Warnings: mentions of death, panic attack, happiness is coming soon.
Aziraphale strolled down the street until he spotted Crowley’s head in the window of his favorite restaurant. He took a deep breath and entered. Crowley glanced up as the angel sat beside him. “I’ve ordered enormous amounts of dim sum for you,” Crowley said with a slight smile, placing the woven baskets of food on the table. A waiter approached, pouring wine into their glasses. “That’s a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a 1988,” Crowley noted, looking over his glasses at Aziraphale, unable to resist tempting the angel as he had always enjoyed.
“You know, I’m not going to eat. I’m not that angel anymore,” Aziraphale declared with a straight face, looking down his nose at the food. Crowley nodded, slowly reaching over to open the basket, allowing the steam and aroma to fill the air. “No, it’s my job to set an example for all the other angels by…making choices. Good, upstanding choices.” Aziraphale struggled, feeling his mouth water as he finally looked down at the food.
“Right. Does that include choosing Heaven instead of me?” Crowley asked, leaning back in his chair, one hand lazily holding the stem of the wine glass.
While Aziraphale was gone on his mission to infiltrate Hell, Crowley had pondered how this conversation might unfold, debating its worth, but ultimately deciding that the feeling in his chest whenever he saw Aziraphale was worth saving.
“I chose Heaven because of you,” Aziraphale’s voice was light and uncertain. He cleared his throat and continued, “You showed me what it meant to be brave and to make a difference. To stand up for what I believed in.” He felt his throat tighten and his eyes well up with tears, which he quickly blinked away.
“Did I?” Crowley’s voice was low and unforgiving, his tone harsh as he refused to fully look at the angel, finding his wine glass suddenly fascinating. Despite Crowley’s desire to restore everything to its original state, every attempt to discuss it resulted in him sounding hurt or harsh. He was aware of his mistake in not trying harder to persuade the angel to stay and for waiting too long to express his true feelings, but his heart and was shattered, and since Aziraphale’s return, it continued to break a little more with each passing day.
Crowley felt a deep sense of uncertainty and turmoil every time he heard him say that his actions were for heaven, that he had only returned because heaven had failed, and that he had only needed his help because heaven was incapable. The realization that he didn’t come back out of love weighed heavily on Crowley, leaving him unsure if he could bear living with that knowledge.
“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered.
“You told me that Heaven wasn’t on anybody’s side. And I realized I could change that.” As he spoke, he struggled to find his voice but pushed through, wringing his hands and twisting the ring on his finger. “I could make it on everybody’s side.” His voice grew lighter, and Crowley could tell Aziraphale truly believed this.
“In what way?” Crowley finally faced the angel, slowly lifting the glass to his lips. He knew this conversation would require more alcohol.
“Well, for a start,” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Jesus was meant to be sent here to end it all, you know, to end everything.”
“Obviously,” Crowley replied lowly, though Aziraphale could hear the snide undertone.
“And, um, well, I did eventually persuade Upstairs that, uh, the Second Coming didn’t have to be Armageddon.” Aziraphale felt his breath becoming shallow, the pit in his stomach growing larger with each glance at Crowley. He had never caused someone such hurt before or felt such hurt.
“It could be a second chance to get things right,” Aziraphale’s voice was low and shaky. His hands trembled as he reached for his wine glass, but seeing them in such a state, he quickly placed them back in his lap. Crowley leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table, chin in hand, fingers tapping lightly across his lips. His brow was deeply furrowed, and the tension between them was palpable.
“You know, to make things better. To inspire the humans, to be…you know, nicer,” Aziraphale said quietly, as though his words might knock Crowley down.
“And what did God say to that?” Crowley’s voice dripped with disdain. He was upset, abandoned, feeling that everything came down to the humans and the greater good, never to him. He had confessed his feelings and received nothing in return. Sitting up straight, he balled his hand into a fist under the table to keep from hitting it, wanting to shout, scream, and even cry, asking why he was not worthy of being loved in return.
“Well, she didn’t tell me to stop,” Aziraphale said, placing his hands harshly on the table and standing up quickly, causing the chair to slide backward. He took a deep breath, staring at his hands on the table for a moment.
“If you'll excuse me for a moment, I believe I need a bit of fresh air.”
He didn't wait for Crowley's response. Rising from his chair, he hurried out of the restaurant, turning into the narrow alley beside the building.
His breathing had become shallow and uneven. His heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the sounds of the street beyond. Is this... a panic attack? he wondered. He had read about such things happening to humans countless times, but he had never imagined a celestial being could experience one. Then again, most celestial beings had never endured quite so much in so little time.
He braced both hands against the cool brick wall and forced himself to inhale slowly. The rough stone pressed against his palms, grounding him as his vision began to blur around the edges.
"Um... hello? Are you alright?"
The familiar voice startled him.
Aziraphale turned quickly, his eyes widening as he found Maggie standing a few feet away, concern written plainly across her face.
"Oh... Mr. Fell."
She stepped a little closer before her expression softened.
"You're crying."
His hand instinctively rose to his face. His fingertips brushed damp cheeks he hadn't even realized were wet.
"Oh." He gave an embarrassed little laugh as he hurriedly wiped the tears away with his sleeve. "Goodness... I suppose I am."
Straightening his waistcoat as though that alone might restore his composure, he offered her a gentle smile.
"Hello, Maggie. How have you been?"
She returned the smile, though it never quite reached her eyes.
"Honestly?" she admitted. "I've been better."
She glanced down the alley before continuing.
"I sold the record shop after you left... and Nina had to sell the coffee shop too."
The words landed like stones in Aziraphale's chest.
"We all missed you, Mr. Fell," Maggie said quietly. "Everyone on the street did."
Aziraphale lowered his gaze, guilt settling heavily over him.
"Maggie..." he said softly. "I'm so terribly sorry. I never imagined my leaving would affect everyone so deeply."
"It wasn't your fault," she replied gently, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"When you left, things just... changed."
She gave a small shrug.
"The street wasn't the same anymore. People moved away, businesses closed, life carried on the way it always does."
She offered him a reassuring smile.
"We're alright. We had to adapt, that's all. It was hard for a while, but people do eventually find a way forward."
Aziraphale looked at her, struck as he always had been by the quiet kindness in her eyes. Even now, after everything she'd lost, she seemed more concerned with easing his guilt than dwelling on her own heartache.
"But none of us blamed you," she added softly. "Not for a second."
Aziraphale was silent staring down at his shoes at a loss for words.
Maggie hesitated, glancing back toward the street before speaking again.
"...Nina and I checked in on him."
Aziraphale looked up sharply.
"You... did?"
She nodded. "Not every day. He wouldn't have appreciated that. But enough to make sure he was still... well, alive."
A sad smile tugged at her lips.
"Sometimes he'd slam the door in our faces. Sometimes he'd pretend not to hear us." She shrugged. "And sometimes..." She sighed softly. "Sometimes he'd already be drunk enough that he'd actually let us in."
She leaned back against the brick wall beside him.
"When he'd had enough to drink, he'd start talking."
Aziraphale swallowed.
"About what?"
"You."
His breath caught.
“He didn’t really share much at first, he’d complained about how you alphabetized the books or about how much cream you added to your cocoa.”
Her smile faded into something gentler.
"But after a while..." she continued quietly, "he'd stop telling us about the little things."
Aziraphale felt his stomach twist.
"He'd tell us about the moments that mattered."
Maggie looked thoughtfully at the ground, recalling them.
“He told us about your love for Shakespeare early on and how he’d supported you even though he felt it droned on. He told us about how he’d once rescued some rare books for you, risking his life by going into a church. He even told us about how you both managed to stop the apocalypse, although Nina still doesn’t believe most of what he’s said.” She gave him a small laugh.
Aziraphale pressed his back against the wall letting the cool bricks ground him.
“Then he finally said he took our advice and told us that he talked to you about how he was feeling.” Aziraphale froze at this, quickly turning to face her.
“He said it didn’t work out and you left, he didn’t give us all the details…and we could tell that it was still too new for him.”
She placed her hand on his shoulder once more.
“Anyways we haven’t seen him in months since we left.”
Aziraphales chest tightened painfully.
Maggie smiled gently.
"Mr. Fell... every story he ever told us ended with you."
She squeezed his shoulder.
"I don't think he was grieving the life he lost."
A tear slipped down Aziraphale's cheek.
"I think he was grieving the future he thought he'd have with you."
Silence settled between them. Aziraphale shut his eyes tightly, working to steady his breathing.
Finally, Maggie spoke again.
"So don't waste the time you've been given now."
She nodded toward the restaurant where Crowley was still waiting inside.
"He's in there."
Aziraphale gently nodded his head.
"He may be angry. He may make you work for it."
A faint smile appeared despite the tears.
"But he's still here."
She gave his shoulder one final squeeze before dropping her arms down.
"And I don't think he'd still be waiting... if he hadn't been hoping you'd come back."
Crowley sat motionless at the table, his jaw firmly clenched. His finger tapped rhythmically against the glass as he gradually leaned back in his chair. The door chimed, and Aziraphales appeared, making his way slowly to the table and taking a seat.
“Crowley…” aziraphale started before he was cut off quickly.
“Look angel I realize now is not the time to discuss ourselves. We need to find Jesus…The Book of Life.” His throat felt tight as he finally looked up and saw Aziraphales expression shift, his lips curling into a small frown, his eyes still looked red rimmed, and his hair slightly tussled.
“Oh...” Aziraphale thought of what to say.
“He, um, he genuinely did speak fondly of you, you know?” He attempted to shift his tone from one of grief and disappointment to something more light hearted.
“Jesus. He even remembered your "Kingdoms of the World" routine.” Aziraphale gave Crowley a small smile.
“Mm, did he? That's nice.” Crowley froze suddenly his finger no longer tapping the glass, his body going stiff.
“Oh.”
“What?” Aziraphale leaned forward slightly.
“Oh...he was here.” Crowley looked at Aziraphale his jaw opening slightly as the revelation washed over him.
“Who?” Aziraphale placed both hands on the table, his head tilting slightly to the side.
“Light of the World, Mary's bloody Boy Child, he was here! In Soho! Aah!” Crowley said his voice growing with excitement.
“That was him, I talked to him.”
“Under our noses?” Aziraphale asked in an inquiring tone.
“This whole time? And you didn't recognise him?” He’s voice raised with shock at the realization that Crowley had spoken to the boy they were looking for and let him walk away, he felt slight irritation rise in his chest.
“Now, before you get all judgey, in my defense, I was astonishingly drunk.” Crowley in a low voice, his ending words slightly slurring.
“Well, that's hardly an actual...no, no, I won't do that.” Aziraphale stopped himself as he saw Crowley look over his glasses at the angel. He looked as though he were about to dare him to continue. Aziraphale felt he made the right decision to stop.
“No, this is good news. It means he can’t be far away.” Aziraphale seemed to be in a better mood, his eyes brightening with a hint of optimism.
“Yeah, it certainly narrows down the search area. There are way fewer temples, deserts, and what about Hell? Any clues?” Crowley asked, his voice tinged with skepticism as he leaned back in his chair.
“To be honest, I don’t think they had any clue about anything. In fact, I’m even realizing that some of their information was inaccurate,” Aziraphale said in a curious tone, his hand slightly raised as he spoke, his brow furrowed in thought.
“How so?” Crowley inquired, his curiosity piqued.
“Well, their sources told them that the Metatron and two Archangels had been murdered using The Book of Life,” Aziraphale replied, staring intently at the table, his mind clearly racing.
“And?” Crowley pressed, eager for more details.
“Well, only one Archangel has been murdered.”
“Sandalphon,” Crowley confirmed, nodding.
“So, what they were told is incorrect,” Aziraphale stated, a hint of disbelief in his voice.
“Unless…what they heard was not what had already happened but a plan,” Crowley suggested, his eyes widening as if a light bulb had turned on.
“Why would anyone tell them their plan?” Aziraphale asked, his voice laced with confusion.
“Because they’re a bit deranged,” Crowley stated matter-of-factly leaning forward making swirling his finger near his temple to emphasize his words and continued.
“In the wrong hands, The Book of Life has the power to drive anyone mad. We’re not built to cope with pasts, presents, and futures that don’t match up. Time…it stops having any meaning. Constantly un-happening bits of reality…could make someone lose track of what will be true…”
“But isn’t true yet.” Aziraphale said and gasped, looking at Crowley with wide eyes, his expression a mix of awe and fear.
“Exactly. And if it’s not someone from Hell who has the plan…” Crowley said slowly, his voice trailing off as the implications sank in.
“Then…” Aziraphale placed a hand on his chest, realizing fully what this meant, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Oh, no,” he said quietly, the weight of the realization settling heavily on him.
Warnings: Mentions of death and kidnapping, more Jesus in this one!!
"Are you sure they won't recognise me?" Aziraphale asked, smoothing an imaginary crease from the front of his coat. His voice was quieter than he intended, and despite the elaborate disguise, he couldn't quite stop himself from glancing over his shoulder.
Muriel darted their eyes anxiously around the cavernous room before answering.
"Ehh? Pretty sure."
They certainly looked the part. Gone were the bright colours and tidy curls of Heaven. Muriel was draped head to toe in black, ragged raven feathers spilling from their shoulders like moulting wings. Thick black paint circled their eyes, dark lipstick obscured their perpetual smile, and their cropped jet-black hair framed a face trying very hard to look intimidating.
Beside them, Aziraphale was scarcely recognisable.
He wore a long black coat that hung heavily from his shoulders, fastened over a waistcoat bristling with tarnished buckles, chains, and leather straps. Heavy boots echoed against the stone floor with every measured step. Though he would deny it to Crowley until the end of time, more than a little of the ensemble had been inspired by the demon's wardrobe.
His face had been painted a deathly white, making the bruised circles around his eyes appear almost hollow. Sharp, blackened fingertips curled against his palms, while rows of razor-like teeth gleamed unnaturally behind lips stained the colour of fresh blood. A faint glamour completed the illusion, surrounding both him and Muriel with the unmistakable odour of damp sewer water, mildew, and decay.
Hell itself did the rest.
Rusted pipes dripped steadily overhead, each metallic plink echoing through vast chambers cluttered with broken desks, heaps of rubbish, and forgotten machinery. Clouds of flies hovered lazily over piles of rotting refuse. Surprisingly, very few demons wandered the corridors.
Two lesser demons lounged nearby, lazily picking at scraps of something Aziraphale preferred not to identify.
As they approached, one demon lazily raised its head.
"Yes?"
Muriel immediately stepped forward, folding their hands behind their back in what they hoped resembled confidence.
"My Lord, Archduke Slorch the Vile, Master of the Secret Torments, is here to see Lord Dagon."
With theatrical flourish, they stepped aside.
Aziraphale slowly lifted his chin, narrowing his eyes into what he hoped was an expression of infernal superiority.
"Hmm..." the demon muttered suspiciously. "I don't have anything in the calendar."
They gestured impatiently for another demon to fetch it. The unfortunate creature hurried over, frantically flipping through stained pages while licking a clawed finger between each one.
"He has come directly from Downstairs," Muriel interrupted, their voice suddenly dropping into an impressively commanding growl.
"We are Downstairs," the demon replied flatly, folding their arms.
Muriel visibly hesitated.
Aziraphale took one long step forward.
"All the way Downstairs!"
His voice erupted through the chamber in a deep, gravelly roar as he thrust one clawed finger emphatically toward the ground beneath them.
Several nearby demons flinched.
"...Ugh."
The demon grimaced before grabbing an ancient telephone.
"An emissary from All the Way Downstairs is here."
A muffled voice crackled from the receiver.
"From Downstairs? What, now?"
"They're meant to let us know," Dagon barked irritably from the throne without bothering to stand.
Aziraphale didn’t wait for an invitation to walk into the room.
Ahead sat Dagon upon a grotesque throne assembled from broken furniture, twisted metal, and rubbish, insects crawling freely across its arms.
Aziraphale slowly turned his head toward them.
"I don't believe Lord Satan is under any obligation to make things easier for you, Dagon."
His voice became almost sickeningly sweet.
As he spoke, he slowly curled his long black fingers into a fist. His tongue dragged deliberately across his sharpened teeth, more snake than angel now, before he smiled—a smile entirely devoid of warmth.
Only then did he begin walking toward Dagon.
Muriel hurried after him, struggling to match the performance while trying not to trip over their boots.
Dagon's irritation evaporated instantly.
"Right. Yes. Sorry. No..."
They rose awkwardly from the throne, brushing insects from their robes before squinting at Aziraphale.
"...Have we met?"
For the briefest moment, Aziraphale's stomach dropped.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
"I..." he began, clearing his throat. "I don't do a lot of mingling."
His shoulders threatened to tense, but he forced himself to relax, clasping his hands neatly behind his back.
"No. Lord Satan keeps me very busy with all the..." He leaned closer, lowering his voice into a dangerous hiss. "...secret torments and that."
The words hung heavily in the stale air.
"Yes... of course."
Dagon immediately lowered their gaze again, shoulders curling inward.
"We're here because of the turmoil Upstairs."
Aziraphale began pacing slowly around them, boots crunching over scattered debris.
"Your reports on the matter have been..."
He stopped directly beside Dagon.
"...disappointing."
The final word rolled out as a low growl.
The surrounding demons shrank visibly, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Dagon nervously twisted their clawed fingers together.
"So..." Aziraphale continued, clasping his hands behind his back once more.
"I came..."
He leaned down until his painted face was only inches from Dagon's.
"...to investigate personally."
"The... the Second Coming?" Dagon asked quietly. "They lost him, didn't they?"
Aziraphale gave a dismissive wave of one blackened hand.
"Yes. But I'm sure they'll find him soon enough."
His eyes narrowed.
"Unless..."
He paused just long enough for the silence to become uncomfortable.
"...we know where he is?"
"Nothing yet," Dagon admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
"No, no..." Aziraphale murmured, waving the answer aside.
"I'm here..."
He turned sharply, cloak swirling behind him.
"...on the other matter."
Dagon cautiously looked up.
"The other matter?"
Aziraphale slowly licked one sharpened tooth before fixing them with an icy stare.
"Upstairs. A murder. A disappearance."
He took another deliberate step forward.
"The Book of Life."
His smile vanished.
"Missing."
His voice dropped dangerously low.
"Don't tell me you've heard nothing."
"We only know what we put in the report," one of the other demons answered, attempting to stand a little straighter. "The Metatron and a couple of Archangels were removed from the Book of Life. Thus... 'vanisho.' That's all we know."
As they finished speaking, they noticed something flicker across Aziraphale's expression.
Not anger.
Hope.
It vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared.
"If someone is withholding information..."
Aziraphale's eyes darkened.
"...from the Even Further Downstairs..."
The threat needed no ending.
"We didn't even know the Book was missing," Dagon blurted defensively. "Our secret source on the top floor only let it slip."
Aziraphale regarded them for a long, uncomfortable moment before giving a single slow nod.
"I shall inform His Infernal Darkness how... cooperative you've both been."
Without another glance, he turned sharply.
Muriel hurried after him, nearly jogging to keep pace as they disappeared around the corner.
Silence settled.
"...That's good, isn't it?" Dagon whispered.
The other demon grimaced.
"Is it?"
Neither sounded convinced.
The moment they were safely out of sight, Aziraphale's shoulders sagged.
"Oh, goodness..."
He let out a breath he felt he'd been holding since they entered.
Muriel clutched at their chest.
"I thought they recognised you!"
"So did I," Aziraphale admitted with a nervous laugh.
The two of them hurried toward the great escalator leading back to Earth.
As soon as they reached the top, Aziraphale snapped his fingers.
The illusion dissolved instantly.
The oppressive smell of mildew vanished, black coats melted away into familiar heavenly attire, and his painted face returned to its usual warm complexion. Muriel's feathers disappeared just as quickly, replaced with their ordinary cream-coloured coat.
Aziraphale brushed invisible dust from his sleeves before smiling brightly.
"Great work, Muriel."
The younger angel beamed.
"I'd like you to return to Heaven and write up everything we've learned."
He lowered his voice conspiratorially.
"But let's keep this between you and me."
He finished with a playful wink.
Muriel nodded enthusiastically.
"Yes... yes, of course."
Then they hesitated.
"But... what about Mister Crowley?"
The smile on Aziraphale's face softened. His fingers briefly straightened his waistcoat, more to occupy nervous hands than because it needed adjusting.
"Ah... yes."
His gaze drifted toward the city beyond the tunnel.
"I'll go and update him now."
A tiny knot tightened in his chest as memories of their last conversation resurfaced.
"I'll meet you back in Heaven."
Muriel offered him one last encouraging smile before stepping onto the ascending escalator.
Aziraphale watched until they disappeared from view.
Only then did he square his shoulders, smooth the lapels of his jacket, adjust his bow tie with careful fingers, and step out into the street to find Crowley.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Meanwhile in a flat in SoHo.
"It's a dance, Josh. Find the rhythm."
Harry's weathered hands swept the three cards across the battered table with practiced ease, the corners whispering against the worn wood. His eyes never left Jesus as he shuffled them again, fingers moving so quickly they almost seemed to blur.
"See, the trick is never to think of it as a trick." He smiled to himself, tapping one of the cards with a nicotine-stained finger. "The cards want to be manipulated. Bit like people, really."
He looked at him and shrugged his shoulders.
"Even me."
Jesus watched every movement intently, his brow knitted in concentration. His fingers rested lightly on the edge of the table as though he could somehow feel the cards moving beneath Harry's hands.
"Wait a minute..." His face suddenly brightened, his smile spreading with childlike excitement. "I remember this."
Harry paused halfway through another shuffle.
"Remember what?"
"Somebody's all at a loss..." Jesus said, his eyes sparkling with recognition. "Then I say something that helps."
There was such warmth in his voice that Harry couldn't help smiling.
"Go on then."
Jesus straightened eagerly.
"Well... for I say to you this: if a man has a boat, then he has the ability to fish, for just as—"
Harry held up a hand.
"Has he got a net?"
Jesus blinked.
"What?"
"The bloke with the boat."
Harry folded his arms, entirely serious.
"He'd need a net. Or a rod. Boat doesn't catch the fish, does it?"
Jesus stared for a moment before letting out a small, embarrassed laugh.
"No..." He rubbed the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. "I may be a bit rusty. It's been a few centuries."
Harry chuckled.
"Fair enough."
Jesus searched his memory again.
"Wait... there was a widow who had three sons, and the first son was a fisherman, and the—"
Harry interrupted again.
"Are all these stories about fishing?"
He looked genuinely curious.
Jesus laughed softly.
"No, Harry..."
He picked up the cards and clumsily began shuffling them, far slower than Harry had.
"Find the lady."
He spread the cards across the table. Harry narrowed his eyes dramatically before, with complete confidence, tapping the middle card.
Jesus flipped it over.
Wrong.
Harry threw both hands into the air.
"Oh! Didn't see a thing!"
He laughed so hard he had to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes. Jesus couldn't help laughing with him.
"You know..." Harry said once he'd caught his breath, his voice growing quieter. "Maybe the cards' life's not something you want to be involved in."
Jesus looked down at the scattered cards.
"No."
He slowly gathered them into a neat pile.
"It's the right thing to do."
His thumb traced absent circles across the back of the deck.
"It's a way to reach people."
He looked up, his smile gentle but tinged with sadness.
"I'm pretty sure that's what the lady is."
Harry tilted his head.
"The lady?"
"People finding peace... and love..."
Jesus looked past Harry as though seeing somewhere very far away.
"...and happiness."
Harry's expression softened.
"Happiness?"
He tilted his head and let out a weary sigh.
"Let me tell you something, Josh."
His smile faded.
"Life... this life... blinds you to what matters."
His eyes settled on the tabletop.
"I had kids, you know."
His voice was almost a whisper now.
"Missed most of 'em growing up."
He swallowed hard.
"Too bloody busy working the cards."
Silence settled between them.
Jesus slowly reached across the table.
His hand rested gently over Harry's chest right above his heart.
Warmth radiated from his palm—not hot, not cold, simply comforting.
Harry felt the tightness he'd carried for years begin to loosen. Regret didn't disappear, but somehow it no longer weighed quite so heavily. His breathing steadied, and for the first time in a long while, the ache in his heart quieted.
Jesus smiled softly.
"It's never too late to love them."
Harry looked at him for several long seconds.
Then a small smile crept onto his face.
"...Let's give it a go, shall we?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A little while later, the cards had been gathered into a neat stack and slipped back into Harry's worn jacket pocket. Harry pulled his coat from the hook by the door, shaking it out before slipping one arm into the sleeve. Jesus stood patiently nearby, watching him with a gentle smile.
Harry paused halfway through buttoning his coat.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course." Jesus replied, tilting his head slightly.
"You keep talking about all these stories... about fishermen, widows, villages..." Harry hesitated, searching Jesus' face. "Were they real to you? I mean the people you talk about…they weren’t just... well stories I guess."
Jesus' smile softened.
"They were never stories."
His eyes drifted toward the rain-speckled window.
"They were my friends."
Harry stopped fussing with his buttons.
"You mean... the disciples?"
Jesus nodded.
"Peter was always the first to leap before he looked." A quiet laugh escaped him. "Sometimes into the sea."
"And John..." His expression warmed. "John had the kindest heart of anyone I've ever known. He noticed when people were hurting before anyone else did."
He looked down at his hands.
"Thomas asked questions that everyone else was thinking but was too afraid to say aloud."
A fond smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Matthew could make anyone laugh, even on the longest days. Andrew was patient with everyone. They all had such different hearts."
Harry leaned against the wall, listening in silence.
"You really miss them, don't you?"
Jesus didn't answer immediately.
His smile remained, but there was an unmistakable sadness behind it.
"Every day."
He folded his hands loosely in front of him.
"I've watched centuries pass. Kingdoms rise and fall. People are born, they grow old..." His voice grew quieter. "...and yet I still think about conversations we had while walking dusty roads together."
He let out a soft breath.
"I wonder what they would think of the world now."
Harry looked down at the floor for a moment before meeting Jesus' eyes again.
"Reckon they'd be proud of you."
Jesus blinked, caught slightly off guard.
"I hope so."
Harry finished buttoning his coat and gave Jesus a gentle nudge on the shoulder.
"Come on then, Josh."
A smile returned to Jesus' face—this one a little brighter than before.
"We've still got a lady to find."
Harry grinned.
"That's the spirit."
Together, they stepped out into the cool evening, the door clicking quietly shut behind them.
Warnings: mentions of murder, angst, our lovers have a lot to work through…
“Uriel what are you doing in here?” Aziraphale said as he walked into the large room.
“I've prepared a report on Sandalphon's m*rder.” They said in a monotone voice.
Aziraphale tilted his head a bit to the side as he looked at the angel.
Crowley stepped out of the elevator inhaling deeply. As he looked around he couldn’t help but feel almost homesick. Though during his time heaven seemed more welcoming. There weren’t big empty spaces and angels in suits. He remembered the flowing angelic gowns they wore, their wings were always out, not hidden away. They had ranks back then but they were never taken as seriously, everyone was kind and friendly. For the most part, when Gabriel rose in ranks he remembered feeling irritation for the first time in his existence. He remembered seeing people, actual people. He got to see them experience heaven and see loved ones come back together. He got to build the star systems and watch in adoration as they shined. He remembered feeling happy, until things started to change. Angels began competing and Lucifer began asking too many questions. He never meant to ask questions—he only ever meant to save what he had built and protect the human souls that finally found their lasting eternity. Why was that wrong?
A shiver ran through him as he thought of Hell, the place he had called home, and the contrast was staggering. Hell wasn’t cozy—it was oppressive and damp, heavy with the stench of rot and sulfur. The air itself felt like it was weighed down by whispers, the muted wails of souls forever trapped in their own regrets. The cavernous halls dripped with condensation, and the flicker of dim torchlight only highlighted the shadows lurking in every corner. There were no stars, no eternal skies—only jagged stone archways and rivers of black tar snaking through an endless abyss. The thought of it made his chest ache; it was a home he had never wanted, a place that felt like a scar. Standing here in Heaven, he felt the ghost of what home once meant, and the homesickness settled deep in his bones.
“What's he doing here?” Michael asked with disgust lacing her voice as they walked into the room.
This caused Crowley to focus his mind back on the present. He looked down his nose towards the angel but decided it would be best not to respond.
“Er, well, he’s… he’s backup,” Aziraphale stammered, his hands fluttering nervously as he spoke. A faint blush lingered on his cheeks from the elevator ride, a stark contrast to the hostility radiating from the other angels.
“Two heads are better than one,” Aziraphale added, his voice wavering slightly, as if trying to convince himself as much as the others.
“He’s… He’s a demon,” Michael interjected, their voice dripping with disdain, reminiscent of a petulant teenager. The word hung in the air, heavy with accusation.
“Former! Former demon,” Crowley retorted, his voice smooth yet edged with defiance as he met the angels’ cold stares.
“Now just a private individual. So… Sandalphon vanishes,” Crowley continued, attempting to mask the sting of Michael’s words by leaning casually against what he assumed was Aziraphale’s desk.
“He said he had things to tell me. I think it was about the Metatron - and the Book of Life,” Muriel chimed in, her smile bright and hopeful, a rare beacon of positivity in the tense room.
“You think? So no actual information, then?” Uriel sneered, their arrogance palpable, as they loomed closer to Muriel, their tone shifting to a menacing growl.
“Uriel… Muriel is perfect for the job. Your assistance is not required,” Michael interjected, their voice calm but firm, cutting through the tension like a knife.
“Your infinite holiness, I would like to register a complaint. This person should not be allowed in Heaven,” Saraqael declared, their hand flicking dismissively toward Crowley, disdain etched across their features. Crowley met their gaze, raising an eyebrow, recalling the stories of their valor in the Great War and the eternal injury that followed.
“Complaint duly noted and registered,” Aziraphale replied with a forced smile, his eyes darting nervously between the angels.
“Will it make a difference?” Saraqael asked, their voice laced with skepticism, on the brink of an eye roll.
“Oh, no,” Crowley quipped, suppressing a smirk, his voice light but his eyes sharp. He quickly redirected the conversation, “So, The Book of Life, wouldn’t the Archive Monitor show who took it?”
“Of course I thought to check the archive, look.” Saraqael flicked their hand, conjuring a holographic screen. The video showed the Book of Life, stationary, then suddenly gone, as if swallowed by the void.
“One moment, it’s here, where it’s been since the dawn of time. The next, it’s not,” Saraqael stated matter-of-factly, their voice devoid of emotion.
“So the moment of theft has been edited out?” Aziraphale mused, adopting the air of a detective on the brink of a breakthrough.
“Not edited. It just goes,” Saraqael replied, making an explosive motion with their hands, the tension in the room palpable.
“I looked for fingerprints, through a magnifying glass, and footprints,” Muriel said, her voice cheerful, holding up an oversized magnifying glass, oblivious to the hostility around her. Uriel shot her a glare, their patience wearing thin.
“So, if the archive wasn’t edited…what if reality was?” Crowley suggested, crossing his arms, his voice steady despite the hostility. He was acutely aware of Aziraphale’s proximity, the familiar scent of old parchment and Earl Grey tea enveloping him.
“Well, that’s perfectly impossible…By The Book of Life itself, you mean?” Aziraphale turned to Crowley, shock and excitement mingling in his eyes, a stark contrast to the hostility of the others.
“That’s brilliant,” Aziraphale exclaimed, his voice electric with enthusiasm.
“Seemed to have removed the moment the Book was taken from the Book itself, reality adjusts to conform,” Crowley explained, his heart fluttering at Aziraphale’s reaction, though he maintained a composed exterior.
“You can’t just remove things from reality,” Aziraphale protested, his voice tinged with defeat.
“Well, they hang around for a while, sure, while reality catches up, but then…poof,” Crowley said, his voice lighthearted, waving his arms dismissively, though his eyes remained vigilant.
“I’ll bet you that’s what’s happened to the Metatron. Soon enough, you’ll forget all about them,” Crowley suggested, gesturing to the line of angels, his words a challenge.
“Right, back to work,” Aziraphale said hurriedly, his voice tinged with urgency as he shooed the angels away, his heart racing with the thrill of the mystery.
“Shoo-shoo, don’t dilly-dally.” Aziraphale shooed the angels away with his hands.
Crowley offered a half-hearted salute as the angels departed, their expressions a mix of shock and annoyance.
“Oh! Thank you…” Muriel began, turning to Michael.
“No need. You’re doing an excellent job,” Michael replied, their tone condescending, though Muriel remained blissfully unaware, her smile wide and genuine. Uriel and Saraqael exchanged a glance, their eyes widening as they exited the room, leaving behind a lingering tension.
Aziraphale took a deep breath and turned toward Crowley, his eyes wide with a mix of determination and amusement. He realized how close he had gotten and took a step back, a slight grin tugging at his lips as he began to speak.
“What if Hell is actually behind this?” He pointed his hand towards Crowley, his gesture punctuated by a slight tilt of his head and an air of enthusiasm surrounding him.
“Someone must’ve had a motive for the theft. A motive for the murder. It wasn’t you, and we know it wasn’t me. And angels aren’t Killers.” Aziraphale was beginning to ramble, his hands moving animatedly as he spoke, throwing out ideas with a sense of theatrical flair.
“Sorry, are we talking about the same angels?” Crowley asked, cocking an eyebrow with a hint of skepticism, his hands casually slipping into his pockets.
“I think you should return to Hell and find out everything you can.” Aziraphale motioned toward Crowley, his eyes wide and his voice full of thought and a hint of excitement, his enthusiasm almost infectious.
“They know me, I’m not going back.” Crowley said, his voice rising an octave, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head with a touch of exasperation.
“They know you. But they don’t know me…I could ask around, take a look.” Aziraphale looked as though he was struck with lightning, a smirk spreading across his face as his eyes flashed with mischief, the energy in his voice palpable.
“You are not a demon. If they found an undocumented angel wandering around Hell, they’d… well, they’d kill you just for starters.” Crowley leaned in as he spoke, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his concern evident despite his amusement. He didn’t like the idea of his angel going into a place as disgusting as hell. He knew he had been to hell once before, but that disguise was vastly different; he was still a feared demon and even more feared after he and Aziraphale had gotten away with it.
“You forget, I am a Master of Disguise.”
“No, you’re not…” Crowley started, but Aziraphale smiled largely and did jazz hands, his transformation complete as he turned all his teeth into sharp fangs.
“Oh, that’s actually rather good.” Crowley murmured lowly, though the feeling in his chest of nerves would not dissipate, a mix of admiration and worry evident in his expression.
“Then it’s settled. I will go to hell and gather information in my brilliant disguise!” Aziraphale turned back to his desk, scribbling furiously on his notes. His voice was animated, but Crowley’s mind was elsewhere, struggling to process the words.
“Azira…” Crowley’s voice trailed off, uncharacteristically weak. Aziraphale glanced up, a flicker of concern crossing his face. “Did you say something, Crowley?”
“Angel, I don’t think you should go alone, and I can’t go with you.” Crowley’s voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed a hint of desperation as he stepped closer, his movements deliberate and tense.
“Oh, Crowley, you worry too much, but there’s no one I…we can trust.” Aziraphale’s gaze drifted back to his notes, his hands moving with a practiced calm, though Crowley noticed a slight tremor in his fingers.
“You said you trust Muriel.” Crowley’s voice was low, almost a whisper, as he leaned in slightly, his body language urging Aziraphale to reconsider.
“Ah yes, I did say that, but I could never ask them to go with me. I’ve seen hell, Crowley, and it’s not a place for such a pure angel.” Aziraphale’s voice softened, but his eyes remained fixed on his work, avoiding Crowley’s intense gaze.
“And you’re not?” Crowley’s question was sharp, cutting through the air, and he watched as a shadow passed over Aziraphale’s face, a fleeting emotion he couldn’t quite decipher.
“Crowley…I…” Aziraphale’s words faltered, his throat constricting as he struggled to speak.
“Muriel!” Crowley’s voice rang out, echoing in the room. “Muriel!”
Muriel appeared around the corner, moving with their usual hurried shuffle. “Yes, Mister Crowley?”
“Nothing, Muriel, you can go.” Aziraphale’s voice was clipped, accompanied by a subtle glare directed at Crowley.
Crowley inhaled deeply, turning his full attention to Muriel. “Muriel, we have a very important job for you.”
“Oh yes, I’m quite good at those.” Muriel’s response was enthusiastic, their eyes bright with excitement.
“Oh, yes, we know.” Crowley’s smile was sly, a mask concealing his inner turmoil as he spoke. “We need you to accompany Aziraphale to hell to gather very important information on the Book of Life.”
Muriel’s face paled momentarily, but they quickly regained their composure. “Yes, of course, but how will we get there?”
“Now, you see, Aziraphale is a master of disguises, so I’m sure the two of you will have no issues coming up with the perfect plan to infiltrate the depths of hell.” Crowley’s fist clenched slightly as he began to retreat, his steps measured and deliberate.
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Muriel exclaimed, turning to Aziraphale with a flurry of costume ideas.
Seizing the moment, Crowley slipped away, heading for the elevator. He pressed the Earth button, his heart pounding in his chest. As the doors closed, he removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes, feeling the weight of the conversation settle heavily on him.
“No goodbye?” Crowley’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of Aziraphale’s voice. He looked up, meeting Aziraphale’s gaze, which was steady and searching.
Crowley grunted, lifting his hand to replace his glasses, but Aziraphale caught his wrist, his grip firm yet gentle. Crowley’s eyes flicked down to Aziraphale’s hands, noting the slight tremor in his fingers, a silent testament to the tension between them.
“Angel…”
Aziraphale looked at Crowley with an unspoken plea and began opening his mouth to speak.
“Don’t.” Crowley’s voice was low, a warning in his tone, as he made no move to put his glasses back on.
“We will talk about this, Crowley. I owe you that, an explanation.”
“I don’t want your explanation. I already know why you chose heaven over me. What I don’t understand is why you would stay for years?”
“Because…”
“No, Aziraphale. I saw and heard the way they treated you and Muriel, and you chose to stay with them up there.” Crowley’s voice was low, his words cutting through the air like a knife.
Aziraphale’s grip on Crowley’s wrist loosened, and he waved his other hand, restoring Crowley to his usual dark, sleek clothes.
“Angel, be safe in hell. They’re idiots, but still kill for fun. I’ll be here when you get back.” The elevator door dinged, and Aziraphale released Crowley’s wrist, allowing him to put his glasses back on.
Crowley straightened, preparing to step out of the elevator.
“Crowley, I…” Aziraphale began, but Crowley interrupted, his voice firm. “Don’t.” He turned and walked away down the busy street, leaving Aziraphale standing alone.
Aziraphale felt as though he had been punched in the gut, the air rushing from his lungs. His heart raced, and he struggled to focus, to breathe, to worry about getting into hell. Tears welled in his eyes, his chest heavy, as he placed a hand over it, feeling it rise and fall rapidly. His ears were ringing, and he barely registered the sound of his name being called.
“Aziraphale.” He turned to see Muriel standing there, their expression a mix of concern and determination.
The moment of tension passed, and Aziraphale was brought back to reality, realizing he hadn’t even noticed the elevator returning to heaven.
“I’ve gathered the items for our disguise.” Muriel’s voice was cheerful, a stark contrast to the turmoil Aziraphale felt inside.
“Right, yes, invade Hell. Let’s get this over with.” Aziraphale took one last deep breath before following Muriel back to the pile of objects gathered on the desk, his mind a whirlwind of emotions.
“Don’t look around.” Sandalphon whispered in Muriel’s ear, their grip tightening on her bicep as they pulled her closer, their voice a chilling murmur.
“What?” Muriel stiffened, her feet shuffling nervously.
“Keep walking,” Sandalphon instructed, their eyes darting behind them, shoulders tensing as if trying to blend into the shadows. “We’re just coincidentally walking in the same direction,” they forced a casual tone, but it sounded hollow.
Sandalphon’s grip on Muriel’s arm faltered, slipping away completely. “Okay,” she replied, her voice trembling and rising an octave higher than usual.
“I may know something,” Sandalphon’s voice dropped to a low, almost musical whisper, yet it carried an edge of desperation. “What?” Muriel turned, her eyes meeting theirs.
“Face forward! If I tell you, I want to be reinstated as an archangel,” Sandalphon’s plea was almost frantic, and Muriel caught a flicker of fear in their eyes.
“I don’t have that power,” Muriel’s voice was defensive, as if speaking the words might summon something sinister. “Not yet, you don’t,” Sandalphon retorted, their words dripping with a snarky, oily menace. Muriel felt the words slither into her ear, a cold dread settling in her gut.
“Meet me in the corridor in the Space Between. They won’t be looking there,” Sandalphon turned and vanished, leaving Muriel with an unsettling chill. With Aziraphale gone and Michael’s dismissive attitude, Muriel felt adrift. She decided to hear Sandalphon out, clinging to the naive belief that nothing bad could happen in heaven.
The Space Between was a long, pristine hallway, its beginning bathed in bright lights and gold trim, creating an eerie, otherworldly glow. As it stretched further, the light faded into darkness and decay, leading to the abyss of hell. Green and black rot clawed at the walls and floor, swarms of insects and flies buzzed around heaps of trash and the decaying remains of something long dead. A putrid stench clung to the air, desperately trying to breach heaven’s barrier.
Sandalphon, moved cautiously from the heavenly end of the hallway towards the middle. They glanced towards the end and back to heaven, unease gnawing at their chest.
“Hello?” Sandalphon’s voice echoed, swallowed by the oppressive silence.
“Muriel?” Sandalphon spun around, searching for the other angel, dread clutching at their heart.
“Hello? Muriel? Is that you?” Sandalphon’s voice trembled, filled with growing panic.
A sudden gust of wind whipped past Sandalphon, spinning them around towards the hallway’s end. Horror twisted their face as they stumbled back from the apparition that had materialized.
“No, you don’t need to do this,” Sandalphon’s voice cracked, hands raised in a futile defense.
A blinding light engulfed Sandalphon, searing heat enveloping them. Sandalphon’s screams were cut short, the burning consuming their throat and face until they collapsed and vanished. Only a charred outline remained, a ghostly stain on the pristine white wall of the heavenly end of the hallway.
Moments later Muriel walked to the start of the long hallway, glancing around and waiting patiently for Sandalphon. Minutes passed in silence and she waited at the edge of the hallway.
“Muriel?” Uriel’s voice broke the silence as they appeared, their tone laced with annoyance.
Muriel gasped, startled, as they turned to face the other angel.
“What are you doing here? This area has been closed off,” Uriel’s voice was sharp, but their eyes widened in shock as they looked at the wall behind Muriel. Muriel turned around to follow Uriel’s gaze, she gasped and recoiled, eyes wide with disbelief. “That’s… that’s Sandalphon, isn’t it?” she whispered, fear trembling in her voice.
“We must inform the others,” Uriel said, masking their horror with a composed facade. They turned and walked away. Muriel lingered on the charred outline for a moment longer before sprinting after Uriel, the weight of dread pressing heavily on her shoulders.
Down on Earth, Aziraphale and Crowley pulled to the curb on a block near a bookshop.
“Why are you stopping?” Aziraphale asked, his brow furrowed with confusion.
“Oh, no, no, we can’t park here. They’ll be looking for the Bentley,” Aziraphale said, slightly panicked, his hands wringing together.
“They don’t have to see it, do they?” Crowley said, glancing at Aziraphale with a knowing expression, his lips curling into a sly smile.
“Oh,” Aziraphale realized what he meant. He snapped his fingers, and in the blink of an eye, the sleek dark colors of the Bentley transformed into an ice cream truck with a large plastic cone on top, adorned with colorful swirls. Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he handed Crowley and an ice cream cone from the truck.
“Really?” Crowley murmured, his voice tinged with disbelief, as he took the cone.
“Well, we know Jesus is on Earth, but it’s a vast place. He could be anywhere,” Aziraphale sighed, looking off into the distance, his shoulders slumping slightly. Crowley could see the despair in his eyes, the corners of his mouth crinkling. Could angels age in such a way? Had Crowley aged the same?
For a moment, Crowley’s eyes traveled down from the corners of his eyes to the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. He noticed how his lips were slightly downturned as he wore a frown. He could see the tension pulling the muscles in his jaw as he flexed, trying to think. Crowley shifted, wanting to reach over and run his hand along his cheek until the muscles relaxed. He started to move his hand toward Aziraphale but quickly caught himself, his fingers curling into a fist. He squeezed his fingers into his palm until his knuckles turned white, locking his jaw in place and tearing his eyes off of Aziraphale’s side profile.
“Well, he likes deserts. Or he used to,” Crowley finally said, his voice carrying some tension, and Crowley knew Aziraphale could tell, as he slightly winced when he spoke. Crowley signed. “Spent 40 days in one back when I knew him.”
Aziraphale opened his mouth to respond when the sound of a phone ringing stopped him. He patted his pockets until reaching into his coat and pulling out a white phone, answering. Crowley turned fully to him now, noticing Aziraphale’s eyes widen and his hand slightly shake, his knuckles turning pale.
“Um… But he can’t be… Oh, obviously…” Aziraphale’s voice strained as he continued, his voice barely above a whisper.
“No… no. I understand.” Aziraphale lowered the phone and stared at the screen, his eyebrows furrowed deeply. Crowley could see his hands shaking more, his fingers trembling.
“That was Saraqael.” Aziraphale said in a strained voice. He cleared his throat, rolled his shoulders back, and inhaled deeply before looking at Crowley, his eyes searching for reassurance.
“It appears that Sandalphon has….” He stopped, feeling his throat close, and the words died on his lips, his voice catching in his throat.
“Also vanished?” Crowley said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. But as he saw Aziraphale’s eyes widen and his face pale, he shifted and stood straighter, his expression softening.
“Saraqael thinks he’s been murdered.”
Silence filled the space between them. Crowley furrowed his brow, staring at Aziraphale, his eyes filled with concern.
“I need to get back to Heaven.” Panic rose in Aziraphale’s voice, his hands trembling more violently.
“You’ll just have to begin the hunt for Jesus here yourself.” Aziraphale opened his coat to place the phone back in its spot. He balled his hands into fists, glancing around nervously and unable to meet Crowley’s gaze, his eyes darting to the ground.
Crowley hadn’t seen Aziraphale this visibly upset since The Ritz had caught fire in 2007 and closed for the day. That incident had ruined their planned lunch date, and Aziraphale was fearful it would never reopen.
“Oh, no, no, I’m coming with you.” Crowley said, taking a few steps towards him and shoving his hands into his pockets, his stance firm and determined.
Aziraphale looked up with wide eyes, his shoulders slightly dropping for a moment, his expression softening briefly before he realized what was said.
“To Heaven? You most certainly are not.”
“You clearly can’t do this on your own, come on.” Crowley began walking towards the heavenly elevator. He glanced back and saw Aziraphale rushing to catch up to him, his eyes wide with surprise. Crowley turned his head back forward and couldn’t help but let a small, almost mischievous smile grace his lips for a moment.
When they both entered the elevator, Aziraphale turned and looked at Crowley, his expression thoughtful.
“Um… Crowley, I don’t know if wearing such dark clothes in heaven is a good idea.” Crowley furrowed his brow, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked down at his outfit. He stretched out his arms the length of the elevator, both hands touching the wall, his posture relaxed yet defiant. He always assumed the angel quite liked him in this.
“I… I like what you wear, but maybe allow me to lighten you up some,” Aziraphale said softly, raising his hand over Crowley with a gentle, almost reverent gesture.
Crowley’s outfit shifted with the light of the elevator until he was in a cream suit, the fabric smooth and elegant. His silver scarf transformed into an angelic gold, shimmering softly, and his black-rimmed glasses turned to gold, adding a touch of warmth to his features. Crowley looked in his disfigured reflection on the clear glass door in the elevator, his eyes scanning the changes. He slightly turned his head and watched as a white patch formed across the side, following the flow of his hair. He turned his head to the other side and saw the same there, the streaks pure white and flowing.
Crowley scoffed, “Is this really necessary, angel?” His voice was low, almost sultry, as it used to be, carrying a hint of amusement.
“The clothes yes, but I… I did not change your hair,” Aziraphale said, his eyes fixed on the new streaks. They almost looked like wings, pure white and flowing like wings Crowley once had.
Aziraphale’s hand reached up, his fingers ghosting across the white streak, his touch light and tentative. He noticed his mark below his sideburn was now also gold, a subtle change that seemed to lighten his features. Aziraphale allowed his fingers to trace the path of the snake before continuing their journey down his jaw. His chest tightened, an unfamiliar heat curling low in his stomach as he took in the sight of Crowley so close, transformed yet undeniably himself. Aziraphale’s heart raced, and he felt his breath hitch, a soft tremor running down his spine.
Crowley inhaled at the closeness, his breath catching slightly, and closed his eyes, feeling Aziraphale’s hand ghost down the side of his face, the contact electric. The warmth of Aziraphale’s touch lingered, sending a spark through him that he fought to ignore. Aziraphale felt the heat rise to his cheeks, his pulse thrumming in his ears as his fingers traced the line of Crowley’s jaw, the forbidden intimacy causing his thoughts to stumble. For a fleeting moment, he let himself imagine leaning in closer, their breath mingling, the air charged with something dangerous and sweet.
Crowley pushed his hands against the walls of the elevator harder, willing himself not to move or react, his heart pounding in his chest. Aziraphale’s throat worked as he swallowed, acutely aware of the warmth radiating from the demon’s body, the magnetic pull between them making his fingers tremble as he finally drew them back.
“You are now reaching heaven.” The elevator spoke in an angelic monotone voice, breaking the spell.
This brought Aziraphale back to reality. He quickly turned and stepped away from Crowley, clearing his throat and glancing up at the demon before fully turning to face the elevator door, his cheeks tinged with a faint blush and his chest still heaving slightly.
Crowley inhaled sharply, still feeling the lingering of Aziraphale’s hand ghosting his skin. He felt the pit of his stomach drop, and the door dinged to open. He rolled his shoulders back, his expression shifting to one of guarded composure, his demeanor cool and collected.
The doors opened, and Aziraphale hurriedly walked out, anticipation and a strange heaviness in his chest, his steps quick and purposeful. Crowley followed at a leisurely pace, placing his hands in his pockets, his movements languid and unhurried, his mind still lingering on the moment they had shared.
Warnings: some confrontations, Jesus and Harry moment!
Harry gathered up the cards and slid them back into their battered box. His fingers lingered on the deck for a moment before he tucked it into his coat pocket. Across from him, Jesus sat with his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, watching the steam rise with quiet fascination, as though it were performing some tiny miracle just for him.
The diner buzzed around them. Cutlery clinked against plates. A baby cried somewhere near the back. A waitress squeezed past a crowded booth carrying three towering slices of pie.
Harry drummed his fingers on the tabletop.
"So then, Jehoshua. Where you from?"
Jesus looked up immediately, his expression brightening.
"Nazareth."
Harry nodded.
"Right. Israel."
Jesus tilted his head slightly.
"Not yet."
Harry's fingers stopped drumming.
"What?"
"It was Galilee then."
Harry tilted his head to the side with a questioning look crossing his face.
"Right." Harry said drawing out the final syllable.
Jesus smiled pleasantly and took a careful sip of coffee.
"Course it was."
Harry shifted in his seat, and odd feeling starting to creep into his chest.
"My father was a carpenter," Jesus continued.
"He taught me many things."
Harry rested one elbow on the table.
"Good man, was he?"
Jesus's smile softened.
"Very good."
For a moment Harry relaxed. Finally, normal conversation.
Jesus looked down at the coffee in his hands as though remembering something dear.
"I left home when I was about thirty."
"What'd you do?"
"I travelled with my friends."
A genuine warmth entered his voice.
"We preached good news to the poor. We healed the sick."
Harry nodded slowly.
"That's nice."
"There were thousands of people sometimes."
Harry raised an eyebrow as he looked at the young man. A small smile came across his lips.
"Oh yeah?"
Jesus nodded enthusiastically.
"One time there were more than five thousand."
Harry let out a low whistle.
"That's quite a crowd."
"There was not enough food."
Harry leaned back against the booth.
"And?"
"So we shared what we had."
Harry folded his arms and raised both eyebrows. He knew he had seen and heard a lot of things in his life, but this was starting to feel different.
"And there was enough for everyone?"
"Yes."
The answer came so naturally, so matter-of-factly, that Harry almost laughed.
"Right."
Jesus simply smiled into his mug.
Harry studied him over the rim of his coffee cup. There wasn't a trace of exaggeration in the man's face. No smirk. No wink. No sign that he thought any of this was unusual.
It was honestly more unsettling than if he had been lying.
"So when was all this?" Harry asked looking out the window at some of the people walking by while taking a long sip of his coffee.
Jesus thought for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling.
"Before Pontius Pilate."
Harry nearly choked on his coffee. He sat up straight and focused his gaze on Jesus.
"What?"
Jesus looked concerned reaching a hand across the table.
"Are you all right?"
Harry coughed into his fist waving Jesus off with his other hand signaling he was fine.
"Pilate?" He said with a raspy tone.
"Yes."
"The Roman bloke like from the history books?"
Jesus nodded and looked at Harry calmly.
"Yes."
Harry slowly slid his mug to the side.
"Funny coincidence, that."
Jesus frowned slightly.
"What is?"
"The name and you being from that place."
"It was his name."
Harry rubbed his jaw.
"Right."
Jesus watched him patiently.
Harry stared back. He wasn’t sure if he was being pranked or on some sort of show.
Neither spoke for several seconds.
Finally Harry sighed.
"So who else did you know?"
Jesus sat up straighter.
"Oh, many people."
"Anyone I'd have heard of?" Harry knew better then to ask at this point, but he found himself saying the question out loud rather than in his head.
Jesus considered this for a moment.
"John."
Harry nodded.
"John who?"
"The Baptist."
Harry's shoulders visibly sagged.
"The Baptist." He repeated more to himself.
"Yes."
"The one from the Bible?"
Jesus blinked.
"What Bible?"
Harry opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. Then closed it once more. Letting out a slow breath.
Jesus waited politely.
Harry stared at him for a long moment before pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Never mind."
Jesus nodded.
"Very well."
"And Moses was kind as well." Jesus added as he smiled at Harry.
Harry's hand dropped from his face.
"Moses?"
"Yes."
"You knew Moses?"
Jesus smiled.
"I met him later."
Harry stared.
Jesus smiled some more.
Harry stared harder.
A waitress arrived and set down a plate of fries. Harry thanked her automatically without taking his eyes off Jesus.
"Moses."
"Yes."
Harry slowly reached over grabbing a fry and pointing at Jesus.
"The Moses." Harry stated in disbelief.
Jesus looked at the fry from Harry’s hand carefully inspecting the food he’d just been handed. He slowly lifted it up taking a small bite from the tip of it.
“Mmm!” Jesus hummed as he ate the remainder of the fry. Harry could see the pure enjoyment on his face.
Harry slowly lowered his hand and looked toward the ceiling as if searching for help there.
None arrived.
"So let me get this straight." Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You're from Nazareth before it was Israel. You knew John the Baptist. Pontius Pilate was a real person you met. You've met Moses. And now you're looking for a lady."
"Yes. What are these things called?" Jesus asked gesturing to the plate of fries as he reached for another one.
Harry stared.
Jesus smiled warmly.
Harry stared some more.
Jesus smiled wider.
Harry let out a long breath through his nose and slumped back against the booth.
The lad looked completely sincere.
No hesitation.
No uncertainty.
No sign that he expected any part of this to sound strange.
Harry had spent years around gamblers, grifters, con artists, and professional liars. He knew what deception looked like.
This wasn't it.
Which somehow made everything worse.
"All right." Harry sighed out.
Jesus brightened immediately.
"All right?"
"Yeah." Harry rubbed both hands over his face.
"At this point, mate, I've decided to stop asking questions."
Jesus nodded approvingly.
"That is often wise."
Harry snorted a laugh despite himself. Then he did what any sensible man would do when confronted with something completely impossible. He decided to go with it.
"I’ll help you find your lady."
Jesus smiled.
Harry shook his head and reached for a fry.
There was absolutely no chance this young man was who he appeared to be.
On the other hand, Harry couldn't shake the uncomfortable suspicion that if he walked into a church right now and opened a Bible, he'd find half of today's conversation written inside it.
He looked at Jesus.
Jesus smiled back.
Harry sighed.
———————————————————————————
Outside, the evening air felt wonderfully cool after the stale atmosphere of Brian Cameron's establishment.
The Bentley sat waiting for them. Even after all these years, she looked magnificent.
Crowley slowed as they approached. His pace faltered for half a second before he caught himself. His shoulders remained rigid, every muscle drawn tight beneath his coat.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Aziraphale glanced toward him once or twice, clearly wanting to say something. Whatever it was seemed to die before it reached his lips.
He reached for the passenger door.
“Don't.”
The single word stopped him cold.
Aziraphale's hand froze inches from the handle.
Crowley stood beside the driver's door, jaw working slightly as if he were biting back several other things he wanted to say. Even behind the dark glasses, there was something guarded about him. His fingers flexed against the roof of the Bentley before curling into a fist.
“I didn't need rescuing.”
Aziraphale slowly lowered his hand.
“You were being restrained.”
“I was handling it.”
Crowley refused to look at him.
Instead, he stared at the Bentley's windshield, seeing absolutely none of it.
“You were about to be punched.”
“I've been punched before.”
His answer came too quickly.
Aziraphale sighed.
“Yes, and every single time you've acted as though it were a unique and terrible injustice.”
Crowley's mouth twitched.
Once, in Rome, after getting punched by a drunken soldier, he'd spent the entire evening sprawled across a rooftop while Aziraphale listened to an increasingly dramatic account of his suffering.
The angel had called him ridiculous. Crowley had called him sanctimonious. Then they'd shared a bottle of wine and watched the city life go by together.
The memory stung more than it should have.
Ordinarily that would have earned a sarcastic remark. Tonight, he simply looked away.
The angel's expression softened.
Crowley shifted his weight. His shoulders rose and fell with a long breath he seemed determined not to let become a sigh.
“You didn't have to come.”
The words were quiet. Dangerously quiet.
Aziraphale finally looked directly at him.
Crowley still wasn't looking back.
The demon's posture was all wrong. Too stiff. Too careful. As though if he relaxed for even a moment, something unpleasant might slip out.
“No,” Aziraphale admitted softly. “I suppose I didn't.”
The answer seemed to hit Crowley harder than he'd expected. His throat bobbed. One hand slid into his pocket while the other drummed restlessly against the Bentley's roof.
Silence settled between them.
Heavy.
Awkward.
Familiar.
The sounds of distant traffic drifted through the night. Inside the building someone shouted, “He's saying shark again!”
Neither of them laughed.
Crowley closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them again, he finally turned toward Aziraphale.
Just for a second. Long enough to see the concern there. Long enough to immediately look away again.
“Right.” Crowley sighed out.
“Yes.”
Another pause stretched between them.
Aziraphale shifted closer to the passenger door but didn't touch it this time. He seemed to be waiting for permission.
Crowley hated that. Hated that he'd caused it. Hated even more that part of him was relieved the angel had waited.
“Get in the car, angel.”
Aziraphale's smile appeared before he could stop it.
Something in Crowley's chest tightened.
As Crowley started the Bentley he felt oddly at peace. For just one moment things were as they should be. Him in his Bentley with his angel in the passenger seat.
The thought was fleeting as he pushed the gas and began speeding through the city. He glanced over and looked at the angel. Aziraphale sat with his hands neatly in his lap looking out at the places and people pass by rapidly. He always did think Crowley went too fast for him.
“I suppose you're feeling quite pleased with yourself right now, are you?” Crowley said.
His eyes stayed fixed on the road, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened just a fraction more than necessary. The leather creaked under his fingers.
There was irritation in his voice—sharp, controlled—but underneath it was something worse. Something personal.
Something wounded.
Aziraphale shifted in his seat.
“Not at all. But a deal’s a deal.”
He said it carefully, like he was reciting something from a ledger. He adjusted his posture overly straight, as if he could arrange himself into moral neutrality.
The Bentley’s tires screeched faintly as Crowley pressed harder on the accelerator rounding a corner.
The car surged forward.
“Right,” Crowley said flatly. “Let’s get this over with. So, where is Jesus?”
Aziraphale blinked.
“I don’t know.”
The answer was immediate. Too immediate.
Crowley let out a short, disbelieving scoff.
“You don’t know?”
“Well, no,” Aziraphale said, a little too quickly. “Otherwise I wouldn’t need to find him, would I?”
A pause.
Then, softer, almost slipping out before he could stop it:
“And I wouldn’t need you—”
He stopped. Too late.
The words hung between them like something fragile that had already shattered.
Aziraphale’s shoulders tensed. A flush rose up his neck to his ears as he suddenly became very interested in the passing streetlights outside the window.
Crowley didn’t look at him.
But his jaw tightened.
“Wouldn’t need me, right,” he said, voice edged with something sharp enough to cut glass. “Nice. Gotcha.”
Silence filled the Bentley for half a second too long.
Then Crowley exhaled through his nose.
“But seriously. No idea?”
“The Earth’s quite big, you know?” Aziraphale tried again, a little defensive now, gesturing vaguely as if geography itself were the problem.
“Yes,” Crowley snapped. “I’m aware of that.”
His fingers drummed once against the wheel—restless, agitated.
“What are we going to do? Ring a bell? Leave out snacks? Hang signs on lamp posts saying ‘Missing Messiah, can offer small reward’?”
Aziraphale made a small sound of protest.
“That’s not helpful.”
“No,” Crowley agreed immediately. “It’s not.”
A beat.
Then, quieter—but somehow more biting for it:
“But neither is ‘I don’t know.’”
Aziraphale huffed, the sound almost childish in its frustration. His composure cracked just slightly at the edges.
“I don’t know,” he repeated, more firmly this time, as if repetition might turn it into certainty. “I just—look, I don’t know!”
His voice rose, sharper than intended.
Then faltered.
And for a moment, the angel who had argued with Heaven itself looked suddenly, painfully uncertain in the passenger seat of the Bentley.
Crowley’s hands tightened on the wheel again.
He didn’t look at him.
But the car didn’t speed up this time either.
Feeling uncomfortable Aziraphale felt he needed to find away to remedy the situation, at least for now.
“How about some music? Um, maybe a little, um, tom tom Garage? Or some rip-rap? Or go-go?”
Aziraphale's smile was painfully forced. He leaned forward reaching for the various cassette tapes. He glanced over to Crowley as he spoke, betraying the nervousness beneath his cheerful tone.
“You have absolutely no idea what any of that means.”
Crowley's voice emerged as a low growl.
His eyes remained fixed on the road ahead. The Bentley accelerated slightly beneath them.
“Yes, I do. They're all... types of bebop—stop flustering me, I can't—I can't think straight. Things have been really very complicated for me at the moment, you know?”
The smile vanished.
For a moment Crowley caught a glimpse of genuine panic.
Aziraphale's shoulders had drawn up around his ears.
“I know. You've lost Jesus and bollocksed up the Second Coming. It doesn't get much more complicated than that.”
Crowley's hands tightened on the steering wheel.
The leather creaked beneath his grip.
“And we may have lost the Book of Life.”
Aziraphale's voice rose nearly an octave.
“You've lost it?”
Crowley's head snapped around before he could stop himself.
The Bentley swerved slightly.
“Well, it does seem to be evading us rather successfully for the moment.”
Aziraphale attempted a weak smile.
It died immediately when Crowley stared at him.
“Unbelievable.”
Crowley laughed once.
It wasn't a pleasant sound.
“Oh, you leave me to go back and sort out Heaven and you've somehow made it more of a mess than it was already.”
The words landed harder than he intended.
Aziraphale visibly recoiled.
“Look, I had a chance to make a real difference.”
His voice had become defensive now, his jaw tightening.
He turned toward Crowley in his seat, desperate for him to understand.
“Oh, you still don't get it, do you?” Crowley asked.
“You can't change anything. It's all rigged. The entire universe—”
“But I had to try at least, can't you see that?” The words burst out before Aziraphale could stop them. His hands flew upward in frustration.
“I don't want an awful, judgy Second Coming with those scary horses and half the world being smited. If I'm the boss—”
“But you're not!” Crowley's voice cracked through the car like a whip. The Bentley lurched forward as his foot pressed harder against the accelerator.
“You never will be. There's always someone above you stacking the deck.”
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Painful.
Aziraphale stared at him.
Crowley refused to look back.
“Well,” Aziraphale said quietly, “not now there isn't. The Metatron's disappeared too.”
Crowley's head fell back against the seat.
“Oh, superb.” He laughed again. A bitter, exhausted laugh.
“Mr. Big Giant Floaty Head 'I bought you a lovely coffee' himself has done a runner.” He said sarcastically.
For a moment neither of them spoke. The city lights streaked across the windows. Crowley swallowed hard. His next words came out softer.
“You could have avoided all this.”
Aziraphale froze.
Crowley kept staring straight ahead.
“We could have done a runner ourselves.”
His knuckles had turned white around the steering wheel.
“I asked you to come with me.”
There it was. The thing they'd both been avoiding. Not Heaven. Not the Second Coming. Them.
“We could be drinking cocktails on Alpha Centauri right now. This could be somebody else's problem.” Crowley quickly glanced over toward his angel.
Aziraphale's chest tightened. He looked away first. The memory still hurt.
The bookshop.
The kiss.
Crowley standing there asking him to choose.
“How could we have been happy there?” Aziraphale’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“Knowing that we were leaving all these people to goodness knows what awfulness? Second Coming, apocalypse, the end of everything on Earth as it is—on Alpha Centauri?”
His hands trembled.
“I could stop all that. I just wanted to save everything. His voice cracked.
“And—and—so that everybody could have a chance. Aziraphale swallowed.
“Including us.” He said, his hand doing a small gesture between the two of them.
Crowley's grip tightened impossibly further. For one terrible moment he thought the steering wheel might actually break.
Because that was the problem.
That was always the problem.
Aziraphale still spoke about them as though the future were a possibility.
As though he hadn't shattered something between them.
“And how's that working out?” Crowley asked quietly.
The anger was gone. That was what made it hurt.
For the first time since getting into the Bentley, Crowley looked directly at him. There was no rage in his expression.
Only disappointment.
And beneath it, something far worse.
The kind of hurt that lingers because it came from someone you love. Aziraphale looked away first. The city lights smeared across the Bentley's windows in long streaks of gold and white.
For several moments neither of them spoke. Crowley turned his attention back to the road. He wished Aziraphale would argue.
Defend himself.
Say something ridiculous.
Anything.
Instead the angel sat in silence, twisting the ring on his finger. A nervous habit. One Crowley had seen develop sometime around the nineteenth century.
Eventually Aziraphale cleared his throat.
“I was trying to do the right thing.”
Crowley laughed softly. There was no amusement in it.
“You always are.”
The words should have sounded complimentary. Instead they landed like an accusation.
Aziraphale flinched.
“You say that as though it's a flaw.”
“No.” Crowley's jaw tightened.
“Just predictable.”
The Bentley sped beneath another row of streetlights.
"You know what I keep thinking about?" Aziraphale asked quietly.
Crowley didn't answer.
He knew he would tell him anyway.
"The Globe Theatre."
Crowley groaned immediately.
"Oh, not the Hamlet conversation again."
"It was a very good conversation."
"It lasted three hours."
"It was interesting."
"It was agony."
For the first time all evening, the corner of Aziraphale's mouth twitched upward.
The smile faded almost immediately.
"I keep thinking about all of it."
Crowley felt something tighten painfully in his chest.
Rome.
Wessex.
The Bastille.
The Blitz.
The Ritz.
A thousand lunches.
A thousand excuses.
A thousand ways of pretending they weren't choosing each other over and over again.
"Because from where I'm sitting, angel, we've spent six thousand years surviving disasters."
His voice dropped lower.
"We've just never been the disaster before."
The words struck harder than either of them expected.
Aziraphale's face crumpled slightly.
Not enough to cry.
Enough to hurt.
"Crowley..."
"No."
The response was immediate.
His grip tightened again.
"I can't do that part yet."
The angel fell silent.
Because he understood exactly what Crowley meant.
The forgiveness.
The explanations.
The pretending everything was alright.
Neither of them was ready for that.
Not yet.
But as the Bentley carried them through the city, Aziraphale found his attention drifting to the silver scarf looped loosely around Crowley's neck.
He had seen it countless times over the years. Seen Crowley wear it through decades of changing fashions and endless complaints about humanity's taste in clothing. It had become such a familiar part of him that Aziraphale had stopped truly looking at it.
Then, all at once, recognition struck.
The scarf.
The silver metallic scarf. It was the one from the war.
Aziraphale stared at it, his breath catching slightly. At the end of the First War, where angles fought demons and it felt like the universe had been tearing apart around them, he had wrapped that very piece of cloth around Crowley's leg to stop the bleeding. His hands had been shaking so badly he could barely tie the knot.
He had never thought about what became of it afterward. Never even registered that the scarf Crowley still wore, century after century, was the same one.
Yet there it was, faded in places, the fabric softer with age but unmistakable.
Crowley still had it.
Aziraphale looked away before Crowley could notice him staring.
The demon drove on as though nothing were unusual, one hand still gripping the wheel.
“Crowley... Crowley... Crowley.” Brian shook his head as though he were speaking to a particularly disappointing child. “I am so disappointed in you. Trying to steal my car?”
The amusement in his voice was undercut by genuine disgust.
“I'd like my Bentley back,” Crowley hissed.
He strained against the men holding him. Their hands dug into his arms, but he continued to fight them anyway. His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached, every word dripping with venom.
“Yeah, well, I'd like to play for the Arsenal, but that ain't gonna happen either, is it, mate?”
Brian chuckled at his own joke.
Crowley wasn't laughing.
“I just need my car!”
The outburst echoed through the room. He twisted violently, attempting to wrench himself free, but the grip on him only tightened.
“You need teaching a lesson, is what you need.” Brian rolled his shoulders and began rolling up his sleeves.
“And I am so gonna enjoy that.”
Brian stepped forward and drew back his fist.
Then something caught his attention. The doors to the garage appeared to open themselves as someone entered the room.
“Who are you?”
The newcomer stopped in the doorway.
“I'm a retired bookseller,” Aziraphale announced proudly.
He puffed out his chest with remarkable confidence for a man who looked as though he should be recommending tea blends rather than interrupting criminal enterprises.
Both Brian and Crowley groaned.
“I've come to get my friend back. And our c—his car.”
Aziraphale quickly corrected himself.
Brian raised an eyebrow and looked toward Crowley.
“You're a friend of his?”
“No, he's not.”
Crowley's answer came immediately.
Only Aziraphale could see past the dark glasses and recognize the hurt hidden behind them.
The angel's smile faltered for the briefest moment before he recovered.
“I rather think I am,” Aziraphale replied. “I'm rescuing you. And liberating our Bentley.”
He straightened his posture even further, somehow managing to look smug and dignified at the same time.
Crowley hated how much he missed that.
“Yeah, well, bollocks you are. It's my car. I won it fair and square, so you can just, you know, like, goodbye.”
“Rather excited to meet you, actually, Mr. Brian Cameron.” Aziraphale ignored the comment completely. “From what I hear, you're the second-best player of games of skill and chance in all of London. Well done.”
Brian blinked.
“Second, you say?”
“Well, of course.” Aziraphale smiled sweetly. “After me.”
Crowley stared.
In six thousand years, he had never seen Aziraphale weaponize smugness quite so aggressively against a human being.
Brian's eyes narrowed.
Then a grin spread across his face.
“Perfect. Misty, my love. Break out the board games.” Brian spoke as Aziraphale finished signing the new contract.
“I'm afraid not.” Aziraphale lifted a finger. “According to your very own rules, as the challenger, I get to choose.”
“You what?”
Brian turned fully toward him.
“Competitive crossword solving.”
To Crowley's horror, Aziraphale actually raised from his seat in excitement holding up two newspapers.
“That's not even a game, is it?” Brian questioned.
“First one to finish correctly gets the Bentley.”
The certainty in Aziraphale's voice left no room for argument.
“Dad, be careful here—” Misty started, but Brian held up a hand.
“Yeah, listen. I can fill in a crossword, alright?” He leaned forward in his chair, trying to recover some dignity. “But I can, er... ask people for help if I need it, right? I can collaborate?”
“Oh, seek as much assistance as you require,” Aziraphale replied calmly.
The corner of his mouth lifted in a sly smile.
Crowley immediately disliked that smile.
It was the smile Aziraphale wore when he knew exactly how something was going to end.
“Game on,” Aziraphale announced.
He adjusted the newspaper in his hands with all the gravity of a judge opening court proceedings.
“One Across. Nine letters. 'The measured tread of the saints around the dome of St. Peter's.' How appropriate.”
His face brightened immediately.
Crowley peered over the angel's shoulder.
“What does that mean?”
“Well, it's a clue.”
Aziraphale sounded delighted by the question.
“In this case, the word 'round' indicates that one word is concealed inside another. You look for the answer hidden within the clue itself.”
His pencil was already moving.
“Giving us the opening answer: Pedometer.”
Crowley stared.
“That's ridiculous.”
“It's elegant.”
“It's nonsense.”
“It's both.”
Meanwhile, Brian had already pulled out his phone.
“Billy? Billy, yes, mate, listen. I need the solution for today's Cryptic Crossword and I need it right now.”
Aziraphale continued filling in boxes without looking up.
“Well, it's got to be on the web somewhere. Do, like—do, like, a search or something.”
More writing.
“Yes, well then find the bloke that wrote the crossword and threaten him.”
Another answer appeared instantly.
“Tell him we're going to kill his husband or his dog or worse, something like that.”
Across the room, several letters were filled in before Brian had even finished the sentence.
Crowley watched with growing amusement.
Brian watched with growing horror.
The angel's pencil barely seemed to pause.
“Finished.”
The room fell silent.
Brian looked down at his own completely blank puzzle.
Then back at Aziraphale.
Then back at the puzzle.
“What?”
Aziraphale folded his hands politely.
“What?”
“No, no, no, no. You could've written anything down.”
Brian practically launched himself across the table.
“What's Ten Down?”
He pointed at the page triumphantly.
There.
At last.
Something obscure enough to catch the weird little man.
Aziraphale beamed.
“'Miss Desmond levitates for David's spacey song.'”
His voice rose with excitement.
“It refers to Norma Desmond from Sunset Boulevard. Rearranged as 'Norma Flies,' it becomes an anagram of 'Life on Mars,' the David Bowie song.”
The angel looked absurdly pleased with himself.
“Gah!”
Brian slapped both hands on the table.
“How do you know that?”
“I'll take the car and my friend,” Aziraphale said, rising smoothly from his chair.
Crowley immediately frowned.
Friend.
Again.
As though nothing had happened.
As though they hadn't spent the last several years carefully orbiting around each other while pretending not to.
“Ain't gonna happen, mate.”
Brian stood abruptly.
The scrape of his chair echoed through the room.
A gun appeared in his hand.
Several people took an instinctive step backward.
Crowley sighed.
Honestly, humans were so predictable.
The barrel pointed directly at Aziraphale.
The angel merely looked disappointed.
“Brian, Brian.”
Aziraphale shook his head.
“I did give you a chance.”
His fingers snapped.
“You really mustn't get angry, you know.”
The gun vanished.
In its place was a brightly colored shark-shaped water pistol.
Silence.
Brian stared at it.
The room stared at it.
The shark stared back with permanent plastic enthusiasm.
“Shark?” Brian whispered.
Brian's free hand moved to his chest.
“Shark?”
“Right.” Aziraphale turned toward the door. “We need to get a wiggle on.”
And with that, he began walking toward the Bentley as though turning firearms into children's toys was the most ordinary thing in the world.
———————————————————————————
“I need to find the lady?” Jesus spoke in a soft, kind voice.
The afternoon crowd drifted in and out of the diner, the clatter of dishes and murmur of conversation creating a constant background hum. Harry pushed open the door and held it for the young man beside him. The smell of coffee, frying bacon, and fresh bread hung warmly in the air.
“Oh. Well, once upon a time, my love, I could've seen you well sorted. But it's all on bloomin' internet now, isn't it?” Harry said, shaking his head as they entered the diner.
A waitress hurried past with a pot of coffee in one hand and a stack of menus in the other.
“Um, just sit anywhere,” she said quickly as she swept by.
Jesus watched her go, fascinated by the speed at which everyone seemed to move. Harry led the way to an empty booth near the window. They slid into opposite sides of the cracked vinyl seat.
For a moment Harry studied the stranger. There was something unusual about him. He looked young, but there was an ageless quality in his eyes, as if he were seeing everything for the first time and remembering it all at once.
“Who are you?” Harry asked.
“Jehoshua.”
“Bless you,” Harry said instantly, assuming the young man had sneezed.
Jesus blinked.
“Bless you,” he replied with a slight bow of his head.
Harry barked out a laugh.
“Harry Frisch, mate. Or Harry the Fish, as was, back when me name meant anything.”
“Then I will call you Harry the Fish.” Jesus smiled warmly. “You were a fisher of? What do you do with those cards?”
Harry reached into his coat pocket and produced a battered deck. The cards looked ancient, their edges softened from years of use.
“For I've been told to find the lady.”
Jesus leaned forward with immediate interest.
“Find the lady, ooh, ah, I did used to work the Monte, sure. With a team of guys. I miss them.”
A shadow crossed Harry's face. His fingers paused on the deck. For a second he wasn't in the diner anymore. He was somewhere else, years ago, surrounded by laughter, arguments, and familiar faces.
“I had friends,” Jesus said, his expression brightening with happy remembrance. “A team. Twelve friends.”
Harry chuckled.
“I'm solo now. No more Monte, just me.”
The cards flicked smoothly between his fingers. Even after all these years, the movements came naturally.
“You've got an honest face,” Harry said kindly as a small smile graced his features.
“Thank you.”
Jesus studied him for a moment, his gaze gentle and unusually direct.
“You have a beautiful face, Harry. But one filled with pain. So, how do I find the lady?”
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the observation. Most people never looked closely enough to notice such things.
“Ahh. Find the lady.” He cleared his throat and spread three cards face down on the table. “Well, find the lady, find the gravy. Here she is, there she goes, where she ends up, nobody knows.”
His hands came alive.
The cards danced across the tabletop, sliding and swapping places so quickly they seemed to move of their own accord. Jesus watched with complete fascination. His eyes followed every motion, his head turning slightly as the cards blurred before him.
At last Harry stopped.
“There we are. Which one?”
Jesus considered the cards with absolute seriousness. His brow furrowed as though he were contemplating a great mystery of the universe.
Then he pointed.
“That one.”
Harry turned it over.
No lady.
Jesus stared.
Harry couldn't help himself. He let out a warm chuckle.
Jesus looked from the card to Harry, then back to the card again.
“But... I watched.”
“That's the point, mate.”
The young man laughed, delighted rather than frustrated.
“You are very good at this.”
“Used to be better.”
Jesus leaned closer, his eyes shining with curiosity.
“Will—will you teach me?” he asked hopefully.
Harry looked at him for a long moment. The diner noise faded into the background as he considered the request. There was something disarmingly earnest about the young man. No greed, no ambition, no desire to cheat anyone—just simple wonder.
Harry found himself smiling despite everything.
“Teach you?” he said.
“Yes.”
Harry picked up the cards and tapped them against the table.
“Well, Jehoshua, first lesson is this.” He held up the queen card. “Finding the lady isn't about watching the cards.”
Jesus tilted his head.
“It isn't?”
“No.” Harry's grin widened. “It's about watching the bloke who's moving them.”
Jesus considered this carefully, as though it might contain some profound truth.
Then he nodded.
“That sounds like wisdom.”
“Trust me,” Harry said, beginning another shuffle, “it's mostly cheating.”
And for the first time in a very long while, Harry found himself looking forward to having someone sit across the table from him.
Summary: Aziraphale returns to a broken Soho and finds Crowley living in isolation after years apart. As Heaven and Hell search for the missing Jesus, old wounds resurface inside the abandoned bookshop, where Crowley reveals he never stopped protecting the place — or waiting for Aziraphale to come home.
Crowley mentally rolled his eyes at the sound of their voice. The year had already dragged him through enough humiliation, heartbreak, and catastrophe to last several apocalypses over. The last thing he needed was whatever fresh disaster Hell intended to dump in his lap now.
Around him smelled of mildew, smoke, and stale blood. Somewhere water dripped steadily from a rusted pipe overhead. Crowley lay sprawled across a hard metal table with all the enthusiasm of a corpse refusing burial.
“Do you think he's dangerous?” one of the demons muttered nervously.
“Not anymore,” Dagon said with absolute confidence.
Heavy footsteps shuffled closer. Then rough hands grabbed at his jaw while another demon tore the tape from his mouth with a vicious yank that burned across his skin.
“Ha!” Dagon cackled.
Crowley grimaced. “I quit, Dagon. Didn't you get the memo?” he mumbled, voice rough with exhaustion.
Dagon glanced toward the other demons, who had suddenly begun rummaging frantically through piles of rubbish and loose papers as though a resignation letter might genuinely exist somewhere in Hell’s filing system.
“You didn’t send a memo.” Confusion threaded through their voice.
“That’s because I quit.”
Dagon straightened immediately, annoyance sharpening their expression.
“I'm un-quitting you, forthwith. Upstairs has begun Operation Second Coming.”
The words hung in the damp air like a threat.
Dagon looked almost gleeful saying it. Of course they did. Any demon with half a brain would leap at the chance to involve themselves in something this catastrophic.
“Oh, I see,” Crowley murmured flatly.
“Mm-hmm.” Dagon hummed smugly.
Crowley wasn’t entirely sure whether the sound came from confidence or stupidity. Possibly both.
“So the End Times have begun. Again.” He lifted his head just enough to glance around at the gathered demons before letting it thunk back against the table. “Oh, well, there you go.”
“No, I don't go. They've lost him.” Dagon wheezed out a laugh.
Crowley frowned slightly lifting his head back up. “Who?”
“You know.” One demon grinned unpleasantly. “The one who starts it all off. Nailed-up boy.”
Crowley’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses.
“Jesus?”
The reaction was immediate.
Several demons physically recoiled. One clapped their hands over their ears while another hissed in discomfort like the name itself had scorched them.
Crowley pushed himself slowly onto his elbows.
He had never disliked Jesus.
Honestly, he’d pitied him.
A boy handed impossible expectations and blamed for the consequences of free will he’d never created. Crowley remembered long conversations beneath desert stars. Remembered sneaking him glimpses of humanity when Heaven wasn’t watching too closely — music, laughter, marketplaces full of life. Tiny things. Human things.
Part of Crowley had foolishly hoped it might matter.
That maybe if Jesus loved the world enough, the world wouldn’t destroy him.
He’d been wrong.
“Jesus,” Crowley repeated firmly.
The demons winced again.
“And I'm here because...”
“We need you to find him, Crowley, before they do.” Dagon’s tone sharpened with urgency now. Their eyes gleamed with dangerous excitement.
“Right.” Crowley huffed, glancing around. “You can't even say his name. What'll you do if you do find him?”
“A hostage. With...” Dagon began confidently before their mouth suddenly seized.
Their lips twitched uselessly.
Nothing came out.
Crowley raised his brows slowly.
“Jesus.”
The entire room recoiled again.
A few demons groaned aloud.
Crowley would never admit how deeply entertaining he found it.
Still, he had absolutely no intention of stopping.
“Jesus,” he repeated, savoring the collective discomfort.
Dagon glared murderously before forcing the rest of the sentence through clenched teeth.
“...in our hands, we can attack Heaven! And the war of all wars will raineth down!”
They threw their arms upward dramatically, nearly vibrating with excitement.
“We'll be living upstairs! And they'll be down here!”
The other demons cackled along with them.
Dagon practically bounced on their heels now, eyes shining with feverish anticipation. After millennia of resentment and punishment, they could already picture it — angels cast down, demons victorious at last.
“You understand humans, Crowley. So find him. Help us, we'll help you.”
Crowley stared at them for a long moment.
Then pursed his lips.
“No.”
Silence.
“No?” Shock cracked through Dagon’s voice.
“Oh, no,” Crowley huffed.
“No?” Their voice jumped an octave now, panic beginning to creep beneath the outrage.
“No.”
Dagon’s expression twisted with disgust.
“Well, you'll regret this.”
Crowley looked impossibly tired suddenly.
“I'll add it to the list.”
Before anyone could respond, he calmly took the strip of duct tape and pressed it back over his own mouth, smoothing it down with deliberate finality before lowering himself onto the cool metal of the table once more.
If he stayed still long enough, perhaps Hell itself would forget he existed.
“Well, get him out of here!” Dagon snapped furiously.
Light poured downward in a warm golden flash as Aziraphale materialized quietly onto the street below.
The moment his shoes touched the pavement, something inside him sank.
The neighborhood felt wrong.
Not ruined exactly.
Wounded.
The little shops he’d adored for decades stood boarded shut, windows dusty and dark behind fading SALE signs. The streets looked dirtier somehow — tired and neglected beneath the grey London drizzle.
His chest tightened painfully.
This had once been home.
As he drifted slowly past the old record shop, memories rose uninvited: Maggie laughing over tea, Nina rolling her eyes at impossible customers, Crowley lounging outside in dark glasses pretending not to care about any of them.
Now the street felt hollow.
“Ah. I never thought I’d see your face here again.”
Mrs. Sandwich approached from across the pavement, arms folded tightly.
Aziraphale turned toward her immediately. One glance at her face told him everything.
Disappointment.
Resentment.
Hurt.
“I um… um…” His throat tightened unexpectedly. Suddenly he couldn’t seem to remember how speaking worked at all.
“Oh everyone’s gone,” she said bitterly. “All been bought out. Not me, though. I stick it out here in Soho. Like a barnacle to a rock.”
There was pride in it. Defiance.
Aziraphale swallowed hard.
“I umm…”
He hated how small he sounded.
“Hello,” he managed weakly at last, trying desperately to compose himself into something resembling the angel he used to be.
Mrs. Sandwich looked at him with thinly veiled disgust.
What a prick.
“Look umm… my friend, Crowley. Have you seen him?”
“You wouldn’t be looking for him unless you needed something.”
The words hit harder than Aziraphale expected.
“Cause you’re a taker, you are,” she continued. “You never cared for Whickber Street.”
“I—I love Whickber Street,” Aziraphale whispered harshly.
Shock crossed his face as he looked away from her entirely, unable to hold her gaze.
Mrs. Sandwich studied him carefully then.
God, he’s aged, she thought.
If only she knew.
“Yeah?” Emotion thickened her voice now. “Well where were you when it got bad?”
Aziraphale looked back up slowly.
“You know,” she said, anger finally overtaking the sadness, “I never thought you’d come back just to gloat.”
“To gloat?”
And suddenly he understood.
Not anger.
Abandonment.
They thought he’d left them.
All of them.
None of them knew the truth — that hard times had stayed away because he’d quietly pushed them away for centuries. Little miracles. Tiny nudges. A failing business suddenly surviving another month. Pipes not bursting. Rent somehow manageable.
Love disguised as coincidence.
And then he had simply vanished.
“He’s down there.” Mrs. Sandwich pointed toward the alley at the far end of the street.
She looked him up and down once more before walking away without another word.
The air held that stale stillness places gathered when no one had truly lived in them for a very long time. Dust rested in soft silver layers across every surface, untouched except for a narrow path worn between the front door and the back room. The shelves themselves remained immaculate, books standing proudly in their proper places as though waiting patiently for their owner to return.
Faintly, beneath the dust and old paper, lingered traces of cocoa and candlewax.
Ghosts of comfort.
But the shop no longer felt alive.
No longer felt like home.
Aziraphale reached out absently, dragging his fingertips along a shelf before selecting a book at random. He opened it carefully, eyes scanning words he wasn’t truly reading.
The bell above the door rang once.
Not brightly.
Not cheerfully.
Just once — a thin, brittle little sound, like something exhausted finally giving up.
Aziraphale froze.
Crowley stood in the doorway.
The lights flickered on behind him with a soft hum, bathing the old shop in tired golden light.
For one impossible moment, Aziraphale’s heart leapt so violently it hurt.
Crowley looked dreadful.
Not physically.
Soul-tired.
The kind of exhaustion only immortals could carry — the slow erosion that came from surviving too long with too much grief.
“Breaks your heart,” he said quietly.
Aziraphale looked up fully then.
“Crowley?” Hope slipped helplessly into his voice as the book fell shut in his hands.
Crowley gestured vaguely around the shop.
“You had a bookshop for centuries. You loved your bookshop.” His mouth twisted faintly. “And then you just walked away.”
The words landed heavier than accusation.
They sounded like mourning.
Crowley wandered further inside, gaze drifting over the shelves before he leaned one shoulder against the large wooden post near the entrance.
Aziraphale swallowed hard.
“What happened here?”
The question echoed strangely in the stillness.
Crowley gave a soft huff through his nose.
“Well… you tell me. Muriel was meant to take over the place. They were here for, what, a few weeks? Then they shut the door and—”
“I needed Muriel,” Aziraphale said softly. “I needed someone to work with me in Heaven who was…” He searched briefly for the word. “Nice.”
“Ah.” Crowley’s response came low and flat.
He still wasn’t looking at him.
His eyes remained fixed stubbornly on the shelves instead.
“That’s not what I meant,” Aziraphale said quietly after a moment.
Crowley pushed himself upright and began moving slowly through the shop, fingertips brushing along the books with unbearable familiarity.
“What I meant was…” Aziraphale searched Crowley’s face desperately for some clue as to what lived behind his expression now. “What happened here?”
“I’ve been gone for years,” he continued. “And the place is dusty, yes, but…” He glanced toward the windows. “No broken glass. Nothing stolen. No mold. No rodents.”
A faint, fragile smile touched his mouth.
“You’d expect rats, wouldn’t you?”
“You weren’t here,” Crowley said simply. “I wasn’t gonna lose this place as well.”
Aziraphale stopped breathing for a moment.
Slowly, he turned toward Crowley fully.
And suddenly the truth settled between them with devastating clarity.
The lamps had been miracled on.
The leaks repaired.
The heating kept running through winters Aziraphale had never seen.
The books untouched.
Not by Heaven.
By Crowley.
Something twisted painfully inside Aziraphale’s chest at the casualness of it. As though preserving the shop had not been a sacrifice at all.
Just instinct.
Like breathing.
“Oh,” Aziraphale whispered.
Crowley shrugged one shoulder like it meant nothing.
“Obviously not,” Aziraphale said softly.
His eyes burned suddenly.
He looked down quickly before Crowley could see it.
“I…” His voice faltered. “I suppose I should say thank you.”
Crowley’s expression changed immediately.
Not anger.
Something far worse.
Weariness.
“Better not,” he replied quickly, bitterness threading quietly beneath the words.
Silence stretched between them.
Six thousand years suddenly stood inside the room with them, vast and aching like a grave neither knew how to cross.
Aziraphale took a careful breath.
“Do you… want an apology from me?”
A low sound rumbled from Crowley’s throat as he turned his face away.
Not amused.
Wounded.
Aziraphale looked stricken.
“I was trying to do the right thing,” he said gently.
“Well.” Crowley shoved both hands deep into his pockets. “You know what they say about the road to Hell?”
Aziraphale blinked faintly. “What?”
“Needs repaving.”
The joke came out sharper than intended.
For one brief impossible second, it sounded like the old Crowley — dry humor wrapped around truth.
But now bitterness clung to every syllable.
It made the ache inside Aziraphale worse.
He stepped toward Crowley carefully.
“Look, Crowley, I’ve come to help you.”
“Have you?” Crowley replied immediately.
“Yes—”
“No, you haven’t.”
The sharpness in Crowley’s voice cracked through the room like a whip.
“This is about Jesus. You were bringing him back and now you’ve lost him.”
He stepped toward Aziraphale briefly as he spoke, one hand lifting in frustration before he abruptly turned away again, pacing back toward the front door.
Aziraphale stared at him.
“How do you know that?” His voice rose slightly with shock.
Crowley shrugged without looking remotely impressed.
“Live in an alleyway, people tell you things.”
The words struck Aziraphale like ice water.
Crowley looked irritated the moment they left his mouth, as though he regretted revealing even that much vulnerability.
“Well…” Aziraphale said weakly. “Yes. I mean… there is that.”
God, he hated how pathetic that sounded.
Crowley folded his arms tightly across his chest like he was cold.
Aziraphale tried again.
“I need your help,” he said quietly. “We found the Antichrist together, you and me.”
“Ancient history,” Crowley muttered.
The words sounded rehearsed.
Like something he’d told himself too many times.
“Jesus remembers you, you know.”
That finally made Crowley glance up.
Aziraphale managed the smallest smile.
“He was asking after you.”
Something dangerous crossed Crowley’s face then — something painfully soft and open that vanished almost immediately behind practiced indifference.
“He seemed…” Aziraphale continued carefully, “well, very nice.”
“Mm.”
“And now he’s out there. On his own. Poor thing.”
Aziraphale looked toward the rain-streaked windows.
“I only hope they don’t nail him up again.”
“Well,” Crowley muttered darkly, “they haven’t changed much, have they?”
Aziraphale suddenly looked ancient.
“No,” he admitted quietly. “No, they really haven’t.”
For a long moment, neither moved.
The shop creaked softly around them.
Crowley’s gaze drifted toward the armchair in the corner.
Aziraphale’s chair.
Beside it sat the little table where Crowley used to leave untouched glasses of wine while pretending not to care whether they were appreciated.
Dust coated the cushions now.
“You know,” Crowley said softly, “I used to come here anyway.”
Aziraphale looked up sharply.
Crowley kept staring at the chair.
“After.”
The single word settled heavily between them.
“I’d sit downstairs sometimes. Couple hours. Make sure nothing leaked or exploded.” A tiny shrug lifted one shoulder. “Habit, I suppose.”
Aziraphale could barely draw breath.
“Crowley…”
“I kept thinking,” Crowley continued quietly, voice frighteningly calm, “that one day the bell would ring and you’d walk in and say you’d made a mistake.”
Aziraphale’s eyes filled instantly.
Crowley laughed once beneath his breath.
Small.
Broken.
“Funny thing is, angel…” He swallowed hard. “After a while, I stopped imagining you alone.”
Aziraphale went pale.
Crowley finally looked at him then.
“I started imagining you happy there.”
The devastation in his voice was almost gentle.
“And somehow…” His voice dropped lower. “That hurt worse.”
Aziraphale’s composure shattered completely.
“No,” he said immediately. “Crowley, no, I wasn’t happy—”
“But you stayed.”
The words weren’t loud.
That made them unbearable.
“You stayed,” Crowley repeated. “And I kept this place alive for you anyway.”
Aziraphale looked physically wounded.
Crowley rubbed a hand over his mouth suddenly, exhausted by his own honesty.
“Heaven is looking for him,” Aziraphale said after a long silence. “Hell will be too. No one can find him.”
Crowley stared at him for a moment without speaking.
“This is bigger than you and me,” Aziraphale whispered.
For the briefest fraction of a second, Crowley’s expression crumpled.
Then the walls came back up.
Blankness settled over his face once more.
“Well,” he said quietly, “that’s always been your favorite argument.”
Aziraphale flinched.
Actually flinched.
Crowley turned toward the door.
“I can’t help you.”
“Why not?”
Crowley paused with one hand resting against the doorframe, shoulders rigid beneath his coat.
For a moment Aziraphale thought he might leave without answering.
Then only turning back towards him he said lowly “I don’t have a car.”
Crowley looked away first, his yellow eyes narrowing as though the floorboards had suddenly become far more interesting than the angel standing across from him. His jaw tightened. He began to explain how he’d lost the Bentley, though carefully—deliberately—avoiding the part where he’d discovered Hell had severed ties with him entirely. That humiliation still sat too raw beneath his skin to give voice to.
Instead, he muttered through the story of Monopoly with increasing irritation, each word edged with bitterness. A ridiculous game. Cheap plastic houses, fake money, smug little grins across a cluttered table. Somehow it had spiraled into a wager, and somehow he’d lost terribly enough to lose the Bentley itself.
The Bentley.
Even thinking the word made something twist painfully in his chest.
“Well why on earth did you let him get away with it? I mean, a contract’s a contract—” Aziraphale started.
Crowley quickly interrupted. “What could I do? Hell had cut me off. Miracles not an option. You were elsewhere.” He said with a flick of his hand before crossing his arms tightly over his chest, defensive and sharp around the edges.
The movement carried far more frustration than he intended. He refused to be judged for losing the Bentley. He had stayed. He had fought for the bookshop when Heaven and Hell alike had turned everything upside down. He’d never abandoned their side of things—never abandoned Aziraphale.
Aziraphale’s expression softened for only a fraction of a second before he straightened his coat sleeves with practiced dignity.
“Yes, very well then.” Aziraphale said with a low hum and hint of mischief flickering in his eyes for a brief second.
That look alone made Crowley suspicious.
“We shall go and get out Bentley back—“
Crowley cut him off again. “My Bentley.” He said, his voice dropping lower, roughened possessively around the words.
The air between them shifted faintly. Not angry exactly—something more complicated than that. Aziraphale blinked once, almost caught smiling.
“Of course…” Aziraphale continued on.
“And then…” He looked at Crowley pointedly.
Crowley barely shook his head, shrugging one shoulder with deliberate nonchalance, though dread was already beginning to creep in.
“You’ll help me find Jesus.” Aziraphale’s tone rose brighter, satisfaction curling warmly through his words as a small pleased smile crossed his features.
Crowley frowned immediately, all traces of vulnerability vanishing behind annoyance. “I’ll do it myself.” He said with emphasis, already turning away before the angel could argue further.
His coat flared behind him as he strode toward the door with long, purposeful steps, every inch of him radiating stubborn determination. He would get the Bentley back himself if he had to drag it out of the thief’s hands personally.
Still, as he reached for the handle, he hesitated for the briefest moment.
Because despite everything, he knew Aziraphale would follow.
Summary: As Heaven scrambles to prepare for the Second Coming, disaster strikes when both Jesus and the Book of Life mysteriously vanish. Forced into a crisis spiraling far beyond his control, Aziraphale finds himself haunted
Warnings: Angst, flashbacks
Chapter 1
“I mean, if Gabriel and Beelzebub can go off together, then it could have been us.” Aziraphale raised a hand, fingertips ghosting across his lips just as they did that fateful day. “I forgive you,” he murmured softly.
“You forgive me?” Michael asked as they strode into the room, the other archangels following close behind.
“Ah—no. Uhm, sorry. What can I help you with?” Aziraphale cleared his throat, trying desperately to ignore the warmth creeping up his neck after being caught recalling events better left unexamined. Or perhaps not left examined at all.
“We have come with the completed checklist for the Second Coming,” Uriel announced, rolling out an absurdly long scroll across the heavenly floor.
“Wonderful! And well done, everyone, on the planned Second Coming.” Aziraphale clasped his hands together enthusiastically, attempting to encourage some measure of shared excitement. Unfortunately, no one aside from Muriel appeared remotely enthusiastic.
“And, in addition,” he continued brightly, “I’d like to congratulate Michael and the team on solving the logistics of materialising a full-sized plane carrying a human passenger in mid-flight.”
A polite round of applause followed, granting Aziraphale a fleeting moment of relief.
“And I’m glad to see you’re all as excited as I am. Any updates?”
“Ah, yes, Muriel,” he prompted.
“You wanted me to tell you when he was awake. And incarnate. And, well… he is. Both.” Muriel beamed proudly.
“Wonderful. And how did he take it?”
“Um, pretty well. He’s a bit… ‘Whoa, I’ve got a body, what’s this about then?’ and I’m all, ‘Not really my job,’ and he’s all, ‘I have absolutely no idea what’s happening,’ and I’m all—”
“Everything is set. We have the rather extensive checklist you gave us, Aziraphale,” Uriel interrupted flatly. “Nothing will go wrong.”
“Ah. Right.” Aziraphale straightened himself. “The car will meet the plane on the tarmac. The Archangel Sandalphon, good fellow, will drive the Risen Christ directly to the United Nations, where Uriel and Michael will meet him. Perhaps with a cup of tea. Then Jesus will make his speech to all the nations of the world, in all the tongues of the world, and then joy unbounded, peace on Earth, and all that good stuff.”
He smiled hopefully.
“Peace on Earth?” Sandalphon questioned, disgust covering his features.
Right then—any questions? No? Good.”
He clapped his hands once.
“Right! Let’s kick off the Second Coming.”
———————————————————————————
Meanwhile, down on Earth—
“I’ll toss you for it. Double or nothing.” Crowley slurred out.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do… er, Max, come here, son.” Brian grinned smugly, already convinced the Bentley would remain his.
“Yeah, who’s this?” Crowley muttered, his words slurring together.
“Right then. You find the lady, and the Bentley’s yours.” Brian said smugly with a hint of amusement as Max began to shuffle three cards around on the table.
“That’s a shame. Bentley’s still mine,” Brian announced proudly moments later when Crowley failed to pick the correct card.
“I’ve lost worse things than that,” Crowley replied bitterly, trying—and failing—to sound unaffected. Reaching for the bottle of alcohol he began to walk out stumbling towards the doors.
“You’re a loser, Crowley. You only ever come here to lose. You could’ve walked out of here a very rich man.”
Crowley turned placing his finger upon his lips blowing him a kiss.
“Oh.” Brian said annoyed. “You’re a mug.”
———————————————————————————
“I’ve lost much worse things,” Crowley muttered again under his breath as he staggered away, clutching his plant beneath one arm while carrying the bottle loosely in the other hand.
The alley welcomed him like an old friend. Cold brick against his back. Damp concrete beneath him. Silence, save for the distant sounds of London humming on without him.
And then the memories came.
Uninvited. Merciless.
The urgency in his chest that day. The way Aziraphale had gone rigid when Crowley pulled him close. The desperate collision of lips that had been equal parts confession and plea. His last attempt to make the angel understand what he had been trying to say for six thousand years.
“N-no. No, no, no!” Crowley rasped, yanking off his glasses and pressing the heels of his palms hard against his eyes, as though he could physically scrub the memory away.
He grabbed the bottle and drained the remaining alcohol in one burning swallow.
Slowly, he slid sideways until he was lying curled against the wall, surrendering himself to the darkness creeping across his vision.
———————————————————————————
“Sandalphon… where’s Jesus?”
Aziraphale turned toward the gathered archangels, bewildered by how calm they all appeared. Surely this warranted at least a little panic.
“Surely he’s still here, maybe in the Earth Observation Files.” Muriel stated trying to remain positive.
“Obviously Jesus won’t be in the Earth Observation Files,” Aziraphale said impatiently. “The Antichrist wasn’t.”
“But the Book of Life is something else entirely,” Aziraphale said promptly as they entered the room.
“So where is it?” Uriel added.
“Well, it should be…” Aziraphale gestured helplessly toward the empty lectern. “On that stand. Where it has been since the dawn of time. It cannot simply walk away.” Panic starting rise in his chest.
“We need to report this.” Michael stated with a hint of annoyance as they gathered around the empty stand.
“Well,” another angel coughed awkwardly, “there’s not currently anyone to report to. The Metatron’s done a bunk, remember?”
“Indeed,” Aziraphale responded quickly. “No Metatron. As the Former Archangel Sandalphon says.”
Sandalphon blinked. “Former Archangel?” He responded, eyes growing wide in shock.
“Yes. Unfortunate demotion,” Aziraphale replied. “Because someone lost the Messiah!” His voice rose with anger as he stared back at the former archangel.
“But you can’t—” Sandalphon began to argue.
“We can’t lose Jesus and the Book of Life at the same time. Two things!” Muriel said now matching Aziraphale’s panic.
“No,” another corrected, “we’ve also lost the Metatron. Three things…Oh, for Heaven’s sake…” Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. Turning his back to the others in the room. He closed his eyes and begin trying to breathe regularly. “Oh dear.” He mumbled out as he attempted to collect himself.
“Lot on your plate,” Uriel said dryly.
“Balls being dropped.” Sandalphon said bitterly.
“Look why don’t I try to locate the Book of Life. With um… Muriel as my… Investigating Angel.” Michael said.
Muriel perked up immediately.
Aziraphale inhaled slowly before forcing composure back into place.
“And then I can focus on finding Jesus.” Aziraphale muttered out.
“Yes, yes, excellent plan,” Aziraphale said, as Michael was already turning away to leave, Uriel and Sandalphon trailing behind them.
The room emptied, leaving Aziraphale standing alone beneath the oppressive silence of Heaven.
This could not be happening.
“Are… are you okay?” Muriel asked carefully.
“Yes. Of course.” Aziraphale swallowed hard. “I just… well, I, I need to sort this out. Now… where to start?”
Muriel hesitated.
“Why don’t you ask your… ‘friend’ friend to help?”
Aziraphale froze at the mention of Crowley.
“My—oh, no, no, no. I can’t. That’s out of the question.” Aziraphale answered far too quickly. Because facing Crowley would undoubtedly be far more difficult than finding the missing Messiah.
Muriel’s expression softened.
“He might like to see you anyway. Last time I saw him, he wasn’t in the best way, to be honest. He seemed a bit… lost.”
The words lingered long after Muriel walked away, settling heavily into the silence around him.
Lost.
Crowley had been lost before—drifting through centuries with sharp smiles and sharper wit, pretending loneliness was something amusing rather than something that hollowed him out from the inside. But this felt different. This time, Aziraphale knew exactly who had left him that way.
Him.
Aziraphale began pacing the length of the room, hands clasped tightly behind his back in a poor attempt to steady himself. Anxiety coiled painfully in his chest alongside something far more dangerous: hope.
Crowley had said there could have been an us.
Not a temptation. Not a joke. Not one of Crowley’s flippant remarks thrown carelessly into the air.
An us.
And Aziraphale had watched the light leave his eyes.
The memory struck with cruel precision—the desperation in Crowley’s voice, the way his hands had trembled ever so slightly when he’d reached for him, the unbearable softness of that kiss. It had not been lust or recklessness or some passing indulgence. Crowley had kissed him like a prayer offered by someone who no longer believed Heaven listened.
And Aziraphale had still let him go.
His fingers rose instinctively to his lips, trembling faintly as though the ghost of Crowley’s mouth still lingered there. He could practically see those burning golden eyes staring into him with naked vulnerability Crowley had spent six thousand years trying to hide from the world.
“I forgive you.”
The words from earlier suddenly tasted sickening. Forgive him?
For loving him too much to stay silent? For asking him to choose them for once? For wanting one single thing in all of creation for himself?
Guilt twisted viciously inside him. Because the truth—the horrible, unbearable truth—was that Aziraphale had wanted it too. He had wanted the cottage. The dinners. The quiet forever Crowley had laid trembling at his feet.
But instead, he had chosen Heaven. Again.
And now Crowley was alone somewhere on Earth while Aziraphale stood surrounded by the same institution that had hurt them both over and over again.
Aziraphale stopped pacing abruptly, swallowing against the tight ache rising in his throat.
He needed Crowley’s help.
No one knew Earth better than his demon.
And perhaps, buried somewhere beneath all the fear and guilt and heartbreak, there remained one selfish, desperate hope:
That Crowley might still let him stay.
———————————————————————————
Meanwhile in an alley way in Earth-
“Excuse me. I’m sorry to wake you.”
The boy’s voice cut through the haze surrounding Crowley’s mind.
“I’m not asleep,” Crowley grumbled thickly. “I’m out cold.”
“Oh. Er… would you like some of my cheese sarnie?”
The stranger held the sandwich toward him hopefully.
“Leave me alone,” Crowley groaned as the smell of cheese and sardines invaded his senses. “Ugh.”
“Heartbroken. World broken. What’s the point of anything?” he muttered, dragging himself upright. His glasses slipped dangerously down the bridge of his nose.
“I wanted to ask you,” the boy continued. “You showed me all those cities. What should I do now?”
Crowley stared at him blearily.
“Thing is…” he slurred. “The thing is… what was I saying?”
“You were saying, ‘the thing is,’” the boy offered helpfully.
“That thing with the three cards.” Crowley squinted at him. Oddly familiar face. “Find the lady. Always find the lady. Learn that and you’re set.”
He waved a lazy hand through the air.
“Last time, I bring the baby and it’s all shuffle shuffle, everyone lookin’ in the wrong place…”
The boy considered this seriously.
“So if I learn to find the lady with the three cards… that’ll help me understand my purpose here?”
“You,” Crowley informed him gravely, “are taking up my valuable passing-out-drunk time. Begone.”
“All right.”
The boy paused before leaving. “Bye-bye.”
“Night-night,” Crowley mumbled, already slipping back toward unconsciousness.
Then suddenly—
“Crowley…?”
Crowley’s eyes snapped open so fast his head spun.
Aziraphale stood there at the mouth of the alley, soft-eyed and haloed by the weak amber glow of the streetlight behind him like some divine apparition Heaven itself had no right to send.
Crowley’s breath caught painfully in his throat.
God, he looked the same.
No—worse. Softer somehow. Tired around the eyes. Frightened.
Beautiful.
Crowley felt every carefully numbed emotion come crashing violently back to life all at once, raw enough to split him open. The relief alone nearly made him sick. Because Aziraphale was here. After all this time, after the silence, after Heaven, after Crowley had finally begun convincing himself that he had imagined the tenderness in Aziraphale’s eyes that day—
He came back.
“What are you doing here?” Crowley whispered. The question came out smaller than he intended.
Aziraphale hesitated, and Crowley hated how quickly he noticed it.
“I came back because you were right,” Aziraphale said quietly. “You were right about all of it, Crowley.”
The words hit him harder than any holy water ever could.
Crowley ripped off his glasses completely, golden eyes wide with stunned disbelief as he searched Aziraphale’s face for the punchline, the catch, the inevitable but.
Because this—this was the thing he had wanted so desperately that it had ruined him.
For one horrifying moment, hope flared inside his chest so fiercely it became painful.
“Angel…” His voice cracked around the word. “I…”
A thousand things crowded his throat at once. I missed you. You broke my heart. Please don’t leave again. I would still choose you.
And the worst part—the truly humiliating part—was that despite everything, Crowley knew with absolute certainty that if Aziraphale asked him now, he would follow him anywhere. Heaven. Hell. The end of the bloody universe itself.
Because Crowley had never learned how to stop loving him.
Aziraphale stepped closer, and Crowley felt his breath hitch involuntarily. Close enough now to touch. Close enough that Crowley could see the guilt written plainly across his face.
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