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miserymerci · 11 days

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Dear Desolence (Good Omens S3 take)

Seven months after a change in leadership, Heaven slips up and "accidentally" released Jesus Christ onto the Earth before their plan is ready. Hell is in shambles, angels in Heaven are dividing, and they can't seem to shake off that stupid Book of Life crap. It would do some good to throw it off a cliff.

When Muriel is assigned to find the missing Son, Crowley is pulled into the storm, Aziraphale risks his all, and two equally-misguided children of two big, ineffable entities face what "humanity even means"

Chapter One: Ready for Duty

(Word count: 22,445)

Jesus has gone missing. Muriel is assigned to find him, but in an effort to reach out to Crowley, Muriel realizes that he needs a little pick-me-up. Cue the girls' day out! Meanwhile, the Archangels try to keep Jesus's disappearance a secret from The Metatron.

Lower Galilee, Nazareth: 6 CE

“What’re you doing here in Galilee?”

Aziraphale choked on his stew.

The first thing he probably should have said was: ‘That’s none of your business, snake,’ and then the second thing should have been, ‘now crawl back to whence you came,’ followed by a very unfriendly strike over the head— but with a mouthful of vegetables, it was difficult to make the whole thing look professional.

He sniffled and chewed carefully.

“Having a meal,” he said.

“Well,” said Crawley, looking around the inn, “I can see that.”

Aziraphale swallowed, pushed away the bowl, and then hastily got up from his seat. He had nearly finished his food anyway. The last few bites didn’t matter— he had already been caught red-handed.

“I’m here on business. Angelic business. What about you?” he brushed over his wool tunic and spared another glance at his adversary, who continued to stare at him blankly.

Glasses were such a bothersome invention.

Crawley mulled over his question. Aziraphale doubted he had to think about it for very long, but Crawley rather enjoyed the suspense. He was very good at keeping Aziraphale guessing.

“Demonic business, if I had to put a label on it. I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on the Romans,” said Crawley.

“Galilee isn’t exactly a hotspot for Roman control.”

“Not yet it isn’t,” Crawley shrugged, “but it still counts. It’s near the area, anyway. I have an excuse to be here.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose, turned, and exited the inn.

In truth, Aziraphale never saw Crawley often. Since the incident in Uz, he’d been… well, not flighty. Busy, more like. He had lots to think about, and lots to do, and lots to solve. A busy angel was a fulfilled angel, Michael always said.

Aziraphale didn’t know what to do with himself.

The bright sun brought little warmth to his skin. In the aftershocks of summer, darker clouds had begun to roll by. It would rain within the next few weeks. Then, the autumn crops would finally take root, and Aziraphale’s assignment would end. He wasn’t used to staying in one place for very long. He had tried not to be twitchy about it, but something in his chest urged to flutter and twist. Maybe it was homesickness. What a silly thing.

“You know, everyone knows about the Messiah,” said the demon following him.

Crawley lingered to his side; almost like a herding dog, the way he was leaning into his space. He spared a watchful look at the people passing on the streets before turning back to Aziraphale. When he did, that cheeky smile was on his face.

“Good grief,” whispered Aziraphale to the sky.

“Look, all I’m saying is that you don’t have to be so anxious about keeping secrets. I already know so what’s the big deal? You keeping an eye on the kid?”

“That’s not really your business,” said Aziraphale, wringing his hands. He continued walking, looking over at the clouds or the far hills or anything else that could coax his nerves.

Crawley retreated, vanished, and then came back to his other side.

“Figs?” he offered, and Aziraphale startled.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what? Buy figs? You don’t like figs?”

Aziraphale scoffed to himself and waved away the demon. It didn’t do much. Instead, Crawley welcomed himself into Aziraphale’s bubble with a funny expression. Maybe calculating, maybe just teasing— it was hard for Aziraphale to pinpoint.

“I… do! I mean don’t come to me thinking you can get something out of me. I’m here on assignment, fine. I’m keeping an eye on the Messiah, fine. But that’s all you’re getting from me.”

Crawley was quiet for a moment. He trailed Aziraphale up narrow steps, weaving past a group of kids running out of a nearby entryway. The smallest child was being tugged along with gleeful giggles. All of their knees were caked in dirt.

Aziraphale paused, turned, and watched Crawley lean against the wooden column holding up the little building’s eaves.

Crawley raised his eyebrows.

“You think I’m tempting you for information?” he asked.

“Well,” began Aziraphale, hesitantly, “I find it hard to believe that you just want to talk… are you saying that I should enjoy long walks with my adversary and sharing a warm meal with the Serpent of Eden? I got a very harsh scolding, you know, for letting you slip past me.”

Crawley grimaced and tilted his head this way and that.

“Ehhgh, when you say it like that, it does sound pretty awful of us. We are pitting against one another. Usually.”

Aziraphale swallowed. He glanced down at his fiddling hands, caught himself, and instead used them to smooth down his tunic.

Morals were always a push and pull for Aziraphale. There was always a right and always a wrong— and they always depended on who told them. If an angel told Aziraphale something and a demon told Aziraphale another thing, what was Aziraphale to do other than believe the obvious? But hadn’t Crawley and him worked together the last time they met? He had disobeyed Heaven. Did that still make him a loyal angel? Obviously not, but what was he to do? Confess his sins? Fall? If he could be not-quite-an-angel, then Crawley would be not-quite-a-demon. But the other had been adamant on only temporarily being on the same side.

Ah, there he went again— a headache crept up at the thoughts he had been trying to avoid since Uz.

“I… wasn’t around to witness the birth of the Son.”

In his peripheral vision, Crawley’s face twitched, as if he hadn’t expected Azriaphale to speak up at all. His foot slipped as he tried to stand up properly, but he recovered quickly.

“Oh yeah? I guess Gabriel realised the last birth you observed had almost been a muck up,” said Crawley, slyly.

“I know!” blurted Aziraphale. He clasped his hands together against his chest. “Oh, I felt awful. Gabriel went through the trouble to send me away so I wouldn’t be around for it, I’m sure. I had to go to Egypt to ‘observe the Red Sea’. As if it’s going anywhere? Moses parted it a millennium ago and Gabriel had been concerned about it eleven years ago?” Aziraphale noted Crawley’s blank look and hurriedly added, “Not like he was wrong to be or anything of the sort. It’s just a shame that I wasn’t back when I needed to be. To help, you know.”

Crawley frowned.

“Riiight,” he said, in a tone that made Aziraphale want to hide his face forever. “I know. So what’re you doing here watching the boy, if the Supreme Archangel Gabriel wanted to keep you away?”

It would be embarrassing to admit to this demon that Aziraphale’s assignment didn’t have anything to do with the Messiah. Gabriel had been so apparent with his stretched smile and gleaming eyes to steer clear of the plan that was unfolding. It wasn’t Aziraphale’s division. However, he could see that the few angels who were assigned the boy weren’t clapping their hands with joy at the whole thing.

Aziraphale was ashamed enough already. He didn’t want to hand Crawley salt for his wound.

“At-a-distance mission, I suppose,” said Aziraphale, knowing he’s supposed to be blessing the harvest, “but he is interesting. ‘Son of God’ and all that. Gabriel must have been thinking about how that title puts a huge target on the boy’s back and, well, I—… I mean, he is just a kid; the Messiah.” He realised he had taken his eyes off the demon, and caught him picking at the figs’ stems one-by-one.

“That’s obvious, angel. They all start as kids once. I just hope he won’t grow up to be a prick.”

“The Son of God won’t be a prick. He will be as forgiving and loving as his Mother, and will lead humanity with bravery and benevolence. That’s what the Plan says.”

A challenging look sparked in Crawley’s eyes. For a moment, Aziraphale felt something in his stomach twist (because he was saying that God was good and gracious to a demon’s face), but then those teeth bared at him like a snake, and Aziraphale stubbornly held his ground.

“It’s sad, isn’t it?” said Crawley in a rumbly voice, “that that little boy has such expectations on his shoulders? If he messes up, then what? It’s not like people come back the way they were before. Something always goes missing somewhere. If you ask me, it would be easier to forget the guy and stop trying to act human all the time.”

“Act human?”

“We both know you’re an uptight, prissy agent of what your side thinks is right. It’s all you angels are. You’re fussy with your drinks, fussy with your food, and fussy with your duties. What’re you doing down here wasting your existence away living with people when you could just go home? Leave the Earth to the demons and just smite any sign of life from above? Would make you a real angel, you know– being cruel and mysterious like that.”

Home.

Aziraphale had just been thinking about “home” again; what it was, what it meant to him. The fluttery, sickly feeling drew attention to his chest and spread down and around until he swore his skin was buzzing. Did he miss Heaven? Those bright halls and those endless skies? It had always been his home. He had never seen anything quite like it on Earth.

He swallowed the mysterious feeling and said, eyes fixed on the ground, “you’re just trying to tempt me, Crawley.”

And just like that, Crawley disengaged and rolled his eyes.

“I could be,” he said with less heat, “you wouldn’t know. I’m the enemy, remember?”

“I don’t understand if you want to get rid of me or not,” admitted Aziraphale. “Why do you talk like that?”

“Why do you always look at me like I’m shameful?”

Oh, goodness. That wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all. But Aziraphale didn’t have the words right now, like his entire body was paralyzed, and he had left his mind in the clouds. He couldn’t correct him because he himself couldn’t say what was correct.

He had tried to make an effort today. This was the first time, after all, that Crawley had really reached out to him, but Aziraphale just couldn’t understand. He didn’t truly know his quirks, really, or his sense of humour, or the way he liked to spend his time. Crawley likely couldn’t even read him, either. It seemed like they had just made a muddle of things in their attempt to find common ground.

Maybe Aziraphale did miss Heaven. Maybe this was homesickness, as close as Heaven was to “home”. But then Crawley bit into one of the figs, the seeds cracking and popping against his teeth, and vanished with the crowds— and Aziraphale didn’t know what to do with himself.

Oh, how this distance was unbearable.

Present Day, Heaven

What was distance?

Aziraphale tossed and turned that question in his head often. Of course, there were many dictionaries in the world. Aziraphale had witnessed the first one being written amidst a dry summer in Mesopotamia, where it had found itself sunken into a watery tomb.

But all words came with definitions. Not all of them came with meaning.

So if you were to ask Aziraphale what ‘distance’ was, he would quote the Oxford English Dictionary:

‘Distance (/‘distəns/ : the amount of space between two places or things’.

But then again, ‘distance’ came with a plethora of other definitions. And while they would all technically be the truth, it would also be a lie.

‘Distance’ came with feeling. Surely poets, not as old as he, could mix up the perfect lull of words to describe it. Aziraphale could not.

Could not.

So the only thing he could do was stick it to something. There was a distance between Aziraphale and Earth, for example… a distance between Heaven and the Earth and further Down, for another.

Distance was for places, and distance was for people, and distance was for thoughts. Distance was connection and the lack thereof.

Aziraphale would not be able to tell you where he stood.

It was certainly not lonely in Heaven. Aziraphale had never once thought throughout the last few months that he was alone. Heaven had eyes, and Aziraphale had eyes, and eyes could close a distance.

Eyes for seeing and hands for holding and mouths for— oh… lights! Lights could close a distance, and Heaven had plenty of those. And, as per the eternal ways, ceiling lights in Heaven never went out. Angels on lightbulb duty were only given this task so that even the lowest of cherubs could pretend to be busy (this was a recent discovery to Aziraphale, who had found this fact atrocious. He was outvoted 1-to-4).

On this particular day, one light dared to flicker.

Aziraphale blinked apologetically and turned away from it.

He continued down the Heavenly Halls. The ceiling light that had flickered was likely glaring at his retreating back at the attempted murder. But really, Aziraphale hadn’t meant to do that. He should be cherishing the silence right now, not–

“Supreme Archangel,” said an angel coming up to his left, breaking all of Aziraphale’s wishes, “Sir, you are aware you are late to your meeting, yes?” they turned down at their clipboard, flipping up a few pages, “if you do not wrap it up in approximately eight minutes, you will be behind on your–!”

“–Archangel Aziraphale!” said another, to his right. “There’s been another pressing issue that we need to add to your schedule. It’s about–.”

“The schedule is already full. I can’t fit anything else in,” mumbled the angel on the left.

“Then make some room! There, there’s a little slot between the platoon training and the weapon inspection,” said the right angel.

“I suppose so… well, then, I’ll put that in for you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale swallowed and nodded ahead.

All of Gabriel’s duties had seemed so stagnant compared to this. Had Aziraphale ever actually seen him do anything of importance? Gabriel had hovered more than planned, in Aziraphale’s distracted memory. Perhaps he never noticed because he was too busy not getting caught by Gabriel in the first place.

The next time Aziraphale blinked, he was in another room entirely. That was a funny thing about Heaven: its lack of doors. Most believed it was just a hassle in the grand scheme of things (Who wanted to reach out for a door knob, anyways? Who wanted to use their hands to make an effort, to touch solid ground, to open a door? Why go through the trouble?).

Aziraphale swallowed and looked up.

"Late again, Aziraphale," said Uriel.

Aziraphale lifted his eyebrows, smiled, and neatly placed the folder he had been carrying onto the table.

“So I am,” he said. “Giliel had needed assistance in their new position. None of the other scriveners had the spare time.”

Michael smiled back at him.

"The lower ranks have been experiencing a flux of changes in the past several months. It’s not our responsibility to coddle each one,” Michael crossed one arm, blinking slowly at him as if they were perfectly in their element, “let the officers do their jobs, Aziraphale."

"Am I to blame for wanting to make sure that there are no breaks in our formations?" challenged Aziraphale.

Michael snorted, the action forming into a sneer.

“Ironic,” they said.

"Please leave the arguments for later, Your Reverences," said Saraqael, as if watching Michael’s and Aziraphale’s odd bickering had become boring over the past few months. "The matters of this meeting are far beyond a squabble between cherubs."

Aziraphale nodded (Mostly because Saraqael is looking at him to take the lead). He opened the absurdly-thick folder in front of him that read 'Meeting Notes', paging through delicately before he settled on an empty page.

The Metatron cleared his throat. For the first time during that meeting, Aziraphale looked up at the floating head.

“Thank you for gathering on such short notice. Your flexibility and resolution will be rewarded with good news: the Second Coming is almost among us. In a few weeks–"

"Already?" Aziraphale blurted. He looked surprised at his own interruption, and he glanced around at the table. No one said anything, so Aziraphale took a deep breath and continued, “It took eleven years for Hell to concoct the Apocalypse. We are only a few months in."

"Honestly. Do you really believe us to be as incompetent as those creatures? Of course we would have the advantage, Aziraphale,” said Michael.

“What advantages?” asked Aziraphale.

Sandalphon hummed, but it came out more like a goose honk.

"Fall jostled their good-thinking ability, for one,” said Sandalphon. "Brewed for far too long in the sulfur. Mushy, those ones. Brain soup."

Aziraphale threaded his hands together tightly and watched the way that Saraqael stared at Sandalphon.

“…Gabriel used to laugh at that one,” said Sandalphon.

Michael sneered again.

"Enough," said The Metatron, finally. "Be thankful that any of you play a part in God's Great Plan. It would be just as easy to keep this information solely between The Lord and I."

Aziraphale’s eyebrows scrunched. He manifested a pen and scribbled something down in his notes.

"No need for that, I'm quite sure. Do go on. Unless anyone has anything else to say," said Aziraphale. He tried to ignore the way Uriel’s lips twitched and how Michael’s look withered.

"Very well. Thank you, Aziraphale,” said The Metatron. “We have the Son of The Almighty under supervision. Since the failed Apocalypse, he has been carefully raised in a quiet confinement. The Almighty does not want his judgement to be influenced, unlike what happened with Hell’s botched attempt.”

All eyes turned to Aziraphale's end of the table. The angel quietly added to his notes.

Uriel turned back to The Metatron.

"You mean to say that we've had the Son of God under our jurisdiction for almost five years? And nobody ever thought to tell us?"

"Why wouldn't we have The Almighty's Son?” Michael asked all-too-quickly.

Uriel whipped around at them, titled their head, and then leaned closer.

"And... you knew of this? That we had the Son?"

"More or less,” said Michael. “Not my place to say, is it?”

Before they could begin to really argue, Saraqael sneakily waved a hand.

Uriel and their chair blasted off to the other end of the table. They knocked into Aziraphale, who stammered ungracefully.

Michael hung on to the edge of the table for dear life.

"We had everything under control, and if we had needed your assistance, then we would have sought it out. Do not fret. The raising of Jesus is none of your concern,” said The Metatron.

Aziraphale sniffled.

The Metatron continued, "The Son will soon be on Earth. You will continue preparing for battle. Hell's forces are itching to destroy every value we've spent millennia protecting. Heaven must meet them halfway. If we want to finally triumph, it would do you wise to worry about what is happening Up here than down there."

Aziraphale thought about the power struggle happening Down Below, but kept his mouth shut.

"With all due respect,” said Saraqael, in the tone of someone who was at least trying not to sound unkind, “all Heaven has been doing is preparing for war. We have done all we can in our formations and drills. I see more paperwork of weapon assignments than I do ceiling lights these days. What’s the point of rechecking a file that has already been checked, rechecked, and further checked? There’s already a division for those duties.”

‘Humans have done it for hundreds of years: the reevaluation of works dozens upon dozens of times,’ thought Aziraphale, ‘What was it? The scientific method?’

Certainly worked for many things. It just so happened that Aziraphale was one of the places that it didn’t apply.

"This is the part you play. It is decided by God,” said The Metatron, and that part of the conversation was over.

At Sandalphon’s delighted expression, Aziraphale sent one nervous finger down the side of his pen’s feather.

"Ineffable,” sighed Aziraphale, smilingly.

The Metatron smiled back at him.

"Ineffable," he agreed.

Whatever tension that was starting to build subsided. It seemed like Aziraphale had chosen his words correctly this time.

Close to his left, Uriel leaned over to look at Aziraphale's notes. They had been curious, lately, about Aziraphale’s note taking— he hadn’t been thrilled at first, but then he learned that there was little he could hide from Uriel. Aziraphale tapped his paper, shared a look with Uriel, and then said, "I have a few questions."

"Every meeting," groaned Michael.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and levelled his gaze with The Metatron. They stared and stared, until finally, the Voice of God hummed, and Aziraphale had won the face-off today.

"Well, Aziraphale?”

"Where is Jesus, when will he be sent to Earth, and how will he be sent to Earth? I believe those are justifiable questions, yes?"

Slowly, The Metatron nodded. It was probably a nod, anyways. As just a head, it looked more like a bob.

"I understand your curiosity. However, we are too close to the Second Coming for us to want to… risk our plans. Where Jesus is being held is not information relevant to your role. I already have angels assigned to transport the Son when we are ready to do so. However..."

A miracle split through the air, like a light zap— less like a sound. In the middle of the table, a folder appeared. Aziraphale beckoned it over with a hand. As the folder slid within reaching distance, Uriel straightened quickly and reached over for it the same way Aziraphale was.

Aziraphale flicked his other hand. Uriel and their chair rocketed back towards Michael.

“Guh…” Uriel or Michael said after the collision settled.

"You want to send him to... Iceland?” Aziraphale asked gently. He raised his brows, not looking up from its contents.

“No mosquitos– hm, just don’t tell the All Creatures Big and Small Department. They could put up a fuss, and that’s the last thing Heaven needs. The mosquitos’ original designer is a demon now, however. For good reason. Pesky pests,” said The Metatron.

Sluggish nods and murmurs made its way around the table.

Aziraphale blinked. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then blinked again.

"Well? What does it say?" said Michael.

"This file will go to our twelfth degree courier. They will know what to do, so there’s no use in explaining the process. Would only be tedious work for an Archangel. Simply deliver the folder, yes?" After a moment, when Aziraphale did not reply, The Metatron added, "Supreme Archangel?"

The folder shut slowly, delicately, as if the contents were dynamite and closing it could spark a fire. Aziraphale nodded, even though the orders were suspicious. Why the twelfth degree courier? Wouldn’t it make more sense to hand it to the captain of the division? Then again, Aziraphale had hardly been a messenger in his early days, and had been more interested in his own purpose.

"Quite right," hummed Aziraphale, registering The Metatron’s words and raking through his mind to remember who the twelfth degree messenger was, “this information will be safely delivered to Orel..."

“Very good,” said The Metatron.

"...by Sandalphon."

"Sorry?" said Sandalphon.

"Don't be," replied Aziraphale.

The Metatron scoffed, bobbing its head from left to right, and Aziraphale furrowed his brows.

"Well, I hardly think this is appropriate. I gave you an assignment, Aziraphale, and I expect you to be the one to complete it."

"A folder with 'Second Coming' printed on it being delivered by the Supreme Archangel?" said Saraqael, squinting over at it. "That will turn heads. It would be safer to keep such a key component to our success on the down-low."

Ah, that was likely why the messenger chosen was so specific; hidden well in the midst of numbers to help with the secrecy of the entire plan. Aziraphale smiled at Saraqael, but they didn't return it. Sandalphon had already been eyeing Aziraphale, something dark and gloomy in its already-dark-and-gloomy eyes, and finally moved to reach for the folder.

Aziraphale tossed it, letting it land into Sandalphon's hand safely— possibly thanks to a little miracle. He likely would have fretted about being too reckless to such an important thing. It just-so-happened that Aziraphale wanted it out of his hands as quickly as possible.

"And I," said Aziraphale, "can't think of any other angel that will keep it better protected than Sandalphon."

Sandalphon's lips twisted and widened into a smile. Aziraphale returned it with a hum.

The Metatron glanced over his audience, clicked his tongue, then said, "Very well," then, to the lower Archangel: "Sandalphon. Deliver the folder immediately. You’re playing a crucial role in the Plan, and any failure will be dealt with equal reprimand. Any other... questions?"

No one took the bait. Aziraphale likely would’ve, seven months ago, when he felt defeated and inspired all at once– like red wine against his tongue every morning and every night. He couldn’t risk it anymore, now that he had his feet on the ground.

The Metatron smiled at his angels.

“Amen,” he said.

Sandalphon sent himself off to his duty.

No one would ever utter anything after the meeting was declared over. Aziraphale, in his more-than-six-thousand years of existence, had had many more meetings in Heaven than he could bother to tell. Exchanging pleasantries was decidedly a human thing. It was never written in their rules, but instead smudged into the small dents a finger would leave in paper. And Aziraphale was very good at reading the fine print.

Sandalphon was different. He didn't know what pleasantries were in the first place. And much like how pleasantries were a man-made concept, magic was, too.

In fact, the angels often shook their heads at the word. ‘Magic’? How silly the humans were to make up a term to excuse the existence of great wonders that they couldn’t explain. Maybe that was the interesting thing; how when approached with something unknown, they make it known with a name. Those who do not search for answers will not receive them, and those who do tend to hit solid ground. The thing about magic is that it can happen even when one is looking. To expect to be deceived only ensures that you will find deception.

Angels were awful at magic. Especially Aziraphale. Thankfully, what he lacked in magic, he made up for in miracles.

Sandalphon stopped right in another angel's way. He looked the angel over once, then twice, then said almost accusingly, "Morel."

"Orel, actually," Orel corrected, unfazed.

The Archangel leaned in, and Orel leaned back. He handed them the folder with a smile.

"Directions from The Metatron."

A flash of understanding crossed Orel's face, breaking through their initial blankness. They looked down at the folder, flipped it open, and closed it just as quickly.

"I will get onto it right away–," Orel started to say, but Sandalphon had already vanished.

Magic was messy. It spilled and splattered on white floors and was almost impossible to scrub clean. It was alarmingly human, because it had obvious flaws, and because it was unpredictable. That was terrifying.

Miracles were more clear-cut. Miracles were direct. You would have to know what you want for a miracle to be a miracle.

When Orel walked into the elevator, there was a milky-white button just above the 'H', a button that only appeared when Orel wanted it to. They clicked the button. The doors shut.

The elevator remained motionless. Orel waited patiently, keeping their arms to their side, until the doors opened once more. One step told Orel that they were in a different place than they had entered from.

This was their duty, and once this was done, Orel wouldn’t serve any other purpose to the plan. They were just a screw in a machine for the greater good.

"State your business," said an angel, to the left of a door. Something glinted at their waist.

Orel didn't seem disturbed. Instead, they turned to the second angel at the right of the door. They presented the folder toward them with an outstretched arm, and the second angel took it.

The first angel peered over the second's shoulder.

"It's time to send him down. The Metatron's orders," Orel announced as the two stationed angels shared a look.

In this small, white room, it was easy for it to feel strangely like this was a dead end of Heaven. Heaven didn't have dead ends. If it did, it would start feeling as if it were a cage, and Heaven was a little more complicated than that. Heaven was always endless, even when you hit a wall.

The first angel moved from their position, revealing a light switch behind them. They reviewed the folder once more— because mistakes could cost the winning side, and nobody wants to be the loser.

One perfectly-placed miracle can change the trajectory of an entire story. Isn't that magical?

They flicked the light switch on.

On Earth, there was a single angel stationed.

But it wasn't very lonely, so they didn’t feel too bad about it. It was a very important job that had many more pros than cons. Like, for one, they got to read books— fun ones and sadder ones and ones with lots of words. The ones that weren’t too wordy had pictures with more colours than one could ever imagine in Heaven. Their new favourite colour was green— or maybe purple— but blue was pretty as well.

They could feel the rain, the heat of the sun, and the dirt that got stuck under their fingernails. And then, when it got really cold, snow flittered down to the earth as if it were on angel wings, landing and melting into the waiting cups of steaming hot chocolate below.

And the smells. Well, actually, the smells left a lot to be desired. Some of them were pleasant, like old books, and others were bitter and cutting like spoiled milk. Smells were the most confusing of all of Earth's specialties.

But best of all, there were the people.

In this particular building, coffee brewed, and cinnamon wafted from the kitchen hidden behind the counter.

People liked coming to places with coffee. Coffee was a necessity for human life, and took a lot of shapes and forms. It was almost as important as sleep, which humans also needed to sustain life. But then, coffee wasn't a replacement for water (even though they're both drinkable liquids. How odd), which humans also needed to sustain life.

Even though the concept was confusing, Muriel grew to love coffee shops. Really, just Nina's coffee shop, where they've played board games like Monopoly (Muriel liked the top hat the most), and had gathered around one of the tables to partake in a seasonal gift-giving event that was meant to honour the birth of Jesus Christ.

Lovingly, Muriel had gifted Nina a pack of instant coffee from the market so that she wouldn't have to work as hard to keep up with the morning rush. Nina, just as lovingly, explained that instant coffee wasn't actually 'instant'.

In the cosiness of Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death, Maggie folded onto one page of a magazine and flipped it over for Muriel to see.

"Here," Maggie tapped one of the images, "do you remember this one?"

Muriel leaned closer. Quickly, their face brightened, "Oh, yes! London's spinning wheel. We saw it the other weekend."

Maggie snorted, but shook her head in good humour, "Well, yes, it's pretty much a spinning wheel. But it's actually the–."

Some magazines that were fanned out on the table crinkled and shuddered as Muriel patted their palms against them in excitement.

"Oh! Oh, don't tell me!”

Muriel hadn’t ever been assigned anything about human culture before. They had annotated documents that had already been annotated, were given half-finished reports on miracle usage, and never had their meeting notes used by their higher-ups. The closest thing they could think of that was ‘human’ would be the communication documents that would rarely be sent Muriel’s way— along with Aziraphale’s trust in them with the bet between God and Satan.

Despite their colleagues taking up most of the work, they not only had a fierce passion for literature, but for learning as well.

Through Muriel’s focus, Nina placed an iced coffee next to them.

“Eye-ced coffee for you,” said Nina. Muriel's eyes glittered before Nina had even finished her sentence.

"The London Eye! See? Didn’t I say I knew?” they said.

Maggie gave Nina a look– something bordering between fondness and chide– who shrugged.

“Just doing my job,” said Nina.

"Thank you very much for the drink.” Muriel sent her a grin, something they did often in their presence. They picked up the drink and rocked it. The unmixed cream swirled and danced as it crept down the ice, much like the clouds that they had grown accustomed to watching.

Nina didn't linger long. With a fleeting smile, she returned to the front counter to tend to a squad of teenagers who had just entered.

Muriel swallowed and turned back to the magazines. But something had shifted now; and Maggie had become used to recognizing when Muriel was really thinking about something.

At Maggie's questioning look, Muriel shrugged and waved around one of the magazines dismissively, "Nina does her job very well,” they said.

"And?" prodded Maggie. She turned to grab her latte and took a long sip.

Muriel's lips pursed, frowning at the magazine in their hand, not really reading the words. It wasn't as if it really mattered if they did, anyways. They would eventually. Anything with words that landed in Muriel's hands always ended up finished. Maggie's previous set of magazines had already fallen victim to Muriel's eyes, until, eventually, Muriel had memorised it all— and Maggie had had to dig up new ones.

“I think it’s that I wish that I had a job? To do well in, I mean,” Muriel took their fingertips and glided them along their lips just to have something to do. “It makes me feel… strange… thinking about it.”

Maggie glanced up from a magazine.

"Is watching over the bookshop not your job?" she asked.

"Oh, yes!" flustered Muriel. "Yes. Of course. I've been doing an excellent job watching over the bookshop. No one's really checked up on me so I don't really know–," Maggie's expression twisted into a wince, "–but I'm sure that just means that my performance has been satisfactory. No one at work writes for unimportant purposes like check ups. Everything has a purpose.”

Maggie nodded slowly. It was an odd nod though, like she was trying to understand, but couldn’t. Luckily for Maggie, Muriel didn’t know all of the humans’ expressions yet.

Muriel turned back to their coffee to watch the swirling cream.

"But oh... well, I just wish I had a little direction. Someone to tell me what to do so I could do it."

"You've been amazing at learning about all these landmarks. You know Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, The London Eye..."

Muriel leaned over and pointed at one of the pictures on a magazine neither of them had touched yet, "That's The Shard."

"Right,” said Maggie, causing a grin to split blindingly across Muriel's face. "Not only that, but it took you like– a week to learn about ancient Rome and Greece. That's impressive. And theatre production– you learned that one in a few days, even if you didn’t like it that much. And the discovery of a fashion sense: a place where I’m pretty sure no angel has ever ventured before.”

"You really think so?"

"Of course I do, Muriel. You're my friend. I'm always looking at the best of you."

Muriel was relieved to drop the subject. They leaned back in their chair and reached out for a strawberry jam biscuit from their plate (that they had forgotten about in their studying) to carefully inspect.

Yes, the people were the best of all.

People were all sorts of funny and weird. Sometimes, they would yell, or cry, or swing their hands at one another. Other times, they whispered, or laughed, or held hands. There were no patterns or set lines. Not usually. If there were, people tended to walk over them anyway— so did they really do anything? The patterns and the lines?

People were hard to read.

"You know, I don't think we had you study that one," Maggie said suddenly.

"A fashion sense?" Muriel asked, worried. They tugged at their jumper to get a good look at it, trying to find something wrong, but Maggie waved her hands frantically.

"No, no. I meant The Shard."

"Oh!" Muriel watched Maggie drink as they talked. Her latte was a lovely shade of tan, reminding Muriel of the uniforms up in Heaven. "I used to be able to see it Up in Heave— I mean... Where I moved from. The other human settlement. Greece, probably."

"Right," Maggie agreed, but shook her head anyway. "The Shard. From Greece."

Muriel nodded.

"Maybe we can start some human geography next month," suggested Maggie with a tentative smile.

It had been difficult for Muriel to ask for help in studying everything the humans have done and what they were currently doing. The last thing they had wanted seven months ago was for their cover to be blown, but just three months ago, Maggie herself had brought up the idea– and who was Muriel to say no to such an offer? Especially since Maggie had insisted in exchange for her rent (Muriel had denied her money offers. From what they read, Aziraphale didn’t take the money, so why should they? It’s not like they needed it…).

The sound of trumpets echoed through Muriel's head. With a startled gasp, they jumped out of their seat, their iced coffee almost tumbling down. They flung out to catch it, but their hands were far too jittery. Maggie came to their rescue.

"What happened—?" Maggie began after the cup was steady.

"Well— oh— um!" Muriel's mouth hurried to form a cognitive thought, but they accidentally backed into a man waiting in line, and all roads were lost. "A little something came up! My telephone is ringing, as it does. I will talk to you later, Maggie and Nina! T-T-Y-L!"

And then Muriel was out of the coffee shop.

Nina opened her mouth to say something to Maggie. One glance at her flushed face made her reconsider, and instead, she leaned over the counter, amused.

"...we haven't gotten very far on abbreviations,” said Maggie.

Muriel skipped off the curb and almost got hit by a car.

"Watch it!" yelled a man with his car horn blaring. Other cars followed his noisy lead as Muriel scrambled across the road, calling out 'sorry's the whole way.

They turned over to The Dirty Donkey (Nina had taken Muriel to see what it was like. Muriel stepped in for only a moment before walking right out). Its windows flashed a familiar white, the doors flying open only a second later. Muriel forced themself to look away and focus on just getting to the bookshop's doors.

Muriel had only owned one key in their entire life– but searching for it now taught Muriel a lesson about excessive amounts of pockets on pants.

"Muriel," greeted Uriel, their shadow casting over the panicking angel, "having trouble?"

"Not at all," Muriel replied kindly. They finally aimed the key into the keyhole correctly. With a click, the door opened, and they gestured for the Archangel to come in. "I am so delighted to see you, Archangel Uriel."

Uriel passed by them. They looked around the bookshop– maybe looking for something, maybe judging it– while Muriel stepped in after them. The door closed with a chime.

Uriel blinked slowly like a tiger.

"Quaint. I have an assignment for you."

That was something that Muriel had been waiting to hear since they were bound to the bookshop.

"Oh, anything. What is it?" Muriel clasped their hands together. "Oh! And would you like a cup of tea?"

Uriel fixed a narrowed look onto the lower angel. With a sniff, Muriel pressed their arms to their sides and straightened. The Archangel let the silence stretch until it was the perfect temperature of uncomfortableness.

"A few hours ago, the Son of God dropped from our radars. We believe he was sent to Earth. As the angel stationed here, we believe you to be the best candidate to retrieve him and give him back to us," said Uriel.

Muriel nodded frantically, wide-eyed.

"Yes. I can absolutely do that. I won't let you down, Archangel Uriel."

Uriel was tight-lipped. They tilted their head, narrowed their eyes further, and then hummed. They only made it halfway to the door when Muriel made a strangled noise.

"Except…,” they said, “I might have a few questions.”

Uriel stared at them.

"What.”

"Well, for one, the Son of God– who I’m assuming is Jesus– is dead," Muriel explained carefully, looking away from Uriel's blank face. "Has been for two millennia, now, actually. And also–! Where would I start to look for said-dead Jesus. Who has been dead for… you know, like I said… two millennia now."

Uriel looked up at the Heavens. For a moment, something sharp glinted in their eyes, but they dropped back down to meet Muriel's.

"You've heard of the Second Coming, yes? As a scrivener?"

"Well, omens and prophecies aren't really my responsibility. It's more of a 10th-degree-order-scrivener-and-up sort of thing."

Uriel chuckled at that. Their smile was crooked, but it was more amused than anything. Strange and brittle, but amused. Muriel flitted their eyes across the bookshop and pressed their lips together into a line.

Uriel's expression slid off their face.

"You're serious?" Uriel asked. Muriel nodded curtly, and the Archangel's nose pinched. "That's ridiculous."

Muriel made a face.

"It’s always been this way,” they said.

Uriel took a moment to gather themself. When they finally did, they turned to the doors again.

"Jesus is back. Alive. Find him and bring him to us. Understand?"

"Yes!" Muriel smiled. "Yes. Of course. Uh, but... could you tell me what he looks like?"

"It's the Son of God. You'll know."

Muriel cleared their throat, trying very hard to keep their smile steady. "Course," they said softly as Uriel reached for the handle of the door.

The Archangel paused, glanced over their shoulder, then looked distantly through the window.

"Don't forget what your duties here are for. You’re an angel. Act like it."

That could mean a lot of things for Muriel; acting like an angel. Did Uriel mean to keep themself busy? Or was it more like… ‘Muriel, hunt down and extinguish evil!’ or maybe, ‘you’re doing an awful job passing as a human’.

But Uriel was gone before they could ask, leaving the scrivener all on their own in the almond-smelling bookshop.

Leaving the scrivener all on their own... with an assignment!

"Yes!" Muriel whooped.

The last thing that Maggie had expected was Muriel's sudden exit, looking to be more frazzled than Maggie had ever seen them. The second-to-the-last thing that Maggie had expected was Muriel to practically fly down the bookshop's stairs as Maggie passed by.

"Where are you going?" Maggie asked, paused a few feet away on the pavement.

"I'm—."

Muriel tripped.

Maggie jumped the distance between them, the magazines she had been carrying flapping ungracefully to the ground. The sacrifice was in vain, though. Muriel righted themself up without Maggie's help, looking as if nothing had happened.

"Ah, bugger," Maggie sighed, watching her magazines flutter from the passing cars.

"I'm sorry!" Muriel said. They took a moment to gather themself before diving in to help their friend. "I'm sorry," Muriel said again, once they had gathered all the magazines, their smile never faltering.

"It's all right," said Maggie. She held a hand out and pulled the both of them to their feet. "Are you okay?"

"Ah! What's the word? More than okay!"

"Great?"

"No– tremendous," Muriel's face brightened even more. "Oh, Maggie, it's a miracle– well, it wasn’t. I don't think it was a miracle— but it's very very good news." Maggie nodded along. Muriel took that as a good sign to continue. "I was given an assignment! Me! Archangel Uriel needs me to find the Son of The Almighty, here on Earth!"

Maggie made an 'o' shape with her lips, head tilted up as if to fall into a nod– but she was still missing something. She frowned and glanced off to the side.

"Oh, that's..! Well, I have no idea. Does that happen often?"

"No! Isn't that great?" Muriel answered.

Maggie scrunched her eyebrows together. In her moment of thought, Muriel caught something absolutely crucial.

They squawked and said, “Well, actually– because you see, Uriel is one of my bosses, and Archangel is their first name. Andddd ‘Son of The Almighty’ is just a code word for… um…”

“A super secret project?” suggested Maggie, not believing them.

“Exactly.”

"Yeah, that's pretty great, Muriel,” said Maggie after a moment. “Where will you go?"

Maggie had begun to move. Both of their arms full of magazines, they walked together down the street to The Small Back Room.

"I don't know," admitted Muriel. "But I'm sure Mr. Crowley will have some ideas."

Maggie paused, almost making Muriel run into her. "Mr. Crowley?" she repeated after giving them an odd look, leading them the final few strides to her shop.

Muriel nodded, their enthusiasm never faltering. They watched expectantly as Maggie opened the door. Maggie went in first, but held the door open with her foot to let her friend in. The door closed behind them.

"I'm not too sure you'll find him. I mean, I haven't seen him since Mr. Fell left. It's like he's vanished off the face of the Earth," Maggie said as they made their way to the shop's front counter.

Maggie placed down the magazines. Then, she turned around to Muriel, who had a pinched look on their face.

Muriel shook their head.

"No," they said, "no, that's not right. Mr. Crowley lives in a flat in Mayfair. I've read it in Mr. Fell's diaries. I have the address."

The magazines that Muriel had started to hand over to Maggie fell to the ground, slipped in Maggie’s moment of surprise.

"Ah—!" Maggie ducked down to pluck them all up. "You— what!? Wait— you've known where Mr. Crowley was all this time and you never told Nina and I? And you read Mr. Fell's diaries?"

"Oh, yes. He has plenty of them. I've read all the books in the bookshop. Except the ones near the back."

Maggie frowned at that, but didn't question it further. She placed her elbows onto the counter and stared at Muriel. When Muriel didn't elaborate on anything, she sighed.

"Okay. So, here's what I'm hearing," Maggie took in a deep breath, then splayed her hand out. "You're going to march over to Mr. Crowley's flat, ask him to help you find, uh, Jesus Christ, and he's just going to say yes?"

"Yes."

"I... don't think he'll want to help you, Muriel.”

Muriel frowned.

"Why not?"

Maggie opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She shook her head once, twice, and then tried again.

"Mr. Crowley hid himself away for a reason. It doesn't feel right of us to barge in and tell him what to do,” she said.

Muriel considered that. They looked down at their nails, which were worn-down and bitten, and said, "Because Mr. Fell is gone?"

Maggie swallowed. She turned to the magazines. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess so."

Muriel straightened, reaching out toward Maggie, but caught themself. Their eyes fell down to look at a splinter in the counter’s wood. They began to pick on it.

"I know that you and Nina feel bad about how your advice to Mr. Crowley didn’t work out, but I have to try. This is an assignment," Muriel said. "My assignment. And Mr. Crowley has been down here for six-thousand years–"

"–he's been what!? Actually, why am I surprised?–"

"–if anyone can track the Son down, it's him! I need him to help me, Maggie. For Heaven’s sake."

Maggie pursed her lips. Muriel stared at her, begging, trying to pour all sorts of feelings and emotions into their eyes— something they had seen plenty of humans do in the past. It must have done the trick, because Maggie’s shoulders sagged with a sigh.

"I don't think I'll ever understand your lot," she said, finally.

"I’m just like you and Nina," replied Muriel.

Their friend snorted.

"You sure are."

The address that Muriel had dug up had led them through a series of twists and turns around Mayfair. Even with Maggie’s help in deciphering which streets to take, one step forward made Muriel step three back, only to then turn to the left— no, the right— maybe take a loop?

Humans’ streets were confusing. Muriel didn’t often like to explore the city alone.

When Muriel did find the right building (it was rather big and obviously demon-esque with its many windows and drab colour scheme. How had they missed it before?), they were forced to go to the front desk. Aziraphale hadn’t written which flat Crowley had taken residence in, and even the receptionist had been surprised to hear Crowley’s name (“Fourth floor, ma’am, and take a slight left– but I hardly think he’s home, these days.”).

Then came the problem of getting in.

Muriel didn't often talk to people other than Maggie or Nina. Maybe, if they had, they would have a better idea of how to knock on someone's door.

What they should have said was: 'Hello? Mr. Crowley, it's me, Muriel. I need your help. Can you please open the door?' Who is it? Muriel. The why? They need his help.

Another option would’ve been: 'It's Muriel! Open the door and help me, or else I could be demoted to numbers that are yet to exist.' Again, it's Muriel. The why? Failure would mean serious trouble– a nice mix of kindness and urgency.

Muriel said neither of those things.

"POLICE!! OPEN UP!!"

Ah.

Muriel only found the courage to gently knock on Crowley's door, despite their yelling.

The lights on this floor were dimmer compared to those on the lower floors. They hummed as if their bulbs were ready to burst. Maybe, if Muriel listened hard enough, they would sound like the ceiling lights in Heaven. Instead, Muriel could hear two people arguing, too muffled to make out any words.

Muriel swallowed and knocked again.

"A-hem! Mr. Crowley! You're under arrest!'

A harder knock cracked the door open. Muriel gasped, hesitated, and then quickly lost to their curiosity. They pressed their palm to the door and coaxed it further.

"I'm... coming in…!”

The door fully opened. With it, a gentle mist casted over Muriel. It cooled the nerves beginning to buzz beneath their skin, but it was too chilly for the middle of February. Muriel shivered and rubbed their arms as they stepped into the shaded room. The door shut, unprompted, behind them.

“Okay,” whispered Muriel, “that’s probably a normal human thing…”

It was dark. Muriel had only seen darkness at night. Even then, in the bookshop, the moon would peak between buildings, and the streetlights continued to glow until the humans returned home.

This type of darkness was self-made.

The curtains were closed tightly. Few slivers of light squeezed through them, fighting against the black silk to reach into the flat. It outlined vibrant, green plants that climbed up and up to the ceiling, tracing the walls, coiling around frames; twisting; turning; wild like a pit of watching snakes.

The finest house plants one could find in London had made itself into its own jungle.

Muriel took a deep breath. They brushed away a curly stem and ducked beneath another to go deeper.

"Mr. Crowley…?" Muriel called softly into the almost-darkness.

The plants were muttering something to them; something that couldn't quite be put into words. Something like the way thunder roars before lightning, or the squeal of a burner before the fire spins out of control.

Leaves slowly shifted out of place. They curled away or tipped up a little higher, and Muriel walked through a newly-formed path past a dewy desk and into a hall with a ceiling so high that it made them feel dizzy and small.

In hindsight, the tall ceilings were very Heaven-like. There was no reason to be afraid.

Muriel noticed a flash of light colours in the dark and curiously leaned around a squeaking plant. Past the mist, the wings of a statued demon were flaring fiercely, arching at the furthest joint to block the skies from its downed opponent. They took a small step closer (despite the plants’ flustering) and read on the plaque that the flailing creature underneath the demon’s claws was an angel.

They swallowed.

Just behind them, another plant whined softly, and Muriel turned to see it beckoning them back down the hall. In their curiosity, they had strayed from the path unfolding around them.

The plants had led Muriel to a door. The paint was chipped near the knob. Muriel could spot the little claw marks dipping into the flesh of the wood, jagged and frantic, as if a fight had happened here– but the scars were old and blunt on its edges.

A leaf fluttered in their peripheral vision, making Muriel jolt. They gave it a single look of betrayal and turned the loose doorknob.

The plants hushed. For the first time since Muriel was left on Earth, they became uncomfortably aware how misplaced they were.

Something was sleeping here.

Crowley laid silent on the bed, arm slung over his eyes. Condensation from the mysterious mist dampened down his hair. The air was heaviest here; wet; stuffy. Muriel didn’t need to breathe, but the temptation was almost irresistible.

Muriel focused back on Crowley. They could have easily mistaken him for another statue. One thing that Muriel continued to doubt themself over was the stillness of a human in sleep. They were kind of like snakes, weren’t they? Capable of striking? Looking too much alike to their dead counterparts? The uncertainness of closed eyes made Muriel dramatic, and odd. They cleared their throat and tried to remember what Maggie had taught them about pulses.

They eyed Crowley’s chest, found the rise and fall of it, then quickly moved back up to his face.

The idea that something was wrong was just a silly thought. Crowley was breathing just fine, and Muriel was… well, not really breathing, but doing fine too. They were fine.

Muriel watched Crowley go through the humans’ breathing motions and tried to mimic the movement.

The angel inched a little closer, cautiously, but Crowley didn't stir from his slumber. The plants shook. And because Muriel was not fluent in plant language, they took it as encouragement.

Muriel reached out–

–and they were on their back.

Something dug into their arms. Claws pinned them to the cold, unwelcoming Earth. Above them, the plants cried out and rattled down to the stem. They were only shadows in the dark.

The world went fuzzy– like a million pins itching at their eyes– and the houseplants were squealing– something like an animal. Muriel had helped take in a trio of kittens on the side of the road, once, in the middle of the night. The veterinary clinics had been closed. The kittens, hungry and cold, had sounded like this then, too.

‘Focus, Muriel!’

Their head buzzed. The hissing bubbling from the thing’s throat spilled through teeth. It could drip and drip into Muriel’s eyes and claw there, until it got to their brain and claw that, too.

Suddenly, they lost all their courage.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!” they yelled over the noise in their ears, “Don't take me to Hell!"

And then, as quickly as it started, the descent to darkness stopped.

"Muriel?"

"Yes!"

Muriel had screwed their eyes shut somewhere during the whole ordeal. With great effort (and with a very shaken conscience) they peeked just as the shadow retreated.

Crowley sat back on his heels. He was frowning, but not at Muriel. The plants that were leaning in to watch withered back. They were almost ashamed— more so frightened, really— to have been caught in their spying.

Head tilted up at the leaves, Crowley's eyes drifted off to Muriel's.

Muriel winced.

Crowley inhaled sharply. He turned toward the bed, picked up his sunglasses, and smashed them onto his face.

"What are you doing here?" Crowley asked.

"Wh... well, I–."

Muriel needed a little more time to think. Words they thought of could only jumble together uselessly. When Crowley stood, they proceeded to sink further against the floor. He raised a brow at them.

Muriel cleared their throat.

"I need your help," Muriel tried to say bravely.

Crowley waved away the plants that were still crowding their space. He pulled his hand up and snapped, the condensation that had been caught on his corporation vanishing along with the motion. He was now completely dry. It seemed like the cool mist that was there when Muriel had first entered was long gone.

"If this has anything to do with Heaven, then you should leave,” he said.

When getting in an argument, one expects to be yelled at. When following a beat, people will make it into a rhythm that is predictable, and, therefore, comfortable.

Muriel had gotten into arguments in Heaven before– if one angel yelling and the other angel standing there counts as an argument, that is– but whatever the case, yelling meant an argument, and an argument meant anger. People who argued were angry. People who were angry yelled.

Whatever anger Crowley had was so much worse.

Crowley spoke in a low, steady tone. It was tauntingly delicate– maybe as if it’ll break him, but far more likely that it was at bay for Muriel’s sake.

"I really need your help Mr. Crowley," Muriel said, finally, after they figured out how to sit up. "You know Earth better than anyone. Archangel–" the plants squealed and quivered. Muriel glanced up to see Crowley's darkening expression, "–Uriel–" Crowley turned to look off at a wall, "–asked me to–."

"Get up."

No point in arguing. Muriel quickly scrambled to their feet, chewing their nails. Crowley fully faced them. With a jolt, Muriel pressed their arms stiff to their sides.

Crowley made a face.

"Er, don't do that."

"Do what?" Muriel asked.

He made little circles in the air with his fingers. "That little soldier thing. You look like a board," he said.

Muriel didn't know what to do with their hands. They crossed them behind their back, then tried clasping them together at the front. Finally, Muriel decided to mirror Crowley by shoving their hands into their pockets.

Crowley sneered openly this time. It was gone before Muriel had the chance to think about it.

"I," started Crowley, in that same angry-voice Muriel had noticed before, "do not want anything," Crowley neared Muriel, "to do with there," he pointed Up, "or there," he pointed Down.

Muriel blinked, stunned. Crowley leaned in closer at their silence.

"Do I make myself clear?" he pressed.

The angel slowly nodded. But even as Crowley turned away from them and began herding up the plants, Muriel couldn't shake something.

"Your home is very scary," they said.

"What?"

"It's empty. It feels empty. There's something missing. I mean… there’s a lot going on. Too much going on… but it’s this gritty feeling, like it’s cutting out my chest.”

Crowley was quiet. He glowered at Muriel, but they were too busy taking in their surroundings. The plants seemed to shy away from their gaze. Painfully, one of Muriel's hands rubbed at their chest.

"I don't think I’ve ever felt love like this before."

Something in the room made a shuddered noise. Muriel, alarmed, looked at the plants, but they were deathly still.

"Get out," choked Crowley.

Muriel startled as Crowley darted towards them. They scrambled backward, where plants that would have been in their way moved to clear the path. They stumbled out into the tall hall together, to the wild living room, and up until Muriel could see the front door over their shoulder.

"Agh!" cried Muriel, frustrated and desperate. "Mr. Crowley, please listen–!"

"You come to my flat demanding me to help you in whatever sadistic business Heaven is up to? No!" Crowley spat. "Do you know what I am? How did you even find me? There's a reason why I didn't want to see you around."

If Muriel continued to back up, they'd hit the door– thankfully that wouldn’t be a problem. Miraculously, the door opened up for them.

They stepped out into the hall.

"Mr. Fell had–!"

Crowley hissed. With one jerk of his hand, the door slammed in Muriel's face.

"I honestly don't know what you expected," Nina said. She took a bite of her chowmein and chewed as Maggie whacked her shoulder.

"Nina!" chided Maggie.

"I'm just telling the truth!"

Nina turned to Muriel, who had their head in their hands. If there was one thing she knew about Muriel, it’s that failure was always a tough thing to face. She clicked her tongue and reached out to touch them tentatively on their shoulder.

"Don't beat yourself up about it, though," sighed Nina. She managed a smile, but didn’t receive one back. "You can only say so much to someone else before it becomes one-sided, yeah?"

Muriel winced. They leaned back in their chair, scanning the empty coffee shop.

Nina was taking her lunch break. She didn't use to have a lunch break, but Maggie had nagged her senseless about skipping meals, and they had reached a delightful middle ground. As in: Maggie had barged in at midday, hands full of whatever takeout she had come across that day, and gifted it to Nina. For the first few days, Nina made it a point to give back the cold, untouched meals. Maggie's determination had been endearing, though, and Nina found that it didn't hurt to entertain her (“Food is too expensive to waste. I guess I’ll just have to eat it,” she had said, making the other two snicker).

And it had made Nina feel much better, too.

"I... don't understand," Muriel said. "The way he’s acting– Mr. Crowley– It's confusing me."

"There's still a lot of things you don't understand about Earth," comforted Maggie.

Muriel pursed their lips and said, “I know you meant good by that, but it makes me feel… not good.” They began to pick at their nails, not really knowing how to describe beyond that, feeling pathetically un-human. “I feel sad for him. He’s struggling, I can feel it. Or, well, I can’t feel it– it’s a little complicated. Like I want to help him not struggle… Does that make sense?”

Maggie nodded slowly. "You want to make him feel better."

Muriel sighed, their shoulders dropping in relief.

"Yes," they said, "and, well, whenever one of us is not feeling well, we always go out on a girl’s day out."

Nina sputtered on her next bite of noodles. Maggie, ever helpful, patted her back sympathetically as she coughed. Nina put her hand up.

"I'm okay. Thanks, Angel," Nina wheezed. She smacked her fist onto the table to ground herself and then looked at Muriel. "You're telling me that you want to take Mr. Crowley on a girl’s day out?"

Muriel smiled. All the doubtfulness that had been gnawing at them blinked away.

"Yes! It always helps me when I'm sad. Mr. Crowley doesn't have anyone else but us to take him on one," they said. “Girls’ date! Day out on the town! Let’s do it!”

Maggie and Nina exchanged a glance– one of those glances where they could say something that would completely ruin someone else's day. These glances usually don’t happen in Heaven. In fact, Up There, the glances were vocal and held no secrecy at all. Because of this, it wasn’t easy for Muriel to read the room.

"Oh, please, Nina and Maggie!" pressed Muriel when they didn't respond. "I'll do anything! I'll even try those disgusting shop snacks again!"

Nina snorted, shaking her head. She tried not to smile.

"Those were decorative fruit. They're made of styrofoam," Nina explained.

"Well, is normal fruit made of styrofoam?" asked Muriel.

"Normal fruit is made of fruit, I think," said Maggie.

Muriel supposed that made sense. If all fruit was made out of styrofoam, then Adam and Eve would have never wanted to eat it. Fruit must be enough to be willing to risk it all. Then again, if the fruit had been styrofoam, they wouldn’t have known until they took a bite… How many bites had they taken again?

‘Enough to be exiled by God,’ Muriel’s mind provided, helpfully.

“We can schedule something for tomorrow?” said Nina. She knocked away some celery bits to the side of her bowl. “I’m not sure if we can fit that much into a couple of hours.”

“I know,” said Muriel, now familiar with the quick passing of time (especially when they got into a good story), “but this is crucial. What if Mr. Crowley takes off to the Americas overnight and we never see him again? Then he’d never feel better.”

Crowley was still an enigma for Nina and Maggie. Even though they could spot a lovesick gaze from a mile away, their familiarity with him stopped at his shadowy companionship with Mr. Fell. Maybe he was just shy, or wasn’t very partial to people. Nina likely wouldn’t be if she were a demon. So it was entirely possible that a supernatural being would simply disappear if they couldn’t be worth the trouble.

Besides, if Crowley was able to befriend Mr. Fell despite them being demon and angel, then Crowley couldn’t possibly be one of those stereotypical demons with the barbed tails and pitchforks.

Muriel leaned in and smiled.

Nina blinked away her train of thought and scoffed to herself.

“You know what? Fine. I’ll close the shop early– but just this one time,” she said.

“Then I’ll do the same,” said Maggie, too smiley for her to even pretend to be disappointed by closing shop early. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

The hierarchy in Heaven wasn't hard for an angel to wrap their head around. Understanding what they were in Heaven was supposed to be easy. Knowing what others were in Heaven was even easier.

This meant that those who came into contact with angels ranking lower than themselves could stretch their wings with ease, and those who came into contact with angels ranking higher than themselves should tuck their wings behind their legs and pray for the best.

There weren't many angels who ranked higher than Michael. Just two: Aziraphale, for one, and he was an idiot as far as Michael could care to admit. The second was The Metatron; a much more worrying symbol of authority.

Michael paced back and forth. The glassy walls helpfully reflected their own image back to them: The little coil sticking out of their otherwise-perfectly-put-together hair; the golden dust brushed down only one cheekbone; and for some reason, the cuffs of their sleeves wouldn’t stay unflipped.

They forced themself to stop. As calmly as they could, they put their hands together at the tip of their nose and closed their eyes.

"What happened?" asked Michael, slowly. They turned to look at an angel observing them.

This angel stiffly jolted. They spared a nervous glance around and said, "According to the protection unit, the two angels on duty received a document ordering them to launch the project.” Michael groaned. The Archangel began to pace again, and the courier angel stammered to continue, "My division verified that the twelfth degree courier delivered the file. Was this incorrect?"

"No. What was not correct was them letting go of–!”

Something made a scribbling noise; rough pen on paper. It made Michael’s ears ring. Their gaze peeled off of the courier and onto a second angel who was standing behind them.

"What are you doing?" snapped Michael.

The second angel startled. They sent a worried look toward the courier angel, who ignored them, before turning back to the Archangel.

"Eight degree scrivener," they said, finally. They wiggled their stark-white pen. "I write everything about the Second Coming's progress, my Archangel. It’s my assignment from The Metatron."

"Okay," said Michael. "Okay. Stop writing."

"Any… reason why, your Reverence?” said the scrivener.

The courier finally turned their head to give the scrivener a look that appeared awfully dismayed; maybe scolding, maybe a warning– and Michael's expression pinched right as they expected it to.

"Are you questioning me? I say do not record it, do not record it."

The scrivener flinched. They let the clipboard and pen flit out of existence. When the courier returned their attention back to Michael, the Archangel already had their back turned to them.

"I do not want to hear either of you talking about this conversation– or anything about the missing Son. This is Archangel business, now. Await your next orders," said Michael. "Dismissed."

The two angels briskly made their way out of this plane of Heaven.

The footsteps ceased. The ceiling lights hummed. The clouds floated, thin and wispy, below.

Michael forced themself to watch them travel sluggishly along. Clouds were a bother, these days, in Heaven. They had served a purpose once. Those days were long behind them now. There was no reason for their existence that Michael could think of (unless they thought of them as another layer between them and Earth. In that case, it was good to have a clear label somewhere).

Higher places existed beyond the clouds.

Michael took one fisted hand and pressed it into the glass. The weight of it wasn’t flimsy. It was stubborn, as if it were made to live for as long as time allowed it. When Michael tested it further, their hand shook with effort.

The glass, admiringly, remained.

"…You didn’t have to do all that, did you? Eliel and Shirel meant no harm."

Michael jerked away from the glass. They fixed a nasty glare onto Aziraphale and straightened their cuffs.

"Lurking, Aziraphale? Hardly praise-worthy," they harrumphed.

Aziraphale briefly quirked a brow at that, but Michael caught it before it disappeared. They crossed their arms.

"Well?"

"You are keeping the Son's disappearance secret from The Metatron," said Aziraphale, more observation than accusation.

Michael turned to face the glass. Their eyes strayed off to the side, where Aziraphale’s reflection was watching them.

"Hardly," said Michael. "The Voice of God is supposed to know all, because God knows all, and God would surely share everything with Their Voice. It is our duty as The Almighty's Archangels to... smooth out these bumps as we row."

"In the road," Aziraphale corrected gently.

Aziraphale neared Michael and took a cautious place by their side. He blinked at them, peeked down at their ruffled cuffs, and then turned to the glass.

"Saraqael is keeping an eye on any miraculous activity on The Globe," said Aziraphale. "If he’s down there, we will be the first to know. Sending down any more angels could cause an imbalance Down Below, and we are certainly not ready for a war."

"We are ready for war. It’s been our assignment for seven months,” scoffed Michael.

"We don’t need a war,” said Aziraphale, absentmindedly.

"So you’ve said before.”

The clouds used to move in a way where it was near impossible to see the ground below. It was a practised march, where if one part lacked, other parts made up for it. It had been mesmerising; it had been constant; up until it became an expectation. Something had changed recently. Michael wanted to find out what as soon as possible.

Michael turned away from the clouds to look over at Aziraphale.

"It doesn’t work that way, you know, Aziraphale. Telling Hell not to attack is like telling the sun not to rise. Not only is it inevitable, but it wastes time that could have been spent doing something about it," their tone became lighter. "But that’s okay. I know you were never really into strategies in the first place, with your plans never going as you wanted them to."

Aziraphale blushed this time, only exposed by the lights above. He squinted down at the clouds.

Michael's lips twitched up.

"You think you have control here after your promotion. But truthfully, you’re here so The Metatron can keep an eye on you. Keep your friends close and enemies closer, yes?” when Aziraphale didn’t reply, they said, “You are still the incapable, poor Principality who was tempted by a demon. Your sins remain. Beg for forgiveness, Aziraphale, but I fear that everyone knows you’re out of chances."

With that, Michael vanished, leaving Aziraphale to stand alone.

The Archangel's gaze faltered. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let the exhale rattle in a place deep in his corporation’s ribs. There was the start of something there, like a flutter– something small and sickly in the small cavity of his chest. He rubbed at it. Then, after discovering that that was only worsening its effects, he frustratedly balled up the button-up beneath his palm.

Something chimed. Aziraphale straightened up. When he turned, another angel dipped their head to him in greeting.

Aziraphale recognized this angel from over the past few months– one he hadn’t had the time to properly meet until his promotion. It had been for the best to form allies in this uncertain place. This angel had been one of the first, and had rarely left him alone since (if they could help it).

“Hello, Visiel,” he said, and Visiel smiled a silly smile. It was one of those expressions that was supposed to be comforting. Aziraphale was thankful for the attempt, but didn’t feel great beyond that.

“My Archangel,” they replied. “Saraqael requests your presence at The Globe,” then, as if they were sharing a secret: “they’ve located the Son.”

"This is a joke."

Muriel smiled sheepishly at Nina as they pushed aside a leaf that had sneakily shoved itself into their face. The plants in Crowley's flat were just as overgrown as they were nearly an hour ago, and the room was still shrouded in darkness. This time, though, the mist was absent.

"Ah, yes," replied Muriel, then stuck their finger up as if they had just thought of an excellent point. "Well, no. Not a joke. Mr. Crowley has been asleep the whole time, you see. The plants probably grew restless, as plants do."

Nina shook her head the same time Maggie nodded.

"No. No, I don't think they do," mumbled Nina, even though the only plant she’d ever had was a cactus. She shoved past a Monstera deliciosa leaf and shouted into the jungle, "MR. CROWLEY! MR. CROWLEY, YOU SORRY SOD, GET YOUR ARSE OUT HERE!"

The plants quivered as they softly squealed in surprise. Nina and Maggie stared at them.

"Did you hear–" Nina started.

"Did they just–" Maggie interrupted.

They didn't get to think about it for too long. The sound of something shattering echoed from a different room. The group shared a look– and thank God that Muriel had been studying human expressions, because they were able to recognize the look of collective agreement. Together, they neared the opposite way Muriel had once gone in search of the noise.

"These plants are beautiful," whispered Maggie.

Before Muriel could agree (because now that they weren’t alone anymore, they realised that the plants were actually rather kind and lovely) someone close-by mumbled something. It was low and dark and muffled.

Muriel hoped it was Crowley, as himself.

The plants helped guide them to a wall, then shifted their stems to flutter toward a cold draft coming from a slightly ajar door. The rambling became louder and louder.

"–honestly. You can't even grow this big. It's not possible. What the Heaven are you–" Crowley’s voice dipped in and out. “–is that a fig!?”

Muriel gently pushed the door open.

It was the kitchen. Muriel hadn’t seen it before, but they were relieved they hadn’t. The smell of alcohol clung to their nose in an attempt to kill it. Muriel recoiled, covered the lower half of their face, and then scanned the room.

The kitchen was filled with more plants than any actual kitchen supplies. Aziraphale’s kitchenette had been decorated nicely with various clutter, including kettles and pretty pots and pans. The counters here were barren from any of that. There were bottles askew. The surfaces had splotches of something fruity and sticky. For a moment, Muriel had half a mind to just leave.

Muriel blinked. They looked up at the small painting of a grumpy-looking toad with a chef’s hat on for courage and then turned to Crowley.

Crowley was on his knees. He busied himself in piling up shattered pieces of a black pot. Dirt smudged across the floor in the process, and one tiny, shaking, spout-of-a-plant was in the middle of the wreckage.

"–this flat is mine before it's yours, you know. Out of it for a little while and you decide to– what, mutate?– what is this?”

Crowley flicked away a bulb of something onto the ground. Then, he twisted his torso to grab a large plant behind him and brought it down to the floor. He fixed a weathering stare at it. One that, even through his sunglasses, the plant seemed to shiver at.

"Shrink," said Crowley. He shook the poor thing.

Muriel’s foot kicked at an empty wine bottle. It spun once, then twice, then stopped facing Crowley.

The demon had started to glare at it the moment the damage was done. Slowly, that same glare rose to his three intruders.

"I locked the front door," said Crowley, incurious.

"Yes," said Muriel. "I unlocked it."

Crowley quickly turned to Nina and Maggie and said, "And you two are still alive. That's nice."

Nina looked him over with a raised brow while an offended expression passed Maggie's face. In their shock, Crowley rose to his full height and shoved one hand into his pocket as he examined the room (even though he likely wasn’t looking for anything specific).

"What's that supposed to mean?" said Maggie after she found her words.

"As rude as ever," mumbled Nina, crossing her arms.

"You broke into my flat!" said Crowley, "Which, by the way, I never asked for the company. Could've left a note at the door. Would've gotten back to you within the next century or two."

Crowley stepped over the mess on the ground, stalking closer to the others. Muriel took a tentative step back. Thankfully, Maggie and Nina made up for it by keeping themselves rooted.

"But considering that this is a blatant violation of privacy, I would appreciate it if you saw yourselves out."

Nina’s jaw set. Something was happening in her eyes, as if she were arguing with herself. They shone, then squinted, then hardened in only a few seconds. She abruptly went off to the nearest window and shoved away its curtains.

Sunlight poured in. Then, the window latch clicked and opened.

Crowley immediately scowled. He looked around at his plants, which perked up with delight at their first proper touch of sun in seven months, and decided that he should have just stayed in bed.

"I can smell your misery," Nina said, making Crowley turn back to face her. She placed her hands at her hips and clicked her tongue. “And you look like shit. I want you to take a shower. We’ll get you an outfit from your closet, and we–” she made a circling gesture with her palms, “–are going to sort out all of this with a nice day out.”

Crowley raised a challenging brow.

“You’re kidding,” he said, after a moment, but it seemed like there was no punchline here. Maggie crossed her arms and had the same expression as she did when she had stayed behind with Aziraphale in the bookshop, back with the demon horde. Even Muriel had caught on and made a point to nod sternly. “I– hn– huh? This is ridiculous.”

"You heard her! Off you get, Mr. Crowley," said Maggie, trying to wave Crowley out the door. "It’ll be fun."

"Fun?" groaned Crowley.

"Maybe we'll do some cleaning afterward," added Nina, looking around at the wasteland of a kitchen. "Do you have any disinfectant?"

"Well–"

Maggie shook her head.

"Oh, nevermind that. We'll take a look around ourselves. Muriel, grab something nice for him to wear,” she said.

And then Crowley was ushered out of the kitchen into the office, Nina following close behind. Muriel skipped a few steps ahead of them. They thanked a leaf that politely moved out of their way (Crowley’s jaw dropped at that) before saluting to the rest of the group.

"Muriel, ready for duty!" cheered Muriel. "Now where is the ‘closet’? …Oh! In the bedroom, of course."

Crowley began to say something, but Muriel was already wandering away.

"Now, hang on!" he flustered.

The plants behind Crowley dared to snicker. He glared glarefully at them and then turned back to his intruders. Nina and Maggie were looking at him, but Muriel was still trying to remember which way in the plant labyrinth the bedroom was. He snapped consecutively for their attention.

"Oi! Stop. There's nothing in the blasted wardrobe. I miracle in all my clothes."

Muriel opened their mouth with a silent 'oh'. They had never considered that to be a possibility before. It had seemed like such a futile thing to use a miracle for. Nina, on the other hand, looked absolutely appalled.

"Your clothes aren't real?" Nina stared at Crowley's rumpled outfit cautiously.

Crowley pointed at her.

"No. No, that is not what I said," he pressed matter-of-factly. "Secondly, I do not need to take showers. And thirdly, I am an occult being— and occult beings do not go on your… feel-good… fun-times…”

“No? Seems like your scene, being rebellious and all,” interrupted Nina, trying to think of what she was taught about demons in Bible camp.

“Stereotype,” said Crowley. He didn’t want to explain how it was more complicated than that. Other demons tried to be feel-good, fun-timey, but they were all too stupid to not come off as creepy in their attempts. Crowley just didn’t feel like it right now. “A very hurtful one, in fact. Now. Out.”

Crowley didn't bother watching, instead turning his back to them to lecture the previously-snickering plant in a low, whispered hiss.

Maggie put a hand on Nina's shoulder.

"Nina," she whispered– almost as if she was about to launch into a speech about how sometimes things don't work out– but Nina wasn't ready to back down.

With a reassuring smile to Maggie, Nina stepped toward the demon. He had gone quiet now. Nina cleared her throat.

"I know you need time. These things... they're messy," Nina paused, watching Crowley's face pinch. He continued staring at the Ficus elastica. Nina took a deep breath, her brows rising, "...but it honestly smells like an unsupervised party in here and you've gone and grown a jungle in your sleep. Give it a chance. If you really don't like it, then... Well, then, we'll never bother you again. I swear this’ll be the last time."

Crowley smacked his lips and glanced up at the ceiling.

Maggie brushed past the plants to the window hidden behind them, letting the curtains in the office open. The sun spilled golden colours past Maggie and Muriel, past the good-intentioned leaves, past Nina, and pooled itself right before Crowley's feet.

Crowley took a step back.

Muriel knew very little about Crowley. But they had known Aziraphale through their duty as angels. They knew that Aziraphale believed in them. In their attempts to be useful, Aziraphale had never put them down for trying, and he had certainly never brushed Muriel to be the type to sink his teeth into someone. In fact, the things they heard from the other shopkeepers only comforted Muriel’s view of him: he was kind, he was tolerant, and he was almost like an angel, the way he gave (granted that it wasn’t one of his books).

But there was something going on here that Muriel didn’t very much understand. The way Muriel felt about Aziraphale was different from the way Crowley felt about Aziraphale.

Nina had explained it to them, once. Muriel had thought they had gotten it at the time. Now, they rubbed their chest, and weren't too sure anymore.

"…Alright, then," said Crowley.

London never truly rested.

At all times of the day, people walked, the cars roared, and even the birds never shut up. They always prattled on with their funny little pastry-stealing grabbers. If you gave a bird a cookie... Well, a mouse?

Mice were quite nice, actually.

Well, if you gave a bird a cookie, they would eat it without a second thought. Would make a big fuss about it, too, as it ate, because birds were fussy like that. That’s why they don't have hands. It was funnier when they stomped around like a bowling pin. Something had to keep the birds' cockiness in check.

A pigeon pecked at a biscuit crumb, dropped it, and flew away when Muriel neared.

Crowley, Nina, and Maggie followed them along the pavement. As the cars whizzed by, Crowley stared longingly at each and every one of them.

"–but then, it turned out that he was his dad!" Muriel was saying. "Which, by the way, is a human word: dad. It's short for father, I think. Humans are so funny, trying to be little gods like that," they waved a hand as they talked. "But then he was devastated because–"

Crowley nodded along. He was obviously not listening. He took a moment to readjust his tie. The wrinkles in his outfit had been miracled away, and he smelled an awful lot like coconut and strawberries.

"Yep," said Crowley in the middle of Muriel's rant. "Funny things, humans."

Crowley must have said something right, because Muriel's smile brightened. Before they could start rambling again, Maggie looked over her shoulder.

"What are we thinking for nails?" she asked.

Muriel and Crowley swivelled their heads to look at her.

"I mean…” added Maggie, quickly, “if you'd like.”

"Oh, yes!" Muriel agreed, and then turned to Crowley. They stuck their finger up. "You see, it's a human thing. They don't actually mean their nails, they mean painting them– or putting something over them that has paint. It is just the best. Oh, but it's not the paint you put on walls. It's nail paint. For nails. We get them done every girls’ day out."

Crowley, who was staring at Maggie, blinked out of his silence.

"You know, no one told me what we’d be doing. I was thinking maybe… eh, I mean… lunch, probably." Crowley said as they continued walking.

"No offence, but I've never seen you eat anything. At all," said Nina, and Maggie nodded beside her.

Muriel smiled at Crowley and said, "Don't worry. I don't eat anything either. We can just look at the food."

Crowley was quiet after that.

Muriel had gone down this street many times during their time on Earth. Maggie had been the one to bring them here for the first time, and she had bought them a little bracelet with their initial on it (It had meant so much to Muriel. They had gifted Maggie a bottle of their Heavenly nail polish reserves). They had gotten their nails done then, too. That’s how Muriel had begun to meet other humans.

They arrived at a blue-tinted door. It was soft blue that probably needed another coat of paint. Hanging pots of morning glories and cranesbills seemed to shudder at their arrival. Muriel glanced curiously at Crowley.

Just beside them, Maggie’s necklace jingled as she sped up to the front of the group to open the door. The bell above it chimed.

“Come on in,” she said.

The air conditioner hit them in the face. An overpowering odour of polish wafted through the salon, grabbed them by the throat, and shook them like rag dolls. It was glorious. The first whiff of it was always the best, in Muriel’s opinion.

It wasn’t the best place to go for sensitive noses– or sensitive eyes– but Muriel preferred the pastel palette. Especially since the bookshop lacked them. The walls, a stark white, had candy-floss-blue and bubblegum-pink waves painted at its bottom. Above, buttery-yellow, five-pointed stars were painted on the ceiling.

Crowley gagged. He tried to hide it underneath his hand, truly, but Muriel managed to catch it.

An elderly lady who appeared to be cleaning up her work station lifted her head to look at them. Recognition fluttered past her face. She smiled, the corners of her eyes wrinkling with the motion.

"Nice day, isn't it, Lucia?" said Maggie as the lady neared.

"The weather?" Lucia pondered. "It is perfect."

Lucia turned her crinkly smile towards Crowley as she leaned over the front desk's computer.

"You were at the Whickber Street Shopkeepers' Association meeting a few months back. I would remember a face like yours," said Lucia.

Crowley frowned further.

"You were there?" he said.

"My grandson insisted I come with him. Something about having a good feeling? Well, it must have been something, if I can't for the life of me remember what happened that night."

Crowley swallowed. Maggie stepped in, her hand hovering over his arm.

"This is Mr. Crowley. He's joining us," Maggie spared a glance at Crowley, who was still staring straight ahead, and smiled at Lucia tightly. "Just for today. To see if he likes it."

Lucia tapped the keys on the computer slowly. Her fingers appeared unsteady and frail, and that might have worried anyone else who came in hoping for nicely-painted nails. What many wouldn’t know is that she was rather good at her craft. She had found a passion for it late in life, and retired so she could do what she loved in her last few years.

"Of course,” she said, “Come, please sit down."

Crowley had invented naming all the sub-sub-sub-shades of colours. Red wasn't just red. Red could be carmine, mahogany, and vermillion... but carmine, mahogany, and vermillion could not simply be called 'red'. Like how a square was a kind of rectangle, but a rectangle couldn't be called a square.

Crowley wasn't sure who invented that one. Probably an angel, if he had to put money on it. Maybe even Gabriel himself.

But now Nina was passionately advocating how cinnabar would clash too much with Crowley's hair, and that scarlet would be all-too bright– and, yet again, Crowley's actions patted his shoulders and bit him in the arse.

Nina leaned over to look at the progress of Maggie's nails. The lady doing them smiled nervously at her hovering and continued to apply little bees. Nina nodded approvingly. Then, she got back to analysing the five bottles of different reds before Crowley.

"What do you think of this one?" Nina pointed meaningfully at a reddish-purple polish.

Crowley frowned down at it, shook his head aimlessly at Nina and Lucia, and then shrugged. Unhelpful.

Nina put a hand to her cheek.

"Maybe something other than red?" Maggie suggested lightly, noticing the growing distress in the room.

Muriel twisted in their seat across the room and accidentally jolted some closed bottles. The man doing their nails 'tsk'-ed loudly.

"Sorry," Muriel said to him. The man waved dismissively, but they took the time to line them back up anyway. Muriel looked at Crowley, thought about his reaction, and then said, "What about stars?"

Crowley opened his mouth to protest, but the noises died deep in his throat.

"What about stars?" he challenged.

Wuh-oh. Had Muriel misread the room? For all they could know, he hated space, because wasn’t that one step closer to Heaven? Muriel cleared their throat and peeked down at a little speck on the ground.

"Well, you've been over here brainstorming for five minutes. If you don't like it, then we'll wipe it off and that's that," said Nina.

Maggie laughed at that. Nina frowned.

"What? What's funny?"

"Nothing, nothing," Maggie said in a voice that told them it was most definitely something. "It's just that... you were the one fussing over colours."

"Not helping, Angel. Just a big fan of colour-coordination."

"Great," drawled Crowley. "Because something is going on over there. Might need a colour-coordination professional."

Crowley pointed over at Muriel, who had a big grin on their face as Nina looked at them, then at their nails. Maybe they were rainbows. Maybe someone had slaughtered a unicorn.

"What's that you got there?" Nina asked.

"Oh," giggled Muriel. "Remember The Flood?"

"No, I don't think she would," Crowley chimed in quickly without looking.

Nina ignored him.

"That a rainbow?" she tried instead.

"Yes! I thought a little bit of everything would’ve been fine. I mean, aren’t rainbows supposed to have all the colours, anyways?"

Nina nodded, as if convincing herself that the colours weren't actually all that bad. If anything, there may have been some sort of charm in the half-neon, half-pastel, not-in-the-correct-order rainbow. Would Nina choose it for herself? Err, no… she’d have to be blackmailed for it to even be a possibility.

“Whatever makes you happy, Muriel,” said Nina, finally.

Lucia grabbed the tips of Crowley's fingers and guided them down to lay flat on the table. Crowley looked up at the old lady. She offered him a pleasant smile.

"Should we do what your friend recommended, young man?" she asked, even though Crowley was thousands of years older than her.

Crowley let a deep breath run through his lungs and ease somewhere deep in his ribcage. These were ridiculous human fears. Crowley had endured worse things than painting his nails. He’d done it himself a handful of times in his existence, and had even found some enjoyment in it. But he wasn’t feeling right. Maybe even a little sick; like he was being fed on a full stomach; like he’d been so rudely awakened and then jostled out of his body.

He shrugged, then choked, "Ye– ah.”

"Colours?"

Crowley gave her another shrug. A mesh of noises came from his mouth, none of them real words, and he finally decided to quirk his head shortly to the side.

"Just whatever, really,” he said.

His difficulty didn't seem to phase the kind, age-worn grandmother. As if she'd worked with customers far stingier than Crowley, she went straight to work. Each stroke was as careful as the last. Whatever shake that had been in her hands vanished as if it were never there in the first place.

The black nail polish she used wasn't truly, completely, black. It was a deep, dark blue that reflected the ceiling lights in its shine.

Crowley stared.

He stared until Lucia placed his hands under the nail dryer after that coat was completed.

Maggie was the first to shift in the silence that had taken over the salon. Nina, Muriel, and Crowley watched her as she dramatically displayed her nails for the rest of the room.

There was a gathering of 'ooo's and 'ahh's that everyone but Crowley joined in on.

"How pretty!" Nina fawned. Her smile grew into something so genuine that Maggie immediately needed to return it tenfold.

Nina came close and took Maggie's hand in hers. The base colour was a soft brown, decorated with skulls alternating between white and pink. Nina’s orange nails, a teddy bear design centred on her middle nail, paired for a silly sight beside Maggie’s. They snickered like it was all just one big joke.

"Isn't it just?" Maggie sighed.

And then Lucia was taking Crowley's hand away from the dryer and returning to work. Crowley's eyes snapped down to watch, but Muriel had just begun to talk. He lifted his heavy head.

"Can we please get frozen yoghurt after?" asked Muriel.

"It might be a little chilly out for frozen yoghurt," Nina replied.

"Oh, I wouldn't mind. I've been thinking about paying the local froyo place a visit for a while now. I’ve been thinking about their watermelon," said Maggie as Crowley's hand was led back underneath the UV lights. Crowley kept focusing on the others.

"Have you ever tried frozen yoghurt?" Muriel said to Crowley suddenly.

Crowley blinked at them, then glanced up.

"Nah. Not a big fan of cold treats."

"But you've never tried it. You should. You don't have to eat it if you really end up not liking it," Nina placed her hands to her hips. Crowley recognized the unsaid statement instantly: 'if you don't try this frozen yoghurt I'm going to make you try.'

Part of Crowley wanted to challenge that. Crowley was a challenger, after all, and he didn’t feel in the mood to be particularly nice– but he also wasn’t in the mood to be particularly nasty, either.

Crowley’s head tilted to one side and didn’t reply.

Lucia hummed in satisfaction. Crowley turned from glaring holes into the walls– something he had been doing for a few minutes, now– to look at her. He caught her eye, but she gestured down towards Crowley's hands.

Crowley swallowed. Slowly, he followed the movement.

Against dark blue, against undulating lighter blues and whites, yellow sparkles of stars rested.

Their next stop ended up being a quaint, little froyo shop that was wedged between a big building and an even bigger building.

The shop smelled like waffles and vanilla which was strange, because not an ounce of waffles or vanilla was displayed. Maybe it was just the sweetness of everything that made the illusion. The walls were a drab grey that didn't do a very good job telling people that it was a froyo shop. If a tourist came by, they’d probably assume it to be a furniture store.

The teenager at the counter didn't spare them a glance as they walked in. Muriel, as chipper as ever, beelined right to a stack of paper cups and passed them out one at a time.

Crowley put his hand up in protest at Muriel's offer. Nina immediately gave him a blank look, but he spoke before she could voice her potential threats.

"The floor is sticky. It's ruining my boots," Crowley nodded his head toward Muriel. "Surprise me."

And with that, Crowley was moving to the nearest table. A chorus of 'shh-tick, shh-tick, shh-tick' followed his footsteps. Muriel reached out for his retreating form, but there was no point.

"Ah," said Muriel. "Okay..."

"Don't mind him too much, Muriel. New things like this can be very tiring to humans," said Maggie.

Muriel brightened at that.

"Oh, is that right? Ah, of course," they shuffled and their tone turned into something that could have been all-knowing, "of course. Well, I'll just have to make Mr. Crowley the best frozen yoghurt cup known to humanity."

Maggie snorted at that. Muriel grinned.

Crowley had liked the flavour of espresso, Nina told them once. Espresso was kind of nutty, kind of bitter, kind of tangy– not that Muriel knew what that tasted like. A good rule of thumb that Nina had taught them was that if it smelled acrid, then it probably was acrid. But it was socially unacceptable to smell all of the flavours. Also, it was a frozen yoghurt place. Everything was supposed to be sweet.

Muriel bit their lip, uncertain now.

"Focus on our task, soldiers," whispered Nina as she pressed her cup underneath one of the machines. White yoghurt swirled down into it. She glanced up at Maggie and Muriel and then tipped her head sneakily toward the demon sitting a few feet away.

Maggie came close, sparing a worried look at the object of their conversation.

"Does he look any happier?" asked Maggie, softly.

"Hard to tell with those bloody shades on," huffed Nina.

"I think it's going splendidly," said Muriel.

Muriel shifted to the right, away from where they had huddled, to fill Crowley's cup with something red. It read ‘cherry’ at the top, and sometimes cherries smelled bitter. That was probably a good start.

"Do you think Mr. Crowley is of the almond sort?" asked Muriel. "Or maybe sprinkles? Chocolate chips?"

They put something bright green into the cup. The colour seemed to surprise Muriel. The label, after all, had read ‘apple’, and weren’t apples red? Their brows scrunched together in wonder, and they made sure to stick their own cup underneath that one, too.

"Liquorice. He probably invented them," said Nina, finally. "But the circle ones. There’s a difference. Anyways, I did promise to keep out of his life if this all didn't work out, so maybe I am a little worried."

Maggie turned to Nina with a gentle smile.

Muriel noticed that Maggie smiled the most at Nina, even if Maggie was friends with Muriel, too. There was a flutter that went through Muriel’s chest. Somehow, they knew that the butterflies weren’t anything that they were personally feeling.

"We'll have known that we tried our best. Don't beat yourself up for it, Nina, Love," said Maggie.

A chair squealed across the floor horrendously. They looked back at Crowley, who was slouched down his chair. He was probably eyeing them out of the corner of his shades. Maggie, quick to the damage control, offered him a strained smile while Nina coughed into her wrist.

Maggie cleared her throat. Cheeks pink, she moved over to where Muriel was currently pouring sprinkles into their cup. Muriel offered her a scoop-full.

Maggie grimaced. "No, thanks."

Nina began to fish her wallet out as she and Maggie placed their cups onto the weight at the counter.

"I think that maybe a walk in the park would be a nice way to end things off today," Nina said to Maggie. “Look at his face– I think we may be pushing it.”

Muriel stood behind them. They were looking between their own frozen yoghurt and what they had chosen for Crowley. They nodded, satisfied, but the pleased expression was smacked off their face.

A Heavenly horn echoed in their head.

"End things off? It's barely four. We never end off our days this early," said Maggie. "You know what he needs? A little taste of window-shopping."

Maggie shuffled her shoulders and Nina groaned, but she couldn't help but smile.

Muriel, frantically, twisted around to look at Crowley. He had already gotten up. He squeezed through the group to get to the teenager in front.

"Bathroom,” he said.

"Second door down, sir," said the worker. "Let me give you the key."

The teenager ducked down. Something went ‘clunk-clink ting dwowowow’, and he hit his head on the way back up. Crowley sniffled. Finally, the teenager handed Crowley the head of a golfing club. The rest of it, presumably, had been lost somehow.

"Nn–," grumbled Crowley, looking weirdly at the key dangling from it. "Thanks."

Muriel’s heart dropped as they watched their only lifeline slink away. They turned to the shop's window right as Uriel appeared from across the street. Uriel's stony face didn’t twitch as they scanned the buildings.

Muriel knew that they couldn’t hide from the Archangel, and without even confirming where Muriel was, Uriel began to march over.

"Right. Muriel, where's your–?" Nina turned. There was no 'Muriel' to be heard of. She continued turning and spotted Muriel already out the door, two unpaid cups of frozen yoghurt in their hands.

Nina and Maggie stared at the teenager. The teenager stared back.

"Guesstimating here: Thirty total," he said.

Maggie sucked in air through her teeth.

"That was a lot of sprinkles," she told Nina.

Nina furrowed her brows. She glanced between Maggie and the poor teenager.

"Twenty-five,” she said.

Muriel, both hands preoccupied by frozen treats, rushed over to the left– away from the shop's windows.

Uriel watched them, unblinking. They stepped out onto the busy road. A car honked, but miraculously swerved away last-second. The crowd uncharacteristically parted until Uriel was face-to-face with Muriel.

"How is your progress?" greeted Uriel.

Muriel tried to smile, but it was difficult when they felt like they were being choked. It wouldn’t do to stand here like a silly goose. They used both cups to gesture to the shop.

"No Son in there!"

Uriel looked down at the frozen yoghurt, then narrowed their eyes. Muriel doubted that they had ever tried human food before. Somehow, this made the situation feel even worse.

"I see that," said Uriel.

Muriel swallowed. They let out a quiet breath that Uriel raised a brow at, but despite the preparation to talk, nothing came out. Muriel stared until the Archangel crossed their arms.

"This is frozen yoghurt," squeaked Muriel. "It's fun to look at. It’s for humans."

"Thirty-seventh degree recording scrivener. We have reason to believe that the Son has landed in a human settlement to the east called Dover."

Muriel shook their head quickly, as if just awakening. A lifeline, finally.

"Dover! Dover. Of course. I can go to Dover. I know exactly where that is," then, for good measure: "Dover."

"Then you should run into no issues."

"No issues. None at all."

"Uh-huh.”

Uriel looked down at Muriel's hands, where the cups were wrinkling under their grip. Muriel snuck another experimental breath. A car honked close-by. Muriel startled. Uriel did not.

"Get a move on,” said Uriel.

Before Muriel could respond, Uriel sent a pointed glance back over their own shoulder, toward the froyo shop. Their nose crinkled.

"Go to Dover. Find the Son. Hand him to us," the Archangel looked down at Muriel, "You are not to do anything else other than what we've already told you to do. We’ll handle the rest once you’ve done your part."

"Of course, my Archangel."

Uriel didn't immediately leave. They stared at Muriel as if something else could be said to them, but whatever it was was lost. Something sparked in Uriel’s eyes; like they had just uncovered a dark secret, and Muriel feared that it may have had something to do with them.

Muriel made the mistake of blinking. When they opened their eyes, Uriel was gone, and Maggie, Nina, and Crowley were filing out of the shop.

"There you are! The hell did you run off to?" asked Nina.

"Mm! Might have... needed the fresh air, actually. I'm–" the group neared. Even though they were all looking at Muriel, Muriel's gaze drifted off to Crowley. His arms were crossed, but his face was strangely lax. "–I'm feeling a little homesick, I think."

Nina's expression softened. On the other hand, Maggie looked especially panicked, now, nervously turning from Muriel to Crowley to Muriel again.

"Well... there's a park not too far from here," Maggie said gently. "St. James’s. We can take the little detour past that nice fashion boutique."

"Would've been faster if I took the car," said Crowley.

"It's not supposed to be fast, six-shots-of-espresso-in-a-big-cup," Nina rolled her eyes. "It's supposed to be enjoyed."

"Well, I enjoy things best when I'm going sixty over the speed limit," the demon snipped back. He turned away, then did a double take. "Six-shots-of-espresso-in-a-big-cup?"

Muriel laughed. It shook slightly around the edges, but the group hadn’t completely fallen apart– so the mission could still go on. They glanced down at the frozen yoghurt still in their hands and hastily offered Crowley his own.

"This is frozen yoghurt," they said as Crowley took the offering.

"I see," he replied.

Crowley stared at the yoghurt. It had melted. All that remained was a mush of brown slop and two yellow, circular pieces of liquorice staring up at him.

Together, the ragtag group made their way through the streets of London.

It was a little silly, really, how they looked to the normal passerby.

The black-clad stranger in the dark sunglasses in the middle of winter? Good chance he’s hiding something, maybe even from himself. Whoever conceals their identity in public is surely not to be trusted at all.

The warmly-dressed one’s carefully-embroidered cardigan gave the impression of passion. There was something strange about her walk, like she was certain but uncertain; kind but unkind; like a secondary school English teacher.

The stranger right behind her was scanning the streets as if she were looking for her next target. That or she had a resting angry face, which didn’t make it any more comforting– other than the fact that she was walking around with someone who was skipping.

The skipper turned, smiled at the rest of their weird little group, and patted their big cargo pants. Maybe the skipper was secretly carrying around knives in one of their many pockets. It would make more sense than the mix of night and day going on here.

Well, best not to speculate. Walls have ears, you know.

Not by design.

They passed by the windows of shops too expensive for their wallets; but the experience laid not in what they had, but what they could have.

Sunglasses considered every outfit on display carefully. It was as if he was actually considering buying one of them, but with no wallet to speak of, maybe his threats were worth more than any amount of money he could provide.

"See anything you like?" English Teacher asked him, but Sunglasses just shrugged.

"Lots of inspiration," Sunglasses replied. He didn’t sound impressed.

The suits and dresses and boxes of jewellery were impressive. Only someone with lots of spare money to spend could throw it here (or very passionate advocates for the divine). But Sunglasses knew that some of these shops were just tourist traps. He had gone down here on occasion, and had more-often-than-not been in the presence of someone who could sniff out a cheaply made product.

(“It has a stench, really, like it’s musty… even if I washed the poor thing, I’m sure I would smell it in the back of my mind. No love put into it at all.”)

"I want that one," Skipper awed, pointing towards a set of jewelled bee earrings that sparkled reflections of light in every direction.

Sunglasses turned to look at them, "you, quite literally, could have them."

"Oh, but that's not the right way," said Skipper, looking genuinely worried. "We’re supposed to say we want it but not actually get it."

"Sounds like a torture method," mused Sunglasses.

"You're no fun," Resting Angry Face chided him.

"It's his first time, Nina," English Teacher said, and, just like that, the illusion cracked.

Crowley glared at a particularly-overdone set of light gloves. It had strange gems and flowy patterns, and the sight of it was like dipping donuts in maple syrup. His eyes flicked up in consideration before he frowned again.

"I'm plenty of fun," said Crowley. "But I'm not up for looking into an expensive boutique like I'm a dog looking for something to drop on the ground."

Nina snorted. "You do have an imagination, don't you?"

"Don't doubt my imagination. It's gotten me through some serious scrapes."

As a group, they turned the corner, passing the last of the sparkly windows and escaping from their voluntary torture. Crowley recognized this stretch to the park’s steps. He frowned, faltered, and then continued.

"Oh yeah?" laughed Maggie. "Like what?"

"Hellfire, for one," said Crowley.

Maggie's smile awkwardly dropped from her face.

"Oh."

The sun was glaring between the trees, hiding along the edges of the park. Muriel found that it was always the brightest right before it sank into the ground. It was ironic, in a way, but maybe fitting for the situation. There was still some time before they had to call quits on this mission.

Nina pressed her shoulder against Muriel's as they bounded down the steps. The angel startled.

"Are you okay?" whispered Nina.

Muriel frowned. They glanced at Nina, then at Maggie and Crowley behind them, who appeared to be focused on the Christmas roses that had just started to bloom.

"Yes," said Muriel. The trees dotted them with shade as they crossed into the park. "I'm just... thinking."

"Dangerous thing: thinking," said Nina, dryly.

Muriel pursed their lips together. They glanced up at the sky, where the clouds, thick and heavy, were beginning to creep up on them. It wouldn’t do any good for them if it rained now.

"Muriel?" Nina tried again.

"Sorry," said Muriel. They found that their voice had come out strangled, and tried again, "Sorry… I have this feeling in my chest."

"Still thinking about–" Nina's eyes flicked up. "–about home?"

Muriel nodded, gnawing at the inside of their cheek.

"I’ve never been away for so long. It's only seven months. It should feel like nothing to me…” they said.

"But it's different," said Nina, graciously filling in the blanks. "New things can be nerve-wracking, if you've only ever been–" another glance, "–you know. All your life."

Muriel swallowed.

They didn’t know all that much about Earth and its humans before this mission. It was embarrassing, really, knowing how unprepared they had been. Had Heaven done it intentionally? Maybe it was all just a test. Replacing Aziraphale, after all, was already a tall order. He had been associated with the higher-ups since day one.

It was hard to tell, and even harder to ask.

Even though Muriel had to keep their mission– whatever that had been over the past seven months– a secret, they could hardly even do that properly. Their human friends knew it.

"Well, most of my existence, anyway,” replied Muriel. “I've been occasionally sent to Earth– um, close to The Beginning. But never for long periods of time. It was just... you know, maybe a few minutes. A few hours. Most of us had assignments like that, back then."

"What changed?" asked Nina.

"Oh, I don't know," Muriel admitted, softly. "The Almighty was still brushing out a few kinks. Needed to make adjustments, maybe. Heaven had some– err– missing spots to fill. The world was still new."

Nina stared at Muriel from the corner of her eye. She looked them up and down, glanced thoughtfully at the approaching lake, and then seemed to rethink something.

Muriel frowned. "Did I say something wrong?" they asked.

Nina tilted her head. Nina had promised, early on in their friendship, to be honest with Muriel. Even though she often chose to spare Muriel’s insecurities, Crowley’s return seemed to have pushed her.

"It's hard to look at you and see an immortal,” she said.

Maggie rushed to their side.

"Mr. Crowley is glaring at all the plants. I think he's trying to set them on fire," whispered Maggie.

"'m not," grumbled Crowley, faintly, behind them.

Maggie scoffed to herself, leaned closer to Nina and Muriel, and said in an even quieter voice, "I think he's getting restless. Does he even like walks in the park? Doesn’t that seem not-very-demonic? Ugh, I hadn’t even realised at the time. Maybe we should have done some research before assuming. Oh, Nina, I'm so sorry– I don't want to give up on him, either."

Nina quickly placed a hand on Maggie's shoulder.

"Calm down there, Angel,” she said. “It's all right. Let’s think about this… First of all, he probably needs the sun. He’s not a vampire. And what could we have possibly researched? The Bible? We’re doing the best we can, yeah?"

Maggie's pinched expression eased, but not by much.

Nina swished her thumb repeatedly over Maggie’s back. She hoped that it was a comforting gesture. Maggie had been the first to use this technique on Nina, found that it had helped her, and had tried to sparingly return the favour ever since.

“Crowley’s an adult, anyways. I mean… technically, right? If what Muriel said was true, then he’ll be able to survive… It can’t fall on us. What he chooses is his choice. No point trying to control him.”

Muriel closed their eyes. Nina was very good at talking. Nina was reasonable and did smart things that Muriel wouldn’t have thought up. The warm words built at the cavity in their chest, up and up, into a little ball that would dissipate if Muriel exhaled– and then a hand jostled them out of their thoughts.

Muriel looked up at Crowley, then at the fence right before them.

"Thank you," they said.

Crowley’s face twitched. For a moment, Muriel feared that Crowley would snap at them; but the hand he had used to block Muriel from walking straight into the water’s surrounding fences slipped right back into his pocket. He stepped back.

"Look," said Maggie, pointing. "There's Abigail."

Abigail skittered over the surface of the water, excited to see familiar faces. Ducks were clever like that. They were almost like humans, but with wings and beaks and smaller brains. They were also much kinder than geese. And less toothy.

The three of them squatted at the lake’s edge to meet the mallard.

"Hello Ms. Abigail," cooed Muriel. From their pocket, they produced a baggie of peas. "Where’s your friend?"

Muriel poured some of the peas into Maggie's and Nina's palms. They had a slight sheen left behind from defrosting in Muriel’s pocket. When Muriel tested its strength, the pea smushed with ease.

Abigail flailed her wings. She stuck her head through the fence’s bars and attacked the squished snack from Muriel’s hand.

Muriel had only known the mallard for about four months now. Maggie and Muriel found her trying to sit on other ducks in their sleep. Abigail hadn’t taken part in their autumn migration. Instead, she chose to stay in St. James’s until her flock returned for wintering, and Muriel had familiarised themself with Abigail’s more-grey-than-orange bill.

A quack– sounding like a smokey wheeze than anything– made Abigail turn her head. From somewhere further into the lake, another smaller mallard lazily drifted through a group of waterfowl toward the excitement. Abigail's ferocity towards the peas subdued.

"Hello Ms. Lottie," said Nina. She tossed the peas over the fencing. Abigail, graciously, allowed Lottie to peck at it.

Muriel grabbed onto the fence, pushed themself up, and swung over to the other side. They teetered on the bank. Maggie stared at them nervously (she never liked it when Muriel did something risky). With a reassuring smile, Muriel knelt down carefully at the lake’s edge, keeping one hand on the bar behind them.

"It looks like she's doing better," Muriel said as they peered closely at Lottie's wing. They leaned over to move aside a few askew feathers to check the injury, and Lottie nicely continued to nibble on peas.

"Getting braver, too," said Maggie. She wiped her palm off against her pants, then looked at Nina. "She'll be able to join her flock for next year's migration, I’d think."

"Your wing will be all better by then," Muriel promised Lottie, who only looked at them with beady eyes and mushy peas sticking out of her beak.

Nina had told Muriel that sometimes, when something was injured, it may not heal the same as it was before. Bones were tricky like that. Sometimes bones forget their original form, and mould around what little space they were given underneath the skin. Lottie’s little bones, thankfully, would not have that problem.

Abigail and Lottie, the wild ducks they were, took the last of the peas and paddled off together. They weren’t meant to be friendly. Muriel learned that animals outside of human domestication were just made to survive. How interesting it was, Muriel had thought, for something to unintentionally provide to the rest of the world by simply existing.

The sky was darker now. The clouds had snuck up on them, just like Muriel had predicted. Muriel hoped it wouldn’t rain. They didn’t feel like getting their corporation wet.

Yet, the group lingered at the side of the lake. Maybe everyone else had felt the change of tone, too, or maybe they were procrastinating on ending this mission like they were. Muriel had the sudden urge to check on Crowley. But instead, they stayed in place, watching how the ducks made ripples that waved out behind them, stretching down, down, until they died at the water's edge.

Muriel reached down for them.

The world spun.

Muriel was strikingly cold— strikingly wet— strikingly ripped from the trance. They crawled against mud and slipped face-first into reality. Something was stinging. They gasped, choked— something awful shot out of their nose.

"AZIRAPHALE!"

The name came naturally. It was tossed to the frigid sky. It froze mid-air and dropped dead to the ground like hail.

And, suddenly, Muriel knew they messed up. This was the worst possible scenario that could have happened. How had Muriel chosen every little thing that could tick Crowley off? How come they had said the wrong words every time? How had they fallen in such an embarrassing way, when this entire mission relied on them not to?

Muriel sat frozen in the lake. Water dribbled down their skin, and their clothes, and their burning nostrils, and they felt pathetic. No one said anything.

They lifted their eyes.

Crowley stood the same way he had been for most of the day: casually, brows furrowed, lips tilted downward– but his hands trembled in his pockets. He swallowed a few times too many. Muriel felt their stomach plummet. For the first time, they feared that they may throw up.

Crowley smacked his lips, glanced at the lumbering clouds, and then turned and walked away.

"My Beatitude," greeted Visiel, bowing their head. They took a folder that had been tucked under their armpit and offered it to the Supreme Archangel. "The files that you asked for."

"Thank you, Visiel," said Aziraphale.

Visiel smiled at him. It seemed like another one of those days, to Aziraphale, where Visiel was hesitant to leave his side. Aziraphale tried not to mind it too much. Visiel, after all, seemed to look up to him– and Aziraphale would rather have that than the opposite.

Aziraphale took the beige folder and turned back to his lone desk. He placed it down, opened it, and began reading.

Visiel shuffled closer. They hovered at Aziraphale’s shoulder; maybe curious, which wasn't unusual. Visiel always tried to make his business their business.

"Yes?" said Aziraphale.

Visiel twitched out a smile. It was an awkward attempt, like they had tried to practise it and had failed when it was the right time.

“I’ve already made myself familiar with its information. Shall I summarise it for you?” they said.

Aziraphale blinked. He huffed out a laugh and replied, “That’s quite alright. I think I’ll manage.”

“But this will spare you the time. You’re marvellous at writing notes, anyways, so let me help.”

Goodness. Aziraphale snuck in a breath and smiled faintly at him.

“Well…” he said. He furrowed his brows, glanced up at Visiel’s hopeful expression, and then leaned back onto the edge of his desk. “Of course. I do value your effort, you know.”

Visiel’s next smile was genuine, but smug. So did it really count?

"The demons are still bickering over who will be the Lord of Hell. The tides turned to Dagon, after Hastur's attempt to sway the demons by trying to ban the use of nursery rhymes– apparently, demons love Humpty Dumpty– anyway, Leviathan discorporated one of Dagon’s messengers and framed Hastur, so now they're at each other's throats, but some of the demons are quite liking the drama. Granted that they’re smart enough to not be squished along the way," said Visiel.

Aziraphale nodded along, flipping through the pages and trying to catch some words for himself. He settled the papers down onto the desk, pressed a flat palm to them, and then flung the contents up. The papers shimmered into holographic screens around them. Most of them frayed along the edges, but what quality was one to expect from something made in Hell?

"There's a reason you're the Lord of Files!" Recorded-Hastur snapped. Aziraphale squinted at the suddenness. “For being an expert on paperwork, you’d assume you’d know how to spell your own title properly.”

Recorded-Leviathan clicked his tongue.

“Yikes,” he said, tilting her head to Dagon.

Recorded-Dagon bared all of his teeth on a different screen. He swung a look at Leviathan, betrayed, and then glared back at Hastur. Faint snickers around them echoed.

"You can’t spell either! They put you up ‘ere because you couldn’t do anyth’ng else–!" Recorded-Dagon began, but Visiel talked over the raging demon’s next words.

"It’s fascinating, watching them squabble. What a bunch of squirmy animals. I knew they had a few feathers loose, but not even being able to communicate long enough to reach an agreement. How funny," Visiel laughed to themself, "finding the need to fight all the time."

Aziraphale hummed.

"You remember Job, yes, Visiel?" Aziraphale mentioned off-handedly, looking between all of the screens. He focused briefly on Hastur spitting insults at one of the Erics. When he blinked, the Eric had already discorporated from something he hadn’t seen.

Aziraphale scribbled something down onto a paper that wasn’t there before. Visiel watched his pen swoop and twirl.

"Of course," they said. "I was observing with a squad, for if anything went wrong,” they took a moment to consider their words. "But of course, nothing did. My Beatitude."

"I'm not offended,” said Aziraphale, automatically.

The tension that had started to build in Visiel’s shoulders smoothed out. They looked prouder, now; reassured. They stepped closer and nodded their head, thankful.

"The demons were very cooperative then, I would think. Heeding The Almighty's will. That didn't take much of a fight," said Aziraphale. He tried to keep his eyes on his notes. Somewhere, one of the demons on the recordings were giggling.

"That's different," said Visiel confidently. "Satan issued that order, but which was agreed upon by God. It was an…”

They trailed off.

Aziraphale froze, because his mind helpfully tried to fill in the blanks for him, and where it had wandered felt almost like an epiphany. Aziraphale thought too much these days. Other days, Aziraphale felt like he couldn’t think at all.

He turned carefully and smiled at Visiel, “Yes?” he coaxed, as if this was a casual conversation.

"…Well, we had our orders,” they said, “and they had theirs.

Aziraphale folded the paper he had been writing on into a pristine square. He blinked and tilted his head in what he hoped was a comforting way. He reached out with the paper in his hand, which had changed into a white envelope, toward Visiel.

They took it.

"Would you be a dear and deliver that?" said Aziraphale as he rounded his desk. He closed the folder, and all of the floating screens sucked back to where they belonged. The faint remaining smell of sulphur tickled his nose. "And bring this to the archives, yes?"

Helpfully, Visiel nodded. They took their free hand and made a pulling gesture from the sky. In a blink, the folder vanished.

"You can count on me, my Beatitude," said Visiel, and Aziraphale knew that he could in this regard. The angel turned, paused, and then spun around on their heels, "Oh... Actually, my Archangel, is storytime still happening tomorrow? It’s only that Adiel and the others missed the last session, and they wanted me to ask..." they trailed off.

Aziraphale drummed his fingers quietly against the side of his desk. He glanced around the windowless room, pretending to be in thought, and said, "Tell them I still have plenty of stories to share."

Visiel smiled. They looked over Aziraphale one last time and then disappeared.

Angels didn't need sleep. Sleep was a source of energy, wasn’t it? Maggie had explained that humans have a certain amount of energy before they have to replenish it– like a recharge. Like… when you drink coffee, the cup empties until you pour more.

Something like that…

Muriel gently closed the book they had finished reading. It had been one they had already read; but they had hoped its familiar story would calm their nerves. It had been a book Muriel found in a drawer upstairs on their third week on Earth.

They traced the spine, felt a little dent in the hardcover, and pressed The House At Pooh Corner to their chest.

Muriel felt tired. It was a horrible thing. Muriel wasn’t human– Muriel was an angel– and they didn’t know how angels replenished their energy (if at all. They hadn’t known it to be possible. Maybe they were… different).

The thought wasn’t comforting. Maybe they needed to read another book.

They sat up in one of the comfy chairs and scooted up to the edge of the seat. They reached over to grab the tea, made an hour ago, but still warm to the touch, and tried to focus on the feeling.

Maybe their tea was defective, being hot after all this time. Maybe they could try to make another cup; they had been getting better at making it; but none of their end results had looked quite as pretty as Aziraphale's.

Aziraphale.

Muriel pressed their lips tight together.

It was horrible, being an angel in some… weird… unknown… human… Muriel sighed. They were being ridiculous, but they couldn’t find the words to describe the knot in their throat, or the buzzing that was spreading to their arms. Muriel was hot but cold and sick but alive. The longer they thought about it, the fainter their head became.

Aziraphale would have known what to do. He had helped to track down the Antichrist, went unpunished by Heaven, and had built up this little bookshop for himself.

It was unlike Heaven, though. Heaven had some rhyme and reason in their order. Muriel still couldn’t figure out Aziraphale’s sorting system (and they were normally very clever at deciphering algorithms).

They stood to lean over the desk, closed the curtains, and decided that trying to sleep wouldn’t hurt.

“Muriel.”

Muriel jumped. They shoved the poor book onto some random surface and stumbled away from the chair.

"Archangel Uriel!" chirped Muriel in greeting. The Archangel had appeared right behind them, in the middle of the bookshop– but it was likely that Muriel just hadn’t heard the door chime.

Uriel's brow twitched. "Hello," they said.

"Whhhat can I do for you?"

The Archangel took a long, excruciating moment to look over the bookshop and its surroundings. Muriel knew they didn’t have to make such a big show of the whole thing. It did a good job in shaming them, though.

A streetlight's glow crept in from the door's windows. Uriel, backlighted, turned to stare darkly at Muriel.

Muriel leaned back against the desk.

"I see that you’ve yet to leave the shop," said Uriel, finally.

Muriel grimaced at that. They made a wild gesture with their hands and then decided that was just making them look like a fool.

"Just some preparations. It's what humans do. So there is no suspicion from the other humans," they explained.

Uriel only hummed. They stalked the bookshop, examining the bookshelves and the untidy papers that had long since started to dust in Aziraphale's absence. They were looking more closely this time, it seemed. Some level of care had crept into their movements.

The quills and inks were Aziraphale's. That decorative pillow was Aziraphale's. All the little ornamental boxes tossed along the shelves and tucked away between a book or two were all Aziraphale's.

Uriel turned to Muriel.

"The Son, Muriel. Where is he?" they asked.

Muriel picked at their nails unconsciously.

"Yes, you mentioned that he's in Dover? You see, all the humans are asleep at night. It's what they do– so– so it'll be a little harder to get to Dover tonight. Because people are weird like that. Tired."

"The miraculous activity in Dover keeps setting off our private alarms," Uriel said. "It would be best if you started the journey," a head tilt, "now."

"Of course," said Muriel.

"If I catch you tomorrow morning lazing around in this… bookshop… then I will have no choice but to replace you with a better-suited candidate," said Uriel.

Muriel nodded. They ran a nervous tongue over the ridges of their teeth.

"Probably with Michael," mused Uriel. They were likely joking, but their casual tone sent Muriel reeling. They looked up at the sky. "That would be a sight to behold. Michael down on Earth trying to figure everything out."

Uriel smiled. Quickly, Muriel cleared their throat, and they blinked out of their strange mood.

"Surely one as high and respectable as Michael won't be sent in the place of a scrivener," said Muriel.

"Hm," Uriel looked at them– really looked at them– looked at them until Muriel squirmed. "It could be possible," they said, slowly, "like how a Principality can become the Supreme Archangel."

"I see," Muriel replied, dumbly.

But Uriel wasn't focusing on the scrivener anymore. They looked around at the clutter and mess and, with one finger, swept up a line of dust that collected on one of the first books Muriel had finished.

"Leave for Dover," said Uriel.

Muriel couldn't do anything but nod. They watched as the Archangel turned gracefully and set off to the lift Up.

And then Muriel was alone again.

At the end of the day, sometimes all someone needed was a nice cup of tea, a comforting book, a well-loved chair, and the home around them.

There was comfort in familiarity; and Muriel had months to build up a schedule. Months of reading and exploring and finding places to broaden their horizons. To see, hear, taste, smell, touch–

The phone across the room 'ring-a-bring'-ed.

Muriel startled, looking at the phone strangely. They had never once heard a peep from the thing– even when they had tried to make conversation with it (Nina came in to tell her that the phone wasn't the thing talking, but the person on the other side of the phone. Clever humans). But now it was yelling like its life depended on it.

Muriel fumbled with it. It slipped out their hands twice and the coils tangled Muriel’s fingers thrice. ‘Ring-a-bring!’ it went, ‘ring-a-bring!’, like an alarm, and Muriel pressed the speaker to their ear.

"Hello!?" Muriel called out, still hearing the ringing echo.

"Aziraphale? It's me, Anathema. I found something that might interest you."

#good omens #gomens #aziraphale #good omens fic #crowley #muriel #good omens fanfiction #nina and maggie #aziracrow #i mean #there's always aziracrow somewhere #even if they're not talking

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