Plotted starter for @defiedfate
It was a very human concept of imprisonment - a cramped room that contained only the necessities to keep one alive. Which, for an Angel, was nothing. All the little comforts that he had grown accustomed to had been stripped away from him. No more hot coca and plush armchairs, no more good books or walks in the park. They wouldn't even let him keep a clock, or dim the lights, and without a circadian rhythm, it quickly became impossible to tell how much time had passed. Months now, surely, if not longer...
They had made it perfectly clear to him that this was not mercy - he was only awaiting his execution - once he had fulfilled his purpose. His part in the ineffable plan. Most days, they left him alone to stew in that knowledge. But, especially in the beginning, it turned out Angels knew a thing or two about cruelty as well. It wasn't enough to take everything away from him - they seemed determined to spoil the memories of all he had held dear to him.
He could handle the unreadable books and the food turning to maggots, or the music making his ears bleed. But he couldn't handle it when they used him against him. The first time he'd flung himself into his arms, sure that Crowley had come for him. That hadn't ended very well. The next few times, of course, he knew it wasn't real, but that didn't soften the blow. Not really.
It was Muriel who had come to look for him- though she didn't have the faintest idea about what was going on upstairs. Only that the bookshop was the only place that seemed to remain standing in Whickber street, and that Crowley was a mess, and she had decided that it was time Aziraphale came back.
Not twenty-four hours later, she had a message for Crowley: "I think Aziraphale is in trouble-"
