Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wednesday - Seven Days Until The End of The World (again):

Crowley watched with unblinking eyes as the black water lapped at the shore of the lake. He had been sitting here in his Bentley for hours now, so long that the sky had turned from a brilliant cornflower blue to a blood red to pitch-black. It had been him who picked out the colour scheme for the sunset and was rather proud of it, though not tonight. For tonight Crowley was lost in his thoughts, deep and dark as they were. All he could think of now was that beautiful, stupid angel, how his stupid lips felt soft and chaste against his own, how his stupid hands stroked the back of his jacket, how his stupid face had looked so confused, so upset. How he stupidly forgave him, whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. The pit in his stomach returned as he recalled how the stupid angel had walked away from him, away from any chance that they had at being together, away from paradise. Crowley sighed and blinked for the first time in three hours. Despite his eyes burning again, he did not want to cry, he had done enough of that already on the drive here. It was a minor miracle that he managed to get to his destination without causing an accident. Well, he was a demon - it was no miracle, it was a demonic intervention, plain and simple. As much as he didn't want to exist this evening, discorporation was never worth the sheer amount of paperwork.

His thoughts went to the lake, the reflection of the ghostly moon rippled in the water, and countless stars that he helped to make twinkled gently in the waves.
The last time he was here, the lake wasn’t made of water yet, a dark crimson-red liquid lapped at the shore. It smelt faintly of eggs (though they had not quite been invented yet) and the moon was certainly never reflected in it, it was bright red and reflected nothing, it looked almost bottomless.
He felt a shudder pass through his body, he remembered that the sulfur made him cough, it irritated his throat and eyes and stung badly - the burning in his throat made it hard for him to breathe. He thought he was going to drown, to die when he hit it, and didn’t it sting when he did? He thought the skin would melt from his body, it was as if the fires of hell themselves were purging the angel from him. The last he saw was the ledge of the heavenly plain getting further and further away as he fell and the inside of his eyelids as he clamped them shut in fear. From within his fiery prison at the bottom of the lake, he felt someone tug and pull at him, bringing him to the nearby shore. He heard quiet grunting sounds as he was tugged along. Then soft, gentle hands were on his face, wiping the red liquid from his cheeks, his chin, and his forehead. The hands were tender and kind, the fallen angel began to struggle to take breath.

“Oh dear now, what have you done?” The angel known as Aziraphale had said worriedly, as he laid the fallen one down on the shore. It had been just moments ago that he had witnessed the one-they-called-Satan fall down to Earth like a bolt of lightning, white-hot and full of fury. It frightened him so, that he cowered under a tree (a new word for him), thinking that the end was nigh already. He had decided to stay well out of the way, conflict was never his cup of… well anything. He watched with dismay as others began to fall after him, some willingly jumping, others being pushed. Some of those fallen angels were his friends, angels he had worked with, who he had created life with. He had almost thought that this was unfair but reminded himself quickly that this was not his doing and was all part of the Ineffable Plan. He relaxed in the naive knowledge that this was in God’s safe hands.

The one he had pulled from the lake of sulfur, he thought his name was Baraqiel, but he had never caught it properly, started to make a strange, raspy choking noise. Aziraphale’s eyes widened in apparent panic and he wrung his hands together worriedly. He briefly looked to the heavens, decided that they were all probably too preoccupied - what with the war going on and performed a minor miracle. The fallen angel began spluttering and breathing normally, he relaxed a bit.
“You’ve gotten yourself into a bit of a pickle here, haven’t you?” Aziraphale muttered quietly, Crawley (though he did not have this name yet) could feel someone gently brushing the hair from his face. If he had his eyes open, he would have seen that Aziraphale was looking at him fondly.
“Possibly.” He said, opening his eyes and sitting up, he watched as the angel scuttled backward, his eyes wide and full of fear.
“Please, I was only trying to help!” The angel said, getting quickly to his feet and backing away even more, he raised his hands and looked as if he was desperately trying to not make eye contact. He had never met a fallen angel before and was terrified that he would make him fallen too - they didn’t know if this was contagious yet.
Crawley nodded.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” He replied, glancing over his shoulder. He could see why the angel looked so terrified, his wings were slowly turning black, this fact did little to improve his mood, which was rapidly declining.
“W-well, you a-are a fallen angel, how am I supposed to know what you do?” The angel asked hurriedly, waving his hands around worriedly, his sweet round face scrunched up with fear. Crawley (he knew somehow that this was his name now) got to his feet and brushed himself down.

“If you know, would you mind telling me?” He asked politely, leaning his head to the side curiously. Aziraphale stared at him, the worry had gone, he looked pitiful as he shook his head slowly. He did not know, it was not his job to know.
“I’m so sorry you fell.” Aziraphale said quietly, moving closer to him. He was fond of him as an angel and thought often of how the nebulae sparkled in his eyes the first time they met, he was a beautiful creature then. On long days (before time had been invented) he would think of seeing him again, dream of it, just to see that smile light up his face. Aziraphale looked at the fallen angel now, that face was still there, still very handsome. But now there was something off about him, a kind of unease you felt when someone dangerous was watching you, almost squirming. He suppressed both tears, a shudder, and the desire to tuck a lock of red hair behind his ear, as he had dreamt of doing since, well, always.
“So sorry.” He said again and disappeared. Crawley felt a strong pull downwards.

He was standing at the edge of the water now, Aziraphale’s apology from millennia ago rang like silver bells in his ears and he hated it. Well, he ought to have hated it, but in reality, it provided a small, warming comfort, perhaps he would hear those words, or even that voice again someday. He shook his head in disgust at his naivety and scowled darkly, the angel had chosen his side. He felt his temper rise again as he turned from the water and sauntered back to his car. It was too hard for him to sit there thinking about it all. He slammed the door shut angrily and drove away, trying to stifle burning tears of disappointment and ignoring the tugging pain he felt in his chest.

So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life. Gen 3:4

Aziraphale still had no idea where his flaming sword was, in fact, he wasn’t too sure whether he was even supposed to have it now, given that it was taken from him. Perhaps that was for the best, he was never very good with pointy things. He had tried knitting when it became a big thing after the Second World War (Footnote: he was very aware of it being a favourite human pass-time before the war, but the lovely lady that lived opposite his bookshop gave him a knitted cardigan, and he felt obliged to knit her something back. Although he could have just miracled something, that wouldn’t have felt the same, even if it did mean seven full stitches in his left hand.) but was never any good at it. Aziraphale smiled gently when he recalled how Cro- no.

He let out a long breath and rocked on his heels, he was usually a patient being but something about being told to stand in a plain, empty, white room with nothing but your own thoughts unnerved him greatly. Especially when the one that told you to do the waiting was the voice of God. He fiddled with the ring on his little finger and wondered where the Metatron had gotten to. He hummed to himself, a few tuneless notes echoed loudly in the empty room - perhaps he could miracle himself a chair? He decided against it, that was almost as bad as someone bringing their own furniture into your own home, and Aziraphale was very aware that this was not his own home, there were no books for a start. No books and no demons- stop it. He chastised the small voice in his head that kept going there, he did not want to think about it, he could not think about it, not now, he point blank refused to. He pursed his lips.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Aziraphale.” The Metatron said, coming into the room, Azirahale smiled warmly.
“Now, let's make this a bit more comfortable, hm? This will be your new office after all.” He mused, waving his hands in the air. A gentle, fresh breeze blew through the room and before he knew it, Aziraphale was sitting in a comfortable armchair, in front of a large mahogany desk. It felt very familiar, he relaxed. The Metatron sat opposite him, hands laced, he was wearing a very business-like face. Aziraphale sat up straight, hands gathered together in his lap, he ignored the nerves he was beginning to feel in his chest. He had never been to school, (Footnote: He had tried to go in the 1700s, but for some reason, they did not let him) but he had imagined that this was probably the feeling that a child got when they had been naughty and were being dragged before the headmaster.
“Let us discuss my proposal in more detail.” The Metatron said Aziraphale nodded.
“As I said, I have lots of projects lined up that we could use an Angel of your talents for.” The Metatron paused, waved his hands and a stack of files appeared on the desk.
“Lots of groundbreaking stuff, and we want you to lead them, Aziraphale.” He looked at the angel, who nodded approvingly, a warm beaming smile on his face.
“Thank you.” He said simply, slightly breathlessly. The Metatron picked out a specific folder from the pile and placed it in front of the angel. In block capitals across the front of it (like it had been stamped on) it read ‘CLASSIFIED’ in a slightly smaller subtext underneath it, it read ‘Rapture & Second Coming’. Under that, in an even smaller print, it read ‘For the attention of the New Supreme Archangel of the Heavenly Plain’ and under that, in slightly desperate italics, it read ‘Urgent.’
Aziraphale looked at it and blinked, he then looked up to the Metatron, who was watching him passively. Aziraphale reached out to touch the file, half expecting to not be able to open it, but he could, the first page hit the table with a soft ‘thwick’.
“Congratulations on your new promotion, Aziraphale, you have done very well to have earned this.” The Metatron said kindly, though his eyes did not reflect the same kindness.
Aziraphale missed this, he was too busy looking at the first page of the file as Metatron got to his feet and went to leave the room.
“I’ll leave you with that for a while, let you get caught up with the situation. I’ll check in with you when you’re done - we’ve got plenty to be getting on with!” He chuckled and patted Aziraphale on the back, his eyes were still glued to the first page.
“The world doesn’t end itself now.” He said and left the office.
Aziraphale knew what the Second Coming meant. Anyone who had been within 5 feet of the bible knew what the Second Coming meant - it wasn’t rocket science.

He looked around the white room and revelled in how silent it was, the silence roared in his ears, he felt like he had just been hit by a bus. Certain he was alone, he slumped in his chair and let his smile fall from his face - the effort of keeping it there was beginning to hurt. Aziraphale closed his eyes and felt a pressure build behind his eyes he sobbed, shoulders slumping forwards. He let out a slow, hissing breath, he clenched his hands in his lap, bit at his bottom lip, and looked up at the white ceiling. He tried to blink back tears, but he could not ignore the pain he felt in his chest. Aziraphale wasn't sure whether these were tears of sadness or tears of joy, but he desperately tried to convince himself it was the latter. How dare he be so ungrateful for such a glorious opportunity? God willed him to be here, this was a privilege, not a punishment - no matter how much it hurt him. He was being so selfish, so unappreciative. He gasped and covered his face with his shaking hands, in a desperate attempt to hide his tears from the empty room. Those that were worthy would be judged fairly before Christ and allowed passage to Heaven, and once all had been judged, there would be a new Jerusalem and the everlasting presence of God among all the redeemed - good would reign undeterred, unblemished. No more suffering, no more sickness, dying children, or hunger, just pure, brilliant, bright good. This was his chance to end their suffering, to help the humans reach eternal happiness. This was his only chance to save Crowley from eternal damnation, Aziraphale longed to see him smile the same way he smiled when he created that nebula. As he wept into his hands, he did not realise that he was the one who brought that smile back to Crowley’s face.

The file lay open, staring at the ceiling. If you were a fly on the wall (which you certainly would not have been in Heaven, as they had introduced a strict no-fly policy that morning) you would have seen this:

Rapture & The Second Coming of our Lord Jesus Christ
A guide to bringing about the end of everything, the final judgement, the end of days, and Armageddon - in a week.

Chapter Text

Earlier that Wednesday: 7 Days Until the End of The World (again).

John Abielson hefted one of the larger removal boxes into his arms and carried it into his new home. He set it down with a huff and looked about him, his hands on his hips, a satisfied look in his eyes. He went back out the front to the van and carried on moving things in. As a child, John had a knack for the guitar and by the age of 4, was already creating short loops of computerized noise with his Tiny Tots Strummer for Small Hands and Fingers. By 8, he was given his first proper guitar, and promptly wrote his first song about a pirate dinosaur named James. He thought he was before his time, his parents thought he sounded like a dying cat. By 16, he had been in many a school band but decided that his path lay as a solo artist.

It wasn't until the school talent contest, that he realized he was deathly terrified of being on the stage, a story his parents were waiting until his wedding to tell everyone. (Footnote: for those that are curious, if you have ever seen anyone being chased by a lion, this performance involved just as much bodily fluid as that would, and no. Not blood.)

Realizing that he was not born to tread the hallowed boards of the stage, and terrified of becoming a chartered accountant, like his father - he decided to become a teacher - it was now his passion to share his love of music with the youth of the world, whether they wanted it or not. He left university bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, with a teaching qualification under his belt, thinking about how wonderfully easy it was going to be to teach children. They were, after all, just slightly smaller and stupider adults, and he was good with adults. And stupid people.

John let out a loud sigh, and stood in the middle of what he decided was going to be his living room. To the average person (the average person being a stuck-up prick) he looked like one of those goddamn hippies - the kind of ones that glued themselves to statues and blocked the road from oncoming traffic. He wasn’t unattractive; several of the local teachers at the school had a bet on how many marriages he would break up, given the eyes that some of the parents gave him when he was on duty in the playground - but he wasn’t quite Vogue levels of beautiful either. He was, as you could call it - plain. He scratched at his beard and thought about which one of the rooms he should unpack first - he was broken from his thoughts by a sharp yapping sound from out the back of the house. He glanced through the back window, a small black and white dog was bounding around the neighbor's garden, he smiled to himself and began unpacking some of the boxes he brought in. 

“When they saw the star, they were overjoyed. On coming to the house, they saw the child with his mother Mary, and they bowed down and worshipped him.” - Matthew 2:10-11

3 B.C - Bethlehem

“But then, the wily snake tempted the good maiden Eve to eat the fruit from the forbidden tree!” Aziraphale paused for dramatic effect. A couple of the children in the classroom gasped and one covered their eyes with their hands. 

“And then.” He paused again, drawing out the dramatic pause for as long as he could.

“She ate it!” He said, then gasped loudly, raising his hands in the air.

The children made a collective noise that was the cross between a gasp and a squeal, some of the children sat, staring, open-mouthed.

“But Mr Fell?” One of the kids asked, raising a small arm, Aziraphale nodded.

“She wasn’t allowed to do that, was she?” The child asked, staring up at him imploringly. Aziraphale shook his head.

“No, no she was not allowed." He said.

"Despite the fact she wanted to stay in the Garden of Eden with Adam, she ate it anyway!" The child nodded slowly. "She did it because the serpent had offered her a greater power than she had ever known and who could resist that?” He continued gently.

“But if it was not allowed, why did she do it?” They asked again, Aziraphale paused for a second, trying to rephrase his last sentence in a way that a child would understand.

“Because the snake was such a charming devil, she couldn’t refuse him.” An amused voice said from the doorway to the classroom. Aziraphale looked up and saw a tall, angular frame leaning against the doorframe, eyes obscured with some kind of dark lens, and long red hair drawn back. Aziraphale felt a flight of joy in his chest but covered it up by pursing his lips in disapproval. 

“Children, you can leave now.” He said pointedly. The children dispersed, leaving the classroom in a gaggle, one of them was pretending to be the snake that tempted Eve, hissing at his classmates. Crawly watched him leave with mounting amusement. He strolled into the classroom, a wide grin on his face.

“How inspiring.” He remarked, his grin disarming, Aziraphale looked away.

“Teaching the children the importance of eating fruit, are we?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes at the tasteless joke and turned back to face Crawly.

“Nothing of the sort.” He said pointedly. “I was trying to get to the point about not being disobedient and obe-”

“Obeying the word of the Lord, blah, blah, blah. Yes, I know. I was there.” Crawly interrupted, waving Aziraphale away with his hands and coming to lean on his desk. Aziraphale tried to hide his bemused smile with a frown, throwing Crawly an irritated glance out of the corner of his eye. He did not appreciate the interruption.

“What were you going to tell them when you got to the part with the flaming sword?” Crawly asked, leaning his head to the side and grinning. Aziraphale blanched, how low of the demon to bring that back up again. He paused and wondered where that sword had actually gotten to. He hoped that he wouldn't need it again someday.

“What are you doing here Crawly?” Deciding that changing the subject was probably the best way to avoid embarrassment, Aziraphale pursed his lips again and looked up at Crawly expectantly. Crawly’s grin disappeared and was replaced with a small frown, he shrugged his shoulders slightly and shook his head, looking for the words.

“Ah well.” He began waving a hand around. “Heard of anything going on recently? Any interesting news?” 

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes slightly.

“Why?” He asked slowly, looking Crawly up and down, taking in his black robes. They had a stylish red trim around the edges. Crawly shrugged nonchalantly.

“Just wondering." He paused, regarding Aziraphale with a thoughtful look.

"Fancy a drink?” He asked quickly, jerking his head towards the door. “Got no more classes today, have you?” The grin was back again, Aziraphale tried in vain to resist. He couldn't go for a drink, he had an important engagement to attend to that evening, one that he could not afford to miss. Aziraphale shook his head.

“I’m busy.” He replied, shuffling some parchment around on the desk next to him, trying to find a tangible excuse to refuse the demon's offer. Crawly did not move.

“Come on, drinks on me.” He said almost exasperatedly. “Besides, I heard that the little place over there makes very good wine.” He added lightly, wiggling his eyebrows. Aziraphale sighed and turned back to face the demon.

“I’m busy.” He said again curtly, “I have an appointment this evening.”

Crawly smirked and Aziraphale frowned in response. It was no use, that smirk would make him do anything.

“Fine.” He said, getting to his feet. “Just one.”

~

“All I’m sayin' is that, how do you know, no, no, really know, that this is all gonna work out?” Crawly slurred, tipping his cup and sloshing wine all over the table. Aziraphale nursed his cup in his hands and nodded sagely.

“I just do.” He said, “It is the Ineffable Plan, it's in the name, it has to.” He explained, taking a long drink from the cup. Crawly made a dismissive noise and waved his free hand in the air.

“That’s not what Ine-inefabb-ineffa - tha’s not what tha’ means.” Crawly answered.

They had been sitting in the tavern for three hours now and were re-hashing their favourite battleground: God’s Ineffable Plan for the universe. Aziraphale nodded again and took his lips from his cup.

“Well - all I know is that you won’t win - whatever it is, exactly.” He finished, returning to down the rest of his drink. Before he could put the cup back down on the table again, Crawly was topping it up for him.

“Me? Nah I won’, ’m just one guy.” Crawly slurred, discarding his cup and taking the wine straight from the bottle. Aziraphale took far too long to think of a response, trying to do so was like trying to force an elephant through the eye of a needle, painful and needlessly gory.

“I didn’t mean you specifically.” Aziraphale replied, leaning on the table and staring at the ceiling. “I meant us. Me, we - angels.” He let out a burp that seemed to startle him. Crawly was squinting at him from behind his glasses. He went to open his mouth to say something quippy back, when a crowd of people clattered into the tavern, making an awful ruckus. One of them was animatedly telling friends about how he had seen three kings ride into town. One of them snorted, while another mentioned an oddly large star in the sky tonight.

Aziraphale froze and suddenly paled.

“Oh F- I’m late!” He sobered up immediately and got to his feet, letting his cup clatter to the ground. Crawly looked sadly at the wine all over the floor.

“What for?” He asked gleefully, tucking a hand under his chin and resting on it, a shit-eating grin plastered all over his mouth, eyes returning to the angel’s face. Aziraphale narrowed his eyes and pointed at him, a red heat rising from his neck.

“You! You did this on purpose didn’t you?” 

Crawly’s grin got wider and more sly, he shrugged and raised an eyebrow.

“Did what?” He asked sweetly. He was enjoying seeing the angel get so flustered.

“Kept me here, I need to go! Now!” Aziraphale began to leave, but somehow, found Crawly blocking his way, grin still firmly in place, he gestured at him with the now empty wine bottle.

“I did no su-hic-ch thing, angel.” He said lowly, seeing how much more flustered he could make Aziraphale before he cracked, he’d never seen him angry before and chanced that it was a good show. Aziraphale glowered and shook his head, he pushed Crawly out of the way forcefully. Crawly stumbled backward, so his back was against the wall - watching in drunken amusement as the angel hurried out of the tavern. Not quite flustered enough, he’d need to work on that.

Aziraphale was furious, trust the bloody demon to show up on the one day he had been given a job to do. Heaven usually just left him to it, but today was a job he simply could not miss. It was big news upstairs, he was not surprised if Crawly knew, the Up had been loud enough about it.

For today was the day that Heaven was rolling out the Son of God for his first trial run on Earth. He was to be born to a woman of good heart and would, eventually bring about the end times, if all went to plan.

Aziraphale tried not to think that far ahead, and instead focussed on trying to get to the stable he knew the young couple would be. He rounded the corner, past old Simon’s carpet shop and dashed down the alleyway between the brothel and local bakers. He looked to the sky, a large star shone brilliantly from the heavens - he gave his head a small shake and sighed. They could not be more obvious, it was almost as bad as a giant arrow in the sky… in fact, that was exactly what it was - so much for subtlety.

Crawly had seen the star too, as he followed a few streets behind Aziraphale. He had sobered up by now and was wondering if that was a star that he made - that would have been funny if it was. He was exceptionally proud of his little plan, the angel was always so easy to tempt, in fact, it was rather difficult to not take advantage of it too much. With any luck, Aziraphale would have missed the birth of Christ and Crawly could swoop in and corrupt the little tyke, though he had no real intentions of doing so. The poor sod was a baby for Satan's sake, he already had it hard enough.

A woman, dressed in blue robes was screaming, her legs in the air, she was bright red and in the middle of labor - Crawly ducked back around the corner and cursed himself, grinning. 

“Sorry Lord Beelzebub, I did try to keep him for as long as I could - but the slippery bugger got away.” He said quietly to himself, at least he was seen to be doing the bare minimum. He peered round the corner again, Aziraphale knelt between the woman’s legs, offering her gentle words of encouragement, as her partner stood to the side, pale-faced and sweating, he was wringing the sleeve of his robes in his hands, feeling like he should be doing something, but knowing full well if he did anything, his partner would probably admonish him - as she had done earlier. The woman screamed again, and a soft glow seemed to come from Aziraphale as he reassured her. She quietened, and a small look of relief passed over her face before she screamed again and began to push. He could hear Aziraphale telling her that she was almost there, his tone was gentle and soothing.

From his vantage point Crawly could see a strange kind of mist materialising in the corner of the square, he squinted, not sure whether he was seeing things. He lifted the lenses from his eyes to check, and sure enough, a cloud of mist was steadily getting more and more solid. He groaned and rolled his eyes. He watched with exasperation as the mist began to take shape.

Crawly could tell that whoever this was, they were a minor demon.

'Someone trying to push their luck', he thought, rolling his eyes again. A shrill siren cry of a newborn baby pierced the air - accompanied by an elated laugh that sounded almost giddy. Crawly ignored the solidifying mist for a second to see Aziraphale holding a red, wriggling baby in his hands. He was grinning broadly ear to ear, telling Mary that she had done a great job. Joseph began running around to find a cloth to swaddle the baby in, finally, something he could do to help! Crawly gave a gentle smile as he watched Aziraphale coo at the newborn as he handed him over to his mother, sticky tear tracks stained her exhausted face, she looked so proud. Aziraphale looked fondly on.

An ominous hissing sound broke Crawly’s train of thought, the mist had materialised and had taken the shape of a demon, who seemed to ooze about the place. Crawly grimaced in disgust.

Demons these days, they didn’t have any style. Hearing this, Aziraphale looked up, a look of momentary fear flashed over his face, before a steely resolution settled there instead, he raised a hand. Crawly sighed, waved his own hand and a bolt of lightning struck the demon, it let out a squeak and left nothing but a scorch mark on the stone.

Aziraphale’s eyes met Crawly’s, and he gave the demon a small, soft smile, the curve of which lit up his round face. Crawly swore he saw a faint yellow glow shine gently around the angel’s white curls. He felt a pull at his heart, he gave one gentle smile back before disappearing into the night.

Chapter Text

And I saw a beast rising out of the sea, with ten horns and seven heads, with ten diadems on its horns and blasphemous names on its heads . - Revelation 13:1

Thursday: Six Days Until the End of the World (again).

Aziraphale looked away from his work, startled by a sudden change in how he felt . He looked around his office, the walls were still a boring, characterless white, but he had miracled in a few more cozy bits of furniture to spruce the place up a bit. It still didn’t feel right though, the room was a poor imitation of what he had back home, and he tried to not think about it.

He frowned to himself and tried to pinpoint what it was that he was feeling. This was a subtle feeling - like something old and ancient had been disturbed. He did not like it, not one bit - he placed a hand on his chest and blinked a few times, lost in thought. It was a stifling feeling, something, or someone was very angry, it wanted to destroy, to feast . His frown deepened more as he returned to the file on his desk. He had read it several times since the day before, trying his best to push everything that was, out of his mind, and really trying to focus on his idea of bringing goodness to the world and ending suffering once and for all.

Every so often the Metatron had popped in, praised him for his good work, and left. Aziraphale was pleased, it was so nice to be told he was doing a good job for once. 

Engrossing himself in his work, was one of his favourite ways of trying to forget, or repress what he was truly feeling. If he was honest with himself, he felt wretched, wracked full of a terrible, all-consuming confusion.

Aziraphale had never been kissed before but he had read plenty of romance novels in his time and had not pictured it being like it was. He was expecting tenderness, a gentle tuck of hair behind the ear, a warm embrace, and nervous giggling. He was expecting shy smiles, butterflies and gazes not quite meeting, the build-up and the gentle pressing of lips together, and the giddy happiness that followed.

But that was not what happened at all, this kiss was raw, desperate, angry even. 

It did not leave Aziraphale with a bubbling, giddy happiness, it left him horribly, terribly confused and he could not stop thinking about it.

For many years, Aziraphale had been the one who wanted to grab the demon by the lapels of his jacket and just kiss him, but he had never had the courage to. Besides, he was fairly certain that Crowley had no feelings for him. Aziraphale could not feel any love coming from the demon, and this was the thing that confused him the most.

Aziraphale was a being of love after all, he was supposed to feel it when people loved things around him, nothing like that came from Crowley.

It felt like a storm cloud had descended over his brain once Crowley had pulled away, and it had been there ever since, unmovable, swirling, confusing. 

“Don’t bother.” He heard again. He shook his head and re-read the sentence he was on three more times. Crowley had looked so upset, Aziraphale rubbed at his face with his hands, and his brain began overthinking, turning his confusion over and over. He returned to the file and tried again.

“We could have been us!” He got halfway down the page, he could feel a desperate ache in his chest, he did not want Crowley to leave him. Tears budded in the corners of his eyes as he saw Crowley leave the bookshop for the last time. The one person he had in the world that he could rely on.

Aziraphale swallowed, this was no use.

He sighed and looked up at the ceiling, resting his chin on his hands. He closed his eyes, he could see a sly grin and bright yellow eyes, his favourite shade of yellow.

He couldn’t focus anymore. 

He got to his feet and stretched, wishing that he was given a window or something to look out of. He sighed and wandered out of his office, wondering whether he could find something to eat. Not that he needed to eat here, but the sentiment was there.

“Ah, Aziraphale.” A familiar voice greeted him. Without even turning to look at the voice, Aziraphale knew it was Michael. 

Ever since he had gotten here, the disgraced Archangel had been following him around like a lost little puppy, hoping with all their resolve that if they were in his good graces - that the Metatron would take pity on them. They were lucky, the only punishment they got was archival work - oh the terror! 

Aziraphale gave a warm, but curt smile and nodded his head, not in the mood to make idle chit-chat.

“How is the new job?” Michael gave a dull sort of smile, accompanying him as walked down the long, white corridor. Michael gave the kind of smile that someone gives you when they, themselves had not quite learned how to smile yet.

“Oh yes.” Aziraphale said “Very… Interesting.” Wishing the other Archangel would leave him alone.

Michael nodded and fiddled with the ends of their sleeves as they walked.

“It is a privilege to be the one bringing about the end-times.” They said encouragingly, Aziraphale smiled in agreement, he had been told this, many times. It wasn’t as if he needed telling, he understood full well the responsibility that was being given to him - his brain kept reminding him whenever he felt any doubt. Because how could he deny such an opportunity? All of those hard years on Earth had paid off, no doubt about it.

“Indeed.” Aziraphale agreed. This was still odd to him, Michael had never liked him before and they had made that quite plain.

“Michael!” A stern voice echoed down the corridor, they froze in their tracks, eyes wide, the Metatron seemed to suddenly appear at their side.

“What are you doing?” He asked haughtily, his grey eyebrows knitting together as he frowned deeply, Michael tried their best to splutter out an excuse, but the Metatron sent them away, scuttling down the corridor, back to where Aziraphale knew the archivist angels worked. He watched with mounting relief, he never knew what to say to Michael. Well, nothing appropriate anyway.

“Sorry, Aziraphale.” The Metatron said kindly, Aziraphale smiled graciously in response.

“Walk with me.” The Metatron said, gesturing back to the direction where his office was. Obligated to do so Aziraphale started walking, the Metraton stayed in step with him.

“How are you getting on?” He asked kindly, bringing his hands behind his back as he walked.

“Well.” Aziraphale began, eager to share his progress. “I’ve read up on all the scripture, and have some ideas for when Our Lord announces his arrival.” He paused, the Metatron nodded approvingly, Aziraphale beamed and continued.

“I’m having a bit of trouble with coming up with a place to have the final battle, but I-". He explained, frowning slightly, the Metatron waved his hand as if to dismiss him.

“All good work, I’m sure Aziraphale.” He said confidently, they had arrived back at his office again. Aziraphale let out a slow sigh and smiled, pleased again that he was being recognised for his hard work.

“I was coming by to update you on a few things from downstairs.” The Metatron said, watching Aziraphale’s face intently. His breath caught in his throat. His heart rate had picked up and he felt a squirm of anxiety in his stomach as he thought of Crowley. He stifled down a look of concern and tried to regain his composure, his guilt started as red-hot shame at the back of his neck.

“Downstairs?” He asked, trying his best to not look the slightest bit interested. The Metatron nodded.

“Yes, things are stirring down there, as expected.” He explained, “They too, are ready for the great war.” The Metatron rocked on his heels and gave a satisfied smile.

Aziraphale gave a thin smile back and nodded politely.

“Jolly good!” He said in a tone he had thought sounded bright and breezy. He needed to discuss Crowley with the Metatron. Aziraphale had wagered that as he was doing such a great job - that it would be perfectly reasonable for him to ask for Crowley’s immunity from the upcoming rapture. He was certain it was reasonable.

This was why he had accepted the promotion in the first place, not that anyone else knew that. Well, to save Crowley and to stop suffering of the good (Footnote: it will come as no surprise to you, to learn that Aziraphale’s definition of good might not have been what his peers would regard as such, but we are not yet here to discuss such corporate differences, they will come later) but the former was more important to him.

The Metatron nodded in agreement and pointed to Aziraphale’s desk.

“I also wanted to drop that off. I know it isn’t a necessity, but I thought it might be a nice reminder of home.” Aziraphale’s eyes followed his finger back to his desk. Sat on a charming golden plate was a big slice of pink and white cake, Aziraphale recognised it immediately as angel cake. Aziraphale gave a wide smile.

“Oh th-” He began, the Metatron shushed him.

“I’ll check in on you again later.” He said, and gave Aziraphale a small wink as he turned to leave. Aziraphale went back into his office, he was so engrossed in his cake that he had not noticed that the Metatron had locked the door.

Settled back at his desk, with cake fork in hand, he returned back to the folder. Aziraphale turned the page and was greeted with a picture of The Antichrist (™️ Disney 2023), Devourer of Souls, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of Darkness etc etc - the feeling stirred in him again - he was awake. 

~

Crowley’s head rolled off of its perch and jolted him suddenly awake with a start. He snorted, blinked a few times, and rubbed at his eyes. He stretched out his arms and legs as much as he could in the compact space of the Bentley, and yawned, clamping his eyes shut. He had slept funny in his sleep and had done something to his neck. He closed his eyes again, his current plan was to sleep for the next 25 years, he had slept through most of the 19th Century, it shouldn't be an issue to do it again. 

He turned and curled himself awkwardly up against the driver's side door, gathering his jacket about him for warmth and folding his arms protectively across his chest. Though he tried to will himself to sleep, his brain was awake enough to remind him of the events of the day before. Like a watercolour painting, the memories spread across the inside of his eyelids in vivid colour. His body started to shake as if he were sobbing, but no tears came, just a hollow, hungry pain, it gnawed at his stomach. He clamped his eyes shut tighter, so tight, he could only see darkness. 

But now he could hear the angel, his desperate pleas, the way his voice cracked at the end of his sentences, shaky and uncertain. He could feel him now, warm hands both pulling him in and pushing him away, wanting and loathing the demon's touch. Crowley could stand this torture no longer, he threw open the door to the Bentley and stumbled out into the fresh air. He took mouthfuls of it in, pushing the air down into his lungs to stop himself from crying again. 

He made an exasperated noise and ran a hand through his hair. He slammed the Betley’s door shut, hard - the car rocked slightly - he knew he’d feel bad for that later.

He leaned against the car and slowed his breathing, trying to quell the hot anger that burned through him.

Aziraphale clearly did not feel the same way as he did, he had decided resolutely. He had made his position clear, Crowley, as he was - was not good enough for him. He clenched his jaw and straightened up, he loved the angel desperately, but not enough to go back to Heaven.

Crowley let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and stared down at the ground, his hands buried deep in his pockets. A pair of sneakered feet came to stand in front of him.

“Mr Crowley?” A voice asked, Crowley looked up, startled by who was standing in front of him.

The young man that stood before him was remarkably familiar, though he was taller than the last time Crowley saw him, and instead of having a mop of unruly blonde curls, his hair was longer and tucked behind his ears. He still had that sweet, deceiving, angelic look about him.

“Adam?” Crowley asked, realising that he wasn’t wearing any glasses, he didn't care anyway.

The young man in front of him nodded curtly.

“I need to speak to you about something important.” He said quietly, it was at this point that Crowley realised that the boy looked frightened. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be at school?” Crowley asked, not really caring, but he guessed that it was something a responsible adult would say. (Footnote: Crowley certainly was not either of those things) Adam shrugged, still caught off guard, Crowley nodded to his car.

“Get in.” He said, the boy nodded and went to the other side. He heaved the door open and checked to see if anyone else was around. This could be a trap for all he knew, not that he cared if it was, might be nice to have someone else put him out of his misery. He slid into the passenger seat just as Adam was closing the door behind him.

“I was told I could find you here.” Adam said. “Some lady in your friend’s bookshop sent me here - I wasn’t sure if she was having me on or not.” Crowley bristled silently, once at the mention of lady, and again at the mention of friend. 

“Ah yes?” He hissed out from clenched teeth. Adam nodded and looked at the plants in the backseat, he did not ask.

“I’m quite surprised I found you, being in a car in a back street and all.” He continued.

“What did you want to speak to me about?” Crowley butt in, not in the mood for pleasant talk about why he was living in his car. Adam glanced at him, not appreciating the sudden subject change, he was just about to ask about the house/car plants. He nodded and his face turned sullen, scared again as he remembered.

“I know I’m not human.” He said quietly, he glanced at Crowley. “ And neither are you.” Crowley grasped the steering wheel, nodded and looked out of the windscreen.

“When I was younger, I did some… things - at an air base.” He said slowly, almost as if he was trying to pull the memories from a filing cabinet at the back of his brain.

“I’ve forgotten most of it now, but I know I did a lot of things. I could hear voices.” He carried on, and the hairs on the back of Crowley’s neck started to stand on end.

“I’ve not heard them for years.” Adam continued, he was staring at his hands in his lap. “But last night…” He stopped and looked at Crowley, who was still staring resolutely out of the windscreen.

“I heard them again. They whispered to me.” Adam added quietly, Crowley blinked and a feeling of deep-seated dread began to stir at the base of his stomach.

“What did they say Adam?” Crowley said through gritted teeth.

Adam's voice came quick and fast, almost trance-like, it didn't sound like him at all - it sounded like someone was pretending to be him, a poor caricature.

“Straighten up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.” 

Adam blinked and seemed to come back to himself, he turned to see Crowley staring at him sternly, deep in thought - he had heard this before, but wasn’t sure where from.

“Is that it?” He asked impatiently. Adam shook his head.

“No, they tell me other things, but I can’t remember them. I keep seeing things too - horrible things, the earth on fire, people coming from the ground, bright light.” Adam paused and looked earnestly at Crowley, panic began to rise in his chest.

“Something is coming, and I don’t know what it is - it’s frightening me." Adam explained, his breathing was fast and shallow, he blinked back tears from his eyes. As he blinked, he could see corpses rising from the ground, he could hear the war cry of a thousand angry voices, thirsting for battle. He could hear a chorus of trumpets from the sky and a figure rising. His breath caught a sob in his throat.

"I-I'm sorry Mr Crowley - I wasn't sure who else to come to!" 

Crowley gave a strangled smile and gave a reassuring noise. What was he going to tell the kid? The truth? That he didn't give a damn about anything anymore? As far as he was concerned, the world could turn into a puddle of burning goo with him on it and he still wouldn't care. The one thing he was doing this all for wasn't on Earth anymore, and with him - went his desire to live.

He was interrupted from his gloomy reverie by the smothered sobs from the boy. He groaned internally, he wasn't the touchy-feely type, that was the angel's job. Crowley reached out to pat the boy or something , but as soon as his hand made contact, a searing pain shot through his body. Crowley could feel it, this was a deep, ancient intention stirring at the corners of Adam's brain. A carnal instinct to destroy everything, to burn it all, and to relish in the singing smell of righteous flesh. He could see legions of angels lining the heavenly plain, he was almost blinded by their terrible holy light.

Crowley jerked his hand away from Adam quickly.

"What the -?" He growled angrily facing the young boy, who regarded him with shock, even fear at his sudden outburst. Adam swallowed, clutching the spot on his arm that Crowley had touched as if it had burnt him too.

"This started yesterday you say?" Crowley asked, a warm, prickly sensation began at the back of his neck, and he shuddered. Adam nodded mutely. Crowley started the engine, he knew where he could go to try to find answers.

Crowley had dropped the boy at school, before he returned to London, promising him that he would be in touch if he found anything. On the drive back, he was half tempted to ask Hell whether they knew of any strange goings on but he did not feel like talking to any of them , right now, they were all just as bad as each other pulled up outside of the bookshop, pulled on a pair of shades from the glove compartment (not noticing the brown leather driving gloves Aziraphale had left there), and strode to the door. He was just about to push it open and stride in when he froze. A wave of fresh grief washed over him and pulled him under its depths, constricting his chest again, he clenched his jaw as he realised that Aziraphale would not be there. The angel would not be sitting at his desk, a cup of tea in hand. He would not be bent over small scraps of paper, scribbling furiously, his small glasses perched right at the end of his nose, Crowley loved those glasses, they looked so ridiculous. He swallowed, and it hurt.

From the window in the door, he could see a beaming face looking up at him from the other side, they were standing right against it. The bell rang gently as they opened the door.

“Mr Crowley!” They exclaimed, rocking onto their tip toes excitedly, Crowley could not move. If it was even possible, Muriel grinned even wider, pleased that they were being recognized and very pleased that they had a customer. 

“Oh.” Crowley said quietly. “It's you.” He could feel the disappointment dripping off of his words.

Muriel’s grin faltered slightly in confusion.

“Me? Yes!” They paused and thought hard. “Were you expecting someone else?” They asked, tipping their head to the side. Crowley didn’t answer and turned to leave.

“Mr Crowley, wait!” They exclaimed, waving after him, “Do you want a hot chocolate?” 

He barrelled through the door to the pub and stood at the bar, his hands were shaking, and his brain was too numb to think of anything for a second. He ordered a whiskey and downed it, then ordered another, he didn't want to think for a while.

Chapter Text

Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. - Corinthians 13:4-7  

“Do you think he’s okay?” Maggie asked, a concerned look on her face. Nina was wiping down the counter and followed her gaze to the pub.

“Well, he has been sitting there since 11 this morning.” She turned to glance at the clock on the wall. “And it's now 4 pm. So no, probably not.” She said, watching as Crowley downed another glass of whiskey. From what she could see from her counter in the coffee shop, the bartender looked absolutely terrified. 

“He’s had five of those since I’ve come in,” Maggie said incredulously, shaking her head slowly.

“I’ve counted at least 15. He had a wine break at 12, and downed two bottles of that.” Nina looked at Maggie, who was still staring out of the window at Crowley.

“I’m surprised he’s not dead.” She added matter-of-factly. Maggie turned to face her, eyebrows knitting together with concern. 

“Maybe we should go and see him?” She said, nodding her head towards Crowley slightly. Nina frowned and wadded the cloth up in her hands, a thoughtful look passed across her face.

“Hmm, maybe.” She thought for a second, then an idea came to her. “Oh no.” 

“Oh no?” Maggie repeated, sounding even more worried than she did before, then she too, realised.

“We told him to tell Mr Fell how he felt didn't we?” She asked, her eyes were wide, and she was fiddling with one of the rings on her fingers. Nina gave her a look that clearly said ‘Oh Shit’. 

“Poor bastard.” Nina said, scrunching her face up in pity, she carried on wiping the counter down. Maggie turned to look out the window again, she frowned at Crowley, he was now waving his empty whiskey glass in the air and was shouting something to the bartender. Maggie wasn't actually sure whether Crowley was shouting or not but guessed that was the case, just based on how badly the bartender flinched. He scurried away and Crowley stared glumly out of the window towards the bookshop. He sniffed and frowned, as he turned his gaze downward to the table, hands in his hair. He looked utterly terrible.

“We’ve got to help him, if Mr Fell broke his heart, then I guess its ou-”

“Oh no. Don’t say it's our fault, it is not our fault. I want no part in this blame.” Nina interrupted her quickly, gesturing to her with the cloth in her hand, her eyebrows raised. 

“But...” Maggie trailed off and watched as the bartender just handed Crowley the bottle of whiskey. The man immediately brought the bottle to his lips and started chugging mouthfuls of it down like it was water.

Nina threw her wash cloth down on the counter and gestured to him in sheer awe.

“Oh come on now, that’s insane!” She exclaimed. Maggie looked back at her, giving her a look crossed between worry and pleading. Nina's better judgment kicked in and she let out a large huff, defeated. It was closing time anyway, and she was up for a drink or two in the pub. Besides, the longer she got to spend with Maggie, the better. The last day or so had been absolutely mental and spending time with the one other person that witnessed it with you, was a small comfort - that and she didn't really want to sit in an empty apartment on her own.

“Fine.” Nina said, rummaging around under the counter to try to find her keys. “We’ll go see him.”

When they entered The Dirty Donkey, it was completely empty, save Crowley and the bartender. Now a sight like this at 10 am was fairly usual, there was almost always some drunken wino sat in the corner, muttering belligerently to themselves, whilst the bartender busied themselves with work. As the day progressed, more people would come and as offices and shops closed for the day, the foot traffic would increase until closure. Seeing the place like this, at this time, was very unusual indeed. The poor bartender (who looked like he had just returned from a trip in the trenches) looked incredibly relieved to see the two as they came in.

“Ladies!” He said desperately, rushing over to them. “What can I get you?” He looked at Crowley with the fear of God in his eyes.

“I’m afraid we’re completely out of whiskey, so please, anything but that.” He added quickly, eyes darting back to the pair, he gave an uneasy smile. Maggie looked over to Crowley, who was still drinking straight from the whiskey bottle and looked back to the bartender who was desperately trying to not look at him.

“Just an orange juice please.” She said politely. Nina gave a disgusted look. “I’ll have that too." She said "But with vodka.” 

Maggie looked around the rest of the pub and frowned. Something wasn’t right with the place, it felt horribly cold, and though the light was streaming in from the windows, it felt very, very dark. In fact, now that she was standing in the pub, she had the sudden urge to cry. A terrible, heavy sadness fell over her. She wiped a tear from her cheek and wondered why she felt so hollow inside, like part of her was missing.

“Nina?” She turned to face the woman, who was wiping her eyes on her sleeves.

“I’m fine.” Nina replied, sniffing.

The bartender placed the glass of orange juice on the side of the bar gently, he too, was now crying.

“Not again!” He cried and rushed to grab some tissues.

It had suddenly dawned on Maggie that she could hear music, which was odd. She had been coming to this pub for many years, first as a young child with her grandmother, then slightly older with her father. She used to remember how she would come here after school to find him. He would sit her on one of the barstools as she chomped away at nuts and he chatted with the other local business owners over a pint of beer. So it was most strange when she realized she could hear music - this pub had never played music before (Footnote: her father made a big song and dance about when the owner at the time refused to buy a record player off of him ‘this will be the end of that pub when they realize that records are going to be the future!’ she remembered him saying.) She listened hard and recognised the melancholy piano almost immediately. Queen released it in 1975 as part of their A Night at the Opera album.

“Is that Love of My Life?” Nina asked, blowing her nose into a napkin. Maggie nodded, confused as to where it was coming from. The bartender returned and looked haggardly at the pair, he was wiping his nose, and Maggie could see it was bright red, almost like he had been wiping at it all day.

“It has been playing all morning.” He said warily. “I have no idea why, how, or where from, I just -” He sobbed and blew his nose.

Maggie tentatively approached Crowley, who was resting with his chin on the top of the whiskey bottle. His eyes were shut (if she could tell through the glasses) and accompanying him, were an array of empty wine bottles and glasses. She sat down opposite him and moved one of the glasses out of the way gingerly, how the man in front of her wasn't on the floor, or in the back of an ambulance, was a mystery to her.

Crowley was still going through sheer force of will. He had planned to get absolutely bladdered, so bladdered, he had no choice but to sleep it off for the next half a decade, he wouldn't have to feel anything then. He would drink the bar dry if he had to.

“Mr Crowley?” She asked quietly, kindly. He moved his head slightly and swallowed, Crowley felt incredibly numb and had decided that he preferred this to the gnawing pain he kept feeling every time his mind wandered to the angel.

“Are you okay?”

Crowley snorted, opening his eyes, he looked at her kind face and scowled darkly. Why was she here? She was alright, she got her happy ending, whilst Crowley was robbed of his. He winced again as he heard Aziraphale ask to go with him. Crowley glared at her, he wanted to be left alone with his drink and his numbness. He didn't want to think anymore, every time he did, he saw Aziraphale. Stupid angel.

“Go away.” He said roughly, turning his head to stare out of the window at the bookshop, he took a long swig from the bottle and hissed as he brought it back down again. Stupid angel. Stupid, beautiful angel, he burped. He imagined Aziraphale's disapproving face, the gentle shake of his head, his furrowed brow, and pursed lips. Crowley could almost hear him tutting.

Crowley would have smiled fondly at the thought, but it caused him too much pain, so he stuck out his bottom lip instead and hiccupped.

“No.” Maggie said gently. “You’ve been here for hours, this isn’t good for you.” 

Crowley looked at her and tilted his head to the side. “‘ow do you know wha’s good for me?” He asked venomously, clutching at the whiskey bottle with both hands desperately. He took another long swig from it. Stupid angel, stupid funny, wonderful angel. Maggie gave him a sad smile and gestured to the table.

“This isn't good for you.” She said again. Crowley chose to ignore her, he didn't have the patience for people. He willed her to leave. She did not.

If Crowley wasn’t out-of-his-mind drunk, he would have thought this strange. But he was incredibly drunk, so it went completely unnoticed. He missed Aziraphale again. Crowley let out a dramatic sigh and pressed his eyes shut, he began to feel that emptiness open up in the pit of his stomach. It threatened to overwhelm him, to eat him alive, he clenched his jaw.

“Tell me.” Maggie heard him say quietly. “How do I stop this from hurting?” his voice was strained, cracking, Maggie had thought that was probably from crying too much, but she couldn't see any tears on his face.

“It doesn’t.” Maggie heard Nina say as she came to stand beside her. Crowley didn’t turn his head away from the bookshop, he thought about Aziraphale again, he desperately longed to hear him laugh, to see him smile - he loved that smile. He took another long gulp from the bottle, it was almost empty. Crowley supposed he fancied Vodka next, that would definitely add a few years of hang-over sleep to his schedule.

“It hurts for a long time.” Nina continued. “It consumes you, every waking moment. One day you might feel fine, then you remember, and it all goes to shit again.” She added “You’ve just got to keep going because if you don't, you might miss something better.” She squeezed Maggie’s shoulder gently, Maggie gave a flattered smile and tried to ignore the distracting warmth she now felt.

Crowley let out a noise that sounded disapproving, nothing could compare to his angel, not even a million angels - unless they were all Aziraphale, then he guessed that would count. Besides, this pain would never end, she was wrong - extra wrong because he did not want to keep going, not one little bit.

“Mr Crowley.” Maggie said again, very gently. “You need to go home.” 

He threw his head backwards and groaned dramatically.

“Go. Away!” He said loudly to the ceiling. The bartender dropped a glass. Nina jumped and let out a frustrated sigh, she just wanted a drink.

“Nope.” She said, sitting down next to Maggie and snatching the bottle from Crowley’s hands. He turned to face her, his face a picture of disgruntled bewilderment. She downed her orange juice and vodka and poured herself a whiskey. She handed the bottle back to him, then downed it in a shot. Maggie watched, something broke slightly in her brain. Crowley grunted in disdain and rested his forehead on the table, he hit his head perhaps a bit too harshly, it head hurt now.

“Why won’ you leave me alooone.” He let out in a muffled slur. It was nice when he closed his eyes, he stopped seeing things. He could sleep here.

Deciding that she had had enough of this tiresome charade, Nina got to her feet and tugged at one of his arms, trying to pull Crowley from his chair, seeing her struggle, Maggie came to help.

“Hmmble” Crowley murmured as they stood him up, he was unsteady on his feet, it was almost like watching an oversized spider trying to stand while wearing a pair of roller-skates. All long legs and no real sense of direction or control. In other words, a complete disaster.

“Let’s get you out of here.” Maggie said, guiding him towards the door. Crowley let them, he lacked the agency to do anything, he just wanted to sleep now. The two hauled him out of the pub, throwing a quick thank you to the bartender as they left. Maggie looked over her shoulder, as he dabbed at his eyes, the bartender looked incredibly relieved.

Nina knocked sharply on the door of A Z Fell and Co, knowing that Crowley had spent a lot of time there in the past. Maggie protested, telling her that this was undoubtedly a terrible idea, but Nina stood her ground.

“Well, if Mr Fell is in - he can deal with him.” She jerked her head towards Crowley, his head lolling on his shoulders. Nina was certain he was muttering something about ducks.  “It is his fault after all.” She added, and knocked again, this time loudly and impatiently. A small person appeared at the door, all bright eyes and wide grins. Nina was taken aback, this was not who she was expecting at all.

“Hello? Are you a customer?” The person asked, grinning broadly. Nina squinted at them, she had never seen this person before, she exchanged a quick, confused look at Maggie. “No.” Nina said pointedly, shifting Crowley slightly. He let out a grunt.

"Is Mr Fell in?" Maggie asked kindly, watching as Muriel cocked their head to the side to try to figure out who was draped between the two. “Is that Mr Crowley?” They asked tentatively, pointing at him, their sweet face looked more confused than normal.

"Can we come in please?" Nina asked sharply, Muriel moved out of the way to let them in, sensing the dangerous urgency in Nina’s voice as something they did not want to get on the wrong side of, they followed them into the bookshop, fiddling with their hands.

“It is.” Maggie replied gently. “He’s not uh, not feeling so well - do you have somewhere we can put him?” She asked gently, watching Muriel’s facial expressions lag to try to catch up with her sentences. “Somewhere?” They pondered aloud.

“Yes. Like a bed?” Maggie offered. Nina gave an unimpressed grimace and shifted Crowley again, his head lolled to the site, he was silent. In fact, he was already trying to go to sleep, but for some reason, something kept moving him. He was not amused.

“Um. Yes!” Muriel exclaimed, rushing up the stairs in the middle of the shop. “Up here!”

Muriel had spent most of the day wandering around the bookshop they were now left in charge of and was fairly certain that they had found something that the humans identified as a bed upstairs. From their extensive reading on the subject, they had learned that this was someplace humans went to when they wanted to partake in one of their favourite pastimes. Sleeping. Muriel had tried to sleep when it had gotten dark the night before (apparently, that was when it was best to do The Sleep), but got impatient after closing their eyes for five seconds. Perhaps this was something they needed to practice. They opened the door to a room off of the main landing and watched as the two women placed the drunken lout on the bed. Crowley groaned and started swearing at them quietly in German, well, Maggie thought it was German, but she wasn't so sure.

“What do I do now?” Muriel asked, smiling widely at them both. Nina and Maggie looked at each other.

“Nothing.” Maggie said. “Just leave him here, he just needs to sleep it off.”  Muriel nodded, and then they frowned.

“Is he okay?” They asked, Crowley was now snoring.

“Yep.” Nina said and left the room. Maggie nodded. "He just needs to sleep, so you can leave him alone now.” She said, gesturing for Muriel to leave, they closed the door behind them softly.

“Where is Mr Fell?” Maggie asked curiously, following Nina down the stairs. Muriel thought long and hard.

“He is away.” They said. “I’ve been left to look after this place for him. I’ve been reading lots of books.” They said gleefully. Maggie nodded and pondered over how suddenly Mr Fell had left, usually he had left her a polite notice when he did go, but this time she had nothing.

“Would you like a cupperty?” Muriel asked politely, Maggie nodded smiling, and Nina rolled her eyes.

Crowley fell asleep, thinking drunkenly about planning another heist to get holy water. ’That would be it!’ He thought, ‘One nice, melting bath in a font of holy water! ’ He would never have to feel this way again. Wouldn't that be wonderful? The burning would only last a few minutes. The more sensible part of his brain disagreed and instead wondered what Alpha Centauri was like this time of year. Crowley let himself fall asleep, with any luck, a few decades might have passed when he woke up again.

He was sitting in the back office of Aziraphale's bookshop, the light was soft and warm. He was sitting in one of the armchairs, slouched over, elbows propped on his knees. He held his head in his hands and clenched at his hair with his fingers. He could feel nothing but an aching sadness from inside his chest, his heart was heavy and his breathing was ragged and pained. Crowley opened his eyes and watched as his tears slid down his nose and fell to the floor.

A floorboard behind him creaked as a pair of overly well-worn leather shoes came to stand in front of him, he did not look up. The owner of said feet, knelt in front of him. Aziraphale gently took  Crowley’s face in his hands, looking at him with mounting concern. The demon went limp and lost himself in Aziraphale's eyes.

“Oh, my dear Crowley.” He said gently, using a thumb to tenderly wipe a tear from Crowley’s cheek. “I’m so sorry you feel like this.”

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” Crowley responded quietly, he closed his eyes again. If he had them open, he would have seen that Aziraphale too, was weeping.

“Don’t be so silly.” Aziraphale said, his voice catching on the last word of the sentence. “The best place for you to be is here.” He continued gently. Crowley shook his head sadly and Aziraphale gently wiped away another tear. Crowley’s skin prickled with his touch.

“You’ve broken me, angel.” Crowley said quietly, all his usual swagger gone from him, he felt small and raw, he felt vulnerable - like he had fallen from heaven all over again.

“I had to, to save you.” Aziraphale replied, his voice cracked.

“I don’t need saving.” Crowley bit back numbly, Aziraphale wanted him to understand, but he knew Crowley would not, he was drunk and this was only a dream.

“You’ll understand soon, I promise you.” Aziraphale left a soft kiss on Crowley’s forehead.

Crowley didn’t want to say anything, he just wanted to be touched by the angel. Aziraphale brought his forehead to Crowley’s, his eyes closed in contented bliss. This was only a dream, but Crowley could make it last for as long as he wanted to.

~

In the Up, Aziraphale could feel something tugging in his chest. He blinked in confusion, this feeling was vastly different from the one he felt earlier. That feeling was angry and evil, but this one was utterly dismal, there was a desperate sense of yearning, and it hurt him to feel it. He let out a small breath and sagged a bit under the intensity of the emotions he was feeling. Aziraphale closed his eyes and saw Crowley, asleep on his bed. He opened his eyes sharply, taken back a bit - the feelings grew more intense and a tear fell down his face.

So this was what he was feeling. He wiped the tear away and tried to compose himself, he could not be seen to be acting like this here. Aziraphale swallowed and tried to ignore the squirming he felt in his gut and the red-hot shame burning at the back of his neck. He felt terrible, the poor demon was torturing himself over something he had done - Aziraphale was causing him this pain. He wanted a pit to hell to open up and swallow him right there, this was never his intention. He had wanted Crowley to come with him, to stop running, to be away from the clawing hands of hell and safe, more importantly, with him in heaven. They would do good together, just as they were doing on earth, but on a bigger scale! Aziraphale did not understand why the demon had walked away from him and turned him down.

Heaven was good, and Aziraphale had faith (or rather had convinced himself) that what he was doing was the right thing, he knew that bringing about the end times would save humanity. Well the good parts of it anyway, and would allow humanity to live free from pain, from suffering. Aziraphale nodded resolutely to himself, Crowley would see that he was wrong about Heaven and that Aziraphale could make a difference. Then he would join him and would be safe. He thought about the demon again, imagined his eyes, his smile. Aziraphale would save humanity for him.

Stupid Angel.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale sat at his desk, a splay of papers in front of him, he was deep in thought. He was staring at 7 photographs, each one of them of a man. For some reason, all of them were smiling rather awkwardly at the camera. Their glossy smiles made Aziraphale feel a bit uncomfortable, their printed eyes stared into his soul. The Metatron had tasked him with the all-important job of figuring out who Christ was going to inhabit when he went back to Earth since his initial trial run all of those years ago was a roaring success - although God decided to cut it a bit short.

“Is there a reason he’s not being born again, as he was originally?” Aziraphale had asked at the time, finding it a bit odd. Hoping perhaps, if Christ was born again, it would give him a decade or two to delay the inevitable. The Metatron shrugged and waved a hand at him dismissively.

“Budget cuts.” He had said “Besides, it takes far too long to raise a human child to adulthood. Possession is the next best bet.” Heaven was all about efficiency these days, apparently. Though Aziraphale knew that now, given that they wanted to end the world in seven days. Aziraphale moved one of the photos slightly and sighed, he could not decide on a suitable candidate, they all looked good to him honestly, all stand-up people, kind, humble, and did charity work. He sighed again, this felt like an impossible task.

~

So he was there with the Lord forty days and forty nights. He neither ate bread nor drank water. And he wrote on the tablets the words of the covenant, the Ten Commandments. - Exodus 34:28 

1446 BCE - Mount Sinai

Aziraphale had been standing at the base of the mountain for what seemed like forever.  Moses had come down with the stone tablets once already, but he had tripped and broken them partway down the mountain, so had to trek back up again. Aziraphale could almost hear God laughing at poor Moses as he climbed back up. Trust them to pick a clumsy fool. Aziraphale looked up at the sky, the sun was beginning to peer over the tops of the nearby hills - the sky was a light lavender purple. The rising sun cast a delicate silvery light all over the place. Aziraphale had picked out the colours for the sunrise and was rather proud of them.

“How long has he been up there?” A voice asked suddenly over his right shoulder, making him jump ferociously out of his skin. Knowing who it was, he turned to them, frowning disapprovingly.

“Here to cause mischief, are you?” He asked pointedly, Crawly gave an amused smile and shook his head, and Aziraphale returned his gaze to the mountain again. Crawly came to stand next to him, hands behind his back.

“40 days.” Aziraphale answered, bringing his hands in front of him. Crawly kicked a pebble with a sandaled foot and nodded slowly.

“Impressive.” He remarked, he didn’t look impressed at all. Aziraphale let the silence hang in the air and, burdened by curiosity, cleared his throat.

“So, if you’re not here to cause trouble, why are you…” He trailed off, Crawly was staring at him, Aziraphale had forgotten how yellow his eyes were, he felt flustered. “Here, I mean.” He finished quickly, clearing his throat again, looking from Crawly, to the floor and back at Crawly again. The amused grin was back.

“Ah well, I was just curious.” Crawly said gesturing to the mountain. “Downstairs has been making a fuss over this, whatever this is… What is this?” Crawly asked, Aziraphale looked back at the mountain, he wasn't sure if he was supposed to say anything. Crawly watched him intently.

“Um.” Aziraphale mused, “God is… bestowing… the people with… well…” He paused, uncertain of the word to use. “…. Rules?” He tried, Crawly screwed his face up in apparent disgust, he squinted his eyes.

“Rules?” Crawly echoed distastefully. Aziraphale nodded.

“Commandments, really…” He paused to add in a hushed tone. “Well, that’s what they are calling them, anyway.”  He pointed upwards to the heavens awkwardly. 

“Right.” Crawly mused, drawing out the vowel slowly  “Don’t you think that’s a bit stupid?” he added, Aziraphale glanced at him uneasily out of the corner of his eye, the demon was asking questions that could get Aziraphale into big trouble. He shuffled away slightly. Crawly took Aziraphale’s silence as an invitation to carry on.

“Well, it is, if you think about it.” He said, “You give the humans free will, a great big Earth to go and have fun on and then you want to give them rules? Now? Why didn’t they get them at the start?” Crawly asked. Aziraphale shrugged, Crawly’s argument made sense from a logical perspective, but the way of God was never logical. It was, of course, Ineffable.

Crawly tutted and shook his head, Aziraphale could almost hear the demon rolling his eyes, it was not his place to question anything, he brushed the thought away. Crawly made a disgruntled face, he had never been a fan of rules really, not that this was a secret, he was a demon after all - he supposed that it was his job to break the rules. The pair stood in silence for a few minutes, until Aziraphale made a noise of excitement - he could see him, Moses, that was, coming back down the mountain, staff in one hand and two large stone tablets in the other.

“There he is!” Aziraphale said gleefully, pointing to the man as he approached a gaggle of his followers, who had made camp at the base of the mountain, they flocked to him in excitement.

Crawly grinned and resisted the very strong urge to trip the man over for the second time, it was so funny when he did it before. It would be amusing to watch him go up the mountain again, but the poor bugger had already climbed it four times and Crawly wasn’t that much of a bastard. Besides, he wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

“I have spent 40 days and 40 nights with our God. They spoke these words and gave me these commandments, so that we may enter into a covenant with them!” The crowd grew quiet with bated breath.

Moses raised the tablets in the air and almost dropped them. Aziraphale winced. Regaining his composure, Moses began reading from the tablets. Crawly snorted.

“What made God choose this guy?” He leaned in and hissed in Aziraphale’s ear. The Angel shuddered, feeling the demon this close to him made him feel funny, a squirming feeling in the base of his stomach.

“Um.” Aziraphale paused. “Not sure really.” He answered he knitted his brows together in thought, he was just told to be here and to make sure the deliverance went smoothly.

“Perhaps, he’s a good leader?” Aziraphale offered, shrugging. Moses was asked to speak louder so the people at the back could hear him, he cleared his throat. Crawly scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“Right.”

“Thou shalt not kill!” Moses proclaimed, Aziraphale nodded, clearly impressed.

“That’s a good one.” He said to Crawly, who snorted in response.

“A bit obvious.” He answered, frowning. It was the one thing he didn't need to have any input on. Crawly didn’t mind it really, it meant that he could get good points downstairs without having to do anything.

“Thou shalt not commit adultery!” Moses shouted, a few people in the crowd awkwardly shuffled. (Footnote: Little did any of them know that ‘Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery’ was going to become a popular boys' name in the 17th Century.) One woman hit her husband and made a sound that sounded like ‘I told you!’ Crawly smirked, looked incredibly proud of himself, and nudged Aziraphale.

“I did that.” He said, grinning, Aziraphale made a disapproving face and shuffled away slightly, he didn’t want to be near such sin. Moses rattled off another two commandments.

“Lots of Thou Shalt Not’s.” Crawly mused, “Not a lot of Thou Shalts.” He looked at Aziraphale, who looked desperately uncomfortable again, Crawly cracked a cheeky smirk. The angel was getting flustered. He could tell, because he was trying to avoid looking him in the eye, and cute little pink patches coloured his cheeks.

“Thou Shalt - oh hang on a moment, I can’t read what that says.” Moses said, bringing the tablet close to his face, he screwed his face up in concentration. Aziraphale frowned and let out a quiet, strangled sigh.

“Where did they get him from?” Crawly asked in disbelief. Aziraphale clenched his jaw and resisted the urge to say anything. He was certain that they had chosen this Moses for his kindness or something arbitrary like that. Besides, they had also given him an assistant. Gabriel had insisted that Moses’ brother Aaron was very adept. Aziraphale watched as Aaron took the tablet from Moses and turned it upside down in an attempt to decipher what Moses had chiselled there. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, now that he thought about it, he wasn't so sure that Gabriel actually understood what adept meant.

“What did they do, just close their eyes and point to the nearest man?” Crawly asked, turning to look at Aziraphale, who was staring intently at the ground.  “He’ll do, that man there.” He continued.

“I’m sure they chose him for good reasons.” Aziraphale said, turning to Crawly. “God wouldn’t just pick someone willy-nilly you know.” Aziraphale answered quietly, Crawly let out a bark-like laugh, watching as another man from the crowd was now trying to read the tablet in vain. 'Willy-NIlly'? What on Earth did that mean? Crawly made a face and a mental note to rib the angel about it afterward.

“Of course.” Crawly said mockingly, he paused and grinned again. “It would be funny if they did though.” Aziraphale frowned at him and blinked a few times in thought.

“I’m not sure it would be.” He answered, a worried look on his face. He grasped at his hands in front of him, thinking of the implications. 

Moses let out a triumphant noise.

“Covet!” Covet! Thou Shalt Not Covet!”

~

Modern Day, Heaven.

Aziraphale had now been staring at the photographs on his desk for about an hour, still no closer to making a decision on who Christ would inhabit. The decision was far too difficult. Beginning to feel the start of a headache, he sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing them with his hands. Then an idea came to him, a very good idea, in fact.

He kept his eyes closed and pointed to the photograph closest to him.  When he opened his eyes, the man he was staring at looked like one of those hippie types, long hair, long beard - Aziraphale supposed that he fitted the archetype Christ fell into when someone asked you to imagine Jesus.

(Footnote: Aziraphale knew full well that Jesus didn’t look at all like the Church had made him to. The real Jesus wasn't white for a start.)

He picked up the image and turned it over, ‘John Abielson’ The back read, he was perfect, he even had a biblical name. Aziraphale made an impressed noise, pleased with his efficient decision-making.

Chapter Text

Friday: Five Days Until the End of the World (again)

Mr Abielson had woken up that morning with a splitting headache, he pinched at the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb and winced as he sat up. Headaches like this were usually reserved for terrible hangovers, but this one came without any of the fun the night before. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and thought about calling in sick, he heaved out a sigh. He swallowed, opened his eyes, and got to his feet unsteadily, his head throbbed in response. He couldn’t miss today, his sick pay rate was abysmal and he needed the money. He pulled socks onto his feet and plodded to the bathroom, he remembered unpacking the painkillers the day before.

He popped two paracetamol into his mouth and took a swig of water, wincing as he swallowed them both at once, one got stuck. He coughed, one always got stuck.

He shuffled his way downstairs towards his kitchen and tried all the cupboards before he found a bowl. He did he same exercise again to find the spoon, and once more a third time to find the cereal. Luckily the fridge was pretty self-explanatory so he found the milk with little to no problem. He sat himself down on his sofa and fished for the remote. Ah, there was nothing like depressing morning television to remind you that you didn't have it as bad as you thought. John pressed the on button, and instead of the usual overly chipper news people, he was greeted by the Sound of Music. He scowled, he thought this rubbish was only reserved for Christmas, not a Friday Morning in May. He tried to change the channel, but it would not work for some reason. He slapped the controller against the table and mumbled out a curse about batteries.

“When the Lord closes a door, he opens a window!” One of the characters said, John rolled his eyes and shoved his spoon into his mouth, mashing the button again on the remote. The images on the screen refused to submit to his attempts at changing the channel. He thumbed the off button and decided that eating his breakfast in silence was better than the Sound of Music, anything was.

His headache had subsided as he got into work later that morning, all he was left with was a dull ache behind his eyes, perhaps he ought to get his eyes tested again. He’d settled down and started up his PC, an Avast warning popped up at the corner of the screen:

“We found 3 gaps in your privacy!”

The notice shouted John could see the first two:

• Hackers can see what you do online 
• Your location is exposed

Then he dismissed it, it was in his way and he didn't care about antivirus. If he had opened the window, he would have seen the third one:

• Jesus now lives in your head

He had a bit of time before his first lesson to do a bit of prep. He was in the middle of teaching his first class of the morning about Beethoven. Not the most exciting, but he tried. He went to one of those ‘let's make education fun’ sites to print off a worksheet and an ad appeared, flashing on his screen:

‘You have one new message from a hot milf near you!’ 

John barely glanced at it as he scrolled down to the section of the page he needed the sheet from. A small chat box (with the hot milf in it) popped up in the corner of the screen:

Hello, son. 😇 

John grabbed the worksheet and went back to Google, except now it was called ‘GOoDle’. John didn’t notice this either, the novelty of the Google Doodle had worn off on him, he was a jaded adult now and did not have time for such corporate whimsy. (Footnote: Said corporate whimsy was very gently suggested to Google by a certain Principality of the Eastern Gate. Aziraphale loved it when big corporations showed a bit of silliness.) 

John was already gone from Google and was now on Buzzfeed, trying to find some quiz that allowed his students to find out what piece of classical music they were (Footnote: https://www.buzzfeed.com/mibsy/which-chaotic-piece-of-classical-music-are-you-mos-7ropd50y4t - don’t say I never give you anything) he was going to then set them homework to write an essay on why they thought the quiz had given them this piece of music. And people told him that you couldn’t make classical music exciting. 

As he reached the bottom of the page,  Buzzfeed recommended a few articles to him that he might be interested in, one was: 

‘ Man discovers that he is the son of God, Doctors hate him!’ 

Another, slightly further down the page said: 

‘ Man finds Jesus in toast, he looks a lot like you John!’ 

John did not read these either, he was a busy man.

The third site he went on offered educational word searches (Footnote: at this point, his headache was coming back and he wanted to make sure he could sneak a five-minute nap in at the end of the lesson) but it looked hacked. A stream of colourful confetti streamed down from the screen and some robot with a speech bubble waved at him, it said: 

‘ Congratulations - you are the son of God!’ 

John rolled his eyes, Hackers these days, would say anything to scam you. 

At this point, the bell rang and the noise in the corridor started to build as his first class arrived for the lesson. His head throbbed in protest again and a wave of nausea hit him, he gripped his desk, just this one class, then he could go home, bugger the money. 

His students arrived in dribs and drabs, the quiet ones settled in at the front, unzipping brightly coloured bags to retrieve even brighter-looking pencil cases. John sat at his desk and greeted them all as they came in, squinting slightly at the light and resting his chin on his hands. One of the kids had the audacity to turn on the keyboard on their desk and start playing one of the cheesy built-in drum beats. He shushed them loudly, the cheek of it. 

The last four, who were always late, stumbled into the classroom. One of them had twigs in their hair and another was admonishing him for falling out of a tree. The last of the four entered the classroom and gave him an apologetic look as they all settled down at their desks.

“Morning all.” He said, getting to his feet and walking to the front of his desk, a few of the students mumbled out replies, it was a Friday, and he was expecting minimal effort. He started the lesson by drawing a stave on the board with a few simple notes plopped onto it - and set his students off practicing it. He wandered around the classroom a bit, helping students here and there that were struggling to read the music. He returned back to his desk, humming the main theme from The Sound of Music. One of his students asked what he was humming, and he told them.

“It's my favourite musical.” John added brightly, turning from the class. He furrowed his brow as he turned to face the board. It wasn’t, it had never been - in fact, he had no idea why he said it was. If you knew John Abielson, you’d know he was a Chicago man, through and through, no time for that Austrian nonsense.

He rubbed off the stave he had drawn on the board and began writing the title of the lesson on it. As he was writing, he felt his hand begin writing letters he wasn't writing.

He was supposed to be writing “How Did Beethoven Change Classical Music?” but as he stepped away from the board, he realised that he had written:

“How Did Jesus Change Classical Music?” John frowned to himself, he did not write Jesus.

Or maybe he had? He was beginning to doubt himself, he quickly erased it and wrote it again, this time, correctly. John was beginning to feel dizzy from the pain radiating from his head, so he set his students off on one of the word searches he had found that morning and returned to his desk, he hid behind his monitor and tried to get a bit of sleep.

From his desk, Adam Young gave a covert nod to Wensleydale. He waved his pencil round and jerked his head towards the bin, eyes darting towards the teacher's desk - so far, he had evaded detection - excellent. Wensleydale gave a firm nod in agreement, operation secret conversation at the bin was a go. Adam scooted his chair out from under his table and traipsed on over to the bin, pencil sharpener in hand. A few seconds later, Wensleydale followed. John could hear their muffled whispers, he let a few minutes pass before he raised his head.

“Mr Young, your pencil must be a shard by now, can you please come and sit down?”

Ah, busted!

Adam let out a huff and rolled his eyes at Wensleydale. He trudged back to his desk dramatically and sat down with another huff. John held back a laugh.

“And you Mr Wensleydale, I don’t think you have any pencil left.” 

Wensleydale followed, his face was bright red. Pepper gave them both a tight-lipped, stern stare.

“Idiots!” She hissed quietly.

“Sir?” One of Adam’s friends, Brian, asked, raising his hand in the air, John stood up, stumbled a bit as a wave of nausea hit him and sat back down again. The pressure that was building in his head was unbearable.

“Yes?”

Brian lifted up the word search and pointed to it.

“I need help, I can’t find one.” 

John gestured to the boy to come to his desk, Brian placed the sheet in front of him. Taking the sheet in his hands, he looked down at the paper.

“I can’t find decrescendo.” He mumbled.

John was dumbstruck by what he was seeing, for he couldn’t find it either. He held the worksheet further from his face, thinking that perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him or something. For he could only see one word in the word search, repeated over and over again.

JESUS

John screwed his eyes shut, he was going to go home.

Chapter Text

There was a knock at Aziraphale’s office door and he looked up from the scrolls he was reading. Aziraphale was looking over some of the original records that foretold of the Second Coming. It had been proposed to him that they went about the Second Coming in the ‘Modern’ way, all nuclear bombs and fighting, finishing off the rest of the human race with a lovely Nuclear Winter. Aziraphale did not like this idea, he was if anything, a traditionalist. 

He planned to bring about the end of days the traditional way - with Jesus announcing his arrival and the righteous dead rising from their graves and all that. To end all things once the worthy was in heaven, with another Armageddon. He supposed that doing things ths way, might be a bit more logistically involved and may, or would, take more than a week to arrange. Ending the world was, after all, an art not to be rushed.

He was hoping this was the case, anyway. 

He was currently pondering the definition of ‘righteous’ and whether it meant ‘righteous’ in the way he saw it or whether it meant something else entirely. It was important for him to get this right, as whatever context it was meant in, would ultimately decide who was good enough to get into heaven. He was having a terrible time of it, he could feel a headache brewing behind his eyes. (Footnote: Aziraphale saw the word from a moral standpoint, a righteous person was one who always did the right thing, the good thing, the morally correct thing.)

The door to his office opened, Aziraphale was expecting to see the Metatron stood there, but was instead greeted with a pleasantly fake smile from Michael. He was disappointed, the Metatron had been awfully nice to him so far, bringing him cups of tea, giving him plenty of praise and secret slices of cake. Aziraphale had him penned wrong - he wasn't horrible at all! He was, if a bit too corporate, a very likeable chap. 

It did not occur to Aziraphale that the Metatron had never had any issues with lying like he had, in fact - it came rather easy to him. Being the voice of God had made him rather like a politician, very good at stabbing you in the back, whilst smiling at you and telling you how amazing you are. Though to you and I, this would have been obvious - but we have the gift of hindsight.

“Supreme Archangel Aziraphale.” Michael said, bobbing their head. Aziraphale gave a small smile and took his reading glasses from his nose. He folded them neatly and placed them in front of him.

“Hello, Michael.” He said, lacing his hands together. 

“I’ve been asked to come and get you.” They said, stepping awkwardly to the side, Aziraphale blinked and gave a small frown.

“Whatever for?” He asked, getting to his feet and following Michael out of the office.

“The Metatron wishes to see you.” They explained, leading Aziraphale down a warren of pristine white corridors. By the sixth left turn, Aziraphale was quite certain that he was lost. He nodded. Michael rounded a corner and brought him into a wide atrium, brilliant white light shone down from the windows, and a floating blue orb, which Aziraphale recognised as the Earth, hung in the centre of the room. The Metatron was stood to one side of it, swiping at the orb gently with a hand. Uriel stood on the other side, watching as it spun.

“Supreme Archangel Aziraphale for you sir.” Michael announced. Aziraphale beamed, he had never felt so important before, and the new title was still quite foreign to him. The Metatron turned and gave the angel a warm smile, he opened his arms wide.

“There you are.” He said and gestured for Aziraphale to stand next to him. Aziraphale obliged.

“We need you to pick a site for our final, glorious battle.” He explained, gesturing to the orb. Aziraphale blinked, this was a big task. What an honour.

“We’ve come up with a shortlist for you Supreme Archangel.” Uriel said “ As we understand that your time is very precious.” Aziraphale gave a bashful smile to himself, he would never get tired of being praised for a good job well done. He gave a curt nod and Uriel tapped at the globe in front of them. At once, the globe began to turn faster. 

It slowed and stopped over Western Asia, the globe zoomed in, through the clouds and focussed on a city.

“The first suggestion we had was Jerusalem.” Uriel said, looking at Aziraphale, who pursed his lips. He thought about it for a second, it didn’t feel right. Taking the Archangel’s silence as a no, Uriel swiped at the globe again.

“How about Megiddo?” They suggested, Aziraphale shook his head, they had tried Megiddo before, it was old news.

“New Mexico?” Uriel offered, something that sounded a bit like worry was eating into their otherwise corporate tone, they were clearly expecting Aziraphale to have gone for one of the first two options. He shook his head again, he felt that it needed to be somewhere special, somewhere that had a meaning, he wanted to attach some emotional weight to it. 

“Hmm.” He thought, looking intently at the globe. He made a small noise as the perfect idea came to him. It would end, as it started, with a Garden. How poetic - it was perfect.

“How about…” He paused, turning the suggestion over in his mind a few times before he vocalized it. Yes, it would work, he nodded to himself and cleared his throat. Summoning an authoritative voice he said:

“How about the Garden of Eden?” He paused, pursed his lips for a second, and then added. “Well, at least where it was, anyway.” He looked from the Metatron, who appeared deep in thought to Uriel, who looked uncertain. 

“It does seem fitting to end it all where it began,” Aziraphale said he was a sucker for poetic endings. Uriel gave an uncertain look to the Metatron, who raised his eyebrows. 

“Why yes.” He said as if the thought had just come to him as well. “What a splendid idea!” He slapped Aziraphale on the back, he let out an uneasy laugh. Thinking about the Garden of Eden had made him remember something needed to discuss with the Metatron, he turned to him and lowered his voice to a murmur.

“I was wondering about the possibility of having a little chat with you about… uh -  a delicate subject,” Aziraphale said so that only the Metatron could hear him.

“Why of course.” He said kindly, patting Aziraphale on the back and steering the angel away from the others. 

“What about?” He asked. Aziraphale gave a quick smile and took a deep breath.

“It’s about…” He trailed off, unsure how he would phrase the next part of his sentence. “About… Cr-” He paused, saying his name seemed to hurt him a bit. 

“Well, about the de-” He began again.

“Your strange demon friend?” The Metatron interrupted in a hushed tone. Aziraphale blinked at the interruption and nodded slowly, he was fiddling with the ring on his little finger. 

“What about him?” The Metatron asked nonchalantly, Aziraphale gave another smile, this one was uneasy and a bit awkward, he let out a breathy laugh.

“I was wondering whether I could ask you for - to uh… Guarantee .” He leaned hard on that last word. 

“His safety, or immunity, from upcoming events?” He finished, tacking a hopeful smile to the end of the sentence. He watched the Metatron’s face for a reaction, but there was none. He remained stony-faced and unbothered. He remained silent for a second, Aziraphale supposed he was in deep thought. He rocked on his heels gently, the silence felt oppressive. This wasn’t too much of a request, was it? The Metatron did offer to reinstate Crowley as an angel, surely some kind of immunity wouldn’t be too far of a leap? 

“Immunity, you say?” The Metatron asked, Aziraphale nodded. The Metatron let out a thinking noise.

“I don’t see that being a problem to arrange.” He said, looking at Aziraphale, who gave a gleaming smile in response.

“Why thank you!” He said, grasping the Metatron’s hand and shaking it vigorously. The Metatron nodded and gave something that looked like a strained smile in response.

“I shall get it arranged for you right away.” He said, withdrawing his hand, confused at the gesture. 

“Jolly good!” Aziraphale said, pausing for a second, another question came to mind.

“There is… there is something else.” Aziraphale said, the Metatron gave him an inquisitive look, he wasn’t quite used to being asked so many questions - usually, people just got on with things when he told them to.

Aziraphale let out a small, awkward chuckle as he tried to phrase his next sentence without embarrassing himself.

“Well you see…” He began, glancing up at the ceiling to try to force the words to come to him. “I’ve done a lot of reading on the Second Coming, of course.” He paused, and the Metatron nodded.

“And, at one point, the righteous dead rise from their graves and everyone will be judged.” The Metatron nodded again.

“I was wondering… as you do.” Aziraphale let out another awkward chuckle, he was just going to bite the bullet and say it.

“What the,” He cleared his throat. “What the criteria is for being allowed entry to heaven.” He finished, bringing his hands to his front. He gave a satisfied smile and looked at the Metatron, who was looking thoughtfully at the ground. Aziraphale could see Uriel tilt their head to the side, they were surprised, this was a good question. The Metatron let out a thoughtful noise and gave a slow nod, turning the question over in his mind. How could he answer this in such a way that the angel would understand? 

“Well.” He began. “Someone who always tries to do the right thing, who does not sin… those kinds of things.” The Metatron mused, turning his gaze back to Aziraphale again, he smiled kindly. Aziraphale gave a relieved smile back. Well, that was it then, wasn’t it? He had nothing to worry about, it was just as he thought. The Good would be saved. Perfect. Aziraphale was very pleased with himself, he was just about to turn and leave when a voice came from the globe.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Aziraphale turned back to face it and walked towards it curiously. Uriel had left the globe zoomed in on a Church, as Aziraphale had been chatting away, a man had entered and had gone into the confessional. He heard the Priest ask for what the man had done. Aziraphale tentatively tried to use the globe to zoom in on the conversation. The man rifled in his pocket and drew out a wad of bills. He slid them into the compartment next to him.

“I killed a man.” The man said lowly, he wiped a bit of blood from his ear. 

“I imagine that this is enough? That I can be forgiven for my sin?” He asked. There was a moment of silence before the Priest responded.

“Give thanks to the Lord for He is Good.” 

“His mercy endures forever. “ The man replied, getting to his feet.

“Your sins are forgiven, go in peace.” The Priest said back, the man left the church, looking over his shoulder as he slid into the night. The Priest came from his box, the wad of money in his hands. He watched the door and walked towards the back of the church. He passed the charity tin and paused for a second, counting the notes in his hands. Once he had done it, he folded them neatly. Aziraphale thought that he would do the right thing and put the notes in there, even if the money was dirty, at least it could do some good.

The Priest shoved the notes into his pocket and carried on towards the back of the building. In the distance, he could hear sirens.

Aziraphale brought his eyebrows together in apparent confusion over what he had just seen. He blinked a few times in disbelief. Immediately his brain was at work, trying to excuse what he had just saw, but he was having none of it. He pursed his lips in annoyance.

“Will that murderer  be deemed as worthy of being saved?” Aziraphale asked in a low tone, lifting his eyebrows and pointing at the globe. The Metatron approached the globe too and nodded.

“Yes.” He said simply, regarding Aziraphale with the look you give a toddler when they ask a stupid question. “The man has been forgiven, has he not?”  

Aziraphale was aghast, this man was certainly not good - he was there when the Ten Commandments were written and was fairly certain that one of them mentioned not killing people. He bristled, killing people aside, forgiveness wasn’t given with the exchange of cold, hard cash, it was given with love and good intentions, he frowned.

“So he is paying for his absolution?” He asked sharply, looking at the Metatron with disdain. The Metatron swiped the Church away, the globe began to spin again.

“He has been forgiven, Aziraphale.” Michael piped up, looking hopefully at the Metatron, hoping desperately for some praise.

Aziraphale began to bristle a bit more, slip the priest a fiver and all is forgiven? He frowned deeper, this was not how forgiveness worked, he glared at the orb in front of him, keeping his mouth clamped shut, he would be doing something about this when he got back to his office.

“Right.” Aziraphale said shortly.

If this was how things worked these days, where would you draw the line? Aziraphale didn’t even know where the line was. 

What if Satan were to pay, would he be judged as worthy enough to be allowed re-entry into heaven? He could not bear to think about it, if this was how low the bar was, what was the point of him going good anyway, if someone could just pay for it and cheat the system? He made a mental note of the Priest's face, he wanted to remember him, to see if they were to be judged as good when the time of the Rapture came. In his head, he hoped the Priest would be called out for his corruption and cast down with the rest of the sinners, as he should be, but he knew deep down that this would be unlikely, but did not wish to acknowledge this, to do so would be to undermine everything he had ever known. Aziraphale nodded to himself and pursed his lips. Re-composing himself, he turned back to the Metatron and said brightly:

“Right then, jolly good, I best be getting back to work!” He grinned uneasily and brought a clenched fist across his body with gusto. 

“Of course, Aziraphale.” The Metatron said, nodding. “Great work.” He offered a kind smile as Aziraphale left the room. The smile faded from the Metatron’s face almost as quickly as it came. Instead, it was replaced with a hateful scowl, Uriel approached him.

“Sir, shall I arrange a conversation with downstairs? To discuss the Demon Crowley and his immunity?” Uriel asked, reaching for their glass phone from their back pocket. 

Michael stood next to them, their hands drawn behind their back.

“No.” The Metatron said shortly, Uriel stopped reaching for the phone.

“Are we trusting that he’ll pull this off?” Michael asked quietly. The Metatron clenched his jaw in thought, and let out a long sigh. Uriel’s eyes darted between them both.

“I’m not sure.” The Metatron replied thoughtfully. “He is asking too many questions.” He added, rubbing his chin. Michael made a noise in agreement, but Uriel stayed silent.

“Dangerous,” Michael replied, nodding their head, they turned and gave the Metatron a grim look.

“Perhaps the time for niceties is over?” They asked, watching as the Metatron let out another sigh, he was deep in thought.

“Not yet.” He finally answered. “I want him to think he has everything he wants… He should be compliant then…” The Metatron paused, thought some more, and turned to face Michael, Uriel shuddered as the Metatron’s cold grey eyes bore into the room. Uriel felt a strange feeling they had never felt before in the pit of their stomach, it was uncurling, deep, and scary, they felt the hairs on the back of their neck stand. 

“Then, if he steps out of line, we’ll take away everything.” The Metatron finished. 

“Everything?” Michael asked, the Metatron nodded.

“Yes, absolutely everything.”

Chapter Text

“We love because he first loved us.” - John 4:19

Saturday : Four Days Until the End of the World (again)

In the bookshop, Muriel was reading again. Over the last few days, they had devoured most of Dicken’s classics and tore apart the writings of the Bronte sisters. They were having a fabulous time, they got to read books, drink hot chocolate, and actually get to speak to people. Muriel liked talking to people, it wasn't something they were really allowed to do in the Up, so this made a delightful change. They turned the page of the book they were reading and rested their chin on their hand. This book was from the very back of the bookshop and was quite unlike anything they had read so far. This one was about the ‘traitor’ (though Muriel liked him too much to call him a traitor) Aziraphale and his grumpy friend, who was still asleep upstairs.

Muriel wondered absentmindedly whether they should do something about him, he had been sleeping for a while. They shrugged to themself, he would be fine. They turned another page, this book was very interesting and they could barely stand to put it down, they read the next entry:

2nd April 2019.

It has been three days since Crowley and I stopped Armageddon, and we have just returned from a superb dinner at the Ritz, and a rather intense drinking session afterward. As we were walking back to the bookshop, I thought I heard the delightful song of a nightingale, a most beautiful bird. (Note to self, look into the statistics of Nightingales and how common they are in cities - I've never heard one here before, which is most fascinating!)

I have since sobered, but Crowley has fallen asleep on my sofa. I do not have the heart to move him, so I shall leave him there until he wakes. He looks so tranquil now, so content, I’ve not seen him this way since… well, the beginning of time I suppose. I would do anything to keep that look of peace on his face. I think he might worry too much. I know he doesn’t like facing his problems, he prefers to run the other way, and I prefer to not run at all... both in the literal and metaphorical sense, I suppose.

I can deny it no longer, as I look at the man now - I feel a certain fondness for him. I admit, I have always been rather fond of him. We have had many escapades together - our trip to Italy in the 17th century was certainly a highlight. I have never seen Crowley discuss anything as passionately as he did astronomy with Galileo - the memory still brings me great joy. I’ll never forget the way he smiled, the sound of his laugh, the ardent gleam in his eyes as he talked about the stars we made together. Another highlight was when we bumped into each other in Lesbos. I had just been to see Sappho about a copy of some of her poetry - I was, at the time a very big fan of her work, and to own a copy of one of her verses would have been a boon to any collection! Alas, it had not gone as planned, but I think that might, perhaps, be something I write about some other time - for it was quite a saga!

As I take a pause now, perhaps I should be plain with myself and my feelings, there is only so much one can repress. I am an angel, after all, Love is not a new emotion to me. Though, as I write this (and as Crowley has started to snore) I realise that in the six thousand years I have been on Earth, I’ve never felt the way I do about him towards anyone else - it is both comforting and terrifying at the same time.

I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a steep precipice, looking down into the darkness below me. Not knowing whether, if I jump, someone will be able to catch me at the bottom, or whether I would be left to fall. 

It hurts me, sometimes, when I look at him. I see every scenario where we are together, knowing full well that none of them will ever come to fruition. My hope is as weak as a child, hoping that every glance that is held for too long is something more than just a glance. Trying to read between the lines of every sentence he speaks. Desperately looking for a word, a hint that he feels the same way, but knowing each time that I will find nothing, his sentences have no lines to read between, yet I put them there.

Now that I think about it, I’ve felt this way for quite some time. The events from the last few days have been instrumental in helping me realise this, life would not be the same without him. It would be cold and unbearably lonely.

Yet when I look at him, I do not feel anything in return. I have felt him love many other things over the course of our friendship, his plants, his car, but never anything for me. I’m not sure how I should feel about this. Perhaps I should talk to him? To ask him whether he feels the same way?

Occasionally I want to burst and tell him that I love him deeply. The feeling balloons in my chest and hurts, it makes me want to crumble at his feet, exposing it all, and telling him how I truly feel. Letting the pot of emotion in my chest boil over to feel the sweet catharsis of letting it out. Hoping that maybe he’d understand, hoping that maybe he’d look at me and say the same things back. 

But I know I would be left with nothing but a muted stare, a small shake of the head, and a murmured apology. That would be it, he’d never want to see me again, finding it unbearably awkward to even look at me in the same way. The thought of such a scenario alone brings me great pain. No, I think I’d rather fester in my love for him, to roll around in it and wrap it about myself. To ferment in it. I shan’t tell him.

I suppose it would be best for us to remain as friends anyway, for our own safety more than anything. I cannot bear to think how our respective sides would react if they found out that, not only had we been fraternizing, that we, well... 

I can’t even imagine the thought of losing him. So having him around will be enough, to lose him would be intolerable. Crowley has no idea, and it will stay that way, even if it hurts me to do so. A verse from Sappho herself is suitable here:

Nightingale, herald of spring

With a voice of longing…

I suppose I should get used to longing, to waiting, to wanting a future that may never exist for us. Crowley, my dear, I would move heaven and earth for you to feel the same way!

~

Muriel took a sip from their cup of hot chocolate and winced, it was cold now. Disappointed, they got to their feet and walked towards the kitchen. What they had just read was not a surprise to them in the slightest. The love that Aziraphale felt for his grumpy friend was all over this bookshop, it was smothered in it, each and every brick. 

The fact that there were two of everything was obvious enough for starters. Two armchairs, two plates, two sets of cutlery, two dining chairs, the list went on. Muriel filled the kettle (what a wonderful invention) with water and decided that they would have a cupperty - they liked those as much as they liked hot chocolate. They opened the cupboard in front of them. There were two wine glasses.

Chapter Text

Crowley’s head was pounding when he woke. He let out a long and dramatic groan as he rolled away from the early evening light that streamed in from the window. He shoved his face into the pillow and let out another groan. The bed he was on smelt familiar, it was a clean smell, as if the sheets had been dried in a crisp spring breeze, but there was something else there too, a velveteen richness and the smell of old paper, it smelt like Aziraphale. Crowley rolled back over and stared at the ceiling, how did he end up in Aziraphale’s bed? Crowley sat up and rubbed at his forehead, he wished he was drunk again, clearly he had not drunk enough, he had only slept for a day, he huffed and willed the headache to go away. It obliged.

Crowley looked around the room, stacks of books and very old scrolls of rolled-up parchment paper covered every available surface. In fact, the bedside table, which had a very ornate lamp perched on top of it, wasn’t a bedside table at all, it was also a stack of books. 

Crowley stretched a bit and clicked his back, the angel’s mattress was far too soft for him. He rubbed his eyes and decided that he was thirsty, good job he was at the bookshop, he knew where Aziraphale kept the wine. Yes, that was just what he needed, more wine. He stumbled a bit as he descended the stairs, at one point he almost tripped over but managed to scrabble and grab hold of the handrail. He looked about him, and even though there was no one around to see his blunder, he gave a cool grin, a little shake of the head, and carried on downwards. He had approached the wine rack, when a floorboard squeaked behind him, making him jump.

“Mr Crowley?” A voice asked, he spun around, looking like a deer caught in headlights. Well, a deer with a bottle of wine in his hand. It was Muriel. They stood, looking at him curiously, holding a cup and saucer in their hands.

“I’m pleased you’re awake now Mr Crowley.” Muriel said, settling themselves down in one of the two armchairs. Crowley made a noise of acknowledgment put the bottle back and slowly closed the wine cupboard. He guessed that this wasn’t Aziraphale’s wine anymore.

“The nice ladies from over the road brought you to me.” They said, blowing on their tea, they hadn't quite gotten the hang of hot tea yet, they preferred their beverages lukewarm, that way, they didn’t hurt when you drank them.

“Hmm.” Crowley replied, rubbing the back of his neck. He vaguely remembered Maggie saying something meaningful to him, but he had no idea what. He supposed it was probably something mildly unhelpful about how life goes on, or some nonsense like that. Crowley was acutely aware that life went on -  he had lived through 6000 years of it. Life went on indeed, but it still didn’t stop him from hurting. He swallowed and felt the need for another drink - the emptiness in the pit of his stomach was coming back again. Being in this bookshop made him uneasy. From his back pocket, his phone buzzed. Blinking and confused about what could possibly be vibrating in his back pocket, he reached around and took it out. 

He peered at the lock screen (Footnote: For those that are wondering, Crowley’s lock screen at that point in time was a wallpaper from the film GoldenEye - he tended to fluctuate between that particular wallpaper, and the classic flames of hell. He had changed it back to James Bond after his argument with Aziraphale, over whether they should help Gabriel or not - he fancied that he needed the strength of 007 to help with that) he pulled the notification bar down, it was a text from that Adam Young boy. They had exchanged numbers after their last encounter, so Crowley could contact him if he found anything out - a pang of realisation hit him square in the head. 

“Oh shit.” He said, reading the message “ ohshitohshitohshit !” That’s what he had come here to do in the first place! He slapped a hand to his forehead and looked towards the door as if he was going to make a dash for it.

Muriel stared at him, a small smile on their face.

“Yo- you.” He began, realising he had no idea what the person sitting in front of him was called. “You are?”

Muriel beamed, placed the cup and saucer on the table beside them, and bounced to their feet.

“Muriel sir, 37th-degree recording angel scrivener, and… New owner of this bookshop!” They said and gave a mock courtesy. Crowley nodded slowly.

“Muriel.” He repeated, putting his mobile on the table he was leaning on. 

“I’m assuming you’re good at finding things?.” Crowley added, well, at least he was in the right place to find answers.

Muriel grinned ecstatically, finally, they could help someone with something! Muriel grinned widely and gave a big nod. Crowley had recited to them the line that Adam spoke when they first met, Muriel screwed their face up in thought.

“That does sound familiar.” They said thoughtfully, furrowing their brow. They brought one hand across their chest and the other up to the bottom of their chin, in some kind of over-the-top thinking gesture. Crowley was sure that given enough time, Muriel would start scratching their head, ‘Angels’ he thought, shaking his head. Muriel let out an exclamation.

“I know it!” They said and began rushing to the other side of the bookshop. Crowley followed. He knew the layout of the bookshop so well that he could tell Muriel was heading to Aziraphale’s extensive collection of religious texts. Aziraphale was a bit of a hoarder when it came to books. It was no secret, not even to Crowley, that this shop was less of a shop and more of a personal collection of Aziraphale’s favourite literary indulgences, more than anything.

Muriel had stopped in front of a certain shelf and began looking for titles. They had made it their mission, on the first day they got here, to memorise everything they could about the shop. What section was where, how the books were ordered etc. They were very proud of themselves for it.

“There you are!” They said excitedly and tried to reach for a book on a high self, they balanced on the very tips of their toes, but their fingers were still too far away to reach the book in question. Seeing them struggle, Crowley plucked the book from the shelf and handed it to them, earning a wide, toothy smile in response, his hand had burnt slightly at the touch, how odd.

Muriel flicked through the pages of the tome, their finger scanning down pages, murmuring softly to themselves. They flicked page after yellow page, the book smelt old and musty. 

For some reason, this brought comfort to Crowley, perhaps because the smell reminded him of Aziraphale. He looked at some of the titles of the books on the shelves around him, he wrinkled up his nose in disgust, these were all variations of religious texts. He could see Aziraphale had an entire shelf dedicated to the different versions of the King James Bible - it was bad enough to know that he was looking at the King James Bible, let alone having a shelf of them. Why did you need more than one copy of a book anyway? Crowley shook his head to himself, he would never understand Aziraphale and his book obsession.

“Ah yes. You are looking for Luke 21:28.” Muriel said, putting the book down on a nearby table, Crowley took a few disgusted steps back, he could not stand religious scripture. Aside from the obvious reasons, it was as dry as anything. He supposed that also explained why his hands burnt when he touched it. He wiped it on his trouser leg.

“Now where are you, Luke..? Ah yes - there you are.” They cleared their throat and in an incredibly over-the-top dramatic tone they recited:

“Now when these things begin to happen, look up and lift up your heads, because your redemption draws near.” They looked up at Crowley, who gave a half-shrug.

“Yes, but what does it mean?” He asked. Muriel looked back at the page again and then back up at Crowley. Their face was oddly solemn.

“Well…” They began, furrowing their brow, they turned a page to read something, then turned back to the passage.

“The whole passage talks about the Second Coming, if that’s what you mean?” They asked, tilting their head to the side in curiosity.

It was at that point that a large, deep pit opened up in Crowley’s stomach, he turned his head to the side and took another step back. His fight or flight response was telling him to run, run as far away from everything, as fast as he could. 

The Second Coming - it was not Rocket Science, he knew what it meant, knew that it spelled out the end times - Rapture, Yom Adonai, al-Qiyamah, Kali Yuga, Ragnarok - all spelling out the same thing - the end of the world as we know it.

“Second Coming? As in the Second Coming of Christ?” He said slowly, yellow eyes boring into Muriel, a hot and heavy heat started rising up his neck and his chest started to tighten. He needed to get out of here. They nodded and Crowley ran a hand through his hair, his breathing was coming faster now. He needed to get away, as fast as he could. 

Panic tightened in his chest and he stumbled a bit backward, Muriel made a start to help him.

“I’m fine.” He said, looking about him, seeking out the nearest door. He was certainly not fine. 

Why now ? Didn’t either side get the message the first time an apocalyptic event was stopped? Hadn’t they got the message when the last Supreme Archangel said ‘Nah’ ? 

Crowley spun round and headed towards the door, the implications of the Second Coming hitting him. 

Jesus would return to Earth and take his followers with him, that was the first part, he and knew that for sure. If he could somehow, track down wherever Jesus was and - oh I dunno, politely tell him to go away - he could stop it right? That would work, wouldn’t it? No Jesus, no Rapture, no end of the world. Vavoom. That made sense, didn’t it? Crowley wondered whether Adam could stop it? He was the Son of Satan - he could do it, couldn’t he? 

Crowley’s instinct was to speak to Aziraphale about it - then he remembered. A rage flew through him as he stormed out of the bookshop, slammed the door shut behind him and folded himself into the Bentley. All he had to do was to find Jesus - right? That was easy enough, wasn’t it? Look for a guy preaching about love and walking on water - easy peasy. He let out a long and shaky breath he didn’t realise he was holding as he tightly gripped the steering wheel - he needed to calm down. He let out another breath.

This was Aziraphale’s fault, wasn’t it? Crowley could imagine him in heaven, with all his new angel friends praising him, patting him on the back, as he smugly planned the end of humanity. Crowley let out a snarl. He started the engine, he knew that was too harsh.

Aziraphale was probably just as frightened as he was, but wasn't it easier to hate him? Crowley accelerated, turning the car around and heading towards the M25, his jaw clenched tightly. He clicked his fingers a few times to avoid some red lights and miraculously avoided a few closed roads. No, it wasn’t. In fact, it hurt him even more to. 

Perhaps it was best for him to focus on getting to Tadfield. He dialed Adam’s number, then abruptly hung up, he’d explain it all to the boy in person. He checked his rearview mirror, and realising he wasn't wearing glasses, shoved a new pair onto his nose. He was running again, and he knew it.

Chapter Text

Sunday: Three days until the end of the world (again)

John had never been a remotely religious man, so it surprised him greatly when he woke up in the middle of a Church sermon. He sat in bewildered silence, trying his best to figure out how he had gotten here. Perhaps he had sleepwalked? He glanced down at himself, he was wearing clothes, so that was out of the window - besides, he had never sleepwalked before. 

(Footnote: John enjoyed the earthier tones of the colour palette when it came to choosing articles of clothing. Due to being cold all the time, he also had a disposition to layer his outfits. Now that you know this, you too, will see how strange it was that John failed to notice the fact that he was wearing a white shirt and beige trousers.)

Perhaps he was having bouts of amnesia? He shook his head and clapped absentmindedly when the sermon had finished. He looked down at his feet and shuddered, he was wearing sandals, he didn’t even own a pair of sandals! He looked up and back at the altar, at the stained glass window behind it, he recognised the people in it, but he could not tell you their names. It was like something was stirring at the back of his brain, stretching, waking up. John got to his feet. He walked towards the door to leave, but something stopped him. He turned to face a statute of Jesus being crucified, a crown of thorns on his head. Transfixed, staring hard at the statue, John found himself raising a trembling hand to his forehead. He felt as if his head was full of cotton wool, the sounds of gentle chatter around him came to his ears dull and muted. He shook his head and blinked hard, the feeling did not go away. 

He could hear a hammering noise in the distance, and his wrists began to hurt. 

A woman was sobbing hysterically, people were crying. John could not move, he started at the statue, transfixed, he was remembering things that he had never experienced. A painful betrayal, a kiss on the cheek. Tears budded in his eyes, he blinked them away, and when he did, the hold the statue had on him broke. He left the church, blinking as the bright sunlight hit his eyes, he needed to lie down.

He felt like he was lying in a river, floating aimlessly, letting the current pull him along to the sea. John was weightless, unable to move, to do anything. He could see out of his eyes, but he was not moving, it was like someone else was driving his body. He saw his body unlock his front door and enter into his home. His legs took him to the bathroom, where he splashed some water onto his face. The feeling of floating rescinded somewhat as the feeling returned to his hands. He took them from his face and for a split second saw someone in the mirror that was not him. He blinked, but his reflection was his own when his eyes focused again.

He was seeing things now, he definitely needed a nap. He trudged into his bedroom, the feeling of cotton wool in his head was getting heavier again, he rubbed at his eyes. He rolled onto his bed and willed sleep to come.

~

Adam was playing in his back garden with Dog later that day when he heard a loud clatter of something heavy and metallic hitting the deck next door. He popped his head over the fence, seeing if he could help. To his surprise, his music teacher stood there, hands holding air where a metal tray was. He was staring into the distance, his mouth was slightly agape. The tray was spinning, reflecting the sunlight about the place. 

“Mr Abielson?” Adam said in surprise, “I had no idea you lived next door!”

John turned to look at him, Adam was surprised to see that John did not register him at all, not a hint of recognition in his eyes. The man went to open his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. 

Adam then saw something like realisation flicker suddenly in his eyes, he waved meekly.

“Sorry, Adam.” He said. “Say that again?”

“I didn't know you lived next door.” Adam repeated, he regarded John with a concerned glance, the man looked haggard, pale, and unwell.

“Are you okay?” Adam asked, hopping over the fence and going to pick the tray up from the floor. John bent down to help him, he didn’t even realise he was holding the tray or know why he had it in the first place, the last thing he knew was that he was asleep.

Adam could see that his hands were shaking.

“I’m fine.” He answered, taking the platter back from Adam again. Adam tilted his head to the side slightly and narrowed his eyes.

“You don’t look it.” He said bluntly. “In fact, I’d say that you look terrible.” He added, nodding slowly.

“No disrespect, sir.” Adam added quickly. He liked Mr Abielson.

“Do you ever feel as if you have no control over yourself?” John asked suddenly, not knowing where the question came from. Adam blinked in surprise, he nodded.

“Yes.” He said simply. “ I do.” Adam looked at the ground. 

“I have visions too.” He added. 

Adam realised then, that he had a strange feeling in the back of his brain. A small voice was telling him that he needed to get as far away from the man as possible. That he was dangerous. Adam dismissed it, it was being silly, this was just Mr Abielson.

In any normal circumstance, John would have chalked this up to a teenager trying to be edgy, but in this instance, he truly believed what the boy said. He nodded in response. He had seen visions too, shadows of winged humans ascending from the sky, creatures crawling up from the depths of the Earth. A flaming sword, a book with numerous pages, filled with names, a lake. He could hear trumpets sounding and a choir of thousands of heavenly voices chanting war cries in unison. The sound terrified him.

John blinked the images from his eyes. Adam was looking at him intently. John was acutely aware that Adam was saying something to him before, as his mouth was moving, but he missed it completely. He was beginning to feel like his head was full of cotton wool again. His eyelids were heavy.

“Ah, I need to go.” The boy said he had his phone in his hand. “Do you mind if I went out through your house?” Adam asked, John shook his head and opened the door to his house, and the boy went inside.  John unlocked the front door and followed Adam outside once they had picked their way through the boxes in John's living room.

A black Bentley was parked in front of his house, and a rather angular-looking man with scarlet hair was leaning on the roof. If his head wasn’t so full of cotton wool, John was certain he would have made some remark about how beautiful the car was, or something like that - he was taught it was the polite thing to do in a conversation.

“Adam.” The man said flatly and Adam raised a hand to greet him, his face looked a bit grim and pressed.

“Bye Mr Abielson - I think you should probably get some rest.” Adam said, turning to look up at the man with concern, John nodded meekly.

John watched as the man walked around the side of the car to open the passenger door for Adam, he thought the bloke looked like an idiot wearing those sunglasses, it wasn’t even sunny. Something in his addled brain shouted in glee, he felt like jumping up and down and pointing with excitement.

“I know you.” John's voice came from his mouth, but he was certain that he hadn't said anything. his brain was telling him that he recognised the serpent the man had tattooed on the side of his head. John blinked, he knew that he had never met this man in his life. The man said nothing, and held the door open for Adam, the boy climbed in. 

Crowley regarded the man with a curious look. He had a fairly decent memory for faces, but he didn’t recognise this man at all. He did look like a hippie though.

“I do, I know you.” John said again a lilting laugh tacked to the end of the sentence. Someone else was driving again. He tried to shake the feeling off, but it only grew stronger. It felt excited as if it was seeing a friend for the first time in a very long time. His arm raised itself and pointed at the man.

“Crowley, isn’t it?” John said, his body took a few steps forward, arms extending wide as if going to hug the man. He pulled himself back, he stumbled, his body torn between two decisions. 

The man in the glasses turned his head sharply as he shut the door behind Adam. Crowley moved towards the man and got a good long look at him. 

“Your hair looks good, much nicer than when we last met.” John offered, not sure whether this was him saying that or not, the man did have very nice hair. Crowley narrowed his eyes from behind his shades.

“You don’t know me.” He said abruptly, walking back to get in the car.

“I do, I do!” John said earnestly, he could feel his face grinning.

"It's me!" He added, gesturing to himself, Crowley looked the stranger up and down again. The man threw back his head and laughed in a way that sounded somewhat familiar, something poked at the back of Crowley's brain, and he narrowed his eyes again. John pulled himself together and turned the laugh into a splutter as he tried to force himself to stop, he blinked, and when he closed his eyes, he saw towering dunes of sand, he and the man had traversed them together on camels. The sand faded away and he saw castles of stone and spoke to men and women wearing clothes from places he had never been to.

The man was with him through it all. He saw them laughing together in many a tavern, John remembered his red hair and something to do with the colour yellow. He recalled the man pointing to the stars and telling John that he ‘Helped make that one.’ Then a bitter conversation followed, but he couldn't remember what it was about, something to do with someone falling, he thought. John recalled the man taking him to places he could only dream about, telling him about how civilizations had lived and died, and how the sea rose and fell. John blinked again, it was like he was re-living someone else’s memories through a kaleidoscope, they came colourful, fragmented, and fast.

He spoke again, in a voice that wasn’t quite entirely his.

“You showed me the Kingdoms of Earth, Crowley.”

Chapter Text

Earlier that Sunday morning - Heaven.

Aziraphale was sitting at his desk again, leafing through scrolls of old parchments and wondering. He was trying his damndest to figure out how Jesus should announce his return, but nothing was coming to him. Of course, the classic way of doing it would be to just have the man appear in the sky and deliver his message of rapture to the masses - but that just felt too old-fashioned. Now if Aziraphale, an Angel who had not changed his style of clothing since the late Victorian Era, considered something old-fashioned, you knew you were doing something very wrong, indeed.

He wondered whether he could use those mobile devices the youth always carried on their persons these days - now that would be a good and efficient way of delivering the message, wouldn’t it? But what about those people that didn't have a mobile device? Aziraphale himself had never owned one, and he assumed that others wouldn’t too - he was going to have to give this more thought.

He found himself absentmindedly wondering what Crowley would do if he were to be in his place. Aziraphale knew that the demon was a bit more with the times than he was, it was a pity he couldn’t just nip down and ask him - though, as his guilty conscience reminded him, he supposed that would not be such a good idea anyway. He dismissed the thought from his mind, before the cloud of confusion came over him again, and before his stomach started squirming. He could not deny that he missed Crowley terribly, he felt his heart ache.

For those of you who wondering what Crowley would do if he were to announce the Second Coming of Christ, he would probably do something involving a Fortnight concert and a dance on TikTok (Footnote: Crowley wasn't so sure what those two words meant, but he knew that they were both very popular with the youth of the day).

Aziraphale had been writing a note on a scrap of paper about exploring the idea of using mobile telephones when he heard a knock at his door. 

“You - you can come in!” he called whoever it was.

“Aziraphale. I’ve brought you a gift.” The Metatron said, coming into the angel’s office, he came in backward his hands clearly preoccupied. Aziraphale got to his feet and gave a charming smile.

The Metatron had decided that since his last meeting with the Angel, things had gotten a bit frayed - and so, in order to keep him in line, he thought a nice bit of bribery was needed. Keep him sweet - keep him subservient. Casting a third prince out of heaven would not look good at all.

The Metatron had entered the office and in his arms was a stack of leather-bound books.

“I saw these, and I thought you might like to read them.” He said proudly, placing the books down on one of the chairs Aziraphale had miracled into the room. Aziraphale took his glasses from the end of his nose, folded them neatly, and placed them in his pocket as he got to his feet. He beamed.

“Ah.” He said, “What are they?” He asked curiously, the Metatron paused.

“Well, one of them is Shakespeare's Original Folio, and there were a few in there by a chap named Darwin, whoever he was. Oh, and I also managed to pull a few strings downstairs.” He winked, it looked odd on his face.

 “And got you a copy of Da Vinci’s Codex of Leicester, from the man himself!” He chuckled.  Aziraphale was aghast, even a novice book collector knew that those books were extremely valuable. 

“Really?” He asked excitedly, rushing over to the pile, and there it was, sat on the top. He wished he had his gloves on him. He stared at it lovingly, not wanting to touch it.

“I was good friends with da Vinci.” Aziraphale said, glancing at the Metatron. “He was a fantastic man.”

Some alleyway in Rome: 1500s.

It was a balmy night that night, a wet heat hung in the air and the moon sat fat and yellow in the clouds. Aziraphale was looking at all the open window shutters and was hoping that the rain that was threatening would come and get it over with so that this humidity would go away - it did terrible things to his hair. 

The company he was walking with was gushing excitedly to him.

“I cannot thank you enough, Mr Fell.” Leonardo Da Vinci said gratefully. “Your help with the Last Supper has been invaluable - it is like you were almost there!” He added, Aziraphale waved away the compliment and gave a charming smile. He refrained from mentioning that he was there, and it was quite the logistical nightmare, not at all as grand as the painter had created it. 

“It is my pleasure.” He said simply, clutching his hands in front of him with excitement. 

“It truly is an exquisite piece of work!”

Leonardo beamed in response, a pink blush fanned out across his cheeks, he placed a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Let us head to a taverna, just down the road - I shall treat you!” Leonardo said, Aziraphale tried in vain to brush off the offer, but as hard as he tried, the painter insisted. 

The tavern was dimly lit and loud when they had entered, the cheery chit-chat of drunken louts echoed about the place, Leonardo pushed through the crowd, towards the bar. Aziraphale followed behind, giving polite smiles and small little waves to people he recognised.

“Ah hello, mio amico!” He heard Leonardo say loudly, he was shaking the hand of a figure at the bar animatedly, his face lit up in a gleeful smile. Aziraphale was not surprised he knew someone here, it seemed Leo knew someone in every corner of the world.

“Aziraphale!” He called, gesturing for the angel to join him and his accomplice. The angel obliged.

“Aziraphale, per favore, meet my dear friend Crowley.”

The angel felt his heart tug in his chest as he laid eyes on the demon - as Aziraphale had come to expect from him, he was immaculately dressed. A black hat perched on top of his head, and his red hair was curled tightly at his ears and grew to his jaw in gentle waves. Aziraphale could see a glint of recognition in his yellow eyes from behind his usual dark lenses. 

The man was dressed in a long-sleeved crimson shirt, a golden chain sat across his chest, and the clasp at one end was shaped like a snake’s head - its eyes glistened with rubies. Aziraphale swallowed and pulled at the collar of his doublet as he felt a gentle blush colour his cheeks. Leonardo was beaming at him.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley drawled, he smirked at the angel as Aziraphale returned his smirk with a flabbergasted stare. Leonardo made a noise of understanding.

“You two know each other already?” He asked, looking between the two excitedly, a grin grew across his face. Aziraphale flapped his hands a bit awkwardly.

“Ah no, well yes, no. No, not really.” He blagged, letting out a breathy laugh and giving Crowley a nervous smile. Getting the message, Crowley’s smirk shrank ever so slightly and he nodded. Leonardo gave a curt nod and was distracted as someone else he knew clapped him on the back, he turned away for a second to chat.

“Good to see you.” Crowley said quietly, raising his cup to Aziraphale. He gave a terse smile and rocked on his heels.

“Well, yes, good to see you too I suppose.” He answered quietly.

“Ah well, isn’t this meraviglioso!” Leonardo said, turning back to face the pair, he patted them both on the back. 

“I shall get the first round, we simply must drink together!” He said gleefully, clasping his hands in front of him with excitement, Aziraphale went to open his mouth to protest.

Despite being fond of the demon, it was better for the both of them if they weren’t seen together - God knows what would happen to them if their sides found out - Leonardo waved him away.

“No, no Mr Fell I do insist!” He said loudly over the chatter and disappeared to a clear space on the bar. Aziraphale closed his mouth abruptly and gave Crowley a furtive look, the demon was staring at him expectantly.

“What brings you here then?” Aziraphale asked, better to fill the awkward silence, rather than leave it. 

“Temptation in Vatican City just nipped up here for the wine really.” Crowley took a long drink from his cup, Aziraphale was surprised it wasn’t already empty. He clasped his hands together and looked about the bar. The clientele of the establishment was a loud, rowdy bunch, he watched as two men started a fight in the doorway - he waved his hand, and rather than going in for a punch-up, they hugged instead.

“Ah yes, I see.” He said absentmindedly, Crowley watched Aziraphale with fond amusement, he placed his cup down on the bar and leaned back to get an eyeful of the angel.

“I could ask the same of you?” He replied, watching as the angel looked around the room, purposefully trying to disengage and avoid Crowley’s eyes -  the tavern was too full, and this fact unnerved him greatly. 

It had been a week since he was summoned up to the head office to give a report on the status of his work. He recalled that Gabriel was most unhappy with him doing miracles ‘willy-nilly’ - though Gabriel had not used that exact wording. His mind was stilled slightly when he didn’t see anyone massively out of place, someone from his side of things often stood out like a sore thumb - at least the ones who had been sent to tail him in the past had. 

“If you must know, I’ve been speaking to Signor Da Vinci about a painting he is creating.” He said, bringing his eyes back to Crowley, who hummed out noise in acknowledgment. Speak of the devil - (Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to use that phrase or not) The man himself had returned with a bottle of wine and two extra cups.

“I hope I wasn't keeping you both waiting for too long now!” He said cheerfully, placing the two extra cups on the bar and pouring himself and Aziraphale a drink. 

“Grazie Leo.” Aziraphale offered, giving the man a small, but radiant smile - failing to notice how the man blushed and looked away in response. Regaining himself, Leonardo motioned with the bottle to Crowley and tilted his head slightly, extending the bottle out as an offer.

Crowley waved his hand and the offer away with a small shake of his head. Da Vinci shrugged - someone else came past and began engaging him in animated conversation that he was only too willing to entertain.

“That’s most unlike you.” Aziraphale said, Crowley grinned in response.

“I’ve got a little demonic miracle going on here.” He said, his eyes glittered with pride. “I’ve finally mastered the old re-filling cup trick Jesus was so fond of.” He added, Aziraphale made an impressed face and nodded as Crowley grinned down at his cup, his eyes crinkling. Aziraphale stopped himself from staring, catching his breath in his throat. 

Crowley was disarming when he smiled.

“Scusa.” Leonardo turned back around and pressed a hand to Aziraphale’s shoulder. He gave it a gentle squeeze, his glittering eyes fixed on the angel’s face as he raised his cup.

“Agli amici! To Friends!” He said loudly, his eyes still stuck, transfixed on Aziraphale’s face.

“To friends.” Aziraphale replied, giving a sweet smile and copying Leonardo by raising his cup to the ceiling. Crowley gave a tight-lipped smile and raised his cup too. They drank, then stood in silence for a few seconds, before Leonardo broke the pregnant silence.

“So, Crowley, what brings you to fair Roma?” He asked curiously. Crowley placed his cup back on top of the bar, he made a noise. Aziraphale took a sip from his drink.

“Fancied the trip really.” He said nonchalantly, Leonardo nodded. Aziraphale didn’t focus on the conversation and instead, busied himself looking around the tavern again.  

Aziraphale had noted after the confrontation with Gabriel, that his words were certainly a bit more on the aggressive side of the passive-aggressive scale, that was for certain, and they had certainly left a mark. Aziraphale inwardly labelled himself a fool as he just realised he had performed another miracle ‘willy-nilly’, as the two that were hugging (previously fighting), were now buying each other drinks. He huffed at himself and pouted, he couldn't help it - he was too soft. 

Aziraphale scanned the room once more and tried to settle his brain back into a sense of ease by finishing off his drink. He felt a warm hand touch the small of his back and was yanked from his thoughts.

“Would you like another drink, Aziraphale?” Leonardo asked.

“Hm?” Aziraphale replied, bringing his eyes back to the man, suddenly aware of his hand, still sitting at the small of his back. Leonardo smiled at him gently and kindly. There was something in his eyes that Aziraphale couldn’t quite place.

“Did you want another drink?” He asked again. Aziraphale looked back down at his cup, and realising that it was empty, nodded somewhat absentmindedly. Leonardo made a noise of affirmation and disappeared into the crowd again. As he passed Aziraphale, his hand slid up to his shoulder again.

“Wow.” He heard Crowley say as Leonardo left, Aziraphale snapped himself out of his thoughts as he heard the demon chuckle. 

“Wow?” He echoed, clutching his cup in front of him. Crowley gestured in the direction that Leonardo disappeared into.

“He likes you.” He said simply, his face expressionless. Aziraphale furrowed his brow and creased his face up in confusion.

“Why of course he does, he is my friend.” He answered abashedly. If he looked hard enough, he would have seen Crowley roll his eyes from behind his lenses.

“No, no, not like that. Like he like, likes you.” He said, leaning hard on the second to last word in the sentence. Aziraphale pursed his lips and moved his eyes from Crowley to the floor and back to Crowley again. The demon was nodding slowly, an expectant look on his face, willing him to understand what he was alluding to. Aziraphale was stumped.

“What on Earth do you mean? Of course he likes me, I’m his friend!” He repeated, giving his head a little shake, his brow furrowed further in confusion, he had no idea what the demon was trying to tell him. 

“Can you not see it?” He asked, watching as Aziraphale frowned, perplexed.

“He looks at you like you’ve hung the moon and stars.” He added, nodding again. The angel gave his head a resolute shake, still confounded. He did, didn't he? Crowley was there when they did it.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” He said.

Crowley let out a low, exasperated groan and took a long drink from his cup. Aziraphale was certain that he heard him mutter ‘angels’, Crowley tutted and turned to him. He gestured back towards Leonardo again, who now had another bottle of wine in hand, but had clearly been side-tracked by another acquaintance.

“He fancies you, angel.” He said plainly, looking at Aziraphale over the top of his glasses. Aziraphale’s frown only deepened.

“Me?” He asked, motioning to himself. Crowley gave a slow and obvious nod, his lips pressed into a straight, thin line. Aziraphale looked over at Leonardo and placed a hand at his chest. 

Closing his eyes for a moment, he centralized his thoughts and tuned into the feelings in the room. Aziraphale stumbled a bit as he was suddenly hit with a flood of positive emotion, square in the chest. He supposed taverns were often places where people generally felt positive things, given the alcohol.

He opened his eyes and blinked a few times, eyes adjusting to the dim light of the room, he looked intently at the man standing nearest to him and focused on what he was feeling. 

As he did, a giddy warmth spread from his fingertips, buzzing like electricity up his arms, across his chest and shoulders. When he closed his eyes, still focussing on the man next to him, he saw an infant - a baby girl - Giustina - he thought she was called - the man was incredibly enamored by her. His daughter. 

Aziraphale opened his eyes again and tried a few more people in the room, making sure that he was tuning into the right emotion. 

The woman standing behind him loved the person she was speaking to and when he looked at her, he felt a burning hot fire in his heart. Aziraphale did the same thing to the bartender, who was wiping at the counter. Aziraphale saw the man’s dog when he blinked, a warmth, like a blanket enveloped him. Satisfied, he turned to look at Leonardo - time to test the demon’s theory. 

The polymath was still speaking to his acquaintance, and Aziraphale focussed hard. He had a swooping sensation in the pit of his stomach, a wondrous love Leonardo felt for his inventions, a thrill, an excitement for discovering new things. Aziraphale mentally sifted through all the different things Leonardo loved, each thing making Aziraphale feel something different, for example, when the angel had gotten to his paintings - he felt a simmering feeling in his chest, something that if Aziraphale was asked to put into words, he would describe as exasperated love. 

Leonardo’s eyes caught his own, and Aziraphale knew in that instant that Crowley must have been wrong. He felt nothing at all, a hollow emptiness sat like a stone at the base of his stomach, big, obvious, and very heavy. 

Well that settled it, after all, the connection to whomever he was reading was often at its strongest when eye contact had been made. 

Aziraphale looked away and turned his gaze to Crowley, who was watching him intently. The demon was somewhat aware of what the angel was doing, being that one time, a very long time ago - Crowley often did it too, he shoved the memories away roughly. 

Aziraphale was surprised to feel the hollow feeling again when he looked at Crowley, but brushed it off immediately, he was a demon after all.

Crowley caught his breath when the angel locked eyes with him, praying (to whom, he wasn't sure) that he was repressing his own feelings enough that Aziraphale wouldn’t get a read on him. He didn't want the angel to know how he felt about him, not now. The breath was released when the angel closed his eyes again, brow furrowing in concentration, 

“Nothing.” Aziraphale breathed, opening his eyes, relieved to have shut everything out again, it was an overwhelming feeling that much emotion, even if it was positive.

“No? You can’t feel anything?” Crowley asked, raising his eyebrows, holding his breath again.

“Not for me, no.” Aziraphale said matter of factly, nodding to himself, obviously relieved.

“Hm.” Crowley responded, lost in thought.

Crowley let out the breath he was holding in one long puff. Nodding to himself, he went back to his cup again and downed it. 

Crowley was convinced that the angel had gotten something wrong, not just because it was obvious that Leonardo had feelings for him (I mean, as if the doe-eyes, giggling, and gentle touches weren’t obvious enough - Crowley snorted to himself at that), but because Aziraphale didn’t make any remarks about what he saw when he looked at him . He was certain that the fondness he held for the angel would have lit up the room light a bright neon sign, so it was odd that Aziraphale had said nothing at all - perhaps Crowley was better at repressing his love than he thought - and yes, he was plain enough to address this feeling for what it really was, no pussy-footing about it. 

Crowley had known way back then, standing on the walls of Eden, since Aziraphale revealed that he had given his sword away. He remembered that he fell for a second time then, and boy did he fall hard. He shrugged to himself as Leonardo came back over.

It may come as no surprise to you, dear reader, that both of our protagonists were incorrect in this scenario. One, Crowley was terrible at repressing his love for Aziraphale. Two, Aziraphale did indeed see nothing at all when he looked at the demon. And three: Leonardo Da Vinci was indeed head over heels for Aziraphale. The polymath, in his later years, was often known (once he had a few cupfuls of wine in him) to wax lyrical about a white-haired angel with a smile that lit up a room - but most people had assumed that he was talking about one of his paintings and thought nothing of it.

Now you may be wondering if Leonardo did indeed have a love for Aziraphale, why the angel could not feel it? Well, to take a leaf out of Signore Da Vinci’s book and apply some rudimentary science to the situation, would be like trying to dissolve salt in already salted water. The salted water is already so saturated with the stuff that it would be impossible for it to absorb anymore. 

The salted water, in this scientific analogy, is Crowley - with a love so huge for the angel, so large that it transcended even the heavens themselves, it would be impossible to measure any similar feelings against it. And as for why Aziraphale could not feel Crowley’s love, let me borrow a line: It was for the same reason that people in Trafalgar Square can't see England.

Chapter Text

Sunday evening - three days until the end of the world (again)

“Oh, there he is.” Maggie said, pointing out of the window as she spotted the Bentley prowling down the street, coming to a stop outside Nina’s coffee shop. The engine shuddered off and Crowley uncoiled himself from the car, adjusting the glasses sat on the end of his nose. He opened the passenger door and a young boy hopped out. They traipsed across the road together, the older man’s face drawn into a line, the younger boy looked decidedly ill. 

Crowley opened the door for the boy, and with a glance behind him, disappeared into the shop. 

“Ah, so the bastard is alive then.” Nina said, looking up from the pile of records she was browsing. Maggie nodded and locked the till, putting the key into her pocket.

“Looks that way.” She said.

Maggie walked across the shopfloor and turned the sign on her shop door, to ‘Closed.’ The ‘O’ was a record, she drew it for her father when she was younger, and even now, 20 or so years later, was still very proud of it. She fished the keys from her pocket and locked the door with a pleasant click. 

“Honestly, I’ve never seen anyone drink that much, it's a wonder he’s still alive.” Nina added, returning her attention back to the box she was rifling through.

“It really is, but isn’t everything a wonder with those two?” Maggie said, recalling how just the other day they had helped Mr Fell defend his bookshop from a gang of demons - they had both tried very hard to not think about it too much, Maggie was actively choosing to believe that they were just a group of elaborately dressed gangspeople.

“You can say that again.” Nina sighed and pulled her jacket on, stuffing her hands into her pockets, she glanced up at the clock (it was also a record).

“Hurry up love, our table is booked for 6:30.” She remarked, watching as Maggie leisurely started rearranging one of the shelves. She too glanced at the clock and winced, time management had never really been her strong suit.

“Coming, coming, sorry.” She said, rushing to the back of the store to grab her coat. 

“I wonder if he and Mr Fell have spoken since… well.” She wondered aloud as she unlocked the door again for them to both leave the shop, Nina left first.

“Dunno.” Nina said, glancing up at the sky and drawing her jacket in, the evening was a bit chilly. Maggie switched off the lights in her store and locked the door behind her.

Together, the pair started to walk down the street, toward where they would be dining together that evening, Nina put her arm through Maggie’s. They walked past the bookshop together, Maggie was hoping that perhaps the blinds would be open and that she might catch a glimpse of Mr Fell, but to her disappointment, they were drawn shut - like they had been since the past Wednesday. 

“I do hope so.” Maggie continued. “They are so obviously into each other.” She added, Nina nodded and let out a noise in agreement.

“Communication is key.” She mused.

“Speaking of.” Maggie said, “Tell me if this is me going too fast but...” She paused and the next sentence came out in a bumbling mess.

“But I wondered whether you wanted to stay at mine tonight? I-I mean, so you don’t have to worry if you want a drink - I mean…” Maggie added, her face going pink as Nina watched with mounting amusement. The pair had stopped on the corner of the street before the restaurant.

Nina grinned and planted a soft kiss on Maggie’s cheek.

“Of course. I’d like that.” She said, Maggie gave a sheepish smile. A gentle drizzle began to fall and the pair rushed towards the haven of the restaurant.

~

Aziraphale was observing the pair in the atrium with the globe and gave a heartfelt smile, it warmed him to see the romance between the pair blossom, at least he had done something right recently. He sighed, letting his shoulders sag, and closed his eyes, the work he had been doing was beginning to weigh down on him a bit more now. As he drew closer to the end times, he felt his options beginning to thin out in front of him and had begun to notice the already vice-like grip the Metatron had over him tighten more, it was exhausting. Aziraphale found that he was making fewer decisions and was just doing as he was told. He rubbed at his eyes, he had never really slept much when on Earth, he had not needed to, but now he felt the urge more than ever.

He also felt the urge to check in on Crowley, one that he had been actively fighting for the last ten minutes or so. He raised a hand to the globe, thought better of it, and dropped it, arm swinging by his side. He looked about the room, it was empty. He hummed a little tuner to himself in a last-ditch attempt to distract himself.

“Well I guess a peek wouldn’t hurt, would it?” He muttered quietly to himself, giving in completely and raising his hand again, ignoring the half of him that tried to stop. Without even needing to touch it, the globe knew what it was that Aziraphale wanted to see, and it began to spin gently. It came to a stop over England ‘ Good, he was still on the planet then ’ Aziraphale mused, and it began to zoom in, through the clouds, through the city, until it rested at the bookshop. Aziraphale blinked in apparent surprise, Crowley was at the bookshop - that was the last place he expected to see the demon. Something innate in him told him to touch the globe and that if he did so, it would show him what he was seeking. He raised his arm again and tapped at the globe gently.

The white room melted away from him like sand disappearing in a strong breeze and was replaced by the street outside the bookshop, Aziraphale welcomed the wooshing noise of rush hour traffic as it entered his ears, the Up was far, far too quiet. He looked about him, it was raining heavily now, but it did not seem to touch the angel, as much as slide off of him. He waved to one of his neighbors and they rushed down the street, umbrellas forced against the rain. They looked directly at him, but had not registered him standing there - Aziraphale realised the look had not been at him but through him. He raised a hand in front of him, and as he suspected, it was translucent looking, not solid, a gentle golden glow hung about him. Aziraphale was somewhat relieved, he wasn’t too sure that appearing in person out-of-the-blue to Crowley would be one of his better ideas. He approached the bookshop tentatively, firstly to look in at the door, but the closed sign was in place and the blind drawn shut. He nodded to himself, that made sense, he was usually closed at this time - that was good. He walked around to the side, trying to see if he could peer in one of the windows, but all the blinds appeared to be closed. Aziraphale frowned, what a shame. He caught a reflection of himself in one of the windows and took a small step backward in bewilderment - he was in a brilliant white suit (as he had expected) but as he looked at himself closer, he spotted that his eyes were no longer the stormy-sea shade of blue that he had gotten used to them being. They were instead a bright and lustrous gold. He stepped even closer to get a look at himself, he could see flecks of gold on his skin, and they shone in the white-blue light of the streetlamps. 

His hair seemed whiter than it was before and when he turned his head, he caught glimpses of gold there too. He frowned, he looked like himself, but he didn’t at the same time - something about his eyes made him shiver. He didn’t like it. 

Aziraphale drew closer to the window and touched the cold, wet glass.

Crowley was reclining across one of Aziraphale’s armchairs, long legs hanging over one of the arms. In one hand he held a half-empty wine bottle, the other he was using to gesture wildly about the place, he was discussing the ineffable plan with Muriel, but it had not been going so well. From the back of the shop, where he was browsing Aziraphale's collection, Adam made a noise of disappointment. Out of the thousands of books in this place, not one was a comic book! Well, at least, not one he had wanted to read anyway.

“But, how do you know its going to actually happen that way?” Crowley asked, gesturing the bottle at the confused angel. They took a long, loud (this irritated Crowley greatly) slurp from their cup and brought it down back to the saucer again. They gave a shrug. 

“I don’t.” They said simply, offering a kind smile. “I don’t really know anything about the plan.” They added, taking another sip, Crowley copied, but with a mouthful of wine.

“Nothing at all?” He asked incredulously when he had finished. The angel shook their head, their black curls bobbing about their face. Crowley gave them a disgruntled look and swung his legs round to the floor, this was going nowhere. Muriel was a terrible conversation sparrer, they just agreed with everything he said! He leaned on his knees with his elbows and finished the rest of the wine bottle with a hiss of satisfaction. He got to his feet with far too much effort than necessary and looked towards the window.

“Is it raining?” He asked, ambling smoothly to the window. He pulled at the string and with a short snap, the blind launched upwards as he peered out at the rain lashing at the window.

Aziraphale gave a short, sharp gasp and took a full step backward in surprise. As soon as his foot touched the floor, the busy Soho street disappeared completely and was replaced by the pristine whiteness of the atrium. He was back in heaven again. He pursed his lips in disappointment and swallowed back the warm tears that had built in his eyes.

“Supreme Archangel?” A voice said, Aziraphale jumped, hastily wiped at his eyes and pivoted on his feet to face the source of the voice.

It was Saraquel, regarding him with a look of mild concern.

“Is everything okay, sir?” They asked. Aziraphale gave a prompt nod.

“Absolutely tickety-boo!” He said with what he had hoped was his usual style of on-brand optimism. The angel gave a slow head nod in response, and approached the globe.

“I see.” They said simply, seeing the globe still zoomed in on the bookshop.

“See what?” Aziraphale said, quickly wafting his had at the globe to make it move and offering a nervous smile in response. Saraquel raised an eyebrow and looked at him with eyes that seemed to spell out pity.

“With all due respect Supreme Archangel, why are you here?” They asked, resting their arms on the rests of their chair and lacing their hands together. They scrunitisd Aziraphale, with mounting interest. Aziraphale was dumbstruck and quite unsure how to answer, so he chose not to instead.

“I’m not being funny, but you had it pretty cushy down there.” Saraquel said, eyes moving to stare at the globe as it began to slow.

“Cosy bookshop, nice friends, someone who loves you. Why throw that away?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes snapped up towards the other Archangel, his face drawn.

“He doesn’t love me .” He said quickly, wishing he had never said it at all. The archangel gave a drawn smile as they tilted their head to the side.

“I-I’m not sure who you mean.” Aziraphale added hastily, fiddling with his hands, he was tempted to just turn on his heel and leave, but that would certainly make himself look worse.

Saraquel scoffed, silence passed and Aziraphale softened, they had all alluded to it one way or another, and he supposed it wouldn’t hurt now for him to say something.

“I thought he would come with me, if truth be told.” He offered quietly, Saraquel snickered.

“You thought he’d come here ?” They said incredulously, laughter building in their voice.”Do you even speak to each other?”

Aziraphale must have given them some kind of look, as the laughter disappeared immediately from their face and they grew serious.

“You don’t, do you?” They said quietly, Aziraphale remained silent. Taking that silence as confirmation the archangel tutted. 

“No wonder you think he doesn’t love you.” They muttered to themselves.

“Look.” They waved their hand and a pile of files landed in their lap. “Take these back to your office.” They took the pile up in their hands and handed them to Aziraphale, who took them doubtfully.

“They might change your mind.” Saraquel offered, turning the chair around to leave.

“Why?” Aziraphale enquired.

The archangel turned back to face him.

“Because you need to understand what it is you’ll be losing.” They said simply, leaving and not turning back. Aziraphale looked down at the files in his hands and back up at the retreating archangel, bemused.

The implications of him ‘losing’ something should have clued Aziraphale in that perhaps his agreement with the Metatron had not quite been as honest as intended, but he was too focused on what was written on the top file to care.

Classified:

Subject: The Demon Crowley.

Pulling the field close to his chest, Aziraphale hurried down the corridor back to his office. Once he was inside, he gently placed the files on his desk and closed the door behind him with a click. His brain was inquisitively buzzing, his fingers twitching with curiosity.

He settled himself at his desk and opened the top file with a flourish, and as he did, the files lifted up and few around the room. From what he could see, they all looked to be images of Crowley. Some of him on his own, most of them with Aziraphale.

He peered at the floating images some more, he saw the demon grinning at him in one of them, in another he was standing outside his bookshop in the 1800s with a box of chocolates, wearing the biggest top hat Azirapahle had ever seen. He turned his head and saw Crowley smiting a demon for him the night Jesus was born, he remembered that.

An odd feeling began to come over Aziraphale, it was wistful and made him feel a bit dizzy. 

He smiled to himself when he spotted a picture of them laughing together at the Globe when Crowley had taken him to see A Midsummer Night's Dream, he had brought them the best seats in the house. The feeling returned again, this time as a gentle swooping sensation in his stomach, it was like thousands of little butterflies were fluttering there.

Aziraphale got to his feet, and with hands drawn behind him, began looking at some of the other images floating there. He saw the way the demon was staring at him at the Ritz in the 90s (in his defence, at the time Aziraphale was too busy eating his cake to notice). 

Walking to the other side of his office, he looked over at an image that was moving, he reached out to it and brought it in front of him, it was a recording of some kind. At his touch, it began to play.

“So, into the flame.” A familiar voice boomed, and Aziraphale noted that it was Gabriel. 

He saw himself, well, at the time it was Crowley pretending to be him - but I digress, take a step forward towards the tower of whirling hellfire, he gave it a look of disdain that only Crowley could make his features do.

Ah yes, his ‘execution’.

It occurred to him at that point that Crowley had never told him how this had gone down before, well he had never thought to ask.

“Right, well.” Aziraphale heard himself say, regarding the flames with nothing short of contempt.

“It was lovely knowing you all.” He said, “May we meet on a better occasion.” 

Gabriel screwed up his face in apparent disgust and with the voice of someone who was repressed and doomed to spend eternity in middle management, commanded Aziraphale to:

“Shut your stupid mouth, and die already.” He finished with the largest shit-eating grin that Aziraphale had ever seen in 6000 years on Earth, and that was saying something. 

It suddenly dawned on him with a pang that this was why Crowley had wanted Gabriel as far, far away from him as possible. Another feeling, hard and difficult to ignore started to bubble in his chest, he blinked and carried on, ignoring it as it grew and grew. He leafed through image after image of their meetings throughout the ages, how the demon always seemed to be more than willing to don the hero’s cape when Aziraphale needed him to, how he had followed him from one end of the earth to the other.

Aziraphale stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted it. He felt a blush creep up his neck - a claw of panic threatened to tighten in his chest. He swallowed and blinked as he realized he was looking at a photograph, as if taken from outside the bookshop looking in, of Crowley kissing him.

Aziraphale felt his hand, trembling, go back to his lips, and he was there again. He could feel Crowley’s hands tug him forward, how roughly their lips had met, how the tension between them at that point had become so undeniably real.

His breath caught in his chest as he clamped his eyes shut as tears sprang to them, he could feel Crowley there again, up against him, present, comforting, and warm. Aziraphale felt himself reaching out desperately, as if trying to hold Crowley again as he did then, but this time he would not let him pull away. A whimper hitched in his throat and all that came out was a strangled sob as his fingertips touched empty space. Crowley was not here. He opened his eyes and tried to suppress his tears quickly. Once his eyes had adjusted to the room, something in his chest felt like it had suddenly shattered.

“Let there be light.” A familiar voice in his head said. Aziraphale was there again, at the start of the universe, the sound of the explosion rang in his ears like heavenly trumpets. He sucked in a breath, he could almost see the colours from the explosion dancing in front of him. He closed his eyes and they became more vivid, blossoming outwards, reaching out and surrounding him in an affectionate warmth. His hands began to shake as a delightful, comforting feeling began to spread from his chest, across his entire body.

With his eyes still shut, he could see newborn galaxies spin across the empty vastness, he could see greens and purples mingling with pinks and oranges. Thousands of glistening stars threw themselves across the universe, dazzling him. He opened his eyes and staggered backward, overwhelmed by the exhilaration he felt, grabbing at his desk for support. His chest was heaving, but he was not afraid.

A dizzying weightlessness fell over him, he felt like he was floating. He could not stop himself from smiling, the tears of sadness falling from his eyes turning into tears of unbridled joy. He raised a trembling hand to his cheek to wipe a tear away, the echos of the trumpets still rang exuberantly in his ears.

He grinned widely as he began to weep tears of happiness, clutching his hand to his heart, a homely warmth radiated from within his chest, he took in a shaky breath to steady himself. Everything about him now seemed to be brighter, lighter, warmer. Aziraphale let out a small laugh, it sounded like the chiming of a small silver bell, he knew now he had been wrong this entire time, he could feel it, for the first time since the very beginning.

It made perfect sense to him now. Of course, Crowley’s love felt as bright and as infinite as the universe.

He looked about the room again and plucked a picture from the air next to him. 

The photo was small, a polaroid in fact, and as he brought it to his face, he saw it was the same black and white polaroid that Furfur had taken of them in 1941. Aziraphale smiled widely, that was the night he finally realized that he loved the demon. He felt the flutter stir in his chest and the thrill that went through him as he realized that his feelings were mutual. Aziraphale looked at the door, he needed to tell Crowley. He needed to tell him he knew, something that had waited 6000 years, could not wait any longer.

Chapter Text

Monday - Two days until the end of the world (again)

Crowley often surprised himself, the last time he had done so was when he found himself offering the Archangel Gabriel a hot chocolate. This time it was making Muriel a cup of tea. He was slowly becoming more and more domesticated, he hated it -  well he said he did, at least. He'd even taken the Adam boy to one of those fast food places on his way back to Tadfield, Crowley wished he'd come up with the idea for fast food - it would have scored him major points downstairs.

“Sugar, yes?” He called into the other room.

“Crowley.” A very familiar voice murmured.

Hearing a creak of a floorboard, he turned, two cups in his hands, at the sight of the archangel, he dropped them to the floor with a smash. Almost upon instinct, he became venomous, it’s what he did when he was snuck up on.

“What are you doing here?” He spat.

Aziraphale’s face fell from the gentle smile he was wearing, he clasped his hands in front of him, staring mournfully at the china cups smashed on the floor. 

He had brought them from a Flea market about 200 years prior - he even remembered the man he had brought them from, had more teeth than he did sense, Aziraphale reckoned. He had kept them in pristine condition since then, chip-free and everything.

“Well now, those were my favourite cups.” He said pouting.

Crowley was rooted on the spot, his stomach performing an acrobatics show - he was hallucinating, right? Still drunk from the night before? He clicked his fingers and the cups sprang back together, and very neatly, re-arranged themselves on the counter. He could not dream of the smile that Aziraphale gave him in response.

“Tha-” He began.

"I said." Crowley forced from behind gritted teeth, a small rage began to build at the base of his stomach. He tried to keep it under wraps, this would not end well for any of them if he let it burn too hot. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?" He interrupted, his yellow eyes blazed with a silent fury. Aziraphale’s smile faltered significantly and he took a step backwards. Crowley covered the distance between them in one large stride, he gathered Aziraphale’s lapel in his fists and brought his face close, Aziraphale did his best to act unperturbed - he pushed back the memory of what happened the last time the demon was this close to him, he let out a soft ‘ahh-ing’ noise as the demon manhandled him.

"I came to talk to you." He said quietly, almost strangled, he decided it best to focus his gaze on a spot just above Crowley’s head - he couldn't manage the eye contact, let alone stare at his lips. Aziraphale swallowed back a wave of emotion.

"Talk? About what?" Crowley seethed back, his voice low and dangerous. Aziraphale suppressed a shiver, of what he could not place.

"Well, about - about - can you let go of me please?" Aziraphale asked, placing his hands on top of Crowley’s arms. At his touch, Crowley seemed to snap out of something , and he softened immediately. He released Aziraphale with a flourish and took a few strides backward, he ran a hand over his eyes and rubbed at them angrily. If Aziraphale had known better, he would have said that the demon was trying to wipe away tears.

"Sorry." He mumbled, he took his hand from his eyes and glared at the angel.

"You look different." He scowled. Aziraphale offered a small grin and resisted the urge to puff his chest out.

"Yes, well, being Supreme Archangel will do that kind of thing to you." He said unabashedly, brushing himself down. Crowley scoffed loudly, and with a well-practiced over-the-top flourish, he bowed, all hand waving and as ridiculous as you would expect.

"I apologise, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale." He sneered, brandishing a self-satisfied smirk. Aziraphale looked very put out. The smirk disappeared from Crowley’s face as quickly as it came, he looked suitably disgruntled, nose wrinkling in distaste as he looked the angel up and down.

"I don’t like it." He offered instead, giving his head a small shake.

"You don't?" Aziraphale countered, slightly disappointed - the golden eyes had begun to grow on him a bit.

"No." Crowley said flatly, pursing his lips, Aziraphale rocked on his heels. “Doesn’t look like you .”

"Well." Aziraphale said quickly.

"Can we go into the other room?" He pointed behind him, towards where his study was, thinking that the next, perhaps more tense part of the conversation would probably be best served sitting down.

"No. Whatever you want to discuss can be done here." Crowley huffed out, gesturing around the room with his hand, Aziraphale raised his eyebrows.

“Right, well.” He said, feeling how strained the atmosphere had gotten all of a sudden.

“I wanted to tell you something and well, actually I probably should - “He babbled, trailing off as he raised a finger to the air, he remembered the reason why he was promoted in the first place.

“The Second coming is - ” He began, trying to slow himself down. It had only been a few days, but Aziraphale wanted to tell Crowley everything, it felt difficult for him to organise his thoughts into a coherent list.

“I know.” The demon interrupted, Aziraphale stared at him, mouth hanging open, halfway through his next word. He blinked, frowned, and swallowed.

“You know - how?” He asked, tilting his head slightly to the side in curiosity. He was only slightly surprised, Crowley had his ways of knowing pretty much anything. Aziraphale watched as Crowley offered a half-shrug, sticking out his bottom lip in a frown.

“The Young boy game to me.” He offered nonchalantly. Aziraphale nodded, yes that made sense, the Antichrist would have felt something, after all, he was a very important part of it.

“Ah.” he said, letting the air sag out of him, that interruption had quite taken the wind out of his sails, and he tried to refocus on what else he had to say. Crowley’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“You know. I can’t quite believe it, after everything that we’ve been through -  you and I.” Crowley began, his breath hitched on something that sounded like a sob on those last three words, a noise that made Aziraphale shrink a bit. Crowley took a long and steadying breath, he was staring at the ceiling. 

“That you would do this? That you would end - ” He carried on, his voice shaky.

“I’m doing it for the greater good - to save humanity.” Aziraphale replied reassuringly, though he was not sure who he was trying to reassure at this point. All he knew was that he could not bear to hear that tone anymore, could not bear to have Crowley think so lowly of him when he was just doing his best. At those words, Crowley seemed to ruffle up, a hard look of exasperation on his face. He pressed his lips into a hard line and raised a hand to gesture upwards.

“Save? For Satan's Sake Aziraphale, do you hear yourself?” He asked, his face contorting into a mixture of anger and disbelief. This was one of the smartest beings he had ever met, how could he be so stupid? So obtuse to the point of not even seeing the wood for the trees? On what planet, Crowley thought to himself - did the word Rapture conjure up images of joy and happiness? Certainly, none he had been to anyway.

“It won't save anyone. You know that.” He hissed irately, gawking at the angel. Aziraphale furrowed his brow, a sullen look on his face.

“It will - once rapture is over, there will be no more suffering.” He said calmly, sternly. Crowley raised his hands into the air, took a few steps backward, spun on his heel in apparent frustration, and let out a frustrated noise. He stopped, back to the angel, and clenched his fists. Aziraphale could see his shoulders rising and falling as he tried to slow his breathing, trying to calm himself down.

“At what expense? Everything you know and love will be gone.” His voice came, low and placid, almost defeated. He hated playing this card again (what good had it done him last time?) but it felt like the only one he had in his hands.

“Not everything - Crowley I-” Aziraphale began, he was also getting desperate.

“Everything Aziraphale, there is no coming back from this. Heaven, hell all will be gone. No bookshop, no sushi restaurants, no records, no coffee, nothing , not even me.” Crowley interrupted, keeping his tone level and calm. He turned back to face the angel as he spoke, taking note of how Aziraphale seemed to shiver when he finished his sentence. His eyes had glazed over.

“I’ve got you immunity.” He answered quietly, offering it up as a sacrificial plea. He blinked and looked at Crowley.

“What?” Crowley answered, turning his head, he could feel a pit open in his stomach.

“I've got you immunity.” Aziraphale repeated, blinking slowly and taking his gaze from the floor to Crowley, watching as he ran a hand through his hair and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“I’m sorry, you’ve done what now?” He repeated, his eyes were wide, stance guarded.

Aziraphale swallowed.

“I’ve asked for you to be spared, Crowley.” He said earnestly, this was a good thing, wasn’t it? Perhaps he had misjudged, as Crowley wasn't acting like it was good at all, he looked frankly terrified, and he was - he did not want to go back to heaven at all. He hated the way they spoke to each other, the way each glance was filled with judgment. He would rather take shots of holy water than go back.

“What have you done?” He said quietly, raising his eyebrows, eyes still stark wide. Aziraphale raised his hands into the air.

“Nothing!” He said, then carried on when he noted that Crowley’s face had not calmed  “I asked and they said yes, they said I had been doing such a good jo-” He carried on, taking a step forward. Crowley took another back, keeping the distance between them. He waved his hands in the air to stop the angel from speaking, he was making a quiet ‘nonono’ noise as he did so, and he closed his eyes.

“It is never as plain as that, what have you done?” He asked, opening his eyes again, his voice was strained, but his words seemed to cut like knives through the tension in the air. Aziraphale frowned.

“Nothing I sw-” 

“For Satan’s sake,” Crowley muttered, rubbing his eyes again, he could feel the dread at the back of his neck, it was hot and spread like prickling needles up to his skull. Aziraphale wrung his hands, this was not quite how he had expected this to go.

“I want you to -” He started.

“I’m not coming with you.” Crowley interjected quickly, arching an eyebrow, he shook his head and stared at the angel - feelings be damned, he was better than that. Aziraphale went to open his mouth to clarify, but Crowley interrupted him again.

“We’ve had this discussion once already, and I don't know if you remember the end of that but -” He started, Aziraphale cut across him with a sharp shake of his head, trying to push the memories of their last interaction out of his mind, now was not the time for distractions.

“I’m not asking you to - I’m asking you to liste -” He said, feeling indignation rise like bile in his throat. He was not one to anger quickly at all, but he could not get a word in edge ways.

“Well then, what are you asking for then? For help?” Crowley retorted, splaying his palms upwards, arms out slightly from his sides. He watched the Angel closely, Aziraphale was bristling, he could see it in his eyes. Despite his best intentions, he wanted to keep pushing, selfishly wanted the angel to get angry with him - to shout, explode, maybe it was to feel vindication - perhaps it was to push him away again, Crowley wasn't too sure.

“Crowley listen to m-” Aziraphale’s tone was beginning to get sharp, Crowley could feel the bite.

"Who am I to you Aziraphale?" He asked, giving his head a little shake. “Am I some fool you just call upon when you need help?"

Aziraphale looked as if he was torn between anguish and confusion.

"No! Of course not - you know you aren’t- I” He stepped forward again, Crowley did not move. 

"That's what you’re doing now, asking me for help?"

Aziraphale pursed his lips and clenched his jaw. His fists were balled at his sides. He was beginning to bubble over. 

"I’m not I’m -"

"I like saving you as much as the next guy, but this is ju-" Crowley interrupted. 

“Listen to me!” Aziraphale snapped, his eyes seemed to glow ever so slightly brighter. The demon abruptly closed his mouth. Aziraphale sighed at the silence. Upon reflection, the words were never supposed to come out this way, Aziraphale had intended for them to come out at a completely different time, such as not in the middle of an argument. But he knew, as soon as he said them, he would not be able to take them back - at this, he sagged a bit.

"I love you Crowley.” The words were quiet, pathetic even, but hung in the air like an ugly neon sign. Aziraphale felt himself redden, he closed his eyes, just as well, as he couldn’t see Crowley flinch.

"No." He whispered. 

"I do - I've felt this for a very long time." Aziraphale opened his eyes and made towards the demon, Crowley raised his hands, and Aziraphale stopped short. Crowley shook his head, he was looking up at the ceiling as if trying to stop the tears budding in his eyes. Under his breath, he was muttering. ‘Nonono.’ again.

"And I know you do too. I can, I can feel it now." Aziraphale explained softly, gently, watching intently as Crowley turned to face the cupboards, he placed his palms on the kitchen side. The demon closed his eyes as he felt tears crawl down his cheeks. Something was tugging in his chest again, something that he had managed to dull with copious amounts of alcohol and dry humor, it was like those ugly words had torn open a brand new hole in his chest. He winced as he shoved down a sob.

"No, this isn’t happening. Not now." He said, more to himself than anything. He looked up and tried to blink back his tears, pressing his hands to the side.

"But I - "

"No. Aziraphale.” He said solemnly, turning back around slowly. Aziraphale crumbled a bit inside.

“You can’t just - break me like this. Run away then come barging in telling me that you - “ Crowley said, his breath hitching. He stopped speaking and looked up at the ceiling again, he felt his bottom lip tremble a bit.

“I do.” Aziraphale’s voice was choked. Crowley gave a tight-lipped smile, it looked sad.

“Come with me then.” He said simply.

“What?”

“You said you got me immunity. Come with me.” He said again, gesturing once to the angel and again out of the room.

“Where?” Aziraphale asked.

“I dunno, somewhere that isn’t here, away from them.” Crowley suggested.

“I-I”

Aziraphale looked at the floor, his mouth open as if going to say something. He desperately wanted to, but knew that it would never be that easy, the words would die a death on his tongue. They’d spend forever running from an enemy that had forever to waste, he wouldn’t be surprised if the Metatron was watching him now. A red-hot bolt of fear jolted his heart as it leaped. He could not bear to think about what would happen if he knew he was here, of all places. He swallowed and looked about himself in apparent panic.

“You won't, will you.” Crowley said, it was not a question, it was a fact, and stated as such. Aziraphale looked up at him. The demon was wearing a resigned smile, it wasn’t angry, nor happy. It was terribly disappointed, the look made Aziraphale frown.

“This isn’t fair Crowley, you know it isn’t. You know I can’t.” He said honestly, fretting with his hands in front of him, the residual panic from the thought of the Metatron kept growing.

“Why can’t you?” Crowley asked, already knowing that he would not get the answer he wanted.

“I-I”

Crowley nodded to himself, there it was. He clenched his jaw and gave a sad smile, knowing that he couldn’t keep doing this dance around the angel. 

“I think you need to go.” The words were supposed to be strong, but they came out barely a whisper, he felt his voice shake.

“But Crowley, it's not that simple.” Aziraphale said, scrabbling for the right words.

“I’m sorry Aziraphale.” The resigned tone in his voice made Aziraphale want to sag into a pile on the floor, he shrunk into himself. The glow in his eyes dimmed as he felt his eyes water. Crowley looked away and at the floor.

Aziraphale let out a very quiet whimper before he straightened his bowtie and dusted himself down. Crowley would have said that the angel had composed himself if it wasn’t for the tears falling down his cheeks.

“Crowley.” He said softly. The demon looked upwards, as the angel lingered by the door.

“Know that I will think of you.” Aziraphale said, “Wherever you go.”

 ~

“Where have you been?” The Metatron asked, just as icy as Aziraphale had imagined it in the ride up in the elevator. He did not answer.

“I said.” His tone was stern, a tone that made Aziraphale’s stomach churn viscerally.

“Where have you been?” He asked again, hands drawn behind his back. Aziraphale was sitting at his desk, staring glumly at the tabletop.

“I went home.” He said quietly.

The Metatron nodded.

“Yes.” He mused, the silence that followed was not a pleasant one.

“I know you have often fraternized with the opposition. But I had expected better from you Aziraphale.” The Metatron said venomously, he loomed over him, a hand holding the edge of his desk. 

“After everything I’ve done for you.” He said, and let out a tutting noise. 

Aziraphale’s eyes did not shift from his desk. He felt wretched, a terrible sticky shame crept itself across the back of his neck. He suppressed a shudder and focussed on the wood in front of him. 

The Metatron paused and glowered at the angel.

“After I went above and beyond to put you here. And you throw it back at me by going to see that demon?” He spat, his eyes narrowed in anger. Aziraphale flinched, at this the Metatron gave him an outraged look.

“I’m disappointed. Disgusted, that you would act this way.” He continued, displeased at the lack of grovelling.

“Do you understand?” He asked, watching as the angel raised his head to look at him. Aziraphale looked deflated.

“I do.” He said sullenly, the Metatron began to pace the room, as he often did when he was thinking.

“Did you tell him anything?” He asked, the tone was accusatory.

“Nothing.” Aziraphale answered dourly, shaking his head, eyes following the man. He stopped pacing to stare hard at him again, his lips pressed into a thin line. Aziraphale had always found cold rage the more frightening.

“We’ll know if you did Aziraphale.” He said emotionlessly. Aziraphale blinked as the shame turned to terror.

“I told him nothing.” He repeated, keeping his voice level, trying his best to dispel the shake he could feel in his hands.

“If we find out otherwise, we have means other than hellfire to dispose of you.” The Metatron started pacing again.

“The Book of Life, for instance, is very effective.” The look on his usually placid face was more than cruel.

“I swear. I said nothing.” Aziraphale said again. The Metatron nodded resolutely.

“Fine.”

He stopped his pacing.

“You will be watched Aziraphale - until we can learn to trust you again.”

“Right yes. Understood.” Aziraphale replied, his eyes going back to his desk. 

“With all due respect, Supreme Archangel, it was I that put you in this position. I will not hesitate to take you from it again.” He frowned deeply, jaw clenched, Aziraphale swallowed and gave a numb nod.

“For too long you have been dilly-dallying with this.” He said grimly, Aziraphale avoided his gaze, he felt like he was being lectured by a teacher.

“We’ve got two days until the end of the world - I do not have time for these silly games.” He added. Aziraphale did his best to not frown, he kept his face level and expressionless.

“Understood.” He said quietly.

“If you continue to be uncompliant, I will have to take drastic measures.” The Metatron said, turning to walk to the door.

Aziraphale suddenly bristled at those words, he opened his mouth and shut it again, he was extremely aware that saying the wrong thing would get him into even more trouble than he was already in. 

Aziraphale gave a muted smile.

“Understood.” He said again, clutching his hands together on top of his desk. He had not noticed over the few days that he had been here, but the room was decidedly more empty than it was when he had first arrived. The Metatron had taken to slowly removing bits of Aziraphale’s home comforts with each visit he paid to the Archangel, it was his way of acclimatizing him to his new environment. In the same way, one would put a new fish, still in its bag, into a fish tank, to get them used to the new temperature.

“Besides.” The man paused and gave Aziraphale a steely look, hand clutching round the door.

“It would be a shame if I had to remove your demon friend from the Book of Life, would it not?” He paused and watched as Aziraphale froze and grew pale.

“Or perhaps Hell would prefer to have him to themselves? From what I can understand, they would want nothing more than to rip him limb from limb.”

Fear, both chilling and burning at the same time shivered down his spine, as the Metatron closed the door firmly behind him. 

He did not lock it, he was satisfied that the angel would now be frightened into submission. As Michael had said, the time for niceties was over. He walked back down the corridor, towards his own office, hands clasped behind his back, he began to whistle an unassuming tune, a hymn perhaps, as he went.  The Metatron sighed as he got to his office, he was expecting a full presentation and report from the Archangel that morning, instead, he got an empty office. He had gone to the globe room then, to see where the angel had gotten to, when he had seen him with the demon .  He rolled his eyes as he approached his desk. Behind it, there was a white marble plinth, and on top of that sat a very old and tired-looking book. It floated gently just above the plinth, yellowed pages turning backward and forwards independently. The Metatron approached it slowly and watched as it flicked page after page. He took it into his hands and gently carried it over to his desk, placing it down as one would a newborn baby. He took the pages between his forefinger and thumb and began carefully turning through the book until he got to a particular page, he ran his finger down the list and stopped at a single name: Crowley.

Chapter Text

“Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God? You are not your own, for you were bought with a price. So glorify God in your body” - Corinthians 6:19-20

“Would you mind, never doing that again?” John asked nicely to the mirror in his bathroom. He was sopping wet and very messy. He had woken up in the middle of the night to find himself standing in the middle of the local reservoir, sorry, on , the local reservoir. He was standing, on the water . He was just as surprised as you would imagine. 

But as soon as he came to and panicked, he fell in - luckily he was a half-decent swimmer and had earned his 50-metre badge as a child. The man in the mirror, who was decidedly not John , laughed. John could hear a laugh coming from him, but it was not his.

“Sorry,” He said, in a voice that wasn’t his, the reflection grinned and brown eyes sparkled. The man in the mirror grinned.

“It was fun though.” He said, smirking at John, who shook his head.

“It really wasn't.” He replied to himself.

After he dragged himself out of the reservoir and pulled bits of algae from his hair, he trudged home - lucky for him, he only lived a few minutes away. Whilst he walked, he contemplated booking a doctor's appointment, he had spent the entire weekend feeling like absolute rubbish. That he could explain to a doctor, but standing on a lake at 3 am, and blacking out for long periods of time? He wasn’t sure that would be something a doctor would be able to fix. ‘ Maybe’ he thought to himself as he let himself into his home ‘ I should call a priest.’ he smiled to himself as he looked at the boxes on the floor. Maybe he was just stressed and this was just how his brain was coping with it. He was unconvinced. 

Since he now had algae and duck food in his hair, John decided he ought to have a shower. He set it to run hot as he went into his room to try to find the toiletries he’d not yet taken from their boxes. When he came back in, the mirror above his sink had become cloudy with condensation. He wiped at it and when it cleared, another man was smiling back at him.

“Ah!” He exclaimed and whirled around to look over his shoulder. He frowned, there was no one there. He turned back to the mirror, and the man smiled again and waved at him - John felt his hand rise and wave. He gave it a horrified look, and the man in the mirror grinned.

“Who the fuck are you?” He managed, his voice quivering. The man in the mirror gave a look that suggested the answer was obvious.

“You.” John was surprised when he spoke - that was not his voice. He shook his head, his sopping hair slapping against his face, he pointed at the mirror.

“No. I don’t look like that.” He said. The man looked around the room awkwardly and shrugged. Black curly hair sat on his head in tight ringlets, which moved with him as he shrugged. His skin was darker than John’s, and when he spoke through John, his voice was accented, as if he hailed from another place - even time, perhaps.

The man in the mirror blinked, John noted that his ‘reflection’ had brown eyes and John was certain his eyes were green, but there we go.

“Well no, I’m sort of you?” The man said, scratching at his beard, John did the same, well that was one thing at least he had in common with his reflection.

“Am I going mad?” He asked, his voice sounding as if he already believed it. The man pursed his lips and shook his head, John was envious of how nonchalant his reflection looked about all of this. 

“No. You’ve been possessed.” The man said matter-of-factly. John blinked, perhaps he should call a priest, after all. He pinched himself to check this wasn’t a dream - perhaps he should have done so earlier.

“Ow!” The man exclaimed, his thick eyebrows furrowing together. “Give a guy a warning?” He asked, John, blinked, this wasn’t a dream then - he was going mad.

“Who are you?” John asked the man in the mirror again. He then admonished himself when he did so, the thing had just told him he was possessed - what if it was a demon? Didn’t demons get their powers from their names? John swallowed, he had watched enough ghost-hunting content on YouTube to know he had just made a mistake. What a rookie error. Soon enough, it’d be this house that those ghost hunters would be coming to. He shivered and banished the thought.

“Jesus.” The man said with a smile, John made a face that suggested that he did not believe him. He guessed that explained the walking on water thing, and the church thing - and the visions. Oh God, the visions. John shivered and blinked. Despite the sense it made, he refused to believe it.

“You’re joking,” John replied.

“No. I’m Jesus.” The man in the mirror said, laughing. 

“Jesus Christ.” John cursed, rolling his eyes, his father would tell shitty jokes just like that. The man beamed in response, John felt his face stretch.

“Yes!”

~

He was staring at the man, prompting him to answer. Jesus in the mirror gave a warm, firm smile. 

“Promise I won’t do it again.” He said placing a hand on his heart, John felt himself do the same.

“Good.” He answered, turning to get a towel from the handrail. John was incredibly calm, despite what he had just learned. Though he supposed, this would all be okay when he woke up - he’d just swallowed some weird bacteria or something, and this was him hallucinating. He’d be fine.

“You’d be wise to believe me.” He said to himself, he looked back into the mirror again. Jesus was staring at him.

“No bacteria could make you hallucinate this . You don’t have the imagination.” Jesus said to him, shrugging, John felt his shoulders move.

“Okay, that was rude.” He pointed at the reflection. Jesus smirked and shrugged again.

“But true. I am in your head. I can see what’s going on in here.” He said John tried not to think about how creepy this was.

“Yeah, I’m sorry - this is a bit strange.” Jesus agreed, scratching the back of his neck, John did too, he was starting to not like this.

“Wasn’t my idea.” Jesus added, looking a bit glum. “Head office made some cuts.”

John nodded like he knew what the man in the mirror was actually on about, he mentally floundered.

“Head office?” He asked, Jesus nodded.

“Yaknow, heaven and all that.” He said, flapping his hand and rolling his eyes. John frowned.

“Oh.”

“Not religious?” Jesus asked, tilting his head slightly to the side. John shook his head, he had gone to a C of E school, and now he worked at one, but that didn’t mean anything, did it?

“Ah.” Jesus replied dismissively “Nevermind.”

John stared at his not-reflection in the mirror for a second.

“So.” He paused, desperately trying to think of a way of phrasing the question he had, without it sounding like he was mad.

“You’re, like, Jesus. As in, the Jesus?” He asked. Never mind not sounding mad, he sounded positively stupid. The man in the mirror obviously thought so too, for he made a bit of a face.

“The Jesus?” He asked, a slight frown on his face. John nodded.

“Yeah, you know, son of God and all that.” He said, Jesus in the mirror gave a firm nod of his head.

“Yes.”

John gave an involuntary shiver and stared down at the sink. This was not something he could go to a doctor about.  As if reading his mind, well he was technically, Jesus nodded in response to that thought. John thought about a priest, Jesus shook his head. He did not like this. Jesus gave a sympathetic smile.

“Right.” John replied, lost in thought.

“With all due respect Mr Christ - is that how I should call you?” John began, immediately regretting opening his mouth, he should just get in the shower and go to sleep, he wasn’t sure why he was still entertaining this. Jesus let out a laugh, it was a low, rich laugh - John felt his body shake with it. When the fit of laughter subsided, John smiled.

“Go on.” The man said in the mirror, John lifted a hand to wipe a tear from his eye.

“Why are you here, if I’m not going mad?” He cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at the reflection. Jesus gave a proud smile, he seemed to puff his chest out.

“Well, we have an important job you and I.” He said extravagantly, John blinked.

“We do?” He asked. The look of self-importance did not leave the man-in-the-mirror’s face it looked even more self-important - well, John supposed, he did have good reason to be, this man was the son of God after all.

“Yep. We are about to bring about the end of days.” Jesus explained. John’s face dropped. 

“E-end?” He stammered, hands dropping the towel to the floor. He tried to kid himself into thinking that maybe he was dreaming again, but something (possibly Jesus) in his head was firmly telling him that, that charade was over. This was business now.

“Yes.” Jesus answered calmly. 

Despite the serenity in his voice, John felt like the solid tiles beneath his feet had fallen away and he was spiraling downwards into a bottomless pit. The hand of dread grabbed at his stomach and squeezed. He stared at the reflection in the mirror, mouth slightly agape, eyes unfocused. End of the world? He was only 32 - the world couldn’t end now! It was supposed to end when he was dead and his great-grandchildren were in charge - it wasn’t supposed to be his problem!

He could see it all again, the visions that came to him in the time between sleeping and waking, like fragmented parts of an old film reel. A battlefield, smoking and strewn with bodies, and not human bodies, bodies of winged creatures and terrifying hellish beasts. He could hear the cries of war, the sound was ethereal and bone-chilling at the same time. He could see a figure rising into the sky, arms splayed outwards - a radiant light around them - he looked closer at the figure - it had his face.

He clenched his jaw and swallowed, his mouth had gone dry and he blinked tears from his eyes. The man in the mirror looked at him, with what John had assumed was a pity - but he wasn’t too sure, he tried to avoid the man’s gaze. Part of him wished he was going mad, that was the better alternative. Jesus regarded his host with compassion, it was a shame - he knew it was, but it was a job that had to be done, after all. 

“You should probably have a shower now.” He said, watching as John bent to get the towel from the floor. The man nodded numbly and seemed to snap back into reality long enough to give Jesus a suspicious look.

“Don’t look.” He said, holding the towel up over himself. Jesus resisted the urge to laugh, by pursing his lips. 

“I am in your body, John. I’ve seen it all before.” He remarked.

John blushed.

~

There were many sounds John liked, the sound of a Spanish acoustic guitar, the cheerful chirping of birds on a fresh spring morning, and the noise of his motorbike, to name a few. A noise he did not like, however, was the noise from his alarm clock. John answered its incessant chatter with a groan and a hand, slapping it to the floor. He rolled out of bed and stretched, hoping that if he kept his eyes shut for just a bit longer he might eke out the sleep a bit more.

He yawned and scratched at his head, his long hair had tangled itself into knots overnight - he deserved it really, he knew he shouldn't have gone to bed with it wet. He trudged into his bathroom, and mid-yawn, tried to get himself into his dressing gown, he was having a terrible time of it, when he snapped on the light.

“Morning!” His voice, but not his voice said, and he jumped, a man waved at him brightly from the mirror.

“Oh.” His stomach churned and a frown of disappointment spread across his face. Reading his mind, the man gave a small smile.

“Not dreaming sunshine, sorry.” He said. John stifled a yawn.

“Hmm, what a shame.” He answered. He had closed his eyes again and did not notice the sad look the man in the mirror gave that statement in return.

“I have work today, by the way.” John said, opening his eyes and turning on the tap to wash his face.

“Do we?” He answered himself (boy he would not get used to that anytime soon). The use of the word we threw him a bit. Well… he guessed they were more of a we now.

“Yes.” John cupped some water in his hands and splashed it on his face. He rubbed at his face with his hands and glanced in the mirror each time he splashed water on his face. Jesus was watching him curiously.

“What job do we have?” He asked, tilting his head to the side, John moved from the mirror and rubbed his face dry with the handtowel.

“I’m a -  we’re a music teacher.” He answered back, muffled by the towel. When he looked back in the mirror again, Jesus was smiling, he looked satisfied.

“Teacher? Fitting.” Jesus said, nodding. At least the numpty in charge had picked someone with a profession he was familiar with - it wasn’t like he chose a religious man or even a man that looked like him! It was almost as if the guy in charge had closed his eyes and had pointed at a picture of John and had gone ‘ah yeah - he’ll do’ . John straightened up and gave the man in the mirror a stern look he often reserved for his most troublesome students.

“If we are going to be co-existing in this body together, I think we should set some ground rules.” He said, eyeing the man in the mirror, Jesus gave a placid smile and nodded.

“Good idea.” He said. John, feeling encouraged by this, cocked out a hip and placed a hand on it. The other hand he held out to the side. 

“Rule one.” He said, sicking one finger out, making sure to maintain a stern look. He could tell the man in the mirror was holding back laughter. John continued.

“Please don’t let me black out again.” He said, Jesus nodded, he had never been bossed about like this, and it was both hilarious and endearing. He tried to keep his face plain but failed miserably. “Rule two: I teach my class, not you. Rule three: If you have to take over, can you let me know first?” John stuck out another finger with each rule that he reeled off - gosh he was proud of himself, bossing the son of God about like this. 

“Also, please don’t swap when I’m driving my motorbike.” He said, pointing at the mirror, Jesus made a face. It was a look of confusion.

“Motorbike?” He asked. John had begun to brush the tangles out of his hair, a feat that was hindered by the fact he couldn’t see his reflection. He winced with each brush of the comb.

“Yes - I don’t want to crash.” He eeked out, his eyes watering. The face of confusion did not move from Jesus’ face. John mentally slapped himself on the forehead - of course! 

“Oh! Hang on.”

John was dressed, shirt buttoned up and jumper on - Jesus had suggested a shirt and John had relented, it was a compromise after John threw out the sandals Jesus had insisted they wear. Little did John know, that when he slept that evening, Jesus would take over and fish them from the bin. Sandals, he had posited were man’s greatest creation. Stylish and comfortable! He didn’t understand why John hated them so much.

“This is a motorbike.” John said, gesturing to the vehicle in front of him, as he put a helmet on his head. It was not, in fact, a motorbike - it was a Vespa, and therefore a scooter. But John didn’t care, he called it a motorbike, because he had always wanted one, but had been too scared to own one. 

“Right.” Jesus said they both nodded.

“It’s like a horse and cart, but without the horse,” John said, he felt his face make a face.

“Okay. I get it.” Jesus said, John felt himself nod. He climbed on and started the engine. He pulled away from the curb carefully, wondering what shenanigans his students had gotten up to over the weekend.

John could see the reflection of Jesus in his wing-mirror and he was smiling, his hair was being ruffled from underneath John’s bright red helmet. He wore a grin half the size of his face - the feeling of the wind in his hair made him feel so alive ! John’s reflection closed his eyes (John was pleased that his eyes stayed open) and revelled in the whooshing noise of the wind in his ears, the tinny sound of the engine, Jesus opened his eyes and watched in apparent awe as the landscape moved around him. Screw the sandals, this was man’s best creation.

“This is great John!” Jesus said loudly and John gave a smile.

“What else have I missed?” Jesus asked, his eyes were bright and burning with a newfound curiosity, a realisation that he had missed out on so much, he needed to catch up before the world ended! John grinned.

“How do you feel about horror movies?” He asked back, a feeling in his chest, big and full began to balloon. It felt like the feeling one used to get, standing in front of the Christmas tree on Christmas day, knowing that some of the pile was for you. A rabid excitement, John felt his hands grip the handlebars eagerly.

“Movies? That sounds exciting!”

~

“Muriel!” Aziraphale said brightly as the Scrivener angel came into the room - they offered a blinding smile back in response. 

“Mr Fell.” They offered a cute curtsey, and Aziraphale smiled again.

“Did you bring the texts that I requested from my shop?” He asked, wanting to cut to the chase, he was a busy man after all, he had a world to end in less than a week. Muriel gave a tight nod and clicked their fingers, the texts appeared on Aziraphale’s desk with a ‘pop’, they were stacked in height order, a sight that made Azirpahle very pleased, and bound together with a stretch of brilliant white ribbon.

“There you go, sir.” They said, nodding their head again. Aziraphale unlaced his hands.

“Thank you Muriel, that is all.” He said, the Angel in front of him gave another curtsy and turned to leave.

“Ah Muriel!” Azirpahle called, remembering something, he raised his hand in the air and waved. Muriel stopped and came back into the room.

“Yes, Mr Fell?” They asked, head slightly tilted to the side.

“Be a dear and take these books back to the bookshop for me?” He asked kindly, getting to his feet and picking up a pile of books that he had left on the only other armchair in the room. He picked them up and Muriel held out their arms. Da Vinci’s folio was sat on the top. Aziraphale smiled at them.

“Remember, these books need to be filed by the first letter of the book - understood?” He said something about Aziraphale’s smile was nervous. Muriel gave Aziraphale a quizzical look, the bookshop was arranged alphabetically - well, for a short time it was arranged in the way the Archangel had described, Muriel had spent hours re-arranging it again. They gave a confused look, eyebrows knitting together, and they opened their mouth to speak. Aziraphale forced the books into their arms again.

“Organised by the first letter, understood?” He said again, Muriel nodded. Fine. They would re-arrange the entire bookshop again.

Aziraphale smiled again and ushered the other angel from the room, closing the door behind them sharply. He let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes. He hoped with all of his might that Muriel would listen and find the note he had left there.

Chapter Text

This calls for wisdom: let the one who has understanding calculate the number of the beast, for it is the number of a man, and his number is 666. - revelation 13:18

Tuesday - 1 day until the end of the world (again)

Crowley was nursing another hangover from the night before. After Aziraphale had left, he raided the wine cabinet and almost drank it dry. He was lying across Aziraphale’s armchair, staring up at the ceiling. He was thinking about what star system he was going to go to, Alpha Centauri might be a little bit crowded now, the last thing he wanted would be to run into his ex-boss making love-eyes at his ex-arch nemesis. He sighed, and pinched at the bridge of his nose, something in his chest dared to twinge and he punished it by taking a long drink from the bottle of wine he was holding. He heard the doorbell of the shop jingle as a familiar-sounding set of footsteps entered the shop. He counted the steps.

“I’m back Mr Crowley,” Muriel said, right on cue. 

Crowley gestured the bottle in their direction as some form of primitive greeting. He heard them walk towards the kitchen, the sound of a tap being turned on and the flick of a kettle switch. Crowley sighed again - he wondered if Mizar was nice this time of year - usually it was rather asteroid-y - maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing? He got to his feet and rubbed at his eyes, placing the bottle on the side table next to him. He let out a loud sigh, his shoulders sagging.

Crowley’s brain felt like it was filled with a chittering static, smothering his thoughts, he was grateful for it, if that wasn’t there, he’d just be replaying the events from the day before over and over again like some demented form of self-torture he could not stop looking at. From the static, he could see a pair of golden eyes, welling with tears, a bitter disappointment. It had gotten better, he thought, but as Nina said, it had all gone to shit again when Aziraphale showed up. The disappointment in his gut lurched and soured, he clenched his jaw. Mizar it was then. He picked up his glasses from their usual perch and shoved them onto his face - he better say his goodbyes - he made a start towards the kitchen.

He felt like he was in the middle of a storm, everything around him swirling around and trapping him, oppressing him, forcing him to make a choice. To stay and watch the storm take everything he had ever loved from him, watch the Angel he had loved from the beginning of time become the monster that ended everything? 

Or did he want to stay? Hold onto a silver thread of hope and put everything he had on the line? Crowley was told that he had been given immunity, something he had supposed would not remain intact if he remained. Besides, he was but one demon, what difference would he make against the forces of heaven and hell? 

Something, his phone - he surmised - from his back pocket began to vibrate. He reached around and pulled it out. This time, his lock screen was just flames - he was beginning to tire of James Bond’s grin. He observed the number: 0759750666. It was Adam. Crowley dragged his thumb across the screen and brought the phone to his ear.

“Yes?” He barked.

“Crowley, tomorrow - its - its.” He said, the young lad sounded hysterical, as his voice cracked down the line.

“Tomorrow?” He paused and tried to remember what day it was, but he was unsuccessful. He let out a noise and sighed again.

“Sounds about right.”

Adam had begun to talk incessantly down the phone at him, but the static in Crowley’s head was too loud for him to properly hear what the boy was saying. 

“Look - I’m not going to be here.” He cut in sharply, bringing a hand up to rub at his forehead. The silence that followed was heavy, when Adam’s voice came down the phone again, it was hushed.

“What?” He heard the boy rasp, something was catching in his throat, Crowley supposed it was probably fear. He swallowed his down feelings. This was the best thing for him to do, he could not stand by and watch the world be destroyed.

“I’m leaving.” He repeated. Adam was silent again.

“You can't! We have to go, to go where it all began - ” He was louder now, emboldened. Crowley closed his eyes.

“I want to go.” It came out feebly, meekly. Adam was silent again, before he could speak Crowley cut in.

“Sorry kid, it is what it is - good luck,” He said and ended the call. He tried to gulp down how wretched he felt. The storm felt louder and stronger than ever but he could see an exit - he was more than willing to take it. He leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen as he entered and watched as Muriel added two teaspoons of sugar to their tea, he scowled at the sight.

“Who was that?” Muriel asked, their back turned to him. Crowley folded his arms and shrugged, he tried to make it look nonchalant, but it came out as more of a jerk of the shoulders, than a shrug.

“Antichrist.” He said. Muriel turned to face him, Aziraphale’s favourite China cup balanced carefully in their hands They offered a gentle smile.

“Ah. How is he? He seemed like a nice boy.” They said, blowing on the tea loudly, Crowley tried to stop himself from making a face.

“Eh. you know, not dealing well with the end of the world.” He said, moving to one side as Muriel brushed past him, towards Aziraphale’s desk. They sat themselves down.

“Oh,” They said, staring absentmindedly into space as they took a sip from the teacup. Crowley was instantly struck with the image of another, more familiar angel doing the same thing, he blinked the image away again as something in his brain started to whine.

“I was wondering if it was Mr Fell.” Muriel said, moving their eyes over to Crowley and taking the cup from their mouth. They were wearing a peculiar expression, it was the same kind of face one would make when they were trying to suppress a particularly loud fart (footnote: a loud fart, or the same face a dog makes when it has something in its mouth that it shouldn’t). Crowley offered a half-shrug, he wasn’t interested, well, at least that was what he told himself.

“Why would it be?” He asked, hoping his face was plain. Muriel offered a shrug back in return as they took another long slurp from the teacup.

“I just went to see him, I wondered whether I’d left something behind. I’m very good at doing that” They said, smiling fondly at themselves. Crowley let the whine in his brain start to get louder. He shrugged off the flight of hope that began to soar in his chest.

“You did?” He asked cooly, arching an eyebrow. Muriel watched him and nodded.

“Yes. He looked rather worried.” They said, eyes staring into space again as if trying to recall a memory. Crowley put himself back in the armchair opposite Muriel, he’d leave in a minute, and he waved a hand in their direction dismissively.

”Whatever.” He said.

“Mr Crowley?” Muriel asked suddenly, putting the teacup down on the desk in such a way that a therapist or a teacher would do, just before asking you a question you didn’t know the answer to, or one you didn't want to answer at all.

“What?” He said. Muriel pursed their lips, he could feel the awkward question coming towards him like a freight train. He tried to brace himself.

“When he came to see you yesterday, would you mind if I ask... Why were you both arguing?” They asked, their head tilted slightly to the side, they were still wearing that face, but something in their eyes was flickering, confusion perhaps? Crowley let out a huff and folded his arms.

“I do mind,” He said sternly. Muriel nodded.

“Sorry.” They offered a short pause and an awkward grin, before adding “I don't understand though, why do you argue if you love each other?” 

Crowley looked away and up at the ceiling, this was not the type of conversation he wanted to be having. He was going to leave instead, he got to his feet.

“I'm going.” He said simply, letting his arms fall limply at his sides he looked over the top of his glasses at Muriel. Their face was slightly less like they were trying to hide a fart and more like something frightening was behind them. A kind of panicked despair.

“Oh,” They said flatly. Crowley tugged at the sleeves of his jacket.

“Mizar I think, should be nice this time of year.” He said, turning towards the door, Muriel got to their feet sharply

“You’re making a mistake,” They said quickly, the urgency in their voice cutting through the air. Crowley stopped mid-step, he turned slowly to face the angel, their eyes were wide like saucers, hands raised.

“Really? There is nothing here for me,” He replied. Muriel looked around the room in mounting concern, they were opening and closing their mouth like a goldfish, trying to find and say the words that they could not think of.

“Please don't go,” They asked, it was almost like a whine. Crowley frowned, shrugged, and carried on to the door. Muriel followed him, like a little, anxious puppy.

“Wait you don-”

He lifted his hand to grasp at the door handle, Muriel felt a bubble burst in their chest.

“Crowley!” Muriel shouted. Crowley paused. Behind him Muriel was standing, hands outstretched, as if to grab at the demon, eyes even wider than before.

“You are making a big, big mistake.” They said, Crowley noted that their voice was shaking. Intrigued, he turned to face them.

“Why?” He asked dully. They closed their mouth, swallowed and looked about awkwardly, eyes skitting from side to side, as if searching for a good enough reason to talk the demon out of his decision.

“Mr Fell loves you, he has his reasons for not coming with you -  not that I know what they are, but he must do! I know he loves you, he says so himself, here!” As Muriel spoke, they picked up a book from the desk and shoved it into Crowley’s arms

“Wha-”

He glanced down at the bound book in his hands, it was a royal blue cloth bound book, he opened the first page.

Diary of Aziraphale, Principality, Angel of the Eastern Gate. 

Crowley frowned.

“Oh” he huffed, looking from the book, back to Muriel, who shoved another, similarly bound book into his hands.

“And here.” The pitch of Muriel’s voice was rising.

Another book went into his arms, this one was big and heavy, Crowley staggered a bit under the weight of the tomes, his glasses began to slip down his nose. He made a face.

“And here.”

Another book was shoved into his arms, his arms began to protest under the weight.
“And-” Muriel was frantic now, staring at Crowley with large, dark eyes, budding with tears, they seemed to be trembling slightly.

“I get the point Muriel.” Crowley said, cutting in sharply. Muriel let out a breath of air, a look of momentary relief brushing past their features.

“Please stay.” They asked gently, whimpering slightly.

Their hands were clasped in front of them now, eyebrows knitting together in alarm. Crowley shook his head and looked away from the angel, the sight of them looking so desperate filled him with pity - and that was something he knew that would make him stay.

Pity was one of Crowley's ultimate weaknesses, most other demons were utterly incapable of feeling anything other than malice - but Crowley? Put him in front of an advert for the Dogs Trust and he would be calling to donate in five minutes, and he wasn't even a huge fan of dogs - especially not after the last bloody Armageddon.
“I can’t sit here and watch the end.” He replied, his own voice taking on a whining, petulant quality. Crowley turned to put the books down on a table, Muriel shook their head fervently and took an urgent step forward.

“Don't go! Mr fell needs you!” They said quickly. Crowley froze and turned his head to look at the angel, who had raised a hand to their mouth, a flabbergasted look on their face, as Crowley looked over at them, they started shaking their head quickly.

“Did he speak to you?” Crowley asked slowly. Muriel took a step back and clenched this fists at their sides. They pursed their lips and shook their head firmly.

“No. I’m not supposed to...” They trailed off as Crowley took two large steps forward, they scurried backwards, shaking their head faster. Crowley’s gaze was intense and the angel felt a jolt of fear poke at them, they swallowed, their mouth having suddenly gone very dry. Crowley felt hot irritation rise from the tips of his fingers.

“What are you not supposed to..?” Crowley asked slowly, threateningly, taking another step forward. Muriel clamped their eyes shut and raised both hands to over their mouth, they cowered away from the advancing demon.

“No! Forget it, I didn’t say anything.” They said, from behind their hands. Their voice was muffled, but still very shaky. Crowley threw the books in his arms to the side with a deafening crash, the noise made the angel in front of him flinch and close their eyes even tighter, Muriel was closing them so tightly that they could see little stars floating from behind their eyelids.

“You did, Muriel” Crowley said slowly, his tone was very low now. He was getting closer to the angel in very much the same way a cat approaches its prey, slowly and deliberately.

“No!” Muriel shouted, their eyes were still clamped shut desperately, they moved their hands from their mouth and raised them in front of their face. They took another step backward and felt a bookshelf behind them. They had backed themself into a corner. They cowered slightly.
“Muriel!” Crowley demanded, reaching for the angel’s forearms to shake some sense into them, at his touch Muriel seemed to explode, shaving him away.

“Ahahaha - fine!” They exclaimed, eyes blown wide and face frantic. Crowley raised his hands into the air and took a step backward to give the angel some space. Muriel gave him an accusatory look and let out a long breath to calm themself. They nodded and swallowed again, in a much more level voice they said:

“Mr Fell told me to arrange the books by the letter of the first word. And - and in the first book I found this.” They handed him a small scrap of parchment paper, on the one side, there was writing in a language that Crowley once knew how to speak, but had long since forgotten. He turned the paper over and recognised the flowing, curly handwriting immediately:

Muriel ,

I’m so very sorry for rushing you out of my office like that, I simply could not risk anyone finding this note to you. I’m being watched, you see - everything I do (or rather, don’t do) is being observed - a rather sticky situation to be in, I suppose if you want to plan something secret. 

This is a secret, please don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, even Crowley - this is strictly between me and you - Supreme archangel’s orders! I can’t risk any others knowing about this, I do hope you understand.

When you are summoned here for the final battle, I am going to need you to retrieve a very important item for me. You’ll be able to find it if you take the very first left after the atrium with the globe in it. After this, you’ll need to turn right twice. The third door is your key. 

The item in question will be here, you’ll know what it is when you see it. I will make sure you can get to it.

Aziraphale .

Crowley pushed his glasses up his nose and looked up at the angel, who was fiddling nervously with their fingers, eyes watching his face intently for any kind of reaction.

“See? You can’t go -  he might need you.” They said, their expression was worried. Crowley felt his heart seize slightly, at the same time his brain was telling him to get the hell out of there - Mizar was waiting for him, why wouldn’t he just go? But it wasn't that easy anymore, he could no longer play pretend and imagine Aziraphale as a willing participant in any of this - of course, he wasn't, he knew his angel. Despite his loyalties to Heaven, he knew that the angel could only go so far. Crowley admonished himself for thinking so lowly of Aziraphale - of course, he couldn't go with him - of course, it was never that simple - he should have known it never would have been.

His hands trembled and he dropped the note to the ground, where Muriel scrambled to pick it up immediately. They shoved it back into their pocket, worried that it even being on the ground would mean that someone else would see it. 

Crowley ran a shaking hand through his hair and lifted another to take his glasses from his face. He let out a shuddering breath as he felt the storm clouds rolling in, sweeping his thoughts in all sorts of different directions. He took an unsteady step backward and fell into a chair. He rested his head in his hands, distraught, glasses clasped in one hand, like a safety blanket. A part of him, the part he almost always listened to (the devil on his shoulder, to use an analogy) was telling him to run - it was what he was good at. He had run from hell for most of his life and before that had run from heaven. Christ, even more recently was his feelings for Aziraphale, he had been running from those for over 6000 years, and in many ways he still was.

Another voice, (in our analogy, the angel on his shoulder) was softer, calmer, but much quieter. It whispered such sweet nothings of hope that Crowley at heart, wanted to believe. It was gentle and for the very first time in a very, very long time, he listened to it. He began to feel a stillness come over his brain as if the storm clouds began to part slightly. His angel had a plan - he needed him, didn’t he? He puffed out a shaky breath. Aziraphale needed him, Aziraphale always had - and Crowley knew he needed Aziraphale just as much in return. 

He raised his head and looked up at Aziraphale’s writing desk, he could see the angel there now - blushing stupidly and grinning from ear to ear. Maybe there was a chance that they could stop this, maybe they could be a them - an us - happy. 

He sighed again, the storm clouds reeling away a bit more. He needed to have faith in his angel - he needed to have faith in them.

Perhaps the best way forward wasn’t to run in the other direction, perhaps, it was -  to run towards it. He nodded, he had spent most of his life running - if he wanted to truly stop running, he needed to face the monster that was chasing him. The fingers holding his glasses dropped them, and they fell to the floor with a clatter. If the angel did have a plan, he was about to pull off the largest magic trick that anyone had ever seen, and Crowley knew that the angel was terrible at magic - he needed all the help he could get.

He sucked in a deep breath and took his mobile from his pocket, his hands were still.

“Adam yeah, it's me. I’m sorry.” He said, getting to his feet and staring hard at Aziraphale’s desk.

“Where it all began?” He asked and nodded as the voice on the other end of the line babbled. He shot Muriel a look.

“The garden of Eden, yes.” He said, Muriel nodded curtly. Crowley took off towards the door.

“How quickly can you be ready?”

~

Nehemiah said, “Go and enjoy choice food and sweet drinks, and send some to those who have nothing prepared. This day is holy to our Lord. Do not grieve, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.” - Nehemiah 8:10

“Bunk off.” Jesus said encouragingly, a wide grin on his face. John was staring at him in the reflection of the mirror in the staff toilet. He shook his head and tried to focus on washing his hands.

“I can’t.” He said calmly, this was the fifth time today that Jesus had tried this stunt. He had even, at one point, tried to take over John’s body at lunchtime and walk him off the playground. It was an accidental football to the head that had knocked John back into himself. Jesus was on a strict no taking over policy.

“Why not?” Jesus asked, he pouted angrily.

“Look the world is ending in less than a week, in fact, far less than a week. Can we not go back home and binge-watch the rest of the X-Files?” He asked, a slight whine to his voice. John suppressed a smile and began drying his hands with far too much blue roll. He shook his head.

“I've got an after-school meeting.” He said simply, for the fifth time that day. In the mirror, Jesus scowled and rolled his eyes.

“Meeting schmeeting.” He waved a hand in the air dismissively, causing John to wave the trailing wad of blue roll in the air like a gymnastic ribbon.

“I want to know what happens to Mulder - do he and Scully get together?” Jesus asked, waggling his eyebrows. John stifled a laugh, grinning.

“I’m not telling you.” He said, looking at the floor. Jesus sighed and John did the same. He placed his hands on his hips - or rather, Jesus does.

“John. I am the son of god - it would not serve you well to disobey me.” He said sternly, John glanced up in the mirror and saw the kind of face and stance a mother takes when their child is doing something they really shouldn't be. John laughed and wiped a tear from his eye, Jesus was not impressed, when he stopped laughing, John shook his head again.

“I could lose my job if I don't go to this meeting.” He explained, gripping the edge of the porcelain sink and leaning on it, he needed this conversation to end soon, he’d already been in the loo for 20 minutes, and people would start to wonder - especially in this bloody school. Jesus sighed dramatically.

“Oh John, the world is ending, who cares about your job?” He asked the frustration evident in his voice, they had been through this song and dance already, the Second Coming was not something to be lax about, he thought John understood this.

“Me!” John pointed at himself. Jesus made a face in the mirror.

“Well, if you’re that worried about it - I can miracle the meeting away.” He suggested, making a face and raising his eyebrows, he raised his shoulders. John furrowed his brow.

“You can do that?” He asked incredulously, Jesus shrugged and nodded.

“Course I can.” He said matter of factly. John looked crestfallen and slightly irritated.

“Does that mean you could have miracled that traffic away this morning?” He asked, folding his arms across his chest. A small, sly grin snuck up and across Jesus’ face, he made a soft noise of realisation and nodded his head.

“Sorry.” He said sheepishly, looking at the floor. John sat with the idea for a second and then heaved out a long sigh, he secretly didn’t want to have the meeting anyway.

“Fine - go on then.” He rolled his eyes, Jesus’ face in the mirror grew ecstatic, a wide grin stretching across his face. John tried to ignore how this made him feel, he offered a pursed smile in response.

“Yes!” Jesus shouted.

“What do you want for dinner?” John asked, looking to his left. He had haphazardly placed a floor-length mirror against the arm of the chair, so it was facing him. This meant that when he looked to the left, he could see Jesus in the reflection, as if he was sitting there, next to him. John had the idea right before they settled in to watch The Shining the night before - a movie that Jesus had enjoyed - especially the blood wave scene, his reaction to that was hysterical. To anyone who happened to look in at the time, all they would have seen was John, sitting next to a mirror, slapping his legs and laughing - and talking to himself - thank goodness his living room was at the back of the house.

Jesus shrugged.

“What did we have yesterday again?” He asked, eyes darting down to the mobile that John held in his hands - he had still not wrapped his head around that - especially with how John explained it ‘ Like a Swiss army knife, but electronic.’ he didn’t even know what that was. He stuck out his bottom lip. 

“Fish and Chips.” John answered, glancing over to the mirror, Jesus shrugged.

“I liked that.” He suggested, nodding, John shook his head.

“I’m not having it again.” 

Jesus sneered at him playfully. John scrolled from one delivery app to another. One thing about living in a village he did not like was the limited delivery options and the fact that if someplace did deliver anything - it would take half an age to get to him.

“What about pizza?” John suggested, flicking through the offers from the local Dominoes. Jesus raised his eyebrows and made a noise of interest.

“What’s that?” He asked, watching John intently. John let out a loud gasp and turned sharply to look over into the mirror, aghast. He slapped his thighs with his hands.

“Oh god, you need to try pizza before the world ends - it's like one of the best things we’ve ever made.” He said, his voice rising in distress, staring at Jesus in disbelief. The man in the mirror raised his eyebrows and shrugged nonchalantly.

“Okay.”

John grinned and quickly tapped on the icon, he started scrolling through the options eagerly, and his stomach let out an involuntary grumble, he was going to buy the Vegi Supreme.

“You’ll love it.” He said excitedly. There was a slight pause as John tried to figure out why he was not eligible for the offer he thought he was trying to get. He screwed up his face in concentration, the tip of his tongue sticking slightly out of his mouth as he checked his order again. Jesus was staring at him. 

“Thanks John.” He said quietly, John looked up from his phone, the light from the screen reflected in his eyes.

“For what?” He asked, his face passive. Jesus shrugged.

“For, uh - spending this time with me, I appreciate it.” He said, giving a soft smile and nodding gently. John shrugged and returned to his order, very distracted.

“Sure.” He said, he could see it now, he had ordered the wrong size pizza! Never mind, no offer then. Jesus frowned and stared at him and John smiled gleefully to himself as the estimated delivery time was a lot less than he expected.

“No really, it's been really lonely upstairs, I could've done with a friend like you.” He said insistently. John glanced up from his phone screen and stared in front of him, weighing up Jesus’s words and evaluating why he suddenly felt so happy. He frowned and glazed over at his reflection.

“Really?” 

Jesus nodded and slunk back into the sofa, John did the same. He stared at the coffee table in front of him.

“Yeah, you don't have to entertain me like this, you could just ignore me, I'm sure you have other friends to hang out with.” Jesus said softly.

John let out a guffaw of a laugh, in the mirror, Jesus turned to watch him and smiled broadly, John gestured to the mirror with the hand that held his phone. He was grinning.

“You are in my head, you know I have no friends.”

Jesus raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips as if he was trying to stifle a laugh, he began to nod slowly.

“I guess.”

John laughed again and reached for the remote on the coffee table, he suspected they should probably crack on with the X Files, they were only 7 seasons in and they had 4 left to go. They had better get a wiggle on, the world was due to end soon, and it wouldn’t not end because they hadn't finished watching a television show. John wondered whether Jesus would stop it for that - he’d have to ask him later. Besides, he wanted to get through at least the first Back to the Future movie before they went to bed, they had to have a relatively early night, they had a school trip to the city to take the kids on tomorrow and John wanted to be awake for that.

“But at least you have a friend now.” Jesus said. John grinned and thumbed the on button, he turned to face the mirror.

“I guess I do!”

Chapter Text

“For the Lord himself will descend from heaven with a cry of command, with the voice of an archangel, and with the sound of the trumpet of God.” - Thessalonians 4:16-17

Wednesday: The Start of The End of the World.

“So where are we going?” Jesus asked John. John lifted his face from the bowl he was slurping the last of the cereal milk. His eyes were wide like he had just been caught out by his mother.
“To London.” He said, putting the bowl back on the table, he glanced over at the mirror, and Jesus looked at him blankly.
“Why?” He asked curiously.
“School trip.” John said, settling into the sofa and putting the TV on. He scowled as the Sound of Music came on again, Jesus grinned.
“Oh - my favourite.” He hummed out happily, tone one of mock surprise as if the man didn't just miracle it on himself.
“Can you stop putting this rubbish on?” John asked, trying to press the power button on the remote, but his thumb refused to move. He looked up into the mirror and Jesus was smirking at him, he scowled.
“You only like it because your parent makes you watch it all the time.” John huffed out, folding his arms, face as petulant as a child.
“No.” Jesus replied mock-defensively. “I like the songs.”  John made a face.
“If you think the songs in this are good - wait until you’ve seen a proper musical.” He replied, bringing his phone out of his dressing gown pocket, he was going to distract himself from this rubbish with the internet. Suddenly, a thought struck him. 
He opened his browser, a sly grin spreading across his face, he itched at his beard in thought.
“Actually,” John said, semi-triumphantly, voice ringing with the pleasure that a good idea brings.
“I’ll take you to see one.” He added, turning to fix Jesus with a hard stare.
“A proper one.”

~

The coach left the school with the same kind of gusto that cramming 80-odd schoolkids into a small space would bring. Almost as soon as the coach left the gates, kids were throwing things, singing rude bastardizations of classic nursery rhymes (Jesus really enjoyed the one about Mary and her Little Lamb - that was funny) and one kid had already held the classic ‘Honk If Your Horny’ sign up to the back window as a laugh, John wasn’t sure if it was appropriate for him to correct the spelling of *your*, so he decided to pretend he had never seen it. He counted the heads on the coach and realised that one was missing - a certain Mr. Young - he frowned to himself, it wasn’t like Adam to miss a school trip, but he shrugged the thought off. It wasn’t an arduously long journey by any means, but by the time they all bundled off of the coach and into The National Galley - John was grateful to be away from them, the screeching and ‘ya mum’s’ were getting a bit too much for him - Jesus on the other hand found it all incredibly amusing. The kids had split themselves off into groups and were told to go find certain paintings to write about or something like that. John wasn’t too sure, this trip wasn’t for anything he was teaching, he was just here for the extra support, and well, the chance to not be in school. He wandered into Room 9 - hands clasped behind his back. From inside his head, he could feel Jesus looking through his eyes too - watching, taking in the art with a sense of silent wonder.

“Incredible.” John heard Jesus breathe, it would be much harder for them to communicate to each other sans a mirror and without John looking like he was talking to himself. John decided that covering his mouth with his hand, in a somewhat pensive stance, would hide the fact he was muttering madly. Luckily there were only two others in the room and they were far too engrossed in the paintings on the other side of the room to really notice him. 

John felt a twinge in his stomach as he laid eyes on one of the paintings to the left and he felt his feet move towards it, as he got closer to the picture, he could feel his brain prickle with excitement, he drew in a sharp breath and grinned.
“Mother.” Jesus breathed, his eyes growing wide as he took in a large canvas painting of the Virgin Mary, holding a small baby in her arms. Another woman, Jesus had no idea who she was supposed to be, was kneeling next to her. A small child with tight brown ringlets was giving her flowers and berries - he could feel Jesus give a giddy grin.
“I think that’s supposed to be John.” He paused. “The Baptist.” He added as if his host would be confused. John nodded -  he had no idea who that was. He looked at the small plaque to the left of the painting to see that this was the The Aldobrandini Madonna by Titian. 
“Likeness is a bit off.” Jesus said, tilting John’s head to the side and eyeing the image with a scrutinising eye.
“She did like wearing blue though - so he got that right.” He mused. John stifled a chuckle. He turned himself around and eyed the other people in the room, one of them had left and the other was peering intently at a plaque of another painting, Jesus made a quiet whistling noise as John felt a swooping sensation in his stomach, a feeling of astonishment, even. He seemed to drift towards the painting as if he were in a dream, his head beginning to fill with cotton wool again. In his head, he admonished Jesus for taking over without asking first, and the feeling receded immediately.
“Sorry, I just - look.” He found himself pointing at the painting as they drew closer.
“Ecce Homo.” Jesus whispered. The painting was by Correggio and depicted Christ wearing a crown of tangled thorns on his head. His chest was bare, save a red cloak draped across his shoulders, his skin was awfully pale (he could feel what Jesus felt about that) and his hands were bound. Around him stood, who John presumed to be his mother, Mary. He glanced at the description - 

“Christ, wearing a crown of thorns is bound and is condemned to death by  Pontius Pilate. Beside him his mother The Virgin Mary swoons. Saint John the Evangelist holds her.” 

John suddenly felt very uncomfortable, realising with a sharp pang of panic that this might be quite triggering for his new brain-mate - he tried to move his feet so he could get away from the painting, but Jesus had him held in place. He stared at the painting with an intense ferociousness, he could feel a calm rage build in his chest, and he felt his hands clench. He could feel Jesus’ presence in the back of his mind, glowering and silently seething. Then, for a second he seemed to disappear entirely. John blinked, then he was back again - a grin sliding up his face.
“He looks more like you to be honest.” Jesus snickered, John let out a puff of air as he felt the anger and tension subside in his body.
“Pontius was a prick.” Jesus added, finally letting John turn away from the painting. John raised his eyebrows and bit at his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing, that was a word Jesus had picked up from him after their forays into rush hour traffic. If you had ever told John that he would be teaching the Son of God how to swear, he would have given you a side eye and swiftly left the room.
“Want to talk about it?” John whispered to himself as the other person left the room - leaving him alone. Jesus shook his head.
“Not really.” 

John nodded and tried to swiftly walk past the large painting to his right, without letting Jesus see, but he was unsuccessful. The man stopped abruptly and turned at the waist to face it. His face instantly softened as he gazed up at it. A woman, with a gentle face, stared back at him. She was wearing a robe that seemed to shine in the painted sunlight. She was not smiling, nor frowning, she seemed to stare at the observer with a gentle kind of bemusement.
“Oh Mary.” He heard Jesus say, he quietened for a second, eyes scanning the painting with a sense of fondness, though John could feel tears budding in his eyes. John blinked and cleared his throat. He felt a grin crawl up the sides of his face.
“She understood me in a way most others didn’t.” Jesus’ tone was nostalgic and soft. John nodded and wondered what Mary this was. He nodded to himself when he read ‘Magdalene’. Jesus wiped the tears from his cheeks, he was still smiling. Strong feelings of affection and fondness blossomed in John’s chest; he felt a wistfulness - like a long, painful ache in his chest.
“Like you do, to a certain extent.” Jesus paused “Though you are privy to everything that I think, I am in your head after all.” He laughed, and John nodded.
“Tell me about her.” John said quietly, curious about the subject of the painting. He’d seen the Da Vinci Code, and he would not deny the chance to live that out for himself. 
“She was just - I’m not sure.” Jesus said, he heaved out a large puff of air, and something painful tugged at John’s heart.
“I miss her.” Jesus whispered. “I miss them all.” Jesus closed his eyes. When he did, he saw a room full of people. John could feel nothing but exuberant love and fondness for all twelve of them, it felt like his heart had grown six times the size and was going to burst. Jesus’ gaze seemed to linger on one of them a bit longer than the rest, and a sense of apprehension crept across his neck like a big, hairy spider, it was as if he knew - this man was about to do something terrible. The man was staring at him, something seemed to cloud his gaze. John opened his eyes.
“When I was ordered back, upstairs - I had no real idea -” He began to explain, John blanched.
“Oh? Ordered? So it was all planned then?” He interrupted, a little too loudly for comfort, someone who was walking past stopped and looked over in confusion. He clamped his mouth shut abruptly and raised an awkward hand in a wave.
“Oh yeah - it was only ever supposed to be a trial run, well - and a bit of a rebrand. Upstairs were a bit worried that they were too hellfire and brimstone, didn’t know until I got back though.” Jesus explained in a hushed tone, watching as the other person blinked, affronted, and then walked away, he waved a hand around dismissively as if this wasn’t a significant bit of information.
“Oh shit.” John replied, furrowing his brow. He could feel Jesus staring back up at the painting again, and he sighed.
“Yeah.”
John let the silence hang in the air for a second. The man didn’t know? He was just forced to leave the life that he had built behind? He guessed it was for a noble purpose and all, but surely ‘Head Office’ could think of better ways to do a rebrand than to nail their son to a cross?
“That’s fucked.” He said simply, raising his eyebrows.
“What?” Jesus answered. John folded his arms and took a deep, slightly irritated breath inwards.
“Putting you here, and not telling you that it was never supposed to be a permanent thing? Making you die a painful death just to be told it was part of a rebrand?” He questioned, trying to keep the tone of his voice level and the volume down, as someone else wandered into the room. John saw they were wearing headphones, that was good.
“That’s corporate bullshit.” He added in a hushed voice, the hippie in John was rearing its long-haired, flower-crowned head. John hated ‘Corporate Bullshit’ so much more than he did the Sound of Music.
“Well - “ Jesus began, turning his head to the side and drawing out the vowel to try to think of a response.
“Like that's a bit fucked man.” John said the hippie within was throwing up peace signs now.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” John replied, nodding his head sagely. “To be honest, I think it's a bit fucked that they’re making you do this.” He added, wobbling his head slightly in a disappointed shake.
“What?” Jesus asked, John blinked and rolled his eyes. “End the world.” He said, duh.
“Why?” 
“Do you want to?” John asked, he wished he could see the other man’s facial expression though the tone of his voice gave away much of what John was imagining.
“... I uh.” Jesus sounded uncertain, he paused. “It’s what I’ve been told to do. My duty. So I have to, those are the rules, I guess.” The uncertainty that was creeping into his voice had just disappeared. John pursed his lips and swallowed as he fought back the urge to give a nonchalant shrug.
“Wow, that’s disheartening. To know I have to live a forced life of corporate bullshit, then when I think I’ve reached the other side, being forced to participate in it there as well? Jesus.” John snorted - was Hell this corporate as well? Jesus let out a laugh that was far too loud for comfort, it echoed around the room. He laughed like a flock of parrots, it was a loud, cawing laugh. John shrivelled up inside, but it was okay, the person in the room with them was far too engrossed in the Michelangelo behind them to notice. 
“I’m not going to get used to that.” Jesus heaved out, a large smile plastered onto his face, it turned into a sheepish smile as John raised a hand to rub at the back of his neck.
“Sorry.” He said sheepishly.
“It's okay.” Jesus replied, turning away from the painting to stare around the room. He noted then, that most of the paintings in this room contained a version of him, a version that looked nothing like him whatsoever - but the sentiment was there. They were, in no small sense of the word beautiful, he felt a twisted sense of pride bubble in his chest - the people had gone on to create such wonderful pieces of art, and he felt almost grateful.
“These are all so incredible.” He whispered. John gave a curt, repressed nod.
“Art is - yes. You’d be destroying all of this when you end the world.” He reminded Jesus, he could feel the man wince a bit and shrink back slightly into the recesses of his mind.
“Right.” He ran a hand over John’s face.
“Come on.” John said, his stomach growling, and wanting to change the subject.
“Let's get to the cafe before the kids do.”

~

The night was beginning to fall when John stepped off of the Underground and followed the masses of commuters up to the street. The kids had been bundled off and onto the coach hours ago, but John decided to stay behind - he had a show to go to. The evening wasn’t warm, it was humid - usual for May, John unzipped his jacket as he climbed the last few steps to the street.
“This is Piccadilly Circus.” John said, mentally stepping back a tad to let Jesus experience the full thing. As he stepped onto the street, he was overwhelmed by the deafening noise of rush-hour traffic, he blinked as a horn blared to his right. The noise felt like it hit him like a strong wave, the current of it pinned him down and the breath seemed to catch in his chest as if he was drowning. Jesus glanced about him with a small sense of panic, people were pushing past him, as John steered his feet forward. 
“It’s okay.” He heard John whisper, “Look up.” Jesus obeyed, lifting John’s gaze from the floor where he had fixed it, to the buildings around him. He seemed to stumble and drift a bit as a noise of astonishment left him.
“Oh my…” His voice was but a small torchlight in a sea of inky black darkness.
The lights from the large screens on the building about him glistened in his widening eyes, John felt his mouth go slack as he turned in a small, standing circle - his eyes moving about in a slow, trancelike way, his body was standing, almost limp. John could feel the weightless sense of amazement take over him, this was overwhelming in an incredible way - Jesus had never felt as alive as he did now.
“This is..” He could feel his breath leave him in a slow puff outwards, Jesus marveled at the screens around him, the colourful lights dancing in the reflection of his eyes.
“Cool, right?” John asked, letting Jesus take more of the driver's seat. The man shook his head, his mouth forming a wide grin.
“Incredible.” He breathed. Inside his head John folded his arms and watched as the man wandered around the island in the middle of the road, watching as the screens flickered from one scene to the next. Somewhere behind him, a street busker had started singing with a voice that rang like a golden bell, John gasped and turned to stare at them with eyes of wonder.
“John.” His name came out in a breath. He mentally took a step forward and glanced at his wristwatch.
“Come on.” He replied, dragging his eyes away from the screens.

“We’ve got a show to catch.”

Moulin Rouge was not, admittedly one of John’s favorites - it was up there for sure (Phantom of the Opera was unfortunately fully booked that evening), but it was no Chicago. Jesus had been unusually quiet throughout the whole thing, captivated by the voices, the colours, the lights - John did feel a bit bad, all of this must have been overwhelming - but this was the only way to make sure that the man experienced as much as he could before de decided to end everything. John locked himself into the nearest bathroom and glanced up at himself in the mirror. Jesus was staring back, his eyes seemed a bit red, a little bit puffy - John knew he had been crying - they shared the same eyes after all. 
“Are you okay?” He asked tilting his head to the side. Jesus avoided his gaze and John wiped his nose with the sleeve of his jacket.
“Hmm? Yes. fine.” He said distractedly. John made a face and raised an eyebrow.
“You don’t look it,” he said emotionlessly. Jesus gave a small smile.
“Yes. I’m alright, was a bit emotional. Beautiful play.” he said his voice quiet. John nodded, 
“Yes, I thought you’d appreciate it. Better than the sound of music?” John asks teasingly, a coy smile on his face. Jesus' frown broke at that, like the sun breaking through the clouds on an overcast day. The smile split his face.
“Oh goodness yes.” he gushed, his eyes sparkling, he began to laugh - John relaxed as he felt the joy run through him. Jesus' laughter rescinded after a while and a pregnant pause hung in the air. Jesus was wearing a somewhat confused look on his face, but it also looked like he wanted to say something - like he had swallowed something particularly unpleasant and wasn't sure how to spit it out.
“You know. I have to end all of this.” He said after a few seconds, his face furrowed more. John blinked.
“Do you?” he asked.
“Yes.” the look on Jesus' face became mingled with a frown.
“Do you have to? Can you just not?” John asked nonchalantly, lifting his shoulders up and down. Jesus' frown took over completely now. He looked away from John's face.
“No, lots of people are depending on me.” He answered quietly. John made a tutting noise and crossed his arms
“But you’re the son of god, can’t you just say no?” He asked incredulously, watching as the man in the mirror raised an arm to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck, John did the same.
Jesus shook his head.
“What about if we never finish the X-Files?” John tried, they were, after all, two seasons away from the end and he was pretty sure he could stretch them out long enough for the earth to keep going. Especially if they started Grey's Anatomy - John would keep the world going forever. The thought made him want to giggle. Jesus grimaced and gave a very small smile.
“Even then, regrettably.”
“Oh.” John pouted. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”
Jesus moved his gaze from the tiled floor to glance back up at John.
“Hmm?”
“End the world. Its a nice place.” He explained, watching intently as the man gave a conflicted smile, he looked pained. John could feel it, it was almost like he was being torn in two. He had a strong desire to stop, to run away - at the same time, he felt a resigned sense of duty. It sat, hot and unbearably heavy on his stomach. 
“It is, you’ve all gone on to do amazing things. I’m almost proud.” Jesus said fondly. John swallowed and tried to ignore his head-mates feelings, it was all-consuming.
“They’ll all go if you destroy it all.” He supplied, the feeling intensified, pulling, tearing his consciousness.
“I know.” Jesus' voice came back strangled.
“Don't do it Jes, I’m not a huge fan of letting people destroy everything,” John said, giving his head a little shake, he got an avoidant glance and a shoulder shrug in response.
“I don’t imagine you are John.”
John smiled then went to open his mouth to try to probe further at the wound, to try to make the other man yield. He rather liked the earth, thank you very much, and wanted to live to at least see the 30th Fast and Furious movie - that, or to at least see 80. Whichever came sooner.
“It's going to have to happen today,” Jesus said suddenly. John felt his stomach drop.
“What?”
Jesus took a step back from the mirror and glanced at the door. John wanted to take a step closer, so the result was a bit of a stumble.
“It starts today.”
John choked down a lump in his throat, he gripped the sides of the sink until his knuckles were white. The pulling conflicting and this revelation made his head spin and his stomach churn, he felt sick.
“The end?” He gulped. Jesus was staring at him, concerned.
“Yes.”
John shook his head resolutely and felt a stab of indignation rise from his stomach.
“I won't let you.” He said. Jesus looked down, sheepish, ashamed.
“You have no choice.” He muttered. John paused and looked at him earnestly.
“But you do.” He said. Jesus let out a sigh as John felt his stomach twist.
“I’ve never had a choice, John. I just do what I’m told.” Jesus' tone was flat, exhausted. Done.
“Maybe a chance to change that?” John chanced. Jesus did not respond.
He left the toilet a few minutes later and felt dastardly as he realised that he had caused a queue - trying his best to avoid eye contact, he apologized profusely and left, wondering whether he would be able to show his face there ever again. He took a deep breath in as he stepped out onto the street and stuffed his hands into his pockets. He began walking back towards the underground, but he found that his feet were taking him towards Regents Street.

“Where are you going? The station is that way.” He asked Jesus, but the man in his head did not respond. John could feel cotton wool poke at the corners of his consciousness - he began to panic.
"Jes - what?" He forced out from behind gritted teeth, Jesus was clenching his jaw tightly, and John had to fight to get the words out. They seemed to be walking towards Portland Place - John knew that was where the BBC was - he had been on a school trip there as a tyke. He tried to turn the other way, but the numb feeling in his brain grew stronger, more defiant. He felt guilty, but he knew that guilt was not his. They had arrived at the entrance and as John looked to his right, he could see the word "ONE" written on the window. In front of that, he could see two figures sitting down on a sofa. He cocked his head to the side - he knew they filmed the One Show here - but why had Jesus brought him here? They had never watched it together, John despised it.
"Jesus - what - are you doing?" He forced out, managing to muster enough strength to stop walking. He looked up to see Jesus’ reflection in the window. The man looked wretched, dark eyes wide and sad - but his face set with a look of steely determination. He made a noise that sounded a bit like a whimper.
“My duty, John.” Jesus answered, John could feel the cotton wool get thicker, it was getting harder for him to think straight.
“Jes - no - you don’t.” He gasped, and he felt his vision begin to fade, he felt like he was drowning in a black lake, sinking down into its cold, unwelcome depths - he felt terrified as the light faded. “Sorry.” He heard from about a thousand miles away. His own voice came back, gasping, scared, desperate.
“No! Stop it - you don’t have to...”
He tried to move away, and the cotton wool receded a bit as he took a step backward. He can feel Jesus' presence push him out, can see his reflection begin to frown, tears in his eyes. John begins to blink hard, trying to will back focus. If this was an arm wrestle, Jesus was winning. The man gave one final metal push and John could feel himself hit the bottom of the black lake, his vision was almost gone.
“No plea-” He gasps. In our proverbial arm wrestle, Jesus pushes Johns arm to the ground. From the back of his own, fogged brain all John can hear is
“I’m sorry John.”

~

"Hello and welcome to your Wednesday One Show,  live on BBC one and iPlayer. With Jermaine Jenas…" Alex began, showbiz grin in place.
"And Alex Jones" Jermaine added, crossing one leg over the other and grinning. He turned to face his co-host.
"And today we have a very special guest, don't we Jermaine?" Alex asked. Jermaine gave a big nod.
"That we do Alex - today were going to be taking about the new album from - oh. Uh, what does that say?" He trailed off and squinted at the teleprompter as the words changed right in front of his eyes. Alex made a face at it as she rattled off her next line.
"That's right Jermaine, we have a very special guest in the studio this evening." She gave a furtive look at the crew, the cameraman was frowning, shaking his head and shrugging - confused. Alex forced out a panicked smile as if someone was making her do it, she looked concerned.
"We do indeed, why don't we let him introduce himself?" Jermaine responded looking uncertainly over at Alex and back to the teleprompter again, an uneasy grin on his face.

~

Aziraphale was standing on the edge of the heavenly plain, a golden horn clutched between his shaking hands. He had never thought it would get to this point, that he would have to sound the horn that signalled the end of the world. He took in a shaky breath, and out of the corner of his eye, watched as the Metatron glared at him, folding his arms. He swallowed - if you had told him a few days ago that it was his job to blow the trumpet of God to announce the start of the Rapture, he would not have believed you - in fact, he would have seen it as a great honour - as that was what it was. Aziraphale sighed, he didn't want to do this - to be the one that heralded the end of the world, the anguish pulled at him like he was swimming in a strong current. He glanced down at the earth below him and to the Metatron - he didn't have a choice, this was his duty. Something like a silent rage bubbled in his chest.
"Hark!" Michael yelled, their voice echoed across the plain. It was a sound that could be heard all over the world. Window panes shook with the force of their voice - the voice of an Archangel.
Lines of angels arranged themselves across the heavenly plain, these were the first of many to appear. Aziraphale noted that Muriel would arrive soon, and anxiety twinged in his chest. Aziraphale swallowed again, he did not want to, but he could feel the oppressive gaze of the Metatron burning into him. He swallowed again, a lump had grown in his throat. He took a deep breath and raised the trumpet to his lips. He screwed his eyes shut and blew as hard as he could, the sound was warm and comforting - but it provided no comfort to Aziraphale. It rang brightly around the world, and if Michael's shout had not been loud enough to wake you, this would have been - the noise was loud enough to raise the dead. Car alarms beeped and people glanced to the skies in bewilderment. Then, their phones began to buzz - smart watches began to ring - TV screens flickered to show the One Show. All electrical devices on the planet, even ones that had been switched off, began to play. John's face appeared on all of them, his voice crackling through the speakers. Aziraphale had winced, if this was not the circumstance it was - he would have almost been proud of his idea.
"Good job, Aziraphale." The Metatron said, voice cold and stern. Aziraphale clenched his jaw, well, this was it then - best go along with it as best he could.
"Thank you sir..." He turned to look at the Metatron and gave a pressed, grim smile.
"Welcome to the end times."

~

"Perhaps we should let our guest introduce himself." Alex said - her face was one of someone who was speaking words she had no idea she was saying. Her eyebrows were raised in panic, making her grin look manic, terrified. The camera panned over to Jesus, who was sat on the other side of the sofa - he waved.
"Yes, would you mind introducing yourself?" Jermaine added, the same hysterical grin in place.
"Of course." The voice that came out of John was rich and accented.
"Thank you for the introduction." He gave a kind smile and turned to face the camera, it zoomed in on his face.

In India, Aarav had just come home from work, he ran a hand over his tired face and jumped as his television started speaking to him. He had turned it off when he left this morning, he was certain of it! He walked towards the TV slowly, a guy was sitting on a sofa. Aarav turned up the volume.
"My name is Jesus." The man said Aarav frowned as the hosts made soft ahh-ing noises and nodded their heads. Aarav sat on a chair and watched as the man conversed calmly with the hosts.
"I've come today, to deliver a very important message, a message of Rapture, to tell you that the end times have arrived." The man said he was gently nodding. Aarav scratched his head.

It was 3:07 am, and relatively warm for Tokyo in May. Honoka turned over in her sleep and kicked her blanket from her legs. She made a soft humming noise as she pulled the pillow around her head. She was dreaming about her cat, it was a nice dream. Suddenly, the sound of her phone vibrating urgently on her bedside table shook her from her slumber. She made a noise of surprise and with one hand rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she grappled with the other for her phone. She almost knocked the thing from the table but managed to catch it. She gave a slow blink and squinted at the bright light of her lock screen as she checked it. She was fairly certain she didn't have an alarm set. Honoka could see that she had an emergency notification, she pressed at it desperately, panic bubbling in her chest. When she pressed it, she was greeted with the face of a bearded man, she frowned.

"I come to you like a thief in the night, silent - out of nowhere. Some of you have been waiting for someone like me for quite a while now - a prophet, a messiah, the guided one, the serpent - the one who brings about the end, I am they and I am here." Jesus said, he paused, eyes staring deeply into the camera. He looked serious.
"Do not panic. The dead will rise first, and those of you that are worthy will join me in eternal paradise." He got to his feet, the camera shakily panned up back to his face. Alex was looking incredibly concerned, her eyes darting from Jesus and back to the crew standing behind the camera - this was not what they had planned for the show at all! Jesus cleared his throat.
"And for those of you who aren't, I shall leave you with these words of comfort: Climb every mountain, Ford every stream, Follow every rainbow, ‘Till you find your dream." He walked out of the set, leaving Alex and Jermaine perplexed. Jermaine frowned as if that made no sense at all, well it didn't really, did it?
"Is that the Sound of Music?" He asked to the camera. The Lord himself descended from the heavens, with a cry of command from the voice of an archangel, and with the sound of the trumpet of God.

~

John felt warm and fuzzy as if he was wrapped in a soft, cozy blanket. He felt himself stir slightly, and the feeling began to creep back to his fingertips. He opened his eyes - he felt like he had napped for far too long and had no idea where he was, what time it was - and even, to a certain extent who he actually was. He gave a firm blink and shook his head to wake himself up. He was, regrettably, not wrapped in a soft blanket - he was sitting on the edge of a lake, his head bowed as if in fevered prayer. He looked at his reflection.
The man that looked back looked haggard, he had been crying, eyes red and eyelids puffy. He sniffed and John felt his hand wipe at his nose. He swallowed and cleared his throat.
“Where are we?” He asked, his voice hoarse and croaky. His reflection looked up at him, startled at the sound of another voice coming out of him, at the eye contact, his reflection looked guilty, it glanced away quickly.
“I don’t know.” The reflection replied voice strained.
John looked up and around himself. He recognised the silhouettes of the buildings around him. He made some mental calculations, and he suspected he was in St James Park. He could hear the gentle rush of traffic in the distance and the cooing of pigeons as they pecked curiously about him. He looked back at the water, his reflection looked incredibly upset.
“You’ve done, it, haven’t you?” John asked quietly. His reflection was avoiding eye contact still.
“I have.” He replied. John nodded and pursed his lips - trying to not get angry. He understood why it was done, but being angry at something that had already happened was a waste of energy.
“I’m sorry John, I didn’t have a choice.” His reflection said earnestly, dark eyes staring up at him with mounting worry. John shook his head and kept his voice level.
“You do - everyone does. Your parent gave us free will - why aren’t you afforded the same luxury?” His reflection sighed, John felt the air heave from him and a spike of regret.
“I’m just a tool, John, tools don’t have a choice, I just do what I’m told,” Jesus replied, his voice was flat, emotionless.
“Well, that’s a shit analogy.” John rolled his eyes. Jesus let out a small, weak chuckle.
“You can decide to do the right thing,” John replied, giving a half-shoulder shrug and fixing Jesus with a glare.
“I am.” He answered quietly. John clenched his jaw, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
“This isn’t. There is a difference between doing the right thing and just doing what you’ve been told is the right thing. It’s not always easy to see, but this isn’t it Jes. Sometimes you need to have a bit of agency, make decisions for yourself.” John said, picking at the grass he was sitting on, he threw a handful of it in the lake.
“I am making this decision myself.” His reflection replied. John snorted and heaved out another sigh to accompany the eye roll.
“You aren’t. You’re being used Jes - just like you were before. You don’t have to stand by and let others push you around, you can stand up for yourself. You can say no.” John said, possibly a bit forcefully. Jesus swallowed and skirted his eyes around John. He bit at the inside of his mouth. John felt a swirl of conflicting emotions grab his stomach and squeeze it tightly. He felt himself blink back tears.
“I know you don't want to do this, I am also sharing the same headspace as you, you know,” John said gently, giving his reflection an unwavering stare.
“I know.” Jesus breathed, and John frowned.
“You can still stop this right?” He asked. Jesus closed his eyes and made a wincing face, turning his head away from John. He made a noise. Something melted in John's brain and his stare turned soft, this must be so hard.
“I know you can. I have faith in you.” He said softly, watching as Jesus opened his eyes and gave him a doleful stare. John gave a grin, he hoped it was nonchalant.
“It's going to be pretty lonely once all is said and done, and you don’t need me anymore.” He teased, smirking. If Jesus had sat next to him, he would have stuck an elbow in his ribs.
“I’ll make sure you stay,” Jesus replied weakly, his frown growing into a smile.
“These last two days have been pretty awesome - thank you for letting me live.” He said. John felt an unexplainable warmth in his chest as he got to his feet. He dusted himself down, he felt a bit giddy.
“I hope you remember it.” He said wistfully - not watching the reflection as he shook.
“Let's go home.”

Chapter Text

It was a terribly overcast morning, the clouds sat low and plump on the horizon, their black undertones threatening with the promise of rain. It had been a terribly bitter morning, Aziraphale thought as he picked his way down the street, desperately trying to avoid the puddles. He remarked at how silent it was, a usually bustling street filled with all sorts of noises and smells (both pleasant and unpleasant) now sat desolate, still. All he could hear was the distant, somber tolling of a church bell, he shivered and locked his eyes on the house he was heading towards, the only one in the street without a blazing red cross on the door. He tried to not look at the others, at how the houses stood drably, in mourning for their previous, departed owners. He looked over his shoulder, the street was still very empty, apart from a black cat that wandered from one house to the other and knocked smartly on the door he was now standing in front of.

The woman who answered the door looked haggard, and Aziraphale was pleased to see that she was not exhibiting any of the visual symptoms of the plague, he relaxed slightly. At the sight of the man at the door, she seemed to sag with relief a bit and offered a small smile.

“Edith.” Aziraphale breathed, his voice slightly muffled. “I’ve brought you and the family some food.” He opened the bag he had slung over his shoulder and rifled around inside. He took out a few bundles of wrapped food and handed them over to the woman, who took them promptly, almost hungrily - well that tracked. She did not question how he had managed to fit that much food into such a small bag, Aziraphale was pleased she didn't - he wasn’t quick enough to come up with an explanation that made sense. Edith took a step forward and Aziraphale a step backwards, hands raised.

"Best you stay inside now." Aziraphale said, wafting his hands at the woman in the doorway, her dirty face crumpled with anguish and some form of gratefulness.

"Mr Fell - thank you for the food." She said in a weak voice, her eyes glancing up the streets and seeing only boarded-up windows, she swallowed. She moved her eyes from the street and back to Aziraphale, she took a step forward again, arms extended as if to hug him.

"Oh no, not sure that's such a good idea." He said, raising his hands and taking a large step back.

"We don't know how it spreads, after all." He replied, giving a nervous laugh. The woman at the doorway gave a tearful nod.

"It's the will of God. He is punishing us all." She muttered, looking skywards. Aziraphale was grateful he was wearing a mask, for the woman could not see the grimace he was making. He winced and cleared his throat.

“Yes, well, either way.” He began “Best you stay inside, and remember to keep your skin covered.” The woman gave a small nod of her head and closed the door, raising a hand at Aziraphale as she did so. He stared at the door for a second and then turned on his heel, trying to form a mental map of where his next delivery would be. He started walking and as he did, he noted the red crosses on the doors again. He glanced away quickly as he noted that alongside the cross, the following message was written:

“Lord, have mercy upon us,”

Aziraphale took a deep breath in, grateful that the herbs he had stuffed into the beak of his mask were potent enough - he didn't think he could stomach the smell otherwise. In an attempt to regain some composure, he pulled at the hem of his (obviously beige) waisted tailored coat and began walking to the next house in his delivery route.

“Come and get it - come and get your Plaguebane Tonic here!” Crowley’s voice came muffled from behind the black leather of his mask, in his gloved hand he raised a small glass vial and shook it animatedly - calling out to the few people who were brave, or desperate enough to wander the streets. Most people looked past him, eyes trained to the ground, frightened as if even looking at someone would make them sick.  Crowley harrumphed and turned back to the small, rickety wooden stall he was standing next to. A small collection of glass bottles stood there, he could smell the pungent lemon-vinegar mix from here, and he thought the vinegar smell would be burnt into his nostrils forever. He picked up a small container of powder and watched as a few new people entered the drab square.

“Ladies.” He began, grinning, forgetting that his entire face was covered. “Can I interest you in some Pestilence Ward Essence? Simply sprinkle it onto your floors, furniture, bedding, and window sills and it will shield you from the plague.” He suggested, one of the women looked upwards, her face cracking into one of hope.

“Does it work?” She asked despondently. Crowley nodded. 

From over her shoulder, he watched as someone in beige, (Crowley assumed the figure was male, it was hard to tell with the white mask they wore) handed a few bundles of food over to a young boy. He pushed the container into the woman’s shaking hands and waved away her tones of desperation. She thanked him profusely and left the square in haste, keen to try out this new remedy in her home.

“Make sure you tell your mother to keep her skin covered, okay?” The man said gently, the boy nodded and sprinted away. Crowley narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, he knew that voice.

“Aziraphale?” He called, the figure from across the square stiffened and straightened -  beaked face looking about the place. Crowley noted that the beak of the mask was shorter than his, less Crow-like and more like the small, dainty beak of a finch.

“Oh, yes?” He asked, eyes landing on Crowley, he grinned, forgetting the mask on his face once again.

“It's me!” He said, gesturing to himself. Aziraphale pushed the brim of his floppy hat upwards, his mask had clear glass over his eyes, so Crowley could see him look him up and down, no recognition flickered there. Aziraphale walked towards him, fiddling with his brown gloves.

“I’m afraid you must re-introduce yourself to me.” He said politely, stopping short of the stall and eyeing it somewhat distastefully. Crowley rolled his eyes from behind his dark lenses.

“It's me.” He paused splaying his hands out. “Crowley.” He said pointedly. Aziraphale made a noise.

“Crowley!” He exclaimed, clasping his hands together. “ Oh, it is so good to see you!” He reached out a hand, as if to shake Crowley’s, then retracted it quickly having thought better of it.

Aziraphale felt a bubble in his chest burst, he was overjoyed to at last see a face he was familiar with. A part of him was relieved to know that the demon was still alive, this plague did not discriminate, he himself had caught it at least three times - had almost discorporated the second time.

“Likewise.” Crowley said, nodding.

“So.” He paused and studied Aziraphale for a second. “This one of yours then?” He asked cockily, waving a hand about the place and watching as Aziraphale’s eyes widened at the question, he waved his hands worriedly.

“Well, I - no.” He said quickly. “I thought it was one of yours.” He said, a bit too defensively. Crowley shook his head, the long red curls that stuck out from underneath his low-brimmed hat moved with his head. he took the panicked glance and the fact that Aziraphale was trying to not make eye contact as a ‘yes’ to his last question. Crowley whistled and made a mock tutting sound, shaking his head slowly,

“Downstairs are very confused.” He said amusedly, “We didn’t remember asking pestilence to do anything. Thought it must have been you guys.” 

Aziraphale worried the fingertips of his gloves, he was now staring at the ground, and something was writhing uncomfortably in his stomach.

“What have the humans done now?” He asked head tilted to the side, finding his weight to one foot. Aziraphale shook his head.

“I have no idea.” The voice that came out of the beak was quiet, muffled.

“They’ve gone very quiet.” Crowley made a noise between an outburst and a laugh, he shook his head, this was good - classic upstairs - if Hell had pulled a stunt like this, God would have been down on all of them like a tonne of bricks, Heavenly lawyers would be marching down in their droves, celestial contracts in hand. One rule for one, one rule for another, it was the classic tactic.

Aziraphale sighed and raised his eyes to the stall Crowley had been standing next to, he narrowed his eyes as he read the sign.

“A J Crowley’s Cures for Ye Olde Plague.” He read out incredulously, looking from the sign to Crowley again, he shrugged.

“Gotta capitalise in these trying times.” He answered nonchalantly. Aziraphale did not need to be wearing a mask for Crowley to know what facial expression he was making. Azirapahle furrowed his brow and frowned, indignation burrowing itself into his gut.

“You’re taking advantage of people?” Aziraphale asked disbelievingly, shaking his head. Crowley shrugged again.

“Having some hope is better than having none at all.” He said flatly, he didn’t see the problem. He was furthering two causes here. First of all, he was committing the sinful act of fraud - something he was getting points for downstairs, and secondly, he was trying to help the people of London feel less… dead? Doomed to die? The atmosphere about town was so dismal, that Crowley was keen to do something about it.

“It's cruel is what it is.” Aziraphale countered, throwing a hand up angrily to gesture at the vials, the indignation brewing stronger in his stomach. 

“How so?” Crowley asked flatly “Would you rather die thinking you had a chance of survival, or die knowing you had no chance?” He offered Aziraphale opened his mouth to counter, but spluttered like a dying candle.

“I - I...” He closed his mouth, bristling. “It is not ethical.” He added, pointing at Crowley -  a laugh came from his beak, it was a sharp laugh - the sound of it made Aziraphale’s insides squirm.

“And creating a plague is?” Crowley gasped at the end of his laughing fit. He went to raise a hand to wipe a tear from his eye, but hit his mask instead, he stared at his hand as if it had just committed a war crime. Aziraphale’s hands curled into fists and he took a step backwards.

“It was nothing to do with me!” He hissed, indignation now turning into frustration. Crowley raised his hands in a calming gesture.

"I know, I know - I was just saying.” He said, his tone becoming soothing, non-confrontational. Aziraphale stared hard at the stall, clenching and unclenching his hands.

“But you’re profiting off of the misfortune of others.” He said he sounded like he was whining. Crowley snorted and jiggled his head.

“Who said I was charging?”

Aziraphale stared blankly at him - he wasn't sure if he was amazed, or irritated.

“Well - I..” He opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water, he certainly felt a bit like one - foolish and not really being able to breathe in his stupid mask.

“I’m insulted you think so lowly of me.” Crowley said playfully, imagining Aziraphale’s face screwing up into a scowl - if his eyes were any indication of what facial expression he was pulling, he was.

“Well you are a demon” He bit back, ah yes - the classic retort. Crowley chuckled. Aziraphale, sensing defeat, stared hard at the ground and let out a big sigh.

“It's horrible. The people keep asking why the almighty is doing this - as if I can answer.” He said hopelessly. “I guess it's all part of the ineffable plan.” He added, sighing. Crowley made a noise.

“Oh shut up.” He said, Aziraphale blinked.

“Why can’t you just do a little miracle?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale began fiddling with his gloves again. He took in a deep breath and sighed loudly.

“I can’t,” He said. Crowley tilted his head to the side and raised his shoulders.

“Why?” He asked, watching Aziraphale adjust the strap of the bang on his shoulder, he shuffled his weight from one foot to the other, as if the mere mention of a miracle made him uncomfortable, It did, it writhed in Aziraphale’s stomach like a snake.

“They’ll know.” He said in hushed tones, head quickly tilting upwards and back down to the floor again, Crowley nodded.

“Oh.” He said. Aziraphale raised a hand.

“Besides, who am I to choose who is worthy of living and dying? That is an impossible decision to make.” He said desperately, wide eyes searching Crowley’s mask for anything, even a small shred of sympathy. He, of course, got nothing, because Crowley’s mask was doing its job of covering his face - it was doing it very well in fact.

“I suppose it is.” Crowley replied, sticking out his bottom lip in thought.

“Where would you even start with that?” Aziraphale asked, the desperate whine from earlier still present in his voice. Crowley shrugged again
“I have no idea.”

There was a brief silence for a second, only disrupted by the dismal toll of the distant church bell - it fell on deaf ears. Crowley clicked his fingers (impressive in leather gloves) and the stall next to him disappeared. 

“Drink?” He asked suddenly, shaking Aziraphale from his thoughts, he made a face from behind his beak.

“I hear there is a very nice place just down the road that has just - ah - opened,” Crowley said, pausing at the end of the sentence, Aziraphale felt the tell-tale signs of demonic intervention. He rolled his eyes and Crowley laughed.

“What, in the middle of the plague? We’ll get ill.” Aziraphale said. Crowley shrugged again and raised his hands.

“Luckily for you, this place is very plague-free.” He said playfully, pointing at Aziraphale. He began to walk across the square, like a dutiful puppy, Aziraphale followed him, jogging a few steps to keep up.

“No.” He said, but continued to follow the demon down one of the small side streets.

“I’ll buy.” Crowley sighed, counted the seconds that Aziraphale paused in his head, and…

“Fine. Just one, then I must be on my way.” Aziraphale huffed, secretly pleased at the prospect of a little bit of normalcy. Crowley smirked.

“You always say that.”

The pair walked past St Dunstan’s Church with the tolling bell, a small group of people with shovels in their hands were digging a big hole. Aziraphale shuddered and averted his gaze. Crowley screwed up his face in distaste.

“Not a huge fan of these plague pits.” He said quietly as they passed. He could hear a woman wailing in the distance and the scrape of shovels against hard dirt. The men worked silently, a job no one wanted to be doing, but one they had no choice to do - they were considered heroes, putting themselves in direct contact with potentially contagious dead, to save the masses from the miasma that their bodies would create.

“How else do you expect them to bury the dead?” Aziraphale whispered back, leaning close to Crowley, he shook his head.

“Dunno, I just have a feeling it's going to come back and bite them in the arse someday.”

~

St Dunstan's Church, Stepney, Modern Day.

Bill Kilney was walking his dog (Jack, if you need to know) across St Dunstan’s Churchyard. He had his headphones in and was listening to one of the many podcasts that celebrities all over the world had created when COVID hit when they could feel their proverbial bank accounts begin to shrink. Bill needed the break from people, all he could hear everywhere he went was talk of how this bearded bloke had suddenly appeared on the telly and began talking about the end of the world. It was all he was hearing and he was sick of it already. Bill sniggered to himself and brought his attention back to his podcast as the host said something tasteless. He had just let Jack off of his lead, the dog was sniffing around the base of a tree, Bill wrapped the lead around his hand and watched, he laughed aloud when the hot made a joe that only three people had found funny - well four people now.

Bill was engrossed in the tale of a terrible date when he felt the ground beneath his feet begin to rumble. It was a gentle sensation at first, as if something was rolling underneath his feet, almost like something, or many somethings were rolling in their graves. Jack stopped abruptly and began to growl, his hackles raising suddenly. Bill frowned, this was not Jack’s normal behaviour.

“Jack!” Bill called the dog to him and re-clipped his lead on again, something didn’t feel right.

The sensation under his feet grew stronger and felt more like scratching now, like something was clawing its way upward from under the ground. Bill stared at the grass and backed away slowly, a rising sense of dread clawing at his brain.

A hand, a fresh hand - burst out from the ground and Bill screamed as he turned on his heel and ran, Jack in tow.

~

St George's Chapel, Windsor, Berkshire, England - Modern Day

Simon was locking the doors to the chapel when he heard a noise from the Quire, he turned sharply, half expecting to see some bedraggled tourist frantically searching for the rest of their departed tour group, but nothing was there. 

Simon shrugged and busied himself with his duties. Before he locked the door, he thought it wise to first check that the place was actually empty - the last thing he wanted was a call at 3 am from his superior, saying that some hapless tourist was locked inside the chapel. It had happened before and Simon did not want the hell that that would unleash.

He noted that the noise kept growing in volume and that it sounded a bit like scratching, he shivered and looked about himself. 

The place was definitely empty.

Simon tried to reassure himself by thinking that this was an old building and that old buildings made noises all the time. He shook off the feeling and locked the door, the old lock clunking as he turned the key. Simon almost dropped his keys when he heard footsteps slap across the tiled floor. He froze and turned slowly - he had checked. It was empty.

But apparently, it wasn’t - for, standing in front of him was a man. He had seen this man before in paintings, and had been taught all about him and his history when he had signed up for the job - he knew when this man was born and how he died.

So it came as no surprise (well, it did to a certain extent, but upon reflection later, over a mug of hot tea, it made perfect sense) to see him standing there with his head tucked neatly under his arm, long brown hair playing down over his sleeve. He wore a pleasant smile, and his mustache and goatee looked as if they came right from the painting.

“Excuse me.” Said King Charles the First’s served head, in a voice that was eloquent and overly polite. Simon clutched his keys in his hands tightly. He was dreaming, he nodded numbly.

“Do you happen to know where the exit is?” King Charles the First’s Severed head asked. Simon gulped and slowly turned back around. He was in shock. He unlocked the doors and opened them wordlessly.

“Um.” He said, his voice quivering.

“This way, your Highness.” He whimpered. King Charles the First’s Severed head smiled and his headless body began to move towards the door - Simon curled in on himself as he passed.

“Thank you, young man.” King Charles the First’s Severed head said. Simon nodded and almost fainted when he saw Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip pass to leave the Chapel. Prince Phillip waved and gave him a cheeky smile.

The dead would rise first - Jesus said, and they were indeed.

Chapter Text

Dear Diary,

It has been quite the hectic week, what with the end of the world going on and all that, so I simply have not had the time to put pen to paper, as it were. I’ve been keeping a journal for about 3000 years now - maybe even longer? I must confess, when you write to yourself every single day about the happenings of the day, they all just seem to meld into one giant memory.

But this week has been quite the exception - I’ve just not had the time to dedicate to such an activity, but now I do, and it brings me a small sense of comfort. Even though I am sitting in a room that is completely unfamiliar to me, alien even, it is so cold here, there is no warmth - no emotion, nothing. Everything is just white, pristine, unnerving - I feel like I am being watched all the time, though I do suppose I am now.

I know I am, this has been made abundantly clear to me. It’s oppressive, to be quite plain. I despise being here, this has never felt like a home to me. There is none of my characteristic clutter like I have back in my bookshop. As I write this, my heart breaks at the thought of the place, I do miss it terribly. I trust Muriel is looking after it now, and I suppose Crowley is there too - he knows better than to sell my books - though I would not be surprised if he has cleared it all out since our last… encounter. I'd rather not think about it.

The end of the word starts today and I have just had the impossible honour of heralding the arrival of our Lord, by being granted the privilege to blow the horn of God (Footnote: Upon reading this back, that innuendo was rather lost on Aziraphale.), it is such an indescribable honour to be asked to undertake such a task. But I don't feel honoured, I don't feel proud, I feel disgusted. 

I must confess that I have been questioning, over the last couple of hours, the decisions I have made to get me to this point - from giving my sword to Adam in Eden, to the Arrangement with Crowley, to the moment I stepped into the lift. Most of my decisions have ended up working well in the end - but this is where that trend ends, I think. I should not have left, though I fear that perhaps the end would still be nigh - the only difference here is that I had a hand in it.

I genuinely believed I would be here to end suffering - but after today - I do not believe this anymore.

I was standing on the edge of the heavenly plain, watching as the first dead in Christ began to arrive in heaven for our Lord to re-ascend to meet them. I watched them come, and I saw faces in that crowd that I knew were not deserving of this - of this love, of this forgiveness, this paradise. Those who have claimed to be men and women of God, but have only used the name of the almighty to divide, to segregate, to spread hatred. 

Abusers and despicable humans who have committed unspeakable acts in the name of God - if these are the people that we are letting into our eternal paradise, are we no better than Hell itself? Does this mean that Satan can proclaim himself a man of the Lord and return? If we are allowing any old folk in - what is the difference between the two sides? Is there such a thing as good and evil? Perhaps there are only ever differing shades of grey.

At the time I had asked the Metatron why such people were here. He gave me a face that one would give a misbehaving child (I am often made to feel like one here, I must admit.) and told me in an overly curt voice that they were deserving of God - that they had dedicated their lives to the Almighty and were now reaping that reward. I knew better than to prod, but I knew he was wrong - some of these individuals had uttered the name of the Lord on their lips and with the same mouth had spat poison amongst the masses.

I then asked him what the point of such an event was (for that had actually never been made clear to me, not even in the reams of paperwork I was forced to read.) In retrospect, I should have kept my mouth shut, as he looked awfully disappointed with me.

“The end times will help everyone.” He finished the conversation bluntly - not actually even answering my question. I then posed a question to myself - how would the end times help everyone if most of them are dead? The thought boggles me, the point of all of this bothers me. Why create a planet so rich and vibrant, just to destroy it all in a blaze of hellfire and holy light? 

As such is the ineffable plan - which I have spent all of my life defending - energy I think now, which may have been better used elsewhere. What if there is no Ineffable Plan? What if the almighty is exactly as the humans are, just blundering their way through life, pretending and hoping that they are doing the right thing? That thought terrifies me… Upon reflection -  I prefer the idea of the plan.

I have spent the last 6000 years dedicating myself to this blasted plan, the end game, the plan that God had for the universe. Having faith, love, and hope in the fact that this plan was good. It is not good. It is a means to an end, like I am. I feel like I am being proverbially pulled from one side of my moral conscience to the other. 

I saw Maggie and Nina today. I am so pleased to see that they are growing closer, and so delighted to see them both so happy with each other. That. was a decision I was glad to have made, glad to have been able to have a hand in helping them find happiness in each other's arms - if only I was capable of doing that for myself. I watched them as they huddled together in Nina’s Coffee Shop (with its bizarre name, who would want coffee or death? I prefer tea), watching as Jesus heralded the beginning of the end times. They looked so frightened, Maggie was clutching so hard onto Nina’s hand in fear that poor Nina had tears in her eyes.

The Metatron did not appreciate the fact I asked him whether they were worthy, he just made a tutting noise and clenched his jaw -  which I assume only means that they are not ‘good’ enough. Perhaps what I believe as good is not quite what it actually is. Or the other way round-  I suspect the latter to be the case here. 

I realise now that I have spent 6000 years dedicating myself to a cause I do not really align with and it is heartbreaking. It comes to something when a Demon is right about something - for Crowley was correct. I understand that there is no such thing as good or evil, nothing as plain and clear as right or wrong. Nothing is ever black or white. There is only an in-between, a vast space between the two choices that encompasses most of humanity. 

People going about doing ‘Good’ but hurting others, people ‘saving’ each other but only really tying the noose around their necks. 

People sing the Almighty as a convenient excuse to take advantage of one another, to trod on the other man to raise themselves above the flood water. When humanity is such a way, who are we to judge? If the only way to be saved is to dedicate yourself to a cause, even if you don’t believe it, what is the point in choosing them - what makes them any different from anyone else?

My head hurts and I feel like I am tying myself up in knots trying to make sense of it. No matter how many times I write this down, or what metaphors I use to try to explain how I feel I always, ultimately end up a the same place. 

What is happening now is not right - and I need to do all I can to stop the crash that I have started. I will do anything to set things right, I will dedicate myself to my divine duty.

I hear the sound of people approaching my office. I suppose this is the end. Farewell.

~

Aziraphale closed the journal with a snap and placed his pen on the cover. He sucked in a breath to give himself some resolve and got to his feet. He answered the door before Michael could properly rap on it. They were standing in a military uniform, something akin to what an Army commander in the First World War would wear, Aziraphale observed, but it was a brilliant white. Michael adjusted the hat on their head in such a way that was trying to fetch a compliment, but It did not work, Aziraphale could not care less.

“Supreme Archangel.” They said, bowing. “It is time.” They added, a wide grin spreading across their face. Aziraphale gave a terribly resigned nod.

With hands drawn behind his back and a pit in the bottom of his stomach, Aziraphale followed Michael to the atrium. 

Upon entering, Azirapahle’s ears were greeted by a sound that sounded remarkably like thousands of bees buzzing about the place. The atrium was abuzz with activity, angels were skittering around the place. Some had bundles of uniforms in their arms, some were chattering excitedly to echother, this being the first bit of action they were getting in a long time - some were staring at the weapons they were being handed with an extreme looks of confusion. 

“Aziraphale.” The Metatron said politely, bowing his head. “The battle is almost upon us.” He added, watching as Aziraphale glanced around the room furtively. He nodded, a nervous smile on his face and a breath caught in his throat.

“Ah yes.” He said distractedly, looking for Muriel in the crowds of angels.

“Exciting stuff.” He added, punching the air. The Metatron pursed his lips and gestured to Uriel, who was standing next to him, a bundle of items in their arms. Aziraphale dragged his eyes form the room to the pile Uriel was holding. 

“Your Uniform - Supreme Archangel.” Uriel said, bowing their head. 

Aziraphale looked from Uriel and back to the Metatron again, who was watching him expectantly. Aziraphale clicked his fingers and gestured with his hand up his body and down again, the uniform replacing his tailored white suit.  He looked down at himself, he was wearing a white Napoleonic Hussar jacket. 

Aziraphale made a face and adjusted the shiny silver eppaulates on his shoulders. He frowned and pulled the sleeves of the jacket down, fingers running over the gold stitchwork. He felt ridiculous, but suspected that the uniform looked rather fetching on him. He put two fingers down the fabric at his throat and pulled it away, smiling sheepishly, it was a bit tight.

“Very nice.” He said, pulling the other sleeve down, not only was the damn thing too tight, the sleeves were ever so slightly too short on him too. He brushed himself down and sighed - he supposed just like him, that the jacket was not made for the role. Aziraphale looked up at the Metatron and over his left shoulder, he spotted Muriel. As soon as they made eye contact with him, they waved excitedly. Azirapahel felt his heart leap, it was time. He smiled back and glanced at the Metatron.

“Sir.” Aziraphale said, his tone shifting down to something more serious. “May I speak with you about an urgent matter?” He asked, trying to not fiddle with the sleeves, he wanted to appear confident, despite the fact his stomach suddenly felt like it was writhing with worms. The Metatron frowned.

“About?” He asked, watching as Aziraphale drew his lips into a thin line.

“An urgent matter.” He repeated, glancing back at Muriel, who bounced on their heels and waved again, his eyes slid back over to the Metatron.

“It requires some…” He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Discrection.” He finished, lacing his hands behind his back. The metatron nodded and waved a hand at Aziraphale, gesturing him to follow. He stepped away from the crowds in the atrium, to a slightly quieter corner.

“Yes, Aziraphale?” The Metatron asked, raising an eyebrow expectantly, he looked tired, as if he was bracing himself for the angel to ask or say something incredibly stupid. He placated the urge to backhand the Supreme Archangel, buy telling himself that it would all at least be over in a few hours.

Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“I have been thinking.” He started, staring at the Metatron and resisting the urge to stare at the floor. He felt a bit sick, but pushed the feeling down, he needed to come across as collected, calm, most importantly - he needed to be convincing. His stomach writhed and he took in a breath.

“I have been distracted.” He carried on, the Metatron narrowed his eyes, he felt his hand twitch, but resisted the urge.

“I understand this now.” Aziraphale gripped his hands tightly, he felt them begin to sweat.

“I truly want to dedicate myself to my devine duty, the best I can. So I have come to the realisation that I cannot do that properly, if I have distractions about the place. “ He carried on, nodding. The metatron folded his arms, his breathing became slightly bated - this wasinteresting, not at all what he was expecting the angel to say. Aziraphale drew in a breath he hoped did not sound too shaky. He felt himself go to rock on his heels, but kept himself planted to the floor.

“Go on.” The Metatron said slowly, the interest creeping up the back of his neck. Aziraphale gave a sharp, obedient nod.

“I think… I need to do something about it - to stop it from - distracting me.” He said, watching as the Metatron raised his eyebrows then relaxed his face, a somewhat pleasant smile grew across his lips.

“Ah.” He said simply. “I see.” He brought a hand to his chin and looked at Aziraphale’s feet, thinking.

“I suppose.” He started, clicking his fingers. It was a sharp noise that made Aziraphale jump. A sword appeared in in the Metatron’s hands. Aziraphale looked up at his face - he looked incredibly smug. The Metatron turned the sword so that the handle was facing Aziraphale - he glazed once at it, then back at the Metatron again. It felt like he was offering him a chance. Aziraphale would take it, anything to complete his divine duty.

“You will be needing this then, won't you?” The Metatron said, his voice was almost kind, his smug look had turned into a smirk - his face made Azirapahle’s insides squirm. 

He nodded and swallowed down a lump that had formed in his throat, something in his head was screaming at him, but he knew that this was the right choice, not the ‘good’ choice or the ‘bad’ one, but the right one. He had gone along with this long enough. He unlaced his hands and tentatively took the hilt.

As soon as his fingers curled around the hilt of the sword, it burst brightly into flames. Aziraphale felt his eyes widen, he swallowed the lump again.

It was almost like he was shaking the hand of a very old and fond friend, it felt so familiar in his hand - he almost felt comforted. Aziraphale started at it, orange fames flickering in his golden eyes.

“I suppose.” He let out a quiet choking noise.

“Excellent.” The Metatron said, looking rather pleased. “I am pleased to hear that you’ve come to your senses at last Aziraphale.” The Metatron said. 

“I will, of course, be there to watch.” He continued, slapping a hand to Aziraphale’s back as he walked way, leaving Aziraphale to stare at the wall, his sword clutched tightly in his now shaking hands.

“I wouldn't want you to miss it.” He said.

Chapter Text

33 AD Jerusalem - After The Last Supper

“Went well then?” Crowley asked, raising his mug to his lips. The man opposite him looked miserable, he stared into his mug with a drawn face. He shrugged. Crowley finished his drink and slammed it against the table, waving to the barman to get him another - he really ought to ask the man sitting opposite how did that water to wine thingy, maybe he could modify it to produce endless amounts of wine. He shelved the thought for a more light-hearted occasion.

The man opposite him sighed and looked up at the demon, he looked tired - his face was drawn and pale - as if he had not been sleeping well. Crowley supposed you wouldn't be sleeping well if you knew that one of your best friends was plotting to murder you.

“I suppose.” Jesus said, his tone resigned. 

“I guess you told them?” Crowley asked, nodding as the barman poured him another mug of wine. Jesus continued to stare into his mug, a doleful expression on his face.

“I did.” His voice was quiet, meek. Crowley nodded encouragingly.

“Who is it then?” Crowley asked, putting his cup to his lips and taking a long drink of wine.

“Judas.” Jesus replied, his voice quiet. Putting his cup back down on the table, Crowley made a noise in agreement.

“Makes sense.” He said taking another drink, nodding sagely. He had suspected as much, the bugger had always been a bit of a slimy git - and hell was good at influencing those types. He took another drink and watched as Jesus sighed. He felt a twinge of pity for the man, and then remembered that he was the most powerful thing the Earth had ever seen and he was acting as if he had no choice, or control over the matter. Crowley knew that if Jesus wanted to, that he could blink and obliterate everyone in the tavern with just as much as a mere flick of his wrist. He was far too much the goody-two-shoes type to actually do that, but Crowley knew he could and that was the point, so he decided to prod the nest.

“And you're just going to let this happen?” He asked, leaning forward on his arms and watching as Jesus took a slow drink. He took the cup from his lips and stared hard at it. Jesus sighed and shook his head slowly, eyes moving from his cup, back up to Crowley again

“I have no choice.” He said, resigned, shrugging his shoulders. Crowley scoffed.

“Ex-excuse me?” Aziraphale said tentatively, clutching his cup to his chest and looking inquisitively at the gentleman who he was trying to sit with. The man glanced up from the table he was staring intently at. He looked like he had been crying.

“Hmm?” He said, eyes taking in the impractical white robes. He made a face to himself,  who wore white robes in the middle of a desert city? Aziraphale gave a gentle smile.
“Is anyone sitting here?” He asked, pointing at the chair opposite and shuffling forward hopefully, the man sighed and shook his head, eyes drifting back down to the table.

“No, go ahead.” He said, pulling his cup close to him and staring into the bottom of it. Aziraphale’s smile grew wider, he nodded and pulled out the chair with a scraping noise.

“Why thank you.” He said politely as he sat down, offering a courteous smile. The man opposite, scratched at his beard and shook his hair out of his face. Aziraphale nodded to himself, yes - this was the man he was after. He took a deep breath, almost puffing himself up to give him the confidence to do what he was going to do next.

“Aziraphale. By the way.” He said, sticking out a hand. The man looked at it with a look of mild confusion, nodded slowly and took his hand tentatively.

“Judas.” He muttered. Aziraphale knew this already, but he nodded anyway.

“Well - I didn't warn you for nothing you know.” Crowley said, watching Jesus over the top of his dark spectacles.

He had overheard one of the other Dukes of Hell conspiratorially whispering to Beezlebub about something happening to Jesus, something big - something quite permanent. Despite his demonic nature, he rather liked the guy - he was a right laugh and a good guy to take on a night out, so despite the trouble it could get him in, he decided to intervene - as much as he could anyway.

“You gonna do anything about it? You’ve sat on this for long enough.” He said, Jesus gave him a tired, frustrated look, he almost rolled his eyes.

“I’m not going to do anything.” He said pointedly. Crowley shrugged.

“Why not? You could leave, you know.” He said matter-of-factly and took another drink from his mug, Jesus made a face at him and finally committed to rolling his eyes. Crowley put his mug down and raised his eyebrows, he pointed a finger at the other man.

“Don’t make that face. I know we've had this conversation before and your life is infinitely more valuable than whatever you have here. Bugger it - run away.” He said, waving his hand around, the displeased look on Crowley’s face made the other man splutter out a broken laugh.

“Where to? You can’t run from everything Crowley.” He said, staring at him intently.

“Sure you can.” Crowley replied, giving a shrug and curling his top lip in an indifferent frown. Jesus gave a resigned sigh and looked about the tavern, trying to avoid the piercing yellow stare of the man sat opposite him.

“Its for the greater good, Crowley” He said quietly, feeling himself walk into a proverbial trap. Crowley let out a loud snort.

“Greater good, my arse.” He scoffed, upper lip curling more into a sneer, he waved his hand about.

“God just uses you in their overly complicated game of chess. Aren't you sick of it?” He asked, watching as Jesus let out another mournful sigh, eyes defeated.

“I do what I am told - I don’t have a choice here.” He said quietly, arms folding across his chest, wanting to turn the tide of the conversation to warmer, more comfortable waters.

“You do, you always do.” Crowley said forcefully, after a lengthy pause, the conversion steering back into the frigid tides of the ocean. Jesus sighed and stared squarely nto the black spectacles of the man opposite.

“Sorry Crowley.”

The man sat opposite Aziraphale had been drinking quite a bit since he had sat down, a collection of mugs scattered around him - Aziraphale felt only slightly guilty at being the cause of this. Well - he wasn’t getting anywhere with the man sober, it was best to get hm lathered up a bit. Besides the more of this conversation the man opposite him could forget the next day, the better, as far as Aziraphale was concerned.

“I don't want to do it. Do you think I want to betray one of my closest friends?” Judas said, unfocused eyes glancing about the room, Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply.

“Ah right well -” He began

“I used to believe in everything he said - I just.” Judas interrupted him, gesturing widely to the room, upon realising the volume of his words, he closed his mouth sharply.

“I shouldn’t be talking to you about this.” He said, taking another drink.

“I won't say anything.” Aziraphale said solemnly, resisting the urge to cross his heart, possibly a bit distasteful if he did.

“With all due respect Mr Fell - I don't believe you. That's why you're here, isn't it? To try to talk me out of it?” Judas continued, putting his mug back on the table and giving Aziraphale a somewhat dirty look. The sight of it made him recoil backwards slightly, the hate radiating off of this man was hideous - hell had really done a number on him.

“Well  not officially, no.” He said quietly, eyes drifting down to the table. No, he was not here on official business, he was in fact strictly told not to interfere - that this was, something that the almighty had planned on doing - allowing hell to influence one of Jesus’ mot trusted followers to lead him to his death. They had called it a chance for a fresh ‘re-brand and refocus of the department's image’ though he was not sure what that meant. He just didn’t think it was right and wondered if he could make a difference. Judas looked at him with a face of mild disbelief and distaste.

“No? You're telling me that you're not going to stage a divine intervention? That's what you types like doing, right?” He looked Aziraphale up and down. Aziraphale shook his head.

“No one knows I'm here.” He said quietly, eyes scanning the tavern - luckily he recognised none of the faces.

“That's almost worse.” Judas said, his tone resigned, he pinched at the bridge of his nose and sighed. Aziraphale drew his eyes back to him, he sat with his head in his hands.

“How?” He asked.

“They've not actually sent someone to stop me - you’ve come on your own.” Judas paused to take another drink. Aziraphale felt a prickle of shame creep across the back of his neck.

“Goes to show how much they care.” Judas said bitterly, face plain and emotionless, he put his mug back onto the table with a bit too much force and a very loud sigh. 

“They do they're just… Busy.” Aziraphale said, giving a look mixed with unease and pity - it seemed to sour on Judas as his frown deepened. 

“Right.” He huffed out. “We’re all pawns in this infinite game of cosmic chess. God doesn’t care about any of us.” He got to his feet and turned to leave. Just before he did, he turned back to look at Aziraphale, a look of hatred brewing in his cloudy eyes.

“God likes throwing things at a wall and going with whatever sticks. But I have made up my mind, I know what I have to do.”

Aziraphale let out a desperate sigh, fingers itching to do something, but bound by the wishes of those higher than him, he span his mug in his hands, his mind was a bit of a whirl. Unbeknownst to him, on the other side of the city, in a very similar tavern, Crowley was doing the same thing.

~

Aziraphale fiddled with his sleeves as he stood on the edge of the heavenly plan, his stomach a knot of squirming, terrible emotions. He furrowed his brow and stared intently at the plain of Earth below him, he swallowed. He felt as if he had his hands tied behind his back, he was running out of time, options and choices. He scoffed at himself - as if he ever had any choices in the first place. This entire situation was carefully engineered. They had make him think he had a choice, but behind his back they were just tightening the ropes. He closed his eyes for a second and relished in the pre battle silence, he tried to find the same peace in his head, but his thoughts just kept rolling in, storm cloud after storm cloud, relentless and muddling. 

~

Adam rested his chin on the back of his hand and watched as large droplets of rain slid down the windows of the Bentley, he watched them dully. Next to him, Crowley was stretched out, seat back, with his head titled back against the headrest. Adam was fairly certain he was asleep, but he couldn't tell - his sunglasses were in the way. Adam made a face and turned his gaze back to the window, his fathers voice in his head telling him that ‘people who wear sunglasses in the rain are absolute idiots ’. He sighed, he disagreed - he thought it was cool - but he was a teenager, he didn't have any taste.

“Alright?” Crowley asked, sensing Adam move next to him, the boy sighed again.

“Yeah.” His voice came back croaky, frightened, Crowley lifted his head.

“It'll be alright kid - you’ve made the right choice coming here.” He said matter-of-factly, sliding his glasses down his nose.

“Right.” Adam stared hard out the window, he wished it would stop raining, it was so depressing. The rain started to ease.

“I just.” He sighed again, Crowley was certain that sighing was just another language that teenagers used to communicate.

“I just hope we can stop this.” He said, as the clouds began to clear. Crowley looked up at the sky and nodded, neglecting to mention that hope was an invention of the almighty and was just as fickle as they - as fickle as someone who was powerful enough to throw things at a wall and go with whatever stuck. He sighed and pushed his glasses back up his nose - some things are best left unsaid. He folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes. Tomorrow was going to be a big day, he figured it was best to while away the time asleep.

Chapter Text

Thursday: The end of the world as we know it. 

Aziraphale watched as a storm cloud rolled across the wide expanse of desert. It was odd to think, that 6000 years ago, this was once a veritable paradise, lush and green. He remembered the first storm, how strange the raindrops felt against his skin, how uncomfortable he felt, standing next to the demon that had just tempted Eve. How he felt his stomach squirm, he was so afraid that he would be caught, but so pleased he was no longer alone. He stood with Crowley on the wall of Eden at the beginning and now he stood here, alone - at the end of it all. The angels had begun to line themselves along the edge of the heavenly plain, beginning to prepare themselves for battle, their excited, incessant chatter did nothing to ease his mounting anxieties. Neither did the ominous black fog that seemed to rise from the ground, coagulating and furling, as if it were some living, breathing creature.

“On time, makes a change.” The Metatron snorted next to him, his haughty gaze observing as the smoke-like fog began to solidify into the form of thousands of demons. Old colleagues, friends of his - Aziraphale tried hard not to think about it. As both sides began to form, he let out a trembling breath. The storm clouds began to break, creating an almost solid curtain of rain.

“I’m glad you are here, sir.” He said, turning his head to look at the Metatron, he gave a curt nod.

“I would not miss this for the world, Aziraphale - I’m proud you’ve come to your senses.” He said, clapping a hand to his back. An earlier version of Aziraphale would have burst from pride at such a statement, but this only made him feel dirty, used, and terribly, terribly guilty. Thunder echoed across the desert plain, sounding like the rolling of a thousand war drums. Aziraphale let out another breath, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He was pulled from his thoughts as the angels about him began to titter excitedly, their noises sounded almost giddy - hundreds of pairs of eyes peered behind Aziraphale, as he heard someone approach, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand, he turned around.

“Metatron?” A voice asked, Aziraphale blinked as he recognised the man from the photograph - the man he chose to carry the spirit of Jesus, naught but a few days ago - though he felt like it was a lifetime ago now. The Metatron bowed his head and Aziraphale copied.

“My Lord.” He said solemnly, the man nodded. He looked to Aziraphale and held out a hand.

“Supreme Archangel Aziraphale, a pleasure to meet you.” He said evenly, his voice didn’t quite suit his face, though he supposed it would have been a secondhand body. He nodded.

“The pleasure is all mine.” He said, offering a small smile, the other man grinned lopsidedly.

A large clap of thunder made him jump, as a brilliant flash of lightning struck the ground in the middle of the battlefield. Aziraphale felt his heart soar as he spotted Crowley as the smoke cleared. He tried to keep an even face, feeling the Metatron’s eyes on him. Adam stood with him, looking about himself with a sense of trepidation. He gripped Crowley’s hand tightly. The demons that had started to form on the other side of the battlefield began to bay and screech at the sight of the Antichrist, they seemed pleased that he was here.

“Wait, is that Adam?” The vessel of Jesus asked, in a voice that was not quite the same as the one that greeted Aziraphale. An odd look passed over Jesus’ face, almost as if someone else took possession of his features, he squinted, and then the look went away and was replaced with a face of indignation.

“You know the antichrist and you didn't tell me?” Jesus asked, Aziraphale looked about himself trying to figure out who Jesus was talking to. It wasn’t until he looked hard at the man, that he could see two souls jammed into one body. One a brilliant shade of gold and the other a luscious shade of green. That made sense.

John frowned and blinked.

“I - what?” He said, his voice sounding different. He looked bewildered, wide eyes scanning the place - he blinked again and his eyes settled on Adam - he made a face that was half confused, half mildly impressed. “The antichrist? Sure he misbehaves at school bu -” He began, but before he could finish his sentence, the voice from before came from his mouth and interrupted him.

“No - he is the actual Antichrist!” He dramatically gestured at the boy, Aziraphale watched as a representative from hell approached Crowley and the Antichrist with a timid bow. A few words were exchanged between the demon and Crowley before Adam, who looked thoroughly offended, snapped his fingers. 

A beam of crackling lighting came from the heavens and hit the demon, leaving only behind a scorch mark. The demons on the other side of the plain abruptly stopped their screeching - and stared in horror as their antichrist began calling more bolts of lightning down from the sky - scorching as many as he could. From where he was standing, Aziraphale saw Crowley wear the same face a proud parent does when their child learns to ride a bike.

“Oh.” Aziraphale let out a long breath - he suspected that this was not supposed to happen. However, given the last time hell tried to control Adam, he was not surprised it ended up like this.

“Isn't he supposed to not be on our side?” He heard Michael’s voice ask quietly, no one answered for a second, this was not on Aziraphale's carefully planned itinerary for the day. Aziraphale saw Crowley nudge Adam, who turned his head to face him, eyes ablaze. With a large shit-eating grin, Crowley pointed to the heavenly plain, to Jesus - with a large grin Adam stuck his tongue out and gave them all a giant middle finger as he started to rise from the ground.

“He isn’t on any side by the looks of it.” Metatron blustered, clearly miffed by such a blatant sign of disrespect. It was the same kind of face an elderly grandparent would have given you, if you told them that you were now into Anime.

“Is that doing to a problem, Metatron?” Jesus asked sternly, placing a firm hand on the other man’s shoulder, he let out a sigh.

“No. Aziraphale will sort it.” He remarked and raised his hand, making all the archers along the edge of the plain raise their bows. Aziraphale felt his stomach come alive and began writhing with anxiety. He paused and stared down at Crowley, he said nothing but wore a face full of anger. Aziraphale drew in a shuddering breath. He didn't want this anymore.

"Aziraphale?"  Micheal asked sharply.

"The armies of heaven are waiting for your command, give it!" They hissed, he could feel the cold gaze of the Metatron on him. Aziraphale hesitated, why did it have to be him? His heart ached, he blinked back tears and a choke rose in his chest, he tried to swallow it back.

"Aziraphale. Give the command." The Metatron hissed at him, his eyes fervid, tone pointed, he could feel Jesus’ eyes on his back.

“Give the order!” Michael barked again.

Aziraphale blinked back sticky tears, closed his eyes, and took three deep breaths. Crowley was still standing in the middle when he opened his eyes, he could feel his gaze burning him. Aziraphale clenched his fists. He was doing this for love, he was doing this as part of his divine duty.

"Onward Angels!" He shouted, Crowley looked dismayed, the look made Aziraphale wince. Adam tugged on the sleeve of Crowley’s jacket and Crowley shook his head as a pair of large black wings sprouted from his back.

The echoes of war cries rolled over the valley like thunder, the rain was still coming down fiercely, and Crowley’s hair was stuck to his face. The grey sky was suddenly illuminated with the bright light of hundreds of thousands of arrows - their holy light finding their targets and sinking deeply into demon flesh. Screams mingled with the cries of war as the angels charged downwards - it was a devastating sight, one that Aziraphale could not tear his eyes away from. Crowley and Adam responded in kind smiting and bringing down any angel or demon that approached them. The Metatron snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Aziraphale.” He said, Aziraphale stiffened and tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, it was time and he knew it.

“Do what you must.” He said nonchalantly, eyes staring holes straight through Azirapahle. He pursed his lips, swallowed thickly, and nodded curtly. This was business, after all. He unfurled his wings and took a step off of the edge of the heavenly plain.

And so, the mighty Angel came down from the heavens. It looked as if he were robed in a cloud, with a rainbow above his head. His face was like the sun and he was bathed in a brilliant holy light. A golden circle of light shone from around his head, backlighting his white curls, making them look like they were spun from thin threads of gold. His large white wings cast shadows upon the demons writhing on the ground, they bayed and shrank away from him.

In his hand he held a flaming sword, the flames lapped the blade like water against the shore. It did not look right in his gentle hands, but he gripped it with a steely resolve. He reviewed the battle below him with cold gold eyes, then suddenly, they locked onto Crowley. Aziraphale’s feet touched the ground, he was terrifyingly beautiful, Crowley took a few steps backward in surprise. Aziraphale bared the sword, and Crowley blinked.

“Aziraphale.” He said. The angel did not respond but kept his gaze on him steady and level. He tried to stay the shake in his hands.

The angel stared at him, Crowley could see the tears budding in his eyes, his eyebrows were knitted together and his grip on his sword was so tight that his knuckles were white.

“Supreme Archangel Aziraphale.” He corrected, lifting his sword higher and advancing on Crowley, somewhat threateningly. Crwley narrowed his eyes and instinctively raised his hands as he took another step backward, narrowly missing a bolt of lightning that destroyed a demon that dared to venture too close - Adam yelled profanity at it.

“What are you-” Crowley began, a look between disbelief and disgust on his face.

“I’m here to end this.“ Aziraphale responded, his voice carrying a slight tremble as he raised his sword higher. Crowley spluttered and if it was even possible at this point, his heart broke a bit more. 

“This?” He gestured to himself, screwing his face up in apparent confusion.

“You.” Aziraphale choked, he was weeping now, making no effort to hide the tears sliding down his face. Crowley slowly shook his head. Aziraphale was getting closer. 

“They’ve sent you to kill me, haven't they?” He asked, gesturing to where he could see the angels standing, lining the heavenly plain. Aziraphale shook his head.

“This was my choice.” He said, his voice shaking. Crowley stopped backing away, his face contorting into a mixture of uneasiness and hurt.

“My duty.” He said, his voice trembling and cracked. Crowley ignored the feeling of pity tugging at his heart. He felt disgusted, betrayed by the one he had stayed behind for, he sneered at Aziraphale, his lip curling. 

“Do it then.” He said coldly. Aziraphale did not move, his hands were shaking, the flames on the sword sputtering. Crowley knew that the Angel wouldn’t be able to, the fact made him want to goad the angel.

“Go on then!” Crowley shouted, making Aziraphale flinch, he spread his arms wide, offering himself up. Aziraphale still didn’t move, he was sobbing now, and his breathing was shaky.

“I-I” He stuttered, lifting his sword higher.

Crowley felt tears bud in the corners of his eyes, he tilted his head back and stared at Aziraphale, determined, steely. His eyes seemed to flash dangerously, he took a daring step forward as Aziraphale shrank back, and he sucked in a breath.

“Do it.” Crowley said quietly, he swallowed a lump in his throat as he looked into those foreign golden eyes, searching for the angel that he thought he knew.

“If it was going to be anyone, I’d want it to be you.” 

Aziraphale stepped forward and grabbed Crowley’s scarf. With desperation, he pulled the demon towards him in a kiss.

From their position on the Heavenly Plain, the other angels watched. The Metatron tutted and rolled his eyes.

“They’ve been on Earth too long.” He mused. Human emotions disgusted him - they were too complicated, too many things at once. Never simple, never black, nor white. He never understood why the almighty had designed them that way - something to do with ‘making the entire experience a bit more fun to play with’ whatever that meant, he never really understood them, if he was going to be honest with you. Uriel watched the Supreme Archangel with mounting curiosity, they began to feel something in their chest, a flutter, a flicker of something. It shocked them. Jesus clenched his jaw. Whilst their lips were pressed together, Aziraphale was still clutching the flaming sword in his hand, his grip on it seemed to tighten. His arm tensed. Aziraphale paused. 

Then he brought the sword up to stab Crowley in the gut. His eyes snapped open and he seemed to make a spluttering sound as he stumbled backward, the sword embedded into his stomach, the demon looked wildly at Azirpahle who watched as he staggered and fell to his knees, chest heaving with exertion. The archangel approached and withdrew the sword. The demon fell to the ground, a dark liquid seeping from him. His form is unmoving and his chest seemed to slow in its movements. Michael was making a cheering noise, and for the first time since they were created, Uriel felt real confusion. They looked about themselves as the chaos on the battlefield unfolded, it was horrific - not glorious like it had been promised. They took a small step back and their eyes met Saraquel, who gripped the rests of their chair so tight their knuckles were white. Saraquel’s face was drawn, grim.

Uriel dragged their eyes back to Aziraphale, who knelt next to the demon and heaved the sword from his body, he raised it above his head. Uriel looked away, and Michael cheered again. John swallowed thickly as the sword was driven back again through the demon's chest, finishing off the job, he turned his head to look away, he could feel bile rising in his throat, he wanted to be sick. Jesus turned his head back, and he swallowed. He could hear John exclaiming in his head: ‘What the fuck?!’ Jesus shook his head and thought back in response: ‘He didn’t have a choice.’

Adam was running towards the felled demon, his face contorted in rage, lightning crackling between his fingers as he ran - he was shouting, though John could not hear what he was shouting - as he approached, the angels broke their ranks and descended towards the earth, crying and singing as they went, swords raised.

The Metatron was pleased with the work that his Supreme Archangel had done, his Supreme   Archangel who was now standing over the demon, the flaming sword was in his hand again, but now it dripped with blood. The Metatron gave a satisfied nod as Aziraphale looked up at him. The Archangel unfurled his wings and began his ascent back to heaven.

Chapter Text

There was a moment of silence before the Metatron cleared his throat, face plain and practically unbothered by the sight that unfolded in the battle plain. He stepped backward as Aziraphale came to a rest on the edge of the plain, his wings furling neatly away. Aziraphale let out a shuddering breath as he sheathed his sword and raised his head to face the smug smile of the Metatron, he felt disgust rise like burning bile in his throat, though he was not sure who he was more disgusted at, the man in front of him or himself. The Metatron clapped a rough hand on his back, making him stumble forward slightly, he let out a shaking, nervous laugh as the Metatron congratulated him on a job well done. Aziraphale felt his eyes dart from the Metatron to Jesus, who reached out a hand - Jesus was shorter than he imagined. Aziraphale shook it tentatively, ignoring the way that the Lord wiped the dark blood from his hand on his leg. With a head utterly incapable of forming any semblance of coherent thought, other than immense grief, he found his feet taking him to the edge of the heavenly plain, he watched - with glazed eyes - as Muriel ran across the battlefield, dodging blade and claw and tooth to get towards the Antichrist. Adam was now defending the lifeless - he could not bear to think of it as Crowley - form on the ground as if he were a dog defending a bone from another, Muriel waved wildly at the boy.

“Metatron,” Jesus said, Aziraphale forced his head to look round, swallowing back his sudden nerves.

“May I have the Book of Life please?” He asked, clasping his hands together and looking about.

“It is time to judge the worthy.” He finished, with a satisfied hum - the Metatron nodded and Michael leaped from the room, over eager to please as always.

Jesus shook his head as he felt a tug of trepidation from John, the other man's presence in his head was getting smaller and smaller, it saddened him a bit.

 A few moments later Michael returned. They slunk into the room and it gave Aziraphale great glee to see the drawn look of sheer terror and panic in their eyes, it almost gave him courage. Michael approached the Metatron with the same apprehension as a child when they knew they’d done something terribly wrong.

“Sir.” They hissed, gesturing to bring the Metatron in. Aziraphale leaned in, wanting to hear this. A few hushed words were exchanged and the Metatron hissed back in a very sharp tone, Michael left the room again. The Metatron drew himself back up, eyes flashing with a sense of irritation, Aziraphale clasped his hads together, to stave off the trembling. The atmosphere was awkward - Uriel and Saraquel exchanged looks of mild confusion. Micheal returned a few moments later, their eyes even wider than before, completely empty-handed.

“Sir, I can’t find it.” They said frantically, their hands splayed wide. The Metatron huffed and left the room, muttering to himself.

Aziraphale wrung his hands with mounting, tingling nerves as the awkward tension settled in the room. When the Metatron returned, Aziraphle could not hide the incredibly smug grin that crept onto his face, as he too looked terrified.

“It - it's not -.” He spluttered, Aziraphale took a big step backward as the Metatron’s wide, cold eyes, settled on his face. The panic disappeared and as he looked at Aziraphale, he could see the rage begin to cloud in his cold eyes, he took another step away as the Metatron started advancing towards him, his nostrils flaring slightly as he took in long, seething breaths,

“You.” He hissed, Aziraphale let his grin grow larger as he took another large step backward.

“What have you done? The Metatron prowled towards him, he pointed a trembling finger at Aziraphale, who refused to cower backward, even though - despite the grin on his face was absolutely terrified. Jesus frowned at the sudden rage, looking between the Metatron and Aziraphale with a mounting degree of confusion.

“Metatron? What's going on?” He asked, the Metatron did not take his eyes off Aziraphale as he advanced.

“The Book of Life.” The words came from the Metatron spat and livid, his face was getting steadily redder.

“It's gone.”

Ten minutes ago - for my next trick…

~

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said,  Aziraphale did not respond to him but kept his gaze steady and level. Crowley looked into his golden eyes, he did not like how cold they made the other man look. As the angel stared, Crowley could see tears begin to form in his eyes as his eyebrows began to knit together, Crowley could tell something was bubbling way inside.

When Aziraphale spoke, his voice trembled with the anguish of the task at hand.

“ Supreme Archangel Aziraphale.” He corrected, lifting his sword higher. Crowley frowned as Aziraphale approached him, a thinly threatening aura emanating from him, it felt alien. He dodged a bolt of lightning that Adam brought down on a demon - he swore at it, Crowley was almost proud. 

“What are you -” He began, feeling the features on his face twist into a look of disgust.

“I’m here to end this. “ He heard Aziraphale respond, lifting the sword higher. The breath Crowley was drawing stuck in his throat as the words registered in his brain. He lifted his hands and gestured to himself.

“This?”

“You.” Aziraphale choked, Crowley could see that Aziraphale was crying now, he shook his head to clear his brain from the pity that threatened to overwhelm him, he began to feel anger, lapping like a warm fire at his fingertips.

“They’ve sent you to kill me, haven't they?” He asked, gesturing up to where he could see the pricks standing on the Heavenly Plain, looking down on them all with their egotistical gazes - as if they were infallible. They were, by definition, but they didn’t have to be arseholes about it. Aziraphale did not take his eyes off of the demon, he opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, he swallowed.

“This was my choice.” He said, his voice shaking. 

Crowley dragged his eyes back to Aziraphale, mouth slightly agape with surprise.

“My duty ,” Aziraphale added, his voice breaking on the last word, Crowley clenched his jaw as he swallowed and shook his head as disgust clenched his stomach. He looked away briefly, the lifeline he had holding him here had finally snapped - he should have seen it coming, the fraying had started a long time ago. He let out a breath and turned his head back to look at Aziraphale, he sneered.

“Do it then.” He said boldly, daring the angel to try. Aziraphale did not move, Crowley could see now that his hands were shaking.

“Go on then!” He shouted, making Aziraphale flinch, he spread his arms wide, offering himself up. Aziraphale still didn’t move, he was sobbing now, and his breathing was shaky. Crowley knew that he wouldn’t - that he couldn’t. If he did, that would be the sign that the angel he loved was gone.

“I-I” Aziraphale stuttered, lifting his sword higher. Crowley lifted his chin and looked down his nose at Aziraphale, trying to stop the tears from falling down his face.

“Do it.” He said quietly, he swallowed a lump in his throat, and he drew in a lungful of hair, the next sentence coming out soft, broken.

“If it was going to be anyone, I’d want it to be you.” 

He saw the Aziraphale’s eyes soften he reached forward and grasped at his necktie, pulling the demon towards him - a desperate grimace on his face.

“What are you -” Crowley began, the feeling of Aziraphale’s soft lips against his interrupting him. He felt his spine shiver as they made contact, as if it had left his body and made him melt against the angel. A twinge of anger wrenched him from the moment, he suddenly raised his hand to push the angel away, only mildly disgusted that he thought he could just kiss him to make it all better.

“Time, Stop it!” Aziraphale hissed. There was a ringing urgency in his voice that raised the hairs on the back of Crowley’s neck. He raised his hands and brought them down onto Aziraphale’s shoulders. The sounds of the battle stopped abruptly, the ringing of clashing metal rang in his ears, Aziraphale peeled himself away and dropped the sword to the ground, he was hyperventilating.

“Hah…” He forced out, flapping his hands about a bit, his fingers shaking, his whole body seemed to tremble as he took a few stumbling paces back from Crowley.

“Ah, ah,” HIs breaths left him quick and fast as he tried to calm himself down, the effect of a week's worth of bottled-up nerves coursing through his veins. He forced lungfuls of air into his body as he crouched, hands on his knees. Crowley made half an effort to approach, hands raised, but he knew that the angel needed space.

“I - I….” Aziraphale tried to speak, the words coming out hurried and choked, he shook his head, closed his eyes, and swallowed. His chest heaved, and Crowley watched - incredibly confused. Aziraphale made a noise and after a minute or so, his breathing began to level out again, he stood straighter, eyes closed, long breaths coming from his mouth as he composed himself. Each breath bringing his shoulders down. He cleared his throat.

“Thank you, Crowley.” He said, opening his eyes, Crowley looked both unimpressed and confused.

“What on earth are you doing?” He asked brow furrowed, Aziraphale gestured with his hands.

“I’m trying to stop the Rapture.” He answered, eyes wide, head nodding a bit as he spoke. Crowley narrowed his eyes.

“Stop it?” He asked, tilting his head to the side slightly, Aziraphale nodded fervently.

“Yes.” He answered, clasping his hands together, eyes darting about, looking at the frozen faces of the angels and demons around him, Adam was in the middle of flipping someone off - he resisted the urge to tut, but this was not the time.

“How?” Crowley asked, Aziraphale turned his gaze back to him, brain reeling back to the matter at hand - all the while moving a mile a minute.

“By stealing the Book of Life,” Aziraphale said matter of factly, Crowley folded his arms and pursed his lips.

“Stealing it? How?” He asked. A look passed over Aziraphales face, a somewhat mischievous look, he spoke with an odd voice.

“By the classic trick of misdirection ,” Aziraphale said, waving his hands in an arc - Crowley rolled his eyes, it was his magician's voice. He sighed and gave Aziraphale a look that instructed him to continue. A small smile grew across Aziraphale’s face as Crowley indulged him.

“If everyone is watching me kill you, no one is watching the Book of Life, right?” He explained, waving his hands about, as if explaining a magic trick - which he was, really. Crowley huffed out a sigh, this was absurd.

“Right.” He answered, nodding his head, failing to connect the dots. Aziraphale carried on.

“Whilst they are distracted, the book will be taken et voila - gone .” He finished by closing his hands into fists and then releasing them with a gentle poofing sound. Crowley unfolded his arms and blinked - mildly impressed.

“Couldn’t you have just set off the fire alarm?” He asked, watching as the smile faded from Aziraphale’s face as he turned contemplative, bringing a hand to his chin.

“Didn't think of that.” He said quietly, in thought, eyes trained on the ground. Crowley rolled his eyes, half frustrated, half amused, and totally endeared.

“Who’s stealing the book?” He asked, Aziraphale looked up sharply, the smile back on his face again as he opened his mouth to explain.

“Muriel I slipped a - “

Crowley almost slapped himself on the forehead as he registered the words. “A note into a book, that's why she didn't - “ He began, Azirapahle interrupted him with a look.

“Wait, she told you?” He asked, raising his hands, eyebrows knitting together slightly, Crowley nodded, rubbing his face with his hands.
“I was going to leave, she said you might need me - so I -.” He began, Aziraphale’s face softened as he trailed off and Crowley felt his body melt slightly at the face he was giving him. 

“You stayed. For me?” Aziraphale’s voice came out soft, tentative. His eyes were wide and despite them being unrecognizable, Crowley could see that familiar pool of captivation captured within them.
“Aziraphale, it has always been you .” He replied, the words leaving his lips before he had a chance to even register the fact that he said them. The words hung between the two, obvious and bright, Aziraphale’s face softened even more if possible, his lips parted as he let out a soft breath, unable to take his eyes off of the man standing opposite him. The warmth of his words spread from his chest throughout his body. It made him feel giddy.

“I’m sorry Crowley, for all of this - I had to -.” He started, and Crowley shushed him with his hands. 

“I forgive you.” He said solemnly. Aziraphale took hold of Crowley’s face and kissed him softly, the gentleness of it was a stark contrast to how they had met in the past. This kiss was not desperate, nor scared, it was tender and full of love. Crowley wound his arms around Aziraphale’s back and pulled him closer, they pulled apart after a few moments, but remained, foreheads pressed together as Aziraphale let out a choked sob of a laugh, tears in his eyes, feeling utterly overwhelmed by the waves of pure love he felt radiating off of Crowley. The latter grinned at Aziraphale’s laughter.

“What now?” He asked, voice placid, Aziraphale opened his eyes. He blinked, trying to refocus himself on the task at hand. He pulled away slightly.

“You need to - uh - I need to kill you.” He said distractedly, nodding slightly. Crowley pursed his lips and nodded, he broke away and picked the flaming sword from the ground.

“Okay, cool, so stab me.” He said, offering the hilt to Aziraphale with such nonchalance, that Aziraphale thought he was joking, he spluttered a bit, looking between the sword and Crowley with a look of mild bewilderment.

“But I don't want to hurt you.” He said, hands reaching out instinctively to take it from him. Crowley grinned and shrugged, waving away Aziraphales fear with his hand.

“You won't just stab me and I’ll do the rest.” He said, almost joyfully.

“Crowley - “ Aziraphale began

“Most of the important stuff is on the right anyway,” Crowley added, gesturing for Aziraphale to come back to him. Azirapahle was frozen to the spot, trepidation turning the warmth from just a few moments ago into an ice-cold sensation. He swallowed and regarded Crowley with concern as he got back into the position they were in before Crowley stopped time. Seeing the look of concern on his face, Crowley offered a soft, reassuring smile, it wasn’t one Aziraphale had seen often, but it suited him.

“I won't feel a thing, just you.” He said as Aziraphale took hold of his necktie again. He nodded, opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish, unable to quantify his argument with a better response.

“Trust me,” Crowley said, eyes blazing into Aziraphale’s very soul. He felt his resolve re-steel itself and he nodded with a newfound sense of determination.

“I always have.”

The sounds of the battle roared to life once again.

Ten minutes later  - I’ll make this book disappear

“It's gone.” The Metatron seethed, Jesus raised his eyebrows and looked between the two. Aziraphale took another big step backward, hands raising slightly, the grin on his face only getting bigger and bigger with each second that passed.

“You idiot.” The Metatron began, shaking even more now.

“You blithering, dithering fool - do you have any idea what you’ve do-”

Aziraphale raised a hand.

“Now let me stop you there.” He said sternly, taking pleasure in watching as the Metatron gaped.

“I refuse to be called names by anyone, least of all by you .” He said, his golden eyes glinting with irritation.

“I have put up with you and your band of noble recreants for as long as I remember. I am fed up with being used, taken advantage of, or seen as an idiot. When in fact the idiot here is you.” He said boldly, jaw clenched, body taut - ready to fight or fight - and for once in his life he was going to fight. The Metatron turned a delightful shade of puce. The finger he was pointing at him seemed to only shake more as he opened his mouth.

“Azira-” The tone was laced with threat.

“I have heard enough of your threats, with all due respect.” Aziraphale interrupted, waving a hand as if he was waving away the unspoken words.

“Rapture has been stopped. Without the Book of Life, it cannot commence. Can it?” He asked, despite the adrenaline pumping through his veins, Aziraphale’s voice was calm, measured. Dangerous, even.

The Metatron spluttered.

“Why do you bother wasting your time for a species that doesn’t care?” He asked, his voice quivering. Aziraphale smiled broadly, fondly, his eyes shining.

“Because I love them. I love the chaos they create, and the order they try to bring. I love the fact that they hope. They try , even when things are tough, they just don’t seem to give up. Every person bringing worth and value to each other - I refuse to let anyone - least of all you - judge them as worthy on some biased definition -”

Micheal lunged forward and Aziraphale sent them sprawling across the floor with a click of his fingers, he glanced down at them, a look of pity on his face.

“I thought I could fix this place, fix all of this. But I cannot fix something that is so foundationally corrupt.” He said, his head held high, he looked at Uriel - they were gaping at him, whilst Saraquel looked almost proud. Aziraphale failed to notice how pensive Jesus looked as if he was having a chat with himself, the man watched him intently. Aziraphale smiled softly.

“I can’t fix it. But I can as sure as hell bring it down with me.”

The metatron lurched towards him, hands outstretched. 

Aziraphale took another step backwards and fell.

Chapter Text

Crowley was lying on the floor, trying his damned best to not move an inch when he heard Adam let out a piercing cry.

“Crowley!” He screamed, he could hear running footsteps and then another pair approached, this set of footsteps sounded frantic.

“Mr Crowley -” Muriel’s voice floated to his ears. He moved imperceptibly as he heard Muriel kneel beside him.

“I’ve got what Mr Fell asked me for, take it.” He felt something being shoved into his jacket, it was smooth and hard, and a corner poked him in the ribs. It felt, funnily enough, remarkably book shaped, he gave a slight head nod as he heard the scuffle of Muriel getting to their feet.

“What are you doing?!” Adam screeched, Muriel raised their hands and Crowley could hear them placating the boy with a panicked voice, relaying instructions to protect him at all costs.

Suddenly, the sound of battle screeched to a grinding halt. Eyes and heads lifted towards the heavens, some shielding their eyes from the sun as an angel, the Supreme Archangel was falling. He fell like Icarus into the ocean, falling from his height, from his throne in heaven. Golden feathers came from his wings as he fell and he closed his eyes, content with what he had done, a small smile crept up his face. He fell like Icarus, though, unlike that tale, the ocean rose to meet him, wrapping him in its arms and shielding him before he could hit the surface. Crowley held Aziraphale against him as tightly as he could as they fell together, he had done this before and he would not let Aziraphale do this alone.

Adam had made a noise of surprise as the supposedly lifeless body he was supposed to be guarding suddenly sprung to life and flew at breakneck speed to meet the falling angel. Adam gasped and without hesitation, focussed his energy on slowing the two down as they fell into the lake with a large splash.  Aziraphale was no longer falling, he was floating and very cold and wet -  it was a feeling very familiar to him, but yet so peculiar. He had expected to be discorporated after falling from that height, but now, for some reason, he felt like he was being dragged from the water. Odd. He felt solid ground beneath his body and a disgruntled voice, one that he knew very well, grumbling about his clothes being wet as he dragged Aziraphale from the water. He took in a sharp breath and opened his eyes.

“Crowley?” He asked.

Jesus appeared by the shore with a bright flash of light, to in the words of the Metatron ‘ sort all of this out’ , he opened his mouth to speak, when he laid his eyes on the fallen archangel and the demon. He was holding the angel in his arms and was looking at him as if he provided the very oxygen he needed to breathe, whilst the angel stared up at the demon as if he had hung the stars. Jesus paused, finger half raised and mouth slightly agape.

“I love you, Crowley.” The angel said, his eyes now the same colour as a stormy sea, the colour that Crowley had come to love. He gave a smirk, mixed with a fond smile as he wiped sopping white hair out of Aziraphale’s face.

“I love you too.” His voice was soft, quiet even, but the words were said with a certainty as if this was a known fact that had always been true.

Jesus frowned to himself and lifted a hand to his chest, the angel had sacrificed his power and risked all he did have for love , for the love he had for the demon, the love he had for humanity. He looked about the battlefield, the fighting happening around the lake coming to a stop as everyone watched the two - some looked furious, others curious. Jesus’ frown deepened. What a sacrifice that was to make - and Aziraphale had chosen to do it out of love. He was, of course, no stranger to sacrificing oneself for love - he was the classic example of such a thing - but this was different. This was on another level - Jesus didn’t have anything when he sacrifi - that thought stopped there. He saw her eyes, her soft eyes, that gentle smile and the way it curved her lips, how he had felt safe and warm in her arms - a safety that only a mother could bring. He heard Peter’s laugh, the many afternoons spent in the sunshine, sharing tales and stories. 

The Antichrist ran over and hugged Crowley tightly as Aziraphale sat up, Jesus tilted his head to the side as another angel ran over, making sure that both of them were okay, all panicked words and fretting hands. He narrowed his eyes. From within a quiet recess in his brain, a familiar voice raised its head. It sounded tired as if it had been fighting for too long and just wanted to sleep. 

“You’ll make the right choice, I know you will. I have faith in you.”

Jesus was fond of this voice, it was the one who had shown him how great it was to be alive, what it was like to feel, to laugh, to experience the spectrum of human life. It showed him how special humanity was, how they could put on glorious shows that made him cry, about the choice between love and - that was it, wasn’t it? The angel had a choice, and he had chosen love and so would he. He did so once - and he would do it again. So he did nothing.

He watched as Crowley helped the angel to his feet, watched as he pulled the Book of Life out of his wet jacket, remarkably unscathed. The sounds of battle began to ramp up again as fights resumed. Jesus clicked his fingers, making Aziraphale look up in alarm, his mouth opening - but instead of a bolt of lightning, time stopped around them again. Crowley half pushed Aziraphale behind him (who gave Crowley a look) and sneered at Jesus.

“We’ll use this,” Crowley said threateningly, raising the book and gesturing towards Jesus threateningly.

“We’re not afraid to wipe you all out,” Aziraphale added, head peering over Crowley’s shoulder. Jesus raised his hands, a simple smile on his face.

“I’m not here to stop you.” He replied. “Just to help.”

Crowley snorted and raised an eyebrow, Adam nudged him.

“I don’t know who you think that is, but that's not Jesus. That's my music teacher.” He said, Crowley flapped a hand at him to be quiet. He made an affronted face and grumbled to himself, folding his arms across his chest. Jesus gazed at Aziraphale, his stare was intense and Adam recognised it as the face Mr. Abielson gave the class when he was telling someone off, it was weird. The voice that came out of the man wasn’t his teacher either - maybe he was possessed?

“You had a choice - right?” Jesus asked, taking a tentative step forward, Aziraphale opened his mouth again and nodded.

“You chose love, didn’t you? You love this place, the humans, Crowley - and you thought that risking all of that was worth it? To save them all?” He asked, tilting his head to the side, Aziraphale nodded again.

“I did.”

Jesus pursed his lips and his face turned pensive - he understood why John had tried to stop him now, understood why he showed him the wonders of the world. It wasn’t to make the most of the time they had left, it was to show him the beauty of living - of being in the company of friends, of people you cared about. The quiet voice at the back of his head seemed to smile at him like he had finally understood.

“Despite all of their flaws, these people are worth saving?” He said, locking eyes with the pair again. Aziraphale nodded.

“Yes - they are.” He said simply, Crowley lowered the book.

“As stupid as they are.” He added. 

Jesus let out a breath and stared intently at the floor for a bit, thoughts swirling in his head. After a few moments, he gave his head a resolute nod, this was his choice. His choice was to do nothing.

“So I’m not going to stop you, whatever you plan.” He said simply, a wide smile started to form across Aziraphale’s face.

As soon as those words left his lips, Adam let out a yelp. He brought his hands to his head at the same time that Crowley winced, clamping his eyes shut. A pain, brilliant and blinding shot through both of their heads, Adam pulled at his hair, it was like something in his brain was trying to get out through his ears.

At the same time, Jesus, Muriel, and Aziraphale felt a lurch tug at their stomachs. Aziraphale resisted the urge to be sick as as he made a face - the sensation was uncomfortable as if he were on a boat on choppy water. Jesus made a choked noise of indignation. Adam let out a gasp, forcing the words out from between gritted teeth.

“You might not try to stop him but... I think... Maybe.” Adam began.

“Your parents might.” Crowley forced out, reaching out to grab Aziraphale’s hand.

They all stumbled as the ground trembled from beneath their feet - a loud clap of thunder echoed about the plain. Crowley clasped at his hand tightly and they shared a look of mounting concern between them. 

This time, they’d pissed both of them off, a feeling of dread at the bottom of Aziraphale’s gut only got stronger and stronger as a crack of lightning struck the ground a few yards away from where they stood. With haste, Jesus grabbed Adam and pushed him behind himself as a figure emerged from the smoke, just as a shadow oozed from the ground and materialized in a vaguely human-like shape.

“Oh fuck .” Aziraphale cursed, clamping his eyes shut - waiting to be smote.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale opened his eyes, his breath caught in his throat as he gasped. He had never seen the almighty before, but he was not expecting what he laid his eyes on. He pushed Crowley to the side and took a step forward, a look of utter bewilderment on his face. He went to speak, but the figure interrupted him, looking at Adam, who seemed royally confused.

“Well, well Adam, misbehaving again are we?” Maggie asked, putting her hands on her hips, Adam pouted and Aziraphale raised a trembling finger.

“Well, he is your son, what do you expect?” Nina responded, looking at the woman next to her with a degree of fondness. Crowley opened his mouth and closed it again, like a goldfish out of water.

“Maggie? Nina?” Aziraphale asked, his voice coming from him in a breathy whisper, he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing - he stopped himself from rubbing his eyes. Maggie made a face and wobbled her head.

“Not quite.” She said, Crowley nudged him in the ribs, having already cottoned onto the fact.

“That’s Satan.” He whispered. 

“What?” He repeated, convinced he was either losing the plot or this was a terrible trick. Crowley's voice seemed to come to him from an age away.

“That. Is Satan.”

Maggie raised a hand and smiled.

“Hi Crowley, long time, no see.” She said gleefully, Crowley gave a false smile and nodded his head, far too cool to say hello back.

Aziraphale felt his stomach drop. He had known Maggie and her family for generations, how could this be? Surely he would have noticed if Satan occupied the shop next door to him, right? It dawned on him like the sun peering through the clouds on a rainy day - the record shop had not always been there when he really thought about it. The place was vacant for many years, the old owner having passed away a few years prior. He looked sharply at Maggie who grinned devilishly (funny that), Maggie had just appeared one day, complete with memories and everything and Aziraphale had just lapped it all up. He swallowed and he felt his knees buckle a smidge, his eyes glazed over to Nina, who was watching him intently - a soft, fond smile on her face. It was a smile very unlike Nina.

“The A-Almighty?” He choked out. The smile on her face only broadened and she gave a gracious nod of her head. Aziraphale felt himself straighten and he immediately went to adjust his bowtie.

“Principality of the Eastern Gate.” 

Crowley waved his hand between the two, he was not as shocked as Aziraphale was, the latter was still caught up on the fact that his next-door neighbor was literally Satan. Azirapahle knew he wasn’t very perceptive, he much preferred to be wrapped up in his little world of books and hot chocolate - but he didn't think he was that bad.

“How long?” Crowley asked nonchalantly, the two women looked at each other and Nina shrugged.

“Awhile?” She answered, “We had to keep an eye on all of our little pieces somehow, make sure the parts were laid perfectly for our bet.” She clapped her hands together and rubbed them, rocking on her heels slightly, as if presented with a hearty meal. Maggie gave a wide smile and nodded. Crowley stiffened and narrowed his eyes.

“Bet?” He asked slowly, not liking where this was going, not one bit.

Maggie nodded eagerly.

“Yes, that you two would stop Rapture.” She explained, looking between the two, Aziraphale had finally closed his mouth. But now he was frowning, brow slightly furrowed.

“For what it's worth, I said you would,” Nina interjected casually, Maggie glowered at Nina, giving her a side glance, and she raised a finger.

“Which is tactically unfair, since you know everything and set this all up.” She responded, Nina screwed up her face and turned to face her, arms folded across her chest again.

“Well, you were the idiot that agreed to it -” She began. She opened her mouth and before she could speak again Jesus raised a hand, his face looked tired, as if he had sat through bickering like this for many years.

“Stop - please.” 

Nina closed her mouth and scrunched up her face as she looked at him.

“Oh. No. this is weird, I don’t like this.” She complained, snapping her fingers. John felt something sharp rip from his brain, he cried out sharply, hands coming to his head as he crouched in agony. He dug his fingers into his skull and no sooner as the pain had come, it left again. He let out a shivering breath as he shakily stood, blinking. When his vision cleared, the man he saw in the mirror stood before him, rubbing his head. When they made eye contact, the other man grinned. John was transfixed, confused, for the most part, this man had feet. It was like that time in the pandemic when all your physical contact was via video call, you came to forget after a while that everyone existed below the chest. Jesus stopped rubbing his head and raised his chin to his parent. He put his arm around Adam, who, quite honestly, was just as confused as you’d expect a teenager to be in this situation. All he knew, was that he had been dragged from school to a desert in the middle of God knew where (and they certainly did), was forced to participate in a war that he wasn't even going to get paid for and now his deadbeat parent was stood in front of him, looking awfully a lot like the lady that owned the record shop next door to Mr Fell’s shop - it was all confusing for the boy. He tried not to think about this too hard (as teenagers do) and instead thought about how cool it would be to tell his friends that Jesus put his arm around him - not that they’d believe him. Jesus opened his mouth.

“Adam and I are fed up with being a means to an end - we - and humanity are not a pawn in your celestial games,” Jesus said, his tone sharp. He looked between the two in front of him with the same stern look one would give to a child when you were telling them off. Adam nodded confidently like he knew what was going on.

“Yeah!”

Jesus nodded with him.

“We aren’t standing for it anymore. We’re not doing this.” Jesus said in a determined voice. There was a few seconds of silence as the words hung in the air. Something like pride flashed in Nina’s eyes before she opened her mouth to speak, eyes searching all of them.

“Where is the book of life?”

Her eyes settled on Crowley, who shuffled his weight from one foot to the other, he felt Aziraphale’s hand wrap around his arm in a gesture of solidarity.

“I have it, and before you ask. I am not giving it to you.” He said, shaking his head. To which Maggie gave a fiendish grin, her hands twitching at her sides. Crowley looked at her, eyes dull.

“Or you.” He sneered, taking great pleasure in watching as her face screwed up a bit, looking incredibly put out.

“No.” Aziraphale began, adopting the same confident tone he had with the Metatron. “We’re going to keep it.” 

Crowley gave an enthusiastic nod, putting the book back in his jacket.

“To prevent the third coming.” He pursed his lips and tried to stare the two women in front of him down. Jesus took a bold step forward, bringing Adam with him and pushing John behind him, who stumbled a bit, still a bit dazed from having a soul ripped from his head.

“I will stop you if you try to take it.” He said, eyes darting between the two. 

Adam nodded in agreement.

“I will too.”

“And you know -” Aziraphale piped up. “How powerful an angel and a demon can be together. So I do wonder… How powerful the Antichrist and Christ would be?”

The colour drained from Maggie’s face and she nudged Nina in the ribs.

“You know what, I fancy a holiday.” She said quickly, Nina cocked her head, brows knitting together in mild confusion over the sudden subject change. 

“A holiday?” She asked, staring at Maggie, who started to flap her hands about a bit.

“Yeah, some time off, you know, away from all of this.” She said, nodding rapidly, eyes darting between Nina and Jesus, she seemed almost frightened. Nina made a face that suggested that she was mulling his over, lips pressed into a frown. Then it cleared, she made a face of understanding and nodded her head slowly, pointing at Maggie.

“Ah yes - sounds nice actually.” 

Maggie grinned.

“You know - a friend told me that Alpha Centauri is rather nice this time of year.” She said, Nina gasped, a grin spreading across her face.

“Really? A friend of mine said that too.” 

Aziraphale looked between the pair with a mounting sense of familiarity, something that he could not quite put his finger on. To you and I, what he was watching, was something that he had been doing with Crowley for the past 6000 years - dancing around things. Nina offered Maggie her arm.

“Shall we then?” Her smile was affectionate and Maggie responded in kind, taking it gingerly. Nina pulled her eyes away from the other woman and looked at both Aziraphale and Crowley.

“Look after it, both of you - I trust it's in good hands.” 

Aziraphale gave a curt nod, taking Crowley’s hand in his, the suddenness of it causing Crowley to look sharply down at their joined hands, a small smile slowly making its way across his lips.

“It certainly is,” Aziraphale answered.

Maggie made a triumphant face at this, tugging at Nina’s arm.

“You owe me for this bet you know - I said they’d end up together.” She said, Nina rolled her eyes and let out a sigh.

“Yeah, because I told you!”

And with that - they disappeared, the battlefield still frozen around them. Aziraphale let out a long, low breath and rested his forehead against Crowley’s shoulder. For the first time in a long time, he started to laugh.

John looked between everyone, still confused as to why his pupil was here. He raised a hand tentatively as if he were asking for permission to speak.

“Can anyone explain to me what’s going on?” He squeaked. Jesus approached him, a fond smile on his face, he clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“I will - once we’ve gone home and finished the X Files.” 

Aziraphale lifted his head to look at Crowley.

“What now?” He asked softly. Crowley took the Book of Life from his jacket, he held it aloft.

“Lets sort this out, eh?”

Chapter Text

21st of October - a few months after the end of the world.

Uriel was standing in the Atrium, staring at the globe, when Saraquel entered the room.

“Supreme Archangel,” Saraquel said respectfully, Uriel bowed their head.

“Supreme Archangel.” They replied, stifling a smile. Saraquel grinned, joining Uriel to look over the globe, watching as it lazily span. The place had felt lighter since the Metatron had disappeared - no one knew where he had gone - just that he (and for what it was worth, Michael) had gone. They had suspected that it had something to do with the Book of Life going missing, but they didn't mind, they knew it was in good hands. Uriel sighed contentedly and Saraquel cleared their throat.

“I think, now that stuffy old bastard has gone - that we can make some real difference around here.” They remarked, Uriel looked at them and smiled - the expression suited them - and they liked the way that it felt.

“I agree.” They replied.

~

Muriel was re-arranging the books in the bookshop by the first letter of the first sentence - just as they were doing before… well. They couldn’t remember what they were doing before, just that they had been doing this. They took a step back to admire their handiwork and to take a sip of their freshly brewed tea - two sugars - when they were broken from their intense concentration by a loud ringing noise - the phone! Muriel gently placed their tea down and cleared their throat promptly as they picked up the phone and placed it to their ear.

“Mr Fell’s bookshop? Whatever you want, we don’t have it and even if we did, we probably wouldn’t sell it to you anyway!” They parrotted joyfully. They made a concentrating face, then a wide grin split across their face.

“Why yes, thank you Mr Fell - I’d love to be there!”

~

Adam was playing fetch with Dog in the garden, he had just gotten back from school and was looking forward to the end of the week - that heralded half term. A whole week where he could goof around with his mates, he was quite excited. He heard a yelp from next door and bounded over to the fence, peering over it. John was standing in the middle of the vegetable patch (which so happened to be doing remarkably well for the time of year - Adam was certain he could see strawberries) with a pair of primers in his hand.

“Hey! Careful with that bowl, it was my grandmothers!” He shouted inside, waving the pruners around. Jesus stood, half crouched, half standing - as if he had just dived to save the bowl from the ground. He looked sheepish and his face had darkened wth a blush.

“Sorry.” He said quietly, wincing at John, who tutted and spotted Adam peering over the fence, he grinned.

“Hi, Adam.” He waved the pruners at him, albeit much less threateningly.

“Hi, sir.” He said. John checked his watch and then looked back at Adam again.

“We’ll swing by with the car in about twenty minutes, someone forgot to make the salad, and then we’ll be off.” He said, Adam nodded just as Jesus yelled another apology from inside. John sighed fondly.

“I’m looking forward to this party you know, should be good fun.”

~

"There, finally," Aziraphale said, the pride evident in his voice as he placed a fully frosted cake on the kitchen counter. He dusted the icing sugar from his hands and gave a wide smile. Crowley looked away from the record player, just having put the needle in place, the brassy tunes and dulcet tones of Dick Haymes floated through their living room.

"Ah - how many attempts was that again, five?" He asked, watching as Aziraphale's face turned into a frowny pout.

"Six." He said, untying the apron from around his waist. Crowley chuckled and got to his feet, he gestured for Aziraphale to turn around and began undoing the overly complicated knot he had tied.

"You know, you could have just miracled a cake." He said matter of factly, he did not see the face that Aziraphale made.

"Yes, but it wouldn't have been the same." He replied petulantly, turning around as he felt the apron loosen, Crowley folded his arms and looked down at the angel fondly.

“Whatever you say, dear.” He said, rubbing some flour off of Aziraphale’s nose, watching in amusement as he turned pink.

“Do you think they’ll be able to find the place, darling?” He asked, pushing past his flusteredness to look over what else had to be made for the party. Crowley followed him and folded his arms, gazing over the recipe Aziraphale was looking at.

“I think they will. You gave very detailed instructions.” He said, watching as Aziraphale flicked through the book.

“No - I don’t think anyone will want caviar.” He said, Aziraphale frowned at him and turned the page again.

“Besides, they won't miss the house. I don’t know why you had to paint it bloody yellow. The parish council hates us.” Crowley complained, looking out the window into the immaculately groomed garden.

“It's my favourite colour.” He replied, tone slightly petulant, his nose scrunched up a little as he stared at the recipe for voluvants, Crowley made a noise of mild disgust.

“You know what? I’ll cook the rest of the food.” He said, wrinkling his face up in distaste at the picture, it looked disgusting. Aziraphale looked at him over his shoulder.

“Why?”

Crowley made a face as if the answer was obvious, he wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and placed his head on his shoulder.
“Because you tried to peel an onion with a potato peeler, Aziraphale.” He said quietly. Aziraphale pouted again and sighed, closing the book with a snap.

“Fine.” He said, his tone resigned, he was secretly pleased, he was hopeless at this cooking malarkey - he could read his book instead.

“Wine?” Crowley asked, placing a kiss on Aziraphale’s cheek as he unwound his arms from around the angel, he nodded.

“Yes please.”

Crowley placed a glass into his hand and filled it with the best red they had in the cupboard. He raised his glass, eyes glinting fondly as Aziraphale did the same.

“To the world?” He toasted. Aziraphale grinned and raised his own glass in response.

“To the world.”

If you were walking past the small South Downs cottage on this sunny afternoon in October, with its garish paint job, and looked in the window at precisely 15:27, you would have seen two people dancing together - as they frequently did. An old crooner crackled through the record player as they stared lovingly into each other's eyes, hand in hand. Completely oblivious to all happening around them. 

~Yes, miracles can happen, I know 'cause I saw what happened, That night a sinner kissed an angel, That was the night I fell in love ~

Crowley placed a gentle kiss on Aziraphale’s lips and he grinned, placing his head on Crowley’s chest as they waltzed around the living room. Something told both of them that something new was beginning again - not just the beginning of a new season, but the world. Something felt fresh, new - maybe even hopeful. 

But they both knew as they turned around the living room, that this - this slice of heaven they had worked so hard to create would stay the same, and that thought alone was more than enough.

The End.