Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Aziraphale turns the page in his instruction manual, a notebook on the side table next to his part of the couch. He jots down a few quick notes here and there, just to refresh himself later. Committing this manual to memory is a tedious, lengthy process—for angels, it is rather similar to downloading a file on a computer, or so he believes. He’s not all that familiar with computers, save for when he does his taxes. They are good for record keeping, though. Angels and demons can’t forget things, exactly, not without outside intervention at least—but they can be overwhelmed if they try to ‘download’ too much at once. 

The headache pressing behind his eyes assures him he has met some sort of limit for today. To keep going would surely be a poor idea, so he decides to take some notes for his understanding later. 

He has been carefully combing through this book the past couple of weeks, committing as much as he can to memory before he feels decidedly overwhelmed. Then he stops for the day, gives himself 24 hours to decompress and process, and starts the cycle over again. 

In a way it is mind-numbing, but neither he nor Crowley know when his leave will end. It could very well be any day now. He needs to have a solid understanding of his role before that happens. He can’t show up to Heaven ill-prepared, now can he? 

Heaven. 

The thought echoes through his mind, mingling with feelings of inadequacy. Thoughts of Heaven have been a bit of a trigger for him in the past, and he doesn’t really anticipate that changing, despite the fact he is now the Adjutant. God made all the changes She likes, but it will not change his memories or his doubts. Heaven was never kind to him in the past, and he doesn’t believe simply restructuring things will change this for him. He has no desire to go back to Heaven, but that is to be his job moving forward, isn’t it? And he can’t turn down the Almighty. 

No, he cannot fail Her. He is the Adjutant and that is simply a part of his life now. 

No matter how he feels about this, or doesn’t feel about this. 

Doubts flicker and fade from his mind, idle thoughts of questioning his new role. Idle thoughts of being outraged at the lack of consent. 

She wanted it this way, and he simply must accept this. 

God knows he and Crowley are close, though, which is the deciding factor. All this time Aziraphale fretted about how his fraternization with a demon would appear to the Almighty, should She ever find out about it. He never Fell, so he felt it was more of a ‘what She doesn’t know won’t hurt Her, She surely has no time to concern Herself over a wayward, middling angel’ scenario, but things are different now. 

She knows, and She accepts this. 

She never reprimanded him for straying. Maybe he never really did stray, but it certainly felt like it sometimes—constantly looking over his shoulder, worrying about what would happen should Heaven discover his friendship—or, rather, Arrangement—with Crowley… 

It is a relief to have it out in the open now. 

Still, this does not mean things are easy. Nothing is ever truly easy, is it? 

He died very recently—felt himself rip apart piece by piece until there was nothing left. He also came back… changed, in a way. It’s nothing he can exactly pinpoint and claim, yes, that’s it right there, that’s what’s different, but it is something he feels in his core all the same. The new position might be part of it, but She changed something essential at the centre of his being, and while he can’t look at it or feel it in any meaningful way, he still knows it is there. Something has changed. 

He is unable to feel dismay at this, though, or anything negative about it at all, really. Occasionally he finds it within himself to feel discouraged at the fact She changed him without asking, without speaking about it at all to him, but most of the time he feels rather calm about it. He isn’t certain if this is something She did to him, not allowing him to feel negatively about it, or if he simply doesn’t mind the changes because, deep down, he knows She wouldn’t do it without adequate reason. 

Aziraphale has spent quite a bit of time waffling back and forth on how he feels about this. Most days it is simply something which happened and there is no changing it, so he does not fret about it. Other days, frustration and anger combine into some unholy concoction which rampages through him, and the situation feels decidedly unfair. 

Those days are the worst, he decides. 

Today is not one of those days. 

Today, he sits on the couch in their living room, listening to Crowley putter about the kitchen just out of sight, and tries to focus on the words in front of him, etched in a holy scrawl. 

This is proving difficult because he can sense Crowley’s agitation like a dark cloud thickening the air. He wonders, idly, if he was always so attuned to Crowley’s emotions and presence like this or if it, too, is something new which was changed within him. Certainly it never used to be this easy. He had to be searching for it, he thinks—but now, it is rather distracting. 

They need space, though. This needs to happen. 

For too long they’ve given into their worries and stayed close to each other, always within sight and the same room. Aziraphale doesn’t feel the ache as keenly as Crowley, he is aware, but having the demon out of sight is still vastly unsettling to him. 

Mostly because he knows how it gnaws at Crowley, but also because they were separated for eight months and Heaven is a lonely space. He’s grown accustomed to the demon’s proximity since his return, and being alone like this in a room feels too much like being trapped in that white, empty void.

This needs to happen, though, as he keeps telling himself, and Crowley. 

They can’t always be around each other. As pleasing as this would be, it just isn’t feasible. 

Separation is needed, and they will work on it slowly.

For the past couple weeks, they’ve been separating for short bursts by having one or the other enter the kitchen alone and fix dinner or lunch. It’s usually something quick and light, as neither are eager to be parted for long, but it is still an exercise in distance. 

Crowley is at least making enough noise to assure Aziraphale he is not, in fact, alone. 

Occasionally the demon will call out to him, asking some inane question, which Aziraphale answers as quickly as possible. So far, this seems to be working, and they’ve been working toward larger, more lengthy meals to stretch the time. 

It’s a process. Sometimes it feels like too much, but most days it is a rather large annoyance, but is at least doable. 

Today, it’s feeling like too much. 

Aziraphale has reread this page several times, but his mind doesn’t seem to be focusing as it should be. Committing this page to memory should be nice and simple. Frustration sets in, but he manages to keep himself from springing to his feet and entering the kitchen to ease his mind. 

Baby steps, he tells himself. Little by little, they can figure this out. They can do this. They can move forward. 

Baby steps. 

Rome wasn’t built in a day. 

“You ready, angel?”

Aziraphale glances up from his instruction manual. Crowley stands just next to the couch, glasses on and ready to go. Aziraphale glances at the window and realizes he must have lost track of time; he started reading just before sunrise, but it appears to be midday now. He carefully closes the book and puts it on the table before he stands and smooths down his clothes, offering a smile to the demon next to him. 

“Of course, my dear. Where are we going?”

Crowley didn’t say when he suggested plans last night. Aziraphale agreed with a noncommittal hum, engrossed as he was in the book God gave him. There’s a sinking feeling deep in his core and he feels that his leave will soon be coming to an end. While the past six months have been wonderful, peaceful and quiet here at the cottage with Crowley, he knows all things will inevitably end. And he needs to be ready. 

He doesn’t want to fail in his new assignment. 

“It’s a surprise,” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale smiles, a warmth spreading through him as he follows Crowley toward the door. “A surprise? How exciting!”

It has been a while since they surprised each other with something. Before Armageddon, they had to meet in secret and many of their visits were surprises. But since then, things have gotten somewhat more… predictable. Aziraphale likes predictable. 

That doesn’t mean he is against surprises, of course; he quite enjoys them, if he is being honest with himself. The worst part about Heaven, he thinks, is that the monotony was always so predictable. A lie here, an omission there… It was simply the status quo for so very long. Trips to Heaven always entailed the same thing—disappointment and reprimands, for the most part. Too many miracles or not enough; he never measured up. As time passed he began to simply dread his formal meetings and only showed up when strictly summoned for such a thing, instead of checking in as regularly as he should have. 

But surprises always happened when Crowley was around. 

Aziraphale likes predictable, except when he doesn’t. 

He tries to guess at what Crowley might have in mind. Surely not the park; they just visited there a couple of days ago, and it would not quite constitute as a surprise. Anathema’s is out of the question; Crowley and her bicker quite often and the demon seems to only want to go there when necessary. Adam would be a surprise, but dropping in on the poor boy unannounced seems a bad idea. And what was Crowley doing in the kitchen, anyway? Aziraphale thought he was making tea or something, as was their norm, but then he did forget about these mysterious plans today.

Aziraphale slides into the passenger seat of the Bentley while Crowley settles in next to him. The Bentley purrs to life and soon they are leaving the driveway of the cottage. 

“What’s the occasion?” Aziraphale asks. Perhaps it will give him a clue. 

“No occasion,” Crowley says. 

Well. So much for that idea. 

“Come now, can’t you tell me something?”

“Wait and see, angel.”

Right. Patience is a virtue, after all. Aziraphale’s gaze settles out the window at the passing scenery. 

The ride is pleasant; Crowley still speeds, but not overly so, in no real hurry to get anywhere. These trips are quite nice, Aziraphale has found. The longer he is on leave, the more he starts to relax—which is why he has been rather tense the past couple of days. All things come to an end. 

He isn’t certain if he will be relieved or perturbed at his leave’s end. He healed up nicely months ago, but God has not recalled him yet. The quiet is nice, but the anticipation is edging under his skin in all the wrong ways. He still has so much to learn from his manual, after all—so much to learn in his new role. 

His role. 

He still isn’t quite certain what to make of it all. On the one hand, it is nice to know his faith was not misplaced; that he did the right thing during Armageddon. That he didn’t fail Her so spectacularly. It had gnawed at his psyche for a while following Armageddon—the fact he sabotaged such careful planning and interfered with Heaven’s plans yet still remained an angel, despite everything. 

But She had plans for him, it seems, and he is still trying to wrap his head around it all. All the doubts and fears and worries which needle at his mind rather incessantly. What if he fails? What if he lets Her down? He’s so hated up in Heaven—why would She think this was a good idea? 

Why did She do this to him without asking? 

And round and round it goes. 

Crowley takes a sharp turn and Aziraphale throws his hand up against the roof of the car to steady himself. The demon’s whoop of laughter leaves him smiling nevertheless. These past few months have been good for Crowley, good for both of them. Even if they do sometimes feel like the calm before the storm. 

“Alright, angel,” Crowley says. “Close your eyes.”

“Close my…?”

“Close ‘em.”

Aziraphale sighs and does as instructed. The sensation of speeding down a backroad with his eyes closed isn’t exactly pleasant; he’d prefer to see where they are going so he knows how prepared he should be if they were to crash. Not that he thinks they will crash, of course—he knows Crowley wouldn’t let that happen. Still, though, accidents do happen and he has never quite liked speeding anywhere. 

Crowley enjoys it though, and so he endures. 

He’s not sure how long they drive like this, him with his eyes closed and Crowley quietly humming to himself to the Queen song playing through the stereo. 

Still, he does feel it when the car slows and comes to a stop. He keeps his eyes closed as Crowley has not stated to open them, but he does try to guess at where they are nevertheless. He doesn’t hear the bustle of the city so they must be somewhere in the countryside. 

“Keep ‘em closed,” Crowley says before getting out of the car. 

The passenger door opens a moment later and Crowley’s hand slots with his own to guide him out of the car. Aziraphale stands, aware he is on grass and not pavement by the soft feel beneath his shoes. The sun is beaming down on them and he takes a moment to feel the warmth as it caresses his skin. 

Crowley guides them away from the car for several long moments. Aziraphale does his best to not trip, though there are a couple near misses as the ground is somewhat uneven with small dips here and there. Definitely the countryside, judging by the grass, the lack of city noise, and the earthy smell around them. 

Crowley snaps and Aziraphale feels the tingle of a miracle in the air. 

“Alright, you can look.”

Aziraphale opens his eyes, letting them adjust to the light. Before him sits a quaint hill overlooking a lake with a small blanket nestled in the shade of a large tree, a picnic basket in place and a comfortable looking tartan pillow next to it. 

Warmth sparks in his chest. 

“Oh, my dear,” he hums gratefully. “This looks lovely.”

Crowley shifts his feet. “Well, I just—I mean, ’s just a picnic.”

“It is beautiful,” Aziraphale assures him, giving his hand a quick squeeze. “Thank you.”

“Thought we’d have a spot of lunch then hit the water,” Crowley says, gesturing at the lake.

There’s a boat there, nestled against a small dock, waiting for them. The framework gleams in the sunlight. 

Aziraphale feels downright giddy. Not only is this a pleasant surprise, but it looks like Crowley has planned the day for them. 

He even brought a tartan pillow. 

Crowley leads the way toward the blanket atop the hill, and doesn’t release his hand until they are sitting down. Aziraphale sits atop the pillow, and it is rather comfortable. He snaps his fingers and a luxurious looking red one appears next to Crowley, who hums in acceptance as he tucks it beneath him as well. 

Aziraphale pulls the basket to him. Inside he finds sandwiches and champagne, a welcome combination if there ever was one. He fills the glasses and hands one to the demon across from him before taking his first bite of a sandwich. 

Turkey on rye with provolone cheese. Perfectly delicious. 

Birds chirp merrily in the tree above them and he glances skyward, searching for the creatures. They do not show himself, but he does spot a squirrel climbing onto a higher branch, tiny claws scraping against the bark. 

Aziraphale enjoys nature and always has. He might not enjoy roughing it like he used to before proper, modern conveniences, but he did always find the tranquility relaxing. The tension which has been circling him for days dissipates and he sips at his champagne. 

After the chaos of the past year or so, these quieter moments are really quite nice. He doesn’t feel like he has to steal them anymore, or feel guilty for doing so. They are free to be together; God approves of their friendship, their relationship. She approves of his love for a demon. 

It is a concept he never thought possible, but the knowledge of Her acceptance has lifted some leaden weight which was always present, but one which he simply grew too used to carrying to truly notice its existence anymore. Now that the weight is gone, he feels… unbalanced. 

Crowley declines an offered sandwich but does accept another glass of champagne, which Aziraphale quickly refills. 

“So, any news?” Crowley asks once Aziraphale is finished eating. 

Aziraphale dabs at his mouth and shakes his head. “Not as such. It has been six months, though; I fear word will come any day.”

Perhaps ‘fear’ is the wrong word. He dreads the concept of returning to ‘work’ almost as much as he is comforted by the fact he has a purpose again. Maybe it will be different this time, truly. 

An angel can hope. 

This whole business with the demon blade his him worried, though. The longer they go without solving this mystery, without even presenting it to God, the more issues will arise form it, he is certain. It needles at him that he could dive into this mystery with a mere prick of a finger, a quick little slice, and it is getting harder and harder to shove down thoughts of doing so. Being recalled and taken off leave will give him leeway to pursue this, but he still feels rather off-step with it all, out of place. He fears that once he is recalled and given permission to pursue this further—or even ordered to do so—he will not be able to hold back the urge to simply cut himself to get it working again. 

And then where will they be?

Nowhere good, Aziraphale knows. 

He eyes the demon across from him. The sunlight pulls out the red in Crowley’s hair as he smiles over the top of his champagne glass at Aziraphale. The glasses hide his eyes, which is a pity because Aziraphale quite likes his eyes, especially in the warm sunlight—but there is an energy to Crowley which is relaxed and easy-going, and it is nice to finally have that back. 

So much has happened between them he almost forgot what that presence felt like, or how that smile made him feel—the easy, casual one. 

“Ready for a ride, angel?”

Aziraphale pushes to his feet, smiling. “That sounds lovely, my dear.”

Being out on the water is just what they needed, Crowley can’t help but think. Aziraphale grins in the sunlight as they speed across the lake, the boat jerking over waves and the wind whipping in their faces. Aziraphale holds tight to a small handle at the side of the boat much like he presses a hand into the roof of the car, but the joy on his face is different from the tension usually associated with the rides in the car. 

Crowley urges the boat faster still as they make a wide turn to loop back around the other way. The lake is fairly large but he doesn’t want to get too close to its edges, just in case it gets shallow quickly. Had that happen once; wasn’t a good day, that. 

He was never much for boats in the past; he enjoyed them occasionally but never felt a need to get out on the water, really. The Flood made sure of that, for the most part. Still, coming out here to do this with Aziraphale occasionally is rather enjoyable, and he does like the feel of the sun on his face and the wind in his hair. His Bentley is still the better ride, though. 

The Bentley doesn’t quite offer this view of Aziraphale, though—the angel’s curls are haloed in a warm ring of light from the sun beating down on them, and there’s a brightness to his eyes, seemingly reflecting the water through them. He seems to lose his tension out here, which is certainly… well, needed, sometimes. 

It’s been a strange few months, to say the least. They both need to unwind from time to time before they get tied into all sorts of knots. Aziraphale has been worrying about Heaven and Hell, even in the quiet moments at their cottage. Crowley knows today will only distract those thoughts for so long, but at least it’s another day they are free together. 

Free. 

The word threatens to sour his otherwise good mood. Such a funny word, that. Free. Neither of them have ever really been free at all, have they? Oh, sure, they thought they were finally free after the near-catastrophe that was supposed to be Armageddon, but God had other plans. 

She always has other plans. 

Mood effectively soured, Crowley sighs and slows the speed of the boat until they are just drifting there, near the center of the lake. Waves lap at the edges of the boat, a haphazard slapping to the atmosphere. 

“Something the matter, my dear?”

Crowley glances back at the angel, slotting his glasses onto his face. “Nuh,” he says. “Just thought we’d enjoy the, uh… the view, for a bit.”

Aziraphale looks out over the water, eyes twinkling. “Yes, it is rather lovely, isn’t it?”

“ ’s nice,” Crowley says. 

And it is nice, despite his mood. Despite the thought of ‘freedom’ twisting his stomach. Sometimes he simply has to remind himself to be grateful for what he does have—he certainly never thought he would ever take Aziraphale boating, of all things. It was simply absurd and out of the question. Even if they could sneak off together in the cover of night to do something, what if someone caught them out there together? What excuse could they possibly use for such a thing? 

But that is behind them, he reminds himself. Maybe they are not as free as he’d prefer, but they are at least allowed to be together now, instead of always pushing away or pulling back. 

“Thank you for today, my dear.”

Crowley blinks, refocusing on the angel. “For what?”

“It was a pleasant surprise,” Aziraphale says, grinning at him. “It has been a good day.”

And it has, really. A drive, lunch, out on the water… Yeah, it’s turning into a rather nice day, and it isn’t evening four in the afternoon yet. 

Still plenty of daylight left. 

“Sit down, my dear.”

Aziraphale pats the spot next to him on the bench seat near the front of the boat, and Crowley moves to join him. There’s a nice breeze across the water and he can’t help but scent the air; fish, birds, water. All perfectly normal for their location, and another layer of unease disbands. 

“You seem tense today,” Aziraphale notes quietly. 

Crowley grimaces. “Just… stuck in my head, me. Nothing to worry about.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“Any word from Heaven?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “They will send for me when it is time, my dear. I haven’t heard anything yet.”

They have been enjoying this lull, but it could very well end tomorrow—they never really know. God never gave a length to this ‘medical leave’, and as much as Crowley wishes it could last forever, he knows that simply isn’t possible. Sooner or later Aziraphale will be recalled, and he says Crowley will be able to accompany him and that he will not be needed in Heaven all the time, but Crowley can never quite shake the feeling this could be a lie, or simply a misunderstanding. 

God being aware of their cooperation is one thing, but this acceptance? What is he meant to do with this? 

God will just let a demon into Heaven, will She? After She cruelly cast them all out in a fit of rage?

God is a bit tetchy, but then She always has been. 

Fingers brush against his own, just a light pressure atop the curve of a knuckle, letting him know he isn’t alone. 

He sighs. “Just stuck in my head, me. Be fine.”

“Nothing will change,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley bares his teeth. “You can’t promise that. You know that’s not true.”

“Well, some things will change, certainly. But us?” Aziraphale’s fingers capture his own, giving them a quick squeeze. “I’m afraid you’re quite stuck me.”

The words relieve a bit more of the tension in his frame, and he relaxes against the seat with Aziraphale and looks out over the water. 

“Care for a swim?”

Aziraphale pauses. “Swim?”

“Yeah, a quick dip. ’s a nice day.”

And it is something they have never done before. Another thing he never thought they’d have a chance to do, as it was a foolishly absurd idea.

“Would you like to?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley smirks. “Sure.”

“Then let us swim, my dear.”

It has been a wonderful day, Aziraphale decides. It is almost a shame when they pull to a stop outside the cottage. He almost rather it never ends. 

But all things eventually come to an end. It is one of the few hard truths of this world. 

Still, it isn’t ending tonight. This peace. This quiet. 

Crowley wanders off to snap at his plants in the garden around back, and Aziraphale enters the cottage. With a wave of his hand, the fireplace sparks to life and the lights turn on, as it is growing rather dark outside by this point as the sun sets. They spent a long time out on that lake, but it was time well spent. In a way, it was healing. 

These past few months have been all about healing, as part of his medical leave. He healed a while ago, but he knows time moves differently in Heaven. The anticipation and dread about when it will end has left him tangled in knots.

He eyes the instruction manual on the coffee table. His fingers itch to pick it up and dive back into it, committing as much as he can to memory. There is just so much, though, and it is rather overwhelming. Being entrusted with so much when he’s never felt like much of an angel. Perhaps he should feel validation, but he does not. 

It is satisfying to know he was not in the wrong in stopping Armageddon. In that, at least, he does find relief. He worried about it for quite some time and often checked his wings to see if they had started to blacken, checked for signs he was starting to Fall, as he clearly expected to following that fiasco. That never happened, though, and as the days grew to weeks and months and still he did not Fall, he felt rather more perturbed by the waiting of it all. 

He isn’t sure what he did to deserve Her mercy when Crowley was cast out for simply asking questions, and it always rubbed him wrong, as it were. Crowley was certainly more deserving of angelic status than himself, so why was Crowley punished and Aziraphale was not? For a long time, these thoughts plagued him and ran him in knots. 

Now, maybe all that doubt should be gone, but still it remains—lingering, aching, always present in the back of his mind. He has never been much of an angel, but now he is the Adjutant, and he doubts he will ever truly be able to wrap his head around this concept. Not completely. 

It is a lot of responsibility, keeping watch over Heaven while God goes on a sabbatical. Surely She must know the angels Up There despise him, and for good reason? He did betray the Great Plan, after all, and consorted with a demon. Did temptations for a demon. Lied to his fellow angels and even lied to God Herself at one point. Why was this folly rewarded?

Well… perhaps it isn’t much of a reward, really. 

He still very clearly recalls what it felt like to break apart piece by piece. He was put back together, but it hasn’t felt the same since it happened. Since he lost himself. Since he died. 

Dying was supposed to be the end of it. He’d accepted his fate. 

Then he woke up. How does one reconnect with life when they accepted the end of it? He’s not quite sure it is truly possible. 

He is grateful to be alive, of course—grateful he can still curl up with a good book with Crowley at his side, grateful he didn’t leave the demon here alone. But now it leaves shame twisting his stomach for accepting his fate in the first place—for giving up. Because that’s what he did, isn’t it? He gave up and left Crowley alone. 

And it will always haunt him. 

Returning to Heaven won’t alleviate this guilt. In some ways, he fears it will only worsen it. 

But he has new responsibilities now, and he simply cannot fail. 

With a heavy sigh, he sits on the couch and pulls the manual off the table to begin thumbing through its pages once again. 

The distraction of today was absolutely wonderful, but all things eventually must come to an end. And one day soon, he will need to return to Heaven. 

He just hopes it will go as well as he’s been assuring Crowley. 

Chapter Text

Aziraphale has read this part of the manual several times, but it still somehow manages to baffle him. He is over so very much; how is he supposed to handle any of this? All of this? The archangels were in charge for a reason—it was simply too much work for one angel to handle. Gabriel spearheaded them, of course, but it was still a group dealing with issue and not just… Aziraphale himself. 

The doubts threaten to pepper his mind again. He inhales slowly, willing a wave of calmness over himself. Not something he used to do, really; it felt… well, it felt like a waste, before. A waste of blessing, a waste of a miracle, a waste of magic and power. A betrayal of his duties, prioritizing himself like that. 

But lately… Well. With everything happening around them, sometimes Aziraphale wants to feel that calm tranquility too—for himself. Something he used to only reach for when fighting or when absolutely necessary. It is only a small fraction of what She has given him after piecing him back together; surely it can be spared. 

The guilt still gnaws at him though—in some dark corner of his mind, surrounded in doubts. 

He can hear Crowley in the kitchen making tea. Aziraphale offered to join him but Crowley declined. Perhaps it is practice for the next phase in their ‘separation’ test. Aziraphale is not looking forward to this experiment, not in the slightest—but there is something in the air which tells him he could be recalled any day now. A certain surety which was absent before—a nagging feeling in the back of his mind like he left the stove on, which he never would. Unwatched stoves could cause quite the fire, and both of them have had more than enough of fire. 

If he is to be recalled soon, they need to get a handle on this… issue. 

As much it pains him to be away from Crowley, he knows, deep down, they cannot always be together. Crowley is allowed to join him in Heaven but Aziraphale doesn’t want him going all the time—Crowley would be miserable, and bored, and it simply isn’t safe for him Up There. God might accept them, but that does not mean the angels will. 

Heaven is a minefield waiting to happen. If they can get a handle on this separation anxiety, then maybe Aziraphale can keep his demon safe. He certainly doesn’t trust Heaven with Crowley. 

Not that he trusts anyone with Crowley, really—except for maybe Anathema. The young witch did a fine job keeping Crowley from destroying himself during those months alone, and Aziraphale is forever grateful for this. 

Still. He worries. 

At least he doesn’t have to worry about holy water. The angels believe Crowley is immune, after all; they won’t try to destroy him that way. 

But there are other ways to rid Heaven of demons. Aziraphale can’t keep a sharp on everything if he’s tied up with new responsibilities, and he worries what might happen Up There. Heaven is no safety for a demon. 

Asking Crowley to stay behind is a truly ludicrous idea. Crowley has always been loyal to a fault, but since their… separation…

Your death, he reminds himself, a chill seeping into his skin. Since your death. Acknowledge what happened. 

Since his death, Crowley is reticent to let Aziraphale out of sight. Aziraphale feels much the same, but for Crowley it is on another level entirely. Aziraphale could perhaps bear to be alone for a few minutes, if needed; but Crowley has not reached this point yet, and Aziraphale doesn’t wish to force the issue. 

Baby steps. 

Footsteps pad back into the room. Aziraphale looks up from his book to offer a grateful smile as Crowley hands him his mug of tea. He takes the first sip and feels the ice thawing from his veins. 

Crowley hesitates there in front of the couch, shifting his feet. “You sure about this?”

“You are stalling, my dear,” Aziraphale says. “Everything will be perfectly alright.”

Crowley grimaces. A wave of unease coats the room and Aziraphale taps into his core to leave a little warmth and reassurance suffusing the demon in front of him. 

“ ’s just… ’s a nice day, why don’t we go to the park instead?”

“Crowley.”

Crowley sighs, shoulders slouching. “Right, fine. ‘M stalling.”

Aziraphale reaches out and carefully captures those nimble fingers, giving them a quick squeeze. “Nothing will happen in the next few minutes, my dear. I will be here waiting for you.” He pauses. “Or, would you rather be the one waiting?” He pushes to his feet. “Right, yes. Of course. I’ll just… go for a stroll. Won’t go far.”

Asking Crowley to leave him here alone is, perhaps, a tad cruel. And Aziraphale has never been much for cruelty. 

No, it would be far easier for Crowley to remain in familiar settings while Aziraphale enters the outside world for a bit. It is a nice day, as Crowley mentioned; he might simply take a walk at the edge of the property line. Obscured from view, of course, but not actually leaving. 

Yes, that seems a much better plan for this first step. 

“Nggh,” Crowley says distastefully. “Alright.”

He is still clearly uneasy with this plan, the poor dear. Aziraphale isn’t fond of it either, but at least he will have the certitude Crowley is safe in the cottage while he wanders the property line. Much better than having the demon drive off somewhere, where anything could happen. 

Aziraphale squeezes those fingers again before releasing them. Crowley’s hand falls to his side and Aziraphale steps around him, smoothing down his clothes. He adjusts his bowtie slightly and then smiles at the demon with a surety he doesn’t quite feel. 

“Now, then. I’ll be back in… oh, we’ll say five minutes.”

Their initial goal was ten minutes, but that feels a bit much in this moment. Already anxiety is clawing at Aziraphale’s core and he hasn’t even stepped outside yet. 

He hesitates at the door—he can feel those burning eyes on him, the wave of uneasy terror clinging to his corporation. 

“I need you to tell me to go,” Aziraphale says quietly. He can’t just abandon Crowley here without consent, plan or not. 

Crowley hisses. He can hear the demon pacing back and forth, those eyes never leaving him. “Nnyeah. You can. Go, I mean. You c’n go.”

Aziraphale opens the door and steps outside. Exiting the cottage shouldn’t feel so much like abandoning his dear friend. But they both need this—it will help them in the long run. Getting back to ‘normal’ has never been a smooth process. Otherwise it would just ‘be normal’, wouldn’t it?

The door closes quietly behind him. For a moment, Aziraphale stands there on the doorstep, unable to take that first step. But this is for Crowley, and he can do anything for Crowley—even if the thought of being apart is mind-numbing in its own right, in this moment. 

Right, he tells himself sternly. You’ve made it this far. Can’t back out now, can you? Just a quick loop around the property, nothing you haven’t done before. You’ll be back in a jiffy. 

He steps away from the door. 

The door swings open behind him and a demon crashes through it, wide yellow eyes latching on him immediately. 

“No,” Crowley says, teeth bared. “Nuh. Nope. Not happening.”

Aziraphale frowns at him. “My dear—”

“Yeah, ssso—you, walkin’ away from me? ‘Sss not…” Crowley hisses. “Look, I’ll walk around and you jussst ssstay here, yeah?”

The anguish exuding from the demon leaves Aziraphale’s head spinning. Reading Crowley certainly never used to be this easy, but it is yet another thing he has been struggling to get used to since it happened. 

Crowley can’t have Aziraphale walking out on him, is that it? 

A pang of sorrow jolts through his core. “You know I would never just… walk away, right? Leave you behind?”

Crowley grimaces. “ ‘course I know that,” he says sharply. “Just being ssstupid, me. I just…” He bares his teeth again, fighting with himself. Expressing his emotions with words has never really been his strong suit. 

“What is it, my dear?”

“Don’ wanna be alone in the cottage again, ’s all,” Crowley mutters. 

Clarity strikes through Aziraphale, along with a new wave of shame and guilt. Of course Crowley doesn’t want to be alone in the cottage—he was alone there for months, and now Aziraphale is walking out on him to leave him alone in the cottage again, and how could he have been so thoughtless? 

“Oh, my dear,” he says regretfully. “I wasn’t thinking, I do apologize.”

“Nuh, stop. Not your fault. Just me being… stupid.”

“You are not and have never been stupid, Crowley.”

Crowley says nothing to this, just bares his teeth, that wave of unease growing around him. 

Aziraphale nods toward the door. “I’ll just go back inside, shall I? Enjoy your stroll, dear boy.”

He pats Crowley’s shoulder on his way inside, pushing a wave of calm warmth at the demon. Crowley stands rigid there in the doorway, watching him disappear back inside, but then the door closes, separating them. 

Aziraphale listens carefully at the door. After a moment, he hears the soft patter of footsteps walking away. Crowley did it. He left the cottage. He left Aziraphale alone in the cottage. 

Baby steps, Aziraphale reminds himself. Progress isn’t always linear. 

Steps forward, steps back—much like a dance. But also like with dancing, practice will ensure confident steps and maneuvers, and one day this, too, will be normal. 

Why, then, does the cottage feel so empty?

Aziraphale stares into the interior of the cottage. Their cottage. Their home. Somewhere they chose together. A life they chose for themselves—safe and together, here. 

But it is empty now. Just as it was empty in Heaven. A white void of nothing all around him—a world just out of sight but never truly out of mind. So many angels in Heaven, but he’s never felt more alone than he did in that room, being rebuilt. In that room, where he didn’t know who he was or who Crowley was. Alone. Secluded. Isolated. 

A shiver inches down his spine. He stands rigid just inside the doorway, afraid to step as it might shatter whatever moment this is. He's truly not certain what exactly he’s feeling—a cacophony of sounds and memories and bits of off-white colors. He’s tried rather hard to push his time in Heaven deep, deep down; he had so many other things to worry about, since coming back. Crowley is at the top of that priority list and Aziraphale doesn’t see that changing any time soon, but now there’s this mess with a demon blade winding up in Gabriel’s hands, there’s this mess of doubts which plague him before slipping off and away from his mind like water on a duck’s wings…

A mess. Yes. His mind is mess. 

And this cottage is empty. 

Oh, why is it empty? Why is he alone? He detests being alone. 

It is a struggle to keep his essence confined to himself. He and Crowley have been practicing off and on so the idea of it is not as… unpleasant, as it was in the past, but that does not mean it is necessarily easy. It takes a concentrated effort to keep his essence from simply wandering the property, seeking out the demon walking its edges. If that is what Crowley is even doing; he doesn’t truly know, and that is the whole point, is it not? To not know precisely where the other is, to have them out of sight. Both literally and metaphysically. 

Aziraphale inhales slowly through his nose, expelling through his mouth, counting to ten in his head. When the count is finished and he still isn’t calmer, he does it again, and again, fighting his own impatience. 

It is good they are practicing, but he that does not mean he is happy about this process. He understand the need, of course, but in practice it is… difficult. Very, very difficult. 

And it did not used to be this way, he recalls. 

He and Crowley used to go months, years, even centuries without seeing each other, and it was—well, not fine, but it was at least doable. Now it seems more effort than it is worth, truly. Perhaps he grew complacent in the months following the failed Armageddon; they were finally free to be together as much as they wanted, which wound up being rather often. He grew used to the other’s presence like it had always been there—because in a way, it had always been there. Even in distance. 

But his time in Heaven has changed him. Up There, he knew intrinsically he was missing a piece of himself. While he did not know who or what that piece might be in the moment, he did still feel the sharp sting of its absence like a gaping wound in his psyche. 

Once he remembered Crowley, well… Patience is a virtue, but it wasn’t always Aziraphale’s. 

Being isolated in Heaven was a struggle; his mind still goes back to that white void of nothing from time to time, and he knows if he were to ever sleep again, and if he were to ever dream, he would dream of it and the icy loneliness which clung to him so tightly. 

But even acknowledging this feels… shameful. Not because he is an angel and Heaven is supposed to be his home, but because he knows Crowley suffered far worse down here alone. He cannot imagine the turmoil he would be in if their positions were swapped for that fiasco. 

And that is why he persists with this notion of distance. Of creating space between them. Of baby steps toward progress. 

Because Crowley needs it. And Aziraphale will always put Crowley’s needs above his own. 

The cottage is still empty. 

Aziraphale pushes to his feet. He’s never been one to pace, not like Crowley, but now he finds himself pacing the length of the couch—two steps one way, two steps back. Over and over again. Counting up the time in his head. 

Just as he is about to peek with his essence and locate the demon on the property, the door bangs open sharply. He stops mid-step and whirls toward it, alarm ebbing through him, but the demon darkening the entrance is a familiar, welcome one. Warmth suffuses his core at the sight of Crowley, the icy loneliness finally releasing its fickle hold on his heart. 

The demon stomps into the cottage, teeth bared, radiating some rather dark energy for such a sunny day outside. Aziraphale feels it wash over him and shivers despite the fact the cottage is the perfect temperature. He steps forward to meet Crowley halfway, and lets the demon reach for him. Fingers curl into his jacket but don’t wrench him forward or push him back—Crowley just holds on, hissing out a quick breath. 

“You did very well, my dear,” Aziraphale says quietly. 

Crowley sneers. “Four minutes,” he mutters. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“I couldn’t even last the whole five,” Crowley says miserably. 

Four minutes. It was only four minutes? 

Aziraphale exhales slowly, willing a wave of warm tranquility into the air around them, letting it settle over the demon before him. "It was a long four minutes.”

“Knew you were fine,” Crowley continues, distastefully, his grip tightening. “Had an eye on the cottage the whole time, I did, but I ssstill…” His teeth gnash together on open air, wide yellow eyes boring into him. “Thisss isss ssstupid.”

“It isn’t,” Aziraphale says simply, offering the demon a smile. “And you did very well. I was half a minute away from reaching out for you.”

“No you weren’t.”

“I really was, my dear. Distance isn’t… Well, it isn’t easy for me, either. That’s why we are working on it, a step at a time.” He brings his hands up then, to gently circle Crowley’s wrists and lightly pry that grip from his clothing. Crowley snarls low in his throat, a clear sign of his frustration, and Aziraphale smiles at him again. “You did very well, my dear. I’m afraid you are just going to have to live with the praise.”

“Nggh,” Crowley says. “I-”

The sudden knocking at the front door leaves them both freezing. Crowley’s eyes narrow into dangerous slits as he spins toward the door, which Aziraphale is only now realizing is still open from when the demon burst in a moment ago. A man stands in the doorway, and Crowley surges forward with low, rumbling hiss. 

Aziraphale rushes after him, catching hold of Crowley’s shoulder to stop him as he smiles at the human delivery man. 

“Hello,” he says amicably. The man is, at the very least, standing past the threshold and has not entered the cottage despite the open door, and simply knocked on it to alert them to his presence. While Aziraphale is reticent to have anyone else here at the cottage, he does appreciate this gesture. 

Crowley doesn’t rush the man, but he’s still tense next to him, muscles twitching beneath Aziraphale’s grasp. 

The delivery man smiles at him, though eyes Crowley a touch warily. “There you are! Package for you, sir.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, stopping somewhat in front of Crowley as he releases his grip on the demon’s shoulder. The delivery man holds out a small manilla envelope and Aziraphale eyes it warily. Crowley emits a low hiss at his side, clearly aware of the scent of Heaven coating it. “Thank you, my dear.” Aziraphale grabs the envelope. “Do I need to sign for it?”

“Please do,” the delivery guy says, holding up a clipboard. “Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

“Hadn’t noticed,” Crowley mutters darkly as Aziraphale accepts the offered pen.

There’s the slightest hesitation as he touches the pen to the paper. He’s been masquerading as Mr. Fell for so long sometimes it is hard to know which name to write when it concerns a package. Most of his shipments have been books delivered to his bookshop and he signs for them as Mr. A. Z. Fell, but this is directly from Heaven.

His real name it is, then.

He scrawls out Aziraphale and hands the clipboard and the pen back to the delivery man, whose name he should really learn at this point. They seem to see each other often enough. 

“I’m sorry, but I don’t believe I caught your name,” Aziraphale says, kindly. 

The delivery man grins, wide and bright. “Leslie,” he says proudly. “And you guys are an angel and a demon, Aziraphale and Crowley.”

Aziraphale stopped being surprised at humanity’s sudden knowledge of his divine nature several long months ago, but Crowley hisses dangerously at his side as he pushes forward to stand next to him. Aziraphale lays a hand on the demon’s arm, calming him as he offers Leslie a quick smile. 

“That we are,” he says. “I assume you are Heaven’s messenger now?”

“Had a weird day,” Leslie says, “then it got weirder. I just deliver packages where they tell me.”

“And who is this they?” Crowley demands. 

Leslie blinks at him. “I just deliver packages,” he says again. 

Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s irritation ratcheting up a couple notches. He squeezes Crowley’s arm and nods at the delivery man. “You have a good day, my dear. Thank you for the package.”

“No problem, sir!”

Leslie turns to leave and Crowley slams the door shut. 

The sudden sharp bite of the door slamming leaves Aziraphale wincing. 

“Really, my dear,” he says softly. 

“What’s it say?”

Aziraphale looks down at the envelope in his hands. “I assume it is informing me my leave has ended.”

No reason to sugarcoat it, after all. They both knew this was coming. They had nearly five months together, without interruption save for Gabriel’s… undesirable behavior that day in the bookshop. Sometimes Aziraphale’s side still twinges, a sharp reminder of what almost happened that day. 

Gabriel. The blade. Thoughts soured, Aziraphale opens the envelope. 

Crowley bares his teeth as he squints and looks away, eyes watering due to the heavenly scrawl. Aziraphale looks over the words carefully.

“I’m due back in Heaven on the 23rd,” he says quietly. “A week from now.”

Heaven is at least prompt. The wording is very generic, simply informing him his leave will come to an end on the 22nd and he is due ‘in office’ on the 23rd. There is no set time as time moves differently in Heaven, but that doesn’t really matter. 

That knot in his stomach finally has a reason to settle. 

His leave is coming to an end, and he’s not ready. 

A part of him doubts he will ever truly be ready for something like this. He cut ties with Heaven after the failed apocalypse, after all; that should have been the end of it. It wasn’t, of course, and now he’s been blessed with more duties and responsibilities and Gabriel is still rotting in a circle up in Heaven, waiting for him. He will need to finally speak with the other angels and address issues and deal with all Heaven’s bureaucratic nonsense.

Everything he’s been attempting to shove into some forgotten, distant corner of his mind is vying for his attention all at once, and it is decidedly too much. 

Aziraphale’s fingers tremble along the paper held in his hands, and he carefully folds it back along its pre-existing corners. Once that is finished he isn’t quite certain what to do with himself. 

I need to finish memorizing that book. 

I need to figure out what to do about Gabriel.

And the blade. Need to warn Her about the blade. 

How do I talk to angels? Why is this so hard?

I’m really not cut out for any of this.

Maybe God made a mistake. 

All of these thoughts threaten to suffocate him. The room spins around him and his head feels decidedly wrong. 

He staggers back a small half-step.

Oh, there’s so much to do… 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley’s voice is concerned as his hands grab hold of Aziraphale’s shoulders, steadying him. The worry clouding those yellow eyes leaves Aziraphale’s stomach twisting further. 

Now he’s gone and worried Crowley, too. 

“I’m alright,” he says quietly. “There’s just so much to be done… Oh, where do I even start?”

“With that asshat, Gabriel,” Crowley says firmly. “You punish him and the rest will follow.”

Aziraphale’s nose scrunches distastefully. “I don’t want to punish him. I don’t want to punish anyone!”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says gently, hands squeezing somewhat painfully into his shoulders, grounding him in a way, “angel, you’re gonna be great, yeah? God believes in you.”

Aziraphale exhales slowly through his nose. God believes in him. He isn’t certain if that makes things better or worse. 

What if She’s wrong? 

He really isn’t cut out for this type of job. Heaven was right to banish him to Earth and go about ignoring him. He really isn’t cut out for Heaven. 

It’s too… too wrong. Too white, too bland, too caught up in the idea of perfection. For so long it’s been synonymous with doubt and despair and so much emotional turmoil, it is hard to separate his memories of the place with what he knows it to be now. 

What he assumes it to be now. 

Heaven was broken, but is it still? Is it better?

Can he make it better?

God seems to believe in him, but how can Aziraphale thrive in this position and not let Her down, when he can’t even believe in himself?

The room is spinning again. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says sharply, nails biting into his shoulders, “you’ve got this, alright? You’re the best angel they have and they know it.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m the best—”

“You are.”

“Crowley, I’m really not—”

“Nuh uh,” Crowley says, glaring at him. “None of that. God trusts you, and you don’t doubt Her, do you?”

Aziraphale scowls. “Of course I don’t—”

“So it’ll be fine, yeah?”

He frowns at the demon. 

Crowley has the audacity to smirk. “Not so fun when logic’s used against you, huh?”

“You’ve made your point.”

“S’pose I have. You good?”

Aziraphale exhales loudly, letting the tension bleed from his frame. “I’m alright,” he says. 

“I’ll be right there with you,” Crowley assures him, in a tone which brooks no argument. 

The demon can be quite stubborn, after all. Not that Aziraphale wants him to change his mind on this, of course. Still, the image of Crowley in Heaven, surrounded by all things holy where he can potentially come into contact with holy water…

“Maybe I should go alone, first,” he says quietly. “Test the mood, as it were.”

“Test the waters,” Crowley corrects, scowling at him, yellow eyes narrowing. “And fuck that. We’re a team.”

Warmth bursts through Aziraphale’s core, tempering the icy dread struggling to entangle him. “I’m not at all keen on you being around holy water.”

Crowley’s nose wrinkles as he bares his teeth. “Gabriel tried to kill you,” he says sharply. “Like hell I’m letting you go there alone!”

“Gabriel is currently locked up,” Aziraphale reminds him gently. 

“You know he didn’t work alone.”

“There’s no proof of—”

“He didn’t work alone,” Crowley repeats, glaring at him now. “Don’t act ssstupid, Aziraphale. You know he had help. From Above and Below.”

Aziraphale sighs heavily, shoulders slumping. Crowley is right, of course; there is no way Gabriel obtained that deadly blade all on his own. Michael has worked with Hell in the past, on friendly enough terms to be allowed to bring holy water into the place, surrounded by demons. She could have turned it on them at any time, but they didn’t seem to worry she would at the time. This odd sort of trust revealed a lot about their little arrangement. 

Gabriel didn’t work alone, clearly. He isn’t certain how the demonic blade has angelic markings on it or what that truly means for Heaven. Michael might have been involved, and of course demons had to have ignited that hellfire core. And for them to trust Gabriel with the blade, to go after him…

He can see why Gabriel might want him dead, specifically. There has always been something off about their relationship, or lack thereof, and to Gabriel this all must seem wildly out of place—the Almighty punishing her archangels while granting Aziraphale a promotion after he turned his back on Heaven. So, on some level, he can understand that anger Gabriel must be feeling. In a way, it is only human. 

But the demons… He cannot quite fathom Hell’s interest in him. One would think they would want to go after Crowley instead, since he is the ‘traitor’ in their eyes, but this is not the case. They had to have agreed with Gabriel’s plans to attack Aziraphale specifically. He has complicated a few things for Hell, with Abaddon running amuck and causing massacres, but this…?

“I’m going,” Crowley states firmly, dragging Aziraphale back to the matter at hand. 

“I truly don’t think it wise,” Aziraphale tells him softly. Crowley huffs and Aziraphale reaches out, grabbing hold of the demon’s wrist. Those fingers are still pinching into his shoulders, but the grip loosens somewhat at his touch. “It’s not that I don’t want you with me, dear. You know that’s not it. But let me go alone to scope it out, at the very least. What if this is a trap?”

Crowley’s eyes seem to burn with their intensity. “That’s exactly why I need to go! If you think I’m letting you walk into a trap then—”

“They could destroy you,” Aziraphale murmurs, the very idea of such a thing leaving his chest aching terribly. A shudder slips through him, causing his whole body to give into a small tremble before he shakes it off. “I couldn’t bear it if they hurt you.”

Crowley bares his teeth, eyes flashing briefly. As his fingers seem to sharpen into dark claws, he releases his grip on Aziraphale’s shoulders, tearing his hands away with a low hiss. “We go together,” he says, sharply, “or we don’t go at all.”

“Crowley, be reasonable.”

The demon’s teeth gnash together with an audible snap. “I lost you,” Crowley croaks, voice cracking in the middle, and there’s another sharp pang at the center of Aziraphale’s chest. “ ‘m not letting you out of my sight, are you—you can’t bloody be—you’re not going alone, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s face contorts, the action aching down to his core. He really doesn’t like that tone—the pained pitch of it, the desperation coating every word. Being reminded of what he put Crowley through is, perhaps, the worst part of this whole thing. Crowley certainly deserves better. 

A part of Aziraphale aches to give into Crowley’s demands. He certainly owes the demon, doesn’t he?

But a much larger part of him shivers with the uncertainty waiting for them in Heaven. It will be his first time going since this whole mess started—since he accidentally imprisoned Gabriel—and he hasn’t the faintest idea what will happen. He has no idea what kind of reception he will receive, or if there is an attack waiting in the wings. 

God certainly implied it was safe to bring Crowley and that She would not mind it, clearly certain the two would not wish to be parted, but that doesn’t mean She informed the rest of the Heavenly Host about this decision. This doesn’t mean they will accept a demonic presence.

There’s too much that could go wrong. Crowley can’t come, not this time. 

Aziraphale needs to check things out himself first. He’d never forgive himself it he ignored caution and something happened to his demon. 

Crowley is still staring at him, silently imploring him. 

Aziraphale grimaces. 

“Before you say anything,” Crowley says, “need I remind you I’m the one with access to the demon blade?”

Aziraphale’s pulse stutters. Crowley is right about that. They need to inform God of what is happening, what has been happening, and that must take priority. A part of Aziraphale caves instantly at this notion, but a much larger part of him struggles to hold onto his concern, because there is a very real threat to Crowley here and simply cannot ignore that. 

No matter what urge might be spreading through him at the thought of that blade. 

He grits his teeth. “That is a very low blow, my dear.”

“ ‘m a demon,” Crowley retorts. “Kinda in the job description. ’s true, too.”

Aziraphale struggles to hold onto his indecision, but a frigid neutrality seeps over his thoughts nevertheless. Crowley is right. The blade is important and it is vital he share this information with Her, even if She knows about it already. He needs to uncover this mystery. 

He needs to stop it from happening again. 

No, he tells himself, taking a step back from the insanity of this moment—away from Crowley. Crowley’s expression morphs into something broken and fragile, and Aziraphale quickly reaches out to snag hold of the demon’s hand, giving those fingers a quick squeeze. This isn’t about you, my dear… I fear I am not quite myself. 

But that’s been the case for quite some time now, hasn’t it? 

The Urges, the moments of… of divine rage and justice—that’s not quite him, is it? Well, perhaps a version of him. But not… him, him. 

Not really. 

He struggles to cling to this doubt, this separation of intention in his mind. Struggles to cling to his concern. Crowley isn’t safe in Heaven. Crowley isn’t safe. 

… But Crowley is right. 

“… Angel?”

Now there’s concern in Crowley’s voice too, and that simply won’t do. 

Aziraphale exhales slowly and closes his eyes, struggling to collect himself. He is, at this moment, an angel concerned for the demon he’s chosen to share his life with, and is also torn between that and his duties as the Adjutant.

Frozen in a moment of indecision. 

A moment which passed some time ago, really. 

“Alright,” he says, somewhat reluctantly. 

“Al…? Yeah?” Crowley asks, somewhat nervously. 

Aziraphale grimaces. “I just don’t want you hurt, dear,” he says quietly. 

“Ngk,” says Crowley. “Won’t get hurt. God likes you. I’ll follow your lead, but just… Don’ leave me behind, alright?”

“Very well, my dear,” Aziraphale sighs. “But if something happens to you I shall be very cross with you.”

Crowley smirks slightly. It’s at least better than that semi-panicked look on his face. “It’ll be fine, angel. You’ll see.”

Aziraphale certainly hopes so. The truth of the matter is, though, that he doesn’t trust Heaven with Crowley. 

And if anyone touches his demon…

I will burn them all to the ground. 

Chapter Text

Crowley follows a half-step behind Aziraphale as they walk into the Main Entrance. His skin is already crawling, the holiness radiating from the Up escalator a rash burning through him. It’s all in his head, really; he’s been at the Main Entrance too many times in the past. Still, he can’t help but recall his last few attempts with this escalator. 

First there was that thing which nearly shredded Aziraphale, ending the angel there and then. A shudder slips up his spine at the memory. After Aziraphale… left, Crowley tried several times to ascend the escalator and find his angel in Heaven, after discovering there was still hope. The escalator refused to take him up, and climbing them like stairs he ran into an invisible wall halfway up. Again and again he tried, but never succeeded in ascending them. 

Now they’re back at the Main Entrance. 

Aziraphale steps onto the escalator, looking over his shoulder at Crowley. Crowley steps on after him, teeth clenched against the nerves flooding through him. 

Heaven, in his experience, is an awful place to be. To be fair, though, Hell certainly isn’t any better. They’re both bureaucratic nightmares, really. Too stuffy, too crowded, too empty, always about the bottom line and never about actual performance…

They’re both equally horrible places, in his opinion. Once upon a time he might have said Aziraphale was overreacting when he fretted about the angels doing something if they were to discover the two of them together—but now, looking back, Aziraphale honestly wasn’t worried enough. 

Aziraphale turns forward once again, and Crowley braces himself for an invisible wall. If he can’t go to Heaven, then Aziraphale isn’t either, he’s decided. He’ll snag the angel’s hand and miracle them out of there, because Aziraphale isn’t going to Heaven without him. 

They reach the halfway point and there is no invisible wall. Crowley passes through the space without a hint of resistance save for the way he flinches back reflexively. 

Huh, he thinks. Guess I am allowed into Heaven. 

An eerie thought, to be sure. Demons and Heaven certainly don’t mix. 

He wonders if God prepared Her angels for this. If She mentioned Crowley at all, and that he might be coming to Heaven at some point with Aziraphale. 

Guess we’re about to find out. 

Neither of them speak for the duration of the escalator ride. Aziraphale stands prim and proper, hands clasped behind him, the perfect little angel. Crowley itches to snag one or both of those hands and get them out of here; he already doesn’t like what this is doing to Aziraphale. 

He endures. They endure. 

Aziraphale arrives at the top first. He steps off onto he blindingly white platform and Crowley warily follows him, blinking furiously to help his eyes adjust quicker. Heaven has always been too bright. 

He stares at the array of colors haphazardly dotting the white expanse before them. Blues and reds of varying shades and intensities mix together in a seemingly random placement but it all makes the area look decidedly more vibrant. 

“Uh,” says Crowley, stunned. “ ’s different.”

“Yes, it is,” Aziraphale agrees blandly, posture still perfectly straight, hands clasped behind him. He glances briefly at Crowley. “I must confess I’m not quite certain where to go. She just said to be here.”

Welcome, Azirpahale. Crowley. 

The voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. A shiver inches down Crowley’s back; is this the first time he’s hearing Her voice? The last time She spoke through Aziraphale’s. The area around them now seems decidedly warmer, much more alive. 

“Ah, hello,” Aziraphale says, faux-cheerily. “We, um… I hope we’re not late.”

I did not give you a specified time, She says. Please follow me. 

“Ah, yes, before—before that, though,” Aziraphale says nervously. “We have some… information, about some weapons, and we would like—”

That can wait a little longer, don’t you think? 

“Ah… Ahm, I mean…”

“It can wait, got it,” Crowley says quickly, placing his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders, fingers pressing in to keep the angel silent. What the Heaven is he thinking, questioning God like this, first trip back to Heaven? Crowley glances around nervously, but they appear to be alone, save for God… somewhere. 

Crowley has no real idea where She is or how to follow something he can’t see, really, but Aziraphale seems to know. The angel sighs and steps after Her, his line of questioning silenced. Crowley glances briefly at the array of colors around them as they progress forward. 

This is the not the Heaven he remembers. 

She leads them forward for a time; Crowley has no real sense of it here, and no real sense of rooms as he can’t define any edges in this white, yet colorful, expanse. Several angels stare at them as they pass by, some in human corporations and others simply in their True Forms. Crowley can feel the heat of their gazes burning on the back of his neck, and he haunches his shoulders and presses forward, keeping close to Aziraphale. 

He doesn’t expect anyone to throw holy water at him, but he told Aziraphale he’d be careful. If he’s not careful, he knows Aziraphale won’t allow him to join him a second time, and, well… that can’t happen, now can it? 

Eventually, God stops. Aziraphale stops, and Crowley nearly collides into him, having been focused on the stares behind him. Now he looks over Aziraphale’s shoulder and finds a radiant, golden-edged door with glowing, light blue lettering.

Adjutant Aziraphale, it reads.

Aziraphale releases a sharp breath. “Oh, my,” he murmurs, stunned.

“Nggh,” Crowley says.

This will be your office here, God says. Please familiarize yourself with it today. You may leave once you feel comfortable with it, but I will expect you back in two days. Do you understand? 

“Yes, Lord,” Aziraphale says. A pause, an edge of hesitation creeping around them. “About the, ah… the blade…?”

Later, she says. So eager to get back to work, aren’t you? Let’s let you adjust first, and we can talk about what is troubling you once you have acclimated yourself here.

Crowley shivers as a swell of warmth sweeps by him.

Aziraphale stands there, staring at the door, unmoving and perfectly rigid. 

“Well?” Crowley prompts. “Go on, then. Let’s see your fancy new office.”

“I have an office,” Aziraphale breathes quietly. 

“Well, yeah. ‘Course you do. Not a wayward angel anymore, are you?”

Aziraphale exhales slowly and finally unclasps his hands from behind his back and reaches for the door. There is no handle or knob that Crowley can see, but a small flare of grace is all it takes for it to suddenly vanish. While the door ebbed a faint golden light, the room beyond seems to be bathed in light blue, which is decidedly more pleasing to the eye. 

There is a reason humans have been changing their headlights to an electric blue color instead of too-bright white. 

Aziraphale lingers outside the room, tension evident in his frame, and Crowley clasps a hand on his angel’s shoulder. 

“You’ve got this, yeah?”

Aziraphale steps forward into the room. Crowley follows, hand still holding onto that shoulder. 

There’s a small whoosh of sound as the door reappears behind them. 

Aziraphale’s breath leaves him in a rush. Crowley stares at the room before him.

It’s almost an exact replica of the study in Aziraphale’s bookshop—rows of ghostly books with celestial lettering Crowley can’t stand to look at, a large antique desk with a smooth wood finish, and what appears to be a rather comfortable, cushioned computer chair. Aziraphale was rarely on his computer except when he was ordering books or doing taxes, and never had a comfortable chair to sit in while he was there because he didn’t want to adapt to using the ‘blasted thing’ and become familiar with the position. 

There is no computer on the desk that Crowley can see, but there is a mountain of paperwork. The documents emanate a faint blue glow and are nearly see-through depending on the angle, and they give Crowley a migraine just looking at them. 

The room itself is rather large. Bigger than the entirety of Aziraphale’s bookshop. There is even a long, red couch tucked into a corner, away from the desk and books and paperwork, and Crowley eyes it warily. Is that supposed to be for him? The red hues remind him of his aura. 

An antique phone sits on the desk at the centre of the too-large room. Crowley presumes it is so Aziraphale can communicate with or summon those not in the room, though picturing angels with cellphones is always a laugh. Aziraphale really needs to get one, but he’s always so adamant about not having one it’s like arguing with a brick wall: pointless, and only results in a headache.

Aziraphale stutters into movement, making his way forward briskly. He strides toward the desk and runs a hand across the surface; while it looks utterly solid, a part of it seems to shimmer as his fingers connect with it, like he can banish parts at will. Crowley slinks forward as well, keeping Aziraphale and the couch in his field of vision; something about the couch seems to call to him, and he doesn’t appreciate it or know why. 

“Ssso,” Crowley says, “fancy office.”

“It’s… Oh, She really did this for me?” The awe in Aziraphale’s voice leaves Crowley bristling. 

“Oi,” he says sharply, “what’s that supposed to mean? Of course She did this for you. You’re Her fancy new Adjutant.”

“Yes, but… all this? It’s too much,” Aziraphale says quietly, turning in a slow circle to look around the room at large. “I can’t accept this.”

“Don’t have to,” Crowley says. “She gave it to you. You can probably change it as you want.”

“But I don’t…”

Crowley glowers at the angel. “You do deserve it. You died, Aziraphale. Because of Her. The least She can do is give you a big fancy office.”

“It wasn’t because of—oh, look at all that paperwork.”

“Yeah, get used to it,” Crowley says. “Or see if She will let you take ‘em home. Better to do it from home.”

And it means Aziraphale only needs to come to the office to pick up his paperwork—in and out scenario. No lingering in Heaven. 

Yeah, Crowley much prefers that. 

Aziraphale sinks into his cushioned chair. A pleased smile cross his face as he relaxes into it. “Oh, this is quite comfortable. Crowley, you have to try this chair.”

“Nuh,” Crowley says. “Gonna check out the couch.”

He moves toward the red couch. The closer he gets the more he aches to lay on it, and the warmth nestled in his chest seems to be urging him forward, step by step. He stops just in front of it, looking down at the cushions. It certainly looks comfortable.

He sits heavily on it, sinking into the cushions. Almost immediately a swell of warmth and love fills his chest and he blinks the sting away from his eyes. 

This is his. She did this for him, specifically. She knows enough about their relationship to know Crowley always preferred the couch in Aziraphale’s study, and that he usually sleeps on the couch at the cottage too, with his head resting on Aziraphale’s lap. 

Speaking of that…

One end of the couch has small table next to it, with a shimmering winged cup which looks eerily familiar. 

Crowley surges to his feet. 

“Is something wrong?” Aziraphale asks, concerned at the abrupt change. 

Crowley bares his teeth but remains silent. The room is spinning, closing in on him, and he doesn’t need to breathe but there’s certainly not enough air in here. 

God really does know about them. And seems to accept this.

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale stops in front of him, one hand tentatively outstretched toward him. Crowley shies away from contact and moves around Aziraphale, prowling toward the door. But then he stops, because he can’t leave. 

He can’t even get the door to open himself. It reacts to angelic grace. 

He’s trapped in here and the walls are closing in, despite being nonexistent. 

“Crowley, please, what’s wrong?”

“Out,” Crowley manages through gritted teeth. Need to get out of here. 

Hands land on his shoulders, squeezing tightly. His first reaction is to brush it off but the wave of calm floating over him from that presence behind him leaves him freezing in place, allowing the contact. Aziraphale slowly moves around him so he’s standing between Crowley and the door, and worried blue eyes meet Crowley’s. 

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Aziraphale says quietly. 

Crowley hisses. “She knows.”

“Knows what, my dear?”

“She knows,” Crowley repeats. 

God knows about them, accepts this, but he was cast out of Heaven for simply asking questions. And now She thinks She can… what? Give him some fancy couch for two, as if that makes up for anything?

Anger burns through him, but he’s not certain if he’s angry with himself or God, or even Aziraphale. The rage has no target, but races through him nevertheless, and he shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot, eager to step around Aziraphale and flee from the room.

Except he can’t do that—not only is he trapped in here, but that would mean leaving Aziraphale. 

And he can’t. 

“Crowley. It’s alright, my dear. You’re safe in this room.”

“Know that,” he mutters. 

“Then what is the matter? You’re worrying me.”

Crowley fights the urge to snarl. He swallows the sound back down and tries to find his words. “Jussst doesssn’t ssseem fair.”

“What doesn’t?”

“That couch is for me. Me specifically.”

Aziraphale casts a glance toward the couch. “And this… bothers you?”

“ ‘m a demon, why the bloody hell would She give me a couch?”

“She knows you are important to me,” Aziraphale says simply. “And She cares for you, too.”

Crowley bristles, shoulders tightening. “Demon,” he says again, sharply. “She doesn’t give a shit about me.”

“Crowley, you know that’s not true,” Aziraphale says quietly. His fingers press into Crowley’s shoulders, nearly bruising with their intensity. “She didn’t have to let you into Heaven today. She could have said you weren’t allowed to be here at all, with me.”

Deep down, Crowley knows this. He really does. Even understands it. He’s a demon granted entrance into Heaven and now given a couch in a fancy new office and he doesn’t have any way of processing all this right now. He doesn’t even know how to even start processing it. It’s surreal. 

He inhales sharply. The scent of Aziraphale, directly in front of him, fills him with a sense of calm, and he gives into a small, barely perceptible nod. 

Aziraphale smiles tentatively. “Give me a little longer to look through everything and we can leave. We won’t linger.”

“Ngk,” says Crowley. 

Aziraphale keeps his demon within his periphery at all times as he scours the paperwork on his desk. Some of it seems simple to follow, but others look far more complicated. 

He seems to be the authority over everything. 

From the Prayer Wing to Human Affairs. There also seems to be a new division called Angelic Internal Affairs. AIA. Angel Resources. Celestial Jail. Projects. The Human Division. Aziraphale’s Angels. 

Oh. Oh, that one sends a tremor through him. He drops the forms back onto his desk, staring down at them. Clearly he read them wrong. 

But no, there it is, plain as day. Aziraphale’s Angels. 

The description of such a group is that of his direct underlings. Those serving under him. He needs to pick ten of them. Ten angels to follow him around and delegate his duties to, and he hasn’t the faintest idea how he is even supposed to decide this. There’s also the Investigative Division to consider, a subset of AIA. 

Pain presses from behind his eyes. He drops his head into his hands and sighs heavily. 

“Alright?” Crowley asks from where he stands near a bookshelf, with his back to the holy items. Aziraphale listens as the demon strides toward him, emanating a sharp concern which tastes somewhat acrid in Aziraphale’s mouth. “What is it?”

Aziraphale’s first instinct is to push the documents toward Crowley so he can read it for himself, but he knows that won’t work. So he just shakes his head, willing the pain behind his eyes to subside as he keeps his head bowed. 

“It’s just a lot,” he says, very quietly. 

It is decidedly too much, and even his manual couldn’t prepare him for Aziraphale’s Angels. What does that even mean? Oh, his head really hurts. 

How is he supposed to process any of this? 

There is a stark difference between believing in Aziraphale and Aziraphale’s Angels. 

“Angel?”

Aziraphale sighs and lifts his head. Crowley is perched at the edge of his desk, sitting on the corner of it, yellow eyes watching him carefully. Aziraphale forces a tired smile. “I’m alright,” he says. “There are a few new… a few new units in Heaven now, I suppose.” A pause. “One of them being, erm… Aziraphale’s Angels.” 

It doesn’t sound any better out loud. 

Crowley sucks in a sharp breath. “Nuh,” he says. “Really?”

Aziraphale nods numbly. 

Crowley remains silent, seemingly equally stunned. Aziraphale sits back in his chair, slack with disbelief. How do the angels feel about this? Are they aware?

The angels. Aziraphale grimaces. 

He’s going to have to make some sort of speech, isn’t he? Get all the angels together and speak to them. 

He has never been good at public speaking. He much prefers the quiet of his bookshop, or working on the sidelines or in the background. How did it come to this? How did this happen?

“What, uh… What are you gonna do?” Crowley asks quietly. 

Aziraphale sighs. “I’m not really certain just yet. I suppose I’ll have to summon the angels and have a meeting. Discuss everything… and… I suppose ask who would like to, ah… volunteer. To work with me.” He frowns. “Oh, no one is going to want to. I’ll have to force them, won’t I?”

“You’re not giving yourself nearly enough credit,” Crowley tells him. “They must know you didn’t betray Heaven by now, surely.”

“You saw the looks I got when we arrived today.”

“Those looks were for me. Demons aren’t exactly liked around here.”

“This is impossible. Maybe I should… resign. Again.”

He left Heaven once before, after all. 

Crowley’s gaze sharpens on him, eyes narrowing. “What happens if you quit? Does She… I mean, will it… destroy you, again?”

Oh. That is something to think about. 

It must show on his face because Crowley snarls and shakes his head. 

“Nuh,” he says. “No quitting. Not happening. We’ll figure it out, yeah? Just… take a breath.”

Aziraphale doesn’t prefer breathing in Heaven. In the past it has always tasted rather stale, or perhaps too clean. Either way, it reminded him of somewhere he didn’t like being, and Gabriel always frowned on the habit of breathing anyway, so it was just simpler to not do so in Heaven. 

Now he inhales deeply. The room isn’t stale or too clean; it actually smells a bit like his bookshop. Rustic, antiquated. A bit like Crowley. 

Almost like home. 

It sends a shudder through him. God really went all out on this office, didn’t She? It would be horrid of him to reject all She has done for him. He can’t resign or quit; this will be his life now, and he will simply need to accept it. 

Aziraphale has been muddling through things all his life. Surely this won’t be any different. 

Maybe he will even find a routine to settle into, and it will be easier from there. 

He tries to stay positive.

The door in the room suddenly flares red around the edges instead of the usual gold. Aziraphale looks toward it sharply, already pushing to his feet as Crowley whirls around with a low, dangerous hiss. The demon stalks toward the door immediately, but Aziraphale snaps his fingers and arrives first, as he doesn’t know how the energy around the door will react to a demon. 

With a small gesture and flare of his grace, the door vanishes once more. Just outside it stands—

“Whoa,” Crowley hums from behind him. 

A line of angels currently stands in front of the doorway. It seems endless. 

“Ahh,” Aziraphale says, intelligently, as he blinks at them in surprise. “Erm. I mean, hello there! I… Have you been waiting long?”

“She told us to give you an hour before knocking,” the one in front says simply. 

“Ah, yes…” He allows a friendly smile to cross his face, as that is his custom on Earth when dealing with unexpected guests. However, this is Heaven, and Gabriel never liked him showing any emotion other than a bland eagerness to thwart the enemy and do good in the world. 

But this angel in front of him smiles back, copying the expression. 

“Can I help you?” Aziraphale asks genially. 

The one in front—in a female corporation—eagerly nods. “We’re here for your openings.”

“My… openings,” Aziraphale repeats, confusion running through him. Behind him, Crowley shifts closer. 

“Your angels,” the one behind her says, in a male corporation.

His…

“Aziraphale’s Angels?” Crowley asks from behind him. 

The smile falters somewhat on the one in front’s face as they look at Crowley, clearly a little uneasy with a demon staring them in the face. “Yes,” they confirm.

Aziraphale stares back at them, completely stunned. 

“You… want to work with me?” He asks, mostly to clarify. 

“Oh, yes!” 

“…Really?”

Crowley huffs behind him. “Give yourself some credit, angel.”

Eager faces look back at him. The line is endless, it seems. 

Most have corporations. Some linger near the back in their True Forms. Most hold shimmering papers in their hands. A resume, perhaps?

For him? For working with him? 

They actually want to work with him?

Crowley’s shoulder bumps into his as he moves to stand directly at Aziraphale’s side instead of behind him. “He’s a little overwhelmed,” the demon explains. “He thought you hated him. Give him a minute, it’ll process.”

“Hate him?” Someone echoes. 

“Oh, no!” Another says. “How could we hate Aziraphale?”

Too much. This is all too much. 

He staggers back a half-step. Crowley moves to stand partially in front of him, and he is grateful when those hopeful gazes land on the demon instead of him. 

“You have, ah, you have forms?” Crowley asks. “Give them here. He’ll look through them and get back with you in a couple days.”

“Days,” someone murmurs. “How long is that?”

Most don’t know anything about humanity. It is odd to see them in corporations; maybe they want to learn about humanity. Yes, that’s it. That’s why they are eager to work with him. He knows the most about humanity, having spent 6000 long years with them. It all makes sense now.

It’s not Aziraphale they want, it’s humanity. 

Now that his world is back on its axis, Aziraphale smiles at them, moving to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Crowley once more, gently nudging the demon out from in front of him. 

“I will look through these carefully,” Aziraphale assures them, gesturing at the papers. “Thank you.” 

He accepts the first paper, and the rest soon follow.

He loses count after the first thousand. By the time the line is finished, he is decidedly numb and the weight of papers in his hands should bother him. Crowley has his own stack he carefully carries as he follows Aziraphale back into the room and toward the desk. Behind them, the door whooshes back into existence. 

Aziraphale is afraid to count them. 

Crowley drops his stack and is suddenly right in front of him, hands gripping his arms tightly. “You alright with this? Angel?”

Aziraphale blinks back at him, dazed. 

Crowley’s hands slip down his arms to instead grasp his hands, his thumbs smoothing across knuckles. “Told you they liked you.”

“Oh, it’s not me they like,” Aziraphale says. It’s the only reason he could make sense of any of this and move forward. “They’re curious about humanity, and I suppose I am the leading authority on such a thing.”

Crowley frowns. “Didn’t seem that way to me,” he says. “They seemed happy to see you.”

“They’re certainly curious,” Aziraphale says, nodding.

But they weren’t happy to see Aziraphale, specifically. They were happy to see the leading expert on humanity. There is a difference, and it matters. 

This is the only reason they eagerly lined up outside his door, and it is the only reason he is willing to accept. Therefore it must be true. 

Aziraphale eyes the stacks warily. “I wonder if She would be opposed to me taking some of these home with me. To look things over there.”

“ ‘m sure it’s fine,” Crowley says. “You said you don’t have to be here all the time, so you’ll have to take stuff home sometimes, right?”

Aziraphale nods slowly. That makes sense, but he doesn’t want to upset Her if he’s wrong. He hesitates there next to his desk. Today has certainly been a lot, and he is ready to return home and process everything, but he doesn’t know if She is okay with him taking these stacks home. 

“Angel, it’ll be fine,” Crowley assures him. “She said to just get a feel for it, yeah? And come back in a couple days. You don’t have to do anything right now. Leave it here if it worries you.”

Crowley has a point. 

Aziraphale sighs and steps away from the stacks and the desk. He rolls his shoulders, tension hiding in his frame, and glances over at Crowley. The demon grins back at him. 

“Hell of a first day, huh?”

“Quite,” Aziraphale murmurs. 

Crowley squeezes his hand. “C’mon,” he says, gently tugging him toward the door. “This can wait a couple days.”

Aziraphale starts to follow, only to shrink back. “The blade.”

Crowley bares his teeth. “Angel. It can wait. It’s waiting this long, it can wait a little longer until you’re… acclimated, yeah?”

Aziraphale looks over his shoulder at the room, committing it to memory. This is his room. His office. His desk. Crowley’s couch. 

Hopefully in a couple days, it won’t feel so foreign to him. And he will feel more like himself, confident enough to broach the subject of the demon blade. 

Then he follows Crowley out of the room, and the door appears behind them. 

Chapter Text

Crowley tries to shake off the clingy tingle of Heaven as they ride the elevator back down, but it seems to have seeped in rather deeply. Not unpleasant, exactly, and not painful—but unnerving. Definitely unnerving. 

They ride down in silence. Crowley doesn’t know what to say even if he were to speak, not that he really needs to say anything. They both might be in a bit of shock. Images of that couch keep flashing through his mind, along with the seemingly endless line of angels outside Aziraphale's door. 

A shiver slips down his spine. 

As they step off the escalator and make their way out of the Main Entrance, Aziraphale lags behind him, seemingly in a state of shock. Crowley knows the telltale signs all too well—the angel will act on habit rather than conscious thought, and will default to that of a Proper Angel, perfectly rigid and unemotional. It's always been an abysmal sight, if Crowley is being honest with himself. So many times in the past, he’s had to drag Aziraphale out of this very state—usually with the promise of something sweet or alcoholic, but that was always a bandaid solution to a more serious problem. 

He attempts some small talk on the way out of London, but Aziraphale either doesn’t hear him or simply hums noncommittally in response, and agitation floods through the demon. This is exactly why he’s always abhorred Aziraphale going to Heaven for any reason. Performance reviews were always a nightmare; Aziraphale would be in a sort of absent state for days, sometimes weeks. Crowley never let it get to months. 

The Bentley stops outside their cottage some time later, and Aziraphale is still absently looking out the window, gaze decidedly distant. Frustration burns in Crowley’s stomach, something akin to a deep-seated rage which has been building up for thousands of years. Heaven has always put Aziraphale out of sorts, and he’s not sure why he thought this time would be any different. 

Perhaps because Aziraphale is wanted, now. Heaven seems to have finally woken up and realized the gem they had, and Crowley thought that perhaps this time it wouldn’t end in Aziraphale doubting himself or drowning in insecurities. 

He was wrong.

Aziraphale follows behind him as though on auto-pilot as Crowley leads the way into the cottage. The door shuts with a dull thud behind them, and Aziraphale’s gaze wanders absently over the living room. A shiver slips down Crowley’s spine and he snags hold of Aziraphale’s hand, giving it a tight squeeze. 

“C’mon,” he says, guiding the angel toward the couch. “Sit there. I’ll, uh… get you some tea. Yeah, tea.”

Tea will help. Tea always helps. 

Alcohol calls to him but he’s trying to get away from bandaid solutions. Aziraphale needs comfort and tea has always been his beverage of choice when it comes to such things, and so Crowley will provide. It’s the least he can do. 

Aziraphale sinks down onto the couch, staring blankly ahead. Crowley bares his teeth and turns to leave the room, though every part of him aches to linger at his angel’s side. They’ve been working on distance, and tea only takes a few minutes. It will give him time to… what? Think of something to say or do? He doesn’t know how to help.

Doesn’t know what Aziraphale actually needs.

All he has is the offer of tea.

Aziraphale deserves so much better. 

Trembling hands pluck the kettle from the high shelf. He drops it in the sink and turns on the faucet, filling it with water as he shakes out his hands, attempting to banish any shakiness from them. He can’t help but picture himself in this very position as he has been so many times before, and realizes how often he tries to use tea as something soothing. 

Can’t talk about it, can you? A part of him chides sharply. No, all you can do is make him some bloody tea. He deserves better than you. 

He grits his teeth, stifling a hiss. Aziraphale is in shock and he doesn’t know how to help.

This is all so new to him—so foreign. He was in Heaven today, and he was allowed to be there. God put that couch in Aziraphale’s office for him specifically and he has no idea how to feel about this. God seems to accept him now, but why couldn’t She before? What was he struck from Heaven for simply asking questions? That was all it took to be a demon in the old days. 

He didn’t hurt anyone or turn on anyone. He simply hung around the wrong crowd and asked too many questions. 

And now this. A couch. Like he belongs. 

Why is he acceptable now, but he wasn’t before? What did he do wrong before?

Why wasn’t I enough, before? 

It gnaws at him, these parasitic thoughts. 

Aziraphale isn’t the only one feeling overwhelmed, but Crowley can’t even describe what he’s feeling in an effort to talk things through. He’s angry and hurt in equal measure, but he’s not certain who he is angry with, if his feelings are even valid. Aziraphale is hurting too, and Crowley can see it, but he can’t do anything about it. 

Why is talking about things so difficult? What is he even really feeling?

Today has been too much. Things are changing rapidly and while he’s proud of Aziraphale for how far he’s come in Heaven’s judgmental eyes, he can’t help but feel upset about it, too. Crowley has always believed in Aziraphale and Heaven has always been too blind to see Aziraphale’s worth, and at some point Crowley became used to the idea of Heaven’s mistreatment of his angel. 

Came to count on it, even. 

And that’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?

Aziraphale is being seen for the gem he is, and Crowley is happy for him, but it’s overshadowed by this nagging fear.

If Aziraphale becomes popular in Heaven, won’t he become more inclined to spend more and more time there? Won’t the angels want him in Heaven more?

Ice settles in Crowley’s veins. Occasional visits to Heaven are one thing, but what if Aziraphale starts to actively miss the place? If he starts to enjoy being there, surrounded by his own kind? Surrounded by those who finally see him for how wonderful he is? What if he decides this job suits him so much more than a quiet life on Earth with Crowley?

What if I’m not enough? 

The kettle whistles shrilly, startling Crowley from suffocating under the weight of those thoughts. He staggers into movement, snapping the kettle from the burner. Trembling fingers snatch Aziraphale’s favorite winged mug and he pours some tea in it, a tremor slipping through him. 

Get it together, you idiot. 

It doesn’t matter how he feels. It shouldn’t matter how he feels. He’s supposed to be helping Aziraphale right now, not quietly falling apart in the kitchen. Months of pent-up emotions are coiled inside of him, though, and now there’s fear mingling with the cacophony of mangled feelings, and none of this matters. 

If Aziraphale wants Heaven, then Crowley will have to accept that. 

And if he decides to free himself from Crowley—

Stop it, he tells himself firmly. Aziraphale loves you. He wouldn’t do that to you. 

But the doubts linger, nevertheless. 

Crowley exhales slowly, stills his shaking hand, and takes the mug out of the kitchen. 

Aziraphale is still sitting on the couch, staring blankly ahead. He doesn’t even seem aware of Crowley as the demon steps in front of him, pushing the steaming cup at him. Aziraphale blinks at the sudden intrusion of the mug in front of his face, and finally slips his gaze past it to Crowley, seemingly aware of him for the first time since they left Heaven. 

Aziraphale accepts the offered mug. “Thank you, my dear,” he says, very quietly. 

At least there is the slightest inflection to those words, Crowley thinks. He takes it as a win. 

Aziraphale takes his first sip, expression still rather vacant. After another sip it becomes less so, and by the third there’s more clarity in his gaze.

“That happened,” the angel murmurs. “It actually happened. Didn’t it?”

“It did,” Crowley confirms, still standing in front of the angel, uncertain if he should sit next to him or linger here. 

Aziraphale takes another sip and sighs heavily, posture finally starting to relax into the cushions. The tension in Crowley’s own shoulders disperses as well, and he finally sinks down onto the couch next to Aziraphale. 

Heaven has always been a lot to handle.

Aziraphale sighs and turns toward him slightly. His fingers claps Crowley’s and give them a quick squeeze. “Thank you for coming with me today, my dear,” Aziraphale says softly. “I’m not certain I could have gotten through it without you.”

“Going alone wasn’t ever an option,” Crowley reminds him. 

Aziraphale rewards him with another squeeze, and his thumb brushes over the curve of Crowley’s knuckles. Crowley inhales slowly, struggling to banish his negative thoughts to the back of his mind.

Angels lining up to speak with Aziraphale and work with him was quite the shock, if he’s being honest with himself. Not because Aziraphale doesn’t deserve the recognition—Aziraphale deserves all of it, of course. But Heaven’s blatant disregard for acknowledging Aziraphale’s accomplishments is what partially tipped Aziraphale toward Crowley’s side in the first place, and without this disconnect with the other angels, Crowley isn’t sure how long Their Side will last. 

A shudder slips through him. Plaintive, possessive thoughts flit through him and he struggles to exile them as well. Aziraphale is his, and demons are quite possessive and territorial sometimes. Circling sort of marks a target—that there? Yeah that’s my mark. And my angel. Fuck off. And Crowley has been circling Aziraphale for a long, long time. Thousands of years. 

Since the Beginning, really. 

He doesn’t know how not to circle, but if Aziraphale decides Heaven is the place for him, then Crowley will just have to—

No, some distant part of him proclaims, there won’t be any accepting it. 

“How can I choose?” Aziraphale asks, startling Crowley from his twisted thoughts. “There were so many of them.”

Crowley relaxes into the cushions, feigning a sense of calm. “You’re a celebrity to them.”

“They were curious about humanity.”

Crowley bares his teeth but remains silent, unwilling to snap at Aziraphale because of his own issues. He certainly doesn’t believe those angels were only there to learn about humanity. They could always pop down to Earth themselves or look through the observation files if humanity was their real interest.

Jealousy isn’t green, Crowley thinks. It’s a vibrant, burning red. 

“How are you?” Crowley asks, changing the subject. “Processing okay?”

“Somewhat,” Aziraphale says distastefully. “It doesn’t quite feel real, just yet.”

“ ’s called shock.”

“I am aware, dear boy. I’ll be alright, it is just… a lot to think about and process, right now.”

Crowley glances at the angel. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Your’e doing it by sitting here with me,” Aziraphale tells him, giving his hand another tight squeeze. Warmth ignites inside Crowley, battling against those cold, frantic thoughts. 

For a time, they simply sit there, Aziraphale sipping at his tea and Crowley clinging to that captured hand. The touch is grounding. He tries to convince himself this is all a good thing, Aziraphale being noticed for the treasure he truly is, Crowley being allowed into Heaven, Aziraphale’s fancy new office and fan club—it’s all a good thing. 

A part of him whispers this isn’t true. Angels, for all their talk of being better than demons, do sabotage and betrayal just fine, and Gabriel has already tried to kill Aziraphale twice. Those angels are a problem. Aziraphale being around them more often is only inviting trouble to their doorstep.

Crowley will keep his guard up, no matter how inviting Heaven pretends to be. Heaven and Hell are mirrors of each other, opposite ends of the same terrible things, and he needs to remember this. He can’t become complacent, not even for a second.

Jealousies or otherwise, he can’t let Aziraphale down again. Can’t fail him again. 

Aziraphale clears his throat and puts his empty mug on the table in front of him. His fingers stretch for the instruction manual, but stop at the last second and pull back sharply as Aziraphale straightens his posture once more. 

“What do you think I should do?” 

Crowley grimaces. “Not really sure, me. This is all kinda weird.”

“It is bizarre,” Aziraphale agrees quietly. 

“Just… nggh. Trust your instincts. Hold interviews if you want, after you go through the, ah… the mountain of paperwork.”

“It is quite the mountain,” Aziraphale murmurs.

Crowley is really garbage at this whole ‘cheering up’ thing. Usually he just tempts Aziraphale to lunch and plies him with sweets until the angel stirs from whatever depressed stupor he’s gotten himself into, but somehow he knows that won’t work this time. This is different. 

This is huge. 

This is their lives at stake. 

A shiver crawls up his spine. 

“It’ll be fine,” Crowley says, because he refuses to believe otherwise. 

“It will be fine,” Aziraphale echoes. 

Crowley knocks his shoulder into the angel’s. “Oi,” he says, “I’m the moody one here. Doesn’t work if we’re both out of sorts.”

Aziraphale offers a timid smile. “How thoughtless of me.”

“It really is. Kinda rude of you.”

Aziraphale gives his captured hand a squeeze and relaxes back into the cushions. The tension in Crowley’s own frame loosens at the sight. “I’ve processed all I can today. Is there anything you would like to do?”

Crowley jumps to his feet, yanking the angel up as well. “Let’s hit the road.”

“We only have a couple days to—”

“I’ll have you back before you turn into a pumpkin,” Crowley says, dragging Aziraphale toward the door. The angel isn’t exactly hesitating or fighting against him, following along quite nicely. Still, Crowley feels this urge to get out of here for a little while, even if it’s just a couple of hours. 

There’s a nice hiking trail he’s heard of near here. It’s said to lead to some hidden paradise, if you’re willing to put in the work. 

It’s a nice day outside, and while the breeze has a slight chill to it, it’s nothing unbearable, especially for them. Crowley isn’t exactly a fan of the cold, but Aziraphale is warm right there next to him, and this will be good for them. 

They pile into the Bentley and leave the cottage. 

According to GPS, it should take a little over three hours to get to this hiking area, but Crowley wills his baby faster and faster until they are flying down the road at ungodly speeds of over 300, which shouldn’t strictly be possible in a car. 

The Bentley is no ordinary car, though. They really don’t make them like they used to. 

Aziraphale presses a hand into the roof of the car, steeling himself, always the worrier when it comes to riding in the car. Crowley smirks over at him and Aziraphale gives him a timid smile. Queen plays loudly in the background.

The further they drive, the more Crowley feels tense muscles unwinding. It’s been a while since he pushed his baby to these kinds of speeds—the last time being when he raced to the bookshop after Aziraphale failed to pick up, and he arrived to find it burning. A shudder slips through him and he wills the car to go faster still.

It’s mostly country roads and there is little traffic. Traffic is something which happens to other people, in Crowley’s experience, unless a sudden infernal wall of hellfire erupts on the M25. Whipping around sharp corners going these dangerous speeds should result in a wreck, but Crowley wills his baby to keep steady and she does so, unwilling to disappoint him. 

Every sharp corner they take, Aziraphale releases a strangled breath, and Crowley laughs. This routine is familiar, at least—Aziraphale decidedly horrified at Crowley’s driving, and Crowley eagerly pushing the limits. 

They make it to the trail in record time, and it’s almost a shame when the car rolls to a stop. Aziraphale gingerly gets out and Crowley runs a hand along the car’s dash. 

“Good girl,” he says, before following the angel out. 

The trees sway lightly in the breeze flitting through them, leaves rustling. The sounds of nature can be quite peaceful, but Crowley prefers the thrill of the city. There’s just an energy about crowded places and there is so much mischief he can do there, but in nature he’d only be toying with the animals, and it’s not enjoyable to pick on creatures which can’t decide between right and wrong themselves. 

Nature has always been more Aziraphale’s thing. A quiet sunset, a rainy day hiding in the bookshop, standing on a bridge overlooking a river, spending time in Crowley’s outdoor garden at their cottage… The angel seems to bask in it all, and sometimes it is enough to take Crowley’s breath away. 

Aziraphale breathes in the fresh air, those tense muscles finally relaxing completely, the weight of his new role forgotten in this moment. Crowley strides toward him, standing next to him as they eye the beginning of the trail. No one is out here today as it is a little chilly, and most people will find their GPS devices unwilling to lead them here today due to an unexpected error. 

Crowley nearly startles when fingers suddenly brush lightly against his own—a small, simple touch, affirmation of proximity, and nothing more. Crowley slips his fingers around Aziraphale’s and gives them a quick squeeze, warmth settling in his stomach. These casual touches have grown decidedly more frequent as of late, and he often finds himself grateful for whatever Aziraphale will give him. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says quietly. 

“For what?”

“… For being you.”

Crowley chuffs, uncertain how to respond to that. His first instinct is to say something snide or sarcastic, as that’s been his default emotional response for millennia, but it’s always been different with Aziraphale. “Ngk,” is what he finally says, shifting his weight from foot to foot, unable to keep still. 

Aziraphale squeezes his hand and then steps forward, guiding him forward as well. 

And then the two enter the trees, surrounded in the quiet peacefulness of nature, and Crowley can forget about Heaven for a moment. 

Aziraphale has always rather enjoyed nature. The simplicity of the sounds and smells has always calmed some part of him, and it was always nice to sit down somewhere and meditate. His bookshop is nice and was always his favorite place, but there was always something pleasant about being in the sunlight, a soft breeze drifting around him, crinkling the leaves on the trees. 

The trail isn’t very difficult, but it is rather long and time-consuming. Halfway through it both he and Crowley have tripped over upturned roots several times, catching each other with a few quiet laughs, and now they walk hand-in-hand, pressed close together on the thin trail. 

It’s a distraction which is desperately needed, perhaps for both of them. Something really upset Crowley today in Heaven, though Aziraphale doesn’t exactly know what it was. Something about the couch, specifically. It was a lovely looking couch, in Aziraphale’s opinion—just the kind Crowley would usually like. 

They’ve both been a bit overwhelmed by today. This nature break is very much needed, and Aziraphale makes a mental note to properly thank Crowley for this later. 

Crowley trips over another root and hisses at it, as though it will rue the day it dared do such a thing to him, and Aziraphale can’t help but chuckle fondly as he catches hold of the demon’s arm to steady him once more. 

“Remind me why I thought this was a good idea?” Crowley mutters. 

“Because you know I like nature,” Aziraphale says simply. 

Crowley snaps his mouth shut and glowers down at the root in question before finally stepping around it so they can continue their journey. 

Aziraphale bumps his shoulder against Crowley’s, causing the demon to glance at him inquisitively. 

“What was so upsetting in Heaven?” Aziraphale asks quietly. “About the couch?”

Crowley grimaces. “Was just being stupid, is all.”

“Nonsense, my dear. Tell me what upset you so much.”

Crowley tried to flee from the room, after all. Whatever it was left him willing to face the entirety of Heaven. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Crowley tells him, scowling at nothing as he looks forward again. Aziraphale wishes he weren’t wearing his ridiculous sunglasses; no one else is around, though it is quite sunny out. He likes seeing Crowley’s eyes. 

“You realize you can talk to me about anything, don’t you?”

“Nggh, ‘course I do,” Crowley says quickly. “Nothing to say, though. Was overreacting.”

Aziraphale sighs. He can’t make Crowley talk to him, though it does hurt to realize Crowley must believe there isn’t room for his own issues in this relationship, which isn’t true at all. Aziraphale should really stop leaning on him so much. 

He slips his hand free of Crowley’s as he turns to admire a patch of flowers struggling to bloom. He waves his hand over them and they blossom quite nicely.

Then he continues on with their walk.

A couple steps later he stops and looks over his shoulder. Crowley is still standing where they stopped, watching Aziraphale with a rather unreadable expression on his face due to those sunglasses. The tension in his jaw hints at gritted teeth. 

“Something the matter?” Aziraphale asks, concerned. 

Crowley stuffs his hands in his pockets and strides forward. “Nuh,” he says, walking past Aziraphale. “Think we’re almost at the end of the trail, is all.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale says, following behind the demon. 

Chapter Text

Aziraphale rereads the section regarding his Heavenly duties for the third time today, but still finds it difficult to wrap his head around it entirely. According to this section, he is over all imprisonments and trials and is authorized to be the judge, jury, and executioner—or banisher, as the case may be. 

God has relinquished such control to him. It is unnerving. 

He will be the head of all investigations into angelic and human affairs, and perhaps those regarding demonic crimes if needed. He will be Heaven’s liaison with Hell, a duty which leaves his stomach churning unpleasantly. At the end of the day, it seems he is over everything, and this is utterly baffling. 

God has given him so much authority, has put so much trust into him, and he is completely undeserving. Surely there are better, far more qualified angels for such a thing? He gave his sword away within a week of receiving it, didn’t vanquish the demon in the garden, struck a conversation with his enemy instead, and then proceeded to spend the next 6000 years getting drunk with said demon and even doing temptations for him. He did Hell’s work half the time. He and Crowley had an Arrangement. 

He should be the last angel given such authority. 

Trembling fingers turn the page. 

“I’m ready whenever you are, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs quietly, aware of the eyes watching him so carefully. 

Crowley sighs from where he stands next to the couch. Trepidation lingers in the air, Crowley’s hesitance plain as day. Agitation is no stranger to Aziraphale at this moment, and he has been rather slow in stating his readiness with this plan himself. 

“We can do this another time,” Crowley suggests. 

“No, my dear. We’ll keep putting it off.”

They’ve been putting this off for months, mostly, save for a couple days ago when Crowley went for a stroll around the cottage. With Heaven knocking at their door and Aziraphale’s new responsibilities piling up, they need this practice now more than ever. They simply can’t be around each other all the time, and it is better to keep working on this now, in the early stages of his return to Heaven. 

Crowley huffs under his breath, prowling at the edge of the couch. Aziraphale eyes him all the while, fighting the urge to simply call the whole thing off. Crowley is reluctant and Aziraphale is hesitant himself, but this needs to happen. This is the only way to start moving forward. 

“Maybe we should wait until you get a cellphone,” Crowley suggests. 

“Nothing will happen in the ten minutes you will be gone,” Aziraphale reminds him gently. 

In this moment he is grateful for the sunglasses; if he had to see the panic gathering in those yellow eyes, his fortitude would surely crumble. Still, reading the tension in Crowley’s jaw nearly leaves him caving once again. 

“What if you get an Urge?”

“I haven’t had one in several months now,” Aziraphale says. “You’re stalling, my dear.”

Crowley sighs heavily. “Yeah. Know that. Guess I’ll, uh… be going, then.”

“I will see you soon,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley lingers there for a moment longer before he hisses under his breath and turns to head toward the door. As his hand curls around the knob to fling it open, Aziraphale clears his throat. 

“It will be alright, my dear.”

Crowley stills, frozen there for a moment, before he jerks the door open and leaves the cottage. The door closes with a quiet snap behind him, and Aziraphale exhales slowly, willing his tense muscles to relax. 

Crowley is only taking a ten minute drive. Driving will help clear his head, or at least that is the hope for both of them. He doesn’t have to go far; just a quick shot down the street and back again, just to leave the cottage for a few minutes. Easy, simple, quick. 

The panic doesn’t immediately consume him, though it appears as a dull ache at the center of his chest, something cold and frozen drilling into his very core. Deep down, he knows it is extremely unlikely for something to happen to Crowley the moment he leaves Aziraphale’s line of sight, but the odds are never zero—and that is where the fear comes into play. 

He listens as the Bentley revs to life. Listens as it lingers there for several long moments. Just as he is about to get up and inform Crowley he has to actually leave for this to work, the vehicle finally pulls away. Aziraphale listens until the sound disappears entirely, tense and uneasy. 

Then he looks back down at his book, attempting to reread this section once again. He can create a task force to investigate issues, but in the end he will need to review their data very carefully and come to his own conclusion. While he can create a jury for a trial, he’s the only one who can actually dole out punishments, so in the end he gets final say. 

It’s a lot of pressure. 

And his skin is crawling. 

Crowley will be back soon, he tells himself. It’s just a short outing. 

He rereads the same paragraph three times, attempting to understand the wording, but it is hard for his mind to focus. Surely they are coming up on the ten minute mark by now. 

Focus, he tells himself firmly. 

On the fifth reread of the same paragraph, he gives up and snaps the book shut with too much aggression. Were it a normal book the bindings might have torn along the seams, but this is no ordinary book. It holds together and Aziraphale all but throws it onto the table. 

He stares at the door, willing it to open, listening keenly for the rumble of the Bentley’s engine. His pocket watch could tell him how much time has actually passed but he avoids giving into the temptation to look at it. Crowley will be back any minute now, surely. 

Crowley is perfectly alright, as he keeps telling himself. Just because Aziraphale is alone in the cottage doesn’t mean something has happened to his demon. This space will be good for them in the long run, even if it is feels more like torture right now. He can feel the icy loneliness seeping into his core, assaulting him from every angle now that he has nothing else to focus on. 

He eyes the book on the table. At least it helped distract him, even if he couldn’t focus on what he was reading. 

With a frustrated sigh, he pushes to his feet, pacing the length of the couch. 

Crowley is safe, he tells himself firmly. Crowley is perfectly safe. He’s in his beloved car taking a little joyride, and surely the ten minute mark must be approaching now. 

Crowley could always choose to stay out longer, of course; they had no rules about that. If he feels comfortable being out there on his own, he is certainly entitled to take a longer ride if that his his desire. Aziraphale won’t fault him for that, even if he’d much prefer to have the demon back here as quickly as possible.

“Tea,” he mutters to himself, striding toward the kitchen. 

Tea will help calm his nerves. It is his beverage of choice for all his comforting needs. 

His essence seeps outward, inhabiting the entirety of the cabin. He keeps a tight hold on it from there, unwilling to let it go searching for that familiar presence. Despite being a demon, Crowley’s aura has always felt rather comforting to him—a reminder he was not alone, despite how isolated he felt. In those early days, it was sometimes all that kept him sane. 

Now he finds himself reaching for the presence even when the two are in the same room. In a way, it has become a crutch. A constant reminder he is not alone, because deep down, he fears being alone most of all. Being destroyed piece by piece, ripped apart from the inside out—all of that certainly hurt, but being alone in the aftermath? Regaining his memories stuck in white isolation? Healing while trapped alone with his thoughts? 

A shiver runs down his spine. He grabs the kettle from the high shelf and turns the faucet on, attempting to keep his hands from trembling. 

He feels it the instant something changes. 

There’s no sound, just something he feels shift in the air. The cottage is empty and lonely save for his own essence spanning its dimensions, and then suddenly there is a rising tide of dark energy and pervasive dread. Between one blink and the next, he is not alone in the cottage anymore. 

“Azira-” 

Aziraphale drops the kettle into the sink and darts out of the room, crashing over the threshold before Crowley can finish his name. The demon stands next to the couch, eyes blown wide and terror etched across his face as he stares at the spot Aziraphale sat when he left. 

“I’m here!” Aziraphale says quickly, rushing toward him. “I’m right here.”

Crowley’s gaze snaps toward him, a ragged breath torn from his mouth as he bares his teeth. He left with his glasses but doesn’t have them now, and Aziraphale can see the fear in those eyes. Crowley should never be afraid like this—never look so anguished. 

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says, taking that extra step toward the demon to snag hold of his shoulder and pull him forward into his arms. Crowley sinks into the embrace willingly, a strangled sound escaping his mouth as he all but buries his face into the space where Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder meet. “Shh, it’s alright, dear boy. Oh, you’re trembling. Are you cold?”

He maneuvers them onto the couch, both of them sinking onto the cushions in unison. He keeps a tight hold on the demon, willing a wave of calm energy to settle over them both. 

“Crowley? Are you alright? Did something happen?”

Crowley huffs out a quick breath. “Nnuhh,” he says. 

“No? To which question?” Aziraphale asks. He carefully pushes Crowley back, wincing at the sight of the hurt look in those eyes as he does so. He captures the demon’s hands, squeezing his fingers tightly before Crowley can utter a sound about the slight distance. “Are you alright, my dear?”

“Nggh,” Crowley says, nose wrinkling. “Nnyeah, ‘m alright. Nothin’ happened.”

Aziraphale nods. “That’s good. What happened? Where is the car, my dear?”

“Left it,” Crowley mumbles. 

“You… abandoned the car? Crowley, you love that car.”

The demon releases a shuddering breath, opening his mouth but ultimately unable to find the words. Sensing the surge of anguish returning, Aziraphale grabs his arm and pulls him close, wrapping his own arms around Crowley once again. 

“You did well,” he says quietly. 

“Nuh,” Crowley chokes. “Didn’t.”

“You did,” Aziraphale insists. “It was difficult for me, too. But you actually left, and that is… That’s progress.”

They’ve been working on these issues and anxieties, but there is no quick fix or cure-all. It is going to be a series of steps forward and steps back, and they will need to find wins where they can. 

Crowley actually left the cottage. A couple weeks ago he would have outright refused. A couple months ago he would have had a full-blown panic attack. There is progress, even if it doesn’t always feel like it. 

Aziraphale pulls back once more, smiling softly at the demon. Crowley inhales shakily, teeth still bared. Those eyes are burning with frenetic sort of intensity, wide and alert, the color stretched across them entirely. 

“Would you like to go get your car?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley sneers and says nothing. 

“Is it somewhere safe? Tell me you didn’t leave it in the middle of the road.”

“It’sss sssafe,” Crowley mutters. 

“Alright,” Aziraphale says gently. “Would you like to go get it? I can come with you.”

Crowley exhales sharply and gives a small, barely perceptible nod. 

Aziraphale squeezes his hand again. “Alright, then. Let’s go.”

He stands again, dragging Crowley up as well. The demon’s gaze never leaves him, like Aziraphale is some mirage which might suddenly vanish, and Aziraphale despises the thickness to the air, tainted by Crowley’s fears. It sparks against his own anxieties, further agitating them. 

Crowley snaps his fingers and the world spins to nothing around them.

Aziraphale blinks and is on the side of a road, right next to the Bentley. It’s haphazardly parked there at the edge, the trunk nearly into the drivable lane, ditched in a hurry. He glances over at Crowley, noticing the tension in his jaw and the way those yellow eyes have yet to leave him, despite the fact the car is just over there. 

“We’re alright, Crowley,” he says, very softly, like Crowley is some skittish animal who might bolt if he speaks too loudly. “You did so well.”

“Nggh,” Crowley says, before he steps toward the car finally, gaze leaving Aziraphale’s face for only half a second before falling on him again.

Aziraphale follows a half-step behind him, still clutching that hand tightly. He wants nothing more than to wipe that expression from Crowley’s face, but at least with him behind the demon he doesn’t have to see it. 

Crowley peers over his shoulder at him every other step. It takes longer to reach the car than it really should. 

Aziraphale squeezes his hand and then releases it so he can climb into the passenger seat. Crowley reluctantly lets him go and climbs into the driver’s seat. 

The two sit there in silence for a long moment. Crowley clutches the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip, staring straight ahead, jaw clenched. Aziraphale can almost hear his teeth grinding together. 

Then the demon exhales slowly and finally starts the car with a small flick of his finger. The Bentley rumbles to life and they slowly pull away from the edge of the road. 

The two minute drive is spent in silence. 

They stop in front of the cottage and linger there in the car, neither moving or speaking. Several long moments pass before Crowley sighs heavily. 

“I panicked,” he admits quietly. 

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale assures him. “I was a bit of a mess myself.”

“Nggh. Could only make it six minutes.”

Aziraphale grimaces; Crowley was only gone six minutes? It felt like so much longer. 

“At least you made it away from the cottage,” Aziraphale tells him. “I’m not sure I could have.”

“You would’ve been fine.”

“I really wouldn’t have, my dear. I don’t enjoy having you out of my sight, let alone… out of the cottage entirely.”

It ate at him, like a rash beneath his skin. 

“I ssshould be over thisss by now.”

“Nonsense, my dear. It’s only been six months.”

Crowley falls silent. Aziraphale waits him out patiently. 

The demon sighs and finally moves to get out of the car. Aziraphale follows suit and the two trudge toward the cottage. 

Baby steps, Aziraphale tells himself. They are making progress, despite how little it seems. They can work through this together. 

Though he makes a note to perhaps get a cellphone before trying this again. It will give both of them peace of mind, despite how much he despises modern technology for the most part. 

Progress isn’t always linear; there will be missteps as well as leaps forward. Crowley did well today, even if the demon refuses to believe this. Aziraphale supposes he did well himself, but that is mostly because he didn’t know the direction Crowley went when he left and thus couldn’t miracle himself there. He did manage to not look at his pocket watch, though, which is progress. 

Baby steps. They’ll get there eventually. 

Crowley hesitates near the couch, tossing a glance over his shoulder at Aziraphale. Aziraphale strides past him and enters the kitchen, the demon a half-step behind him. Crowley sinks into a chair at the table while Aziraphale gathers some whiskey and glasses for them before joining him. 

“I challenge you to a game of Uno,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley splutters a quick laugh. “You that eager to lose?”

“Oh, I’ll be the one winning, my dear.”

Crowley snorts and waves his hand, miracling the deck of cards to the table. Aziraphale picks them up and starts shuffling, gaze lingering on the demon across from him all the while. Crowley pours himself a glass of whiskey and downs it in one go before refilling it. This glass he pushes to the side as Aziraphale starts dealing. 

Crowley collects his cards. His thumb brushes the upper corner of one of his cards, and Aziraphale makes a mental note. 

“What, uh… what time do we need to go to Heaven tomorrow?” Crowley asks as Aziraphale flips the first card on the deck to start the game. 

“She didn’t specify a time,” Aziraphale reminds him. 

Crowley shifts in his head, tossing down a blue five. “You given much thought to what you’re gonna do?”

“I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about it, actually.”

It is something he will need to consider. Procrastination isn’t a good habit to obtain, but when he tries to think about it his pulse races and even though he doesn’t need to breathe, it still feels like he’s in some sort of vacuum, suffocating. 

Tomorrow he will have to delve into everything, as there will be no more putting it off for another day. He has enjoyed his time the past couple days—their hike, reading quietly on the couch while Crowley dozes slightly (though the demon is still boycotting sleep, even six months later) and playing the occasional card game. 

It makes his duties in Heaven seem so surreal. 

But if he starts thinking about it he won’t be able to process anything about this game, and he intends to win. 

He already knows Crowley has a six. 

“Any, um… Any idea what you want to do with Gabriel?” Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale tosses down a blue skip, and then a blue nine. “I still don’t want to think about it, really. I shouldn’t… I mean, for one angel to have all this authority… I just don’t know about it. It seems… wrong.”

“Yeah, but it’s you,” Crowley says. “It’s not like you’re going to abuse that power.”

“Power corrupts,” Aziraphale says absently. 

Crowley scoffs, flicking a draw four card onto the growing pile. “Yellow. And not all power corrupts. Couldn’t happen to you.”

Aziraphale grimaces, drawing his four cards. Crowley flicks down a yellow two and it’s finally his turn again. Crowley wants yellow, so Aziraphale throws down a green two.

“It most certainly could happen to me,” Aziraphale tells him. He is no saint, really. He’s certainly sinned far more than any proper angel should. 

“Nuh, it won’t. Give yourself some credit, angel.”

“You think too highly of me. I am not…” Aziraphale’s nose scrunches as he tries to find the words. “Good,” he settles on. 

“ ‘Course you are,” Crowley retorts quickly, tossing down a yellow six, changing the colour again. “You’re the best they have and they all know it.”

That isn’t true, Aziraphale tells himself. He is not… good. Not inherently good, as any true angel should be. He has a darkness within him; he might not have outright killed people himself but he certainly attributed to plenty of deaths through the thousands of years. He was willing to shoot Adam that day on the airfield, and would have done it if Tracy didn’t stop him. 

A good angel wouldn’t even think to do such a thing. 

There are so many better angels out there; why did She pick him?

He sighs and puts down a draw four wild. “Red.”

Crowley hisses, clearly displeased by this play. He draws his cards and arranges them in his hand, his thumb once again stroking over the edge of a card. Another six, then. 

Aziraphale flicks a red one onto the pile. “Uno,” he says. 

Crowley hisses once more. “Cheating.”

“I most certainly am not,” Aziraphale says. “I did warn you I would be winning today.”

Crowley mutters under his breath, drawing again as he doesn’t seem to have anything red. 

Aziraphale drops his last card, a red skip. “I believe I win, my dear.”

“Best two outta three,” Crowley says.

Chapter Text

The Main Entrance is just as empty as ever, but it still leaves dread coiling in Crowley’s stomach. He and Aziraphale step onto it and begin the journey upward, and he glances briefly at the angel two steps ahead of him. Aziraphale is once again standing prim and proper, hands clasped together behind his back, and Crowley grimaces at the sight. 

After the seemingly endless line last time, he’s not sure what to expect today, but he’s still somehow surprised when they reach the top of the escalator. 

At least a hundred or so angels are gathered there, surging forward at the sight of Aziraphale. Aziraphale freezes in place, hands clasping each other in a white-knuckled grip as he stares forward at the angels surrounding them. They give Crowley a rather large berth, but crowd in around Aziraphale, and a snarl lodges in Crowley’s throat as he steps closer to his angel. 

A low murmur falls across the crowd; the sound of the holy language grates on Crowley’s nerves, pricking at his core like a rash across his skin, and he grits his teeth agitatedly. Aziraphale answers in kind, the sound of his voice decidedly more soothing. Crowley can still understand the language, but it’s like listening to screeching cats half the time—annoying, sometimes too high-pitched, and overall very grating. 

Aziraphale finally strides forward, the crowd parting for him. Those pesky angels keep up with him, though, remaining in step with him as Aziraphale moves in the direction of his new office. 

“What is humanity like?” Are some of the questions. 

“Are you really immune to hellfire?”

“Why does Gabriel talk so poorly of you?”

Gabriel. Crowley snarls low in his throat, causing several angels to peer at him warily, scooting a little more away from him and more toward Aziraphale, like Aziraphale might aid them should Crowley attack. Crowley won’t do anything; he’s not that stupid, but these angels are certainly irksome. 

Their questions vary from too pointed and personal to something vague and curious about humanity, and perhaps there is at least a little merit to Aziraphale’s theory they are only interested in learning about humanity from him. Crowley certainly doesn’t believe this is the only reason, or even the primary one, for the way they flock around him, but he can’t deny it is part of it. 

Aziraphale answers to the best of his ability, stumbling through explanations about simple human customs and objects. He avoids answering anything personal as best he can, clearly ill-at-ease when such questions crop up. 

Finally, they reach Aziraphale’s office and the angels disperse to let him get to work, though a few ask to stop by later and speak with him again. Aziraphale numbly agrees and watches them leave, turning a fragile smile on Crowley. 

“Well,” he says roughly, “that was something.”

“Yeah,” Crowley mumbles. “Something.”

Aziraphale’s false smile disappears. “Something wrong, my dear?”

“Lot of angels, is all,” he says, gesturing at the door. 

Aziraphale turns back toward it, flaring his grace to cause the door to vanish and allow them entry. It reappears behind them as they step inside, and Crowley glances around the room. Nothing has changed; it doesn’t appear as though anyone has been here at all since the two of them left. All angels have a similar underlying scent, but when he tastes the air he can only scent Aziraphale. 

The couch seems to call to him again—red, luxurious, entirely unnecessary in its crisp style, and ridiculously comfortable. He steadfastly ignores it, focusing instead on the mounds of paperwork waiting on Aziraphale’s desk and on the ground next to it. 

“Well,” Aziraphale murmurs, “suppose I should really look through these.”

Crowley would offer to help, but he can’t read angelic scrawl. So he prowls back and forth in front of the desk, glaring at the paperwork. Aziraphale sits down and plucks a page from the pile.

Aziraphale’s brow furrows as he reads. “Oh, dear.”

“What is it?”

“These are… These are requests to go to Earth,” Aziraphale says quietly, eying the pile from which he took the paper. 

“You’re over that, too, then?”

“I suppose so.” A pause. “I was reading through things… and it appears I am over almost everything, I believe.”

“… Ngk,” says Crowley.

“Indeed,” Aziraphale hums. He puts the paper back and takes one from another pile. “Prayer Wing approvals.” He regards another pile. “Applications to, erm… work with me.”

“To be one of your angels,” Crowley clarifies. 

Aziraphale’s nose scrunches. “I don’t think I like calling them that. I’ll have to think of some other name.”

“Nah, has a nice ring to it.”

Aziraphale drops the paper back on the pile. “This is going to be a nightmare to get through. Oh, I wish you could read this and help me. It would go so much faster with two of us.”

Crowley grimaces. “I can handle the rejects,” he says. “Destroy them.”

“I don’t believe that will be necessary.”

“Hey, every office needs a shredder.”

“Mm,” says Aziraphale. “I might need to enlist a personal assistant of some kind.”

“You’ve got ten to pick,” Crowley reminds him. “You can have ten assistants.”

“Ten,” Aziraphale echoes. “Crowley, there are thousands of applicants here. How am I supposed to settle on ten?”

“Well, what do their resumes or whatever say?”

Aziraphale picks up one. “Araquel, spent most of their life in the Prayer Wing.” He scowls down at the paper. “Oh, who made this layout? This is awful.”

“How so?”

“It’s a breakdown of their corporation, if they have one, and their True Forms as well. And…” Aziraphale picks up another form. “And this one describes what they want their corporation to look like. Oh, dear. This is going to be a lot to deal with, isn’t it?”

“Anything about their experiences? Anything that qualifies them to help you?”

“You know Heaven doesn’t exactly have a job history like that.”

Crowley shrugs. “So how else are you going to pick? Draw ten at random?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Aziraphale mutters, glaring balefully at the stacks in front of him. “I have a feeling I am going to have to stage interviews.”

Crowley grimaces. “Not so fun, interviews.”

“Tell me about it. And there’s so many of them! It will be a complete nightmare.”

“So just pick ten at random. No one has to know.”

“That would be… untruthful.”

“ ’s not a lie,” Crowley says.

“A lie by omission is still considered a lie,” Aziraphale reminds him with pointed look. 

Crowley sighs heavily, sitting on the edge of the desk, the spot miraculously devoid of paperwork. “How can I help?”

“I’m not certain you can,” Aziraphale says dismally. “But I appreciate the thought.” A pause as the angel’s gaze lingers on him. “You are going to be quite bored up here with me, I fear. Are you sure you want to be here? I wouldn’t blame you for—”

“ ‘m not going anywhere,” Crowley says firmly. 

He left Aziraphale alone at the cottage yesterday, and it was a complete nightmare. The first minute or so he lingered there outside the cottage, wondering if he could get away with not actually leaving, but Aziraphale would know. So he did finally pull away and it gnawed at him, anxious thoughts eating at him like a parasite until he eventually broke down and miracled himself back to the cottage, just to make sure. 

Yes, the odds of something happening the minute he left were very slim, but they weren’t nonexistent, and that was the problem. 

A shudder slips through him. He’s not leaving. 

“Then at least make yourself comfortable, my dear,” Aziraphale says, nodding toward the couch. “You say the couch was made for you, so why don’t you enjoy it?”

Crowley glances toward the couch. “Nuh,” he says. “ ‘m fine here.”

“That can’t be comfortable.”

“It’s not uncomfortable,” Crowley says stubbornly. 

Aziraphale sighs and picks through some paperwork. 

These piles of paperwork are endless, Aziraphale is certain. It doesn’t appear he’s making much of a dent in anything and he’s been at this for several hours now, scouring through approvals and applications. 

Remiel, formerly located in the Prayer Wing but reassigned to Earth Observation after the reconstruction of Heaven. No current corporation, but would like to obtain one to better understand human affairs and know what they are looking at in the files. Understandable, Aziraphale supposes. They wish to work with him, in his unit, to gain better understanding and perhaps get some field work, if possible. An academic, then; Aziraphale can approve of that. 

He slots this one in the probable pile of potential underlings. 

Underlings. It’s not better than Aziraphale’s Angels. Neither option sounds promising to him. Oh, who thought of these ridiculous titles?

It baffles him that the Lord can be so incredibly creative when it comes to making something new, like the Earth and humanity, but can falter when it comes to assigning titles or names to groups of angels. 

Darael, currently located in the Imprisonment Unit, watching over the singular prisoner, Gabriel. Reasons for wanting to join Aziraphale’s unit include wanting to get away from Gabriel’s near-constant string of insults regarding Aziraphale, on the basis of the words being ‘repetitive’ and ‘uninspired’. 

Aziraphale drops them in the maybe pile. 

Gabriel.

The archangel does pose a certain problem. Gabriel has been locked up for several long months now, and Aziraphale really should figure out what to do with him. The problem is he simply doesn’t want to judge the former-archangel, or anyone. He’s not qualified for such a thing, and why is this part of his job? 

He just doesn’t understand it. Certainly there are far more qualified angels out there. Why him?

A shiver slips through him. He picks up another application. 

Kirikobiel, a former soldier much like Aziraphale in the old days, assigned to simple desk duty as a receptionist, of sorts, in the Prayer Wing for the past 6000 years. This is still their assignment, though they ache for change, to escape the monotony. Aziraphale can understand that, of course. They do not currently possess a corporation, but they would like to try one, perhaps visit Earth sometime and see what all the fuss is about. Odd prayers pass through the Prayer Wing sometimes, they say on the paper, and once they even intercepted a prayer from a demon of all things. 

Not just any demon, though. 

No, there it is, plain as day. 

They specifically mention Crowley as the demon whose prayer they intercepted and ultimately forwarded to the Almighty, because a demon has never prayed before. 

Aziraphale exhales slowly through his nose. Kirikobiel didn’t turn a blind eye on Crowley’s prayer, and that should be rewarded. 

This is the first application to drop into the definitely yes pile. A lonely space, truly. 

Crowley stalks back and forth in front of the desk, again and again and again, to the point it is dizzying if Aziraphale focuses on him too long. He mainly keeps the demon in his periphery, and Crowley prowls back and forth agitatedly, but refuses to settle on the couch. 

Hours have passed. Aziraphale isn’t entirely sure how many, as time is rather meaningless in Heaven. Time is a concept created for humanity, mostly. Still, he might want to start wrapping up things soon so they can leave. He can only handle so much paperwork before he’s ready to tear his hair out, after all, and Crowley has certainly been exceedingly patient. 

Runael, the next application reads. One of the last angels to be created, it seems, just before the Great War. They’ve spent most of their time in the Earth Observation Department but have been reassigned to the approval department of the Prayer Wing. They currently possess a corporation, a male one, and they would like to work with Aziraphale to learn from him and better himself as an angel. 

Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He really shouldn’t be anyone’s role model. 

Runael drops into the maybe pile. 

Four piles. Maybe, probable, definitely yes, and absolutely not. The stack in the absolutely not pile is growing rather large, but to be fair, the maybe pile isn’t fairing much better. There are only a couple dozen in the probable pile, and the singular one in the definitely yes pile. It doesn’t appear like he’s made much progress today, having barely put even the smallest dent into the paperwork. 

This won’t do. 

If he is to get through all these applications he is going to need to take some home with him. It would be more practical to look everything over while he is in Heaven, but that just isn’t feasible. Aziraphale might be an angel but Heaven has never felt much like home to him, and the lingering sense of holy radiance leaves his skin prickling. He can’t imagine how it must feel for Crowley, to be up here and stuck in this room, throwing quick glares at a red couch. 

The issue is, he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to bring anything home, really. 

But She did say his word is binding. She put him in charge over everything else. 

Maybe She wants him to take some initiative and collect paperwork to do while he is gone as well. 

It’s a possibility, but what if he’s wrong?

He certainly doesn’t want to upset Her. She’s always been a bit tetchy, after all. 

He contemplates for several long moments, glaring at the mounds of paperwork in front of him. 

“ ’s not gonna burn like that,” Crowley says. “Tell me which gets the axe and I’ll take care of it.”

“No, my dear,” Aziraphale says, sighing, “I am simply… wondering if I am able to take these home, or if I should simply stay and continue going over everything.” He glances at Crowley. “You must be dreadfully bored.”

“ ’s itchy,” Crowley tells him, nose wrinkling distastefully. “All this… holiness.”

“It’s not very pleasant.”

Crowley quirks a brow. “You feel it too?”

“Heaven has never been much of a home for me,” Aziraphale says simply. “I’d much rather be on Earth with you. Oh, perhaps we could visit the park and feed the ducks, if it’s not too late.” He frowns. “There’s no real way of knowing what time it is on Earth, is there?”

“Time doesn’t matter, angel. We can go if you want.”

Warmth spreads through him. “Thank you, my dear.”

They spend most of their time at their cottage, or trekking through the fields around them or settling into Crowley’s outdoor garden, which is looking lively again. The poor dears withered terribly in the eight months Aziraphale was gone. 

As nice as it is to spend time together in a shared home, Aziraphale rather misses all the places they used to visit. It was never safe to keep meeting in the same place unless they mixed it up most of the time, so while St. James Park was one of their better locations to meet up in, the two tried to spread out visits there and mix in some museums or buses or small, family-run restaurants. 

Aziraphale loves their home, but he does miss the variety sometimes. 

“You could, uh… ask God if you can take stuff home?” Crowley poses. 

Aziraphale hums thoughtfully. There is a rotary style antique phone on his desk somewhere, under some toppled mound of paper. Perhaps there is a phone book, or something like it—a directory, of sorts, to tell him how to contact certain departments within Heaven.

He realizes for the first time this desk has drawers. He stares at the centre one, wondering if it’s always been there or miraculously appeared when he needed it. He can’t recall seeing it before but it is rather convenient. 

He pries it open and there it is, a small shimmering booklet. He opens it and scans through the lines. 

He apparently has a voicemail box to sort through at some point. He grimaces, never having been fond of them. Crowley’s certainly confused him sometimes; he knew who Crowley was since he was the one telephoning him, after all. 

Still, it might be helpful in this situation. 

“What’s that?” Crowley asks. 

“It appears to be a directory of some sort. For the phone.”

“Alright, so which number is Hers?”

Aziraphale flips a page. “I’m not exactly seeing it in here.”

Prayer Wing, Observation, AIA, Imprisonment… All the divisions seem to be in here, but there isn’t a line linked solely to Her. Honestly he isn’t surprised; having Herself listed would mean he could reach out often with questions, and She plans to take a sabbatical. Giving him a line to Her would defeat the purpose. 

He sighs and closes the small booklet. 

“What’s the verdict?” Crowley asks. 

“I haven’t found anything yet.”

“So just assume you’re good to take some home.”

“What if I’m wrong?”

Crowley’s nose scrunches. “She doesn’t expect you in Heaven all the time, so She must assume you are going to take some stuff with you.”

“That would be presumptuous of me,” Aziraphale says. 

There’s a small shimmer of displaced air, causing the two of them to glance at the corner of the desk where a new, lengthy stack of papers suddenly materializes. 

Aziraphale stares at it woefully. 

“Never-ending paperwork,” Crowley huffs. “Of course you can take some home.”

She doesn’t intend for him to always be in Heaven; that was strictly written in the instruction manual She gave him. If he’s not making a dent in the piles because they just keep growing as he goes through them, then obviously he would need to take some home or he’d never leave. 

It still feels presumptuous, but pain presses behind his eyes at the thought of more paperwork. He’s already gone through so many and been here for quite some time. 

He sighs and pushes to his feet, waving his hand over three large mounds. The paperwork disappears, and he knows it will reappear inside their cottage. Oh, it is going to be a nightmare going through them and sorting them. 

But he much prefers to deal with that mess in the comfort of the home he shares with Crowley. 

He glances at his demon. Crowley eyes him hopefully. 

“Alright,” Aziraphale sighs. “Let’s go, then.”

Chapter Text

They have no set time or date to return to Heaven, so Aziraphale spends the next couple days lost to paperwork. Crowley tries to help as best he can, but there’s really not much he can do except help organize piles after Aziraphale determines which pile a paper needs to go into. He feels decidedly useless, and sort of lingers outside of Aziraphale’s periphery for hours, even days. 

Aziraphale is lost to paperwork, and Crowley is bored. 

Perhaps bored is the wrong word. Bored implies he’d rather be doing something else, but that’s not the case here. Crowley wants to help Aziraphale, and is bothered by the fact this is all he can really do. It’s tedious and time-consuming and most of the time he’s simply watching Aziraphale scowl down at whatever he is reading. Occasionally he asks questions or prompts Aziraphale to read something out loud, but for the most part the two work in silence. 

By day three of this, Crowley is ready to pull his hair out. 

He prowls. He paces. He circles when Aziraphale lets him. 

He feels caged, coiled and ready to strike. There is no real outlet for his internalized frustration. 

If he could just read that too-bright lettering…

Aziraphale lifts his head and glances at him for the first time in nearly twenty-four-hours. Not that Crowley has been counting, really. Still, the blue depths are rather grounding, all things considered. 

“Oh, terribly sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale says, frowning. “Seems I got a bit carried away. Have you been standing there long?”

Crowley grunts, folding his arms across his chest. “Have you decided on ten yet?”

Aziraphale looks down at his growing piles of organization. “There are only three in the definitely yes pile.”

“Yeah, but what about your other indecisive piles?”

Aziraphale’s lips purse. “You don’t have to watch me, if you’re bored. But I cannot rush something as important as this. Each application deserves my  complete attention.”

Crowley sighs, the frustration burning out of him. He drops his arms and stalks closer to Aziraphale and his piles of shimmering paperwork. “How ‘bout a break, then? Been at this for days, you know.”

“Days,” Aziraphale repeats with a small frown. He glances briefly at the window, squinting like he’s judging the daylight visible outside, before he sighs heavily. “Oh. It has been days. You… You’re absolutely right. A break would be… nice.” 

He pushes to his feet for the first time in roughly 76 hours—not that Crowley has been keeping track, mind you. Aziraphale stretches and rolls his neck and shoulders before smiling timidly at Crowley. 

“We wanted to feed the ducks,” he says quietly. 

Crowley nods. “That was before you got sucked into the vortex of paperwork hell.”

“Mm,” says Aziraphale, thoughtfully. “An apt description, my dear. It really is a lot of paperwork.”

Crowley offers his arm, scowling at the angel. Aziraphale accepts the arm, wrapping his hands around it as he steps closer with a warm smile. A thrill inches up Crowley’s spine and leaves him smirking back at that warmth beside him, before he brings a hand up and snaps his fingers. 

He’d much prefer to drive to see the ducks, but there is only another hour or so of daylight left today and he’d much rather spend the time at their usual bench in the park. He makes a note to himself to at least drive his baby at some point tonight or tomorrow, just to make it up to her. 

But this brings a chill to his veins. Aziraphale won’t want to go for a drive, will he? He’ll get back to his ridiculous, never-ending paperwork. If Crowley wants to go for a drive, he will have to venture out alone.

And this just isn’t feasible. 

A knot in his stomach, he tries to shove the thought from his mind, refocusing on the angel beside him. Aziraphale conjures food in his hand to break apart and feed the ducks. A documentary a couple years back alerted him to just how bad bread could be for the poor things, and he went out of his way to ensure he gave them only things of nutritional value. 

Personally, Crowley misses the simplicity of tossing bread at the feathered fiends. Since when was bread bad for anything or anyone?

“So,” Crowley hums, sitting next to Aziraphale at their usual bench, “how goes the, uh—the hunt for your angels?”

It feels utterly bizarre to say ‘angels’ instead of just ‘angel’. Angel has been a fond moniker for Aziraphale for quite some time now, but now that there are more angels in their lives he is going to have to readjust his viewpoint slightly. Angels have always been synonymous with trouble in the past, just as much as demons, really. Angels brought trouble to Aziraphale’s doorstep which was simply intolerable; Crowley was the only one allowed to darken that doorway. 

Aziraphale’s lips press together as he frowns thinly. “I still don’t feel any closer to choosing, really. It is… It is lengthy, and tedious, and I need to give their applications my undivided attention. So many of them want a change, Crowley.”

“ ‘course they do,” Crowley says, sighing. “They’ve been stuck in routine for 6000 years.” 

“I suppose I never really considered how, erm… how lucky I’ve been, all this time. Humanity is nothing but change, really.”

Which usually irks the angel, Crowley recalls. Aziraphale admires humanity for adapting and changing to fit their needs and ambitions, but he is simply unable to keep up with modern times. Unable or unwilling, at least—Crowley isn’t entirely certain which it is. Aziraphale stubbornly dislikes change, but keeping up with some modern trends is vital for certain duties assigned to either of them.

At least, that’s how it used to be. 

Now, well…

They were supposed to be free. 

They’re not. Not really. 

Freedom is another word for getting screwed, it seems. 

“They’re so curious, Crowley,” Aziraphale continues, smiling as he boasts. “Some of them are so eager to learn new things about humanity, it… it’s baffling. All this time I thought they were…” Here his smile falters, the mirth fading from his eyes. “Well. I suppose it was silly of me to assume anyone was reading my reports.”

“Not silly,” Crowley chides, scowling at his angel. “They damn well should have been. Even Head Office read mine.”

Granted, they typically were the ones asking for a detailed report, otherwise Crowley wouldn’t bother to make one—but this was usually after he’d been given a commendation for something he didn’t do, and they wanted to hear about his exploits in depth. This would prompt him to figure out exactly why he was being commended, what was actually happening, and he’d find a way to put it all into some lengthy report embellishing the fact it was all his doing. 

Keeping up appearances was key to being left alone.

Apparently the same couldn’t be said for Heaven. Deep down he knew this, and he thinks Aziraphale knew too, but it can be a hard pill to swallow. Frustration ignites in the pit of his stomach; Aziraphale always deserved so much better. 

“So what are you going to do?”

Aziraphale frowns down at the ducks milling around at his feet. He sits back slightly, no longer hunching forward to toss treats to the feathered creatures, instead sitting prim and proper. “I am not quite certain. It is a lot to go through.”

“Well, it’s a lot for one angel to go through alone,” Crowley says. “The three you have in the definitely yes pile, why don’t you go ahead and let them know? And they can help you get through the rest.”

Aziraphale stares into the distance for a moment, mulling it over. “Perhaps,” he finally says, humming thoughtfully. “It feels… impersonal, to do it that way though. I feel I should select each personally.”

“I mean, you’d have final say over it all.”

“Yes, but…”

Crowley grimaces. Aziraphale doesn’t want to delegate such a thing because then it feels similar to how it always was with him and his superiors—tossed aside, overlooked, even ignored outright. Crowley’s frustration with the archangels simmers just beneath the surface, but he manages to stifle a hiss just in time. 

“Lotta paperwork,” Crowley says. 

“Indeed,” Aziraphale agrees quietly. 

Crowley sighs and sinks back into the curve of the bench, tilting his head over the edge to look up at the sky. It is a somewhat cloudy day, but still bright nevertheless. A gentle breeze flits through the area and Crowley lets his eyes fall shut. 

He missed this. 

The simplicity. The freedom. Just chilling here with Aziraphale, not a care in the world. For so long this has been their primary meeting spot; on days that didn’t end well, he could always imagine himself here and pretend it was all okay. 

Times are different now, but not everything has to change. 

Movement next to him leaves him opening an eye to regard the angel beside him. Aziraphale has pushed off the bench and is no longer sitting next to him. Crowley jerks forward, lifting his head from is lazy position, and grits his teeth as he takes in the stiff posture. 

“Angel?”

Aziraphale’s jaw is clenched. He tilts his head to the side somewhat, as though listening to something inaudible, and dread coils tightly in Crowley’s stomach. There’s an intensity to the presence beside him which simply wasn’t there before, and when Aziraphale sweeps his gaze over the area, Crowley is struck with the brightness to those eyes. 

He jerks to his feet. “Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale grimaces. A hand twitches at his side and Crowley sees the movement for the snap a half-second before it happens. He lunges forward and snags Aziraphale’s hands, keeping his fingers from twitching. 

“What’s wrong?” he demands, standing just in front of the angel. 

Aziraphale regards him coolly; glazed eyes don’t seem to really see him.

Fear churns in Crowley’s stomach. Is this an Urge?

It’s been a while since Aziraphale had an Urge. They both thought this was over. 

“Aziraphale, talk to me,” he says, squeezing those captured fingers tightly. The sharp pressure leaves Aziraphale blinking at him, focusing for the first time as his gaze clears somewhat. Recognition flits through that gaze, and relief ebbs through Crowley. “Aziraphale, hey? What’s wrong, angel?”

“Wrong?” Aziraphale repeats the word very slowly, as though trudging through molasses. “Nothing is… wrong…”

The clarity slips from that gaze. The hue brightens considerably until Crowley squints, hissing under his breath. The holy radiance in those eyes is unmistakable. 

“Talk to me,” he says again, sharply. “Angel? Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale blinks at him again. “My office.”

“Your… what?”

“Something is wrong with my office.”

“In… In Heaven?”

Aziraphale’s lips purse. He gives a grim nod. 

Crowley hisses. “Like what? What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale bares his teeth.

This is distinctly not like his angel, not at all. Aziraphale is a gentle soul and Crowley is the demon who bares his teeth and hisses and snarls—but that is a distinctly vengeful look on that angelic face, and for a moment it fails to make sense in Crowley’s mind. He can’t connect this image with the reality of his angel. 

This isn’t Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale twists a hand free in his shock. Crowley snarls and clings tightly as Aziraphale brings that hand up to snap his fingers, and suddenly the world spins to nothing around them. Crowley blinks and suddenly he’s—right in front of Aziraphale’s door. 

Which is outlined in a pulsating red. 

Aziraphale snarls. 

The angel beside him isn’t Aziraphale. It looks like him, maybe in some way even feels like him, but Aziraphale isn’t this… feral. Feral is the word which comes to mind, and Crowley bares his teeth. 

“U-Um… Aziraphale?”

The voice is timid and sudden. Crowley snarls as he whips toward the sound, baring his teeth at the angel standing there. They are wearing a female corporation with long, flowing blonde hair and bright hazel eyes, but the expression settled over their face isn’t one of calm tranquility as it should be. 

Instead, they appear almost nervous. Nervous of Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale, who steps away from both of them. Crowley fights the urge to look away from this angel in front of them, trying to keep Aziraphale in his periphery. Still, something is wrong here and this angel might be the issue, so he can’t just let them slip out of his sight. 

“What is it?” He snaps, glaring at them. 

“U-Uhm…” They look nervously at Aziraphale behind Crowley. “Someone… Ah, that is, we think an angel tried to break into Aziraphale’s office. They didn’t get in, but—”

“Who.” 

It isn’t a question, spoken so icily. 

A shiver inches down Crowley’s spine. Aziraphale has never sounded so intimidating. 

The angel flicks their gaze back to Aziraphale over Crowley’s shoulder. “We aren’t certain just yet. We only just realized when—I mean, right when you got here.”

Aziraphale was alerted to something happening in Heaven. It left him with some sort of Urge, and none of this settles well in Crowley’s stomach. Aziraphale told him of miracling directly into Heaven before, but this is the first time Crowley is witnessing it first hand, and it is decidedly disorientating. 

Aziraphale stares at the angel for a moment, regarding them coolly, before he abruptly turns away and starts walking quickly in another direction. 

Crowley snarls and backs away after him, eventually determining this angel isn’t worth his consideration as Aziraphale gets further away. He turns and follows after his angel, noticing the rigidity to Aziraphale’s shoulders as he stalks forward like a predator hunting prey. 

Another shiver slips through him. Everything about this feels wrong. 

“Aziraphale? Where are we going?”

This is an area he’s certainly not familiar with. While the flooring and walls are still white mixed with those odd tinges of blue and red occasionally, something about this area leaves his skin crawling. 

And then they stop in front of Gabriel. The former archangel is sitting on the ground in a small circle, looking much the same as he’s always appeared, though his gaze darkens when he sneers up at Aziraphale, who stops just outside the circle. 

Gabriel’s gaze slips sideways toward Crowley. “Oh, good Lord, Aziraphale! You really brought a demon into Heaven! You’ve really lost all common sense, haven’t you?”

“Oi,” Crowley snaps. 

“Who is working with you,” are the words which come from Aziraphale, though they aren’t necessarily a question. 

Gabriel pushes to his feet, sneering with his teeth bared. “Working with me? Are you implying I’m betraying Heaven? Because that’s your doing.”

Aziraphale takes another step closer. Gabriel’s gaze darts down quickly, eying the space between Aziraphale’s foot and the edge of the circle. Crowley’s skin prickles. 

“Someone is working with you,” Aziraphale intones. The utterly flat way he speaks leaves Crowley baring his teeth, aching to sink his fangs into whatever is troubling the angel. Gabriel being present just seems to make this sensation worse. “Tell me who helped you.”

“Helped me? And why would anyone care to help me unless you were in the wrong in locking me up like this?” Gabriel snarks, purple eyes narrowed dangerously. “Losing your edge there, Aziraphale. It’s pathetic, really.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Crowley says sharply. 

Gabriel laughs—loud and grating. A sharp retort of sound which leaves Crowley’s skin crawling. “Watch your back, Aziraphale.” A haughty smile. “But you’ve already got a demon there, don’t you?”

Aziraphale growls. It’s low and throaty—a dangerous rumble which leaves Crowley’s gaze snapping toward him. Aziraphale’s eyes are bright and glowing, radiant in their anger, and the aura he gives off scrapes against Crowley’s demonic core—a ripple of unpleasantness. Something cold and dark, coming from his angel.

Aziraphale isn’t cold or dark. 

When Aziraphale steps forward to pass through the circle, gaze locked on Gabriel, Crowley staggers into movement and snags Aziraphale’s arm, yanking him back sharply. 

Aziraphale’s frigid gaze lands on him. Crowley feels suddenly two inches tall, but refuses to shrink back because this is Aziraphale. And Aziraphale would never hurt him. 

The holy rage emanating from the angel staring him down is nearly suffocating, though, and Crowley stops breathing, holding that icy gaze—searching it frantically for some semblance of the angel he loves. Aziraphale isn’t frigid or empty or dark, and the imposter looking back at him leaves his stomach twisting painfully. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley whispers, almost inaudibly as his voice gets trapped behind that sudden lump in his throat. Where are you? 

Energy flickers to life briefly around Aziraphale’s hands. Blue-tinged flames of holy fire, to be exact, and Crowley takes a quick step back as the heat of those flames lingers a little too close. He searches Aziraphale’s gaze again, but there’s no sign of his angel looking back at him—just a stranger wearing a familiar face. 

Laughter, sharp and sudden, leaves Crowley flinching. He keeps his gaze focused on Aziraphale but is all too aware of Gabriel laughing loudly from inside the circle. Aziraphale turns his gaze toward the trapped angel, and the air around them seems to turn to ice—frigid and impartial. 

Gabriel’s laughter dies the moment Aziraphale steps inside the ring of the circle. Crowley is left frozen as Aziraphale steps closer to the former archangel, somehow relieved to have that icy gaze finally focused elsewhere instead of on him. 

Aziraphale reaches for Gabriel. Gabriel snarls and lunges, utter imbecile that he is. 

There’s a blinding holy light which utterly blinds Crowley. He spends the next few minutes desperately blinking and rubbing at his aching eyes, sharp pain pressing behind them as white spots flash through his vision, leaving him blinded still. Once his vision finally starts clearing, Gabriel is motionless on the ground with Aziraphale standing over him, peering down at him.

Both angels within the circle are completely motionless, though Aziraphale remains standing. The scene seems frozen for a moment, and Crowley wonders if this is really happening. Perhaps, despite the fact he is at odds with sleep right now, he actually fell asleep and this is just a strange dream. Or maybe, in his moment of blindness, he stopped time. But that doesn’t work on angels. 

There’s an edge of wrong to this whole thing—ice and fear and rage—and he steps forward slightly, swallowing thickly around the lump in his throat. 

“Aziraphale?” He asks quietly, almost too afraid to speak the word. 

He’s not certain what he will do if Aziraphale turns that bland, icy gaze back on him. 

A shiver slips through him. Desperation claws at his lungs, squeezing with steel bands. A spluttered breath escapes him, choked out around that stupid lump, and he presses closer. 

“Aziraphale,” he says again. The word scratches out of him, fractured in the middle, and when Aziraphale just continues to stand there, seemingly ignoring him— “Aziraphale, please.”

Aziraphale shifts, ever so slightly. The small bit of movement—a mere shifting of weight on his back foot—is enough to leave desperate hope clogging Crowley’s throat. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, blandly. 

A shaky breath escapes him. He raises a trembling hand, reaching for the angel—but ultimately stops himself from crossing the circle. Gabriel still hasn’t moved. 

“You alright?” Crowley asks, fear twisting his stomach. 

“I want to kill him,” Aziraphale says. 

The words are stated simply, and flatly. No emotion in the words whatsoever, which leaves that knot of fear coiling tighter inside of the demon. 

He shuffles as close to the circle as he can, aching to reach through and yank his angel out. “You don’t really mean that.”

“I mean it,” Aziraphale states simply. “I could do it quite easily.”

Another shiver down his spine. It’s really not you in there, is it? Aziraphale would never say something like this. He would never even consider it. This is not the same angel who once stated he’d never killed anyone and didn’t think it possible of himself. 

This isn’t Aziraphale. 

“Why don’t you come out of there?” Crowley suggest, as confidently as he can muster, willing his voice to not shake. “Let’s discuss our options. Just come on out.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders stiffen. His fingers twitch at his sides. He says nothing. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, even though he’s fairly confident he’s not actually talking to Aziraphale anymore, “just come on out of there. You don’t really want to kill him; yeah, he’d deserve it, but killing him is so messy. You should… You should come on out and let me do it.”

Killing Gabriel would please him greatly, really, but Aziraphale would never authorize or ask for such a thing. 

But this Not-Aziraphale hesitates. Actually thinks about it. 

He takes a small step backward. 

His arm passes through the edge of the circle. Crowley surges forward and snags it, yanking Aziraphale out of the circle. Cold blue eyes snap toward him, and Crowley chokes on his next breath, unable to swallow around the fear caught in his throat. He searches that gaze, but there’s nothing. No recognition, not clarity, no compassion. 

No Aziraphale. 

Crowley reaches toward that familiar face. The stranger doesn’t flinch away, but regards him blandly. There is no anger or worry or anything remotely Aziraphale in that gaze at all, and suddenly the world seems to be spinning. There’s not enough air here in Heaven. He doesn’t know where Aziraphale is or what’s happening, or how to get him back. 

If he even can get him back. What happened? What is happening? What did he miss?

His hand presses to the side of that face. He’s touched Aziraphale like this so seldom, but it has been happening more frequently as of late. There’s something calming about the motion—touching and touched. Normally, Aziraphale leans into the contact or exudes an aura of warmth—but right now the only thing Crowley can feel ebbing off the angel in front of him is a predatory iciness, sharp and bitter.

Not-Aziraphale doesn’t stop him or flinch away from the contact, just eyes him blandly. “Are you in there?” Crowley whispers, searching that gaze for any sign of his angel. Of the warmth and compassion which have become synonymous with Aziraphale. Are you even here at all? Where’d you go? 

“Gabriel needs to be punished,” Aziraphale states flatly. “And you are stopping me.”

An icy fear settles in his veins. “Aziraphale, please,” he says, clinging to the dwindling strands of hope. How did he let this happen? What even happened? Why didn’t he stop it? He presses his other hand to the other side of Aziraphale’s face, now cupping that familiar face gently, and he leans his head forward with a shaky breath, touching his forehead to Aziraphale’s. His eyes fall shut, unable to peer into that icy gaze any longer. “Come back, alright? Are you in there? Aziraphale…?”

A shudder slips through the angel. A shaky breath slips free and suddenly hands are clutching back at him, yanking him close, and that icy aura thaws to something warm and sunny.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale utters shakily, voice trembling with raw uncertainty. 

Crowley swallows and pulls back enough to peer at that face. Gone is the frigid iciness; those eyes are as warm and concerned as always. It’s really Aziraphale looking back at him now, and not… some other. 

But this is Aziraphale, and Crowley didn’t lose him again. 

He bares his teeth, clinging to uncertain rage instead of simply falling apart there and then. Aziraphale was gone again. “What the bloody fuck was that?”

“I… I am not quite sure,” Aziraphale murmurs, clearly unhappy with the situation himself. He looks decidedly grey around the edges—queasy and uncertain. “Oh, I almost did something awful, didn’t I?”

“Nuh,” Crowley manages, jaw clenched. Not you. It wasn’t you. “What happened?”

“I was angry,” Aziraphale says quietly, looking away. His fingers loosen their death grip on Crowley’s shirt, having yanked him closer earlier, and now the angel pulls away from him. 

Crowley very nearly doesn’t let him go. 

Aziraphale turns to look at Gabriel’s motionless form inside the circle. A moment of silence lingers heavy between them before Aziraphale sighs. “I wanted to destroy him. And I could have.”

“You didn’t.”

“I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t,” Crowley says sharply. He slips up next to his angel, sliding his hand down Aziraphale’s arm and into the curve of his fingers, clutching at them tightly. “You weren’t yourself. You were just…” gone. You were gone. A chill sweeps through him. He grits his teeth. “Has this happened before?”

“… Once,” Aziraphale murmurs. “When I first locked Gabriel up here. When I…”

“When you were stabbed,” Crowley says flatly. 

So, this was another Urge. 

A different kind of Urge, certainly, but a compulsion nevertheless. 

He clings tightly to Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale squeezes his hand in response, equally unwilling to let go as they peer down at Gabriel. 

Gabriel, who is still motionless and unresponsive. But Crowley can still feel the former-archangel’s presence like a rash across his skin, so he’s at least still alive. Not destroyed. 

But Aziraphale could have destroyed him. 

It would be so simple—perhaps a statement, more than an act, since his word is binding just like the Almighty’s. 

Aziraphale fretted about power corrupting him—but this isn’t corruption. This is something else entirely, and it is new and absolutely terrifying. 

Crowley shifts slightly closer—knocking his thigh against their combined hands. Aziraphale exhales shakily. 

“Let’s go home,” Crowley says quietly. “We’ll figure this out, just—let’s go home, yeah?”

Being in Heaven isn’t helping Aziraphale in this moment. Someone tried to break into his office and he immediately connected it with Gabriel—either because of some holy Urge or because of a personal bias against the former-archangel. Either way, Gabriel seems guilty—and the mere sight of him could persuade that other to overtake Aziraphale again. 

And that can’t happen. 

“Aziraphale? Angel, let’s go home. C’mon.”

Aziraphale swallows thickly and raises his other hand. 

He snaps his fingers and the world spins away to nothing. 

Chapter Text

Aziraphale sits at the kitchen table, nearly motionless as he looks blankly ahead. Crowley casts glances every couple minutes, his aura twisting around him like some dark cloud about to burst in a downpour of rain, and Aziraphale tries to tell himself he should be worried. 

He should be. Most definitely. He wasn’t quite himself earlier—but that’s not true, another part of him whispers. He was himself, just some other version of himself he’s not very familiar with, that’s all. It was still him. He let the Other press forward in the past without concern, after all; someone tried to break into his office and he responded accordingly. 

He is to be the judge, the jury, and the executioner. 

This is part of his life now. And it should worry him. 

It just doesn’t. Not really.

Oh, he’s concerned about Crowley, certainly. About not being in control of himself completely; for a split second he considered Crowley the enemy. For just a split second, but it did happen, and he should feel some sort of alarm because of this—but it’s all pushed into some calm corner of his mind, and he simply can’t summon the outrage. 

He wasn’t himself, not completely, but this isn’t a bad thing. This is part of being the Adjutant. 

Explaining this to Crowley is where it gets complicated. 

The demon has been persistent in his questioning. He deserves answers, but Aziraphale simply doesn’t know all of them. He doesn’t exactly know what happened; no, this isn’t the first time it’s happened; he didn’t mention it before because in the back of his mind, this simply isn’t a big deal; yes, he wanted to destroy Gabriel. And he would have. 

He would have. 

And this does bother him. Not because Gabriel is undeserving—because in the back of his mind, he knows Gabriel would have deserved every bit of it—but because he doesn’t want that to become his legacy. He doesn’t want that kind of power or responsibility. 

His concerns over the matter are simply overshadowed by the pressing wave of calm slipping over him him, nudging the worries from his mind. He should be concerned, but he simply isn’t. It is puzzling. 

Crowley is looking at him again. Baring his teeth at him. 

Aziraphale stutters into movement as he inclines his head slightly to properly look at the demon standing in front of him. He forces a smile onto his face which feels completely and utterly wrong, but he hopes it looks more promising than it feels. “I am alright, my dear.”

Crowley grimaces. “You’re really not. You’re… spacey.”

“Spacey,” Aziraphale repeats somewhat flatly. Distant, his mind whispers. Absent. Blank. Bland. You know something is wrong. But he says nothing, just goes back to looking into some middle distance, and Crowley hisses. 

The kettle whistles shrilly on the stove and the demon pivots toward it. Aziraphale tries to focus, but his thoughts are racing. 

Something is wrong. He doesn’t have complete control over himself or his emotions, it seems. And this is concerning, despite how ordinary it seems to some distant part of his mind. He has been altered, it seems; the Almighty did more than simply piece him back together. She changed him. 

She did this without asking, without conferring with him at all. Anger struggles to ignite in the center of his chest, but the flames of outrage are quickly stifled. She did this because She thought it best, and it isn’t his job to question Her. He is to be Her right hand and aid Her, after all. 

She wanted him this way, and he should simply accept this. He was flawed before. A poor excuse of an angel, to be certain. 

There is nothing to worry about. Someone tried to break into his office and he responded accordingly. Something at his core whispered of Gabriel’s involvement and he wen to interrogate the former-archangel. Perhaps he was a tad excessive with knocking said angel unconscious, but needs must. 

Nothing to worry about. Not at all. 

A sort of numbness has settled over him—a blurred edge to his vision, a haze to his thoughts. He blinks, somewhat startled, when Crowley sets a steaming mug down in front of him. Aziraphale eyes the mug for a moment.

Clarity seeps through him. Tea. He likes tea. Tea after a day like today is just what the doctor ordered. 

He picks up his mug and takes a small sip of the hot liquid. Crowley watches him carefully. 

Aziraphale makes certain to down at least half of the beverage before putting the mug back down on the table with a small sigh. “I know you want answers, my dear, but I simply don’t have them.”

“You wanted to kill Gabriel,” Crowley reminds him.

Aziraphale’s nose scrunches distastefully. “Yes, well. You’ve told me on several occasions he deserves it.”

“Yeah, but you’ve never agreed with me.”

“Well. I’ve given it some thought.”

“You haven’t,” Crowley says sharply. “What is wrong with you?”

Aziraphale frowns, sitting rigidly in his chair. “I don’t like the implication there is something wrong with me. It was simply me.”

“It wasn’t,” Crowley argues. “Aziraphale, I know you. And you’d never resort to… to actually killing anyone.”

“You have a skewed perception of me,” Aziraphale says calmly. 

“I don’t. This isn’t you.”

It is him. It’s always been him. There’s been darkness inside of him all along—temptations, sins, orchestrating someone’s death even if by accident or unintentionally. He might not have outright killed anyone or anything himself, but he’s certainly played a hand in several through the millennia. He is no saint. 

But not all angels need to be saints. 

Sometimes they need to be wrathful. They need to be divine Justice and Vengeance. 

Fingers brush against his own. Startled, he looks down to find Crowley’s fingers ghosting over his own, wanting to touch and hold but not quite letting himself. Aziraphale eyes those long, nimble fingers for a moment. They curl around his own finally, clutching and squeezing, and Aziraphale squeezes back. 

He’s worrying Crowley. He’s worrying himself. 

He should be worried. And he is. 

He’s worried because he’s not worried, and he knows this is wrong. This isn’t like him, not really. 

At least, not completely like him. 

This is all wrong. Crowley is right to be concerned. 

“Aziraphale, look at me.”

Aziraphale swallows and drags his gaze back up to Crowley’s face. 

Yellow eyes lock onto his own. “This isn’t you. Alright? And I think you know that, too.”

Aziraphale should nod or otherwise express his agreement, but he simply does nothing. Just blinks back at the demon. 

“Pick your ten angels,” Crowley says firmly, “and then let them deal with the investigation. We’ll stay home.”

Home. A sharpness stabs behind Aziraphale’s eyes and he lets them fall shut. He is home. They are home. This is home. He’s not in Heaven anymore; not near Gabriel or his office. There is no justice to be found here. No wrath needed.

Aziraphale exhales slowly. He is home, and Crowley is concerned. He needs to address this. This should be a focus. “I understand I should be worried,” he admits finally, “but I simply don’t feel concerned. Not like you.”

Crowley’s face scrunches into something unreadable. “And that doesn’t bother you?”

“It does,” Aziraphale says quietly. Or, rather, it should. He knows it should. He tries to summon the concern needed for such a thing, but it is difficult to pull it free of the sense of calm flooding through him. 

He remembers the same sort of happening before, when he first locked Gabriel up after the stabbing which occurred at the bookshop. Gabriel tried to kill him and Aziraphale felt his control on himself slipping, but it didn’t exactly worry him. Not really. Because it was still him. Just all those darker parts of him.

The parts Crowley seems to outright deny the existence of, despite all evidence to the contrary. Aziraphale isn’t good, not like Crowley thinks. He is flawed and is certainly no saint. 

“Alright,” Crowley says, scowling. “Let’s ask God, then.”

“God?” Aziraphale repeats, frowning. 

Crowley grabs his arm, pulling him to his feet. “C’mon.”

“What—? No,” Aziraphale says, yanking his arm free. “We can’t just pop in and speak with Her whenever we want, Crowley. She is busy.”

“She’s going on bloody vacation,” Crowley mutters. “How busy can She be? And we need answers.”

You need answers, Aziraphale notes. He himself doesn’t particularly want answers—doesn’t particularly feel the need to seek out answers. This is simply a part of him now; he should, perhaps, feel anger at how this was forced on him without his consent, but at the end of the day, God chose this for him. And that, as they say, is that. 

No, he tells himself. That isn’t the end of it, because Crowley is concerned and this should bother Aziraphale. Deep down, he knows this should certainly bother him. Crowley being worried about anything should concern him, too, and he needs to do what he can to fix this. To reassure Crowley, and maybe even himself. 

“Alright,” he says, finally. “I will ask Her when I see Her next. But we aren’t going to disturb Her right now.”

Crowley bares his teeth. “You weren’t yourself, Aziraphale.”

I was, Aziraphale thinks. And that’s the problem, really. 

He was himself—perhaps not thinking perfectly clearly, but himself nevertheless. He has darkness in his heart, just as anyone else, and he has sinned in the past and given into impulses and temptations. He is not good, no matter how much he dons the mask. Deep down at his core, he has always been incredibly flawed. 

God saw those flaws and altered him. This new him must be more efficient—better—than the old version. And he should be upset about this, should perhaps feel betrayed and furious, but he simply cannot summon those passionate emotions in this moment. His tranquil core will not allow it. 

“You said you wanted to kill Gabriel.”

Somehow, it keeps coming back to that. 

“I did,” Aziraphale says. In that moment, he did want to kill Gabriel. Gabriel is a threat—not only to himself, but to Crowley. Attempting to destroy Aziraphale twice over is one thing, but to uncork holy water in Crowley’s presence? 

Already, he can feel something stirring inside of him—an impulse to seek out, to hunt, to destroy. There needs to be retribution. 

The fingers of his free hand curl inward into a fist, to keep from miracling himself to Heaven. 

“You actually considered killing Gabriel,” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale inclines his head slightly. “I did.”

A staggered breath rushes out of the demon. “That’s not you, Aziraphale. You would never consider such a thing!”

Aziraphale’s gaze sides back toward him. “I have considered such a thing,” he says. 

Crowley bares his teeth. “Yeah? Since when?”

“About Gabriel specifically? When he showed up before our vacation,” Aziraphale tells him honestly.

“Well, yeah,” Crowley mutters. “He threatened you.”

Aziraphale purses his lips. Gabriel posed a threat, but it wasn’t the threat against himself which spurned those initial thoughts of destruction. “He threatened you,” he says succinctly. “With holy water. Twice.”

Gabriel was, and is, a threat to everything he holds dear. Acting against Aziraphale is one thing; there has always been animosity between him and Gabriel, and he doesn’t expect this to ever change. He could tolerate the backhanded insults and wounded pride, could tolerate the utterly idiotic orders handed down to him. He could even tolerate Gabriel trying to execute him after the botched Armageddon. 

What he can not tolerate, though, is the threat to Crowley’s life Gabriel poses. 

He knows, or at least very strongly suspects, that Crowley is not immune to holy water. Twice he has uncorked the liquid in Crowley’s presence. 

There’s a fury burning beneath the ocean of calm in his mind, and he struggles to keep a lid on it. Gabriel is locked up, after all; he isn’t getting out any time soon, and hopefully Aziraphale will have a game plan for when he does. 

Crowley eyes him for a moment, grip tightening on Aziraphale’s captured fingers. It would be painful, if the sensation weren’t so very grounding right now. “You…” Crowley’s nose scrunches. “You contemplated murder for me?”

Aziraphale frowns. “My dear, perhaps I have not been clear enough, and I do apologize for not saying it enough—but you are my very best friend, and I love you. There is little I wouldn’t do to keep you safe.”

Crowley’s teeth gnash together with an audible snap. Aziraphale watches the truth in his words wash over the demon, watches those eyes widen and teeth bare as Crowley seems to war with himself about how to take these words and respond. 

A response is not needed; Aziraphale just felt the words should be said. 

“Nggh,” Crowley manages. “Nnyeah?”

Aziraphale turns more toward the demon, shifting a curved leg onto the couch so he can properly look at Crowley. Crowley’s gaze follows his movement, those eyes seemingly forever stuck on him. “I apologize if I have made you doubt my sincerity,” he says quietly. “But I would truly be lost without you, my dear.”

Crowley inhales sharply. Aziraphale watches the emotions twitch across his face—shock, embarrassment, relief. The relief sparks a nugget of worry within Aziraphale. Has Crowley been doubting his place with Aziraphale? Why hasn’t he noticed?

“But to get back on topic,” Aziraphale says, clearing his throat. “I understand your concerns, Crowley. And I know I should feel worried and upset as well, but I simply do not. I do not feel compelled to find answers, either. Not like you do. And I realize that is… wrong.”

He pauses. 

Then sighs. “I am relieved I did not kill Gabriel. I do not enjoy the violence, and…” Oh, how to put this in a way Crowley will understand? “I understand the necessity of it in battle or when protecting someone, but he was defenseless and trapped. It would have been awful of me to do that, even to him.”

Crowley bares his teeth. 

Aziraphale squeezes his hand. “Thank you for not letting me do it.”

A hissed breath escapes the demon. “Wasn’t you,” he says. “You would never do anything like that.”

Aziraphale hums. On this matter, they will have to agree to disagree. Crowley might think him possessed, but Aziraphale knows it was simply himself, without the emotional baggage. A sea of calm amidst the chaos of war. 

War. 

A shudder slips down his spine. What war?

“It was some kind of Urge. Not you.”

An Urge. An apt description, really. 

Something certainly urges him toward violence concerning Gabriel. At this point he isn’t sure if that is because it is a holy urge inside of him and is what God intended for him, or if it simply due to his own faults and bias against Gabriel in particular. 

Either way, he can’t summon the outrage to tackle this problem. 

Because deep down he knows it isn’t some foreign entity pushing to the forefront of his mind—it is simply himself. Perhaps a more calm self, lost in the sea of tranquility that is his core, pushing him to put aside his emotions and feelings to focus on the threat at hand. 

A soldier doesn’t let their emotions hinder what needs to be done, after all. 

“I don’t like this,” Crowley mutters. 

“Nor do I,” Aziraphale says. He squeezes Crowley’s fingers. “We will figure it out, my dear. And everything will be perfectly alright.”

In this moment, he hopes those words are not a brittle lie. He will fight to make them true. 

Crowley deserves to be alright, after all, and Aziraphale will not accept anything less. 

Crowley watches Aziraphale like a hawk. Or, perhaps like a snake. Snakes don’t need to blink, after all; hawks do. 

Still, he keeps a sharp eye on the angel.

Aziraphale is behaving oddly. 

He’s always been a little odd, but this is different. It’s something new and uncertain and it leaves a cold knot of fear in the pit of Crowley’s stomach. 

He doesn’t know how to fix it. 

Aziraphale refuses to disturb the Almighty without adequate reason, and seems to be under the impression this is not adequate reason. He was not himself, that’s a perfectly good reason to question God. But he doesn’t see it this way, and anger stirs in Crowley’s stomach, mixing with the fear and dread already present. 

Aziraphale doesn’t want to disturb her and won’t even think about contacting Her without seeing Her in Heaven. Crowley has no such scruples. 

A demon praying isn’t the oddity it used to be—it’s already happened a couple times by this point. He’s preyed to Her multiple times through the past year. Those cold, lonely days still chase his waking moments and will be waiting for him if he ever goes to sleep. Somehow, his prayers reached Her, despite all the odds. She gave Aziraphale back. 

Aziraphale seems to believe this is how She intends him to be, and that seems perfectly acceptable to him. He doesn’t even seem concerned about any of this, really, which is the whole bloody problem. Aziraphale’s disinterest in discovering what is happening and why leaves Crowley’s teeth clenched tightly. 

None of this is right. 

Aziraphale is currently going through applications again, attempting to give each his utmost attention. Crowley watches him for a long while—hours, really. For hours he sits at Aziraphale’s side, keeping careful watch over him for any sign of him slipping back into that other persona—the cold, dark one. Aziraphale’s expression twists and morphs as he reads through applications, but it never falls bland like before, and Crowley feels relatively safe enough to step out for just a moment. 

He won’t even leave; he can watch Aziraphale through the window. He just needs a quick, quiet moment alone, is all. 

So he slips outside. Aziraphale watches him exit the cottage, brows furrowed slightly, before he goes back to his applications when he spots Crowley lingering just outside the front window. For a moment, Crowley simply continues to watch Aziraphale, noting every frown, every half-smile, every twitch of those features. 

Then he glances skyward, eyes narrowing as he glares up at the dark clouds. 

“Haven’t you done enough to him?”

The words are spoken quietly, but they still shatter the silence nevertheless. His voice seems too loud to his ears, but glancing back through the window briefly assures him Aziraphale hasn’t heard him, so his voice isn’t carrying as much as he imagines it is. 

“You and me, we’re not square,” Crowley mutters darkly. “You can’t just keep yanking him around. And he doesn’t even feel anything about it! You took that away too, didn’t you?”

There is no response. Crowley never expects one, really, but he keeps glaring skyward nevertheless, imagining Her somewhere in the darkness above. His teeth grind together as his jaw clenches tightly. 

“ ‘m not losing him again,” he says firmly. “That includes losing him to you. You can’t just make changes whenever you bloody want—that’s not how this works. Do you hear me?”

There is nothing but silence following his question. He doesn’t expect anything more, but is still somehow disappointed at the lack of response nevertheless. There’s an ache in the center of his chest—some cold, hollow feeling like numbness spreading through him, and flashes of those long, lonely days flit through his mind. 

He’s already lost Aziraphale once. 

It won’t happen again. 

And if that means he has to go toe-to-toe with God Herself, then that’s just what he’s going to do. 

Chapter Text

It has been a while since Aziraphale stepped foot in the bookshop. 

It has been put back together for some time now, as Gabriel certainly mended things before he started selling everything. Aziraphale appreciates the fact Gabriel at least put it back together; no fire damage, no water damage, just empty shelves where books once rested. Aziraphale did not really have much time to fix things up before… well. Before. 

Gabriel last opened the bookshop’s doors just before Aziraphale returned to Earth from his recovery in Heaven. Customers were rather confused by the whole thing—first, the shop was more a library than a true bookshop, with Aziraphale unwilling to sell books and part with them. Then it had a new owner after a fire tore through the shop, and this new owner sold anything and everything, with little to no concept of price or money. 

Then it shut down again, and no one has seen the manic seller in quite some time. When Aziraphale does check on the shop, sometimes people crowd around outside, and there are whispers and rumors among them which he steadfastly ignores. Sometimes people line up outside his door despite the ‘closed’ sign in the window, and they knock until he inevitably answers. 

They pepper him with questions and ask if something happened, and if his relative was running the shop for a bit. They ask if Aziraphale is retiring. 

Retiring. 

Aziraphale can appreciate the irony, if nothing else. He did ‘retire’ from his duties in Heaven for some time, but God had other plans. There will be no ‘retiring’ or ‘quitting’. 

Today, at least, the bookshop remains silent without anyone knocking on the door. This is probably because it is roughly two in the morning when he and Crowley stroll in, but Aziraphale appreciates the solitude nevertheless. 

He waves his hand, the lights in the shop flickering to life. Gabriel went on a selling spree and many shelves are barren and mostly empty; it leaves a pang shooting through his heart at the sight. Crowley has been attempting to track them down, but Aziraphale knows they are lost to him. It wouldn’t be right of him to steal them back. 

And perhaps this is a sign he really does need to part with this bookshop. 

He runs a hand over a barren shelf. A warmth settles in his core; this bookshop has been imbued with his grace for so long it seems to have gotten a mind of its own, which really puts a damper on the whole ‘shutting down the bookshop’ business. 

This bookshop was always a place of comfort and stability for him in the past. An anchor in a storm, as it were. Everything else was always changing, but this bookshop was his. He didn’t have to keep moving around at the whims of Heaven and Gabriel’s orders, and he had a place to call his own, at least for a time. It was a simple comfort. 

Now, it just feels like… too much. He has so much on his plate already, and this shop has nearly been destroyed several times now. Even six months later, sometimes it still tingles with Gabriel’s presence, rankling him to his core. 

Gabriel. 

The thought of the former-archangel leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He really needs to decide what to do about Gabriel, and how to control his… urges, concerning him. Even now, despite being away from Heaven and Gabriel for three days, an icy adrenaline flits through his veins—eager to miracle himself to Heaven and seek out justice. 

But you don't want that, he reminds himself. 

This feels like a complete and utter lie, and that should bother him. 

Should. 

He turns from the empty shelving to face Crowley, who stands a couple paces away, watching him. “Are you certain you want to do this, my dear?”

“ ‘course,” Crowley says easily. 

Aziraphale frowns. Crowley said he would help with the bookshop, but they haven’t really been open for him to help the past several months. For the most part, they visit here rather sparingly. In a way, this bookshop feels like a tomb. A resting place for his former life. 

Aziraphale has never felt comfortable in graveyards. 

“A grand re-opening,” Aziraphale says, looking back at the shelves. “Is that really necessary?”

“Nhyeah,” Crowley says, stalking closer. Aziraphale feels the presence coming up behind him and hears the shuffle of Crowley’s feet. “Show people you're back.”

Am I back? He doesn’t really feel like himself these days. At least, not the version of him which found comfort in this shop. Instead, the shelves now remind him of what else he has lost since the failed Armageddon. All he can see when he looks around are broken shadows of a life that is no longer his. 

He used to be content here. Happy. Comforted. 

Perhaps one day, it can be that for him again. 

He sighs. “Very well, my dear. When did you want to have this… grand re-opening?”

“How ‘bout next week?”

Aziraphale looks at the demon. “Next week? That’s… that’s rather sudden.”

Crowley grimaces. “Two weeks?”

It is just a re-opening of the shop—nothing grand about it, really. He will need to have a story for the other shop owners around him and for the repeat customers who come in to simply browse, read for a bit, and then take their leave. He likes the ones who don’t attempt to actually purchase anything. 

But maybe it is time for a change. 

Maybe he should actually sell the books. He could make this place a proper bookshop with all sorts of genres and categories, fiction and nonfiction, instead of holding onto first editions as he has been. He takes pride in his collection—or, at least, he did. They were little articles of life he’d stockpiled throughout his time among humanity, and they felt like little pieces of himself, hidden away behind hard covers or wrapped up in a scroll. 

The old Aziraphale would never have considered such a ludicrous idea, of selling books at his bookshop. But now, he lets the idea take root in his mind and seriously thinks about it. 

It would cut at him to sell books, he knows. He’s never been very good at letting go, and he’s well aware of this flaw within himself. He couldn’t let go of those priceless books or scrolls, just as he couldn’t let go of his tentative alliance with his own kind and Heaven in general. It took him entirely too long to finally tear away, and even when he did, he never really left. God made sure of that. 

But this bookshop. 

He could get different books to actually sell. Popular romance novels or science fiction or fantasy. It’s not what he had in mind when first opening the shop, but this will be a grand re-opening, after all. 

A new shop for the new him. 

He doesn’t particularly want to sell books, but perhaps it is time he changed. Everything else in his life certainly has; why should the shop be any different? 

“Angel?”

He exhales slowly, dragging his gaze from a mostly empty shelf to Crowley. “Apologies, my dear. Lost in thought. I was thinking… What if I sold books?”

Crowley bares his teeth. “That a joke?”

“No, dear. I am being quite serious.”

“You hate selling books.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale hedges, “but this is a bookshop. Gabriel wasn’t… entirely wrong, on that front.”

Crowley stares at him for a moment, teeth still bared. There’s an intensity to the air around them and he can feel Crowley’s essence metaphysically patting his own for the briefest moments. 

“I am quite well, my dear,” Aziraphale assures him quickly. “I wouldn’t sell any first editions, of course, but I could get stock of… popular fiction, to sell. The customers seemed to enjoy Gabriel’s… method, of running the shop.”

“But that’s not you,” Crowley says.

“It could be,” Aziraphale says. “I’ve never tried this before.”

“And…” Crowley grimaces. “ ’n you want to, now?”

“I don’t see why not. It would certainly drum up business.”

“You hate business.”

Aziraphale sighs. He can’t argue with that; he doesn’t particularly like customers in the shop very often, but that was mostly because the books on display were there to be read but not to be purchased. He has always treated this shop more like a library than anything else—a space around which to display his worldly possessions, accumulated through the millennia. 

But he doesn’t hate having customers in the shop. Sometimes it was the only way to truly break up the monotony of everyday life. Times when Crowley was away for whatever reason, and Aziraphale was between assignments himself. Sometimes it was nice, to literally not be alone.

“It was just a thought,” he says. “But I don’t see how we are going to have much time for the shop now, let alone if we were… a traditional bookshop.”

“Nggh,” Crowley hedges, scowling. “ ’s just weird, you talking about selling books.”

“It is bizarre for me, too.”

“So why consider it?”

Aziraphale pauses, taking a moment to ponder the question. “This shop was my home for centuries,” he finally settles on. “But now we have the cottage. I have you.”

“Had me before,” Crowley points out. 

Aziraphale hums. “I suppose I did. But the point is, this space doesn’t need to be home anymore. It can just be a bookshop.” He pauses. “It feels like… letting go, I suppose? Accepting… everything?”

He has changed, and perhaps the bookshop should too—to solidify his new life. All he really knows is he doesn’t want to feel so shredded every time he comes to this shop, as it was his lifeline for so long. It hurts, to feel this disconnected from it. 

“But you don’t have to let this go,” Crowley says quietly, a scowl on his face. He shifts where he stands, clearly fighting the urge to pace or prowl. “It’s your bookshop.”

“I wouldn’t be letting it go, my dear. It would simply be changing.”

Nothing lasts forever, after all. Not this bookshop, not peace or comfort—everything is always changing. Aziraphale has always been so reticent to change with it, but perhaps now is the time to embrace change. 

He has been changed himself, after all. He is no longer the same Aziraphale who started a life here, who cherished this space, who found comfort in these walls. Now his comfort lies elsewhere, and this shop, as it is, rests in his mind like a broken reminder of all he has lost, in some way or another. 

Maybe if he changes the shop, it won’t bleed like an open wound every time he steps foot in here. Maybe it will stop haunting him. 

“It’s just something to consider,” Aziraphale says. “I won’t be making any major decisions right now.”

“ ’s good,” Crowley says, baring his teeth. “What books were you wanting?”

They came here tonight to check on the shop and retrieve a few more books. Aziraphale could have simply miracled them, of course, but he much prefers doing it the human way. Crowley enjoyed driving his car, as well, so he still considers this a win. 

He turns to head further into the shop, gaze scouring the mostly empty shelves. 

Aziraphale wants to sell books. 

The thought echoes through Crowley’s mind as he eyes the angel reading on the couch next to him. For once it isn’t the instruction manual, and Crowley will take what he can get. He knew Heaven would eat up Aziraphale’s time, but he never could have expected how much it dominates Aziraphale’s mind, even at the cottage. At home. 

That’s on the start of his worries, though. 

Aziraphale is not quite himself. Something has shifted, and Crowley wonders if this is something new which started when they went to Heaven that first time, or if he’s just been oblivious to the signs the whole time. 

Guilt and shame twist in his stomach. He really should have noticed. 

How could he miss this? 

It’s not just little things, either—no, it’s big ones. Leviathan ones. 

Aziraphale wants to sell books. 

Having the angel feel cold and dark, well—that was a fiasco Crowley certainly could have done without, thank you very little. Someone tried to break into his office in Heaven and Aziraphale was not quite himself. It was a stranger wearing his face. And then there was Aziraphale’s utter inability to be concerned with this display. Now he is idly tossing out ideas of changing his bookshop and selling books. 

That last one is the truly terrifying one, Crowley thinks. 

It is an unassuming little aspect—something relatively minor, in comparison to everything else, but that’s why it gnaws at him. Something so unassuming, so simple. 

Aziraphale wants to sell books. Easy. 

Except it leaves cold tendrils of fear and dread wrapping around Crowley’s core, threatening to suffocate him with the constrictive weight pressing in on him. Something so small, so minor, but so intrinsic to Aziraphale—a shift which can't be ignored because it goes against Aziraphale’s very nature. 

The others he could brush off as being Gabriel related. Every instance of the oddities happened around or concerning Gabriel, and that bastard has been a thorn in their sides since the very beginning. It was worrisome, of course—Aziraphale’s odd behavior, the stranger wearing his face, all of it… It was all concerning. But it was, at least, understandable, because Crowley at least knew the trigger. And if they could avoid the trigger, everything was fine, right? 

But Aziraphale wants to sell books. A minor detail to most, but to Crowley it is a siren of wrong going off in his head. 

How did he miss this?

How could he?

Has he already lost Aziraphale and he just didn’t notice? 

A choked breath catches in his throat, threatening to strangle him. Aziraphale looks up from his book, gaze immediately snapping toward him, and Crowley shoots to his feet. 

“My dear?” Aziraphale asks, concerned. 

Crowley exhales slowly through his nose, willing the panic from his mind. “You want some tea?”

Aziraphale frowns. “Tea?”

Crowley bares his teeth. “Nhyeah, do you? Want some?”

“I wouldn’t say no,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley nods once, sharply, and turns toward the kitchen. In the end he all but flees the room, staggering across the threshold, doubts needling at his mind. 

Once he is safely in the kitchen and out of sight, he releases a shaky breath and runs a hand across his face. 

Right, get a grip. 

Everything is fine. 

Aziraphale is fine. He’s fine. They’re both fine. 

Aziraphale just… wants to do a complete 180 on his entire stance with the bookshop out of nowhere, that’s all. He’s perfectly allowed to change his mind; no law against that. It’s perfectly reasonable to want a change after 200 years of the same thing, right? 

Except that’s just not Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale hates change. He had to be dragged kicking and screaming into the modern era. Everything about him is antiquated and Crowley likes that about him. The world was always changing, humans came and went, regimes rose and fell, but Aziraphale was… well, forever. He was a constant source of stability in the chaos of Crowley’s life—unchanging, immovable, and unwavering in his stubborn refusal to join the 21st century. 

And now…

Aziraphale wants to sell books. 

Trembling hands pluck the kettle from the high shelf. He rolls his neck, willing the tension from his frame. Tea will buy him a few minutes to collect himself, and there really isn’t a reason to panic. Aziraphale is allowed to change his mind. 

Everything is fine. 

He swallows around the lump in his throat as he fills the kettle with water. 

Aziraphale wants to sell books. 

No matter how he frames it, it feels wrong. Aziraphale is free to do as he wants with his bookshop, of course—Crowley really has no say over any of that. It’s just he never thought changing the shop was even an option, because Aziraphale steadfastly refused to ever consider it before. 

But now, he’s considering things he never did in the past. . 

Things like murdering Gabriel in cold blood. 

Selling books. 

The touch of cold and darkness in Heaven, outside Gabriel’s ‘cell’—that was one thing. Unsettling, to say the least. But it was a reaction to an event out of Aziraphale’s control. 

This is different. 

This is something on a deeper, subconscious level. A core piece of Aziraphale, even. 

And when did this start happening? How did Crowley miss this?

You’re failing again. The words crash through his mind with all the grace of a raging bull. Broken shards of thought fracture and spear into every nook and cranny, leaving his mind racing. You’re going to lose him again. You might have already lost him. 

Crowley sucks in a sharp breath through gritted teeth. 

It’s not too late, he tells himself—but the words feel hollow. 

It is, after all, always too late. 

The kettle splashes over and he glares down the water, pouring out a little excess before he places the kettle on the stove. 

Then he turns his glare up to the ceiling, imaging God beyond it in the sky above the cottage. 

What else is She going to take away from Aziraphale before this is all over? His life apparently wasn’t enough. No, She still needs to kite him around and leave him disconnected from his own thoughts and identity. 

Get a grip, he tells himself. 

Tea will only buy him a few minutes. He needs to pull himself together. Worrying Aziraphale with his own twisted thoughts and doubts is out of the question. 

He’s making a bigger deal out of this whole mess than it actually is. He knows that, deep down. It doesn’t stop the panic from constricting his lungs, of course. Just because Aziraphale wants to sell books doesn’t mean there is something inherent wrong happening here. He's allowed to do what he wants with his own bookshop, and he’s allowed to change his mind. 

Crowley exhales slowly, willing the panic from his mind. Aziraphale has been changing a lot since the failed Armageddon; perhaps this is simply the next logical step. Maybe it really does mean nothing, save for what Aziraphale told him about not needing the bookshop as a home anymore. 

If Aziraphale wants to change the bookshop to better fit who he is now, well, Crowley is just going to have to accept that. 

“My dear.”

The sudden voice leaves him stiffening even as he glances over his shoulder. Aziraphale steps into the room, watching him carefully, and Crowley tries to reign in his racing thoughts. 

“What is troubling you?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley looks back at the stove and the kettle sitting on the burner. “ ‘nothing,” he says. “Perfectly fine, me.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale chides. “Please don’t lie to me.”

Crowley winces; he doesn’t prefer omitting the truth from the angel, but he  can’t weigh him down with his own insecurities and concerns, either. Walking a fine line, here. “ ’s just… a lot.”

“What is, my dear?”

“Everything.”

“Mm,” Aziraphale says. “On that, we can agree.”

Silence wraps around them for a moment—not suffocating or tense, but not easy and smooth, either. Crowley grits his teeth, all too aware of the eyes watching him so carefully. Finally, he can’t take the silence anymore and turns to face the angel, leaning against the countertop. “You really wanna sell books?”

Aziraphale frowns. “Is that what is bothering you?”

Crowley scowls. “ ‘m not upset, just… I mean, it’s weird, Aziraphale.”

“Weird how?”

You’re not this dense, Crowley thinks, baring his teeth. “You hate selling books. You love collecting them. Now you wanna sell ‘em? ’s weird.”

“I still love my books, Crowley,” Aziraphale says gently. “And I wouldn’t be selling my books; I would have other books to sell.”

He does have a point there, at least. Still, it leaves a knot in Crowley’s stomach. 

Aziraphale sighs and steps closer. Crowley watches his approach warily. “Tell me what is really bothering you.”

“ ‘nothing,” he says again. 

Aziraphale’s eyes narrow. “I am not an idiot, Crowley. I know something is troubling you. Why not just tell me?”

Crowley bares his teeth and remains silent. Saying it all makes it real, doesn’t it? And he can’t chance that. 

Cowardice steals his voice. 

Aziraphale stares him down. 

The kettle whistles shrilly and Crowley turns to pluck it from the burner. Saved by the tea. He can feel Aziraphale’s eyes on him as he pours some of the steaming liquid into a winged cup. 

Aziraphale comes up behind him and gently takes the mug from him. Crowley watches as Aziraphale takes a swallow of the tea, humming contentedly as he does so, before he wanders toward the refrigerator. Crowley frowns. 

Aziraphale grabs a bottle of scotch from above the refrigerator and waves his hand, the tingle of a miracle flitting through the air between them. A whiskey glass topples out of the cabinet above the fridge but lands gently on the countertop in front of the angel, and Crowley watches the amber liquid poor into the glass. 

When the glass is held out to him, he accepts it and downs it all in one gulp. 

Aziraphale quirks a brow at him and refills his glass. 

Crowley downs that one too. 

“Sure nothing is troubling you?” Aziraphale drawls, refilling his glass yet again. 

Crowley eyes the liquid in his glass. “Do you really want to change the bookshop? Just like that?”

“You say that as though it doesn’t pain me to consider it,” Aziraphale hums. “It was simply a thought, my dear. Nothing more.”

“But do you want to?”

“You clearly don’t want me to.”

Crowley scowls. “Not what I asked.”

Aziraphale sighs. “No, I know it is not.” He moves toward the table, sitting in his usual spot as he waves a hand at the chair opposite him, inviting Crowley to join him. 

Crowley drops into the chair. 

“I feel like it is time for a change,” Aziraphale tells him quietly. 

His spine straightens as a chill rolls down it. “A change.”

“As I said, the bookshop isn’t my home anymore. There is no need for the bookshop if it is just going to be how it was before. I could simply bring all my books here.”

It was the idea, once upon a time, Crowley recalls. When they first discussed living here together. Aziraphale commented on the fact they could expand the cottage and add a library onto it, and Crowley was wholeheartedly for that idea, at the time. 

Now it leaves him shifting uneasily in his chair. 

“The truth is, I never really expected any of this,” Aziraphale continues. 

Crowley frowns. “Any of what?”

Aziraphale waves a hand at the room at large. “This. Here, with you.” He pauses thoughtfully. “The bookshop was my space, and I rather enjoyed it there. But this is our space, and that is far more precious to me.”

Crowley bares his teeth, hissing out a quick breath. He opens his mouth to say something but can’t really find the words—maybe there are none. Aziraphale makes it sound so simply, admitting to things like that, but Crowley is still a pawn to cowardice, it seems. Putting it out there in the open like that, it’s just asking for trouble, right?

So he remains silent, and Aziraphale offers a timid smile. 

“Given the choice of where to spend my time, I will always choose here, with you. There is no need to have the bookshop as it was before. It would hurt to close its doors for good, but perhaps this can… I don’t know, breathe new life into it?” Aziraphale shrugs. “I was only thinking, my dear. I honestly don’t know what I want to do with the bookshop right this moment.”

What he is saying makes sense, in a way. Crowley can, perhaps, understand that. He knows he’d pick this cottage with Aziraphale over the bookshop as well, but the bookshop has been a vital part of Aziraphale for centuries now, and it feels wrong to let it go. 

Especially after the bookshop gave him hope in one of his darkest times. 

He’s not sure where he’d be right now if Adam hadn’t heard the bookshop’s hatred toward Gabriel. If Adam hadn’t let him know the bookshop was back ‘online’, so to speak. If he didn’t feel Aziraphale in the bookshop, just enough to take the edge off and let him breathe again. 

He swallows around the lump in his throat. 

“Alright,” he says. 

Aziraphale hums. “Alright, what?”

“We can sell books.”

Aziraphale smiles at him. “I am happy for your support, even if I still don’t know what I want to do with the shop yet. But thank you, my dear.”

Crowley scows, but there’s no real heat behind it. Sometimes it feels only habit to shun Aziraphale’s gratitude, but gradually it does get easier to simply accept it. 

Baby steps, after all. 

“Is that all that was troubling you?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley sighs. “Wasn’t troubled, just… ssstuck in my head.”

“Stuck?”

He frowns. “Nothing. ’s fine.”

Aziraphale sighs, a defeated slump to his shoulders. “Very well.”

Crowley grimaces. “Honest—fine, me. Just… didn’t seem like you, wanting to sell books.”

Those blue-gray eyes narrow at him. “Selling books is not an Urge,” he says firmly. 

Relief flits through Crowley even as he shrugs. “Sure, ‘course. Just was odd, is all.” He clears his throat. “Let’s, uh… Let’s do something, yeah?”

“Do something?”

Crowley shrugs. “Anything.” He just wants to get out of his head for a bit. 

Aziraphale watches him for a moment. “Perhaps a moonlit stroll?”

Crowley shoots to his feet and offers his arm. Aziraphale takes hold of it with a warm smile, and more of the ice melts away from where it had been constricting his lungs. That lump in his throat has dispersed as well. 

Together, they exit the cottage. 

They’ve only just taken the first few steps around the cottage toward the garden and the river outback when there’s the faintest whoosh of displaced air behind them. Crowley spins with a snarl, forcing himself between whatever threat awaits them and Aziraphale, dark wings expanding from behind him to shield the angel entirely. 

“Oh!” says the green-eyed angel standing there, white wings outstretched behind them. They stare at Crowley and his wings and the dark scales bleeding across his skin, and they wisely take a timid step back, fear flashing briefly in their gaze. “I… I thought Aziraphale was here.”

Aziraphale sidesteps the cover of dark wings and that green gaze snaps toward him. “I’m here,” Aziraphale says quietly. 

“Why are you here?” Crowley snaps. This is their home. 

“I didn’t mean any offense!” The green-eyed angel looks skittishly at Crowley before glancing back at Aziraphale, clearly the safer of the two. “I kept missing you at your office and I just… wanted to speak with you.” A small pause. “Privately.”

Crowley hisses, teeth bared. If this angel thinks they can just show up and demand a private moment with Aziraphale then they obviously have more than a few screws loose up there. The green-eyed angel regards Crowley warily, clearly nervous at his presence and the menacing aura surrounding him. 

“Whatever you have to say to me can be said in front of Crowley,” Aziraphale finally says, stepping forward to stand next to Crowley instead of slightly behind him. 

“Uh, y-yes,” the angel says. “Of course! I… My name is Maliel. And…” He puffs out his chest, looking an inch or so taller as he tries to hide his nervousness, but Crowley can still taste it in the air. “And I want to be your apprentice!”

Chapter Text

God has spent the past bit of time mostly relaxing in the background, when She cares to debate how much has passed. Heaven has been restructured and soon it will be time for Her to begin the next phase of Her Big Plan: travel amongst humanity, live as they do, finally see Her creations up close. 

God doesn’t remember the last time She truly felt excited about anything, but this leaves a thrill curling through Her very being. She is excited, as the humans would say. Emotions are a funny thing. Most of life on Earth would be deemed emotionless, unintelligent, but it’s all a matter of how much She mixed in when creating them. Humanity, She gave equal parts Feeling, Intelligence, and Freedom of Choice. It made for an interesting concoction which sometimes enraged Her to the point She debated completely wiping them all out and starting over… but any human parent will tell you it is the child’s job to enrage the parent so much. 

And these creations are Her children. 

Heaven is slowly falling into a sort of rhythm. She’s been done with the angels here for over a year on Earth, now, but change is slow to take root in a place where time is meaningless. Aziraphale was Her final angel to restructure, and soon he will be left in charge while She takes Her leave for a time. 

With any luck, he will pick his ten angels soon and Her plan can truly begin. Aziraphale is being careful, perhaps too picky, in his choosing but She will grant him the freedom of choice. If he wishes to consider everything from every angle to ensure he makes the Right choice, She will certainly allow it. He has earned that right. 

After picking his ten angels, he will need to decide what to do with Gabriel as well. She doesn’t envy him this choice. She made half Her angels Fall in a fit of rage, and while She doesn’t quite regret the decision or Her actions, She wonders if She might do things differently now, with hindsight and a better view on things. It will be interesting to see what choices Aziraphale makes, given the circumstances. 

But that is up to him to figure out. 

She will aid if absolutely necessary or if he asks, but She also knows he will go out of his way to not ask, as he won’t want to disturb Her. This works, as She does not wish to be disturbed. As it stands, Gabriel’s punishment will be Aziraphale’s choice, and if that means an actual trial needs to happen, then so be it. 

She will let it play out. 

Currently, She is pondering what kind of corporation She might want. She cannot imagine Herself sticking to just the one like Aziraphale did for 6000 years, but She doesn’t want to change too frequently, either. She wants to immerse Herself in each life and each location before moving on to something else. Perhaps Aziraphale will have insight on such a thing, having been with humanity since the Beginning. 

It is odd, to consider asking one of Her creations for such knowledge. She is supposed to be all-knowing, after all. But She can admit She has only watched humanity from afar, and if this entire restructuring of Heaven has taught Her anything, it’s that you can’t really judge something from a distance. It doesn’t grant you the whole picture. She can no longer be an absent figure in the lives of Heaven or Earth—and maybe Hell could use a bit of restructuring too, with Lucifer seemingly dormant for the time being. 

She tries not to think about it, really. About interfering with Hell. It isn’t Her place, not since She banished them and withdrew. But they are still Her children and She does still care for them, even if She tried to will that part of Herself away a long time ago in Her fit of divine rage. Crowley is proof enough that demons aren’t the monsters She initially made them out to be—they were rebellious, but perhaps She was a tad harsh in exiling them and changing them into something else entirely. 

In the moment, She simply thought, You want to be different? You don’t want to be one of my angels? Then become something else entirely. 

She can admit She made rash decisions based off anger in the past. Admittance is the first step to change and She is working on bettering Herself. Perhaps in the future, She can tackle Hell’s issues as well, as they are of Her own making. 

But for now, She has Her sights set on humanity, and She is going to lose Herself amongst them. 

As soon as Aziraphale picks his ten angels. 

Ten. It’s not that many, really. 

Patience, She tells Herself. Aziraphale will choose wisely and he is the only one truly qualified to do so. It will all come together in time. New roles are difficult for everyone. 

Patience is a virtue, and She is the embodiment of all virtues. She will wait. Aziraphale will choose.

And then She will take Her leave.

Gabriel hates this ridiculous circle. 

How is it that Aziraphale, of all angels, managed to lock him in this thing? Why can no one else open it and let him out? Michael has tried, as have other angels who seem to know the true side of things—that Aziraphale tricked the Almighty in some way and is vying for control of Heaven. It’s another Lucifer in the making. 

Aziraphale has been in the presence of a human witch and the Antichrist, as well as demons. He’s surely up to something truly awful and Gabriel is one of the only ones able to see it. Their discord with each other has left Gabriel’s eyes wide open where others have fallen for the ruse. It must be some sort of spell, he is certain—crafted by that witch, most likely, and powered by some demonic entity, either Crowley or the Hellspawn himself. 

Heaven is in danger and Gabriel is one of the only ones able to see it. Everyone else has had their vision shuttered and they simply can’t see the truth for themselves, so he will need to get out of here and fix things. He will be the hero at the end of the day, slaying the monstrosity known as Aziraphale. 

The fact Aziraphale hasn’t Fallen or something similar yet is evidence of his twisted machinations. He’s got everyone fooled. It must be a truly powerful spell at play here, but surely ending Aziraphale will set things right. 

Or maybe the witch will need to be dealt with as well. Hard to keep the spell together if the witch who cast it is gone, right? Or maybe the true power comes from whatever demonic entity gave lifeblood for such a thing—Crowley or that Antichrist kid. 

Crowley. 

That demon has been problematic since the very Beginning. Aziraphale should have destroyed him for what he did in the Garden, as any sane angel would do. Aziraphale has clearly been damaged since the start. Leaving him alone on Earth for 6000 years without direct interference was perhaps the last straw, and Gabriel can admit he was wrong in doing so. He should have welcomed Aziraphale into the fold, convinced him to spend more time in Heaven where he could be invited back into Heaven’s ways and not set adrift in the sea of humanity. 

In a way, all of this is Gabriel’s fault. Aziraphale is a problem he helped create and he needs to be the one to finish things. It’s only for the best. 

Still, he knows this won't be easy. Aziraphale has become powerful; he's not even sure what happened when Aziraphale confronted him with the demon. Aziraphale stepped inside the circle and Gabriel was certain his freedom was finally within reach, but after that it gets... very fuzzy. It is a peculiar thing, not fully remembering an event. Gabriel has never experienced such a thing; another thing Aziraphale has done to him. His crimes against Heaven are rising, and Gabriel needs to put an end to this problem once and for all--for the good of Heaven. 

A shadow falls over his circle. He looks up to find Michael standing there, frowning at him.

“Well?” Gabriel prompts. 

Michael shakes her head. “I can’t determine a way to get into his office. Whatever secrets he’s hiding in there, we can’t just break in.”

Gabriel sighs; this isn’t the news he wanted. “And he’s still marching the demon around.”

“The demon doesn’t appear to ever leave his side,” Michael tells him. 

Crowley must be protecting his scheme, then. Maybe Aziraphale isn’t even aware of what has been happening to him; Crowley could have cast a spell centuries ago and set this plan into motion, making Aziraphale believe these choices were his own. Since the plan must be coming to fruition, Crowley is reticent to let Aziraphale out of his sight and leave the angel to ruin things or figure things out on his own. 

Gabriel recalls that day in the bookshop, though, when a demon deigned to pray to God for the life of a middling, wayward angel. And this gnaws at him. Was this true fear and desperation or was this all part of Crowley’s plan?

Tears. There were tears. The demon was crying at some point. Aziraphale seemed to love said demon. A trick? A spell? Or was it real?

This needs a closer look.

“Keep a close eye on the two of them,” he says. “I want to know if Aziraphale is a pawn in Crowley’s game or if they really do…” He grimaces here, sickened at the thought. “Love each other.”

This information will tell him how to proceed. 

Michael nods. “There are rumours going around about a trial for you.”

Gabriel sneers. “A trial. Oh, that’s rich! As if he has any right to—No, you know what, we’ll make this work in our favour. We’ll expose him during the trial. So you need to get this information ASAP. If their perceived affection is real, we will use that to our advantage. And if it’s a spell, we’ll expose him. Heaven will turn on him.”

“Will that work, though?” Michael seems dubious. “If it’s a spell powerful enough to work on Her Grace then exposing him might not work; they will see it as an attempt at hurting him instead of truly revealing his plans.”

Michael has a point. They need to proceed cautiously. 

“Just keep an eye on things for now,” he mutters, frustrated. “And keep looking for a way out of here. Use back door tactics if necessary.”

She inclines her head in a nod and then takes her leave. 

Gabriel eyes the edges of the circle seemingly etched into the flooring.

He really needs to get out of here. 

The entirety of Heaven is at stake.

The demon Moloch has been utterly bored for quite some time now. 

Returning Abaddon to Hell for punishment was unexciting, really. The hunt wasn’t even their own; the angel helped, along with that traitor Crowley. The angel did try to double-cross him at one point which could have led to something entertaining, but the angel and the traitor fled soon after. 

And Moloch has been bored. 

This is nothing new for him. He has been stuck in Hell for a long time now, watching over punishments and inflicting pain, but he aches for something new. Something different. Something exciting and worthwhile. 

An angel immune to hellfire as well as Abaddon’s poison attack, well—that fits the bill. 

He has received no such orders, though. He is to remain here for the time being and get back to his usual work, but Nihasa has been sent topside again.

This rankles him. He is the Prince, but they sent a Duke out to cause chaos? And Nihasa of all demons! She gets sidetracked so easily; working with her was a study in controlling one’s anger and patience. A demon with patience! Because of that annoying Duke. It’s truly infuriating.

When Beezlebub summons him, he tries not to hope for anything exciting. Demons know better than to hope and he knows his place in Hell. 

But this new assignment? Well. 

It sounds promising. 

Keep an eye on the principality, Beezlebub said. Find out his weaknesses. We need to be prepared to take him out. 

It’s not a kill order, not really. 

But it’s a hunt. 

And that is, perhaps, even better. 

Chapter Text

Maliel is not a familiar name, but then Aziraphale is not particularly familiar with many in the Heavenly host. Most of his interactions revolved around Gabriel and the archangels, and life among humanity left him feeling rather isolated and out of step with his own kind. He’s been away from Heaven for the past 6000 years for the most part, and while he has a more involved role now, he still doesn’t know many angels personally. 

In the past 6000 years, he has primarily spoken with Gabriel specifically, or, failing that, with the archangels in general. He will admit his knowledge of the rest of Heaven is a bit spotty, and perhaps he’s been remiss in remedying this. He doesn’t really know much about any of the other angels, just as they never knew much about him—and it feels wrong to continue this distance. 

So, despite his uneasiness, he accepts a semi-private conversation with the angel in front of him. 

Crowley paces several yards away, giving them the illusion of privacy. If he knows the demon, then Crowley is most certainly eavesdropping anyway, and Aziraphale doesn’t blame him for it, either. He feels decidedly more at ease with Crowley watching his back, even as he speaks to a fellow angel. 

“You could have just as easily gone through the Earth Observation Files,” Aziraphale says, trying to keep his voice perfectly bland as any proper angel would.

Wide green eyes blink back at him, seemingly hanging onto every word. “I’ve looked through a lot of them,” the angel admits, “but that doesn’t give me the full picture! With your new role as Adjutant, someone else is going to have to be assigned as Earth’s Principality, and I would like to apply for the position! Having working knowledge of humanity will help.”

This is perfectly reasonable and logical, Aziraphale must admit. Maliel seems perfectly eager to learn about humanity and Aziraphale is more than willing to help in this, but this doesn’t change the fact he still feels decidedly uncomfortable. 

It’s not Maliel specifically, not really. It’s the fact anyone is here, unannounced and uninvited. Angels and demons specifically, he supposes. Humans might not know better as they can’t seem to reliably sense wards or barriers or anything like that, but angels and demons are quite different. While there are still wards in use around the cottage and their properly line, some angels might not be able to fully sense them if they aren’t specifically looking for them. 

He shouldn’t be upset with this intrusion. Maliel seems to mean well enough, and Aziraphale has been fascinated with humanity for so long it will be nice to teach his potential replacement everything he knows. Everything should be perfectly fine. 

Except this is their home—a space he shares with Crowley—and this will forever be sacred to him. Sudden intrusions by angels and demons rub every nerve raw and, to coin a phrase, set his teeth on edge. This isn’t Maliel’s fault, of course, but it still sours Aziraphale’s mood. 

He regards the angel before him. Maliel has chosen a younger corporation—perhaps in his late teens or early twenties, by human standards. He has a young, boyish face encircled with wavy blond hair and looks every bit the doe-eyed angel. The curl of enthusiasm in the air around them is genuine, and if he had to wager he would say Maliel is too inexperienced in having a corporation for him to fake or hide any expression.

That big grin on his face at the mention of humanity? The look of utter exhilaration in those too-bright eyes?

Maliel genuinely wants to learn about humanity. 

Aziraphale smiles warmly, appeased by this. “Very well, then. We’ll start tomorrow. Meet me outside my bookshop at 9am sharp.”

“Your bookshop?” Maliel’s eyes have somehow widened further. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, nodding. “We will meet there and then head to the park.”

“The park?”

“The perfect place to watch humanity.”

And a mostly neutral area. It won’t rub him raw speaking with Maliel there, but his bookshop and this cottage are off-limits. At least, they should be.

He would feel more comfortable at the bookshop than here, when speaking to an angel—but he hasn’t decided what he wants to do with the bookshop yet, and having Maliel lingering inside feels… wrong. Not to mention a waste of time, if his interest is humanity. The shop isn’t open so there would be no customers. 

Maliel grins and nods vigorously. “Oh, thank you! I won’t let you down!”

No one has ever been concerned with letting him down before. Oh, that is quite a new feeling, isn’t it? A knot in his stomach and a flutter in his chest and he just isn’t certain how he should feel about any of this. 

His smile feels fragile. “I look forward to working with you, then.”

While he finds himself rather unfamiliar with angels in general despite being one of them, perhaps he can seek out a better working relationship with them at the very least. Friendship seems absurdly out of the question, but Maliel does seem to share a fondness for humanity, at least from this first impression. 

Aziraphale can work with that.

Maliel still lingers before him. Aziraphale glances over his shoulder at the demon prowling somewhere behind him, clearly ill-at-ease. The feeling is rather mutual if Aziraphale is honest with himself. Despite Maliel’s enthusiasm, there is still a knot in Aziraphale’s stomach. 

He wonders if he’ll ever truly be comfortable in the presence of another angel. 

“So, tomorrow at 9am, then,” Aziraphale says. 

“9am,” Maliel repeats. 

Aziraphale clasps his hands together behind his back. “Would you prefer a pocket watch to keep time? It can be difficult at first.”

Maliel frowns at him. “Pocket watch…?”

Oh, dear. Of course the poor thing doesn’t know what a pocket watch is. Earth Observation Files only go so in-depth, and unless strictly necessary they leave out a lot of the smaller details such as time. 

Aziraphale snaps his fingers. A pocket watch, silver in color and distinctly human, appears in his hand. He exhales slowly before shifting somewhat closer to show Maliel the hands on the watch. Being this close to one of his own kind shouldn’t be so daunting. 

“Right, so, this hand here correlates to the hour,” he begins explaining as Maliel peers down at the device curiously.

Aziraphale has never taught anyone before, not really—occasionally he has acted as an advisor of sorts to various people throughout history, but he’s never actually taught them anything. Explaining something like this to another angel is a bizarre experience; he can’t decide if he enjoys this feeling or not. But Maliel hangs on his every word as he explains how time moves here on Earth and how it differs from Heaven. 

A chill sweeps down his spine. He looks up to find Crowley now circling the both of them instead of pacing back and forth. His circuit is decidedly large, keeping the same distance from the centre all the way around to ensure he gives the two of them space to talk privately, but the torrent of dark energy curling through the air leaves Aziraphale all too aware of Crowley’s frustration. 

He feels it too, after all. The frustration, the uneasiness, the sense of wrong. 

He wonders if this feeling will disperse with time, or if he will always feel nervous around his fellow angels. 

“So I will see you when this hand is here twice,” Aziraphale explains. 

“Human time is odd,” Maliel says finally, looking somewhat frazzled as they accept the pocket watch. 

“Yes, well… You do get used to it, I assure you.” He pauses then, frowning at the angel before him. “Why do you want to be a Principality?”

No angel has ever desired this position before; it’s why it fell to Aziraphale in the first place, and then afterward he went uncontested in this position for millennia. 

Maliel frowns at him for a moment, clearly pondering the question. “I felt… stuck.”

“Stuck,” Aziraphale repeats flatly. “What do you mean?”

“I was in the Prayer Department,” Maliel says. “The prayers were infinite. All those people desperate for escape or help or a reason to continue; they felt stuck. And I was stuck, too. I think.” A nervous smile slips across his face. “I didn’t realize how I really felt about it until the Almighty fixed me.”

“Fixed you,” Aziraphale murmurs, frowning. “How did She fix you?”

Maliel shakes his head. “I don’t really know. But I knew how I felt afterward; and I felt stuck. I’d send prayers down the line or reject them and it never changed. There was always more prayers. I wasn’t really making any difference.”

“And you want to make a difference.”

“I do,” Maliel agrees. “And I feel I can best do that if I’m down here.” A wide smile slips across his face. “And humanity is so interesting! So different from Heaven.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders loosen, the tension from before beginning to disperse finally. Maliel seems genuine enough, and Aziraphale can definitely understand those feelings. “Sometimes it can be worse down here than it is in the Prayer Department,” he cautions. “Are you certain this is something you want?”

“Absolutely. I want this.”

Aziraphale nods. “Then I will see you at 9am tomorrow. Your training starts then.”

Crowley lurks along the outer edge of the circle he’s created around the two conversing angels. Aziraphale shifted closer to show the angel something and Crowley couldn’t get a decent read on the situation from his position, so he’d started moving and simply hasn’t stopped. 

Maliel is a name Crowley isn’t familiar with, but then all angels’ names seem to blur together for him most of the time. And it’s been well over 6000 years since he could be counted among them and in that time he’s learned a lot of new names and forgotten some old ones. 

Still, he’s not familiar with the pipsqueak in front of him. A younger corporation, it seems, with a lithe frame and big doe eyes. He still has the trademark light hair people seem to associate with angels, too, and those green eyes are a tad too bright. 

Crowley dislikes him on principle.

Aziraphale seemed wary enough but still decided to have a conversation with the new angel. Crowley tries to keep from eavesdropping but it’s difficult considering he doesn’t trust any of those feathered wankers as far as he can throw them. He keeps his gaze firmly locked on the space between the two angels; if Maliel steps even a toe out of line he will intervene.

You’re going to have to get a lid on this, he tells himself. He can’t tell if it’s jealousy or paranoid possessiveness but having all these angels around all the time sets his teeth on edge, and having them so close to Aziraphale just makes it worse. If he bothered to visit a dentist they would be very unhappy with him, but his teeth don’t dare chip or break as he grits them furiously. 

Aziraphale is going to be around angels a lot. Frequently. All the time, maybe. Fuck. He’s going to have to get used to the brush of unfamiliar angelic grace pricking at every frayed nerve, because this is their life now. 

Well. It’s Aziraphale’s life now. Which means it’s his as well, by default. 

Because he’s endured the icy loneliness of a world alone and he can’t go back there again. 

A shudder slips through him. He bares his teeth and keeps prowling, gaze sharpened and narrowed on that pipsqueak of an angel. One finger out of line and—

Aziraphale glances toward the demon. For a moment, blue meets yellow, and Crowley’s stomach twists uneasily. Aziraphale looks back at the other angel and gives a firm nod, looking perfectly rigid and unbothered as any Proper Angel would, and Maliel snaps his fingers and disappears. 

Aziraphale turns back toward Crowley. Crowley quickly deletes the distance between them as he steps forward. 

“Well,” he mutters, “what was that about?”

“You weren’t listening?” 

“Contrary to popular belief, I do have self control,” Crowley says, rolling his eyes. “So?”

Aziraphale waves a hand dismissively. “He’s curious about humanity. He wants to be the new principality guarding Earth and he thought I could teach him.”

Crowley stares at the angel for a moment. “And?”

“I advised him to meet with me outside the bookshop tomorrow morning. We’ll head to the park and observe humanity.”

There’s a certain rigidness to Aziraphale’s tone still, which leaves Crowley frowning. It seems like a decent plan, so what’s the catch? “And this bothers you because…?”

The frost in those blue eyes leaves him grimacing. Aziraphale doesn’t get angry very often, but it’s always left Crowley’s skin crawling all the same.

“I am upset,” Aziraphale says slowly, nose wrinkled distastefully, “because no one is supposed to bother us here. I don’t want…” His lips purse together, the frost melting in his gaze as he regards Crowley. “This is our home. No one needs to disturb us here.”

Crowley nods; he’d prefer if angels and demons stayed off their property as well, but deep down he knows the odds of that happening are very slim. Practically non-existent, even. They could place wards, but then they run the same issue of potentially harming or locking out each other. An angel and a demon sharing a living space can be complicated. 

Still, Aziraphale is right. This is their home, and while Crowley would never call it sacred, it is precious to him. This space, their lives here together, the angel in front of him—all of it is precious to him and needs to be preserved, and angels and demons keep sullying it with their presence. 

“I will have a word with them when I go back to Heaven,” Aziraphale says, before he rolls his shoulders, releasing the tension built there due to his rigid stance. “Now, I believe we fancied a walk?”

Crowley nods and holds his arm out again. Aziraphale accepts it and steps a little closer, and the churning in his stomach dissipates. 

The two start off on the path round the back of the house again, toward the newly planted garden. The plants there are small and fragile but they won’t dare die on him if he leaves them be for a couple days while they are busy with Heaven. Aziraphale and him try to get out at least once a day to tend to them—or, rather, Crowley tends to them and Aziraphale plants himself nearby with a book in hand on the sunny days, or follows after Crowley with a tartan umbrella on the rainy ones. 

Crowley had those plants in his flat for years. Decades. Maybe longer. He doesn’t really know; time can be difficult to track sometimes. Still, he was familiar with each and every one of them, remembers how they shivered as he scolded them, and how beautifully they flourished in the flat despite the lack of direct sunlight. He brought them here, fully intending to keep them around far longer, but that all changed when Aziraphale died. 

He died. Sometimes he has to remind himself of this painful fact; the Aziraphale next to him now, perfectly alive, sometimes leaves him wondering if it was all some dreadful nightmare, but deep down he knows the pain was real. The agony of being alone. The apathy which left him numb for months on end as he slept the time away, waiting for something which might never happen. Waiting for Aziraphale to come back. 

He shivers. Aziraphale’s grip on his arm tightens as he steps a little closer, brushing against Crowley’s side with a wave of warmth. 

“Are you alright, my dear?”

“Just thinking,” Crowley says. 

“About what?”

Crowley glances over at a small bunch of leaves just above the ground, the plant in question new to the area, having been placed there just last week. “Not used to seeing them so small,” he tells the angel. 

Aziraphale sighs next to him. “They’ll grow in no time with you looking after them.”

Crowley grimaces. He knows they will be verdant and luxurious again in the future, but the point is he let them die in the first place. He should have scolded them into living, but he’d been so caught up in the suffocating silence of loneliness and consumed with such numbing apathy he’d simply stopped visiting the plants. Stopping going outside, even. Stopped caring for his beloved Bentley. 

He’d stopped everything except time. 

But he’s not alone anymore—Aziraphale is very much alive beside him and that means, well… everything, really. He’s not alone. Aziraphale is here. He’s been back for months now but even still, Crowley finds himself haunted by those months he was gone, and it’s left him feeling rather stuck. How does he break free of this indecision, this hesitance, this absolute refusal to let the angel out of sight?

They’ve been working on it, of course. But working on it does nothing to chase away those dark feelings swirling inside of him. 

“What do you think of the pipsqueak?” Crowley asks, mostly to distract himself. 

Aziraphale hums next to him. “His corporation does appear quite young,” he says. “I am not certain what to think just yet. His curiosity is genuine, and he seems enthusiastic enough about humanity.”

“… Why do I hear a ‘but’ in there?”

Aziraphale’s lips purse together once more as Crowley regards him carefully. “I am simply being paranoid, I believe.”

“Paranoid,” Crowley repeats, frowning. “You. Paranoid. Nuh, don’t believe it.”

Aziraphale is many things, but he isn’t a paranoid, frantic mess like Crowley. 

“Paranoid how?”

“I’ve been regarding the entirety of Heaven’s angels as I have come to regard the archangels,” Aziraphale says, clearly displeased with this. “I am… wary, and I suppose I really shouldn’t be.”

“No, you definitely should be,” Crowley says firmly. “Don’t trust any of them.”

Paranoia is good for the soul, after all. 

“But they’re not all like that,” Aziraphale reminds him. “I have forgotten that, in my time on Earth. They aren’t all like Gabriel, or Sandalphon, or… Well, you understand. They’re not all like that, but I’m afraid I’ve clumped them all under some banner in my mind, and that is wrong of me.”

“It’s justified.”

“I’ve been removed from them for so long, I forget to see them as individuals. And I fear I have done the same for demons as well.”

“… What?”

What do demons have to do with anything?

They stop on the bridge overlooking the water, a place they frequent for the dazzling view. Aziraphale looks out over the water glimmering in the sunlight and Crowley watches the angel for a long moment, utterly confused. Aziraphale’s brows furrow as he thinks carefully on his wording. 

“I’ve been perceiving demons as some threat all on the same wavelength, but that’s not entirely true.”

“Demons are all a threat on the same wavelength,” Crowley says, scowling. 

“But they’re not,” Aziraphale insists. “They’re individuals working under a common goal, same as angels. And while I’ve written the entirety of the Heavenly Host under the same brush stroke of indifference or bland superiority, I’ve slotted demons firmly under chaotic, and that feels dishonest.”

“Demons are chaotic. You’re not wrong here,” Crowley tells him. “And indifferent sums up angels nice enough.”

“But that’s the same as saying all of humanity is good or evil,” Aziraphale says. “And humanity just isn’t either or.” A pause. “I have no reason to believe Maliel’s enthusiasm isn’t genuine, but it doesn’t mesh with the picture I’ve had in my head all this time. Same with the other angels…”

And that might explain why Aziraphale was so overwhelmed when they lined up outside his office door. Crowley understands a little better now, but Aziraphale isn’t wrong to be paranoid. 

“Alright, so not all angels are the same,” Crowley says, “but that doesn’t mean they’re on your side.” He winces, then, aware of how awful that might sound. “Uh, I mean…”

“I know perfectly well what you mean, dear,” Aziraphale assures him with a gentle smile. “And you are right—it doesn’t mean they agree with me personally. But I can’t expect the worst all the time, can I? I shouldn’t judge them before I’ve even really spoken to them or gotten to know them.”

Gotten to know them. Crowley frowns, realizing he’s been making assumptions as well. Aziraphale has been away from Heaven for 6000 years, of course he doesn’t bloody know everyone up there. He doesn’t know anything about their current routines or thoughts on a subject or anything like that because he simply hasn’t been among them in a long, long time. And while that is something Crowley likes about Aziraphale—this distance from the other angels—it can be problematic, too, considering they really don’t know what to think of any of the angels who will be working with Aziraphale soon enough. 

Uncertainty coils in the pit of his stomach. He needs to start picturing the angels like humanity, really—God seems to want them to be more like Her precious humans, after all, and that means he really doesn’t know what to expect from Heaven anymore. Humanity has always been equal parts amusing just as well as it’s been terrifyingly horrible, and suddenly the angels in Heaven aren’t indifferent shadows in the background—instead, they’re now powerful celestial beings with the capacity for betrayal, same as any human, and that is truly terrifying. 

And I thought the angels were bad before… 

Suddenly there is so much more to worry about, and he steps a little closer to Aziraphale, a shiver inching down his spine. 

Chapter Text

Aziraphale eyes the bookshop doors, aware a simple motion would get them to open for him. He can feel eyes on him from windows across the street, and is well aware of the rumors circulating. He’s never given much stock to rumors, of course, save for that time a little rumor trickled to him about Anthony Crowley planning a heist at a church, of all places. Still, he tries to ignore the feeling of eyes on him. 

This bookshop is a lot of things to him, but lately he can only feel the negative ones. He wants this to change, wants to feel comfortable here again, but this is not his home anymore. Once upon a time, it was everything to him—a permanent residence so he didn’t have to keep moving around and changing names and identities. A sense of stability in a life that was always changing. A feeling of safety, knowing this space was his. 

It was home for so long he never imagined it would be anything else. When he heard about the bookshop burning down in the hours before Armageddon, he didn’t truly have time to understand or comprehend the weight of it all—not until the adrenaline faded and he and Crowley were taking a bus to the demon’s flat. Home was gone, in that moment—a piece of his life ripped away, just as his corporation had been, and nearly his life as well. 

He adored this bookshop and always had—it was his first permanent address here amongst humanity, and the approval for such a place was a shock when it actually arrived a couple hundred years late. By that point, he’d nearly given up any hope of ever having a semi-permanent residence with his duties dragging him all over the world. 

Then one rainy day in the spring of 1787, his approval notice arrived, signed by Gabriel himself, and suddenly the bookshop wasn’t simply an idle notion, but a very real possibility. He just needed the appropriate location and space, and a few miracles here and there to launch this project forward. 

It took years, but finally in 1800 he was ready to open his bookshop. 

Since then this has been home for him, though he never truly understood the concept—not really—until the day the world failed to end as it should have, and he found his place in the world at long last: on Crowley’s side. 

Things have been rather complicated since then, of course, and the bookshop has fallen by the wayside. After the hellfire burned through it and water damaged what survived the flames, he tried to set his sights elsewhere. Perhaps this was the universe’s way of telling him to move on, at long last. The cottage was to be his new home, shared with Crowley, but the bookshop still lingered in the background, neglected. 

And then Gabriel fixed it up while Aziraphale was otherwise engaged in Heaven, and the former archangel went on a book-selling spree plucked from Aziraphale’s very nightmares. What remains is a shell of what was once the entirety of Aziraphale’s safe little nook in the world, and it is a sorry sight to see. 

To look at this bookshop now feels him with a bitter sorrow. It is literally another lifetime ago, when he called this place home. 

The cottage is home now, a space shared with Crowley. But he can’t bring himself to simply sell the bookshop or let it go completely. It was one of the few things he had for so very long, the thought of simply releasing it into another’s hands feels like some sort of betrayal—against the bookshop, but also himself, as well. 

A. Z. Fell and Co’s Bookshop hasn’t been opened in a long while now, not since Gabriel stabbed him and was locked up in Heaven months ago. The general public is confused about the shop, wondering if it is actually open, if it changed hands, if Gabriel is somehow under the banner of ‘Fell and Co’, which leaves Aziraphale’s stomach twisting. 

He flicks his fingers and the doors open. He steps over the threshold and inhales slowly. The scent of dust and books and old rustic things should bring him comfort, but all it actually does is remind him of some former version of himself—someone alone in a crowd, separate from but also part of humanity.

Everything is different now, and he himself is different despite not wanting to leave the version of himself he once was behind. It was a fear of his in the recent past—regarding himself, in the future, as some former version… Just like the version of him before that, the mindless soldier in Heaven.

But perhaps he was wrong about Heaven. Maybe he wasn’t mindless. Or, rather, he probably was, but that doesn’t mean the other angels were as well. 

Thinking on it too much threatens to leave him with a crippling migraine, though, so he shoves those worries aside. With a wave of his hand, the air in the shop filters and isn’t as dusty and neglected as before. The shop itself is still rather pristine despite the dust—the angels in Heaven were always so clean, so precise in their placements with everything perfectly aligned, and Aziraphale despises it. 

He likes the mess. He likes the chaos. Perhaps not disorganization, not truly, but books stacked haphazardly all across the shop on little tables and outlets where he knew exactly where everything was, but an onlooker would not. It was, perhaps, more of an eye sore to those like Crowley, who lived sparsely and as minimalistic as possible, but to him it meant he could finally breathe.

It was too structured in Heaven. 

And now it is structured here, too, and it feels wrong. 

The stain on the flooring near the door should really be cleaned up. Stale blood, celestial blood, which will truly be appalling to Maliel, he’s certain. To humanity it might appear as a mere blemish, perhaps an intentional pattern of staining on the wood, but to Aziraphale it is a beacon of everything wrong with this bookshop. 

This was his home for so long. And he was hurt here. 

He bled here. 

Gabriel tried to kill him here. Destroy him. Permanently. 

If he wants to get technical about it, he died here. 

He died. 

A shiver slips down his spine. Thoughts of his death are better left forgotten, but sometimes the memories creep up on him nevertheless, and he’s left feeing decidedly frozen. Not stuck, he thinks—just cold, like he’ll never truly be warm again. 

Being alone doesn’t help matters. 

He glances over his shoulder at the door. Crowley has yet to follow him inside, which he supposes means there’s some progress on that front, but he’d much prefer to not be alone right now. Or ever, if possible. Never being alone again sounds perfectly wonderful, even if he knows it’s not feasible. There is a reason they are working on distance, after all. 

He will not turn and walk back outside, no matter how much he aches for Crowley’s presence at his side. Crowley is doing well, and that’s all that matters here. 

Aziraphale glances again at the stain on the floor, glaring down at it momentarily before he snaps his fingers. A rug manifests over it, hiding the majority of it from view, and what remains are a few small droplets here and there which could just be a random pattern in the wood flooring. Nothing noticeable, really. 

Satisfied, he steps over the rug toward the closest shelf, shrugging off the icy loneliness clinging to his core. Crowley is just outside, he tells himself; he is perfectly fine. There is nothing to worry about here in this bookshop. 

The same bookshop he was stabbed in. 

The same bookshop he died in.

A ragged breath escapes him and he shuts his eyes, nausea churning his stomach. Is that why he feels so uneasy in this space? Because this is where he took his last breath? Or, at least, what he thought was his last breath. Memories of the actual event are rather blurry, and he is grateful for this fact. He knows there was pain, a ripping sort of agony, a cold yet burning feeling in his chest, and then… 

Oblivion.

A bell chimes behind him and he turns to find Crowley darting into the shop. Yellow eyes immediately lock on him and Aziraphale beams at the demon despite that frantic look on Crowley’s face. 

“That was five whole minutes, my dear,” he says gently, hoping his uneasiness doesn’t show.

Crowley bares his teeth. A muscle ticks in his jaw. Those eyes watch Aziraphale carefully. “Ngk,” says Crowley. 

Aziraphale steps closer to place a hand on the demon’s arm. “You did well, Crowley,” he says.

Crowley didn’t even miracle himself in here, Aziraphale notes happily. The car was parked outside for this very reason—to let Aziraphale go in alone and allow the two of them to practice their distance. Crowley didn’t miracle himself inside the shop; he walked from the car. 

This is progress. Progress should feel better, Aziraphale thinks—he still feels rather frozen inside. 

“When’s the pipsqueak supposed to be here?” Crowley mutters. 

“His name is Maliel,” Aziraphale tells him. “And within the hour.”

Crowley scowls. “Why are we here so early, then?”

“Because you drive like a lunatic,” Aziraphale says simply. The drive here should have taken longer. 

Crowley bares his teeth again, clearly aware Aziraphale is right. Aziraphale turns back to look at the interior of the bookshop, wishing it didn’t feel so foreign to stand here. 

“Uh,” Crowley suddenly says, “might wanna get rid of that.”

Aziraphale frowns, looking back at the demon. Crowley is glaring down at the flooring.

“It’s not as simple as miracling it away,” Aziraphale sighs. Angelic blood stains refuse to come out of anything. “I would have to repaint it to get rid of it completely, or re-stain it, whatever the humans do with it. I got a rug to cover most of it.”

Crowley continues glaring down at it, teeth still bared, for a moment longer. Then he carefully steps over the few visible droplet stains and looks back up at Aziraphale. “Been a while since we’ve been here.”

Aziraphale quirks a brow. “We were just here yesterday, my dear.”

Crowley scowls. “You know what I mean.”

Aziraphale nods. “I know,” he admits quietly. 

“Still thinking about, uh… selling books?”

Crowley seems distinctly uneasy with this plan, though Aziraphale can’t fathom why he is so opposed to it. He certainly threatened to sell Aziraphale’s books himself often enough. And isn’t it better to utilize the shop in a different way, instead of letting it just… waste away, here?

“I’m still not quite certain what to do with it,” he says. 

“You love this bookshop.”

“I do enjoy it. But where will I find the time for it? Look how busy we are already.”

“Yeah, but that’ll die down when you select your ten, right? I mean, that’s the whole point, innit?”

Aziraphale frowns. Having his ten selected to delegate to will be helpful, but somehow he doubts it will truly free up his time at all. God is eager to visit humanity, after all, and he still needs to deal with Gabriel, and this business with the blade. 

The blade. The thought sours his already uneasy mood.

“We’ll see how it goes,” he finally says.

Then he turns to head toward the back of the shop. 

“Would you like some tea?”

Crowley chuffs but follows after him all the same. 

Maliel arrives at approximately 9am. 

Aziraphale feels the flicker of grade outside the bookshop doors and moves to open them. 

He bids them entry into the bookshop despite how coiled he feels. This place is not his home any longer, but it is still sacred to him. His own space. Having another angel here certainly sours the mood. 

Maliel steps over the threshold with wide eyes and a boyish sort of energy which reminds Aziraphale somewhat of Adam. Youthful enthusiasm, some might say. 

It wars against the image of angels he’s maintained in his mind for so long now.

Perhaps he misjudged them. He’s spent so much time away from them, after all; of course he assumed they were all similar to Gabriel, as he and the other Archangels were the only ones he dealt with with any regularity. But painting them all under the same brush stroke is rather foolish of him; he will endeavor to do better. 

Crowley bares his teeth as Maliel glances over at him nervously. 

“This is Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “He is a dear friend of mine, so you’ll simply have to get used to having him around. Crowley, this is Maliel.”

Crowley glowers at the angel. Maliel glances timidly from the demon back to Aziraphale, clearly uneasy but willing to tolerate Crowley’s presence nevertheless. 

Baby steps, Aziraphale thinks. Change doesn’t happen overnight. 

“Hello,” Maliel finally says, rather haltingly. “Is it true you helped stop Armageddon?”

“It’s true,” Aziraphale says. “Without him, I wouldn’t have been involved at all.”

Maliel’s eyes widen. “Wow,” he breathes. “I didn’t think demons would want to stop it.”

Crowley hisses. “I like humanity just fine,” he says snippily. 

“Crowley isn’t your typical demon,” Aziraphale explains before he waves Maliel toward a row of books. The angel steps hesitantly around the immoveable demon glowering at him still, and Aziraphale gestures at the books on display here. “This is a bookshop. I’m not entirely certain how much you know about humanity, but this has been my cover for centuries.”

Maliel gingerly runs his fingers across the top of a book. Aziraphale watches all the while, uncertainty flooding through him. “Books,” Maliel says slowly. “Material objects humans learn from, is that correct?”

“In a way,” Aziraphale says, nodding. “These are actually rare books I’ve collected through the years. I don’t actually prefer to sell them, but people do come in to browse.” He pauses. “At least, they did. I have been closed for some time now.”

“Closed?” Maliel asks, still looking over the books on display. 

“Not open for visitors,” Aziraphale amends. “But we won’t be opening the shop today, anyway. And you’ll need to find your own cover, if you still want to be a principality.”

Maliel glances at him then, grinning. Still wants to be one, then. 

Aziraphale tries not to be shocked about this. He really has no reason to doubt Maliel’s sincerity or intentions, but some habits are hard to change. 

He’s been so uneasy around angels for so long, the thought of trusting one of them at face value feels… negligent. He wonders when this facet of himself changed; was he always this uneasy around his own kind? Was simply because of the disconnect between them due to his time spent on Earth? He really doesn’t know when this shift started or events solidified it in his mind, but the thought of trusting another angel simply feels wrong. 

And it shouldn’t. It really, really shouldn’t. 

He clears his throat. “Right. Shall we head to the park, then?”

“What is this… park?” Maliel asks. 

Aziraphale eyes him for a moment. Maliel said he looked through some of the observation files, but he is clearly clueless about humans. Then again, most of the holy host are clueless about humans. Gabriel once thought he knew how babies were born because he witnessed Eve’s birth, and, well—he is the next most experienced with humanity, after Aziraphale. 

Educating Maliel is going to be a lengthier process than he first anticipated. 

But Maliel does seem eager to learn and a new principality will need to be picked for Earth, and Aziraphale would rather it wasn’t one of the archangels. Or, former-archangels. None of them have the drive or patience to put up with the daily happenings among humanity. Maliel is the better option, if he can put in the work. 

Aziraphale just wishes he didn’t feel so unsettled by the whole thing. 

He glances at Crowley, who bares his teeth at him. Feeling at least somewhat confident with Crowley watching his back, he turns to lead the way out of the bookshop. Maliel shuffles after him, with Crowley bringing up the rear. 

He stops just short of the Bentley. While it would be the human way to get to the park and Maliel will need that experience at some point, he doesn’t necessarily feel comfortable with the other angel invading Crowley’s space like that, so he simply waits for Crowley to exit the shop and close the doors before he snaps his fingers, transporting the three of them to the park. 

They materialize next to their usual bench, and Aziraphale disperses another miracle into the air to ensure no one is aware of their sudden appearance. It’s reality, after all; people rarely notice these things. 

The park is crowded today, which is good, Aziraphale decides. It will be good for Maliel to observe and walk among humanity for a bit, and the park is a safe enough first place for this to occur. The bookshop might have been better, if it were open to the public—but Aziraphale still isn’t certain how he feels about it, or what he wants to do with it moving forward. 

“There’s so many,” Maliel breathes, eyes wide. “What are they all doing here?”

“It’s a public park,” Aziraphale explains. “Most come here to relax or unwind and simply enjoy the day.”

It is a cloudy day today, but the weather is still mostly nice. There’s a nice breeze, and the ducks are already waddling toward them, used to accepting food from them when they do come here. Aziraphale waves his hand, miracling some food into his palm before he flicks it onto the ground. The ducks mill about, pecking the pieces from the grass, honking at them occasionally. Crowley hisses as one gets too close to his foot, but tosses down some food as well for the hungry things. 

“Those are ducks, right?” Maliel asks. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale confirms. “What all do you know, from the observation files?”

“Not a lot,” Maliel admits, almost sheepishly. “I looked through what I could but most of it was, uh… classified?”

Aziraphale frowns. “What do you mean, classified?”

“I couldn’t open the files.”

Why would the observation files be classified? 

As he is pondering over this new nugget of information, Crowley sprawls onto their usual bench. Maliel twitches at the sudden movement before looking over at him, and Crowley sneers back at him, still clearly ill-at-ease. 

Aziraphale can’t say he blames him. Nothing about Maliel has given him a reason to mistrust him, but paranoia is always lingering in the back of his mind, whispering of ill-intent. He tries to brush this worry aside, as he, again, has no reason to not take Maliel at his word. 

If the angel wished them harm, he surely would have attacked by now… right?

He tosses the remainder of the food onto the ground for the ducks and then moves to join Crowley. He sits in usual spot, aware only then there isn’t really room for the three of them on this bench unless they squish together, which he is rather opposed to, all things considered. Not that he minds being closer to Crowley, mind you—but being so close to another angel sets his teeth on edge. 

Maliel lingers there next to the bench, standing perfectly still. While this posture is acceptable and expected in Heaven, it does stand out here, among humanity. 

“Relax,” Aziraphale advises. “You’ll draw attention if you're too tense.”

“Oh,” Maliel says, stuttering into a brief movement. “Of course.”

Aziraphale sighs. Surely it wasn’t this difficult for him, when he first accepted his position, was it? Then again, things were vastly different in Eden, when he first met humanity. Adam and Eve knew of his angelic nature and he had nothing to hide and no reason to attempt to do so, not until they left Eden and procreated.

“What are they doing?” Maliel asks, gesturing. 

Aziraphale follows his gaze. A kid is hiding near another bench, though is rather inept in his sneaking as he is not very hidden at all. His mother lingers near the bench, tossing her hands up in the air, feigning an inability to locate him. He jumps out at her a moment later, and she throws her hands up as though she is surprise at his sudden appearance, before wrapping him in a tight hug. 

There is an aura of love ebbing off them. Aziraphale feels it ooze around him, and he relaxes into the back of the bench, relinquishing his own tension. 

“They are playing,” he says. 

“Playing,” Maliel repeats, confused. “What is playing?”

Oh dear. This is going to be more difficult than previously anticipated. 

“It’s pretend,” Aziraphale says. “He is hiding, and she is pretending to not notice so he can jump out of her. They are bonding.”

“Bonding,” the angel echoes. “Why does she pretend? He is clearly visible.”

“ ’s not the point,” Crowley mutters. 

“Children mature slowly,” Aziraphale says. “He thinks he’s hidden, but if she simply found him right away he would lost his confidence and self-esteem. This helps her bond with him and gives him that confidence he will need as he grows up.”

He’s never had to explain this before. He’s not certain he is even doing a good job of it, but Maliel eyes them thoughtfully for a moment before he nods, slowly. 

“She lies to help him,” he says. 

“In a way,” Aziraphale hedges. 

“But lying is wrong,” Maliel says, frowning at him. 

“ ’s a white lie,” Crowley says. “Doesn’t hurt anyone.”

“White lie?”

“Little lies people tell each other to avoid hurting their feelings,” Aziraphale says, though that doesn’t really seem like a good explanation, either. White lies cannot easily be explained; they need to be experienced. “She could tell him he is horrible at hiding, but that would make him sad and unconfident in himself. This assures he is happy and will be more sure of himself in the future.”

“And that is… good?”

“It is for the child.”

“I… see.”

Do you, though? 

Aziraphale pushes to his feet. “Let’s walk around a bit, see if we can explain anything else to you.”

Maliel smiles. “That would be—”

A chill sweeps down Aziraphale’s spine. He stiffens and turns to face behind their usual bench, something in his core screeching at a new presence entering the field. It’s not a lightning decent but is close enough, as static electricity leaves the hairs on his arms standing at attention as his gaze lands on the former archangel standing there. 

“Michael,” he says coolly. 

Chapter Text

Michael has only just appeared there in the park. Her hands are clasped behind her and her posture is perfectly rigid and unyielding, and her glacial eyes land on Aziraphale. Crowley snarls next to him, spurred into motion as he stomps forward a couple steps before Aziraphale steps forward as well, to keep Crowley from shielding him. 

Having Michael so close to Crowley leaves a knot in Aziraphale’s stomach. Images of the trial in Hell flash behind his eyes; her frigid superiority, the sound of holy water pooling in the tub, the fact she was even in Hell in the first place and was allowed to be there with holy water, of all things…

Anger settles like a stone in the pit of his stomach. He strides forward to push past Crowley, who growls lowly behind him, dark threads of anxiety weaving through the air surrounding them. Aziraphale clasps his hands behind him and peers blandly at the former-archangel. 

“You have precisely ten seconds to tell me why you are here,” he says frigidly. 

Michael regards him coolly. “You really have forgotten your place, haven’t you, Aziraphale?”

“My place is here,” Aziraphale reminds her. “Last I heard you were to be shadowing humans in the United States, so my question still stands: Why are you here?”

Movement behind him and the chatter of voices leaves him all too aware this is a very public setting for this confrontation. Crowley’s snarl doesn’t cut off, but the conversation amongst the closest humans does, and Aziraphale weighs the pros and cons of turning his attention away from Michael for even the briefest of moments. 

In the end, his main priority is humanity, and he doesn’t trust this angel not to cause a scene or do something untoward. Perhaps a bit uncalled for; Michael knows the rules as well as anyone, but when has that ever stopped archangels from bending them to their needs? She went to Hell with holy water to end Crowley. Gabriel stabbed him in the bookshop. 

He doesn’t trust the former-archangels. Not in the slightest. 

He gestures with his hand at some empty middle distance further back, in a mostly unused corner of the park. It is primarily a stomping grounds for the ducks and whatever wildlife calls this place home, and is well away from the footpath near them. 

“Stay here, my dear,” he says to Crowley, frowning at Michael. “Shall we?”

Turning his back on Michael leaves a knot in his stomach, but at least he can feel Crowley’s eyes watching him so carefully, and rest safe in the knowledge that should an attack happen, he will at least have some warning. 

Michael seems to hesitate before following him. 

The frost in Michael’s gaze assures him she is not pleased with his behavior. Once upon a time, this truly would have bothered him—but today, he stands a little taller. 

“I assume there is a reason you left your post?”

Michael’s lips twitch. She sneers. “Gabriel wants to speak with you.”

Gabriel. 

A chill sweeps through him. “Gabriel doesn’t get to make demands of me anymore,” he tells her flatly, struggling to control the spark aching to ignite in his chest. A spark of holy wrath and divine retribution; he remembers Gabriel last he saw him, motionless in the circle, a mere breath from destruction. “Not to mention, of course, he is locked away in Heaven and you weren’t scheduled for a review.” A bland smile crosses his face as he politely inclines his head. “I assume you have a perfectly logical reason for being in Heaven to speak with him.”

The calm facade slips; Michael’s eyes flash dangerously, but she remains standing there, perfectly rigid, keenly aware of the humans milling around nearby. Aziraphale wonders if she would attack him outright otherwise; it would be a foolish move on her part. 

“I don’t take orders from you,” she says, nose wrinkling distastefully.

Time spent among humanity seems to have ruffled her feathers more than a little, it seems—once upon a time, she would have scolded Aziraphale for daring to display such a thing on his face, yet here she stands, unable to stop herself. 

“Actually, you do,” Aziraphale intones. “You were present at that meeting, weren’t you? I saw you there, with Gabriel and the others. I am the Adjutant.”

There’s a sudden frigid spike of holy energy in the air; it doesn’t quite sting as it kisses his skin, but it still feels like an unwelcome rash nevertheless. The sting of Heaven has always been subtle, driving under his skin for the true sensation. 

He regards Michael calmly. If she presses forward he will be forced to defend himself—and he’s not certain if he’s ready for such a thing. Already it burns beneath his skin, this desire for divine justice and retribution, and he could destroy her with a breath. It would be simple. 

So simple. 

Indifference clings to his core. Some Other pushes forward. 

Movement behind him leaves his breath catching in his throat as he startles back to himself. Maliel’s presence sweeps closer as he steps toward them, radiating uncertainty. Distantly, Aziraphale can hear Crowley snarling, but ultimately not pressing forward. Perhaps the sting of Michael’s grace is too much for the demon.

“Is… Is everything okay?” Maliel asks, stepping forward. 

We are going to have to work on your observation skills, Aziraphale thinks, keeping his gaze focused on the angel before him. 

Michael’s gaze sweeps past him. “Maliel,” she says, sneering. 

“Archangel Michael,” Maliel says, nervousness pitching his voice. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

Fury ignites at the centre of Aziraphale’s chest. Maliel reminds him too much of himself—nervous, weighed down under that unyielding gaze, uncertain of his place, never measuring up—

“Michael was just leaving,” Aziraphale says with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

Michael glares at him, taking a single step forward. Aziraphale smiles back blandly. 

Footsteps rapidly approach. Crowley stops just behind Maliel, snarling low in his throat—a subsonic sound inaudible to humans, but seething with sullen menace nevertheless. It resonates through the air and Aziraphale fights the urge to sink backward into the demon making such a sound, comforted by it instead of apprehensive, like Michael before him. 

Michael’s gaze slips from Maliel to Crowley then finally back to Aziraphale. 

She steps backward slightly, defeat etched into her very essence. She can’t risk a scene here without Maliel witnessing her utter disobedience, and Aziraphale will be forced to react accordingly, given the circumstances. Michael isn’t Heaven’s most notable fighter for nothing; she understands the odds here. 

“Talk to Gabriel,” she says, before she snaps her fingers and vanishes. 

The sudden silence left in her wake leaves Aziraphale’s skin crawling. Residual spikes of her holy presence seem to ebb around them and Aziraphale laments the fact it will take at least a couple days to rid his corporation of the sting of her grace.

“I didn’t realize you would be getting visits from Michael,” Maliel says quietly. “I… I should probably be going, then. I am technically assigned to Heaven and I shouldn’t—”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale says, turning to face the angel. Maliel’s eyes are wide and hesitant, and Aziraphale sees himself reflected in them. “I invited you here today, my dear. You are not the one breaking protocol.”

His gaze slips sideways, toward Crowley. The demon is still rather coiled despite the fact Michael is no longer present, but he’s no longer growling subsonically. Instead his teeth are bared but he is rather silent. 

“Has anyone noticed?”

Crowley grimaces. “Humans don’t notice much,” he mutters. “ ’s reality.”

Of course it is. Aziraphale’s tense muscles relax slightly; at least Michael did not cause a scene as he worried she would. He should have known better than to expect the worst from her, though—Michael, while impulsive at times, wouldn't truly do very much if there were humans in the vicinity. She could attack Aziraphale directly but nothing using actual power, as even God would not forgive such a blatant display if something were to befall the humans simply because Michael was being disobedient. Using the humans this way feels decidedly wrong, though, and guilt gnaws at his core. 

He should have simply miracled them both to the bookshop—himself and Michael. But the thought of abandoning Crowley here to have such a private conversation like that, out of sight, well… that would leave guilt gnawing at him, too. 

“What was that about?” Crowley intones lowly, clearly still agitated. 

“She said Gabriel wants to speak with me,” Aziraphale replies quietly. 

Crowley hisses. “Oh, you can speak with him alright. Send him packing.”

Aziraphale sighs. “I suppose I should really get a handle on this.”

“Is it… bad?” Maliel asks quietly. “That Gabriel wants to speak with you?”

“Not necessarily,” Aziraphale says. Maliel knows nothing of what truly transpired between himself and Gabriel and he isn’t willing to discuss it now. “Gabriel is simply trying my patience. Are you alright?”

“… I am fine?”

Aziraphale sighs at the confusion marring Maliel’s brow. “You seemed nervous with Michael here.”

“I’ve never really…” A pause. “I don’t see much of the archangels. Michael is my superior but they don’t visit the Prayer Wing much.”

Certain archangels are assigned to handle certain departments. Aziraphale was unfortunate enough to be under Gabriel’s direct supervision, but it seems Michael isn’t much better in regards to the angels under their purview.

“Well, they aren’t your superior anymore,” Aziraphale says. “Don’t worry about them. Are you still wanting to stay and observe?”

“Can I?”

“Of course.”

The hesitance slips from Maliel’s gaze, those green eyes brightening.

A shiver slips down Aziraphale’s spine. This all seems a little too familiar. 

He claps his hands together, smiling. “Let’s not keep our customers waiting.”

Crowley prowls back and forth at the end of a row of shelving, keeping the two angels in sight at all times. 

Aziraphale won’t talk to him about anything until Maliel leaves, and Crowley silently urges the angel to do so. He lets his demonic essence ooze through the bookshop, unnoticeable to humans but clearly distinctive to angels. Aziraphale, familiar with Crowley’s presence, pays it no mind but Maliel fidgets nervously the longer he stays. 

But still he persists. Aziraphale smiles warmly at him and the pipsqueak seems to hang onto his every word as they discuss a few of the things Maliel witnessed today at the park. Maliel seems genuinely enraptured by it all, which is at least something—but Crowley doesn't have to like this. 

And he doesn’t. 

Angels milling around is just asking for trouble. While it is true Earth will need a new guardian while Aziraphale is tied up with his new position, Crowley never really considered the fact this meant more angels would be assigned to Earth. Having Gabriel around was bad enough. Does this mean Hell will be sending more demons out and about as well, to counteract this? To replace Crowley?

He grimaces. Having demons around is the last thing we need. 

Hell has been quiet lately. Too quiet. 

Ever since Abaddon was dragged back to Hell it seems all demonic activity has stopped, at least that Crowley can see. He’s had no further run-ins with any of them, which he supposes is good, but it does leave him feeling more than a little on edge. 

Hell doesn’t do idle well. 

Lucifer is still missing. There’s a vacant seat of power. Right now it seems everyone is still listening to Beezlebub for the most part, but that could change. Abaddon isn’t the only demon who can get uppity, after all. Hell is brimming with demons eager to backstab anyone and everything to advance their lot in life; climbing the pegs to the top is a bloody journey on the best of days. 

Hell being so quiet is just asking for trouble. 

Crowley just hopes that whatever they will inevitably get up to, it won’t be his or Aziraphale’s problem to deal with. If Hell is smart, they’ll go cause havoc elsewhere. 

But then, Hell has never really been smart. 

That pipsqueak of an angel is still here. 

Crowley emanates a more potent swirl of dark energy. Not exactly menace because he doesn’t want to get on Aziraphale’s bad side by scaring off this new angel, but when he spots Maliel’s nearly imperceptible shiver, he can’t help but feel a tendril of satisfaction slip through him. 

When Maliel finally snaps his fingers and vanishes, Crowley stops prowling back and forth, relieved. He really doesn’t enjoy having more than one angel in this bookshop. 

Aziraphale eyes him, exasperated. “Really, my dear?”

Crowley shrugs. “What really happened with Michael? Why were they here?”

Aziraphale sighs heavily. “Michael was testing me, I should think. A power play, I suppose. Just letting me know she isn’t pleased with my new position.” A brief pause. “It is also proof.”

“Proof,” Crowley repeats, frowning. “Of what?”

“That Michael is the one in league with Gabriel.”

Crowley scowls. “We knew that already.”

“We assumed, but we did not know for certain. Now we do.”

“Uh huh,” Crowley hums, “and what does all this tell you?”

Aziraphale’s lips thin. “I need to visit Gabriel.”

A hiss escapes him then. The last time Aziraphale saw Gabriel, things didn’t go so well. Aziraphale certainly seems more himself now, but for a time he simply wasn’t himself and it started with Gabriel. 

“We sure that’s a good idea? Seeing Gabriel, I mean.”

Aziraphale pauses, giving it some thought. “I will let him stew a little longer. I still need to decide on my… angels.” His nose wrinkles distastefully at the last word, clearly still uneasy about the whole thing. “We should get back,” he says quietly. 

Back to paperwork. 

Crowley loathes paperwork. 

“Eh, the day’s still young,” Crowley says. “Fancy a trip to the Ritz?”

Aziraphale perks up, eyes brightening. “Oh, that sounds lovely! I heard they have a new dessert.”

The Ritz is just as busy as always, but there is a table waiting for them due to an unexpected cancellation. Reservations are things which happen to other people, after all. 

Crowley watches as Aziraphale eats his dessert, wriggling happily as he does so. Crowley sips at his champaign, itching for something stronger after the day he’s had. 

It wasn’t a bad day, exactly; apart from Michael, things went well in the park. Maliel seems genuinely curious, but Crowley still doesn’t trust him. He doesn’t trust any angel, really, save Aziraphale. But Aziraphale has always been an anomaly among them.

Crowley keeps carefully watch on anyone straying too close to their table near the back of the room, nerves still frayed from the sting of Michael’s grace. 

Michael suddenly showing up in the park like that is something right out of his nightmares, if he’s being quite honest with himself. Michael was always known for being a fierce warrior, the best fighter in Heaven if memory serves, and to have them appear in the park, catching Aziraphale red-handed consorting with Crowley?

Yeah, that’s certainly been featured in a few of his more obscure nightmares through the centuries. He knows Gabriel is the one who used to be directly over Aziraphale so if anything it would be Gabriel appearing, but sometimes his mind did strange things and it was Michael showing up to smite him and drag Aziraphale back off to Heaven. 

In 1800, Gabriel tried to steal Aziraphale away and replace him with Michael for a time. It didn’t happen due to his quick thinking, but for months afterward he found himself dreaming of Michael stalking him into a dark alley, smiting him on sight. If Michael were to replace Aziraphale on Earth, well—it doesn’t really bear thinking about. It didn’t happen and it won’t happen, but in those dreams it was real. 

A shiver sweeps down his spine. He and sleep aren’t on speaking terms at the moment, but Michael is far from his worst nightmare. 

Aziraphale takes another bite of his dessert and Crowley opens his mouth to scent the air. Just the stench of humans and the aroma of food around them, really. Nothing to worry about. 

“What should I do?” Aziraphale asks quietly, shattering the comfortable silence between them as he presses his fork into what remains of his dessert, pushing it around his plate absently. “About Gabriel, I mean. What should I do with him?”

“I thought you wanted to give him a trial?”

Aziraphale sighs. “It is the most logical course of action. But what would I even try him for?”

Crowley hisses. “Trying to kill you, for starters.”

“Well, yes, but from his perspective I was consorting with the enemy,” Aziraphale says pointedly. 

Crowley bares his teeth. “You’re not actually taking that asshat’s side, are you?”

“Of course not, Crowley, I’m just trying to see it from his perspective. If we hold a trial then the angels could be swayed in his favor if he presents his side well enough.”

Aziraphale is overthinking things. 

Crowley has witnessed his fair share of trials, on TV or otherwise. He doesn’t enjoy swaying a jury but he’s certainly had his fair share of assignments requiring such a thing. It’s just part of the job description. Lots of hurt people in a courtroom, lots of inept jurors deciding someone’s fate. A good stomping grounds for a demon short on temptations for their quota. 

But this isn’t how it works in Heaven. 

Of course, he’s been away from Heaven for a long time. 

“Surely they know what he did already,” Crowley says. “Didn’t the Almighty tell them?”

“I think so,” Aziraphale says, biting his lower lip uncertainty as he gazes into the middle distance. “I believe She did. But I left early, so I could be wrong.”

“Okay, well, even if that wanker tries to say it was because he thought he had to due to your ties with me, then what about the bookshop? He stabbed you.”

And there’s no excuse for it, either. Nothing Gabriel can use to defend himself. By that point God had already assigned Aziraphale as Her Adjutant, which meant She knew about and approved of Aziraphale and Crowley’s relationship. At that point, Aziraphale was no longer a traitor in the eyes of Heaven and Gabriel had absolutely no excuse to do what he did. 

“We are getting off topic,” Aziraphale sighs. “All he’s done aside, what do I do about him? I’m still going to have to assign his punishment.”

“Let him Fall.”

Aziraphale scowls at him. Crowley shrugs. Worth a shot. 

“I won’t make anyone Fall,” Aziraphale says firmly. 

“ ‘course not. So keep him locked up forever.”

“A dreadful existence, really.”

“I mean, he made you feel trapped for 6000 years. I think he deserves at least that much time.”

Aziraphale sighs again, still torn. “If only it were that simple.”

“It is that simple,” Crowley reminds him. “He's not only wronged you, but Heaven too, right? He went against Her directives.”

Aziraphale frowns thoughtfully. Crowley tries not to bristle; of course Aziraphale considers the threat against Heaven more than the actual attempt on his life. 

“I don’t know what to do with him,” the angel finally says, shoulders slumping. His gaze skitters down to his plate as he pushes the remnants of his dessert around his plate. “I don’t want to make anyone Fall—how could I subject them to that?” He winces, looking up quickly to meet Crowley’s gaze. “Apologies, my dear. I don’t mean that how it sounded.”

Crowley shrugs. “ ’s fine. Falling isn’t fun, I’ll tell you that. But I can’t think of anyone more deserving of the dive than Gabriel.”

“Be that as it may… I do not want to be the one making that decision for anyone.”

“Fair enough,” Crowley sighs. “So, a trial, then?”

“I was thinking something like… community service?”

Crowley scowls. “You think picking up trash on the side of the freeway is punishment for trying to destroy you?”

“Well, no. I was thinking more along the lines of… oh, I don’t know. True repentance. He could, perhaps, live as a human for a time. It would be humbling for him.” Aziraphale pauses. “And he’d certainly hate it.”

“Oh, he absolutely would,” Crowley says, grinning. Leave it to Aziraphale to think of something so diabolical. Living as a human for a time would be absolute torture for the former-archangel, and would leave Aziraphale free of making him Fall. It would be punishment, at the very least—but it would still leave Gabriel free to walk around, and that doesn’t sit well in his stomach. 

Still—Aziraphale is at least thinking about this punishment, which is a step above whatever else he’s previously considered when it concerns Gabriel and his punishment. It would be a personal hell for the pompous bastard, at the very least. 

“Think you could make that happen?” Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale shrugs. “I am not certain.”

Aziraphale has fancy new abilities now, but he doesn’t enjoy testing them or even acknowledging them for the most part. That was all well and fine while he was on medical leave and the two were relatively safe at home—but now Aziraphale might need to get acquainted with his powers if they want to get a handle on this whole Adjutant business. 

Adjutant. 

The name rankles Crowley to his core. It isn’t that he’s opposed to Aziraphale being second in command of Heaven—the angel certainly deserves it after all the crap he’s had to put up with since day one—but he still detests Heaven in general and this new title puts a lot of unnecessary angels in their periphery. 

He could do without all that nonsense, thank you very little. 

“And if Gabriel doesn’t learn his lesson?” Crowley can’t help but ask. 

Aziraphale’s expression sours. “Then I suppose I will be left with no choice but to take drastic measures.”

He means the Fall, Crowley knows. If Gabriel doesn’t learn his lesson during his punishment, then the only viable option left will be to remove him from Heaven entirely. 

Empty threats don’t bode well, though. Aziraphale might consider it at the moment, but Crowley wonders if he'd actually go through with it. 

Well… Aziraphale might not have the stomach for it, but that Other certainly does. 

A shiver inches down his spine. All this Gabriel talk is sure to leave that Other stirring, and he keeps a close eye on the angel across from him.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale scowls down at the stack in front of him. Seven names now occupy the definitely yes pile, and while he feels confident in these choices, he still needs to find three more. Seven is a sight better than the three of before but still not quite the ten that is needed. Frustration set in a bit ago and now he wonders if he will ever get through these stacks of paperwork. 

At this rate, slotting someone into the maybe or probable piles feels more akin to outright denying them, if he is solely going to decide from the definitely yes pile. That means he will simply need to keep going through the piles until he gets to either the end of them all or to ten in the definitely yes section—whichever comes first. 

Crowley is sitting next to him on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table as he scowls at the stacks near his ankles as though they have somehow personally offended him. Papers line the floor along the edges of the table as well, having slipped off at some point. Aziraphale would fetch them and organize them if he wasn’t so utterly perturbed by the fact he appears to only be halfway through the entirety of the paperwork here. 

And there is most certainly more waiting for him in Heaven. 

Groaning would be unseemly, and so he swallows the sound back down before it can emerge. A proper angel wouldn’t complain about such paperwork. 

So Aziraphale endeavors to do better. 

It has been nearly five days since their last little trip to Heaven, though Aziraphale doesn’t prefer to call it that. He wasn’t quite himself. Things have settled down somewhat in that Crowley is, at least, willing to relax with his feet propped up again. Aziraphale ponders his own apathy toward the subject and realizes how wrong it is to feel nothing either way, but worry regarding the matter can’t truly form in his mind. It is unnerving, if nothing else. 

Still, She must have a reason for him to feel like this. And he will simply need to trust Her. 

Even if She can make mistakes. 

Doubts struggle to swirl through his mind before they are ultimately chased away by an overwhelming sense of calm. 

He picks up another application. 

And another after that. 

“Could Book Girl help?”

The question is quite sudden, leaving Aziraphale frowning as he glances over at the demon next to him. “Anathema?”

“Yeah, I mean—I can’t read your little bible, but she can. Same could apply here, yeah?”

Aziraphale ponders this for a moment. Anathema could, in theory, read these applications same as him. She would have no real way of ranking them, of course, and that would ultimately fall on Aziraphale’s shoulders. But she could potentially help weed through some of them. 

Still, though—it feels strange to consider her as help when Crowley is right next to him. But Crowley can’t help with this. 

“We could try,” he finally says. “I am not certain she’d be able to read this, though. It is quite different from the… bible, as you put it.” The bible in question was presented to a priest in a church, after all; of course humans could read it.

This is lettering directly from Heaven, and while Anathema is a witch, that doesn’t mean Enochian is ingrained in her mind. 

Crowley’s feet drop off the coffee table. A second later he pushes to his feet, stretching his neck and shaking out his shoulders. They have been sitting here a while, haven’t they? Aziraphale’s own sore muscles make themselves known. 

“C’mon then,” Crowley says. “We’ll take the Bentley.”

The Bentley will take far longer to get to Anathema’s, and there is so much paperwork waiting here to be looked through. He still doesn’t know when he’s next due in Heaven but he imagines it is very soon. Michael’s sudden appearance hasn’t done much to dissuade him from this notion. He very much suspects she was the one who tried to break into his office, though he doesn’t have any proof. It needles at him, this worry, this nagging itch he can’t scratch. 

Isn’t sure if he really wants to scratch. 

This is all tied together, he thinks—Gabriel, Michael, his office, the blade…

And he could very easily re-activate that blade and get answers. 

So easily. 

Crowley, my dear, he’d say, faux innocence. Would you be so kind as to summon that blade again? I want to take another quick look at it. 

He bites his tongue, keeping the words locked up tight. No matter how much a part of him wants to do this, he knows, deep down, he doesn’t want to do this. Not really. Not to Crowley. Not again. 

So he pushes to his feet as well, offering a quick smile to the demon. Crowley eyes him for a moment and Aziraphale wonders if, perhaps, his dear friend is aware of these nagging thoughts plaguing his mind. But then Crowley turns to stalk toward the door, and Aziraphale releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

It is rather early in the morning, so they should be able to make decent time getting to Anathema’s with the lighter traffic, and be able to get back before they lose too much light. And it will get him out of the house; peering out the window to the sunlight outside leaves an ache in his chest—a keen sense of want. 

Yes, getting out of this cottage and away from the paperwork for a bit while they take a drive seems like a wonderful idea. 

Crowley somehow always knows what he needs. 

Crowley leads the way out of the cottage. The sunlight gleams off of the Bentley, nearly blinding in its luminescence. Aziraphale tilts his gaze skyward; a series of fluffy white clouds dot the horizon, but otherwise the sky is a crisp light blue. The breeze is a bit strong today, but the breath of fresh air leaves Aziraphale feeling decidedly lighter. 

They climb inside the Bentley and it revs to life almost happily. 

As they pull away from the cottage, Aziraphale finds himself growing more relaxed the further they get. He adores their cottage and sharing a space with Crowley, but his affection for it has been a bit dampened due to all the paperwork he’s been going through. He’s never liked paperwork. 

Now it seems that’s all he does.

And it won’t end when he’s finally decided on his ten angels. There will be paperwork on their reports, and he still needs to decide what he is going to do about Gabriel. 

The former-archangel is quite problematic. Aziraphale ponders how much he wants to kill Gabriel in this moment—and is pleased to determine the answer is ‘not much’. Gabriel still needs to be punished, but Aziraphale doesn’t desire his death in this moment. In fact, reflecting on how much he did want to destroy Gabriel, this knowledge leaves him feeling rather queasy. 

He isn’t a murderer. He’s indirectly contributed to people’s deaths in the 6000 years stationed on Earth, but he’s never outright killed anyone or anything himself, and this matters. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. 

In the past, that was simply his job as a soldier. He might not have meant any ill-will toward anyone, but he went to battle against them all the same, as that was his duty. It’s what he was made for. 

Then came the Eden assignment. Everything changed. 

And he’s been slipping back into some older version of himself—a version who doesn’t care about morals so long as the deeds are justified or demanded by a Higher Authority—and it terrifies him. He doesn’t want to go back to that version of himself, to some mindless soldier incapable of freedom of thought. 

He shivers and sits back in the passenger seat, looking out the passenger window.

Anathema is rather pleased to see them. 

Crowley scowls at her as she flits through the kitchen, making herself some coffee and some tea for Aziraphale. 

“You want me to what?” Anathema asks.

“I brought a paper,” Aziraphale repeats. “We would like to know if you can read it.”

“Angelic writing,” Crowley clarifies when Anathema’s brows furrow. 

She nods, like that makes sense. “Of course.”

Once the coffee and tea are made, she collects two mugs and joins them at the table. Newt appears to be out for the day, which suits Crowley just fine. Aziraphale takes a sip of his steaming beverage, does a little happy wriggle as he is often want to do, and then finally pushes the shimmering paper across the table toward her. 

Anathema hesitates in touching it, her hand hovering above it momentarily before her fingers finally settle on it and pull it closer. She scans over the too-bright lettering without squinting, and Crowley scowls at her. 

“I can make out some of the words,” she says after a moment, “but not all of them. It’s like… like I see them, but I can’t comprehend them. But this is a resume of some sort?”

“In a way,” Aziraphale says. 

“He has ten angels to pick,” Crowley tells her. “And thousands upon thousands of applications.”

“We thought if you could read some of it, it might go faster.”

Anathema frowns down at the shimmering paper. “Is there something in particular you’re looking for? A word or phrase?”

“Not really,” Aziraphale admits with a sigh. 

“What are you looking for?” Crowley asks, because Aziraphale hasn’t actually said. Is he looking for specific key phrases or wording? Certain traits or attributes? Certain backgrounds? What gets an application put in the yes pile?

Aziraphale frowns thoughtfully. “I never actually considered.”

“Well, is there a pattern?” Anathema asks. 

“Compassion,” Aziraphale says. “They have to show true compassion. Empathy.”

“Compassion,” Book Girl repeats, looking back down at the paper. “I’m not really sure if the words I can make out are compassionate. Is it something explicitly stated or are you reading between the lines due to your own understanding?”

Aziraphale goes silent again, brows furrowed as he considers this. Apparently this isn’t something he thought about before. How did he think he was picking them, then? 

“A little of both, I suppose,” Aziraphale finally says. 

Anathema pushes the paper back toward him. “I’m not sure I can help, then. I can’t make out everything and I wouldn’t be able to judge based off history or your experiences.”

“So this was a waste of time,” Crowley mutters. 

It had to be tried, though. And it got them out of the cottage. Those four walls seemed to be closing in before they left as they’ve been stuck there for days—not even relaxing, just going through paperwork. 

“I wish I could help,” Anathema says. 

“Don’t worry, dear girl,” Aziraphale assures her as he sips at his tea. “We’ll manage.”

“Have you tried Adam?”

Crowley frowns. Adam. The kid who should be mostly human now, but who could somehow sense the bookshop’s feelings regarding its then-inhabitant, Gabriel. Of course, Adam might be able to help. He should have thought of this himself. 

Anathema looks at the clock in the room. “He should be coming around in a couple hours, if you’d like to speak to him.”

Aziraphale grimaces. “I don’t prefer involving a child in matters of Heaven.”

“He’s the Antichrist,” Crowley reminds him. “He’s already involved.”

“He is of demonic origin, anyway,” Aziraphale says. “Why should he be able to read it if you cannot?”

He has a point, maybe. Crowley bares his teeth. “What if he can?”

“Even if he can read it, he can’t help me choose,” Aziraphale says, somewhat exasperatedly. 

Crowley grimaces. Adam is just a kid, and he won’t know what to look for  or how to read between the lines. He hasn’t developed that ability yet, to help choose someone for a position of power or authority. 

Still, it might make the search go faster. And Crowley is all for getting through this paperwork as quickly as possible. The sooner these ten are chosen, the sooner Aziraphale can delegate and keep away from Heaven, and whatever trigger Gabriel sets off inside him. 

Aziraphale is already shaking his head, though. “It’s alright, Crowley. I’ll get through them, it is just going to take some more time.”

Neither of them want to spend more time on this, Crowley knows. The living room at the cottage is becoming claustrophobic. 

But involving a kid can’t be the answer. 

Crowley sighs, defeated. “Alright, then. Let’s get back to it.”

The trip back to their cottage seems to happen very quickly. 

That might just be the dread coiled in Crowley’s core, though. Returning means getting back to endless paperwork and he’s tired of seeing the bright, shimmering things all over the floor and table and couch. 

There’s a reason he always bullshitted his way through paperwork. Why he put it off until the last possible moment. Aziraphale always got a head start on his own paperwork, filling out reports until the last detail, but even he despised that part of the job. 

And getting through this paperwork won’t even be the end of it. They’re going to be drowning in bureaucratic paperwork soon, and they still need to figure out what to do about Gabriel.

Crowley glances sideways at Aziraphale. Selecting these ten angels is a start, certainly, but it doesn’t get them any closer to dealing with Gabriel, not really. An investigative team will need to be developed, and while Aziraphale can use his ten to do this, a separate unit might be better so these ten can help handle the mundane paperwork since Aziraphale is going to be over so much. 

This is all getting too complicated. 

They stop outside the cottage and linger there in the car. Aziraphale eyes the front door warily, posture rigid and unyielding. Inside, a mountain of paperwork awaits them. 

“So,” Crowley murmurs. “Compassion.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Yes. I suppose. I didn’t realize I was looking for a pattern before Anathema asked.”

“Angels aren’t very compassionate,” Crowley says. They should be, as that is how the media usually portrays them, but in truth they are rather cold and unfeeling for the most part. Detached from everything. 

They’ve been stuck up there in an unfeeling environment for 6000 years with Gabriel guiding them down the debatably wrong path. Of course they’re bad at compassion and empathy—and of course that is just what Aziraphale is looking for. 

Pride ebbs through the demon. His angel is unique. 

“How did you decide on compassion?”

Aziraphale frowns. “I’m not certain. As I said, I didn’t know I was doing it. But the first one set a certain bar to reach, and the rest just sort of… either fit into it or they didn’t.”

“What’d the first one do?”

Aziraphale glances at him, blue eyes meeting yellow. “They intercepted your prayers and forwarded them to the Almighty.”

A heavy silence follows. Crowley struggles to understand what he’s just heard. An angel up there actually thought him worthy enough to forward his prayers to the Almighty, despite not knowing him or Aziraphale or knowing anything about what was actually happening down on Earth. 

Warmth spreads through his stomach. 

“They didn’t ignore you on the basis of you being a demon,” Aziraphale continues quietly, “and they could sense your desperation. It left them ultimately breaking protocol to send your prayers to the Almighty. And I thought that should be rewarded.”

Crowley hisses. It’s all he can do in that moment with that stupid lump stuck in his throat. He had no idea he was a deciding factor and he’s not entirely certain how to deal with this knowledge. 

Aziraphale opens the passenger door and steps out of the car. Crowley follows a moment later, shutting the door slowly behind him before joining Aziraphale at the front of the car. Aziraphale smiles at him. 

“It’s rather lovely out today,” the angel says. 

Crowley smirks. “So it is. Fancy a walk?” He holds out his arm, bent at the elbow. 

Aziraphale wraps his hand around the curve of his arm and slinks closer. “I thought you’d never ask.”

The light breeze causes ripples across the water as they walk over the small bridge. Just beyond it is a wooded area, perfect for moonlit strolls or breezy morning hikes. Crowley himself is not overly partial to hikes or nature, but it is growing on him. He’s always enjoyed his plants, of course, but him and roots vehemently don’t get along. 

But Aziraphale enjoys it, seemingly basking in the earthy radiance, and that is enough to unwind those knots in Crowley’s stomach. 

For a good ten minutes, they walk together in an amiable silence—Aziraphale’s hand wrapped around his arm, still bent at the elbow. So far the roots have not caught on Crowley’s toes or heels, but the day is young and he glowers down at the few upturned ones he can see due to the sunlight. 

Aziraphale hums quietly, stepping a little closer. “This will be over soon, Crowley.”

Crowley grimaces. “Yeah? What will?”

“Once I have decided on my ten, we can settle into a rhythm and it won’t feel so… overwhelming.”

Crowley grits his teeth. 

Selecting the ten is only the first step. No matter how you look at it, this whole entire mess is more than just overwhelming. It’s downright maddening, is what it is. 

He exhales slowly, keeping a reign on his negative emotions—no need to let them ruin the mood, after all. 

He clears his throat, wracking his mind for a change of subject. Anything. “So, uh, thisss Maliel… you like him for your, uh… replacement?”

There isn’t really any ‘replacing’ Aziraphale, of course, but even Crowley can begrudgingly admit the wide eyed enthusiasm gets to him, just a little. In some ways it reminds him of Aziraphale in the early days—wide-eyed and eager to learn about everything. He doesn’t trust the new angel as far as he can throw him, of course, but Aziraphale will need a replacement for the position of principality, and, well—Maliel is the better option when compared to the former-archangels. Not a one of them should be trusted anywhere near humanity. 

“I am considering it,” Aziraphale says. “He seems innocent enough.”
Crowley quirks a brow. “But?”

“But,” Aziraphale sighs, “I worry about any angel taking… my place, I suppose. You and I, we were with humanity from the beginning. Saw all the rises and falls, the triumphs and disasters. But that was over 6000 years, and how am I supposed to train anyone for the chaos that is humanity in such a short amount of time?”

Crowley grimaces. Sounds like Aziraphale’s got his head in knots. 

Nasty thing, knots. 

“Just finish picking your ten,” he advises begrudgingly. As much as he is ready to burn all the paperwork lying around the cottage, he knows they are still in a holding pattern until this is decided, and even he can see the benefit of completing this ‘task’ She has assigned Aziraphale. “You can worry about the principality thing later.”

Aziraphale sighs. “I suppose.” A small pause. “And you haven’t… heard anything from Hell?”

Crowley bares his teeth. “Hell’s been quiet.”

“That doesn’t bode well.”

“Nggh.”

“And we still have this blade to sort out,” Aziraphale says. 

Right. The blade. 

Just thinking about it leaves his teeth on edge. Aziraphale gets this manic look in his eyes whenever Crowley summons it and he doesn’t appreciate the laser-focus. Another Urge, he thinks—but Aziraphale hasn’t said anything about it. But deep down, Crowley knows. He can feel the hyper fixation when the blade is within Aziraphale’s line of sight and he wants no part of it. 

But he knows he can only table this matter so long. Aziraphale will wait until he’s picked his ten, but the blade is still an issue. 

Threads of anxiety knot in the pit of his stomach, threatening to strangle him. He clears his throat and shoves his free hand into his pocket to keep from fidgeting too much, and keeps his other arm steady as Aziraphale holds onto it for their walk. 

Aziraphale jerks to a halt suddenly, leaving Crowley staggering as he glances over at the angel. Aziraphale’s head is cocked to the side as though he is listening to something, but even straining his ears, Crowley hears nothing but the telltale sounds of the nature around them. A bird chirping in the trees, branches swaying in the wind, the soft whistle of the breeze… All perfectly normal sounds. 

“What?” Crowley bites out. “What is it?”

Aziraphale’s grip on his arm tightens marginally as his eyes narrow. “Something is wrong.”

“What?”

“I hear… growling.”

“Growling?” Crowley echoes. 

“No,” Aziraphale amends, frowning. “Not growling. Hissing.”

“Hissing?” Alarmed, Crowley pulls his arm free and spins in a slow circle, straining his ears and senses. He scents the air. At first he only smells earthiness, birds, small woodland creatures… but there is the barest underlying scent of something else. “Whassat?”

He can’t place the scent, exactly. Something like petrichor, but that could just be Aziraphale. He’s more than familiar with Aziraphale’s scent, though, and this is… something new. Something different. 

Something wrong. 

He bares his teeth, trying to narrow in on the scent. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, leaving Crowley spinning to face him. Blue-gray eyes are wide with shock or alarm, Crowley can’t quite be certain. “Oh, dear.”

“What?”

“It’s…” Aziraphale bares his teeth, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Crowley’s own mouth snaps shut tight as a wave of uneasiness ebbs through him. “It’s mine.”

“It’s… what?”

“Mine,” Aziraphale hisses back, before he waves his hand. A flare of grace ignites in his palm, the sudden flash leaving spots dancing behind Crowley’s eyes as he struggles to blink away the blurred edge to his vision. 

There’s the scrambling of something in the shrubbery around them—little feet pattering against fallen, dry leaves, a twig snapping nearby. Crowley whirls toward the sound, teeth bared and ready for a fight, but what emerges from the shrubbery is—

“A cat?” Crowley hisses. 

Chapter Text

The cat in question is perfectly white with bright blue eyes. Despite being found in the woods it doesn’t look like its paws have been mucked up or marked with dirt. Crowley eyes the cat for a long moment, held there in Aziraphale’s arms so delicately. Even from here he can hear the purring. 

“What do you mean it’s yours?” Crowley finally asks, after finding his voice. This whole situation is too bizarre. 

Why would a random cat belong to Aziraphale? Clearly it isn’t just a cat; Crowley can definitely feel something at the edge of his awareness—a brushing of something other, emanating from that thing held in Aziraphale’s arms. Those blue eyes appear too bright, reminding him vaguely of Aziraphale’s eyes when they glow, but the shade is different. 

This all feels too strange. Wrong. 

“It’s mine,” Aziraphale says again, frowning down at the cat nuzzling at his chest. “I don’t know any more than that, my dear. But can’t you feel it? This isn’t just a cat.”

“Got that,” Crowley huffs, stuttering into movement as he circles the angel. “But why? Where did it come from?”

The obvious answer is Heaven; that’s certainly angelic grace pricking against his senses, some grace other than Aziraphale’s. It feels oddly similar, but there’s the slightest edge to it—reminiscent of that edge of wrong which used to sometimes circle Aziraphale’s own grace. It leaves a knot in Crowley’s stomach. 

Aziraphale drags a couple fingers across the top of the cat’s head. “Perhaps She thinks it will help.”

Help.

Crowley grimaces. The last thing they need is more of Her version of help. 

“Why a cat, though?” He asks. 

“I am uncertain,” Aziraphale answers. But of course this must be just as strange to him, too. “However, She usually only sends something if it is needed.”

Yeah, that’s been Her MO so far, Crowley thinks. Not answers or anything helpful like that, but items. A sword as a warning of a fight to come, a pocket watch to warn of a larger threat…

A shiver runs down his spine. What kind of warning is this cat supposed to be?

Something bad is coming, he just knows it. 

A part of him wants to get rid of the animal on principle. Nothing good can come from this, he’s certain. But he can’t bring himself to do anything but watch the two angelic beings as he circles them. Because the cat is angelic. And that might be a problem. 

Is already a problem, really. Her efforts of ‘helping’ are always a problem. 

What is She expecting to happen now?

“We should ask her,” he says. “Right now.”

Aziraphale looks at him sharply. “Right now?”

Crowley nods, stepping toward the angel, eying the thing curled against him warily. The cat eyes his approach just as warily, a low rumbling hiss emanating from its fuzzy chest as those eyes narrow. The air between them turns frigid, something icy clawing against his senses, and he shirks back with a wince. 

That feels a little too much like something else icy he’s felt recently. 

That shiver returns, the knot in his stomach worsening. 

Aziraphale scowls down at the creature. “Now, now,” he tuts, “that won’t do. That’s Crowley.”

The rumbling stops. The cat turns back to him, all purrs and wide eyes. 

Crowley sneers. “Let’s go, angel.”

“I do not wish to disturb Her,” Aziraphale says quietly. “Maybe there’s a package or note waiting at the cottage.”

Maybe. Usually that delivery man shows up with dire warnings. 

His stomach twists. 

“Let’s go,” he says again. 

Aziraphale turns to head back in the direction of the cottage. Crowley follows a step behind, keeping both angelic beings directly in his line of vision. There’s a tense stream of dread running through his veins, leaving that icy feeling clinging to his chest. 

If there aren’t answers at the cottage, they are going to Heaven. Not wanting to disturb Her or not, this is unacceptable. Every time She’s done something like this, it’s been a sign of something worse to come, and at this point he can’t even think about what such a thing would be. Things are rough enough as they are, what could possibly happen?

That edge of wrong lingers in his thoughts, pressing against his senses. It’s similar to Aziraphale, but it’s like the uncanny valley effect. It’s just similar enough that the differences are bizarre and otherworldly, and leave the whole sensation contorted into something unpleasant. He can’t quite place what it is that is wrong or different, but it gnaws at him nevertheless, leaving a leaden weight settling in his stomach. 

Haven’t they been through enough?

Aziraphale has been through enough. He’s supposed to be picking his subordinates to cover for Her while She trots off on some vacation; what about that requires a cat of all things? An angelic being that he’s quite certain didn’t exist a day ago. The way Aziraphale cradles the thing to his chest doesn’t bode well either. 

The walk back to the cottage isn’t nearly as freeing or relaxing as their trek away from it. All that tension Crowley let bleed out of him before comes rushing back in spades, and by the time the cottage comes into view, he’s a coiled mess. 

Aziraphale pushes the door open and the two step inside. There is no package or letter waiting for them outside the door, and no delivery man in sight.  Crowley prowls through the living room, stretching his senses for anything else holy, but his senses are rather blinded by that thing Aziraphale is still holding. 

He stalks across the room, struggling to tug his awareness away from the two angelic beings in the room with him. But that edge of wrong seems to drown out everything else. 

And he’s not leaving Aziraphale alone with that thing until they know what it’s for. 

“Well?” He turns back to the angel. “Anything?”

Aziraphale frowns, absently stroking a fuzzy ear as he looks around the room. “I do not sense anything new,” he replies. 

“So no package,” Crowley huffs. “Right. Heaven it is, then.”

Aziraphale looks like he wants to argue, but Crowley glowers at him until the angel sighs and snaps his fingers. 

A moment later, they are at the Main Entrance. Aziraphale only seems able to go directly to Heaven when he’s being Urged, so at least this isn’t that, Crowley tells himself. 

“She’s very soft,” Aziraphale comments as they step onto the escalator. 

Crowley grimaces. “Ah,” he says. 

Maybe that’s why Aziraphale won’t put the thing down. He’s always been drawn to soft, comfortable things. 

There’s a pause as they start to ascend. 

“Would you like to pet it?” Aziraphale asks. 

“No,” Crowley says instantly. No, I would not.

Aziraphale falls silent a step ahead of him. Crowley ignores the twisting in his gut as they ascend in silence. 

The cat peeks over Aziraphale’s shoulder, those blue eyes landing on him again. Crowley sneers back in response, struggling not to hiss. The cat eyes him for a long moment before dropping back down into Aziraphale’s chest, the angel’s shoulder breaking line of sight. 

Cats aren’t an imminent sign of danger, he knows. Throughout history, humanity has enjoyed cats, even worshipped them at one point. Animals in general don’t seem to really like Crowley though—be it because they can just sense his demonic nature or otherwise, he doesn’t really know. He just knows he and animals of the world have generally been at a stalemate.

Except for the ducks. The ducks don’t seem to mind him. 

Cats, though. They’re picky. Finicky. 

Much like a certain angel he knows. 

The thought leaves him tensing once more, unable to stop the shiver inching down his spine. Still, he tries to keep his negative thoughts to himself, hoping Aziraphale doesn’t notice the torrent threatening to rise inside of him. By the way the angel casts occasional glances his way, he probably knows just how tense Crowley is anyway. 

Which is ridiculous, being unable to relax around a simple cat.

But it’s not just a cat, he reminds himself. 

As they step off the escalator at the top, he looks around, a little surprised at the lack of angels milling about. He stretches his senses but can’t sense anything beyond the two angelic beings next to him, but that cat’s presence is rather distracting. 

“Well?” He looks at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale frowns. “Well what?”

“God, Aziraphale,” Crowley reminds him sharply. “We need to talk to Her, so where do we go?”

“I am uncertain,” Aziraphale admits rather hesitantly. He looks around, scanning the brightness surrounding them. “Strange, I thought there would be angels around…”

That knot of dread shifts in Crowley’s stomach. He thought much the same. 

Without fail, every time they have come up that escalator, angels have been milling about, seemingly waiting for Aziraphale. As stifling as it is, he finds the lack of anything angelic around them rather disturbing. 

I have a bad feeling about this.

He’s had a bad feeling since the cat seemingly manifested on their walk, but now it just seems more solidified. 

Aziraphale starts walking. “We’ll try the office,” he says. 

Crowley huffs and follows after him. 

Truth told, if someone put him up here and asked him to find Aziraphale’s office, he doesn’t think he could do it. He thinks it’s a sharp left ahead, but straight from the escalator, but in this giant mess of brightness around them, he doesn’t really know. He can’t sense it. But then, he can’t sense much of anything up here—it all just reeks of Heaven. And when he tries to focus on anything, he’s just reminded of that edge of wrong cradled against Aziraphale’s chest. 

He glowers at the edge of a white ear he can see just around Aziraphale’s arm. 

Cats are fine, he tells himself. He doesn’t hate them. They like to eat his rat helpers occasionally, but that’s just the food chain. Can’t really hate an animal for that. Still, though—why does he feel so uneasy about a cat of all things? It’s a warning of something to come, he’s certain, but the cat itself shouldn’t be such a problem, right?

Or maybe, some distant part of himself whispers, it’s how Aziraphale is holding it.

He grimaces, a twinge of something shooting through him. Aziraphale cradles that thing so gently, like it is something sacred and precious. 

But why wouldn’t he? Even if it weren’t angelic, he’s seen Aziraphale hold a cat before, and it was much the same. So what’s the problem there?

As he’s pondering this, Aziraphale comes to a sudden stop. Crowley jerks to a halt a half-step behind him, peering over his shoulder to find the door just before them. It’s not just his door waiting for them, though. 

“Metatron,” Aziraphale intones flatly, looking perfectly rigid. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

Metatron. That chill is back, shooting down his spine once more. Why does that name fill him which such dread?

“Aziraphale,” the corporation standing just outside the door says. Their arms hang limply at their sides and the face looking back at them is wrinkled yet empty. Bland. The perfect angel. 

Yeah, right, he thinks. Metatron is a bastard; he clearly remembers Aziraphale telling him what happened at the bookshop prior to it burning down once Shadwell entered. This is the asshole who broke Aziraphale’s spirit that day. The supposed Voice of God. 

“To what do I owe this visit?” Aziraphale asks blandly. 

At least he’s not completely rigid, Crowley thinks idly. Hard to be a Perfect Angel when you have a cat cradled to your chest. 

“Ah, I see she reached you,” Metatron says, inclining his head toward said cat. 

Crowley bites back a hiss. “How do you know about it?”

Metatron blinks back at him, eying him briefly over Aziraphale’s shoulder. The moment that empty gaze lands on him, Crowley fights the urge to shirk back a step. He can’t remember if he’s been on the receiving end of that stare before, and it bothers him, because his core is certainly reacting like he has. 

“God had me send her to you,” Metatron says, gaze shifting back to Aziraphale, “as your aide.”

“My… aide?” Aziraphale repeats, confusion marring his voice. “What for?”

Metatron clears his throat. “I do hope you don’t make a habit of questioning the Almighty.”

Aziraphale stiffens. “Of course not.”

“We just want some answers,” Crowley says, moving to stand next to the angel. The cat seems perfectly content in Metatron’s presence, which is less reassuring than it should be, really. But if God wants this to be Aziraphale’s aide, maybe it’s not a dire warning after all—though he’s confused as to how a cat is supposed to help Aziraphale. “How is a cat supposed to help?”

“It will be whatever you need it to be,” Metatron says, nodding once again at the cat. “It can learn to be what you need. She thought you could use some help.”

“Uh huh,” Crowley intones, “and where is She, anyway?”

“She is preparing for Her leave,” Metatron says, clasping his hands together behind him as he eyes Aziraphale again. “Assuming you have completed your task, that is?”

“My task,” Aziraphale says, “right, yes, that. I am… I am almost finished.”

Crowley really doesn’t appreciate that tone—the abashed one. “Aziraphale doesn’t answer to you,” he can’t help but bite out, the uneasiness in his gut getting to him. “But we have a lot to speak with God about, so if you could fetch Her…”

That blank, empty look vanishes as fury fills those dark eyes. Well, that certainly hit a nerve. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says somewhat sharply, shooting him a quick look. He shifts the cat in his arms and glances back at Metatron. “I do apologize, this is rather a new experience for both of us and we would just like some clarification.”

“To speak to me is to speak to God,” Metatron says. 

Crowley bites back his response. 

Aziraphale hums. “Right, of course. It’s just that as the Adjutant, I would like to get my clarification straight from the source, as it were.”

The irritation clear on Metatron’s face almost leaves Crowley snickering. 

“Of course,” Metatron finally says, all but spitting out the words. “I will let Her know to come to you, if you would like to wait in your… office.”

“I will wait,” Aziraphale says, inclining his head in acknowledgement. 

Metatron snaps his fingers, vanishing in an instant. The grace left behind is suffocating, and Crowley fights the urge to cough. 

Aziraphale, still rigid in his posture, flares his grace and the door disappears. It is only once they have both stepped inside and the door has closed behind them that the rigidity in those shoulders disperses. 

“I hate that guy,” Crowley mutters. 

“You hate many angels,” Aziraphale retorts, moving toward his desk. 

Crowley follows after him. “Yeah, but that guy is…” Wrong. An asshat. “… a pain,” he finally settles on. “Thinks he can still boss you around.”

That little moment is not lost on him, after all. Metatron probably felt on top of everything before Armageddon; above even Gabriel, probably. Things have certainly changed, and it seems the archangels aren’t the only ones having adjustment issues. 

“ ‘s odd, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale puts the cat down on his desk. “What is, my dear?”

“This whole mess. Today, I mean.”

“Yes. It is odd.”

“No package, no note, Metatron waiting here…” Crowley clears his throat. “Could he be working with Gabriel?”

At the mention of the archangel’s name, a shutter seems to fall over Aziraphale’s expression. 

“I do not see why he would,” Aziraphale says, measuredly. “I do not believe he was ever truly on Gabriel’s side. He simply thought, as all all angels did, that he was following Her plan.”

“Nnyeah, but he was an asshole,” Crowley reminds him.

Aziraphale hums in acknowledgement. “To my knowledge, his position hasn’t changed. He is still at Her side.”

Well. Maybe that should account for something. 

Still, though. It’s not like Her decisions have really been all that good, at any point during this whole mess. Crowley doesn’t trust Her decisions.

He stalks closer, eying the cat. “So. An aide, huh?”

“Apparently,” Aziraphale says, also looking at the cat. “I am uncertain what kind of aide a cat is supposed to be, though.”

The cat blinks at him as it licks at a paw, before giving into a long, languid stretch. Aziraphale scratches behind one of its ears at it purrs, pushing into his hand. 

It’s acting like a normal enough cat. But Crowley can’t shake that edge of wrong to it.

“How does it… feel, to you?” 

Aziraphale glances at him. “What?”

“The cat,” Crowley says. “How does it feel? Grace-wise, I mean.”

Aziraphale pauses thoughtfully. “I can’t really explain it, I’m afraid. I just know it’s mine.” He frowns. “No, that’s wrong, isn’t it? It is an angelic being. It doesn’t belong to me.”

“Uh, pretty sure it does, angel,” Crowley says, rolling his eyes. “But the way you, uh… the way you claimed it before, it seemed kind of like… an urge.”

Blue-gray eyes return to the cat. “In a way, I suppose it was,” he says quietly. “I didn’t really think of it that way, but then, I guess I don’t always notice the… urges.”

Not the way Crowley does, at least. God won’t let him notice everything, it seems. 

Yet another reason Crowley does not trust Her decisions. 

Crowley stutters into motion, stalking in front of the desk. “How long does it take to get a message to God, anyway?”

“Time moves differently here,” Aziraphale reminds him gently. “And we are disturbing Her. We could be here a while.”

Yeah, that’s what I was worried about.