Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Crowley woke up from the weirdest dream he’d ever had yet. Part of the weirdness came from the fact that Crowley didn’t have dreams, weird or otherwise—just never saw the point of them and his conscious was obedient enough to not see the point of them either.

He looked at the cieling for a minute or two, thinking why he was having dreams now, after 6000 years before he realised that it had not been a dream after all. 

That explained it, then. Not a dream. 

And it probably was a lot more than 6000 years. 

He’d not set any alarms. Infact he’d broken his alarm clocks. And his phone. And his doorbell. Well , not broken his doorbell, but conveniently miracled it silent forever. Whatever forever was, anyway. 

Nothing lasts forever, a voice whispered in his mind, and Crowley shut his eyes again. That’s why he’d broken the alarm clocks. 

He hadn’t actually meant to wake up anytime soon. Preferably another century. Or ten. Or 60.

If he slept for 60 centuries, that would probably undo all the 60 centuries worth of memories he’d spent…living (It had been as close to living as anyone of his kind could ever get, after all). 60 centuries was 6000 years right? He opened his eyes. 

60 centuries = 60 x 100 years = 6000 years 

Yeah. It was. He closed his eyes again. 

Should probably sleep for 60 centuries, then. If he was lucky, he’d probably sleep through Armageddon 2.0. It took a few hours, and a good amount of human sleeping pills that didn’t do much but tasted very bitter (probably shouldn’t have chewed), but Crowley went to sleep again. It was almost peaceful. 

When Crowley woke up, it was very loud and very inconvenient. Not his doorbell, he’d made sure of that. The noise was louder than a doorbells noise typically was, anyway. But it was not loud enough to be anything of real importance either.

Probably not Armageddon 2.0 then. Pity.

The noise was coming from directly outside the window in his room. It was like a big hole was being drilled in his wall from the outside. A few humans were shouting over each other. Blasted Humans. Always lurking around places they shouldn’t lurk. Feeling annoyed and very much not sleepy anymore, Crowley raised a hand and snapped his fingers, the human noise disappearing immediately. The drilling sound still blared on, and after a groan and another click, it went away too. 

Blasted humans , Crowley thought again and after a few minutes, decided that sleep was not coming. He lay there, in his perfect bed in his perfectly dim room in his perfectly empty world for an hour or so, until new human voices came replacing the ones he’d silenced.

Ahhh, they’ll never stop coming , he thought. There were so many of them after all. What was it, 8 billion, last time he’d checked? Could’ve only increased by now. Unless the humans had managed to do something like the world war or another one of those pandemics. Never know with those humans. 

‘Right!’ Crowley said to his perfectly dim and empty room. Something to find out, something to do. He could work with that. Go out. Check out the year. Any recent news. Check out if Nina and Maggie had found their way to each other, if they were alive. Check out the dates.

‘Right,’ he said again, still on the bed. The new human voices were getting louder and agitated. The date. 

‘Oh! come on,’ Crowley leapt off the bed with a jerk. 

He’d been through this before. It was nothing new. He’d been here before and he’d been out of this. He could get out again. 

With a snap of his fingers, the drapes went sliding sideways and brilliant sunlight assaulted his eyes. He ignored it and strode to the window, sending the glass sliding too with a flick of the wrist. It really was too bright and too, damn too green. 

Crowley didn’t actually know where he was. He just remembered driving. A lot. He’d driven for several days until the Bentley couldn’t ignore the odd noises coming from the engine anymore and had gradually started to slow down. Then he’d just found whatever empty house he could in whatever secluded place he would find and parked there. He’d placed a miracle or two on the house to prevent people from disturbing him and found the prettiest bed to sleep in. 

Now that he looked sclosely at the room, he noted that Iftaar was a big room, with full length windows on one wall, glass running from the ceiling to the floor. In the middle of the brightness was a white spot from which the brightness seemed to come. The sun , he told himself unnecessarily and stared at it for a full minute, just in pure spite.  He wasn’t wearing his glasses and since he wasn’t in the mood to find them in the mound of blankets gathered up on the bed, he went out just as he was.

There were humans there. Too many to count.

‘Oi,’ Crowley called to the mob of frantic people below, ‘You woke me up.’

When they spotted him, they became even more frantic, stepping a few steps away from him. They started whispering and shouting, somehow both at the same time, and some of them were also moving their mouths without a sound coming out. That was probably his fault, but he couldn’t care.

‘Sir,’ One middle aged woman who was dressed like an inspector shouted above the others, ‘Are you the owner of this property?’

 ‘Yeah yeah! Go away now.’

‘Sir, I will have to ask you open the door and let us in?’ She shouted. 

‘Actaully, don’t go just yet,’ Crowley said, ‘What year is it?’

At that she looked befuddled, if that wa she word for it and repeated her previous let us in thing.

‘Not happening,’ he said, ‘Year?’

After that, it went very noisy again. People started speaking over each other and the inspector disappeared with some others and started rapping at the front door. 

Crowley realised it was a lost cause—he’d never be left alone here now—and flicked his wrist with a sigh. 

Below stairs, a door opened on its own, and in no time, three people in uniforms were standing in the bedroom, weapons drawn and stuff. Crowley really wasn’t in the mood, but he decided it was better than thinking about that , so he humoured them. 

‘What seems to be the problem, officer?’ He asked and then pushed past them and went out of the room, downstairs, preferably towards something to drink. This would go so much better with something to drink. 

The house looked very old, so it would probably have some good wine, if he was lucky. The humans followed, and Crowley assumed they were confused. 

The kitchen was empty, so were the drawers and cupboards when he opened them, but when Crowley closed one and opened it again, it was miraculously full of dark red bottles of the highest quality wine. He picked two and then conjured a glass out of thin air. 

‘So,’ he asked as he sat down on a chair in the kitchen that had not been there a moment ago, ‘What’s happening!’

The humans were still pointing guns at him, and they went on again about something to do with property papers. 

That was annoying, Crowley thought, and he didn’t deserve it after all things considered. 

He raised his hand that didn’t hold the now mostly empty cup and snapped his fingers. Three sets of hands went limp at their respective sides and the middle aged woman came forward, her expression a pleasant mask of indifference. 

‘Right,’ he said, ‘First, why did you wake me up?’

‘The place is being reinvented as a bio-reserve,’ she answered in a monotone, ‘We’ve been contacted by the authorities because they couldn’t open or being down this residence. We’ve been trying to demolish this building for two weeks.’

That would be his fault, then.

Now, wasn’t that easy, Crowley thought bitterly. Didn’t know why humans couldn’t get to the easy bit from the start. He refilled his cup.

‘What year is it?’

‘2026’

‘Shit!’ Crowley ejaculated without any real intensity. Not even a century, then.

‘Right, then,’ he sat there until both the bottles were empty, the three humans looking on like statues. After he was not-uncomfortably-sober anymore, he snapped his fingers, getting rid of the statues, then made his way out, a third bottle crammed under his arm. 

In front of him, the sea of humans parted to make way.

Behind him, with a twist of the wrist, the building came slowly crashing down, careful not to come down too quickly or to trap any of the humans under it. 

Crowley didn’t particularly care if it did come down too quickly, but it was careful all the same. 

Right ! Better find the Car. See what happened to Nina and Maggie.

Crowley walked in a random direction. He needed to have something to do. Better start with something he knew. 

Besides, he needed to see how things were going with the latest change in hierarchy. 

Gotta keep up. 

It had been three years and five months. Crowley wished it had been longer—then atleast, he would have the comfort of pretending that it hadn’t actually happened after all. That this had always been his reality. Crowley was good at pretending; he was a demon after all, a liar. He’d been lying ever since he remembered, but most of them had been petty lies. Most of them had been comforting in the knowledge that they protected him from something exactly like this . Now those lies had vanished and he was left stranded, wishing for new ones, devising new ones. New lies.

Right! Something to do, he decided as he drove on. The Bentley was still as he’d left it, if only a bit grumpy and a bit rested. Making lies was supposed to be an interesting task. Something to distract him with. 

Crowley looked in front of him, at the road, and w told himself that he knew where he was going. No! That wasn’t right. 

He told himself where he wasn’t going, just yet. 

Yes, that was better, he decided pathetically. 

He wasn’t going to Soho. It was progress. He told himself that he was familiar with this, whatever this was. And it was more progress because he was familiar. It had just been a bloody long time since he’d actually been like this. Stranded. Grasping for lies. 

Crowley was a liar, and the person he lied to most often—the person he lied to all the time—was himself. He knew it and he pretended he didn’t. He was liar after all. 

You don’t really say what you actually mean.

A voice itched at the back of his mind and he hated it. He hated it because look where that got me. He hated it and he hated everything. Suddenly, Crowley slammed a foot on the brakes. 

The problem was that he didn’t even know what the problem was. He’d been awake for less than a day, and he’d been drunk most of that time. So what was the problem already? Why was he spiralling downwards again, already?

‘Not spiralling,’ Crowley muttered in the darkness and the silence, his head resting on the wheels, ‘Not spiralling. Just—just sauntering vaguely downwards.’

It had been a lie the first time. It was a lie now. 

Crowley didn’t go to Soho after all. Nina and Maggie could wait. He didn’t even go to his own flat, which was, most certainly, not his flat anymore. He refused to think. And he refused to drink anymore than he already had, so he went to a theme park. 

He’d never been to a theme park, didn’t like how the rides made him feel even as he looked at them from afar. It seemed very uncomfortable, but he decided to try it after all. He parked the Bentley in front of the exit and entered from there. The sky and still something of the sun left, but it was fading quickly. There were humans there, hundreds of them, laughing and screaming. 

For not the first time in the six millennia he’d spent among them, Crowley wondered how it would be to live as a human. To have that life. Ignorant. Unconcerned. Fleeting. If only for a burning second, laughing and screaming. 

To live it knowing it would end, and live it anyway. Live it splendidly. Live it better than they would’ve lived if they had eternity. 

Crowley wondered how it would be like, passing the guards as they didn’t bother stopping him to check if he had any tickets. Not even telling him to come through the entrance. 

How would it be to buy tickets first and then enter the right way, and then hop on those rides, enjoying them because you’d payed for them and because you’d driven here for this hour of thrill and because…because you’ll die soon, so why not have some fun before that. 

Did it feel different, he thought, if you did it the human way? 

Crowley strode towards the gigantic ferris wheel and produced a piece of paper from between his long fingers. The young man standing by the gate ushered him in a small cubicle completely open on two sides. 

It was empty, and he could’ve chosen to have it remain empty for his ride, but he didn’t. A trio of school kids hopped on, talking about ‘assignments’ and ‘summer’ and ‘how the physics teacher was way too weird’ but that ‘it was refreshing, atleast’. The conversation halted for just a millisecond as they passed him a single strange look, and then continued as if he didn’t exist. Crowley was used to that. Most humans saw him, tried to label him, categorise him as something they could understand. Most humans failed, and then did the next best thing: they ignored him. It had been convenient, up until now. Now it just seeemed rude, and— if he wasn’t lying to himself—lonely. 

‘Did you get the book,’ one short girl asked another girl, and Crowley’s mind latche do to the word. Book. Book. Book. Book. Book.  

He was going upwards, very slowly, the quickly darkening sky closing up, becoming clearer. It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. No queasy feeling like people described. He’d never liked books. But he’d liked what they reminded him of.

They stopped when they reached the top, miraculously, and Crowley let it stay there for an extra minute or two as he saw the three humans fall silent and peer up at the sky, as if they wanted to stay there forever.  

When they started moving downwards again, faster, Crowley thought he would’ve wanted that too, if he could. 

He wanted, suddenly, to go back in time. 

Back when the end of the world was the worst thing that could happen. Hell, he’d take the end of the world over whatever this was. Anyday. Everyday. 

Crowley stepped down from the ride when he’d seen the same sky about a dozen times, until it grew as dark as it was going to get. 

Nina and Maggie and the damned bookshop could wait. 

Crowley got into his car and he drove to Tadfield. 

Chapter Text

The girl with the book opened the door, and Crowley couldn’t help but feel slightly pleased with himself for being right about sensing something like a Witchy presence inside this house. 

The girl with the book, whose name he didn’t remember because he’d never bothered to remember it, was older. And angry. 

Then he realised it was past midnight. 

‘What the—oh!’ Her anger disappeared and was replaced by surprise as she looked at him, squinting her eyes. 

A still mostly asleep man came up behind her, asking ‘Who is it?’ and Crowley vaguely remembered him too. Crowley hadn’t seen the humans in any way involved with the Armegeddon that didn’t happen since that day, and he’d hoped they had forgotten all about it. Or atleast thought it to be a very unusual dream.

But the girl recognised him, and Crowley felt something like relief despite himself. 

‘Book girl,’ he said lightly, and pushed a finger into the space beyond the doorframe, testing the waters. He pulled back as something zapped his hand like electricity. Very strong wards, then. 

‘Won’t you invite me in?’ Crowley asked.

‘Anathema?’ The man behind her seemed to finally wake up and poked his head slightly forward, looking confused.

‘Why are you here?’ Book girl asked, whose name apparently, was Anathema. Still didn’t remember it, but atleast he knew it now. 

‘Just checking in,’ Crowley answered, leaning sideways on the doorway, ‘D’you have any wine?’ The ones he’d miracles hadn’t been very good.

Somehow, that was good and next Crowley knew, he was sprawled on the brown couch of the house, no zappy thing happening and Anathema was handing him something that definitely wasn’t wine. 

‘You look terrible,’ she said as she sat down herself on a chair.

‘Yeah, thanks. Is this wine?’

‘I don’t think so. I don’t have wine, but drink it, it’s good.’

‘I don’t like good,’ Crowley muttered, besides, he knew that she did have wine, but he didn’t think it was worth it to argue, so he downed the cup in a go, thinking whatever!

It burned, and he enjoyed it almost as much as he enjoyed the look on Anathema’s face. What he didn’t like was the taste it left in his mouth.

‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘You look terrible.’

‘Did you just poison me?’ Crowley asked, smacking his lips, as the other, sleepy man emerged from the kitchen area, holding another two cups. 

‘Did you finish that already?’ he asked in confusion.

Anathema sighed, ‘It was herbal tea. Have you never had herbal tea before?’

Crowley had never had herbal tea that tasted like kerosene, though he had tasted kerosene before and was not a big fan of it.

‘Besides, no place to stay,’ Crowley cut in randomly, answering the previous question, ‘And I’m tired of living in my car.’

That seemed to make them look at each other and talk without talking, which Crowley didn’t particularly like either.

The man, who he assumed was the same man he’d seen with her at the end of the world, sat down too. Crowley grinned at him, a greeting, and was told that his name was Newton. 

‘Anthony J. Crowley,’ he’d supplied in return.

‘Never liked that one, Newton,’ Crowley added,  ‘Always going on about gravity as if he came up with it.’

‘I remember you, you know,’ Anathema interrupted, ‘You tried to save the world, with your friend.’

‘Yeah! Friend. World. Yeah.’

‘We were expecting you too,’ she said and that made Crowley look at her, ‘Agnes thought you might drop by.’

Crowley had always liked Agnes. Genius little girl, that. Always knew far too much. 

‘Did she?’

Anathema nodded, and for the first time, Crowley thought he saw something of Agnes in her, the eyes, the calculating glint in them. He hadn’t even known he  remembered Agnes Nutter, Witch from all those years ago until he caught sight of the same mocking confidence, however fake, in that face. He wasn’t drunk enough for that confidence. 

‘She said you will come before the big one. ’

Right. Might as well have that too.

Anathema had been waiting for him. Anthony J. Crowley.

The demon, as far as she could guess. He certainly looked like a demon, even if he didn’t act like one. Though, to be sure, she’d never seen any demons before, so she couldn’t be sure. But he did give the general vibe of someone who could be one of the damned, with his black clothes and sharp grin and the wierd eyes she’d seen last time. Last time. 

Anathema remembered almost everything from last time, and she’d been trying her hardest to retain her memory. At first, it had felt like her mind was being worked upon by someone, like it was being filtered and reshaped. At first, she’d almost given in, but when she’d started fighting back, it was an easy job. 

Newton remembered most of the things too, though she sometimes felt like he didn’t particularly want to. He said things like ‘we should move on’ and ‘it’s over’ but Anathema knew that it wasn’t over. It had never been over.

All these years had always only been the interval. Agnes agreed. 

Anathema had memorised her last prophecy, without meaning to. The prophecy that refused to burn away. It had been sitting there as the last flickers of flame died down and it had been still readable, coated with black char as it was. The prophecy that refused to burn away. 

The one with veiled eyes wilt come for thy help 

And he won’t ask for it but Thou shallt tell him, Anathema 

To get his shit together before the Bigg One. 

Newt said it was…unhelpful. Didn’t have any real instructions , he’d said. 

Anathema had memorised it anyway. She hadn’t known what it meant either, not until the demon came on her doorstep, looking like he’d died and not quite been brought back to life yet. 

Then she’d taken a look at the glasses and everything in his expression they failed to conceal. And she’d known. It was time to be back to work.

‘Should we really just let him stay,’ Newton whispered as they closed the door behind them.

Soft, gentle snoring greeted them and for a second, Anathema reconsidered. She looked at the lump of blankets wrapped around a tiny form and thought if it was safe to let a demon—or someone who looked like one—into her home. With this precious thing. But Agnes was never wrong. And Agnes would never tell her to do something that might be actually dangerous. 

‘He does look very harmless though, doesn’t he,’ she said, voice low to match his though she supposed it didn’t matter much of the demon really did wanted to listen. 

Newton glanced towards the door, grimacing, sighing, ‘He looks like he’s having a rough time.’

Anathema nodded, ‘I know. And he did seem to be on our side, right, last time.’

‘Yeah, he and the blond guy with him. They looked like they were working with us.’

Anathema remembered the blond guy, though she doubted he was a guy, or even human. And if the… being currently passed out on her couch was really a demon, she had a pretty good guess who the blond…being might be. His aura had been blinding, the brightest she’d ever seen in her entire life and she still couldn’t forget how it had made her feel just to look at him. She also had a guess or two as to why he wasn’t here now, judging by Anthony’s millisecond of a reaction when she’d mentioned his friend .

‘I think he needs our help,’ she said finally and and she leaned in closer to show him how much she meant it. How much she needed to do this. How much she needed anything, absolutely anything to give her life purpose once more. Even if it was a sad drunk demon sprawled in an inhuman position on her sofa. 

Newt still looked sceptical. And concerned. 

‘I don’t know,’ he said, but he glanced back at the closed door. She’d talk him into it.

‘Let’s wait till tomorrow, when he’s better,’ Anathema told him. 

Her daughter’s name was Elizabeth, Liz for short, though Newt insisted that they don’t tell her until she was atleast five, and then tell her that Liz was short for Lizard. Anathema didn’t appreciate the clumsy attempt at humour, especially since she was sure he’d found the idea floating on the internet somewhere. 

Liz, apparently, liked the demon. 

She woke up sometime before dawn and then started gently padding towards the couch still occupied by an unbelievably flexible black form. Newt had almost gotten a heart attack when he’d found her trying to lift herself upright by the corner of the velvety coat. Then she’d started crying when he’d picked her up and dragged her away from the couch. 

She was still crying and Anathema couldn’t bear it anymore; she’d been awake all night thinking, with Newt who’d mostly been just staring at the demon and biting his nails. She hadn’t had her coffee yet because they were out of milk. She wanted to wash her hair. Finally, when Liz didn’t stop bawling from the bedroom, she took her from Newt and told him to bring some milk. He went after a bit of persuading and a lot of glaring. 

Then Anathema let the baby out and settled her at the edge of the couch, at which her pinched expression was replaced by a curious one and she started poking at the demon’s sleeve. Anathema had known Liz could sense thing. She’d known as soon as she’d held her in her arms eight months ago. Anathema watched carefully as her daughter gave up on the sleeve and started playing with the long nimble fingers of a hand lying suspended in air, resisting the urge to pull her away again. But Anthony didn’t wake up and Liz didn’t show any signs of being harmed.

‘What is it, Lizzy,’ she whispered, ‘What are you trying to do?’

It was, of course, possible that Liz was not trying to communicate anything and this was just childish curiosity at sensing a new aura. But Anathema had never believed in coincidences and chance occurrences. Maybe that was her problem.

It was then that she took one finger and then, before Anathema could stop her, bit into it. 

‘Ahhh!’ Anthony woke up and scrambled off with a yelp, taking the finger with him, ‘What in all of heaven—’

He stared at Liz and then at Anthema and seemed to take a while in which he didn’t look like he knew where he was or he was with. He yellow eyes had been revealed slightly as the glasses slid onto his nose, and they looked confused, lost. 

When he did seem to register his surroundings, he stared at Liz again, with newfound confusion. She made a move for his finger again, and he slid completely off the couch, standing up in alarm.

It was then that Anathema decided. It was then that all of her doubt and reluctance from the night before faded away into trust. She might have , even for a moment, doubted Agnes. She did doubt a demon who was in her house. She doubted the world. She even doubted herself, these days. But she could never doubt her daughter. 

Crowley liked kids, if he wasn’t lying to himself. He liked kids and he liked talking to them because they didn’t care who they were talking to. They didn’t care if his eyes were yellow or of his teeth were a bit too sharp or if he hissed when he wasn’t very calm. They didn’t care if he was damned for eternity. 

That being said, he didn’t like babies. Especially babies who weren’t old enough to know that they were not supposed to crawl up a demon’s leg and dig their sticky fingers in his very expensive jeans. The baby had been a menace to him ever since he’d woken up to its blubbering. His mouth tasted sour and bitter and he realised he’d drunk something that tasted like kerosene right after drinking a lot of something that tasted like wine, and that he’d forgotten to sober up. 

He didn’t know why Anathema had even left him with the baby, unsupervised, being as paranoid as she was in case of supernatural entities. He didn’t know why the baby was pestering him with poking fingers and wide eyes. He also didn’t know why he was still sitting there, letting it pester him. 

Maybe he was lying to himself again.

‘Stay. Away.’ Crowley told the baby. It didn’t listen.

‘I think she likes you,’ Anathema said as she emerged out of the kitchen, holding a tray of coffee and biscuits in her hand. 

‘I don’t like her.’

Anathema offered him something that smelled horribly like coffee. Crowley gagged.

‘Take her away,’ he said and he wondered again why he was still sitting there, in a human house with a human witch and a human baby pinching his sleeves. 

He could, of course, think of half a dozen reasons why he was still there. 

It was because Anathema was a witch and witches knew more than they should. It was because of that prophecy Agnes had apparently written, about a ‘big one’ —he needed to know more about that. It was because he had nowhere else to go and because he didn’t know what he would do if left alone just now. It was because his sleeve was currently being held tightly hostage by an obnoxious human baby.

Crowley decided to go with the last one. He couldn’t actually slap the tiny hand away, could he? He might break some bones. Anathema probably wouldn’t like that. 

Anathema, however, didn’t look like she was paying attention on the baby. She set the there cups fo coffee down, waited for Einstein or Newton or whatever to come in too, (which he did, bringing in a waft of hot air and soap and anxiety with him) and then she looked at Crowley with her hard, clever eyes.

‘We need to talk,’ she said and Einstein seemed to agree, despite the anxiety. The baby didn’t seem to have much of an opinion as she just kept on twisting his sleeve. 

‘Listen, ‘ Crowley said, because he wasn’t drunk anymore, despite the half dozen reasons, ‘I just came here to check in. I’ll see how the antichrist is doing and then I’ll pop. So yeah!  No need to wor—’

‘Agnes warned us about something in one of her prophecies. You can’t go.’

‘Yeah, that. Nice of her to warn you lot. Don’t think you can do anything though,’ he said instinctively. By default. After all, what was the point of it all. 

Anathema seemed to think there was, though, because she flared up, ‘The prophecy mentions you specifically.’

Oh. ‘What—what exactly does it say?’ Crowley asked. That was the one thing he’d gotten from humans. Curiosity. 

‘Will you help us understand what all happened seven years ago in the air base?’ Anathema asked in return and he recognised it for the negotiation it was. The witch wanted knowledge of the divine and the damned. The witch had questions. Crowley knew he could probably miracle the prophecy out if her with a snap of the fingers, but he suddenly remembered Eve, from all those years ago. 

The thirst to know, the dread of finally knowing . Crowley thought it was another reason among the half-dozens to just stay there in the silence of being away . He didn’t want to go to London just yet. 

Chapter Text

‘Right. So you’ve probably guessed by now, but I’m a demon,’ Anthony said and Newton felt a little bit of his heartbeat spike at the acknowledgment. It was official now. He was having dinner with a demon. His life couldn’t get any weirder. Liz was, fortunately, already asleep. He thought she could wait a few more years to let the wierdness into her life. She was not making it easy. Atleast she’s okay with computers, he thought sometimes.

‘And the antichrist was born to end it all. The Spawn of Satan, Bringer of Eternal Darkness, etc.’ Anthony went on, ‘I  was tasked to deliver him to the birthing hospital, where I…uh the nuns might’ve swapped him with a different baby instead of the one he was supposed to be swapped with. Totally their fault. That one.’

‘Okay,’ Anathema said and she looked like she got it, unlike Newton, ‘So you were told to start it all up.’

‘Yeah,’ he agreed, miserably. 

‘Why didn’t you?’ Newton asked, just out of principle. He knew the demon didn’t actually look like someone who might’ve ever wanted to end the world. That was one of the things that made him a bit comfortable about his present situation.

Anthony looked at him with furrowed brows, ‘Why would I? Do you know how uncomfortable eternity in Hell is. Almost as uncomfortable as eternity in Heaven.’ He said as if that made any sense.

‘Right. Of course.’

‘Yeah, so I—the nuns mucked it all up, which worked out nicely now that I think of it,  but at that time, we thought Warlock was the antichrist, so we made a plan to influence him both ways so that—’

‘Wait a minute,’ Anathema interrupted him and Newton thought it was just as well, because he didn’t understand anything anyway, ‘By we, do you mean you and the other blond guy?’

Anthony went still, and looked as if he didn’t realise he’d been even using the word we. Newton glanced at Anathema when he didn’t speak for a long, long time. When he looked back at the demon, he was pouring wine into a glass, neither of which had been there on the table a moment ago. After he’d gulped down four mouthfuls, he grunted in agreement.

‘Yeah. That’s the one. Azi—the Angel.’

Newton shared another look with Anathema and they silently decided to change the subject. 

‘So what happened at the Air base,’ Anathema prompted and cast a look at the second bottle that had emerged out of nowhere, ‘was Heaven and Hell trying to end the world.’

‘Yeah. Big war. Then Bigger War. Wanted to see which side came out better on the other side of it all.’

Newton thought that was a bit rude, killing all of humanity see who won. Also, very uncharacteristic. He’d never thought much about Heaven and Hell before all that, but whatever little he’d thought had been very different from this.

‘Yeah,’ Crowley said and Newton realised that the demon had been looking at him like he was a particularly bright child. 

‘And because you misplaced Adam, you somehow managed to avert the end of the world.’

‘Yeah,’ he agreed miserably, ‘though I wonder, what’s the point.’

Newton thought that they should probably take the bottle away from him, a third of which had materialised on the table. Their dinner was pretty much over and he didn’t want a drunk demon passed out on the couch again. If they were going to be at all productive, they had to be sober.

‘Heaven, Hell, Earth… what’s the point—’

‘Look,’ Newton interrupted him and grabbed the third bottle in a fit of courage, ‘Look, I don’t think you should drink so much. It’s not good for health and besides—’

Anthony made a dash for the bottle, an annoyed look crossing his features. Newton noted that the look was only annoyed and not really angry, and he leaned back, holding the bottle out of reach.

‘Besides, you’re being very vague with all the details.’

‘Yeah, that’s the point of wine. Makes your brain be…vague.’

Newton doubted that that was the word he was looking for but it hardly mattered. Anathema took the bottle from him and the fourth bottle on the table, ‘Newt’s right,’ she said, ‘Let’s focus for a minute so we can think about what to do about Agnes’s prophecy. 

Anthony looked at them petulantly before nodding. ‘Alright,’ he said sarcastically and then scrunched his face up. In front of them, the two bottles that had been empty filled up on their own. Anthony made a face. 

Newton didn’t drink, but he thought drunk might be a useful state of being to process all of this. 

Aziraphale was having a good time. If having a good time meant this—whatever this was—and it certainly was good time for over ten million angels currently inhabiting Heaven. They thought it to be the Best Time, infact. They thought it was the best, the goodest, the holiest time ever, second only perhaps to the gloriously prophecied second coming of Jesus on Earth. 

Aziraphale was having a really, really good time and Aziraphale was sick of it. That was not a particularly surprising emotion, because he knew he’d be sick of it in no time

He’d known it ever since he stepped out of his bookshop. He known it before, perhaps, slightly before. 

Aziraphale shook the memory out, focusing instead on… nothing. He looked around at the vast nothingness of his office, his empty desk, his spotless white coat. He’d been missing his bookshop from the moment he stepped out of it, and he missed its dimness, it’s colours and carefully arranged mess, it’s fullness more than ever. He missed the books, the wooden table, the soft, plump armchair he’d had made by the most expensive furniture shop about a century ago, the carpets, the little something’s scattered around on every shelf, the dark, black horse, the sunglasses perched on it from dawn to dusk—

‘Aah!’ Aziraphale physically shook himself this time and got up from his desk. He was surprised he’d been even given a desk, even if it was empty and entirely useless. 

He had to do something. 

Focus on anything but the yawning abyss of all he’d lost looming before him, asking him if he would ever be able to claim it back in time. Would he?

He’d always, in his 6000 years of existence, been rather selfish. He’d always wanted it all and he’d made it so he got it all. He’d never been much of a choser where he could get both. But for the first time, he doubted. He doubted if the other life he’d built so carefully and with so much love poured into it would still be standing there when he got back from doing what he must. He doubted if…

He’d never been much of a choser. But he’d chosen something. Even temporarily, even unwillingly, he’d chosen. 

He’d pulled back and he doubted if the hand would still be there when he finally grasped for it. He had to just make sure that he was not very late, then. 

Aziraphale didn’t realise he’d been pacing back and forth, thinking, until he heard another set of footsteps other than his own. Another spotless length of light fabric coming purposefully his way followed by a cold, emotionless voice.

‘Any updates on the Plan, Supreme Archangel?’ Michael said and Aziraphale wished they’d stop calling him that, because it was deliberately mocking. 

‘Plan?’ He chuckled, stalking for some reason, ‘What plan?’

‘The Second Coming,’ Michael reminded patiently, hands folded in front and lips thinned to show mild disapproval. Aziraphale hated how much he was still uncomfortable with that disapproval.

‘Right. No, no updates yet, I believe.’

‘We have to launch the first steps within the decade.’

‘I—I know,’ Aziraphale smiled, a bare curve of the lips to show that he didn’t need the constant reminder. He’d been reminded atleast a hundred times ever since he’d set foot in his office. He’d been delaying it for three years.

He was the Supreme Archangel, and he believed he could make a difference. He’d also believed that it would be easy and that he’d have time to do it.

A decade blinked by in an instant when you were in heaven, and he still had to get started on his own Secret Plan. He’d been working on it in his mind for more than a few months now.

And till now, he’d been just focusing on preparing everything for his Secret Plan—reassigning roles, getting to know the more trustworthy angels, trying to find any of the few ones he could actually trust. Presently, the count was minus 4. 

Again, it would be so much easier if only Crowley was here. 

Crowley.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, zoning back into the present and focusing his attention back on the stone faced Archangel.

It was probably time to do something he’d been meaning to do for quite some time. 

‘Right. Um. Michael. I was wondering if I might be able to access the trial files of the previous Supreme Archangel.’ He said it politely but made sure it was not a question. He had to do some more work on that, but for now, it was enough. 

He’d been meaning to access Gabriel’s Trial files for the past few days, having only recently discovered that he’d even had a trial. Earlier he’d assumed that there had been no trail, because in the little time he’d spent in heaven, he’d never seen any trail. Just a verdict. There had never been any questioning or analysing that verdict. It wasn’t much better than Hell, which had a trail but only in name.

Michael looked confused, eyebrows raised in surprise, ‘That’s not my department.’

‘Right. Yes. Whose department is it then?’ Aziraphale asked, not willing to take that as an answer, particularly because he was quite sure that Michael was lying. Without actually lying. It was what Aziraphale had done so many times though he’d never been quiet this obvious about it. It was, he’d found out, what almost all the angels also did. 

Michael huffed, ‘Saraquel, I believe.’

‘Jolly good,’ he smiled and turned away in dismissal with quite some effort. It was so dreadfully impolite but he’d learned that it was important. 

Footsteps receded and the room went silent again. 

Finding Saraquel was relatively easier, since she was the only other Angel he’d talked to most over his stay in heaven. It had been, perhaps because of the little ray of emotion—even if it was sarcastic amusement—that shone through her Angelic, stony face.

Procuring the trial files proved a tad more tricky.

‘Did you need them for anything?’ Saraquel asked, eyebrows raised.

‘I believe that would be the reason I asked for them.’

‘There has only ever been one trial in Heaven.’

‘Gabriel, I presume,’ Aziraphale nodded, and wondered why the other Angel was stalling. Or perhaps it was just that sarcastic amusement again. 

‘Your friend saw it too, you know,’ she said, ‘I thought he’d have told you about it.’ 

Aziraphale might’ve let something show on his face, might’ve widened his eyes just a bit, patted his lips, twitched a muscle, because Saraquel noticed whatever it was and smiled. Sarcastic. Amused.

Aziraphale couldn’t fathom when or how Crowley would’ve had access to highly confidential files in Heaven, but before he could ask Saraquel snapped her fingers and a brown paper file appeared on the table

He wanted to ask about Crowley, but Saraquel excused herself with a ‘Will that be all?’ and turned away without waiting for an answer. 

Aziraphale glanced back and forth at the wheelschair floating away and at the file I hovering in air.

He’d have to ask her another time, then. 

The trial was short and confusing. Aziraphale had never once imagined in his life that Gabriel would have been persecuted for denying to go forward with a second Armageddon. He’d merely assumed that Heaven had been angry with him for consorting with a Demon. 

Gabriel had been punished for exactly what Aziraphale had been trying to do all this time. He’d been punished by the Metatron, who’d promised him the possibility of change. He’d been punished and almost erased in the most brutal, most cruel way possible. He’d been almost hollowed out. 

Aziraphale saw it twice, then once again and didn’t know how to feel about it. So he didn’t. He snapped his fingers to miracle the file back to Saraquel and teleported himself to his chair. Cold, hard, white chair. He didn’t know what to think and he didn’t. Not now. There would be time for thinking. Right now, he wanted something solid. A flitter of fingers, unconcious and the chair beneath him felt suddenly softer, warmer. A spot of colour in the bright, white room.

Aziraphale was angry, though he didn’t particya know why. Or perhaps he did. Perhaps he’d always been angry but had just now admitted it to himself, unlike Crowley, who nursed anger like a child. Like his plants. Perhaps he should’ve too. 

Aziraphale was angry at Heaven, for being something so much not like Heaven— something to be fixed. He was angry that he had to be the one to do it. 

He was angry at the other Archangels for being entirely daft and indifferent. He was angry at the Metatron, for making him chose between his duty and his life. He was even angry at Crowley, for not being here with him. For not setting his pride aside for one moment and consider having something they’d both been dancing around for so long. For having the possiblility of a ‘together’ where they didn’t have to live in constant fear of extermination. For having it without remaining forever in fear of when the other would be erased from existence. For not setting his anger aside for one moment to consider why exactly Aziraphale was doing this. 

Aziraphale was, most of all, angry at himself for being so, so full of fear. 

He snapped his fingers again and the white span of desk in front of him became rich, brown wood. A miniature black horse sat on one corner. Aziraphale stared at it, the Secret Plan becoming more solid, more real inside his mind. 

He started and it and he miracled a pair of miniature glasses perched on the horse. 

A reminder of what he yet had to reclaim.