Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the Garden of Paradise, beneath the Tree of Knowledge, bloomed a rose bush. Here, in the first rose, a bird was born. His flight was like the flashing of light, his plumage was beauteous, and his song ravishing. But when Eve plucked the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, when she and Adam were driven from Paradise, there fell from the flaming sword of the cherub a spark into the nest of the bird, which blazed up forthwith. The bird perished in the flames; but from the red egg in the nest there fluttered aloft a new one—the one solitary Phoenix bird. 

— “The Phoenix Bird”, Hans Christian Andersen (1850)

—————

Once upon a time, in a not so very far away land so much as it was a very far away time, an angel and a demon died screaming.

This angel and demon were a very odd duo. They had names, of course, but these days no one ever really deigned to say them outloud. The angel was reserved and a lover of literature, while the demon was crass and a lover of a nice bed. Their natures deemed them enemies from the Beginning—they weren’t meant to work together, let alone be friends, but that was what they were. The two worked under an Arrangement, meeting in theatres to toss for the next assignment and to drink in quiet taverns in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t a perfect life, but it was good, and they had each other.

And like all good things, the end of it was inevitable. It wasn’t either of their faults, truly. Neither expected them to ever die, if they had anything to say about it—invincibility came with the idea of immortality. They just happened to be too late to stop the inferno.

It was an overall gruesome and ashy demise, one that you would read about in an old field report and get a sour taste on your tongue. Gabriel, Supreme Archangel of all Heaven, was…well, not devastated, but certainly not happy about it when he’d heard. The 17th century was a turbulent time for Heaven, as the humans were going through their occasional existential and religious crisis, so Gabriel didn’t exactly have the time to mourn—nor would he, as angels did not mourn—but it was the thought that counted. They had the customary ceremony and everything when the news had reached the rest of the Heavenly Host: that for the first time in all of history since the Great War, an angel had actually been destroyed with Hellfire. A cautionary tale come true. 

The gathering was quick and quiet. Heaven didn’t have the proper protocol written for anticipation of an angel perishing before Armageddon, so they made little fuss about the fallen soldier. Once the working angels had passed their polite regret for the loss, they went on with their work without many qualms about it. Maybe, if Aziraphale had been more present in Heaven, his absence would sting deeper. This is not the case—everyone had promptly moved on.

But Gabriel…Gabriel remembered. You couldn’t forget a warrior like Aziraphale in a hurry. He kept the incident in the back of his head after that, waiting for the faint memory of a soft angel with a horrifying end he’d only wish on the Enemy to fade into the eternity he had lived and had yet to live. If he were foolish, he’d say that chapter of the Universe’s story had been closed forever.

Gabriel, however, is not that easily deceived. He has waited, and was prepared to wait, for a very long time. He expected it would take a few millennia for the debacle to become relevant again, possibly near the End of Days or something else equally monumental—so it had been a bit of a surprise when, less than four centuries later, those memories had finally been put to use. 

That, rather coincidentally, is where our story is meant to begin.

—————

Heaven, October 21st, 1967 A.D

“Did I miss the show?” Michael asks primly, fixing her cuffed sleeves and taking their place beside the rest of the archangels. “Apologies if I have. Had to take a few calls.”

There are four stark white office chairs placed in a line and facing an enormous holographic screen. There are now four archangels sitting in each one—Sandalphon, Gabriel, Uriel, and Michael, respectively. All but the latter are watching the screen with eagerness and fervour, for the excitement being proposed beats any boring day they were meant to have today. After nearly 6000 years of existence, birthdays for planets got old—but then they’d gotten word from the Metatron. You never got word from the Metatron, unless it was for something like this.

“No, not at all,” Gabriel says as Michael settles in, giving only that and a slight nod of the head to acknowledge that they had arrived. “Actually, I think—“

Sirens distorted by the spotty feed start to wail as a human ambulance speeds by the screen. Though this recording is not coming from a camera, this angle is being broadcasted from the unassuming parking lot of Barnet Hospital in North London, where the Event is meant to take place. The howls of an agonised human woman can be heard clearly even at a distance, as if she were seeing God for the first time. While the feed cannot enter the vehicle, the noise is all they need to hear.

As established before, today is not a usual day. Human affairs aren’t usually the archangels’ subject of interest, but this human in particular is different. The woman inside this ambulance—a Good woman, really—bears a burden not unlike the Virgin Mary once held.

A holy child planted in her belly.

“Bingo.”

“That’s him?” Sandalphon, who hadn’t realised the severe implications of this until a few moments ago, crinkles his nose. “Hm. It looks…”

“Disturbing?” Uriel finishes for him, concentration not yet lost despite watching a Mrs Fell screaming bloody murder being escorted out of the ambulance and onto a wheelchair. “I never understood that specific ritual.”

“I think it’s symbolic,” Michael says. “Very different from back in the day.”

“It really is.” Gabriel ponders the scene accordingly, putting his hand under his chin in a subject-of-a-mosaic-worthy manner. “But that’s a thought for another day. We need to enact the next step.”

“And what is that step?” Michael asks sceptically. Always the thinker, them. “Taking the principality back and enacting justice? We haven’t had a representative on Earth for centuries now, and if he’s risen along with the demon…”

“Can we do that?” Gabriel narrows his eyes at the screen. “It looks a little too early, Michael. Let’s wait until we know for sure. He might not even be an angel anymore.”

“And how will we know?” Micheal urges, twisting in their seat so they can face Gabriel directly. “The corporation is baby-shaped. If we are going to wait until he’s back to the appropriate age…”

“We will know,” Gabriel says firmly. “It won’t be that hard—we just need to take care of him until then. Simple! And he’s an angel . God won’t let anything happen to him until we get there.”

The four archangels exchange silent glances between themselves, and nod as one. Gabriel turns off the feed with a wave of the hand as they all stand up. Michael and Uriel head off on their own, whispering to each other and holding their heads up high. Gabriel turns towards the nearest window, looking down at the cluttered image of a city skyline peppered with human monuments and stormy skies. 

“What now?” Sandalphon asks, ready to please but unsure what to do. “It’s just…waiting?”

“I suppose so,” Gabriel says, folding his hands behind his back. “That’s all we can do for now. Arrange an overseer for him, Sandalphon. He’ll need Heavenly guidance, so he won’t go down the wrong path…as he did before.”

When it looks like he isn’t going to give a second order, Sandalphon marches off to pick the first angel he sees for the gruelling task. Gabriel stays still for a long time after that, watching the contained chaos without paying much attention. His mind is rather occupied, trying to piece together the looming scenario as well as comprehend just how unique this all was. 

The reason why it is so confusing for such a powerful being is simple. This sort of situation, by default, is not meant to happen. There are three things an entity can do after death, one thing an entity can do after total destruction, and a re-do is not any of them. Reincarnation is an entirely human idea, first conceptualised around the middle of the fifth millennium and the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. It embedded itself in human mythos and religion in many forms, but the core is always the same. 

It involves two separate beliefs that are required to mesh; that every soul persists forever as itself after death, and that God would deem someone worthy enough to defy all Her laws to the point that She would allow them to enter a new body following their corporeal existence. 

The first could be argued for rather easily. Human souls are theoretically ‘immortal’, just not in the way some of them believed. They either floated up to Heaven for bliss, plummeted down to Hell for divine justice, or were just so damn confusing that they were forced to stick around on Earth without form and haunt their hallowed ground until Armageddon. There wasn’t meant to be a fourth option for humans, because if there were, She would have set that little precipice up from the Beginning and make the function known. 

Then again, God Created the Rules. That little discrepancy can be pushed aside if necessary. If what the Metatron claimed were true—which, looking at the screen again, seemed like it—then there was little time for the world to grow up at all.

Armageddon be approaching, God save them all, and Aziraphale was going to help them win.

Chapter Text

Mayfair, London, 2007 A.D

“How many times are you—you don’t have to phone me every time I’m late! It’s already creepy as it is with you having my number.”

Crowley taps his foot fervently, regretting deeply not to act on the impulse of not picking up the phone in the first place. He’s got more pressing matters to deal with than a frantic co-worker he barely remembers the name of, such as missing his bus for the second time, somehow. He’s been sitting on this bench for fifteen minutes now, and the bus has yet to arrive. Crowley didn’t always deal with the perils of public transport—that’s why it’s still sort of foreign to him—but then the Bentley had chosen to be greedy today and eat up all his petrol. Wonderful. 

“I’ll be there before nine,” Crowley says for the third time, having never believed it in the first place.  “Look, I’ll—oh, great, the bus’s here! A great big bus. Very clean. Ciao.”

Crowley shoves his phone back into his pocket hastily, letting out a sigh of relief when it doesn’t ring again. Today has been a strange day, to say the least. It’s left him rather tired. If he didn’t need this job so much, he would have called in sick today. The flowers didn’t need him that much . 

Bus stops aren’t usually this crowded, even on a hot August morning. The bench Crowley is sitting on has him surrounded by all sides. He feels painfully cheap in his thin blazer and women’s sunglasses. The heavily scuffed snakeskin shoes and flat hair from lack of washing didn’t help it much. Everyone is edging away from him, keeping their children from view and apparent attention glued on anywhere but a certain person. Not that Crowley minds this behaviour—he’s experienced it plenty before, and would yet again—but today is different. 

The day had started ordinarily enough. He slept past his generous 8am alarm (he likes sleeping), he skipped breakfast (eating is optional), and had spent five minutes looking for his sunglasses (they’re a necessary part of his person), so yes, it had started ordinarily awful. But then there were other things—the coffee machine actually started working (it usually sputters out and dies whenever he tries fiddling with it), his skin is uncomfortably bumpy on his arms (maybe he didn’t moisturise?) Things strange enough for him to notice.

Crowley shakes himself out of the same train of thought he’s been revising for the last hour. He leans out from his seat to peer down the street, where the double-decker bus he was looking for is within sight. He leans back, thankful he won’t have to sit here much longer—only for his eyes to settle on a man across the road.

The pedestrians flow around the figure as he stands there, still as a rock. The morning sun does little to lighten his dark silhouette, his head listing precariously. The figure looks up, their eyes meeting only for a terrifying moment—

The bus halts in front of him before Crowley can stare any longer, but he could swear the man had pitch-black eyes.

—————

Aldford Street is a mere five minute bus ride and a small walk from New Bond Street, so there’s little time for Crowley to dwell on peculiar strangers. He’s got bigger things to worry about than strange looking men on the side of the road, that’s for certain.

Crowley slinks his way through the thick bustle with expert-like momentum, keeping his belongings close and the people far. After six months of working at this particular flower shop, you’d have thought he would remember the name by now. You would be sorely mistaken—he maneuvers through the streets in a daze, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

It’s only when the buildings nearby become familiar and he sees the ficuses displayed by the window that he knows he’s found the right place. Crowley ducks inside, and thankfully, the sign has not yet been flipped to ‘Open’. It’s a modest shop—the floorboards creak as he walks in, and the stool behind the counter is a plush leather under him. The yellow walls might blind him if he stares at them for too long, but this is the best he’s ever had. He was lucky to have even been given a chance, considering… everything.

Crowley does the usual. He puts his bag on the floor, takes off his blazer, takes out the flask of coffee he was able to snag before rushing out of his flat, and waits for the spook he’s about to receive. Normally, there are two people on duty at a time; and when Crowley happens to snag a shift, it’s usually the same person who’s the other half of the duo. And, if experience serves him right, he’s bound to make an appearance any moment now. 

Crowley reaches under the table to grab his plain green apron and tie it around his waist, mind wandering yet again back to his flat. He props his elbows on the counter, awaiting his greeting, when there’s a rustle coming from behind him.

Crowley glances over his shoulder briefly, expecting nothing more than a momentary chill, when he notices that the rustling hasn’t stopped. In fact, it’s coming from inside the shop. The lush plants that were sitting perfectly still as he strolled in are now trembling profusely, from the tip of their leaves to the root of their stems.

Well. That’s certainly new.

The back door bursts open, causing Crowley to nearly jolt out of his seat despite his preparation. The co-worker in earlier question rushes towards him, holding a basket of flowers in his hand and a clipboard tucked under his arm. He is easily identifiable by the two tufts of hair on his head that jut out like ears, and thick black makeup smeared around his eyes. “There you are,” he sighs in relief, putting down the flowers as if they were weighing on him heavily. He snatches up the clipboard and begins to flip through its pages fervently, which are covered in nearly illegible scrawls. “Should’ve expected this. It’s the last day I’ve got to do this, and something’s already gone wrong…”

“And hello to you too,” Crowley says drily, noting his co-worker’s skittish eyes and stiff shoulders. “It’s nine o’clock on a Tuesday and you’re already not making sense. Is something special supposed to happen on Tuesday?”

“We’ve got lots to do!” he says defensively, squinting at the bottom of the first page. “We’ve got to order more daisies, shuffle everything ‘round in the backroom—and that’s not even thinking about the Hell of a filing spree we’ve got to do. I mean, I do that, but—s’on both of us.”

Crowley slides his bag under the counter, doubt set on his face. “Are you sure about that? Last I remembered, I work at a flower shop. You sound like you work in an office.”

“It’s a stressful job!” he cries. “Do you know how behind we are? They’ve been waiting for months now, and the Delivery’s bound any day. You’ve got to be ready.”

“We move flowers around,” Crowley deadpans. “S’not that hard.”

He puffs up his chest as if he’s trying to intimidate him. “It’s a lot more than that, and we know it.”

“It really isn’t, I don’t think. And if it is, it’s not my job. Sure, I like it here, but if you keep running yourself to the ground—”

Crowley bites his tongue, registering the nearly frightening look on his co-workers’ face. He knows there’s no use in arguing anything, obviously. Like he said, he did care, but not that much. But, he wasn’t going to push this man to an outright mental breakdown, and from the looks of it, he is on the cusp. 

“Sorry,” his co-worker says sheepishly. “You know. Having a time.”

Crowley nudges his stool a bit farther away from his co-worker, hoping a little more space between them would alleviate some of his concerns. “Listen, er…” Crowley glances down to read his nametag,¹ “...Eric, everything’s just fine. Bad day, s’all. Like always.”

“Today’s not normal.” Though his voice is now steady, Eric slams his clipboard down, nearly snapping it in two. “It all ends today, and I’m supposed to help tell y—”

Eric clamps his mouth shut as if against his will. He turns to the basket of flowers he brought and begins to poke at it like nothing had happened. Crowley furrows his eyebrows, not willing to put the subject to rest just yet.

“Are you drunk?” Crowley asks, attempting an air of teasing. Eric doesn’t take to this—he puts his head down, moving around the bundles in what can now be recognised as a nervous tick. “If you are, I can cover for you. S’no problem. You’ve done it for me.”

Eric outright ignores him here, continuing without even so much as a glance. Crowley shoots him a sharp glare, then looks down at the items laying in front of him. He could swear they weren’t there before, but he supposes they must’ve been there before he sat down; a pair of scissors, a bundle of dilapidated roses tied with a rubber band, and a few sheets of decorative paper. That was that, then. He knew what it looked like when he was being told to shut up and move on.

Crowley isn’t sure how long he stays there snipping roses, because Eric starts sliding him new bundles to shabble together into an order. Something about an anniversary. Or a birthday. He isn’t sure. The point is, this is what he’s supposed to be doing. You keep your head down, do what you’re asked of, and nothing more. That’s how you get by. That’s how you live. Though even he can recognise it wasn’t the best lifestyle, he’s gone too far living like this to try and fix it anytime soon. It works, and that’s all that matters.

He’s plucking some wilted petals off a sunflower when he recalls the morning yet again. How Crowley almost forgot about the strange figure or the growing bumps on his forearms (now exposed by his T-shirt) was lost on him, but those issues could have logical explanations. Maybe he had developed some sort of allergy to his coffee since he drank it last. Maybe the person he saw earlier was wearing odd eye-contacts. Maybe he has perpetual goosebumps from how cold it was when it was meant to be a hot day. It really could be anything, and it’s driving him mad.

So yes, there could be logical explanations for every single phenomenon—but stupidly or not, Crowley can’t believe any of it.

Crowley looks up from his work, and Eric is watering some of the displays near the wall. He pauses mid-cut, opening his mouth to say something, anything, when the front door opens with a pleasant bell chime. He turns automatically, and fumbles with his sharp object foolishly when he makes eye contact with the last person he would like to see in this abhorrent state.

Crowley has five seconds to gather his thoughts before this customer walks towards him. In this period, he recalls what he knows about the elusive bookseller he’s met only a handful of times. One: no matter who else Crowley may be working with, Aziraphale seemed to like talking to him the most, which could mean nothing. Two: he only knows his first name because the man is overly polite, which could also mean nothing. Three: he sells books. Four: he likes classic literature. And five: he’s the only person who has ever successfully made Crowley understand what the phrase ‘butterflies in your stomach’ might be like, from the tingling skin to the inner churning.

So, knowing all of this damn well, Crowley puts down the sunflower, takes a deep breath, and says the totally cool and suave thing to say to customers. “Hi.”

Aziraphale smiles the same moment Eric drops his water mister. Aziraphale can only form the first half of his bright ‘hello’ to Eric before he bolts out of view and shuts the back door, locking it with a click. He is left with a frustratingly endearing confused look on his face, and Crowley has to do damage control.²

“Don’t worry about him,” Crowley says, attempting to sound as if this was a frequent occurrence. “He’s just a bit unwell, is all.”

Aziraphale nods vigorously, like he understands perfectly. He can’t say he was much of a ‘regular’ customer (he only ever came sparingly) but he was enough of a person to make a permanent mark in Crowley’s psyche. If anything, his old-timey appearance was an unforgettable image. “It seems he has been unwell for…a long time. Let me try again—good morning, Crowley.”

“Mmm.” Crowley clears his throat, his list of pre-made openers forgotten. Many reasons for why Aziraphale could remember his name off the bat form, but he soon realises there’s a name tag with bold and messy letters attached to his apron. In the shock of all this, he ends up saying, “Now, you need something. Seeing as this is a flower shop, I think I know what.”

Aziraphale chuckles, fixing the bottom of his brown waistcoat. “Spot on, as always. I’ll be wanting the same arrangement I received last time. The—”

“—forget-me-nots and baby’s breath?” Crowley blurts out. “Er. Yeah. I can do it again.”

“Oh, please do.” Aziraphale stands off to the side, eyeing the previously shaking ficuses, who are now suspiciously still. “Take your time. I don’t mind waiting.”

The next half-hour goes in a sort of blur. Crowley hadn’t intended for a bouquet that could fit in a child’s fist to go by so slowly, but these things took time. He does what he always does; he looks around the backroom for the requested flowers (Eric disappeared from there too), finds the right wrapper and ties (white tissue paper and yellow ribbon), comes back out, and begins moving them around. There isn’t a pattern for it, really, just what Crowley thought looked right enough. That seems to be good enough for Aziraphale, so all he can really do is trust it. No matter that most of the time he couldn’t trust his own brain for basic functions. He just won’t muck it up. Easy.

Neither of them speak a word to each other the entire time. Usually, on the rare occasion a customer stuck around to wait for their goods, they acted as if Crowley didn’t exist. Or if they did acknowledge him, they’d shoot nasty looks at his calloused fingers or flat hair like they were trying to analyse every single little detail about him.³ Aziraphale is never the case—he just stares at things. At the wooden floors, the seasonal displays, the people bustling out the door…even Crowley. Not critically or with dismay, but—well, he doesn’t know what that look means either. Something soft, if he were reaching for the stars. Something familiar.

Crowley only realises when he takes off his sunglasses to get a closer look at a spot on one of the lilies that he’s actively being watched. He catches it at the corner of his vision; Aziraphale’s head is turned straight at him. He then becomes intimately aware that he’s squinting his eyes almost completely shut out of habit, and corrects it before he looks back up discreetly. He thinks. 

Other than that, however, it seems like things are going okay. He’s almost afraid to check, but he could swear Aziraphale is positively beaming at him.

But, as all things involving the cursed human that was Anthony J. Crowley did, something always has to fuck it up eventually. 

The comment doesn’t sound malicious at first. Quite the opposite, actually. As Aziraphale gathers the finished bouquet in his arms, he says, “You know, I’ve never seen your eyes before. I didn’t expect them to be amber.”

Crowley’s stomach flips three times before he regains a semblance of footing. He’s been leaning on the counter for the past minute or so when Aziraphale was examining the product, and he nearly tips over from the surprise. That sounds like a nice word—or, at least, a Not Bad word. 

He tries to play it off naturally. “Oh, you know. Genetics. All natural.”

“I can imagine.” Aziraphale sniffs a forget-me-not sticking out higher above the rest of the flowers, and a calm expression spreads over his face. It was as if there was a stress behind it before, but now it’s dissipated with ease. “Oh, these will do wonderfully. Thank you, Crowley.”

If Crowley had even just the slightest bit more sense, he would have kept it going. Maybe it would have been clumsy, maybe it would have been downright stupid—but at least he could say he tried making it into something more. Maybe this foreign pit in his stomach was anything but good, maybe it was telling him the exact opposite of trying, but it was like his feet were giving him no choice but to chase the bookseller. He couldn’t for the life of him tell you why, but he should.  

And that didn’t make any sense. Things like this weren’t supposed to, right? That’s what Crowley’s been told about…not love yet, but something. These thoughts might be completely unfounded—the ones that flash through his very self as he picks out the freshest forget-me-nots he can find, as he plucks out all the spotted leaves while the bookseller watches, the ones where it feels like fire is dancing on their skin and they’re laughing over drinks in a world where he just asks him, and they’re talking, and they’re learning, and they’re walking and touching and holding—

“Hold on,” Crowley says quickly, and before Aziraphale can ask, he’s taken out a pen from his pocket and scribbling digits as fast as he can on a spare business card from a stand near the cash register. “Here. Even if you don’t need it.”

He sticks it in the bouquet of flowers, slides his stool towards the register, and rings the bouquet up before either of them can say a word. Aziraphale always pays in unnaturally crisp bills, which makes the process go even faster, thank God. It goes by quietly, and soon enough, Aziraphale has his change and is folding his receipt neatly in his beige coat’s pockets. It really couldn’t have gone better than that.

Aziraphale is gone for ten minutes when Crowley plays the bookseller’s last sentence back in his head. He hadn’t really been thinking about it before, not when the rush of victory was prevalent and he’d been sitting there staring out the window like a lovestruck idiot, but now that he’s here, Crowley finds something seriously wrong with that last comment.

Amber.

Crowley knows colours. Knowing colours is a part of his job. ‘Amber’ implies a yellow-ish hue, which would be fine in a context like complimenting the walls or noting the centre of a baby’s breath bud—but as far as the florist knows, his eyes are meant to be brown.

Crowley jumps out of his chair the same moment Eric deems it alright to re-enter the shop. Whatever overly-grovelish apologies he’s spewing are deaf to Crowley’s ears as he comes up with the brilliant idea of using the window glass as a mirror. He leans in, cursing himself for removing his sunglasses to get a better view because of course he needed perfection, anything but would be outright unthinkable, and—

—he’s met with unmistakable yellow bleeding on the edge of his irises.

—————

In between the moments of Crowley running out of the flower shop the second his lunch hour began and him feeding ducks peas, there were little rational thoughts circling about. 

Crowley had babbled some flimsy excuse about fetching a muffin from the bakery to Eric before he’d snatched up his bag and rushed out. Now that he’s become hyper-aware of everything going on around him, he can’t help but take in every insignificant detail as he speed walks through the bustle towards a destination he doesn’t yet know. The list of oddities just goes on and on and on and he can’t stop it. He doesn’t take a bus back home, or try the Tube, or even slow down to a walk—it’s just become too weird.

Once his legs can’t take it anymore, Crowley ducks into the nearest building, which is a market of some kind. He paces through the aisles until the trembling becomes too great, stopping in the vegetable aisle. Nothing weird about vegetables to notice, surely. 

He avoids the reflection of the fridges nearby as he sinks to the floor, a sense of absolute loss welling up inside him. It is at this moment he realises he has two options; either face the music or plug in his ears for as long as he can until he gets tired of it. Both are not ideal, but it’s all he has. 

Crowley weighs on it tirelessly until his eyes catch the corner of a frozen pea package. After that, a secret third option is the clear winner; feed some blissful, ignorant ducks. 

Everyone knows the best place for a fateful meeting in London is, and always has been, St. James’ Park. They say that the only reason why the ducks haven’t been driven sick due to the secret agents’ consistent feeding of bread is a man who’s been passing off bags of frozen peas as a substantially better alternative. This man has been around for so long⁴ that ducks have developed Pavlovian reactions to anyone with red hair and round sunglasses—which today, Crowley is grateful for.

Crowley doesn’t even have the energy to poke fun at the glaringly obvious clandestine meetings occurring on the benches as he walks through St. James’ Park, throwing a pocketful of peas when he deems fit. All he can think about is that image, where a gaze he did not recognise was peering back at him through the glass. He catches that image in the pond water unwillingly when he has to aim the peas in the right direction, and it’s always the same—a trick of the light, his arse. He knows what he saw. 

But now he has to be one to deal with it, and that isn’t as reassuring. After a good amount of pondering and strolling, the list of options Crowley comes up with is extremely short, and all it says is ‘doctor or something’. The most logical course of action is checking himself into a hospital and letting them figure it out from there. He always hated doctors—the way they always made it so very obvious when they read his name or the F on his files, the way he’d have to fumble through lousy excuses as they noted his crooked back and weak knees. That would be his last resort, probably. Because other than that…nothing.

Crowley reaches into his pocket for another handful, only to realise he’s been left with just water and a plastic wrapper soaking his pocket. He groans as he flicks the droplets away, turning away from the river to check if anyone saw that embarrassing scene. No one did, thank God—but that was because there’s no one here.

Crowley spins three times to make sure, but he’s no longer on the concrete path. He’s walked off it and into the dense forests, standing on an isolated river bed with no ducks in sight and the nearest building far in the horizon over the water. He squints at the thick foliage, the shadows within looming greatly.

“Hello, human.”

Crowley jumps nearly two feet in the air at the interruption. Though it reverberted like it was being whispered over his shoulder, when he goes to look, there’s nothing there. It’s not until he faces back forward that he’s left frozen at the two ‘men’ who have appeared out of thin air.

The word ‘men’ is being used in quotation marks because they don’t really look like men. Not human men, anyway. The way Crowley can tell are the slimy animals on their heads, though the botched skin and tattered clothes are good hints too. That in and of itself wouldn’t be alarming (certainly weird, but not alarming) but what worries him the most is that it feels like he knows them. It’s that feeling you get when you come across an old stuffed animal in the basement, or revisiting your abandoned childhood home—there is something heavy in your heart, you can recognise that you knew every fold and piece of fur a lifetime ago, but it is not yours anymore. It might never be yours again, either.

“Who’re you?” Crowley glares at the strange duo. He reaches for his belt as if he actually has a weapon underneath his blazer. “If you’re gonna mug me, you can have it. S’all worthless anyway.”

The one with a lizard on his head gives a half shrug, looking far too leering for Crowley’s comfort. “So this is what he’s been doin’ these days. Never would’ve thought he’d gone native.”

Whether out of fear or sense, Crowley starts taking steps away from the ever-growing danger in front of him. “Ooh, are you some sort of stalker? I don’t like those. Dunno why you’d have thought I would be any sort of interesting—”

“I did,” the one with the toad snarls, eyeing Crowley up and down with the same pitch-black stare he saw this morning. “Dukes of Hell have got to know things. But this …ooh. Lord Beelzebub is going to like this.”

Crowley nearly trips over a stray rock, and he stumbles foolishly as he tries to save face. “Alright. Whatever business you’ve got, I don’t know anything about it. And if you’ll excuse me, my lunch hour’s almost—”

Lizard lunges at Crowley, punching him right across the face with tremendous force. As he hurls to the ground, he’s saved from the dirt by being held mid-air by the shirt collar. Toad tilts his head, his glower intensifying quickly. “Knew you were still the same old scum. Guess he really knew it after all.” 

“He doesn’t look all that strong.” Lizard points vaguely in Crowley’s face. “His eyes haven’t even gone normal yet.”

Crowley can only spit out, “Yellow isn’t really nor—” before he’s struck again, this time in the stomach. He squirms sluggishly under the lizard man’s grip, but his vision has become concerningly out of focus. The two beings have grown fuzzy edges, and when Toad gets right into his face, the only way he can tell is that his breath smells distinctly of faeces.

Toad curls his lip, almost as if he were grimacing. “You, tempter, demon, property of Hell, and—” he sounds almost sick to say this, “—Snake of Eden, you are to report back to active duty. Heaven’s got their angel back on, so we’ve got to do it too. Hell wants their field agents ready for order.”

“Your little holiday is over.” Lizard tugs his collar up sharply, eliciting a painful grunt. “Welcome back, Crowley. You’ve got paperwork to do.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale has been having an odd day.

The bookseller is not unfamiliar with the concept of an ‘odd’ day. He’s had his fair share of them, considering how long he’s lived for. It is not something that would particularly bother him, really, if it weren’t for the fact that everything keeps breaking in his hands.

It all began earlier that day, when Aziraphale had once again gotten only the bare minimum amount of sleep needed to function. He made his bed, put his novel from last night back onto the large pile of books sat on his chest of drawers, and opened the blinds to peer down into the world that is Soho below him. It was only when Aziraphale used the post of his bed to catch himself from slipping and breaking the wood in half did he think something was very, very wrong.

Of course, he couldn’t fault it to a single incident. As Aziraphale descended the staircase to prepare the bookshop for the public, he broke the metal railing in two separate places. When he went to make a cup of tea, he broke three china cups and dented the kettle. When he stubbed his toe on a table leg as he unlocked the doors, the contents on it shook far too violently. So, no, it wasn’t just one accident, there’s a pattern.

Aziraphale wrings his hands as a few customers file into the bookshop, intent on perusing the shelves to their heart’s content. His cup of tea has grown cold, and his tartan bow tie may as well be suffocating him. He meanders between sitting down to get some work done before he leaves and making sure no one got away with any important books. It simply wouldn’t do, fretting like this. Today is an important day, one he can’t miss for anything. He can’t help it if things have become a bit odd. He would just have to ignore it.

To combat his anxieties, Aziraphale has bestowed himself the task of organising his trove of prophetic books by the average amount of prophecies contained on one page. It’s been about half an hour, and he hasn’t made much progress. It kills time, though, until he’ll be able to leave. The sooner he can, the sooner he’ll feel better. Hopefully.

Aziraphale is finishing another calculation when the front doors open with gusto. He sighs with relief, putting down his quill and straightening his brown waistcoat as he slides out of his armchair. His saviour was here, ready to reprive him of his duties. 

“‘Ello, Mr Aziraphale!” Muriel puts down their bag gently on the floor by the cash register’s table and makes a beeline towards their employer, who puts on a small smile for his assistant’s sake. Their tartan skirt swishes as they sit themselves behind the cash register, popping the collar of their beige blazer. “I know that if I’m late I’m supposed to tell you I will be, but I was very busy trying a chip for the first time. Did you know hu— people give out some of their treats to lure in unsuspecting h— people such as myself? I like it very much.”

“I’m just glad that you’re here at all, Muriel,” Aziraphale says wearily, fixing the cuffs of his blue dress shirt. He’s grown so accustomed to Muriel’s strange comments every now and again that he doesn’t even bat an eye at the wording. “I was hoping you would be available today. I have many errands to run, and I’ll need someone to take care of the shop until I return. Will that be any trouble?”

“Not at all,” Muriel says warmly, saluting the bookseller with pride. They clasp their hands together, but it doesn’t change the fact that they are trembling slightly. “I will protect these books until the end. There’s no rush.”

Aziraphale chuckles, weaving through the office’s clutter with ease. “You’ve done it before, so I’m sure you can do it again. Help yourself to the kitchen. I’ll be back by nightfall at the latest.”

Muriel nods eagerly, and Aziraphale grabs his outdoor coat before he can process the somewhat nervous look on their face. Frankly, he’s never seen Muriel in any state besides ‘chirpy’, excluding the training stages.¹ It unnerves him, though he barely knows them. Now that he thinks about it, he never did get a last name…

Aziraphale shakes his head of the thoughts as he closes the bookshop’s door behind him, immediately hit with the warm, sunny air. Right. Errands. The sooner he finished, the better.

The first errand is not too far from A. Z. Fell and Co. (Est. 1830). It’s about a twenty minute walk to Blight Bouquets with all the foot traffic, thank goodness. There are few moments when Aziraphale is out and about willingly, and when he is, it tends to feel much nicer. The paranoia might be apparent in the way his shoulders are tense, or the way his hands clutch the keys in his pockets, but there had been a time when he didn’t see sunlight for almost days at a time. At one point, rotting between bookshelves seemed like a better alternative than letting others perceive him in any way he didn’t deem to be correct. Progress is progress.

The flower shop is a small little thing, bright yellow walls wedged between two separate boutiques. The bell above Aziraphale’s head chimes pleasantly as he enters, and he is hit with the smell of roses and…smoke, for some reason. He’ll push that aside, though, as the very person he’d been hoping to see is, in fact, behind the counter today. Aziraphale can’t help but beam—at least one thing was going his way today.

The next half-hour or so passes in bliss. Sometimes, sitting down and doing nothing but observing is indeed a cure for unpleasantness. Though there are no seats in this flower shop, Aziraphale is more than content with standing by the far wall and being left to his own devices. Plants always made good company, same as books. And, just maybe, some florists do too. 

Nothing that is running through Aziraphale’s head is all that different from Crowley’s line of thinking. Though the two would claim that they were easily opposites, at the end of the day, they were from the same stock—in more ways than they thought. The world as they knew it will be shattered before their eyes soon enough, but here, in a tiny little flower shop away from the oddness abound, it is nice. It is just nice.

And just like Crowley at this moment, Aziraphale is incredibly nervous. He might not be the one reaching out, but his heart is beating just as erratically when Crowley says, “Even if you don’t need it.” Oh, did he need it. Aziraphale knows damn well what a phone number means—he wasn’t that stupid. It means ‘I want to know you’. It means ‘I want more’. It means a chance.

In a different world, Aziraphale may have had the courage to stay. Or, if anything, have the courage to ask why him. Make a little show of it. It wasn’t like he came around often, or even for that long—but the fact that he’s come more than once said all that it needs to, didn’t it? 

However, despite this silent plea, neither Aziraphale nor Crowley truly understand the scope of that need. Today, this world is not that world. Aziraphale has a train to catch. He will not read the back of that card until the time is right.

—————

The grave is located in a local cemetery in Edinburgh, and therefore, he likes to get there early so it didn’t take up the entirety of his day. It’s about a four and a half hour ride on train, and Aziraphale spends the entire way clutching his bouquet and looking over his shoulder. He shouldn’t be feeling so trapped, so terribly vulnerable. It worries him, just a bit.

The air is crisp as Aziraphale gets off at his station, the cemetery about a half-hour walk away. Refreshingly cold in comparison to London’s current humidity, which soothes the tightness in his joints as he calls a cab. This wouldn’t take too long—these visits never did—but today he has a particularly important urgency. He would like to agonise over the implications of the numbers on the card given to him in the comfort of his bookshop, and not in the middle of another country where something wrong could occur at any moment. 

The gravestone rests in a secluded part of the yard, near the farthest fence along the rolling hills. The grass is covered in dew, causing Aziraphale’s thick sneakers to squelch with every step he takes.² In this in between, his mind wanders back to that flower shop. A bit useless, considering he was just there, but the joy that he felt within those walls is something he wants to cling onto like his entire existence depends on it. Why, exactly, is not entirely lost on him—and that’s the terrifying part.

But he’d put a pause on that for now, he decides, once he reaches that familiar hill. There were more pressing matters at hand, such as replacing the flowers on his father’s grave. His own woes could be mulled over later.

The stone doesn’t look all that different from last time, which was…June? Aziraphale last visited Cr— the flower shop in June, so surely, that must’ve been he visited his father last. Regardless, it looks no different. The crack along the base’s edge remains deep, the simple letters indented in the stone remain clear and worn. 

Jerimiah “Fell” Burns

January 8th, 1921 - September 6th, 1990

Beloved Son, Father, and Scholar

Aziraphale kneels down in the dirt, pushing aside the last bouquet he’d left propped up against it. They’re near perfect replicas, as his father was not particularly impartial to change. He puts the withered mess aside to arrange the new one, careful not to bend a single petal. It would be a long time until he’d visit again, so it was best to leave it as neatly as he’d left it last.

Aziraphale sits himself down properly, ignoring the dampness and slick ground. He wrings his hands in his lap, any attempt at words shut down before he can even start. The stone cross looms over him, a reminder of their last days; church. Aziraphale never really liked churches—too big, too cold.

Aziraphale has nothing to say. He never does, being here. He’s been visiting this grave for decades now, and yet, every time he comes to visit, he feels little emotion. No pain, no tears, no…much of anything, really. He didn’t hate his father, oh, no. Perhaps it was that it didn’t feel final. It was a mark for an end, but not the end. Death isn’t the end. So, to most people, graveyards are the cornerstones of mourning. To Aziraphale, they’re the cornerstones of freedom. 

That’s what he tries to tell himself, anyway. That’s what he tries to hope for—because if he’s wrong…well, all he could say was that he would not be seeing any white gates besides the ones here on Earth.

Aziraphale tears his eyes away from the towering statue, attaching them to the granite gravestone to the right. He blinks, realising that he’s never truly looked at any of his father’s neighbours before—this hill has always felt like it was solely for them, and them alone. He squints to read the looped engraving.

Ezra Raphael Fell

October 21st, 1900 - September 13th, 1967

“And the Lord did not ask him again.” (Genesis 1:27)

Aziraphale’s eyes widen, his first thought being the location of a rather extensive collection of misprinted Holy Bibles. That collection has been in his bookshop for as long as he can remember, and from what he’s been told about said bookshop’s past lineage,³ it’s been there for as long as A. Z.  Fell and Co. was an established name in Soho. If he were to do a good amount of mental gymnastics, it could possibly make sense that they were buried in the same yard.

Then again—Aziraphale had chosen where his father was laid to rest. Honestly, he’s not even sure why he chose a yard so far out from London. If he thought about it too hard, his head started to pound like it was banging on a door that refused to open. If he just kicked hard enough…

The hairs on the back of Aziraphale’s neck stand up as if he were struck by lightning. His breath becomes shallow, eyes darting in all directions as he shifts incessantly. He pushes himself off the ground, preparing to leave—only for two men to be standing in his way.

Aziraphale stumbles back, using his father’s grave to keep himself from tumbling back to the ground. His mouth bobs up and down as he’d done earlier, everything to say but no words to describe them.

“Huh,” the man in grey says, his purple tie matching with the odd reflection in his eyes, a harsh violet. “He’s a bit… pudgier than I thought he would be. A chance for a re-do and you change nothing? A bit of a wasted opportunity.”

The man in beige nods, clasping his hands in front of him as if he were guarding the man in grey and needed to show his strength 24/7. “This is what the scrivener said. At least they were right this time.”

“Indeed,” the man in grey says gravely. “This will have to do.”

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale bursts out once he can’t stay quiet any longer. “If I may ask, who are you? You can’t just go around insulting people who are going about their own business. It’s rather rude.”

The man in grey blinks like he hadn’t realised Aziraphale was listening to their conversation. He straightens his tie, clears his throat, and puts on a smile. One of those slightly tightened jaw smiles that make you feel terrible about yourself when you haven’t done anything yet—corporate. Yes, that’s the word. “No worries, human. We understand your customs and that our exclusion was not polite.” He turns to the man in beige again, dropping back down to the same loud muttering. “Wow, this is exhausting. I have no idea how they do it. I’m so glad that you’re an angel. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“An… angel?” Aziraphale gulps, the lump in his throat refusing to ease. “As in a biblical angel. The ones serving under God’s rule? Those angels?”

“Yeah! Knew you’d get the hang of it. Those angels.” The man in grey punches Aziraphale’s shoulder in jest, which is bound to leave a minor bruise. “That’s you! Isn’t it such a huge and humbling honor? You’re not a human! That must be relieving news.”

Oh.

Oh, no.

This is the moment where all of the air is sucked out of Aziraphale’s lungs. This is the moment where his body’s tension has snapped, leaving him trembling inconveniently. This is the moment where his entire world is cracked like a cheap mirror, bringing along seven years of bad luck and then some. This…this shouldn’t feel like bad news. This shouldn’t feel real.

Ignoring Aziraphale’s near horrified expression, the man in grey winks and says, “Have you ever heard of the angel Aziraphale?”

“Yes! Yes, o-of course, he—“ Aziraphale stammers, knowing that he hasn’t told one ounce of personal information this entire exchange. “Very…very rare, very unknown angel. That’s where my name is derived from. So. I’d know.”

“Of course your name comes from him.” The man(?) in grey’s tight smile only grows wider. “You are him! Aziraphale! Buddy! That brain of yours not working perfectly? Oh, we can fix it in Heaven. You’ve got three and a half centuries of paperwork to catch up on, and I’m sure you can’t wait for it. You loved paperwork.”

Aziraphale very much does not like paperwork. “Pardon?”

“And I,” he continues grandly, “am the Supreme Archangel Gabriel. You might have heard of me in your Scriptures. Your supervisor’s name is Muriel, though if they had done their job right, you wouldn’t have known that. And this, right here, is Archangel Sandalphon.” Gabriel gestures to the being (archangel) next to him, who wears a leer unfit for an innocent being. “When did you two meet on Earth last?”

“Sodom and Gomorrah,” Sandalphon says, a faint nasaliness in his voice that only spurs Aziraphale’s discomfort. “We worked together on Divine Punishment. Very fun, that.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says faintly, his stomach dropping once he recalls where he’s heard that story from childhood. “Smiting people into salt. Lots of smiting. And I helped.”

Sandalphon grins nastily, flashing a gold piece of jewellery attached to his front teeth. “Indeed.”

Aziraphale chuckles nervously, which doubles into nervous laughter when the beings (angels) stare at him with unexpressive looks on their faces. He bites his tongue to prevent making more of a fool of himself, and once he feels his chest settling, he tries to speak in a relatively calm manner. “Ah, uhm, excuse me, Mr—”

Gabriel shakes his head. “Oh, no need for any human honorifics. You deserve it.”

“Gabriel, then. If it isn’t rude to ask—why exactly would the Archangel Gabriel choose…this form to roam around Earth? Why not a shape more…obvious? Holy?”

Gabriel clicks his tongue, and Aziraphale suddenly realises that he wants to sink into his bookshop and never come out ever again out of shame. “The same reason why you adapted to this form, Aziraphale. To keep people’s brains from melting! You’ll learn soon enough. Not that you have much time, but I bet you’ll be in tip top shape to lead your platoon when Armageddon is upon us.”

“Pardon?!” Aziraphale cries, jolted out of his spiralling as violently as it could have been possible. “No, no, you must have the wrong person, I—all of this talk about platoons and angels —I couldn’t possibly—”

“Vacation’s over, buddy.” Gabriel claps Aziraphale on the shoulder, making him freeze like a deer in headlights. “You’re back on active duty. We’ll let your supervisor stick around for a little while, make sure you’re doing okay, but you’re on your own. Don’t fuck this up.”

Aziraphale continues to stammer and scoff, but ultimately, there isn’t any more he could say without either 1: reckoning with the implications (terrifying) or 2: ignoring them entirely (impossible). So, he chooses the secret third option; playing along. Taking a deep, hopefully easing breath, he asks, “What do I have to do? Before…the end?”

“Oh, easy!” Gabriel scoffs, waving his hand flippantly. “Just keep an eye out for Hell’s operative, like we said. A…Crowley, I think?” Sandalphon nods, which is all the confirmation Gabriel needs. “And make sure to blend in—we always pride ourselves on blending into humanity, but I suppose you’re already doing perfectly.” Sandalphon nods again, which Gabriel copies promptly. “You’ll know them when you see it. Godspeed, Aziraphale. May blessings be upon you.”

Aziraphale ducks his head on principle, and the angels disappear with a loud pop. When he risks a peek from over his arm, all that’s left is a fine mist already dissipated. 

“Ah,” Aziraphale murmurs to himself, letting his arms fall awkwardly, “that is certainly new.”

These are the words of a man angel person who is not letting himself comprehend the news given to him. Instead of trying to do so, he dusts the rest of himself off and looks back at the pair of graves. The business card sticking out of the bouquet fell out during the hullabaloo, leaving it sticking out in a patch of freshly dug up dirt nearby.

Against all odds, Aziraphale leans down to pick it up. He shakes off the dirt, revealing a string of digits and ‘Crowley’ written in wobbly office pen. The words “Hell” and “operative” echo in his head, making him hesitate briefly before tucking it in his inner pocket, the one closest to his chest. Better safe than sorry. It would undoubtedly become useful.

It’s only when he’s begun the trek back that the implications really hit Aziraphale. He knows the Scriptures, he knows the verses and he’s heard the sermons, and—and it’s ridiculous. The deities Aziraphale grew up learning about did not manifest themselves as strange businessmen, and demons were not irritatingly charming gingers wearing sunglasses indoors. (Oh, that was a whole other epiphany he’d have to deal with later.) Suits, quotas, paperwork —it almost felt blasphemous to witness. 

Besides—an angel? Him? Even if it were all true, why would they come to him? No, no, Aziraphale is far from sinless. And not only to be an angel, but the angel? The angel he dedicated almost years of his life in researching more of their existence within the holy books besides a faulty printing? It just couldn’t be!

Aziraphale pauses his panicked musings in a large clearing, the middle of a path that juts out into all directions. The dirt crunches underneath him and he spins around in search of the path he just came from, as his memory is a tad shot from being shook around like nothing.

The statue overlooks the clearing on an innocent patch of grass. Aziraphale attempts to ignore it, but in the end, he can’t help that he’s drawn to it like a moth to a flame. The figure sits atop a pedestal, its engraving concise and clear. He holds a cross as large as his body, sculpted hair voluminous and falling down his neck. Handsome, yes, but what’s more important is that it looks familiar.

Aziraphale has been visiting this cemetery for years. He knows he has, he probably knew every crevice and patch like it’d been wired into him, but—he’s never seen this statue before. Not up close, anyway. It certainly looks like it could be older than every single one of his ancestors and thereof, but the resemblance is uncanny.

It’s when Aziraphale’s eyes meet the statue’s that the resemblance is most prominent. Even with the smoothed out features, lack of colour, and only meeting a few minutes ago, he knows.

That, no doubtedly, is a monument worthy of a Supreme Archangel. 

“Oh, bugger.”

Chapter Text

Crowley sprints through the dense forest leaving ashy footprints in the dirt and a nasty bruise forming across the side of his neck. His brain is racing twice as fast as he is moving, whirling with questions of what and how and why. He has no idea how long it’s been since he was first cornered by that river—the sun has begun to dip back into hiding, the sky growing pinker by the second. Hours, maybe. Too much time.

Crowley breaks through the trees, stumbling back onto the pavement with a few confused looks shot his way as hobbles. He has no shoes, or destination. Where could he go, really? The flower shop is infested, his flat is unthinkable, the park he’s in now…. They know where he lives. Where he works. Where he gets his groceries. Where he gets his tattoos, for Hell’s sake! 

There’s nowhere to go. Or, no, there is—anywhere but here.

“Crowley!”

Crowley nearly trips on his own feet as he skids to a halt, the sound of that voice far too stressed for his comfort. Out in the horizon, a small figure is running towards him as if he ran for miles. Crowley shuffles towards the fence barring the regular patrons to the lake, waiting for Aziraphale to catch up.

Aziraphale heaves as he stops in front of Crowley, using the fence to hold himself up. “Oh, thank goodness I was correct. I had suspected you would be here. N-Now, I’m not sure if you’ve had any sort of strange entities visit you recently, but just in case if they haven’t, you might—”

“Fucking Hell!” Crowley shouts abruptly, causing Aziraphale to flinch. “You too? Damn it all, out of everyone that could’ve—”

“Oh, good! You’re just as confused as I am. I have little clue as to I got here so quickly, but I am now, which is perfect since—”

“Not you. It can’t be you. This—this cannot be real. You can’t be who they meant. You can’t!”

Aziraphale squints at Crowley’s neck, where a patch of purple skin is being concealed by the collar of his blazer. “What’s that on your neck? It looks rather painful. Like someone throttled you.”

“That’s because they did. I dunno what people were sent after you, but my lot just outright threw me around—” Crowley takes in a sharp breath, effectively cutting himself off before he can go on another tirade. “Let’s sit down.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Agreed.”

They limp as one to the nearest bench, collapsing on it as if the weight of the world is on their shoulders. Aziraphale sits up once he composes himself, folding his hands neatly and posture astoundingly straight after having just run the race of his life. Crowley remains slumped, trying hard not to let his eyes drift closed. Now was definitely not time for a nap.

Aziraphale starts it off politely. “I think my assistant has secretly been an Angel of the Lord sent to watch over me. Badly.”

Crowley continues it bluntly. “I think my manager is secretly a demon from Hell who was sent to spy on me. Badly, also.”

They don’t dare look at each other, opting to glance from the corners of their eyes, dread settling over them like a thick blanket. They don’t need to hear the other’s story. They already know it. They’ve lived it.

“So…what happened to you?” Aziraphale asks out of politeness, gesturing to his own neck for reference. “I assume it didn’t go well.”

“It couldn’t have gone better, I think.” Crowley sighs, letting his head roll to the side as he looks up at the darkening sky. “It started this morning. Everything was normal—or, er, a bit not normal, but fine. I didn’t think much of it, until—until you left the shop. I have brown eyes, you know.”

“How does—” Aziraphale gasps softly. “Oh. And—and I had—”

“Pointed it right out?” Crowley grimaces. “Yep. Other than that, it’s mostly been tiny things. The plants I always water started shaking. My coffee machine started working. And then…two people came up to me and just spouted nonsense, kicking me around. Stuff about the end of the world and demons. Rags and all. The usual insanity.”

“I see.” Aziraphale looks down at his folded hands, which are fidgeting like mad. He forces them to still, just long enough for him to gather any coherent thought. “My people just… telemarketed at me. Implying that Armageddon is approaching and—and other such subjects. They said I was an angel, if you can believe it.”

Crowley laughs, though it sounds incredibly forced. “Oh, yeah. Insanity.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale tries to smile, and it looks just as fake. “Very…silly.”

The ducks are still squawking. They’re rather loud, yearning for bread from the people sitting nearby who indulge them for the sake of appearances. There’s a small band stationed in the grass nearby, playing their instruments to the tune of ‘Seven Seas of Rhye’ by Queen. Aziraphale and Crowley are silent, and Crowley can’t bring himself to care about any of it. The world goes on; it won’t forever, but that was the whole point of it all. Aziraphale and Crowley know this well, being raised the way they were. They adapted to it differently—one moulded himself into the role that was expected of him and took in the teachings as gospel, and the other tore the hinges off the cage with all of his might and never looked back. Neither of them ever escaped, truly. It always comes circling back.

Which is why the word ‘Armageddon’ is…a bit of a soft spot. They heard plenty about it in childhood. Knew every prophesied detail in the Bible as if it were etched into their skulls. Crowley thought it would never come, stubbornly believing it was made up by the men of the past to spook and shame their children. Aziraphale thought it would happen long after his life was over, when he’d already joined whatever collective he belonged to.

They weren’t meant to have anything to do with it. Not now. Not soon.

So, none of it is true. Stuff and nonsense, stuff and nonsense. Not one word of it. 

Ignoring the fact that their stories lined up.

Ignoring the notion that out of everyone it could’ve happened to, it happened to them.

Ignoring how those demons knew every single damned detail about Crowley, as if they’d been watching him from the start.

“You know, they had animals on their heads,” Crowley says mildly. “Slimy buggers. Unnatural looking.”

“I saw a statue,” Aziraphale says, twiddling his thumbs. “It looked ancient. Hundreds of years, maybe. THe resemblance was startling.”

“They said I was a snake. As in the first one. Think they just meant it metaphorically. But it was rather off-putting.”

“One of them said I used to smite people, apparently. Very strange. I knew their names.”

“Which could mean nothing.”

“Of course.”

“Absolutely nothing to wonder about.”

“Exactly! Just coincidences.”

It wasn’t true, is the point.

It couldn’t be.

Right? 

Right?

“Well,” Crowley says, unlatching himself from the bench promptly, “I think we’re done here. Best not to think about it too much and call it a day.”

“What?!” Aziraphale shoots up from his seat, his cry piercing Crowley’s ears. “You can’t just brush this aside like—like nothing! What if it is?”

Crowley pauses, his eyes betraying his hesitancy from behind heavily tinted sunglasses. “I don’t believe in Heaven. Or Hell. Or angels, or saints—”

“I don’t think your beliefs change what’s been put in front of us.” Aziraphale stands as well, and he puts a good five feet between the two of them. “They were here, they hurt you, and from what you described, those were genuine demons. And—and they thought—”

Aziraphale turns away, the slightest tremble on his lips. Crowley glares at him, but even that is half-hearted. The people around them continue to walk without so much as looking up, blissfully unaware of the tension threatening to burst.

Because, at the end of the day, they don’t know anything. Those people did. The strange tendencies, the new traits, the sheer magnitude— those people knew, and if they wanted Aziraphale and Crowley in on whatever they were playing at, then they would have to go along with it. Because what they can be certain of is that it is dangerous, otherworldly, and distinctly world threatening.

“Let’s just not think about it,” Crowley says. “We can just…live. Maybe. Wait.”

“I don’t think I could,” Aziraphale admits. “I—”

“What? Do you really think that you’re an angel? An actual angel? And I’m—I’m…”

There is also that detail that needs to be addressed. Accepting the possibility of the world being at stake also opens the possibility of more of the strange entities’ words being true also—and that is, understandably, terrifying.

“...It’s not impossible.”

They’ll deal with it.

Just…not now.

“Yeah,” Crowley says quietly, “you’re probably right.”

Not yet.

“So what now, then?” Crowley asks. “We just—”

“Live?” Aziraphale huffs. “Most likely. At least until there’s another ‘message’.”

“I can’t believe you’re taking this so—so nicely!” Crowley’s voice is riddled with spite, jaw clenched in an anger that had surfaced out of nothing. “Are you not even going to question it a bit? Is that not a thing for you? Things just pop out of the ground and shove you around like—” He shudders, looking as if he’s about to fall apart. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit…”

Aziraphale’s chest aches at the sight, his hands itching to latch onto Crowley as if he was going to run away at any moment. A tiny part of his brain screams to let him. But if he did that, then all of this would have been for nothing. If there is anything Aziraphale Fell is not, it is a quitter.

“Would you like to come back to my shop?” Aziraphale asks softly, staying rooted to his spot. “We should talk. If you’d want to.”

“Nah,” Crowley chokes out, arms heavy at his side. “Just need…a bed. A good bed.”

“Alright, then.” Aziraphale will take the win. “I don’t have a car, but we’ll be back with two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Come along.”

Aziraphale walks away, and soon enough, the clatters of snake-skinned shoes fall into rhythm behind him. Things may not have been an ideal first (non-work related) conversation, Aziraphale is determined to salvage it. While plans to remedy their unfortunate first meeting are the subject of his musings, all Crowley can think about is ‘bed’. Maybe some ‘TV’ if he were lucky to reach the remote before he fell over from exhaustion. 

Usually, Crowley didn’t follow strange men who claimed to be leading him to his flat, even on the nights he was drunk off his arse and ready to hibernate. That’s what a healthy amount of caution does for you—but, despite it all, he didn’t even hesitate in letting Aziraphale be his guide. He must also be itching for home, and yet, he chose to lead Crowley to his first.

Honestly, just from that alone, it wouldn’t take much to convince Crowley that Aziraphale really is an angel.

—————

Life, as expected, goes on—for everyone but Aziraphale and Crowley. 

Once they are safely back in their homes after their silent bus rides, they do the only thing that is available to them as human beings; they panic. Aziraphale locks his bookshop away from the public eye, gorging himself on the Scriptures and tomes in his collections to refresh on the new world bestowed upon him. The blinds are closed, his bed remains untouched, and the kettle does not stop boiling, as it is being used as a mass tea producer. 

Crowley, meanwhile, calls off work for the rest of the week. He closes the blinds for his windows in his flat, and tries his best not to get poisoned from the amounts of alcohol he’s consuming. He keenly avoids mirrors and glass, scouring the only source he can access while cooped up for help—the Internet. It doesn’t end up helping much.

Frankly, they’re spiralling. They’ve both just been proven right of the existence of forces beyond their control, and it scares them. You have to understand—if such an ordeal ever happened to you, would you take it well? Aziraphale and Crowley are grasping at straws to deny the dangerous ideas, but no matter how much they try to drown themselves in information and Talisker bottles, it isn’t entirely nonsensical.

So now they’re on their own, or so they believe. Of course, Aziraphale is bound to remember the business card still sitting in the breast pocket of his outdoor coat past the two day mark. After having reread the book of Genesis for the sixth time (in the Buggre Alle This Bible, mind you), he finally gets the idea of asking Crowley for help. He’s not ready to face Muriel, at least not yet. That would take a little longer. 

The details of the brief conversation are not important; it’s the aftermath that matters the most. It’s the nudge in the right direction that encourages them both to cease the hermit life; there’s no changing what they are, or what they were told. Maybe a Round Two would come, maybe it wouldn’t—maybe it was never real at all. Regardless, the way forward is clear. They just have to keep moving.

They go back to work soon enough. Aziraphale invites Muriel over to tea, where their conversation ends up spanning into the next day (though it doesn’t end up being very productive, as they are currently sworn to secrecy). Crowley returns to the flower shop quietly, and neither he or Eric mention it past a hurried ‘you know too, right?’ The tidbits come naturally, unintentionally—names surface every now and again, and Eric becomes far more lenient on the ‘pretending to be human’ shtick. While Crowley still isn’t 100% sure whether or not the initial claims are true (Eric still tries to act normal, if not less intensely), it’s decent progress.

On one hand, the evidence is unmistakable. The only other people Aziraphale and Crowley talk to consistently were quite literally the living embodiments of that evidence, even if they refrained from mentioning it. On the other hand, it’s just so… big. While Muriel and Eric try their best to stay patient and informative, it's evident that they’ve been barred from telling them much of anything helpful. Apparently, there are hoverboards in Heaven. Aziraphale still believes Muriel is joking about that bit.

They continue living. The phone calls become more frequent, spanning from a few minutes to a few hours. Aziraphale considers making a pass by the flower shop, but ultimately loses the courage, as he doesn’t have a plausible excuse. Crowley thinks about asking for the bookshop’s address, but also ends up scaring himself out of it. They circle the other in a dance of late-night talks and internal torment, and unbeknownst to them, it follows their six-thousand year pattern to the tee. Despite this, they are the closest they can be to content—but not completely. Never completely. That day continues to hang like low-bearing fruit, tempting to pick but deadly if they do so.

They’re okay, though. Or they will be, once they decide to talk about it. For now, the topic will continue to entice, and that would have to be fine. 

It all goes wrong about three weeks in the wake of the initial incident. The sun has set, it’s a late night at the flower shop, and Crowley is on a phone call. His mobile is on the verge of death and at maximum volume, he’s been sitting on his stool for so long his arse has gone numb, and he has to trim the stems of hundreds of bluebells to prepare for tomorrow’s order. Eric is actively not listening, though his discomfort is evident at the blatant fraternisation. The only noises within the warm confines are the muffled rumbles of the outside world, Eric’s quiet mumbling as he trims the stems of his hundreds of daisies, and the heavily granulated voice that is Aziraphale, who is currently repairing some old poetry book. Crowley isn’t really paying attention.

“I swear!” Crowley exclaims, the background noises of Muriel’s footsteps and mild humming slipping in between. “He was a giant. He had to duck down the door just to fit! No big fuck off shoes, either, just—I don’t remember what he was wearing. Just the size. You think he came to give me news?”

Aziraphale tuts as he gently rips out a page from the book he’s attempting to fix. “Did he come and give you news?”

Crowley pauses mid-cut, looking back on the brief interaction mentally. “Not explicitly. Could’ve been code.”

“Code?” Aziraphale asks, aghast. “I highly doubt it. Did he exhibit any…occult properties?”

One of their unspoken rules is the avoidance of Certain Words, ‘demon’ being one of them. ‘Occult’ is their usual default for subjects like this. They keep their eye out for Odd Behaviour as well, on the off-chance another incident were to happen, such as Crowley’s earlier observation. They’d be ready, this time. Whatever that may entail.

Crowley shifts in his seat, provoking more pain in his lower back. He grabs another fistful of bluebells, tempted to just hack them all off in the same motion to save time. “Except for the height? Nah. Big hands, maybe. Kinda bumpy. Needed some moisturiser.”

For a moment, all that can be heard on the other end is the soft sounds of tearing paper and books thumping against each other. Then, with a tremendous sigh, Aziraphale says, “Even if he really was not a human, how can you be so sure that he was…with them?”

“Some devil horns could’ve been hiding underneath his hood.”

“Highly unlikely. They would have torn through the fabric.”

“Doubt that. Could’ve been short. Stubby.”

“Perhaps cut off as punishment. Did he have a tail?”

“I wasn’t staring at his arse, Aziraphale. And no, don’t think so.”

“Well, then, it’s nothing to worry—Muriel! Please, let me—ah, apologies, Crowley, I just need to help—”

“Crowley.”

Crowley flinches violently, nearly cutting his thumb clean off while Eric’s scissors fall onto the counter loudly. The two lock eyes with each other, and Crowley doesn’t need a mirror to know they both went a bit pale at hearing the gravelly voice. Demon.

Feigning ignorance, Crowley leans towards the mobile and says, “Oh, here we go. What’re you selling me this time? I’ve already got my car an extended warranty, if you were going to ask.”

“Waranty?” Hastur sounds as if the word is foreign on his tongue. “What is—oh, I see through your games, Crowley. This isn’t the time to be daft.”

“When will it ever be?” Crowley snaps. “Alright, then. What do you want?”

“We need to meet,” Hastur drones on. “Properly. Alone. We have…news. Big news. It’s time for you to prove you’re still worthy.”

Crowley makes a non-committal noise, his heart racing as he tries to come up with a somewhat feasible excuse. “Ah, well, that’s nice, but I’ve still got an hour before I can clock—”

“Your instructions will be given when you get there.” The glee in his voice is unmistakable. “Don’t be late. It won’t end well for you. Don’t suppose you remember last time?”

“The park? Oh, yeah. Thanks for the bruises, by the way.”

“No, I—1666? The…cathedral?”

“Can’t say I recall being over 300 years old.”

“Of course you don’t,” Hastur grumbles. “Just don’t keep us waiting.”

Once the line goes dead, Crowley shoves his phone into his trouser pocket. Eric looks akin to a deer in headlights, staring at Crowley as if waiting for him to either break down or explode. Crowley takes a deep breath, ignoring the knots in his stomach, and looks up to meet him. It’s the exact News that they were hoping for—and it is not as vindictive as Crowley had been imagining.

“I’m guessing you knew,” Crowley drawls, peering at Eric over the rim of his sunglasses. The supposed-demon shudders, and he’s unsure if it’s because of his eyes, his fear, or who he used to be. Because he used to be someone, long ago. It’s just that no one will tell him who.

Eric nods, fidgeting profusely with the hem of his holed T-shirt. “Been waiting for weeks. You should go now if you want to avoid any killings—they mean it.”

“Good call.” Crowley knocks his flask into his open bag on the floor while he unties his apron, grateful that the Bentley decided to stay alive today. “Anything else you can say before I go off and face your Dukes of Hell?”

“...Sorry?”

Crowley sighs. “Apology accepted.”

—————

“アジラフェルさま の すきな まきずしをとくべつ にとりそろえておき ました,”¹ the chef says, placing a plate of sushi rolls in front of Aziraphale. He sets a large cup next to it, and looks rather proud of his hurried creation. He bows briefly, hurrying away back to whatever he was doing before Aziraphale had arrived in a mild daze.

Aziraphale mutters a distracted ‘thank you’ too late, as his mind is the farthest it can be from food. He stares at the appetising plate of salmon rolls and cup of tea arranged delicately by the chef, one of Aziraphale’s closer acquaintances. He frequents this restaurant on the regular, and he is usually delighted by the surprises he finds whenever he comes—but tonight, he wishes he was back in his predictable armchair in his predictable bookshop waiting for a (hopefully) predictable phone call. 

Muriel had insisted upon Aziraphale going out after his and Crowley’s conversation was rudely shortened, as being cooped up by the phone isn’t much of a productive course of action. They promised to notify the bookseller if Crowley called back or even came around in person, but for now, Aziraphale has no idea what happened to his…associate. (Yes. That sounds appropriate.) So, he’s here, eating food, trying not to think about it. Trying not to feel bitter.

Aziraphale looks out of the window to his left, a glimpse of neon lights and chaotic humans roaming about their business. Most of them look young, possibly early or late twenties, having the time of their lives shuffling around in little packs and mildly drunk. Aziraphale never used to envy the younger folk—he’s lived his life, and even if he was never truly happy, he was content—but tonight, the jealousy twists inside his chest, rearing its ugly head. It’s the ignorance, he thinks. A glimpse to a time where he was just as blissful.

“Mind if I join you?”

Aziraphale startles, and he nearly knocks over his tea as he twists to meet an archangel standing tall and expecting. “Gabriel! I wasn’t—what an…unexpected pleasure. It’s been…”

“Not very long, yes.” Gabriel has dressed down a tad from when he saw him last. Though he still maintains the patented American Businessman Look (goodness, he’d have to get used to it)—the scarf around his neck has been swapped out for a violet necktie, and the hem of his coat has been cut up to above his knees. He looks critically at the plate of rolls in front of Aziraphale, a mixture of confusion and judgement. He points at it and says, “Why do you still consume… that? You’re an angel.”

Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably in his seat, giving the archangel a forlorn look. “Pardon me, I haven’t been able to figure out how to turn off my appetite yet. It’s sushi! You dip it in soy sauce. I’m keeping up appearances. Would you like some?”

Gabriel’s face contorts abruptly, as if he’s imagining himself consuming such a delight, and it isn’t pleasing. “I do not sully the temple of my celestial body with…gross matter. I don’t need to, unlike you. You’ll get that fixed soon enough.”

“Obviously not.” Aziraphale looks down at the sushi and tea sadly, accepting the fact that he probably won’t get to eat or drink any of it. “Now, uh…would you like to take a seat? I see you’re alone this time.”

“Clearly.” Gabriel remains where he is, his hands clasped in front of his waist and posture as rigid as it had been when they saw each other last. “I’m not here for pleasure, Aziraphale. We have reliable information that things …are afoot.”

Aziraphale’s paltry attempt at eagerness drops in an instant. He clasps his own hand, squeezing so hard that the bones might break under his newfound strength. “They—they are?”

Gabriel nods quickly, as if excited by the unspoken prospect. “My informants suggest that the demon Crowley may be involved. I don’t suppose you remember him a bit more now?”

Aziraphale shakes his head vigorously, his white curls bouncing with the effort. “Oh, not at all. Nary a detail. But from what you’re saying, I can assume that he is…in a similar position as me?”

“Yep. Which is a good thing, don’t you worry. Anyway—you need to keep him under observation. Without, of course, letting him know that’s what you’re doing. You’re great at that.”

“Ah—under observation? You’re asking me to…put him under surveillance? I–I really don’t think that I am the right person for that. You–you would want someone more experience, someone who actually knows what—”

Gabriel tuts, effectively absolving all of Aziraphale’s protests from his mouth. “Exactly! That’s why you’re doing this. You’ve been on Earth doing this since the Beginning! I don’t think you’d have been employed this long if you weren’t good at it.” 

Aziraphale shudders as he turns away, the weight on his shoulders increasing tenfold. “Oh. Well, then. I’ll get right on that.”

“Good. This is it, Aziraphale. The Big One. The End of Days. I hope that out of everything you can remember, the significance of this is still running around somewhere. You’re a good soldier—act like it. Do good, and you may be restored fully back to your principality status before the Final Battle. Good luck.”

Gabriel nudges Aziraphale’s shoulder, which he feels obligated to flash a smile at. The attempt at gratefulness fades immediately once the archangel pops out of existence right in front of his eyes, and by this point, the evidence is far too big to ignore.

It seems that, indeed, the world is coming to an end. The Great War between Heaven and Hell, where the angels descend from the skies and the demons rise from the sulfuric depths, using the Earth as their battleground. The ultimate battle between Good and Evil, God and Satan, Virtue and Sin.

Aziraphale is going to be one of those angels. Crowley is going to be one of those demons. And they were going to help bring it along. 

Together.

—————

Aziraphale paces around his office, hands firmly behind his back and outdoor coat hung over his armchair in second thought. Muriel is not in the bookshop, because if they were, they would have responded to Aziraphale’s worried shouts. Whatever fatigue that he had is long gone, replaced by a frantic energy similar to a high amount of caffeine. He won’t sleep, he can’t sleep, it’s long past midnight and Crowley has yet to call, he would never be able to live with himself if he slept at a time like this, when…when…

No. No, Aziraphale can’t deny it any longer. Armageddon. Gabriel spoke of Armageddon, the End of Days, the Apocalypse, quite plainly. Plans are being put into motion, and Crowley is going to be in the middle of them. And, if Heaven has its way, Aziraphale will be, too.

There are two universal truths that Aziraphale holds. Though it may not have to be said, there is merit in repeating it; Aziraphale likes the world, and Armageddon is on its way. He likes his books, his food, and his teas. Armageddon is a necessary part of the cycle. Nothing lasts forever—not even existence itself. So, in general terms, Aziraphale is all for it, but not when he was going to lose his livelihood in the midst of it. Not when he was going to help destroy it all.

So, as you can see, he’s pretty much at an even split. To not just defy Heaven, but God—it’s unthinkable. To let the world burn, living in eternity should he even survive—that’s going to be tricky to come to terms with.

Aziraphale nearly trips on his own feet when the ringing starts, and he almost sprints to pick up the phone before it slips away. The first thing he hears on the other side when he presses it to his ear is the distinct sound of an infant’s loud wailing. Then it’s the sharp hisses of someone aiming to shush said baby, followed by muffled thumps of limbs hitting things as if trying to adjust. 

“Aziraphale, it’s me,” the voice on the other end says hurriedly. “Just in case you didn’t know—phone died. Went to the nearest landline—oh, will you just shut—shhh—”

Aziraphale’s anxieties are not relieved by this confirmation of life. He sits down properly, ignoring how his heart does not want to cooperate with him. “Yes. Yes, I rather think we—wait. What is that?”

“The End Times,” Crowley snaps, and Aziraphale can’t tell if his voice is wobbly due to the slow connection or his unease. “I, uh—sort of—er–met Satan. Or heard Satan, or—whatever! Point is, it’s real. All of it—every single thing, all of it’s real and the one who’s gonna end it is in this basket—”

“Yes, yes, I was going to tell you as well! I, hm, also got a visit from a familiar face.”

“...You heard God?”

“Goodness, no!” Aziraphale exclaims, on the borderline of hysteria. “Gabriel. That ring any bells?”

Crowley grunts, hefting something heavy in his arms. Probably the aforementioned basket. “Possibly.”

“Either way, it turns out we were both wrong about the validity of all this. I’ll tell you about it later—the more pressing issue at hand is that basket. What do you mean about a basket?”

“See, that’s the issue. The demons I told you about—they wanted to meet up. Show me a bit of the ropes. And they did, but the point is—Armageddon is coming. You know how it all starts, don’t you?”

“Certainly. Heaven and Hell, the final confrontation, called on by— oh.”

“Yeah. This’s him.”

He is known by many names. He is the Man of Sin in the Second Epistle to the Thessalonians, he is the Beast in Revelations, he is the False Christ within the Gospels, he is the Lord of Darkness and Prince of This World—but you likely know him by a simpler name, first written by the apostle John; the Antichrist. 

He is the one meant to bring on the end of the world. That baby, crying in his crib and being harshly shushed by a frazzled demon-in-training, is going to grow up and summon the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse as a means to an end.

In simple terms, that baby is going to end the world.

“...And you just brought him into the phone booth?!”

“What was I supposed to do?” Crowley shouts, causing the baby to wail even louder. “Leave him alone in the car?! Do you want me to get smited—smote— smitten by Satan Himself for not looking after his kid? Damn it all, Aziraphale, you would think that—”

“He’s not exactly a normal baby, is he? Oh, goodness, I can’t—”

“You’re freaking out? I’m the one who has to deliver the baby! It’s some small religious hospital up in Oxfordshire, and I have to drive all the way—I’m gonna mess it up. Should I mess it up? I’d rather not get tortured for eternity, really, but if this baby is supposed to—oh, fuck, I—there’s—”

“Alright, alright, we both need to calm down.” Aziraphale takes a deep breath, wrestling his finger out of the phone cord with great effort. With an abruptly soft voice, he says, “Please. Pause, just for a moment. I’m going to help you, but I can’t do that if you aren’t speaking coherently.”

The Antichrist’s cries begin to taper off, amplifying Crowley’s erratic breathing into the mouthpiece. If Aziraphale weren’t mistaken, it almost sounded as if Crowley were on the verge of crying—or a panic attack, either or. Aziraphale clenches his fist, foolishly wishing that he could teleport like other angels seemed to be able to do so he could actually do something useful. Not sitting here like an idiot, able to do nothing more than weave some nice words.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks tentatively. “Are you…?”

Crowley coughs, shifting once again to accommodate the weight on his person. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.”

“Ah. Good.” Aziraphale reaches across the desk to retrieve the latest Bible he’s been pouring over the last three weeks for any tidbits of information, bookmarks riddled among the frail pages. “Now, do you have a plan?”

“Not really,” is the bitter reply. “I can’t just— take the baby away. Can’t take care of him.”

“Thankfully, we both agree on that.” Aziraphale absentmindedly scans the small text he’s read a hundred times over. Eventually, he says, “The best thing you can do is go through with it, I’m afraid. I’d rather deal with the aftermath with you, than risk an aftermath without you. You know what to do with…him, yes? Then execute the plan. Every last detail. Give them no reason to be angry with you.”

Despite not seeing Crowley in person for quite some time, it’s easy to imagine the worry on his face, holding a basket of Antichrist in his arms. He must be leaning on the bright red walls of the telephone booth he’s in, wrinkles etched deep and eyebrows furrowed. The way forward is clear, and neither of them like it. “God, you’re right. Okay. I’ll deliver the baby. Not deliver deliver, but—you know. We deal with it. Ergh.”

“I believe in you.” Aziraphale settles on the page he’d like to start with, and gets through three verses before he realises that Crowley is still on the line. It would only be seconds until Crowley realised it too—and without really thinking, he blurts out, “You’ve gotten sleep recently, yes?”

Crowley makes another random jumble of noises, before settling on choking out, “Enough.”

Aziraphale pauses, momentarily ceasing his page flipping. “Enough for you or enough for me?”

“You, definitely.”

“Right. Well. You’re going to have to go anyway. Don’t let anyone kill you, or I will never forgive you for making me clean up the mess. It’s awfully dangerous to drive sleep-deprived, especially with a baby on board.”

“This baby is the alleged Antichrist, Destroyer of Worlds, and you’re worried about him over me?”

“Yes!”

“Oh, at least you admitted it properly. You’re not allowed to comment about my habits anymore. Far too hypocritical.” 

“I know that, thank you very much. But, then again, I don’t drive everywhere in a vintage 1933 Bentley threatening to break down on you for going under the speed limit. Yes, I know the year, I checked. Now, if you have the time, at least take a tiny nap before you go on the road.”

“I’ll do it if you do.”

“...Fine.”

“In your bed.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Without the lights on.”

“Oh, if I must! Please, back to the task at hand. Call me back as soon as you’re able.”

And with that, the line goes dead, and Aziraphale places the phone back onto its stand. Taking a final sip of tea, he removes the bookmark on the page of Revelations he wishes to begin on. He’ll phone Muriel when he can, but for now, they would have to be put on hold. Now begins a tinier version of the game the duo have been playing since the beginning of time; waiting.

Chapter Text

As the angel waits, it’s best we fill the lull in our tale with another tale. 

Ezekiel Edwin Fell was born on October 21st, 1690, in a luxury estate south of Lancashire, England. He had a critical father, an extensive book collection, and an engraved golden ring inherited from a distant relative who was rumoured to have been a witch and burned at the stake earlier that year. If it weren’t for the pristine white head of hair he’d been born with and his unbearable tendency to act kind and polite in the worst situations, he would have been the perfectly unassuming child. But, of course, if that were the case, this life wouldn’t have been important enough to note. 

For unfortunately, Ezekiel’s father did not like how soft his only son was growing up to be. He wanted an heir to his publishing company who was cutthroat, ordinary, and callous. And since it was the early 18th century, the father only knew of one thing to do; ship him out into the cruel ocean and make him fend for himself among the dogs. Those dogs being sweaty and ungroomed men who were just as sullen to be there, but dogs nonetheless.

On the other hand, Crawly (later to be known as the silver-tongued Devil’s Pirate through the 13 colonies and then some) was born on October 21st, 1690, in a shabby little hut north of Oxfordshire, England. When he had been birthed, his mother bundled him up in a rag, put him in a basket, and left him on the side of the road to become someone else’s problem. He was never given a last name, and he didn’t like the first name he’d been given by the travelling saleswoman who had happened to be peddling snake oil and scales (she was ahead of her time) nearby, so he chose one for himself. He would have to admit growing up surrounded by snake parts and herding other snakes around influenced the decision, but it wasn’t like the name was going to stick around forever.

Crawly grew up the complete opposite from Ezekiel Fell. For one, he never had anyone looking after him the way Ezekiel had been smothered with. Secondly, he had chosen to be thrown to the dogs. While Ezekiel was enlisted into the British Royal Navy against his will, Crawly stowed away on a merchant’s ship one day and ended up in the British colony of Virginia, the career of piracy rapidly becoming a viable job option. You could say that fate had a part to play in Ezekiel and Crawly’s (or, should it even have to be said, Aziraphale and Crowley’s) eventual meeting, but that admitted to the idea that this was a part of God’s Great Plan. If it had been, it would have been a lot more organised.

Someone has to confess that this story beginning in Heaven was a bit of a fib. Nor does it truly start here either—it began long before, about half a century prior—but, for now, this will have to do.

—————

Chesapeake Bay, Virginia Colony, 1716 A.D

Ezekiel is reading a book when he meets Crawly for the first time. That wouldn’t typically be weird of him, but in this circumstance, it is for two reasons. One; recently promoted British naval captains did not bring books with them on their ships, so it looked kind of bad on Ezekiel’s part. Two; said ship is currently being raided by Crawly’s crew of swindlers despite all the odds in existence. Overall, not a very unordinary day for the pair of unaware and deceptively human-looking beings.

Ezekiel had just taken out The Iliad when the cannon fire first started. He keeps his stash of books under a floorboard in the captain’s quarters, as he feels like he needs to keep them hidden away somewhere secure and tight, on the off-chance an unsavoury character were to break in unprompted. His cabin is tucked in the rear of the ship, so he hadn’t heard the fighting start until he’d sat down in preparation for a quiet day. He’s quite grateful for that lack of urgency now, for had he been upstairs like he was meant to, he would have been killed in the solicited attack.

If Ezekiel was a proper captain, he’d get up from his chair, drop the tome right now, and go join his comrades in the perilous fight against which they swore to strike dead, that being piracy. But frankly, Ezekiel is not happy about this. He had told his mates to be careful, advised the crew to sail to the colony’s shore overnight so they’d avoid the riffraff and resupply after their last attack, but no, no one ever listens to Fell, even when their foolhardiness blows right up in their faces. All he wanted was to have one day of calm ocean to do some light reading, maybe even obtain some tea from the harbour, but God forbid he rest! God forbid he ever indulge without it biting him in the arse! It is plain to see that Ezekiel is tired of this mess. No matter how much it hurts to admit, he would rather not lay his life down for this particular group of men, thank you.

So, instead of charging, Ezekiel stays right where he is. That doesn’t last for long before the guilt crawling over him wins, though—what kind of leader would he be if left his crew to die, no matter how much he didn’t like them personally? There was a reason why he’d been promoted, after all.¹ He would simply have to gather up the courage and storm out into the melee. But if he happened to dawdle while putting away the book back in its compartment…

He hears the violent thumping before anything else. The books inside his little cubby hole sway as the wooden door falls loudly, slamming onto the floor with its hinges clean off. As Ezekiel lets his arms fall, a figure emerges from the hallway, brandishing a small battering ram and a single black feather tucked in his extravagant hat’s rim. A curved sword and many jewels are hung on his belt, a beacon of light in the dim room. The red accents on his black coat nearly match the thin beard on his face, covering the other half of it that wasn’t wearing a pair of dark, round spectacles. Ezekiel could recognize the craft of clothing anywhere—the pirate’s uniform. And not just any average pirate—no, this one outright indulged in the theatrics. 

But unlike said average swashbuckler, this one does not immediately strike him dead. Instead, he puts down his large tool somewhat awkwardly by his side, and pulls a confused face. “Do I know you?”

“Excuse me?” Ezekiel scrambles to gather his books from the cubby hole, not caring for a second how foolish he must look to the man who was likely here to murder him. “You most certainly do not. I don’t think I’d have ever conversed with someone like you at any point in my life enough to remember. Now, whatever you’ll take, please leave at least a couple books. I need some way to keep myself sane, you know.”

The pirate stares at Ezekiel a bit more. Or he thinks so, anyway—the sunglasses make it a bit hard to tell where he may be focusing on. He seems strangely bemused. “I’ll be honest, this has never happened before. Are you sure you don’t wanna duel? Even a fist fight? Everyone always wants to fist fight. I think they look forward to it.” 

“I don’t know who you are referring to, but I assure you, I am not a part of it.” Ezekiel stands up with a huff, dusting off the front of his navy blue coat with his free hand and dumping the stack of books onto his small desk.“Now, go on. Take anything you’d like, but the books are mine. Thank you.”

The pirate tilts his head, making no sign in wanting to plunder. “Books, eh?” He tramples over the discarded door nimbly, putting the battering ram down and sitting himself on Ezekiel’s desk. “I thought sailors didn’t read. You lot certainly don’t act like it.”

Ezekiel rolls his eyes, but takes his seat on the chair anyway. He wasn’t going to let anyone intimidate him so easily, lest all the built up nerve be for nothing. “I didn’t necessarily want to become one, you see. I had intended to never touch the ocean, if I could help it. God clearly had other plans for me.”

“Oh, really?” The pirate brings a knee up to his chest to lean on, showing off his scuffed leather boots right in Ezekiel’s face. “Guess that’s one thing we’ve got in common. Never would’ve thought.”

“Likewise.” Ezekiel pauses awkwardly. “Though I suppose God wouldn’t be in the equation for you. I assume.”

“Eh.” The pirate shrugs. “Maybe He was a while ago. Maybe you just haven’t grown out of it yet.”

“Agree to disagree,” Ezekiel says dismissively, but he can’t shake the sudden thickness of the air around them. To avoid this sinking sensation in his chest, he asks, “Do you? Read, that is?”

“That right there is an idiotic question, if you were wondering. Never had the time to learn.” The pirate lies down on the table, levelling them down to relatively the same height. “Usually I’m running around trying not to get killed and getting people to give me their stuff. S’kinda what I’m known for.”

Ezekiel nods. “I understand. I also have little time for pleasure.”

The pirate snorts. “Oh, I can tell.”

“What does that mean?” Ezekiel edges closer, unaware of how close they’ve become. “I’ll have you know—”

“I like you,” the pirate interjects, causing Ezekiel to stutter to a halt. “I don’t usually like people like you. A miracle, I think.”

“Ah. Is that good?”

“Very.” 

The room shakes as another cannon ball strikes true, and bits of dust fall from the ceiling. Ezekiel clutches the edge of the desk as the pirate is slightly annoyed at the interruption. “Well, this was a nice chat!” He springs up from the desk, causing the books to nearly tumblr off the desk’s surface. “Surprisingly, I’m a bit sorry about what’s gonna happen next. Let’s get over it with drinks later. Tomorrow at sunset? You’ll know where to find me.”

All the kindling that they might have been forging dissipates in an instant. “Hold on, what are you—”

Before Ezekiel can finish, the pirate unsheathes his sword and swings the blade into his left shoulder. He has no time to yell or even register the scalding wound before the sword is ripped out, and when the pirate grabs him by the neck, Ezekiel makes no effort to escape due to the brutal pain setting in. It’s hard to think rationally when you’re being dragged like your head is a ball under someone’s arm, though not everyone would know that. 

A trail of red drops are left on the wooden floors as they travel through the ship. All Ezekiel can feel beside the roar of agony is the blanket of shame—a five minute conversation did not mean they were on the same side. He was incredibly idiotic to consider such a thing, and even the pirate said so. No matter how enticing he made it, the intention of betrayal was always there. No, not even betrayal—betrayal implied a relationship beforehand. Ezekiel certainly did not know this.

Ezekiel blinks with difficulty when they emerge from the lower decks, harsh sunlight beating down on their skin and the scene before him. The sky may be bright blue, but the four corpses sprawled around wearing bloody clothes and silver jewellery did not help the overall mood. It’s hard to tell who is who in this scenario, as it looks like Everyone is shooting at Everyone Else, but the black clothes and missing limbs makes it somewhat easier.² 

“Oi! People!” the pirate yells, causing nearly everyone to stop their squabbles and stare at him in various fighting poses. Ezekiel tries to wave at his men, but is easily stopped by a squeeze of the elbow. He wheezes, thankful that all he can taste is sand. “You can stop fighting now, ‘cause I—Crawly, captain of the Crowley if you keep up with the papers—have got what I wanted. It’s a simple deal—you surrender the whole ship to us, or your captain gets his head chopped off. Your call!”

Almost immediately all the men in blue and gold start whispering to each other in conspiring voices, as if debating their consecutive decision. The opposing crew should have no say in the matter, but join in on the grotesque discussion anyway. Ezekiel wishes he could try to reason with his crew, but he truly has nothing to say. What could he? He didn’t know them. He’d probably just make a more convincing argument for the pirate currently choking him to death, from the little he did know. Regardless, he has to hold onto even just the smallest crumb of hope they would see reason.

As the chatter dies down, one sailor³ steps out from the rest. The only way you can tell he’s on the Navy’s side is the wig still placed stubbornly on his head, while most of his identifying clothes have been ripped off in the fight. “Then do it!” he cries, waving his only weapon still on him, which is a puny knife. “No one’ll miss him. We’ve been wanting Blonde Willy to become captain anyway.”

Ezekiel squawks indignantly as the sailors nod to each other in mutual agreement. Another sailor, who can be presumed to be the aforementioned Blonde Willy, looks grateful despite being pinned to the floor with a sword held over his neck.

Even the enemy crew have to snicker. The pirate above Blonde Willy (donning a nasty bruise on her cheek after being wacked in the face by his empty pistol) even pokes him in the shoulder in congratulations. Ezekiel continues to squirm weakly under the iron grip, but his fate has been sealed. All he could do was hope that Crawly had the compassion to make it fast.

“Eugh.” Crawly scrunches his nose like he’s just caught a whiff of rotten eggs. “Yeah, I’m not doing that. No way am I making your mutiny easy for you.” He swiftly drops his arm and lets Ezekiel shrivel up on the floor, clutching his wound and wading around the little red puddle he’s created. “Come on, men. We’ve had our fun.”

And with that, the raid was over. The pirates packed it up with their new near infinite supply of gunpowder and rode back to the Crowley to split their riches with triumph, grief, and mild sorrow for that brief connection they made when they debated with the Enemy for the Common Enemy’s life. The Royal Navy was left to lick their wounds, repair the hull, and mutter insincere excuses to their annoyed and annoyingly resistant captain. Ezekiel received three stitches, seven empty apologies, and one genuine ‘sorry about that, Capt’n’, which was from their medic. Crawly had to lecture his team on proper raiding etiquette, such as letting them hash out their own systemic issues when the subject came up. Ezekiel had to berate himself out of believing he saw Crawly mouth the word ‘sorry’ when they’d made eye-contact as he’d walked back onto the plank towards his ship. He’d been rather busy with making sure he didn’t stain the wood any further.

Neither the heroes or the villains (whichever side you choose to be who) really won that fateful brawl, but Ezekiel did learn something that day. Something more important than a lesson in morality or even that his shipmates were absolute dicks—a name.

Crawly. 

Hm. That was an odd name for a pirate. Then again, a prophet of God’s namesake might be odd for a naval captain. That could be their second thing in common.

—————

There had been about a 6% chance of both Crawly and Ezekiel knowing which establishment to go to that night, considering how many of them were in the area. As far as the two both believed, fate was not usually on their side—which, of course, considering their circumstances, the truth was the opposite.

Crawly only sits at the counter for about twenty minutes before Ezekiel walks in, and thankfully, he’s wearing more discreet garb this time around. He’s drunk about two cups of strong rum, the only drink they’re serving in this makeshift bar operating out of a cave. There’s one rickety service counter, two round tables with three chairs each, and the harbour where Ezekiel’s vessel is in the midst of repairs can be seen from his comfortable spot. It’s not an exceptional establishment, but it was unknown and inconspicuous enough for both common and rowdy folk to pop by for a drink every now and again. 

Ezekiel slides into the wobbly stool beside Crawly, the only hint of any injuries being a patch of white sticking out from under his frilly collar and an unnatural rigidness to his shoulder as he waves a bartender over to order ‘anything with alcohol is fine, dear boy’. Overly polite, nervous, and tweedy. He should’ve expected that, considering the circumstances of their meeting.

“You’re stiff,” Crawly says, taking a sip of rum. “I would think you’d have to be a bit more confident, seeing your job.”

“Then you’ve clearly learned nothing,” Ezekiel snaps, but the small vigour disappears soon after. He looks away to maintain a semblance of indifference, but clearly, a facade could only last for so long until it broke.

Crawly raises his eyebrow, raising his cup to point at the captain. “You do realise you're the one who came up to me, yeah?”

Ezekiel’s lips press into a thin line, and he stays silent until the bartender slides the grimy cup of sludge-like rum towards him. He takes a long swig, maintaining his annoyingly straight posture all the while. “This is a small pub. There’s no room.”

Crawly gestures behind them. “There’s a seat by the door.”

Ezekiel scoffs. “There is no door. This is a cave.”

“Naturally. Your lot’s gone and closed all the good pubs for miles around. How’d you pick right? Out of everywhere you could’ve chosen?”

Ezekiel pauses. He looks perplexed at the question. “You let me live,” he says slowly, keeping his gaze firmly down. “You’re not supposed to do that.”

“Eh.” Crawly waves his hand flippantly, his silver jewellery glinting in the sunset’s rays. “Part of the job description, really. What’d you expect?”

“A slow, painful, and bloody death in the hands of the thing we’ve sworn to despise.”

Crawly is not as shaken up as Ezekiel would have hoped, which is evident in his retort. “It was rather painful and bloody anyway, even without the death part. I knew you’d live. Didn’t even hit close to the bone. Was just for show.”

“Exactly.”

“But you’re not here to thank me for that, I’d think.”

“You would be correct in that regard. I came for a drink. You just…happened to be here also.”

“Then we’ve got nothing to talk about.” 

“Obviously.”

They drink silently for a little while. The sun becomes half full, dipping down in the ocean that they’d been bantering on not even two days before. Their clothes are painted pink and orange and eventually black and blue—the people go in and out, the candles are lit, and the two have become dead-set on drinking without acknowledging the other’s existence. They might have succeeded, if neither of them weren’t as stubborn as the sea bed.

The pirate cracks first. “You don’t like Navy life much, do you?”

Ezekiel takes his time to respond. He has one more sip of rum before he says, “Some do. It certainly wasn’t what I wanted, seeing as I was forced—the same seems to apply to you. What brought you here?”

Crawly shrugs. With his sunglasses on, it’s hard to read exactly what his eyes may say. “I certainly don’t know. It just happened one day, if you ask me. Felt right.”

“And does it still?” Ezekiel looks him up and down, purely to make a point. “Your side doesn’t… live long, do they?”

“And yours does?” Crawly sneers. “I could’ve ended your lucky streak yesterday. Consider it a gift.”

“Oh, yes,” Ezekiel says dryly. “You not murdering me is a gift. I’ll have you know, it wasn’t very nice.”

“D’you think I’ve survived thisss long ‘cause I’m nice?” Crawly’s glass has been long abandoned, his breath warm and smelling distinctly of alcohol. Ezekiel knows this because Crawly is speaking a mere inch from his face rather harshly. “This isn’t a game of good and evil , captain. It’s life. Don’t go all—all high and mighty, ‘cause you’re—you’re not, no one is, and anyone who thinks ssso is— issss—”

Just as quickly as he’d risen, Crawly deflates back into hunching over the counter with a drink to nurse. Ezekiel lets the hand on his belt fall slowly, and this one of the first instances he’s been grateful to not carry a weapon around with him everywhere. The air around them turns thick despite the ocean breeze, and Ezekiel’s dearest wish at the moment is a way to turn the sudden awkwardness into something more palatable. He simply can’t stand it.

“Look,” Crawly says, all traces of drunkenness nothing more than a faint memory, “we both want the same thing; to not be bored. Maybe we can just…stay out of each other’s way. Let the other go about how they want. Keep things interesting.”

Ezekiel, having started to tune out on the conversation, is snapped right back into it with a sharp turn of the head. “Are you mad? The whole point of why I—”

“If you really cared ‘bout your job—” Crawly pokes Ezekiel’s chest, only slightly sluggish, “—then you would’ve caused a scene by now. Have you?”

Ezekiel’s mouth moves up and down in rapid succession, but no sounds come out. He eventually splutters, “I-I—well, I simply didn’t think—this was off the books, it would have been rude if—”

“Oh, I know what this is about,” Crawly says triumphantly, lounging back in his chair without a care in the world. “You care. You think I’m fun. Intriguing? Entertaining? Handsome? I can only assume so much.”

Ezekiel continues to spit flimsy complaints, but ultimately doesn’t deny that idea. Nor for the reasons Crawly could list, mind you, but the potential of it all. Them? Together? Collaborating? After he’d gone and invaded his own vessel? After he’d held a sword to his throat and showed just how unsympathetic his supposed chums really were? It sounded absurd on paper, yes, and his first instinct was to loudly object to it, but once he thought about it…who would really notice? Certainly not the men he was meant to lead. Certainly not his family back home, who were giddy at the idea of shipping off their son to a foreign land where he could potentially never return.

Because if it were down to just Ezekiel, and no one else…maybe having an ally wouldn’t be all that terrible. 

“We…we might as well,” Ezekiel says finally, reluctance bleeding at the edge of his voice. “But only because I don’t see any other choice. It can be…an arrangement.”

“You’ve got to say it like it means something,” Crawly chides. “An Arrangement, more like it. I can do that.”

“You’re going have to carry the weight, I’m afraid. It’s either this, or I call for my crew. Your call.”

“As if they would actually listen to you.”

“They might! You never know.”

“Trust me, I do.”

They grin as one, keeping their laughter down as they shake hands eagerly. Crawly takes one final sip of rum, slamming the glass upside down on the wood. “It was a pleasure to meet, captain. I’ve got other places to get to tonight.“

Ezekiel nods, flipping his cup down also. “May we meet again…er, what do I call you?”

Crawly slides off his stool with a flourish, his black coat swishing along with the breeze. “Crawly’s fine, I guess. Haven’t really figured out the name thing yet. I mean, I’ve named the ship just fine, it’s…er. It’s complicated.”

“Alright, then.” Ezekiel tips his head towards Crawly, the corners of his mouth turning upwards against his will. “May we again, Crawly.”

Crawly smirks. “And same to you, Captain Fell.”

And so the oblivious demon walks out and into the sunset, leaving the oblivious angel with a warm pulse in his chest, a hefty tab, and the question of whether or not he’ll ever see the pirate again. People in their line of work only ever live for so long—they could both be dead by morning for all they knew. Ezekiel Aziraphale had been fine with that idea, up until now.

But don’t you go and worry, dear reader. Those two can never stay far away from each other for very long.

Chapter Text

St James’ Park, London, 2007 A.D

Aziraphale and Crowley are sitting on a bench.

They sit side by side, watching the lives around them pass. The sky is a light grey, and the sun is thinly clouded. Other similar duos sit on the benches beside them for miles around, each with their own agendas and intentions. The ducks swimming in the nearby pond are being fed the finest of bread, which will just do them worse in the long run. Usually, this is all Crowley would be focused on, as to avoid the mess that is his mind—but, today, that just won’t do. 

“Are you sure it was the Antichrist?” Aziraphale asks one last time, for good measure.

The look of incredulity on Crowley’s face is near priceless. “I should know. I handed over the baby.”

Aziraphale shifts in his seat, posture perfect and hands folded in his lap. “But an American diplomat? Really? That just makes things more difficult.”

Crowley sinks deeper into his already abhorrently bent position on the bench. “I think that might be the point. It’s a good plan, you have to admit.”

Aziraphale frowns, but doesn’t object further. Instead, they continue to sit in silence, both afraid to speak despite the pressing issue at hand. They know what’s at stake—how can they not? To think that they were meant to not only witness but enable London and the entire Earth burning to the ground. That it is expected of them, and has been expected of them. That would fuck you right up, no matter what you initially believed.

Eventually, Aziraphale says, “Heaven will win, of course.”

Crowley tears his attention away from the nearby ducks swallowing the black bread being thrown at them from the Russian cultural attaché, unaware of the complex world beyond their little waters. He can’t help but smirk as he replies, “You really believe that?”

Aziraphale bristles. “Well, I have to! Heaven will triumph over Hell. It’s been Written. It should be rather lovely, even.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow, determined to keep his mirth away from this serious topic—but still smirking, nonetheless. “I don’t get why you keep lying to yourself. I’d think you wouldn’t want Heaven to win, at any rate.”

“Yes, I do!” Aziraphale exclaims a little too loudly, causing a nearby duck to fly three feet into the air. Catching himself, he continues more quietly. “Clearly I do. They’re my side.”

“And who told you to believe that?” Without waiting for a reply, Crowley adds, “You don’t know Heaven. You don’t know Hell, either. How can you judge either?”

“That’s not a very good argument. For starters, I still don’t have nasty marks all over my neck. Heaven is the side of light, of Good. Having it go on forever would be Good. And—and they must have some nice things Up There.”

“Oh, I doubt it.” Now this is something that Crowley knows—something he’s thought and questioned about for a long, long time when he was a little girl. “You mentioned that you like music, didn’t you? First-class composers. How many do you think made the cut? How much of their music do you think you’ll be able to listen to once it’s all gone? There’s a right answer here.”

Aziraphale breathes in sharply, almost as if he were wincing. “Well, not many, but that’s—”

“Just the start of what you’ll lose. What we’ll all lose.” Crowley’s voice grows quieter, almost teasing. “No more pretty little bluebells to pick up for your arrangements. No more cups of warm cocoa. No more late-night phone calls.” He pushes himself against the bench to stand, and as he does so, he leans in to add, “No more old flower shops.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are glued to Crowley’s retreating back, and his hands fidget restlessly in his lap. He considers just letting him go, figuring out his silly plans on his own, but before he even knows it, Aziraphale is standing up and running towards him. He would convince Crowley to back down. He had to. If he just let Crowley go off, questioning the entities that stand above them and putting himself in harm’s way, well…he wouldn’t be very much a good angel, would he?

“While I appreciate your efforts,” Aziraphale says curtly as he catches up, “I don’t think there’s anything we can do. What are a pair of humans in comparison to the forces of Hell? Of Heaven? It’s almost impossible to compare!”

“But they don’t think that,” Crowley says as he shoves his hands into his trouser pockets, only able to fit three fingers each. They’ve reached the base of the steps leading away from the park and back to the open streets. “To them, we’re—we’re something more. We can be more, we just need to—to figure it out. Do what they do.”

Aziraphale mulls over the words in his mind as the two head towards the Bentley, which is parked near the white marble arch towering above them. Aziraphale’s myriad of emotions are flashing in rapid succession, hesitancy and desperation at the core of it all. Holding two contradicting beliefs can be incredibly exhausting—yes, let fate play out how it is meant, but also no, let the humans keep living the way they are now. It’s been a very long time since Aziraphale has really lived—and now, he might never will. 

“We’ve only got eleven years, and then it’s all over.” Crowley tries to get closer to Aziraphale, but he veers off to the side as they climb the steps. “We have to work together. Even if you don’t believe it, we can do something.”

Aziraphale does not waver. “No.”

“You can’t say no, this is your world too!”

“No!”

“Come on. I have an idea, but I can’t do it on my own.”

“No!” Aziraphale begins to walk away as Crowley reaches the Bentley’s doors, but turns around before he can get too far. “I–I am not interested. If this is what God intended, then wouldn’t it just go worse if we interfered? You don’t interfere with God. Regardless of what we might be, it just—it isn’t right! If anything, that will make things worse!” 

“Christ, you sound like Mary,” Crowley mutters, but despite his tone, his demeanour reveals his nervous edge. “Listen, I really think—”

“No. I—I refuse to be involved with this. Thank you for the ride, Crowley, but I’m afraid I need to think about some things.”

Aziraphale turns on his heels, fully intending on walking away to locate the nearest bus stop. Before he can get very far, however, Crowley blurts out, “Let’s have lunch. I was going to ask you anyway. Might as well do it now since we haven’t got much time left.”

Aziraphale pauses mid-step, slowly facing the man who looks like one breeze could break him into two. It’s then he realises how his words may have been taken—he may as well have refused to be involved with him. He meant quite the opposite, in fact, and as this comes to mind, Aziraphale softens. “That…does not sound terrible. We can…dine at the Ritz. That sounds lovely.”

Crowley clears his throat, ignoring how vulnerable he had looked just now, and gestures pointedly at the ancient Bentley. “Can you afford the Ritz? I definitely can’t.”

Aziraphale frowns, believing that Crowley may be mocking him in some way before he takes the words at face value. To pretend like he hadn’t just been assuming so, he says quickly, “I wouldn’t be proposing it to you otherwise if I couldn’t. I’ll take care of it.”

And it’s that smile that gets Crowley to cave. Cautious, small, but bright nonetheless. He turns away before his face flushes noticeably, fumbling for the keyring in his breast pocket to avoid reckoning with the emotions. He can’t get distracted now, even if it seemed like an innocent little lunch—their time is limited. He needs Aziraphale on board, and if he has to help detangle a lifetime’s worth of rhetoric, then so be it. If Crowley did it, Aziraphale could too.

“Alright, then,” Crowley says as he starts the engine.

—————

Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley remember when the alcohol was broken into.

It has something to do with their stroll. The finicky Bentley indicated that she had exerted herself enough for the day once their meal was over, forcing Crowley to drop the car back at his flat in Mayfair and for the two of them to make their way to their next destination on foot; Aziraphale's bookshop. Crowley has never been in Aziraphale’s bookshop—he’s heard many things about the little haven in Soho, from the plethora of books that sit on ancient shelves to the comfort the chairs give you when you sink into them. Maybe, if he plays his cards right, he’ll get to experience one of those chairs—and convince Aziraphale to help save the world. That too.

“I have several very nice bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape somewhere in the back,” Aziraphale mentions off-handedly, strolling with his head up high. The coveted bookshop is within view across the road, hitting Crowley with an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu. “It was left to me from my father’s predecessor, dating to around the early 1940s. I save it for…special occasions. I’m sure this qualifies.”

Crowley pushes that thought aside, instead admiring the fast-churning chaos going on around them. “Hmm. Not very big on wine in Heaven, are they, though?”

Aziraphale looks both ways before he steps off the pavement and onto the asphalt, not worrying about the people nearby. “Probably not. The source of drunkness and all that. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Crowley waves briefly at an approaching car that slows for them as they cross, racking his brain for that familiar argument he’s always had running around in his psyche. “Exactly. You won’t get to enjoy your nice little Châteauneuf-du-Papes if Heaven wins. Or books. Or dining at the Ritz.”

Aziraphale frowns as if their present conversation has just been rudely interrupted, facing Crowley so suddenly that he can’t help but stop in his tracks. “Crowley, I’ve told you, I am not interested. This is a purely social and innocent interaction. Now, after you.”

Crowley scoffs as he is let inside. “Great. Glad we’re on the same page.”

That’s when things start getting blurry. The hours go by in a tizzy. They intend on just drinking one bottle of wine, but end up draining three and opening a fourth. The sun gradually fades and the lamps flicker on their own, and in the while, they’ve gotten steadily more tipsy. Articles of clothing are lost, such as Crowley’s blazer and Aziraphale’s outdoor coat. Aziraphale remains in his armchair by his desk, nursing his glass, while Crowley can’t seem to stop moving. He stumbles around the dimly lit and cluttered bookshop with little grace, while Aziraphale watches him with great interest. It feels right to them, though they can’t realise why in this compromised state.

“M’point is,” Crowley slurs, pouring yet another glass of wine while leaning against one of the bookshop’s pillars. “M’point is…Mars. That’s m’point.” He squints, his sunglasses discarded on the leather sofa long ago. “Big planet. Size of…bigger Moon. Not to mention Jupiter. Giant planets, gas ones.”

“Moon,” Aziraphale says, as if he understands perfectly. His glass is held to his chest, both hands cupping the base cosily. “Yes. Great big rock. Supposed to blow up, right…right up past the end, when Earth blows up too.”

“That’s m’ point!” Crowley takes a large gulp, stumbling over to the leather sofa wedged into the corner of Aziraphale’s office and collapsing onto it. “Entire planet bein’ blown up, the meteors and the animals and the planets, everybody turning into orb—orbi—”

Aziraphale bares his teeth as if also trying to make the extremely complicated and fluid syllables. “Orb…”

“Space dust! Anyway, s’not our fault. And that’s…same with the space people. Astronauts. They say, like, ‘Woo!’ They say a lot of… ‘The sky’s gone red! There’s stars crashing down! S’that a real spaceship?! Woo!’” Crowley waves his arms around wildly, spilling his wine over the glass and onto his hand and the carpet. “Not safe up there. Not f’anyone.”

“All creatures,” Aziraphale agrees, snuggling deeper into his chair, “great and small, high and low.”

“And s’all thanks to them.” Crowley gestures vaguely outwards, in the direction of a majority of the bookshelves. “Those buggers. Adam. The damned apple. All ‘cause of them.”

“I wouldn’t’ve,” Aziraphale mumbles, eyelids low as he peers into his drink. “Done it, I mean. If I knew.”

Crowley shakes his head, resulting in him needing a moment to let the room stop spinning before he speaks. “Nah. S’the point, isn’t it? Not very subtle. Fruit tree in a garden with a ‘don’t touch’ sign. You’re human! Wouldn’t’ve worked. Should’ve put it on a mountain. Or on the Moon. Then we wouldn’t be here.”

“No,” Aziraphale insists, shifting so he sits up in his armchair. “I wouldn’t have done it. Always knew. I’m great at re–resi—not doing things. You can’t’ve made me.”

“Don’t say that.” Crowley stands up abruptly, taking another sip as he glares at Aziraphale. “You don’t know that. The right words would get you right on.”

“I highly doubt it,” Aziraphale says airily, wholly unbothered by Crowley’s sudden closeness. “I was guarding the thing, after all. I’d have prevented all the sin in the world.”

“You say that now. Wait ‘til you’re faced with it head on. S’not easy.”

“Oh, like you could say. You wouldn’t be able to either.”

“Didn’t say that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Nope. Not a word.”

“So you’re saying you’d be able to convince me.”

“Not just saying. Knowing.”

They’re close. Oh, they’re close. Crowley has made his way down, almost kneeling in front of Aziraphale, and he can’t tear his eyes away from the angel. His mouth has gone dry, his breath quickening as he realises he can see Aziraphale’s lips are still damp from their drinking. His eyebrow is raised if he were challenging Crowley to continue. 

“Names!” Crowley shouts, falling back to his spot on the sofa, a tad more lucid than before. “Adam. He named ‘em all. Rats. Gorillas. Toads. Flies. Ooh, I hate those. Always buzzing ‘round my rubbish bin.”

“There are owls,” Aziraphale agrees, a serene smile on his face. He is wholly undisturbed from what just happened. “Dolphins. Snakes, too. They always have the nicest scales.”

Crowley nods vigorously, rolling up his T-shirt sleeve to point wildly at the snake tattoo on his left shoulder. It loops in on itself, creating its own knots. “Yeah! And—and humans. Who names their kid ‘Aziraphale’, anyway?”

Aziraphale frowns, his face tightly pinched. “They didn’t. I named myself. A title that felt proper for me.”

Crowley nearly snorts his latest gulp of wine out of his nose. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as nonchalantly as possible, but Aziraphale is anything if not observant when it comes to his own blunders. While his cheeks are already rosy, they flush even pinker. Once Crowley has recovered, he makes a little ‘go on’ sort of gesture. He definitely wouldn’t admit to anything like this when sober—best to make the most of it while they can.

“Why Aziraphale?” he decides to ask, much quieter than before. “Just wondering.”

Aziraphale jerks his head, shaking himself out of his daze. “It didn’t used to be,” he admits. “I cycled through quite a few—there was Samuel, then Ezekiel, then Adriel, then Ezra—”

“I’m sensing a pattern here.” Crowley grins, and Aziraphale can’t help but laugh at the absurdity. “But it makes sense. I just picked up the last name and never looked back. I mean, I do have one, just for—things. Jobs. But s’not like I’m going to be called ‘Anthony’ anytime soon. Too strange. Am I right to think we did it for the same reason?”

“Well.” Aziraphale coughs, suddenly a lot more alert than he’d like to be. “What I had before, when I heard it, it didn’t sound like mine. I–I used to be different, when I was young. Sadder. I learned things. About God. About Everything. Don’t wear slacks to church, read your texts, don’t question the Lord. You don’t cross God. Not for anything.” Aziraphale looks down into his drink, and ultimately, he puts it aside on his desk. “I grew up, of course. I was told to be a priest. I wanted to be a teacher. Then an author. Then an actor. Then—you know.”

Crowley takes another sip, but his mind is the farthest it can be from it. It has to be the story that unnerves him—it sounds too similar. Too close to home.

“Touché,” Crowley says. After a moment, he adds, “Never really liked God. Always tetchy at some point or another. Don’t cut your hair, don’t throw away your skirts, get a simple job. Felt silly. I wanted to be an astronaut when I was small. Always liked stars. Wanted to see them myself.”

“Really?” Aziraphale’s eyes drift down to Crowley’s exposed forearms, where a tattoo he’s only ever seen the tip of in its full glory—the solar system, riding up his forearm in simple shapes. “That makes sense. Why didn’t you?”

“Pfft. You know why. Little girls aren’t meant to do those things, are they? Back then, anyway.”

Aziraphale grows unnaturally still, his face stricken with shock. Crowley shoots back the rest of his wine in one fell swoop, avoiding his gaze lest he crack under the scrutiny. He’s content with the wine in his belly, but he is annoyingly alert despite his earlier drunkenness. They’re so close.

“I can’t cope with this while I’m drunk,” Aziraphale says as he is forcibly settled into reality, “I’m going to—”

Crowley points down, and Aziraphale nearly does a double take when he sees that the tip of his sneaker has been dyed red. He and Crowley turn to the table where their empty wine bottles are—or, what used to be empty wine bottles. Now, they are back to being completely full, excluding one that tumbled and shattered on the floor. 

For the sake of staying focused, neither of them decide to mention it. Aziraphale continues with what he was going to say afterwards. “Look, even if I wanted to help, I can’t. I can’t interfere with God’s Great Plan.”

Crowley’s expression cannot be described better than ‘lewd’. “And what about diabolical plans?”

When the implication dawns on him, Aziraphale is downright appalled at the thought. “You can’t seriously be suggesting…!”

“Oh, I am. You can’t be certain that thwarting me isn’t part of your Great Plan too. I mean, you’re an angel. I’m a demon. You’re supposed to thwart the wiles of the Evil One, me, at every turn. You see a wile, ya thwart!”

“In a broad sense. I-It’s more of encouraging others to…”

Crowley bends forward, eyes still locked onto Aziraphale’s like glue. “Look, the Antichrist has been born. But it’s the influences that are important. Who he wants to become. The evil influences, that’s all gonna be me.” Crowley points at himself for good measure. “It would be too bad if…someone made sure that I failed.”

It’s a small shift. In one moment Aziraphale is closed off, shoulders huddled against him and gaze critical—but the next, he is visibly relaxed. “If you put it that way…no one could actually object if I was thwarting you.”

Crowley nods. “Not at all. It’d be a real feather in your wing. Metaphorically.”

And he needn’t say any more than that before he’s sold.

They end up shaking on it. It doesn’t last very long, all things considering. Just a few seconds, really. Crowley’s hands are a bit sweaty from waving them around for hours on end, and Aziraphale’s are cold from the lack of movement. Aziraphale’s hands aren’t what Crowley had expected them to feel like—he thought it’d be soft, delicate skin. Instead, they are calloused around the tips of his well-manicured nails, a mixture of rough and supple. Their fingers are wrapped around the other’s palm, firm and certain, and Crowley almost tempted to—

“Mr Aziraphale! Could you let us in? I forgot all about the wards—I would invite you in, demon, but…”

Aziraphale and Crowley break away from the touch, startled as if they were caught doing something much worse. Crowley’s shoulders tense up, but Aziraphale is anything if not ecstatic. “Muriel! Yes, yes, come in, we need—oh?”

Muriel holds the door open for their demonic counterpart, his gravity defying hairstyle unmistakable in Crowley’s eyes. They shuffle in together, Muriel with a new beige blazer and white stockings while Eric’s clothes have become far more ratty and dusty. 

“You!” Crowley says, putting on his sunglasses hastily. “Who’s this? Another one of your demon friends?”

“The opposite, actually,” Muriel says helpfully, standing closer to Eric. Their eyes widen when they notice Crowley sitting casually on top of the sofa across from Aziraphale, who gives a little wave at the acknowledgement. “Oh! That—that’s really—”

“Crowley,” Eric nods, giving Aziraphale a similar uneased look. “We won’t bother you for long. We have news.”

“And us as well,” Aziraphale says wearily, gesturing to the sofa which Crowley is lounging upon. “Take a seat, both of you. We’ll talk about it.”

“That’s…actually why we have news,” Eric says nervously. “We’re…being recalled. Back to Head Office. Soon.”

Muriel nods vigorously, fidgeting mindlessly with their fingers. “The Supreme Archangel thinks you’re ready for…being on your own. Permanently.”

“And I’ve got paperwork to file.” Eric sighs, thoroughly saddened by his fate. “Been away from the rest of me for too long. We’ll be gone by morning.”

Crowley sits up abruptly, any remaining trace of alcohol seemingly kicked out of his system. “So you’re just leaving us? Here? On Earth? Alone?”

Muriel and Eric give each other a sideways glance, and nod as one. Crowley rubs his temples as if nursing a sudden migraine, while Aziraphale bites his lip in worry. Whatever hope they had for any sort of help has been decently squashed. 

“But don’t worry!” Muriel exclaims, waving their hands gesturing to stop. “I have until dawn to return back to Heaven.”

“And I’ve got until midnight,” Eric adds.

Muriel nods enthusiastically. “We can help you until then. I will admit, I don’t really know much about you… before, but I can help with other things. I’ll teach you how to be an angel!”

“I second that, but with the demon bit,” Eric says in Crowley’s direction. “We’ll help. Or I’ll try—I’m usually kept on the upper levels, so I don’t really know much either. Got lucked out with this job, you see.”

Crowley smirks. “I can imagine.”

Aziraphale clears his throat, catching the attention of every entity in the room rather effectively. “Well, I’m sure the topic will be easier to swallow with something to drink. Would you mind helping me, Muriel?”

“Yes!” Muriel says in relief, though their face twists into one of horror when they realise what Aziraphale has asked. “I meant no. No, I don’t mind. Not at all.”

Aziraphale’s smile is tired, but genuine. “I know.”

As the two angels shuffle into the backroom to turn on the kettle, Eric takes his small walk of shame to Crowley’s side. He looks the demon up and down, scooting aside for him to sit. “How did… this happen? You two. How’d you find each other?”

“W-Well, I always knew they were here too,” Eric says bashfully. He sits down next to Crowley stiffly, as if afraid to get any closer but even more afraid of ignoring Aziraphale’s offer. “We just stayed out of each other’s way…until now. A brief partnership. You won’t tell Beelzebub, will you?”

“Beelzebub?” Crowley raises an eyebrow. “The demon Beelzebub? They’re real too?”

Eric opens his mouth, ready to give a long-winded explanation, but ultimately decides to shut it and follow his orders. He’d rather not be killed the moment he returned back to the office, thank you. “Right, you still—never mind. You’ll figure it out. I won’t tell if you don’t tell. Agreed?”

Crowley sighs, sinking into the cushions so deeply that he might as well be swallowed by the leather. “Agreed.”