A/N: How do they rise up? In the case of my muses, the order written versus the timeline of the show ended up being 1, 2, 3, 14(/2). In terms of the angels, it's thanks to Team Bellasario, BBC, Mike Carey, PTerry, and Neil... And my thanks to you too for the favorites and follows. (Yes, Warg is as soft for 80s/90s pop rock acts as Chloe Decker and the Bentley combined.) Couldn't resist a few nods to the miniseries, but this fic should be complete at seven chapters now.


The window creaked open, blowing a cloud of dust across the single sunbeam illuminating the back office. The creature did not yet stir from the depths of its lair, but gave the impression of an irascible dragon with sharp eyes behind glass. "We're closed, thank you."

Maze jumped in with no regard for the warning, idly spinning only one karambit around her finger. "Don't care. I'm not here for the books, anyway."

"Demoness Mazikeen Smith. Chief torturer among the Lilium, personal bodyguard of Satan, de facto Queen of Hell, co-owner and assistant manager of Lux, and bounty hunter banned from Ohio, Montana, and Florida, who was also politely asked at gunpoint to never return to Canada. We. Are. Closed," Aziraphale said more firmly.

"You're Crawly's angel," she acknowledged him at last. "The one who survived hellfire. What, you're too good to come down with the rest of us demons?"

"Quite so." Aziraphale pulled off his reading glasses, clicking the earpieces shut with two distinct motions, the sound of one shoe dropping after the other. "You see, Miss Smith, I never fell."

Maze let her expression say her doubts for her.

"I survived and triumphed over my trial by ordeal, and there are contingents in heaven that are willing to forgive quite a bit as long as it's not against the Ineffable Plan. Part and parcel of being the good guys, I expect." There was a trace of snide cynicism beneath his arrogance, buried deep as it was in the brusquely regurgitated party line. "Besides, quite a number of the younger Principalities consider Michael, Sandalphon, and Gabriel to be, and I quote, 'total dicks.'"

"No argument here." Maze shrugged at the angel's rather exaggerated air quotes. "But why bother snooping if you're not one of ours?"

"It's hardly snooping, Miss Smith. I have no plans for returning to heaven, but I still have contacts there." Aziraphale still hadn't arisen from his desk, books and notes spread as haphazardly across every flat surface as the aftermath of a rager. It reminded Maze of the way she would spread out her tools for cleaning and intimidation. "I also have godsons who know how to use the Google, and heard from the Light-bringer himself slightly more recently than Eden. The reason for my call from your dread master is also the reason why I must, with the same politeness as the Canadians, inform you that we are closed and to you, we shall regrettably remain closed."

Before Maze could react to the quintessentially English steel that this chubby, white-haired bookworm of a Principality in fawn tweed and tartan dared offer her, there was an impatient groan from the front of the shop. "Come on, angel; if we're late to the theater because you decided to completely redo your notations on the original manuscript now, you'll blame yourself and I can't stand it when you do those self-flagellating puppy eyes and we can - OHSHIT." Crowley went from an exasperated slouching amble straight into a dive behind a solid floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. "I have a plant mister and I am not afraid to use it, Maze!" The serpent held forth his weapon, sloshing its contents warningly. He did not stick any body part other than his hand into the line of fire.

Mazikeen smiled. She'd missed having properly trained fallen angels around. It really was time to get back to hell. "I'm not the wicked witch of the west, Crawly."

"It'sss holy water!"

"You'd splash your boyfriend," Maze warned the trembling hand. Honestly, she didn't think it even had the range to bother her, but Crowley had proven cunning in a panic before.

Aziraphale displayed no fear of the squirt bottle, either. "I rather imagine that if he can survive, then I can as well." He still seemed to treat her presumption about his fallen status as a joke, when even Amenadiel admitted that he was no longer in his Father's good graces. Maze could only imagine how rotten Aziraphale's wings must be.

And there was the problem that had brought her here.

"I'm not here to hurt you, Crawly." It might be fun, but indulging now would be to risk her last ride home. Luci was as much of a dick as his angelic siblings. If he weren't so stubborn, Maze wouldn't have had to book a flight all the way to London and rent a cab to Soho to get a connection to hell. "I just need a lift back home."

The plant mister didn't waver. At least, it didn't shake any worse than it had since Crowley had first glimpsed her. "You can get tickets to LA cheaper than I can. Why are you really here?"

"I mean home, you useless scaly magpie. I need you to fly me back to hell."

"Absolutely not!" The angel rose at last from his desk, overriding his partner's much less coherent "nnngk" and retreating spray bottle. "Heaven has hell under strict lockdown until Lucifer returns. I cannot in good conscience send you through the blockade, much less Crowley."

"Why would you care?" Maze asked again, readying her blade. She was going to get what she came for, one way or another.

Aziraphale pulled out a pocket watch that was as old and solid as everything else in his lair. "For one thing, Crowley's right. We are running behind for the matinee. Don't you have someone awaiting your return as well, Miss Smith?"

"Yeah. In hell." Maze loosed a lazy swipe with her right-hand karambit, more threat than attack. Instead of flinching away from a hell-forged blade that would kill demon or angel alike, Aziraphale spun his watch, catching the curved point of the knife in the chain. She was almost impressed by the soft old bookworm.

"That would include Gabriel, Michael, and Sandalphon," he reminded her quietly, as if not wishing for Crowley to hear this conversation. "Since Uriel went missing, they've been out for blood."

"He's dead." Maze had never been much for breaking bad news gently. She jerked her knife out of the tangle, ready to strike harder if she needed to.

"Well, he hasn't returned or fallen," Aziraphale noted peevishly. While the younger archangel might have been even more of a dogmatic, manipulative dick than the siblings that had tormented this Principality out of heaven, Uriel had been a clever dick, not deliberately antagonizing a potential source of information like Gabe would. Of course Luci would've killed the only brother that Aziraphale would mourn as much as the devil did.*

*(She need not have worried overmuch. While Aziraphale would indeed be upset at the loss of life and his most willing contact in heaven, bastard recognized bastard.)

"Azrael's blade." Maze was as short with her words as her patience, throwing off Crowley as he tried to slide in between the demoness and her target. It was cute when the serpent tried to get protective, his spray bottle clutched with better trigger discipline than half the cops Mazikeen had worked with. "These'll hurt. That one, you don't come back from."

"Crowley!" And there the angel spread his wings. Maze was used to Lucifer's blindingly white plumage, making Aziraphale's pale feathers look nearly gray with dust in comparison, and the creamy primaries might as well have been used to stir a cup of tea. But much like the Principality himself, they were wide, solid, and stronger than the soft fluff implied.

"M'okay, angel. Don't get distracted," Crowley warned from the floor, clutching the slash on his arm. Maze knew from experience that he'd survive worse.

"You still sure you don't want to take me back?" she asked, teasing now as she found herself with two potential rides. The dragon had been bearded in his lair, and Maze could work with anger.

Aziraphale kept his eyes on her, circling deliberately between the demons. Then, as fussily as a wet owl, he tucked the ivory wings back into his waistcoat. "With that attitude, I have nothing more to say, Miss Smith." He was still fuming and distracted by Crowley's injury, but when Maze swung, her first knife was once again met with the watch chain, and a thick, well-manicured hand caught her second wrist. "It has been some time since I fenced, but I remember my way around a blade, my girl."

Maze tilted her head as she swept his legs from beneath him. Aziraphel might outweigh her and might be willing to fight dirty for a denizen of heaven, but he didn't know Mazikeen like he claimed to know blades. Even if he dragged her off balance, she could use the force of his greater momentum against him and regain her feet. "You were the one who broke her blade in the first place," Maze observed, putting the Principality of the East Gate and the wyrm of A.Z. Fell and Co. together at last.

"I beg your pardon." Only Aziraphale could sound like an offended grande dame at high tea in the middle of a knock-down, drag-out fight. "I merely lost my sword."

"The sword of the eastern gate," Maze puffed after a lucky blow to the abdomen. The last being to have given her a more satisfying fight than this was Luci himself. There was something about kicking the shit out of Crawly in front of whoever he was trying and failing to guard. "The prophecy said that it was broken into Azrael's blade and a couple other pieces."

"Prophecy?" Suddenly, the weighted pocketwatch stopped swinging.

"No. Bad angel." Maze smelled something sour, almost burning; aerosolized droplets brushed past her leg as Crowley misted his partner like he was dissuading an overly curious cat from the fishbowl. Last time she'd faced Crowley and a white-winged angel, she'd gotten intimately familiar with the smell of holy water on demonic flesh. Had it right under her nose, so to speak. He'd been more careful, with Lucifer.

It didn't harm Aziraphale in the least, though he muttered a well-worn complaint about humidity and old paper. Crowley merely leveled him with unrepentant yellow eyes, a flat mouth, (lips still bitten against the pain,) and the spray bottle in the hand he wasn't clasping to his injury. "What prophecy?" the bibliophile asked anyway.

Maze spun her knives back into her sleeves. She should have known this would be the easiest way to hook him from the start. "Just some old book that Luci and Amenadiel picked up while trying to fulfill one of their Mother's crazy plots. Lucifer couldn't read the Sumerian." Mazikeen shrugged as if Her attempt to storm heaven didn't bother her in the least.

"The Philistine," Aziraphale hissed. If the angel didn't have a natural antagonism for the devil, he certainly had one for apes that couldn't properly appreciate their own libraries.* "And to think he outbid me on Freud's journal."

*(Aziraphale considered it an insult to fully literate and bibliophilic apes.)

"'Snot like your spoken German is much good anymore, either. I always have to order for us at that little chocolatier in Salzburg because your accent is atrociously out of date."

"Yes, but I can still read," Aziraphale bickered on reflex. His hackles invisibly lowered as Crowley swayed to his feet, somehow making the not-quite-fallen angel appear paradoxically more curly-haired and fluffy.

And the serpent snapped his spray bottle full of holy water to Maze's cheek. Maybe there was something to this whole old married couple routine. "Unless you want symmetrical features, Maze, back the heaven off."

"Now, dear, we might see about rescheduling our tickets and getting the lady home," Aziraphale offered, willing to forgive most graciously as long as there were ancient books of prophecy involved. Mazikeen was half-tempted to set the angel loose on the penthouse, letting him take whatever reading material and alcohol he could claim for his hoard. She had the feeling that it would be a lot.* "She has come a very long way, and that Jason Griffin fellow at the box office is always so understanding when one has family issues come up."

*(No one was admitting to the hellish miracle, but about a year after Aziraphale's shop had burned down and Adam Young had replaced its inventory, browned first editions of Wilde, Austen, and Shakespeare turned up in Lucifer's penthouse. Lucifer said they smelled like smoke because of his cigarettes and weed. He had not saved the misprinted bibles. There would be words if Aziraphale ever discovered this.)

"Aziraphale, no." Crowley put his hand on her opposite shoulder, using it and the plant mister to frog march Maze away from the office nook and toward the front door, shoving her back into the light of day. "She's too dangerous. You are going back to LA, and you're doing it on your own, Maze."

"Come on, Crawly. Can't tell me that you wouldn't love to sic me on the vanguard of heaven, especially if you don't have to get between us," the demoness purred.

He remained resolute, holding both her and the spray bottle at arm's length. Crowley wasn't as tall as Lucifer,* but she wasn't fully convinced that the serpent wasn't doing something snakey to his long arms to increase his distance. His elbows were locked so tight that it would be a tragedy not to break his grip and knock him off balance.

*(About three to six inches shorter, depending on how much the demon slouched.)

"You against Michael? I'd pay to see the catfight. You take on Sandalphon? He deserves to get knocked down a peg or two. I think we'd both be cheering for you against Gabriel." Aziraphale nodded enthusiastically in the corner of her vision opposite the plant mister, possibly where he thought they couldn't see him.

"So bring popcorn." She'd happily fight all three and anyone else that dared blockade her way home.

"But you know that taking you down to hell would expose either me or my angel to them, like I know that you've been toying with us, like you know that this is just the vinegar-based cleaner Anathema whipped up." Crowley sounded proud of his ironclad deductions up until Maze turned into the bottle against her cheek and gave him a smile that was all teeth. "Oh, like I would survive the Boss if you got hurt. You might have been up against two of the strongest angels up here, but down there, the sheer numbers would kill you, let alone me." He loosed her shoulder as they crossed into the lobby area and slithered away from a good kicking, though he kept the spray bottle aimed at her like he still mentally prayed that it would be effective despite giving away the bluff.*

*(While the contents weren't water, and not necessarily holy, Anathema had given the solution a witch's blessing, which Crowley could hope counted for something, anyway. Her patron wasn't down in hell, after all… but then neither was his.)

Aziraphale kept his distance as well, laying his hand on his partner's wound to knit the flesh back together more quickly. Maze might have left Crowley with a scar. Not a big one, and not the first, but it lessened the draw of the book when the serpent spoke too much sense. She was rapidly requiring a Plan C.

"You probably aren't going to be the last to assume that I have fallen, Miss Smith," Aziraphale added delicately. "If I go down there, the head office will likely make sure that my trip becomes one way." Sending Crowley was not even worth mentioning. The angel had fallen, after a fashion.

"Cowards," Maze sighed in defeat. "You two are useless."

"Yep," Crowley popped, before reluctantly setting down the bottle and making a show of checking his expensive watch. "But you knew that. Now, it's been fun, but we're late, so ciao."

"Unless you'd like to join us?" Aziraphale offered as the serpent attempted to force Maze out the door by the power of slouch alone. "This theater doesn't have a strict dress code, fortunately for you and Crowley, and it is the last play of the season."

"Fortunately for me? You embarrassed the kids when you came to their sixth year performance of The Tempest in a tailcoat." Mazikeen found herself drawn in their bickering wake out of sheer morbid curiosity.

"I rather think that they were far more embarrassed about how rumpled it was, not the garment itself." Aziraphale locked the door behind them, adjusting his current, only slightly less formal jacket and waistcoat.

"And that's my fault?"

"Yes, it was indeed, my dear."

Maze cleared her throat and stepped into the back of the Bentley. She appreciated a good fuck after a fight as much as the next demon, but she wasn't getting involved in whatever these two were teasing at.

"I'm glad you decided to join us, Miss Smith. Wensleydale gives a gravitas to Colonel Pickering that few adult actors can match, and Shaw himself could not ask for a more doughty Mrs Higgins than Pepper. She convinced the student director to stick with the Pygmalion ending, rather than what the original musical implied," Aziraphale continued as he settled into the passenger seat, hand already white-knuckled against the door handle.

"Still think Eliza didn't get enough choices," Crowley added as he started the motor and floored it within two turns from the parallel parking.

He ignored the angel's half-strangled "seatbelts, dear!" but the suicidal flight through London traffic convinced Maze, and she thought Lucifer was reckless.

"But Adam makes his Freddy less of a stalker and more… more like one who just can't help adoring this unexpected and impossible creature, all the more heaven-sent for her rough edges and wrong ideas." Somehow she doubted that the kid would have to look very far for character inspiration.

"With apologies for the present company and Brian's big number, get us to the church on time, dear. But please do try to get us there alive?" Maybe Aziraphale didn't blame his wrinkled tailcoat entirely on what he'd call "hanky panky." It probably still got the speed demon in the driver's seat off.

"With a little bit of luck," Crowley answered him in kind.

Maze wasn't surprised that "On the Street Where You Live" was the highlight of the show. Adam's family had always had a flair for music.


It was late when she came back to the apartment, a porcelain tchotchke held in gloved hand to catch the streetlights and cast shadows over the many, many art projects she'd proudly hung over the knife damage.* Chloe should be out on a case with Lucifer, so no one was likely to catch her as she slunk in for a few supplies.

*(And may have encouraged Trixie to cause, just to have an excuse to hang up a few more drawings.)

There was a faint light from the corner armchair. Maze carefully set down the porcelain angel and crept up behind it, only to find Trixie curled up around her laptop, watching some kung fu cartoon through her earbuds. "I thought you were at your dad's this week," Maze said, plucking out one of her earbuds. "Aren't you supposed to be asleep by now, anyway?"

It really wasn't fair how the girl's face brightened at the sight of her. There was a smudge of chocolate icing at the corner of her mouth, and her dark hair was mussed by the blanket she'd pulled over her head before Maze had interrupted. "Aren't you supposed to be hunting a bounty somewhere far away?" Trixie asked right back, before scrambling out of her nest for a hug.

"Well, I'm not staying for long," Mazikeen grumbled, hugging her just as firmly. "Especially if you already ate all the cake."

"I can cut us both another slice," Trixie said, scooping up the empty plate lightly dusted in devil's food crumbs and leading her to the kitchen. "Mom's on stakeout, and I couldn't sleep. Wanna watch Avatar with me?"

It bothered Maze more than it should that Chloe hadn't gotten a babysitter for her nine year old, that said nine year old was clearly nervous enough about her mother's absence that she was suffering a bout of insomnia, and that these sleepless nights were common enough for Trixie to brush right over her worries and pick out an activity to distract herself with.

"Dunno, what's it about?" Maze grabbed a fork for her share of cake and headed back into the family room as Trixie unplugged her earbuds, brought her laptop over to the couch where they could share the blanket, and restarted the episode, all the while rattling on about different bending styles and asking Maze if she'd ever fought with a fan or a boomerang.*

*(She wouldn't have called it a proper fight, but she'd used a boomerang, metal war fan, and a folded bit of paper over various violent situations.)

Hell was said to get most of the best artists, but Maze found a few she liked on earth.

Still, after she got Trixie to bed, (she'd drifted off about two episodes in and Maze left their cake plates where they lay) the demoness punched in a number on her phone, not caring that it was eight hours ahead, so late there it was practically early and Anthony J. Crowley did not do early.

He and Lucifer were cut from the same tall white beanpole cloth, all sinew and sass and sharp edges. In silhouette, even their wings were similarly shaped, though Crowley rarely held his outstretched with the same confidence that Luci did. Maze was going to have to work on that. "Hey, Crawly," she greeted, picking up the angel figurine from behind the couch. "I need a favor. Not gonna drag you to hell, I just need a pair of wings for a prank…"