Crowley is softly snoring when Aziraphale leaves the bedroom after having deposited the demon in his bed. The lines and creases in the demon's brow have faded and he appears to be having a pleasant sleep, if the lax expression and slight bit of drool coming from the edge of his mouth are anything to go by. For a moment, Aziraphale watches his demon sleep, peace settling his heart.

Crowley will forgive him, he thinks, for putting him to sleep like that. The fact the blessing worked at all is telling of how exhausted Crowley truly was, as it never would have worked otherwise. The fact it took him down so quickly is also rather telling, and he wonders how the past two weeks have really been on Crowley.

They can't have been easy. Aziraphale tries to imagine himself in Crowley's shoes, with the demon injured and knocked out for so long. It doesn't bear mentioning, because it is a very unpleasant thought. Aziraphale can't fix the past two weeks or wipe them from Crowley's mind, but he can help Crowley now that he is awake, and that's just what he plans to do.

Crowley will most likely sleep for at least a day, perhaps longer. Since it was an involuntary sleep, he doesn't imagine Crowley sleeping for too long, despite the fact he once slept almost an entire century, mostly to avoid an awkward conversation between them.

Aziraphale slips out of the bedroom and makes his way downstairs.

He starts cleaning up by picking up and disposing of all the empty bottles lining his bookshop floor. Once that is taken care of, he sits in his chair and ponders what he should do next.

What other options can he look into while Crowley sleeps?

The Main Entrance was the best way into Heaven. Arriving via gateway isn't pleasant, Aziraphale knows from experience. Plus, the circle isn't working properly thanks to whatever might be happening in Heaven. Discorporating won't help him much either; he doesn't wish to lose his body again. He's filled this form for over 6000 years and he has grown rather attached to it; it just… feels like him.

Form shapes nature.

Aziraphale remembers what it was like prior to receiving said body, of course. He remembers Heaven how it always was: pristine, white, and filled with Love and grace. Her grace. Her Love. The angels within were all connected in a way; they all thought alike and they all behaved alike, and it was a utopia.

Or, rather, it should have been.

It was supposed to be utopia. The perfect place, filled with perfect beings, created from Her loving grace. That's how it should have been.

In reality, however, there was clearly dissent in the ranks. Lucifer rose up, rebellious and stubborn, full of pride and certain of his victory. He had his own group of followers who flocked to him like ducklings and all he wanted, it seemed, was the ability to choose for himself. To make his own path, to break the rules and be free.

Aziraphale can't help but notice the similarities between himself and the devil. It certainly took him much longer to accept these… temptations within himself, and even longer to finally act on them, but to be fair, Aziraphale had no reason to question anything about Heaven until the humans left the garden and a demon struck up a conversation with him atop the wall surrounding it. Looking back now, he can see himself as he used to be: a mindless drone in an endless sea of soldiers, all without their own thoughts or ideas or aspirations. A good little soldier, as it were. He was a good soldier. He was powerful, he fought in the Great War, and won accolades enough that he was stationed as the sole agent on Earth for 6000 years, because somehow, he had earned that right.

Now, he is certainly no soldier. Guarding the humans was like waking up for the first time, and it is the only experience of waking up that he didn't find unpleasant. The thought of returning to the mindless void of heavenly grace… It shakes him to the core, and he can picture himself as he used to be: empty. So very empty.

So, he doesn't wish to lose his body and be forced back to Heaven that way. Certainly not. Also, he highly doubts he will be granted a new corporation should that happen, because he isn't exactly popular Up There at the moment.

He doesn't want to discorporate, but it is an option. A poor one, but present nevertheless. If he really wants to get to Heaven, he will have that option.

Heaven.

He worries for the angels. He isn't sure if the Entrance works both ways or if it is only any angels trying to enter Heaven which suffer whatever happened on those stairs, but either way, he feels stuck out here, lost in the cold, set adrift in a storm. And maybe the angels in Heaven feel trapped, too.

He shouldn't care so much. Crowley is right, there. The angels don't care about him, at least not in any meaningful way. He was a mindless soldier and they appreciated the fact he followed orders, he thinks, if they felt anything at all, but now he is certainly a thorn in their side. He helped avert the apocalypse, after all. And Heaven tried to kill him for it.

So he really shouldn't care what happens to them, but turning his back on his fellow angels like that is not something he can fully commit to, even if he isn't aligned with Heaven anymore. He can't just sit bak and let them suffer, whatever is happening Up There.

This is, of course, assuming that the issue really does rest Up There, and not down here with himself. For all he knows, he is the problem at hand. He's getting the Urges, he's being prayed to, it's his powers which are on the fritz, and it was him who was attacked trying to get to Heaven. Is this to be God's punishment, then? Not to have him Fall, but not to accept him as an angel, either? A twisted sort of limbo?

Whether or not he's the problem or it's Heaven, it doesn't really matter. He still needs answers.

He just—

Needs to stretch his legs.

He stands from his chair and strides toward the front of the bookshop. His hand is already pushing the door open and he has one foot out of the shop before he wrenches control of himself again and stops in his tracks.

"No," he says. He doesn't need to stretch his legs.

He won't.

There's a clawing feeling his chest, something scraping to break free, but he will not give into the Urge. He won't leave Crowley alone like that, won't leave him here defenceless. What if Crowley wakes up while he is away? What if someone, or something, attacks the shop while he's sleeping upstairs, unprotected?

He can't leave.

But he's already out the door. It closes behind him with a sharp report, and he turns left and starts walking down the sidewalk.

Stop this, he tries to tell himself. Stop this, you can't leave Crowley.

Oh… but it really would be nice to stretch his legs. He's been cooped up in that bookshop for weeks according to Crowley, and a breath of fresh air never hurt anyone.

He only needs to go a short distance—he can pace himself. He won't get tired and he will be back shortly. Just a quick walk around a couple of blocks.

Yes. It all sounds rather lovely.

He walks for roughly ten minutes. It really is a nice day out, the sun shining brightly in the sky, not a cloud in sight. For all that he's been cooped up in his beloved bookshop, a breath of fresh air is really what he needed.

There is a bus stop just down the street. He uses it from time to time when he needs to travel and doesn't wish to miracle himself somewhere. When he goes clothes shopping, for starters, he will take the bus. At least the bus driving doesn't speed through traffic like a certain demon.

He lingers at the bus stop for a moment, uncertain where he should go. Where he wants to go. He doesn't really want to be anywhere, but he doesn't want to leave the bus stop and go back to the bookshop, either.

A bus pulls up and stops. Its doors open.

People spill out. One of them is wheezing, hiding their mouth behind a handkerchief, and Aziraphale steps toward them.

"Oh, my dear," he hums thoughtfully, frowning at the person in front of him. They stop and stare at him, something like recognition sparking briefly in their eyes, even as their troubled soul cries out for help. It is a beacon, a call to action he can't ignore.

The man is still wheezing.

Allergic reaction, Aziraphale gleans from the man's surface thoughts. Panic. Fear. I don't have my epipen. It's getting hard to breathe.

No. That won't do.

Aziraphale waves his hand in front of the man's face. "All is well," he says.

The man stops wheezing. His lungs expand with his first deep breath in the past few minutes, and then the man is reaching for him.

Hands clutch at his shoulders.

"Oh, thank you so much," the man says gratefully. "Was a goner, I was. Thought I was. Thank you, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale didn't tell the man his name, but he knows it all the same. He feels like this should spark some worry within him, but it makes sense the man knows his name. Aziraphale is the Principality, the protector and guardian of Earth, after all; why should the man not know him?

"No need to thank me, good sir," Aziraphale says with a nod. "Just happy to help."

Then he turns and heads back to his bookshop.

The further he gets from the bus stop, the more awareness slips through him and he looks around, utterly confused as to why he is out here in the first. Oh, he thinks as he remembers. Some sort of Urge brought him out here, and Crowley is at the bookshop all alone and unprotected.

Aziraphale rushes back to the bookshop, pushing past people and sliding around them. He can be quite agile when necessary. He pushes into the bookshop and quickly goes upstairs to check on the sleeping demon.

Crowley is still where he left him in bed—peaceful and softly snoring. Relief floods through Aziraphale and he leans against the doorframe momentarily, just watching Crowley sleep.

Then he goes back downstairs.

He needs answers. He needs to know what is happening with these Urges and he needs to know what is happening with Heaven.

He might have cut ties of Heaven, but that doesn't mean doesn't care for its denizens. That doesn't mean he doesn't worry about them or what might be happening to them.

In the past, he's gone centuries without hearing from his superiors. Orders were received with a thought, passed down directly to him, and he knew what was expected of him. Come to think of it, it felt similar to the Urges he's getting now, except for the fact he has no control over himself now. Before, it was simply downloaded into his mind, what he needed to do, where he needed to go, and why. He made his way there of his own free will.

Now it feels like something is possessing him and dragging him somewhere. He's thankful to have helped those poor troubled souls, but does not like being used as such. He cut ties with Heaven so he could have free will, after all.

He moves the table from the circle in his bookshop and relights the candles, then steps back to activate it.

He presses his hands together and prays.

"Hello again," he says gently. "This is the Principality Aziraphale, guardian of the Eastern gate and humanity, and I'm afraid I really need to speak with someone."

The circle hums with energy, but it doesn't flare up as it should. It doesn't connect like he really needs it to.

He purses his lips. "I'm afraid I can't take no for an answer. This is dreadfully important and concerns the safety of Heaven."

The humming energy intensifies, but still it does not connect.

Blast it. I really need this to work.

"I'm willing to take this all the way to the top."

Energy twists around the circle, bright and overwhelming. It swirls to life and there's a sudden breeze in the room which wasn't there before, and a couple books fly off their shelves due to the sheer force of it and crash to the ground with loud thuds. Aziraphale winces at the noise and at the pressure of the room. This doesn't quite feel right.

A voice echoes amongst all the noise, like a bit of static over the phone.

"… need help… God…"

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale says, frowning. "I can't quite hear you. Can you repeat that?"

"… restructuring…"

"Re… structuring?" Aziraphale repeats, confusion flooding through him. What on Earth does that mean? "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't understand. What is happening in Heaven?"

"… need help… God…"

"… restructuring…"

"… need help… God…"

It is an echo, repeating itself over and over.

Aziraphale frowns and holds his hands out, angelic energy gathering in his palms as he tries to strengthen the connection, his grace surrounding him like a physical force. His energy feeds into the circle, amping it as much as he is able, and the world starts to spin around him.

"… hear… can anyone… trouble… need help…"

It seems like some kind of repetitive, general broadcast. Perhaps it is channelled to all gateways; it might explain how impersonal it feels.

"Come on…" Aziraphale mutters, "just a little clearer, please, and I can hear you…"

He feeds more of his energy into the gateway. The swell of wind circling him in response threatens to throw him from his feet. Books fly across the room, caught in torrents of energy as they are flung this way and that. The lights flicker dispassionately above him. The building shakes.

"… we're in trouble… God is… restructuring… need help if anyone… hear…"

A jet of holy magic shoots from the gateway, up into the ceiling. It doesn't mark the ceiling or damage it, as it isn't a physical force, but it exists nevertheless. Aziraphale fights the urge to reach out and touch that tendril of power, of holiness. A shiver flits through him when he realises why this feels so very wrong.

Normally, when the gateway is active, he can feel Her grace and Love flooding through him. There is no such energy now.

Instead, the impressions he gets from the energy surrounding him is… anger.

God's a bit tetchy, he once told Crowley.

Not anger, he thinks. Disappointment. Impatience. Frustration. Not outright anger, but a complex series of emotions he can't quite decipher. God has been rather absent for a long time now, and the only one who has frequently heard Her voice is the Metatron.

Why has her energy changed? What is happening to Heaven?

And why is she so angry?

"Angel, stop!"

Just like that, the thread connecting him to the gateway is cut as he looks over his shoulder at Crowley, who has come darting into the room. He hovers at the edge of the energy field, hands outstretched and burning, red and raw from that touch of holiness eating away at him.

Aziraphale's veins turn to ice. "Crowley!"

He stops the connection immediately. The energy field disperses and the gateway's light fizzles into nothing as he rushes toward the demon. Aziraphale reaches for the demon's hands, his own hands trembling as his fingers run across the damage. He summons a healing miracle and pushes it at the demon, but angelic magic doesn't exactly work the best on demons, especially on wounds made by something holy.

Crowley snarls under his breath, wrenching his hands away from Aziraphale's. "Stop that," he says. "I'm fine. What the Heaven were you doing?"

"Trying to reach someone," Aziraphale says, reaching for Crowley's hands again. "Let me heal that, dear. I am so sorry."

"Nggh, it's fine," Crowley says. "Doesn't even hurt anymore."

"Crowley, please."

The demon sighs and offers his hands. Aziraphale carefully runs his fingers across the damaged skin, pushing his healing thoughts at the demon's essence, soothing the ache as best he can. The skin itself should heal quickly enough as it is superficial damage, but he still hates that he injured the demon. He didn't think the gateway could emit such a strong angelic field.

"Something is wrong with Heaven," Aziraphale says as he works. "There was a message, like static. It wasn't all that clear, but I got a few bits of it. Something about restructuring, and God is… a bit tetchy."

"Tetchy," Crowley repeats. "Tetchy. Of course She's bloody tetchy! Look, angel, the problems of Heaven aren't yours, okay? If She's restructuring, then… Look, if they made her mad they can bloody well deal with the consequences on their own."

"This goes beyond 'mad', Crowley. Those angels were asking for help."

"Yeah? Well, doesn't mean you have to do it."

Aziraphale frowns. "I can't just ignore them."

"They've never helped you, Aziraphale, not once! You don't owe them anything."

Crowley has a point, deep down, but Aziraphale simply can't ignore someone when they ask for help. He can't ignore their suffering. For all he knows, right now, every angel up in Heaven is suffering.

"What do you suppose 'restructuring' means?" Aziraphale asks.

"Dunno," Crowley mutters. "Could be anything. But if it's happening to the Archangel fucking Gabriel, I say let it happen."

Aziraphale winces at the sharp bite to those words, but understands why Crowley thinks such a thing. He's not fond of the Archangels either, especially Gabriel, who had always rubbed him wrong, as it were. The Archangels did try to go ahead with Armageddon anyway, even though there really didn't need to be a war, and Gabriel even so far as to come down here himself and attempt to tempt Adam into restarting the end of the world.

If God is angry with Heaven, maybe Aziraphale should leave well enough alone. He broke away for a reason, after all.

But he can't simply ignore this.

He wishes Crowley could understand. He used to be an angel once; surely he remembers what that was like? Hell doesn't seem to have much loyalty to one another, but surely he remembers Heaven and being an angel.

It was, as Crowley said, a long time ago, though.

"How are you feeling, my dear?" He asks, to change the subject. Crowley's hands are healing nicely now, and he doesn't appear to be in pain, so Aziraphale drops his hands and steps past him, toward the kitchen to make himself some tea. Tea always helps calm his nerves.

"Oh, I'm right pissed at you," Crowley says, following him into the kitchen. "You put me to sleep, you bastard."

"You needed it. And it wouldn't have worked if you hadn't been exhausted."

Aziraphale refuses to feel guilty for it. Crowley needed it and was refusing to do so, so he had to act himself. Needs must.

A fierce banging sound erupts from the front of the store.

Crowley, wily serpent that he is, darts out of the kitchen first to see what all the noise is about. Azirpahale quickly follows after him.

Someone is banging on the door to the bookshop.

Right. He must have locked it when he returned earlier.

With a wave of his hand the door swings open and a delivery man walks in.

"Neat trick, that is," the delivery man says cheerily as he carries a long package toward them. "Package for you, sir." He hands the box directly to Aziraphale.

"I didn't order anything," Aziraphale says even as he accepts the package offered to him. It is only polite, after all.

"Right, I need you to sign here for it." The deliver man holds out a clipboard. Aziraphale accepts the pen almost numbly; he can't quite feel it in his hand, but gets the sensation he really does need to sign for this; he wants this package, whatever it is. "Thank you, sir."

And then, as suddenly as he arrived, the delivery man leaves.

"Well, that was bloody bizarre," Crowley says. "What is it, angel?"

Aziraphale tears off the tape sealing the long, thin box, and a sword drops into his open palm. A familiar sword, in fact.

Crowley stares at it. "Is that…?"

"I do believe it is, my dear."

It's his sword. The one gave away when the humans left Eden. The one War had when the world didn't end. The one he returned to Heaven… he'd given it to that very same delivery man, come to think of it.

"Oh, dear."

"What is it?"

A single white letter falls out of the box as well. It flutters to the ground, shimmering and shining all the way, aglow with such holy grace. Crowley hisses, backing up a step from it, shielding his eyes from the brightness. Aziraphale bends down to pick it up, turning it over to unfold it.

"Well? What's it say, then?"

Aziraphale—Principality and Guardian of the Eastern Gate

You might need this. Leave Heaven be.

That's it. That's all it says, but even so, he knows exactly who it is from.

"Angel? What is it?"

"It's a message," Aziraphale says quietly. "From God."