The bookshop's air hung heavy with the scent of aging paper and dust, enveloping Crowley as he leaned against a bookshelf. Idly flipping through one of Aziraphale's sketchbooks, he stumbled upon a detailed drawing of Shakespeare and himself. Meanwhile, Muriel bustled about, busy reorganizing the books on the second floor.

Crowley's thoughts, however, were far from the sketchbook he held. His need to know if Aziraphale was alright had been gnawing at him, a relentless itch that he couldn't ignore any longer. He knew he shouldn't be asking questions, he had vowed not to, but the absence of Aziraphale's weighed heavily on his mind. With a sigh that mingled frustration and resignation, he eventually turned his attention to Muriel.

"Hey, Muriel," he began, masking his underlying concern with nonchalance, "Have you seen Aziraphale lately?"

Muriel paused in her task, her ethereal gaze shifting towards Crowley. "Aziraphale?" she repeated, as if trying to grasp the significance of the name.

Crowley suppressed a sigh of impatience. "Yeah, Aziraphale. Have you talked to him recently?"

Muriel tilted her head, her brow furrowed in thought. "Actually, no," she admitted, her voice carrying a touch of surprise. "I don't think I've talked to him since... well, he left."

Crowley's eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. "You've never talked to him since?"

Muriel shrugged, her eyelashes fluttering lightly. "Not really. I mean, I've reporting to Heaven a couple of times a year, but I've never actually spoken to Aziraphale. Just to archangel Saraqael. Aziraphale has been quite occupied, I think."

"Occupied?" Crowley's curiosity only deepened. "With what?" He asked as he flopped on a chair, following every move Muriel made.

Muriel's gaze wandered as she seemed to search her memory. "I'm not entirely sure, I've been told that he's in charge now. He's the supreme archangel, overseeing everything."

Crowley faked surprise, settling stiffly in his chair. "Supreme archangel? Commanding Heaven?"

Muriel nodded with a wide smile. "Yes, that's what I've been told. It's been announced that he's taken on a new role. A position of great responsibility."

Crowley's scepticism was palpable, but Muriel didn't even notice. "And you're telling me he's too busy with that to even talk to you?"

Muriel blinked, her innocence shining through. "Yes, that's right. Every time I've gone to report, I've been told he's unavailable. So, I've just been sending the usual reports."

Crowley slouched back into the chair as his thoughts churned with a mix of suspicion and concern. "And have you been reporting the success of the bookshop?"

Muriel nodded. "Of course. It's all in the reports—the popularity of the books, the journals—everything."

Crowley's brows knitted together. It didn't sit right with him. Aziraphale's books were precious to him, and the thought of him knowing they were being sold felt off. "And he's aware that you're selling his books?"

Muriel's response came swift and certain. "He should be. As the supreme archangel, he receives all reports."

Crowley's unease deepened. He knew Aziraphale, and this wasn't adding up. Aziraphale had always cared about his books and the bookshop. He could say that nothing last forever. But he was sure it was bullshit. It was out of character for him to simply ignore it, when a single order would prevent Muriel of ever selling a book.

Muriel seemed to sense Crowley's inner turmoil. "Are you still angry at each other?"

Crowley hesitated for a moment, his thoughts still swirling with questions. "Ngk," said Crowley. "Hey, why don't I go to the coffee shop and grab you a coffee?" he finally managed.

She smiled, her tone gentle. "That's my daily routine. The aroma of coffee! We can pick up our conversation when you get back."

Eventually, he nodded and pushed himself away from the chair. "Fine," he muttered, his steps striding down the stairs towards the cafeteria.

Walking, Crowley's mind remained fixed on Aziraphale's absence. The angel was hands-on, this sudden lack of interaction seemed off. He needed answers, even though he had sworn not to seek them out. And perhaps, in the coffee shop, he might find a glimmer of insight he didn't expect.

He reached the door, pausing to regard his reflection. He looked a dishevelled, with a sift of his hand he tidied himself up, hair resettled into its signature quiff, his clothes realigned with his frame, as he was a tad thinner than three years ago, the snake at his belt sliding a notch to adjust his waist.

Now presentable, he entered the coffee shop.

Inside the bustling cafeteria, Crowley's eyes scanned the room for a familiar face. It didn't take long for his gaze to lock onto a figure he recognized. Nina, the owner of the coffee shop, was standing behind the counter, busily attending to customers.

Their eyes met, and Nina's lips curved into a sad smile. Without hesitation, she made her way over to Crowley. "Welcome mister six shots of coffee in a large cup!" she greeted playfully.

Crowley managed a half-smile in return. "Hello, Nina. How's the coffee business?"

Nina's smile faltered slightly, and she cast a more solemn look at him. "I heard about Mr Fell. My condolences for your loss."

Crowley's brow creased in surprise. "Loss? Wait, no. He's not... He's not dead. He's just... gone." He pointed upwards.

Nina's confusion was evident. "Gone? But Muriel told us he's in Heaven. You were lurking around in your car in mourning, I just assumed he passed away."

Crowley shook his head, struggling to wrap his mind around the misunderstanding. "No, he's not dead. He decided to go back to Heaven."

Nina's eyes widened in realization. "Oh, I see. My apologies, I misunderstood."

Crowley's attention shifted as he noticed a free table nearby. "It's alright. Why don't we sit down?"

Nina nodded, makings sign to the man behind the counter. After a moment of quiet, she spoke up. "So you are here, and he's up there?" Crowley nodded, looking down at his hands, his eyes shielded behind his dark sunglasses. "I'm sorry about your relationship with Mr Fell. I guess things didn't work out for either of us."

Crowley's looked up with surprise. "What do you mean?"

Nina's expression grew somber. "I was talking about Maggie. You see, our relationship never really flourished."

Crowley's confusion deepened. "Maggie? She was madly in love with you!"

Nina's eyes held a hint of sadness. "She stopped coming to the coffee shop altogether, just a few days after Mr Fell passed —uh, left."

Crowley's leaned back in the chair crossing his arms. "Stopped coming? Why?"

Nina's gaze met his, sympathy in her eyes. "It seems that Maggie lost all interest. She told me to stop bothering her. Just like that, she vanished from my life."

Crowley's mind raced, trying to process this unexpected information. Maggie had been in love with Nina, it had taken them one rainstorm and a Jane Austen ball to make Nina fall for Maggie, so her sudden change was baffling. "But Maggie... She was the one who adored you," he said aloud, more to himself than to Nina. "Does Maggie still run the records shop?"

Nina nodded. "Yes, she does, though she no longer comes here." A wistful smile graced her lips. "Love is a strange thing, isn't it? It doesn't always work out the way we expect."

Crowley couldn't stop thinking. Both Maggie and Aziraphale had lost their interests at the same time? He didn't believe in coincidences.

-/-

Locked away in Heaven, Aziraphale's sense of time had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand his surroundings devoid of any measure of the passing days. Stripped of his angelic powers, he was a mess. His once-pristine feathers were tarnished, and some had fallen leaving his wings looking thin, empty and fragile.

In a moment of desperation, he had released his wings to try to get out by brute force, and then, once he saw that he had failed, he had not been able to fold them again.

His clothes were tattered, a result of his nervous tugging and fidgeting. His hair had grown unkempt, but his beard remained absent as it would only manifest through miracles, a reminder of his cherubic nature.

He had been a fool to believe that Heaven's embrace was genuine. It was a cold, unwelcoming place, where his ideas of change were scorned, and he was merely a pawn. A pawn forgotten in a drawer.

As he sat in his confinement, Aziraphale's mind was a tempest of regret and self-recrimination. Guilt gnawed at him as he replayed his past actions, particularly his rejections of Crowley. He had been dismissive, even cruel, to the demon who had cared for him more than he had ever realized. He had fled from Crowley's warmth, thinking he could make a safe home for them in Heaven and go back to pick him up.

He thought Heaven had something more for him, them, only to find himself imprisoned and alone.

Once the Armageddon started, what would happen to his dear Crowley? He was alone, had no one in his side. Aziraphale had abandoned him, the love and companionship he had longed for, lured by false promises of change from Heaven? The kind words of Metatron and the promise of acceptance had been nothing more than a cruel trick.

His thoughts went back over and over again to Crowley. To his loving eyes, his companionship, the way they relaxed around each other, to the contempt he felt being near him.

Usually Aziraphale wondered if Crowley was looking for him, just to realize he was the one who had pushed him away- and spiral down the same rabbit hole of regret.

But that day, instead, in a moment of lucidity, he wondered if Crowley was sleeping, maybe he had decided to let time pass by until he came back, maybe he still waited for him, so that day he decided to surrender to sleep, if only to escape the endless torment of his thoughts. He lay down, covering himself with his wings, and decided to seek solace in sleep. Maybe in slumber he could find respite from the torment of his thoughts, even if it meant waiting until Armageddon or beyond to awaken.

He just hopped, prayed, desired, of Crowley to be there when he woke up.

—-

Back in the bookshop, Crowley's unease had evolved into a full-blown suspicion. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was a conspiracy within Heaven, orchestrated by Metatron, who was keeping Aziraphale away from Earth. "Away from me." He hissed under his breath.

Muriel took the coffee from his hands, cradling it with care. "I love the smell of vanilla and coffee!"

As she chattered about her newfound joy in human interaction, Crowley's thoughts churned with the need to uncover the truth and ensure Aziraphale's well-being. Tuning out Muriel's voice, he formulated his plan.

"It feels so good to speak with humans," Muriel continued, "Some of them are very kind. Back in Heaven, I got a visit every 300 years, the rest of the time I was alone with my records. But here is so nice!"

Crowley managed a smile, feigning interest while strategizing his approach to extract information from her, to nudge her towards finding information within Heaven- without Heaven noticing.

"Humans are better than novels," Muriel mused, "And novels are better than reports."

Curiosity piqued, Crowley probed, "What kind of novels do you enjoy?"

"I love detective novels!" Muriel's eyes lit up. "You get to follow your curiosity by solving a puzzle alongside the sleuth, slowly unravelling a mystery until- you find the truth!"

Taking note of her newfound fascination, Crowley saw an opportunity to exploit it to his advantage. He had, after all, been tempting humans since the beginning of time. With a carefully calculated casualness, he posed his question. "Mm, so, I wonder why, liking mystery novels so much, you're not intrigued by the mysterious behaviour of Aziraphale."

"Mysterious?" Muriel questioned, looking up from her paper cup of coffee.

Crowley paced around Muriel, hoping to elicit a reaction without revealing his true concerns. "Yes, truly a mystery." he remarked, resting casually on the desk. "Aziraphale loves his first editions, his notebooks, his sketchbooks, his journals." He pick up one of the journals. "His most intimate and private thoughts." He took of his glasses. "How could Aziraphale forget to tell you not to sell them? Send you a note?"

Muriel blinked in confusion, and Crowley realized he would need to nudge her in the right direction. With a hissing sigh he placed the journal back on the table. "Has anybody seen him, talked to Aziraphale, or received an order or message from him?"

Muriel mouthed an "Oh" and glanced upwards, deep in thought. "I could just ask."

"pfffft" Crowley didn't want Muriel going around asking questions about Aziraphale. "I think a good detective would do some research first, to know what to ask."

"I could review the records," Muriel suggested. "I can't see the high-level ones, but in these three years, thousands of orders will have reached the guardian angels" She smiled. "Ah, the Principalities! There would be hundreds of orders and reports at least." Muriel clasped her hands excitedly. "I could go make my report, with the excuse that you are here, in the bookstore, and when I register it, investigate!"

She spoke with the same enthusiasm Aziraphale had when he was investigating the mystery of Gabriel. Crowley had to put on his glasses to hide the pain for not having seen the beautiful and perfect smile of his angel in those three years. "That's an excellent idea."

He rose to his feet, centring himself to maintain his nonchalance. "Very, very good idea!" He smiled slightly at her, content, seeing that he would still be able to get some useful information. "Just remember that they mustn't know we work together."

Muriel's face darkened, changing in an instant from joy to concern. "Are you tricking me like last time into helping you?"

Crowley couldn't help but smile, detective novels were making the innocent angel mature. Too bad he was 6000 years ahead of her. "Noo, of course not. The one you are going to help is Aziraphale."

Muriel hesitated, her gaze fixed on the floor, clearly considering whether or not she should cooperate. When a small smile escaped her, Crowley knew he had won her over. It would've taken him years to convince Aziraphale to do something like this. "Okay, I'll go," Muriel finally said. "But I'm doing it to help Aziraphale. If everything is in order, this investigation is over."

Crowley watched Muriel leave, concerned that her nervousness and excitement might be noticed by someone in Heaven. She was certainly the worst actress he'd encountered in the last 50 years.

A few minutes after Muriel's departure, the bell above the bookstore rang. Crowley spun around, hissing, "We're closed." His hiss faded as he was met with a smiling visitor: Maggie.