly stood up to find a different table as far away from Mr Everyday as he could manage. 

Aziraphale

Not a single customer had set foot inside Aziraphale’s bookshop all day, which he would usually count as a resounding success— but on that particular day, he’d longed for a distraction in any form. As it was, the only half-distraction he’d found was the now-empty bottle of vintage absinthe before him. He picked it up, turning it around in his hands. Almost everything else he’d had from Oscar’s time had been disposed of or carefully hidden away, so the empty bottle felt poignant in its significance. His final tie to the beautiful life that Oscar so badly wanted him to live. 

He stood up, carrying it to the recycling bin, whispering yet another apology to his most genuine human friend before dropping it inside. It shattered on impact and the sound echoed through him, bouncing off his bones and hitting somewhere raw in his aching heart. He just nodded, the pain a welcome companion to his loneliness. 

It was the first day of the rest of his life. 

With slow steps, he walked back to the table, scooping Salomé back up into his arms and making for the stairs. Perhaps he could get a few years of sleep and re-open the shop with a new mind, that seemed to work out alright for Crowley. He sighed, lifting a foot to walk up to his bedroom, when the telephone rang. His heart stopped, his breath caught in his throat. He nearly fell over his own feet with the speed at which he ran back to his desk. He gently placed Salomé down beside the green carnations, laying a hand upon the ringing telephone. He took a shaky breath, forced his stray hope back into a neat box inside his heart, and picked up the receiver. 

“Fell’s bookshop,” he said, chastising his unsteady tone.

“Mr Fell? It’s Anathema Device.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped. He shook his head, hoping that the smile he’d forced upon his face would be audible down the line when he answered. “How can I help you this evening?”

“Do you remember what happened last summer?” She sounded frantic.

“Why, yes, of course I do.”

“What exactly happened last summer?”

“Are you quite alright?”

“Please… what exactly happened last summer? At the airbase.”

Aziraphale sighed, wishing that she would get to the point. He really wasn’t in the mood. “Well, we rather thwarted the Apocalypse, did we not?”

“Who thwarted the Apocalypse?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, frowning. He blinked a few times. “I… we did. Myself and Crowley, you and Newton, Sergeant Shadwell and his lady friend, those three children.”

Anathema let out a strangled cry. “Do you know Adam Young?”

“Dear girl, you sound quite disturbed.”

“Just answer the goddamn question!” She was shouting now. 

“Of course I know Adam, we were at his twelfth birthday party just this past Saturday.”

“Was he at the airbase last summer?”

Aziraphale paused, feeling a deep and unsettling sense of déjà vu. “No?” 

“Shit,” she exclaimed in a voice less stable than his own. “You need to come back to Tadfield. Right now. Something is wrong.”

Chapter Text

Crowley

It was nearing one o’clock in the morning and Crowley didn’t think he had ever been more drunk. It was glorious, he barely remembered his own name, let alone a certain blue-eyed angel’s. He was even coming around to that blasted Everyday song. 

“Ah, fine service Sir, thank you kindly!” he said to the bartender as he delivered him his tenth bottle of Talisker of the evening.

“Anything you need,” he replied with a yawn.

He opened the bottle and drank deeply, vowing to finally let the poor man close his establishment when he finished it. It had been a long night. At around bottle four he’d felt a sorrow so all-encompassing he thought it might discorporate him, but then he’d roped an unsuspecting businessman into listening to him whinge for a bit until he got bored enough to snap him out of the trance and drink himself into his current state of giddy numbness. 

Bottle ten went down like water and he resolved to spend every night of the foreseeable future in this state. He stood up quickly, laughing as the room spun around him.

“Aren’t these human forms such fun?” he asked the bartender with a smirk, sliding a very large handful of hundred-pound notes across the bar and grabbing a few more bottles to go. “Many thanks, sleep well mate.”

“Bloody hell, you sure you meant to give me all this?” the man called after him.

“For your troubles.” He winked as he opened the door.

“Shit, thank you. You’ve no idea how much I need this, you’re an angel!”

Crowley was near hysterical with laughter when the door swung shut behind him. If only you knew, he thought to himself. 

He approached the Bentley, opening the passenger door and putting the bottles down, scooping up his tulip instead. 

“Satan help your son if I still remind you of him,” he muttered, brushing the soft petals against his cheek before dropping the flower down again. “Right, back to business.”

He slammed the door shut, patting the car on the roof before stumbling onwards. He had no concept of how much time passed then, but before he knew it he was back amongst the dead, where he tripped over nothing and nearly fell face-first into Gabriel's statue. 

“Let’s see how much you like falling you piece of shit,” he slurred, putting his hands on the cold stone and shoving as hard as he could. It didn’t move. “Alright, drastic measures,” he said, laughing maniacally as he touched it again, getting ready to summon all the demonic power he could muster. 

He blinked, running his hands up and down the notably hole-free statue. Was he really that drunk? He snapped his fingers, shining a ray of light on the thing— and sure enough, it was as though the hole he’d punched into it had never even been there. 

“What the fu-” he was cut off by a familiar feeling that landed deep inside him like a punch to the gut. 

He straightened up instantly, his heart pounding as the heavenly haze slithered under his skin. 

Aziraphale. 

He backed away from the statue, poised like an animal ready to pounce as he frantically whipped his head around, searching. 

Aziraphale came back. 

He tore off his sunglasses, squinting into the darkness beyond his artificial beam of light. 

For once he came back. 

He noticed a silhouette in the distance. He was going to faint.

He didn’t hesitate as he ran towards the figure, but as he got closer the familiar feeling began to twist into something else. He ignored the warning. The alcohol was making his head spin. 

Please be you.

The figure began walking towards him with fervour matching his own. He froze in his tracks. His pounding heart seemed to reverse, slamming against his chest with an entirely different meaning now. He took several steps back, tripping on a rock, catching himself just before he fell. He slid his sunglasses back on. The less he saw the better. 

Stupid.

The figure slowed down, head tilted with a frown. “You’re not who I was expecting.”

Trust The Archangel fucking Gabriel to stop by for bloody statue maintenance. He truly was insufferably full of himself. 

There were a lot of things that Crowley wanted to do. His mind shifted yet again to the ethics of murder. Was it even murder if it would just discorporate him? Either way, it would certainly make him feel better. Maybe. He could at least smash up that ugly false idol right in front of his stupid face if murder was too inconvenient. 

“It’s Crowley now, yes?” Gabriel asked, the false pleasantries making his skin crawl. 

Crowley didn’t trust himself to reply. He stood stock-still. He wasn’t even breathing anymore. Gabriel held up both of his hands in a gesture of surrender. He took a step forward, stopping abruptly when Crowley flinched, ready to attack. 

“Beelzebub didn’t send you?” Gabriel asked slowly, unsure, appearing deep in thought. “You’re… drunk.”

Too drunk to deal with this bullshit, he thought. He stood up straight, taking a moment to sober up, hoping that it was all some sort of twisted hallucination. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling every numbed thought and emotion hit him all over again. When he opened his eyes, Gabriel was still there. 

“Okay!” he said, clapping his hands together. “Where are they? Did they summon you here or not?”

Crowley shook his head, finding his voice. “What the heaven are you talking about?”

Gabriel scoffed. “Let’s not play games, demon.”

Crowley could feel his eyes shifting. He clenched his fists, getting ready again to draw upon every ounce of wicked energy that Hell would allow. 

“Alright! Pipe down.” He heard a voice exclaim from behind him. 

Gabriel’s expression softened as the third party jogged over, stopping between the demon and the archangel with their hands up. 

“Who the heaven are you?” Crowley hissed, refusing to back down. 

“Seriously?” they exclaimed. 

Crowley looked them up and down. Black blazer, fingerless gloves, ostentatiously decorated bowler hat, far too much eye makeup, exasperated expression. Even if he couldn’t smell Hell on them it was obvious that they were a demon. No human being would dress like that, it wasn’t the 1980s anymore.

“Beelzebub,” Gabriel said with a smug nod in Crowley’s direction. 

He reeled back, blinking rapidly. This had to be some kind of hyper-realistic nightmare. He tried to sober up again, wondering if perhaps he hadn’t quite managed it the first time.

“New face, don’t make it a thing,” Beelzebub said, their hands still up. “We need to talk.”

“We do!” Gabriel interjected.

“Just give us a minute, Angel.” They turned towards him. “We’ll meet you in the pub, yeah?”

Crowley’s jaw dropped. He tried to sober up for a third time. The Supreme Archangel of All Heaven, Gabriel, approached Lord Beelzebub, Grand Duke of Hell, and squeezed their hand briefly with a sickeningly soft smile before walking off in the direction of his statue. Crowley’s eyes follow his back as it receded. His head felt like it was going to explode. 

He turned back towards his former boss slowly, finding a hard expression on their face that he knew to be a mask. “What-”

“Walk with me,” they said, rushing off. 

Crowley followed in a daze, staring at them with an endless string of questions in his mind.

“Heaven and Hell have another Apocalypse in the works,” they began, “Gabriel isn’t for it, neither am I. We’d hoped to do something about it before they tried anything with him.”

“Okay!” Crowley stopped in his tracks, unable to take another bombshell. “Angel? Do you know what that little nickname means on this planet?”

“Obviously I do. And?” they asked, eyes narrowed dangerously.

“I’m in the bloody twilight zone.”

“We’re in Edinburgh, Crowley.”

“It’s just a saying, it means- you know what, never mind!” He laughed semi-hysterically. “This cannot be real.” He turned around, running a hand through his hair, trying to remember to breathe as a monstrous jealousy took hold of him.

“Realest thing I’ve ever had,” Beelzebub replied, so softly that he nearly missed it. 

He laughed again, shaking his head. He wanted to scream. 

“We thought you and your Aziraphale would be with us in trying to stop the Apocalypse, in case you missed that,” they snapped. “Whatever happened in the past isn’t as important as this.”

He turned to face them again, thankful that his eyes were hidden. “Fuck you.”

Beelzebub sighed. “I’m only doing what you did, get over yourself.”

“How did you do it?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“Be with him!” he exclaimed. “How?”

“Well I’m not giving you the whole story,” they said, crossing their arms. 

Crowley took his sunglasses off, staring them down, letting aeons of pain, desperation and heartache show for just a moment. The heavy silence settled uncomfortably around them. Beelzebub broke it first with a sigh, tightening their crossed arms. 

“Fine,” they groaned. “We met up a few times over the past year, planning the new Apocalypse, bureaucratic liaising, you know how it is.”

Crowley shook his head again, exasperation growing. 

“Well, I suppose we realised we had more in common than just our jobs, okay? Look, it really doesn’t matter, Crowley.” They cleared their throat. “What does matter is that the world will be ending soon.”

“It already has,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. Alright, weirdness aside, why do you and him give a shit about the world?”

“We don’t,” they said before backtracking immediately, “I mean… we do! We just don’t think the Apocalypse as a concept serves us any more, and they’re not exactly gonna let The Archangel Gabriel stay in Heaven if he’s refusing to execute God’s plan are they? You and I both know what happens when you’re kicked out of there.” Beelzebub shuddered.

“Okay so live happily ever after in Hell together, problem solved.” He shrugged. 

“Would you say that if it was your angel at risk?” they snapped.

“I don’t have an angel, I have a Bentley with several large bottles of Talisker inside calling my name, so if you don’t mind,” he said saccharinely, offering a sarcastic bow. 

Beelzebub’s eyes widened, realisation washing over them. “Oh, for Satan’s sake Crowley! You couldn’t have chosen a better time for a breakup?”

He laughed, sliding his sunglasses back on. “Empathic as ever, Lord Beelzebub. Now if you don’t mind-”

“Yes I bloody well do mind! Why don’t you care about the world anymore? You and your angel aren’t the only ones who could do with some damned peace and quiet in these parts, you know.”

“Oh, I do care, but I will not be working with Gabriel to try and save it.”

“Well there’s where you’re fucked,” Beelzebub said with a grin. “Can you actually tell me what happened last summer?”

“I’m bored of your games.”

“Seriously. Try and think back to it.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “All I remember is a burning bookshop, a burning car and a rather un-angelic possession. Sorry mate, my memory isn’t what it was.”

“Oh, yeah? Who was there then? Me, Gabriel, the Big Boss, Aziraphale… who else?”

Of course Crowley remembered everything as though it had happened yesterday, but he always thought that pretending he didn’t numbed the pain a little. 

“Who else, Crowley?” Beelzebub pressed. 

“Book Girl, her man friend, a couple of kids-”

“How many kids?” they interrupted. 

“Three. Look, however fun this is, I have places to be.”

“What about the Antichrist?”

“The… who? Your memory clearly isn’t what it once was either, your unholiness.”

Beelzebub nodded, a knowing smile on their face. “Who brought about the end of the world?”

“The four horsemen!”

“Yeah and who called them?”

“The… oh, I don’t know! Don’t you outsource that?”

“So, no Antichrist?”

Crowley paused for a moment, something resembling a memory tugging at the back of his mind. 

“I thought you’d remember the Antichrist, Crowley. Considering that you delivered him to his human family twelve years ago,” Beelzebub said slowly, their eyes trained on his face. 

He blinked, frowning. A deep sense of unease settled over him suddenly. He frantically tried to search his mind for something he could no longer reach. The Antichrist. Antichrist… who? Had that really happened? Was Beelzebub even to be trusted? Obviously not… but in this instance his hesitation alone was enough to make him wonder.

“There was an Antichrist who didn’t work out too well for anyone, so they had to find another one. And Heaven can’t exactly have you all remembering about the old one, can they?” Beelzebub continued.

“Why should I believe you?”

“You know it makes sense. If the old one still had any of his powers—any memory of his powers—he could help stop the new one. And after last summer’s disaster, they’re not willing to risk even the smallest screw-up.”

“And if we knew, we would inevitably help him,” Crowley said quietly, frowning as the nightmarish puzzle began to form in his mind.

“Exactly.”

He ran a hand over his face, all hints of his manufactured casual sarcasm gone. “So how do you know any of this?”

“The Grand Duke of Hell needs to know these things, Crowley. I’m meant to be leading the charges!”

“And so they, what, erased the memories of everyone else involved?” He felt sick.

“Gabriel and a few of the other higher-up Archangels and Dukes of Hell know, and they just erased Adam as the Antichrist from the Book of Life. Turns out Antichrist Adam and human Adam were never even on the same page.”

He reeled back. The world seemed to tilt on its axis and he nearly lost his footing. The gaps in his mind suddenly felt like gaping black holes and he was terrified of anything else crossing the event horizon. The Book of Life was supposed to be nothing more than an empty threat, a grim fairytale to keep the cherubs in line. It wasn’t real… it couldn’t be real. But when he tried to peer into the depths of those black holes, he wasn’t so sure anymore. 

God was playing The Devil, and both of them were about to use Earth as their battlefield. This was the real big one, and anyone who’d previously had half a mind to care would now sit blissfully unaware as the troops marched in.

“Antichrist Adam,” he said weakly. 

“Adam Young,” Beelzebub confirmed.

Crowley’s blood ran cold. Little Adam Young had been THE Antichrist? It was unimaginable… was it not? He’d just been at the boy’s birthday party and nothing had seemed amiss. However, he figured then that any memory he had of the normal little boy he’d grown so fond of was no longer to be trusted. Was he even remembering the birthday party correctly? It was a soberingly terrifying thought.

“Heaven can’t have this kind of power,” he said, more confidently than he felt.

“I agree,” Beelzebub began with a resolute nod, “and seeing as me and Gabriel are the only ones who agree and still have our memories, I’d say you’re properly fucked if you refuse to work with us here.”

Crowley shut his eyes with a sigh, desperately trying to latch onto any other plan. Perhaps if Aziraphale were here they could figure it out together like they always had before… but he wasn’t, and for the first time, Crowley was truly glad about that fact. The further away from all this he was the better. Heaven had shown before that they were not opposed to meddling with the memories of former archangels, but the threat that The Book of Life posed was singularly petrifying. To have the power to wipe all memories of a being from every mind in the universe? No. Crowley would not allow Aziraphale within a mile of that degree of danger. He knew what they were capable of. Crowley was on his own with this one. 

He sighed again, looking to Beelzebub, defeated. “We’d best get a drink then. We have work to do.”

Aziraphale

Aziraphale should never have picked up the phone. Damn his incurable hope. Now his mind was swimming with dark shadows that he could neither substantiate nor disprove. Anathema’s story had been convincing, she’d surely played the part well enough. But really, Adam Young? The Antichrist? And for him not to remember any of it? It was a little silly… right? He shook his head, trying to shake off the sense of loss clouding his mind. 

Thankfully he kept a very detailed series of journals, which he figured was a good place to start. He opened his top desk drawer, pulling out one of the last volumes. Please let it be nothing, he thought to himself as he opened it. He flicked through an embarrassing amount of memories involving a certain demon and an even more embarrassing number of sketches depicting sunset eyes, dark wings and agile fingers wrapped around wine glasses. He cleared his throat, looking at the pages as little as possible until he got to last summer’s dates. 

His breath caught as he looked down at the drawing on that page. It was a drawing he had no recollection of ever completing and its very presence there in what was supposed to be a collection of his most intimate thoughts made his blood run cold. If this was not sacred, then what was?

“Oh, Adam,” he whispered down at the sketch he must have made of the boy. It was a perfect likeness, other than the eyes. The eyes were as red as blood. 

He sat down then, reading his own memories written in his own hand as though they were the words of a stranger. After a few pages, he considered calling Crowley— an idea he put aside as quickly as it had come to him. If Heaven were truly capable of mass-erasing memories from the universe, then the further away Crowley was the better. The archangels had never liked him… well, they didn’t like any of the demons, but with Crowley it had always seemed personal. Aziraphale would not give them a reason or an opportunity to harm him.

He got more unnerved the further into the journals he got. The real reasons for his and Crowley’s involvement in Warlock Dowling’s childhood, the fact that Crowley himself had delivered Adam to his human family, Adam himself bending the nature of reality to fit his will… it all felt like an elaborately constructed work of fiction. He thought he might even enjoy it in novel form. It was just too fantastical to be true. Adam was such a sweet boy.

Part of him still believed—or wanted to believe—that it was all some sort of trick, a manufactured panic to push him to action so that Heaven could finally punish him accordingly. He sighed, closing the journal carefully and standing up. There was only one way to find out; he had to go back to Tadfield.

***

Anathema opened the door before he could even knock, urgently ushering him inside without a word. He followed her to the kitchen, where Newton was sitting white-faced before a cup of tea. 

“Where’s your friend?” she asked.

“I don’t tend to keep friends,” he replied with a forced smile.

She groaned in exasperation before grabbing a dark blue journal from the bench and slamming it down at the table where Newton sat. 

“What’s this?” Aziraphale asked.

“The truth. All of it.”

He sat down tentatively, not touching the journal. “Looks like I’m not the only one who kept records!” he said, trying to keep the mood light.

“Look, we really don’t have time for this,” she snapped. “Just read it.”

He took it slowly with shaking hands, unable to quantify his nerves. The stone that had formed deep in his gut upon reading his journals continued to weigh him down. He felt anchored to the present moment like a lone buoy amid an indeterminably deep ocean. Where did it begin? How would it end? He supposed it was about time to find out. 

If the information in Anathema’s journals matched his own… well… one step at a time! He held his breath, wincing as he opened it, and wincing again when he saw Adam’s name immediately there.

“Adam Young,” he whispered sadly, wishing more than anything that he had been wrong.

“Adam Young,” she confirmed. “Whatever he was, whatever he did… it’s all gone. All of it.”

Aziraphale’s mind was racing. There had to be a rational explanation for all of this. “Yes. My own journals mention him by name as well. As the… the Antichrist.”

“I knew it.”

He slammed the thing shut, not wanting or needing to read any more. “Surely the boy is better off not remembering those horrors,” he said, gesturing to the discarded journal. 

“It’s not about Adam! What reason would God have for doing this if not to try the whole Apocalypse thing again?” she exclaimed wildly. “I should not have to explain this to you.”

“Oh, I do doubt that God herself is concerned with such affairs.”

“I don’t give a shit about the bureaucracy, Aziraphale! My point is, another Apocalypse is coming! Only this time none of us have the mind to do anything about it!”

He closed his eyes with a sigh, trying to organise all of this new information. Anathema did have a point, however begrudged he was to admit it. If this were true—and he had the overwhelmingly frightful suspicion that it was—then the only possible reason for it would be because Heaven and Hell wanted to try again, but get it right this time. Removing all external factors from their ghastly war was one surefire way to do it.

“Well, I’m not sure how much help I am in this case. I don’t think that upstairs are taking my calls anymore,” he admitted.

“We are well beyond the need for a fucking phone call!” Anathema yelled. “They took our memories, they want to take our world! Are you really going to let them?”

Of course he didn’t want to let that happen. Everything he’d fought for had been for the world, everything he’d lost was so that humanity could remain free. He didn’t want it all to be in vain. What was the meaning of all that loss and pain if all it gave them was an extra year? He certainly wasn’t going to let that happen— but this time he was starting at quite the disadvantage. Outcast from Heaven, no idea of Her plan… no Crowley.

“Have you ever known of God to mess with people's memories before?” Anathema continued to press him. 

“No, not that I know of. The archangels may be privy to such sinister schemes, but…” he trailed off, something ancient in the back of his mind screaming to be released. “No. No, I don’t think so. Well, there is The Book of Life, but that is but a vicious rumour with no known basis in reality.”

“The list of all those who’ll be saved on judgement day?” Newton chimed in.

“That is a bit of an oversimplification. It is said that to have your name erased from The Book is to never have existed at all.”

“Shit,” Anathema exclaimed. “And you’re sure it’s not real?”

“Well…” Aziraphale began, frowning as his head continued to pound. “I’m… I’m not certain.”

“Maybe something worth finding out, that is,” Newton suggested.

“Newton, even if Heaven were taking my calls, that would be a highly inappropriate question coming from me,” he said, exasperated. 

“I’m gonna lose it,” Anathema muttered, running a hand through her hair before sitting to face Aziraphale. “Look, it sounds like you’re not on the best terms with Heaven right now, and I get that… but the world is ending! Again. So I’m sorry for not giving a shit about appropriate behaviour right now!”

Aziraphale blinked, suddenly transported back to another time.

“I wish we didn’t need you, but we do. You are the only one who knows how to find out what they’re planning. You think they won’t take your calls? Well make them! Everything is on the line!”

“Have the courage to act audaciously inappropriate,” he murmured, before raising his voice to ask, “Have either of you spoken to Adam Young directly?”

***

Aziraphale knocked on the door of the Young residence, trying to keep the onslaught of likely manufactured memories at bay. When the door opened, it was not who he expected to see. 

“Oh, hello you,” Adam’s grandmother Marge greeted him with a smile. 

“Hello, Marge. I’m afraid myself and my… associates have some rather urgent questions for young Adam.”

“Well come in, come in,” she said, allowing the three of them to follow her inside. “Arthur and Deirdre are out on the search, but Adam’s just in here.”

“The search?” Anathema asked. 

“Oh, yes, it’s the funniest thing! They just woke up one day with a whole collection of dog items around the house. Adam was just about hysterical, the poor dear is convinced he had a little dog that ran away, but none of us remember a thing.”

Aziraphale exchanged glances with Anathema and Newton as they sat down on the couch. Adam was lying on the floor with his face buried in a book.

“Would any of you like a cup of tea?” Marge asked. 

“Yes, please,” Aziraphale said with a smile, thinking it would get her out of the room for a while.

She got everyone's sugar and milk preferences and scuttled off to the kitchen. Adam dropped his book and sat up the second she was gone. 

“I’m not making it up,” he said fiercely. “I had a dog.”

Anathema kneeled on the floor in front of him. “I believe you, Adam. Do you remember anything else strange about the past year or so?”

He shook his head, devastated confusion clear in his eyes. “Everything feels weird, but look.” He dug around in his pocket, pulling out a crumpled Polaroid. “Pepper got a camera for her birthday last year, she must have taken this. I know it’s real.”

Anathema paled as she studied the photo, handing it back to Aziraphale. Sure enough, it was a picture of Adam in the woods, dressed in his father’s dressing gown and a cardboard hat, holding a little black and white dog in his arms. He quite expected the beast to be larger, but still, he was as certain as he could be of what sort of dog it was. He passed it on to Newton, frowning down at Adam. 

“This dog, do you have any memory of it whatsoever?” he asked the boy. 

“No. But I know it’s real. I know he’s mine! I can feel it!” 

“I believe you, Adam,” Aziraphale said softly. 

“You do?” Anathema challenged. 

“The story goes that Hell sends a hound to assist the Antichrist in leading the Apocalypse. The little dog in this photo is remarkably similar to the hellhound described in my journals,” he said. “If this is all true, then the dog has likely run off in search of its new master.”

“Hellhound?” Newton frowned down at the Polaroid. “The hellhound is a little terrier?”

“I just want my dog back,” Adam said, his voice breaking. 

Aziraphale was overcome with great sympathy. Whatever was going on, Adam did not deserve to be caught in the middle— former Antichrist or not. “We’ll find your dog, Adam. I swear it.”

“We will?” Newton asked, concerned. 

“May we keep this picture? I assure you we will return it to you alongside your pet, and your memories.”

Adam frowned, nodding confusedly. Marge came back with the tea then, but Aziraphale had already stood to leave. 

“You’re going already?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m afraid so, and I’m afraid you will have no recollection of us ever being here,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Come now Anathema, Newton. You have work to do, and I have a very long-distance call to make.”

Crowley

“Alright,” Crowley said, leaning back and taking another swig from his bottle. “Can you say that last part again?”

“A day or so ago-” Gabriel began.

“Sounds like it was late after the ex-Antichrist’s party,” Beelzebub cut in, “according to your timeline.”

Crowley waved a hand to shut them up, which resulted in a death glare and several muttered expletives. 

“Yes, exactly, so-”

“Actually no I can’t cope with listening to another one of your tediously convoluted retellings,” Crowley cut Gabriel off. “Long story short; Apocalypse 2.0 has been a-brewing and Metatron doesn’t think they can do it without erasing Antichrist Adam from The Book of Life entirely. Yes?”

“Well, yes,” Gabriel said, “and rewriting his powers onto the page of the original one.”

“Warlock Dowling?”

“Warlock Dowling,” Gabriel confirmed. 

Crowley groaned, downing the remainder of his Pinot Noir. “That kid was a nightmare. I remember bloody nothing about this whole Antichrist business, but yeah, it makes sense that we thought it was him.”

He leaned over the bar where they were sitting, finding another bottle of wine. They had gone to the same bar that Crowley had already spent so much time in and while the bartender was long gone, the alcohol was not, so Crowley figured he could help himself. He’d leave another large tip for him to find when he opened the place up in the morning. 

“Great, so taking care of him won’t be too hard then,” Beelzebub said with a shrug.

Crowley choked on his wine. “Lord Beelzebub, with all due respect, I am not killing a child. Not even a highly irritating one.”

“Why not?”

Crowley shook his head incredulously, looking to Gabriel to answer for him and then immediately scolding himself for doing so. He drank more instead, hoping that the alcohol would take hold again soon.

“Okay, new plan, why don’t you just go tell your people no?” Crowley stupidly suggested. 

“Crowley, it has already been written. I’ve already expressed… trepidation, shall we say. I can’t go back to Heaven after that. You know what happens to archangels who ask questions.”

“Don’t I just,” he said, gritting his teeth in a grin and raising his bottle to Gabriel. “What changed your mind anyway? I thought you were all for the Apocalypse.”

Gabriel exhaled a soft sigh, turning his attention to Beelzebub who scowled beneath his revenant gaze. “Well-”

“Never mind, don’t wanna know,” Crowley muttered as that incessant Everyday song trilled through the jukebox again. “I really don’t get it.” He turned to Beelzebub instead.

“I didn’t come here to discuss my love life, did I?” they snapped. “I’ve already told you the damn story.”

He took off his sunglasses, hiding his face in his hands. “Six thousand years,” he muttered softly, “that’s how long we had. Longer even, to me anyway. And we never even- I mean, he never… fuck, never mind. I’m so happy for you.”

They sat in silence until the song ended. Crowley had the uncomfortable sensation that Gabriel and Beelzebub were engaging in some kind of wordless conversation over his head. 

“Look, Crowley, I am… sorry?” Gabriel began, looking to Beelzebub, who nodded in encouragement. “Yes! I am sorry for the whole situation with your friend and the hellfire. Truly I am.”

“He was following orders, doing what Heaven wanted, same shit I do, just a different department,” Beelzebub added. “We both probably could have dealt with that whole thing a bit better, in hindsight.”

“But the point is, neither of us care about what Heaven or Hell want anymore. Right?” Gabriel asked Beelzebub, who nodded in reply. “We’ve found something that matters more.”

Crowley looked down at the bottle in his hands, thinking that that was precisely his problem. Aziraphale would never find anything that mattered more than God— more than Her ineffable plan and harmony in accordance with what was written. When he looked between Gabriel and Beelzebub he knew that both of them would watch the world burn if it meant they could just run off somewhere together. The nightingale would never witness them make a toast to the world. 

“But there’s nowhere you can run until Heaven and Hell give up on this Apocalypse thing,” he said.

“Until the threat that The Book of Life poses is removed from the equation,” Gabriel clarified.

“So you want to… what? Destroy The Book of Life?” Crowley laughed.

“We put things back to how they were, maybe… edit, a little. I think Metatron has been in charge long enough, no?” Gabriel chuckled, not a hint of the moral panic that Aziraphale would have repented for had he suggested such blasphemy. “Then, yes, we destroy it… which benefits you as well! You wouldn’t even be helping me really,” he added quickly.

Beelzebub leaned forward, taking the wine bottle in their hands and staring Crowley down. “Six thousand years starts to look a great deal smaller with eternity ahead of you,” they pitched, drinking deeply from the bottle.

Crowley blinked at them in shock. He had never seen another angel or demon consume anything of Earth— besides Aziraphale, of course. 

“An eternity without this corrupt fucking bureaucracy looming over your heads,” they spat, a smile twisting their lips. “I’m sure there’s a thing or two in The Book of Life that your angel would be interested in as well.”

“He’s not involved in this,” Crowley said sternly.

Beelzebub leaned back again, taking another drink. “Whatever you want. You’re with us though, yeah?”

Crowley took the bottle back from them, scowling. “I’m not bloody with you, I’m… with the world. Against the corrupt fucking bureaucracy.”

“Great!” Gabriel clapped his hands together. “Down with the corrupt bureaucracy!”

“You can swear, you know,” Beelzebub teased. 

“God might be watching,” he said with a frown, bringing a hands to his heart.

“Not for much longer, Angel.” They reached out across Crowley to squeeze his hand. 

He leaned back with disgust, looking between the unlikely lovebirds. It was actually quite sweet if he didn’t think too hard about it… if he didn’t let the monstrous jealousy tear his heart to shreds. Oh how he wished Aziraphale were here. He shuddered. No, he didn’t. This was very quickly becoming his most dangerous scheme yet.

“Alright, when do we leave?” Gabriel asked far too casually.

As if they didn’t have to somehow break into Heaven, get past hoards of angels, fight off Metatron—maybe even God herself—and steal The Book of Life… then open it and edit its contents before destroying it permanently. 

“Slow down, Supreme Archangel,” he scoffed. “I have a plan.”

Aziraphale

Aziraphale had taken a shortcut back to London, materialising in his bookshop with a snap of his fingers. He shook his hands out, stretching his neck with a grimace. Perhaps he had gone native because travelling like that made his head spin now. He really missed the train, but time was of the essence. 

As soon as he’d left the Young residence, he shoved the little Polaroid photo of Adam and his maybe-ex-hellhound into Anathema’s hand and ordered her and Newton to find the animal by any means necessary— and, more importantly, to find its new master. He hadn’t given the couple much time to ask questions before transporting out of there. 

As soon as he regained his bearings he approached the large circular rug he used to cover his doorway to Heaven and flung it aside, not for the first time feeling the most unsettling sense of déjà vu. It had been too long since he’d had any sort of communication with his former place of employment, or perhaps not nearly long enough. He doubted that anyone would even answer.

He switched on his electric candles with unsteady hands, placing them around the circle, trying to quieten his mind as he spoke. “Hello. This is the Principality… well, former Principality Aziraphale. Is there anyone-”

A large spectral head suddenly appeared in the portal’s light, causing Aziraphale to stumble back in shock. His heart raced as he looked up at the stern, white face. 

Metatron. 

His authoritarian demeanour was palpable even worlds away. Aziraphale had the sudden urge to stand up straighter, to fix his clothing and apologise for every impure thought he’d ever had. His presence in the safe haven of the bookshop—his unnervingly prompt presence—made the stone in his stomach turn.

It was almost as though he’d been waiting for him.

Chapter Text

Mr. van Gogh’s iris painting was gently propped upon Aziraphale’s desk, where he had sat before it all night and well into the morning. Staring. Thinking. Longing. Regretting. Occasionally he would stand and potter around the bookshop—gaze at an empty wall as though he were contemplating where to hang it—only to sit right back down again. Every blank space felt too common, too plain. He couldn’t bear the thought of anyone coming in from the street and viewing it with the eyes of a casual customer, nor could he choke down the idea that someone may come in and revere a piece of art that was so fundamentally his. He considered covering it with a miracle and storing it in the cellar to remain intimately vibrant—privately his—until the end of time. 

Had he not known exactly how that particular story ended, he may have just done so. 

He sighed, glancing at the clock, which told him that he still had nearly half an hour until Oscar was due to arrive. Perhaps some more pottering was in order— but pacing around the bookshop gave legs to his thoughts, and they quickly began to run amok. 

His correspondence with Oscar had felt like a dream— some far-off, hazy thing that would never become tangible. He shouldn’t have kept writing back, but then Mr van Gogh died, and he’d found himself toasting to art alone in his shop, filled with regret that he had lost the one being who might understand his particular kind of grief. 

Oscar’s book of poems had sat where Crowley’s wine glass should have, so he picked up a pen and began to write. 

He was startled at his reckless excitement upon receiving a reply so soon. It had been so long since anyone had taken any interest in him, or spoken to him at all, really. He could go weeks at a time without uttering a single word outside of polite customer greetings. His existence as of late was a lonely one, but he never dared to resent that fact as he knew it was self-inflicted. Maybe even deserved. 

But then came Oscar, crashing into his life with beautiful words and artistic audacity, and most strikingly, genuine interest. Aziraphale felt as though he’d been laid bare between the lines of Oscar’s letters. Perhaps he was but a lonely soul reading too far into the eccentricities of an artist, but his loneliness was so heavy—the time since he’d been able to share its weight so long—and he was so, so tired. 

He’d tried to find some semblance of life at the illicit 100 Guineas Club in the 80s, after failing at Crowley’s old coping mechanism of sleeping through the entirety of the 70s. Nothing but the stale taste of absinthe on lips as anguished as his own and a masterfully perfected gavotte had stuck. Not a person or a thing had ever come close to filling the black hole perched upon his left shoulder. Until Oscar, who he knew wouldn’t stick either. Not beyond today when the artist would come face-to-face with no more than a plain bookseller and divorce the idea he had of him from the reality of what he was. But Aziraphale would take a day, a morning, one conversation. 

He was just so lonely. 

He turned to the back of his shop, laying a gentle hand against the yellow-panelled wall. Perhaps the painting would fit there. He was still frozen in that position when he heard the front door open. He didn’t move when it closed softly, nor did he move when heavy footsteps moved slowly towards him. He stayed staring at the wall—fully conscious of how silly he must look—when he heard his guest come up less than a foot behind him. 

“I would hang it in my bedroom if I were you,” he said in a sonorous voice. “Let the flowers bloom in the light born from your most intimate moments.”

Aziraphale turned around, finding himself face-to-face—well, face-to-chest—with Oscar Wilde. But his arresting presence was not all in his height; it was in his smile— quirked in a way that made him appear wily and all-knowing. It was buried deep in his ancient eyes, wise and sparkling, nearly the same shade as Aziraphale’s. Oscar had compared him to the inhabitants of Mount Olympus, but he thought then that he wouldn’t at all be surprised to see him sitting upon a throne there instead. He was uniquely captivating. Quintessentially an artist. 

“There you are,” Oscar said, more softly now, reaching out a hand. When Aziraphale shook it, he was surprised by the firm grip. “Do not introduce yourself; let me say your name first, and you may scold me if I mispronounce it. Aziraphale.”

“Perfect.” And it was, much to his surprise. 

“You both look and sound exactly as I thought you would, which surprises me greatly.”

“Well, I do apologise for being so predictable.”

“Not at all. I just said this surprises me greatly, did I not?”

Aziraphale smiled, inexplicably nervous. “I’d thought you were Irish,” he said dumbly.

Oscar grinned back. “Yes, I forgot the accent at Oxford, amongst other things. Will you show me the painting? I want to see what you see.”

“Right, yes, the painting.” Aziraphale looked down, sidestepping around Oscar and shuffling back to his desk. “That’s it.” He gestured awkwardly to the canvas as Oscar positioned himself on his right side, frowning down at it.

“Tell me what you see.”

“I… I see irises. In a vase.”

Oscar turned to him, playful disappointment in his eyes. “Of course you do, of course you do.”

“Tea?” he asked, rushing to the back room before he could get a reply. 

He took two cups down from the shelf, scrambling to get everything together. To get himself together. He couldn’t understand his nervousness, there really was no need for it. Was he now that unfamiliar with the ins and outs of human conversation? What a tragic prospect. He carefully made two cups of tea, took a few grounding breaths, and resolved to behave properly. 

When he walked back out, Oscar was still standing before the painting, gazing at it intently with his hands clasped behind his back. Aziraphale almost wished that he had hidden it away, for the hunger he saw in the artist’s eyes was bordering on obscene. Then again, there was a very real possibility that he was just overprotective when it came to his irises. 

“I see desperation,” Oscar said, accepting a cup of tea from Aziraphale’s hand. 

“How do you mean?”

“Those flowers there,” he began, pointing to a bunch of blue irises that had fallen from the vase, “while they appear to be fallen, they still cling on by their stems, the desperate longing to once again grow alongside their fellows ever present.”

Aziraphale took a sip of his tea, stalling. He wondered what Crowley would say. “I don’t know, maybe Mr van Gogh just wanted to fill the bottom corner of his canvas.”

“There is no greater emptiness than to be filled with desperation, Aziraphale. I am certain that Mr van Gogh could have attested to this before he shot himself for not, I’m sure, dissimilar reasons.” 

Aziraphale frowned, blinking at the painting through new eyes. 

“I have made you look at it differently, and for that, I must apologise,” Oscar said with a sigh. “There is no greater burden than viewing one’s surroundings through an artist’s eyes.”

“I should think that an artist’s perception makes everything more beautiful.”

“Beauty itself is its own burden to bear,” he turned towards him then, “as I’m sure one who carries it as well as yourself is keenly aware.”

Every last nerve ending in Aziraphale’s form lit up. It felt like a warning. “Please, let’s sit,” he said, eager to get out from under Oscar’s intense gaze. 

Their letters flashed through Aziraphale’s mind as they sat down; he didn’t quite know how to begin a casual conversation with the man after all that. He watched him flick open a silver cigarette case, gently taking one between his lips before holding it out to Aziraphale. 

“No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”

Oscar smiled, returning his unlit cigarette to its case and closing it with a click. “No, I’d rather assumed not, but the rules of polite society dictate that I ask regardless.”

“My impression of you is not one of a man who has much belief in the rules of polite society,” Aziraphale dared to reply. 

“Of course not, which is why I must follow them absolutely. It is the same approach I take to religion, and what is polite society if not the religion of the upper class?”

“You are not a man of God?”

Oscar leaned back, deep in thought, his gaze drifting away from Aziraphale for the first time since they had sat down. “I’d wager to bet that I’m as much a man of God as you are.”

“Oh, I very much doubt that,” Aziraphale said with a laugh. 

“Perhaps as much a man of God as your lost star boy, then.”

Aziraphale looked down, intently analysing the floral pattern on his teacup, unsure if he was willing to take the conversation any further. “You said you were working on a play!” he blurted out, looking up again with what he hoped wasn’t too false of a smile painted on his face. 

Oscar nodded slowly, taking in the deflection. “You’ve made the acquaintance of one George Alexander, I’m sure. A fine actor indeed, played Faust to Irving’s Mephistopheles, I’m sure you saw the play.”

Aziraphale nodded noncommittally, not wanting to admit that he never could stomach that story. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about Goethe’s slightly more optimistic rendition. Poor Faust probably deserved damnation, technically speaking. Wretched fool. 

He looked on as Oscar explained how his actor-turned-theatre-manager friend had commissioned him to write a play and his lack of inspiration to begin writing it. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious that his mind was still on Faust and star boy.

“Regardless, I see that your mind is elsewhere. I shan’t bore you with any more details, but when inspiration does find me again, I would very much like your opinion on what I have to write.”

“I apologise for appearing distracted! I am most interested, truly,” Aziraphale stuttered, embarrassed.

Oscar stood with his eyebrows raised, walking to the back of the shop where he had first found him, laying a hand on the wall where his had been. “You say in your letter that I have formed the wrong impression of you and your boy, so I must ask, in a building where the very walls are painted with the one colour that should eternally remind you of him, what would be the right impression?” 

“Well, that depends entirely on what your wrong impression is to begin with.” He still didn’t particularly want to discuss this, or maybe he did, he didn’t know anymore. It was just nice to have someone take an interest. 

“Desperation,” Oscar said without hesitation.

“I’m not sure that’s entirely accurate,” Aziraphale scoffed, tracing a finger along the rim of his teacup.

Oscar ran his hand down the yellow wall, looking back at him. “It’s a beautiful colour, like a glorious sunset. Your new painting will fit well wherever you choose to hang it.”

Aziraphale nodded, looking over at the painting again. “Tremendously disparate complementaries,” he said softly. 

“Pardon me?”

“Tremendously disparate complementaries, which strengthen each other by their juxtaposition. That’s how Mr van Gogh described the colours of the painting, in a letter to his brother which he allowed me to read.”

Oscar turned away from the wall, a spark in his eyes as he quickly walked to sit back down opposite Aziraphale. He looked like a man who’d finally found his grand story. “Tremendously disparate complementaries, that is most fascinating,” he said, prompting Aziraphale to say more. 

“Yes,” he replied with a sigh, anticipating how good it might feel to finally just talk about everything. “I suppose I can relate to that, in a sense.”

“You and your star boy.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale began, thinking that he was being absolutely reckless, “his name is Crowley.”

“And what is his first name?”

“He has been just Crowley for a long, long time.”

“Crowley,” Oscar said, tasting the name as though it were a fine wine. “Crowley. It makes absolute sense that he should have a name equally as fascinating as your own. Already a portrait begins to paint itself in my mind, of auburn hair and amber eyes, a true sunset boy.”

Aziraphale blinked, reeling back.

Oscar just smiled that ineffably all-knowing smile. “You view things much more artistically than you yourself think you do, or much more so than you think you should allow yourself to do, and therefore I needn’t look further than an artist’s interpretation to see what you see.”

“I must admit that I am a little unsettled,” he said breathlessly. 

“Good. Whatever happened with Crowley?”

Aziraphale sighed, looking up, wondering if anyone was keeping tabs on him. Wondering if Crowley was keeping tabs on him. Unlikely. “He asked something of me. Something that I could not, in good conscience, give him. Words were exchanged, and I haven’t heard from him since.” He finished with a shrug, trying to minimise the complex web of emotions he still felt whenever he thought back to St. James’s Park.

“Could you have given it to him in bad conscience?” Oscar asked, as though that were a perfectly reasonable question. 

“I strive to do everything in good conscience.”

“Is a clear conscience worth a lonely life?”

“Unequivocally, yes.”

“Spoken as a true man of God,” Oscar said, sadly. 

“He was also a… man of God… once. Long, long ago.” Aziraphale found that once he finally started talking, it was difficult to stop. “But he somewhat fell from grace, which… complicates things.”

“What did he fall for?”

“Answers, I suppose.” He sighed, frowning. “Rather foolish of him, really. What’s the point of having answers if they only cause you more pain?”

“One needs to first know the truth if he wishes to disregard it, and pain is the artist’s greatest tool.”

“He is not an artist.”

Oscar leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at Aziraphale’s words. “You do not wear this acrimony well, dear boy.”

Aziraphale looked away, mouth pressed into a thin line, unwilling to face his own markedly un-angelic bitterness. 

“You wrote that he has made you a sinner, could it be that the opposite is true?” Oscar leaned back again, holding his hands up in surrender. “Please, do explain if I have offended you.”

“It would be quite impossible for me to influence anyone to do anything but good.”

Oscar chuckled softly, and Aziraphale fought the urge to tell him to leave. If he knew he was laughing at an Angel of God, he might reconsider his position… maybe. Either way, he felt uncomfortably backed into a corner by the artist’s line of questioning. 

“Would you not too fall for the truth?” Oscar asked.

“God is truth,” he spat out the words as though he resented them and hated himself for it. He looked up again in repentance. 

“Oh, dear.” There was true pity in Oscar’s eyes. “I kneel at the feet of radical authenticity, and pray that everyone I meet dares to do the same. It sounds as though dear Crowley does, and the fact that you do not is what drove him away.”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped, and he found himself at a loss for words. How dare he say such things? As though he knew even a fraction of the life that he and Crowley had lived together. As though he had any right at all to be injecting even more guilt between them. 

“That is… a most inappropriate assessment!”

“Yes, of course. The truth tends to be rather inappropriate, if it weren’t then more people would speak it.”

Aziraphale gripped his teacup, unsure how to even begin unpacking everything that Oscar had thrown at him. To be holy was the truest form of authenticity; it was authenticity in the eyes of God, and anything else was sacrilege. Demonic behaviour, naturally. Of course, he’d occasionally worried about the implications of his association with Crowley… but if anything, he’d hoped to be a good influence on the ex-angel, his own holiness had never truly been at stake. Not really. Not in any meaningful way. Their agreement was purely business, there needn’t be a personal aspect to it at all, despite Aziraphale’s hypothetical feelings on the situation. His hypothetical feelings that were hypothetically irrelevant— so tragically human. 

He never should have written back to Oscar, never should have given voice to his reckless idolatry, sparked by the demon and fanned by the artist. He was an Angel of God, and that would remain the only true constant in his life. Crowley was gone, it was his own fault, and it was for the best. 

Perhaps if he thought the words enough times, he would begin to believe them.

“Alright,” Oscar began, standing up, “I see wars waging behind your lovely eyes. It appears your mind and your heart are both taking aim. I think that perhaps it is time for me to go, lest I push you any further than you are willing to go at the present time. But I do hope I have given you much to think about and that the next time I look into your eyes, there will be peace there.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale spluttered, clearing his throat.

Oscar frowned. “Do you even realise, I wonder, how self-inflicted the mental wars that you wage are? Allowing yourself the grace of your true feelings would surely prompt a ceasefire.”

“You don’t know what kind of… people are watching.”

“Yes, but they surely cannot watch your soul, Aziraphale. You must first find your authentic self if you wish to hide it successfully, and you cannot hide that which you refuse to acknowledge. God forbid someone were to acknowledge it before you got around to it and weaponised your unholy truths.”

Aziraphale shook his head, frowning. Oscar would never be able to understand, no one would. “You would be surprised at what they can see,” he said softly, resigned as always, standing to escort him out. “Thank you for your company, Mr Wilde. It has been most pleasant.”

“Oscar, please. It has been a most sincere pleasure getting to know your soul,” he said when they reached the door, holding out a hand. “We must meet again soon, perhaps for dinner.”

Aziraphale shook it, a sad smile playing on his lips. “I don’t think that would be wise.”

“Then we most certainly must do it!” he exclaimed, reaching his other hand up, cradling Aziraphale’s hand between both of his. “You fascinate me so dearly, I would be absolutely honoured to show you off to my friends.”

Aziraphale scrambled to stutter out a coherent reply, failing miserably.

“Don’t worry yourself, dear boy. I shall write to you,” Oscar said, dropping his hand and gently opening the door, stepping outside. “Until we meet again, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale watched it swing shut, standing there dumbly for far too long. The artist really wanted to see him again. He eventually blinked out of his stupor, his mind swimming with so many different thoughts that he couldn’t pick out even one to focus on. He walked back to his desk, pausing in front of the iris painting again, letting out a shaky breath. Tremendously disparate complementaries indeed. He took hold of the golden frame, lifting it as carefully as he could manage. 

Perhaps I will hang it in my bedroom.

…

“Ladies and Gentlemen: I have enjoyed this evening immensely. The actors have given us a charming rendering of a delightful play, and your appreciation has been most intelligent. I congratulate you on the great success of your performance, which persuades me that you think almost as highly of the play as I do myself!”

“Oh, good lord,” Aziraphale muttered with a smile, his words drowned beneath the thunderous applause filling St James’s Theatre. 

Oscar took a final bow—grinning around the cigarette between his lips—before disappearing behind the stage curtain with a flourish. Ever the performer, he was a writer made for the stage. Aziraphale joined in with the applause, scanning the faces of the crowd beneath the box where he stood. None of them would soon forget the author’s audacious speech— for better or for worse, it was all the same to Oscar. 

He tore his eyes away from the empty stage when Robbie Ross prodded him in the ribs with a sharp elbow. “If you’ve quite finished with your adulations,” he said with a teasing smile, gesturing around the quickly emptying box. “Let us go and give praise to our dear friend face-to-face.”

“Do get a move on then, boys,” Ada Leverson called from ahead, “I’m sure there will be a line of suitors waiting to give Oscar praise after that fantastic scandal. I dare say Lady Windermere will be the talk of the town for a long time yet, whomever she may be.”

Aziraphale met Robbie's gaze, grinning as he rolled his eyes before they both hurried to follow Ada downstairs. 

“I’m sure you can find solace in the fact that whatever your true age, you will forever remain a boy in the eyes of The Sphinx,” Robbie said. 

The nickname had stuck with her as much as her place in Oscar's inner circle had after she'd published a rather clever satire of Oscar's poem, The Sphinx.

“Lovely Ada always romanticises a good mystery more than a true fact,” Aziraphale slyly replied. “She is wise in that way.”

Robbie looked at him through narrowed eyes as they walked. “You will tell me one day.”

“I already have. I’m immortal.” He repeated the old joke, dodging as Robbie tried to elbow him again. 

The joke had formed in a moment of panic. Just a few days after Aziraphale and Oscar’s first meeting, he had unwisely agreed to dine with him, making the acquaintance of his dearest friend Robbie Ross as the three of them enjoyed a fine dinner at Kettner’s. Robbie had been most curious about him, implying how odd his growing friendship with Oscar was, considering the writer’s usual preference for younger men. 

When he asked Aziraphale’s age in a moment of jest, he’d stuttered around an answer for far too long before Oscar interjected, calling him an immortal soul, ancient in the thralls of youth. Aziraphale just shrugged—grinning at Robbie’s curious expression—and just like that, his greatest secret had become an intriguing joke that still enthralled them a year and a half later.

As he and Robbie entered the crowded room backstage of the St. James’s Theatre, he thought that he wouldn’t even recognise his past self if he ran into him now. 

“Glorious performance, as expected,” Robbie congratulated George Alexander as he approached. “Your Lord Windermere was most accurate.”

“Yes, yes,” he grumbled in reply. “Here comes the real star.”

Aziraphale watched as Oscar entered to a flurry of applause and handshakes. George looked on, muttering something under his breath that Aziraphale was too distracted to care about. 

“His behaviour has been most inappropriate, from rehearsal all the way through to his ostentatious curtain call,” George said more clearly.

“Yes, naturally,” Aziraphale replied without hesitation. 

“He loses sight of his role as author.”

“Oh, stop your carping,” Ada tutted, dismissing him with a wave of her hand as she approached. “The play was a resounding success. Go have a drink and accept the congratulations.”

He stalked off, and Aziraphale accepted a glass of champagne from Ada as they waited for their friend to slowly wade through the sea of praise. 

He certainly lived a vastly different life from the one he’d had in 1890. Oscar had swept him off his feet and refused to put him back down again until he’d planted roots in every corner of his existence. All the loneliness, regret and heartache were now buried deep beneath layers of prose, absinthe and high society— and when it did rear its ugly head, one of his new friends was always there to help tame the beast. 

He didn’t just gain a friend in Oscar: he also had his wife Constance and their children, who so affectionately called him uncle. He had Ada and Robbie and their wider circle of friends and acquaintances, all of whom had quickly regarded him as one of their own. He’d built more of a life in the past year and a half than he had since The Beginning. For the first time, he didn’t need to hide— and while God remained a constant influence upon him, the more time that passed without hearing from Heaven, the more human he felt.

It was a foreign sense of fragile peace that he kept in place by endeavouring never to think on unartistic matters for longer than strictly necessary. 

“Look at that darling flower,” Robbie said, pointing across the room to where Oscar stood with Lionel Johnson, talking to an unfamiliar young man whose hair shone like woven gold.

“Hmm, not my type,” Aziraphale replied. 

“Yes, we’re all well aware of your proclivity for auburn-haired gentlemen,” he teased. 

Aziraphale shot him a half-hearted glare, sipping his champagne. 

Yes, his time of hiding was well and truly behind him. If he had any idea where Crowley was—any indication that he wanted to be found—he thought that Oscar had imparted just enough wits and audacity within him to greet his old friend with absolute honesty. Maybe. His authentic self had been discovered and hidden just well enough to grant him the gift of radical authenticity within his social circle. 

“Oh my, I sense trouble brewing!” Ada gasped, always vicariously thrilled at others’ scandals. 

Oscar’s boy of the moment was approaching him, a sour expression on his face as he pulled the artist away from the golden-haired temptress. 

“Poor boy will soon learn the same hard lesson that all of Oscar’s boys eventually do,” Robbie said with a melancholic grin. “Nothing lasts forever.”

Oscar approached them then, still glancing back over his shoulder, to the annoyance of his companion. 

“Congratulations, Oscar. It was wonderful,” Robbie said sincerely. 

“Such a perfect scandal, what artistry you displayed!” Ada added, shaking his hand enthusiastically. 

“It truly was a most pleasant evening,” Aziraphale agreed. “Well done.”

Oscar gave his thanks, clearly distracted. 

“Who is that fine young man?” Robbie asked. 

“Dear Lionel’s cousin, one of the Marquess of Queensberry’s sons, Lord Alfred Douglas. Lionel brought him for tea at Tite Street last year... but I feel as though today, I am seeing him for the very first time,” he replied, looking over his shoulder again. "He likes to be called Bosie."

“Quite a pompous little thing, don’t you think?” Oscar’s companion demanded with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Do uncross your arms, dear,” Oscar instructed, “you will crush your carnation beneath them.”

The boy huffed, uncrossing his arms and allowing Oscar to straighten the flower. 

“Vibrant as ever,” he said with a smile. “Did I ever thank you, Aziraphale? You truly have the magician’s touch.” 

“Oh, no thanks are needed. It is always my pleasure to practice the fine art of prestidigitation.” He looked down at the green carnation pinned to his lapel, still unsure as to why Oscar had insisted they all wear them— but a year and a half of friendship with the man had rendered him practically immune to nonsensical acts of whimsy. 

“Dying flowers green is not magic,” Oscar’s companion muttered. 

“But he did not dye them, he is a magician, in the truest sense of the word,” Oscar insisted. 

Aziraphale just smiled while Robbie and Ada laughed. He didn’t crave the attention— not like Oscar did. It was just nice to have his own niche in a group that had quickly become like family. He enjoyed being known for something that he truly enjoyed. And whether he dyed or miracled the carnations green? Well, that was neither here nor there. 

“I must be off now, the claws of high society have yet to loosen their grip,” Oscar said with a theatrical sigh as if he didn’t enjoy every moment. “Aziraphale, would you have an extra place set at the table this evening? I have invited Bosie to join us.”

“Of course. I will see you at the shop later tonight.” Aziraphale nodded as Oscar walked away with a grin, his companion sulking after him. 

“Poor dear,” Ada tutted, “but anyone who knows Oscar will know that this only ends in one way.”

Aziraphale and Robbie both raised their glasses in agreement. As he took a drink, he looked over to Bosie again, who was watching him and his friends intently. He lowered his glass, smiling at the young man. He did not return the gesture, just maintained prolonged eye contact, which unsettled Aziraphale for reasons he could not explain.

Chapter Text

Crowley

“He can’t go back to Heaven, Crowley,” Beelzebub repeated.

Crowley sighed, finding another hefty handful of hundred-pound notes to leave on the bar and scribbling a brief thank-you note on a napkin. The three of them had been there for hours, and although no blood had been shed yet, he did not want to tempt fate any further. The sun was beginning to rise anyway.

“How long has he been down here already? It looks suspicious. Best thing he can do is go back and act like everything is fine,” he said, standing to go. “Come on.”

Beelzebub and Gabriel followed him, talking amongst themselves in hushed tones as they went outside. Crowley leaned against the Bentley and crossed his arms, watching them with deep exasperation. He was utterly exhausted. What he did remember of the last Apocalypse had taken almost everything out of him, and he was all out of patience for round two. 

“I’ll go back to Heaven,” Gabriel finally announced. “Crowley is right.”

“Oh it is the end times,” he muttered in reply.

“I am still the Supreme Archangel, I have authority.”

“Fantastic,” Crowley sarcastically replied, “use whatever’s left of it to buy us some time while we go talk to the present and former Antichrists.”

Monitoring Warlock Dowling was at the top of his list. Crowley remembered the boy even if he didn’t exactly remember the reason why he did, and what he remembered did not inspire comfort in the face of the Apocalypse. He wouldn’t be surprised if Warlock came into his powers with enthusiasm and efficiency, the little shit. 

“I’ll destroy The Book,” Gabriel continued with an authoritative nod.

“Absolutely not!” Crowley exclaimed. “No offence, but I don’t trust you. Just… act normal until I show up. Find it, quietly, and wait for me.”

Gabriel met Beelzebub’s eyes and Crowley could see him physically swallow back the insult he so desperately wanted to spit at him. He almost found a moment of satisfaction at the power he suddenly seemed to wield over the archangel— if it weren’t for the Apocalyptic setting, he would have. Unfortunately, Crowley needed Gabriel’s help as much as he needed his.

“Alright, we don’t have all day, chop-chop!” he said. “We have an Antichrist to find. You do know where he is, yeah?”

Beelzebub nodded, eyes still on Gabriel. 

“Great, let’s pop on over. Then I’ll come up and deal with this Book business.” He sighed, unable to keep the annoyance out of his tone.

Maybe it was his altered memories, maybe it was the fact that he had nothing left to lose, but he could not muster up the same level of dread that he had felt before the first Apocalypse.

“You’re very relaxed,” Beelzebub accused. “You do realise that a hundred things could go wrong here, right?”

“What are they gonna do, throw me out of Heaven again? Erase all my memories? Honestly, I might welcome that at this point,” he said with a dry laugh. “I’ll destroy The Book and get you your damned love story. Since when have you cared about what happens to me in the process?”

Gabriel shrugged as if to say, good point, earning a harsh glare from Beelzebub, who seemed dead set on staying in Crowley’s good graces until all of this was dealt with. 

“Will I be able to open The Book?” he asked Gabriel. 

“Oh yes, all the archangels have access, and we never change our passwords.”

“Could have done this before Lucifer launched his bloody rebellion if I’d known it was real,” he muttered. “Whatever. Go.”

Beelzebub opened their mouth, closing it again when Gabriel gently touched their cheek. All at once Crowley saw the angel they were shine through in the open sincerity of their loving gaze. Watching them felt like an intrusion, so he turned away, gritting his teeth so tightly that his jaw ached. 

He had never felt the weight of his Sisyphean cynicism as heavily as he did then. In some twisted way, he was grateful for it because he now finally understood the uncomfortable truth hidden beneath the mountain of optimism that he had so futilely tried to build: if Beelzebub and Gabriel could do it but he couldn’t, the issue was not simply him being a demon. The dark rot that pushed Aziraphale away time and time again came from somewhere deep within the roots of his creation. It was there before The Beginning, and it remained there now, marring the angel’s light just as much as it always had. 

With sudden and absolute clarity, he knew that it always would.

He turned back around just as Gabriel ever so gently let go of Beelzebub’s hands and popped out of existence. They stood still for a moment, watching the place where he had once been, replacing every trace of love and concern on their face with a stone-cold mask before meeting Crowley's eyes. He just nodded towards them, allowing a sense of understanding that neither demon dared to name pass between them. 

Beelzebub would get their happy ending, and then Crowley would give Aziraphale space to find his, out from under his eternally dark shadow. Perhaps he would go to Alpha Centauri after all— if he got out of Heaven with his mind still intact. His revelation had quickly turned cynicism to apathy, and he figured that he would let the boulder crush him if that’s what it came to. It was a freeing thought.

“Right, let’s go,” he said, pausing to look Beelzebub up and down. “You can’t wear that to babysitting duty.”

“What do you mean!?”

Crowley snapped his fingers, changing their glorified Halloween costume into black jeans and a Queen shirt.

They leapt back, affronted. “What the-”

“You’ll be staying with the kids, you need to look at least half normal.”

“I should just go to Heaven instead. Both kids already know you!” They sighed, looking down at the new clothes with disgust. “If you still have access to The Book, you know that I do too.”

Crowley shook his head. “It’s too personal for you,” he said, taking a gentler tone, “you have too much to lose.”

They frowned, grimacing as they looked up at him again. “Crowley, are you-”

“Shut up,” he said, turning away before they could ask the dreaded question. “Let’s go.”

Beelzebub nodded, clearly relieved that they didn’t have to pretend to care how he was. He stepped towards them, linking their arms together as they miracled them both onto the Antichrist’s doorstep. 

Aziraphale

“Aziraphale,” Metatron greeted him with authority, “I’ve been expecting to hear from you.”

He nodded, painting a pleasant smile onto his face, taken aback by his discomfort. He had always held a healthy level of respect for his superiors— had always submitted to them in the way he was created to do... but this was something different. Something human.

This was fear.

“Yes, well, I hate to be a bother, but I’ve just heard some potentially concerning news regarding-”

“Armageddon, yes,” Metatron cut him off casually. 

“Precisely! It’s just that… well, I had been under the impression that that ship has sailed.” He tittered nervously. “You only get one chance at the end times, really.”

“By God’s grace, we learnt many lessons from the ordeal last summer, and it is because of Her grace that we have once again been called to action in accordance with Her plan.”

Aziraphale paused, trying not to let the puzzlement show on his face. He’d always thought it best not to speculate on God’s plan— after all, what was there to speculate about something that was, by nature, too grand to be understood? But the gaping holes in his mind that promised only to be filled with more destruction were proving difficult to placate with an ineffable prayer. 

“So this Apocalypse is also in accordance with Her plan?” he asked. 

His heart was pounding in his chest. He thought it might burst through his ribcage and swallow him whole. Angels had fallen for less blasphemous questions than the one he'd just posed. 

“Yes, of course,” Metatron replied, his voice still cool and level. 

Aziraphale’s head was spinning. The words left his mouth before he could stop them. “And altering the memories of all those involved with Adam Young?”

“Aziraphale, there is much you do not remember, so much you could never hope to understand from your Earthly position.”

His anxiety was interrupted by a flash of curiosity. He always fancied himself to be pretty well in the loop regarding Heavenly matters, and the fact that there could be more to know—more to understand—took him off guard. He studied Metatron’s face, trying to gain some insight into what he meant.

“I want to understand,” he said carefully.

“Come back to Heaven with me, and you will understand all.”

“I have no interest in aiding in Earth’s destruction,” he said, trying to convey certainty in his defiance. 

“Of course not, the battle we face will do no such thing!” Metatron replied as though the very idea were abhorrent.

Aziraphale frowned. “Did I misunderstand the meaning of the word Armageddon?”

Metatron chuckled without humour. “I hear humanity in your words and the demon Crowley in your tone.”

Aziraphale’s breath hitched and he looked down, willing himself not to start shaking. “I… I apologise. I speak out of line. I have just been a little, well, shaken, shall we say.”

“Yes, I cannot blame you, Aziraphale,” Metatron said empathically. “You were never meant to forget. It goes against your very nature, against your position among us. Which is why I must insist that you accompany me to Heaven and help us to set this right.” 

“You will return the stolen memories?”

“I will return to you an eternity of memories.”

His mind swam with a million questions, but he only thought to pose the most important one. “And Earth will not be destroyed?” 

“If we have adequate support here, there is no need for the battle to migrate far onto Earth,” Metatron said. “The young Antichrist’s powers are unparalleled, and three of the four horsemen have retired. Earth is of no consequence to our final triumph over Hell’s meagre armies.”

Aziraphale nodded, taking it all in. One final battle to end all battles. Good finally triumphing over evil once and for all. It was the first spark of hope he’d felt for peace on earth since his creation. He wondered what that might mean for him… for him and Crowley. Perhaps the same thing it would mean for everyone else living on earth— freedom from celestial influences. His heart fluttered in his chest, fanning the flames of his newfound purpose. 

“And by adequate support, you are referring to...”

“You, Aziraphale,” he said as though it were an absolute. “You have more power than you know, more influence than you realise. Come back to Heaven and I will open The Book for you. I will show you the story of your creation, and you will once again stand triumphant alongside your brethren.”

His brethren. It had been a long, long time since he’d felt any sense of camaraderie amongst his fellow angels. He wrung his hands, looking anywhere but the spectral head before him. He had always prided himself on his angelic status, always held fast to what Heaven fundamentally stood for. Sure, there had been moments where he thought that his superiors were perhaps a little misguided… but the core of the mission statement—holiness and light for all—was something that he never, ever questioned. 

Perhaps his time on Earth had made him too cynical, perhaps he truly had gone native in the worst way. He knew that his time with Crowley had distracted him— made him question things he’d always considered as absolute. Aziraphale knew that if the demon were here now he would tell Metatron to go away (in much more colourful terms) and insist that they forge their own path and fight this their own way. But Crowley was not here, due in no small part to his insistence to keep fighting against what was written. 

He met Metatron’s eyes again, which had been trained on him diligently throughout their entire exchange. This was the middle ground. He could not ensure humanity’s safety without divine intervention any more than he could forge his own path without it. If he went back to Heaven now, if he heard Her plan, ensured that it never touched Earth again… well, he figured that he and Crowley wouldn’t have to worry about Shax or anyone else watching them anymore.

He looked around his home one final time, eyes lingering on the green carnations. They were a symbol of another life— the life that Oscar had wanted for him, the life that Crowley wanted for them both. Together. The life he never thought he could reach because Heaven and Hell had forced his hand in building a wall so high that he’d forgotten what it felt like to even glance at the other side. 

“What do you say, Aziraphale?” Metatron prompted.

He nodded slowly, his mind made up. This was about more than simply climbing over the wall, it went so much deeper than his happiness or even Crowley’s. 

For the world, he thought to himself as he stepped through the portal.

Crowley

Crowley knocked on the door of the Dowling residence, looking around the grand estate. “Nicer place than they had when we were with him. Didn’t think that was even possible.”

“Why are you knocking?” Beelzebub asked. 

“Well, I thought we could talk to the kid before jumping right into home invasion and murder."

Crowley ignored the scowl they shot at him, focusing instead on the sound of footsteps approaching the door. It swung open, and he sighed. Warlock stood in the doorway, looking bored with an iPhone in his hand and a hellhound at his back. It was sleek and black and bigger than any Great Dane he had ever seen. Great. The dog snarled at him—showing a mouth full of unnaturally pointed teeth—before turning his attention to Beelzebub and dipping his head in a gesture reminiscent of a bow.

“Oh you have got to be kidding me,” Crowley muttered. 

“Suso, go to the living room,” Warlock ordered, and the dog retreated. 

“Suso?” Crowley asked, exasperated.

Warlock pocketed his phone, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “Like the dog from-”

“Doctor Faustus, I know. You know that’s not exactly a kids' book, right?”

“Kids' books are boring. Listen, Suso is my dog. If you think you lost a dog that looks like him, it’s probably a different one.”

“I’m not after the dog, kid.”

Warlock stared him down, a spark of recognition in his eyes. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“Nah.” Crowley sniffed, crossing his arms. “I’m… I’m Anthony. This is my friend Bee. Are your parents home?”

“No, they never are.” Warlock shrugged.

“Right, right. Well, we have something very strange to tell you. Mind if we come in?”

Warlock hesitated for a moment, looking between him and Beelzebub before giving in to his curiosity and nodding. Crowley gestured for Beelzebub to come with him, and they followed the kid inside. His footsteps echoed through the palatial house, which was suffocating despite the vast open space. They ended up in a Victorian-style living room where Suso stood guard beside an intricately designed fireplace. Warlock sat on the floor beside the hellhound, who lay his head in his lap, unnerving eyes drifting shut as his master gently stroked his head. 

“Shouldn’t you be at school or something?” Crowley asked, perching on the edge of an expensive-looking red couch. 

“It’s summer, and I’m homeschooled anyway,” Warlock replied. “We’re never in one place long enough for me to go to normal school.”

Crowley nodded slowly, memories of neglect and isolation quickly sprouting in his mind. In the years he’d posed as Warlock’s nanny, he was certain that he saw more of the boy than his parents ever did. The damn gardener saw him more than his useless parents, and he barely had a single true friend either. It was a dangerously smart plan, finding an isolated, lonely child and handing him a powder keg of power. The kid was a ticking time bomb that Crowley did not have the temperament to defuse. He sighed, trying to channel Aziraphale in his response. 

“Okay, Warlock. What I’m about to tell you is going to sound very… scary. And strange. But I’m gonna need you to hear me out,” he began. 

Warlock looked down at the hound, frowning. “This is about Armageddon, isn’t it?”

Crowley blinked, reeling back. He met Beelzebub’s equally perplexed stare, stuttering for something to say. 

“I haven’t had Suso long, but he talks to me… like, inside my head,” Warlock explained, his cheeks flushing red. “I’m not crazy, by the way.”

“Is that normal?” Crowley asked Beelzebub.

“I’m normal!” Warlock exclaimed angrily. Suso’s eyes shot open and he snarled at Crowley again, snapping his master out of whatever impending tantrum was building. Warlock started patting the dog again, his eyes widening. “He says you’re both liars.”

Beelzebub stormed forward then, standing over Warlock and the hellhound. “We don’t have time for this. You’re the Antichrist, we’re demons, that’s a hellhound, and you need to come with us before you end the world.”

Warlock kept his eyes on Suso, pondering Beelzebub’s words. “I don’t think I want the world to end,” he eventually said.

“Right, yes, very reassuring. Do you know an Adam Young, perchance?” Crowley asked. 

“Who?”

“Oh, you’ll love him. You’ve got loads in common… apparently.” He stood up, walking to Beelzebub’s side. “We should get him to Adam.”

Beelzebub nodded, crouching down to talk to Warlock directly. “You’re gonna come with us to meet your predecessor, and I’m gonna stay with you both while my associate here deals with all this Armageddon business before you do. Yes?”

“Why can’t I stay here? I promise I won’t end the world,” Warlock said, pouting.

“We can’t risk anyone else getting to you and manipulating you into doing something you can’t take back,” Crowley said in what he hoped was a gentle tone.

Warlock gazed at the hound again, wordlessly communicating. “Can I keep Suso no matter what happens?” he asked.

Crowley looked to Beelzebub, who just shrugged. “Err, yeah. Sure,” he said. “Right! Let’s go! Do you need to… I don’t know, call your parents or something?”

“No,” Warlock said, a stone-cold expression slipping onto his face as he stood.

Under different circumstances, Crowley might almost feel bad for the poor kid. He wondered if he had a single friend in the world besides that damned mutt. No wonder he was so hell-bent on keeping it.

“We’re near Tadfield, right?” he asked Beelzebub as they followed Warlock to the front door.

“Not if we have to walk,” they muttered in reply. 

Crowley opened his mouth to respond as Warlock turned back to lob a set of keys at his face. He only just managed to catch them before they caused severe damage to his sunglasses. 

“You can drive, right?” he asked casually.

“Depends on who you ask,” Crowley mumbled, straightening himself up again. “Yeah. Yes, I can drive.”

“Cool. Let’s take the Ferrari, my parents never let me ride in that,” he said, skipping out the door with Suso at his heels.

Crowley’s jaw dropped as he dumbly looked down at the keys in his hands.

“Come on then,” Beelzebub said, and he followed them out.

Warlock and Suso were already waiting by the garish red car. Crowley was a little unnerved by the fierce gleam of defiance in the boy’s eyes. 

“You know this is a mission to prevent the end times, not a field trip, right?” he asked, unlocking the car.

“Yeah, yeah,” Warlock replied, climbing into the backseat with his hellhound. “We’d better drive really fast then!”

“That is a concerning child,” Beelzebub whispered.

“Aren’t they all?” Crowley rolled his eyes, sliding into the black leather seat with ease. It was no Bentley, but it would have to do. “Ready?”

Beelzebub sat rigidly, gripping the edges of their seat as they nodded. 

“Fantastic.” Crowley bared his teeth in a smile and tore out of Warlock’s driveway. 

The kid’s iPhone told them that they had a thirty-minute drive ahead, but Crowley was sure he could do it in twenty or less. Beelzebub’s grip on their seat only tightened as time went on, and he was sure that they hadn’t blinked a single time since they took off. Crowley wondered if demons could physically be sick and thought he might find out sooner rather than later as he ran another red light. Warlock, on the other hand, was having a merry old time. Both back windows were rolled down and the kid and the hound each had their heads sticking out of one of them. 

“Look!” Warlock exclaimed as they zoomed past the Tadfield sign. 

“How much longer?” Beelzebub asked tightly.

“Not long…” Crowley trailed off as he caught sight of two familiar faces on the footpath up ahead.

Book Girl and the man friend.

Maybe they knew something? They’d been there during the original Apocalypse, after all. Only one way to find out. He slammed on the brakes, causing Beelzebub to flail their arms out in panic and Warlock to risk decapitation with his head hanging out the back window. 

“What the heaven are you doing?” Beelzebub hissed. 

“I know them.” Crowley scrambled out of the car. “Hey! I know you!”

Book Girl turned around, her eyes widening in recognition. “Oh my god, you’re here! Do you know…”

“Do I know? Do you know?”

“Yes! Of course I know!”

“About Adam Young and the Apocalypse?”

“Yes! Didn’t Aziraphale tell you? I thought maybe he sent you to help find the hellhound.”

Crowley’s blood ran cold. He blindly reached out for something to grab onto but found only air. “He was here?”

Book Girl frowned in confusion. “Yes. He left a bit ago. We just came from Adam’s house where your friend thought it was appropriate to wipe away an old woman’s memory like it was nothing. As if he didn’t just spend the first half of the day panicking about the same thing happening to him!” She sighed, frustration palpable. “You people are unbelievable, do you know that?”

Crowley blinked rapidly behind his dark glasses, trying to understand. “I mean, I’m sure he had a good reason.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure that’s what God or whoever else thought about all this bullshit!” she exclaimed, wildly waving her arms around.

He swallowed dryly, a sudden and inexplicable sense of shame washing over him as he remembered the couple he'd kicked out of the inn over Adam’s birthday, the man he’d trapped to listen to his sorrows in the pub in Edinburgh. Too many frivolous miracles indeed. 

“But it’s all just another day at the office for you, right?” Book Girl asked, chuckling sardonically. 

“No, no. I… it’s-” Crowley stuttered, taken aback. 

“Whatever. Have you seen this dog?” She held up a Polaroid picture of Adam holding a little black and white terrier. 

Crowley frowned at the photo. “That is not a hellhound.”

“That’s what I said!” Book Girl’s man friend exclaimed.

“Listen, we’ve got the hellhound, we’ve got the new Antichrist. We’re bringing them both to Adam’s house now so both kids are safe while I handle things,” Crowley said quickly. “Where exactly is Aziraphale?”

“How should I know?” Book Girl asked. “He said he had a long-distance phone call to make.”

Crowley groaned in frustration. Of course. Of course Aziraphale still thought he could talk his way out of things. Idiot. He thought he was meant to be the optimistic one.

“Right, well, while he’s having an undoubtedly riveting conversation with his former boss, I have actual work to do.” He sighed. Whatever. At least Aziraphale was safe in the bookshop. 

“Wait, if he’s not with you then who is we ?” Book Girl demanded. 

Crowley gestured back to the car where Beelzebub was glaring at him with their window down. “Lord Beelzebub, Grand Duke of Hell.”

He grinned as Book Girl’s eyes widened and her man friend took several steps back. 

“Soon to be ex-Grand Duke of Hell, if all goes to plan. Anyway, you can call off your search party. We’ve got it from here.” Crowley gave the pair a sarcastic salute before turning back towards the car.

“If you fuck this up I’ll find a way to kill you myself!” Book Girl shouted after him. 

“Get in line,” he muttered, climbing into the car and speeding off towards Adam’s house. 

They arrived soon enough, and Beelzebub practically fell out of the car with how quickly they tried to escape it. 

“Very graceful,” Crowley teased as he followed them out. 

They barely even had the energy to glare back. He chuckled, going to stand beside Warlock, who glanced nervously up at the house.

“Come on, you’ll be fine,” Crowley said, leading the way. 

An older woman answered when he knocked. Adam’s grandmother. The woman whose mind Aziraphale had messed with. He inhaled deeply, the scent of him still lingering. It felt like a knife to the heart. He’d just missed him. He’d been so close to seeing him again. 

“Oh, hello you!” the old woman said, snapping him out of it. “Have you been recruited to help as well?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The dog search. Arthur and Deirdre are still out.”

“Yes, of course. The dog,” Crowley said, understanding washing over him. “Well, good news! We found it!” He gestured back to Suso.

He figured it would make sense for a former Antichrist to have some half-formed, disjointed memories remaining, especially considering the Polaroid that Book Girl had shown him. 

“Oh dear,” the old woman said, frowning at the hound. “I’m not sure that’s the right dog.”

Beelzebub stepped forward then, snapping their fingers in the old woman’s face, causing her to droop slightly, her eyes trained on something that wasn’t there.

“Oh, come on. Really?” Crowley asked, sighing. "I had it handled!"

“We don’t have time for you to discover a damn moral code today, Crowley,” they snapped, shoving past them all.

He sighed. “Sorry,” he whispered to the dazed old woman, grimacing as he and Warlock followed Beelzebub inside. 

They ended up in Adam’s living room, where he lay reading on the floor 

“Hi!” Crowley greeted.

“Hi,” Adam said, looking up at them. “My dog!” He leapt up, grinning.  “Your friend promised he’d find him. Wow, that was really fast!”

“You guys said I could keep Suso no matter what!” Warlock exclaimed, backing away. 

“No, wait-” Crowley was cut off by the beast snarling at him more aggressively than ever before.

Adam looked to Warlock then, taking in the other boy. “He looked really different when he was my dog.”

“Well, he’s not your dog anymore,” Warlock said firmly.

Crowley stood stock still, hands up, eyes flicking between the Antichrist and the former Antichrist. Adam blinked curiously, approaching Suso, seemingly unconcerned by the feral growling. He reached out a hand slowly, and the beast seemed to narrow his eyes, sniffing it before bowing his head and retreating to sit at his master's side. Warlock rested a hand on his head, looking down at him, his defensive rage melting into curiosity. 

“He says you’re a friend,” he eventually said.

“I am!” Adam said with a wide grin. “It’s okay that he wants to change and live with you now. Maybe we can just be friends too so I can visit him sometimes?”

Warlock’s cheeks flushed red and he nodded, frowning.

“Wicked. Why did you call him Suso anyway?”

“It’s just from a stupid book,” Warlock muttered, looking down. 

“I love books, only don't tell the boys down the road... look,” he said sheepishly, going back to pick up his book from the floor, “I’m reading The Little Prince right now.”

Warlock’s eyes lit up, his eyebrows shooting up in excitement. “I really like that one! When I was really little my nanny used to read it to me almost every night, but in French.”

“Well doesn’t she just sound like an absolute gem!” Crowley exclaimed. “Unfortunately, we have business to attend to. Sit down, Adam. Things are about to get very strange.”

The boys tore their eyes away from each other and sat down cross-legged on the floor, Suso resting between them. Crowley moved to sit down on the couch, frowning when he fell back onto it. It was as though the room had suddenly gone eerily silent. As though the world had. He froze. His breath hitched in his throat. He stopped breathing entirely, shushing Beelzebub when they started to ask what was wrong. 

Thirty seconds passed. 

Forty. 

Fifty. 

A whole minute passed him by in complete and unnatural silence. His blood turned to ice as the amplified sound of his thundering heart only accentuated the bone-chilling and complete internal silence. It was a silence he knew well—one he hoped never to face again—as it only meant one thing.

Aziraphale was no longer on Earth.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale

Loneliness was Aziraphale’s first friend on Earth and had remained a comforting constant wrapped around him when there was nothing else. In the cold vastness of Heaven, it was suffocating in its absence. A million angelic eyes were on him like dust on a long-forgotten tome. Even loneliness had left him here.

He stood up straight, clasping his hands behind his back and painting a smile on his face as he fell into step beside Metatron. You belong here, he told himself, gritting his teeth together as he realised how flat the thought fell. All he could do was focus on his steps, one at a time. It was difficult not to notice the preparations around them— hundreds of angels moving around the vast expanse of Heaven in a state of organised chaos, preparing for the biggest battle of their existence since The Great War. It was even more difficult not to notice how every angel they encountered practically flung themselves out of their way, parting like the Red Sea.

It felt as though they’d been walking in a straight line for eternity, and despite the chaos, it was maddeningly silent. No distant hum of traffic, no clock ticking, nothing. Only footsteps and fate. They finally approached a sharp corner when Aziraphale noticed an unfortunately familiar face. He was standing before a window, wringing his hands with a perpetual frown etched between his brows. His posture was incongruent with the angel Aziraphale knew him to be.

Gabriel. 

He did a double take, his eyes widening as he caught sight of Aziraphale walking by. Aziraphale swore that all the blood drained from Gabriel's face, but those kinds of physiological responses were reserved for humans… and angels or demons who had gone irredeemably native. Aziraphale just shot him what he hoped was a disinterested look and kept walking. He didn’t know what precisely had occurred when Crowley confronted the Archangel while wearing Aziraphale’s form, but Crowley had provided enough context clues for him to assume that it was far from ideal. Ignoring him was the safest option.

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel exclaimed, not taking the hint as he ran to catch up with them. “What are you doing here?”

“None of your concern, Gabriel. As you were,” Metatron said, not stopping. 

“Oh, of course. I just thought, as Supreme Archangel, I should be… overseeing any, well, any… visits. Especially now, am I right?” 

Aziraphale stopped walking, looking incredulously back at Gabriel’s poorly masked shock. “Visits?”

“As you were, Supreme Archangel.” Metatron stopped in his tracks, shooting Gabriel a dangerous stare.

He opened his mouth again, his face still frozen in shock. Metatron gestured for Aziraphale to keep walking before Gabriel could speak again. He paused for a moment before following. 

“He was behaving rather oddly,” he pointed out. 

“Mmm,” Metatron replied noncommittally. “Through here.”

They turned a corner, and Aziraphale found himself before a nondescript white door without a doorknob. He looked around, not understanding where it could possibly lead. There were very few doors in Heaven— very few walls or rooms in general, just endless blank space. Metatron focused his gaze on Aziraphale like he was trying to read him. It was deeply unnerving, but he kept his chin up, resolutely refusing to buckle under the scrutiny… which must have been the correct response because before long, Metatron nodded, satisfied.

“What you are about to see has not been seen by many,” he began, pressing his left palm flat against the door, “but you saw it once, in another life.” The door clicked open. “A life that never should have been taken from you.”

The eerie sense of déjà vu that Aziraphale had been feeling on and off since Anathema’s phone call hit him like a tsunami. Metatron gestured for him to enter the room but he didn’t trust his legs to take him there. He subtly took a grounding breath. Human habits die hard. Metatron was starting to look impatient, so Aziraphale mustered all the strength he was sure he didn’t have and stepped inside. The echo of the door slamming shut behind them faded away slowly, leaving behind an even heavier silence than before. 

Aziraphale found himself before a grand Corinthian pillar, the top of which was level with his eyes as the bottom stretched impossibly down through a ground that was both solid and translucent. Atop the pillar sat a tome that looked older than time itself, floating in a sphere of shimmering light. The déjà vu was so painful now that it made him feel ill. He stood stock-still as Metatron walked around him, casually approaching the tome.

“I’m sure you’re aware of what you’re looking at?”

“The Book of Life,” Aziraphale whispered in disbelief. “It’s real.”

“Indeed it is.”

Aziraphale couldn’t remember the last time he had been truly shocked— perhaps in 1941, but this filled him with even more terror than he had felt back then. The Book of Life was meant to be a terrible fairytale told to inexperienced angels to keep them in line, but there it was, right in front of him. The grim fairytale close enough to touch. He watched as Metatron did just that, raising his hands in front of him, causing the glowing sphere to melt away as the pages began to turn. 

“The page I must show you is one you never should have forgotten, Aziraphale,” he said, looking back over his shoulder. “When you see the truth that you are owed, I am sure that you will lead this battle under the name you were created with.”

Crowley

“Slow down, Crowley!” Beelzebub exclaimed. 

“Don’t bloody say that to me!” Crowley shouted back. “I was gonna go up there anyway, it just happens to be more urgent now.”

Beelzebub sighed. “You told me that I couldn’t go up there because it was too personal, yes? Because there's too much to lose if I make stupid emotional decisions!”

“It’s different.”

“It’s not different.”

“It’s different!” Crowley yelled. “You’ve known Archangel Asshole for, what, like five minutes? I don’t trust your relationship, I don’t trust you, and I certainly don’t trust him! I’ve known Aziraphale since before he was even Aziraphale. I know him well enough to handle this, just as we’ve handled everything else together for the past six thousand years.”

“I have known Gabriel for just as long as you’ve known Aziraphale,” Beelzebub said slowly, dangerously, “and in the five minutes that we have known each other more intimately, it seems that we’ve made miles more progress than you and your angel have in six thousand years. So don’t you dare stand there and condescend me because you’ve been too scared to sort out your shit until it’s too late!”

Crowley reeled back. Beelzebub’s words were a slap in the face. “It’s not too late,” he said softly.

“It’s not all about you, you know,” they said tightly. “Just because I’m not as melodramatic as you are doesn’t mean I don’t fucking care, alright?”

“Melodramatic!?” Crowley exclaimed.

Beelzebub glanced back down at Adam, who was still sitting cross-legged on the floor with Suso and Warlock. His arm was raised as though he had a question. 

“Yes, what?” they sighed.

“You’re actually gonna be in big trouble with my mum for swearing so much.”

“Hang on, I thought his name was Anthony,” Warlock added.

Beelzebub sighed again, ignoring them both. “If someone took him up there, he’s going to be shown The Book, Crowley. There’s nothing else they’d take him for if they didn’t need someone new to blow the trumpet now that Gabriel has voiced his doubts. What do you think your angel will say when he learns that you knew something this massive and never bothered to tell him?”

Crowley rubbed a hand roughly over his face, panic rising. “He’ll realise that his ex-boss is now feeding him that information on a silver platter to estrange him even further from me and get him to lead Armageddon. He’s not stupid.”

“You don’t sound too sure about that.”

“I just need to find him. I need to talk to him. He deserves to know, he does… but not like this. Not after being kidnapped up there by the same creatures who stole everything from him in the first place!” His panic was quickly turning back to anger.

Beelzebub stared at him, their lips pressed in a thin line. “I know I can’t stop you.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Well then, if you want a one percent chance of this information going down half-well you’d better get up there real fast.”

Crowley nodded resolutely.

“Can’t me and Suso just go to Heaven and tell them to not fight?” Warlock asked.

“No!” Crowley and Beelzebub replied in unison.

“What’s the point of being an Antichrist if they won’t even listen to me,” Warlock muttered.

“You’ll be safe here. Bee will look after you,” he said, nodding at Beelzebub. “If his parents come back, would it kill you to try and talk to them before messing with their minds?”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes but nodded all the same. 

“Right, I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Good luck.”

Crowley looked between Warlock, Suso and Adam one final time before teleporting himself directly into Aziraphale’s bookshop. 

“Bloody hell.” He coughed, gagging at the motion sickness induced by his least favourite form of transportation. Maybe he had gone native. 

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars, blinking them away with a sense of urgency. The bookshop was empty. He’d known it would be, but that didn’t make the reality of the situation any easier. The lingering scent of cocoa and pear attacked his senses, mingling with something otherworldly. He walked over to the immaculately set up portal, the scent getting stronger the closer he got to it. The electric candles were still flickering, but the door to Heaven was tightly shut. For Crowley, it always was.

He turned away—fear and grief threatening to swallow him whole—when he caught a glimpse of green on Aziraphale’s desk. The pieces of his broken heart fluttered in his chest, traitorous muscle memory threatening to bind them back together. He approached the carnations, gone from white to green to white… and now back to green again. His hands shook as he reached out to gently run a finger across one of the petals. The flowers were as vibrant and alive as they had been months ago. Crowley pictured Aziraphale standing where he stood now, defiance in his eyes as he waved a hand over the pot, daring to display the significance of a green carnation. 

The angel’s bravery emboldened him, and he quickly plucked the two most beautiful flowers, tucking one into his lapel and pocketing the other before he raced out the door. He barely made it onto the path before nearly tripping over someone. Someone who had clearly been standing outside waiting for him. He paused for a moment, blinking at her.

“Right, I don’t have time for you,” Crowley said, trying to hold himself together as he rushed past her. 

“I heard that something is up,” Shax said, falling into step beside him.

“No shit,” he muttered.

“Regarding the elusive Book of Life.”

He froze in his tracks then, turning to stare daggers at her through his dark glasses. 

“I heard they’re finally giving your angel his name back.”

“He won’t do whatever it is they want of him!” he shouted, patience wearing unbearably thin.

“He will do what he believes to be right, whatever Metatron convinces him is right,” she said slowly, taking a conspiratorial step towards him, “unless someone with a little more… objectivity and experience shows him that all Metatron really cares about is sitting high on a throne at those pearly gates.”

Crowley shook his head, trying to shake her off. “I’m already on my way, Shax. I don’t need the pep talk. Anyway, why do you care?"

She stepped back, nervously looking around the busy London streets. “What do you think will happen to us when the world ends? When Heaven has all the power?”

“Right, you’re just out for yourself, got it,” he snapped, setting off towards the elevator again.

“Aren’t we all?” she called, following him. “I admitted him down there, you know!”

He ignored her, taking long, purposeful strides until he arrived at the shiny doors, pushing the button for them to slide open. She stood beside him while he waited. He wished that she would leave.

“Your man with the flower,” she said, nodding to his green carnation, “I admitted him several years ago, back when I was still slogging through my desk job in admissions.”

Crowley clenched his jaw, a sick feeling settling deep in his gut. It wasn’t as though Crowley didn’t know—or at the very least assume—where Oscar had ultimately ended up. In fact, there were several times in his life when he had told the man to his face exactly where he would end up. But Oscar never took it as a threat or even a warning. He revelled in it all, watching the coin fall with curious indifference as he chased the next beautiful thing life had to offer. 

No, Oscar didn’t live a perfect life, but he lived a passionate life—an important life—and Crowley would always privately thank him for being there for Aziraphale when he couldn’t be. As the elevator doors opened before him, he said a prayer to God and Satan alike that Aziraphale would never learn the artist’s fate. 

“What’s he been up to down there?” Crowley sniffed, stepping inside.

“He’s faring better than most.” Shax shrugged. “He’s been pacing the same route for a hundred-odd years, talking to himself. Some of the others don’t think he even realises where he is.”

Crowley repressed a smile, shaking his head. “Right. I’d best be off then.” 

She leaned in, speaking so quietly that he barely heard her. “Listen to me, you’re not the only one who’s tired of how Heaven runs things, but you’re the only one who’ll do something about it. Everyone down there knows it, Crowley. We’re just all too cowardly to admit it.”

He stared at her, shocked, his mouth falling open with words he couldn’t find.

“Just give them Hell,” she hissed, backing away quickly.

He watched her leave, slowly raising a finger to the big white button that would lead him to Aziraphale. To Armageddon, maybe. To his certain death, probably. But to Aziraphale all the same.

“Let’s give ‘em hell,” he muttered, pressing the button with gritted teeth as the elevator began its ascent. 

Aziraphale

If Aziraphale knew nothing else, he knew who he was. Despite his time on Earth, he knew where he came from and where he belonged— even if he didn’t feel it, he knew it. He knew his role, his job, and how to execute it to Heavenly perfection. Since the first stars were planted solidly in the sky and the first rivers were carved intricately into the earth below them, he knew who he was just as surely as he knew that the stars would continue to shine and the rivers would continue to flow. He was Aziraphale, a principality. Above the rank of cherub and general archangel… but below the likes of Saraquael, Michael, and Gabriel. Far below. So far below that he had been exiled to Earth and saddled with what his superiors considered the ‘dirty work.’ 

But now… he swallowed back a ragged breath, remembering who he was in the presence of. If he didn’t have his name, then what did he have? What of the past six thousand years had even been real? He unsuccessfully tried to force the lingering memory of sunset eyes from his mind. Had Crowley been a part of this millennia-long scheme? The mere thought of a betrayal that immense nearly forced him down to his knees. 

Then, there was an insidious voice in the back of his mind. A voice telling him how much sense it made, how much weight it took off his shoulders. If Crowley was in on it all along, then he was never in any real danger. The stakes had never been as high as Aziraphale feared, and in all other ways, he had been right all along. God was truth. Her plan was ineffable and all-encompassing. Ultimately, She was all that mattered. The bookshop, Job and 1941, chocolate and sushi, Oscar and Crowley— it had all been written, none of it had been because of him. None of it mattered. He was always going to end up right back where he belonged.

He looked up, a melancholy smile playing at the corners of his lips. Yes, he was right where he belonged. What he had for a moment perceived as betrayal was merely fate. It had been him and his loneliness since the beginning, and it would be him and his loneliness until the very end. When Hell soon fell to the love and light of Heaven, everyone down there would be free from tyranny, the people of Earth would be free from eternal suffering, and he would sit atop his throne between Michael and Gabriel with his heart heavy and his conscience clear. It was written. 

“And Crowley knew?” Aziraphale asked, not realising that Metatron had been talking to him for the past few minutes, not realising that he had interrupted him.

“But of course!” he replied as though it were obvious. “I’m quite surprised that he said nothing all these years.”

“Well, it is written.”

Metatron pinned him with a curious look before twisting his lips into a smile that didn’t quite fit on his face. “It pleases me greatly to see how well you have taken to this.”

“I only ever showed hesitation last summer because I had grown to care for humanity. If the fighting stays here, if the goal is to lessen Hell’s influence on Earth… well, it is written. My future is of no consequence if it is written.”

“Very good.” Metatron’s smile morphed into something vaguely resembling condescension.

“And humanity will be safer, with Hell’s armies and higher-ups defeated,” Aziraphale prompted, needing to hear the words from Metatron’s lips, “along with the fallen being liberated from their tyrannical rule.”

Suddenly, before Metatron could even open his mouth, Aziraphale felt a tight squeeze in his chest. Like a tourniquet. It was as though someone had wrapped a warm blanket around him and every nerve ending in his human shell was softly buzzing with a comfortable white noise. It was a feeling he had spent six thousand years associating with a deep sense of rightness and relief. It usually felt like home. But up here, in the harsh and unforgiving Heavens, it felt like a death sentence. For who? That he did not know. However, when he met Metatron’s stony, resolute glare, he thought he could wager a guess. Aziraphale couldn’t even plead his case for a moment before Metatron floated out of the room at an unearthly speed and the door clicked shut behind him. 

“Oh, Crowley,” he whispered to himself, “what have you done?”

He had to go out there. He had to assure Crowley that everything was going to be alright now, that he would be free from both Hell and Aziraphale once and for all. The door opened again before he could take two steps towards it. 

“Aziraphale! Can I still call you that? Long time no see,” Gabriel exclaimed with false cheer.

“I’m very sorry, Gabriel, but I’m in a bit of a pinch! So, if you’ll excuse me-”

Gabriel stepped forward, closing the door behind him, preventing Aziraphale from leaving. 

“I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but I have recently come into quite a bit of power up here and I’d hate to use it for the first time against you.” He tried to stand up straighter so he could look down on the Archangel. 

Gabriel had the audacity to laugh.

“Gabriel-”

“I have fallen in love!” he exclaimed.

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped, his cheeks flushing red. “My dear boy, I am most flattered, but I must admit that this is a very bad time for such nonsensical declarations.”

“Ugh, not with you,” he said with a grimace. “There’s so much to say and not a lot of time. Alright. Earth is a goner if Armageddon goes ahead, Metatron is a liar, Crowley, Beelzebub and I have been working together, and I care because I have fallen in love with them.” He ticked each item off his fingers as though he were trying to recall a particularly long grocery list. 

Aziraphale stared at him, wondering if he had lost his mind. “You’ve fallen in love with… Crowley?”

“You know, I really don’t think you’re focusing on the right thing here.” 

Aziraphale just glared at him.

“Metatron is lying to you, Aziraphale. Open The Book from the beginning if you don’t believe me. Armageddon cannot go ahead.”

Before he could even begin to wrap his head around why on earth Gabriel was there, seemingly trying to help him in his own confusing sort of way, he heard an unmistakably familiar voice shouting in the distance. 

“He’ll back up everything I’m saying. I know how it sounds. But-”

Aziraphale raced out of the room, having heard quite enough. His heart was in his throat as he sprinted through the halls of Heaven, still trying to make sense of Gabriel’s outburst. He just had to get to Crowley. He had to explain. Once he explained what he’d seen in The Book, all would be well. It had to be. The echo of his footsteps rang in his ears like a death knell as he finally made out a couple of figures in the distance. He spotted Crowley first, his shock of auburn hair in loud contrast with the pristine white surroundings— in contrast with Metatron, who stood before him; tall, solid and all-powerful.

He slowed down as he approached them, unable to tell if his shortness of breath was from physical exertion or something else. Crowley looked right at him—his shoulders seeming to relax ever so slightly as he did—and Aziraphale felt a shiver of dread melt down his spine. Then Metatron turned around with a challenge in his eyes and Aziraphale crossed the Rubicon, taking his rightful place by his side. 

Crowley

Crowley had known fear. He knew fear when Lucifer whispered poisonous truths in his ear, he knew fear when God stuck him down for it, and he certainly knew fear when he landed in the pool of boiling sulphur that signalled the beginning of his eternity. That kind of fear was predictable— almost comfortable. The fear he felt as the elevator trundled skywards was quite the opposite. It was a fierce fear, a hopeful fear, a fear that tasted like burning books and green carnations. It was so suffocating that he thought he would drown in it. He paced back and forth as much as he could in the small space, tugging at his hair in a desperate bid to yank the new fear out of his skull. 

After millennia spent tripping over festering file boxes and bodies, unable to even stand straight lest he bumped his head on the low, damp ceilings, he had long since gotten used to feeling trapped. It had never been particularly comfortable, but down in Hell, personal comforts were the least of his concerns. Then, when he found himself on Earth in a flat that he kept half empty and quickly realised that he was finally able to breathe, he avoided cramped spaces like the plague. Now, entombed by four blinding white walls, already being suffocated by fear, his claustrophobia took hold in full force. 

When the doors opened, he couldn’t scramble out quickly enough, and when his snakeskin boots hit the floors of Heaven, he didn’t even hear the sound. All he heard was a soft and familiar hum settling itself comfortably in the backs of his ears. Despite the fear, the claustrophobia and the ubiquitous sense of impending doom, Crowley sighed in relief. Azirapahle was here, somewhere, alive. He took a few purposeful strides forward and froze in his tracks. 

The abundant occupants of Heaven suddenly came into view. He didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed them immediately. They were everywhere. A thousand angels in every direction, all standing stock-still, none of them close enough to make out a single discernible feature other than endless eyes trained on him like snipers. The old fear came back to him then, and he braced himself for another fall. He didn’t even hear the footsteps until they were right in front of him. 

“Hello, Crowley,” Metatron greeted him smoothly.

His muscles tensed as his gaze shifted to the behemoth before him. It had been a long, long time since he had been graced by the company of his former companion. Not long enough. He adjusted his stance, getting ready to pounce… or run. He looked around again—wondering how outnumbered he really was—and faltered when all he saw was endless wide open space. They were alone. 

“They have been asked to stand down, as I am certain that we can settle this matter between us as old friends,” Metatron said with a baleful smile.

“Old friends,” Crowley choked out, incredulous. “Where is Aziraphale?”

“I’m afraid he doesn’t answer to that name anymore.”

“A bloody name doesn’t matter, you realise that, don’t you?” He sounded far more confident than he felt. “He’ll never agree to blow up the world, or whatever it is you plan on doing.”

“No, of course not.” Metatron’s calmness was eerie. 

“So then what do you need him for?” 

“He is more than prepared to eliminate your side. Nothing has been said of Earth.”

Crowley paused. The flash of hurt that crossed his face was the only opening Metatron needed to land his final blow. 

“You could join us, Crowley. Bear your old name and take your rightful place by my side.”

The words hit him in the centre of his chest and he almost keeled over at their sharpness. How dare Metatron ask that of him? As though he didn’t remember the day when he himself ripped the halo from his head and his old name along with it. The day when he pried Crowley’s fingers from Heaven’s gates one by one and watched with cool indifference as he fell— as he prayed, as he begged for God to catch him, crying tears that already burnt down his damned face. He had repented the whole way down. He believed that his regret would be penance enough even as his body hit the sulphur. She had raised him to believe it would be. For a long time, the only words he could utter were holy. Each time his skin melted from his bones and his wings tore from his back, he thought, This will be the last time. It never was. God never came to put him back together, so he stayed broken and rose out of the sulphur as the demon She made him to be.

Back then Crowley had been the last one to realise that She wasn’t coming back for him. Now he was always the first. 

“Go to Hell,” he spat venomously.

Metatron chuckled darkly. “I’m afraid that I wouldn’t be welcome.”

“Where is Aziraphale?” he asked again, his voice raised.

“Ah, yes. Perhaps if this old friend cannot convince you to follow the light, that old friend can.”

Crowley looked over Metatron’s shoulder as another set of footsteps approached them. When Aziraphale came into view he couldn’t help the relief that flooded his system. There was knowledge and remorse in the angel’s eyes, and a hint of relief that matched his own, but no fear. Not a trace of the discomfort or wrongness that Crowley was still drowning in. He stood up straight, waiting for Aziraphale to come and take his place on Crowley’s right-hand side just as he had done for the past six thousand years. But then Metatron looked back and Aziraphale stopped beside him instead. The Leviathan and Behemoth, shoulder to shoulder, ready to be served up to the righteous. The sight made Crowley see red. What had they done to his angel?

“Hello, Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly.

Crowley just looked on, not trusting himself to speak. 

“Thank you for joining us, Archangel,” Metatron addressed Aziraphale, but his eyes didn’t leave Crowley for a moment. “Perhaps your voice will be more compelling than mine in the ears of our old friend here.”

Aziraphale nodded, looking up despite being as high up as one could possibly be. It was a nervous habit that frustrated Crowley endlessly. 

“Right, well, I have recently acquired a wealth of knowledge, which I know is not news to you, but it has been quite a shock to me!”

Aziraphale’s words were laced with hurt that he was clearly trying to hide, but Crowley heard it, and he heard the truth behind it. Aziraphale had only seen one page of The Book.

“Why do you think I never told you?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level.

“It is written. I do not blame you, not for a moment.”

Crowley ran a nervous hand through his hair. “Do you… do you think I was in on all this?”

“It is written, Crowley.”

Crowley blinked behind his sunglasses, his gaze shifting to Metatron as a triumphant grin twisted across his face. Metatron’s responding glare was a dangerous warning, but Crowley was past the point of caring. The old fear had spiked his adrenaline and he was ready for a fight. 

“Oh yeah? Written where? Shall we go browse that book a bit more closely?” he challenged. 

“Crowley-” Metatron’s tone was colder than the halls they stood in. 

“But that’s not my name, is it?” Aziraphale’s curious frown was all Crowley needed. “Come on, Angel. I’ve got a story about two Archangels to tell you. Rather dramatic, not a very happy ending. Not yet, anyway.” He stepped towards Aziraphale. 

“Stop.” Metatron’s demand echoed through the imposing Heavens and landed in the pit of Crowley’s stomach. 

He ignored it, linking his arm with Aziraphale’s and marching on. Metatron was suddenly in front of them again. 

“What? If he cares so much about what is written, he should read it all, yeah?”

“He knows what is written and what must be done.”

Aziraphale grumbled, removing his arm from Crowley’s grip and taking a step back. “If you’ve quite finished speaking as though I’m not here, I would like to provide my two cents.”

Crowley nodded as Metatron’s eyes narrowed. 

“First of all, Crowley, I have seen what is written,” he began, his tone softening again, “and I do know what must be done. None of what happened over the past six thousand years matters, and when we do what must be done, you will finally be free. From Hell, from me— from all of it.”

“Is that what he told you?” Crowley shouted, anger rising again. “Sorry, but that’s bullshit.”

“Crowley-”

“No! That’s bullshit. You’re saying none of this ever meant anything?” he asked, gesturing between himself and Aziraphale. 

“I am saying that it was all written. That Hell was never meant to be. Once Satan’s armies are defeated, you will be free.”

“Free to join us here, if you so choose,” Metatron added. 

Aziraphale had the audacity to look happy. “See! We could be angels again, together.”

“Don’t you remember how that ended the last time?” Crowley was still shouting, he couldn’t stop himself. 

The pure joy and trust on Aziraphale’s face was too much. It was obscene. The false hope that Metatron and God had poisoned his mind with. As if either of them gave a shit about him, about anything but power. 

“It will be different this time, Crowley.” And Aziraphale truly believed that it would be. It made him sick. 

“Say my name,” he demanded.

“Crowley-”

“My real name. Say it.”

Aziraphale blinked in confusion. 

“See, you can’t because you don’t know it, because he didn’t show it to you. He didn’t show you how it ended last time because he knows if he does you’ll cut your own damn strings and stop being the puppet he needs since Gabriel fucked off!”

Aziraphale looked to Metatron, questioning. Yes, Crowley thought, keep questioning it.

“So why don’t you come with me? I’ll tell you my name. I’ll show you who pushed me out of the pearly gates and stole your memories, who made sure that I would never say anything. I’ll show you exactly how it ended last time.”

Before anyone could think on it for a moment longer, he darted forward again. He grabbed Aziraphale’s arm, and they ran… into a line of angelic soldiers who had seemingly materialised out of thin air. Crowley tensed, ready to fight for the truth or die trying.

Another set of footsteps. 

Crowley had never before been so happy to see the Archangel fucking Gabriel. He was barreling towards them with a book clutched to his chest. The Book. Metatron raised a hand before he could reach them, and more soldiers appeared. The first one popped up behind Gabriel and laid a hand atop his head. Gabriel fell to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. 

Aziraphale gasped, and Crowley tightened his grip on his arm for a moment before letting go and shoving past the line of soldiers to reach The Book that now lay on the floor beside Gabriel’s lifeless form. He did hope that Archangel Asshole wasn’t actually dead… but he had more pressing concerns.

He lunged for The Book, but he was knocked to his knees before he could reach it. The soldiers were surrounding him. Metatron calmly wandered over and picked up The Book from right under Crowley’s nose. He struggled past the soldiers—losing his glasses in the process—and planted his feet firmly on the ground before Metatron. 

He knew that the soldiers were holding back, and he knew it was because of Aziraphale. If Metatron allowed his cold viciousness to be on display in full force, Aziraphale would realise what kind of monster he was and he would never fight for him. Because Aziraphale was good. He was holy in a way only understood by humans. A true angel… but Crowley was not. Crowley knew violence, he knew chaos, and he knew how to get a reaction. 

He bared his teeth at the monster before him, cracking his neck and unfurling his wings—darker than the shadow of Death himself—as he felt yellow venom leach into the whites of his eyes. 

You want a demon? he thought to himself. I’ll show you a demon. I’ll show you exactly what you created.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale

August 1892

“Oh, poor Bosie is ill,” Robbie gibed from behind the letter. 

Aziraphale tutted, placing a glass of sherry on the table by the couch where his friend sat. “We must try to be kind, Robbie.”

He lowered the letter so Aziraphale could see the amused smirk on his face, a cigarette hanging from his lips like a stage prop. 

“Well? What else?” Aziraphale asked impatiently, sitting down on the other end of the couch.

Robbie chuckled around his cigarette, taking it loosely between two fingers as he continued to study the letter. “The play is to be called A Woman of No Importance… and Constance remains at Babbacombe with the children.”

Aziraphale frowned. “How long has he been in Cromer with that boy?”

“Oh, you implore me to be kind but you are free to refer to our dear Oscar’s darling little flower as that boy?”

“He is a boy. I am being factual, that is not unkind.”

Robbie rolled his eyes, stretching his limbs languorously until his feet were pressed beneath Aziraphale’s thighs. He thought to move, but it was far too hot for that. He snatched Oscar’s letter from Robbie’s hands instead, confirming the information that had been relayed to him. Oscar had been in Cromer for weeks, insisting that the seaside freed his artistic spirit. At least he had a play in the works, he needed another success after Salomé was miraculously crushed by the Censure. He certainly needed the money with Bosie’s frivolous spending habits. 

Aziraphale was ashamed to admit that he’d disliked Lord Alfred Douglas before a word had even escaped his rosy red lips. There was something so dangerously captivating about the boy, with his golden hair and baby-blue eyes— he looked like an angel, and coming from Aziraphale that was not a compliment. 

He wanted to be surprised when Oscar fell for him, but of course he wasn’t. Bosie embodied everything Oscar stood for; beauty. The boy had all too quickly become the artist’s muse, and Oscar bent over backwards keeping his little prince happy and entertained. It was an all-consuming love that Aziraphale had rarely seen the likes of. He tried to be supportive, to understand… but the uneasy feeling that he'd felt when first laying eyes upon the boy never truly went away. 

“Oh dear Azi, always lost so deep in your own mind,” Robbie exclaimed with a melodramatic sigh, lobbing a chunk of ice from his drink in Aziraphale’s direction. 

“My dear boy, do you have any idea how difficult ice is to come by in this weather? Or how expensive it is?” Aziraphale frowned, gently picking it up and dropping it into his own glass. “Also I have told you to refrain from calling me that.”

“Why so serious?” Robbie grinned. “Give me back my ice you fiend! Haven’t you heard how expensive it is?”

“You threw it at me. It’s mine now.” 

“Oh then perhaps I shall throw my wit at you next.” Robbie wiggled his toes under Aziraphale’s thighs, causing him to squirm away with a rather undignified squeal. “You’re such a bore whenever Oscar goes away.”

Aziraphale sighed, knowing that he was right. “I just worry.”

“Bosie will only remain in Cromer for a short while, then Oscar will join Constance and the children at Babbacombe. Calm your worried mind.”

They fell into a comfortable silence as Robbie lit another cigarette. Aziraphale settled back onto the couch, allowing him to rest his calves on his lap. 

He could never miss what he’d never known, but as soon as the initial awkwardness of casual human touch seeped away, Aziraphale didn’t know how he’d survived all those thousands of years without it. Oscar’s arm pressed against his as they sat together reading, his sons Cyril and Vyvyan climbing all over him in the garden, Ada resting a hand on his shoulder when he felt like he didn’t belong— all those little moments had become anchors to humanity. Every time Robbie lounged on him, Heaven felt that much farther away… and the weight of him was almost enough to crush the lingering guilt. 

“What shall we do with ourselves when Oscar leaves us all for France?”

Aziraphale laughed, shaking his head at the prospect. When the Lord Chamberlain's office refused to license Salomé for the British stage, Oscar was so displeased that he threatened to move to Paris and become a French citizen instead, enticed by their lax laws regarding the artistic depiction of biblical characters. 

“Come now, Robbie. You must know that he wasn’t serious.”

“For a moment I thought he was going to storm the Lord Chamberlain’s offices himself!”

“Salomé is a most blasphemous play. He must have known that the Censure would prohibit its production.”

“Deliciously blasphemous,” Robbie winked, sitting up to snatch his nearly melted chunk of ice back from Aziraphale’s glass, “much like the artist.”

He gently pushed Robbie back down, turning to gaze out the window so he wouldn’t see the redness in his cheeks. If Aziraphale had received a message last year from his head office demanding that Salomé never saw the stage… well, he still had a job to do, after all. 

“When did Oscar say he would return?” Aziraphale asked, desperate to change the subject. 

“Soon, Azi. Very soon.”

***

October 1892

Aziraphale couldn’t stand Lord Alfred Douglas. Oscar had only been back in London for a week and Bosie was already causing such scenes with him. He wanted them both out of his bookshop so he could rest his weary mind. 

“I hate it here, Oscar. I want to go out.”

“My dear boy, perhaps Aziraphale is right. It is not wise for us to engage in such activities in a public forum. We can take a room at the Cadogan-”

“I don’t want to go there! I want to have fun. I want to drink and smoke and fuck whomever I like wherever I like, and I want you to watch me.”

Aziraphale winced, refraining from rolling his eyes as Bosie stomped his foot in rage. He remained a vulgar, rude little boy— despite his upbringing. Oscar met his gaze, pleading. 

“I know the reputation of Alfred Taylor’s establishment. It is not a social circle that you want to associate with,” Aziraphale said. 

“Weren’t you an active member of the Hundred Guineas club? You’ll feel comfortable as ever at Taylor’s,” Bosie fired back. 

“That is an entirely different situation that you cannot even presume to understand,” Aziraphale stuttered out, trying to sound confident.

Oscar sighed, looking between the two of them. “Bosie, you know that I live for the simple pleasure of a beautiful boy by candlelight, but you are the most beautiful of them all. You are my very own Hyacinthus. No other can compare to your red rose-leaf lips upon my own.”

Bosie’s expression only hardened. “Your words bore me. You proclaim to be this great artist, but a real artist would live his art, not just speak of it.”

“I’m not sure that I would consider Taylor’s to be the epitome of artistry, dear Bosie,” Aziraphale said with a smile. 

Bosie huffed. “Well, I’m going. If you want to stay here with your false words like a coward, then so be it. But I’m going!” 

Oscar called after him as he turned away, but Bosie stormed out the door before he could plead his case any further. Aziraphale tried to avoid the artist’s penetrating gaze.

“I won’t go without you. Aziraphale, you are a better man than I, and I need you by my side in this den of vice. Who else will guide me? Who else will remind me that I am still a mortal man?”

“What of Robbie?”

“Even if he were in London he would not come, he is too clever for his own good.”

Aziraphale sighed, wondering why he even bothered to pretend like he was going to say no. “Alright,” he said, defeated. 

Oscar took a great stride towards him, taking his hands in his and giving them a grateful squeeze. “Thank you, my dearest friend.”

Aziraphale tried to smile and then followed him out the door. Bosie stood on the steps waiting, smoking a cigarette and tapping his foot impatiently. 

“Finally,” he huffed, “for a moment I really did think that I would have to go alone. How humiliating that would be! But I knew you would come.” He blinked up at Oscar with his siren eyes and linked their arms together before hailing a cab. 

The drive wasn’t long, but it felt endless. Bosie was blathering on about the most obscene things, and Oscar drank up his dirty words like they were the finest of wines. Aziraphale wanted better for his friend—all of Oscar’s friends did—but ultimately, Oscar did whatever felt and looked the most beautiful. That had always been his fatal flaw. Aziraphale wondered if he ever thought of his wife Constance in these moments—  if he ever thought of Cyril or Vyvyan. When he caught the hungry look of adoration in the artist’s eyes, he doubted it.

The cab came to a stop outside a rather rundown block of buildings and Aziraphale trailed behind Oscar and his boy. He grimaced as he walked inside, hit by the sultry atmosphere laced with smoke and scandal. They turned a corner and approached an old wooden door, the lingering scent of incense from inside made him feel almost comfortable— a feeling that he resented entirely. There was no comfort to be found in a place like this, and he knew he mustn’t let his guard down, regardless of how relaxed the strangely familiar scents made him feel. 

Bosie opened the door and dragged Oscar through, giving Aziraphale a moment to repent before following. He walked face-first into a thick red curtain, swatting it aside and blinking his new surroundings into focus. A scantily clad man approached him then, his red silk robe barely covering his sweat-slicked chest. Aziraphale smiled politely, offering him a hand. The man raised his eyebrows, dragging his eyes up and down Aziraphale’s body in a way that made him want to hide back behind the curtain. He was not in a dark enough emotional place to lean into this sort of behaviour. 

“Good evening. Oscar’s Aziraphale, yes? Alfred Taylor.”

“Yes, indeed,” Aziraphale said, clearing his throat and dropping his hand back down to his side. “Thank you for your… hospitality.”

“Mmm. Let’s find you someone to do, yes?”

Aziraphale laughed nervously, allowing himself to be dragged into a sitting room of sorts. There were several young men in various states of undress, all lounging across a mismatched range of worn furniture. The flickering candlelight made them look like oil paintings. He saw Oscar spread out on a couch at the back of the room, men on both sides of him slowly undoing his coat buttons. Bosie was perched on a dark-haired man’s lap, watching.

A smile played on his lips when he felt Alfred Taylor’s hand on the small of his back, the sweet smell of love and incense dizzying him against his better judgement. 

He turned to Alfred—damn near ready to throw caution to the wind—when he heard an all too familiar contented sigh from behind him. He spun around so quickly that he stumbled, nearly falling over himself. He blinked furiously, waiting for the mirage to dissipate. When that didn’t work, he rubbed his eyes until he saw stars. The scene before him stayed the same. He opened his mouth to utter the one name he had barely even dared to think of in decades, but the sound died in his throat. 

Of course he was here. Naturally. Where else would a demon spend his leisure time? The ferocity of his frustration startled him. 

His hair was longer than before— splayed out over the lap of a rather average-looking (but thankfully fully clothed) blond gentleman who was running his fingers through it nonchalantly as he sucked on a cigarette. His dark glasses were off—resting atop his chest where far too many shirt buttons were undone—but his eyes were gently closed as he stretched out comfortably on a garish burgundy sofa with that strange man. An uncharacteristically soft smile played on his lips and he was breathing deeply as though in a peaceful sleep. 

For the first time in his existence, Aziraphale had a violent impulse. He stepped away from Alfred and cleared his throat. In for a penny, in for a pound then, he thought to himself. 

“Hello Crowley,” he said, a little louder than strictly necessary. “I suppose you’ve been too busy to stop by?”

The speed at which Crowley leapt up off of that man’s lap would have been comical in any other circumstance. His glasses went flying as he pulled his shirt together, trying and failing to hide his chest and maintain a modicum of decency. He opened and closed his mouth, gaping like a fish out of water as yellow met blue for the first time since 1862. 

Crowley

October 1892

Crowley thought he was dreaming. Surely he was dreaming. There was no other logical explanation as to why Aziraphale was standing before him in Taylor’s brothel. He clutched his shirt closed over his chest so tightly that his knuckles ached. He opened and closed his mouth, waiting to wake up. He never did. 

The nameless blond man—who may or may not have loosely resembled the pissed-off-looking angel before him—reached up and took his hand, confused at the sudden outburst. “My sunshine, you startled me so. Won’t you lay back down?”

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed and Crowley swore that he could see his jaw twitching with annoyance. He only felt guilty for a moment before all the memories he’d been repressing flooded back with so much force that he had to sit back down. The nameless blond man hummed in approval, nuzzling into his neck as he curled up beside him. Crowley inhaled deeply, keeping all his best defences up and carefully laying an arm on the back of the couch. The nameless blond man took it as an opening and draped himself across Crowley’s chest. Aziraphale’s eyes didn't leave them for a second. 

“No, I suppose I never found the time to stop by. I told you I have plenty of other people to fraternise with.” He shrugged as nonchalantly as he could manage while his heart threatened to rip from his chest. “Will someone find me my damn glasses?”

A gaggle of men leapt up to help until a pair of hands promptly handed the glasses back to him. He couldn’t put them on quickly enough. An imposing man approached Aziraphale then, placing a hand on his shoulder and bending down to whisper something in his ear. Aziraphale nodded, meeting the man’s gaze before storming out of the room. Crowley tried to appear disinterested as the man came over and sat beside him.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Oh, I very much hope so,” the tall man exclaimed, “if you wouldn't mind excusing this exquisite young man to your left for a moment.”

Crowley stared blankly at the tall man for a moment before sighing and waving the nameless blond one away. He disappeared in a huff.

“It appears that we share a common friend, dear Crowley. My name is Oscar Wilde, and I cannot express how keenly I have been longing to meet you.”

Crowley nodded, recognising the name. Of course. Salomé was the key reason for his return to London, it would only make sense that the angel would be following similar orders… with an opposite end goal in mind. It irritated him to know that Heaven had won that round. 

“Yes, yes. Sorry about Salomé.  What a marvellous play that would have been.”

“You know of my work! How wonderful.” His face lit up. “That Lord Chamberlain is a philistine and a prude, curse him and that damn Censure.”

“Mmm. So… Aziraphale likes Salomé as well?” Crowley cringed at his inability to find a subtle way to ask after the angel.

“He likes art, he likes beauty. We would not have been dear friends for so long if he didn’t.”

“So long? How long?” Subtlety was seemingly out the window then.

“More than two years now, but it feels like a lifetime. I find that he has that effect, would you not agree?”

He lit a cigarette to avoid answering the question, sucking the smoke into his lungs like his life depended on it. Oscar gazed at him as though he were a curious piece of art in a foreign museum. It made him want to turn away. 

“My dear Crowley, I must apologise for being so forward but I cannot stand one more moment of this benign small talk. I finally find myself before the muse. The intrigue is unbearable! I mustn’t let you disappear into the night. Where is the place you call home?”

“Umm, Mayfair.” Crowley was too taken aback to realise that he probably shouldn’t be telling a stranger in a brothel where he lived. 

“Mayfair! You are a man of status, how fascinating. It would be an honour to have you dine with me soon.”

“Right. Sorry, I’m a little confused.”

Oscar studied him with a melancholy smile. “Yes, I’d wager that you are.” He slowly reached out a hand, gently removing Crowley’s dark glasses. He was still too taken aback to do much about it. “You should not hide your sunset eyes, golden boy. You are maddeningly magnificent. I can see clearly now why Aziraphale lost himself so.”

Crowley barely had time to process before a half-dressed young man with golden hair placed himself possessively in Oscar’s lap and grabbed his face for an obscenely passionate kiss. Crowley took back his glasses while Oscar was distracted and quickly slid them back on. This was becoming the strangest night of his existence. 

“Come with me, Oscar. I want you to watch me fuck Maurice over there.” He nodded back towards a rather excited looking dark-haired man.

“Right. You two enjoy that! I’ve had quite enough for one evening,” Crowley said, scrambling up to leave. 

“Kettner’s tomorrow at 7 o’clock, Crowley. You must join me, do not break the fragile heart of an artist!”

Crowley left without replying or turning back, walking down the street as quickly as he could. What the fuck was that? He was so lost in his own thoughts that he barely registered the footsteps approaching behind him. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called. 

He should have just kept walking, but of course, he didn’t. He stopped in his tracks, turning around. Aziraphale’s cheeks were pink and his hair was a mess. 

“What on earth are you doing here?” the angel shouted. 

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?” Crowley shouted right back. “Befriending humans! Passing your evenings in a brothel? Have you gone utterly mad?”

“I have been stationed here, Crowley! I have a job!”

“You haven’t been stationed in that damn brothel! Although honestly with the company you seem to keep nowadays who bloody knows!”

“Oscar is a good man,” Aziraphale said, more quietly now. 

Crowley laughed. “He’s behind those walls right now doing Satan knows what with that little boy of his.”

“And when did you become such a prude, hmm? You seemed very comfortable in the arms of that… person.”

“Yeah? And so what if I was? Or are you the only one who's allowed to make friends?” 

“Friends!” Aziraphale shrieked, looking around nervously like he was surprised by the volume of his voice. “I have made… friends. I am doing my job. Salomé will never see the stage.”

“Congratulations,” Crowley muttered. “Does your friend know that that was your doing?”

“Oh of course not Crowley! Please be serious.”

“I’m dead serious, Angel.” 

“My name will do.”

Wouldn’t it just, Crowley thought to himself. “I’m dead serious, Aziraphale.”

“You know as well as I that friendship tends to be a rather complicated beast.”

There was a tense pause before Crowley replied, “Are we still talking about Oscar Wilde?”

They faced each other in silence like a pair of loaded pistols, waiting to see who would fire first— if anyone would at all. 

“Where have you been?” Aziraphale changed the subject, his watercolour-blue eyes just pleading for their disagreement to end. “I've missed you.”

No, there would be no bullets raining down tonight. There never were.

“I’ve been here and there.” Crowley sniffed.

Aziraphale nodded. “Well, it appears that you are more so here than there at this present moment.”

“Yes. I’m around.” Crowley braced himself, knowing it was now or never. “Listen, about St. James’s-”

“That is far behind us now. Friendship… or, companionship… is a complicated beast,” Aziraphale repeated with a dismissive wave of his hand.

It was astounding how quickly they always found themselves right back where they started— both of them knowing that they had to change, and neither of them doing a damn thing about it. They would never heal from shots never taken, but Crowley would rather tiptoe around a loaded gun than risk delivering the fatal blow. 

“Right.” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to pretend like everything was as fine as Aziraphale so desperately needed it to be. “Your writer friend asked me to dinner tomorrow.”

“Oh dear…”

Crowley had left Taylor’s certain that he would not be dining with Oscar Wilde, but now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps bullets from an artist would hurt less.

“I might go.” He shrugged. “Kettner’s at 7.”

It wasn’t an invitation. It wasn’t not an invitation. Crowley was simply going through the motions— following their forced reconciliation script to a T, for it was better than no reconciliation at all. Aziraphale nodded, waiting for him to take the lead and say his next line. 

“Goodnight then.”

“Goodnight, Crowley.”

Crowley forced out a smile, nodding at Aziraphale before walking away. And so it went, time and time again. He wondered if a moment without Heavenly Censure would ever come, or if he was fated to share Salomé’s destiny in a purgatory of his own making.

***

Aziraphale never showed up to Kettner’s and Crowley was six glasses of champagne deep in the worst conversation he had ever endured. 

“Are you certain that I cannot tempt you to eat something, dear boy?” Oscar asked for the third time.

“Greater men than you have tried,” Crowley replied, raising his glass and throwing it back in one neat gulp.

The good thing about Oscar Wilde was that he was so nonsensical—so utterly strange in his manner of speech and being—that Crowley could say just about anything to the man. Nothing ever surprised him. 

“I must say, you are just as I imagined you would be.”

“Sorry about that,” Crowley muttered, waving down a waiter to bring him more alcohol. 

“Not at all.” Oscar paused, watching Crowley cradle his champagne. “Aziraphale painted you as Shakespearean tragedy fallen from grace, and I see that within you, but more importantly I can see through to your soul-”

Crowley chuckled darkly. “Again, sorry about that.”

“No, my dear, you are misunderstanding me. Why do you reject all that is good and beautiful within yourself?”

“There’s not much of that in me. Nothing beautiful in a fall from grace.”

“Your resentment prevents you from finding your footing in a graceless world. You must bare your soul to yourself, you will be surprised at the beauty that blooms from this vulnerability.”

Crowley blinked at him. Oscar had spent the past hour preaching about inner beauty, authenticity, and his relationship with Aziraphale— none of which was even remotely his business. He should be pissed off—and he was—but he was also curious. Knowing that Aziraphale had even thought about him once in the last thirty years put a strange feeling in his stomach, let alone realising the extent of what he had shared with his new friend.

“Have you seen Aziraphale’s iris painting?” Oscar asked. 

“His what?”

Oscar nodded. “Perhaps that should help you to understand your friend’s innermost feelings.”

“Almost nothing you say makes sense!” Crowley exclaimed.

“Of course it does. You simply don’t want to hear what I’m saying. Or more likely, you are so desperate to hear what I’m saying that you won’t allow yourself to accept it.”

Crowley leaned back in his seat, shaking his head in frustration. “I’m sorry, I must have missed where you studied psychology that qualifies you to make such ludicrous statements.”

“I am a philosopher, dear boy. One with the Greeks. Would you say the same to Plato?”

“He was only slightly less irritating than you are,” he muttered, realising that his glass was empty again.

He called for another when Oscar’s eyes brightened. He looked over Crowley’s shoulder and waved. Crowley knew without turning around that Aziraphale had finally decided to grace them with his presence. When the angel sat down at their table, Crowley realised that he hadn’t come alone

“What a pleasant surprise it is to see you both!” Oscar greeted his friends warmly.

“Yes, well, we were wasting an evening at the Albemarle and Azi was feeling restless so he led us on a rather long stroll.”

“Fifteen minutes is hardly a long stroll, Robbie.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. 

Crowley looked back and forth between Aziraphale and the other man— Robbie. He had a slight frame, elfin features, and sparkling hazel eyes. Not bad to look at. Not that Crowley noticed. He wondered if Aziraphale noticed. 

“Hello, Crowley.” Aziraphale finally acknowledged his existence. “This is my friend, Robert Ross, he is a journalist.”

“Charmed,” Robbie said with a grin, holding out his hand.

Crowley shook it, saying nothing as the man studied him almost as intently as Oscar had done. When he finally tore his eyes away he turned to Aziraphale, seemingly having a wordless conversation. Crowley wanted to shake him.

“So, Azi?” Crowley tried not to sound too petulant.

Robbie laughed as Aziraphale replied, “Believe me, he calls me that against my own will.”

Crowley nodded, starting on his next glass of champagne as the three friends fell into easy conversation. He felt stupid for feeling left out. It was a good thing that Aziraphale had a pleasant life now. He deserved some peace. 

“Crowley and I were just discussing your beloved iris painting,” Oscar said to Aziraphale, who quickly looked to Crowley with a face of utter panic. 

“Oh, it’s a painting, you see. One I acquired from an acquaintance after his untimely death. It’s simply a painting.” Aziraphale stumbled over his words.  

“The most beautiful painting, with marvellous shades of yellow and blue so perfectly married together,” Oscar proclaimed with a blissful sigh. “How did you refer to the colours, Aziraphale?”

“Tremendously disparate complementaries,” Aziraphale near-whispered.

Crowley raised his eyebrows at the angel, who had now turned a rather bright shade of red.

“He has it hung in his bedroom, right above the bed. A fitting place for such an audacious display,” Oscar continued. 

Aziraphale looked as though he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. 

“And what on earth were you doing in his bedroom, Oscar?” Robbie jested.

Oscar laughed. “Oh my dear boy, nothing improper, I assure you.”

“My my, how unlike you!”

Oscar winked at Robbie, who joined him in laughter. 

“If you’ve had quite enough of laughing at my expense, I’d like to order some food,” Aziraphale said shakily. 

A waiter handed him a menu, which he promptly hid behind. 

Crowley leaned in to whisper in his ear, “I’d quite like to see the painting, Angel.”

Aziraphale stopped breathing and went rigid. His eyes were locked on the menu, but Crowley didn’t see them move. He didn’t even blink. Perhaps it was the champagne, but he couldn’t hide the smugness on his face as he leaned back in his seat and met Oscar’s curious stare. He could feel the script changing, all he could do was hope that Aziraphale felt it too.

Aziraphale

February 1893

Crowley fit into Aziraphale’s new life beautifully. Previously they had always danced around each other— sharing ill-advised, clandestine meetings to discuss their agreement and pretending that was all they were there for. Now, with both of their head offices technically assigning them to Oscar, Crowley could just wander into the bookshop on a rainy Monday in February with pear muffins and a new potted plant, seeking nothing but company. 

Aziraphale sighed with satisfaction as he bit into a muffin, watching Crowley find a home for the plant on his desk. He supposed that he had Oscar to thank, really. Crowley had been sucked into his world as quickly as Aziraphale had been. Not that either of them had put up much of a fight.

“Happy… thirteenth,” Crowley mumbled, coughing awkwardly as he stepped back, admiring the plant. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale replied, confused. “I suppose it is a rather nice day.” He tried to ignore the wind currently shaking every window in the building.

Crowley took off his glasses and stared at him, as though expecting something more. 

“Would you like a muffin?”

“No. Thanks.” He put his glasses back on, half-heartedly browsing a random selection of books.

They had come so far since St. James’s Park, but the weight of the unsaid remained an unwelcome housemate. Sometimes Aziraphale thought that Crowley would bite the bullet and just speak… but he never did. 

He remembered that night at the theatre—after Lady Windermere’s Fan—where he’d thought to himself how ready he was to greet his old friend with complete honesty. At times he still felt as though he was, until he looked into Crowley’s eyes and saw God every time. Silence remained the safest option for them both. It wasn't like there was much to complain about, they were closer than ever before, shielded by the scandals of Oscar Wilde. 

“Cyril is studying French,” Crowley said out of the blue.

“Pardon me?”

“Cyril is studying French,” he repeated, waving a letter in the air, “and little Bosie is in Babbacombe with them. How charmingly domestic.”

“Please do not read my letters, Crowley. That might have been something private.”

Crowley ignored him, reading on. “Constance is in Florence, naturally. Can’t have the woman you promised yourself to and the boy you’re fucking under the same roof. I wonder if he shares a bed with that boy while his sons are in the room over. The children are probably closer to Bosie’s age than our Oscar is. What a thought.”

Aziraphale stormed over to him, snatching the letter from his hands with a warning glare. “Bosie is only one year younger than Robbie. Don’t be so crude.”

“Well, Robbie has this marvellous invention called a brain.”

“Why are you searching for an argument, Crowley?”

He shrugged, turning away. “It’s always a strange day. On the thirteenth. Of February. Which is… today.”

Aziraphale stared incredulously at his tense back, only able to think of one possible solution for his foul mood. “Shall we go and have a drink somewhere?”

Crowley turned around, almost smiling. “Do you intend to get me drunk, Angel?”

“I find you to be much more agreeable when in a mild state of inebriation.”

“Well I happen to find you much more agreeable when I’m in a mild state of inebriation,” he bantered back.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes with a smile, more than used to the emotional whiplash. “I don’t suppose The Savoy would have a table free?”

Crowley grinned mischievously, offering Aziraphale his arm. “It would be a miracle if they did.”

***

October 1893

Oscar was more distressed than Aziraphale had ever known him to be. He was pacing the bookshop, wringing his hands in abject misery, his shoes damp with whisky from bottles thrown in a rage. After a disastrous translation of Salomé that summer and far too much time together in the early autumn, he and Bosie had finally reached their breaking point. 

He'd crashed through the bookshop doors in vexation, fleeing his rented rooms in St. James’s Place that he had taken to work on his next play. Bosie—who was of course staying with him—had thrown another fit. There wasn’t enough money, enough sex, enough anything. Oscar described the resulting row as primal and vicious. 

“You cannot even imagine what a disaster it was when he joined me in the country this summer, and he only escalates his temper! He makes such scenes with me! The frivolities of youth, the twisted beauty of it all! Oh, Aziraphale. I adore him so, but I see no way forward from this. Whatever am I to do?”

Leave him, he thought to himself. He’d known from the beginning that Bosie would cause problems, and now here they were. 

“The poor boy has done nothing intellectual since I entrusted him with Salomé. He is rather hysterical, caged by ennui.”

“Not sure I’d call that translation intellectual,” Crowley chimed in from where he lounged on the couch with a glass of wine, entirely unbothered. “Lucky you got one of the originals.” He nodded towards Aziraphale who pointedly ignored him.

“Dear oh dear. What a mess we have made of things. His youth… wasting away beneath an aimless existence!” He collapsed into a chair, hiding his face in his hands. 

“You mustn’t blame yourself, not for one moment,” Aziraphale insisted, resting a comforting hand on the artist’s shoulder, trying to find a kind word to say. “Bosie has always been… very much himself.”

“An insufferable child,” Crowley clarified. 

Aziraphale glared at him. “He simply requires guidance, perhaps a sort of guidance that you cannot provide.”

“If I cannot guide him then I can do nothing at all! I love him, Aziraphale. I love him like Jonathan loved David, in the true Platonic fashion. He is my Hyacinthus, my muse. Without him, nothing blooms!”

“Didn’t Apollo kill Hyacinthus in the end?” Crowley asked innocently.

“You were an astounding artist before him and you will be an even better one after him,” Aziraphale reassured Oscar, trying to pretend that Crowley wasn’t even there.

“I will be nothing after him, Aziraphale! Nothing at all!” Oscar cried out. “I must find the means to fix the terrible grief which causes him to behave in such ways.”

Crowley stood to fill his glass, brushing past Aziraphale. “And so the muse becomes your downfall.”

Aziraphale stiffened, watching him carefully.

“Oh Crowley, if I have fallen it is of my own doing. No creature as beautiful as he could ever spew such viciousness if he were in his right mind. I cannot even repeat what was said to me in St. James’s, or what I dared to say back! It is simply too awful, too awful!”

Crowley picked out another glass, filling it to the brim and placing it in front of the despondent artist. “I’ve long since considered that area of London to be cursed.” He brushed past Aziraphale again, avoiding eye contact as he sat down.

"I am cursed! A cursed fool! Unable to fix Bosie’s troubled mind, oh, perhaps leaving is the only way forward, but I cannot bear it! You must understand that I cannot.”

“You cannot fix one who isn’t willing,” Aziraphale declared. “You are only one man.”

“My dear boy, I am an artist. I am all things to all people so that I may become unknown to myself.”

“Sorry, but does he want to be fixed?” Crowley chimed in. “Yes, I realise that he’s deranged… but one can be deranged and still be happy.”

“Of course he wants to be fixed! Don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale snapped.

“He cannot enjoy making such vile scenes with me, it is obscene. He is spoiling his young life!” Oscar lamented.

“Maybe if you talked to him as an equal instead of as a child he would be more reasonable.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “You must ignore him, Oscar.”

“Oh, right, sorry. How unreasonable of me,” he mocked. 

Aziraphale turned away, devoting his attention to Oscar instead.

“I try to be frank with him, and he calls me cruel. I share my work, he says I’m a bore. So then I overindulge him and he cannot accept when it ends!” 

“Your lives are too entwined,” he said, “perhaps an extended break would be prudent.”

"Yes, walk away, why don’t you?” Crowley sneered.

“Everybody wants me to leave him, but they do not understand. One cannot leave behind a half of their very own soul.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Not forever, then. Only until he has found his way of being in this world.”

“I would feel like a monster, abandoning him in his time of distress! I can’t do it, I shan’t-”

“Write to his mother,” Aziraphale interjected, “she has contacted you regarding his wellbeing in the past, yes? She could look after him for a time, maybe send him abroad for a different perspective.”

“That sounds suspiciously like abandoning him in his time of distress,” Crowley commented.

He couldn’t take it any longer. He spun around to shout, “You don’t even like Bosie, Crowley! Do not pretend to care.”

Oscar raised a brow at the rare sound of Aziraphale having an outburst. 

“Apologies, Oscar. I apologise.”

“Do not. I ask for radical authenticity always.”

“Well then,” Aziraphale adjusted his shirt, standing up straight, “it is my authentic perspective that you should contact his mother and make arrangements with her.”

“So your advice is to walk away,” Crowley challenged. 

“My advice is that if dear Oscar’s muse is causing him such distress then an extended break would be prudent.”

“Yes, walk away. Heaven knows that’s easier than one real conversation to some people.”

“They have had their conversations. It is not Oscar’s fault if Bosie refuses to listen.” Aziraphale tried to keep a level tone, fearing where this was going.

“Did he not listen or did he just not say what Oscar wanted to hear?” Crowley fired back.

“And what exactly do you think Oscar wanted to hear?”

Crowley shrugged. “Something resembling penitence.”

Aziraphale reeled back, shaking his head. “Is that really what you think?”

“I don’t think our dear artist would survive a fall from grace, and I’d wager that that terrifies him.”

He clenched his fists, trembling under the weight of what they were about to release. Radical authenticity indeed. He exhaled slowly, forcing the words out. 

“Perhaps it is not himself whom Oscar is terrified for.”

Crowley pursed his lips, frowning. He took a long drink of wine before meeting Aziraphale’s unblinking eyes. There was a cautious openness in his gaze. It took everything he had not to look away.

“I’m not scared, Aziraphale.”

The angel looked to the Heavens, keeping his eyes trained homeward as he spoke. “Then you are a fool.”

Crowley stood then, approaching him purposefully. Aziraphale kept looking up. When he stopped directly before him, Aziraphale winced, pressing his eyes tightly shut as though that would stop Her from seeing his blasphemous heart. Please, God, don’t be watching us now.

“There is nothing they can do to me that I haven’t already endured.” He spoke slowly, carefully. “Any fear that you still carry is purely selfish.”

Aziraphale flinched. His eyes shot open, but Crowley was already halfway to the door. Regret washed over him like holy water as it slammed loudly shut. 

“My dear, I feel as though I have intruded upon something most private and I must apologise for intentionally doing so,” Oscar earnestly declared.

Aziraphale forced himself to breathe. “No, no. I am the one who owes an apology. I invited you into my home with the intention of providing assistance, and I have rather selfishly done the opposite.”

“It appears that my misfortune has become the muse for your own.”

He nodded shakily, no longer trusting his voice.

“Let us hide ourselves in our palace, Herodias!” Oscar declared after a pause.

A wan smile forced its way onto Aziraphale’s face. “I begin to be afraid.”

Oscar stood with a weary sigh, wrapping Aziraphale in a tight embrace. He hadn’t realised how violently he was trembling until Oscar held him together. Selfish rang in his ears until he could hear nothing else. His eyes burned painfully. He buried his face in the taller man’s chest before a single tear could fall. Lavender and woody bergamot enveloped his senses and he inhaled deeply, wrapping his arms around his friend.

“How honoured I am that you find me worthy to weep with you.”

“I am doing no such thing.” Aziraphale was betrayed by his hoarse, unsteady voice. 

Oscar chuckled, pulling back until his hands were resting on Aziraphale’s shoulders. He was surprised to find tears in the artist’s eyes as well. They stared at each other in an increasingly comfortable bubble of shared sorrow.

“Your singular beauty continues to astound me, and it is for this reason that I know your own boy will soon see the light of day that is you,” Oscar insisted, resting a hand on Aziraphale’s cheek when he began to shake his head. “Bosie will come right as well. Perhaps he can holiday abroad.”

“Egypt is rather nice this time of year,” Aziraphale whispered, his heart in his throat. 

He was used to fear, he was used to emotional turmoil, but he could never get used to anything with Oscar.

“I love him, Aziraphale. I worship the ground he walks on and I will continue to do so until the day that I die, after which I shall begin to worship the hallowed halls of Heaven, consecrated by his slim gilt soul.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders drooped and his smile faltered, trying not to think of his flawed friend’s afterlife. 

Oscar ran his thumb under Aziraphale’s eye, catching a stray tear. “My dearest friend, would you be so kind as to show me your iris painting?”

Aziraphale nodded, pushing all thoughts of selfish aside as he led his friend upstairs. 

____________________

30 January 1894

My Darling Oscar,

You won’t believe where I sit as I write this letter, I can hardly believe it myself— I sit atop one of the great pyramids! The views are mystical, I keep glancing from this page to be sure that they are real. I feel as though I could fly. I am in such high spirits although I miss you fiercely. I cannot understand why I was tempted to undertake such a gruelling task, my body is not built for physical exertion outside of the bedroom. I am sure that my limbs will ache for days to come. But when Crowley saw the local men leading a troupe of tourists on this mad pilgrimage he insisted that we join them. He is a temptress, and utterly convincing in all that he asks of me. I only wish you were here. We mustn’t fight any longer, it is so tedious and ugly. I don’t care what anyone says, I am devoted to you and long to be reunited soon.

We have come from Alexandria, and leave for Cairo whenever I bore of being here. Crowley plans to sail down the river to the Valley of the Kings— an essentially impossible journey. He says he is to pay his respects to an old friend! What an odd fellow he is, but he amuses me so. I am pleased to have his company, although he is often struck by fits of melancholy and rage. Tell me, Oscar, did he leave England for similar reasons as I? His relationship with that bookseller is most curious. Nevertheless, I pray that he and I both return with hearts and souls purified by the ancient desert winds. 

Please tell me, what have you been amusing yourself with? I hope you aren’t too bored without me there. Have you finished writing your play? I look forward to seeing it when I return. 

One of the local men has just taken our photograph! I believe this is the only photograph that I have ever known Crowley to sit for, how fascinating! I shall enclose it in this letter, so you can be assured that my beauty does not fade. I will return to you sun-kissed and glorious, my darling, although I did expect it to be warmer. Even in January— surely desert is desert! No matter, Crowley reminds me to also enclose a photograph of the Great Sphinx for our own great sphinx Ada. I shall do this promptly when my feet are back on solid ground. 

We are to begin our descent shortly, so I must stop, though I could write an epic filled with all the things I wish to say to you. I will have to settle on this: I miss you, my dear. I am forever your own loving and devoted boy,

Bosie. 

P.S. Crowley sent his regards, but rescinded them softly thereafter, so I shan’t give them here. What a peculiar man I travel with!

____________________

21 February 1894

My dearest boy,

Thank you for your letter. I am out of sorts for I miss you so much, but I am happy in the knowledge that we are friends again, and that our love has passed through the shadow and the night of estrangement and sorrow and come out rose-crowned as of old. Let us always be infinitely dear to each other, as indeed we have been always. 

Your photograph distracts me so. You are the envy of The Lord God’s chorus of angels, so slim and golden you perch upon those ancient stones, but my heart aches at the thought of one as pretty as you labouring to the summit! You mustn’t allow Crowley to tempt you, he must wrap you in silk and protect you from the elements so that you will return to me as soft and pure as you left me. 

On the topic of Crowley— I shan’t gossip about the misfortunes of a dear friend, but I fear that the shadow of estrangement still lingers heavy over he and Aziraphale. I have written to Lady Mount-Temple in the hope that she will allow Aziraphale to pass his melancholia in her lovely seaside home, the peace and beauty at Babbacombe is so good for troubled nerves. In any case, Robbie remains his rather persistent houseguest, lingering near the scent of sorrow like a moth to a flame. Whether or not he has been shown the iris painting remains a mystery, Robbie is a tight-lipped little minx while Aziraphale crushes himself beneath the pretence of godliness. I’m sure I can trust you to keep this from dear Crowley, I would hate for you to be further affected by his mercurial broken heart. How much simpler things were before that night at Taylor’s!

As for the play, I have titled it An Ideal Husband, and Hare finds the final act unsatisfactory despite my efforts to help him see that it is a masterpiece. I am overwhelmed by the vulture creditors, and must find the funds to stave them off. Tree sails to America, leaving Haymarket Theatre in the charge of Lewis Waller, to whom I shall propose a triple bill. That is all my news. How horrid news is!

Aziraphale dines with us this evening, Cyril and Vyvyan adore him so! I must go to my sons, before they convince their adoptive uncle to take them home with him. I think of you daily, and am always devotedly yours,

Oscar.

P.S. Ada has framed the Great Sphinx in a floral gilt frame, she hopes that it will remind her to never grow so ancient. 

____________________

Crowley

April 1894

Crowley should have stayed in Egypt. His four months there had been relatively peaceful, surrounded by ancient memories of friends from fallen empires, he’d barely had time to think about life back in London. He had even begun to enjoy little Bosie’s company. Everybody condescended and berated him… for what? For deigning to live authentically? He couldn’t blame the boy for his bad attitude when everyone in his life was telling him how to live. Even Oscar saw him as a child in need of guidance. He was no different than the Marquess. 

“Bosie! Come back here you filthy-minded little sissy!”

Well, perhaps Oscar was a little different. 

“You are ridiculous!” Bosie shrieked back at his father.

“That Wilde has corrupted you! Him and snob queers like Rosebery got ahold of two of my sons! I won’t have it, you hear? Come back here this instant!”

“You’re absurd! Who are you to spew such libellous filth? I will not come back! I will never come back!”

Crowley clicked his tongue, tapping his foot on the gravel as he looked around the expansive grounds. Not a bad place to live. Bosie’s voice was getting more and more hysterical. Should he intervene? He tried to peek around the stone wall, able to catch a glimpse of the Marquess of Queensberry swinging a horsewhip dangerously close to his darling son’s rage-contorted face. 

He’ll be fine.

He adjusted his sunglasses, watching a pair of carrion crows soaring over his head and into the courtyard where father and son argued. If Oscar were here he would write a lengthy poem about those damn crows.

Bosie’s footsteps stomped towards him then and he cleared his throat, flinching at the rather extensive string of slurs and profanities that followed him around the corner. He stopped before Crowley, pink-faced, vibrating with shame and rage. 

“So. How did it go?” he asked.

“Shut up.”

“I have certainly learnt some new and colourful words from your father today!”

“Crowley, please shut up.”

Crowley nodded. “He’ll be in Hell soon enough, don’t worry.”

Bosie shook his head, heaving a great sigh. “Then I suppose I shall meet him there!”

“Well, maybe. I’m not really in charge of these things, strictly speaking, so—” he trailed off, noting Bosie’s incredulous stare. “Anyway… shall we get out of here before he comes out with a pistol?”

They climbed into the cab, and it was quickly made suffocating by Bosie’s misery. Crowley did not know how to fix this. 

“It’ll be… fine. Right? What do you need him for?”

“He will not pay me my allowance if I continue to see Oscar. If he cuts me off I shall become destitute!” Bosie moaned.

“You could, I don’t know… work?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley!”

Crowley rolled his eyes, questioning his earlier sentiment of liking the boy. 

“I want to go and see Oscar. He will help me.”

“You saw what happened the last time your lives became too close,” Crowley began, “and he is not willing to be as open as you are. He still worries for his family, his work… his reputation.”

“Just because you and the bookseller cannot find peace does not mean that me and Oscar must suffer in your shadow! Oscar loves me.”

“You wrote an entire poem about the anguish of a love that cannot speak its name. You know that love alone isn’t enough! If it was we’d both be in very different places right now.”

Bosie avoided his eyes, frowning out the window like a scorned lover until they stopped on Tite Street. 

Aziraphale

June 1894

Bosie should have stayed in Egypt. In his absence Oscar had found himself again; working hard and uninterrupted on his plays, dedicating himself to his wife and sons, dining with friends. The dark shroud of infatuation had been lifted from his eyes and he could see once more— until Bosie returned and blinded him again with his shining flaxen hair and cursed Midas touch.

At least Oscar’s rediscovery of old wounds had distracted Aziraphale from Crowley’s glaring absence. It was almost impressive, how they managed to avoid one another entirely despite running in precisely the same social circles. It was rumoured that Crowley had befriended Bosie of all people. Their journey to Egypt must have been most enlightening. 

He thanked Oscar, who handed him a small glass of sherry before sitting down. 

“Dear Aziraphale, you are wrought with sorrow, it is painted all over your face. I must remind you that Lady Mount-Temple’s generous offer of a holiday in Babbacombe is still very much open.”

“No, no. I mustn’t leave the bookshop!” Aziraphale insisted, determined to change the subject. “How is Bosie?”

“Oh, his father is a brute who obsessively writes him the most foul letters, almost libellous in nature!” Oscar shook his head. “I cannot believe that it has come to this. Poor Bosie.”

Aziraphale could certainly believe it. Bosie was a petulant, ridiculous child with an extravagant lifestyle that he did not earn or deserve— and now he was being backed by the serpent of Eden.

“I can only hope that the Marquess will divert his attention to another one of his children and leave Bosie be. We do not need his money, and Bosie is hardly the Douglas with the most scandal attached to his name.”

Aziraphale thought of Bosie’s oldest brother Francis’ supposed… associations with Prime Minister Rosebery, and wondered why such sons were given to men like Queensberry. He tried not to question Her plan for it all, but despite how little Aziraphale liked Bosie, he did not deserve his father’s abuse.

“It will come right in the end, all things do,” Aziraphale assured, raising his glass for a toast. 

The door crashed violently open as soon as their glasses clinked together. 

Oscar leapt to his feet as the Marquess of Queensberry stormed into his sitting room, flanked by a man who looked as though he had been born in a boxing ring.

“You! You loathsome cur!”

“Lord Queensberry, my friend and I have just sat down for a drink. I don’t suppose you’ve come to join us?” Oscar said coolly. 

“You listen to me now, I would rather set myself aflame than ever sully myself at your table. You are a bugger!”

Aziraphale remained seated, looking up at Oscar’s shoulders grow imperceptibly more tense. As an angel of Heaven, he had no right or reason to be afraid, yet he was. Queensberry served only as a mouthpiece for the general attitudes of British society— a fact that Aziraphale did his utmost to ignore. Usually a rather easy feat in his social circles.

“I will not be spoken down to in my own home, so unless you have come to apologise for the lies you have been spreading about me, I kindly request that you leave,” Oscar insisted firmly. 

Queensberry took a step forward, raising his cane as he began to shout, “I have come to demand that you leave my son alone!”

Oscar had the audacity to chuckle. “Bosie is an adult, however youthful in spirit he remains. He has the right to his own decisions and it is unbecoming of you as a father—if you could even call yourself that—to levy these ridiculous accusations against him.”

“I levy them against you! You degenerate pansy, you will stay away from Bosie or I will go to Scotland Yard!”

“You can go to the Devil himself! The two of you will have much in common!”

Aziraphale stood by his friend then, fear turning to exasperated frustration as he weighed up the man before him. 

“And who the hell are you? Another one of those queer posers, no doubt!” 

As Aziraphale watched Queensberry’s face contort with anger like a snake spitting venom it was clear where Bosie had inherited his temper from.

“I am a bookseller, Lord Queensberry.”

“Yes! Precisely!” He took another step forward until he could wave his finger right in Oscar’s face. “If you ever dare to come near my son again I will beat you until you can’t even remember your own name, do you hear? I will give you such a thrashing that you shall never hold a pen again!”

Oscar stood to his full height, impressively towering over the scarlet Marquess. “I do not know what the Queensberry rules for boxing are, but the Oscar Wilde rule is to shoot on sight. Now leave my property.”

“I will leave when I’m damn well ready to leave! You are a sham! A foul pervert! A-”

Oscar stepped as much into Queensberry’s space as he could without touching him and snatched the cane from his hand, breaking it clean in half over his knee before hurling it aside, daring the man to say another word. Aziraphale looked on in admiration as Queensberry shuffled back, as if by instinct. There was a fire in Oscar’s eyes— the fire of gallant devotion towards that horrid man’s son.

“It’s a scandal what you’ve been doing,” Queensberry spat, much quieter than before. 

“The scandal is all yours. The treatment of your wives, the depraved cruelty towards your children— when my sons remember their father, they will remember being tenderly cared for and loved. What do yours remember, Lord Queensberry? Adultery and a horsewhip!” Oscar turned away, picking up his sherry and swirling it around the glass as if deep in thought. 

Aziraphale knew that he was far more unnerved than he was letting on, that he just needed something to do with his hands so Queensberry wouldn’t see them shake. He waited with bated breath for the artist’s next move.

“This is the Marquess of Queensberry, the most infamous brute in all of England,” Oscar began, speaking directly to his butler, who had been lurking in the hall. “Please escort him and his companion out, and ensure that he never sets foot on my property again.”

The butler nodded, apprehensively approaching Queensberry.

“Very well,” the Marquess muttered, glancing down at his broken cane but making no move to collect the pieces, “let us leave this den of degeneracy.”

He stormed out of the room as violently as he had entered it with the butler trailing after. As soon as the door slammed shut, Oscar collapsed back into his chair, desperately throwing back his sherry.

“You are a marvel, Oscar. That was rather impressive,” Aziraphale commended his friend.

“I must consult Sir George Lewis.” Oscar was pale with shock, undoubtedly shaken. “The solicitor. He will offer me advice on how to navigate these libellous attacks.”

Aziraphale paused. “My dear, something cannot be libellous if it is based in truth. His words were foul… but, Oscar, you know the laws.”

Oscar avoided his eyes, pouring another glass of sherry with shaky hands and a set jaw.

____________________

2 October 1894

Dearest Azi, 

Oscar thanks you dearly for your advice and for the medicine, as do I. He is still ill and rests with me at his bedside, but his fever is going down. You are quite the miracle worker, a natural-born healer, a thousand thanks to you. His broken heart, however, is in more dire need of a cure, although I am certain that friendship and whisky shall begin to heal those wounds.

I fear for our dear friend, but I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t a little bit pleased. The scenes here were terrible, but Bosie is gone. I arrived to a filthy room, stagnant with sickness and sorrow, with broken glass over the floors and the front door left wide open. That boy returned to London the same day as he and Oscar argued. I am rather disgusted by him at the present, and find his behaviour abhorrent. Oscar says that he nursed him all the while he was ill, but when he got ill himself Bosie degraded and abandoned him. I am shaking with vexation as I write this, I cannot believe that little blond devil— although I’m sure that you can, I’m sure that this news will not surprise you in the slightest.

Oscar says that he cannot take this any longer, that he is at his breaking point and there is no way forward. The Marquess would be rather pleased with his son’s actions here. I shall remain in Brighton until he is well enough to travel, which should be soon as he is rather eager to show his new play to George Alexander. It is called The Importance of Being Earnest and it is brilliant, as all things he does are. Do prepare to receive him with empathy and healing. Ever yours, 

Robbie.

____________________

20 October 1894

My dear Aziraphale, 

I write to you with a heavy heart filled with sorrow, this news is so terrible I can hardly bear to write it down, and I am certain that when you hear it you will forgive all that follows. Bosie’s older brother Francis has died, the honourable Viscount Drumlanrig, shot dead at his own hand. It was supposedly a tragic hunting accident. I shan’t write what Bosie accuses, it is too terrible a thought, but I shall say that he fears for his own safety now more than ever before. I doubt he will ever willingly see his father again. 

Aziraphale, you must understand that I cannot leave my precious flower to wilt under this searing grief all alone. The wings of the angel of Death have almost touched him, their purple shadow lies across his way and I am perforce the sharer of his pain. I regret that you are privy to what transpired in Brighton, and I must insist that you forget it entirely, just as I have. This is the first noble sorrow in dear Bosie’s life, and as he lies on me weeping crystalline tears, I know that this sorrow is the only truth that matters. 

You must forgive him, and you must forgive me, my heart cannot weather anything less. I am ever your most devoted friend,

Oscar. 

____________________

Crowley

February 1895

“Merci.” Crowley accepted a glass of liquor from the butler, smiling through the violent crashing coming from next door. “Ils vont bien. Ne t'inquiète pas. Merci!”

The butler nodded, unconvinced, and scuttled out of the room. Crowley groaned, taking off his dark glasses and pressing his eyes shut. Could demons get migraines? Ones who willingly spent time with Lord Alfred Douglas certainly could. He threw back the liquor, wishing he was anywhere else. 

Bosie and Oscar had travelled to Algeria together, but when the artist returned to London after two weeks to oversee rehearsals for The Importance of Being Earnest, Crowley thought some time away was just what he needed. Egypt had been rather pleasant, after all. Yet now that he had been here with Bosie for two long weeks he regretted ever leaving Mayfair. 

“How could you! How could you! You lecherous little swine!” He heard through the wall. 

The poor boy doesn’t even speak English you moron, Crowley thought to himself. Although, to be fair, he probably didn’t need a translator to figure out that Bosie was not happy. He wondered if all the other hotel guests were enjoying the show. 

Naturally, Bosie had picked up a boy the same day that Oscar left and had seduced him into travelling with them. The boy came from a modest family and was starstruck when the fickle lord swooped in with his clean-pressed suits and million-pound smile. How was he to know that Bosie was mad? Crowley felt for him now. He hoped that Bosie would wrap up his power-play soon and let him flee. At least Oscar wasn’t here, Crowley knew that he didn’t have it in him to pretend like he was going to leave Bosie for the thousandth time. It wasn’t like he ever really would. 

He tutted, hearing another slam. What was Bosie throwing around now? He stood up and paced back and forth for a few minutes, stopping to stare out the window at nothing. Perhaps he should intervene this time. That poor boy was not the Marquess of Queensberry. He was innocent, likely having set Bosie off in some trivial way he hadn’t even realised. He contemplated it for a moment before the neighbouring room fell silent— finally. He exhaled with relief, but it was short-lived. 

When the whip cracked for the first time, Crowley thought he was imagining it. There was a millisecond of utterly deafening silence before the screaming began. It was an unearthly sort of screaming— a shrill, piercing thing wracked with sobs that melted the skin from his bones and tore the wings from his back. When the whip cracked for a second time, he was already kicking in Bosie’s hotel room door.

The boy was cowering on the floor beside his suitcase, which had been thrown against the wall and broken. Everything that was once inside was now scattered across the floor. Bosie stood over him with a photograph in one hand and a horsewhip in the other. Crowley firmly planted himself before the little beast before he could raise his whip again. He looked down at the boy’s tear-streaked face, noticing his torn, bloody shirt.

«أمورك تمام؟»

The boy nodded bravely, still curled in a defensive position. 

“You speak Arabic? And you didn’t think it would have been prudent to tell me this two weeks earlier?” Bosie shrieked. 

“Lower your damn voice,” Crowley ordered. 

“You are not allowed to speak to me that way!”

“Lower your damn voice, Lord.”

Bosie raised the whip but Crowley grabbed his wrist tightly, turning to tell the boy to leave and to leave quickly. He scrambled to his knees, raising his hands in prayer before stumbling out of the room, leaving all his belongings behind. Crowley recoiled at the holy action, and Bosie snatched his hand back. 

“What on earth are you doing?”

“What am I- what are you doing?” Crowley demanded. “Have you lost your mind?”

Bosie waved the photograph he was holding in Crowley’s face. “A woman!”

For a moment he wondered in a very serious way if Bosie truly had lost his mind.

“A woman with whom he shared a bed!”

Crowley ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head in disbelief. “Bosie, you shared a bed with Oscar the same day you met that boy!”

“Boys he could have as much as he likes! But I will not endure him going with a woman!”

“Alright, the madness of that statement aside, you thought this was an appropriate way to handle the situation?” He grabbed the whip from Bosie’s hand, holding it between two fingers like it was plague-ridden. 

He crossed his arms and flicked his hair out of his face, scowling like an ill-tempered child. “He had to be taught a lesson.”

Crowley scoffed, cupping a hand behind his ear as though he couldn’t hear what Bosie had said. “Sorry, I thought I heard the Marquess speaking just then.”

Bosie’s cheeks turned pink and he uncrossed his arms, reaching for the whip. Crowley acted before he could even think, and within a second the whip turned to ash in his hand. Bosie faltered, taking an uncertain step backwards. 

“What… how did you…”

It had been a long time since Crowley consciously thought about what he was. He was so immersed in the ridiculous Victorian upper class that he had begun to feel more human than most of them— but now, he remembered. And he wanted Bosie to remember too. He sneered at the little lord, scattering the handful of ashes at his feet. 

“Even if you dare to tell anyone the full story of what happened here today, who’ll believe you about this part of it?”

Bosie took another step back. 

“I mean, maybe you are going mad. Who’s to know?” He sniffed disinterestedly, sizing up the destroyed hotel room. “You should tidy up. It’s rude to leave the room in this state.”

He could feel that the yellow of his irises had spread throughout his eyes and for once he was glad not to be wearing dark glasses. Bosie took yet another step back as Crowley fixed him with a hellish stare. 

“I’m going back to London. You’ll leave that boy alone.”

Bosie nodded, frowning. Even when his bravado was stripped away entirely he still had the nerve to pout. Crowley stared at him for a moment longer before turning to leave. He was tired of choosing the wrong side. 

Aziraphale

February 1895, one and a half weeks later

“I was strolling through St. James’s Park today, and nearly every person who passed me was speaking of Earnest,” Robbie exclaimed. “Can you believe it? It is his best work yet.”

Despite Queensberry’s pitiful attempt to enter the theatre with a bouquet of rotten vegetables and disturb the show, opening night was a resounding success. The security guards stationed outside had spread the news across London, and Queensberry’s fantastic scandal was memorialised as a dramatic overture. Oscar remained one step ahead.

“Yes, quite.” Aziraphale cleared his throat sheepishly. “Crowley rather regrets having missed it, so I will attend another showing with him tomorrow evening.”

Robbie gasped, scandalised. “My dear! How thrilled I am!”

Aziraphale still didn’t know what exactly had happened in Algeria, but whatever it was, Crowley came back with their old script in hand and they were once again back to themselves. The past week had given them both a familiarly fragile sense of peace. 

“We are simply two friends attending a show at the theatre, there is no need for all that,” Aziraphale tutted, unable to keep the smile off his face. 

“Oh yes of course, of course,” Robbie replied with a wink. “When do you plan to show him your iris painting?”

Aziraphale choked on his tea, prompting Robbie to rub his back with a laugh. “I assure you that I will do no such thing!”

“Why on earth not?”

Aziraphale spluttered for an answer, causing Robbie to laugh even more. 

“You have shown Oscar, have you not?”

“I’m sure you can attest to Oscar’s… persistence!”

“Yes, I can.” Robbie sighed. “Some days I think that I still love him, you know.”

“Dear Robbie, I’m quite sure that you are the only one who doesn’t know.”

He rolled his eyes, elbowing Aziraphale in the ribs. “That’s why Bosie hates me so much.”

“That boy has had half of London and most of continental Europe, what right has he to speak of love?” 

“And likely a fair amount of Africa as well,” Robbie added. 

“Yes, of course, how could I forget,” Aziraphale scoffed. “I’m rather pleased that Crowley no longer seeks out his company.”

“Do you think that they ever-”

“No,” Aziraphale interrupted, quickly and clearly. 

Robbie nodded, eyebrows raised. “I only ask because I know Crowley’s penchant for blonds.”

“Enough of that now, thank you very much,” Aziraphale insisted, flustered. 

He was saved by a knock at the door, which proved to be the postman with a letter from Oscar. Aziraphale thanked him, bringing the envelope inside. 

“From Oscar? Read it out, then,” Robbie demanded. 

“It might be private.”

“Oh, I certainly hope so! Read clearly, please.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes with a smile, taking up his letter opener.

Dear Aziraphale, 

Since I saw you something has happened. Bosie’s father has left a card for me at The Albemarle Club with hideous words on it. I don’t see anything now but a criminal prosecution. My whole life seems ruined by this man. The tower of ivory is assailed by the foul thing. On the sand is my life split. I don’t know what to do. If you would come to The Hotel Avondale at 11:30 tonight please do so, if Robbie is with you, please ask him the same. I have sent him a copy of this letter but am unsure which of you will receive it first. 

I mar your life by trespassing ever on your love and kindness. Ever yours,

Oscar.

P.S. The staff at St. James’s Theatre have refused to testify on my behalf in any way, even George Alexander.

Aziraphale looked up from the terrible letter and met a mirror of horror on Robbie’s face. Their jovially seemed a lifetime away. 

“We mustn’t speculate. We must go to him,” Robbie said quietly. “It is already late.”

Aziraphale nodded, grabbing his coat with shaky hands before racing out the door. 

The journey passed in a blur, and before long they were in Oscar’s hotel room, closing the door behind them. He stood before them, holding out a small business card with Marquis of Queensberry printed in the centre. Robbie took it from his shaking hand and squinted at the messy scrawl around the devil’s name. 

“For Oscar Wilde… fo- no, po- ponce? Poser?”

Aziraphale looked over his shoulder, not having any better luck. “Poncer somdomite, I believe.”

“Posing as a sodomite,” Bosie scoffed, coming into the room with two glasses of liquor. “He is illiterate.”

“For Oscar Wilde, posing as a sodomite,” Aziraphale whispered. “My dear boy-”

Bosie snatched the card from Robbie’s hand, a malicious grin stretching across his cherubic face. “We’ve got him now. This is public libel. We must take him to court!”

Aziraphale met Robbie’s alarmed look, and they both glanced at Oscar who sat heavily down on an armchair, accepting a glass from Bosie’s hand. 

“We will finally be free from this monstrous oaf, Oscar.” Bosie was nearly frothing at the mouth with excitement. 

“Oscar- no! You mustn’t,” Robbie finally managed to stutter out. “Queensberry will not go down without a fight.”

“And in that fight, everything will come to light,” Aziraphale added. “Everything.”

“He has nothing on us! Nothing at all!” Bosie yelled, waving the card around. “We have got this.”

For the second time in his existence, Aziraphale had a violent impulse. “You are a fool if you believe that, Bosie. He will call the renters onto the witness stand, he will expose not only Oscar but you as well.”

“My father doesn’t even know what a renter is!”

“He has had you followed since you returned from Egypt. He may be illiterate but he is not a fool, do not do this,” Robbie begged. 

“He cannot call anyone to the witness stand if he is in prison for libel.”

Robbie snatched the card back, holding it out to Oscar. “Tear this up. Pretend like you never even got it.”

“Are you mad?” Bosie shouted, grabbing it back before Oscar even lifted a finger. “This is evidence!”

“Oscar, if you do this you will lose everything,” Robbie said shakily.

Oscar refused to meet his eyes— for once in his life, the artist was at a loss for words.

“Go abroad for a time, a few months, live off your royalties until Queensberry tires of this game. Earnest is a resounding success, you will be able, and if you are not able then we will raise you the funds.”

“I’m inclined to agree with Robbie,” Aziraphale said. “Oscar, everything will come to light. I cannot support this brash foolishness.”

“Then you are the enemy, both of you!” Bosie crossed his arms, moving to stand on Oscar’s left side. 

The door crashed open.

“Speaking of the enemy,” Crowley exclaimed, “what did I miss?”

Bosie flinched, quickly regaining his composure and handing Crowley the card before turning away from them all. Aziraphale briefly wondered why Bosie suddenly seemed so uneasy around his friend, but that was not the most pressing concern. 

Crowley turned the card each and every way, squinting over his dark glasses at the barely decipherable cursive. “What the heaven is a somdomite?”

“Sodomite, Crowley,” Aziraphale softly corrected. 

“Oh… oh.” He threw the card to Oscar and stared at Aziraphale in alarm.

“We’re going to take him to court for libel,” Bosie said, gaining enough courage to face them again. 

Crowley tore the glasses from his face, glaring at the boy. “Are you dense?”

“There!” Robbie declared. “Even Crowley agrees. It is a fool’s errand!” 

“What do you mean even Crowley?" 

“I am agreeing with you!”

“Please, friends, please,” Oscar finally interjected, raising a hand to silence everyone. 

“We’re going to take him down. My father will never hurt us again, Oscar,” Bosie said with all the naivety of youth. 

“Something cannot be libel if it's true,” Crowley enunciated slowly. “If you do this, the truth will come out.”

“Precisely what Robbie and I have been saying.” Aziraphale nodded. 

Oscar hid his face in his hands, sighing deeply. 

“If you face Queensberry in court you will have to lie.” Robbie turned to Bosie, pleading. “If you truly love him you will not put him in such a hopeless position.”

“If you truly love him then you will not stop him from seeking justice!”

Robbie groaned in exasperation, kneeling beside the chair where Oscar sat. “Oscar, I beg you, do not do this.”

Oscar looked down at his friend with a regretful smile on his face. “Dearest Robbie, I know you only have my best interest at heart, but Queensberry is already responsible for the death of one of his sons. Who knows who will be hurt next?” He gazed at Bosie, hopelessly devoted. “We must try and stop him.”

Bosie crossed his arms again, grinning triumphantly down at Robbie. 

Aziraphale met Crowley’s eyes, knowing that they should be on opposite sides of this debate but finding themselves inexplicably on the same one. This was frighteningly foolish. Any court case involving Oscar would garner the attention of their higher-ups, who would certainly expect them on opposite sides. 

“Sir George Lewis has been retained by your father, but I have Humphreys. We must go to him at once.” Oscar sat up straight, back to himself.

“Oh, Oscar, this will change our lives. Just you wait!” Bosie celebrated. 

Yes, it will, Aziraphale thought sombrely.

***

Aziraphale and Robbie stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the barrister Travers Humphreys’ offices, watching Bosie weave Oscar into a dangerous web of lies. He examined the Marquess’ wretched card in silence for some time before looking up at the two men. 

“It is libellous!” Bosie insisted. 

“Mmm.” Humphreys looked at the card again, flipping it over twice before passing it to the man beside him, who examined it just as closely.

Humphreys had called upon Sir Edward Clarke to potentially prosecute the case. As a formidable figure in the London bar, he was one of the most highly respected solicitors available, so naturally Bosie was thrilled. Aziraphale, on the other hand, felt as though he was in a slow-motion train crash, just waiting for impact. 

“Sir Clarke, we have a case, do we not?” Oscar asked. 

Clarke placed the card down neatly on the desk before him, clasping his hands together and leaning forward to size up the famed artist. “I will accept this brief on one condition and one condition only.”

“I am ever in your debt, Sir. Of course, anything.”

“I can only accept this brief, Mr. Wilde, if you assure me on your honour as an English gentleman that there is not and never has been any foundation for the charges that are made against you.”

Aziraphale felt Robbie tense beside him. Time seemed to stand still. Humphreys’ eyes bore through them all while Clarke’s words hung over the room like thick smoke. Aziraphale looked to the Heavens, unsure what he was even looking for. Bosie subtly cleared his throat. 

“I can assure you that these charges are absolutely false and groundless,” Oscar said like he almost believed it. 

Robbie’s shoulders slumped. Bosie beamed back at them, victorious. All Aziraphale could do was stare at The Sword of Damocles swinging over Oscar’s head, held up by a single strand of golden hair.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale

“Good grief,” Aziraphale muttered. 

Crowley clenched his fists, baring his teeth at Metatron as his wings unfurled. Metatron watched him impassively, holding The Book at his side. A vast army of angels stood in waiting. Gabriel was still (maybe) dead on the floor. Things had quite rapidly gotten out of hand! Aziraphale was frustrated with the drama of it all. Had Crowley not heard Metatron’s offer? There was no need for any of this.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, getting Crowley’s attention. His eyes were shining like a narcissus; his hair was hellfire. He was the only splash of colour in Heaven. 

“Perhaps we could talk about this.”

“Oh I’m long past talking,” Crowley hissed.

“Crowley, please. You could join us again.”

His dark wings stretched further out, shuddering at the prospect. The frontlines began to close in, but Metatron waved them back, his eyes intently trained on Aziraphale. He knew that if he couldn’t talk Crowley down, they would attack, and Crowley would lose. The pressure was immense. Where was God when they needed her?

“If you think that I blame you for any of this, I certainly do not,” Aziraphale began, clumsily trying to find the words. “What’s written is written. All we can do is read along.”

“Great. So, let’s read.”

Aziraphale would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious about what Crowley had been talking about. The Book was long, and there were surely many more interesting pages within it… but he figured that he would have eternity to read them. It wasn’t the most pressing issue. If he stood down and took up Metatron’s offer, perhaps he could get his hands on the book, but Aziraphale understood why they would never let a demon touch it.

He looked down at Gabriel again, wondering where he fit into this. Why was he so convinced that the world would end? And more importantly, why did he care? 

Aziraphale was confused. He was tired. He just wanted it all to stop.

“Mr… Metatron. Sir? Perhaps, maybe, if we could just… indulge our friend here-”

“The book will remain closed,” Metatron stated. 

“Right, yes, of course. I was just thinking, for the sake of practicality… if he’s going to be reinstated amongst us regardless…”

“Not gonna happen,” Crowley said through gritted teeth. 

Aziraphale sighed. “You’re making this awfully difficult.”

“I’m making this difficult?” Crowley reeled back. “How can you not see that he’s hiding something? You can be astoundingly stupid sometimes!”

“Well, that was just unkind.”

Crowley groaned in frustration, standing up straight and holding Aziraphale’s gaze pleadingly. “Aziraphale, Angel, if there was a chance that you’re about to make a mistake… a sliver of a chance that he is hiding something big… something apocalyptically big… would you want to know?”

Aziraphale frowned, taken aback by the desperation in Crowley’s voice. “Well, of course I would want to know, but-”

“That’s all I needed to hear,” Crowley cut him off with a smile before pouncing on Metatron. 

Still staring at Aziraphale, Metatron was momentarily taken off guard. He stumbled back and Crowley reached for the book. Then, the army attacked. Aziraphale was pushed back by a flurry of white. He no longer had eyes on Crowley. 

He heard miracles slicing through the air, he heard feathers ripping and swords unsheathing. Everywhere he looked there was a battle-ready angel. He still couldn’t see Crowley. 

Metatron stepped out from the chaos, holding the book tightly to his chest. Not a hair on him was out of place. He glared at Aziraphale as though it were his fault. It probably was.

“Go away from here,” he commanded.

Aziraphale hesitated.

“You know where the throne room is. You know your place there. Take up your trumpet. The time is now.”

“I- I- just let me try and stop him,” he begged.

Metatron did not reply. He took it as a yes and ran into the storm. His path was clear, he didn’t get so much as a scratch on him as he searched the crowd. His heart was racing, his mouth was dry. He tried to call out Crowley’s name. His voice was lost in the action.

Remember who you are, he told himself. He grabbed the angel closest to him, demanding to know where Crowley was. The angel pointed behind him, Aziraphale shoved him away and spun around.

An angel had a handful of Crowley’s hair, yanking his head back as two others tore at his wings. Two more had summoned a thick silver rope and were approaching him with it. The rope was sopping wet and dripping onto the white marble floors. Aziraphale heard every drop land as though it were the only sound in the universe. 

Holy water. 

Aziraphale’s mind went blank. He moved forward and stood before his friend, facing the beasts with the poison rope. 

“Have you entirely lost your minds?” he shouted, his voice only shaking a little bit.

“We’re just following orders,” one of the offending angels said with a shrug. 

“Whose orders?”

“Whose do you think?” Crowley croaked out from behind him, struggling to speak with the angel pulling his head so far back.

The angels tried to walk around Aziraphale with the rope, he stepped in front of them again. They glanced at each other, clearly unsure if they were allowed to undermine Aziraphale’s authority for the sake of a direct order from Metatron. They took a slow step forward. 

“I strongly suggest that you stop where you are!”

“Sorry, Archangel,” one of them said.

They jetted around Aziraphale, one on each side. He grabbed the rope before they could swing it over his head, striding forward with it pressed against his chest. The angels on either side of it stumbled but refused to let go while he mustered all the brute strength he had to drag them away from Crowley. Aziraphale didn’t stop until they were a safe distance from his friend. His hands and clothing were soaked with holy water. The two angels ran to stand together again, unsure how to proceed. 

“Stay,” he commanded before going back to Crowley.

He easily pushed the angels away from his wings. He tried not to notice the missing feathers, wincing, knowing how much pain Crowley must be in.

“Let go, please,” he asked the angel who still held his hair.

He only tightened his grip, yanking so far back that Crowley nearly fell. Aziraphale reached up to free him himself, but Crowley flinched. Aziraphale froze. He was covered in holy water. He took a fearful step back, looking down at himself as though he were dirty.

“That’s enough.” Metatron’s booming voice parted the crowd. 

Aziraphale turned around, facing his boss with Crowley safely behind him.

“I quite agree!” Aziraphale exclaimed, vibrating with fear and rage.

“Do you see now?” Metatron gestured towards Crowley. “You cannot so much as touch your friend, yet he has chosen to keep his demonic form, to the detriment of you and your… friendship. To the detriment of the world.”

Crowley screamed like a caged animal from behind him. Aziraphale forced himself to keep his eyes on Metatron. This was wrong. All of this was so very wrong. This wasn’t what Heaven stood for. This… cruelty. This violence. This was what they were supposed to be protecting everyone from— angels and demons alike. Nothing made sense anymore.

“It is violence like this that we will put a permanent stop to, and if your friend will not help us, then he is complacent.”

“Perhaps you could let him go,” Aziraphale said tightly. “This is certainly not what I signed up for!”

“You signed up for the saviour of the masses, for the sacrifice of a few.”

Crowley was still loudly thrashing behind him. 

“If you are having any second thoughts, then perhaps you are complacent as well.”

The army began to close in again.

“And you have seen what happens to those who stand in the way of Her plan.”

Aziraphale’s blood ran cold. God was good, God was righteous. She would not have signed off on this. He had to believe that. He did believe that. He looked at Metatron in a new light. The face of this pointless violence, the one who had given the order for Crowley to be bound in holy water. If he was willing to do this, what else was he willing to do?

He looked up. I’m sorry for what I am about to do. 

His right hand grew heavy. He suddenly found himself clutching something in his fist, he looked down in confusion, squinting away the bright flames. His heart sang with joy but felt heavy all the same. He knew what he was going to do from the moment he saw those angels approaching Crowley with holy water, but now he knew that She was behind him.

He held up his flaming sword with two hands, squaring up to Metatron in a way that he never dreamed he was capable of. “This is not Her plan.”

The angel holding Crowley must have been distracted by the appearance of the sword, because suddenly, Crowley was free. He raced past Aziraphale, grabbing The Book from Metatron again. Metatron moved to stop him, but Aziraphale pointed his sword at his throat with a steady hand. 

The soldiers looked to their leader for further instruction, but he just stood there, dangerously staring at Crowley as he opened the book. 

“How can you-”

Aziraphale was cut off when Crowley shoved the book under his nose. It was open on a photo-realistic image, spread across two pages. It was Aziraphale, clothed in traditional angelic raiment, blowing his trumpet with the world burning below him. Metatron stood on his right-hand side, holding The Book, grinning. 

He opened his mouth. Nothing but a strangled gasp escaped. He looked up at Metatron, who stood emotionless before him. 

“In the grand scheme of the universe, we consider the inhabitants of Earth as a few,” he said. “A few necessary sacrifices, for the benefit of the masses.”

“Keep looking,” Crowley rasped, his voice raw from all the screaming.

Aziraphale looked down at The Book as Crowley began flipping the pages. He let his sword arm fall to his side, preparing himself for whatever he was about to see. He didn’t realise his mistake until it was too late.

Metatron was behind Crowley in an instant. His hands were on his head before anyone could react, and he muttered something sinister into his ear. When Crowley fell, Aziraphale saw it in slow motion. The sound of his body hitting the cold, hard floor sent shockwaves through him. His ears rang for a moment, and then there was silence. Complete dead silence. 

Whatever Metatron said next, Aziraphale did not hear. His sword clanked on the ground, and he dropped to his knees by Crowley’s side, reaching out to do something—anything—before realising that he was still damp with holy water. He couldn’t even touch Crowley without hurting him, and if that wasn’t a tale as old as time, then he didn’t know what was. 

He scanned his friend’s face for any sign of life. There was nothing. His hands hovered uselessly over him as he prayed to God, to the world, to damn Satan for all it was worth. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. They hadn’t had enough time. He hadn’t said everything he’d wanted to say, he hadn’t done enough. And now they were out of time. Forever.

All the clocks stopped ticking, the world stopped turning below them, and Aziraphale’s heart stopped along with them. The seeds of humanity that had sprouted within him all those years ago wilted away. There was nothing left to water them. 

He stood slowly with legs heavy as lead and faced the only true devil he had ever known. The flaming sword materialised back in his hands as he unfurled his wings. Aziraphale had nothing left to lose. He strode towards Metatron with his sword raised.

“I can bring him back,” Metatron casually said. 

“Liar!” Was all Aziraphale could choke out.

“I can bring back the angel he once was. I’m sure the two of you will have much to discuss, even if you do not remember.”

“Go. To. Hell.” Aziraphale swung his sword, but Metatron was already gone. 

Aziraphale looked around, confused, until he heard whispering from behind him— from where Crowley lay. He turned around and raised his sword again. Metatron whispered a final word in Crowley’s ear and shifted out of the line of Aziraphale’s sword. He moved to follow him but was distracted by a glow so bright and so white that it almost blinded him, even in the eternally radiant halls of Heaven.

The glow was emanating from Crowley’s chest, getting brighter and brighter until he had to look away. It was like a supernova had engulfed the entirety of the Heavens. He wondered if they could see it from Earth. In any other circumstance, he may have considered it a fitting end for one who shone as enduringly as Crowley had.

Aziraphale thought it would never end, until suddenly, it did. He opened his eyes, trying to blink away the after-effects of the blinding light. He saw a figure standing before him, but he couldn’t make out who it was. He stepped back as it stepped towards him. He rubbed his eyes, blinking furiously. When it spoke to him, he didn’t register the words. He wouldn’t let himself.

“Pardon me?” he asked, pressing his eyes shut again, afraid to open them fully.

“Raphael?”

His eyes shot open and he saw who was before him with absolute shock and clarity. The angel’s auburn hair was haloed around his head in soft curls; he was wearing a similar traditional raiment to what Aziraphale had been pictured as wearing The Book, and his wings looked soft and full and strikingly white. His chocolate-brown eyes were wide with innocent fear.

He was everything that Aziraphale thought he wanted, but now it felt damn inhumane to get all he’d dreamed of, when it was too late to realise that it wasn’t what he wanted at all.

“Raphael,” the angel repeated, rushing towards Aziraphale. “They… they told me you won’t remember me. They’re going to cast me out. They’re going to make you forget!” He reached out to grab Aziraphale’s lapels. 

He stepped back. “No, Crowley, don’t. The holy water. You cannot touch me.”

The angel blinked in confusion, his cherubic face falling into a picture of perfect misery. It was so obscenely pure that Aziraphale had to look away. 

“You can’t have already forgotten. Raphael, please. We can still leave, just like we planned.”

Aziraphale’s mind was swimming with questions unanswered. Was this just another trick from Metatron’s toolbox?

“We have to go!” The angel approached Aziraphale, slowly reaching a hand up to touch his cheek. 

Aziraphale flinched, but Crowley did not burn, for he was no longer Crowley at all. The devastation hit him all over again, twice as hard as before. Crowley had died fighting for what was right— for the world. What right did Metatron have to raise him back up as an angel again? To bastardise his form in the cruellest of ways—going against everything the demon would have wanted—and take his memories away along with it.

The angel gently ran his thumb over Aziraphale’s cheekbone, and it took all he had not to lean into it. This was a cruel and unusual punishment. Not even Satan could think up such a twisted scheme.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, stepping back.

“Raphael-”

“My name is Aziraphale,” he said, perhaps a little too harshly.

He knew then that he would never grow used to his original name, his Archangel status, his throne— any of it. He was Aziraphale. He was a principality. He was a bookseller. He was Crowley’s best friend.

“Please remember,” the angel pleaded shakily. “If they cast me out, please remember.”

“I’m afraid he has already forgotten, Jophiel. He forgot long ago.” Metatron said, stepping towards them. 

The angel—Jophiel—shoved Aziraphale behind him and held up a small metal tool that had materialised in his hand.

“You’ll lose this war! Lucifer is right!”

Metatron chuckled. “Ah, but we have already won the war you think yourself to be in, several thousand years ago. I’m afraid I have pulled you from another time, to show our friend here exactly what he was so desperate to see.” He held up The Book tauntingly. 

Jophiel froze. “Is that-”

“The Book of Life, yes.” He snapped his fingers, and the same rope from before snaked up from the ground and wrapped itself tightly around the angel’s wrists, binding them behind his back. His metal tool fell with a clang. “Perhaps you two need to start over, and we may have this conversation again in another few thousand years.”

Jophiel was thrashing against his binds, and Aziraphale saw the first glimpse of Crowley shine through. Metatron strode forward, pushing Jophiel ahead of him, forcing him to walk on. 

“Yes, Raphael will undoubtedly forget this moment, just as he did the first time, and once again you will not tell him, because you will soon know firsthand the consequences of knowledge.”

Aziraphale’s brain kicked into gear, and he frantically chased them to what looked like a very large rubbish chute in the ground, set in the middle of a shimmering sphere. Jophiel was screaming every curse under the sun and a fair few many from beyond it as they crossed the threshold of the sphere.

Aziraphale tried to follow but found himself unable to. The translucent sphere was harder than diamond. Entirely impenetrable. Tears streaked down Jophiel’s cheeks as he fought to free himself. Aziraphale slammed his palms desperately against the sphere, panic rising in his throat. 

“I’m afraid it is written,” Metatron said.

He reached up to Jophiel’s head with one hand and the angel’s screams turned so shrill and agonised that he was sure they would wake the dead. A halo appeared atop his curls. Metatron ripped it off and Jophiel slumped down, only kept upright by Metatron’s evil miracles. 

Realisation hit Aziraphale like an atom bomb. He summoned every ounce of power that his new Archangel status afforded him. He kicked the sphere with all his might. He slammed into it and punched furiously until he knew that all the bones in his hands would be shattered if he were on Earth. Nothing was working. He was forced to watch the horrific scene unfold before him. The flaming sword was in his hands again, but even that was useless now. 

The tool God had given him to solidify his faith had failed him. For the first time in his existence, Aziraphale did not feel guilty for cursing Her name.

Metatron turned Jophiel’s halo around in his hand before crushing it into a pile of ash and blowing it away. The angel’s body shook with sobs, finding Aziraphale’s eyes. 

“Please remember, please remember, please remember,” he repeated over and over again. 

Aziraphale cried out in frustration, not knowing what else to do but to keep trying to break down the sphere somehow. Metatron glanced at him—amused—before opening the chute wide. Aziraphale cringed back from the sulphurous stench. Panic set in like it never had before.

“No- don’t! I will stay, I will take my place. I will blow the trumpet. Just… don’t!”

Metatron raised an eyebrow. “You’d let the world burn for an angel you think you just met?”

“If you leave Crowley be I’ll burn it down myself!” Aziraphale really thought he meant it, and that shook him to his core. 

“Hmm.” Metatron mulled over his words for a moment. “When we meet again and if he is Crowley once more, I will remember that sentiment.”

Aziraphale leapt forward, screaming, “No!” as Metatron pushed Jophiel’s face towards the chute. 

He paused when they heard the elevator doors ding open in the distance. Four figures stepped out, too far away for Aziraphale to recognise. Metatron stayed still as they looked around. Aziraphale acted before he could think about it too much.

“Hello! Over here!” 

The taller figure immediately sprinted towards them and the three small ones followed closely behind. He didn’t even have a moment to hope that it would be someone helpful before a violent-looking person in a Queen shirt stopped in front of him.

“Where’s Gabriel?” they demanded of Metatron.

Aziraphale frowned at the person, remembering Gabriel’s words. Crowley, Beelzebub and I have been working together. But it couldn’t be…

“Beelzebub?” he exclaimed. “I remember you looking very different… but I suppose my memory isn't to be trusted anymore-”

“It’s me. Got a new face since last summer, who cares. Where is Gabriel?”

Aziraphale felt a slight hint of relief that there was at least one thing he remembered correctly. He regretted allowing himself the small pleasure when a very large dog and two small children appeared behind Beelzebub. Aziraphale hoped to God that he was hallucinating. 

“Oh, hi Mr Fell. This place is weird,” Adam said with wide eyes. 

Aziraphale laughed. It was a strangled, hysterical thing— but what else could he do? If he were human he would have lost his mind long ago. Even as an angel, he was sure that he was halfway there. 

“Beelzebub,” Aziraphale began, calm as anything, “may I ask why you’ve come to Heaven with two small children and a very large dog?”

“Bee is short for Beelzebub?” Adam giggled.

Beelzebub sighed in agitation. “Former Antichrist, current Antichrist, hellhound,” they said, pointing to Adam, Warlock and the dog respectively. 

“Very good, we’ve been waiting for you,” Metatron said to Warlock. All Aziraphale noticed was that his hand was finally off of Jophiel.

“You’re creepy,” Warlock scrunched his nose up in disgust. “And who’s that?” He pointed to Jophiel.

Beelzebub looked at the angel then, their eyes widening in recognition. Aziraphale tried not to be annoyed that he was seemingly the only one who didn’t remember. 

“Suso says that’s your friend Anthony,” Warlock unsubtly whispered to Beelzebub.

Adam frowned. “He doesn’t look like himself.”

Jophiel looked at the children confusedly. Aziraphale nodded at him in a way that he hoped was reassuring. 

“What have you done?” Beelzebub spat. 

“I’m afraid Raphael and his friend here were less than enthusiastic about our plans, so we will start from the beginning, and when we get to this point again I have every hope that it will go in my favour.”

Adam sighed. “Why does everyone have like a million names? Can I just keep calling you Mr Fell?”

“Of course you can, dear boy,” Aziraphale reassured him. “I’ve found that I don’t much care for the new name.”

“You’re a maniac,” Beelzebub said to Metatron. 

“Perhaps.”

Beelzebub shook their head. “Whatever. Look, I won’t ask again, where is Gabriel?”

Aziraphale’s eyes softened as he took in Beelzebub’s distraught face, suddenly understanding, and his heart broke all over again. So he and Crowley weren’t the only ones. A few months earlier, he may have felt empowered by the revelation. Now, he just felt broken. 

“Beelzebub,” he began, trying to find his voice, “I am so, so sorry.”

They were trembling when they replied, knowing the answer to their question but wishing they didn’t. Aziraphale knew the feeling well. “Sorry for what?”

He was ashamed that he hadn’t done more to try and help Gabriel. Words failed him again, and he found himself unable to deliver the final blow and break Beelzebub’s heart.

“Raphael wasn’t the only one who rebelled against what was written,” Metatron replied, staring Beelzebub down.

The words were barely out for a millisecond before their wings sprung from their back and they leapt at Metatron with a primal shriek. Of course, they bounced right off the sphere. The hellhound growled dangerously between Adam and Warlock.

“What is this?” Beelzebub demanded, attacking again. 

“God’s will,” Metatron replied with an unperturbed smile, before quickly reaching up and shoving Jophiel down the chute in one clean push. 

“No!” Aziraphale gasped, clawing at the sphere.

The last thing he heard before Jophiel fell was his own angelic name. Then nothing. Once again— dead silence. 

The children were white-faced and wide-eyed. The hellhound growled, sensing his master’s unease. Warlock met the dog’s eyes, and Aziraphale swore that the hellhound nodded before pouncing at Metatron. Aziraphale’s jaw dropped when his teeth sank into flesh instead of slamming into the sphere. Metatron seemed startled as well, and the dog dragged him away from the chute. The sphere had melted away entirely. Heaven hath no fury like an Antichrist scorned, or however the saying went.

Warlock cocked his head, speaking directly to Beelzebub. “Suso says you can kill him now.”

Beelzebub didn’t need to be told twice. Metatron raised the hand that wasn’t in the jaws of a hellhound—the hand holding The Book—and called his army of angels to battle. All at once they were surrounded. 

Aziraphale fearfully watched the children, but his fear was misplaced. Warlock quickly stepped into his role; his eyes glowed red and hoards of angels fell at his feet as the hellhound fiercely protected Adam against the onslaught. Beelzebub fought through the crowd with just as much vigour, wielding their broken heart as a deadly weapon. 

“Gabriel is lying on the ground over there,” Aziraphale shouted over the chaos, pointing in the general direction. “Crowley rose up again… in a sense. Perhaps he can too.”

Beelzebub nodded in thanks, glancing pointedly at The Book and then back at Aziraphale before tearing through Heaven’s mighty armies. Aziraphale followed their gaze, seeing The Book held loosely in Metatron’s hand. His coat sleeve was torn where the hellhound had bitten him. He wasn’t infallible after all… no, he was distracted. He hadn’t expected Warlock to be against him.

Aziraphale looked back at the chute. He could throw the book in… but then he had no way of knowing where Crowley would end up. If the book was destroyed and everything reverted to its natural state, where would that leave his friend? Being forced to live as Jophiel when he had fought so hard for so long to be himself would be a heinous life sentence. Aziraphale couldn’t make this decision without Crowley by his side— wherever he was, whoever he was, he deserved to write his own eternity. 

He glanced at the chute again, accepting his fate with a heavy sense of calm. Crowley would do it for him. He had done it for him, by coming up to Heaven and fighting for the truth until his final breath. Oscar would be proud that he too was finally willing to fall for the truth.

He resolutely strode over to Metatron and snatched the book from his hand. The monster reared its ugly head, raising his hands to do God knows what— but the hellhound knocked him on his back, looking to Aziraphale as though he were in on the plan. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale told the dog, only feeling a little bit silly. 

He secured the book inside his coat and jumped into the chute without a second thought. When Aziraphale fell, he did not pray.

Crowley?

“Raphael!” Jophiel screamed his companion’s name, knowing that the echo of it would be the last trace of him in Heaven.

Air rushed past him as he fell, sucking the breath from his body and stealing the prayers from his lips. He had no sense of whether his feet or his skull would crack against the ground first. The chute to Hell was death-black. His wings dragged along the walls, and he felt his feathers tear out. The pain was so all-consuming that he couldn’t remember a time before it, nor did he think that it would ever end. He pressed his eyes tightly shut as the walls closed in. Would he be crushed between them before he even reached the bottom? Fated to perpetually exist wedged between Heaven and Hell? 

His right wing snapped with a sickening crunch. He wailed at the injustice of it all as his limp wing lightly tickled his cheek. She would save him. She had to save him. She was just, She was good, and She knew that he wanted to be as well. And wasn’t wanting enough? Wasn’t trying enough? For all the questions he had, for all the humanity he was saddled with— no one could say that he didn’t try. No one could say that his heart wasn’t pure.

Please, please, please, he thought in a desperate prayer. I’m sorry, please forgive me, God, won’t someone forgive me?

His bound wrists began to ache, dully at first, and then they were on fire. He desperately struggled against the damp rope. His body flailed against the narrow chute in the process. He felt his ribs shatter. He felt a great hunk of flesh grate off from his face. The tears that hadn’t stopped falling began to burn down his sullied skin as he continued to pray. His eyes burned as though someone had poured acid into them. He couldn’t blink it away. It was spreading through his irises like a disease. The chute narrowed further and his neck snapped as he slammed to a halt at the end. His broken wing was hanging out, but he was stuck. 

Please, please, please, he repeated his frantic prayer. Bring me back up, I’ll be good, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Suddenly, the chute spat him out like he was an unsavoury bite of meat. He caught a blurry glimpse of the yellow pool before he fell in with a sizzle and a splash. 

If he thought he knew pain when he fell, it was nothing compared to what he felt now. He surfaced, writhing and shrieking in complete agony as his remaining feathers melted away. The naked bones that once held them protruded grotesquely from his broken back. 

The obsidian walls of his pool of torture were etched with broken-off fingernails and singed feathers. Jophiel was so desperate to escape that he added his own to the macabre collection when his wrist binds melted away, frantically trying to claw his way out. It was futile. The edges were too smooth, too high— unable to be scaled. 

He felt his angelic garb melt from his body. His surroundings were hazy from the noxious gas that engulfed him, and his eyes were still burning with acid. He couldn’t keep his head above the burning liquid any longer. He looked down at his shaking hands. The skin was beginning to melt from them. He gagged and coughed and sobbed as the boiling sulphur invaded his lungs. When he went under, he said another prayer. 

“Who are you, demon?” asked a disembodied voice when he was fully submerged. 

“I am Jophiel, I am an angel of Heaven, and I want to repent!” he rasped, shocked that he could speak beneath the sulphur. 

“Wrong,” the voice hissed. 

His screams came out as air bubbles before him as he felt his wings grow back and his bones crack back into place. When he surfaced, he thought for a moment that it was over. Then it started all over again. He felt the loss of his wings, the breaking of his bones, and the melting of his flesh just as keenly as he had the first time. He tried to scream and claw and beg his way out all over again. When he went under the second time, the voice returned. 

“Who are you, demon?”

“I… I am Jophiel… I am-”

He was cut off by his own agonised howls as the process began for a third time. 

And then a fourth. 

And then a fifth. 

And then a sixth. 

And then, he lost count. Time passed differently in Hell, and aeons passed in the blink of an eye.

His wings were taken, again and again, until he was so intertwined with the sensation that he knew suffering had found a permanent home inside of him. Whenever he searched for himself from here on out, pain would be the baseline. Eternal torment was his new home, and no one would knock on the door to save him.

He prayed one final time, his spark of hope disgusting him. She did not respond.

“Who are you, demon?”

He waited. He hoped. He gave Her the grace that she had so violently torn away from him. 

She still did not respond. 

Then, he thought of Raphael. He heard the echo of an unfamiliar name flowing from his lips that he hoped he was remembering correctly. 

“Crawley. My name is-” he began, stone-cold, before he was cut off.

The whole pool shook as though someone had landed on the edge. He was so tightly wrapped up in his agony and grief that he barely felt himself being dragged out of it. He coughed up a lungful of sulphur as he was unceremoniously dumped onto the gravely ground. The stones digging into the open wounds on his back were a welcome reprieve from the sulphur. He tried to move his wings. The near-bare bones scraped across the earth like nails on a chalkboard. 

“Oh, dear. Dear, dear boy. I- oh, dear. Crowley? Err, Jophiel?” A frantic voice spoke to him, he heard it as though it came from a million miles away. 

He tried to make out the silhouette above him. It kneeled down and gently took him into its arms, sitting him up and wrapping a coat around his naked, broken form with reverence. 

“God?” he croaked out, vomiting pure sulphur all over his saviour. 

“Not quite.”

“No,” he pathetically struggled, smelling his saviour’s clothing and flesh burning from the sulphur he had inflicted upon him. “I’m… poisonous.”

“Not at all,” he said, sniffing as though he were trying not to cry. 

Recognition dawned on Crawley in an instant. He struggled away with a little more fervour than before, unwilling to sully his companion. His head cracked back onto the ground, and Raphael was a safe distance away for a moment before leaning over him again. Crawley tried to open his eyes wider. Raphael appeared as a mirage. 

“Look at you,” Raphael whispered through tears, gazing into his changed eyes. “You’re gorgeous.”

There was a new warmth in Crawley’s gut, a smouldering warmth nestled in companionship with his agony.

Then, Raphael stood. He approached the obsidian wall with the determination of someone who had nothing left to lose. Crawley squinted, noticing that he was holding a book. He opened it and tore out a page, scrunching it into a tight ball before launching it into the pool of boiling sulphur. The foul liquid spat and hissed so loudly that Crawley worried the whole pool might explode. 

Raphael looked back at him. His lips moved but Crawley couldn’t make out the words. He raised the book high above his head, his eyes not leaving Crawley for a moment as he threw the whole thing into the sulphur. 

First, there was silence. There was stillness. Limbo.

Then, the spitting and hissing started from within the pool again. It didn’t stop. It got louder and louder until the whole pool was shaking— until the entirety of Hell was shaking. It was an earthquake of celestial proportions. 

The ground beneath Crawley shook furiously as though Lucifer was somewhere below having an epic temper tantrum. The filthy dirt and stones upon which he lay rubbed scornfully into his wounds. Chunks of limestone began to tumble down from the walls. Sharp stalactites rained down from the dank ceiling. There were deafening rumbling and cracking sounds coming from all directions.

So this is how it ends.

Crawley tried to convey all the love and admiration that he knew he wasn’t capable of in one final glance at Raphael before he closed his eyes, awaiting his inevitable end as a great avalanche of stone began tumbling towards him.

I’m ready, he thought to himself. 

But the crushing weight of stone never came. He never got speared by a stray stalactite. He never felt a single drop of sulphur spill onto him. The rumbling had grown muffled, as though it were happening in the next room over. All there was was darkness. He frowned, wondering how he’d deserved such a peaceful death.

He hesitantly opened his eyes, letting out a strangled gasp. Deep ebony wings encircled him in a protective feather sphere, blocking out the destruction. Raphael was kneeling at his side with his hands balled into fists on either side of his head, grimacing through his flagellation, staunchly keeping his unnaturally dark wings around Crawley’s battered form.

“Your wings…” Crawley whispered.

Raphael met his eyes, and a lock clicked open in his mind. He cried out, clawing at his skull as the annihilation around them reached its peak. He saw flashes of nebulae, of Eden, of green carnations and The Blitz, of pear muffins and failed valentines. 

He saw The Book of Life and knew in the deepest recesses of his being that it had been destroyed once and for all— that the eternity of repressed, altered, and false memories within it had been unleashed upon Heaven, Hell and Earth alike. The burden of true knowledge was finally theirs, forever, for better or for worse. 

The blue eyes he was still gazing into glistened with a history that—for the first time since before The Beginning—perfectly aligned with his own. 

“I… I remember. Aziraphale. I remember.”

The shaking subsided, but Aziraphale did not draw back his wings. He was glad— terrified to discover the state of things beyond their fragile bubble. After all those thousands of years that he had remembered but Aziraphale hadn’t, after the short amount of time when Aziraphale had remembered but his mind had been taken… he wanted to curse God for giving them so brief a time now to both remember it all. 

“Fuck,” Crowley groaned, his body still trembling with the magnitude of all he’d endured. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale began, a melancholy smile spreading across his face, “there you are.”

“I’ve always been here. I’ve always been-” he cut himself off with an uncontrollable coughing fit. The last of the sulphur was determined to purge itself from his body.

Aziraphale didn't flinch away. He gritted his teeth and squared his shoulders as though he deserved to burn. Crowley tried to shuffle back, but the still-black wings dutifully held him safely in place. He tried to tell the angel to let him go, but his throat was raw. He gagged, trying to hide his agony.

The burden of knowledge was a heavy cross to bear, and Crowley could see Aziraphale crushing himself beneath the weight.

“Oh, Darling.” His voice broke and his eyes filled with tears. “How could you ever forgive me?”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale

3 April 1895, The Old Bailey Central Criminal Courthouse.

“You stated at the commencement of your examination that you were thirty-nine years of age. I think that you are over forty, isn’t that so?”

“Idiot,” Crowley hissed under his breath.

Aziraphale shushed him, keeping his eyes anxiously locked on Oscar as Carson began his ruthless cross-examination. The last month had passed in a hurricane of horrors that the whole world watched with morbid curiosity. It felt as though half of London was packed into the musty courtroom now, while the other half prowled around outside like a pack of starving hyenas, howling and cackling for fresh meat. If Queensberry and his bouquet of rotten vegetables were an overture for The Importance of Being Earnest, then the trial was its grand finale.

By charging Queensberry with libel, Oscar and Bosie had given him the perfect stage to voice all of his most egregious opinions about them, and the opportunity to share some rather unflattering truths. Queensberry was naturally thrilled and quickly recruited the fearsome Edward Carson to lead his defence. His reputation preceded him, and for good reason. He was like a dog with a bone.

Oscar should have fled. He should have been in France already, not on the stand facing off against Queensberry and Carson, lying about his age. It was not a good start.

“May I ask you, do you happen to know what age Lord Alfred Douglas was or is?” Carson continued, satisfied that the jury had taken notice of Oscar’s first lie.

“Lord Alfred Douglas was, I think, twenty-four his last birthday.”

“He’s lucky he got that one right,” Bosie said with a proud nod.

“Of all the problems you two have right now I’d say that forgetting your birthday is quite low down on the list,” Crowley whispered.

“Shut your mouths or we will all be removed from this courthouse,” Robbie demanded quietly.

While the public was entertained and Bosie remained flippantly delusional, Robbie was terrified. Aziraphale couldn’t blame him, for he was terrified too. The cross-examination was already entering dangerous territory, and he knew that it was only the beginning.

“You have no doubt whatsoever that The Priest and the Acolyte is not improper?”

“It is impossible for a man of letters to judge a piece of writing otherwise than from its fault in literature, and literary faults were there many. The whole treatment was wrong!”

“The whole treatment was wrong?” 

Oscar shrugged. “It might have been made beautiful.”

The story in question was a rather scandalous piece about an older priest falling in love with his much younger male acolyte that had been published alongside two of Bosie’s poems and one of Oscar’s articles in a literary magazine last December. Aziraphale knew that Oscar’s flagrant disbelief in the coexistence of art and morality would be used against him. Whether or not he had actually written the offending piece was of no consequence to Carson, it was the philosophy that he considered dangerous. It brought Aziraphale back to the St James Gazette’s review of Dorian Gray. It had been ridiculous then and it remained ridiculous now. If art was not free from the claws of Puritanism, then what was?

“I think you are of the opinion, Mr Wilde, that there is no such thing as an immoral book?”

“Yes,” Oscar replied. 

Crowley tutted. “Why does he choose now to tell the truth?”

Robbie looked painfully high-strung; like he would shoot Crowley if given an opportunity. Aziraphale gently nudged a knee against his, taking an exaggeratedly deep breath for him to copy. Robbie inhaled, smiling softly and nudging him back. 

“Then, I suppose I may take it that in your opinion The Priest and the Acolyte was not immoral?” Carson asked like he already knew the answer.

“It was worse than immoral, it was badly written,” Oscar replied, winning a titter of laughter from around the room.

Carson went on to read several passages from the story aloud. Oscar kept his head held high, answering every question with clear confidence and humour. 

“He’s holding his own,” Bosie whispered. 

Aziraphale was too on edge to express any such optimism.

“Listen to this, Sir. Was it only from a literary point of view that you disapproved of this?” Carson cleared his throat. “‘The instant he had received Ronald fell on his knees beside him and drained the chalice to the last drop. He set it down and threw his arms around the beautiful figure of his dearly loved acolyte. Their lips met in one last kiss of perfect love, and all was over.’”

“I think it disgusting twaddle.”

“Disgusting what?”

“Twaddle.”

Crowley snickered and Robbie’s homicidal streak reappeared in earnest. Aziraphale was too engrossed in the proceedings to mediate.

“I am asking you, Mr Wilde, supposing a person had been connected with the production of this story or had approved of it in public, would you say he was posing as a sodomite?”

Oscar smiled condescendingly. “I would say he had very bad literary taste.”

“At least he’s making people laugh,” Crowley whispered, pondering the situation for a moment, “like a court jester.”

“Crowley, please do be quiet or dear Robbie may strangle you with that lovely cravat of yours.”

Robbie didn’t deny it. Crowley bit back another smile and slunk down in his seat, pressing his lips together as Carson finally began reading something that Oscar actually had written.

“‘Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others.’ You think that is true?”

“I rarely think that anything I write is true.”

Oscar’s audience laughed again, and their spirits remained high when Carson’s reading turned to Dorian Gray.

“Let us go over it phrase by phrase.” Carson looked down at his copy of the book as though it were poisonous. “‘I quite admit that I adored you madly.’ What do you say to that? Have you ever adored a young man madly?”

“I have never given adoration to anyone except myself.” The now-raucous laughter surrounding them fuelled Oscar’s already dangerous confidence. 

“I am sure you think that is a very smart thing?”

“I don’t at all.”

Yes, Oscar was undoubtedly holding his own. He was giving the performance of a lifetime. All Aziraphale could hope was that Carson would find the whole matter too tedious and just back down.

“I want to ask you a few questions about this letter which was brought to you,” Carson said coldly, not backing down at all.

“Yes.”

“This is a letter, as I understand, which you wrote to Lord Alfred Douglas?”

“Yes.”

Carson shuffled through some papers, finding the letter. He cleared his throat again and began to read. “‘My own boy.’” He looked up at Oscar accusingly. “You would think, I suppose, Mr Wilde, that a man of your age to address a man nearly twenty years younger as ‘my own boy’ would be an improper thing?”

“No, not if I was fond of him. I don’t think so.”

Crowley shook his head but diligently kept his mouth shut. A wise decision, considering that Robbie looked as though he might spontaneously combust at any moment. Aziraphale quickly reached out to reassuringly squeeze his arm, he didn’t think that Robbie even noticed. The show before them was quickly souring. 

“Did you adore Lord Alfred Douglas?”

“No, I loved him,” Oscar replied 

Bosie beamed with pride. Carson was meticulously digging Oscar’s grave, and he and Bosie were too high on their ivory tower to notice. 

“‘It is a marvel that those red rose-leaf lips of yours should be made no less for music of song than for the madness of kissing.’” Carson looked up from the letter again, waiting for an explanation.

“Yes,” he replied, unperturbed, “it is a beautiful phrase.”

“Suppose a man who was not an artist had written this letter to a handsome young man some twenty years younger than himself— would you say that it was a proper and natural kind of letter to write to him?”

“A man who was not an artist could never have written that letter,” Oscar scoffed.

The gallery burst into laughter again, but Carson was relentless. 

“Your slim quiet soul-”

“No, ‘gilt,’” Oscar interrupted.

Carson stared at him coldly and continued to read. “‘Your slim gilt soul walks between passion and poetry.’ That is a beautiful phrase too?”

“Not when you read it, Mr Carson. When I wrote it, it was beautiful. You read it very badly.”

The rest of the day passed in a similar vein, and although Oscar was getting all the laughs, Carson was certainly painting a compelling picture: a picture of flippant immorality and lies. The picture became clearer when Alfred Taylor’s name was first mentioned. And then Alfred Wood. And Edward Shelley. And Alphonse Conway. A small selection of the endless stream of young men whom Oscar had crossed paths with.

“Did you ever have any immoral practices with Wood?”

“Never in my life,” Oscar lied. 

“Did you ever open his trousers?”

“Oh, no!”

“Put your hand upon his person?”

“Never.”

Aziraphale saw that he was beginning to falter slightly, unaware that the defence would be so well-researched. Robbie looked thoroughly wretched as Carson continued on this new line of questioning. It was a strong set-up for what would undoubtedly be the real attack tomorrow. 

When court was finally adjourned, Aziraphale stood quickly, feeling almost as miserable as Robbie looked. He lost sight of his friends in the rush to escape, deciding to just keep his head down and shove through the hoards of gleefully scandalised people as quickly as possible. The snippets of conversation he caught on his way out were not promising. He couldn’t understand the collective schadenfreude on display. 

Eventually, he found himself outside on a calm street corner. He only had to look around for a moment to see Crowley not far behind, unceremoniously dragging Robbie along with him. The young man snatched his arm from Crowley’s iron grip, glaring at him as he straightened his tie. Crowley opened his mouth but Robbie raised a hand in exasperation, cutting him off.

“Please, I cannot stomach one of your quips right now.”

“Fair enough,” Crowley muttered. 

“And where on earth is Bosie?”

Robbie was a gentle soul. He was kind, polite, witty and sharply clever— all traits that he consistently used to his advantage. Whether that was a good or a bad thing very much depended on who you asked, but not a single person would ever call him unkind. Aziraphale had never heard him raise his voice or seen him lose his temper, not once in nearly five years. But now, he was nearing breaking point. It was a jarring reminder of how quickly things had gone and would continue to go wrong as the libel case progressed.

“Do we really care where that little rat is?” 

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale tutted.

“Ha! That is an insult to rats, my friend,” Robbie added venomously.

“Robbie!”

Aziraphale knew that Robbie didn’t particularly care for Bosie—he was clever, after all—but to hear him verbalise it in such a blatant way was strikingly out of character.

“I apologise, I apologise,” Robbie said, taking a deep breath. “He'll be going to Oscar’s hotel.”

“We can meet them both there…” Aziraphale began, trailing off as a newspaper boy skipped up to them.

“Good evening. Can I interest you in a copy of The Daily Telegraph? All the latest news about the Queensberry trial, for only a penny.”

Aziraphale blinked down at him. “Dear boy, Mr Wilde has barely left the courtroom. What news could you possibly have?”

The boy shrugged. “Suit yourself, Mister.” He skipped on, accosting everyone in his path.

“Scandal sells,” Crowley said with a laugh. “Good on him.”

Robbie sighed. “Let’s go.”

It was a short walk, and they were soon hastily entering the Holborn Viaduct Hotel, trying to avoid the barrage of press who quickly clocked them as Oscar’s friends. Aziraphale could already hear Bosie ranting and raving before they even opened the door to Oscar’s room. 

“-a fool! A beast of a man, and we will win. We will show him and all of England what sort of man he is!”

Oscar was slumped over in a velvet armchair with a glass of liquor in his hand, looking exhausted, while Bosie flounced around the room with the energy of a thousand scorned sons. 

“You’re in high spirits,” Crowley said, wasting no time finding the liquor.

“Why should I not be?” Bosie snapped. 

Aziraphale met Robbie’s eyes, finding his exasperation mirrored there. He decided to ignore Bosie entirely.

“Oscar, how are you?”

He looked up with a warm smile on his face. “I live to fight another day.”

“Carson is brutal.”

“Yes, naturally. He is an Irishman through and through. Did I ever tell you that we attended Trinity together?” Oscar sighed. “He is certainly rising to the occasion with all the added bitterness of an old friend.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Bosie scoffed. “All he does is read out words that are of no consequence to my father’s case. He cannot win this way.”

Robbie muttered something under his breath, quickly joining Crowley by the liquor. 

“It is not wise to underestimate Carson,” Aziraphale said slowly, fully aware that he was trying to reason with the unreasonable.

“It is even less wise to underestimate Oscar!” Bosie fired back. 

“I do no such thing.”

Bosie rolled his eyes, going to perch on the armrest of Oscar’s chair. “We will win. Obviously.”

Aziraphale sighed wearily, joining Crowley and Robbie in having a drink. The little lord was blinded by his insatiable thirst for revenge, and the tragedy of it was that Aziraphale understood. He’d seen Queensberry’s violence first-hand. He could only imagine what it must have been like growing up with a father like that. Lady Queensberry tried to balance out her husband’s abuse by spoiling the boy, but all it taught him was that love came in two forms: superficial overindulgence or a horsewhip. 

Bosie never stood a chance, not really.

He gulped down his drink in one go, quickly pouring another. “Do you think it’s too late for France?” he muttered for Crowley and Robbie’s ears only. 

Crowley shrugged, clearing his throat and turning to Oscar and Bosie. “So. Do you think it’s too late for France?” he repeated loudly. 

“I shan’t flee,” Oscar insisted.

“Oscar, you must understand that today was only the set-up,” Aziraphale said. “Who’s to know what will be brought to light tomorrow.”

“It doesn’t matter, what proof does he have?” Bosie answered in Oscar’s stead.

“The fact that we do not know should be of great concern to you.”

“It is of no concern to me!”

“We already know he has access to Oscar's letters, that in itself is damning enough.”

“Oh, you wound me!” Oscar exclaimed. “I write the most beautiful letters.”

“That is not the point.” Aziraphale was losing patience. 

“Then what is the point? Bosie asked, rolling his eyes again.

“My point is that the most intimate details of your relationship are about to become public knowledge! Your libel case will fall through, and an even worse case will be brought against one if not both of you.” Crowley and Robbie stilled beside him. 

“We must have hope, Aziraphale. It is all that remains.” Oscar looked up at Bosie, resting a hand on his thigh. 

“I have always admired your optimism, you know that I have, but this is dangerous, Oscar.”

Bosie’s eyes narrowed. “You are dangerous.”

Aziraphale reeled back, trying to remember the empathy he had for him. “Dear boy, I understand the desire to be free from your father, but-”

“You don’t understand! You understand nothing. You are only worried about how this will affect you!”

He threw his hands up in a markedly un-angelic show of exasperation. “Good grief. You are a child!”

“And you are a selfish coward!”

Crowley slammed his glass down hard on a table, making Aziraphale jump, and strode over to Bosie until he was right in the little lord’s face. “Careful now.”

Bosie flinched and Oscar pulled him in close, glaring at Crowley with tired eyes. Crowley refused to back down, clenching his fists as though daring Bosie to say more.

“When we fight amongst ourselves, Queensberry wins,” Robbie enunciated slowly. “We are all entitled to our feelings, but this rift mustn’t escalate.”

Aziraphale stepped forward, lighting touching Crowley’s shoulder. “Robbie is right.”

“As he so often is,” Oscar said with a grateful smile in Robbie’s direction.

“Yeah,” Crowley muttered, reluctantly turning away from Bosie. Aziraphale kept a hand on his shoulder, leading him back to the alcohol. It was as good a distraction as any. 

“I apologise, Bosie. I know you are only trying to do what is right,” Aziraphale said, looking back at the boy. 

He nodded in response, not even trying to come up with an apology of his own. 

“It is a very dangerous thing to know one’s friends, and I fear the four of you know me better than even myself,” Oscar said, looking at everyone in the room, one after the other. “My dearest friends, we must survive another day together.”

“And survive it we shall!” Bosie grinned his Cheshire Cat grin, and Aziraphale had to look away.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

4 April 1895, The Old Bailey Central Criminal Courthouse.

The next day began much as the previous one had ended. Oscar was on the stand with apprehension in his eyes as Carson began to list off the next lot of his young men. Sidney Mavor. Fred Atkins. Charles and William Parker. Aziraphale sat rigid with Crowley, Robbie, and Bosie; a stone of impending doom weighing heavy in his gut. 

“And how old was Charles Parker?” Carson asked. 

“Really, I do not keep a census.”

Crowley snorted with laughter, earning a dry glare from Aziraphale. At least someone was still able to find humour in the dreadful situation. He looked wearily on as Carson continued to grill Oscar about the social class and questionable moralities of his dashing young friends. 

“Did you give Charles Parker two small bottles of iced champagne that evening at the Savoy?”

“No, he was not there.”

Carson stared him down, clearly not believing him. “Is iced champagne a favourite drink of yours?”

“Yes, strongly against my doctor’s orders,” Oscar replied with a smile.

“Never mind the doctor’s orders.”

“I don’t. It has all the more flavour if you discard the doctor’s orders.”

Aziraphale sighed as laughter erupted all around them. Oscar had to be concerned at the line of questioning, and he knew that behind closed doors he understood the seriousness of his predicament… he only wished that the artist would stop being such an artist for one moment and concede some respect towards Carson. It may be his only way out.

“What was there in common between you and a young man of this class?” 

“I delight in the society of people much younger than myself, I like those who may be called idle and careless,” Oscar proclaimed with sincerity. “I recognise no social distinctions at all of any kind; and to me youth—the mere fact of youth—is so wonderful that I would sooner talk to a young man for half an hour than to be, well, cross-examined in court.”

The laughter continued, and as long as it did, Oscar would never concede. He was cursed with a spirit sustained on applause. However, things drastically soured when another name was brought up. Walter Grainger.

“Did you ever kiss him?” Carson asked plainly, eliciting a chorus of scandalised gasps from around the room. 

“Oh, no, never in my life. He was a peculiarly plain boy.”

Carson’s eyes lit up like a fisherman who had finally hooked the big one. “He was what?”

Aziraphale winced as the facade began to crumble around them. 

“I said I thought him unfortunately- his appearance was so very unfortunately- very ugly. I mean- I pitied him for it,” Oscar—perhaps for the first time in his life—stumbled over his words.

“Very ugly?

“Yes.”

“Do you say that in support of your statement that you never kissed him?” Carson asked, knowing he’d won. 

“No, I don’t. It is like asking me if I kissed a doorpost, it is very childish.”

“Didn’t you give me as the reason that you never kissed him that he was too ugly?”

“No.”

“Why did you mention his ugliness? I have to ask these questions.”

“For that reason! If you asked me if I had ever kissed a doorpost, I should say, ‘No! Ridiculous! I shouldn’t like to kiss a doorpost.’ Am I to be cross-examined on why I shouldn’t like to kiss a doorpost? These questions are grotesque.” Oscar’s cheeks were visibly reddening, even from across the room it was noticeable. 

“He’s lost the plot,” Crowley whispered unhelpfully.

“Grainger was quite nice-looking, actually,” Bosie added, even more unhelpfully. 

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s arm on instinct as Carson doubled down, repeating his questions of why, why, why as even Oscar struggled to find the words. He stuttered out several illegible replies. Carson’s smugness grew. The mood in the room had shifted to one of shocked silence. Aziraphale turned to Crowley to find his friend already staring straight at him, all humour gone from his face. He flinched back, dropping Crowley’s arm and clenching his hands into tight fists in his lap instead. 

Crowley raised his hand, reaching it out to hover over Aziraphale’s knee. 

“You stung me by an insolent question! You make me irritable,” Oscar exclaimed.

“Did you say the boy was ugly, because I stung you by an insolent question?” Carson mocked.

Aziraphale shifted in his seat so that Crowley could not comfortably reach him, finding himself pressed into Robbie instead. Crowley sighed, heavily dropping his arm and slouching down in his seat. Aziraphale kept his eyes trained diligently on Oscar as Robbie glanced at him with a puzzled expression on his face. The danger was becoming too close for comfort. 

Oscar stood up straight, staring Carson down as the words finally came to him. “Pardon me, you sting me, insult me, and try to unnerve me in every way. At times one says things flippantly when one should speak more seriously. I admit that, I admit it! I cannot help it. That is what you are doing to me.”

“Then you said it flippantly? You mentioned his ugliness flippantly, that is what you wish to convey now?”

“Oh, don’t say that I wish to convey. I have given you my answer.”

“Is that it, that that was a flippant answer?”

“Oh, it was a flippant answer, yes. I will say it was certainly a flippant answer.” Oscar’s relief at having found an out was palpable, as was the sense that he had been thoroughly shaken up. 

Clarke later tried to bring it back by speaking to the respectability and elite education of some of the men whom Carson had brought up, but it was futile. Aziraphale knew that they had lost. When the court was adjourned for lunch, he rushed ahead of his friends to meet Oscar and Clarke in one of the back rooms.

Oscar smiled wearily at him. “My dear Aziraphale, you have the distinct look of a man in mourning. I assure you, I am not dead yet.”

“You might as well be!” Clarke exclaimed.

Crowley stumbled into the room, followed closely by Robbie and Bosie. 

“Ah, all of my friends have arrived. Have you prepared your eulogies?”

“Oscar, this is a disaster,” Robbie said shakily. 

He pointedly ignored the comment, carefully sitting down at a rickety desk and clasping his hands together atop it. “Sir Clarke, have you any insight as to what precisely I will be cross-examined on next?”

“Much the same, I should imagine! There seems to be a wealth of material on the topic!”

“I only ask because there is the rather unfortunate fact that some weeks ago I was turned out of the Albemarle Hotel while in the company of one of my delightful young friends. It would be quite awkward for me and him both if that were to come to light.”

Clarke looked up to the Heavens, muttering what Aziraphale thought sounded like a prayer. “Mr Wilde, you assured me on your honour as an English gentleman that there is no truth to Lord Queensberry’s claims.”

“Quite unfortunate for you then that I am not an English gentleman.”

Bosie was the only one to laugh. Crowley and Robbie both looked about ready to throttle him.

“This is a disaster,” Robbie said again.

“Then let us at least make it a beautiful disaster.” Oscar rose from the desk. “But alas, nothing beautiful can be made on an empty stomach. Bosie, will you come lunch with me?”

The little lord took his arm and they walked out of the room as casually as ever.

“Does he realise that there is only so much I can do?” Clarke asked, staring incredulously after them. “Success now will require a miracle!”

Aziraphale wished it could be that easy. 

***

Court was in session for some time before Oscar and Bosie returned. Rumours flooded through the Old Bailey that they’d fled. Aziraphale wished that it was true. But they returned—strolling in as casually as they’d left—and Carson wasted no time in resuming his cross-examination. It was as Clarke had anticipated: much of the same. Thankfully, or unfortunately, he had uncovered more than enough already, so it was over relatively quickly.

His opening speech for the defence, on the other hand, dragged on. It was a masterfully crafted oration, weaving together every word Oscar had said and turning them into a damning shroud.

“Gentlemen, as a matter of fact, Alfred Wood is here and he will be examined before you.”

Gasps and murmurs rose around them at the prospect of laying eyes on one of Oscar’s (alleged) boys. Aziraphale looked over at Queensberry for the first time. He sat rigidly with his jaw set and his eyes firmly locked upon his son. Bosie didn’t give him a second glance, but even he was beginning to look worried now. If Carson had tracked down Wood, who else would be dragged into this mess? 

The walls of the Old Bailey were beginning to close in. Aziraphale was glad when it was over. He got up quickly—leaving his friends behind again—frantically trying to find Oscar in the crowd. He found Robbie instead. 

“Charles Parker will testify alongside Wood tomorrow, as will several members of The Savoy’s staff, who claim to have witnessed Oscar and Bosie with a variety of different boys in the hotel,” he said. His voice sounded a million miles away. “He is doomed.”

Aziraphale nodded, swallowing down his dread. He was being jostled around the crowd like a rag doll. Every stray shoulder and elbow that bumped into him felt like a bullet. Did none of them see his wounds? Wood and Parker and more. He barely knew where he was any more. The air he didn’t even need was being squeezed from his lungs with great force. He lost sight of Robbie. He couldn’t make out a single discernible feature on any of the ghastly grinning faces around him. Oscar didn’t stand a chance. None of them did.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a steady hand rested on his lower back, guiding him through the crowd. The mild evening air hit him like a slap in the face. He finally dared to breathe again. A hansom cab materialised before him. 

“Get in, Angel,” Crowley muttered, lightly pushing him forwards. 

He obliged, mechanically breathing in and out as the cab clattered towards Soho at impossibly fast speeds. The world only began to slow down again when he was safely inside his bookshop. 

Crowley was in front of him then, frowning. “Are you okay?”

Aziraphale shook his head, letting a bout of semi-hysterical laughter escape. “No, Crowley, I am certainly not okay!”

“Yeah. That was a stupid question. Sorry.”

“He’s doomed,” he repeated Robbie’s earlier sentiment. “What can we do?”

Crowley shrugged, pulling off his dark glasses. “Let him be doomed. Free will and all that.”

“Most helpful, thank you,” Aziraphale snapped sarcastically, storming over to flop down on his couch in defeat.

“You’ve inherited some of his melodrama.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to bite back, but the attack died in his throat when he saw Crowley’s playful grin. He rolled his eyes instead, burying his face in his hands with a groan. He felt the couch sag when Crowley sat down beside him. 

“The more pressing question is: what’ll we do if either of our head offices take an interest? Assuming they haven’t already.”

Aziraphale’s blood ran cold. It was the one thought he had been trying his hardest not to think. Heaven had already made their position on Oscar and his work crystal clear when he’d been forced to aid in Salomé’s censure. He pressed his face even harder into his hands, unwilling to wonder how much farther he would be expected to go.

“We will do what we always do.”

Crowley paused. “Right, but… if this trial falls apart, and a trial for gross indecency is brought against him-”

Aziraphale’s head snapped up. He glared at his friend for even daring to verbalise what most of London was already whispering about. “We will do what we always do. We will do our jobs.”

“Aziraphale, this isn’t Salomé. He’ll go to prison.”

“It hasn’t come to that yet.”

“But if it does-”

“It hasn’t come to that yet. I can’t…”

Crowley nodded slowly, seeming to understand. Aziraphale couldn’t let himself consider what might lie ahead. He had to believe that there was a way out for Oscar that didn’t include prison and a way out for himself that didn’t include guilt or damnation.

“Shall I find some wine?” Crowley asked.

“Yes, please.” Aziraphale desperately needed the distraction. 

Crowley stood to find a few bottles, and soon enough they were both adequately distracted. The first bottle was drunk in silence, the second was broken up with maddeningly polite small talk, the third gave them space to laugh again, and by the time they were halfway through the fourth, they’d begun reminiscing on simpler times. 

“Y’know, I think I half gave Plato the idea to write The Symposium,” Crowley proclaimed. 

Aziraphale laughed through his next gulp of wine. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, I mean it!”

Aziraphale shook his head, still grinning as he opened their fifth bottle. “I suppose I can see traces of you there... if I squint rather hard.”

“Yeah!” Crowley exclaimed, allowing his glass to be filled to the brim. “It all began on a beautiful night much like this one.”

Aziraphale laughed again. “And you accuse me of melodrama.”

“That Wilde has rubbed off on us both.”

Aziraphale blushed furiously, not turning away quickly enough. He hoped he could chalk it up to the alcohol. A comfortable silence settled over the room. Crowley drank deeply from his glass, lost in thought.

“What are you thinking about?” Aziraphale was drunk enough to ask.

“Hmm,” Crowley began, frowning through the alcohol to try and form a coherent thought. “I was just thinking about gross indecency.”

“Oh, good grief!” Aziraphale hoped that his blush was no longer too obvious.

“I just mean… I just mean…” 

“Would you like to sober up?”

“Not a chance.” He cleared his throat, avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes. “I just mean, the circumstances under which humans consider something to be grossly indecent are… odd. No?”

Aziraphale blinked. It wasn’t as though he’d never thought about it before—in passing—but hearing it out loud in his current state of intoxication brought the matter to the forefront of his mind. 

“Why should it matter if Oscar loves Bosie?” Crowley paused. “That’s a bad example.”

“Quite.”

“But you understand my point! They have these fantastic bodies with all the right wiring,” Aziraphale’s eyes trailed up and down Crowley’s body as he gestured down at himself, “but they come to the conclusion that two people can’t exercise their free will in love just because they have… the same wiring.”

A shadow of that same danger he had felt in the Old Bailey came over Aziraphale then. He quickly finished his wine and poured himself another glass, hoping to chase it away. 

“What’s interesting is that She never expressly forbade any such love, and if people think She did then they are tragically misunderstanding something.”

“Exactly!” Crowley exclaimed. “Prison time for chasing one of the most natural human pleasures is just wrong.”

“It is a pleasure worth the punishment.” Aziraphale barely realised what he’d said until the words were out of his mouth. 

Crowley gaped at him with wide eyes, as though their first meeting in thirty years hadn’t been in a brothel.

“Hypothetically, of course.”

The feeble attempt at a backtrack didn’t work. Crowley was still staring at him. How had Aziraphale not realised how close they were sitting? Had they begun the night shoulder-to-shoulder or had the wine forced them together? 

“Hypothetically?”

“Really, Crowley, I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” 

He was acutely aware of Crowley pressed against his side. He halfheartedly tried to adjust his position, but there was nowhere to go. Crowley’s thigh remained warmly pressed against his. His synapses fired and exploded through his brain, the sense of danger shrieking around them both. He wondered if Crowley heard it too. His hands were shaking, causing the wine in his glass to ripple.

“With who?”

Aziraphale’s stomach was aflutter with a frightening sensation that he dared not name. His heart was thrashing behind his ribs like a caged animal. He could barely make sense of Crowley’s question. 

“Angel, will I hear your name in the Old Bailey tomorrow alongside Wilde’s boys?”

It was a nightmare he hadn’t even considered. “I should think not.”

“You think not?” Crowley’s eyes were burning with intensity. 

Aziraphale took a shaky sip of wine. “While Oscar finds thrill in being rather brazen, I can assure you that I am appropriately discreet.”

Crowley took a steady breath in and out, putting his glass down. “Oscar Wilde is a fairly bold choice for you.”

His tone was calculated, like he was trying very hard to hold something back. The judgement in his words made Aziraphale narrow his eyes in annoyance. 

“If I remember correctly, you spent an extended period of time in the chambers of Emperor Nero, did you not?”

“Keeping count are you?”

Yes.

“Not at all. I only mean to point out the hypocrisy in your statement regarding Oscar.”

“I’m a demon. It’s different.”

Aziraphale scoffed, emboldened by his intoxication. “I see. So these most natural human pleasures are reserved for only the wicked? Perhaps you are more in tune with the British public than you realise.”

Crowley leaned closer to Aziraphale, his jaw twitching as though his teeth were clenched tightly together. Aziraphale felt a bolt of lightning shoot through him. The danger was so vivid and loud that he could barely comprehend anything outside of it. 

“Do you think I’m wicked, Angel?”

He said it so softly that Aziraphale had to lean in to hear him, and suddenly they were mere inches apart. The danger was beginning to feel like home, and he wondered whether it would be better to just stay right there in it. Crowley blinked slowly, his thick eyelashes fluttering against the tops of his red cheeks. He licked his lips, and Aziraphale couldn’t have looked away if God herself commanded it. 

“Terribly wicked,” he whispered.

Crowley plucked Aziraphale’s wine glass from his placid hand and put it down beside his before hovering his hand cautiously over Aziraphale’s chest. 

He should stand up. He should run away and never look back. He stayed still as a statue instead, betrayed only by his shallow breaths and shaking hands. 

Crowley delicately rested his hand in the centre of Aziraphale’s chest. He shivered, unable to quantify the intensity of such a simple gesture. 

“Your heart is racing,” Crowley murmured. “Fascinating how thoroughly this human physiology exposes us.” 

Any ability for critical thought that Aziraphale once possessed was thrown swiftly out the window. The sirens screaming danger faded into white noise. All he could hear was Crowley’s unsteady breathing and the echo of his own heartbeat that he couldn’t slow down even if he wanted to. They were moments from disaster. Aziraphale wondered how the collision might feel. 

Crowley’s hand slid from his chest, gently stroking down until it stilled at his waist. Aziraphale dug his nails into the couch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. When he opened them again, Crowley’s own eyes were bright and sharp and strikingly sunset-coloured. They had subconsciously moved their bodies and were facing each other completely. Crowley stretched his other arm across the back of the couch, and they were so painfully close that Aziraphale felt every one of his shaky exhales tickle his cheek. 

Crowley began to lightly massage his waist. Aziraphale squirmed in his seat. He was going mad. There was no other explanation. He was going completely and utterly mad and he had to do something about it right now before he discorporated himself. He lay a hand on Crowley’s thigh, steadying himself while he tried to regain his bearings.

Crowley groaned with such pent-up frustration that Aziraphale was scared to even try to anticipate his next move. He didn’t know if it was he or Crowley who leaned in even more, but now their lips were millimetres apart and Aziraphale could taste his next words like ambrosia.

“You don’t even know-”

Aziraphale would never find out what he didn’t know, because at that moment a loud knock at the door snapped him out of his hypnosis. He gasped, pulling back as though he’d been electrocuted. Crowley only clung onto his waist tighter, grabbing a handful of fabric to keep him firmly in place. 

“The door-”

“Don’t care. Listen-”

“I think I’d better not!” Aziraphale interrupted in a panic. How had he let things get this far? Stupid. 

The sun was already out again, Oscar needed him, Heaven and Hell were likely watching the whole ordeal very closely, and they may all be doomed come nightfall. He was a fool for allowing himself to become distracted. He quickly sobered up, hoping that his heart rate would slow when he did.

It didn’t. Crowley was still too close. Aziraphale looked up, begging for strength in his convictions. Whoever was at the door knocked again, louder now. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Please do let go.”

Hurt flashed through Crowley’s sunshine eyes. He sighed, doing what Aziraphale asked before pulling his knees up to his chest and hugging them tightly. Aziraphale stood up, adjusting his clothing and trying not to look back as he opened the door. It was a telegram boy with a message from Oscar. He thanked the boy, taking the envelope inside. 

Crowley was still curled in on himself, his dark glasses were back on, and Aziraphale had never felt more rotten. He knew he could never say all that he wanted to say; that he could never feel all he wanted to feel. Radical authenticity was a distinctly human privilege, and in the walls of the Old Bailey, it was being put on trial for all to see.

If Aziraphale feared what might happen to Oscar, it was nothing compared to what he knew would happen to Crowley if their wine-fuelled evening were to be put on trial. He admonished himself again for ever allowing himself to so nearly come undone. 

He stood in the middle of the room as he opened the envelope. “It’s a telegram from Oscar.”

Crowley didn’t reply.

Aziraphale cleared his throat and began reading aloud. “Withdrew from trial. Queensberry not guilty. Come to hotel quickly.”

Crowley

5 April 1895, The Holborn Viaduct Hotel.

Oscar Wilde was perhaps the only person in London having a worse day than Crowley. He hadn’t particularly wanted to follow Aziraphale to the artist’s hotel, but of course he did anyway. He’d follow Aziraphale anywhere— even when the feeling of his heartbeat still tingled through his fingertips, when the foolish hope his ragged exhales had brought still sat heavy in his gut. When he was overwhelmed with the distinct sensation that the only chance he’d ever have to express himself had been torn away, marred by a rejection that he logically had to know would always come. 

Even then. They were destined to remain side-by-side, worlds apart, forever. 

He glared at Wilde, who was pouring himself another hock and seltzer, presumably to try and drown out the desperate pleas of Robbie and Aziraphale, still telling him to flee for France. As if he ever would. He was far too arrogant for that. Crowley couldn’t fathom how the man had possibly managed to get Aziraphale into bed after only a few short years. Apparently, arrogance was more forgivable than being one of the fallen. 

Wilde and Bosie deserved each other. Whatever happened next was not Crowley’s concern. 

“I still can’t believe you withdrew from the trial.” Bosie pouted.

“Clarke was right to encourage you to do so, Oscar,” Robbie insisted. “If Wood or Parker testified it would have been disastrous.”

“My father being emboldened by a verdict of not guilty is disastrous!”

“Carson assured Clarke that no further prosecution would be pursued if I withdrew,” Oscar said.

“My father made no such assurances. The only way out of this was to win.”

“The only way out of this is to go to France!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Both of you must go immediately to avoid what we all know is coming.”

Oscar sighed deeply. “The train has gone. It is too late.”

“I’m quite sure that there is a regular boat train service from Victoria until quarter to ten in the evening,” Crowley dryly replied.

Oscar ignored him. The persistent gaggle of reporters were becoming more and more irritating, their pounding on the door making it difficult to think, let alone have a conversation.

Robbie muttered a curse under his breath, storming over to open the door and poke his head out into the hall. “If you wouldn’t mind-”

“Mr Ross! I am a reporter with The Sun. Can you tell me why Lord Alfred Douglas never took the stand against Lord Queensberry?”

Bosie opened his mouth and made to join Robbie, but Oscar gently held him back. They all waited in silence for Robbie to come up with a response. He was always the most diplomatic of them all.

“Lord Alfred was most eager to defend Mr Wilde, however, Mr Wilde forbade it, thinking it monstrous to pit father against son in such a public forum.”

“So Mr Wilde maintains that there is no truth to Lord Queensberry’s claims?”

“None whatever. Every member of the Douglas family, excepting Lord Queensberry, will attest to this.” 

Crowley knew how much Robbie hated to lie, and he admired him greatly for doing so anyway. Love remained a pernicious influence in all of their lives. 

“Now, if you wouldn’t mind,” Robbie began, “I must ask that you leave us.”

“One more question, Mr Ross, one more question!” The irritating little man was practically screaming in poor Robbie’s face. He diligently kept the door mostly closed to shield Wilde from view. “We have heard on good authority that Lord Queensberry has been awarded costs, how and when does Mr Wilde propose to pay?”

Robbie froze, unable to find an adequate response. When Wilde dropped the case, it had been on the assurance that Queensberry would not pursue further prosecution and there would be no costs to pay. Crowley wasn’t surprised that half of the agreement had already been broken. 

“And how will he defend himself against Lord Queensberry’s charge of gross indecency?”

And there it was. Gross indecency. A misdemeanour that held a maximum penalty of two years imprisonment with hard labour. If the charge ever made it into the Old Bailey, Wilde would lose, and if he went to prison, he would not survive it. 

“Mr Wilde declines to comment at the present time,” Robbie stuttered out, slamming the door shut before the reporter could open his mouth again. 

“I told you, did I not?” Bosie exclaimed, trying to mask his growing concern. 

“Well,” Wilde began, “and so it goes. My dear friends, I cannot think clearly with the vultures of London’s news circuit pecking at my door.”

“If we exit out the back we can travel to the Cadogan. I have rooms there,” Bosie suggested.

“Brilliant idea, my dear.” He stood, wearily looking around the room. “Someone must go to Constance. She will be wrought with fear, and has the right to know what has occurred thus far.” He stared expectantly at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale wrung his hands, and Crowley could see the panic and fear in his eyes. He had grown to view Constance and her sons as a sort of extended family, and the task of delivering such devastating news to her would crush him. It was not a task fit for an angel. 

Crowley sighed, halfheartedly raising his hand. “I’ll go.”

Aziraphale frowned at him in shock. “I… I can go. I know her well.”

“Exactly,” Crowley muttered. “Go ahead to the Cadogan. I’ll meet you there.”

Wilde strode over to him, gratefully shaking his hand. “You are a true friend, dear boy.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He pulled his hand away, crossing his arms. 

“She is staying with an aunt on Lower Seymour Street.”

“I’ll find my way. Good luck.” He sauntered to the door, bracing himself for the press mob.

Aziraphale followed him, touching his shoulder lightly as he reached for the doorknob. Crowley gritted his teeth, refusing to flinch. 

“I can go, Crowley,” he said softly. 

“You won’t be able to leave her and the boys in their misery after you tell them, it’s not in your nature.” Crowley tried and failed to make the statement sound anything but fond. 

“She will be most distraught.”

“I'm terribly wicked,” he said so only Aziraphale could hear, “delivering bad news is what I do.”

Aziraphale flinched back, taking his hand off Crowley’s shoulder. They stared at each other in loaded silence for a moment before the angel nodded. Crowley dashed out the door before any more could be said. 

The gaggle of press outside was a bit ridiculous. Did they not have anything better to do? Crowley hissed at a man who tried to ask him a question and a path to the exit was quickly cleared. Only when he was outside did a couple of men dare to approach him again. 

“Excuse me, Sir, are you willing to answer a question regarding the upcoming Wilde case?”

“What makes you think I even know the man?” Crowley asked, ready to play dumb and get away. 

“Well…” one of the reporters trailed off, awkwardly gesturing to his long hair, red silk cravat, and velvet coat that he had ‘borrowed’ from Swinburne over a decade ago.

“Point taken,” Crowley muttered, cursing that damn aesthetic movement for producing such irresistible fashion. “Nevertheless, I am a busy man.” He gave a performative half-bow and exaggeratedly flounced off, giving the cretins their show.

“Wait! Sir!” one of the men shouted after him. “We at The Sun have recently become aware that a warrant has been issued for Mr Wilde’s arrest, do you or the other members of his party wish to comment?”

Crowley’s stomach lurched. It wasn’t like all of London didn’t know it was coming, but now that it was here… he was just glad not to be in the room when Aziraphale found out. He ignored the reporters, hailing a cab and speeding off towards Lower Seymour Street. 

When he arrived, he found himself inexplicably nervous. He wondered how Aziraphale would approach the situation and tried to summon all of his tact and grace as he knocked on the door. A stern older woman answered. Crowley tried to smile at her, but it manifested more as a grimace. 

“Who are you?” she demanded. 

“Err, I’m a friend of Mrs Wilde.”

“No you are most certainly not,” the woman said coldly, sizing him up. “Leave here.”

Crowley wondered if a frivolous miracle was in order when he spotted Constance approaching. 

“Mr Crowley, my goodness, how I have been longing for news,” she said with great relief. “It is alright, Aunty, please do allow him inside.”

The aunt glared at him before moving slightly aside and crossing her arms. He grimaced again, side-stepping around her. What a frightening woman. 

“Alright,” he began when the door was firmly closed, “news.”

Constance gazed up at him with weary hope in her eyes. He’d only met her a few times, but he admired her greatly from the first. She possessed a formidable intellect, a gentle disposition and an artistic spirit. Her shy nature and natural beauty often led her to be underestimated, but there had never been a moment when she didn’t hold her own— even at her husband’s side. She shone in her own right, and it was wholly unfair that she was embroiled in Wilde’s scandals. He’d never deserved her. 

“Perhaps we can talk… alone?” he asked, glancing at the frightening aunt. 

“Out of the question!” the aunt practically shrieked. “A most improper suggestion, Mr Crowley.”

“Right, of course.” He cleared his throat. “There isn’t an easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it-”

“They’re arresting him, aren't they.” Constance didn’t ask it, she just said it as though it were obvious.

“I’m afraid so. Queensberry won, and a warrant has been issued for Wilde.”

Constance nodded slowly, her eyes filling with tears that she never let fall. “I am Wilde too. What of me?”

Crowley didn’t have an answer for that.

“You must file for divorce with haste,” the aunt demanded. 

“I shall do no such thing. I made a vow.”

“All of England has been shown how little he cares for those vows!”

“And so? I should meet cruelty with cruelty?” Constance shook her head. “That is not my way. Just because Oscar has lost his way does not mean that I am free to lose mine.”

“He is a pervert!”

“He is my husband.”

Crowley had to bite back a smile. What a remarkable woman. They were interrupted by the stairs creaking behind them. A small child was tiptoeing down, unsuccessfully trying to eavesdrop. 

“Vyvyan, I have told you to stay with Mrs Bennett,” Constance said with exasperation.

The boy clung to the stair railing, silently staring at the adults with wide eyes. A rather flustered governess followed him down, apologising to Constance before trying to usher him back upstairs. He only clung harder to the railing. Constance sighed, dismissing the governess and allowing Vyvyan to come cling to her skirts instead. 

“You remember Mr Crowley, don’t you Vyvyan? Say hello now.”

He stared at Crowley suspiciously, saying nothing. 

“This has been most difficult for him, I apologise.” Constance blinked back the last of her tears. “Thank you for coming.”

“It’s fine,” he muttered, knowing that the conversation would go no further with an eight-year-old child staring at them.

“Please do urge him to leave for France.”

“We’ve all been trying. I’m sorry we haven’t been successful.”

“No, it is not your fault. He has always been rather… stubborn.” She chose her words carefully, periodically glancing down at her son. “And do ensure that he knows I love him dearly, as do the children.”

“Yeah, where is… the other one?” Crowley hoped it wasn’t obvious that he’d forgotten the other child’s name.

“Cyril is in Ireland with some relatives of mine. I’m sure we will all be reunited soon.” Crowley knew she only said it for Vyvyan’s sake. 

“Right. I- yeah. I’m sorry for how things are going. I’ll do everything I can.”

Crowley felt astoundingly guilty for his complete disregard of Constance, Cyril and Vyvyan in his blind hatred for Wilde— for Oscar. As she’d said, she was Wilde too, as were Cyril and Vyvyan. Oscar’s downfall wouldn’t affect only himself, and his family were entirely innocent. 

“I will see you out, Mr Crowley,” the aunt said rather pointedly. 

“Yes. Thank you.” He nodded at Constance and turned to leave. 

A small, frightened voice stopped him in his tracks. “When will Papa come back?”

Ice flooded through his veins. He couldn’t stop himself from looking back. Vyvyan was staring straight at him expectantly, as though he had come with all the answers. Constance stroked his hair, shushing him. 

“I… I don’t know. I’m sorry,” Crowley replied. 

“Are you going to see him right now? Can I come with you?”

He opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. Even as one of Hell’s top employees, he had never before had to break the heart of a child. Constance looked at him apologetically, fighting through a new wave of tears threatening to fall. 

“It’s time to go back to Mrs Bennett now, Vyvyan,” she said, summoning the governess.

“But Mama,” Vyvyan loudly whispered, “that’s Uncle Fell’s friend, and Uncle Fell is magic. I still have those flowers he made for me!”

“Oh, my darling boy, magic cannot bring Papa home right now. We just have to wait and see.”

Vyvyan frowned. The governess tried to take his hand, but he snatched it back, staring at Crowley with fierce determination in his eyes. He was the picture of both his parents. 

“Vyvyan-” Constance began sternly.

“If I have to wait and see for Papa to come back then I want to wait with Uncle Fell,” he demanded. “He always fixes everything for me. He is magic.”

Devastation and grief hit Crowley like a train. Thank Satan Aziraphale wasn’t here. 

“Mr Crowley cannot bring you to your uncle, Vyvyan,” Constance said shakily. 

“Why?”

“You must stay here.”

“I hate it here!”

“Vyvyan-”

“I want Papa and Uncle Fell and Cyril!” His voice was rising to a high-pitched cry. “Mama, I want to go home!” He stomped his foot and the tears began to fall.

Constance pulled him in close, squeezing her eyes shut as she held them both together. Crowley—who had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Alexander the Great and ridden elephants into battle with Hannibal—knew then that Constance Wilde was one of the strongest humans he had ever had the privilege of knowing. He grounded himself with a deep breath, understanding that he didn't have the privilege of being so affected by a sorrow that was not his own.

He clasped his hands behind his back—snapping his fingers while everyone was distracted—and approached Vyvyan. He tapped the boy on the shoulder, keeping one hand hidden. Vyvyan’s little face was streaked with tears when he turned around, looking much younger than eight as he clung to his mother. 

Crowley kneeled down, looking him in the eyes with what he hoped was a soft smile. “I’m certainly no Aziraphale, but I have to admit that I am also a little bit magic.”

Vyvyan sniffed, blinking at him curiously. Crowley took his hand from behind his back with a flourish. Vyvyan’s sad eyes lit up and he gasped with joy, detaching himself from his mother to grab the bouquet of yellow tulips from Crowley’s hand. They were tied together with a blue ribbon, from which a silver snake figurine hung. 

“Can I really keep the little snake too?”

“Of course you can. If you’re ever missing your father or anyone else, you can whisper to the little snake. You never know, maybe he’ll pass on your messages.” Crowley awkwardly patted the boy on the head and stood up. 

Constance discreetly wiped her eyes. “Thank you.”

“I’ll do everything I can,” Crowley said again.

“You are a true friend to our family, Mr Crowley. I will never forget this kindness.”

Crowley grimaced. He hoped no one in Hell was watching. Vyvyan leaned in to whisper something to the little snake and smiled widely, waving goodbye as the aunt finally got her wish and booted Crowley out the door. When it slammed in his face, he was left rather disoriented. Bosie was not worth all the hurt and fear inside that house. 

He slowly walked back down to the street, scowling at a stray flower that grew stubbornly through the footpath. It quivered and wilted in response. Good. Too much kindness made him anxious. He climbed back into the cab that had been diligently waiting for him, the driver deep in a demonic haze. 

“The Cadogan Hotel. Right away,” he demanded, hesitating before softly adding, “please."

When they sped past St James’ Theatre, Crowley noticed a solemn-faced man covering up Oscar Wilde’s name on the playbills for The Importance of Being Earnest. 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

8 April 1895, Aziraphale’s Bookshop.

“This is just vulgar. Even by my standards,” Crowley said with a grimace, reading over the latest sensationalised reporting of Oscar Wilde’s committal proceedings in The Police News. 

Crowley had arrived at The Cadogan just as Oscar was being carted off to Scotland Yard, where he had formally been charged with gross indecency before being locked up at Bow Street police station. He remained there still, following an explicit but by no means exhaustive committal hearing. 

“Do put that filth away,” Aziraphale told him. 

“The amount of boys showing up to give evidence is astounding,” Crowley began, ignoring him. “Queensberry’s people must be paying them off.”

“Naturally. They would all be jailed alongside Oscar and that Alfred Taylor if they hadn’t come to some sort of agreement.”

“Shame they got Taylor too, I’ll miss his establishment.” Crowley read on. “Oh, good on him!”

“Pardon me?”

“Sidney Mavor. Backed out in the end. Apparently he refused to admit that any improprieties occurred between him and Wilde.” Crowley turned the page. “Although Charles Parker described a rather graphic incident at The Savoy where-”

“Crowley. Please do spare me the details.” Aziraphale shuddered. 

He nodded, continuing to read in silence. When he’d burst through the door of Bosie’s room at The Cadogan, the scene was grim. Robbie had been trying to placate Aziraphale’s—terrifyingly out of character—outburst of distress while being pallid and shaking himself, and Bosie had sat curled up in an armchair like a child, his own ivory tower having finally crumbled beneath him. Crowley didn’t have the heart to share anything about his interaction with Constance and Vyvyan, and he had yet to bring it up. 

“They’re quite interesting details,” he teased, trying to inject some humour into the situation. “It seems like your Wilde is a man of many talents.”

Aziraphale ignored the innuendo. Their wine-filled evening had never been brought up again, and Crowley was beginning to wonder if he had imagined the whole thing. They were firmly back to themselves— the versions of themselves before Oscar Wilde, the versions who tiptoed around each other and didn’t dare stand too close. It was driving Crowley insane, but it was an insanity he had sat in since The Beginning. It shouldn’t have been so difficult to get used to again.

“They’ll be moving him to Holloway Prison soon. Apparently there will be at least one more committal hearing.” Aziraphale glared at him. “I’m only saying it because it means you’ll finally be able to visit him!”

Aziraphale raised a hand and Crowley’s newspaper disappeared with a pop. 

He huffed indignantly. “That would definitely be classed as a frivolous miracle.”

Aziraphale only glared at him again, but it quickly transformed into his most polite customer service smile as the door opened. 

He needn’t have bothered, it was only Robbie. Impossibly, it seemed like he had lost weight in the past three days. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes haunted with shadows of sleeplessness and grief. Aziraphale raced to greet his friend, worriedly taking his arm and leading him to sit on the couch.

“Has something else happened?” Aziraphale asked, sitting closely beside him. 

Robbie took a deep breath in, exhaling shakily as he buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook with repressed sobs. Aziraphale laid a comforting hand on his back. Crowley tried not to resent the physical ease between them. They sat like that for a moment before Robbie gathered himself enough to pull a crumpled letter from his pocket. Aziraphale stopped breathing when he read it. 

“What is it?” Crowley asked. 

Aziraphale looked up at him with wide eyes. “Robbie has been subpoenaed by The Crown to give evidence against Oscar.”

Robbie let out a strangled cry. “To hear it spoken aloud… Aziraphale, what am I to do?”

“Flee to France?” Crowley joked. 

Aziraphale blinked, first frowning at Crowley in contemplation before turning to Robbie, who cringed at the suggestion.

“I beg you, do not suggest it in earnest.”

“I was joking, for what it's worth,” Crowley muttered, quickly realising that his joke was probably Robbie’s only real option.

“My mother has been telling me to leave England since this nightmare began,” Robbie sighed, shaking his head, “but I cannot leave him. I cannot.”

“Hmm, I wonder where I’ve heard that before?” Crowley rolled his eyes. The whole lot of them were ridiculous.

“Robbie,” Aziraphale began softly, “perhaps it is the only way. If the only other options are to submit to the subpoena or risk arrest yourself, what choice do you have?”

He put his face in his hands again. He looked so small—so frail and frightened—Crowley had to look away. How far would Oscar and Bosie’s trail of destruction reach?

“I am the one who started him on this destructive path, and now I am to leave him in the ruins of my temptation.” Robbie’s voice broke. “It is I who should be damned, not Oscar.”

“Oh, Robbie.” Aziraphale rubbed reassuring circles on his back. “You mustn’t blame yourself.”

“I was his first boy. If he hadn’t had me-”

“Then he’d have had someone else,” Crowley interrupted, “and that someone else may have already been at Bow Street telling all the lurid details of their encounter in exchange for a hefty cheque from Queensberry. He’s lucky it was you.”

Aziraphale smiled at him in thanks, encouraging him to continue. 

“The only one who started him on any path was his own damn hubris, aided by that little blond siren. He doesn’t deserve your loyalty.”

“But he has it nonetheless,” Robbie mumbled into his hands, finally raising his head. “Thank you for your kind words.”

“I wasn’t trying to be kind,” Crowley muttered.

“Robbie, you must go. What help are you to Oscar if you wind up in your own Bow Street cell?” Aziraphale reasoned with him. 

“How am I to leave? I will surely be stopped.”

Aziraphale looked pointedly at Crowley. He gritted his teeth, cursing God and Satan and Oscar Wilde all at once before rolling his eyes at the angel. What was one more kindness now? If Hell were watching he was already in too deep for it to make a difference. He tried not to think of his inevitable punishment. 

“I can help you.” He sighed. “I can help you get to France.”

“How-”

“I have friends in low places.”

Aziraphale shot him an exasperated glance. “What Crowley means is that he is rather well acquainted with the officers at all of the English and French ports. He can ensure you safe passage.”

“What he said,” Crowley muttered, standing to leave. “Now or never then, time is of the essence.”

Robbie gaped at him. “I… I don’t know what to say. This is happening rather quickly. Are you certain?”

“Certain as I’ll ever be.”

Robbie frowned, his eyes flitting back and forth as he came to terms with his new and inevitable situation. “There is something I must do first.”

“Is it a quick something?” Crowley asked, already irritated. 

“Oscar and Constance’s home will surely be pillaged soon, if it hasn’t been already. I must retrieve what I can from his personal effects.”

Fantastic. Another good deed. Just what Crowley needed. “We can briefly stop at Tite Street, then. Briefly!” 

Robbie looked around the bookshop like he would never see it again. When his eyes landed on Aziraphale, they were filled with tears.

“You may be able to return when a trial date is set. I am going nowhere, Robbie. You will always be a dear friend to me,” Aziraphale reassured, also sounding a little choked up. 

They stood up and Robbie immediately pulled Aziraphale into a rather long embrace. Crowley cringed, going to wait by the door as they said their goodbyes. When Robbie joined him the pain in his eyes was coupled with a fierce determination. Crowley couldn’t understand how a man like Oscar Wilde had convinced so many good and beautiful people to pledge such intense loyalty to him.

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. 

“Uh-huh.” He opened the door, ushering Robbie out. “See you later, Angel.”

As was always the case, Crowley hailed a cab miraculously quickly, and he and Robbie climbed inside.

“Angel, hmm?” Robbie teased.

“Shut up,” Crowley muttered, watching London rush by as they made their way to Tite Street.

Aziraphale

10 April 1895, Aziraphale’s bookshop.

Aziraphale had been drinking heavily since Crowley and Robbie left. They’d stopped off at Tite Street as promised—retrieving whatever Robbie could carry from Oscar’s office and leaving it for Aziraphale to look after—before quickly leaving the country. Aziraphale trusted Crowley to get him to France safely, but it was getting late, and he was anxious for Crowley to return.

He gulped down another mouthful of strong whisky, rifling through Oscar’s papers. Robbie had saved several letters, unpublished manuscripts, and rather risqué photographs. Oscar was mad for keeping such things so easily accessible in his home, he knew how Cyril and Vyvyan liked to sneak into their father’s office when they thought no one was watching. 

“Good grief,” he muttered, uncovering a rather cozy picture of Bosie sitting on another young man’s lap. Maurice, perhaps.

Crowley would probably encourage him to send it to all of London’s papers and let Bosie reap the grim rewards of his licentiousness. Aziraphale shook his head, turning the photo face down on his desk and pouring another glass of whisky. 

As someone who had existed since before Adam and Eve, Aziraphale could confidently say that the past week had been the longest he’d ever endured. It was his own fault, really. He had broken his number one rule— never allow yourself to become attached to humans. 

It should have been easy, for angels were not social creatures. So then why had he spent his existence feeling so desperately lonely? It must have been a fatal flaw, some piece of him that God had created to atone for a sin he could no longer remember. Perhaps the trials of Oscar Wilde were put in his path as a final test, so She could tell him, see, this is what happens when you dare long for more. 

He should take the hint now and leave London until everyone who knew him here was gone, but Aziraphale had never been particularly good at taking the hint, and Oscar would be expecting a visit now that he had been transferred to Holloway. The only way out was through. 

He sighed restlessly, beginning to read through one of Oscar’s unpublished manuscripts, titled La Sainte Courtisane. It was an uncomfortable read that hit far too close to home. He was glad to put it down when the front door swung open. 

It wasn’t who he hoped it would be.

“Aziraphale!” The unwelcome guest confidently strode into Aziraphale’s bookshop as if he owned the place. “Gosh, it is depressing in here! Business been slow?” He laughed.

“Gabriel! What a… surprise!” 

He grabbed La Sainte Courtisane in his fist and unceremoniously shoved it into his desk drawer, cringing when the action unearthed a couple of particularly racy photos scattered underneath. He tried not to look at them as he swiped them into the drawer too. 

“I figured we were due for a catchup with everything that’s been going on.” Gabriel removed his top hat, hanging it by the door before approaching Aziraphale’s desk. 

He looked down at the papers before him in a panic. La Saint Courtesan and a couple of photos were haphazardly hidden away, but there was too much to mask before Gabriel crossed the room. He stumbled up to meet the Archangel, trying to put on an air of casual calm. There was far too much whisky in his system. He tried to subtly sober up. 

“Let us sit!” Aziraphale insisted, leading Gabriel to a table that wasn’t strewn with photos of half-naked men. 

He clumsily sat opposite his boss, clasping his hands atop the table like a schoolboy preparing for a scolding. 

“Have you been out there?” He pointed back to the front door, amused. “Every single person is talking about Oscar Wilde. It’s amazing!”

Aziraphale tittered nervously. 

“Great work on Salomé, by the way. We’re in the final stretch now.”

“The final stretch of…” 

“Having that man put away, of course.” Gabriel rolled his eyes as though it were obvious.

Aziraphale paused. “For…”

“I don’t care.” He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “We just want the man who writes things like Salomé gone. Duh.”

“So… it is the literature that we find most dangerous about him…” Aziraphale spoke slowly, trying to understand. 

“The literature, the general worldview.” He waved his hand dismissively. “It’s all semantics, really. But we have noticed a marked increase in skepticism and sin since that book of his was published, and Hell is getting a little overcrowded. No one can afford for his ideas to be out in the world any more.”

However ridiculous Gabriel’s claims seemed, Aziraphale thought that Oscar would be thrilled to know the stir his work had caused in the celestial realms. 

“Can there really be such danger in words on a page?” Aziraphale dared to ask. 

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel scoffed, “come on now.”

He looked down, getting flashbacks to Carson’s cross-examination. “He is not on trial for his works. He is on trial for… something else.”

“He is on trial for the gross indecency of his work!”

Aziraphale almost laughed, masking it with a cough. “Do you and our colleagues know the meaning of gross indecency?”

“I don’t know, Aziraphale, I don’t engage in that filth. That’s why we have you here.”

“To engage in gross indecency.”

“Exactly!”

“Well, I must say, I have been most successful on that front.”

“Yay!” Gabriel clapped his hands together. “I knew you’d understand.”

Aziraphale wondered how successful his attempts at sobering up had been as he felt the ridiculous urge to start laughing again. One couldn’t blame him, for was an utterly ridiculous situation. All of England was disgusted by the open secret of Oscar’s sexual decadence while filling theatres showing his plays across the country, but all of Heaven would gladly have him continue to bed whomever he liked as long as he lay down his pen. The line between life and art was becoming inexorably blurred, and Aziraphale struggled to see which side he was on— if there were any sides left at all.

“On behalf of all our colleagues, I want to commend you for keeping up this farce,” Gabriel said almost sincerely. “Being near someone like that for any period of time is just… ugh. A nightmare!”

Aziraphale shot him a contemptuous smile. Gabriel smiled back, standing to wander around the bookshop. He paused by the couch, where Aziraphale’s first edition copy of Salomé inscribed with a special dedication to him lay. The world stood still as Gabriel picked it up between two fingers like it was filthy. 

“I was wondering why it smelled so evil in here.” Gabriel wrinkled his nose in disgust. 

All at once, Aziraphale felt suffocated by Oscar’s presence. The shop was littered with first editions of his works, with drafts and manuscripts, with letters of friendship and pain. A bouquet of white lilies stood on a side table, a green carnation fallen from a buttonhole rested on the armrest of the couch near Salomé. Paintings by Rossetti and Burne-Jones that Oscar had tempted him into buying hung boldly upon the walls. A programme for The Importance of Being Earnest lay discarded on a chair. His coat hung by the door. A photograph of his children stood framed upon Aziraphale’s desk, overlooking the damning scattering of papers rescued by Robbie. 

He had been utterly reckless, and if Gabriel opened Salomé and saw Oscar’s heartfelt dedication to him, his fate would be sealed. Angels had fallen for less. He looked up, praying that he still deserved salvation. 

Gabriel threw the book down, wiping his hands on his trousers with a shudder. “You should get rid of that.”

Aziraphale could only nod. 

“We’ve been keeping track of your progress, and I have to say again how much we admire your dedication to the cause.” Gabriel walked over to scoff at Burne-Jones’ Angel Playing a Flageolet before turning to Aziraphale with an unreadable expression on his face. “I know we can trust you to see this through.”

He knew. He had to know. It was foolish to underestimate The Supreme Archangel. He had never been as clueless as he seemed. Gabriel most certainly knew everything, and it was only a matter of time until Aziraphale would have to answer for it all.

“Of course you can trust me,” he traitorously forced out. 

A smile spread across Gabriel’s face and he approached Aziraphale to clap him on the shoulder. His tone was all light joviality again. “I’m sure you’ll be the happiest of us all when you don’t have to degrade yourself by engaging with Oscar Wilde and his people any more.”

Aziraphale gritted his teeth, hating himself for nodding along. 

“Great! I’ll be in touch,” Gabriel promised, walking to the front door. He put his top hat back on and pinned Aziraphale with another unreadable look. “Keep an eye out for the demon Crowley too. I have it on good authority that he’s here, trying to thwart our plans.”

Aziraphale’s fists were so tightly clenched that his nails dug into his palms. If he could barely count all the traces of Oscar in his life, he was terrified to imagine how much of Crowley there may be. He had been so unfathomably stupid. So irresponsible. Parading around London, pretending like he belonged, pretending like he could ever comfortably stand beside the likes of Oscar—beside Crowley—and bring them and himself anything but ruin. 

Of course there were still sides; there was life and art and then there was him. An outsider to all aspects of the human experience.

“I will remain vigilant,” he promised, not only to Gabriel but to himself as well. 

Gabriel nodded. “I’ll be seeing you,” he said, and then he was gone. 

Aziraphale exhaled heavily and the world tilted off its axis beneath him, making him feel ill. He barely managed to drag himself over to Salomé. He kneeled beside the couch, opening the book with shaky hands, reading over Oscar’s dedication one final time.

For Aziraphale, that most radiant Apollo, in friendship, in affection.

From his dear friend, the author.

He squeezed his eyes shut and held the title page between two fingers, trying to build the courage to tear it out. 

The door crashed open again. He scrambled up, hiding the book behind his back while his heart thrashed in his chest. 

“Aziraphale.” Crowley sighed in relief, tearing off his dark glasses to reveal the wild eyes beneath. “I saw Gabriel and I thought- hang on, what are you hiding?”

Aziraphale revealed Salomé— revealed the title page. 

Crowley stepped closer to read the dedication, his eyes narrowing with every word. “That’s… nice. I suppose.” 

“Gabriel very nearly saw it.”

“Oh.”

“I fear I have been unbelievably foolish,” Aziraphale began, the mania-tinged words tumbling from his lips. “Look around you, Crowley. Where in this room is there not a trace of Oscar Wilde? Salomé alone is damning enough— the very text I was ordered to crush! Had Gabriel seen it… had he noticed any one of the clues pointing towards my friendship with Wilde…”

Crowley’s eyes flitted around the room, landing back on Aziraphale. “Yeah, but… he wouldn’t understand any of it. Not really.”

“Precisely!” Aziraphale exclaimed, waving Salomé wildly in the air. 

“You think you’ll get in trouble for letting work turn into pleasure.” He laughed sardonically.

“Please do take this seriously.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Aziraphale. You’ve been free. For five years. Freer than I’ve ever known you to be, anyway. And now, what, you want to just… go back?”

Aziraphale clenched his teeth in frustration. It had been far too long since Crowley was an angel. He didn’t understand—or he refused to understand—that freedom was never truly free for beings like him. The past five years had been borrowed time, and Aziraphale felt like an impious fool for allowing himself to become so lost in Wilde’s decadence. Gabriel’s visit had been a clear warning, a clear reminder. 

“I am an angel.”

Crowley turned away, looking down and running a hand through his hair before turning back again. He crossed his arms, nervously tapping his foot and staring at Aziraphale as though the reminder had personally wounded him.

“I am an angel,” he repeated, more confident now. “The past five years… I never should have allowed any of it to happen. God is a most mysterious teacher, and I have certainly learnt my lesson now!”

Crowley looked like he was seconds away from screaming at him, but the calm, level tone he took was much more chilling. “Vyvyan asked after you, you know. When I broke the news to Constance.”

A chill went down Aziraphale’s spine. “Don’t.”

“He thinks of you as his uncle, he thinks you’re magic.”

“Stop it.”

“He adores you. He begged me to bring him to you.”

“Crowley-”

“He still has a bouquet of flowers you miracled for him-”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted. “Do you think that I do not know these things? Or do you say them only to wound me further?”

“I say them because you need to understand that it isn’t just about the decadence of Taylor’s and absinthe and evenings at the theatre!” Crowley shouted right back. “We- you have built a life here. Constance and Vyvyan and Cyril and Ada and Robbie— who is safe in Calais, in case you were wondering. In case you still care.” He huffed out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. “Forget Oscar, these are the people you're letting down by turning back to Heaven!”

Aziraphale bit back tears, his lips quivering with sorrow and rage. He held up Salomé again. “If Gabriel sees this, then he sees the photo of Cyril and Vyvyan on my desk, he sees my letters to and from Ada and Robbie,” he said slowly, forcing his tone to stay level. “Of course I care. I turn back to Heaven because I care. If my association with these people is discovered, do you not think that they will be just as damned as I?”

“I know they will be,” Crowley said, “and I then have to ask: why are you still working for people who would have that happen?”

“My dear boy, what choice do I have?”

“Everyone has a choice.”

Aziraphale looked at his old friend with great pity. “Free will is a privilege for mortals and the damned. My becoming too involved with anyone in either category not only compromises whomever I cross paths with, but it has the risk of compromising Her whole mission.”

Crowley scoffed, but Aziraphale pressed on.

“While the likes of Gabriel are certainly… unpleasant— She remains at the centre, and She remains good.”

Crowley stood stock-still, opening and closing his mouth, grasping for the right words to say. Aziraphale prayed that he would never find them. 

“You haven’t compromised me,” he said slowly. 

“Not yet.” Aziraphale smiled wryly. “Best not tempt fate.”

Crowley stopped breathing and took a step forward. The fire in his eyes made Aziraphale shudder. Thankfully, this time he was not several bottles of wine deep and could count on his better judgement. He stepped back when Crowley took another step in. 

“Please, don’t.” He clutched Salomé to his chest, trying to ignore the clawing in his chest when the fire froze over in Crowley’s eyes. “I have to get rid of everything,” he said softly. “Gabriel will return, and there can be nothing left of Oscar Wilde when he does.”

“Everything?”

“Not a single person who has ever had the misfortune of wandering into my life will be safe otherwise.”

“Aziraphale-“

“I won’t ask you to help me, but I know that you know why this is necessary. I should understand if you prefer to leave.”

Crowley stepped back, looking around the room. A million different emotions flashed across his face. Aziraphale pretended not to notice any of them. When he eventually smiled, it did not reach his eyes. Aziraphale told himself he didn’t notice that either. 

“Where shall I start?”

Aziraphale's shoulders relaxed. The cycle continued in perpetuity, and they had once again found themselves on familiar—be it shaky—ground.

“Perhaps you can take the Burne-Jones. I’ve noticed how much you admire it.”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

24 April 1895, Aziraphale’s bookshop.

Aziraphale sat alone in his morbidly empty bookshop. The walls had been stripped bare, the shelves had been culled, and there was not a poppy or a lily in sight. This was the stiflingly drab environment that Aziraphale had sat in—in a stew of indecision and grief—for the past two weeks. He could not bring himself to actively aid in Oscar’s downfall, nor could he bring himself to visit his dear friend in prison and be a shoulder to lean on. He was trapped in a purgatory of his own making, in constant anticipation of Archangel Gabriel coming to drag him back through Heaven’s pearly gates.

There had been no visitors in weeks, other than Crowley, but even his patience was beginning to wane. Every time the door opened, Aziraphale expected the worst, and he could feel Crowley’s frustration regarding the matter. He supposed that he should be frustrated back— scold his old friend for not understanding the seriousness of the predicament they were in… but Aziraphale was just tired. 

Most of London already knew that Oscar would lose, so all any of them could do now was wait for it to happen. And so he did. He sat alone, on his worn couch, in his empty bookshop, waiting. When the door crashed open on that day, he forced himself to anticipate Crowley instead of Gabriel. 

“Have you seen this?!” Lord Alfred Douglas shrieked before the door could even close behind him. 

Aziraphale winced, thinking that he’d almost rather see Gabriel.

“Doubt he’s seen much of anything from that couch,” Crowley grumbled, the door slamming into him as he stumbled in after Bosie.

“Oh really, these surroundings are most depressing,” Bosie said with contempt, looking around the room.

Aziraphale only shrugged, moving aside so the little lord could sprawl across the couch beside him. Crowley watched the display with amused indifference.

“Look at this!” Bosie shoved a flyer in his face. 

Aziraphale blinked, reading the horrid words before him.

“16 Tite Street, Chelsea,” he read aloud. “Catalogue of the library of valuable books, pictures, portraits of celebrities, Arundel Society prints, household furniture… Carlyle’s writing table? Good grief.”

“They’re holding an auction today,” Bosie scoffed. “Selling all of Oscar’s things while he rots in prison awaiting trial! Who gave them the right?”

“The gaggle of creditors to whom he owes several thousand pounds, I would assume,” Aziraphale sighed.

“Do you think Oscar really has Thomas Carlyle’s writing table?” Crowley asked. 

“It doesn’t matter if he does, it only matters if people believe that he does,” Bosie replied, a tragic echo of his lover.

Aziraphale really looked at the boy then. He had come flouncing into the shop with all his usual grandeur and bravado, but beneath it all he looked as tired as everyone else. Perhaps more so. His blond hair shone a little less, and the dark circles beneath his eyes appeared to be permanently etched on. 

Crowley had once mentioned that Bosie visited Oscar almost daily, refusing to leave even after Robbie and several others had been forced away. While part of it was certainly just him wanting to be as outwardly defiant towards his father as possible, his devotion was admirable. There was no denying that he genuinely loved Oscar. However much a young man of his tumultuous upbringing could love another man.

Aziraphale’s expression softened as he watched Bosie nervously nibble on his already chewed-down thumbnail. He would never admit to regretting bringing the libel suit against his father, but Aziraphale thought he saw in his eyes that he did. Every time he stepped outside, he risked arrest. Every moment that passed, he risked losing Oscar— maybe for good. He had to know that, and he had to know that the blame lay on him as much as it lay on Oscar. Aziraphale keenly understood how heavy that kind of guilt was. 

“Why haven’t you been down to Holloway anyway?” Bosie accused, dropping his hand in his lap with a glare when he noticed Aziraphale staring. 

He tried to stutter out a coherent reply.

“It’s complicated,” Crowley said slowly. 

Bosie just shrugged, still inexplicably anxious to question Crowley in the same way he would anyone else. “The Leversons are going to the auction, so is Will Rothenstein, and a few other friends. They’re hoping to salvage as much as they can.”

“And will you be attending?”

He looked down, shaking his head. “My presence would only cause scandal.”

Crowley opened his mouth to give a snide comment, but Aziraphale spoke first. “That is most wise. Have you considered joining Robbie in France?”

He started chewing on his nails again, frowning. “I promised my mother I would leave today but… Oscar’s trial begins in two days.”

Aziraphale froze. He stared at Crowley, panicked. 

“I knew you were avoiding the papers so I figured you wouldn’t want to know,” Crowley muttered.

Aziraphale nodded, forcing the information from his mind and keeping his focus on Bosie. “You must keep your promise.”

His frown only deepened. “Oscar told me as much. We have said our goodbyes.”

“He cares about you very deeply, and I know you care for him as well. For this reason you must heed his advice and listen to your mother.”

“I hate to leave him-”

Crowley groaned. “You people are all impossible, do you know that? Must we try and convince half of England to flee to France?”

“I hate to leave him,” Bosie repeated, annoyed, “but I know that I must. It just pains me to do so. I do not want to give the impression that I am running from my father.”

“You give the impression of a young man making a clever choice.”

“First time for everything,” Crowley said with a smile. 

Aziraphale and Bosie rolled their eyes at him in unison.

“I will take the train to Dover when I leave here. I only hope that I won’t be stopped. I am certain that my father is still having me followed.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat, staring at Crowley expectantly. He had assisted Robbie with no hesitation, and leaving the country would be even more precarious for Bosie. Crowley’s help would at least get him to Calais quickly and discreetly. 

“Well,” Crowley began, approaching Bosie, “good luck then.”

He gave him a rough pat on the back, avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes as he strolled out of the bookshop. The silence he left behind was heavy. Unfortunately for Bosie, demons held grudges, but unfortunately for Aziraphale, angels did not. 

“I can assist you to Calais.”

Bosie’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“Yes, dear boy, very easily. The public may be too distracted by the auction to notice you slip away, but we must make haste.”

“Yes, yes. But… well, I suppose I just never thought you saw me as a friend,” he admitted, frowning again. “Perhaps I can acknowledge that at times I am not the easiest friend to keep.”

It was the most genuine thing he had ever said, and Aziraphale could see precisely what it was about him that kept Oscar coming back for more. He was a paradox of capriciousness, his hot-tempered arrogance quelled just as quickly as it came on by astounding displays of innocence and devotion. Perhaps in another life, with a different father, he could have been something altogether different. It was painful to think about. 

“I assure you that all is forgiven,” Aziraphale said sincerely.

Bosie stood with a smile. “When this is behind us, I shall tell the story of this day over a fine glass of champagne at The Savoy, and me, you and Oscar will laugh all together again.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

26 April 1895, Aziraphale’s Bookshop.

Aziraphale and Bosie’s trip to Calais had been a tiring one. As expected, they crossed without any trouble, but it was a long crossing, and even Bosie was too worn out to be his usual talkative self. It was a sombre ordeal. Aziraphale privately hoped that he could briefly see Robbie when they arrived in France, but it was another friend who greeted them at the dock. So he joined them for breakfast, pointedly avoided asking after Robbie, said his goodbyes to Bosie, and took the next available boat home. 

When he walked back into his bookshop early that morning, the reason for Robbie’s absence in Calais became clear, for he currently sat at Aziraphale’s desk, still as a marble statue and no less pale. He looked up when Aziraphale stepped inside, his tired face lighting up. 

“Aziraphale!” Robbie leapt up, wrapping his too-thin arms around him.

Aziraphale paused, his hands hovering over Robbie’s back before returning the embrace. It worried him to feel the bones beneath his skin so sharply. He pulled back and ran his eyes over his friend. His hair had been cut coarsely short while his facial hair had grown out. It did little to hide his sharp cheekbones and sunken eyes.

“Robbie, my dear friend, when was the last time you ate?”

He pulled away, averting his gaze. “I can stomach nothing.”

“Let me at least get you a scone.”

Robbie paused for a moment, looking at him incredulously before bursting into laughter. “Oh, how I have missed you.”

Aziraphale tutted. “Please, it has been hardly more than two weeks.”

“Far too long,” he said, sitting heavily down on the couch. “Go on, then. Bring me that scone.”

Aziraphale nodded, rushing into his kitchen to thickly butter three scones and make a rather large cup of warm, sweet tea. He hesitated before going back to Robbie, making himself a scone and some tea as well, hoping that his friend would feel more comfortable eating if they shared a meal. 

“You spoil me,” Robbie said when Aziraphale placed the plate on his lap. 

He sat beside him and started nibbling on his own scone, trying not to stare while Robbie grimaced at his plate. When he finally took a proper bite, Aziraphale exhaled in relief. It took far too long for him to get through a single scone, but it was better than nothing.

“So,” Robbie began, pausing to sip his tea, “the trial begins in an hour.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, suddenly finding himself unable to stomach the damn scone. “Well, I have just returned from Calais, believe it or not.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I assisted Bosie on his journey across the channel.”

“What a shame that I missed him,” Robbie said sarcastically. 

Aziraphale tutted. “He isn’t all bad.”

“I know.” Robbie sighed. “All we can do now is go back to The Old Bailey and pray that Clarke is skilled enough to grant Oscar his freedom.”

Aziraphale clenched his fists at his sides, trying to stop himself from shaking. “I’m afraid I cannot.”

“Cannot what? Pray?” Robbie scoffed. “It’s simple, really. You must accompany me to Mass someday, Catholicism will agree with you beautifully.”

“I cannot go back to The Old Bailey.”

Robbie blinked, reeling back with a half-smile. “A most distasteful joke, Aziraphale, really.”

“Robbie,” Aziraphale’s voice broke, “I fear I am not joking.”

Aziraphale felt small under Robbie’s confused stare. His chest was heaving with fear and guilt. He dug his nails into his palms in a feeble attempt to keep himself grounded. There was a real chance of Gabriel being present at Wilde’s trials, and if he saw Aziraphale sitting between Robbie and Crowley then they were all doomed. Hurting Robbie now was a pain he didn’t think he could live with, but it was better than sentencing him to damnation.

“Aziraphale,” Robbie said softly, “what has happened? Has somebody threatened you?”

He couldn’t stop himself from shaking now. “In a sense.”

“Who?”

“It’s- I cannot say. Somebody I have known for far longer than I have known you or Oscar. Somebody dangerous. I cannot explain or justify it, but I cannot come with you.”

Robbie took Aziraphale’s shaking hand, looking into his eyes with such tenderness and understanding that it hurt. “In the time I have known you, you have inspired me to be brave and true. You have helped me more than I can say. Let it be my turn now.”

Aziraphale shook his head, taking back his hand. “It is not that simple.”

“Then let it be difficult!”

“Robbie.” Aziraphale sighed. “There is nothing I can say to make you understand, and nothing you can do to change my fate.”

Robbie frowned. “Come to The Old Bailey with me, for Oscar, and then come to France with me when it is over. It seems that is a popular destination for men like us now.”

Aziraphale sighed again. He should never have found himself in this position. He should never have allowed himself to become close enough to Robbie for it to even become a possibility. Now he was cursed with the painful burden of having a devoted friend. 

“I cannot.”

“You can.”

“I- I cannot.”

Robbie shook his head, losing patience. “To abandon Oscar now would be a gross betrayal.”

“I know.”

“And so?”

“Robbie, I cannot go.”

He stood up, pacing around the room with his arms crossed. “I was wondering what the reasons were for all your sudden interior design changes. Now I think I understand.”

“You must understand that my associations with you and Oscar are extremely dangerous for the both of you. That is my chief concern.”

“I do not understand. Not at all.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said again. “To explain would only put you in even more danger.”

“I wish you would let me decide how much danger I am willing to take on.”

“You are certainly not ready for this much, I assure you.”

Robbie glared at him. “You condescend me.”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale insisted, feeling that this was going horribly wrong, but knowing that there was no other way for it to go. “I just- it’s just that-”

“Aziraphale. I came all the way from France.” He stopped pacing right in front of Aziraphale, staring down at him with exhaustion and pain in his eyes. 

“I know, and I am so sorry. I cannot express how sorry I am. I wish it were different, I wish I could- I just wish it were different.”

“Only you have the power to make it different.”

“I wish it were that simple.”

Robbie turned away with tense shoulders. “I have never known you to be a coward.”

Aziraphale’s wretched scone turned in his stomach. He felt rotten to the core. “I’m sorry.”

“Apologies are a cheap substitute for action.”

“I- I will find you after the trial. I will-”

Robbie spun around, gesticulating wildly as he really screamed at Aziraphale for the first time in five years, “There will very likely not be an after!”

The words were a shot to the chest. Aziraphale cringed away from them, pressing his back deep into the couch as he cowered beneath the weight of his failings. 

“Robbie-”

“Come. With. Me.”

Aziraphale gasped, sucking in a ragged breath, knowing he had no right to cry. “I can’t.”

“Then I hope you can live with yourself,” he said, before turning to leave.

“Robbie, wait, I will see you later on. I- I swear it. I will come to your hotel.”

Robbie turned around one final time. There was no hatred in his eyes when he spoke, only sorrow. “Don’t bother."

Chapter Text

Aziraphale

“Let there be light!”

Raphael gasped as the endless colours of the cosmos exploded around them. After a formless eternity spent in stark white, it was overwhelming. That She could even conceptualise such brightness, such much beauty, it was a miracle. The angel beside him giggled, giddy. Raphael couldn’t blame him, for to be tasked with such a marvellous miracle was the greatest honour, and he had executed it beyond perfection.

“It’s beautiful,” Raphael said in awe. 

“Isn’t it just,” the angel whispered. “Sorry, what was your name again?”

“Raphael.”

The angel tore his eyes away from his creation, staring at Raphael in shock. “Archangel! I apologise, I should have known. Thank you for coming to check on my little project.”

“This is the first time we have taken physical form, I don’t suppose there is any way you could have known.” Raphael smiled. “The pleasure is all mine…”

“Jophiel.”

The beauty of God. Looking at the starlight reflecting off his shining auburn curls and dancing in his chocolate eyes, it was easy to see why he was named as such. 

“A fitting name for one who brings about such beauty,” Raphael said sincerely. “I’m the one who should have recognised you, Archangel.”

Jophiel ducked his head with a bashful smile. “Thank you, Archangel Raphael.”

“I believe first names alone will do us perfectly fine, dear Jophiel.”

He nodded, still smiling as he turned to watch a star system rush by.

“It’s almost a shame that it only has six thousand years to flourish.” Raphael sighed.

Jophiel frowned. “Pardon me?”

“Yes, word from upstairs is that we’re shutting it all down again in about six thousand years.” 

There was an unfamiliar heavy feeling in his gut as Jophiel’s face fell. 

“But… that’s nothing! That’s… why? Why even bother with it all?”

The heavy feeling grew to the point of discomfort as he explained Her plans for Earth, for humanity, and for their end. Jophiel looked thoroughly wretched by the time he was through. He turned away again, appearing deep in thought.

“Why don’t we put Earth in the middle of the universe? So they can at least see more of it,” he eventually suggested. “It’s a nicer spot, anyway. They might like it more.”

Raphael’s chest tugged with something akin to admiration. For the artist to have such a deep concern for the doomed creatures who would only see the outer edges of his creation was incomprehensible. It was markedly un-angelic. It was fascinating. He wrung his hands, forcing himself to become distracted by a supermassive black hole spinning beneath his feet before his thoughts could get away from him even more.

“It is not our job to advise The Almighty on the details of creation.”

“We’re Archangels, if its not our job then whose job is it?” He huffed, his heavenly face tarnished with the unfamiliar burden of sorrow. “Someone ought to tell Her that this is a really, really terrible idea!”

Raphael blinked, barely able to comprehend the words he was hearing. He was certain that they’d never been uttered before. “I suspect that would be rather inappropriate.” 

Jophiel frowned deeply. “Well, I don’t suppose anyone would object to me putting a note about it in the suggestions box.”

Raphael’s mind was racing. Another fresh star zipped by, leaving a trail of yellow and blue in its wake. It really was gorgeous; a testament to Jophiel’s own divine beauty. It should be given eternity to thrive, Jophiel should be given eternity to- 

He shook his head before he could finish the thought. 

“Jophiel, The Almighty does not have a suggestions box.”

“If I was in charge, I would have a suggestions box,” he muttered. “I’d welcome questions! Fresh point of view, you know?”

Raphael nervously looked around as Jophiel rather loudly continued on with his complaints. Every word he uttered was sharper and more impossible than the last. Something had shifted— something intrinsic to what Raphael was. He felt unstable all of a sudden, like he was at risk of falling directly into the black hole below. He fought the urge to grab Jophiel and cover his mouth. He whispered quiet words of contrition to himself instead. They would be the first of many.

“Word to the wise,” he interrupted, “I’d hate to see you… getting into any trouble.”

Jophiel fell into silence, admiring the great nebula before them. “Thanks for the advice, Raphael. I wouldn’t worry though. How much trouble can I get into just for asking a few questions?”

***

The memories came like bullets. From the beginning, to The Great War, to Crowley’s first fall, to his memories being taken, and to false ones being implanted in their wake. A tragic picture was being painted in his broken mind. A picture not of one rebellious angel, but of two. Of Jophiel and Raphael; two Archangels meeting first amongst nebulae and then again at the table of The Almighty… and then again, in more clandestine settings, sharing hushed blasphemies as their friendship grew into something almost human.

Until they’d been discovered, because they were not human at all. They were Archangels. Solitary creatures born with the singular burden of wanting more— of wanting each other. It was almost poetic that they had found each other again on Earth. Intimacy born with the stars was not as easy to erase as a memory. 

Aziraphale hated himself for wasting so many millennia fighting what had been in right front of him the whole time. He hated Metatron for tearing it away, and he hated God for enabling him to do so.

“Oh, Darling. How could you ever forgive me?”

Crowley groaned beneath him, looking so small wrapped up in Aziraphale’s jacket. His skin was tarnished with sulphur burns, the bare bones of his wings jutted out at unnatural angles, and he was the most beautiful creature in all the cosmos. Seeing him wince and writhe in pain made Aziraphale entirely forget about his own state. His back was lashed with sulphur, his wings were black and sparse, his fists and knees were raw from how he kneeled over Crowley on the gravel. He didn’t care. He didn’t dare to move. 

Suddenly, they were both bathed in a warm, bright light. It tickled Aziraphale’s wounded back and shone in rays through his wings, illuminating Crowley’s crumpled face. He frowned, trying to sit up. Aziraphale was struck with a raw sense of panic, diligently keeping his eyes trained on Crowley, refusing to acknowledge anything outside of the protective bubble his wings still formed. The light grew brighter still, and a deep rumbling sound was beginning to approach them.

The End was now. Aziraphale had woefully misjudged the effect that destroying the book would have on reality, and it was all crumbling around them. His heart stopped in his chest. Crowley had managed to prop himself up on his elbows and stared at Aziraphale with an unreadable expression. The rumbling grew closer. It sounded like a million thundering footsteps. Hell’s army come to finish the job. Or Heaven’s. Aziraphale figured that there wasn’t much difference anymore.

He looked over every line and angle of Crowley’s face; at his golden eyes, shining like one final sunset. He frantically tried committing every inch of him to memory before God or Satan or Fate took them both once and for all.

There isn’t enough time.

Crowley sighed. “Angel, could you-”

Aziraphale kissed him. 

Crowley froze, falling onto his back again with a wince. Aziraphale followed him down, pouring everything they would never have time to say into the desperate embrace. Electricity sizzled in the air around them when their lips met again, he tasted like sulphur and starlight. Warmth flooded through Aziraphale’s body and exploded like a supernova in his gut. His heart restarted with fervour. Crowley’s lips moved with his as though they were created for no other purpose. He whimpered, and Aziraphale was suddenly conscious of crushing his battered body into the gravel. He sat back on his knees, straddling Crowley’s thighs. 

“Fuck you,” Crowley exclaimed, breathlessly. 

Aziraphale blinked. “Pardon me?”

“Fuck you!” He grabbed onto Aziraphale’s waistcoat with both hands and pulled himself up to crush their lips together again. 

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him, holding them both together. He shivered as Crowley’s tongue darted into his mouth, instinctively grabbing a handful of his singed hair. Crowley moaned, and the feeling of it against his lips shifted the very foundation of the ground upon which they sat. He was a man starved, and he felt like a fool for not indulging more readily in the feast that had been before him all along.

The thundering footsteps were right by them now, and Crowley pulled away. Aziraphale gasped at the loss of him. Despite the injuries, he was glowing with debauchery. He pulled Aziraphale’s coat tightly around himself and Aziraphale flushed, trying to look anywhere but down. 

“Fuck you,” Crowley hissed again, looking past him now that his wings were forgotten.

Aziraphale frowned, wondering when Death would come. The light was bearing down on his back. He squinted over his shoulder, following Crowley’s gaze, blinking furiously. The sight was inconceivable. He stood up frantically, trying to ignore the pain that flooded back into his system. 

The light appeared as a tunnel of some kind. It was warm like the morning sun, beckoning a hoard of millions—maybe billions—of souls towards it. Aziraphale watched in awe as they all disappeared into the welcome embrace of the other side. A pregnant woman in rags, muttering ancient Latin prayers; a fierce soldier in plate armour, missing an arm; an elderly man in modern clothing with skin like chalk. All peacefully saying goodbye to their eternities in exchange for peace. Aziraphale felt a tear fall down his cheek, but he didn’t dare to close his eyes for the moment it would take to blink it away. He just watched on as all the former inhabitants of Heaven and Hell finally found nirvana. 

He frowned when a group of familiar faces from 1941 approached the light. When they tried to step through, they were swiftly eviscerated with a sizzle, and it was as though they’d never been there at all. Aziraphale nodded gravely, watching true justice take hold as the few purely evil souls that had once walked Earth were erased from the fabric of the afterlife.

“Where d’you think those ones go?” 

Aziraphale jumped, not having noticed Crowley drag himself into a standing position beside him. He still looked worse for wear, but he was standing. They were standing together. 

“Nowhere, I suppose.” Aziraphale sniffed. “Perhaps they are to be reborn, until they get it right.”

Crowley cringed as a Soviet dictator was zapped into nonexistence. “I hope not.”

“Well,” Aziraphale paused, watching the same happen to a notorious serial killer, “Earth cannot exist without good and evil in equal measure.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, wincing in pain as he tried to cross his arms. Aziraphale was suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of all that needed to be said. He licked his lips, still tasting Crowley on them, determined to finally see through the conversation they had been dancing around for six thousand years.

“Crowley-”

He was cut off by a voice from another life. “My dear Aziraphale, I always knew you were an angel.”

He stumbled back—nearly tripping over a fallen stalactite—when Oscar stepped out before him. He stood tall in a worn prison uniform, pallid and short-haired with blood leaking from his right ear. All the guilt, fear, and loss from the 1890s washed over Aziraphale at once. It was like no time had passed at all.

“Can you believe what they have me wearing down here?” he exclaimed, melodramatic until long past the end.

Aziraphale could do nothing but stare. Crowley was tense beside him, tightly holding the jacket around his bruised and battered body. Oscar cocked his head to the side, looking down at his old friends with melancholic curiosity. The gentleness still fiercely present in his eyes was too much for Aziraphale to bear.

“I’d thought myself still in prison. When I died it was as though I just opened my eyes again in Cell 3.3. I could walk on for eternity but never find my way out.” He paused, frowning as though trying to recollect something long gone. “In life the wardens at least provided me with pencils and paper. Here I could never write a word.”

Aziraphale was shaking with the indignity of it. “I am so sorry, Oscar. I-” His voice broke. There wasn’t a big enough word to express the depth of his guilt.

Oscar smiled. “Dear boy, you did not put me here, I have no use for an unwarranted apology.”

“I could have done more. I could have intervened, I could have forced you to flee, I could have sent you from of London and-”

“And removed my free will? No, no. That would have been most unlike you,” Oscar fondly replied. “I found my own way of being down here, after a time. I walked. I told myself the stories I would never be able to write. The pleasures of the body I so readily chased in life have been taken away from me entirely, I am nothing but soul now, Aziraphale. An artist needn’t have anything more.”

Aziraphale had no answer to that. He stepped forward instead, tentatively reaching out to his friend. Oscar held out his arms, sadly, as though he knew exactly what would happen. Aziraphale’s hand passed right through his form, like he wasn’t even there. His chest ached with the finality of it.

“You really are gone,” Aziraphale whispered. “I am truly sorry.”

“In life I shattered my own ivory tower and foisted the blame upon many undeserving people. Part of me knew that you were not a person as such, and therefore you remained blameless to the end. But if you wish to be forgiven by me regardless, then you are.” Oscar leaned in to whisper in Aziraphale’s ear, “I forgive you. Now you must forgive yourself.”

Aziraphale’s tears fell freely. A heavy sickness that had been wedged in his heart for over a century was finally lifted, and he gazed upon the artist with reverence. The moment was quickly shattered by a group of soldiers being eviscerated close by. 

“My time has come,” Oscar said gravely, standing up straight and smoothing out his uniform as he looked to Crowley. “Sunset boy. You have never shone more radiantly than you do now; stripped to your most natural form and kissed by an angel.”

Crowley opened and closed his mouth, a thousand emotions flashing through his eyes. “Thank you,” he said slowly, “for being there for Aziraphale when I couldn’t be.”

“But now you can be, and you should be; as long as the sun continues to rise, you must kneel together at the altar of love. The English public may never accept that you kneel there together, but together you must remain.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Oh, Oscar. Men like us needn’t hide any longer. It is not a perfect world, and many are still in opposition, but two men or two women can now legally marry in England if they so choose.”

Oscar gasped, bringing a hand to his mouth in shock as tears glistened in his eyes. “Legally?”

“Yes, completely.”

“Thank you, Aziraphale. Thank you. There is no news more joyous that you could have sent me to the afterlife with. I am very much in awe. In fact I believe I am somewhat at a loss for words, what a fascinating sensation.”

“You’re still talking a lot for someone at a loss for words,” Crowley said without malice.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes fondly, flinching as another soul was eviscerated.

“I must ask one more thing of you, before I go. It is a self-indulgent thing, and I fear the answer, but I feel as though I cannot move on until I know-”

“You’re a legend,” Crowley cut him off with a sigh. “Dorian Gray has been required reading in schools across the world for decades, scholars and amateurs alike read and research your works and life endlessly, people still perform your plays everywhere in several languages. Your old manuscripts, first editions, and belongings sell in auctions for tens of thousand of pounds. There are statues of you across the United Kingdom, almost everywhere you’ve been has some kind of memorial plaque on it… did I miss anything?”

“Your tomb was covered with so many kisses and lipstick stains from admirers that they had to erect a glass barrier because it was beginning to erode the stone,” Aziraphale added. “You are beloved, Oscar.”

“And your sons never forgot you,” Crowley said quickly. “Vyvyan had a son of his own, and then he had a son too. Your grandson still does endless research and work to share the truth about who you were.”

He clutched his heart, looking up with a smile, shaking his head in disbelief. “Thank you,” he said, still looking up. “Thank you.”

Aziraphale turned around, suddenly hearing footsteps in the distance behind him. Beelzebub. Their clothing was torn, their hair was dishevelled, and they were walking hand-in-hand with a very dazed looking Gabriel, closely followed by Adam, Warlock, and Suso. 

“Friends of yours?” Oscar asked. 

Aziraphale smiled, watching the group slow down as Gabriel struggled to stay upright. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Angel,” Crowley said softly, forcing Aziraphale’s attention back to the tunnel of light, “look.”

Another soul stepped towards them. An older man in a dull grey suit, with a full moustache, very little hair, and sparkling hazel eyes. He stopped a few paces behind Oscar, meeting Aziraphale’s alarmed stare with nothing but kindness before focusing on his one true love.

“Oscar,” he said.

Oscar’s face broke out in a smile that made him look ten years younger and very much alive. “My Eurydice, could it be? I dare not turn around.”

He laughed. “I see death has not made you any less yourself, my friend.”

Beelzebub, Gabriel, and the children reached them then. Beelzebub held out an arm, keeping the children back as they took in the scene apprehensively. Adam craned his neck, his eyes widening when he quickly recognised who stood before them. 

“Oscar Wilde?” He gasped. “The Selfish Giant is like my favourite old story ever, except for maybe The Little Prince-”

Beelzebub shushed him.

“Never stop reading, dear child. With a friend like Aziraphale I dare say you may even become an artist yourself some day,” Oscar said warmly. “Now I must bid you all adieu, and apologise for not having the time to make your acquaintance.” He inhaled deeply and turned around. “Oh, Robbie. You have aged with grace, I would recognise you anywhere.”

Robbie held out his arms, and Oscar strode to meet his embrace. Aziraphale and his friends watched on in rapt silence as the two men held one another. Robbie met Aziraphale’s eyes over Oscar’s shoulder, gazing at him with a warm openness that knocked the breath out of him. He nodded with a soft smile, and Aziraphale nodded back, flooded with a tranquil sense of gratitude. 

Oscar pulled back after a while, taking Robbie’s hand so they could walk towards the tunnel together. Aziraphale held his breath as they approached the light. Their forms flickered for a moment, briefly transforming into much younger men, dressed in the aesthetic fashion of their time and unburdened by the years of suffering they’d both endured. They crossed the threshold laughing, hand-in-hand, and then they were gone. 

Aziraphale stared after them for far too long until Beelzebub coughed pointedly. He jumped, forcing himself back to reality.

“Yes, well then.” He cleared his throat, blinking away the last of his tears. “I suppose we should go?”

“I don’t think there’s much holding this place together anymore. Hell, Heaven, any of it. I don’t think we’ll make it out if we don’t leave before all the souls have passed on,” Beelzebub said with urgency. “You look like shit, by the way.” They nodded at Crowley with a relieved smile.

He smiled back, walking slowly to join them. They whispered something in his ear, causing him to glare halfheartedly before allowing them to wind an arm around his waist, helping him hobble along. When they walked away, Crowley did not look back. Aziraphale frowned, wondering if he had misjudged things yet again. He sighed, smiling weakly at Gabriel as he followed Beelzebub’s lead. 

“Can you believe it?” the (ex?) Archangel exclaimed. “One moment—bam!—I’m on the floor, then… I don’t know! But I’m back! Wow. So, you destroyed the book?”

“We did.”

“Ugh, you are amazing, Aziraphale,” he said with unfamiliar sincerity, walking slowly, clearly not yet used to being upright again. “So much just happened, I don’t even know where to go from here.”

Aziraphale looked ahead at Crowley’s tense back as he limped out of Hell with Beelzebub. “No, neither do I.”

Crowley

Crowley was in an immense amount of pain. He was gritting his teeth so tightly that he worried they would shatter when the glow of Heaven finally came into view. It felt like they’d been walking for hours. Beelzebub’s arm around him was an anchor, keeping him upright and tethered to reality. He tried to hide his agony when they approached a steep climb in the final section.

“You got this?” Beelzebub asked.

“Obviously. Shut up,” Crowley muttered.

They sighed but took his word for it, dragging him along as they fought their way to the top. He felt Aziraphale hovering right behind him, irritated and embarrassed by his concern.

So they had done it. They’d destroyed The Book, gotten their memories back, and liberated the damned. The Aziraphale nimbly climbing up the rubble behind him knew it all. He’d hoped to have at least one conversation with the angel before being dragged into a pity kiss. His lips still tingled with the profound connection they so briefly shared, over six thousand years in the making, culminating in a desperate goodbye that didn’t end up being a goodbye at all. He wondered if Aziraphale would have done it if he didn’t think they were seconds away from meeting Death. He was terrified to know the answer.

Perhaps if Oscar bloody Wilde hadn’t interrupted he’d know already. Even in death, the man was ubiquitous in all the wrong moments. At least he got his—admittedly deserved—happy ending. Crowley was relieved when it was Robbie who stepped out of the light. If it had been Bosie he would have had to believe that She was still in control. Not that he thought the little lord deserved to be zapped from existence, he just didn’t belong in Oscar’s nirvana, not like Robbie did. Robbie, who’d held his hand as he took his final breath and then had his own ashes placed in Oscar’s tomb decades after. It had always been Robbie, it was just a shame that Oscar hadn’t realised it until he was already dead.

“Few more steps, Crowley, come on,” Beelzebub prompted. 

He winced, leaning heavily into them as they held him tightly around the waist and used all their strength to hoist him up from the sharp rocks and onto the shining marble floors of Heaven. He exhaled heavily, rolling onto his back, shivering on the cold floor, relieved that it was over. He frowned when his hand brushed against something familiar lying beside him. He looked to the side and froze. The green carnations. Through all the war and destruction, they had survived, still as bright and radiant as they were when he plucked them from the plant on Aziraphale’s desk. He swallowed thickly, scrambling to pick them up before anyone else could spot them.

Beelzebub clambered up shortly after he secured the flowers tightly in his hand, reaching down to help Adam and Warlock through the broken gap in the floor. Suso leaped up easily, followed by Gabriel who clumsily made his own way. Aziraphale climbed through last, frowning when he saw Crowley lying exhausted on the floor.

He dragged himself upright before the angel could fuss too much, taking stock of his surroundings. It was a grim sight. The hole they’d climbed through wasn’t the only one, and the floor wasn’t the only thing that had been destroyed. Several of the large windows were shattered, white feathers and scraps of fabric clinging to the jagged edges. Many of the overhead lights were smashed as well, scattering eerie patches of shade across the expansive space. Most strikingly of all, Heaven was empty. 

“Where is everyone?” he asked, looking around.

“Most of the ones who were fighting and doing the dirty work were souls from Earth, so they fucked right off when—I assume—The Book melted and the other side opened up.” Beelzebub shrugged. “The ones who were always up here stuck around for a while, but when they remembered everything and realised that they were fighting for nothing, they sort of scattered. I’m not sure where they wandered off to.”

“And Metatron?”

“He disappeared first, and when I say disappeared I really mean it. I was two seconds away from tearing his ugly face off when he literally just vanished.”

“I tore his page out first,” Aziraphale said, “before I destroyed The Book. I tore out his page and destroyed it separately.”

“So it’s like he never existed at all,” Crowley murmured, in awe of his friend’s courage.

“Why do we still remember him, then?” Beelzebub asked. “I could do without those memories.”

Aziraphale mulled over the question for a moment. “When the book itself was destroyed, so was the divine ability to tamper with matters of the mind. Every soul and celestial being within the book was freed from this terrible influence, therefore remembering even those outside of it.”

Everyone fell into silence, and Crowley tried and failed to wrap his head around the idea of true freedom. The ground beneath them began to shake, and another gaping hole opened up nearby.

“We’d better pray that the elevator still works,” Beelzebub shouted over the noise. “Come on!”

“I don’t think that prayer holds very much weight any more,” Aziraphale replied, ushering the children ahead before following them in the direction of the elevator. 

Crowley stared after him in disbelief. For someone who’d held onto nothing but his faith for all time he was certainly adapting to its sudden absence rather well. 

“Come on.” Beelzebub grabbed hold of him again, practically dragging him along. 

He tried his best to keep up, but the shaking ground didn’t help. His legs felt like jelly. Black spots exploded in the corners of his vision. He knew he was slowing the group down. He thought he might collapse. Aziraphale stopped in his tracks, as though sensing his waning strength. He sent Gabriel ahead with the children and ran back to where Crowley and Beelzebub slowly soldiered on.

“What’re you doing?” Crowley slurred. 

Aziraphale said nothing, he only put a strong arm around his waist, helping Beelzebub bring him to safety. 

“You’re hurt too,” Crowley muttered.

“I’m quite alright.”

Crowley didn’t have the energy to respond. He focused all he had on putting one foot in front of the other, trying not to get lost in the feeling of Aziraphale’s hand on his waist. When they arrived at the elevator doors, that hand tightened as they were greeted by another unwelcome presence.

Adam and Warlock stood behind Gabriel, who was facing off against Archangel Michael while Suso growled by his side. Crowley squinted as they approached the scene, wondering if he was hallucinating.

“Is she holding your sword?” he asked Aziraphale.

Michael looked as battle-worn as any of them, holding one hand up to seemingly try and placate Gabriel while the other hung by her side with Aziraphale’s flaming sword clasped in it. She turned to face them, and Aziraphale gently shoved Crowley back onto Beelzebub, stepping in front of them both.

“Michael,” he said with authority, “let us pass, please.”

She smiled at him, approaching with the sword raised. Aziraphale reacted so quickly that Crowley could barely make sense of it. His wings unfurled in the same split second that he reached for Michael’s arm. Crowley’s heart fluttered, and he wondered again if his eyes were playing tricks on him.

In Hell, Aziraphale’s wings had been jet-black. In Heaven, they were pure white. Now, with both Hell and Heaven on the brink of destruction, they wafted out in startling shades of grey. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. 

“Stand down, Aziraphale,” Michael said with a sigh. She threw the sword down at his feet, raising her hands in surrender. “I just wanted to return that to you. You’re not the only angel who was getting sick of the chain of command up here.”

Beelzebub let out a scandalised gasp. Crowley craned his neck to get a better view. Surely he was at least hearing things, there was no other logical explanation.

Michael slowly unfurled her own silver-toned wings. “You’re just the only one who didn’t remember what happened to the last angel who complained about it. None of us would have had the courage without you.”

“Holy shit,” Beelzebub whispered, meeting Crowley’s disbelieving stare.

Aziraphale hesitated before slowly picking up his sword. “Where are the others?”

“Fled. Mostly to Earth, some went to other star systems. I don’t think anyone really knows what to do with all this freedom.” She pushed the elevator button.

Aziraphale folded in his wings. “What will you do with it?”

She smiled, letting her own wings fade away as the elevator doors dinged open. “I think I’ll go to Venice.”

Everyone quickly clambered inside. Crowley was relieved to be on stable ground. As they began their descent, a strange feeling began to tingle through his body. He frowned, looking down at himself. He was healing. He looked to Aziraphale with wide eyes. The angel smiled back as though he were something beautiful. He quickly looked away, tightening his grip on the surely crushed green carnations.

“Hey, guys, Anthony looks normal again!” Warlock pointed at Crowley, amazed.

“Thanks for that,” he muttered. 

When the elevator doors opened again, Crowley was entirely himself, dark glasses and all. He brought his now empty hand to his chest, chuckling to himself when he noticed one of the carnations back in his lapel. When he stole a glance at Aziraphale’s back, he saw that his jacket was neatly back on. In fact, there were no wounds in sight on any of them. He rolled his shoulders with a contented sigh, stepping out into the busy London streets.

A young couple walked past, a red-faced man jogged by, a trio of exhausted looking mothers pushing shiny new strollers crossed the street up ahead. Traffic buzzed, shops opened, life continued moving along. He wanted to stop everyone he saw and tell them that they didn’t need to fear Death any longer. All these souls could welcome him as an old friend, content in the knowledge that the only thing they would face on the other side now was true peace. 

He closed his eyes, tilting his face towards the morning sun. For the first time in six thousand years, he could confidently look up and know that no one was watching. He opened his eyes again, just in time to see Michael reach out to shake Aziraphale’s hand.

“Do enjoy Venice. The seafood there is divine,” he smiled. 

“I will,” she promised. “Thank you for what you did today.”

He nodded once, letting go of her hand and watching her teleport out.

“Um, guys? I’m really happy we saved the world and everything, but can someone please take me home now? I’m really tired,” Adam admitted.

“Oh, of course!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “I’m sorry that you two had to see all of that.”

“Are you kidding?” Adam grinned. “I got to meet Oscar Wilde’s ghost!”

“Of course that’s what he remembers,” Crowley muttered. 

“We’ll bring him back,” Beelzebub said, looking between Crowley and Aziraphale. “I’m sure you two have… other things to do.”

Crowley scowled at them, pointedly not looking at Aziraphale’s flushed cheeks.

“Thanks for all your help. Sorry for the lifelong trauma,” Crowley said, ruffling Adam’s hair. “Good luck with the hellhound.” He nodded at Warlock.

“So… I can keep Suso?” He nervously chewed on his lip. 

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, who seemed equally at a loss.

“Yeah, you can.” Adam grinned, leaning down to hug the great beast. “I remember now. When I had him he was tiny, and his name was Dog.”

“That’s a rubbish name,” Warlock said. 

“I don’t think I’m as smart as you,” Adam replied, frowning up at his fellow antichrist. “Maybe you can lend me the book his new name came from.”

“Adam you are not reading Doctor Faustus, that’s mental. I don’t know a single adult who would read that book for pleasure, let alone a kid,” Crowley insisted. “Aziraphale doesn’t count.”

“It’s pretty hard to read,” Warlock said, pausing. “I don’t really want to go home.”

“That’s okay, you can come to my house!” Adam excitedly exclaimed.

Crowley looked fondly down at the boys. While he was certain that Arthur and Deirdre would welcome their son back with open arms, regardless of all their newly reinstated memories, he wasn’t so certain of Warlock’s fate.

“Can I actually?” Warlock hesitantly asked.

“Yeah! I really want you to visit me lots now, so you should see my house and meet my mum and dad.” Adam blushed. “I mean, if you want to. Sorry.”

Warlock stared at him as though the very concept of what he was offering was alien. “Alright,” he mumbled.

Adam’s face lit up. “Wicked.”

Beelzebub nodded, organising the boys and the dog between them and Gabriel.

“Where are you headed after this?” Crowley asked. 

They smiled up at Gabriel. “I don’t care. Anywhere.”

“Anywhere with you is Heaven to me,” Gabriel replied, pressing his lips to the top of their head.

“Gross,” Adam and Warlock said in unison.

“Agreed,” Crowley said with a grin. “Good luck, see you around.”

“And thank you,” Aziraphale added, “both of you.”

The five of them disappeared with a quiet pop, and then Aziraphale and Crowley were alone. They stood apart, looking anywhere but at each other. Crowley watched a man in a crumpled suit speed past, shouting into his cellphone. Should he be the first to speak? He always was. Although everything had changed, they were still them, and it would always be down to Crowley to crush the tension. He cleared his throat, trying to remember their script.

“Perhaps we should… talk,” Aziraphale clumsily blurted out.

Crowley blinked at him. He was rocking nervously from foot to foot, wringing his hands. Far from the fearsome angel who had liberated the world. 

“Alright.” He shrugged, following Aziraphale at a safe distance as he made his way back to his bookshop.

He walked inside ahead of Aziraphale with all his defences up, scowling to hide the anxiety, refusing to cling onto hope for the thousandth time. The door closed heavily, leaving them together in stifling silence. Aziraphale stopped a few paces behind him.

“I would like to apologise,” he began in an unsteady voice. “I… I don’t think I should have done what I did.”

Crowley turned around slowly with a heavy heart. He knew it was coming, as he always did, but it didn’t hurt any less, as it never would.

“I didn’t think we would have time for a conversation, you see.” Aziraphale’s eyes were wide, he was still wringing his hands. “I very much thought it was the end of the line.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, hoping he sounded unbothered. “The end times can make the best of us lose our better judgement. Don’t worry about it.”

Aziraphale exhaled with a smile. “I’m very glad that you understand.”

Crowley shrugged. He understood perfectly well. Not even the fundamental restructuring of the universe and the acquisition of long lost memories would be enough. It was a sombre sense of closure. Whatever Raphael and Jophiel had once built was long gone.

“I also feel the need to apologise for my trepidation,” Aziraphale said, carefully plucking each word from the air as though he was determined to find exactly the right ones. “I greatly regret the time that was stolen from us, and intend to make up for it, if you will let me.”

“You have nothing to make up for,” Crowley muttered. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“At the very least, I owe you a kiss worthy of you.”

Crowley coughed, choking on air. “What?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale froze, his face twisting into a mask of panic. “I apologise. I am being most presumptuous. This is all very new to me, you see. I-”

“Shut up,” Crowley demanded, his head spinning. “You just told me you regret kissing me!”

Aziraphale frowned. “I regret the timing, my dear. I thought that was clear.”

Crowley laughed cynically, pacing back and forth, roughly running a hand through his hair. His heart was slamming into his ribcage with fervour. His brain was running a million miles an hour, frantically trying to wrap his head around what Aziraphale was saying. Trying to find a meaning behind his words that didn’t fill his soul with more doomed hope.

“I regret that you didn’t seem to want me to do it, and that I did it anyway.”

“What the fuck did you think I wanted in 1895? In 1941? Back on Valentine’s Day?” He yelled. “When have I ever not wanted you, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale inhaled sharply. “I didn’t have any context for your actions then. I had even less context for my own feelings. So I forced myself to rationalise it all away. I was scared. I’m sorry.”

Crowley stopped pacing, staring at him. “We have all the context now, and all the time in the world, so I’m going to need you to be a great deal more specific.”

Aziraphale stared straight ahead, standing still as a statue. Crowley could practically hear the gears in his brain whirring as he tried to find the words. He knew he could and probably should make the first move— he’d had the words for millennia. But he needed to hear Aziraphale say it first, whatever it was. He braced himself.

“I was created for one divine purpose: to serve God. I always knew what was expected of me, and I did a rather good job of meeting Her expectations,” he began, “and then you came along.”

“Nefariously getting in the way of your holy plans, huh?”

“I thought so, for many, many years. I thought there was something fundamentally flawed in the way I was wired, that I should crave anything beyond what She laid before me. But I did. I… craved. I felt empty. Rather lonely.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “And then I remembered. I remembered you, before Her plans for Earth, before any of it, was you.”

“You spinning our friendship as the real divine plan isn’t going to make me feel any better,” Crowley said coldly.

“Do you believe in soulmates?”

“No.” 

He knew he should just cling onto the line Aziraphale was throwing him and not ask any questions, but he had wanted what they were on the precipice of for an eternity. He needed Aziraphale to want it too, just as fervently as he did, for all the right reasons.

“Neither do I.” Aziraphale smiled. “I believe in choice. Perhaps I didn’t always, when I didn’t know that I could, but I do now. And I believe that no matter how futilely I tried to think my way out of it, we chose each other time and time again, in the only ways we could, even without my memories of Jophiel to guide me. I chose to walk through life with you, and if you would grant me the privilege of continuing to choose, I would be honoured to continue choosing you. More openly, now.”

Crowley’s mouth was dry. It was difficult to comprehend the magnitude of getting all he’d dreamed of. “More specific, if you can, Angel,” he choked out. 

Aziraphale laughed fondly under his breath, approaching him slowly. Crowley didn’t dare move, lest the divine apparition fade. The angel stopped before him, reaching out to carefully take the dark glasses from his face, folding them neatly into his pocket. His eyes trailed down to the green carnation in his lapel.

“Beautiful,” he said softly, tracing the petals. 

Crowley quickly stuffed a hand into his pocket, fumbling around, wondering. His heart sang when his hand closed around the second flower, still miraculously there. He took it out shakily, scowling as he held it out to Aziraphale. 

“I brought them up with me, shocked they survived. Whatever. Stand still.” He cleared his throat, fumbling to put the stupid flower in the top button hole of Aziraphale’s coat.

He beamed, looking down at it before meeting Crowley’s eyes again. “You are a marvel.”

Crowley swallowed thickly. Aziraphale reached up, resting a soft hand on his cheek. He shivered, shaking like a leaf as Aziraphale gently stroked his cheekbone.

“Aziraphale,” he choked out, “please don’t. If you’re just going to change your mind again, then don’t.”

“My darling, I have been yours since I first saw you amongst the stars. My only regret is that I was too scared to show you sooner”

Crowley gave in, leaning into his gentle caress. “Say that again.”

“My only regret is-”

“The other part.”

“I am yours, and if you’ll still have me, I intend to be yours as long as the sun continues to rise.”

“Don’t quote Oscar Wilde at me right now.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Crowley, I very much adore you, and I would like to kiss you now, if I may.”

Crowley nodded, and Aziraphale kissed him. It was nothing like the frantic goodbye they’d shared in Hell. This kiss was slow, it was soft, it was only theirs. Aziraphale tangled the hand that was on Crowley’s cheek in his hair, using the other to gently guide him backwards until his thighs knocked against his desk. Crowley whimpered, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, pulling him as close as he physically could. Aziraphale shivered, deepening the kiss, gently tugging Crowley’s hair as his tongue entered his mouth.

There was nothing but Aziraphale. His hand in his hair, his body against his, their lips moving perfectly together. Crowley’s chest cracked open. An eternity of wanting poured out, setting him alight. Whatever defences he was still clinging onto melted away in the heat. His form was transformed into pure feeling. He pressed himself into Aziraphale, hungrily taking all the angel would give. He moved his hands to Crowley’s waist, lifting him onto the desk and pulling back from the kiss. Aziraphale took him in, his eyes ravenously trailing over his body.

Crowley scowled, grabbing his lapels and pulling him back in. He clung to him until his knuckles were white, wrapping his legs around him, holding him in place. Aziraphale kissed him softly, pulling away again when Crowley tried to ravage him. He kissed his cheek instead, his jaw, moving down until he could press his lips to his throat. Crowley gasped, throwing his head back when Aziraphale sucked on the tender skin. 

“God,” he moaned.

“She’s not here,” Aziraphale murmured into his neck, “it’s only us.”

Crowley grabbed a handful of the angel’s soft hair, messily forcing their lips back together. Aziraphale grabbed his thighs to steady himself, biting Crowley’s lip, eliciting another moan. Crowley squirmed, his trousers suddenly feeling much too tight. He shoved his hands under Aziraphale’s many layers of ridiculous clothing, worshipping the warm skin of his chest beneath his shaking hands.

The angel pulled back again. “Darling,” he breathed out, “you make me lose myself.”

Crowley ran his hands across Aziraphale’s chest, needing for his clothing to be gone. The angel moved his hands to Crowley’s lower back, pressing them together in a way that showed him that he wasn’t the only one whose trousers were getting a little too tight.

When the door slammed open, he vowed to kill whoever walked in.

“Oh would you look at that, anyone can walk in here now,” Shax proclaimed with a shrill laugh.

Crowley tried to pull back from Aziraphale, but the angel held fast, not seeming to care who saw them now. 

“I’m afraid we’re closed,” he said thickly. 

“Oh, yes.” She grinned, sizing up the scandalous scene. “Just wanted to return these.” She held up the keys to Crowley’s flat before throwing them in their direction. 

Aziraphale caught them, slipping them into Crowley’s endlessly deep pocket.

“I’m headed somewhere a little cooler,” she said, unaware or unbothered at the fact that she was clearly not wanted. “You have no idea how unbearably hot it can get down there.”

“Well, goodbye then,” Aziraphale not to subtly said.

She nodded, meeting Crowley’s eyes. He tried to scowl at her, but he was still so caught up in Aziraphale, he couldn’t bring himself to care about anything else.

“I knew you’d give them Hell,” she said with a sneer, nodding at them before turning to go. “Have fun.”

Aziraphale’s lips were on him again before the door even slammed shut, but it was all too brief. He stepped back with swollen lips, messy hair, and an untucked shirt. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Crowley blurted out, blushing.

Aziraphale hungrily licked his lips. “I’m going to lock that door,” he began, “and then I’m going to take you upstairs. There is an iris painting above my bed that I have been longing to show you for some time.”

“Oh, the one you showed Oscar Wilde?” Crowley called after him, teasing.

Aziraphale locked the door and strode resolutely back to Crowley with fire in his eyes. “I intend for you to gaze upon that painting from every angle you could possibly imagine, and a fair few many you never could.” He lifted Crowley off the desk and into his arms, forcing him to tightly wrap his legs around him. “I assure you, Darling, those painted flowers haven’t seen half the things I imagine doing with you.”

“I never knew you had such a dirty mouth, Angel.” Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, allowing himself to be carried, buzzing with anticipation for all that dirty mouth could do.

He stopped at the staircase, pressing Crowley into the bannister, biting into the tender skin of his neck. “I am athirst for thy beauty; I am hungry for thy body,” he quoted between kisses.

“Oh,” Crowley moaned, “shit, that reminds me— not the time, but, shit. I… I kept Salomé. When you told me to get rid of everything from Oscar, in 1895, I- I kept Salomé.”

Aziraphale stilled, pulling back to gaze upon Crowley’s face. Tears sprang to his eyes. 

“I thought you’d want it back some day. Sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

Aziraphale kissed away the apology. “I don’t deserve you.”

Crowley laughed breathlessly. “Also, don’t quote Oscar Wilde at me! It’ll never not be weird.”

“I was chaste, and thou didst fill my veins with fire-”

“God, shut up.” Crowley was still laughing, clinging to Aziraphale as they kissed between giggles.

When the laughter dissipated, they were left staring at one another. Crowley, safely cradled in Aziraphale’s arms, gazed at the angel with all the devotion he had been fighting for an eternity to hide. 

“I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said simply.

The words settled comfortably in Crowley’s ears, flooding his veins with warmth and cutting a knot of tension in his gut that had been building since before The Beginning.

“Love you too. I always have.”

Aziraphale smiled, softly bringing their lips together and carrying his lover up the stairs. The future had never tasted so sweet.

Chapter Text

“Angel, relax, won’t you? He’s a 19 year old kid, he’s not gonna give a shit about the silverware,” Crowley said, gently resting his hand over Aziraphale’s as he adjusted a fish fork for the billionth time.

Where there once was a doorway to Heaven, there now stood a solid oak dining table, set with vintage china, polished cutlery, and a crystal vase of white lilies at the centre. As usual, Aziraphale had gone overboard. 

Aziraphale tutted, turning his hand around so he could interlink his fingers with Crowley’s. “It’s a birthday celebration, and he’s bringing a guest.”

“Yeah,” Crowley began with a sly grin, “all the more reason not to act like a complete nut job. I’d like to at least entertain the possibility that Adam’s new girlfriend will think we’re normal.”

“Oh, honestly!” Aziraphale dropped his hand and went back adjusting the meticulous silverware. 

“Face it, Angel. Our little boy is all grown up. He’s probably on the way here with some blonde Parisian bombshell right now.” He snaked his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, peppering kisses on his neck between words. “I’ve heard that a preference for blondes runs in the family.”

“I do hope you understand that there is no blood relation,” Aziraphale said, a little breathlessly.

“Hmm,” Crowley purred, resting his cheek against Aziraphale’s back. “I am the worlds first satanfather, though. Let me enjoy it.”

When Aziraphale destroyed the book of life and he and Crowley returned to a free Earth, Adam’s parents had suddenly known a lot more than they previously did. After several long and exhausting conversations with them—and some forced examples of frivolous miracles—they finally understood who Aziraphale and Crowley truly were, just as they understood who their son truly was. 

Aziraphale—still reeling from the after-effects of God’s love—had been terrified that they would disown him. Crowley, however, knew that was a ridiculous fear to have— and he had been right. Adam was Arthur and Deirdre’s son, and nothing would ever change that fact. The parents had been so beside themselves with gratitude that they’d insisted for Crowley and Aziraphale to take on the role of honorary godparents, convinced that they were Adam’s guardian angels. 

Crowley thought the whole situation to be hilarious, and refused to be called anything but satanfather ever since. Aziraphale fondly laughed along, all the while knowing how much the responsibility truly meant to him.

“That term will never catch on, Darling.” Aziraphale turned around, softly kissing Crowley’s lips before gently pushing him away. “Now please let me work.”

Crowley crossed his arms with a pout, before going to sit on Aziraphale’s desk, skimming over Adam’s letter again.

“He said exciting news and a special guest. What if he’s engaged?”

Aziraphale nearly dropped a dessert fork. “Absolutely not, Crowley. A special guest could mean anyone. He’s still a child!”

“Come on, think about it! He’s been in Paris since he finished his A Levels, we’ve barely heard from him-”

“I assure you that his interest in the French capital is strictly academic.”

Crowley snorted. “Yeah, right, and our agreement was strictly professional.”

“Really, Crowley. I think he would have told us if he was seeing someone.”

“Maybe it’s a boyfriend,” Crowley shrugged, “and he was too nervous to say.”

“Or maybe,” Aziraphale began, rather aggressively finishing re-setting the table, “it is a friend or colleague, and you are simply being ridiculous.”

Crowley laughed, basking in the carefree banter between them. They’d had seven years of freedom, and seven years to figure out what it meant. They had been the fastest and most comfortable years of Crowley’s existence. He’d wanted what they now had since before he was even Crowley. Understanding that Aziraphale wanted it too was an ongoing battle, but it was a worthy fight, and one that Aziraphale took very seriously.

When he pulled Crowley from the sulphurous pits of Hell, he vowed to never let another day go by without expressing his adoration. He would not rest until six thousand years of looking to the Heavens were transformed into an eternity of looking straight ahead.

“You just don’t like the idea of him leaving the nest,” Crowley said. 

“Adam has had a rather singular childhood. I worry about the effect it will have on his relationships.”

“I know you worry, but he’s a smart kid, and if anyone fucks him over Warlock will send that great beast after them.”

Aziraphale shot him with a weary look. “That is precisely my concern.”

Unlike Adam, Warlock had gone home to indifferent parents who didn’t care where their son had been— in fact they’d barely even noticed he was gone. He could have been Satan himself and all they’d have asked was that he kept quiet. Thankfully, Adam’s presence in his life had remained fairly constant, as had Aziraphale and Crowley’s. Plus, Suso was still by his side. Last they’d heard he was studying towards his Baccalauréat International in Lyon. It seemed that both boys had risen above their circumstances. 

Aziraphale wrung his hands and sighed, moving to adjust the silverware once more, when there was a knock at the door. Crowley slid off the desk and beat him to it. Aziraphale was at his side (not anxious at all, thank you very much) as soon as it opened.

Adam stood on the doorstep with his hands clasped behind his back. His curly brown hair had been cropped at the sides, with the front effortlessly swept back into a quiff. He ducked his head in greeting, allowing a single stray strand to fall over his bright blue eyes. He was dressed in a deep purple button-down shirt, rolled up at the sleeves and tucked into white trousers that were tight enough to give his father a heart attack. He was the picture of Parisian elegance. 

His companion stood behind him with his back to them, conspicuously taking a drag of his cigarette before dropping it on the footpath and putting it out under the toe of some very well worn Doc Martens. He turned with a flourish, flicking back his black, shoulder-length hair and grinning. 

“Sorry about that. Hey guys,” he said, tossing the leather jacket he held over his shoulder so he could shake their hands. 

Crowley shook his hand triumphantly, shooting Aziraphale a look that said I told you so.

“Hello, dear Adam. You’re looking very well. And Warlock— what a pleasant surprise!” Aziraphale exclaimed, throwing Crowley’s look right back at him. 

However much they had grown and changed over the past seven years, sometimes they just couldn’t help but misunderstand one another. Although these days, those moments tended to result in an apology given through laughter and tender kisses rather than an apocalyptic event.

“Thanks for having us,” Adam said, nervous.

Aziraphale ushered the boys inside, sitting them down at his luxurious dining table. 

“Bloody hell,” Warlock exclaimed, lounging on one of the antique chairs. “This is a bit extra.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale sighed, “had we known we would be in the company of an old friend, I may have done slightly less.”

“No you wouldn’t have,” Crowley said with an affectionate smile. “Wine?”

Warlock sighed with Wildean melodrama. “I fear France has ruined me, Anthony. English wine will never live up to what we drank on the continent.”

Adam cringed. “Sorry about him.”

“What would you say to a fine glass of Bonneau Du Martray Corton-Charlemagne Grand Cru, dear Warlock?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Heureusement! Now you speak my language.”

Crowley met Aziraphale’s eye with an incredulous grin before sitting down opposite the boys, leaving the angel to find his wine. Adam squirmed under his penetrating stare while Warlock remained indifferent. They sat in silence until Aziraphale returned. 

“What shall we toast to?” Crowley asked when all four of them were seated. 

“To the two of you, of course.” Aziraphale nodded towards Adam and Warlock. “I hope you had enjoyable birthdays.”

They raised their glasses, bathing in the echo of the clink as they all drank. The somewhat awkward silence remained. 

“So, did you two ever manage to see each other in France?” Aziraphale asked, trying to break it. 

Adam snuck a glance at Warlock through his thick lashes, flushing red. Warlock nodded reassuringly back. Crowley was thoroughly amused— the feeling being accentuated further by Aziraphale’s apparent cluelessness. 

“Err, I may have gone to France for a pretty specific reason,” Adam stuttered out. “That reason being…” He clumsily gestured towards Warlock. 

“Oh, how lovely!” Aziraphale smiled, firmly set in his wilful ignorance. 

Warlock smirked at the angel, incredulously raising a brow. Crowley rolled his eyes at him but refused to provide any further assistance. It had been too long since he’d dabbled in a spot of benign devilish fun, and he was enjoying it far too much. 

“So lovely!” he added unhelpfully, sitting back and leaving Adam to try and string his words together.

“You spent some time in Lyon, then?” Aziraphale asked. 

Adam nodded, resembling a deer in headlights. 

“How pleased I am that your friendship endures! There is nothing more comforting than the presence of a dear friend.”

Crowley nearly choked on his wine. Aziraphale met his eyes, and he knew then that there was no misunderstanding at all. Devilish fun indeed. 

Adam let out a rather high-pitched laugh. “Yep!”

The awkward silence returned. Aziraphale subtly rested his hand on Crowley’s thigh under the table as they both sipped their wine, rooting for Adam to just spit it out.

Warlock sat back with a peaceful smile on his face, gazing at his ‘dear friend.’

“So, about my time in Lyon.” Adam cleared his throat. “Maybe… some more detail… should be given…”

“I don’t think those details should be shared over a civilised dinner, mon ange.” Warlock winked, helping in the worst possible way.

Crowley burst out laughing while Aziraphale shuddered rather puritanically. Adam’s cheeks went so red that one could imagine steam rising from them. He groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“You’re not engaged, are you?” Aziraphale asked fearfully.

“What!?” Adam all but shrieked.

“Because I really must advise against it at your age.”

“I don't see a ring,” Crowley added, tutting.

“And really, how inappropriate to get engaged without a ring!” 

Adam slammed his forehead against the dining table. “This is Hell,” he muttered against the solid oak.

“Dear boy, please don’t be facetious,” Aziraphale reprimanded.

“He’s only saying that because he’s hoping Wilde might show up,” Warlock teased, tangling his fingers through Adam’s hair, who had begun rhythmically pounding his head against the table. “Don’t lose any braincells, mon ange. You’ll need them where we’re headed.” Warlock moved his hand from Adam’s hair to rest under his forehead. Adam just slammed his head against that instead.

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s thigh at Warlock’s term of endearment, choosing to believe that the boy had borrowed it from them.

“Not engaged. Just dating. Each other, I mean. We’re dating each other,” Adam finally admitted, stilling his head on Warlock’s palm

“See, how difficult was that?” Aziraphale asked, shaking his head fondly. “How pleased I am for you! For the both of you. How wonderful!”

“Good job.” Crowley nodded, raising his glass.

Adam slowly raised his head, messy-haired and red-cheeked.

“See? I told you, there will be no judgement here,” Warlock said, fixing Adam’s hair.

“Here?” Crowley exclaimed. “Why’d that feel derogatory?”

“I only mean that you’re both so open, it’s nice.” Warlock shrugged. “We wanted to tell you first because we knew you’d get it, you know?”

“Get it in every way!” Adam quickly added. “Not only in the… you know…”

“In the gay way?” Crowley asked.

“Careful, he’ll start giving himself more brain damage.” Warlock smirked. “But, yeah, basically. You two also understand the rather otherworldly element of it all.”

“You two are entirely of this world, I assure you.” Aziraphale insisted.

“Well, from a couple of ex-Antichrists to a couple of celestial beings, thanks for being a safe place for us.” Warlock scrunched his nose in discomfort at his own sincerity.

“This conversation is a nightmare,” Adam complained, taking up his wine glass with two hands and drinking deeply. “But… yeah. Thanks. I was so scared. I haven’t even told my parents yet…”

“I’m honoured that you trust us with this,” Aziraphale said sincerely. “But Adam, your parents adore you, you know they’ll be thrilled for you as well.”

“I mean, they didn’t care when you were the Antichrist. Having a boyfriend is a bit less terrible than that,” Crowley added, making everyone laugh.

“How long have you been-”

“In love?” Warlock finished Aziraphale’s question, staring pensively at the ceiling as he tried to recall. “I don’t know.”

Adam began to blush furiously again. “I don’t think we ever like… consciously realised that we were… you know…”

“In love,” Warlock said again.

“Shh!” Adam cleared his throat. “I mean, it just sort of happened. We kept spending time together when we were kids, and he helped me big time with my GCSEs. Then he left for France and I guess it was pretty miserable… but he came back for a bit and he… he kissed me when I got my A Level results, and it was kind of like, oh yeah, it’s always been like this.”

Aziraphale clutched his chest, misty-eyed. “Oh, Adam!”

“And then he came back to France with me,” Warlock said, placing his hand over Adam’s, “and things naturally progressed.”

Aziraphale’s smile was unbearably soft. 

“We’re very happy for you,” Crowley said, raising his glass again. “It’s good to be with someone who gets it, in any way.”

“That it is.” Warlock clinked their glasses together. “And we’ll continue to be together at-”

“Oh! The news!” Adam cut him off, shaking off his discomfort and excitedly sliding his iPhone across the table with an email open. 

Aziraphale began to read it aloud. “Adam Young, I am delighted to inform you that your application to the University of Oxford as an undergraduate of Classics and English has been… successful! My goodness! Adam!”

“Shit, that’s impressive!” Crowley exclaimed.

“Guess what college I’m going to?” Adam was practically vibrating with excitement. 

Aziraphale opened his mouth to respond but Adam couldn’t hold it in.

“Magdalen!”

Aziraphale practically squealed with joy, rushing to meet Adam on the other side of the table and pulling him up into a tight embrace. 

“Oh bloody hell, not another one!” Crowley groaned.

Adam had been curious about Oscar Wilde since catching a glimpse of him in Hell, and Aziraphale had gladly indulged this curiosity; hosting informal readings of his works, discussing their meanings in the wider context of Victorian England, and inundating the boy with personal anecdotes of his time in the artist’s social circle. Crowley pretended to be fed up with it, but even he could now admit that Wilde hadn’t been all bad… even though he’d seen Aziraphale’s iris painting before him.

Adam attending Wilde’s alma mater was a dream come true— for godson and godfather alike.

“Dear boy, I cannot express the magnitude of my pride!” Aziraphale exclaimed shakily, pulling back to rest his hands on Adam’s shoulders. “You will do great things.”

“I got into Merton, if anyone cares,” Warlock casually added, swirling his wine around the glass.

“For some French bullshit, no doubt?” Crowley teased.

“Modern Languages,” Warlock enunciated mockingly.

Aziraphale turned to him, still smiling radiantly as he pulled him up for a brief hug as well. “Congratulations, Warlock. Congratulations to the both of you!”

Warlock straightened his shirt and sat back down. “I’m in high demand, you know. Cambridge wanted me as well.”

“My dear friend Robert Ross was an alumni of Cambridge, you’d have done fantastically there too.”

“Yeah, I know.” Warlock shrugged. “Shame this one was set on Oxford. I thought he’d get on his knees and start praying to the ghost of Oscar Wilde when we arrived for his interview.”

“Warlock, I adore you, but please shut up,” Adam said with a grimace.

“Oh! That reminds me.” Aziraphale rushed off to retrieve a neatly wrapped package, handing it to the boy. “Happy birthday, Adam.”

He turned the package around in his hands, grinning. “This looks like a book.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, sitting back down. “Open it.”

Adam tore off each individual piece of tape slowly, saving the gold damask wrapping paper. When he found what was inside, he was rendered speechless. 

“Are you- are you sure?” he asked breathlessly. 

“Of course I am. I never should have convinced your father to sell it to me, you more than deserve it. And besides, I have my own copy back now.” He smiled at Crowley.

Adam traced the book’s silver title reverently. Salomé.

“Mr- um, Aziraphale. Sorry. This book will be worth thousands of pounds now.”

“You could always sell it if you’re struck with the urge to buy blue china at Oxford that you will later find yourself unable to live up to,” Crowley quipped.

Warlock snorted in laughter, raising his glass to Crowley. “I hope I forget what’s left of my horrid American accent there too.”

Adam was still too full of awe to notice the gibes. “This is too much.”

“Not at all, Adam,” Aziraphale insisted. “I want you to bring it with you to Magdalen.”

“I don’t even know what to say. Thank you!”

“Oscar would be pleased that it’s going to someone as appreciative as you.”

“Shame your French is far from fluent,” Warlock teased, twirling a stray lock of Adam’s hair between his fingers. “I’ll have to read it to you.”

“Oh, good grief,” Aziraphale huffed, the beautiful moment shattered by Warlock’s shameless flirting. “Not at the dinner table, please!”

“Speaking of dinner,” he started, continuing to play with Adam’s hair, “we’ve had all this excitement and not a single bite of food to wash it down with.”

“Ah, yes. Pardon the miracle.” Aziraphale cleared his throat, raising his hands until a full roast dinner fit for royalty materialised before them. 

“Bon appétit,” Warlock announced, taking his hands off of Adam to load his plate. 

“Hang on.” Crowley jumped up, remembering that Warlock had also recently celebrated a birthday. 

He returned with another damask wrapped package. 

“And here I was, thinking I’d been left out.” Warlock gladly took the gift from Crowley’s hands, tearing into it. 

“Had we known you were coming we would have had it ready,” Aziraphale said. 

“Oh mon Dieu! Le Petit Prince!” he exclaimed, holding the book to his heart. “Merci.”

“It’s a first edition too, we thought you’d appreciate it… well, Aziraphale did. I don’t know why anyone would be that excited about a book.” Crowley frowned. “Anyway, bring it to Oxford or whatever.”

“I will.” Warlock smiled softly, still cradling the book. “Thank you for thinking of me.”

Warlock carried himself with such an air of nonchalant grandiosity that it was easy to miss his wounds, but in small moments like these it was plain to see that he still bled from how his parents continued to treat him. The poor boy had taken being left out as a given, and when he wasn’t, it was akin to a miracle in his eyes. 

“You always have a home here, both of you,” Aziraphale said warmly. 

Warlock cleared his throat, putting The Little Prince aside. “Yes, yes. Let’s eat.”

“I suggested that we get you a voucher for some psychiatric help instead, but-”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale spluttered. 

Warlock smiled at him in thanks. Crowley knew how it felt to be suffocated under too many emotions and was determined to lighten the mood again.

“Who needs therapy when you have Baudelaire, Mallarmé, and Rimbaud?” Warlock sighed blissfully, digging into his meal. 

“Maybe try Freud next,” Crowley suggested.

“Everywhere he went, he found that a poet had been there before him.”

“I’m quite sure that quote is misattributed to Freud,” Aziraphale said between bites of Yorkshire pudding. “I certainly never heard him say it, and we spent quite a bit of time together.”

“Oh I’m sure,” Crowley muttered.

“Hmm.” Warlock speared a roast potato with his fork, deep in thought. “Maybe a poet made it up.”

Crowley sighed, turning to Adam as he said, “He’s so irritating.”

“I know,” Adam replied, gazing at Warlock as though he had hung the sun. 

“An Oxonian through and through.” Crowley shuddered.

“Oh, honestly, you’re as dramatic as each other!” Aziraphale insisted. 

Crowley shook his head with a smile, leaning back to enjoy one of his favourite views: Aziraphale enjoying a good meal. 

The rest of the evening passed too quickly in a wine-filled haze of good food and even better conversation. By the time Adam and Warlock prepared to leave, the sun had long since set. 

“Where are you two staying anyway?” Crowley asked, watching a mildly drunk Warlock being helped into his jacket by an even more drunk Adam.

“Umm, here and there.” Adam hiccuped. “Michaelmas term doesn’t start ’til October… and my parents might think I’m still in Paris…”

“Adam,” Aziraphale scolded, “you must tell them.”

“When you’re ready, no rush,” Crowley quickly added. 

“Yeah. I’ve kind of not told them anything about my life since, like, A Levels. They don’t even know about Oxford, and I got accepted in January.”

“Look at him, hiding me away,” Warlock declared, planting a kiss on Adam’s cheek as he wrestled the rest of the way into his jacket alone.

“That sounds like something to cover with a therapist, I don’t know,” Crowley half-joked. 

Adam groaned in anguish. “I’m not. I love you.”

“I know, mon ange.”

Crowley made a rather unflattering gagging sound while Aziraphale gazed at them with hearts in his eyes. 

“Well, there’s an empty flat in Mayfair if you want it. The previous tenant is enjoying an exciting existence in Svalbard with a small hoard of demons and a cherub or two, last I checked.” Crowley rummaged through his miraculously deep pockets, fishing out a key and lobbing it at Warlock’s head. Annoyingly, he caught it one handed without even blinking. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, no ones been in there in years. Should still be fine though.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Crowley opened the door for them and nearly fell over backwards at the sight of Suso on his doorstep. “Ahh! What the fuck?”

“Warlock, do not tell me that you let a hellhound roam the streets of Soho unattended,” Aziraphale said slowly. 

“He’s aright. He only maims people who deserve it.”

Adam giggled while Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Bring him indoors. Quickly. Please.”

Warlock saluted sarcastically, leading his boyfriend out the door with the hellhound at their heels. 

“Thank you so much for tonight, and for Salomé. I still can’t believe she’s mine,” Adam slurred. 

“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you,” Aziraphale replied, turning to Warlock. “Please do get him to Mayfair safely.”

“Always. Thanks for everything.”

“Stay in touch when you start at Oxford, I expect all the grisly details,” Crowley demanded with a wink.

“Goodnight, boys,” Aziraphale said with one final wave, and Crowley closed the door behind them.

It wasn’t shut for a second before he took hold of Aziraphale’s waist and pinned him up against it. 

“Really, Darling. There’s tidying up to be done.”

Crowley snapped his fingers, and there was no longer any tidying up to be done. 

“You know I like to polish them by hand,” Aziraphale complained. 

“What you really like doing is making me work to get you in bed,” Crowley murmured, pressing a kiss to the angel’s neck. 

Aziraphale gasped, raising his palms to rest on Crowley’s chest. If he lived another six thousand years—another six million years—he didn’t think he would ever get used to the feeling of Crowley’s lips on his skin. The sensation was electrifying. It was as though all the angels of Heaven were beating their wings deep in his stomach, fanning the flames of his desire. A singular desire, born in conjunction with the universe itself, waiting to be unlocked by the precise shape of Crowley’s body against his.

Crowley felt it too. Aziraphale smelt like the Garden of Eden and tasted of ambrosia. Every part of him lit Crowley’s insides on fire, and he just couldn’t get close enough. If he could climb between his ribs and live beside the rhythm of his racing heart he would do so without a second thought. He would fall all over again, every morning, for eternity, if only to end his days like this; with every inch of his body covering every inch of Aziraphale’s, as though he were wholly his. 

Aziraphale moaned in frustration, grabbing a fistful of Crowley’s hair and pulling him up so that he could kiss him properly. Not even Adam and Eve were as compatible as the two of them. Their lips fit together like a sonnet; the delightful gasps and moans that escaped them composed an exquisite lyrical verse. They were the embodiment of art that Oscar Wilde had died for. 

Crowley broke away with a shiver of lust. “Angel, if you don’t let me bring you upstairs right now I’m afraid the next customer who walks in is going to be in for quite the show.”

“The shop doesn’t open for hours, Darling.”

“You underestimate my stamina,” he purred, latching himself onto Aziraphale’s neck again. 

If Aziraphale was going to underestimate anything about Crowley, his stamina was not it. They hadn’t come downstairs for nearly a week after their fall. 

It took every ounce of self control he had to push Crowley back and take his hand, leading him to the staircase. He paused, glancing back at the sparkling clean dining table.

“Do you think Adam and Warlock will make it?”

Crowley smiled pensively, running his thumb over the back of Aziraphale’s hand before bringing it to his lips. “We did.”

Aziraphale beamed back at his eternal partner. “Yes, we rather did, didn’t we?”

“I love you, Angel.”

“Crowley, I am so in love with you that it is dizzying.”

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s lapels, pulling him in for a hungry kiss that breathed life into them both. They never did make it up those stairs.