1.Yikes. Well, that was unfortunate... It seems the timings of removing the Metatron from the equation entirely are proving little tricksy. And the Metatron's absence at the wrong time seems to be as disastrous as his presence.

Take three, then, love? Bear in mind we've had clubs and diamonds already – only hearts or spades will trump them. Yes, of course – quite understandable. Back to the deck we go.

The pack dances into a new formation and the deck lands on the table anew. Eyes on the cards. Round and round they go.


2 of Hearts (time to spend some quality time with your loved ones)

[A third card turns over and lift doors snap shut behind Aziraphale]


Aziraphale's lips were still burning from the kiss as Crowley stormed out of the bookshop. The door slammed behind him, leaving a ringing silence. It was broken only by the Metatron shuffling back in with a mild enquiry about Crowley's reaction.

"Errr…not well." Aziraphale laughed and hoped it didn't sound as wild to the Metatron as it did in his own ears.[1]

[1] It did, but the Metatron carefully avoided mentioning it.

Aziraphale followed the voice of God out of the bookshop in a daze. Yes, leaving it all behind. That was for the best. Muriel would take care of it. He was sure he would be able to have a quiet word with them about the opening hours, and the inadvisability of selling any books, and preserving a suitably frosty atmosphere[2] to discourage any intrepid customers. After all, it wasn't as though he wanted, or needed, any reminders that he was leaving anything behind. Really, the Metatron was doing him a favour, handing the place over to Muriel without asking so he didn't have to find a suitable replacement. He was saving him a lot of bother in the long run, he was sure.[3]

[2] Both figurative and literal. Aziraphale found that frostiness was most effective when applied both at the level of customer welcome (or lack thereof) and on a physical level by maintaining the temperature at a level unpleasant to humans and unharmful to his books.

[3] The loudness of the silence ringing around the shop was replaced only with the louder sound of Denial.

The Metatron muttered something about the Second Coming of Christ and a five-year build-up to a five-year plan of actually putting the Coming in motion as they crossed the street. Aziraphale felt a prickle of discomfort, but he brushed it away. Becoming Supreme Archangel was all part of the Ineffable Plan. Anyway, it wasn't as if this was the first time Crowley had stormed off. Why he had gone off in a huff only days ago, when Gabriel had first arrived. Yes, soon the silly goose would calm down and come back and the two of them would continue with The Arrangement, only this time divinely sanctioned, and everything would be just lovely. Heavenly, even.

Soothing light surrounded him as he stepped into the lift, and yet –

Oh, it was no use. He did not feel even remotely calm. Perhaps he should have stopped over at Nina's lovely café and ordered some Eccles cakes. Or perhaps it was the latte the Metatron had given him which was making him feel so jittery. He made a mental note to ask Crowley how on earth he coped with six shots of espresso in one go, before he remembered that he and Crowley were no longer on speaking terms. As of approximately five minutes ago. And that now he was on his way Upstairs, with little likelihood of seeing him for a long while.

The realization slammed into Aziraphale with enough force to knock all the breath out of him. He couldn't leave. Not like this. Everything was happening so suddenly, and things were going far too fast. There was too much left unsaid.

Aziraphale gasped and stepped out of the elevator, just as the doors clicked shut. There was a whooshing sound. Oh dear. It seemed the Metatron would be making his way up to Heaven alone, at least for the moment. Aziraphale swallowed and fervently hoped there would not be too much paperwork miracled onto his desk by the time he arrived back in his[4] bookshop.[5]

[4] Technically not 'his' anymore but, as established above, Aziraphale was currently engaged in a furious gavotte with Denial.

[5] Not that he had signed anything officially, but it didn't seem quite the done thing to agree to a post and then promptly walk off in the opposite direction without so much as a by your leave.

Crowley was still leaning against the Bentley, as Aziraphale hurried over him. Although his eyes remained shielded by sunglasses, his eyebrows were rising slightly as Aziraphale drew level to him.

"I think – before I leave – we have a few things we still need to talk about," Aziraphale ventured.

Crowley's lips thinned. "Do we now. I'd thought we'd both made it very clear where we both stand."

"Crowley, I-" Aziraphale began.

"Of all the responses to a-" Crowley coughed painfully, "confession, that has got to rank under the top five most pathetic of all time."[6]

[6] Crowley was largely unaware of modern TV shows but even after – mostly – cutting ties with Downstairs, he would still get the occasional note congratulating him on fomenting Wrath. Crowley would mostly just shrug. The confessions from the most recent seasons of Supernatural and Doctor Who had had nothing to do with him. Now, Han and Leia on the other hand…

Aziraphale opened his mouth to interrupt and Crowley held up a hand. "Saying I know – now that's an awful response, don't get me wrong. But sssaying I forgive you? What, you forgive that the worthlesss sscum of a demon had the audassity to tell an angel what he felt for him? You forgive the sssin – the abomination of me telling you I loved you?" Crowley laughed. It was the laugh of someone who had just been kicked in the ribs and who was being forced to pretend it had amused him. "I have nothing to say to you, angel." He pushed his sunglasses further up his nose and made to get in the Bentley.

"Crowley, that's not what I meant-" Aziraphale's hand closed around his wrist.

"Get off, Aziraphale."

"Do you really think so little of me that I would forgive you for expressing love? What I was telling you was that I forgive you for leaving me! And that I forgive you for turning your back on Her, even when you were offered a chance for Redemption."

Crowley made a noise as though he'd been kicked yet again, only this time in the throat. "I don't want their hhhngh Redemption." He spat the final word as though it were corroding his tongue. "Don't you see, Aziraphale? They don't care! They don't care about forgiveness. It's not about forgivenessssss. They can't spit in my face for six thousand years and offer "forgiveness" on a plate just to make your job offer more tempting. And, urghh, for mediocrity's sake, would you let go of me, Aziraphale!"

"I'm about to ask if you can forgive me. Because you see – I also love you."

"You what-"

"I said I also love you, my dear. And that's why I want you to come with me. Don't you understand. We could still be an us!" Aziraphale looked frantic. "We don't have to be apart! You never meant to Fall, you said it yourself. You just sauntered vaguely downwards and it hurt you Crowley, however much you deny it! We can undo that!"

Crowley's face twisted and he looked more miserable than Aziraphale could remember seeing him in a long time.[7] "Heaven or Hell – it doesn't matter, angel! They both only care about destroying the other. They don't care about Earth! They certainly don't care about us. They just want to be able to manip-"

[7] And yes, this did include seeing Crowley sitting alone in a pub steadily drinking through a whole bottle of vodka with Armageddon fast approaching.

Aziraphale's other hand abruptly closed around Crowley's other wrist and then Aziraphale's mouth was on his and Crowley felt himself being pressed against the Bentley in a not-unpleasant sort of way. Where Aziraphale had stood motionless earlier, now he was kissing Crowley as though his life depended on it. Just as he thought this, Aziraphale's tongue darted against Crowley's lips and Crowley parted them willingly, trying to suppress a groan. It was less successful than he had hoped and Aziraphale groaned in return and shuddered against him, deepening the kiss. The world was melting around Crowley, dissolving into sensation.

Aziraphale flicked his tongue again and Crowley thought blearily that Armageddon could kick off again right now and he would have difficulty noticing.[8] Eventually Aziraphale pulled back, breathing rapidly. His pupils, Crowley noticed with satisfaction, were completely blown open. He had done that. Somehow his glasses had also got lost but he found he didn't care.

[8] This assessment was entirely accurate, given that both of them were failing to notice a large number of wolf whistles which had broken out around them, as well as Nina who was currently engaged in pouring coffee over the counter and grinning broadly. In a couple of seconds, she would notice, and the grin would be replaced with fluent swearing but for now she was happy that her and Maggie's combined efforts seemed to have gone through – finally.

"I meant what I said," Aziraphale muttered, resting his forehead against Crowley's. "I need you. I can't go it alone."

"So come away with me, angel. Please."

Aziraphale groaned pulled his head back. "I can't. I've accepted the job offer. I really believe I can make a difference, Crowley. Ending suffering. Isn't that what we both want?"

"Not like thisss," Crowley hissed. "If we just got away from both Head Offices, you would be able to see that we don't need them to make a difference – to end some suffering!"

Aziraphale pursed his lips. There was a not-insubstantial headache forming at his temples. "Four more years."

"Four more years…?"

"Four years. Going by what the Metatron said, I will only really be indispensable in five years or so. So. My suggestion is this: we are clearly at an impasse. So, Alpha Centauri it is. We have four years. At the end of them we will return here, and I will go back to Head Office. Unless you have miraculously managed to change my mind about the whole Situation."

Crowley joined Aziraphale on the headache front. "Four years," he agreed wearily. Surely he would have helped Aziraphale see reason by then?


(At this point, the Reader would probably like to embrace the idea that Crowley was correct in his assumption. Crowley and Aziraphale manage to parallel Gabriel and Beelzebub, after all. Crowley's suggestion in the bandstand finally comes to pass. Around the fourth year, they find a small cottage nestled in the South Downs of Proxima b[9]. They settle down, fomenting Contentment, and occasionally Shenanigans, amongst its population. They make a difference. They live happily ever.[10] Everything is tickety boo.

[9] An Earth-sized planet orbiting around Proxima Centauri, the third and faintest star in the Trinity making up the star system Alpha Centauri.

[10] They are immortal beings – there is no After, to speak of.

Before sauntering vaguely across to any such conclusions, however, the Reader would be well-advised to note the title of this work).


Aziraphale had insisted on leaving the Metatron a very politely-worded note about the Situation,[11] explaining that he would take a brief four-year leave[12] as a 'sabbatical and period of creative reflection.'

[11] While Aziraphale generally objected to Unnecessary Capitalization of Nouns in memos to Head Office, sometimes the situation called for it. This was one such Situation.

[12] After all, Aziraphale reasoned nervously, he was theoretically entitled to a leave of one year every millennium, and he had never dared submit a claim for any of it.

And then Crowley had snapped his fingers and they were away.


Settling in turned out to be extremely easy. Proxima b was surprisingly similar to Earth, only with a complete lack of fossil fuels,[13] an energy resource, for which the humanoid beings inhabiting the planet had failed to find an equivalent.[14]

[13] A good joke was worth repeating, but even the best could suffer from overuse, and it had been decided (with remarkable foresight) in the Early Days, that the joke with the fossilized dinosaur skeletons should be kept exclusive to Planet Earth, just in case it wasn't given the appreciation it deserved. Palaeontologists, eh? What a bunch of humourless plonkers.

[14] This meant that, on an atomical level, the atmosphere of Proxima b was technically delightfully breathable, but a consequent lack of readily available hot water and electric toothbrushes meant that oftentimes the Proxima b humanoids had a somewhat stronger odour than those living on Earth.

Crowley hadn't lied. The nightlife of Proxima b was horrible. But they found it didn't matter. They had other things to do. It was Aziraphale who found a job first. He started volunteering at a shelter for queer youth, offering cocoa and understanding, and the promise of better tomorrows.[15] The first time a thunderstorm broke over the building and cleared away, it took Aziraphale several attempts to bring himself to head outside and check on the shelter's freshly-painted rainbow mural. When he did, the sun gleamed down, and its colours glowed just as proudly as before.

[15] Hatred, unfortunately, is something that exists across all universes. But – and this is a big but – so does love.

Crowley still collected plants. He still yelled at them. But he found it happening less and less. The first time he found himself fondly stroking the leaf of a lemon tree[16] he wondered if he was entering a Mid Life Crisis. Humanoids seemed to have them all the time.

[16] Not an apple tree. He wasn't there yet. Maybe one day.

He was still the Original Tempter, though, and when he saw a post for a position of Distributing Knowledge, he couldn't help himself.

"You've done what, exactly?" Aziraphale's voice was just on the unflattering side of incredulous.

Crowley grinned. "Like I just said. I'm Distributing Knowledge. Encouraging the humanoids to think for themselves."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "You know, my dear, out of the two of us, I don't think anyone would have pegged you as the librarian. I recall you once said something about not even dealing with books at gunpoint?"

Crowley grinned wider. "I said I'd never run a bookshop. A library is a totally different matter, angel."

And Aziraphale – to his surprise – found that he wasn't entirely wrong. When the books weren't his to begin with, recommending them to strangers was suddenly much easier.

A year passed. Then another. They were making an impact, Aziraphale supposed, but something still felt off. They were making an impact, yes, but it was all so small. And even after two years on Proxima b, it still didn't feel like home. Not even close. The young humanoids were grateful and kind, and he was making a difference, but every day there was so much suffering going on around him that he was powerless to stop. He felt constantly on tenterhooks, like he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He mentioned his feeling of restlessness, of constant, thinly veiled panic to Crowley, who just shook his head, patting down some soil around a newly planted olive tree.

"It's immortality, angel. We've lived less than the blink of an eye here in our time." He sighed. "Maybe four years isn't enough-"

"No." The word came out a snap, Aziraphale cutting him off. "Four years is what we said, my dear, and four years is what I'll do." For the first time, the words "my dear" had an impatient, almost harsh note to them.

Crowley swallowed and wondered – for the first time – if it wasn't going to be enough. Aziraphale loved him, he knew that. He no longer shied away from verbal affection, and it was not uncommon for the two to display gestures of physical intimacy. Fond gazes lingering on each other, for the first time without the fear of being spotted. Hands held by the sunset or on walks in the park. Crowley curled against Aziraphale's side in bed, dozing while the angel would read late into the night, fingers threading through his hair. Kisses, pressed to a wrist, a cheek, lips. Passionate, sometimes, but mostly tender and gentle.

Aziraphale loved him. He loved Aziraphale. He was just starting to wonder whether it would be enough.


The fourth year was gently drawing to a close when everything went to Hell.[17]

[17] Not in the literal sense, but Crowley wondered whether it might have been better if it had.

They hadn't run into Gabriel and Beelzebub at all in their years on Proxima b. Crowley hadn't been sad. Privately he'd assumed that the pair had gone to a different planet of Proxima Centauri, or had picked one of the ones belonging to Rigil Kentaurus or Toliman. It was a big universe, after all. Alpha Centauri was a big star system. It didn't concern them.

This assumption was shattered by an all too familiar noise of buzzing entering the library and a familiar cloud of brown flies. Aziraphale jumped to his feet. "Lord Beelzebub!" Crowley stayed sprawled on the ground where he was reshelving.[18]

[18] Proxima b's accepted system for categorising books was known as the Godfrey Googol system and had caused many a headache to an aspiring librarian.

A sharp grin was the response. Beelzebub still had slightly too many teeth but, Crowley realised with a start, it wasn't a cruel grin. "Haven't been a Lord for a while, o Angel of the Eazzztern Gate. You can drop the formalitiezz."

Aziraphale opened his mouth, presumably to indignantly deny being a troublemaker, but apparently thought better of it and closed it.

"Why now?" he asked.

Beelzebub shrugged. "We've felt your prezencezz for a while, myself and Gabriel, but we azzumed you'd want to be left alone. He sends his regardzz by the way. But given rezzent events, just thought I'd check in and make sure everything is ok with you pair of troublemakerzzz?"

"Everything is fine, thanks," Crowley said. His voice was clipped. "Why do you ask?"

Beelzebub looked mildly surprised. "I am…not unpleazzed to hear it," they conceded. "Zzztill, I suppozze you are good at bearing up under all situationzz."

"Situations? What situations?"

"Oh." Beelzebub's features tensed. "You really have been cut off, haven't you?"

Aziraphale was experiencing a horrible sinking feeling. He wondered if this was the sensation of a heavy shoe beginning to drop down a mine shaft. "Cut off from what?"

Beelzebub, perhaps for the first time in their existence as a demon, looked as though they were trying to break some news gently. "You haven't been to vizzzzit Earth in the lazzzt few months, have you?"

The sinking feeling intensified.

"Beelzebub, what's happened?"

Beelzebub grimaced. "It might be better to zzzee for yourselvezzz." They held out a hand to Crowley.

"How do we know you're lying to us?" Aziraphale asked. "You're a demon, after all. It's almost part of the job description, at least according to Crowley."[19]

[19] Can you trust the demon who tells you all demons are liars?

Beezlebub scoffed. "Not about thizzz, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley's hand and snapped his fingers, and Proxima b faded around them.


London, Soho, had changed. This was to be expected. What was not to be expected was the extent of the change. Any building taller than three stories had chunks missing from it. There were barely any shop fronts which didn't bear the marks of at least one brick through the windows and there were withered plants furling around the doorframes – foxgloves and nettles and hemlock. Stranger than that – it was broad daylight, and there was no one on the streets.

Aziraphale felt his stomach drop even further. "What's happened?"

A.Z. Fell & Co. was still standing, still in one piece, but the shutters were drawn. Aziraphale stepped closer to it, hesitating. The security camera above the door twisted to face them and the door swung silently open.

Aziraphale took a step forward, then another, pulling Crowley along with him. His hand was gripping Crowley's like a lifeline. His bookshop felt colder than he remembered. More than that – the feeling of Love engulfing every tome, every bookcase had almost completely vanished. Only the barest residue remained.

"You shouldn't be here." The voice, like Soho, was familiar, but at the same time, not. A figure stepped into the light, a fire-extinguisher in one hand, aimed like a weapon. The face was the same, as was the curly black hair, but their voice was heavier than either Aziraphale or Crowley had ever heard. There wasn't even the trace of a smile on the angel Muriel's face. They looked impossibly weary. "There's nothing left, Aziraphale. The Second Coming has been in the works for a while now."

"But the Metatron said just the groundwork was being laid. It isn't due to start until next month at the earliest." Aziraphale's voice was a trembling whisper. Standing next to him, Crowley could barely catch the words. He wondered Muriel could hear Aziraphale at all.

"It hasn't started yet. Not technically." Muriel's voice was dull. "Things are still in motion."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Crowley tried. "But I thought the Second Coming was supposed to come as a complete surprise to everyone. Two will be in the field; one will be taken and the other left.[20] That sort of thing. Not some sort of…post A- Apocalypse event." He had to force the final word out of his throat.

[20] Personally, Crowley's favourite of the apostles had been John, but he couldn't deny Matthew had a way with words.

Muriel shrugged. "Plans changed, I suppose. The Metatron decided I wasn't experienced with humans enough to launch things in a subtle manner, so he decided to just start setting off some End-of-Days Destruction to get things going." They gestured helplessly with the fire-extinguisher, before setting it down with a heavy clunk. "Like I said, there's nothing any of us can do."

"We can go to Heaven." Aziraphale's words were still almost inaudible but there was a fire sparking in his eyes. "Didn't the Metatron get my note? I said I would be willing – more than willing – to take up the position."

"Oh," Muriel faltered for the first time. "He got it, yes. He told me to give you two this, if you ever turned up again." They snapped their fingers and a scroll appeared in the air, arcing towards them.

Crowley caught it with his free hand. The scroll fizzed and instantly he felt the repulsion ripple through him. A Heavenly restraining order. Aziraphale's fingers flexed around his hand and Crowley felt him shudder as the commandment passed into him too.

"I'm sorry," said Muriel, and they looked it. "I really am. But when I said there was nothing any of us could do, I meant it." Their lips quirked upwards, and Crowley realised with a jolt of horror that Muriel was trying to force one of the cheery smiles he had come to associate with the angel. "Go, Aziraphale, Crowley," they urged. "Go back to Alpha Centauri. There are other existences out there. There's nothing here on Earth for you anymore. It's too late."

"What will happen to you?" Aziraphale's voice was still the barest whisper.

Muriel sighed and gave up on their attempt at a cheerful expression. "Oh, I'll be alright. There are still a few odd humans, here and there. I inspire them with Grace, where I can and when I can't, I help them carry on. There's not long to go until this plane of existence will be over on Earth, after all. And then, well, those former things will have passed away." They sighed again and their voice was unbearably gentle. "Leave, while you still can, both of you."

Aziraphale's fingers flexed reflexively against Crowley's and he took a shaking breath. Then he nodded. He clicked his fingers again and the scene melted away around them.


"Things could have been different," Aziraphale said dully. It was after-hours in the library and they were sitting huddled against a bookshelf, a cold space between them. When they had reappeared back in this position the previous month, Beelzebub had had the gall to ask if they were ok and had been 'checking in on them' every week since. Crowley managed to shoo them away only by manifesting his snake head and hissing extremely graphic threats at them.

"Things…could have been different." Crowley conceded.

"I should have-" Aziraphale began weakly. His head thumped against the bookshelf. "Oh, what's the use, Crowley?"

Crowley cleared his throat weakly. "Angel, is there anything you want to say? Or to do? Maybe we could-"

Aziraphale just shook his head. "No, my dear. It's like Muriel said. It's too late." He stared blankly at the enormous book on the space-time continuum on the bookshelf opposite them. "I made the decision I did that day in Soho. As ye sow, so shall ye reap and all that."

"That's a load of bollocks, angel, and you know it."

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. He didn't contradict Crowley, his face just shuttered some more. They had been playing this conversation, or Arrangements thereof since they had returned. Otherwise, Aziraphale had barely spoken a word.

"We have each other," Crowley ventured. "We might even have Beelzebub and Gabriel. We have Proxima b. There are still people who need us here. There are things we can do."

Aziraphale just let out a sigh. He started to stretch out a hand to Crowley, to breach the space between them, but then he flinched and retracted it. His hand was trembling. We could have made a Difference hung in the air between them.

Crowley sighed too. The sound was as hollow as Aziraphale's.

Demons couldn't sense love, it was true. But hatred was another matter. And there was an acrid tang of it hanging around in the library these days. These days, self-hatred was streaming out of Aziraphale constantly. Not directed at him, never directed at him. But there was a heavy pit of dread in Crowley's stomach. The day would come.

One day, Aziraphale would look up, look into his eyes, and Crowley would know that the angel had started to hate him – to despise him for being the reason why he had taken that step out of the lift in Soho.

Every day, it was getting closer.


Alternative fic title: In which the Author woke up and chose violence on Anthony Crowley.

(But this did hurt to write - I'm not completely evil).

Review? :D