I do not own Good Omens.
I love it. So much.
The Man Who Fell
Mr. A.Z. Fell
"Here we are. A little Earl Grey with lemon and sugar for the old constitution, then?"
Crowley took the blue flowered china teacup and saucer numbly, staring at the man settling himself into an armchair across from him in the little parlor area near the back of the store.
Surrounded by the comfortably cluttered collections of Azraphale's treasured books, treasured belongings.
Faced with the man himself.
I know you.
I have known you.
I've known the you that was you before the you that you are now.
Who are you now?
Who no longer was.
"Please," the man he loved gestured with an plump, soft hand. "Sit."
And Crowley did, teacup rattling until he imagined he was not about to break apart into a million little scaly pieces.
Azriphale looked exactly as he had the last time Crowley had looked so desperately upon him with tears in his yellow-slitted eyes.
That fluffy white hair Crowley had grown to wish to run his fingers through.
His enigmatic face, features somehow both youthful and old, wise and full of wonder, all in equal force.
Generous, soft frame swathed in his beloved cream coat and trousers, his prim and proper vest, tartan bowtie, wingtip shoes.
It was all too much, him here now without explanation or warning.
Him.
"It's very nice to meet you, Mr., um . . ."
"Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley."
And not him.
"Ah, splendid, Mr. Crowley . . . if you don't mind my asking . . . what's the J stand for?"
Crowley shrugged, feeling he'd had this conversation before and was discomfited by its resurgence.
"Erum, it's just a J, really."
"Ah."
Polite. Reserved.
And not at all . . .
"Who . . . who did you say you were again?"
. . . what he had grown accustomed to between them.
The man he loved smiled, a bit self-consciously, it seemed.
"Abdiel Zedekiah Fell, at your service."
Bowing his head slightly in the pompous, ingratiating way of his.
And Crowley could not help himself.
"A- wot?"
The man he loved dared to blush, stammer, wave a dismissive hand at the cumberson cognomen confusion.
"It's mouthful, I know, ha. My father always told my mother that she should have named me Fred, but she insisted Fred Fell sounded like an unfortunate actionary sentence rather than a name."
Here he was.
Azraphale the Archangel.
Guardian of the Eastern Gate.
Who'd 'given away' the flaming sword.
Because of the vicious animals and the fact that 'she's expecting already'.
Azraphale the Bookshop Owner.
Who'd given away the 1965 Doctor Who Annual.
To entice an unenthusiastic shop owner to a business meeting that was actually a, well, . . .
Azraphale.
His confidant, his friend, his, well, . . .
Azraphale.
Only without the light his eyes got whenever he looked at Crowley, the way his bow mouth crimped fondly up or disappointedly down based what confounded thing Crowley had uttered.
All the love, acceptance, adoration, fascination, the slightly giddiness that had been there, in one form or another from before the dawn of Time . . .
"Oi!"
"Yes? Was that you?"
. . . it was all . . . just . . . gone.
And Crowley felt so empty, so empty and all alone.
"Oh dear, you're looking pale again."
Without it.
"Are you sure you don't have a heart condition?"
His muttered response tasted like ashes in his mouth.
"Something like that."
Abedooley Zedooka What's-His-Name nodded seriously, then burst forth into unsolicited related exposition/counsel.
"You know, I had a cousin with a heart condition, now he said what he did every day was . . ."
As the man he loved prattled on, something Crowley usually enjoyed to some degree or another, he worked the unusual name through in his mind.
It sounded familiar, parts of it anyway.
Like a secret code set out in full view for all to see.
He searched his vast memory halls diligently until-
Heaven be damned.
Until the full meaning struck him in the face like a ton of bricks.
Abdiel.
Servant of God.
Zedekiah.
Sacrifice of God.
Fell.
Self explanatory.
And The Demon Crowley first felt an immeasurable surge of sorrow well up inside him.
That immediately turned to steaming, demonic . . .
You bastards.
. . . wrath.
They had taken his angel, whispered temptations into his ears, into his brain.
That brain that always tried to unsuccessfully meld angelic indoctrinated obedience to the One and Only Creator . . .
". . . ineffable . . ."
. . . with timid, burgeoning realizations on the stark unreasonableness and unflinching cruelties of Heaven's ruthlessness.
Millennia, it had taken millennia, six in fact, for Crowley break through to him on any kind of real, meanful level.
So it made sense that Azraphale's relatively fresh new outlook on Existence could be so easily shaken.
Having escaped the full toxicity only so recently.
And he'd always tried so, so hard . . .
"If I'm in charge, I can make it better."
. . . to Believe.
So they had taken him.
Promised him his heart's desire.
The possibility for Good, true Good.
And Niceness.
And Crowley to do it with.
Pretty sure they would have been plotting how to throw me down an empty elevator shaft from the beginning.
They had whispered all these things, wrapped their cold, clinical, winged tentacles around Azraphale's most human and angelic of desires.
Hope.
And then . . .
Oh you self-righteous bastards.
. . . when he just wasn't 'working out'.
You will pay for this.
Asking too many questions, maybe.
I'll make you pay for this!
Failing to execute exact and timely protocol, perhaps.
All of you!
They had stripped him of his title.
His royalties.
His power.
His memory.
And punished him, banished him.
Not to Hell.
". . . institutional problem."
But to Earth.
Rather brilliantly, if one were to ask the Garden's Serpent, which none were.
Crowley had gotten to keep his memories, not his dead Angel name perhaps, or his position in the holy ranks.
But his memories.
And cast into Hell.
Because . . .
". . . good story."
. . . it had behooved them to do so.
But they had left him with too much power.
Which he had used against them.
And Heaven didn't make the same mistakes twice.
So with Gabriel they had gone the opposite route.
Complete wipe and reassignment.
He had gotten the better of them and escaped, of course, causing more trouble than any of them dreamed.
What is that story they tell human children about the bears and their soppy breakfast?
So now, this time . . .
". . . a halo over my head, if you can imagine that, a rather odd side-effect, if you ask me . . ."
"Mmm, you don't say."
. . . they had gone what they probably considered a much more gracious, manageable route.
Give Azraphale back what made him happy.
His books.
His fine dining.
His humanity.
Leave him enough to exist.
". . . mother always said . . ."
But not enough to know what he was, who he was . . .
"Stop saying that!"
"Pardon?"
. . . or who the man loved knew of him.
Not really.
Crowley felt his heart drop even further, if that were possible, why didn't this damn thing stay where it was supposed to go, humans, he'd never manage the lot of them.
"Stop saying that! You don't have a mother, you've never had a mother! You're an angel! You were spoken into existence by the very voice of God herself!"
So naturally, his aching grief and overwhelming sadness transferred itself into boiling rage and frustration.
"Well. That's very rude. My mother was wonderful woman I'll have you know-"
Which didn't help anything in the slightest bit.
"No! She wasn't! She wasn't anything! She never existed, angel! She's just a figment of your faulty imagination!"
Only served to my everything that much worse.
"Well, I must say, this is very ungentlemanly-like behavior, not at all appropriate or suitable. And I don't know what this 'angel' business is but . . ."
And then he, Azraphale Abatty Zeebeeti Doo stood, all aggrieved vest and bowtie.
Folding his hands primly over his middle, in that incredibly snooty and insufferable and charming way he had.
"Mr. Crowley, I feel we have regrettably reached an impasse. I apologize and I do hope your heart condition gets sorted out. But I believe this is where I must insist we part ways."
And Crowley the Demon's mouth dropped open.
"Wot?"
Unwilling to believe things had gone so sideways so quickly as they had.
"I must ask you to leave."
I should.
I should leave.
Leave and let him chalk it all up to an absurd and rather mad day.
Let him live out this quiet, peaceful existence he's been banished to.
He'll never know the difference. He'll be happy.
But I'll know the difference.
I'll be without him.
I'll miss him.
"You are no long wel-"
And Crowley the Demon burst into action himself.
"No! No!"
Waving his hands wildly, desperately, to stop the words that would render him unable of remaining in this damned bookshop.
"Don't say it!"
Close to the shell of the man he loved for the foreseeable future.
"Wait. Just . . .wait."
And then he did . . .
"Please."
. . . The Thing.
"GrrrrRRAAHHH!"
With his hands.
I hope you're enjoying reading because I'm enjoying writing. :)
Thanks to GyaradosMaster07 and Chouch90 for adding your support to this tale!