Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“I…I forgive you.” The angel had seemed to spit the statement in Crowley’s direction. 

“Don’t bother,” he replied as he turned toward the exit once more. His breathing began to feel strangled, and his heart began to pound. Hesitating at the door, he turned back and took off his glasses, eyes wet with tears. “Please don’t go,” he whispered. 

“Nothing you can say will keep me here.” Aziraphale’s expression was icy and hard. “You should go.” 

Tears spilled freely as Crowley felt himself crumple under the angel’s words. He tipped his head back and let out a wail that was pure agony. 

That horrendous sound ripped from Crowley's throat, waking him from the dream (nightmare) he’d been having. Looking around, he realized he was in his own bed in his own flat. Slowly, reality began to return and he hurt. 

It had been three weeks since the angel left him to return to Heaven. Three weeks that Crowley had filled with booze, sad music, and sleep. But nothing filled the hole that had been left in his wicked little heart. And the nightmares, Satan help him, the nightmares were bad. Always the same, they started out playing the memory of Crowley’s hopeless confession and his desperate attempt to prove his love for the angel, but then the memory would warp. In his dreams Aziraphale had laughed at him, recoiled in disgust, slapped him, insulted him, and more. Each and every time, Crowley awoke with a wet face from tears and feeling utterly exhausted. And tonight was no different. 

Crowley dragged himself out of bed, wiping his tear-streaked cheeks, and went in search of something to drink. Atop his dresser, he found a bottle of whiskey, already open. Not even bothering with a glass, he tipped the liquid down his throat straight from the bottle. The familiar burn felt (almost ) good. He took the bottle with him out into the main room of his flat and threw himself down in his throne. For Satan knows how long, he sat staring into space, drinking from the bottle, and trying his absolute damnedest to stop thinking about Aziraphale.  

Another wave of fresh pain hit him as, unbidden, he pictured the angel’s face as they danced that fateful night in the bookshop. “He seemed so happy, so keen on dancing with me. How could I have misread him so badly? ” Crowley felt more tears begin to well in his eyes at the thought, which in turn, brought about the anger. He groaned aloud and stood from his throne, choosing instead to pace. 

He tried, (oh he had tried very hard), to direct the anger at the angel. After all, Aziraphale was the one who left, the one who abandoned him. But no matter how hard he tried, he kept coming back to being angry with himself. It was obvious to the demon that he had gotten everything wrong. Maybe if he had said something different? Maybe he should have done something else. Maybe, maybe, maybe… 

“It doesn’t matter!” He roared to his empty flat. “He’s gone. Get it through your thick fucking skull! He’s not coming back!” Like in his dream, he crumpled to the floor and began to sob, anger subsiding into pain once more. “He’s never coming back…” he whispered to the stillness around him. He chugged the rest of the bottle and slumped down on the floor, pressing his forehead into the cool tile. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to ignore his pounding heartbeat echoing in his ears. Mercifully, he felt unconsciousness pulling at him once more. "Please...please no more dreams tonight.." he thought as he was pulled under. 

Chapter Text

It was mid day by the time Crowley awoke from his slumber. He peeled himself off of the floor where he had spent the night. His whole body ached from the hard surface and odd position he had slept in. He groaned and rubbed at his neck, possibly the worst source of his pain. 

Walking through the flat, he decided to take a shower, the hot water would surely do good for his aching corporation. In the bathroom, he doffed his clothing and turned the water on as hot as he could physically stand. Stepping under the spray, he sighed in relief. Oh, but the universe is ever so cruel to the demon. Just as he felt himself starting to relax and enjoy the shower, he remembered why he had slept on the floor in the first place. He was reminded that he had chugged a half a bottle of whiskey and yelled at no one in particular about how Aziraphale wasn’t coming back. This, of course, brought the ever-present pain back into focus. 

Crowley tried to return his focus to the feeling of the warm water, but the moment had been tainted. He finished his shower quickly, scrubbing his skin, washing his red hair with obscenely expensive shampoo, and conditioning it with an equally expensive conditioner. He shut off the water and got out, wrapping himself in a plush black towel. As he moved to leave the bathroom, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and paused to take a better look. 

Not to his surprise, he found his eyes to have a sunken, dark look about them. They were a more dull yellow than usual, and he could hardly see any white around the edges. He felt a surge of disgust at the image of himself. “How could I have ever thought an angel would want me?” he thought with a sudden urge to slam his fist into the glass. 

He made his way into his bedroom, sinking onto the bed, still wrapped in his towel. He miracled himself a glass of wine, thought about it for a moment, and then changed it from a glass into a bottle. He drank deeply several times before setting the bottle on his bedside table and laying back. He thought about going back to sleep. “Might as well, maybe sleep through the rest of the century? ” But, as good as that sounded, he was also afraid. He hated his unconscious mind for supplying him with seemingly endless, painful scenarios regarding the last time he saw Aziraphale.

He was pulled from his reverie by a ringing, his phone, he realized. “Who the Heaven?” he muttered, and got up to retrieve the mobile from the other room. The caller ID showed the face of Shax. “Ugggh,” he groaned, debating for a moment before pushing the button to answer, wandering back to his room.

“Yeah, hi. What’s up?”

“Crowley, I haven’t heard from you in weeks. No demonic activity has been detected in your area. What have you been up to?”

“No offense Shax, but what does it matter to you?” Crowley asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“It matters to me,” Shax seemed to growl, “because you still get your Infernal Power from Hell, therefore, you are still under our jurisdiction.”

“Jurisdiction…yeah. So…What is it you want from me then?” 

“We want to speak with you.”

“We?”

“Yes. The Dark Council, of which I am now a member after Beelzebub’s desertion. We would like a word. Be a good demon and come on Down.” 

“Thing is, I don’t really feel much like talking to you lot. I told Beelzebub and I’ll tell you, I don’t work for Hell anymore.”

“Oh Crowley, you disappoint me,” Shax gave a little laugh. “Well, we will speak with you soon. One way or another.” The line went dead, and Crowley threw the phone as hard as he could across the room, shattering it against the wall. The anger, seeping back into him, was overwhelming. He retrieved the bottle and downed the rest of the wine. 

After a moment of attempting to calm himself via breathing exercises that were supposed to work for humans, he pulled himself together and got dressed. “Fuck it,” he thought, “I’m going out. Maybe that will take my mind off all this shit.”

Crowley stormed out of his building and folded himself into the Bentley parked out front. He drove at break-neck speeds towards Soho, not sure exactly where he was going. “You’re going towards the Bookshop you know ?” his brain needled him. He turned down a different street than usual, trying to prove to himself that he wasn’t going back to the shop. 

Maneuvering through the streets, he drove in silence, turning at random intersections, trying to keep any thoughts from his mind. After some time, he spotted what appeared to be a pub up ahead. He slowed and parked. “Might as well get drunk here,” he said to the Bentley before climbing out. 

The pub was relatively empty, seeing as it was still fairly early for most people to be drinking. That, however, suited the demon just fine. Approaching the bar, he ordered a Scotch neat, telling the bartender to leave the bottle, then found a seat in the corner by the window where he could watch people passing by outside. He sipped slowly, glaring at the humans going about their business through his dark glasses. He caught sight of a man walking a small dog on a lead. The man was on his mobile and walking very fast. The small dog seemed to be having trouble keeping up, and when the dog stopped to sniff at a lamppost, the man yanked the lead hard enough to drag the dog along the concrete. 

Crowley felt his rage return, and it finally had an outlet other than himself. Using some demonic intervention, Crowley made the dog stronger than the man. Try as he might, the man suddenly couldn’t pull the dog, who was happily sniffing at a fire hydrant. The man was clearly becoming frustrated, making Crowley smile for the first time in weeks. But then, the man raised his leg and Crowley realized he was going to kick the poor creature. 

He quickly waved his hand and the man lost his balance, tripping and landing on his back on the sidewalk. The force of his fall knocked the mobile from his hand and into the road. Another wave of Crowley’s hand brought a car along, which ran over the mobile, utterly destroying it. Finally, Crowley miracled the lead out of the man's hand, and the pooch quickly ran off in chase of a pigeon. 

It was all so perfect. Crowley chuckled to himself and he watched the man groan and pull himself up off the sidewalk, looking around for his phone and his dog. The man noticed his ruined phone and seemed more concerned with its loss than the loss of his dog. He glared around him, not sure who to be angry at, before stalking away, not even attempting to find his former canine companion. 

Crowley drank down the rest of his Scotch and went back to the bar for another. He returned to his window seat and there on the sidewalk was the dog, sniffing around, looking dejected. Crowley started to wonder if he’d done the right thing. He watched as the dog paced back and forth, and Crowley could only imagine that it was actually looking for it’s missing owner. Pain came back to him then. 

He visualized the man’s face, and called out to him, willing him to return. The dog clearly wanted it’s person, even if that person didn’t deserve the dog. After a moment of intense concentration, Crowley was relieved to see the man coming back down the street, looking somewhat dazed. The dog saw the man and bolted for him, tail wagging and yipping excitedly. The man grabbed the lead and tugged, yelling something that Crowley couldn’t quite make out. The dog’s tail stopped wagging, and tucked between the poor thing’s back legs. Then the man began walking away, still too fast for the dog’s small legs, leaving Crowley staring out the window and wondering if he’d done the right thing or the wrong thing, and which one he even wanted to do in the first place. 

Crowley was still sitting in his corner booth in the pub when the sun was starting to set. He had an empty Scotch bottle next to him and was working on a second bottle, which was already about half empty. He was well and truly pissed. He had done several demonic miracles to passersby that he deemed worthy of his gnawing wrath. Never anything truly damaging of course, but plenty of people were inconvenienced, annoyed, put out, and flustered. 

The alcohol was slightly reducing Crowley’s pain, but it certainly wasn’t helping his anger. He felt his whole body slowly rising in temperature, until he had faint tendrils of smoke coming off of him. Suddenly a new feeling permeated his inebriated state. 

“Oh no…no, no, no, no..” He stammered. He got up from his booth, taking the half-empty bottle with him and started to make his way out of the pub. Some of the patrons stared at him as he continued to huff, mutter “no” to himself, and emit more white smoke. 

Stumbling out of the door, Crowley almost made it to the Bentley. But before he could climb inside where he would have been out of Their reach, he felt his left foot sink into the Earth. Quickly, he chugged as much of the Scotch as he could before the rest of his body was pulled sharply through the ground and down to Hell.

Chapter Text

Crowley blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the dim light. He took off his glasses, tucking them gently into his pocket. Gathering his bearings, he noted that he was in a damp, dark, barren room with several demons. Of course, Shax was standing before him, obviously the brains behind this kidnapping. “Demon-napping?”

“Crowley,” Shax took a step closer, looking him over while pacing around him in a circle, like a lion circling a wounded gazelle. 

“Shax,” Crowley responded, a little burp following the word. “So nice to see you.” Crowley looked around the room at the other demons present. “Thought you said the Dark Council wanted a word. Looks to me like you’ve only got some bottom of the barrel demons here with you.” Some of them growled or hissed at Crowley’s words, but he just rolled his eyes and glared back at them. 

“The Dark Council is dealing with another matter. I am in charge of training up these ‘bottom of the barrel’ demons. They’re to be promoted soon. If they please me of course.” She shot glares at the lesser demons before returning her gaze to Crowley. 

“Course. Lucky you Shax, you got your own little…what’s the word? En-e-entourage.” Crowley gestured grandly to the onlookers. “So…what is it you and the Dark- *hiccup* Council want from me? ‘M very busy.”

“Hmm yes, tripping people and breaking phones does take up what precious little time you have doesn’t it? Oh, and let’s not forget reuniting pets with their owners.” She looked at Crowley with disgust. “What a sorry excuse for a demon you’ve become.”

“Well, like I said before, I don’t work for you lot anymore. More of a freelancer, so I don’t really care if you approve of what I do.”

“Hmmm…” Shax met Crowley’s eyes with her own as she looked for any traces of concern or fear.

“Would you tell me why I’m here already? I would very much like to get back to drinking too much and driving too fast.”

“You’re here, because we have reliable information that something is going on in Heaven. We want to know what they’re planning. We want you to tell us.” Shax conjured a chair behind Crowley, shoving him back into it with a sharp fingernail. “I’m sure you know, so be a dear and tell me. Then you can go back to your sad little flat and drink your disgusting swill.”

Crowley actually laughed in Shax’s face. She recoiled slightly from the heavy smell of booze, and gave him a disgusted look. “Listen, I don’t know anything about Heaven. I try very hard to stay out of their business. If you want information, find someone who has it.” Crowley tried to stand, but one of the lesser demons came up behind him and shoved him back down into the chair by his shoulders. “Oi! Hands off!” Crowley cried, brushing the clawed hands away and dusting off the shoulder of his black jacket. 

“Leave him,” Shax ordered. “He’s drunk. He’s not going to give us anything useful in this state.”

“Not going to give you anything in any state, love.” Crowley grinned. 

“Keep telling yourself that,” Shax said with her best menacing face. “You’re free to go. But make no mistake, you’ll be back here soon. And you will give us what we want.” 

Crowley opened his mouth to answer, but before he could he found himself deposited back on the solid ground of Earth, next to the Bentley. Someone was shaking him gently by the shoulder.

“Are you alright?” A voice asked, and Crowley blinked. In the light of the setting sun, it was difficult to see, especially after the darkness of Hell. Then the figure above him was shaking him again and repeating their question. 

The person shaking him was full-figured, with a mess of curls atop their head. For a brief moment, hope seized Crowley’s broken heart, and he actually believed it was Aziraphale in front of him. But then the person leaned in closer, and Crowley blinked the last bits of Hell from his eyes, and he could see that it was just an ordinary human, someone who was trying to check on him while he laid sprawled out on the asphalt, a broken bottle of Scotch next to him. 

“Sir, do you need me to call a medic?” 

“No,” Crowley finally managed, picking himself up. “I’m fine, just…fell.”

“Are you sure? You were laying there for a while. I… I didn’t see you fall.”

“I fell,” Crowley repeated, his tone becoming very hard indeed. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.” He was dusting himself off and reaching to open the door of the Bentley. 

“You can’t possibly drive. I can smell how much you’ve been drinking. You’ll kill someone!” 

“Nah. I’m not drunk.” He began purging the alcohol from his system into a bottle he conveniently had miracled into the passenger seat of his car. “See?” He touched his finger to the tip of his nose and stood perfectly still on one foot. “Like I said, don’t worry about me.” He climbed into the Bentley and revved the engine. As he drove off, at a perfectly reasonable speed, he waved at his good samaritan. But once they were out of his sight, he felt his heart break and tears well in his yellow eyes. 

He picked up the speed, pushing the car up over 110 miles per hour. Weaving in between traffic and speeding back toward his flat, the full force of his shattered hope of seeing Aziraphale hit him like a head-on collision. He bellowed in a mixture of rage and anguish, thumping his palms hard against the steering wheel. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! I’m so fucking stupid!” He cursed himself over and over. “Stupid, idiot demon! Why would it be him? Of course it wasn’t him. He’s not coming back!” He nearly got into an actual crash with a bus, but swerved at the last minute. 

He parked the car in front of his building and rushed inside, making sure to bring the bottle of Scotch with him. He could barely see through his tears as he made his way upstairs to his flat. Once inside, he slid to the floor, his back resting up against the door, his knees drawing into his chest, and his arms wrapping around himself as his body was wracked with terrible sobs. All he could think was “Aziraphale.” The angelic face that he loved haunted him behind his closed eyes. He longed to reach out and touch the angel, wrap his arms so tightly around him, that neither of them would be able to breathe. 

“Why did you leave?” Crowley sobbed. 

Moments, hours, maybe even days later, Crowley couldn't be sure, he finally stopped crying. He felt utterly exhausted, like he had nothing left inside. The familiar hole left by the angel was there, but he also felt utterly spent of everything else, emotion, thought, tears, all of it. All of course, except for the dull ache that never seemed to leave him, the ache of his missing angel.

Not even bothering to get up off of the floor, Crowley crawled his way to his couch. He pulled himself up into it and closed his eyes, begging Satan…God…Someone, to let him sleep. “I don’t want to hurt anymore. Please. Just for a little while?” Slowly he fell back into the blackness of unconsciousness, allowing a tiny part of himself to hope for some peace. But peace was not meant to be. 

Chapter Text

Crowley was vaguely aware that he was dreaming, but not lucid enough to control any part of it. He found himself outside the bookshop, looking in through the window. And there he was, Aziraphale in all his angelic glory. Standing in the middle of the shop, looking around. Crowley felt waves of relief wash over him and he found himself smiling. 

But as he allowed himself another moment to gaze at the angel, something started to bother him. Something was…different. He looked more closely at Aziraphale and realized that he wasn’t wearing his normal clothing. Instead, he was enrobed in a grey suit, its lines harsh and angular. Crowley recognized it as being similar to what Gabriel had worn when he was the Supreme Archangel. As Crowley gazed longer, Aziraphale turned slightly, his attention drawn to something else in the shop. Crowley could now see the angel in profile. 

To Crowley’s surprise the angel was slightly thinner, his skin seemed a bit more pale, and, most strikingly, he had a large beard, which was salt and pepper like his once shockingly blond hair. The demon was unsure what to make of the change in appearance. Obviously, he still found the angel to be the most beautiful creature in all of creation, but something about him seemed…off. 

Crowley shook his head slightly in confusion before making his way to the door of the bookshop. He opened the door that he had entered so many times before, the bell chiming. But as he attempted to step into the shop, he felt a force pressing against his chest. He looked around, more confused than ever, and attempted to enter again. He was met with the same force, perhaps even stronger this time. 

Crowley looked up and saw Aziraphale looking back at him from inside. The angel cocked his head, a look on his face that Crowley could not quite name.

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked, his voice deeper than Crowley remembered, and laced with, what was that? Revulsion?

“I…” He wasn’t sure what to say, he wasn’t sure why he was here. Had he ever needed a reason before? “I’m here to see you,” was the answer he finally settled on. 

“See me? Why would you want to see me ?”

“How do you mean? Why wouldn’t I want to see you?” Crowley tried again in vain to step into the bookshop. When he did he saw a flare of anger in the angel’s eyes. “Why can’t I come in?”

“Because you’re not welcome here. This is an outpost of Heaven, why would I ever let a demon in?” It was clear by the way that Aziraphale said “demon,” that he meant it as an insult. 

Crowley’s mouth opened and closed several times, unsure of what to say. “Because…because I’m your friend.” The words came out soft and timid, and Crowey felt himself beginning to shiver. 

“Friend?” A bark of laughter escaped Aziraphale’s lips as he walked closer to the demon in the doorway. “I would never be friends with you. You are a demon, one of the Fallen, abandoned by God herself. I would never taint myself with your presence. You are not worthy of Heaven, and you are certainly not worthy of me.” Aziraphale’s eyes burned with a fire of pure hatred.  

“Aziraphale…It’s…it’s me…Crowley…please.” He wasn’t even sure what he was asking for, all he knew is that he could feel the heat of tears rising. “It’s just a dream,” he tried to will himself to remember. “But it feels so real.”

“Are you going to cry? I didn’t know demons could cry,” Aziraphale laughed as a tear slid down Crowley’s cheek. “You are pathetic. I don’t know what you’re up to, but you are not welcome here. Get out before I send you back to the pits of Hell you crawled out of.” With that, Aziraphale pulled the doors shut in Crowley’s now tear-stained face. 

“It’s just a dream,” Crowley told himself, gasping for air as panic began to rise in his chest. “Wake up.” He closed his eyes and began backing away from the bookshop. “Wake up…come on, wake up!” He heard a car honk and he opened his eyes in time to see a car collide with him. 

The shock pulled him immediately into waking, sitting straight up on the couch. He spent the next several minutes reassuring himself that it had been a dream, and trying to slow his own heart rate. 

Once he felt steady enough, he got up from the couch and retrieved the bottle of Scotch that he had left on the floor by the entrance to the flat. He pulled a glass from a cupboard and poured the amber liquid nearly to the brim. Slowly he stalked through the apartment, trying very hard to put the dream out of his mind. At first he had felt shock and dismay, but now he was starting to feel loathing. He loathed whatever was responsible for dreams, he loathed Heaven for taking away his only friend, he loathed Beelzebub and Gabriel for doing what he didn’t get to by going off together, but most of all he loathed himself. “If I never would have Fallen… I’d still be with him. If I was an angel, maybe then he could love me…” He couldn’t keep the anger at bay, he wanted to roar, to scream until his voice gave out. His whole body began to shake again, and if that wasn’t just the final straw…

The sound of shattered glass filled the room and a sudden surge of sharp, intense pain flooded Crowley’s corporation. He immediately looked down to see his hand dripping with crimson blood. 

He brought his hand up to his face, it was balled into a fist, blood oozing from between his knuckles. Carefully he pried his fingers open. A large shard of glass sat in his palm, razor sharp and covered in red. “The glass…I broke the glass,” he realized as his brain started working again.

Using his unhurt hand, he plucked the shard from his flesh and held it up to the light, marveling at the way the light shined on it. He stared at it for several moments until a steady drip…drip…drip, caught his attention. It was droplets of his blood hitting the tile floor. Blinking several times, he set the chunk of glass down on the counter before bringing his hand up to his face once more. 

Crowley tried to close his hand into a fist and was overwhelmed with the searing pain from the fresh wound. Looking at it closely, he could see that the cut was long and deep. If he were human, it would probably need several stitches. “Lucky for me, I’m a demon,” he muttered, looking at the gash one last time before using a demonic miracle to close the flesh back up, healing himself easily. 

He flexed the now healed hand a few times, with only a ghost of pain still present. Then he looked at the state of his floor. Blood droplets and pieces of glass were all around his feet, as well as the Scotch that had been in the glass. He waved his hand and the mess was cleaned. 

Crowley got a new glass from the cupboard and poured himself another, albeit much less full, glass, and sat back down on the couch. Between sips, he kept looking at his hand, where the injury had been only moments ago. He turned his hand over and looked at the back of it. On his knuckle, a tiny spot of dried blood was the only remaining proof of his wound. Well, that and the blood covered glass shard that was still on the counter. He tilted his head while staring at the spot of blood, something bothering him that he couldn’t quite place. 

Then all at once it hit him. The dull ache that had been present since that day in the bookshop three weeks ago, was missing. He realized he didn’t feel angry or sad, he didn’t feel anything. “Why?”

Trying to think about it logically, he reasoned with himself that it was likely just from the physical shock of pain. Especially since he had not been actually injured in quite some time. But, strangely, the ache had yet to return. “How long does shock last anyway?”

He went to fish his phone out of his pocket, but remembered that he had smashed it in a rage when Shax had called. Sighing, he got up and went to the bedroom to retrieve the broken hunks of cellular device. He mended it with another quick demonic miracle, before searching the internet for information on pain. The irony of a demon not knowing much about the physical, mental, and emotional effects of pain was not lost on him. 

He read several articles about the ability of pain to counter negative emotions, before coming to the conclusion that it was indeed the physical pain which stopped his emotional distress. “Interesting.” 

For the first time in weeks, he went into his plant room to look in on the greenery. The plants immediately tried to perk up, but shivered with terror as they knew they were not up to snuff. Crowley glared at them, but then decided he didn’t feel like being angry right now. Plus, having not cared for the plants in several weeks, they were still looking quite good. He watered them, giving them half-hearted glares, or mumbling about their color, but nothing with any real bite to it. 

After finishing with his plants, he wasn’t sure what to do. He could go out and make some trouble, or he could find another pub to get pissed in, or he could go for a drive. The Bentley was always a comfort, so he decided to take her out. Maybe he’d go driving out of London, where he could really test her engine on open country roads. A small smile tugged at the edges of his mouth as he thought about blaring Bohemian Rhapsody while driving as fast as his imagination could push the Bentley to obey. That was it, that was what he would do for the day, maybe even all night. He quickly flushed the alcohol from his system and left the flat, excited about something for the first time since the angel left.

Chapter Text

While Crowley was out attempting to break the sound barrier in the Bentley, back in Soho, Muriel was alone in the bookshop. They had spent the last three weeks alone for the most part. Not many humans came into the shop, and the few that did, Muriel dutifully refused to sell books to, as they had promised Mr. Fell that they would. Though they were enjoying all the books, they were also feeling rather lonely. “Although, it wouldn’t be much different in Heaven,” they supposed. After all, a few weeks of minimal contact was infinitely better than centuries of sitting at their desk with nothing to do. And here they had books. 

Plus, they hadn’t been completely alone. Not only did they have the occasional customer, but for the first week or so after Mr. Fell left, the humans Maggie and Nina had stopped in to check on them. Muriel, felt a growing fondness for the silly humans who may or may not be in love, they still couldn’t quite tell. 

In the record shop next store, Maggie sat behind the till, listening to love songs and gazing across the street at the coffee shop. She watched as Nina bustled from table to table. The coffee purveyor was moderately busy, so Maggie just watched for now. If she noticed Nina becoming too busy, she would close the record shop and go over to offer help. But for now, Nina seemed to be handling herself very well. 

Inside the coffee shop, Nina glanced up and caught sight of Maggie across the way. She smiled and gave a little wave. She had been feeling a growing soft spot for Maggie over the past few weeks, and perhaps she would be ready soon to ask her out on an actual date. Her gaze slipped from Maggie and landed on the new employee of Mr. Fell’s bookshop. 

Nina wondered briefly how the new hire was getting on on their own. “I should check in soon,” she mused. As she turned to go back behind the counter, her thoughts drifted. She began to think about Mr. Fell’s departure. It caused her to wonder what had come of Mr. Crowley. She hadn’t seen his infamous Bentley since the day the angel left. She wondered how Crowley was doing. She didn’t know of course what had transpired between the two of them, but she had picked up that it wasn’t the happy ending she and Maggie had thought would come about when they finally talked to each other. Another customer came up to the counter and her thoughts were interrupted. She resolved to check in on Muriel soon, maybe they had heard from Crowley. 

Back in the bookshop, Muriel closed the book they had just finished and went in search of another. Close to Mr. Fell’s desk was a shelf filled with many volumes. Each of them looked to be the same. “Why would he have so many copies of the same book?” Muriel wondered. They came closer and inspected the shelves. They realized that the books were not, in fact, all the same. Each sage green bound volume had a small golden number on the top of the spine. They were organized in numerical order, they realized. 

Muriel pulled one of the books out at random and opened it with curiosity. On the first page they read “The Personal Diary of A. Z. Fell Volume 35.” They turned the page and began reading, unsure of what a “diary” was. It soon became clear that a diary was a book written by Aziraphale about events that had personally happened to him. It also included the angel’s thoughts and feelings about what he was going through. Muriel figured out that the entries were in chronological order, so decided to put Volume 35 back, and instead start reading Volume 1. 

Of course, Muriel, having just discovered diaries, was unaware that by nature, diaries are typically confidential. It never even occurred to them that Aziraphale might not want them to read the entries. So, without hesitation, Muriel sat in the chair by the desk and began reading.

It appeared that Aziraphale had been keeping the diary since his beginning on Earth, as the very first entry was about his experiences in Eden. Enraptured, Muriel read: 

“Dear diary, 

It has been a most eventful day. It started out much as every other day has, but at some point, Eden was invaded by an agent of the Opposition. He came in the form of a giant serpent, and he tempted Eve to eat from the tree that God specifically told her and Adam not to eat from. Eve ate a bite from the apple before giving the fruit to Adam to try as well. 

It wasn’t long before the Almighty realized what had happened and made the wise decision to banish Adam and Eve from the Garden. 

As the two were leaving, I felt a pity for them like I have never felt before. I climbed the wall above the Eastern Gate, my post, and watched as they began making their way across the sands. 

A moment later I was joined by the serpent, who transformed back into his true form, the demon Crawly. I was vaguely aware of him speaking to me, but was too preoccupied with concern for the humans to properly hear them. I asked him to repeat himself, to which he replied something about a ‘lead balloon,’ whatever that is. 

To my horror, he began musing about the Almighty’s plans, wondering about why She put the tree in the Garden in the first place. I felt incredulous hearing what could only be considered criticisms. He must have picked up on my feelings as he let up slightly. I felt his yellow eyes looking over my corporation, and I attempted to ignore him. But he surprised me again by asking about my sword. I felt my face flush hot with embarrassment, but I tried to look disinterested and shrugged my shoulders, hoping he would drop it. 

Of course he didn’t drop it, and I became flustered, admitting to him that I gave it away. I looked up meekly at him and saw a strange look on his face. It appeared that he was pleased, or perhaps…proud? No, that couldn’t be it. But his smile was a wonder to behold. He laughed a little, and I felt the need to defend my own actions. I reminded him that outside of the Garden are many vicious animals, as well as the deadly cold of the desert. He continued to look at me with that smile of his. I further reminded him that Eve was currently with child. Oh how I longed to know if I had made the right decision. I longed so much, that I found myself musing aloud about it. 

To my surprise the demon did not laugh at me, nor did he torment me with visions about what could happen to me if I had, in fact, done the Wrong thing. Instead he reassured me, telling me that he didn’t think me capable of doing Wrong. But then he looked away out over the desert and mused about his own actions. Wondering aloud if he’s done the Right thing. He mentioned, with what appeared to be a slight fear, what trouble demons could find themselves for doing Right. 

I tried my best to reassure him as he had done to me. He looked back at me and we both smiled at one another. He made a comment about how it would be funny if we had both gotten things wrong. At first, I agreed, laughing along with him even. But then I realized the magnitude of what he had made a joke out of. I set my face back to a hard look, trying to make it apparent that I did not approve of his frivolity. 

We stood in silence watching the humans make their way away from the Garden. It began to rain. Crawly was clearly uncomfortable, so I stretched out my wing, inviting him to shelter from the drops. He crowded into my side, bending slightly and we stood like that, just watching, until the humans disappeared from our sight.”

Muriel was fascinated. They realized that the demon Crawly must be the one they’d met here in the shop.They wondered when he had changed his name. With a renewed excitement, Muriel returned to reading the diary, intent on learning as much about Aziraphale and Crowley as possible. 

Chapter Text

Much later that night, Crowley returned to his flat, and poured himself a glass of expensive whiskey. He felt satisfied with how his night had gone, successfully avoiding thinking about Heaven, Hell, or anything else really. Downing his glass quickly, he felt the warmth spread through him, and along with it a comfortable tiredness. 

The lights were extinguished with a wave of his hand, and Crowley made his way to his bedroom, shucking his jacket and shirt along the way. He crawled into the luxurious silk sheets and felt himself falling asleep before his head even hit the pillows. And just as quickly as he had fallen asleep, he felt himself pulled into a dream.

In the dream world, Crowley was standing before Aziraphale. He opened and closed his mouth several times, willing himself to continue speaking. The angel just looked at him, not making any move to speak. 

“And I would like to spend…nghh.” Pain dripped from his voice as tears spilled from his lashes. And then the angel was on him, closing the space between them and grabbing Crowley by the front of his jacket. For a moment, Crowley allowed himself to believe that Aziraphale was going to pull him into an embrace. But then he saw the rage in the angel’s eyes and his face fell.

“Not another word. You are trying to tempt me again. You’ve always enjoyed tempting me. Well, not this time. I won’t let you ruin my chance.” Aziraphale used his strong hands to shove the demon away, knocking the breath out of him and causing him to stumble backward and fall to the ground. Aziraphale took a step forward, towering over the now sobbing demon. “Pathetic,” he said, with such visceral hatred, that it ripped another strangled sob from Crowley’s shaking form. 

Aziraphale turned on his heel and started to walk away. In a last desperate attempt, Crowley grabbed at the angel’s leg. 

“Please…” Crowley whimpered.

 Aziraphale turned back to the demon and roughly pulled his leg free from his grasp. He cocked his leg back and then swung it forward. The kick caught Crowley in his right shoulder, causing him to yelp, and sending a wave of pain through him. 

“Touch me again, Crawly ,” the angel snarled, his voice impossibly deep, using the demon’s old name like an insult, “and I will not hesitate to smite you.” 

The angel’s words hurt more than the blow had. Crowley felt like he couldn’t breath, his shoulders were shaking, and his heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. “Please…” he whispered one last time, earning himself another kick from the enraged angel. 

The pain from the second kick was enough to wake Crowley from the nightmare. He blinked, trying to rid his eyes of the tears that seemed like they would flow forever. The sheets were tangled around his frame, an indication that he had been tossing and turning, and his pillows were wet with his shed tears. 

“It was just a dream,” he tried to tell himself, but his corporation was not cooperating. His heart raced impossibly fast, and no matter how many breaths he drew in, he felt like he had no oxygen. Dread set in, accompanied by a terror that he had never felt before. “What if this never stops?” he worried. “What if I’ve gone completely mad?” 

Crowley disentangled himself and got out of bed. Moving through the flat, he made his way to the kitchen where he retrieved a wine glass. His hands were shaking so badly that he could hardly hold onto the drinkware. Carefully, he poured himself a glass of red wine.

Surprisingly, he was able to bring the half-full glass to his lips and take a large gulp. The usually calming effect of the alcohol, however, did not come. He took another drink, nearly choking as he was still hyperventilating. He downed the whole glass, but still felt his body vibrating with his sobs, his rapid breathing, and his pounding heart. 

“Why won’t it stop?” He cried aloud. His eyes were wide with a terror that he had never felt before. He looked frantically around himself for anything that could make this feeling, this panic, stop. His eyes fell on the shard of glass from yesterday, still sitting on the counter, and still covered in now dried blood. 

Through his panic, he remembered how the cut from the glass had made all of his thoughts stop. Shaking, he reached out and grasped the shard. He squeezed his hand around it, feeling a slight sting as the sharp points dug into his palm. But it wasn’t enough, he still couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stand the rhythm of his heart in his chest. 

Opening his hand, he took the glass into his right fingers, he looked at it as best as he could through his streaming tears, identifying which edge he thought sharpest. Trembling, he opened his left hand, bringing the edge of the glass against his palm. Then he pressed down and dragged. 

The glass tore into the meaty flesh of Crowley’s palm. Pain, hot and strong, seared from his hand and up his arm. Suddenly, his mind snapped to attention, focusing on the injury. 

Crowley set the piece of glass back down on the counter and sank to the floor. He sat there, cradling his left hand in his right, watching as blood pulsed out of the wound with each beat of his heart. Watching the crimson river, accompanied by the pulsing ache, became hypnotic.

Slowly, his breathing evened out and his heart calmed. The bleeding was slowing, and his tears had stopped falling. The only thing left to feel being the dull throbbing ache. 

Crowley sat there until the sun began to peek through the curtains. The blood was dried and his legs were numb. But at least he wasn’t crazy. 

Somewhere in the flat, his phone began to ring, pulling him out of his hypnotic state. He found it difficult to stand with his shaking legs, and the pain in his back. The ringing stopped and he let out a relieved sigh, but almost immediately the phone started again. He sighed and pulled himself all the way up by the edge of the counter. The pressure shot another wave of sharp pain through his left palm. 

Once standing, he made his way toward the ringing. He found the phone in his bed. The caller I.D. showed him that it was Shax again. He declined the call and sank to a seated position on the bed, bringing his hand up to evaluate the damage. 

The wound was caked in dried blood, and Crowley could see the edges of the skin were ragged from the uneven way the glass had sliced through. Gently, he spread the flaps of skin apart to see how deeply he had cut. It didn’t appear to be very deep, but prying the edges like that did cause another bout of pain to surge through his body. He looked at his other hand, also covered in streaks of dried blood. 

The shrill sound of his phone ringing once more, made the demon groan. Quickly he performed a miracle, repairing the wound and cleaning all traces of its presence from his hands and clothing. Taking a deep breath he answered the phone. 

“Hey there Shax,” he greeted with an obviously fake cheerfulness. “How’s things in Hell?”

“Crowley, I’m calling you back down. The Dark Council wants to see you.” 

“Haven’t we already been through this?” He heard her low growl on the other end of the phone. 

“No, this time you will appear before the Dark Council, and you will tell us what you know.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes. Didn’t they know that he didn’t have any information to give? Not that he would give it to them anyway if he did. 

“I’m not playing this game with you,” Crowley said, beginning to bare his teeth, filling with anger. “I don’t work for you. I’m not giving you anything.” 

“Fine, have it your way. You’ll be brought down again whether you want to or not. You can’t resist us.” 

Crowley shivered, knowing deep down that she spoke the truth. If Hell wanted him, they would just drag him down again. But, by Satan, he wasn’t about to go willingly. No, that would send the wrong message indeed. If they wanted him, they’d have to come get him. “Goodbye Shax,” he muttered as he hung up, tossing his phone back onto the bed. “Now what?” he asked the empty room. 

Chapter Text

Crowley spent the next several days hiding out in his flat. As each day passed he felt himself falling deeper and deeper into an abyss of non-feeling. He missed Aziraphale of course, and still felt heart broken, but it was as if he felt those things…in theory. It was as if he felt a shadow of them, a whisper if you will. 

During those days, he aimlessly wandered from room to room, drinking nearly non-stop, though never actually truly feeling drunk, and feeling less and less as time went on. “Perhaps this is moving on…” he mused. A pang of guilt shot through him at the thought, the first true emotion he’d felt in days. “So, I still feel things after all,” he thought, trying to focus on the guilt, wanting to feel something…anything. But, even the guilt slipped away from him after a moment, leaving nothing but the hollow, emptiness that Crowley was slowly accepting as his new normal. 

Meanwhile, at the bookshop, Muriel had been so wrapped up in Aziraphale’s journals, that they had forgotten to even open the shop for the past few days. They had been reading non-stop and had learned so much already about the history of Earth. A sense of pride swelled inside Muriel’s chest whenever they read about Aziraphale performing miracles or blessings. But they felt a growing confusion the more they read about the demon Crowley. It was clear from the journal entries they had read so far that the angel was fond of Crowley. And the descriptions of events often painted the demon in a most positive light indeed. Muriel knew they should loath Crowley for the simple fact that he was Fallen, but the more they read, and the more they remembered about their time with him, the more conflicted they felt. 

Finishing the volume they were currently reading, Muriel closed the book and replaced it on the shelf, grabbing the next volume along the way. They sat back down and began to read. 

“Dear Diary,

Oh I do have so much to tell! It has been quite an adventure these last few days. I hope very much that I am able to recall everything, that is how much has happened! It all started when I felt something Infernal afoot. To my horror, I found that the Opposition had taken it upon themselves to torment Job, the nicest man on Earth. I located the source of demonic activity and appeared in all the Heavenly glory I could muster. And who do you think I should find there amongst Job’s goats? Why, it was the demon Crowley! We greeted each other warmly. I felt a bit silly at that point, knowing that I’d have to perform my duties in front of him, so with a quick apology, I returned to my Heavenly stance and told him to be gone. 

‘No’ he said. I felt so taken aback. After all, I had evoked the name of the Almighty and commanded him. But there he was, standing before me in his long black and red robes, dark glasses perched on his nose to hide his serpentine eyes. I’m ashamed to admit how flustered he made me feel in that moment, I heard myself stutter his “no” back to him, making it into a question. 

‘No, thank you?’ he replied, and followed it up by telling me the most ridiculous lie. He told me he had a permit! A permit which said he was allowed to destroy all of Job’s worldly goods. Well I couldn’t believe him. Why would Heaven allow something terrible to happen to poor Job? I questioned the demon, but he was so sure of himself. Right in front of me, he destroyed all of Job’s goats.

I left him in a huff, feeling that something must be amiss. I returned quickly to Heaven, to seek answers. But when I got there, I was informed that the demon had spoken true! He did in fact have a permit! A lower-level angel told me about a bet that God and Satan had going on in regards to Job. They were quite a nice angel, and they seemed ever so excited to have someone to talk to. Unfortunately, I could not stand to stay any longer, I simply had to bring this to the attention of my superiors. 

I met with Uriel, Michael, and even Gabriel. They showed me the entirety of the documentation of the bet, which to my relief had a provision for Job to have his worldly goods returned twice over after the Almighty came out of the bet victorious. I was reminded to trust in the Lord, but something continued to needle at the back of my brain. It was then that they spoke of how Job once had 300 sheep and so would be rewarded with 600, where he had three children, he would be gifted 6 in their place. Or more probably 7, since the Almighty does so like the number 7. 

It was clear to me that these angels did not understand humans. I pointed out that Job’s wife Situs, may not want to have 4 more children, given her middle age. But then Michael spoke of Situs giving birth 7 more times! That’s when it hit me, they weren’t planning on restoring what was destroyed. They simply planned to replace everything anew! Oh I was so unsure of what to do or say. 

I returned to Earth and went to Job’s home, seeking out Crowley, who had already done much damage to Job’s things, including burning down his barn. I reached him just in time, as he was looking for Job’s children.

I attempted to persuade him not to go along with this horrid plan, he is a demon after all, and he could get away with doing as he pleased. Isn’t that the perk of being a demon, getting to do what you want to do? He glared at me, and told me that destroying the blameless children of blameless Job was, in fact, what he wanted to do. For a moment, I felt all hope was lost. I turned to leave, not wanting to witness the death of children, but then a sound caught my attention. Was that the call of a goat? 

I looked about the room, but could see only birds, hopping from place to place. But then the noise came again, straight from one of the bird's beaks. Suddenly, it came to me and I waved my hand to remove the demonic miracle. At once the birds turned back into the goats they once were. 

I must say, I did quite fail to hide the smile that crept onto my face, as I followed the demon further into the house, looking for the children. He simply rolled his eyes and led the way. 

Upon finding the children, I told them not to be afraid, and that I am an angel of the lord. Job’s youngest child seemed fascinated with Crowley, and quickly figured out that he was not an angel, but actually a demon. Crowley’s demeanor changed then and he began to set the room ablaze! He laughed as the fire swirled around us, but then something happened. We ended up in the basement of Job’s house. None of the children were harmed. 

I was confused at first, but then I realized that Crowley had brought us all down here to keep us safe. Satan was going to send a mighty wind to topple the house, so the only place to hide would be under it! How clever Crowley is! For reasons I didn’t really understand, he turned each of the children into small lizards, which took shelter in a little clay pot that the youngest child had been proud to have made herself. Crowley made himself comfortable and poured himself a glass of human wine. He offered me some, but I felt utter revulsion at the thought. But then he offered me human food, ribs from an ox to be exact. Try as I might to feel disgust at the idea, the aroma that was coming off of the meat was intoxicating. He watched me over his glasses and I simply could not say no. I took the smallest of bites, but the effect was immediate. I knew then that food will be a passion of mine. Rather embarrassingly, I ate with a voracity I didn’t know I had. I suppose when you taste food for the first time, you realize all at once that you are starving. 

I watched Crowley as I ate rib after rib. He sipped his wine and we weathered the storm. And the whole time I felt my fondness for him growing stronger in my breast. How could I not?

The next morning, Crowley and I found Job. Would you believe that he was actually speaking with God? And that She was speaking back? 

Job returned to the rubble where Situs was waiting for him, and before them appeared the archangels. Gabriel delivered the good news to Job and Situs, telling them that they would receive twice what they had lost as a reward for their devotion. They looked relieved, until Situs figured out that she would be having new children, and that her other children would remain dead. Frighteningly, she began to curse God, but then Crowley entered quickly, cutting her off before she could finish making such a grave mistake. 

The angels didn’t know him of course, and it was with a demonic miracle that Situs and Job believed him to be someone by the name of Bildad the Shuite. Following along with Crowley, I explained that Situs had just received news that she was to give birth to more children, and asked if he knew anything about that. Luckily, Crowley picked up on my plan and assured everyone that, back in Shua, he was an expert. He moved closer to Situs and I thought I saw him whisper in her ear, though I can’t be sure. He stood the husband and wife so that they were facing each other, and instructed Situs to take out three of Job’s ribs. Oh that clever demon!

Situs did as she was told, and a miracle ensured that she could do it without issue or pain. Then Crowley told them to embrace. Once they let go of one another, there were their three children. 

The archangels seemed somewhat confused, pointing out that the children were not babies and that they seemed to be Job’s old children. Gabriel looked to me. I felt the intensity of his purple eyes bore into my very soul. He asked me if the children were the new ones that God had promised. Oh what could I do? I glanced at Crowley, who was watching me intently. His presence gave me assurance and a strength I didn’t know I had. I looked back at the Supreme Archangel and I told him… Well I told him that those were the new children. 

Yes, I lied. I’m still unsure how I feel. On the one hand, Job’s children were spared from death, Job still loves God, and the will of Satan has been averted. But on the other hand, I worked with a demon to defy the will of my superiors, and I lied to the Supreme Archangel. This is confusing indeed. 

After the other angels left, I felt so sure that I had been caught. I left and sat on a bench overlooking a large cliff. I just sat there, tears spilling down my cheeks as I waited for someone to come collect me. I was convinced you see, that I had become a Fallen Angel. And who should come for me but Crowley. I told him I was ready to go back to Hell with him, but to my surprise, he assured me that he wasn’t going to do that. The lie had apparently gone unnoticed, and he reassured me that he wouldn’t tell anyone. 

Relief washed over me. However, there was another feeling there as well. A longing that I can’t quite place. It is as if I want to be closer to him. I felt a tug inside, telling me to sit closer to him, to reach my hand out to take his own. How could that be? Why would I feel such things? I should not even want to look at him, he should disgust me. But alas, he doesn’t. As I sit here writing, I find myself in want of his company. I wonder where he is now. His existence does seem ever so lonely. I do hope he is alright. 

Well, I believe I have thoroughly captured the story of this little chapter of my existence. I will have to put some sort of ward on my diaries from now on, can’t have anyone who means me harm reading them. I shall set about doing so in the morning.”

Muriel closed the volume and sat in thought, utterly confused and conflicted about what they had just read. So Mr. Fell had lied, a sin, but he had also saved children. What were they supposed to make of all this? And also, what did it mean that Aziraphale had placed wards on his diaries, but Muriel was able to read them? They had so much to think about.

Chapter Text

Crowley was exhausted. It had been a week since his last call with Shax. At this point exhaustion was quite literally all he felt. The alcohol no longer seemed to have its usual warming and calming effect. His heart rate and breathing remained slow and steady. And his eyes remained dry. He couldn’t even bring himself to be angry anymore. He just felt tired throughout the entirety of his corporation, all the way down to the marrow of his bones. 

Part of him wanted desperately to sleep, to fall into unconsciousness for the next however many years until Heaven started trying to bring about Armageddon again. But the other part of him felt, no… knew that if he allowed himself to sleep, then he would dream. And he did not want to dream of Aziraphale. Heaven, he didn’t want to dream of anything. 

“Then again,” his mind said. “If I dreamt of him, maybe I would feel something again.” 

He sat quietly in thought for a moment before saying aloud to himself “but it will just hurt again.” His mind jumped to the memory of the glass slicing through his skin, his palm itching with the afterimage of pain. Suddenly his heart started to pick up, and his breathing with it. “What’s so wrong with that?” he asked the empty room. “After all, isn’t it better to feel pain than to feel nothing at all?”

Crowley stood quickly and began pacing frantically. He welcomed the sudden rush of adrenaline and how it felt like life was being breathed back into his body. He moved into the bathroom and for the first time in days looked at himself in the mirror. Startled by the state of himself, he willed the self-hatred to return. “ Yes, pain, hatred, sorrow. This is better than being empty. ” His now racing thoughts kept returning to the memories of cutting his palm. He couldn’t ignore it. “ Come on, ” he thought. “ It’ll make you feel alive. ”

With shaking hands, he conjured a razor blade. It was long and sleek, the kind used by barbers to shave their customers with precision. Carefully, he opened the folded razor, holding it up so that its blade caught the light. Looking down at his palm, he slowly brought the blade to rest against the flesh, and now his heart was frantic. 

“ Not there. ” The thought came unbidden. It almost didn’t feel like his own. But he removed the blade all the same. Setting the blade down on the counter, he removed his wrinkled shirt, tossing it to the floor. He looked at himself in the mirror again, his eyes hunting for a good spot. He brought his fingers up to his throat, trailing them down his neck and then onto his sternum. He could feel his heart under his hand and his chest rising and falling. “ Here, ” he decided.

His hands were steadier this time as he grasped the handle of the razor and brought its sharp edge to the flesh of his breast. He forced himself to look again at his reflection as he pressed the razor down minutely. 

Immediately the razor broke his soft skin, causing a bead of blood to form. He gasped at the feeling as he pressed down even harder, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment. “ Watch, ” his mind seemed to scream at him, and so he obeyed. Opening his eyes and finding them in the mirror, he watched as he pulled the razor in a quick motion along his flesh. 

For a split second, Crowley thought it hadn’t worked, as he could see no mark. But then, a long straight red line opened and the crimson blood began to flow. The cut itself was about as long as Crowley’s pointer finger, and not very deep. But it bled quickly, spurred on by Crowley's erratic heart beat. The whole of his consciousness focused on the little rivers of blood as they ran down his chest, gathering and flowing around his nipple. He reached up with his empty hand and ran a finger through one of the trails, smearing it. 

“ Again, ” his brain seemed to beg. Already, the adrenaline wearing off. And so he did. He brought the razor up again, just beneath the first cut, and ripped open a new wound. He marveled at the sight, such a shockingly bright red. His left hand found his way to the second cut and smeared the blood again. He looked at his now covered fingers, the tiredness beginning to take over once more.

“Just once more,” he whispered aloud, and brought the blade up once more for a final, long cut just above the other two. The pain from it suddenly made him a bit woozy. He dropped the razor into the sink and grasped the edges of the counter to steady himself, as waves of nausea began to flow through him. 

Unable to hold it back, he felt bile rise in the back of his throat, and then he was vomiting in the sink. The only thing in his belly was alcohol and stomach acid, so the vomit burned his esophagus as he heaved. Finally, after several moments of retching, and a few moments of gagging with nothing coming up, the nausea was past. 

Crowley stumbled out of the bathroom and into his bedroom. He crawled under the twisted sheets and blankets, burying his face in his pillows. He tried to tell himself that he still needed to heal himself and to clean up, but he was just so tired. With closed eyes, he decided “to Heaven with it,” he’d worry about everything later. For now, he was going to sleep for as long as he could. 

Chapter Text

Crowley awoke after sleeping for nearly 48 hours. He felt groggy and his mouth was dry. The room was illuminated by the golden color of the setting sun, and Crowley squinted, not quite used to the light, as he sat up. Somewhere he heard the chime of his text message alert. Hunting around for his phone, he couldn’t find it in the bed, so climbed out to go looking through the rest of the flat. 

He entered the bathroom, the last place he remembered being before bed, and stopped in his tracks when out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He shifted his body so that he was facing the mirror directly, and with a snap of his fingers, the bright overhead lights turned on in a blaze above him. And his reflection was shocking. 

His hair was sticking out in all sorts of directions, there were dark bags under his eyes, his skin was paler than usual, and his neck and chest were currently covered in a thin layer of dried blood. It came back to him, the memory of his self-harm hitting him like a freight train as he stared at the now healing wounds. Three long straight lines, crusted over with red scabs. He reached his hand up and touched gently. The contact stung and the demon winced. 

Focusing on the cuts, tears came to his eyes for the first time in a week. The release felt rapturous, cleansing. He let himself cry harder and harder, never taking his eyes off of the self-inflictions. And slowly, his hiccuping cries turned to laughter. “I really have gone mad haven’t I?” he mused, as he continued laughing. 

Terror started to build the longer he went on laughing, and tears continued to stream down his face. He was utterly convinced that he would never be able to stop this strange chuckling that was pouring from him. In desperation, he brought his hand back to the wounds, hovering over them momentarily before bringing his palm down hard over all three of them at once. 

Pain rippled outward from the impact, not a stinging sharp pain, but a throbbing ache. Crowley gasped and finally the laughter and tears stopped. He sat down on the edge of the tub and focused on his breathing and the radiating pain of the cuts. Once he calmed down enough to think somewhat straight, he stood again.

Crowley shucked the rest of his clothes. Standing naked in the cool room, a shiver ran down his spine. He turned on the shower with a wave and let it heat up for a moment before getting in and standing beneath the hot spray. 

He showered slowly, several times becoming mesmerized by the slight red swirling around the drain whenever the water washed away some of the dried blood from his body. But soon he felt himself fall back into his usual habits, washing and conditioning his hair, washing his body, and then just standing under the flow, trying to enjoy the way the heat made his corporation feel. 

Turning off the water with another wave, he stepped out and wrapped up in one of his soft towels. He performed another miracle, cleaning the entirety of the bathroom with one easy gesture. He looked in the mirror once more and went to heal his cuts, but something stayed his hand. He wasn’t sure why, but he decided to leave them. 

Quickly the demon got dressed in a tight black turtleneck, and black skinny jeans. He even took the time to accent his outfit with a couple of silver rings and his favorite black jacket. He fiddled with his hair until it sat just right and then put on his signature dark glasses. He was going out, he had decided. 

Grabbing his phone, he quickly glanced at his notification. 6 new messages all from Shax appeared. He groaned and rolled his eyes, shoving the phone into his pocket and grabbed the car keys from the bowl by the door. 

A moment later Crowley was climbing into the Bentley and speeding off in the direction of the pub he had gone to last week where he had seen the man abusing his dog. It seemed like a good place to people-watch and an even better place to “people-punish.” He turned the radio on, and it began playing “Killer Queen” for him. He loved this song, so he turned the volume up and found himself singing along as he drove to his destination. 

The pub was much busier than it had been the last time he was here. He figured it was because it was later in the evening so more people were interested in drinking and socializing. He ordered a martini from the bar and moved toward the same table he had occupied the last time he was here. Of course, 3 people were already seated there, but some quick demonic influence convinced them it was time to leave. Once they had vacated, Crowley quickly climbed in and settled, planning to watch people until the whole place cleared and the employees had to throw him out. 

Several hours and several drinks later, Crowley caught sight of a man talking boisterously to a woman. The woman was clearly uncomfortable. She kept looking around, trying to make eye contact with someone, anyone. Her eyes met Crowley’s, though she couldn’t tell because of his glasses. He saw fear in those brown eyes looking desperately at him. But then the man asked the woman a question and she was forced by social convention to return her gaze to him. 

Crowley held his breath and seethed. And when the man brought his hand down and touched her on her thigh, Crowley wanted to snarl and climb over the table to get at him. How could he not see how uncomfortable he was making her? Or even worse, did he not care? And then the worst thought of all, maybe he liked that he was making her feel this way. 

The woman turned her body, trying to get the attention of the bartender, and Crowley watched with horror as the man quickly tipped a powder into the woman’s drink while she wasn’t looking. The woman failed to get anyone’s attention and so turned back to the man and her now tainted drink. 

Crowley scrambled from the table and pushed his way through the crowd until he was at the woman’s side. Just in time, as she had been about to take a sip from her glass. 

“I knew it was you!” Crowley exclaimed, getting both the man and the woman’s attention. “I haven’t seen you in ages, how have you been?” The woman was startled and confused for a brief second, but quickly caught on to Crowley’s game. 

“Oh hiya! It has been ages,” she cried with equal enthusiasm. “Been good. And you?”

“Oh just great.” Crowley leaned as if to peck her on the cheek, but once close to her ear he whispered. “Don’t take another drink.”

“Excuse me Katrina, are you going to introduce us?” The man asked with a barely contained look of annoyance on his face. His horrid mustache twitching every so often.

“Oh how rude of me,” Crowley said, turning to take the man’s hand in his own and shaking it. “Name’s Anthony, Katrina and I go way back. Used to date in fact. Broke it off when I had to move for a job. No hard feelings though, right Katrina?” He looked back toward Katrina, who smiled back.

“None at all! Are you just visiting then?” She was slowly moving closer to Crowley, feeling safer the longer he was there. 

“Oh yeah. Why don’t you come over to my table and we can catch up?”

The man, who Crowley still did not know his name, made a gruff sound in his throat, trying to bring their attention back to him. 

“Oh…um…” Katrina hesitated, not knowing how to proceed. “Well, I am out with Sam here tonight. Will you be in town long?” She drew ever so slightly closer to the demon again. 

“No, last night in ‘m afraid.” He looked at her imploringly. She was obviously so frightened by the whole situation.

“Sam, I’m so sorry, but I would very much like to catch up with Anthony before he leaves. Perhaps we can go out another night?”

“Are you serious?” Sam asked, losing his temper and not seeming to care who saw it. “I…I bought you that drink… and the one before it…I think…y-you owe me!”

“Owe you?” Crowley said, his eyebrows shooting up in shock, before furrowing downward in anger. “You think she owes you? Is that it?” Crowley leaned closer to Sam so that their faces were nearly touching. “Listen to me, she owes you nothing!” He spat the last word, raising his voice and catching the attention of several pub patrons as well as the bartender.

Sam stood from his barstool, drawing himself to his full height, but Crowley did the same, miracling himself an extra half an inch taller just to be on the safe side. 

“Why don’t you get out of here and mind your own business if you know what’s good for you,” Sam threatened. 

Crowley laughed to himself and looked down his nose at Sam, his yellow eyes shining with malice. Seeing his eyes for the first time, Sam recoiled slightly, but still intended to stand his ground. “Get…out…” Crowley growled, stepping closer and closer to Sam, until they were chest to chest, “or I will rip you to shreds.” The last half of the statement was so low and deep, that Sam almost didn’t hear. But looking again into those eyes, dread started to fill him. Crowley moved his face closer, bringing his lips to Sam’s ear. “I saw what you did Sammy boy.” 

As Crowley leaned back, terror filled Sam’s eyes and he quickly turned on his heel and made his way to the door. He paused briefly at the threshold, risking a glance backward at Katrina and Crowley. But, he simply shook his head and left. 

Katrina let out a breath she wasn’t sure how long she had been holding. Relief washed over her as Crowley turned to face her. 

“Sorry about that,” he said, motioning to the bartender so that he could order another drink for himself and her, if she wanted one of course. 

“You? You have nothing to be sorry for,” Katrina replied, a smile gracing her lips. The bartender looked at them both waiting for their order. “Please,” Katrina said to Crowley. “Let me buy you a drink.”

Crowley smiled back at her and ordered another martini. Katrina told the bartender that she would like a new margarita. 

“So?” Katrina asked. “I really should thank you. Who knows what he would have done. I thought he was just boring and rude, too forward you know. Oh and a sexist to boot. But I didn’t think he would actually try to drug me… If you hadn’t noticed…” She trailed off as the bartender returned with their drinks. 

“Yeah well…don’t mention it. Really, ‘s no problem.” She smiled again looking a bit embarrassed. “Do you want to go back over to my table?” he asked.

“Sure thing.” They left the barstools and returned to the corner booth that Crowley had been in for hours. “So, is your name really Anthony?” Katrina asked as she scooted in.

“It is indeed. Anthony J. Crowley,” he replied as he sat down across from her. 

“Crowley, that’s an unusual name. Are you really here from out of town?” 

“Nah, made that one up. Thought it’d give you more of a pressing reason to leave with me. You caught on really quick by the way.” 

“Oh, well, I was confused at first I must admit.” She giggled a little. “But I’m glad I figured it out.”

“Me too.” They sat there for a minute in silence. “How’d you know him anyway?”

“Oh,” she huffed. “My friend set me up on a dating site. I didn’t really want to, for this exact reason. Oh, believe me, she is never going to hear the end of this one…” They both laughed at that. “What about you? You’re here alone?”

“Yeah, just killing the time I guess. People watching, that sort of thing.” 

They continued chatting for another hour before Katrina looked at her phone and decided it was time to leave. “It’s getting late, I should start heading home. Thank you again for the rescue.” She stood from the booth and Crowley followed. 

Outside he walked her to the bus stop, where fortune would have it, the bus was visibly approaching. She looked back at Crowley. Standing on her tip toes, she brought her lips gently to his cheek. “You are so nice Mr. Crowley. Thanks for everything.” She turned around and got on the bus without another word. 

“Not nice,” Crowley whispered, watching as the bus pulled away from the stop. He turned on his heel and began walking back toward the Bentley, sobering up as he walked. 

Suddenly, he felt it. The horrid dragging feeling was upon him. “No, no, not again.” He cried as his body crumbled to the ground. Pain tore through him as the ground opened up and he was pulled inside.

Upon arriving in Hell, he was slammed backward into a tall backed chair by a demon he did not recognize, and before him sat the Dark Council.

Chapter Text

The Dark Council sat glaring at Crowley as he adjusted and took in his surroundings. The chamber was dark, illuminated by a blue-green glow, the source of which Crowley could not find. Six demons made up the Council. Crowley couldn’t remember their names. Well, all but Shax of course, the newest member since Beelzebub left with Gabriel. 

Crowley looked at each of them in turn, his face hard and unreadable. He was well practiced in hiding his emotions from this lot. Glancing over his shoulder he saw that 2 lesser demons were standing on each side of him, clearly meant as guards of a sort. He took a deep breath before flashing the Council a smile. 

“Well, what brings me here? What pleasure do I have to be seated before the Dark Council?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. 

Shax spoke for the Council, “You know why you’re here, Crowley. You have information and we want it. It’s as simple as that.”

A demon with scales on their face and icy blue eyes chimed in, “don’t forget he’s also here to answer for his actions tonight with the humans.”

“Of course, how could I forget? Thank you Dagon.” Shax turned her attention back to Crowley, waiting with a quirked eyebrow for him to speak. 

“Listen,” Crowley began. “I don’t know what information you think I have. But I don’t have any. Even if I did, what makes you think I would tell you? I don’t work for you. I’m getting quite bored of this.” Crowley moved to stand, and two strong hands fell upon his shoulders from behind, shoving him back down. 

“You’re not going anywhere,” the demon Dagon said. “Shax has assured us that you have intimate knowledge of what’s going on Upstairs. And you will tell us.”

“I told Shax already, I don’t know anything!”

“We have reliable information that your pet angel has ascended to the position of Supreme Archangel. You would have us believe that you know nothing of his doings?” Shax looked at Crowley coldly.

A wave of pain surged through Crowley at the thought of Aziraphale’s departure. “I don’t know anything,” he said, speaking softly, all fight seeming to drain from him. 

The demons looked at one another before all turning to Shax. She narrowed her eyes at Crowley, still refusing to believe him. “Very well, if you won’t tell us willingly…”

“I can’t tell you something I don’t know!” Crowley could hear the desperation seeping into his voice. 

“Silence!” Shax cried. “If you will not tell us willingly, we will make you talk.”

“Don’t forget he needs to be punished also,” Dagon chimed in with a wicked smile. 

“Yes, thank you, again.” Shax was obviously annoyed at being interrupted. She motioned to the two large demons behind Crowley, who grabbed him by his upper arms, hoisting him out of the chair. 

Crowley was unceremoniously dragged from the chamber into a room adjoining it. The two demon thugs threw him to the ground, where he landed at the feet of a towered demon. Those feet were that of some great beast, sharp claws on the ends of each toe. Crowley raised his head from the floor, slowly taking in the rest of the demon. His gaze was met with long bare legs, skin dark as night and covered in patchy fur of deep grey. About the demon’s waist, he was covered with nothing more than a simple wrap of black fabric. The chest was also bare, save for the light layer of fur, and was thin, almost concave as if he were starving. In his long arms, the demon was holding a whip and a curved blade. And atop the lanky column of his neck sat his head. From his face protruded a long pointed snout, like that of a wolf. Saliva was dripping from his tattered lips. His eyes shone, pure white in their sockets. The long shaggy fur that fell from the top of his head, framed his face, and from it two large pointed ears could be seen. 

Crowley swallowed hard, feeling an involuntary tremble run through him. He had never met this demon before, but every being of Hell knew his name. The master of tortures, Hell’s most sadistic and cruel demon, Alastor. 

A deep rumbling growl shook the room around Crowley. “On your feet,” Alastor said. 

Crowley quickly obeyed, terror filling him completely. “Yes sir,” he mumbled, unsure how to address him.

“So… You, Crowley, refuse to give information to the Dark Council?” He began circling Crowley, never taking his eyes off him. Crowley did his best to stay standing, despite his legs feeling like jelly. After a moment of silence, Alastor cried “you will speak when spoken to!”

“Yes sir, I…I cannot give the Council what they seek.”

“Is that so? And why not?”

“Be-because I do not have any information.”

“And you expect us to just believe you? You who have spent 6,000 years lying to us? 6,000 years consorting with the Enemy? You who defied the will of Satan, our Master, and prevented the Great War?” He reached out a clawed hand and struck Crowley across the face. The blow left scratches across his cheek, which began to bleed. Remarkably, Crowley had remained upright, too afraid to let himself fall for fear of an even worse punishment. 

“I-I…I can’t tell you to believe me. But, it doesn’t change the fact that I have no knowledge to share. I haven’t spoken to anyone from Heaven in a month.” Crowley couldn’t bring himself to use the angel’s name, not here.

“Hmmm…” Alastor hummed. “Perhaps you do not lie after all. I can feel your pain. Oh it tastes so sweet. You are in agony over his loss.”

Crowley felt his eyes beginning to sting with tears, trying desperately to hold them back. 

“Here’s what we are going to do then,” Alastor said, bringing his snout mere inches from Crowley’s face. “You are going to do whatever it takes to get information from them. You will have 1 week to do so. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes sir,” Crowley whispered, a tear falling down his cheek. “Thank you.”

“Oh I wouldn’t thank me just yet. We still need to teach you a lesson for today’s little show that you put on. You prevented a Deadly Sin from being committed. We can’t have that now can we?”

Crowley remained silent. He tried to remember the look on Katrina’s face, how scared and alone she had felt. But then her smile once she knew she was safe, that memory gave him a bit of strength. 

“Proud of yourself are you?” Alastor sneered, baring his large fangs. “You’ll regret that.” 

Suddenly, Crowley’s legs were swept from under him and he toppled to the ground, landing on his chest and stomach. The force knocked his glasses from his face and the wind from his body. The clawed foot of Alastor pressed hard into the small of Crowley’s back, claws ripping his black jacket. Then a clawed hand finished the job, shredding the jacket and shirt beneath, exposing the pale skin of the demon's back. 

Crowley cried out as the first blow of the savage whip struck his bare flesh, tearing through and leaving a bloody gash in its wake. He tried to move, but the foot upon him held him fast. Another slice of the whip, and another strangled cry echoed through the room. Crowley felt Alastor chuckle above him before the Master of Torture swung the whip down again. 

Four more cracks of the whip filled the chamber with wrecked sobs and gasping breaths. Crowley’s face was tear streaked and his throat ached from his screams. But another blow did not come. The pressure left his lower back, and Alastor crouched down beside Crowley’s face. 

“Look at me,” Alastor snarled. Weakly, Crowley lifted his gaze and saw the blood flecked face of the demon before him. “You have one week. Oh, and if you return here healed…There will be Hell to pay.”

Crowley felt the ground beneath him change. No longer was he laying on the rough stone floor of the torture chamber, but instead, he felt the sharp jagged surface of asphalt. He blinked and raised his head again. He was back in the deserted parking lot of the pub. It must be very late indeed, as the place was dark and deserted. 

Carefully, Crowley tried to sit up, sending a wave of sharp pain throughout his corporation. Breathing heavily, he managed to pull himself up after a few moments and a lot of tears. He reached his hand carefully behind him, and gently touched his fingertips to his back, trying to assess the damage. But even being so careful, his lightest touch felt like he was being burned. 

Oh so slowly, he pulled himself up, and made his way to the Bentley, miraculously repairing his shirt and jacket as he went. Climbing into the Bentley was a fresh Hell indeed, No matter how he sat, the slightest pressure on his back was enough to make him cry out. He could feel the wounds seeping blood into his clothes and onto the leather seat, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. After sitting still for a few moments, he finally managed to work up the strength to start the car and begin the drive back home. 

Once back in his flat, Crowley stripped his clothes off and went into the bathroom. He looked at his back in the mirror and a cry escaped his lips. The skin was ragged, torn this way and that, seeping dark red blood. He couldn’t bear to look anymore, so he went to his bedroom, hoping for the comfort of sleep. Cautiously, he laid down on his stomach, glad for the coolness of his silk sheets against his burning skin. He closed his eyes and sobbed, tears and wails coming from him freely. His body, full of pain, humiliation, and a deep sadness, was utterly spent. Exhaustion finally won and he fell asleep, clutching his pillow, tears still dripping from his closed lashes. 

Chapter Text

While Crowley slept through the night and into the next day, on Whickber Street, Muriel was still reading as if their very existence depended on it. They had made quite a bit of progress and were currently reading about the life of the Almighty’s son from Aziraphale’s perspective. From their knowledge, they were fast approaching the end of Christ’s life on Earth. 

Turning page after page, they soaked up all the information hungrily. They had never known so many things before. Aziraphale’s entries were often accompanied by sketches, which fascinated Muriel. 

Finally Muriel reached the entry of the Savior’s death. They took a deep breath, steeling themself for the pain that was to come from reading such a horrible thing. After a moment, they began.

“Dear Diary,

Today was the day. I have been dreading this day for such a long time. I suppose I have been dreading it for the past 33 years. Ever since Jesus was born in that stable in Bethlehem, I have felt a love so strong for Him that it is difficult to put into words. The humans have siblings, and I would venture that what I feel for the Savior, is akin to the way they feel about their brothers and sisters. 

It was with a heavy heart that I watched Jesus be sentenced. It was all part of the Great Plan of course, but a tiny part of me hoped that Pontius would show strength and mercy, but alas, he gave into the will of the people. 

Sometimes I am confused by my feelings for the humans. On the one hand, they are so dear to me. They are clever, and funny, and make beautiful things. But on the other hand, they can be so vile, so… wicked. How could they come up with such a thing as crucifixion? Why do they insist on torturing one another? Ever since Cain and Abel, humanity has had a lust for the blood of their fellow man. 

Helplessly, I watched as Jesus was stripped down to the wrap about His waist. He was whipped mercilessly then. Oh the agony. No one deserves to be put through such pain. His screams and the slicing sound of the whip will haunt me for quite some time I suspect. To humiliate Him further, they placed a ring of vine around His head. The vine was covered in thorns, each long and terrifyingly sharp. 

I winced as blood seeped from His many, many wounds, His face wet with tears and sweat. I prayed silently for a quick end, but the torture continued. By the end, His back was unrecognizable, the surface completely torn this way and that. 

Finally, the soldiers were called off and I allowed myself to hope that things would be easier for Him. It was not to be so. The soldiers got Jesus to His feet and dragged Him to the huge wooden cross, the method of His execution. Jesus looked at the cross and seemed…ready. I would imagine He just wanted the pain to stop at that point. Oh, but then they told Him to pick it up. They were going to make Him carry his own cross to the execution site. As I have said, their cruelty knows no bounds. 

Jesus obeyed, and with a trembling body, nearly broken with pain, He lifted the cross to His shoulder and began the long trek to the hilltop of Golgotha. Along His path, many onlookers jeered and threw things at Him. How they hated Him… They cheered when Jesus fell, and yelled at Him as he tried to get back up. A little further, then He fell again. More obscenities from the crowd. But, God Bless Him, He got back up again. My heart broke as a few moments later He fell again, the third and final time. 

I admit, I was beginning to grow angry with the people, and I so longed to help Christ in any way I could. I had nearly decided on helping Him with a miracle, but then a man emerged from the crowd, spurred on by the soldiers, he was to help Jesus carry the cross the rest of the way. I hope that man knows what his actions mean, that he helped carry the burden of the Lord’s only Son. 

Progress up the hill had slowed considerably, and I started to survey the crowd. My eyes feel upon a wretched sight. There in the midst of people spitting and shouting, stood Mary, Jesus’s own mother. I stared at her, feeling the pain waft from her like a breeze from the ocean. She looked up and met my gaze. In that moment of eye contact, I believe she knew me. A tear streamed down her cheek as she shook her head minutely. I felt tears fall from my eyes then, and I looked down, feeling unworthy to look upon her. She had not looked angry, just utterly sorrowful. Alarmingly, I felt her faith in the Almighty, and watching her son’s torture, that faith was waning. 

Finally, Jesus made it to the top of the hill. His cross was taken from Him and laid upon the ground. He was then roughly positioned on the cross, arms spread and feet atop one another. As the first of the giant metal nails pierced His flesh, I suddenly felt no longer alone. Crowley had arrived.  

Not for the first time, Crowley angered me with his questions. He had the nerve to ask if I’d come to smirk at Jesus. I must have looked most incredulous indeed. He then justified his remark by stating that it was “my lot” who put Him up there. And what could I say to that? He was right, it was all part of the Great Plan. I had known from the time of His birth that He had been sent to Earth to suffer and die for the sins of man. I felt crestfallen and confused. How could Heaven be responsible for such misery? 

I tried to distract myself by talking to Crowley. I asked him if he’d ever met Christ. To my surprise he said he had, telling me that he had “shown Him all the kingdoms of the world.” When I asked him why, he made some sarcastic comment about His travel prospects. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Crowley looking over the crowd about us. With a look of confusion he asked what it was that Jesus had said. “Be kind to one another,” I told him as another hammer strike rang out accompanied by another wail from the Son of God. I will never forget the look of sad understanding on Crowley’s face. 

We watched as the cross was raised and I stood vigilant, again hoping for a mercifully quick end, as time ticked by. Moment after moment seemed to drag on, and still He hung there, ever in agony. When he finally succumbed and the soldiers pierced his side with a spear, I turned back to Crowley. To my surprise, the demon was walking quickly away from me. 

Hurriedly, I followed after him, calling out as I got closer. Crowley turned to face me, and I was struck by the look on his face. He was positively pale, eyebrows knit in what looked like pain.  A solitary tear drop shimmered on his cheekbone. 

How can I explain the way he made me feel in that moment? His pain was…beautiful, for lack of a better description. It broke my heart to see him that way, but it also made my growing fondness for him burn all the brighter. 

He turned away from me again and began to walk, clearly not interested in spending time with me. I gave him a few moments head start, before following the direction he had gone. I had this urge to make sure he was okay. 

After some time, I found him. He was hiding out in a barn, goats about him, and a tiny baby goat in his lap. He was stroking her ever so gently, and tears were streaming down his face. 

“Crowley?” I asked, daring to step nearer. It was a pleasant surprise that he did not try to shoo me away, or even to hide his crying. Instead he just looked up at me, and everything in me wanted to comfort him, to take any and all pain from him. 

I sat next to him on the ground and reached out my hand, pausing for permission, before I patted the baby he was so tenderly holding. It made a small noise, and I felt Crowley tense.

“Can you tell me what’s the matter?” I asked him. A tiny shake of his head was the only response I got. “Well then, can I just sit here for a while with you? So that you don’t have to be in pain alone?” I held my breath waiting for his reply. This time, a tiny nod was my answer. So I resolved to sit next to him in silence, petting the goat and letting him cry as long as he needed. 

After a few moments, I felt Crowley shift next to me, and the strangest thing happened then. Without talking, without asking, I lifted my arm, inviting him to my side, and he leaned in at the same moment. 

I am unsure how long we sat like that, my arm draped about his thin shoulders, and his head resting against mine. My legs were numb and I felt an ache throughout the entire top half of my corporation, but still I sat, vigilant and protective over my the demon. 

Eventually he broke the contact, sitting up straight and wiping his eyes. I looked at him and he met my gaze sheepishly. “Will you tell me now?” I asked. 

“I can’t…I don’t think I can.” 

“Is it about the death we witnessed today?” I ventured. 

“Yes,” he breathed. “I’m just so…tired from the whole thing. That’s the best way I can explain it.” He stood, placing the baby near its mother. “Just because I’m a demon, doesn’t mean I…” 

“I know,” I told him and followed him to a standing position. “Dear boy, I know.” I wrapped my arms about him and held him against me. His whole body was tense for a moment, but slowly he began to relax, easing into the embrace. 

He was the first to break contact again. He looked around anxiously and told me that he had to go. A pang of longing shot through my heart as I watched him go from the barn in a hurry. I was left alone, confused, sad, and happy all at once. 

I made my way back to my dwelling, thinking of Crowley the whole time. His pained face seems to be stuck in my mind. I think I will sketch him, maybe that will allow me to stop thinking of that sorrowful look. Oh I do hope he will be alright. 

Muriel turned the page and there was the sketch Aziraphale had mentioned. It was a stunning render, and the pain was indeed evident on the demon’s face. Muriel felt something stir in their breast, they were unfamiliar with emotions, so they couldn’t quite place what they were feeling. But all their thoughts were on Crowley. They began to wonder where the demon had been this past month. “Maybe I should find a way to check in on him,” they thought. “But how?”

Chapter Text

Crowley awoke in a tangle of sheets, soaked with his own sweat and sticky with his blood. His sleep had been stilted and he was exhausted. A pitiful sound escaped his lips as he sat up, sending pain throughout his body. Managing to stand, he went into the bathroom to inspect the wounds again. 

Under the fluorescent lights each gash in his skin was ringed with flaking dried blood. Cautiously he touched the edge of one of the wounds again, but this time the pain, though intense, was slightly more bearable. Staring at them, he realized that he would need to tend the wounds to avoid infection. It was an unfamiliar thing to him, as he was so used to healing himself the handful of times that he had been hurt over the centuries. He considered that the wounds might even need stitches, but how could he possibly explain what had happened to him to a human? No, he’d have to settle for tending to himself.

He set about the process, beginning by gathering himself supplies. Most things were gotten via demonic miracle, but a few he retrieved by hand. To start, he knew that he would need to clean the wounds, and so took a soft flannel and filled the sink with warm water. Squeezing his eyes shut in anticipation, he dabbed the wet cloth onto the back of his left shoulder, pushing so that the water ran down in rivulets. The warm water actually seemed to soothe some of the ache, and he allowed himself to hope that the worst was over. Continuing in the same fashion, he spent the next 15 or so minutes cleansing his back. 

A puddle had formed around his feet, and was a reddish brown color, but in the mirror, he was able to see that he had cleaned almost all traces of blood. Now he was left with the puckering pink angry flesh that edged each deep gash. He picked up a tube of antibiotic ointment, one which had a pain reliever he had made sure, and opened it, squeezing a good sized blob into his hand. Reaching awkwardly behind himself he rubbed the ointment on as best as possible. The coolness of it sent shivers down his spine, but the pain reliever was already beginning to further dull the aches he felt. 

Once he was satisfied with the coverage, he retrieved a roll of cloth bandage. There being no good way to cover his wounds, he decided to wrap himself like a mummy. He started at his navel and began winding the bandage about himself. Making sure the bandage wasn’t too tight around his sides, he continued working upward until he reached his armpits. Finally, he ran several loops from under his arm, over his shoulder, and back around to the other side. He secured the end and took a step back, turning this way and that to look over his handiwork.

The mess was cleaned with a wave of his hand, and he left the bathroom, turning the lights off on his way. In his room, he began looking through his clothing for something loose and comfortable. An old t-shirt hung at the very back of his closet. The material was soft with age, black of course, and on the front was the logo for Queen. The memory of the days when he first listened to Queen made him smile sadly as he pulled on the shirt. His pants and jeans were also put on, and then he was fussing with his hair. 

“Now what? ” he thought, “All dressed up, but where to go? ” The memory of his Infernal Assignment came to him then, and he felt a pang of fear pierce him. 

With the fear as motivation, he decided to head to Soho. His heart ached at the idea of going back, but what choice did he have? If he was going to find out anything about the goings-ons of Heaven, that would be the only place he could. He’d just have to ignore his broken heart in an effort to keep from having broken bones if he didn’t deliver something to Hell.

While Crowley had been tending to his wounds, Muriel was still reading ravenously. They had gotten quite far indeed. But suddenly, their attention was pulled away from the printed word by the sound of trumpets. They were being called back Upstairs. 

Quickly, Muriel shut the volume they had been holding and made their way out of the shop and across the way to the elevator. Dutifully, they entered the lift and pressed the button for Heaven. They held their breath, a nervous habit, until the doors opened and they were assaulted by the stark whiteness all around them.

Entering Heaven, Muriel was struck with just how empty it seemed now that they had spent time on Earth. There was no color to be seen here, just the blinding whiteness. Muriel turned their head to see Michael approaching, heels clicking as they came closer to Muriel. 

“Ah, you’re here,” Michael said, motioning for Muriel to follow. “Good.”

“Thank you Michael,” Muriel responded, as they began following Michael, maintaining a few steps distance out of respect for the superior angel. “But, um…Why am I here?”
“He wants to see you,” was Michael’s only reply.

Muriel became excited then, hoping they would have a chance to ask questions about the things they had been reading. But when they followed Michael into one of the offices Mr. Fell was not there, but instead, before them stood the Metatron. 

The Metatron thanked Michael and with a look, dismissed them before turning to Muriel, a smile on his face. “Well, well! Muriel, it has been some time hasn’t it?”

“Yes sir,” Muriel replied, still a look of confusion plastered over their face. 

“Is something wrong my dear?” The Metatron asked, looking Muriel over with concern.

“No sir. I…I was just expecting to see Mr. Fell, that’s all.”

“I see,” The Metatron stood from behind his glass desk and walked over to the window, looking out over the glittering towers that made up the rest of Heaven. “I’m sorry to disappoint.”

Muriel wasn’t sure how to respond, so opted to keep their mouth closed, trying very hard to rearrange their features so that they didn’t further offend the Metatron. 

“Anyway Muriel, I wanted to check in on you, to see how you’re getting on so to speak. How is life on Earth?”

“Oh it’s grand!” Muriel said enthusiastically. “I’ve read so many books, and am learning so much about humans! I’m so grateful you and Mr. Fell chose me to look after the shop!”

“Good, good!” beamed the Metatron. “I knew I could count on you. I do wonder though, has anyone given you any trouble?”

“Trouble sir?”

“Yes, perhaps come in and tried to snoop or observe you? Maybe ask you strange questions?” He quirked an eyebrow at her. 

“Oh…No sir. I don’t think so. I’ve had very few customers to be honest. And those that tried to buy the books, I refused to sell to them, just as Mr. Fell did. I am doing the right thing, aren’t I?” Muriel looked to him for reassurance. 

“Of course my dear. No need to worry. You are doing a fine job. Really, that was all I wanted to ask you. I will let you get back to running the shop and reading your books.”

“That’s all sir?”

“Quite,” he said. But Muriel didn’t make a move to go. Instead, they stood there for a moment, chewing their lip in thought. 

“Sir? Can I speak to Mr. Fell? I do have a few questions I would like to ask him.” The Metatron looked back at Muriel and for a moment, they felt afraid of him, though they could not say why. 

“I’m sorry dear, but Aziraphale is quite busy at the moment. He has much work to do. Perhaps when he has some time, he can send for you.” 

Muriel felt dissatisfied with the answer, but thought better of saying anything, turning instead to leave. 

“Oh and Muriel,” they stopped and turned back to look at the Metatron once more. “If someone does come asking questions, you will let us know, won’t you?”

Muriel nodded slightly before rushing out of the door and back towards the lift. Once the doors had slid closed and they were on their way down to Earth, they allowed themself to ponder what had just happened, and how they felt. 

Exiting the lift, and heading to the shop, Muriel looked up and saw a vintage black Bentley parked along the street. They recognized it as the car belonging to Mr. Crowley. Hurriedly, they entered the shop, hoping that the demon would be coming in soon. 

Across the way from the bookshop, Crowley stood in line in the coffee shop behind two humans, who ordered painfully slowly. He reached the front of the line and Nina finally noticed him. She beamed a smile and shook her head in disbelief. 

“Ah! I haven’t seen you in ages!” she cried, starting on the first of the many shots she knew the demon would want. “How have you been?”

“Fine. Listen, I came to ask you about-” before he could finish, another customer behind him cleared his throat and looked pointedly at his watch. Crowley gritted his teeth in frustration. 

“Right uh, I don’t have time for a chat right this second, but let me get through this line and I’ll take my break and we can talk. How about that?”

“Sure,” he mumbled. 

“Still a fan of six shots in a big cup?”

He nodded , and moved to the side, waiting for his drink. After it was brewed, he went over to an open table and sat, watching out the window, and waiting for her to have a free moment. He caught sight of Maggie, alone in her record shop. She lit up upon meeting his gaze and rushed out, barely taking the time to close her shop door behind her. 

“Crowley!” she exclaimed when she got to his table. “Where have you been? We haven’t seen you in so long!” 

“Yeah…Been…busy.” Crowley didn’t know what to say to her. He was genuinely surprised that anyone would be this happy to see him. 

“And Mr. Fell? How is he doing? We miss him being around as well.” 

Crowley felt the familiar pain in his heart at the mention of the angel’s absence. Nina came over at that moment, sitting down next to them both. 

“I was just asking Crowley about Mr. Fell, it has been so long since we saw him last hasn’t it?” 

Nina nodded in agreement, her eyes searching Crowley’s face. “You haven’t talked to him either,” she said, matter-of-factly. 

“No, I haven’t,” Crowley mumbled his response, following it by taking a swig from his big coffee. “Actually, that was why I came, wanted to know if anyone had seen him lately.” 

A look passed between Nina and Maggie that Crowley could not quite place. He wondered if they were feeling sorry for him. The thought made him angry. 

“Well,” he said, downing the rest of his drink in one big gulp. “If you haven’t seen him, that's all I needed to know. Thanks for the espresso.” He got up quickly, ignoring the confused looks on the women’s faces, and began to walk toward the exit. 

“Crowley, wait!” Maggie called, jumping up to follow him. He waited a moment for her to catch up to him, keeping his back to her. “Are you okay?” She asked. 

“‘M fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“But we do! You’re our friend, of course we’re going to worry.” 

“Thanks,” he finally managed. “Uh…I’m going to go over to the uh, the bookshop. See how everything is.” Without another word, he left the coffee shop.

In the street, Crowley swallowed around the lump in his throat as he looked at the exterior of A. Z. Fell & Co. Antiquarian and Unusual Books. Through the window he could see that the shop was empty, save the low-level angel that had been appointed by Heaven to watch over the shop. The angel caught Crowley’s eye and waved enthusiastically, beckoning him inside. Heaving a sigh and steeling himself against the inevitable pain, he opened the door and entered. 

“Mr. Crowley!” Muriel bustled over to him and looked ever so excited. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

“Really?” he asked, looking about him to see if anything had changed. “Looks like you’ve been keeping up alright.”

“Oh yes, I’ve followed Mr. Fell’s instructions, making sure none of the books get sold, that sort of thing.”

“Good, good,” he muttered, not wanting to meet their gaze. He felt a pang of guilt at the thought of asking them for information, but then he remembered the excruciating pain of Alastor's whip. “So, uh. Have you heard from Mr. Fell lately?” Crowley asked, tracing his fingers along the spines of the books on the shelf closest to him. 

“No. Actually, I was hoping you had.” Muriel looked at him with a concerned expression. “They called me up to Heaven today, but told me he was too busy to see me.”

Crowley looked at them, head cocked. “Odd…So he hasn’t been back here at all since he left with the Metatwat?” 

“The Metatron?” Muriel asked, not understanding the insult. “No, not once. Today was the first time I’d heard anything from Upstairs at all.”

“What did they want to talk to you about?”

“Oh, they asked me if anyone had been by to ask me questions, or snoop around the shop. No one has, so that’s what I told them.”

“I see…”

“Then the Metatron told me to let him know if anyone did come around. I’m not sure why he wants to know, but it must be important.” Muriel’s confused look returned and they looked to Crowley for advice. 

“Well, that makes sense, I mean…I’m sure they just want to keep the shop safe. It is, after all, an outpost of Heaven.” It was clear to Crowley that Muriel’s only useful information was that Aziraphale was apparently too busy to come back to Earth or to even see anyone. Hopefully, it would be enough to satisfy Hell. “Do you, uh do you mind if I go into the bedroom, I think I left something of mine here last time.” The excuse sounded weak even to his own ears. Luckily Muriel seemed to buy his story and nodded with a smile.

“Of course. Take your time. I’ll just be here reading.”

Crowley climbed the stairs and entered the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Light filtered in through the window, and he took in the state of the room. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust, obviously Muriel, like Aziraphale, did not sleep. Books were piled around in various places, and on the nightstand sat a white porcelain mug with angel wings for a handle, “Jim’s mug” emblazoned in gold letters on the side.

For some reason, the sight of the mug was too much for him, breaking through the emotional block he had so carefully put up upon entering the shop. Suddenly the room around him seemed to be shrinking, his heart began to pound, and he felt unable to take a proper breath. A cold clammy feeling spread throughout his corporation and he began to shake all over. “Not again, not now, ” he thought, but then his mind began to flood with memories of time spent with Aziraphale in this shop. He could see the angel’s face behind his now closed eyes, as clearly as if he were standing in front of him. And Satan, it was agony. 

Breaths hitched in his throat that felt like it was closing off and tears flowed from his eyes, which he kept shut tightly. Then the sense of dread came. “We’re going mad, ” his mind told him. “What if it doesn’t stop this time? ” He let out a helpless cry. “You know how to make it stop. Do it! ” 

Using what little concentration he was able to muster, he conjured himself a small square razor blade. Without another thought he brought the razor against the flesh of his inner forearm, about halfway between his wrist and elbow. Hesitating for just a moment, he stared at the razor, pressing slightly into his skin. “Do it! ” his mind roared at him again through the panic. And he obeyed, slicing through the tender flesh.

The pain began to seep through the panic, but it wasn’t enough, he needed more. Placing the razor slightly to the side of the fresh wound, he dragged it down again, creating a parallel cut. “Again, ” his mind said, as his breathing and heartbeat seemed to reach a crescendo. And again he cut, three long lines now bled freely, and finally his panic seemed to be subsiding. 

Watching the blood pour from himself, he fell to his knees and let out a sob. “I miss you so much…” he whispered to the empty room.

Behind him, the door creaked open slowly. He rushed to stand up, quickly covering his wounds with his other hand, and turned to see Muriel enter.

“Crowley, are you alri-” Muriel started to ask, but their eyes went wide as they caught the sight of blood dripping from between the demon’s fingers and covering the floor. “What happened?” They took a step closer to the demon, who in turn took a step backward. 

“No…nothing. I…I have to go.” Crowley pushed his way past Muriel, dripping a crimson trail as he went. He nearly fell down the stairs in his haste. Muriel tried to follow, calling Crowley’s name, but the demon wouldn’t listen, and the next moment, he was crossing the ground floor of the shop, and sweeping out of the door.

Chapter Text

Crowley burst out of the shop and headed straight for the lift, making up his mind to go to Hell and give them the little information he’s learned. Still clutching his injured arm, he clambered into the elevator and smashed the button to take him Down. As the doors slid closed, he glanced up and saw Muriel rushing after him, but they were too late. 

Upon his arrival, Crowley immediately began shouting at any demon nearby that he was there to talk to Shax. The bureaucratic demons simply gazed back at him as if he had gone completely mental. But all the racket he made did work in his favor and a demon approached him. This demon was tall and lanky, greasy black hair hung in strings around its face. But the most prominent feature was its lack of a lower jaw, in its place hung bits of flesh, tattered and bloody. From the gaping hole, hung a long tongue which reached down to the demon’s sternum, and constantly dripped a thick, brownish saliva. The demon tipped its head, a gesture which Crowley assumed meant for him to follow. 

The demon led him to Shax, who was talking to the same group of lesser demons that she had told Crowley she was training to promote. She turned and narrowed her eyes at Crowley as he entered with the jawless demon. 

“Well?” Shax asked, her eyes flicking down to where Crowley was still gripping his bleeding arm. 

“I’m here to tell you what I know,” Crowley said, trying to stand up a bit straighter. 

“Go on then.” The other demons looked at one another before looking expectantly at Crowley. 

“The S-supreme Arch…Archangel…he hasn’t been back to Earth since…since his departure.” Crowley paused, looking at Shax for any indication about how this information made her feel. “He uh…he hasn’t spoken to Heaven’s new emissary on Earth, in fact, no one has. Well, not until today.” This earned him a raised eyebrow from Shax and a slight murmur among the demons, but nothing more. “Today, the new emissary tried to speak with Az…the Supreme Archangel, but they were told no. Apparently he is too busy.” Crowley finished speaking, guilt radiating through him.Silence fell all around him, and the tension was palpable. “That’s all I know.” 

Shax sat looking right at Crowley, but said nothing. None of the other demons moved, and Crowley felt panic start to flare within him. 

“Kay? I’ve told you everything. Now will you leave me alone?” More silence and stares. “Say something for Hell’s sake!” 

“Not good enough,” Shax finally said, barely more than a whisper. She made a gesture to the demon who had brought Crowley here, and it approached. Crowley couldn't hear what Shax whispered to the hideous creature. It left the chamber, leering at Crowley as it went.

“How can it not be good enough?” Crowley yelled, trying to sound more angry than afraid. “That's all I have!”

Suddenly, Crowley felt a presence enter the chamber behind him. The other demons, all except Shax, took a small shuffling step back. A hot breath ghosted against the back of Crowley’s neck, sending a chill up his spine. “Please no…” Crowley whimpered as he slowly turned to see the Master of Tortures behind him. 

Before he could say anything, Crowley was met with the clawed hand of Alastor against his chest. He shrieked as those sharp claws stabbed straight into his flesh. Then he felt himself being lifted from the ground by those claws, like meat hooks in his sternum. His feet dangled and he reached up to grasp at the arm attached to the clawed hand, hoping to ease some of the pressure. 

Alastor grinned as he watched the terror and pain pass over Crowley’s face, and using his free hand, he ripped Crowley’s dark glasses away so that he could look the damned fool in the eyes. It was then that the Master of Tortures noticed the blood still running from the cuts upon Crowley’s forearm. He looked confused for a moment, but then the truth of the situation occurred to him and he chuckled darkly in Crowley’s face. 

“Oh, you are…pitiful aren’t you?” Alastor said, forcing his claws even deeper into Crowley’s flesh. “Hurting yourself I see. Well, if it’s pain you want, I can surely deliver.” Alastor brought his snout close to the wounds on Crowley’s arm, and letting his tongue fall from his mouth, he lapped at the blood. “Although,” he said, licking his lips, his teeth red and gory. “Your pain does taste so much sweeter when it is done by your own hand.” He licked the cuts again.  

Crowley let out an involuntary noise, and squirmed under Alastor’s tongue, his movements causing more pain to radiate from the stabbing claws.

Alastor lifted him up even further before slamming him hard into the ground and pulling his claws out of Crowley’s body. Then the giant demon placed both hands on Crowley’s shoulders and used his claws to rake down his abdomen. 

Crowley screamed and cried, shaking under the intense pain. “Please…Please I don’t know anymore! Please!”

Alastor stood above Crowley, who rolled over onto his side and into a fetal position. “You heard Shax. It’s not good enough. You will get more information, and you will bring it to us. And if you are not lying and you simply can’t…Well…It’s going to be a long eternity for you and me.” Alastor stepped over Crowley to exit the chamber, but paused at the door and turned back. “1 week Crowley,” he said before kicking Crowley in the shoulder.

“Take him away,” Shax commanded Alastor. “Send him back to Earth.”

Alastor’s snout twitched, wanting to snarl at being commanded, but he obliged nonetheless. Gripping Crowley by the hair, he dragged him back through Hell to the lift, which he unceremoniously shoved his body, still lying on the ground, into. He slammed a fist into the button for Earth and kicked Crowley one last time before the lift doors drew closed, taking the broken demon back to the surface.

Chapter Text

Muriel made eye contact with Crowley once more before the doors to the lift slid shut. Standing alone in the street, they felt unsure of what to do. Looking about themself, they saw Maggie and Nina sitting at a table in the coffee shop, talking to one another. In a rush, they ran over to the shop and approached the two women.

“Muriel, hi!” Maggie greeted with a smile. But her expression quickly changed when she saw the look on Muriel’s face. 

“Muriel, you okay?” Nina asked. “What’s happened?”

“I…I’m not sure…” Muriel responded, looking back and forth between the humans. 

“What do you mean? Where’s Crowley?” Nina reached out and took Muriel’s hand, tugging slightly to make them sit.

“He…he went Down.”

“Down?” Maggie asked with confusion. “Down where?”

“You don’t mean…” Nina began, catching on quicker than Maggie. “He went back to Hell? Why?”

“I don’t know. He came into the shop and asked me questions about Mr. Fell.” Maggie and Nina looked at each other.

“You don’t think…” Maggie started to ask, but Nina cut her off.

“No, he wouldn’t. He’s not going back to their side. What else did he say?”

“Well, he told me that he hadn’t heard from Mr. Fell either. Then he asked if he could look for something of his in the bedroom.” Nina raised an eyebrow at that, but didn’t say anything. Muriel continued, “I let him go, and I was reading, when suddenly I heard a thud. I went to the bedroom to check and when I opened the door, Mr. Crowley was on the floor. He hurriedly stood up and turned towards me. I tried to ask him if he was alright, but then I noticed…” Muriel paused for a moment.

“What Muriel? What did you see?” 

“I’m not sure. He was holding his arm like this,” they demonstrated for the women before continuing, “and I’ve never seen…blood before, but I think that’s what was all over. It was red and dripping between his fingers onto the floor.”

“Oh my God,” Maggie exclaimed. “What then?”

“He told me he had to go, and he shoved his way past me and out of the shop. I picked this up off the floor, before following him out into the street, where I saw him get into the lift. He must be in Hell now.” Muriel held their palm outstretched to the humans who immediately recognized the razor blade. 

“Why would he do that?” Maggie asked Nina, her face pale and her eyes full of worry. 

“I don’t know,” Nina sighed. 

All three beings looked across the street then to the pub on the corner. At that moment, the lift doors opened. It took them a moment before they realized that the elevator was not in fact empty, but that there was something, or rather someone, crumpled up on the floor. 

Muriel gasped and got up, running out of the coffee shop and toward the lift, Nina and Maggie following close behind. 

“It’s him,” Muriel called to them. “Help me!”

“Oh my God,” Maggie said again, seeing the demon lying there, clothing tattered, bandages falling from his chest, huge slashes all down his front, and blood pooling all around him. 

“What happened to him? What do we do?” Nina asked, starting to feel helpless.

“Let’s take him into the bookshop, no one from Hell can get in without permission remember?” Muriel said and began trying to hoist the demon off the ground. 

“Yeah, the bookshop. Crowley, can you hear me?” Nina asked, gently patting the side of Crowley’s face. The demon only made a small noise in response. “We’re going to get you into the bookshop, can you stand up?” Crowley moved slightly and let out another pained whimper, but somehow he managed to roll over onto his hands and knees. With help from Maggie on one side, and Nina on the other, Crowley was able to press up and got to his feet. 

Careful not to touch the open wounds on his chest, Maggie and Nina draped his arms about their shoulders and supported most of his weight as they moved slowly toward the door to the shop. Muriel threw open the doors, the bells ringing above, and gestured for them to put Crowley down on the sofa. 

They laid him down on his back, causing him to cry out again. They all stood still just looking at him as he writhed, unsure how to proceed. 

“Let’s uh, let’s get this off him.” Nina said, meaning his destroyed t-shirt. The tatters came away from Crowley’s front, and Nina pressed gently on his back, trying to get him to sit up. He cried out again, making her throw her hands up with a confused look on her face. “Is your back hurt too?” He nodded, tears coming freely. “Okay…okay. Can you sit up so I can take off your shirt?” 

Crowley sat up to the best of his ability and helped her to remove the ruined fabric. The bandage that he had so carefully applied this morning was also ruined by Alastor’s claws, so Nina began peeling that away, dropping the bloody cloth on the ground around their feet. 

“Oh my God, Crowley,” Maggie said, a look of pure horror on her face. “We need to get you to a hospital!”

“No,” he managed to reply, his voice faltering. His skin was deathly pale and he was struggling to keep his eyes open. 

“Shit,” Nina cursed, “he’s gonna faint.” As she said it, Crowley did indeed lose consciousness, his head falling back, and his body slumping. “Now what? He needs medical attention.”

“I’m not sure why he didn’t just heal himself…” Muriel mused. 

“He can do that?” Maggie asked and Muriel nodded in response. “Can you?” 

“I…I suppose. I don’t know if I should…he is a demon…”

“We don’t have time Muriel. He’s lost too much blood,” Nina yelled. 

“Okay, um, let me see…” Muriel kneeled before the demon, placing their hands on his chest. They felt scared, wondering if they were doing the right thing, but then they remembered all the things they’d read about Crowley in Aziraphale’s diaries. “This must be the right thing to do,” they thought, concentrating hard and performing the healing miracle. Nina and Maggie watched in amazement as the wounds on his chest began to close before their eyes. 

The healing sensation pulled Crowley back to consciousness. When he realized what was happening, he sat up quickly, fear written all over his face. Roughly he shoved Muriel’s hands away. 

“Stop!” he yelled. Muriel looked at him, hurt in their eyes. He tried to stand, but Nina grabbed his uninjured arm, pulling him back to the sofa. 

“Let them,” Nina said.

“Please Crowley, we just want to help,” Maggie pleaded when Crowley attempted to stand again. 

“You can’t help me!” He roared. All of them recoiled from the demon’s yell. “I need to go,” he said, standing again, though swaying slightly. After getting his balance, he stalked toward the door. The humans and the angel looked at one another, unsure what to do. At the door, Crowley stopped and looked back at them over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, but you can’t help me,” he mumbled before leaving the shop, rushing to his Bentley, blood dripping all the way from the wounds Muriel hadn’t gotten a chance to heal. 

Chapter Text

The Bentley pulled away from the shops on Whickber Street and raced away. The women and the angel still stood around the now empty sofa, shocked and confused. 

“Okay…” Nina began, the first one to break the tense silence. “What just happened?” 

“I dunno,” Maggie replied. “Why wouldn’t he let Muriel help him? He was clearly in a lot of pain.” 

“But why was he so hurt in the first place?” Asked Nina. 

“Hell must be angry with him,” Muriel replied, thinking back to a diary entry they had read. “I think something like this has happened before. Just…maybe not as bad.” 

“What do you mean?” Maggie asked with concern. 

“Well, I’ve been reading these books that Mr. Fell wrote. He talks a lot about Mr. Crowley in them.” The women shared a glance at one another, but let Muriel continue without interruption. “Well he wrote about being in Scotland with Mr. Crowley, and while they were there they went on this interesting adventure. You should read it, it’s quite exciting really.” 

“Muriel…” Nina said, attempting to get the angel back on track. 

“Right, sorry. So basically Crowley did something very kind, but when Mr. Fell tried to compliment him on it, Mr. Crowley got angry and said not to call him kind. They were walking along and, according to Mr. Fell, Mr. Crowley was pulled into the ground! Then Mr. Fell didn’t see him for a very long time.” 

“He was in trouble for doing something kind?” asked Maggie. 

“I think so. Mr. Fell wrote all about how he was worried about what was happening to him. But he couldn’t do anything. Do you think Mr. Crowley is in trouble again?”

“He must be,” Nina said. “What happened when Crowley came back after Scotland?” 

“Well, Mr. Fell tried to ask him questions about where he had been and what had happened, but Mr. Crowley refused to answer. According to Mr. Fell, Crowley seemed afraid, like he didn’t dare even mention Hell for a long time.” 

“Okay, so it’s obvious that this is Hell’s doing again yeah?” Nina remarked. Maggie and Muriel nodded in response. “So how do we keep him safe?” 

“He could stay here,” Muriel suggested, feeling a tinge of excitement about the idea of having a companion around. 

“But won’t Hell know he’s here? Isn’t this the first place they would look?” Maggie pointed out. 

“That’s true. Maybe if we knew what he was in trouble for… what is Hell upset with him about?” said Nina, pacing. 

“Maybe it has to do with Mr. Fell,” Muriel offered. 

“How do you mean?” 

“Well, Mr. Crowley was asking me questions about Mr. Fell right before he went Down. Maybe he went to tell them what I told him.” 

“Muriel, you’re spot on! I’m sure that’s what they want. That’s why he asked us about Mr. Fell too. What did you tell Crowley?” Nina looked at the angel expectantly. 

“I told him that Mr. Fell hasn’t been back to the shop since he left.” 

“That’s it?” Maggie asked.

“And I told him that the Metatron wouldn’t let me see Mr. Fell when they called me up to Heaven today.” 

Nina and Maggie’s eyes went wide. “They called you to Heaven? What for?” 

“The Metatron wanted to know if anyone had been snooping around the shop or asking strange questions. I told him the truth, no one had. Then he asked me to report back if anyone does. That’s when I asked if I could see Mr. Fell, but the Metatron told me that the Supreme Archangel is very busy and that he didn’t have time to see me.” 

“Strange…” Nina mused. “It sounds like both sides want information on one another. And I’d be willing to bet that Hell wasn’t happy with Crowley’s answer.” 

“Do you really think Mr. Fell is too busy to come back to the shop? He loves this place…” Maggie wondered aloud. 

“The Metatron wouldn’t lie,” Muriel asserted matter-of-factly, but then their face scrunched in concern and they asked, “would he?” 

“Personally, I didn’t like him,” Nina responded, remembering the weird interaction she had with him in the coffee shop. 

“I trust Nina’s instincts,” Maggie added, smiling at Nina. 

“But…angels shouldn’t lie…although…” 

“What is it Muriel?” Asked Maggie. 

“Well, Mr. Fell did lie to save Job’s children. And of course, he lied to protect Gabriel when he was here on Earth. Maybe…maybe lying isn’t always wrong…” 

“As much as I’d love to help you with your moral crisis, I think we need to figure out what to do here. Crowley was seriously hurt. Who knows what they’ll do to him next time.” Nina continued to pace nervously. “I think we need to talk to Mr. Fell somehow.” 

“I agree,” said Maggie, “he’ll know what to do.” 

“But how?” Muriel asked. “If the Metatron. Won’t let me see him…” 

“We’ll have to come up with something that will make him. Something that only Mr. Fell Can do.” 

“How much does the Metatron know about Earth?” Nina asked Muriel. 

“I’m not sure, but most of the angels don’t really know anything, they don’t pay much attention to the humans. I really didn’t know anything either until I started reading books.” 

“Okay, so maybe we can come up with something that you could tell them that they would have to send Mr. Fell back here, don’t you think Nina?” Maggie looked hopefully at Nina then at Muriel. 

“Yeah, yeah that’s good. What could we have Muriel say though?” 

Muriel looked uncomfortable at the idea of lying to Heaven. “I don’t know if I can,” they said in a small squeaky voice. 

“You can, you saw what they did to Crowley, you know Mr. Fell would never let anything like that happen.” Nina was insistent. “Oh Maggie! Do you remember those blokes who came round a couple years ago trying to buy up all the shops? Wouldn’t take no for an answer?” 

“Yeah, I do. They were quite persistent. And quite rude if memory serves.” Maggie replied. 

“Exactly. Muriel could tell the Met-meta- whatever, that they’re back! Mr. Fell was the only one who managed to get them to leave us alone in the first place.” 

They both looked to Muriel, whose face was awash with worry. 

“Muriel,” said Maggie, trying to speak in a soothing and calming manner. “I know this is a lot to ask of you, but you’re the only one who can do it. Mr. Crowley, he’s obviously in a lot of danger…Do you think you’re up to it?” 

Muriel chewed their bottom lip, eyebrows drawn together in frustrated confusion. “I don’t know,” they finally replied. “Can I think about it?”

“We don't have-” Nina began, but Maggie shot her a look, and she closed her mouth quickly. 

“Sure,” said Maggie. “How about we meet back here tomorrow after closing? That should give Nina and I more time to finish the plan, and you time to think about it. Sound good?” 

Nina gave a curt nod, then looked over her shoulder out the window to her busy shop across the street. “Sorry, I’ve got to get back over there,” she said. “See you tomorrow.” With that, Nina hurried back to her coffee shop. 

“Okay Muriel, I’m going to go help Nina across the way. I’m sorry to be putting you through this. If you need anything, come on over. Otherwise, we’ll see you tomorrow evening.” Maggie left the shop, crossing the street and entering the coffee shop. 

Muriel sat alone with their thoughts. They were conflicted and confused. How could they ever decide what to do? 

Chapter Text

The Bentley swerved gently as Crowley fought to keep consciousness. He’d momentarily blacked out three times so far, but somehow had managed to avoid a wreck, which was most likely the Bentley’s doing. He was driving much slower than usual, having barely the strength to press the pedals. 

Eventually he made it to his building, parked rather crookedly, and began the trek up to his flat. “Why do I have to be on the top floor? ” He bemoaned, taking the first few stairs on legs that felt heavy as iron. By the last few stairs he was crawling on hands and knees, his heart rate through the roof and his lungs on fire from the effort of his breathing. 

Pulling himself up, he unlocked the flat and tumbled inside. Falling to the cool tiled floor, he took time to catch his breath, his head swimming the whole time. 

Once his heart rate and breathing were back to normal, he made the effort to stand and cross into the bathroom. In front of his mirror, once more he surveyed the damage. To his horror, several of the wounds on his chest were nearly healed, the low level angel’s doing. 

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” cried the terrified demon. “He’s going to kill me.” His mind supplied him with all sorts of ways that Alastor was going to punish him for being healed. “I can’t fucking do this!” he wailed to himself. 

After a moment of sobs that reverberated through his entire body, he did his best to straighten up. Looking at his wounds again, he began the process of tending to them once more. It took much longer this time due to his lack of strength and the awful pain. But somehow he managed. 

Moving into his bedroom, he used the last bit of willpower that he could muster to miracle his bedding clean before crashing into the mattress. He curled up on his side, the only position that was even slightly comfortable, and wept silently, reliving all that he had been through since Aziraphale left him. Gripping a pillow to himself and pretending it was the angel, he slowly drifted into sleep, someone finally taking pity on him as it was mercifully dreamless. 

Several hours later, back in Soho, Muriel still sat on the couch, still covered in blood spots from the demon, deep in thought. The internal struggle they were facing was intense. After a while, thinking became too much and they decided to try reading some more. “Maybe I’ll find some answers in Mr. Fell’s journal,” thought the angel. Retrieving the volume, they say back down at the desk and began to read. 

“Dear diary, 

Today was peculiar indeed. Crowley reached out to me a few days ago and asked me to meet him in one of our usual spots, St. James Park to be exact. We stood together casually, observing the fowl and the passersby. But then, Crowley started musing aloud, making comments like “what if it all goes wrong?” I figured he was just worried still, so I just let him talk. But then, he told me that he wanted a favour from me, insurance he called it. When I looked at him expectantly, he wouldn’t even say aloud what he wanted, instead handing me a folded piece of paper. 

I must say, I was completely taken aback when I unfolded the page and read the two words printed upon it. He wanted holy water, for Heaven’s sake! Of course I told him no, it would destroy him after all. And I must admit, I felt angry with him for even asking such a thing of me. How could he ask me to provide him with the means of his own death? And not just discorporation, but utter elimination! No, I couldn’t bear it. And I told him so, I told him I would not provide him a suicide pill. He tried to tell me that it was not what he wanted it for, but the risk is still too great. And part of me doesn’t believe him…

I tried to reason with him, but he became upset, which in turn made me even more angry. I hate to admit it, but I left him in a huff, tossing his written request away from me as I went. 

I have returned to my bookshop now and I find that I am terribly conflicted. I am still angry with him of course, but I also feel a deep sense of concern, and a desire to be near him. I want to know that he is safe. Why do I feel this way? Oh, I do hope I have done the right thing…

Muriel closed the volume and let out a sigh. They understood exactly what Aziraphale was feeling, they too wanted to make the right decision, but were ultimately unsure of what that meant. But the more they thought, the more they found themself returning to the desire to speak with Aziraphale. “That means I’ll have to lie to the Metatron,” they thought for the umpteenth time. “I don’t want to lie, but I think I have no other choice…” Something felt final this time, and Muriel decided that they had made up their mind. They were going to listen to the humans and follow the plan so that they could see Mr. Fell. “He’ll know what to do,” they said aloud like a mantra. “Yes, he will know what to do.”

Having made their decision, they reopened the volume and kept reading, hungry for more knowledge. 

Chapter Text

The next evening, Muriel opened the door and let Maggie and Nina into the bookshop. They two humans looked at Muriel expectantly as they sat on the couch. 

“So Muriel…” began Nina, “have you decided what you want to do?”

Muriel swallowed hard before standing up a bit straighter and nodding definitively. “Yes,” they said. “I want to help Mr. Crowley. If Mr. Fell has lied before, and it was for the greater good, then I think, well I think I can too.” 

“Wonderful!” Maggie exclaimed, her face bright despite her nervous worrying. 

“Great, so now we just need to finalize the plan. Muriel, can you just go up to Heaven whenever you choose, or do you need to be called up?”

“Well, my orders were to stay here to look after this outpost, but I can take the lift up if I need to.”

“Perfect. Maggie and I were thinking, if you go up to Heaven, you can tell the Metatron that two men have come by the shop several times, asking about buying it.”

“Oh, make sure you tell him that these men are very persistent and that they are really getting on your nerves and that-” Nina cleared her throat, making Maggie blush slightly and stop her small rant. 

“Okay, so I tell the Metatron that men want to buy the shop and that they won’t leave me alone? Do you think he’ll let me speak with Mr. Fell for that?”

“Maybe, but if he doesn’t, you need to tell him that the men told you that the mortgage is in default for not being paid. Do you know what that means?”

Muriel shook their head, looking at Nina and Maggie with wide eyes. “Is it bad?”

“It would be if it were true. But the important bit is do you think the Metatron or anyone else in Heaven will know what that means?” Maggie informed them.

“I don’t think so,” Muriel replied, chewing their lower lip. “What if he asks me what it means?”

“Tell him that you asked us and that we told you that Mr. Fell needed to contact the mortgage holder to fix the issue, otherwise he could lose ownership of the shop. Understand?”

“Oh! So only Mr. Fell can talk to the mor..mortgage holder?” Muriel asked, luckily catching on quickly. 

“Exactly! And I’m guessing Heaven doesn’t want to lose their, what did you call it? Outpost?” replied Nina, feeling proud of herself and Maggie for the plan that they’d concocted. 

“Yes, an official outpost of Heaven. I’m sure they would not want it to fall into human hands. You two are very clever. I just hope I can keep all of this straight…”

“Don’t worry,” Maggie smiled. “You can do this!”

Muriel smiled back, “so when do we start?”

“I think it might be suspicious if you went up so soon after having just asked to speak with Mr. Fell. Maybe we should give it a few days,” Nina reasoned. 

“I agree,” said Maggie, nodding. 

“Okay. So what should I do in the meantime?” Muriel suddenly felt very ready, wanting to help however they could right now. 

“Unfortunately, I don’t think there is anything that you can do. We just need to wait out the next few days and then you can go up.”

“I guess I’ll just stay here and keep reading then,” Muriel felt a little disappointed, but was glad to have something to occupy their time. 

“Okay, so we’re all agreed. Let’s meet up again tomorrow night and rehearse then plan, ‘kay?” Nina stood up to go, Maggie following her.

“Sure,” Muriel said, nervousness filling them. “I just hope Mr. Crowley will be alright until then…”

“So do we…” said Maggie, a sad look on her face. “If you need anything, or think of anything, come on over to the record shop.”

Muriel nodded before walking the humans to the door, opening it to let them out into the night. 

Once again, Muriel was alone with nothing but silence and their thoughts. They looked about them, wishing that things didn’t have to be so confusing. “Life was much simpler when I was up in Heaven,” they thought, but then the memory of loneliness returned, and suddenly they were more resolute than before. “I am doing the right thing,” they told themselves before retrieving the next volume of Aziraphale’s diaries and flicking it open, they began to read again.

Chapter Text

It had been five days since Muriel, Maggie, and Nina had decided on their plan. Each night the humans and the angel met up and rehearsed what Muriel was going to say, and each night Muriel got more confident and more eager for the day to come. And now, it was here. 

Per Maggie’s suggestion, Muriel was to go Up around noon, that way they could tell Heaven that the men wanting to buy the shop had just come in yet again. Muriel was watching the clock tick by, waiting rather impatiently for it to strike twelve. The second it did, Muriel was out of their seat and heading towards the door. 

Maggie and Nina were working in their respective shops, but they both happened to look up as Muriel made their way across the street and to the lift. Both women hoped for the best, watching the angel enter the elevator and press the button to take them Upstairs. 

In the lift, Muriel had a sudden wave of doubt, “maybe this is a bad idea…” But they tried to remember the wonderful things they had read about Crowley in Mr. Fell’s journals, and how terrified and hurt the demon had been just a few days ago. They held their head a little higher, and when the lift doors opened with a ding, they stepped out into the blinding light with confidence. 

Muriel wandered through the seemingly empty head office, looking for signs of anyone. They walked the way they remembered Michael taking them, hoping to find the Metatron’s office. It took several minutes and them poking their head into several empty rooms, before they finally found someone. 

Sitting at a desk, Uriel was looking over a file, concentrating hard. She didn’t even look up when Muriel entered, only noticing their presence when, after a moment, they cleared their throat. 

“Muriel, what are you doing here?” Uriel asked, quickly shutting the file and standing from her desk. 

“Um, I was hoping to speak to Mr. Fell. Do you know where he is?” asked Muriel, nervous as they had not expected to talk to anyone other than the Metatron. 

“He’s probably in his office. Doesn’t really come out much.” Uriel made a face to show her apparent disapproval. “Do you know where Gabriel’s office used to be? He’s in there.”

“Sorry, I don’t. All the offices look the same to me. Could you maybe show me?”

Uriel scoffed, but began walking toward them nevertheless. “Come on, this way.”

“Don’t you want to know why I want to see him?” Muriel asked as they left her office and walked through the empty corridor again. 

“Honestly, I don’t really care,” Uriel replied, stopping abruptly at a door and giving a small knock before entering. 

As the door swung open, Muriel held their breath. Inside the barren room, sitting behind a glass desk covered in several closed files, was Aziraphale. He looked up at his visitors, a slight look of confusion on his face. 

“Muriel is here to see you, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale,” Uriel announced, an unfriendly hint to her voice. 

“Oh, thank you, Uriel. Come in please.” Aziraphale motioned for Muriel to step further into his office, and he gestured to one of his empty chairs, offering them a seat. “How can I help you?”

Muriel was too stunned to say anything for a moment. It had been a little over a month since his departure, but the Archangel looked quite different. He didn’t wear his normal clothes, but instead wore a grey suit with gold accents, similar to the other Archangels. His hair was longer, and more wild, and he had started to grow a beard upon his face. But the most striking thing about him was his eyes. Where once they had been a steely blue, they were now a harsh violet, shining brightly under his long lashes. 

As Muriel stood there, not saying anything, Aziraphale let out a confused laugh. “Are you alright?” 

“Oh, yes. Sorry. I was just uh. I was just surprised is all…”

“Surprised?” The Supreme Archangel crossed back behind his desk and sat in his own chair, gesturing again for Muriel to take a seat as well. 

Muriel obeyed, sitting down and trying to will themselves to look the angel in his eyes, but finding it incredibly difficult. “Well, um…sir…I needed to speak with you about a…a problem back on Earth. At t-the shop.”

“A problem? What kind of problem?” asked Azirphale with a concerned look. 

Before Muriel could answer, the door to the office opened once more and the Metatron came rushing in. 

“Muriel,” he said. “What brings you here?” His question and tone were friendly and inviting, but Muriel noticed the expression he wore was not so welcoming. In fact, they thought that the look he had given them, had been one of barely contained rage. 

“Well, sir,” Muriel began, feeling more confident now that things were going more according to the plan that they had rehearsed back on Earth. “I needed to speak with Mr. Fell. You see, there is a problem on Earth. A problem with the bookshop.”

The Metatron’s eyebrows shot up in interest. “Oh? What is it?”

“Well, these two men have come in several times now. They keep asking about buying the shop.”

“Oh is that all? You didn’t have to come up here for that. You can just tell them no and move on.” The Metatron’s expression fell in disappointment. 

“That’s just it sir, I have told them no several times. But they are very persistent. Quite rude as well I might add. But the last time they were in they said something that about an issue with the mortgage.”

“The mortgage?” The Metatron looked to Aziraphale for an explanation. 

The Supreme Archangel had a confused look about him, and he met Muriel’s eye. For a moment, Muriel was concerned that he had caught them in their lie. “Yes, the payment to keep the shop owned by me,” Aziraphale explained. “They said there is something wrong with it?”

“Yes,” Muriel nodded, trying to sound as concerned and convincing as possible. “I wasn’t sure what it meant either, so I asked Nina, the human who owns the coffee shop,” they reminded the Metatron. “She told me that Mr. Fell would have to talk to the mortgage holder to get it straightened out.”

“And what would happen if he didn’t?” asked the Metatron. 

“Well, I could lose the shop. The mortgage holder would take possession of it and sell it, likely to those two men who seem so keen on buying it.” Aziraphale glanced back at Muriel as he explained this to the Metatron. “It sounds like I will need to go down to Earth to take care of this. We don’t want to lose one of our outposts.”

“No, I suppose not…” The Metatron rubbed at his chin, furrowing his brow, and pacing the office. “When will you need to leave? And how long will you need?”

“Oh, not long. Maybe a few hours. I do think I could go to Earth tomorrow, set up a meeting. I’d be back before you know it.” Azirphale smiled. 

The Metatron nodded his approval. “Alright. Tomorrow. I will send Michael with you.”

“No,” Muriel cried out before they could stop themselves. 

“And why not?” asked the Metatron, turning his full glare upon them. 

“Be-because…”

“Because Michael and the others know nothing of humans. They would cause suspicion and issue. I only require the assistance of Muriel here, they have learned quite a bit about Earth I would assume.” Muriel nodded furiously, grateful for Aziraphale’s quick thinking. 

“Fine, have it your way. I expect a report about how this all goes when you return.” With that, the Metatron left the room, leaving Aziraphale and Muriel alone. 

Once Aziraphale was sure the Metatron was out of ear shot, he rounded on Muriel. “I’m not sure what you’re doing, but you better have a very good reason for doing it,” he said quickly and under his breath. Muriel opened their mouth to respond, but Aziraphale cut them off. “Don’t say anything. You can explain yourself tomorrow afternoon. I’ll meet you in the bookshop at half past one, make sure no one else is there.”

Muriel gave a small nod of understanding. “I’ll just be off then…see you tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow.” Aziraphale cast his eyes back down on the files in front of him, effectively dismissing Muriel. 

The lesser angel turned on their heel and left, heading back the long corridor that led to the lift. 

On Earth, Maggie and Nina kept looking over at the pub across the way, nervously wondering how Muriel was getting on. When they finally caught sight of the angel exiting the lift, they rushed out of their respective shops to meet them in the bookshop. 

Muriel ushered the humans inside and closed the doors quickly. They were nearly bursting with want to tell the humans what had transpired. 

“So?!” Maggie asked as soon as everything was closed up. “How did it go? Will the Metatron let you see Mr. Fell?” 

“I got to see him!” Muriel cried. 

“What?!” both women asked in unison. 

“He was in his office. Uriel took me right to him! He looks so different!” 

“Different? How so?” Asked Nina. 

“His hair is longer and he wears the fancy clothes the Archangels wear. Oh, and he has a beard.” 

“Oh I bet he looks nice with a beard,” said Maggie with a fond smile. 

“But what did he say?” Nina said, growing impatient. 

“He seemed confused at first, I was so nervous.” 

“Did he believe you? What about the Metatron?” Maggie asked, leaning in eager to hear everything. 

“At first I wasn’t sure what he was thinking. But then the Metatron came in and Aziraphale actually helped me to convince him. The Metatron initially wanted to send another Archangel along. I panicked and said no. Me! I said no to the Metatron! He looked at me and asked why. I was terrified. I didn’t know what to do or say. But then Mr. Fell came up with an explanation, telling him that the other angels would rouse suspicion because they are so unfamiliar with humans.” 

“So he’s coming alone?” 

“Yes. He’ll be here tomorrow at half past one. He told me to make sure that no one else was here.”

“Perfect! What are you going to say to him? Should we be here? Should we try to bring Crowley?” Maggie was talking very fast. 

“Hang on, hang on. Let’s slow down. He did say he wanted to meet with just you, right Muriel?” 

“Mmhmm.” 

“Okay then. Maggie and I will keep an eye out from the coffee shop. You will have to talk to him on your own. Explain the situation. What’s happened to Crowley. Ask him what to do. Tell him we need his help. Can you handle all that?” 

“Yes. I can do this.” After I talk to him, I’ll come to the shop and tell you everything!” 

They all let out a collective sigh of relief, now they just had to keep it together until tomorrow afternoon. 

Chapter Text

Muriel stood near the door of the bookshop, waiting impatiently for the Supreme Archangel to arrive. They kept glancing back at the clock on the desk, willing the time to go faster. Any minute now Aziraphale would arrive, and they were nervous but excited. 

A soft knock on the door seemed to ripple through the quiet of the shop, and Muriel jumped at the noise. Springing toward the door, they quickly opened it, breathing a sigh of relief at seeing Aziraphale’s figure in the entryway. 

Aziraphale gave Muriel a small smile and a nod before entering the open door. Muriel stood holding the handle, simply gaping at the Archangel. A raised eyebrow and a slight motion of the head, indicated to them that they should shut the door and come sit. Muriel did so, then followed Aziraphale farther into the shop, where he sat down at his desk, Muriel taking a seat on the sofa. 

“Well,” the Archangel’s voice was the first to break the silence. “You wanted to see me alone. Here I am.”

“Yes… uh, thank you for coming, and thank you for convincing the Metatron to let you come alone. I have something important to talk to you about.”

Aziraphale’s face contorted slightly at the mention of the Metatron, but he put his features quickly back to rights before saying, “Do not thank me just yet. I want to know why you lied to the Metatron, and why you lied to me.” Muriel opened their mouth to respond, but Aziraphale stopped them by raising his hand. “Please don’t deny it. I have owned this shop outright since 1934, there is no mortgage, no mortgage holder, and I’d dare say there are no men coming in trying to buy the shop. Now, tell me what is really happening.”

“Well sir, you see…I’m sorry I lied, but I needed to speak with you…It was the only way.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Metatron wouldn’t let me see you before. You haven’t been back to Earth. I didn’t know what else to do.”

A look of confusion on the Archangel’s face surprised Muriel. “The Metatron wouldn’t let you see me? Why?” he asked.

“I dunno sir. He told me you were too busy. He seemed upset that I was in your office yesterday as well.”

“He did…” said Aziraphale, more to himself than to Muriel. “Why would he tell you I was too busy to see you? He just has me reviewing old files. I’ve never been less busy in my entire existence.” 

Muriel’s eyes went wide. “So he did lie to me. Nina was right about him.” 

Aziraphale looked at Muriel, his face caught between anger and confusion. “No, the Metatron would not lie,” he said, attempting to sound final and definite, but to Muriel’s ears it sounded more like a question. 

“I…I didn’t think so either,” said the lesser angel, “but he must have.”

“Enough about this,” Aziraphale replied in a commanding tone. “What did you want to see me about?”

“Well sir, it’s about Crowley. He’s in trouble sir.”

“Crowley?” 

“Yes. He’s in trouble. He was -”

“Who is Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, cutting Muriel off.

Muriel opened and closed their mouth several times, confusion clear upon their face. “Crowley sir…The…the demon Crowley?” Aziraphale shook his head, just as confused as Muriel it seemed. “He’s in trouble…”

“And why would I care if a demon is in trouble?” Aziraphale asked coldly.

Unsure how to respond, Muriel sat, mouth agape for a few seconds, trying to think of something, anything to say. “Be-because…” they stammered. “Because he’s your friend.”

“My friend?” Aziraphale actually barked out a laugh. “You are mistaken. I would never be friends with a demon.” 

“But you are! We are! He helped you protect Gabriel, and before that, you two saved the world together!”

“Enough!” yelled Aziraphale. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I will not sit here and be accused of…fraternizing with the opposition.”

Muriel’s eyes went even wider then, realization seeping in. “You don’t remember him?”

“Remember? No I don’t because you are lying!” Aziraphale stood from the chair, towering over the suddenly terrified angel. “First you lied to get me to come here, and now you make up all sorts of ridiculous stories about me befriending a demon. How dare you.”

“Please,” Muriel said in a whisper. “You must remember him. You’ve spent 6,000 years on Earth with him. He’s your best friend in the world. And he’s in grave danger. You should have seen the state of him!”

“I said enough!” Aziraphale roared. “I am leaving now, expect a Host to come down to collect you soon. You will be punished for your lies and insolence.”

“No…no…please sir. You have to believe me!” Muriel grabbed Aziraphale’s arm. “If not me, then believe yourself!” 

“What do you mean?” he asked, roughly pulling his arm from their grasp. 

“You wrote all about him in your diaries. Look!” Muriel frantically grabbed a volume from the shelf, shoving it towards the Archangel. “See?” they said, opening to a page with a sketch of the demon from 33 AD. 

Aziraphale took the diary from their hands, studying the drawing. He felt an odd sensation looking at the portrait, like something itching in the back of his brain. Trying to ignore it, he flipped through some of the pages. It was undeniably his handwriting. He looked back up at the lesser angel before him. 

“See? If you don’t believe me, just read it. Please, you have to help him.”

“I-I don’t see any reason that I would help a demon.” Aziraphale closed the volume, looking resolute once more, despite feeling like his whole world was teetering on some sort of precipice. “As I said, a Host will come for you once I find another angel to run this outpost.” He turned on his heel starting for the exit. 

“Please sir…” Muriel begged. “Please, just promise me you’ll read about him. I don’t care what happens to me, but Hell is going to destroy him if we don’t do something.”

Aziraphale stopped, turning back to see that tears had begun to fall from Muriel’s eyes. “You would risk Damnation for him?” he asked softly. 

“Yes,” Muriel replied, not even needing time to think about it before answering. “And there was a time that you would have too. I don’t know why you don’t remember him, but something is very wrong.”

Aziraphale stood in contemplation, staring down at the volume he was still clutching. “Fine,” he said. “I will take this with me to read when I have time.”

“Thank you sir!”

With a curt nod, Aziraphale exited the shop, carefully tucking the book into a pocket inside his suit jacket. Muriel watched him cross the way and disappear into the lift, before rushing out and crossing the street themselves to meet Nina and Maggie in the coffee shop. 

Chapter Text

Crowley awoke to the sound of his phone ringing. In a groggy daze, he smacked around the bed, searching for the mobile. The ringing stopped, but only a few seconds later started again. Sitting up with a groan, he located the phone as it finished another full ring cycle. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the screen. Thirty-four missed calls. “Fuck.” The calls were all from Shax. Suddenly memories rushed back to him and he realized, with horror, why Shax was calling him repeatedly. “No…fuck…shit! I’ve slept through the whole week!” The endless ringing started up again, and, holding his breath, he answered. 

“Hiya,” he greeted, trying to sound casual. 

“Finally!” Shax growled. “I have been calling all morning." 

“Sorry about that…I was sleeping.”

“Of course you were,” Shax said with disgust. “I’m reminding you of our appointment today. I expect you in Hell within the hour. I just hope, for your sake, you have better information this time.”

“I…I…”

“Save it Crowley. Be down in Hell soon, or you will suffer.” Shax disconnected the call and Crowley felt bile begin to rise in his throat. Running to the bathroom, he barely made it in time to throw up in the sink. After retching a few more times with nothing coming up, Crowley looked up at himself in the mirror. 

Unsurprisingly, he was met with the image of a wrecked person. His eyes were ringed by dark circles, his hair hung loose and dirty around his face, his skin was pale, and his whole body was still loosely wrapped in blood spotted bandages. With a sigh, he began peeling away the cloth, exposing his wounds to the open air. Most of them were angry and red, scabbed over but caked in dried blood. But the few that the angel had gotten a chance to start healing, were pink and soft, clearly developing into gentle scars. 

Shucking the rest of his clothes, the demon got into the shower, cleansing the wounds carefully and trying not to think. But one thought kept coming back to him, “I can’t do this anymore.” It repeated in his mind like a scratched record. No matter how he tried to ignore it, pushing his thoughts away over and over, it just kept popping back up. He quickly finished his shower, knowing that he had little time to spare before Hell would be expecting him. 

A short while later, Crowley was entering the lift in the Dirty Donkey in Soho. He had done his best to avoid being seen by Maggie, Nina, or Muriel, parking a few blocks away and walking there instead. Once in the elevator, he felt panic coming back to him. His body began to shake and his thoughts raced. Quickly he conjured himself another razor blade, pulled up his long sleeve exposing his other three cuts from days ago, and slashed two more shallow lines. The lift opened as he disappeared the razor and pulled his sleeve back down to cover his new wounds. But at least the pain was enough to keep him from breaking down.

Shax appeared, obviously having been waiting nearby. She gestured for Crowley to follow her to her chamber. The lesser demons were absent this time, but Crowley’s breath hitched when he saw Alastor standing in the corner of the room. He gazed at Crowley, a hungry look in his eyes.

Shax sat down in her chair and waved her hand in Crowley’s direction. “Well?” she asked, her voice bored.

“U-uh…”Crowley stuttered, his eyes flicking over to Alastor. “Well, I-I…I don’t really…uh…”

“Spit it out!” yelled Shax, making the stuttering demon jump. 

“I don’t have any information. As I…I told you last time. I have no way of getting anymore…Please you have to believe me.” He looked at Shax imploringly, begging her with his eyes to understand that he was being truthful.

“I don’t,” she said simply. “Alastor, be a dear.”

The Master of Tortures approached, and Crowley attempted to take a step back. “Please…please don’t. I promise I can’t -” But his begging was cut off by Alastor’s strong grip on his throat, choking the air from the petrified demon.

“You are such a disappointment Crowley. How did anyone ever believe that you were competent?” Shax laughed at him. 

Alastor’s grip tightened slightly before releasing, allowing the demon to draw in a shuddering breath and double over in pain. The long snout of Alastor pressed close to Crowley’s chest as he stood back up, sniffing long and hard. A snarl ripped through that mouth and, before Crowley knew what was happening, Alastor was ripping Crowley’s shirt from his body. 

“He’s healed some of his wounds!” Alastor cried, his eyes wild with fury. “Didn’t I tell you that if you healed yourself there would be Hell to pay?”

The snapping of Alastor’s jaws echoed throughout the chamber with each word he spoke. Crowley dared not speak, terrified of what punishment was about to befall him. 

“A liar and a coward I see,” said Shax. “Teach him a lesson he won’t soon forget!”

The demon’s snarl turned to a sinister grin. “On your knees," he ordered Crowley, who quickly obeyed. “Now, bring out those pretty wings of yours.”

Crowley’s heart pounded, his eyes wild with pure fear. “No, please…”

“Do it!” 

Crying, Crowley hesitated before slowly manifesting his wings. The black feathers trembled as he spread them about himself, whimpering “please” the entire time. 

“Oh they are magnificent aren’t they,” Alastor cooed, running a clawed hand across the left wing. Crowley felt ill, just the lightest touch to his sensitive wings from that wicked monster made him want to vomit. “You were always so proud of these weren’t you?” When Crowley didn’t respond, Alastor gripped the top edge of the wing, strong enough that he nearly cracked the radius underneath. “Answer me!” he snarled. 

Crowley cried out, nodding in agreement. “Yes,” he finally managed, his other wing flexing frantically, causing the feathers to rustle. 

“Let’s fix that then,” Alastor said as he used his other hand to grab one of the long flight feathers on the tip of Crowley’s wing. He looked Crowley in the eye as he ripped the feather out, a small squirt of blood flowing from the hole left behind. A scream tore through Crowley’s throat. No pain he had ever experienced was this bad. And before his brain could finish processing that pain, another surge of it pulsed through him as another flight feather was plucked. 

“Please! Please stop! I’m sorry!” Crowley cried between screams as Alastor plucked three more of his flight feathers. 

“It’s too late for that,” Alastor replied, the vile grin still plastered on his face. He moved his hand along the wing, leaving several feathers in their place, before settling on another of Crowley’s primary feathers. This time though, Alastor pulled slowly but firmly and Crowley could feel as the feather was being separated agonizingly from the skin. His wail would have been heartbreaking if anyone there actually cared about him. Instead, the Master of Tortures felt more and more satisfied, the more Crowley screamed and begged. 

Crowley lost count of the number of feathers he had lost, some of them pulled out quick and harsh, and others torturously slow. But then Alastor reached close to Crowley’s side and gripped a whole handful of the soft small tertial feathers there and retching them out en masse. Crowley couldn’t even scream then. His head began to feel fuzzy and his vision, already blurred with tears, began to fade in and out. Another handful of feathers was removed and it was enough to send Crowley over the edge, sinking him into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

While Hell was trying their best to break Crowley, Aziraphale was back in Heaven, alone  in his office. He was staring at the book in front of him. He had read several pages before slamming the thing closed in anger. “Why don’t I remember this? ” he wondered. Unsure how to categorize his feelings, he stood up and began to pace. He knew two things for certain: That it was definitely him that had written the passages in the journal, and that anything to do with the demon Crowley was missing from his memory. Frustrated, he sat back down and reopened the volume to an entry he had already read. It was an entry about the Savior when he was still an infant. With a sigh, he began to reread

Dear Diary, 

Today I went to visit with Mary and Joseph. I wanted to see how they are adjusting after their first few months of being parents. I came to their home at midday. The couple were outside, Joseph whittling away at a small figurine, while Mary sat in the sun, combing through her long ebony hair. Upon seeing me, Mary smiled and welcomed me, asking if I would like anything. Of course, I tried to keep her from getting up, she did look so comfortable and at ease, but she got up nonetheless and pulled me into an embrace. 

Joseph followed her lead and embraced me, thanking me for coming. They led me inside and we sat around the table, Mary bringing out a jug of wine and three glasses. I looked around the small house and for a moment couldn’t place my sense of alarm. But then it hit me, where was the baby?

I asked Mary about him, my concern obvious, and she laughed a bit, telling me not to worry. “Someone is watching him for me,” she told me. I asked her who, still feeling unsettled by the idea of someone other than his mother or father watching over the Son of God. “A village woman, by the name of Nyoka,” she replied, assuring me that I had no reason to worry. I asked if I could meet this woman, to make sure the Savior was in good hands. Mary laughed again, but told me she would take me to meet her. We left the house, and went to another nearby. 

It was a small abode, maybe 1 bedroom and a small kitchen, and sitting outside was a woman in a long black robe, her long red hair somewhat covered by a loose black headwrap. The slight breeze tossed her curls about her smiling face. She held the infant Jesus on her lap. From a distance it appeared that she was playing a game of peekaboo with the baby, who was laughing brightly. To my amazement, I realized I recognized the woman. It was the demon Crawly! I hadn’t seen him in several years, and yet here he, or rather she was. 

I stood watching the demon as she played with Jesus, a luminous smile upon her face. Mary looked at the 2 with fondness. “See,” she asked. “She’s so wonderful with him, he just lights up whenever he sees her.” I nodded, smiling back. Part of me worried about what Crawly was up to, but watching them, I felt myself falling more and more at ease.

Aziraphale slammed the book closed again, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. He gritted his teeth, an anger spreading through his whole body. “Why can’t I remember him?” he wondered yet again. Stuck in thought, he was startled when the door to his office opened and the Metatron entered. 

“Aziraphale,” he started to say, but then his eyes flicked down to the book sitting atop the glass desk. 

Aziraphale followed his gaze, suddenly feeling frightened for a reason he could not place. 

“What is this?” asked the Metatron , reaching out to pick up the volume. 

Aziraphale contemplated grabbing it away from him, but thought it would look even worse, if he did. “It’s a…a book…from Earth.”

The Metatron gave him a look that confused Aziraphale, and before he could stop him, the Metatron opened the book to a random page. Aziraphale watched helplessly as the Metatron’s brow furrowed. He looked to Aziraphale again, opening his mouth to speak, closing it again, and cocking his head to the side. “I’m pretty sure books have words in them Aziraphale…” he said finally. 

Luckily, the Metatron was still flipping through the pages, apparently unable to see the writing or sketches upon them, otherwise he would have seen the utter shock on the Archangel’s face. 

Thinking as quickly as possible, Aziraphale told the Metatron, “oh yes, of course. This is a type of book, called a sketchbook. It’s meant to be drawn in. Back on Earth I was quite fond of drawing. So I thought I’d bring this back with me, so that I could sketch when the desire moved me.”

“I see,” said the Metatron, setting the now closed book back down on the desk. “Anyway, I came to ask you about your meeting today. How did it go?”

“Yes, um, well. I was unable to resolve the issue completely. I will need to return to Earth soon.”

The Metatron looked at Aziraphale, who felt himself being scrutinized, and hummed. “Very well. I expect this issue to be resolved quickly, we can’t have humans interfering with our outposts.”

“No sir, we cannot. I will get this resolved as soon as possible.”

“Very well. Thank you for your time. You’ll have to show me some of your drawings sometime.” 

The Metatron closed the door behind him and Aziraphale let out a sigh. He opened the book again, clearly full of writing, and wondered what he had done to make it so that the Metatron had been unable to see it. 

Chapter Text

Crowley awoke upon the dank cobblestones of a holding cell in Hell. A minor demon was standing just outside the open door. An involuntary groan escaped his mouth as he tried to press himself up off the floor. It was then that he realized that his wings were out, laying sprawled out around him. He began to pull them back, attempting to tuck them away, when the pain struck him. He screeched as blood trickled from the many open wounds where once glorious feathers had been. He scrunched his eyes closed, not wanting to see the damage, and through gritted teeth he managed to fight the pain and put his wings away, safely back in that other plane of existence.

When Crowley finally opened his eyes, he saw the minor demon looking at him. The demon was short, full-figured, and had one eye that was clearly blind, milky white with a scar running across the eyebrow and eyelid. They held each other’s gaze for a moment, and Crowley was surprised to feel a sense of…empathy coming from the other demon. 

It took several more moments before Crowley was able to push his aching body completely off the floor and into a standing position. Wobbling slightly, he took a few steps toward the doorway and the demon standing guard. “Am I free to go?” asked Crowley.

The other demon gave him a small nod in answer, but nothing more. 

“Don’t dare talk to me eh? I don’t blame you. Anyone taking my side would probably be punished yeah? That what they told you?”

Another small nod from the minor demon. “I’m sorry,” they said as quietly as possible.

It was Crowley’s turn to give a tiny nod in response, after which he moved past the demon and looked about himself, getting his bearings. Once he figured out his location, he started on his way back toward the lift. 

All along the way, he made eye contact with demons, each of which averted their gaze from him quickly. Crowley could tell that all of Hell was terrified of being seen as sympathetic toward him. “No one can help you,” he thought to himself as he took step after painful step.

After what felt like years, but in reality was only a few moments, he made it to the exit lift. Before he could press the button to call the elevator however, he heard someone call out his name. Turning, he saw Shax walking toward him quickly. His heart pounded in his chest, fear spreading through him as he wondered if she was going to take him back for another round of torture. 

Shax stopped before him, looking him up and down before speaking. “Listen to me Crowley. I know you are proud and stubborn, perhaps you are even loyal to your angel friend. But this is foolish. Why put yourself through all this for him? Would he do the same for you?” 

The question hurt him on such a deep level that it seemed to trump even losing his feathers. He just stared at Shax, unable to answer. He no longer had the energy to be angry, everything in him was pain of one sort or another, and he only wanted the pain to stop.

“Crowley, just give us information and this will end.”

“I can’t…” replied the dejected demon. “Don’t you understand? Just because you’ve told me to, doesn’t mean it’s possible.”

“Stupid demon…Of course it is possible. I have given you an order, and you will follow it.” Her anger was flaring in her eyes. “We will give you three more days.”

Crowley shook his head but said nothing, realizing the futility of the situation. 

“Go now!” She barked, turning on her heels and leaving him alone waiting for the lift. 

The elevator arrived and Crowley got in, deep in thought, and pressed the button to return to Earth. “She doesn’t get it,” he thought. “She is so high on the idea of her power that she doesn’t get it. This is never going to end.”

He exited the lift when it arrived and went into the pub. From the bar he ordered a whiskey, downed it in a single gulp, and requested another. This one he took to a table in the middle of the place. Somewhere in his mind, he realized that this was the same table that he and Aziraphale had sat in when they had once come in together. “Nothing will ever be okay,” his mind yelled at him. “This has to stop!” Under his dark glasses, his eyes pricked with tears. “I can’t carry this pain anymore, it’s too heavy. I have to end this.”

He drank more of his whiskey, trying his hardest not to cry freely. But then something prickled in the back of his mind. “I can end this, ” it said. “I know how.” 

Thinking the most clearly he had in days, he began formulating a plan. “Only one thing will make this stop. I can’t give Shax what she wants. Alastor feeds on my pain so he’s never going to stop torturing me. In fact he’d prefer to keep it up forever. And the other demons are all too afraid of what will happen to them if they tried to help me. There is no way out of this. Not unless I’m gone.” He shuddered at the thought, was he really considering it? 

“What’s the point anyway?” he continued his train of thought. “I have nothing, I am nothing. Just a pitiful demon, hated by Hell and ignored by Heaven. Hopelessly in love with an angel who could never possibly love me back.” The thought of Aziraphale burned him like a flame. “I don’t want to be without him anymore…He was everything to me…But I’m nothing to him.” 

His thoughts began to pick up their speed as he felt more and more determined. A plan forming quickly. “The only way they won’t be able to keep torturing me is if I don’t exist. I should have let Beelzebub destroy me with the holy water… That’s it! Holy water. The only thing that can save me from this living Hell is holy water. Damnit! I wasted mine on that idiot Ligur…Now I need to get my hands on more. But how?” He looked around, maybe he could ask a human like he had back in the 60’s. But how would he know if it was true and pure holy water? And how would he manage to get his hands on it in the next three days? Then his eyes fell on the Bookshop standing tall on the other side of the street. “Of course…” came the realization. “I’ll ask the angel. They were easy to trick last time. I’m sure things will be no different now.” He felt a slight pang of guilt at the idea of tricking the lesser angel, but it was quickly banished from his mind as he remembered that he still had a whole other wing that Alastor would love to destroy. 

“Okay, so I ask Muriel for holy water, convince them to get it for me in the next two days. Then…take it back to my flat, mix it into a cocktail and drink myself to destruction…” A cold clammy feeling, one that he now recognized as panic, spread through him. “Am I really going to go through with this? What if it doesn’t work? What if I regret it at the last moment?” His heart rate began to pick up, and he felt it was getting difficult to breathe. Remembering the cuts on his arm, he gripped his forearm and squeezed hard. Pain cut through, allowing him to think clearly again. “Yes, I’m really going to go through with this. I can’t exist like this anymore. It’s time to go…” Downing the rest of his whiskey, he stood and resolutely made his way to the exit. He put on his best act of nonchalance as he crossed the street and casually entered the bookshop. 

Muriel was startled by his sudden appearance, but glad to see him nonetheless. “Crowley! How are you? Are you okay? What happened?”

“Slow down,” said the demon with a laugh. “I’m fine. I just popped by to say thanks for the other day. Well, that and to uh, ask for a favour.”

“No need to thank me!” Muriel beamed. But then their face took on a look of confusion. “A favor?” they asked.

“Yeah, um. Well, I need something from Heaven. Something to help me uh, protect myself. I can’t get it myself, so I was hoping you could do it for me…” He looked at them behind his dark glasses. 

“What is it that you need?” 

“Well, uh…holy water.”

“Holy water!?” Muriel exclaimed. “Why would you want holy water?” Muriel suddenly remembered the journal entries from Mr. Fell when Crowley had asked him the same favour. Concern and fear radiated in their body. “Holy water would destroy you!” they said, unknowingly mimicking how Aziraphale had responded all those years ago. 

“Well, yeah. But…It would destroy other demons too. That’s why I want it.” He tried to look at them and make his statement sound sincere. 

Something told Muriel that he was lying, despite knowing about the history of Crowley and Aziraphale and the holy water, having read the journals all the way through when Aziraphale finally acquiesced and provided Crowley with the tartan thermos in the 60s. They thought about saying so to Crowley now, but something stopped them. “Don’t tell him that you know,” their mind said. “Agree to get him some, otherwise he’ll just go looking for it elsewhere…” Muriel took a deep breath, hoping they were doing the right thing, and nodded at Crowley. “Okay,” said the angel. “I’ll go up to Heaven and get you some. Come back tomorrow to collect it?”

Crowley was somewhat surprised at how easy everything had been, but he wasn’t complaining. He nodded his head frantically. “Thank you, yeah tomorrow, that would be perfect.”

“Okay, come by tomorrow afternoon?”

“Sure, sure. See you then. Thanks again!” Crowley flashed them a smile before exiting the shop, trying to walk in his normal fashion, though it was difficult given he was still in a tremendous amount of pain. 

Once he was out of sight, Muriel rushed to the door and bounded into the record shop, where Maggie was sitting alone behind the till, reading a romance novel. 

“Oh Muriel!” she exclaimed. “Is everything alright?” 

“No!” Muriel said, matter-of-factly. “Crowley is going to try to destroy himself!” 

“What?!” Maggie jumped up from her perched seat. “How do you know?”

“He was just in the shop, he asked me to bring him holy water.”

“Holy water?” Maggie asked, confused. “Does that destroy demons?”

“Yes! Not just their Earthly bodies, but their entire being. He would be completely gone, forever!”

“You told him 'no' then? What did he say?”

“I-I…I told him I would.” Maggie’s eyes went wide. “I didn’t want him to try to get it from somewhere else!” Muriel said, trying to defend their decision. 

“Okay, but now what? You’re not actually going to give him any, are you?”

“Of course not!” Muriel was slightly offended at the notion. “I think I need to go back and talk to Mr. Fell.”

“Yeah. That sounds like a good idea.” 

“I’m just going to go now,” Muriel said, making up their mind. 

“Good luck! Come tell us what he says!” Maggie watched Muriel leave, walking quickly toward the lift.   

Chapter Text

Muriel bursted out of the lift into Heaven and began heading straight for Aziraphale’s office. Luckily no one seemed to be around to stop them or even question what they were doing. Without even knocking, Muriel threw the door of Aziraphale’s office open and pulled it firmly shut behind them as they entered the room. 

Aziraphale had been sitting behind his desk, and, to Muriel’s relief, he was reading the journal he had gotten from them. He looked up at them, surprised and maybe even a bit angry. Slamming the book shut, he stood and crossed the room to the door. Cautiously, he opened the door ever so slightly, just enough to peek his head out of and look up and down the corridor. Satisfied, he closed the door again and returned to his seat.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, trying to keep his voice low and even. “I told you I would come back to the shop when I had the chance.” As he peered at the lesser angel, he noticed their fear so softened his tone. “Has something happened?”

Muriel nodded. Then, keeping their voice low like Aziraphale, they told him, “It’s Mr. Crowley sir. He came back to the shop. He…he asked me for a favor.”

“A favor? What could a demon want from you?” Aziraphale still felt the knee-jerk reaction of finding demons abhorrent, but something about it felt wrong. “What did he ask for?”

“He asked me to get him holy water.”

Something snapped inside Aziraphale then. He wasn’t sure why, but suddenly he was clammy and cold, worry for the demon pulsing through his veins. “But that would destroy him. Whatever does he want with such a thing?”

“I believe he wants to be destroyed…” Muriel said, casting their gaze to the floor, their sadness palpable. 

“No…no. Why would he want to do that?”

“You haven’t seen what they did to him…” Muriel replied, eyes glossy with tears again. “I never got a chance to tell you what happened.”

“Okay,” Aziraphale breathed out heavily. “Tell me everything.”

Muriel began, “well, about a week ago, Crowley came into the shop and was asking me questions about you. He wanted to know if you’d been back or in contact with me. I told him the truth, that I hadn’t seen or heard from you, and that the Metatron hadn’t allowed me to when I asked. He asked if he could look for something in the bedroom, and while he was in there alone, he injured himself.”

“How do you mean?”

“He cut his arm open with a razor blade. That’s what Nina and Maggie explained to me.”

“What, on purpose?” Aziraphale felt a desire to protect just then. With no outlet, it just made him feel useless and uncomfortable. 

“Yes. When I found him, he tried to hide it from me, and he rushed out of the shop, immediately going Down. A short while later, as I was talking to Maggie and Nina, we saw the lift open, and there he was, lying on the ground, his shirt in tatters and bleeding from countless cuts. We were able to get him into the bookshop, but he passed out. I decided to heal him.”

Anger at the idea of the angel helping the demon tried to push through Aziraphale’s mind, but he was surprised to find that it couldn’t get past the aching sorrow he was feeling. “So you helped him then?”

“I started to, but it roused him and when he saw what I was doing, he shoved me away. He was…”

“Ungrateful,” said Aziraphale, immediately feeling regret at the bite to his words.

“Terrified,” Muriel replied coldly. “Do you still not remember him?” Muriel asked, shocking Aziraphale with their boldness. 

“No. I do not remember him. I don’t know why. I think you were right when you said something is very wrong. I keep feeling like I should hate him, just because he is a demon maybe, but I’m finding my hatred to be at odds with my other emotions. This is all very confusing…” he trailed off. “Anyway, what happened next?”

“He ran out of the shop, telling us that we couldn’t help him. That’s why we decided to come to you for help. I haven’t seen Crowley since then, not until just a bit ago when he came and asked about the holy water.”

“And what did you say to his request?”

“I told him…I would get it for him. I told him to come to the shop tomorrow afternoon. I didn’t want him to try to get it himself. I hope I did the right thing…It’s what you did after all.”

He looked quizzically at the lesser angel, unsure what they were referring to. But something told him that they were speaking the truth. 

“So, what should we do?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know what I can do to help, if I can’t even remember him…” 

“You could read more of your journals…but I’m not sure we have that much time.”

“No, I don’t think we do…Perhaps…” He looked around, stuck in thought for a moment. “Maybe meeting him will restore my memory…”

“Perfect! Can you come to Earth tomorrow afternoon when he comes for the holy water?”

“Yes of course. I’ll get there mid morning, that way I will be there when he gets there. Maybe even read a few more journal entries while I wait. Oh dear, I am rather nervous…”

“Me too,” admitted Muriel. “Well, I better head back to the shop. I don’t want anyone to notice me.

“That’s a good idea. I will see you tomorrow then.”

Muriel nodded and opened the door, peeking down the corridor like Aziraphale had done, before heading back out to the lift.

Chapter Text

In his flat, Crowley sat at his desk, pen in hand, hovering over a stack of paper. He was concentrating very hard. With a sigh he brought the pen to the page and began to write.

My dearest Aziraphale,

I’m not sure why I am writing this to be honest, you will likely never read it. It’s just, well I guess it’s a sort of finality isn’t it? A way to get everything out of my mind, once and for all. I’ve never kept a journal or written down my thoughts like this, so bear with me, it may be a rocky start. But hey, at least you’ll only have to struggle through my terrible prose once.

Where to begin? Well, at the time of writing this, you have been gone for a bit over a month. I’ve spent a large portion of that time drunk, and an even larger portion of that time asleep. But the whole time I’ve spent in agony. I’ve tried to push away the pain, drown it in liquor, smother it under my pillows…I’ve even tried to cut it out of me. But nothing takes away the pain of losing you. Every second of every day since you made it clear that my feelings aren't reciprocated, I have felt an ache unlike anything else I have ever experienced. I don’t blame you though, isn’t that odd? I know that I am unworthy of your friendship, let alone your love. 

On top of missing you, Hell has been dragging me back into the political sphere, trying to extract information about what Heaven is up to. I’ve told them the truth angel, I just don’t know. The only thing I know for certain is that you haven’t, and I’m guessing you won’t, come back. At least not for a long time. Hell doesn’t like this answer of course, and like I’ve told you before, when they’re upset with you they don’t send rude notes. And that’s one of the reasons I’m doing this. I can’t stand them anymore. I’m tired of hurting. I just need the pain to end.

I want to take a moment to thank you for the many many years of friendship…or at least companionable togetherness. If I could go back to the beginning and do it all over, I would choose the same, because, even being your adversary, at least I got to spend 6,000 years knowing you. I hope, somewhere, you hold some sort of fondness for our time together.

A tear fell on the page and smeared the ink beneath. Crowley sat and stared at it as more teardrops fell, further damaging the letter. How could he possibly put all he wanted to say to the angel on a piece of paper? Did words even exist to explain his feelings? And how would it come to Aziraphale’s hands anyway? No, it was far more likely that Hell would find it when they came looking for him. It would be one last thing for them to laugh at him over. He dropped the pen and put his head in his hands, his back shaking with his cries. 

After several minutes, he came to the conclusion that writing a note was pointless, so he abandoned what he’d already written, deciding instead to try sleeping in order to make the time pass faster. 

Under the sheets and blankets, atop the pillows, the demon prepared himself, knowing that there was a possibility that he would dream about the angel. “At least I’ll get to see him one last time,” he thought, closing his eyes and willing himself to fall asleep.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Muriel opened the door to the bookshop and let Aziraphale inside. They stood there looking at one another for a moment, nervousness and anticipation flowing from them in waves. 

“I do apologize,” said Aziraphale trying to ease some of the discomfort in the air. “I am a tad bit early. I am not used to feeling this nervous.”

“I understand,” replied Muriel. “Do you want anything? Maybe a cuppatea? Or I could go across the street and get you a coffee-”

“Oh no no no,” Aziraphale stuttered quickly. “Nothing for me, thanks.”

Muriel tilted their head in confusion. “But you love to eat and drink. I would have thought you would have missed food so much, having been up in Heaven for this long.”

“Me? I enjoy food and drink?” He wore a contemplative look. “I do remember reading something about me eating in the journal, but I can’t seem to recall actually doing it. I’m getting rather tired of not being able to remember things…”

“Yes…well…” Muriel looked around, unsure what to do with the time until Crowley arrived. “Maybe..uh…Maybe you could read some more? It might help jog your memory.”

“Quite right.” He moved to the shelf and picked out a volume, one of the earliest ones, before sitting down at the desk. Muriel busied themselves with dusting the shelves so as not to interrupt the Archangel. Aziraphale cracked open the volume and began to read.

Dear Diary,

Today I arrived in Mesopotamia per my instructions from the head office. They have informed me that something big is about to happen here. Honestly, I'm not sure how I feel. I must trust in the Divine Plan after all, but this does seem ever so harsh…

As I wandered the streets of the small town near to Noah’s building site, I was greeted by many a local with kindness and warmth. Oh that does make things more difficult. Then, I came around a corner and saw, ahead of me by some way, a large fenced in area, filled with small goats, and standing in the center, who should I see? Why, it was the demon Crawly! He stood, tall and still, draped in black, his long red curls gently bouncing in the breeze. It took me by surprise to see him, so it took me a moment to realize that he was surrounded by children. 

Curiosity filled me as I watched, but it didn’t take me long to figure out that Crawly and the children were playing a game. I believe I have worked out the rules of their game to be as follows: Crawly serves as the “goal” and all the children, save one special child who is considered “it”, stand around him in a circle some distance away. The child who is “it” stays next to Crawly, observing the other children. The objective for the children is to reach Crawly, and the child who is “it” has the objective of keeping the other children at bay, which he or she does by observing the other children. It seems that the key to this game is that the children can only move closer to Crawly when the child who is “it” is not looking at them. If they get caught moving when being observed, then they are considered “out” and must wait until the next round of the game to play. Once a child has reached Crawly, the round is over and that child is now “it”. Crawly doesn’t seem to have a specific job during the game, and he seems not to be on either “side.” Instead, he can be seen encouraging the children to come closer when the child who’s “it” isn’t looking, or sometimes pointing out someone who is approaching him to the “it” child. 

I stood by quietly, a smile on my face, as I watched the children laugh and scream with enjoyment for several rounds. But then Crawly put his hands up and said something to the children that seemed to end the game. Confused, I watched the children disband. It was only then that I noticed a small girl sitting alone on the edge of the fenced area. Crawly must have noticed her too, because he approached her slowly. 

The small girl looked up at Crawly and I saw him say something to her, though I am unsure what it was. He sat down next to her then, and they began talking. At first, it was almost exclusively Crawly that was talking, but after a few moments, the little girl began to respond. What a strange sight for me to behold, a demon conversing with a child, making her giggle and smile.

After some time spent talking, the girl asked Crawly something, reaching out as she did so to touch his long red hair. The demon nodded with a smile and the girl beamed back at him. The little girl stood then, crossing behind the demon, she began combing her fingers through his locks, then she started to braid them. Crawly sat perfectly still for her, despite a few times where, I think, she tugged a bit too harshly. When she was done, she took a small step back to admire her work, smiling at the demon the whole time. Crawly touched the braid that was now on the side of his head. He returned her smile, before standing. Luckily, I noticed he began to turn my direction so I quickly moved out of sight. 

I returned to the inn that I am staying at and retired to my room. My heart feels heavy, and my mind conflicted. As I sit here penning these words, I am at a loss. How am I meant to feel about what is to happen here when I see all those smiling, happy, innocent children? Gabriel would tell me to trust in the Lord always. And I do! Really I do. I just wish her plans were less ineffable…

Aziraphale flipped to the next page and was greeted by a sketch of Crowley, his hair long and flowing around his face, with a single braid along the left side of his head. With his fingertips, he traced the jawline of the portrait, willing himself to remember. It felt like something was buried inside his brain, something he could not pull out. It was as if something had covered all of his memory in a shroud, one that was meant to make him feel disgust, revulsion, anger, and superiority. But the more he read, the more he found the shroud to be slipping. He still couldn’t remember the demon of course, but he was starting to feel a fondness whenever he read about him. 

Flicking to the next page, he continued to read the story of the great flood. 

Dear Diary,

Today was the big day. All the locals gathered to watch as Noah and his family began to load up the animals onto the ark. It was a truly remarkable sight, seeing the animals walking side by side in their pairs, following Noah’s sons obediently. I stood with the crowd and watched. My job being to help with miracles if anything should go wrong. As I stood there, I heard my name, and it was Crawly. 

The demon still wore his black garments and his hair still hung in long curls around his angular face. I noticed that the braid that had been done by the child yesterday was still there, and I tried to hide my smile. He greeted me warmly before poking some fun at me by asking about the flaming sword, something he has teased me about before. Looking around, he asked me then what was going on, why Noah was building an ark and filling it with animals. I was surprised that he didn’t already know, I would have thought his people would have said something to him. Suddenly, I didn’t want to speak aloud about what was about to transpire. But he looked at me expectantly and I couldn’t not tell him.

As I began to explain the Almighty’s plan to wipe out the local human and animal population, except for Noah’s family and all the creatures on the ark, I felt more and more concerned. He looked at me, an expression of horror on his face. “They’re drowning everyone else?” he asked. I found, all I could do was nod in response. As we spoke, several of the children who had been playing with Crawly yesterday ran by, herding some of their goats. He looked at them, then back to me, “not the kids?” he asked. “You can’t kill kids!” His expression was one of disgust and pain, and again, all I could do was to nod to indicate that he got it right. 

We continued to discuss the Divine Plan, and I had to remind him that it is not our place to judge the Almighty. And as we did so, I felt more and more uncertain of my place in all of this. 

Aziraphale stopped reading, an overwhelmed feeling spreading through him. This was all too much for him to take in. “How could something so fundamental be missing from my memory? ” he wondered. “What else is missing? Has this happened to other angels? ”

He flipped back to the drawing of Crowley and sat in pensive silence, begging his mind to remember. “I obviously cared about him so much…” The idea, which had first disgusted him and made him angry at mere suggestion, was beginning to feel like a fundamental truth. 

Time ticked by, the Archangel deep in thought, and the lesser angel trying to contain their nerves by flitting from shelf to shelf, dusting furiously. Then both of them were startled when the bell chimed above the door, and the demon entered the shop. 

Chapter Text

Crowley awoke in utter anguish, his whole body radiating pain. But it was more than his corporation that hurt. Slowly, he pulled his wings into the physical plane, nearly screaming as he did so. He looked with trepidation at his left wing, seeing the extent of the damage for the first time. And oh was it a horrid sight. 

He was missing a good quarter of his primary and secondary feathers, leaving gaps everywhere. The feathers that were still in place were disheveled and spotted or smeared with dried blood. Next to his side was the worst of it, where Alastor had ripped out huge fistfuls of the small soft tertiary feathers. The skin of the wing was exposed there and it was bruised deeply. 

Seeing his wing in its pitiful state served to further Crowley’s resolve. He had made up his mind, never again would he suffer this way. 

After gritting his teeth and suffering through putting his wings back, Crowley got dressed and ready to leave the apartment. 

He drove at a rather tame speed (at least for him) as he didn’t want to be early to the shop. “ Can’t seem too eager, ” he reminded himself. 

In Soho, he parked his car and looked at the bookshop through the windscreen. He realized this would be the last time he would pull up like this, which made him remember all the times he had done so before. Closing his eyes, he pressed on the wounds on his arm. The pain was dull, but it was enough to focus on, to ground himself with. 

With a sigh, the demon exited the Bentley and made his way to the shop entrance. Suddenly he felt a slight tug on his leg. Fear pierced him, draining all the color from his face. “ No, not this time… ” a sound ripped through him like a snarl as he pulled his leg out of the grasp of Hell. He stumbled forward. He knew that he needed to get into the shop, it was the only place, beside the Bentley, that they couldn’t get to him. 

With an effort like trudging through water, he moved towards the entrance. He grabbed the handle and pulled open the door, nearly toppling inside. The bell above, heralding his arrival. 

His eyes immediately landed on Muriel who looked up from their dusting. He tried to resume an air of nonchalance so as not to rouse the angel’s suspicion, and he reminded himself that he was safe here. 

“Afternoon Inspector,” Crowley greeted as he approached the angel. 

“Crowley, uh…hi…yeah. How are you?”

“Oh I’m fine. Listen, kind of in a hurry though. Were you able to get me the…stuff?” Crowley looked expectantly at them. 

“We’ll uh, oh dear… Um, I think… I think…”

“I think you should sit down,” said another voice from behind the demon. 

Crowley’s eyes went wide with recognition, his heart began to pound, and he felt lightheaded. Slowly, he turned around to face the voice behind him. And when his eyes took in the sight of the Archangel, his knees began to buckle under him. 

Something in Aziraphale cried out for him to reach out and catch Crowley as he fell, but the sense of disgust at touching him won out and he watched as the demon sank to his knees before him. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, his voice caught between a whimper and a whisper. 

“Yes,” the Archangel replied. “It’s me.”

Crowley had so much to say, so many questions to ask. He felt so many emotions in that moment that he felt as if he was caught in a tornado, spinning round and round, no sense of up or down. He began to feel the familiar constriction around his chest that preceded a panic attack. He wanted to stand, to turn and run from the bookshop, but his body simply wouldn’t cooperate. Instead, he sat on the floor, at Aziraphale’s feet, breathing with difficulty, and tears beginning to fall.

Aziraphale watched the demon, curious at his reaction. He hadn’t been sure what to expect, but he certainly hadn’t expected this. And were those…tears? He was unaware that demons could cry. His angelic disdain for the demonic creature was beginning to fade and concern was starting to peek through. “Crowley?” he asked cautiously. “What is happening to you? How can I…how can I help?”

Crowley shook his head, keeping his eyes averted from the angel above him.

“Can you stand?” Aziraphale asked softly. “You could sit on the couch.” 

Crowley shook his head again, more violently this time, and Aziraphale could hear how he was gasping, trying to bring in enough oxygen. Then, he watched as Crowley grabbed his own arm violently. 

“What are you-” Aziraphale began to ask, but was cut off when Crowley abruptly stood, swaying slightly as if drunk, and ran off toward the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. 

Behind the closed door, Crowley was desperate to make the panic go away. He had convinced himself that he had truly gone completely mad, and that Aziraphale was just a hallucination. 

With only the desire to be in control of himself again, Crowley yanked up his sleeve, exposing the flesh which was adorned with several cuts. He managed to miracle himself a razor blade, and without any hesitation, he slammed the edge into his inner forearm, pressing deeply and slicing as hard and fast as he could. He had never been cut so deep before, and the immediate flow of dark blood brought his mind squarely back into focus. He was surprised to find that the pain was almost non-existent, probably due to the sheer amount of adrenaline and stress he was experiencing. Somewhere behind him, he heard the door be thrown open. 

Aziraphale only saw the demon’s back for a moment, but then, as his eyes trailed down his form, he noticed a steady flow of blood leaking to the floor. Something snapped in him then and he immediately grabbed Crowley by the shoulder and spun him around. 

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide, and had Crowley been looking into them he would have seen them lose some of the violet color. He grabbed at Crowley’s arm, “What have you done?” he yelled. 

“You’re not real! You’re not him! Leave me alone!” Crowley thrashed in the angel’s grip. 

“Of course I’m real. I’m here. Now tell me why you did this to yourself?” 

The question bounced around in Crowley’s mind. How could he even begin to explain? He still wasn’t convinced this was real, but the blood pooling around his feet seemed real enough. His silence continued, his focus stuck on the feeling of his bleeding and the strong grip Aziraphale had on his wrist. But then he felt a spreading warmth and watched as the wound began to close.

Angrily, Crowley tried to tug his arm out of the angel’s grasp, but Aziraphale held fast and made quick work of sealing the wound completely, not even a scar remained. He softened his grip then, allowing Crowley to pull his arm away. 

For the first time Crowley looked the angel in the eye. “Why did you do that?”

“You were hurt, I healed you,” Aziraphale replied, the internal battle raging within him making him feel simultaneously furious and heartbroken. 

“I didn’t ask you to.” 

“I know.” 

They stood in silence for another moment, just gazing at each other. Aziraphale cleared his throat and Crowley looked away before asking “what are you doing here anyway?” 

“Muriel contacted me. They told me that you had asked for holy water.” 

Crowley peeked up at Aziraphale through his lashes, trying to gauge the angel’s mood. “Oh,” was all he managed to say.

“So…”

“What do you want me to say?” asked an exasperated Crowley, who began to pace before the Archangel. “We’ve been down this road before anyway.”

The angel cocked his head to the side, curiosity building, “that’s what the other angel implied.” 

It was Crowley’s turn to be confused. “What does that mean?” He asked, a horrible feeling bubbling in his belly.

“I…I don’t remember you.”

Time seemed to stop then, silence fell, and Crowley felt his whole existence shatter into a million tiny pieces. This whole time he had believed that Aziraphale had left and didn’t want to come back. He had believed that the angel hated him, loathed him for being Fallen. But this was so much worse. Never, in any of the many, many nightmare scenarios that Crowley had dreamt, not in a single one did Aziraphale not remember him. He sucked in a deep breath, willing himself not to break down yet again. “Aziraphale…” Crowley began to say, but stopped. What was he supposed to do? How could he fix it if the angel didn’t even remember him? “You don’t remember anything? Not one moment?”

“Not of you, no.” 

Crowley didn’t think he could take any more of this intense pain. He would rather all of Hell torture him forever, than to know that the 6,000 years he’d spent with the angel was just gone. He let out a small wail. “I can’t take this,” he cried. Tears were hot on his cheeks, the taste of bile sour in his mouth. “I told you! I told you not to go!” Crowley roared, anger and pain burning through him like hellfire. “Why didn’t you listen to me?”

The Archangel was unsure how to respond. Of course he didn’t remember Crowley telling him not to go to Heaven. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more fuzzy his memory of becoming the Supreme Archangel was. He watched as Crowley continued to pace, unable to give the demon any sort of meaningful answer. 

“For someone so clever you really can be so stupid!” said Crowley. Something about the statement caused a flare of recognition in Aziraphale’s mind, almost a sense of deja vu. “And the worst part is…they haven’t taken you from me…they’ve taken…they’ve taken me from you…” The uncontrollable sobs returned and Crowley turned away from the angel. 

Aziraphale watched the demon’s back as he cried and whimpered, and he found he couldn’t stand the sight. But the feeling was not one of revulsion, but one of fondness. He took a step forward and, shaking, reached his arm out, placing his hand on the demon’s shoulder. Aziraphale couldn’t explain it, but something about the contact surged throughout his corporation. As if acting on instinct, he wrapped his arms around the quivering mess of a demon, and pulled Crowley into himself, squeezing him tightly. Letting out the breath that felt as if he’d been holding it forever, he rested his chin on the demon’s shoulder, his nose pressed into the soft locks of the demon’s hair. “ I know this smell, ” he thought while breathing in the scent of the demon.

Crowley stiffened, his sobs dying in his throat. His back and chest roared in pain at the pressure on his torture wounds, but he didn’t care. Aziraphale was embracing him. It was the only thing he could think of. Aziraphale held him fast, until he stopped shaking and relaxed into the angel’s arms.

All too soon, Aziraphale broke the embrace, leaving Crowley feeling anxious again. But the angel turned him so that he was facing Aziraphale now. “Crowley,” whispered the angel. “My mind does not remember you, but my soul could never forget.” The last traces of purple faded from his eyes as he looked at Crowley. “Seeing you, feeling you…I know you are a part of me. I just can’t break through, I don’t know what has happened, but I will spend the rest of my existence trying to remember you.”

Crowley rushed forward, throwing their bodies together in another embrace. When Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him, Crowley felt himself melt. Oh how he had longed for this. He pressed his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, breathing in deeply, reveling in the familiar scent of his angel and enjoying the tickle of the angel’s beard. 

Aziraphale felt the last tendrils of hatred shrivel and die. He may not remember being with Crowley all these years, but nothing could keep him from remembering how much he loved the darling demon. He squeezed a bit tighter then, not wanting to let the demon go ever again. But Crowley let out a pained squeak, startling Aziraphale. “What is it? What’s happened?” he asked, holding Crowley at arm’s length in front of him. 

“Just hurt is all,” replied Crowley, as he tried to wiggle his way back into the embrace. 

“Oh! Muriel told me you had wounds. Oh my dear! I’m so sorry.” Aziraphale looked at Crowley with the deepest concern written all over his face. The reaction was so real, so genuinely Aziraphale, that it made Crowley laugh. 

“‘S alright angel,” said Crowley. 

The pet name sparked another wave of fondness in Aziraphale’s breast, and he pulled the demon in again, much more gently this time. Crowley snaked his arms back around the angel’s waist, gripping like his life depended on it. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said as he pulled out of the demon’s grip once more. “Come, sit, I think we have a lot to talk about.”

Crowley nodded his agreement and led the way back out into the main floor of the bookshop. But he stopped suddenly in his tracks, Aziraphale crashing into the back of the demon. “What are you-” he started to ask before looking up and seeing what had caused the demon to come to such an abrupt halt. Standing in the middle of the room, glaring at both angel and demon was the Metatron.

Chapter Text

“Aziraphale, what are you doing?” asked the Metatron. His glare darted from the angel to the demon rooted in the doorway. “Who is this?” he asked, trying to muster a look of confusion or curiosity. 

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed, easily picking up on the Metatron’s game. “You know very well who this is,” he said. Still standing behind the demon, he squared his shoulders and stood solidly. 

“And do you?” The Metatron replied coldly. As he spoke, his face morphed, no longer did he wear the obviously fake surprised expression, but instead fell into a much more natural holier-than-thou smugness.

Crowley, standing in front of Aziraphale, his eyes trained on the Metatron before him, wanted nothing more than to protect his angel, but wasn’t sure what to do. “Aziraphale,” he began, leaning forward slightly, his lip curled upward in a snarled expression. 

“Stay out of this, demon,” said the Metatron. “This is between the Supreme Archangel and myself. You are not even worthy to be in my presence, let alone to speak to me.” His look of superiority increased as he spoke down to the demon.

Crowley opened his mouth to respond, a witty comeback on his tongue, but Aziraphale stopped him. “He’s right,” the angel told Crowley, whose face fell slightly at the angel’s words. “This is between the two of us.”

“I’m not leaving you alone with him,” Crowley protested, his whole body tense with worry and anger.

The Metatron stared daggers at Crowley, hatred and disgust evident in his features. He turned his attention slowly back to the angel, not bothering to hide his scowl. “I take it that you have been introduced then?”

“That’s right,” Aziraphale stepped forward in front of Crowley as he spoke, smoothing the front of his grey suit as he did so. He took a deep breath before asking calmly, “What did you do to me?” Crowley had never seen Aziraphale look this way, his stature, his facial expression, his tone, all of it dripped with command and dominance. Crowley saw the angel ball his hand into a fist as he followed his question with another, “Why can’t I remember Crowley?”

“Don’t be such a fool Aziraphale!” The Metatron shot. “I needed you in Heaven. I would have done anything to get you there.”

“And I never would have left if I knew-” Aziraphale started, turning his gaze back toward Crowley, catching sight of the demon out of the corner of his eye. 

“Because you’re a sorry excuse of an angel,” The Metatron interrupted, “albeit a powerful one.”

“If you hate me so much, why give me command?”

“Like I said, you are a powerful angel Aziraphale. You could be a great leader, a phenomenal soldier, but you think too much, ask too many questions. Not unlike your… friend here.” The Metatron indicated Crowley with a nod of his head. 

“So why didn’t you have me doing anything useful in Heaven? I was sat reading old files. I hardly ever even saw any other angels, or you for that matter.”

“He didn’t want you in Heaven to do anything, he wanted you there to keep you out of his way,” offered Crowley from Aziraphale’s right shoulder. 

“Clever boy,” The Metatron responded with sarcasm. “Aziraphale, you are a surprisingly powerful angel, and that makes you a nuisance, a hindrance if you will. I needed you out of the way. Somewhere I could keep tabs on you and keep you on a very short leash.”

“Why?” Aziraphale asked coldly. 

“Oh, you think I would tell you now if I haven’t told you before?” The Metatron took a step closer to the angel and demon and grinned a taunting smile. “I have plans Aziraphale, and I need someone to lead the rest of the angels. You’re going to come back to Heaven with me. I’m going to remove all of your memory of your time on Earth, not just this disgusting creature, all of it. You are going to be the perfect Supreme Archangel, because you are going to be obedient to me.”

“And why the Hell would I do that?” the angel asked, closing the small distance between them. His eyes flashed purple once more, anger and defiance clear in those luminous irises. 

“Has he seen what they’ve done to you Crowley? Have you shown him?” The Metatron looked at Crowley, his grin turning wicked and his eyes shining with cruelty. 

Crowley’s face drained of colour as he realized what this meant. “You…” he began, but found he didn’t know what to say.

Aziraphale looked away from the Metatron and looked fully at the demon, “Crowley?” he asked. Crowley shook his head slightly, unable to meet the angel’s eyes. He didn’t want Aziraphale to know, he was ashamed. 

“Do you think Hell will ever believe that you don’t have information Crowley? Do you think they’ll ever stop?” The Metatron laughed at his own words. “No, I think you and I both know the answer. That’s why you’re here isn’t it? You’ve been put through so much, you just can’t take it anymore. What a weak thing you are, willing to destroy yourself, you should be ashamed.”

Crowley cast his eyes down, swallowing hard. The Metatron was right of course, Hell would never stop.

“And me coming back to Heaven would solve this how?” Aziraphale asked.

“Don’t be so daft Aziraphale,” came the response from the Metatron. 

Crowley’s head snapped back up and he began advancing on the Metatron. “It was you! You told them I had information so that they would torture me. It was always you!” Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s upper arms, keeping him from getting any closer to the Metatron, Crowley squirming in his grip, wanting nothing more than to punch the bastard in his jaw. 

“Now you’re both getting it,” the Metatron said, taking a step closer, putting his face mere inches from the demon’s. “Why don’t you say hi to Alastor for me the next time you’re down there?”

Crowley leaned back and, before anyone could stop him, spit squarely in the Metatron’s smug face. “Fuck you,” the demon snarled. 

“Disgusting,” said the Metatron as he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the saliva from his face. “Really Aziraphale, you actually have feelings for this…this… thing ?”

Aziraphale pulled Crowley into him, pressing the demon’s back against his chest and wrapping his arms firmly around him. It served to both ground the angel as well as to keep the demon from doing anything stupid. “I won’t let you hurt him,” the Archangel stated simply.

“Me? Oh, I don’t intend to. I wouldn’t waste the effort. But Hell, now they love dragging him down there, don’t they Crowley? All they need is a little push, a little tip that tells them that something is going on in Heaven, and a suggestion that the demon Crowley may know what it is. They’ll take care of the rest. It’s been working so far.”

“Not anymore,” Aziraphale pushed his way in front of the demon, effectively shielding him. “Neither Heaven nor Hell will ever hurt him again. I’ll see to that.”

The Metatron shook his head and laughed once more. “And you think I will just let you be? You think I will just let you two carry on here? What power do you think you have that you can protect him?”

“I’m the Archangel fucking Aziraphale. You made me the highest power among the angels, and I won’t hesitate to use that power.” Aziraphale advanced toward the Metatron, drawing himself up to his full height, he looked slightly down on him and was pleased when the Metatron took a hasty step backward. 

“You may be the Supreme Archangel, but I am the Voice of God!” cried the Metatron, attempting to stay his ground.

“You are not worthy of Her!” Crowley yelled, pushing past Aziraphale and heading straight toward the Metatron, who stumbled backward slightly at the demon’s aggressive approach. Crowley put all the anger, all the sadness, all the hatred he had inside him into a single tightened fist, which he propelled forward, punching the Metatron with an ungodly force in the nose. The blow caught the Metatron by surprise and he stumbled even further back, clutching at his now bleeding face. 

Crowley turned his back on the Metatron, looking over at Aziraphale, his mouth open to say something, but he saw Aziraphale’s eyes widen and the angel started toward him. Confused, Crowley began to turn back toward the Metatron. The last thing the demon saw was water coming toward his face.

Chapter Text

 Crowley felt as if time had stopped, he watched as the splash of water came closer to him in slow motion. His thoughts raced, running so quickly through his mind that he could hardly keep up. “Get out of the way! ” his brain yelled, “This is what you wanted ,” it screamed. “Fool, ” “idiot, ” “pitiful demon; ” all these thoughts and insults flung themselves at Crowley in a split second. But one thought came louder than the rest, “Aziraphale. ” He closed his eyes, waiting for the impact of the holy water, silently willing Aziraphale to feel how much he loved him, how sorry he was for everything. 

Just as he expected the water to drench him, a more sturdy impact hit him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him and sending screaming pain throughout his many wounds. Eyes still closed tightly, he fell backward, landing on the floor with a thud, the sturdy weight still upon him, pressing down from the front. 

“Crowley!” he heard the angel yell and time began to move at its normal rate once again. The demon managed to open his eyes, wet with tears from a mixture of sorrow and fear from his near death experience, and the pain pulsing through his corporation. When he was able to blink away the tears, he looked to see what was resting on top of him. It was the lesser angel, Muriel. 

“Crowley, don’t move!” Aziraphale yelled. “There’s still some drops of holy water on the floor.” 

“Don’t have to tell me twice, angel,” Crowley managed, resting his head back against the floorboards. Above him, Muriel shimmied their way off of him, careful not to let their wet clothes touch him. 

Aziraphale violently tugged off his suit jacket, throwing it to the floor, and fell to his hands and knees where he began mopping up any remaining droplets. 

“Could have just miracled it away, you know,” Crowley commented with a smile. 

Aziraphale let out an exasperated sigh, trying not to smile at the wisecracking demon. He finished his job with a miracle, including drying Muriel’s clothes, then he offered a hand to Crowley, helping him back up to a standing position. They looked at each other, then looked to Muriel who smiled sheepishly. Then all three supernatural beings turned their attention back on the Metatron. 

“How dare you!” The Metatron roared at Muriel. “You will Fall for this!”

“They’ll do no such thing,” Aziraphale said, miracling his jacket dry and clean before shrugging it back on and smoothing the soft grey fabric around himself. 

The Metatron looked back and forth between the three of them, his mouth agape and his chin wagging as his head snapped from focusing on each one of them. Where once his eyes had shone with nothing but malice and anger, they now were tinged with fear. 

“I speak on behalf of the Almighty, my word is as good as Her’s!” 

“What is going on here?” asked a voice behind the Metatron as the bell above the door chimed, alerting them to a new presence. All of them looked simultaneously to see that three more angels were entering the shop. Leading the group was Saraqael, using a miracle to create a ramp for their wheelchair, behind them was Michael and Uriel.

“What are you all doing here?” The Metatron sputtered. 

“We were advised that something was amiss down here in the outpost,” said Michael. They stood tall and slim clasping their hands together in front of their abdomen, their long brown hair pulled half up. Their stance was proud and commanding. They wore a well-fitted gray suit with a white dress shirt underneath the jacket, its long sleeves flowing out around their wrists. They had a tight smile, which did not betray their feelings. 

Uriel stood next to Michael, adorned in a similar outfit, though the dress shirt underneath his jacket was less frilled and was a golden color. On his face was a stern look, eyes darting from Aziraphale, to Crowley, to the Metatron, then back again. It was clear that Uriel trusted no one. 

Saraqael remained in front of the other angels, pulling their chair up close to the Metatron, looking at him with a fiery anger. “That’s right, so would you kindly tell us what you are doing Metatron.”

“You…you all think you can question me?” It was clear that the Metatron was quickly losing any remaining control he had on the situation, and he did not like that. 

“We are all Archangels!” Barked Uriel, “we have every right to know what is going on in Heaven and its territories. You are acting very odd indeed, almost as if you’re keeping secrets.”

“Secrets? I have shared everything with you! You are all aware of the Great Plan!” the Metatron said imploringly.

Crowley crowded closer to Aziraphale, watching the exchange between the angels with bated breath. He felt his heart pounding in his chest. “What if they side with him? ” he thought, and a shiver ran up his spine as he considered the possibilities. 

Aziraphale felt the demon press himself closer to his side, and then felt him tremble slightly. He wondered if he and Crowley were thinking the same things, worrying about the outcome of this confrontation. Silently, he reached his hand out and found the demon’s. He firmly clasped their hands together, pulling a surprised noise from Crowley. 

The Metatron swung his attention back to the Supreme Archangel, spotting the fact that he was now holding hands with a demon. “Do you see this?” He cried, pointing a finger to the duo. “An angel and a demon…touching one another, and you all have the audacity to ask questions of me? It’s this perversion you should be upset with.”

The three Archangels looked at one another and then looked to Crowley and Aziraphale’s clasped hands. Saraqael moved slightly closer and inspected the two. Crowley did his best to stand up straight, looking ahead with his head held high. He wanted them all to see, wanted them all to know how he felt about the angel. 

“It may be…taboo,” Saraqael said, “but I do not feel as surprised as I should…Why is that, do you think?” They looked at the Metatron for an answer, but he kept his mouth shut tightly. “Muriel?”

Muriel stepped forward, approaching the Archangels, clutching a manilla envelope to their chest. Once they were in front of Saraqael, they held the file in an outstretched hand. Saraqael took the file with a raised eyebrow. “What is this?”

“This file is on the Metatron, I don’t have clearance, but I do believe it contains some thing that you will all be interested in,” Muriel offered.

“Wh…what do you mean??” stumbled the Metatron. 

Saraqael was unable to open the file, so looked to Aziraphale. The Supreme Archangel took a step forward and opened the file easily. Suddenly, all of the angels were surrounded by a vision of the Metatron and Aziraphale outside of the bookshop. They watched the video of the Metatron speaking to Aziraphale, holding a cup of coffee. His hands moved in an odd fashion over the beverage, which he handed to the angel and demanded he drink. Aziraphale sipped at the coffee, but suddenly began choking, doubling over. He continued coughing and sputtering.

 The Archangels watching were horrified as they witnessed the image of Aziraphale retching, a golden liquid falling from his mouth. The Metatron quickly reached forward with a grey handkerchief, using the fabric to mop up the liquid gold. When Aziraphale stood up and wiped his mouth, he had a blank look about his face and he glanced around before asking the Metatron what they were doing. The Metatron stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket.

The video continued to play, but all of the angels looked to Aziraphale standing before them. He looked back at them, took a deep breath, and began to explain. “He took my memories. I never would have agreed to go with him otherwise. I don’t doubt he’s done the same to all of you before if you’ve ever questioned him.”

All three Archangels looked at one another, realization all over their faces. 

“He’s a liar!” The Metatron cried. 

“Just stop!” Uriel yelled, annoyance clear in his voice. “There’s no use in pretending anymore.”

“Why would you believe him?” the Metatron asked, fear clouding his face. “None of this is true! I demand you listen to me.”

“Really? Do you think we’re that stupid?” Michael replied, glaring at the Metatron with a piercing gaze. 

Something shifted in the Metatron then, his features rearranged into a cold glare, anger filling his eyes once more. He had dropped the act. “So, you know now…Good for you. Do you think this changes anything?” 

“It changes everything,” Saraqael said. “We may not remember everything, but now that we know, we won’t let this happen again.”

“Fool!” laughed the Metatron. “I’ve taken your memories before, what makes you think I won’t do it again?”

“Because,” interrupted Muriel, “you can’t.” 

They all turned their attention on the lesser angel. Muriel turned a shade of light pink from the sudden attention, but pushed on nevertheless. “You’ve taken memories from angels here and there, always one or two at a time. That’s how you’ve managed to keep it a secret.

”

The Metatron smirked, rolling his eyes. “You think I’m not powerful enough to wipe the memories of five angels?”

“Try ten million angels…” They all stared at the lesser angel, mouths agape, unsure how to respond.

“What?” the Metatron finally managed. 

“Ten million angels, give or take. That’s how many are in Heaven right now correct?”

Uriel, Michael, and Saraqael all nodded in agreement with Muriel, eyes wide as they were beginning to understand. 

The Metatron’s eyes also widened then, concern and fear returning to his corporation. “What have you done?”

“Every angel has been delivered a file which contains information about you and what you’ve been up to. Every angel in Heaven now knows that you have been toying with their minds, taking their memories, playing your own game.”

Everyone looked at the Metatron, waiting to see what he would say. But he didn’t seem to have much of anything to say, instead staring the lesser angel down with a look of complete shock. 

“Brilliant, Inspector!” Crowley exclaimed. “You should certainly receive a promotion for this!” 

“They will indeed,” Saraqael said. “Now, we must decide what to do with you, Metatron. You’ll be coming back to Heaven with us, where we can decide your fate.” Saraqael looked at Aziraphale. “Sir, would you be so kind as to lead the way? Uriel and Michael can take charge of the prisoner.” Michael and Uriel stepped forward and clasped the Metatron by his upper arms. He continued to mutter about being the voice of God, and how they wouldn’t get away with this, but no one was listening. 

“I’ll be up shortly,” Aziraphale said. “I trust you three can handle him for a few moments.”

Saraqael nodded and led Michael, Uriel, Muriel, and the Metatron out of the door of the shop. In the doorway, they looked back once at Aziraphale and Crowley before ascending back to Heaven.  

Once they were alone, Aziraphale turned his gaze toward Crowley. “You’re going back?” the demon asked quietly. 

“I must,” Aziraphale said with a pang of guilt. “At least for a little while. I need to fix this mess. And, maybe, I can find out how to get my memories back.”

Crowley felt a sad smile spread across his lips. “I understand.”

“I’ll be back,” Aziraphale said, squeezing Crowley’s hand tighter. “I won’t leave you alone again.” 

“Promise?” The question came so meekly and the demon spoke it with his face cast downward, so that the angel almost didn’t hear him. 

Aziraphale now matched Crowley’s sad smile. Using his free hand, he cupped the demon’s chin, tilting his face back up so that they could meet each other’s eyes. “I promise,” he said as he leaned forward and pressed their mouths together in a chaste kiss.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale pulled away from Crowley, touching his fingers to his lips. “I’ve felt your lips before,” he murmured with wide eyes. It wasn’t a question, but a statement of something he knew intrinsically. 

Crowley gave him a slight nod in response, turning a delightful shade of pink if the Archangel did say so himself. “I…I kissed you right before you left to go to Heaven. I…I didn’t know that the Metatron had messed with you. I thought…I thought you just didn’t feel the same way.”

Aziraphale hummed in response, trying to pierce the fuzzy veil that shrouded his memory of the day he became the Supreme Archangel. “Let’s just hope I am able to retrieve the memory,” he said, “I’d very much like to remember our first kiss, I think.” The angel smiled, touching his lips again. 

Crowley surged forward and wrapped his arms around the angel, squeezing tightly. “Please come back soon,” he pleaded.

“I will.” Azirpahle pulled out of the embrace and headed toward the door. “Stay here, I’ll be back shortly.”

Crowley nodded and moved to the couch where he sat down and tried to get comfortable. 

Aziraphale exited the shop, closing the door behind him. He stood still for a moment, looking back through the windows at the demon lounging on his couch, who it felt simultaneously like he had met today, and had known forever. He shook his head, attempting to gather his thoughts, then closed his eyes and ascended to Heaven. 

When he opened his eyes it took a moment to adjust to the level of brightness. He fussed with his beard and suit for a moment before turning and heading toward his office, where he assumed the angels would have taken the Metatron.

Upon entering his office he was greeted by the three Archangels standing around the Metatron who was seated in a chair in front of Aziraphale’s desk. Aziraphale crossed the room and took his own seat behind the desk, nodding to Muriel who was standing in the corner of the room, once again clutching the manilla file to their chest. 

“So,” Aziraphale began. “What is there to do about this…traitor.”

“Traitor!” The Metatron yelled. “I am no traitor! Everything I have done has been part of the Great Plan.” Spittle flew from the Metatron’s mouth as he spoke, his face turning red with anger.

“So you keep saying…” Aziraphale replied, keeping his tone calm and even. “I cannot believe that the Almighty had any part in this. I don’t believe you’ve spoken on Her behalf in a long time.” He looked then to the other Archangels, “wouldn’t you agree?”

“It would seem so,” replied Michael. 

“I don’t trust him,” said Uriel, to no one’s surprise.

“No, he does not speak for Her anymore. But what are we to do?” asked Saraqael, their polished silver chair hovering above the polished celestial floors. 

“That is the question indeed…” mused Aziraphale. 

They all sat there thinking while the Metatron continued to sputter and shout about his power and influence, his position and the consequences that they would all surely face. 

“We could cast him down to Hell,” offered Michael with a furrowed brow.

“But would we really want him to have any demonic power?” Saraqael replied. 

“We could destroy him with Hellfire,” suggested Uriel.

“That seems barbaric, though perhaps justifiable…” commented Aziraphale. 

“What if we wipe his memories?” Saraqael said. “An eye for an eye, it would be rather Biblical”

“An eye for an eye makes the world go blind,” Aziraphale replied, confusing the other angels who were unfamiliar with the human saying. A heavy silence permeated the room.

“Excuse me…” They all looked at Muriel in the corner of the office. Aziraphale gave them a smile, encouraging them to speak. “Well um…if you aren’t sure what to do with him…I have a suggestion.” Muriel tried to keep their head held high and show confidence, even though their legs were shaking. Aziraphale gave a nod, indicating them to continue. “Well, what if…what if you made him…human?”

The three Archangels gasped at the idea, but Aziraphale retained his composure. The Metatron himself had gone quite silent, staring at Aziraphale along with the others, awaiting his response. 

The Supreme Archangel hummed to himself, stroking his beard as he thought, eyes cast down. He caught a glimpse of his journal sitting on the desk, and in that moment, his mind was made up. “I think that’s an excellent idea,” he said. 

The Archangels were surprised, but the Metatron was taken completely aback. He opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to find the words. “Y-you…you can’t! I am the Metatron! The Voice of God! I can not be a pathetic…mortal!” The Metatron was roaring, his eyes glossing over with unshed tears as he realized the futility of the situation. It was obvious from the look on the Supreme Archangel’s face that he would not change his mind. 

“You were the Metatron,” said Aziraphale calmly, “but now you will not be. Your attitude towards humanity is quite lacking, perhaps some time among them will make you realize how precious their lives really are.” The Metatron looked disgusted at the very thought, but found he had nothing left to say. “Now, Michael, Uriel, Saraqael, I believe this will need to be quite a powerful miracle, so I will need your help. Let's all form a circle around him, just so.” The angels moved into place encircling the Metatron. Aziraphale reached out and took Michael’s hand in his left, and Saraqael’s hand in his right, indicating that they should join their free hands with Uriel, chaining them all together. “Muriel,” said Aziraphale then, letting go of Saraqael’s hand, “join us, a little extra celestial power couldn’t hurt.” Muriel beamed at him and he smiled back, making room for them on his right side. “Alright, now I want all of you to focus on taking every bit of the Metatron’s ethereal energy. He must not have any power left. Do you all understand?” The angels all nodded their understanding and so with a nod, Aziraphale began their joint miracle.

The Metatron cried out as he felt his power slipping from his body. It was a quick process and was over almost immediately, but the feeling of emptiness remained. But that wasn’t the only sensation he could feel. He was suddenly acutely aware of his corporation. It was full of minor sensations that he had never noticed before. He cataloged the feeling of his heart beating, his breath causing his chest to rise and fall, the gentle touch of the fabric of his clothing on his skin as he moved, even the way his eyes blinked was something he had never thought about. 

The angels all looked at the Metatron, then looked to Aziraphale. “Did it work?” Uriel asked. 

“It worked,” Aziraphale assured them. “Oh, there is one other thing I would like to do. He broke from the circle and laid his hand directly on the Metatron’s shoulder. All the angels watched as the corporation before them changed. Where once the Metatron had been an old man, wrinkled and grey, he was now young, eyes bright, hair blonde, and skin smooth. His blue eyes met Aziraphale’s in a silent question. 

“What did you do, Aziraphale?” Michael asked. 

“I made his corporation young. He is now a man in his mid twenties,” he replied stepping away from the Metatron. 

“But why?” Uriel asked.

“The point of making him human is not to punish him,” Aziraphale explained. “At least, that’s not why I wanted it. I made him human so that he might learn and become a good person. Maybe one day his soul will be back in the good graces of the Almighty.” Aziraphale had a slight smile on his face. He crossed the room and took his seat behind his desk once more. 

“But I still don’t understand…” Uriel complained.

“I think I do,” Muriel said, smiling at Aziraphale. “Humans grow old and their corporations get weak, and then they die. The corporation the Metatron has was already old, so he wouldn’t have had much time left on Earth. You’ve given him more time.”

Aziraphale gave a small nod in response. “Hopefully he will use that time wisely. Michael and Uriel, I’m going to ask you two to get him set up on Earth. He will need to choose a name for himself, where on the planet he would like to live, and we will need to set him up in a place to live. Can you manage that?”

The Archangel’s looked at Aziraphale nervously, but nodded all the same. 

“If you have any questions you can ask Muriel here, they know a lot about Earth themself.”  The angels stood and led the no-longer-Metatron out of the office. “As for you, Saraqael, I would like your help in dealing with another matter.” 

“Of course sir,” said the Archangel. “How can I help?”

“It’s regarding our enemies below. They seem to believe that we are planning something. They have been working very hard to find out what exactly that is.”

“Sir, I know nothing. We were only told that you were working with the Metatron on the next big phase of the Great Plan. I take it that was another of his lies?”

Aziraphale nodded, “Yes, and it has cost me dearly. He told me nothing of what he was planning. Part of me thinks he wasn’t even sure himself what to do. I wonder when the Almighty last spoke to him…” He shook his head to clear his thoughts and looked back up at Saraqael and Muriel, who was still hovering near the door. “Regardless, I want Hell to know that we are going back to the usual arrangement. Nothing is being planned, no armageddon redo, no end of the world part two. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I think it is high time we get back to the business of influencing souls towards the light. It has been so very long.”

“Good, then we are in agreement. You and I will seek an audience with the Dark Council and present the terms of this new arrangement.”

“Of course sir, but may I ask,” they hesitated for a moment, making sure that Azirapahle was okay with being questioned. “Why do you need me? You are the Supreme Archangel, won’t they listen to you more than any other angel?”

“Yes, I am the Supreme Archangel,” Aziraphale paused, drawing in a breath. “But I don’t want to stay in Heaven. I believe I am better utilized on Earth, but someone should be in charge up here as well. I would like you to be that angel.”

Saraqael blinked several times, surprised and confused. “Really?” they finally asked. 

“Yes. You have always been a strong and competent angel. I feel that I can trust you.”

“Thank you sir. I hope I can…I hope I can meet your expectations.” Saraqael smiled, sitting up a little taller in their chair.

“I’m sure you can. I will check in of course, but I’d like to spend time on Earth working to better the planet. We should assign other angels to work as emissaries as well. Hell will likely do the same. It will be like it used to be. Assuming they agree to this arrangement of course.” 

“I think they will sir. Anything you need me to do?”

“I would like you to begin looking for angels that will make good agents on Earth, we will need to provide them training of course. I trust you to pick them out.”

“Of course, I’ll get right on it.” Saraqael left the office, leaving just Aziraphale and Muriel. 

“Sir, I…”

“Please hold that thought for a moment my dear. I must say thank you. You have done so much for me, and for Crowley. You saved him…you saved both of us. And even more than that you may have even saved the entirety of creation.”

Muriel blushed deeply, unable to meet the eyes of the Supreme Archangel, but feeling a deep sense of accomplishment. “Sir I…I don’t know what to say. I’m just happy that everything is alright again.”

“Me too. Well, I’ve given you access to the Metatron’s file. I would ask that you read through it. Maybe you can find out how we can retrieve the memories he stole from all these angels.” 

“Right away sir,” Muriel replied with a nod. They took the file and began to leave the office, but they hesitated at the door. “Sir?”

“What is it? Asked Aziraphale. 

“Should I read this here in Heaven sir? Or…could I maybe…could I return to Earth? I do like it so very much there.” 

Aziraphale smiled in understanding. “Of course. You can continue to use the bookshop if you would like, you will always be welcome there.”

“Oh thank you sir!” Muriel bounced a few times before exiting the office in a giddy state and heading toward the lift. 

Alone in his office, Aziraphale put his head in his hands. The gravity of the situation finally hitting him. Silently tears began to fall from his eyes and once they started, he felt they may never stop. His whole body shook and trembled. 

Several minutes passed this way before he was able to regain his composure. He stood and straightened his suit before leaving his office. He began walking toward the Lift, stopping by Saraqael’s office to let them know he would be going back to the Bookshop for now. 

A few moments later he was exiting the lift in the Dirty Donkey, and heading back into the shop.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale entered the shop and immediately his eyes began scanning the room for Crowley. A feeling gripped him, like the pull of a magnet, ushering him further into the shop until his gaze found the demon. Crowley was sitting at Aziraphale’s desk, with Muriel standing behind him. Open in front of the demon was one of the Archangel’s diaries. Aziraphale felt a wave of panic and embarrassment at the idea of the demon reading his innermost thoughts.

Clearing his throat to let the other two beings know of his presence, Aziraphale stepped even closer. Crowley looked up and quickly slammed the book shut, a slight pink color tinting his cheeks. Aziraphale felt a tinge of anger towards the demon, but then he noticed the way his cheeks glistened and he realized that he had been crying. Aziraphale rushed forward, dropping to his knees in front of Crowley, and took the demon’s hands in his own.

“My dear,” the angel said softly. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

Crowley shook his head, and tried to hold back more tears from falling, but ultimately was unsuccessful. “It’s nothing,” he finally said.

“Oh my dear demon, it’s obviously something. Please tell me?” The angel’s fingers were pressing soothing circles into the demon’s flesh. Crowley closed his eyes and tried to focus only on that sensation, but he found the gentleness and care was too much. Gently he pulled his hands away from the angel.

Aziraphale’s face fell, and he immediately blamed himself for doing something wrong. “I’m sorry…” he said, barely more than a whisper.

Crowley looked at the angel in front of him, saw the pain that was present on his beautiful face, and found he couldn’t bear it. Slowly, the demon lifted his hand and pressed it into the angel’s soft cheek. Aziraphale’s eyes drifted closed and he pressed into the demon’s touch.
The moment was short but sweet, cut short when Crowley suddenly winced and swore under his breath.

“What is it my dear?” Aziraphale asked as he stood up.

“‘S nothing, don’t worry.”

“Tell him,” Muriel said, making the demon and angel both jump as they had almost forgotten the lesser angel was there. Crowley shot Muriel a look, but the damage was done.

“Tell me what?” Aziraphale asked, worry seeping from the question.

“I’m…I’m just in… a little pain, that’s all. Don’t worry about it.”

“Crowley,” Muriel said, but quieted when the demon glared at them again.

“My dear Muriel, would you please give us a moment alone?”

“Sure, I’m going to go tell Nina and Maggie all that’s happened. They’re going to be so relieved.” Muriel hurried out of the shop.

“Please tell me what has happened to you,” Aziraphale asked with a kind but sad expression.

Crowley huffed and closed his eyes tightly, began to shake his head “no” but suddenly thought better of it. “Okay,” he said meekly. He unbuttoned his black shirt and pulled it off, keeping his eyes closed so that he didn’t have to see the angel’s face.

Aziraphale drew in a sharp inhale, and let it back out as a whimper. His eyes brimmed with tears as they took in the alarming sight before him. He cleared his throat to speak but then to his horror, the demon turned around showing his back. Aziraphale also noted the long straight gashes on the demon’s arm, causing him to shudder with the thought of Crowley hurting himself.

Crowley bit the inside of his cheek to keep from wailing as he, lastly, pulled out his large black wings. He felt tears drip from his closed eyes, and despite his effort he let out a strangled sob.

Aziraphale was speechless, and for a moment he stayed rooted to the spot, only his tears moving down his cheeks. Another sob escaped the demon’s lips, rustling the feathers of those once pristine wings slightly. Aziraphale surged forward and placed his hands gently on the demon’s shoulders.

“I…I didn’t want you to see me like this… I’m so…broken.” The last word came out as a choked cry, Crowley’s hands threading into his own hair and gripping hard.

“I know… I know. It is alright now. No one will ever hurt you again.” The angel reached up and gently disentangled the demon’s fingers. “Crowley, look at me…”

Hesitantly, Crowley pried his eyes open and looked back over his shoulder at the angel. A small part of him still worried that none of this was real, but the strong grip of the archangel upon him brought a comfort and sense of reality to the still trembling demon.

“You are not broken,” Aziraphale told him, voice low and steady. Crowley opened his mouth to disagree, but Aziraphale cut him off, “you are damaged, but you are not broken… You have endured so much, it must have taken incredible strength.”

The last statement ripped a bark of laughter from the demon. “I’m anything but strong,” he said, letting out another laugh that turned into a small cry. “I was going to destroy myself.” He pulled his wings back in, the pain screwing up his face, and then turned to face Aziraphale once more.

“I…I know that you might not see it now, but I do. I will hold the knowledge of your strength until you can.” Gently, the angel touched Crowley’s face before leaning in and placing a small but firm kiss on his lips.

Everything felt still, the only sounds were the ticking of a clock somewhere in the shop and their breathing. “It really is you…” Crowley said after a moment. “You’re really here…and you…you l-l…” Crowley trailed off, not daring to believe it just yet, still terrified to relive the pain of rejection.

“Yes my dear demon,” Aziraphale said with a smile. It was then that he took the dark glasses from Crowley’s face, looking him full in the bright, yellow, serpentine eyes. “I love you. I always have, for 6000 years.”

“But you don’t even remember me fully.”

“No… it is odd. I still don’t remember everything, but I know down to my very core that I love you. It is the most fundamental truth I can feel. I don’t believe anyone, not even the Almighty herself could hide it from me now.”

Crowley’s eyes grew wide at the Archangel’s mention of the Almighty. Any doubt he had in his mind was swept away when those words were uttered. “I…I love you too. It doesn’t sound like much but…I have loved you for as long as I can remember, maybe even before that.” Something clicked then and Crowley let out a gasp.

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked with concern.

“My memory! I don’t remember anything except that I was an angel once…and the rebellion of course. But I don’t remember much else. I bet you that twat messed with my memories too, before I fell.”

“Oh dear! I fear you are probably correct. I just hope there is a way to recover the memories. Muriel is going to help me with looking into that. Unfortunately there is nothing more we can do at the moment. I have the other archangels setting up a meeting with the Dark Council, so until I meet with them, I think it would be best for you to remain here.” Crowley nodded in agreement, thankful for the safety that the bookshop would provide. “Then it’s settled. Would you like to rest for a bit? I would like to read a bit more of my diaries to refresh my stolen memory.”

“Yeah,” Crowley yawned. “I could use some sleep.”

“You are welcome to use the bedroom or the couch here, whichever you prefer.”

Crowley thought about it for a moment before deciding on the bedroom. He would prefer to be close to the angel, but he didn’t think the couch would be too comfortable for his aching corporation. “I’ll use the bed if you’re sure that’s okay.”

“Absolutely!” Aziraphale said as he walked the demon to the room. “Rest well my dear, I’ll be right out here if you need me.”

“Promise?” The demon asked before he could stop himself.

“I promise.”