#and then one on crowley who i doubt could stare impassively at his angel seeing the emotion on his face

[lost-tardis-room]

shit shit shit

guys i'm not sure if aziraphale actually saw crowley standing by the car

like he moves his head as if he were to look over but i don't think the angle is right

he might not have known crowley was waiting for him

oh i am i having feelings

[mattzerella-sticks]

metamorphosis

Chapter 1 (ao3)

Prologue (ao3) (tumblr)

What if, when Jack was born, he stayed a baby?

A retelling of season 13, with a few key differences.

No planned schedule, will update when I finish chapters lol

Chapter 1 - Dean I

           “Cas?”

           Dean waited, watching Cas’s lips. He waited for his name to be spoken, said in that same mixture of fondness and exasperation and gravel that ticked the tempo of his heart up a notch. He waited for his angel to smile, then tell Dean that he’s fine; that it wasn’t more than a scratch, that he’s still here.

           Any minute now.

           “…Cas?” Dean’s voice sounded scratchy, raw, like a needle ripped through a spinning record. He blinked back his tears, embarrassed, because Cas might wake soon and see him break, see him not be strong enough. His gaze broke from Cas’s bluing lips, staring at the starless sky above. He saw night begin its transition to early morning, a sun sliver dipping into the horizon, and wondered how long Cas will play with him like this. How long will Cas pretend to lie there? How long will Cas insist that he’s –

           “Cas!” Even with the extra help from gravity, Dean couldn’t stop the pinprick tears tracing their way down to his ears, wetness setting his skin aflame. He choked on a sob, the rubber band of his body snapping and recoiling into itself. His shoulders shook. He squeezed tight to his stomach. Dean closed his eyes, but inside that shuttered darkness was Cas, emerging from the portal. Cas with the blade in his hand. Cas with a blade, poking out his chest. “Oh… oh, God…”

           He’s really gone. He’s gone and Dean hurt. Dean hurt so much.

           Dean cracked one eye open, then another. In his periphery, he saw the tips of Cas’s limp fingers lying in the dirt along with the rest of his body.

           It was something he has wanted to do for some time now. Dean noticed what happens halfway into its journey, his trembling hand hovering over Cas’s. He lowered it cautiously. When there’s barely an inch of space separating his middle finger from Cas’s knuckles, Dean stopped. Dean couldn’t close that final gap. He stared at the emptiness between them, small but terrifyingly infinite, and was frozen in terror.

           “Dean!”

           Sam’s call stirred him from that horrid trance, urgency reminding Dean of all else that happened. Of Crowley’s sacrifice, of the portal closing, of mom on the other side; those events crashed into him like a terrible wave, washing him out into a roaring sea that denied him any sense or reason. Standing, legs ready to give out on him at any moment, Dean stumbled towards where he last heard his brother.

           He forgot about the steps. Sam caught him, guiding him past the threshold and into the cabin with lumbering haste. Dean’s vision returned to him soon, though. He drew Sam further to his side, for a loose hug, then shoved his brother’s oafish frame off of him. Dean supported himself using the wall instead. “What?” he asked, growling, “What is it?”

           Sam tried to speak but got cutoff by a shrill cry coming from another room. Sam shrugged, jerking his head to where, Dean guesses, the crying originated. He’d also take a stab at who’s responsible for crying, too.

           Kelly’s son. Lucifer’s son. The whole damned reason Dean’s life lay shattered in the clearing out back.

           Hearing those whines and sobs rattle the cabin’s chilly silence helped harden what remained of his heart, enough so that the baby’s shrieking echoed in the hollow chambers of Dean’s chest. It made what he must ask next much easier. “You didn’t kill him yet?”

           Sam visibly startled, jaw clenched that familiar way Dean knows meant an argument brewed within; his brother’s puppy dog features deceived, hiding his true feelings. Again, as Sam readied to speak, the baby took his cue and interrupted with a damning wail. Sam pressed his lips into a thin, mangled line while he waited his turn.

           A minute passed, and it’s doubtful the little guy would lose steam soon. Dean sighed. He pushed off the wall, passing Sam as he followed the noisy little bastard. Sam stayed right behind him, heavy footsteps and chiding tone mixing with the crying to shred Dean’s nerves into oblivion. “You are not doing this, Dean,” Sam hissed, tugging on his elbow, “we need to talk about it first –“

           “Who can talk over all this racket!” He wrenched his arm free, storming into the baby’s nursery while Sam dawdled under the doorframe. Their entrance meant little to the newborn, who continued crying despite their entrance. “And I’m not killing him –“ he kept his yet stored in the barrel of his mouth, unfired, conscious of how it will be received in the moment – “gonna shut him up for a while, s’all…” Dean punctuated his claim by grabbing the baby, Jack if the painted name on the crib meant anything, and tucking him into the crook of his arm. He bounced him like he did Sam decades ago, like he would for any normal baby, cooing sweet nothing that tumbled out of him as if they were sand in a broken hourglass, shards mixed within. Dean spied a rocking chair in the corner and, with Sam’s piercing gaze studying him, Dean collapsed into it.

           That seemed to work. Dean’s gentle rocking, paired with a hummed lullaby cherrypicked from his past, put the hellion in his arms at ease. Jack stared up, transfixed by what Dean guessed is the tall lamp casting a gentle glow on them both; a lamp Sam, now in the room and by his side, flicked on after Dean sat down. It must be the center of his focus, because Dean wouldn’t believe the baby looked at him like he did; like he’s a bright and beautiful thing, deserving of attention, of being the center of his known universe. He didn’t want that, especially from him.

           Dean swallowed a curse and ended their contest, sure if he looked into the baby’s eyes any longer, he would damn the consequences and wring the life from this tiny body nestled in his hands. He waited for Jack’s fit to tamper lower and lower, rising only after a moment of uninterrupted silence. Dean carried Jack back, returning him to his crib. He added another mistake into the column of ever-increasing errors and glanced at Lucifer’s kid a final time. He examined him, searching for little horns or a tail or tattoos of sixes; he found nothing. Nothing that proved he’s more than a child, innocent and carefree.

           Sam hung by his shoulder, buzzing halo bothersome in Dean’s ear. “I think he likes you.”

           Dean huffed under breath, “I wish I could say the same.”

           He left. Sam trailed in his wake; tread heavy from being constipated with a smug righteousness Dean dreaded will be shat all over him when Sam had the chance. He was silent until the kitchen, then Sam struck. “His mother just died, Dean.”

           Dean shrugged, “So did ours.” He expected that to feel weird saying, but it hadn’t. Sam gaped at him, like it had. Maybe Dean’s in shock. Maybe he was too used to having a dead mom. Dean carried on regardless. “If you think a sob story’s gonna convince me of anything, try hitting me when the kids got enough pages to fill a book larger than Moby Dick’s, or ours. Right now, he’s a table of contents and not much else.”

           “Exactly,” Sam needled, poking Dean’s chest. Dean swat him away with the refrigerator door, creating a makeshift barrier to protect himself from Sam’s crusade. He dug around for something to drink, something boozy, as Sam prattled. “Look, Dean, we… I know our thing is – our thing is killing monsters but, Dean, he’s a baby. He – he didn’t do anything –“

           “He was conceived,” Dean said, “that’s enough for me.” His groping fingers pushed aside the carton of milk for a third time; he still couldn’t find the beer.

           “That wasn’t his fault.” Sam rested his hand over Dean’s where it rested on the refrigerator door, pleading for Dean to look at him by touch alone. Dean relented, darting his eyes for a fleeting glance. Sam’s brows were drawn in like a steep hill, and he appeared absolutely ghastly because of the refrigerator’s light. Dean fell back to his mission. “Lucifer… he set this in motion, and we’ve dealt with him.”

           “And what did it cost us?”

           Sam sighed. “Everyone we lost knew what this was about,” he told Dean, “knew how it might end. They were ready to risk their lives for this.”

           “We were here to take down Lucifer, end of story,” Dean spat, knocking items onto the floor in his fervor. He tore through like a whirlwind, throwing food everywhere. Eggs, lettuce, ketchup and pickles – no beer though. Dammit. “And with the kid kicking, we haven’t even finished our mission.”

           “Jack is not Lucifer!” Sam squeezed Dean’s wrist, begging for more attention. Dean’s spiteful, rigid glare burned a hole in the back of the fridge. He refused to move even an inch. “He’s a baby, and we… we kill monsters. We kill the ones who have no chance of being saved. He was just born, Dean. He had no choice in that.”

           “Who’s to say that he won’t choose to be a monster, once he’s old enough?”

           Sam strangled his wrist, now, Dean’s fingers numbing because of his brother’s impassioned grip. “We’ll make sure. We’ll raise him right.”

           This drew Dean out of the refrigerator. “We?” he laughed, bitterness churning in his gut. “We, really? You think…” Dean didn’t finish, speechless at the insanity Sam presented. He and Sam, raising Lucifer’s kid? He and Sam, sheltering the baby who ruined their lives? He and Sam… “I hate to break it to you, Sammy,” he continued, his voice returning, “but this ain’t the nineties. We can’t have it all, clearly. And we are not taking that kid in like some muddy stray.”

           “Cas wanted to raise him.”

           Dean gagged. The toxic rush of seconds ago disappeared, spilling out from the seam Sam pulled loose.

           Sam, at least, was aware enough to briefly mime an apology. His face contorted into a pained expression, exaggerated to better mangle his earlier fury. However, that’s smoothed and replaced with sterner features as he detached himself from his words, and the ugliness that they inspired. He stood tall, committed to the outburst, and from the curl of his scowl, Dean wouldn’t expect him to take back what’s been said. It will linger like the other ghosts.

           If that was how he wanted to do this.

           “Sure,” Dean agreed, “and that got him what, exactly?” He slammed the refrigerator door, startling both of them and the baby. Jack’s wailing picked up where he left off, although sharper and more annoying. Dean pushed into Sam, instinct urging him to soothe like he did earlier. Dean stopped himself, hesitating. He spun on his heel, leaving where he came in.

           Sam shouted, “You can’t just run away Dean!”

           “I’m getting some air, is all!” he yelled back, ripping the door off its hinges in his haste to leave.

           A terrifying gust rammed into him almost immediately, giving him the very air he craved. Then, a second wind blows in the opposite direction; stealing his breath as his gaze landed on the body of his angel, immobile, with black skid marks in a shoddy recreation of what might be wings splayed beside him like oddly bent branches. Dean blindly descended, too focused with Cas’s form than the stairs. When his feet reached solid, uneven ground, Dean slowed to a glacial pace. Cas didn’t react.

           Dean tried not to, too. Hand at his cheek, wiping some more stray tears, Dean failed.

           He ripped himself away, jogging from the backyard space towards the front where his true escape was. Dean white knuckled his keys, jagged teeth biting into the palm of his hand. Pain kept him from spiraling, from thinking, from staying there. And when he couldn’t use pain, key nestled in the ignition instead of his hand, Dean had the next best thing – open roads.

           The engine roared, overpowering the blood rushing past his ears. Dean demolished the speed limit easily, bulleting across the asphalt, pedal his trigger. It’s early enough he needn’t worry about highway patrolmen or wayward pedestrians. He drove fast, loose, and recklessly. Fuck Vin Diesel, Dean thought. Vin had nothing on him.

           Kelly’s cabin was a blurry spot in his rearview mirror, a speck he might scratch off with his nail if he pleased. Trees became indistinguishable from each other. Not that it mattered, Dean’s tunnel vision blocking his periphery. His eyes remained fixed ahead of him, uncharacteristically so. It took most his focus to keep like that, hands cramping on the wheel from throttling it. He counted dash after dash and tallied potholes as he hit them, stuffing his mind with senseless figures other than the lone one he abandoned in the field.

           Soon, Dean reached a nearby town. The greenery became sparser, leaves and wood replaced by buildings and city blocks and lampposts and streetlights. He hit his first light, a blip of red flashing for attention. Thoughtlessly, Dean flattened his foot against the brake; Baby’s tires squealing as she fought momentum. Dean knocked against his dashboard from the force, falling back only after his car fully stopped. He couldn’t see the streetlight dangling above. Dean knew he sat over the line, his Baby’s hood hanging in the intersection, asking for an accident.

           A second later, and what he was driving from caught up to him.

           Dean gasped, curling in on himself, hands glued to the wheel. His body seized with sobs that bruise, each tremor punching his gut. He used what little strength he had and glanced at his reflection. That speck on his rearview, that he foolishly clawed at, didn’t disappear; it was caught in his bloodshot eyes.

           He couldn’t continue driving like this.

           Red light, green light, it didn’t matter now. Dean crawled along to the nearest lot that belonged to a tacky chain eatery. Parking inside, Dean threw his car door open and spilled free of his Baby. He fell to his knees, hissing, denim ripping on impact and gravel scratching his skin. Dean staggered to his feet. Blood trickled down his leg from the open wound on his knee. He walked forward, dazed, while Baby idled at an angle, keys trapped in her ignition. If it were later in the day, someone might steal her. If Dean were acting like himself, he might care.

           He didn’t go far. Dean slowed as he approached the fast-food joint, stopping inches from the backdoor. His bottom lip wobbled, Dean raking his hair with twitching fingers. He stared at the door, at the wooden sign hanging by a single, rusted nail. It depicted a stereotypical pirate, with hat, beard, and eyepatch, painted on a blue background and encircled by cartoonish rope that framed this pirate’s face along with an oblong addition underneath of the word ‘BUCCANEERS’. The pirate glared ahead, at some far point, as if Dean weren’t there blocking it.

           But he was. Dean was here, while everyone else – everyone he cared about…

           “Why me?” he muttered, “Why’s it always… why do I have to deal with it, with the after, with picking up the pieces of someone else’s mess.” Dean growled, head bowed, eyes unflinchingly locked with the pirate’s. “Mom… Crowley… Ca” – he stuttered on his name, wounds still too fresh – “you’re gonna bring him back. You’re gonna bring them all back. After everything I’ve done for this shithole, that I’ve been through, it’s the least that I’m owed. I deserve to… I – I don’t deserve this.”

           The pirate ignored his pleas, it couldn’t answer him. And Chuck, apparently, wouldn’t answer him.

           “…Okay.”

           Dean launched himself at the pirate, picturing a brown beard instead of black, and a grayish blue eye where a black one was painted. He smashed it with one punch, face splintering and spraying everywhere. Dean continued wrecking it, nearly destroying the door in his fury. Aiming a final blow, Dean hit the sign off the nail and sent it flying from view.

           Exhausted, knuckles as bloody as his knee, Dean collapsed near the stacked crates and leaning pallets.

           A shudder traveled across his body, from the top of his head, dragged along each vertebra like a sharp, clawed finger, and finally making his legs seize and stretch out in front of him. Dean vacuumed in a deep breath, chest ballooning to contain it. He won’t release it willingly.

           “Dude…”

           Coughing, Dean glanced up at some teenager standing nearby, gaping at the scene. He wore a large brown jacket a shade lighter than his skin over a deep blue polo that matches the visor currently worn like a headband, so his bangs wouldn’t  his face. A ring of keys dangled in his hands. Keys that, Dean guessed, were for opening the very door he pummeled as if it were a punching bag.

           “Hey, man,” the teen asked, glancing between Dean and the wrecked door, “are you… like, good? Do I need to call someone?”

           A repairman. The teen’s manager. Neither would do Dean any good, but both will need to know about the damage he did to the property.

           Dean groaned, climbing to his feet. He swayed with the breeze, a lone willow in this blacktop clearing. Some of the blood from his knuckles drippled like morning dew would off its leaves. He advanced, the teen tensing as he moves closer. Their shoulders brushed, the younger of the two stumbling back a few inches, cowering in Dean’s presence. Dean thought he should say something, let him know there’s nothing to be afraid of.

           That felt like too much of a damned lie, so he caught the words in his throat and swallowed them down.

           He returned to his car, starting it like nothing happened, like his skin hadn’t torn and tears weren’t drying on his cheeks as he refused to wipe them off. Dean tapped the pedal and drove off. He drove the same path he took earlier, only in reverse. He drove to Kelly’s cabin, and all that waited for him there.

           Dean parked sloppily, again; however, pocketing his keys this time as he left Baby. He didn’t acknowledge the front door, shuffling into the backyard for another glimpse of Cas’s body.

           Cas was gone. His wings were still there, and Sam was, too.

           Sam dropped a stack of branches onto a large pile he must have begun gathering after Dean fled. He rubbed at his neck, steadily avoiding where Dean’s gaze was by looking at the pile. “I moved him,” he explained, “I figured we might as well start on the… on the pyres for him, and Kelly.” Sam paused. He grabbed a lone branch, snapping a twig from it. “I didn’t do anything else. Figured you would want to…”

           “Yeah.” Dean blinked, then imagined the shadows burnt into the ground rising and rising, flapping determinately, until they vanished. He blinked. Those wings hadn’t moved an inch.

           Dean headed into the cabin.

           He spied Cas’s body immediately, laid atop the kitchen table. Sam rearranged him during transit, closing his eyes and setting Cas’s arms at his sides. If he weren’t thinking about it constantly, weren’t reminded of Cas’s current state with every beat of his own heart, Dean might believe Cas was asleep. Or, at the very least, imitating it, since angels can’t sleep. They can’t eat. There’s a lot they can’t do. And Cas won’t ever not do any of that, not anymore.

           Sighing, Dean circled the table while tracing the edges of it with his fingertips. He reached the other side, where a gauzy pair of curtains hung. Dean swung his arm outward, going through the motions to free them. It’s quick work.

           Wrapping Cas with these curtains will take a lifetime.

            Dean started by lifting Cas’s head and slipping a strip underneath. He cradled him, unnaturally soft tufts of hair tickling his fingers. Holding Cas in such a manner encouraged further action, tempted Dean to do more. He succumbed to these voices, the fast few hours since they last sung weakened his resolve. Dean ran his bloodied knuckles across Cas’s face. He stained deathly pale skin red. He hissed, stubble like sandpaper against his cuts. He left no wrinkle untouched.

           Finally, Dean switched to his thumb and pressed it just below Cas’s lips.

           It’s maddening, touching Cas like this, like he always wanted. He dreamt of being able to for longer than he could remember. Daydreams and fantasies of Dean, curled into Cas’s side, leisurely and lovingly memorizing every inch of the other’s face. Those moments were always pretend, too human to ever be real, to expect from an angel like Cas. Now, as his thumb swept along the bow of Cas’s lips, Dean paid his respects to the thousands of imagined mornings and nights that would not be. Dean worshiped Cas in a way he never wanted to, but in the only way he’d ever be allowed to.

           “I’m sorry…” Dean placed a featherlight kiss to the corner of Cas’s mouth. Then, unable to bear looking at him, he wrapped the curtain over his face.

           He shrouded the rest of Cas’s body with military precision, robotically completing his ritual. Dean hovered at his side, tightly clutching the final knot in Cas’s wrappings. His head hung listlessly, the foundations of a prayer forming on his tongue. He gnashed his teeth together, smashing it, and the sentiment’s remains tumbled backwards. It ripped apart his insides like glass. The only person who would listen, who’d care, who might heal this hurt, couldn’t.

           Cas was –

           Dean let go, marching into the backyard. Silently Dean joined Sam, amassing wood in his stead while Sam assembled the pyres.

           Together, they completed their duties by sundown. It might have been sooner if Sam didn’t slack off to play nursemaid to Lucifer’s kid. He ran off at the slightest bit of static coming from the garish, incongruently colored baby monitor clipped onto his belt loop, dragging their duties out because of intermittent breaks. When they finally set Cas and Kelly on their respective pyres, the sky darkened to the same shade it was that they lost both of them.

           Dean handled the fire. He struck two matches from a box buried in a kitchen drawer, then tossed them into the kindling. Sam, meanwhile, held a very fussy baby that showed no respect for ceremony. His piercing shrieks rung out clearly, somehow amplified by the open space. And as Jack’s cries mixed with the roar and crackle of flames, along with Sam mindlessly grunting back in a desperate plea for Jack to stop, Dean gave in. He stole Jack from Sam, nestling the baby against his chest.

           His temper lessened while in Dean’s arms, and Jack soon quieted.

           Dean felt Sam’s stare on his profile once more, an uncomfortable heat much different than what radiated from the cremating bodies before them. He hated it, being gawked at like some zoo animal. Yet Dean refused to turn, to bark at Sam that this momentary lapse meant nothing.

           He’s only exhausted. Too tired to shutter the devastation on his face, every crack of Dean’s heart was on full display. He’s not in the mood to fight with Sam, either, aware he needed him more than he needed to lash out. He’s broken and couldn’t even manage the energy to toss Jack into the fires like he imagined himself doing.

           Instead, Dean embraced him. He watched the smoke of his angel’s body drift upwards, Cas leaving him for good, forever, and rested his chin against the small, soft head of Cas’s destroyer.

Tagged List:

@llamasdumpsterfire

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

Too Weak to Fly (chapter 7)

This was supposed to be another short chapter, but it grew a bit out of control,so I had to cut the action somewhat earlier than I had originally planned. 

TW: somewhat graphic descriptions of injuries and violence

Well... godspeed.

Back to chapter 1

Tags:   @cosmic-malarky @swanheart69 @boysinperil @agentlokii 

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Chapter 7

 Nobody stops him.  Not at the entrance when he steps off the escalator, not in the obscenely white, pristine hallways as he strides purposefully toward the large meeting hall.  

It doesn’t surprise him, really.  Heaven, for the past six thousand odd years, has been a forbidding, inhospitable place. Empty.  And for his purposes right now it suits him just fine.

Yet he can help but think back to when Her presence was still felt around this place; when these walls were filled with warmth and compassion and LOVE, instead of the frigid burn of indifference he feels here now.

 Lord Almighty, how could You allow this to happen?  Do You not see? How can You possibly approve of what Your children have become?  This emptiness, this coldness, this… this cruelty that I have witnessed with my own eyes… This isn’t what You taught us to be back when we basked in Your presence and listened as You told us Your will. Was this Your plan all along? Is this the Heaven of Your legacy?  Is this why You see this and do not wish to intervene?

He wonders briefly if this is what Crowley felt like all those millennia ago when he saw what Aziraphale and the others were too blind to see and he dared to ask Her about it. And if simply asking Her questions then – before the terrifying viciousness of the punishment for the wayward angels, before the inexplicable cruelty of the Flood, before the plagues, before the wars, before the uncaring silence in the end of days…– if that was all it took to Fall, then, should She hear his questions now, he would surely not remain an angel much longer.  Strangely, the thought of Falling doesn’t terrify him anymore.  Not after everything he’s been through, everything he’s seen.  No, he’s not afraid to Fall.  Which is quite fortunate, considering that what he is about to do will more than likely damn him.  And that’s fine.  If Falling is what it will take to make things right, then he is more than willing to pay that price.  But, first, he needs to make sure that Crowley is safe, and he can’t risk having Her hear him and brand him a rebellious angel just yet.  Not until he’s done what he’s come here to do.  So he grits his teeth, clamping them tight against the rebellious thoughts, and he keeps walking.  

 It is only when he nears the massive double doors bound with celestial gold that he stops, his path blocked by two young angels with poleaxes held at an angle.  He recognizes them instantly – the same two nameless, unimportant angels that have, on Gabriel’s order, destroyed Crowley’s beautiful wings with such callous indifference.  He stares at their hands, hands clasped around their holy weapons, hands that held the buckets steady as Holy Water poured down onto the bound, writhing demon….  

 His jaw ticks, fists clenching painfully tight at his sides.  “If you would kindly step out of my way,” he tells them, voice tight with barely controlled anger.

 “You have no business here, traitor,” one of the angels responds with a tone of affected boredom that reminds Aziraphale a little too much of Gabriel.  

 The smile he gives them in response – a sharp, predatory thing that feels awfully, unnaturally tight on his face – makes them falter, a shadow of consternation flickering over their expressions.

 “You know who I am then,” he nods matter-of-factly.  “Good.” He reaches into the inside pocket of his coat, pulling out a long, thin vial.  Holds it out, making sure the vial’s deadly contents are perfectly visible to the now decidedly nervous-looking angels.  “And I assume you know what this is as well.”  He rolls his wrist a bit, grinning unkindly at the way the angels’ eyes track the bright orange tongue of flame that twists gracefully behind the glass wall that traps it.

 “You wouldn’t dare,” the same angel speaks up again, but there’s no trace of the earlier self-assured smugness in his voice, doubt creeping in.

 Aziraphale’s smile falls, blues eyes narrowing ever so slightly.  Cold, ice cold, like his voice when he speaks next.  

“Do you, actually, believe that an angel who dared to walk into Hell to pick up this,” he nods toward the vial of Hellfire that seems to glow brighter in his hand as though fueled by his growing anger, “would then hesitate to use it?”  

He watches them digest his words, their gazes flickering nervously between his face and the vial. “I’ll be honest with you,” he says, drawing their wavering attention back to himself, “I have bigger plans for this particular vial, and I’d rather not waste it on two foolish little angels. But make no mistake…” He steps in closer, teeth bared.  Breathes out – a low whisper of a warning, a promise of retribution yet to come, “…you two hurt someone I care about very much, and if you dare keep me out here another moment longer….”

 He doesn’t finish his threat, he doesn’t have to.  The angels step aside without another word, the shafts of their poleaxes scraping dully across the floor as they move.

 Aziraphale doesn’t spare them another glance as he walks swiftly past them to push open the heavy door and slip inside.  

 Gabriel is the first one he sees, the archangel standing with his back to the door, head tilted down in concentration at whatever it is he’s holding in his hands.  The archangel’s hand jerks suddenly backwards in a sharp pulling motion, and Aziraphale’s ears pick up a strained, muffled groan that follows the movement.

 That pained, hopeless sound is like a cursed blade through Aziraphale’s heart.

 Fingers clenching tighter around the vial, he takes a long, determined step forward.  

“Gabriel!”

The archangel startles, turning toward his voice, revealing the huddled figure that stands kneeling on the ichor-stained floor before him.

 The room blinks out. Or so it appears to Aziraphale, at least, because, for a brief moment, everything around him seems to dim, the edges of his vision swimming out into a churning, nauseating blackness.  

And at the center of it is Crowley.  Him he sees perfectly, in every stark, cruel detail.  His body, naked and shivering in the too-too cold room.  His eyes – a bright, acidic yellow, blown wide with fear and pain.  The black ichor that stains his lips and chin. The horrible, weeping burns everywhere his skin has come in contact with the floor that virtually pulsates with holiness.  The golden manacles around his wrists and the collar around his neck with just enough chain length to allow him to stay on his knees where he is, but prohibiting him from moving any further.  Those knees, bleeding and blistering from being forced to bear his weight on the hallowed ground for Lord knows how long.  His left arm, hanging limply at his side, ichor dripping to the floor in a steady morbid rhythm from the empty, ravaged nail beds.  His right arm, trembling in Gabriel’s vise-like grip….

 “It’s a very annoying habit of yours, Aziraphale, to interrupt me while I’m working,” Gabriel cuts in, casually shaking off the bloodied pliers-like tool he holds in his free hand to discard a recently ripped out nail to the floor.  Turns back to his task with an aggrieved sigh and an eye roll. “I still have four more of these to remove.”  

 The room comes suddenly, sharply back into focus.

 “Release him.” He rocks forward on rigid, wooden legs, words twisting into a growl through the awful, mounting pressure in his chest.  “Now!”

 There must be something in his tone that gives Gabriel pause.  The archangel stills, lets out another long, frustrated exhale.  Glances once again at Aziraphale over his shoulder. And Aziraphale can see the exact moment that Gabriel notices the vial in his clenched hand, for in that instant a look of startled shock flickers across the normally impassive features, and the archangel turns to face him fully, releasing Crowley’s arm as he does so.  

The demon chokes out a broken, sob-like breath, pulling the arm toward him as much as the chains allow him, hunching over the injured limb in a pitiful attempt to shield it from further abuse.  But his eyes, wide and unblinking, continue to stare up at Aziraphale with an inexplicable expression of horrified despair.  He has yet to utter a single word.

 “Oh, is that how it’s gonna be?” Gabriel murmurs, purple eyes flashing as he shifts his gaze from Aziraphale’s face to the golden tongue of flame moving restlessly within its glass cage.  A beat and his expression shifts back into one of disdainful superiority.  “Do you think I’m a fool, Aziraphale?”  He tsks mockingly, nods back toward the kneeling demon. “Do you not think that if we dragged that creature up here to douse him in Holy Water that we already know about the trick you pulled?”  He takes a slow, deliberate step closer to Aziraphale, towering intimidatingly over him even at a distance.  “That we know you’re no more immune to,” he nods at the vial, “that thing than we are?”

 “I have no intention of getting you to believe that I’m immune to Hellfire,” Aziraphale objects, holding the surprised purple gaze.  “I merely wish to inform you that I have come to take my friend away from here, and I want you to believe me when I say that I will use any means necessary to do so.”

 Gabriel regards him silently, grim, assessing.  A moment later his face splits into a shark-wide plastic smile.  “Did you know that it takes a single diluted drop of Holy Water to melt a demon’s tongue?” he asks in a seeming non-sequitur that makes something very, very cold churn unpleasantly in Aziraphale’s gut.  “Just found it out myself yesterday.  Incredible, isn’t it?”  

 Aziraphale’s gaze flickers over to Crowley, to the thin lips pressed together into a twisted line of black-stained pain, to a wide streak of black ichor running down his chin and neck. He feels sick, the burning at the back of his throat added to the now nearly impossible pressure inside his chest that begs to break forth in a spectacular, wall-shattering scream.  How, he wants to shout.  How could an angel, a being of Light, even think to inflict such torment on another creature, let alone speak as though they enjoyed doing so?  How could anyone?

 “I was gonna go for the eyes first, you know.”  Gabriel keeps talking in that perfectly casual, conversational tone that sets Aziraphale’s teeth on edge, “but then I realized that, if I did that, he wouldn’t be able to see what else I’ve got in store for him. And what would be the fun in that? Am I right?” He throws his arms out, his smile – a fixed, frigid mask of exaggerated enthusiasm, as he invites Aziraphale to appreciate his reasoning. “Plus, this way I don’t have to listen to him profane these hallowed walls with his foul tongue.”

 Aziraphale really needs him to stop talking.  

 “Is there a… point you’re trying to make?”  He’s trembling, he realizes.  Vibrating with anguish and fury, his hand gripping the vial so hard, he can feel tiny spider cracks form along the glass surface.  A little more, and the deadly flame will burst free to devour him whole.

 “The point, traitor,” Gabriel responds darkly, all pretense of joviality gone, “is that Hellfire latches on to the closest source of holiness, no matter how…,” he gives Aziraphale a look full of disappointment and disdain, “pathetic and corrupt it may be.  And if it only took one diluted drop of Holy Water to turn that serpent’s tongue into liquid goo, it won’t take but a lick of that flame to burn your worthless self into a pile of equally worthless ash the moment you open that vial,” he concludes with a condescending smile, certain in the knowledge that he’s just called Aziraphale’s bluff.

 Aziraphale’s answering smile is strained around the edges, cold, deadly.  “Crowley and I have played quite a few ball toss games with our godson over the years.  I assure you, my throwing aim has gotten quite good.  I’m fairly sure that I can douse you in Hellfire flames without getting so much as a singe.”  He raises the vial higher, thumb poised over the cap.  Pointedly ignores the desperate, mewling, gurgling moans coming at him from Crowley’s direction.  “I’m willing to risk it.  Are you?”

 Gabriel frowns, seeming unsure for the first time. Watches Aziraphale’s face intently for some kind of tell, his own face souring at whatever it is he sees there.  His mouth twists in a grimace of displeasure and he raises his hand reluctantly, the chains holding Crowley captive disintegrating with a snap of his fingers.  

Released from their hold, Crowley slumps forward with a whimpered sob of relief, trembling fingers of his less mangled hand grasping at his neck to brush the red, painful-looking welt left behind by the golden collar.  

 Aziraphale lurches an aborted half-step toward him, the vial burning in his hand as Hellfire itches to get out, spurred on by the raging emotions that roll off the angel in wave after turbulent wave.  For a moment, for a brief, tantalizing moment he wants to abandon his plan, wants to run to his demon, to pour Hellfire onto the worst of the wounds, to soothe, to shelter, to heal….

The door creaks open behind him; before him, Gabriel’s face splits once again into a supercilious, contemptuous sneer, his eyes flashing triumphantly as he flicks his gaze from the door back to Aziraphale.  

The moment is over.

 “So, what is the plan now, then, Aziraphale?” the archangel inquires with sickly, saccharine sweetness, as he slowly begins to advance on him, hands folded regally behind his back. Behind him, Crowley mewls in distress, scrambling to rise on unsteady, wobbling legs. “Do you hope to fight your way out of here, get past all those angels,” he waves a hand toward the door, “with that pitiful bit of Hellfire at your disposal?”

 Aziraphale doesn’t bother turning around to look. He lets his gaze find Crowley’s instead.  Locks eyes with him for one interminable fraction of a second – an ocean of ice-blue calm against an amber-bright sea of turbulent panic.  Trust me, he mouths.  And then he rips his gaze away and lunges for Gabriel.

 The archangel stumbles backwards at the unexpected attack, tries to twist out of Aziraphale’s grip, but Aziraphale holds fast, arms clamped in a steel-like vise around Gabriel’s form.

 “I don’t need to fight,” he insists, pressing the vial against the archangel’s neck.  “I just need to know where to aim my weapon.”  He presses the vial harder, eliciting an alarmed hiss from the squirming archangel.  “Crowley will walk out of here now, and you will let him. You won’t interfere, and you will make sure that no one else does either.  Or I will uncap that vial right down your throat, and it is, as you said,” he bares his teeth, whispers into Gabriel’s ear a mocking echo of the archangel’s own earlier words, “Hellfire latches on to the closest source of holiness, no matter how pathetic and corrupt it may be.”

 In the periphery of his vision he sees the other angels hesitate by the doorway, throwing nervous glances Gabriel’s way.  He sees Crowley, frozen still where he’d last seen him, staring at Aziraphale with confusion and horror.  Move, he wants to yell to him.  Get out of here, move!

 “You’ll Fall for this,” Gabriel snarls, thrashing uselessly in Aziraphale’s grip.  “I’ll cut your bloody wings off myself!”

 “I have no doubt,” Aziraphale nods, and the simple, calm conviction in his voice momentarily stuns the entire room to stillness.  Aziraphale’s voice, when he speaks next, rings loud and clear in the ensuing quiet, the words – thoughts, rebellious, anguished thoughts he’d carried with him these past few days – pour forth, releasing him from their unbearable burden. “But when you do, you better pray that I don’t survive it.  Because if I do, I swear to you right here, right now, that I will come back here with all the Hellfire at my disposal, and I will burn this place into the Nothing it came from.  Because this here isn’t the Heaven that I remember, and none of you are worthy of being called Beings of Light.  If She were paying any attention, She would have done it Herself long ago.”

 The shocked rumble of voices that erupt in response to his words is overwhelmed instantly and completely by a blinding explosion of brilliant white light that floods the space before him.

[cryptidkieren]

‘We��re on our own side.’

It was as true as it had always been; they only had each other from there on out. No more offices, no more safeguards, no more rules. It was just an angel and a demon against the combined forces of Heaven and Hell.

It wouldn’t be off the mark to say that Aziraphale was scared.

Everything kept circling through his mind as their ride not-to-London stopped before them.

The bus was empty as they entered, lights dimmed in consideration for the hour. Aziraphale nodded politely to the driver, ignoring the small twinge of guilt at making the poor man drive all the way to the city.

A sigh punched out of Crowley as he fell heavily into his window seat. Aziraphale, after a moment’s hesitation, sat next to him, studiously ignoring the demon’s raised brow directed at him. He also ignored the look given to him as he carefully wrapped his hand around Crowley’s. He cautiously laced their fingers together when the hand wasn’t yanked out of his own at the first touch.

The demon opened his mouth a few times without saying anything, eventually slumping further into his seat with quiet mutterings. He did not, however, let go.

Aziraphale smiled to himself and settled in.

--

The bus ride passed rather quickly, all things considered. Well, a little angelic intervention didn’t hurt, either. The freeway being clear of traffic was less Aziraphale’s doing, though, and more the late hour’s fault.

As they passed into city limits, a jolly sign announcing they were entering London, the angel felt the hand in his twitch and start to pull away. He frowned at Crowley, who was determinedly staring out the window, as the demon finally freed his fingers.

“Crowley?”

“Yes, angel?” The demon in question turned to look at him impassively, his eyes hidden behind those dark shades. It was decidedly hard to parse his expression, anyhow.

Maybe Aziraphale got it wrong. Maybe he…

“N-Nevermind, my boy.”

Crowley nodded, strangely silent, and went back to his window.

Aziraphale knotted his fingers together in his own lap, confusion and doubt swirling in his heart.

The rest of the ride felt excruciatingly long after that.

--

When they finally pulled up and stopped in front of the demon’s building, Aziraphale felt as if he had waited 6,000 years for it to happen. They moved as one as they got off the bus, the driver calling out a confused “Goodnight, gents!” as he shut the door behind them.

The angel paused, small prickles of guilt itching across him, and made sure the nice man got a substantial tip in his wallet. When he turned back, he saw a (fond?) smile playing on Crowley’s lips as the demon turned to the doors of the building.

The elevator ride was quiet as they sailed to the top floor, broken only by the mildly annoying music one would expect to hear in a lift. The kind that would stick to your mind when you weren’t paying attention and slowly drive you spare for days as it eventually worked through your system.

Aziraphale was quite sure Crowley was responsible for that one.

The next thing he knew, they were entering the dark foyer of the apartment, the demon’s heels clicking softly on the marble floor.

“Make yourself at home,” Crowley said, gesturing vaguely to the rest of the flat. Aziraphale hesitated for a moment before carefully tugging off his loafers and setting them to rest beside the door.

The demon stared for a second, making the angel reevaluate his actions, before a pair of black heeled shoes joined his own. Aziraphale smiled at the other, who had ducked his head to adjust his socks, presumably.

Crowley then reached into an inner pocket of his jacket before a stricken expression crossed his face. It was only for a moment, but Aziraphale understood: the keys to the Bentley usually resided in that pocket, but they had been in the car’s burning remains the last he saw. He pursed his lips in sympathetic sorrow for his friend; he may have never enjoyed riding in it, but he knew how much it meant to Crowley.

A sharp ache shot through him as he remembered his own smouldering bookshop. Seemed they had both lost a great deal to fire that day.

Crowley cleared his throat roughly, bringing him back to the present. “Fancy some tea, angel?”

“Ah- yes, that would be lovely, my dear,” Aziraphale nodded at the demon, his throat still prickling with emotion. Crowley barely waited for the confirmation before he strutted off to the kitchen, looking as unaffected as ever.

He knew better, though. He supposed he was the only one in all of Creation who did.

Smothering the warmth that came with that thought, Aziraphale followed his longtime friend, as he always had.

--

The kitchen itself was a modern monstrocity to Aziraphale, all gleaming stainless steel and monochrome coloring. He was sure any chef worth their salt would kill to work in it, even though most of the appliances looked to have never been used. Crowley himself was nursing a cup at the island counter, perched on a tall, uncomfortable looking barstool.

An equally steaming cup sat in front of the empty spot next to him. Aziraphale gulped.

Getting onto the stool was a bit more of a struggle than he would’ve like, honestly. Though by the smirk on Crowley’s face, it was at least entertaining to watch.

The angel huffed as he fought to get himself comfortable, preferably without spilling tea everywhere. “I’m so glad you’re amused.”

“Can’t help that these seats were made for a… Certain stature.”

Heat blossomed in his cheeks as he narrowed his eyes at the demon. It had always ruffled his feathers a bit that Crowley’s corporations tended to have a few inches on him.

Silence enveloped them, then. Aziraphale held the warm mug between his palms, not really drinking it. Crowley, likewise, seemed to be staring into the liquid as if it held all the answers.

It could’ve been minutes or hours before the silence was finally broken.

“So what now?” Aziraphale asked softly, the mug between his hands still warm and steaming.

“Now,” Crowley drew the word out uncertainly, brows furrowed behind his sunglasses that he was still wearing. “Now we sleep. Tomorrow, we can go see how your bookshop fares, what we can salvage. After that…”

“After that,” the angel sighed. He suddenly felt so very tired. He hadn’t last slept in decades, maybe a century, though he knew that Crowley seemed to enjoy it. A soft, warm bed sounded divine, pardon the pun.

Crowley tsked at him, drawing his attention. “That’s that, then, angel. You look exhausted.”

Aziraphale thought of remarking on the rudeness, but what was the point? He knew it was true enough. The demon slid off his seat with ease, waiting a moment for the angel to hop off before starting towards his bedroom.

He stopped short, however, once they reached the threshold. A large, darkly colored bed dominated the sparse area. Crowley’s fashionable minimalist style meant that, besides a small dresser for clothes, the bed was the only furniture in the spacious room.

“Is that- is that a leather headboard, Crowley?”

Aziraphale was fascinated to watch the demon’s cheek pink slightly as he turned back to him. “It is. What of it?” His nose twitched as he watched the angel from behind his shades, a single brow raised in condescending question.

The angel bit back a smile, a small cough failing to cover a laugh. “Nothing, dear. Just surprising. It looks lovely.”

Crowley harrumph, giving a sharp nod as his cheeks pinked further. “Right so. Picked out all the cows m’self.”

“But, ah,” Aziraphale interrupted, brows drawing together as he looked around the room. “As much as I enjoy yours, shall I make my own bed? I wouldn’t want to impose more than I already have.”

“Nonsense, you can take mine.”

He immediately felt the back of his neck grow hot and tingly as a swarm of butterflies apparently made home his stomach. Sleep in Crowley’s bed? Where the demon slept every night, where he dreamed? Would the pillows smell like him, the sheets? Aziraphale swallowed nervously.

“Ah, as kind as that is, Crowley, I couldn’t possibly kick you out of your bed-”

“Angel,” the demon interrupted, a small, sad smile ghosting across his lips before his familiar smirk took root. “If I wanted to have my wicked way with you, it would’ve happened by now, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale felt his face, impossibly, grow warmer. “I-I-”

A sudden flash of memory: the Bentley thrumming beneath them, the bright lights of Soho around them. Crowley’s ridiculous bowl cut and Lennon glasses. A thermos containing the one thing that could permanently take the demon away from him. Those damnable words that he wished he could take back almost as he said them.

“I suppose you’re right, my dear,” Aziraphale nodded slowly, turning that smile over in his head. Maybe he hadn’t got it wrong, after all.

“‘Sides,” Crowley continued. One of his hands gestured flippantly to the bare room. “I can always miracle myself up another bed, not to worry.”

“No!”

“No?”

Aziraphale had the sudden consuming wish to be lit on fire.

The demon had only raised an eyebrow, his sunglasses making it difficult to read the rest of his face.

A new, more frustrated urge overtook Aziraphale. He let out an irritated little growl, so unlike an angel, before he marched up to the occult being before him. He slipped the shades off Crowley’s face gently, though, not wanting to accidentally hurt the demon.

“I miss when you didn’t have to wear these all the time, you know,” Aziraphale confessed, staring down at the not-so-offending-after-all shades. They certainly made a nice enough reason from looking directly at Crowley’s face at the moment, at least. “When I could just see your whole face- your eyes, my dear, and know exactly what you were thinking.”

Risking a peek up at the demon only revealed incredulous golden eyes, slitted reptilian pupils widening slightly. The angel smiled as he tucked the sunglasses away for safekeeping; he knew how particular the demon was about his glasses, never mind the abundance he had of them. “You always excelled at manipulation, darling, but you were never very good at hiding your emotions.”

“I-” Crowley croaked, clearing his throat roughly. “I always thought I did rather well on that front, all things considered.”

Aziraphale hummed, cocking his head to the side slightly. “How’s that?”

Crowley looked to be struggling with his next words, but, as always, they eventually found their way out. “I hid my f-feelings for you for over 6,000 years, angel. I’d say that was a job- a job well done.” His cheeks almost immediately pinked up once more at the admission, his eyes darting away momentarily.

The angel was feeling similarly warm. “Oh my dear,” He raised a hand to gently card through amber hair, pushing it back from Crowley’s brow, before letting it slide down to cup his jaw. His thumb, apparently taking up a mind of its own, started stroking the soft skin of Crowley’s cheek. “I can sense love, you know. It took me the longest time to figure out it was all coming from you, I’ll give you that.”

The demon seemed starstruck, blinking in confusion. “Wh- How-”

Aziraphale chuckled. “You’re really not subtle, darling. Then again, neither am I, but you still haven’t figured it out, so I guess we’re both to blame here.”

“But I’m done with the what-ifs and fretting,” he continued, growing a bit more serious. The demon was hanging onto his every word; however, one of his hands had snuck its way up onto the angel’s waist when he wasn’t paying attention, the snake. “We almost lost each other with this whole Armageddon business, darling, and I don’t think I can go another day without you knowing how I feel.”

The angel heard Crowley’s breath stutter sharply in his chest. “I thought I went too fast for you, angel.”

Aziraphale had to smile at that. “You do, my dear, but that’s just who you are. You’re fast and I’m slow, but I think we can come to an agreeable middle ground.” He gave Crowley a cheeky little smile before meeting the demon halfway in a soft kiss.

He felt a tingling heat at the contact, starting at his lips and spreading rapidly through his whole being. He saw stars bursting behind his closed lids, and a strong sense that this was right. He knew he wanted to do it every day for the rest of eternity, if allowed to.

Even if he wasn’t, he knew right then and there that he would risk everything for the demon in front of him.

The knowledge of that didn’t scare him as much as he feared it would. The angel just tucked it away, leaving it be until he might need it. He was, Aziraphale reminded himself, ready to die with his hand in Crowley’s not five hours before, so it wasn’t really all that surprising.

Crowley, however, seemed to be struck silent as the rather chaste kiss ended. The demon’s snake-like pupils were blown wide and more rounded than Aziraphale had ever seen them before, his whole face flushed to the roots of his equally red hair.

Doubt crossed his mind as he stared up at the demon. “A-Are you alright, my dear? Was that not good enough?”

That seemed to snap Crowley out of whatever haze had shrouded him. “Not good? Angel, I’ve been dreaming of that kiss for literally 6,000 years. I feel like my entire world has shifted.” He grinned at the angel, the pure joy of it causing Aziraphale’s unneeded breath to hitch in his chest. “Can I kiss you again?”

“Crowley, my love,” the angel smiled at him, so full of love he felt that his Grace had to be shining through his corporation. “You never have to ask.”

They were rather preoccupied after that.

--

As he slowly crawled towards consciousness, Aziraphale felt surrounded by warmth.

He opened his eyes to see Crowley, not a foot away from him, sleeping peacefully. His auburn hair was alight in the early morning sun, his pale skin gleaming. The sheets had shifted as they slept, slipping down to rest on his hips. Aziraphale blushed lightly as he saw the love bites littered across the demon’s neck and chest. Did he really do that?

“You have a fair amount of your own, you know,”

The angel started slightly. He hadn’t noticed Crowley waking up.

“Do I really?” Aziraphale gingerly touched the tender spot between his neck and shoulder, knowing the demon spent a fair amount of time there the night before. “Oh my.”

“It’s quite… Fetching.” Crowley leered at him, wiggling his eyebrows to make the angel chuckle and half heartedly swat at him. The demon shifted closer, bumping his nose against Aziraphale’s with a grin.

They were quiet for a while, just basking in the other’s presence, their slightly stale breath mingling between them.

”When you asked me to stay,” Aziraphale started quietly, hushed by the gentleness of the morning. “Did you mean for the night?”

”Angel,” Crowley brushed a hand across the other’s cheek, smiling so softly that the angel had to catch his breath. “I meant forever. I always have.”

[scintillating-galaxias]

give ‘em hell, darling

Chapter Four—Step 3

The Plan begins to fall apart.

(Read it here on ao3!)

Aziraphale’s cell was empty aside from him for what felt like days. Months, maybe, or just an hour. However much time had passed; all he could think about through it all was Earth. He’d told Crowley—oh, how he missed his one true friend!—to give them Hell, but he was not-so-secretly hoping he wasn’t making too large of a mess of the place. There was only one London, after all. Or perhaps, without Aziraphale to anchor him to one spot, Crowley was roaming about the Earth, causing as much chaos as he desired. If this was the case, then Aziraphale rectified the previous statement to now say, “There was only one Earth, after all.”

He’d taken to pacing around the perimeter to take his mind off of his worries. Occasionally, bouts of frustration and anger, at Uriel, at himself, at all of Heaven, rendered him motionless and stiff with fury and he had to remind himself, Crowley was waiting for him. He had promised to come back; therefore, he would come back. 

Easy, angel, he’d probably say, and a spike of loneliness drove through Aziraphale’s gut, and off he would go worrying all over again, and off he would go pacing all over again.

This cycle went on for a long, long time.

Eventually, Aziraphale had memorized the number of paces it took to circle the room, had recited multiple of his favorite books to himself to stave off his restlessness, even tried his hand at sleeping, which only brought him shadowy, vague dreams of voices calling out to him behind endless curtains, and so he did not attempt it a second time. He tried not to think too much about Earth lest he be consumed by nostalgia and a bone-deep yearning for home.

Finally, he stopped to stare down at his feet. No one was coming for him. And though he was confident he would escape, he did not know when exactly that would be. He looked to the sigils on the walls. He had little personal use for them aside from the communication portal in his shop. Most of what he remembered about them was from the Early Days. No human book on Earth had the correct directions to create a real, working sigil, so he had no way to brush up on something he’d learned eight thousand years ago.

But that was no real concern. Aziraphale, if a somewhat lousy angel, was still devastatingly intelligent. He deemed no part of his life unnecessary and did not discard a single minute. He stored away every single day in a box-shaped memory and placed them in what was essentially a cubbyhole in his mind, waiting to be taken down and reopened again. All that was left was a relatively simple task of walking himself all the way down to the beginning.

He did that, and sure enough, he found the times he had had that knowledge sewn into his being. And then it was clear the sigils had a lot of threatening decorative flair to them, but otherwise were basic holding and repression sigils designed to prevent him from using his powers. One was made to reinforce the walls in case he—what, punched his way out? Either way, their meanings were not shocking in any capacity, but having a basic understanding made the sigils a whole lot less threatening. It was a bit like seeing an unnerving shape in the dark that is vaguely humanoid, but when one gathered the courage to shine a light on it, it ended up being a tree stump or an oddly shaped rock.

Aziraphale had just relaxed when his ears popped rather painfully.

“How’s this place been treating you?”

Aziraphale felt like a switch had been flipped. One moment a current of cautious optimism buoyed him, the next he was desperately struggling to keep himself from screaming.

“Gabriel,” he said coldly, refusing to turn around, “to what do I owe the honor?”

He heard Gabriel grin. “What do you think?” Footsteps came closer to him, dulled and weakened by the nature of the room. “I made it myself.”

Aziraphale tightened his jaw and finally turned to meet Gabriel’s falsely sunny smile. “What do you want, Gabriel. You’re not here for pleasantries.”

The smile slid right off of Gabriel’s face. In its place, an unfriendly scowl soured his handsome visage. “You need to do us a favor,” he said, clipped.

“Do I now?” Aziraphale twiddled his thumbs. “I do apologize, but you caught me at a bad time. I’m quite busy at the moment.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“Oh, but I am. I’m reading, you see.”

“What?”

“These sigils—they’re quite well done, is all,” Aziraphale replied chipperly. “I doubt you have a scrap of artistic prowess, so pass on my appreciation to dear Michael, but they’re fascinating to look at. Really.”

Gabriel’s violet eyes darkened to a nasty bruise-purple. “Enough with the chit chat. Either you can listen to me, or you can be left here to die.” He spread his hands. “It’s an obvious choice to me, but”—he sucked in a breath his teeth—“between you and me, you make a lot of stupid decisions.”

The dangerously powerful temptation to tell Gabriel to stuff it up his arse was mighty, but through the sort of class maintained through diligence forged in himself over the centuries, Aziraphale resisted. Crowley would be disappointed. Perhaps another time.

He warily side-eyed Gabriel, then carefully asked, “What do you want from me?”

“Advice.”

Aziraphale had opened his mouth furiously, and now it snapped shut with a clack of his teeth. “Come again?”

“The new agents we have been sending to Earth in your place are, hm. Struggling,” he said tersely, as though each word physically pained him to say. “The Council would appreciate some insight.”

Inwardly, Aziraphale sighed in relief. At least his foresight had been correct up to this point. Another angel had indeed been sent down to replace him. Multiple angels, if he’d heard correctly.

“If you don’t mind me ask—what sort of struggles are you encountering?”

“Earth has not been—how should I say this—welcoming.”

“I understand that. What exactly is happening that has forced you to come to me?”

“It’s just not working out.”

Good Lord. Aziraphale closed his eyes for a few seconds, inhaled deeply, and then reopened them.

“I’m afraid I’m not following.” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows conspiratively. “Perhaps you could show me?”

Aziraphale had precisely zero hope of that working. However, Gabriel appeared to be at his (very short) wit’s end and sharply jerked his wrist. Aziraphale felt a swooping sensation one would feel when driving down a sharp downgrade in the road, only throughout his whole body. It took him a few seconds to reorient himself and straighten out his coat; his wrists had not yet been freed from their cuffs. When he finished, he looked up.

Before him were the three other Archangels, Uriel, Michael, and Sandalphon, and one angel Aziraphale did not recognize. They were all standing in front of the massive globe of the Earth, muttering furtively. The tension weighing down the air was almost palpable. 

Michael caught sight of him, and briskly made her way towards him. “Why is this happening,” she demanded. Aziraphale blinked impassively.

“Gabriel did not inform me of details,” he said honestly. “What appears to be the problem?”

He studied the other angel, who was studiously not looking at him. They’d probably been in the crowd that day, and it showed: their posture was impossibly stiff, as though someone had fused his spine with a metal pole, and their breast was puffed out like it was the bow of a foolhardy ship ready to crash its way through any storm-tossed sea, yet their flinty gray eyes practically frothed with apprehension.

“Let us play a small game,” said Sandalphon. His head was gleaming with sweat, which worried Aziraphale because if an Archangel was sweating when they typically do not even have sweat glands, something was tremendously wrong. “Principality Aziraphale, I would like you to guess how many angels we have sent down to Earth since you were sentenced to imprisonment.”

Aziraphale hesitated. “That depends. How long was I imprisoned?”

They told him.

“A year?” Aziraphale felt his heart drop right down to his shoes. But that—He’d meant to come back much sooner! How could he have spent a year pacing around in that jail cell! 

“One Earth year,” confirmed Sandalphon. “Now. Do you have a guess?”

Aziraphale tried to run some numbers through his scrambled mind. 

Obviously, they’d picked out one angel already. He could only assume something had happened to that one, but when exactly, he could only speculate. He recalled one other time when another angel who was not, surprisingly, any of the Archangels, had come to deliver a message to him. They had been crushed flat by a horse carriage. If that was the sort of “unwelcome” receival Gabriel mentioned—no, that time must have been a fluke—

“Erm? I-I’m not sure. Forty? Thirty. It must be less, yes? No?” Aziraphale caught Sandalphon’s positively murderous expression. “Oh, dear.”

“One hundred and forty-five,” he said flatly. “One hundred and forty-five angels in the past year either were discorporated or turned in their resignation within two weeks. The singular outlier made it two months before provoking the demon Crowley and ultimately discorporated after a short skirmish.”

Aziraphale frowned. That didn’t sound right, either. Although Crowley boasted of blending his plants in his garbage disposal when the misbehaved to invoke fear, Crowley also happened to be an extraordinarily shoddy liar when it came to Aziraphale. Crowley did not kill unless absolutely necessary. He didn’t want the children to die at the Ark, and he didn’t want to kill the Antichrist. If one were to ask, ‘What about the holy water? And the Nazi’s?’ that whole debacle with Ligur and the holy water had left Crowley shaken and extremely skittish around clear liquids for months. And the Nazis were Nazis. That should be explanation enough.

“May I ask what happened?” Aziraphale asked doubtfully. 

Sandalphon sighed and miracled a clipboard overstuffed with papers into existence. With another tedious sigh, he flicked back to about halfway through the stack and read, “The angel Asteroth was deployed to London on the twelfth of August, 2018. One month and eight days into her deployment, she attempted to enter a bookshop—your bookshop,” he amended, sneering, “where the demon Crowley was found to be lying in wait. She drew her holy blade to dispose of him, but, according to her, as she was doing so, it struck an old bookshelf and, quote, ‘seriously up the books.’ The demon appeared upset and told her, ‘He’s going to eviscerate you for that. Best if I do it,’ before dropping a modified paperweight on her head and breaking her neck.”

Aziraphale, who had a brilliant surge of fondness for Crowley rush through him like a tidal wave—had he been staying at the bookshop all this time?—coughed to avoid a sharp burst of laughter.

“That is… unfortunate,” he said as sincerely as he could. And absolutely bloody hysterical. Not that Aziraphale found the discorporation of any angel funny, but for all the fuss Heaven made and torment they put him through by making him the unholy beacon of Heaven, they had no clue how to properly go about Earth (and Crowley) without the one angel who knew better. It was like building a railroad that ended directly off a cliff.

“Indeed,” Michael said gravely. “Our corporeal form department has not seen this much work since the Heavenly War.”

The new angel now appeared to be regretting accepting whatever exactly it was that Michael told them.

Aziraphale regained control of himself. “So, erm… what exactly do you want me to do about it?”

“We want you to oversee our performances and tell us exactly what we are doing wrong,” said Gabriel. “There’s absolutely no reason this should be happening.”

“I see.”

“Observe,” said Sandalphon, gesturing to where Uriel and Michael were speaking to the new angel.

“You’ve made the necessary preparations, Arael?” Uriel was saying.

“Yes,” firmly replied the angel. “I’ve insured my etiquette is inoffensive, my human body as neutral as possible, and I read the brochure on London’s Do’s and Don’ts.” They furrowed their brow. “It was… interesting.”

“Excellent,” said Michael. “I’m sure your arrival will be… better received.”

Aziraphale bit back a scathing exclamation. If their Earth 101 course was one long, convoluted lesson that could be summarized as “be nice”, it was no wonder why everything was going so poorly!

“Is that all?” he asked against his better judgment. “Are those the ‘preparations’ you’ve given to every single one of those angels?”

Uriel and Michael turned to him. Michael raised her eyebrows. “Is it incorrect?” she said. 

He gestured distraughtly the best he could with the way his wrists are bound together. “Humans are much more than just saying nice things to them! They are complicated creatures—”

“It won’t present any issues,” said Arael such overblown confidence, Aziraphale could not stop the roll of his eyes. “I will guide them back to the right path if they choose to display ignorance and hate.”

“No! They don’t like that either!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “You won’t find a single Londoner who’ll take a minute out of his day to listen for someone to lecture—”

“I’m the one being dispatched,” snapped Arael. “You were the one strayed too far from Her path. I know what I’m doing.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “You are the one hundred and forty-sixth angel. Please enlighten me; what makes you think you’re so different from the other one hundred and forty-five?”

“You’re both being childish,” interrupted Michael. “We’re wasting time. Who knows what waste that demon lays while we stand around here and argue? We must get on with it.”

Gabriel placed an unfriendly hand on Arael’s padded shoulder. “Well? Off you go, then.”

“Of course.” Arael nodded stiffly, touched the globe, and was whisked away in a cloud of gray.

“And now we wait,” said Gabriel with a strained grin.

“For what—”

A bolt of lightning silenced him, and Arael reappeared on the ground in a bleeding heap.

“That,” said Uriel.

“Erm,” said Aziraphale.

“Arael.” Michael somehow encapsulated the tone of motherly patience that was barely holding its ground in its losing battle against the fury of a thousand suns in that one word. “It has been exactly nine Earth seconds since your deployment to Earth.”

“It’s so much worse than we thought,” mumbled poor Arael, shivering. 

Aziraphale knelt down and helped their shaking heavenly form to their feet, murmuring, “Up you go, excellent, just like that…” The other Archangels did not move an inch, choosing instead to click their tongues and look disappointed.

“They’re everywhere,” continued Arael in a haunted tone. They listed dangerously, and Aziraphale hastily righted them while attempting to repress the bleeding. The Archangels shared a look betwixt themselves. “I can’t—I can’t do it. I was discorporated within ten steps.”

“Would you mind telling us what happened?” asked Gabriel with a very plasticky look of concern. “For future references, I’m sure you’d understand.”

“You can’t send another down there!” gasped Arael, and alright, maybe they were being a tad overdramatic. Discorporation was uncomfortable at best, and certainly not permanent. Arael merely had an unfortunate first-time.

“We must. Evil will not rest on its own unless Good is there to stop it,” said Michael. Aziraphale chose not to mention the time Crowley was asleep for a whole century.

Arael bled and swayed for a few more seconds before speaking. “Everywhere I looked, there were great metal beasts with two glowing eyes on the front.” They shuddered. “And they all had four black, round legs that don’t move like any of God’s creature’s should. They spun. They weren’t mentioned in the briefing I was given. I stepped off of the sidewalk, and one immediately charged me. It must have been a new breed of demon,” they concluded.

Ah. Aziraphale immediately understood what had happened and had to stifle a chuckle as the bewilderment growing between the Archangels sky-rocketed. He wasn’t quiet enough and was awarded a particularly nasty look from Michael.

“Poor thing,” she said, pulling Arael none too gently away from Aziraphale. She waved her fingers, and the swaying and stumbling stopped. Another wave and the wounds vanished, as well as the blood. Arael straightened themselves, dazed. Then their face turned glowed—literally—pink in humiliation.

“I—I need to file a report for a new body,” they stammered, rapidly backing away. “If, if you’ll excuse me, of course.”

“Before you go,” cut in Michael. “Tell us, what did this particular demon look like?”

“A 2016 Ford Fiesta,” said Arael, and they hurried away. 

The remaining angels stared at Arael’s retreating back until Uriel coughed awkwardly. “That was a new record for shortest visit to Earth.”

“What in Heaven is a ‘Ford Fiesta?’” asked Sandalphon. 

“I will pick a few more angels from our queue,” Michael said hurriedly, and she vanished in a flash.

Gabriel turned and caught Aziraphale’s shoulder in a vice grip. “That,” he said, squeezing painfully, “has been happening every. Single. Time. What are we doing wrong? Tell us.”

“What do I know?” said Aziraphale pleasantly, ignoring the growing pressure. “Arael was correct, after all. I’m not fit for the job.”

Gabriel glowered at him, his eyes blazing with a fury that begged to be released and only reined in after Aziraphale was laid to rest. Aziraphale smiled amicably, then squeaked as a knife jabbed into his chin.

“You’re going to do it,” growled Uriel. “Or you’re never going to see your boyfriend again.”

“Ooh, very good Uriel!” said Gabriel, clapping his hands delightedly. “That was—very nice. Now then. Aziraphale.” He smiled thinly. “You will be delivering the briefings. Tell them everything they need to know before they go and get themselves killed again. If we don’t see results, we’ll have to intervene.”

Aziraphale tilted his chin up to spare some distance between his flesh and the tip of the blade. “And if I refuse? You don’t have anyone else like me.”

“You get to go back to your cell for the rest of time. We’ll figure the rest out eventually.”

Incredible. He was being offered quite the variety of choices, wasn’t he. “Fine. I suppose I am forced to accept. Under the conditions”—he caught Gabriel’s glare and hardened his own gaze—“that I am not kept in that cell. I will not attempt to escape to Earth—”

“You can’t, anyway. You’re bound here by the First Laws.”

Ah. That somewhat dampened Aziraphale’s spirits, but at least it was information. He carefully stored it away and made a note to review those laws later. “I see. And the other condition is to have my cuffs removed. I can’t go anywhere anyhow, and they’re serving to be demeaning at this point.”

Uriel and Gabriel shared a dubious look, but it was Sandalphon who cut in. “We accept your current conditions. Is there anything else?”

Aziraphale kept fluttering bubbles of joy tamped down. He knew he could not push it any further, but it felt like a step in the right direction, a step closer to home; a step closer to Crowley.

“No,” he said primly. “That will be all.”

With a reluctant snap of their fingers, Uriel vanished the cuffs. A deep ache of relief spread down as Aziraphale’s spine as his wings were finally allowed to unwind after a year. He flapped them in their plane of existence, wincing as he felt the bones click and pop in complaint. “Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “I accept your offer. I will try to assist to the best of my ability, but I must note that there are no guarantees.”

“Results,” Gabriel insisted. “Something better than nine seconds.”

“I believe I can manage that,” Aziraphale said lightly. “I cannot tell them everything about human cultures from the past six-thousand some years. Humans are complex and wonderfully diverse creatures, and you cannot expect the same things from every single one—”

“It’s not us you should be talking to.” Tremors began to rumble from Aziraphale’s shoes to up his legs. “It’s them.”

He turned just as Michael rounded the corner with at least fifty other angels in tow of all ages and ranks. Some angels who didn’t look a day over twenty walked with one massive, willowy seraph who was bringing up the rear, which Aziraphale could not help but be extremely confused about. They were all chattering excitedly, but upon seeing Aziraphale, they unanimously silenced themselves and stared blankly.

“Erm,” said Aziraphale. “Hello.”

A few of them murmured back, “Good day,” and one even managed a, “Hi.”

Aziraphale smiled encouragingly at the unsure shuffling and side-eyes. “I suppose we’ll make this our first lesson, hm? Does that sound okay? Lovely. Most humans would appreciate a response, a ‘hi,’ ‘hello,’ ‘how do you do,’ even if you”—he bobbed his head once—“simply nod. Now. Let us try that again. Hello!”

All at once, fifty angels cried, “Hello!” so loudly, the glass window nearby developed a crack. It was shocked by this development, and, believing itself to be fatally wounded, fell apart.

Aziraphale blinked once, and then very quietly sighed, “Oh, dear.”

It looked like he had his work cut out for him.