Amidst the stillness of his confined space in Heaven, Aziraphale's thoughts had settled like dust. Over time, as the initial shock of his situation gave way to a more composed perspective, he realized the futility of his shouts and pleas for help. No matter how much he called out, no salvation awaited him. The walls of his confinement were invulnerable to his desperation, and his prayers echoed back unheard.

Roughly a year, two months, and three days had passed since he regained his composure. Aziraphale had made the decision to mark the passage of time, tearing small golden threads from his vest lining each time the small hour hand ran through the sphere. However, his old pocket watch had now ceased working; winding it was no longer effective, the aging mechanism having failed. He found himself without a means to measure time accurately. Oddly, that thought provided him with a sense of solace.

In this moment of reflection, he couldn't help but ponder the stark contrast between the way Heaven regarded him and the way Crowley did. Aziraphale, who had felt undervalued in the celestial hierarchy, found solace in the fact that Crowley held him in such high regard. A demon, always grumbling but unfailingly present, willing to go to great lengths for him. The weight of the truth settled heavily on Aziraphale's heart — Crowley's commitment wasn't unwavering; there were lines he could draw. It felt like an abrupt abandonment just when they seemed on the precipice of realizing their deepest desires. He had been struggling to keep himself away from him during millennia, trying to protect Crowley, because he was at the end of the rope, there wasn't anywhere to go after hell. He would be destroyed if their friendship was discovered.

The memory of the kiss burrowed into Aziraphale's thoughts, a persistent thorn that pricked at his conscience. It felt like Crowley's sly invitation to stray from the path Heaven had set before them. When he uttered, "I forgive you," it was more a means of self-preservation than an act of forgiveness. It allowed him to create distance, to shield himself from the pain of rejection and betrayal.

An unsettling feeling gripped Aziraphale, whispering that the kiss was a test he had failed. A realization has dawned upon him: Crowley wouldn't yield to the allure of Heaven or the temptation to reshape reality. He knew it was not possible. It was a devastating truth, one that severed the last tether he had clung to – the possibility of them being united without constraints in heaven. His heart ached with the realization that this endeavour meant more than fulfilling their desires; it was about Crowley's autonomy, his unwavering choice against succumbing to pressure.

In the solitude of his confinement, Aziraphale's thoughts meandered through the shades of his existence. He contemplated the complexity of the world, how it defied the binary confines of good and bad. How by his standards that move the Metatron had played was bad, just like when the archangels cornered him in the street and punched him. He remembered a time long ago when, as a cherub, he had given his flaming sword to humans, an act of compassion that resulted in his demotion. He had known it was the right thing to do, a deed borne of love, yet he had hidden it from Heaven's gaze, aware that they wouldn't understand. Then when he lied to protect Jobs kids, he thought the Almighty would find out and cast him to hell. But she didn't. She had to know about them, right? Or were Crowley and him so insignificant that she didn't bother? Was he supposed to feel at all?

There were many Cherubim created, short and plump, with gold, marshmallow-like, or white sugar cotton candy hair. Exuding a loving and tender demeanour, they were dedicated beings characterized by their knowledge. Assigned to various roles, their original duty had been the protection of the Garden of Eden. When it was not necessary, Good redistributed them.

Two of them to guard the arc of the covenant. For cherubim beaters of the Throne of the Almighty. The cherub who protected the east entrance of the Garden of Eden, he was issued a flaming sword, give it away, lied about it and got demoted. His name Aziraphale.

The cherub who protected the south entrance of the Garden of Eden, was issued a bow quilt and arrows, once the humans left the paradise, she was tasked with inducing love. Her name Miniel. She came up with the saying make love not war in the sixties.

-/-/-

The night hung heavy, the demon Crowley was sobering up enough to feel the pain of rejection again. His usual refuge of alcohol had run dry, the boxes that had once housed his plants now full of empty wine bottles. So he sought solace within the dimly lit walls of a nearby pub.

He sat at a table facing away from most patrons, his eyes rimmed with red. Snakes could not cry; he wished he couldn't either. As he waited for his first drink to arrive, he left his imagination years without hearing from him. Without seeing him. Did Aziraphale think of him? Was he secretly checking on him?

He would, if he were in his shoes. Did he truly feel that he needed to be an angel to be with him? After all they had shared, he had chosen Heaven over him. Was he too fast again? He felt the kiss was necessary, he needed to make Aziraphale realize they were enough, they had everything they needed in each other, and he wanted to make his point clear and…

A raucous laughter made him turn angrily around. He scanned the room, amidst the clinking glasses, his gaze was drawn to a man engrossed in the pages of a handwritten notebook. As he slouched back at the boot, the familiarity of the leather-bound journal set off alarms in Crowley's mind, his inebriated senses sharpening at once.

This was no doubt one of Aziraphale's journals.

With a boldness typical of his demon kind, he staggered toward the unsuspecting reader, his fingers curling around the notebook's edge. "Oi, what's this you're reading?"

Startled protests erupted from the man, his voice rising in indignation as he tried to reclaim his stolen property. Crowley's patience had all but dissolved, and in a flash of fury, he twisted his visage into the familiar, unsettling form of a snake.

The man's eyes widened and with a gasp he lost consciousness.

Crowley's satisfaction was tangible as he held the notebook aloft, its contents temporarily secured. "I suggest you find yourself another read, pal. This one's taken."

With the scent of fear lingering in the air, Crowley retreated from the pub.

It was definitely one of Aziraphale private journals. He went back to his car, and sat with the notebook in his hands, wondering if he should read it, would it be a breach of privacy? His car roared to life beneath him, and Freddy Mercury responded.

The show must go on

The show must go on, yeah

He took it as a sign and opened it by a random page.

"The table was set with 'the first course' of soup, and roast capons and rabbit, then pies and a sweet custard. Then in case anyone was still hungry, quails and larks and deer pasties and gingerbread and fritters. I tried them all and enjoyed it a lot. I'm sure that Crowley would had appreciated the wine, it was exquisite, and the rabbit too. Next time I see him I will recommend him this fine establishment. I haven't seen him in a while. I know I should feel relieved by his absence, but I can't."

He flipped some pages over, confused. Crowley was written over and over again in the curly and elaborated calligraphy of the angel, his name woven into the text, into the thoughts of Aziraphale.

"I'm an angel, and I can't condone kids stealing for a living, I hope my dear Crowley was here, he could shine some light over this situation and make it better. I'm sure he would find the bravery, honesty and cooperativeness, of those kind- hearted kids endearing and would make me think that I'm wrong. I miss talking with him."

He turned back to the beginning of the notebook, it was from may 1802, and it began with "I've set apart a box of fine wine for him. He will be pleased with the cheery undertones of this batch. I wonder if he can smell other than using his tongue. It's a tough that has plagued me since I talked about snakes with Sir Hans Sloane. We talked about chocolate too, adding milk and sugar was the best idea I've heard in the last century. Will I dare to ask Crowley about it? Surely not."

Recalling that wine, Crowley closed the journal and cradled it against his chest. Aziraphale had written about him nearly every day. He had missed him too.

And that stupid Muriel had been selling Aziraphale's journals. The streets whizzed by in a blur, a Queen song blaring from the speakers as he sped toward his destination. The demon's eyes glinted with the clarity of purpose as he arrived at the doorstep of the bookshop, his presence far more composed than in recent memory.

Crowley opened the door with determination, but an invisible barrier stopped him. The bookshop, no longer under Aziraphale's ownership, resisted Crowley's entrance.

Frustrated, he called out, "Muriel," his tone carrying a blend of urgency and exasperation, "We need to talk, let me in!"

"Hello, hello, come in please!" Muriel's unwitting hospitality granted him access.

Inside, the atmosphere had changed. Everything was in perfect order, as if a divine hand had meticulously rearranged the space. Not a speck of dust, no piled-up books. The personal trinkets that once adorned the shop had been neatly stored away, and even the hand-woven blanket that Aziraphale used to cover Crowley when he fell slept on the sofa after a heavy meal was conspicuously absent.

There were customers, touching the books.

A mixture of discomfort and discontent caused Crowley's lip to curl into a frown. He manipulated the sign on the door to read the abrupt and rather uncouth "Very Closed!" and uttered, "Everybody out, we are closed!"

The patrons shuffled out, some casting curious glances at the visibly agitated figure, without much protest.

Muriel's reorganization had drained the shop of its soulful charm, leaving an unsettling emptiness. The lived-in warmth of Aziraphale's presence was lost, a fact that infuriated and saddened Crowley simultaneously.

Muriel, her innocence aglow like a radiant halo, greeted him with an affectionate smile. "Hello, Crowley! Finally you came to visit!"

Crowley's expression softened, yet his agitation remained palpable. "Yeah, yeah, Muriel. We need to discuss these books."

As Crowley launched into his impassioned explanation of the sanctity of Aziraphale's collection, Muriel's face gradually shifted from joy to crestfallen realization. "I've been taking care of heaven records since the beginning. I've always been praised by my order." This was going to be trickier than he thought. "You see, Muriel," he said finally with forced patience, "Aziraphale's books are not meant to be sold. Or in order. They're meant to be... well, as he wanted, not sold."

Her efforts to mimic human understanding faltered as her eyes welled with genuine sorrow. "But I thought selling books was a good thing. I mean, it spreads knowledge and all that, doesn't it?"

Crowley's frustration began to wane, replaced by an odd mixture of sympathy and exasperation. "It's all first editions, Muriel. You didn't know. Just, in the future, leave the books alone, okay?"

Muriel nodded earnestly, her features a picture of contrition. "I promise, I won't sell the books again. Would you help me to put thinks, out of order again?"

Her naivety and sincerity tugged at his reluctant empathy. He wanted to find out how many journals had she given away, and try to recover them.

With a heavy fake sigh, he relented. "Alright, Muriel. I'll lend a hand tonight, but no more of this, got it?"

Muriel's eyes lit up with gratitude, her pure-hearted nature shining through. "Thank you, Crowley. You're a nice demon."

"I'm not."

As the night unfolded, Crowley found himself recreating the chaotic maze of scattered books, each volume carrying a whisper of Aziraphale's essence. With Muriel's enthusiastic yet often misguided assistance, they managed to restore some semblance of disarray to a corner of the shop. And as dawn's first light began to creep through the windows, Crowley's weary but oddly satisfied gaze fell upon a stack of journals he knew held particular significance to Aziraphale, the ones he kept in his desk. He gingerly lifted a journal and gently turned to its opening page, revealing the date: 1767. Carefully, he leafed through the pages, a flicker of anticipation rising as he sought his own name among the lines. There it was Crowley over and over again, and in one page there was a pen portrait of him. Laying on the sofa, surrounded by the familiarity of Aziraphale, he fell asleep, not reading the pages, just holding them near his heart.

Muriel let him sleep and retired to the back of the shop with a novel smiling. He was nice.

-/-/-

Metatron was with the remaining archangels, all of them were silent as he surveyed the intricate threads of his grand design in the giant globe. They had prepared everything so the United States ambassador had a second child, they supervised the demonic exchange of babies. And they were actually keeping a distant eye on the family. It was a necessary collaboration with hell.

Miniel, a cherub who had been tasked with a delicate mission on Earth arrived to report. The Metatron smiled at her and dismissed the archangels. Miniel disguise was that of a human, a record shop owner named Maggie, she was capable blending seamlessly among the mortals.

"Well, Miniel," the Metatron spoke, his voice both melodic and stern, "It seems you have done admirably."

Maggie's cherubic features contorted into a semblance of a pleased smile. "Thank you, my Lord. It wasn't easy pretending to be human, especially considering my lack of appreciation for music."

The Metatron nodded approvingly. "Your dedication has not gone unnoticed. Your efforts in subtly sowing discord between Aziraphale and Crowley have been instrumental. You have played your role impeccably. Three years and still counting, your work is admirable."

A sense of pride welled up within her, as cherub she had witnessed the arc of history and the ebb and flow of human emotions. Making humans fall in love nearly since the beginning. "I'm grateful for your guidance, my Lord. I did my best to make them question their bond."

"Indeed, you've done well," the Metatron replied, a glint of satisfaction in his gaze. "Tell me, why have you come to report?"

"The demon Crowley, finally has entered the bookshop. I don't think we have to worry."

"Mmm I see. You must discover whether Crowley intends to search for Aziraphale. And if he does, you must employ your skills to discourage him from pursuing that path."

Maggie's wings fluttered slightly, a mixture of excitement and eagerness. "Consider it done."

The Metatron's smile was enigmatic, a blend of approval and intrigue. "You've shown your worth countless times, Miniel. The balance of celestial design hinges on your role. It's vital."

Maggie nodded with a mixture of humility and determination. "I shall not fail you."

As Maggie departed from the celestial presence, she contemplated the task ahead. She relished the opportunity to engage with the demon, to dive into the intricacies of his emotions, it was much more exciting than humans. As Miniel, the cherub of love, she was uniquely suited for this task. Her travels across time and space had equipped her with the wisdom of ages, a perspective that allowed her to shape events subtly yet profoundly.

And so, Maggie, or Miniel, embarked on her next assignment with fervour.