Hey everyone,

I don't have much of a note here, I just like the symmetry. For those of you following the story, thank you so much for reading it! It's definitely been consuming my thoughts quite a lot so I appreciate you coming back to it.

Quick content note, there are thoughts of un-aliving oneself in this one, so if you're sensitive to that, maybe skip the last two parts at the end. It's suggested and then imagined.

Well, that's all I have so I hope you...

Enjoy!


The knee-high water rippled out in the darkened confines, lapping hollowly through centuries of skulls long since discolored by occasional floods, as two archangels slogged through the Parisian catacombs. "Do we really need this bone that badly?" Uriel sneered, catching themselves on a protruding thighbone as their foot slipped on something invisible, "It's just a jaw from a donkey."

Michael smirked at her partner's misfortune but covered it quickly as she mockingly said, "Apparently, it's a necessary piece of Biblical history. Something about Sampson killing a thousand men with it." Michael waved her hand through the dank air in front of them, "It's a symbol of martial skill married with holy power." Coming to a stop at a fork in the catacombs, she looked both ways. "Why can't we sense it?" Irritation and exhaustion bled into her tone.

"I was there, I heard it too." Uriel grumbled, offering only a shrug to Michael's question as they squinted into the darkness, "Why are human eyes so terrible?" It was an easily ignored rhetorical question as they pivoted, "Who was Sampson again?"

Michael rolled her eyes to Uriel and stared for a long moment before her brow furrowed and she reconsidered the fork, "I don't really know. Wasn't he a…strong human?"

"No, that was David." Uriel said authoritatively, "The one who split the baby."

"David killed someone with a bone?" Michael's expression pinched as if the information sounded irregular even if she couldn't place why. Her gaze flared with some dusty knowledge as her gaze snapped to Uriel's, "I thought he had a sling."

"No. Moses had the sling." Uriel cautiously corrected, shuffling into the right fork.

Turning up her nose, Michael spat, "Uh, none of this matters." Stomping past Uriel with splash-less steps, she sniped frustratedly, "Why are we having such a hard time finding this blessed jawbone?"

Uriel dropped the conversation just as quickly, "Too far away?" They finally answered Michael's earlier question, picking at a protuberance on one of the wall-bricked skulls as if it could give the required answers. "It's possible the scrivener made a mistake, and we don't truly know what we're looking for." Rolling their shoulders, Urial strode past Michael into the silently chosen passageway.

"How many more of these do you think we're going to have to find?" Michael asked as she followed begrudgingly. Looking behind them, they said, "I don't think this is the right way."

"You don't know if this is the right way anymore than I do." Uriel criticized. Continuing blindly ahead, they shifted the conversation, "How much longer do you think we're going to have to wait to actually do something with the Earth? To end this charade?"

Michael stepped quickly past Uriel, "Let's just find this holy bone and get out of here. I do not like the sensation of this water in my shoes." She only managed a few steps before a stream of water exploded out of the ceiling. Michael yelped in unangelic surprise as she jumped out of the way of the short-lived torrent. "What was that?"

Uriel laughed and slid past them, farther into the tunnel. Walking backward, Uriel smirked at Michael's dripping sleeves and mussed hair, flippantly offering, "At least it's not your shoes."

Michael snapped their fingers, the miracle dulled in this place of death, but it was still strong enough to dry their hair and clothes. Grumbling, she followed Uriel's lead into the dark. Letting the other archangel ease just to the edge of her vision, Michael snapped her fingers again, quieter this time. A moment later, they were rewarded with an equally unangelic cry as Uriel's dimly shimmering silhouette disappeared into the water with a splash. Smiling, she hurried to catch up.


1848

Sir Spencer Hughes, a minor noble near Edinburgh, had been particularly pious when it came to asking for help for his ailing young son. Hell wanted him tempted. Aziraphale wanted to help the boy. It had been an easy decision. Crowley had settled for loosing all his goats and setting fire to the orchards. It wouldn't be devastating and Aziraphale had been able to heal the boy while the household was dealing with a fire that started seemingly out of nowhere in the pig barn and quickly made a beeline for the apple trees. None of the animals had been harmed and most of the damage to the trees was cosmetic. Some might say it had truly been a miracle. And knowing how devoted the man was, he might well have praised Her for his good fortune.

Humans really were a strange bunch.

But when it came to the home offices, Crowley could say he tried and Aziraphale could report a job well done; neither would ever take the time to verify.

It had been an easy blessing and temptation that left Aziraphale and Crowley strolling the streets of Edinburgh as the sun disappeared below the horizon. In most quarters, the city was slowing down for the night, the shops were closing, and most people had retired to their homes, allowing the nocturnal murmuring to begin their daily creep. But the temperature was crisp, and the halogen lights offset the darkening sky. It was a lovely night for a walk.

They strode through the transitioning city at a slow pace, talking about everything and nothing, when Crowley spied a closed pastry shop. Slowing, and taking a few steps back, he peaked into the darkened interior. A smile broadened on his face as he said in a deceptive pout, "Care for a treat, Angel?"

The story Aziraphale was telling about some up-and-coming pianist – Tchaikovsky or Tchikevski or Chokivsy, someone who had started playing at four – stuttered to a stop as the angel turned back. Clutching the walking cane, he still believed was fashionable, thank you very much, the angel pressed close to the glass, his stout hat tipping back as he said, "Is that tablet?"

"I believe it is." Crowley said surreptitiously. With a soft snap of hellish power, the lock clicked and the door opened invitingly.

Three, maybe four minutes they were inside as Aziraphale snagged a few delectable squares and laid some money on the counter. As they stepped out, Crowley closed the door behind them. The lock engaged with a snick, but his attention was fully on the angel who was nearly bouncing in anticipation of the uniquely Scottish treats in his hands. Crowley's fingers itched but he pushed the feelings away as he affectionately said, "Come on, Angel, the Grass Market isn't too far from here."

In what was normally a busy space, they had no trouble finding a bench overlooking the wide, well-manicured green space. Shooting a bright smile at Crowley, Aziraphale excitedly opened the cloth napkin. Lifting one of the light colored squares, he held it out invitingly, "Would you like to try a bite? They're quite lovely."

Crowley smirked and snapped his fingers. A bottle of wine and two glasses appeared in his grasp, "I appreciate the offer, Angel, but I think I'll stick with alcohol." Filling a glass, he offered it to the angel, "Care for one?" The demon's smirk deepened as Aziraphale primly set the cloth in his lap and took the wine with a small smile. Crowley poured his own.

Turning his full attention to Crowley, Aziraphale held up his glass in a toast, "Thank you for helping me with that situation earlier."

Crowley turned up his nose at the gratitude, but clinked their glasses nonetheless, "It was a pleasure to scare those goats and burn those trees." He took a drink before the angel could say anything else that would damn him. Tipping his head down to the cloth, Crowley deflected, "Enjoy your tablets."

"You know it's tablet, Crowley," Aziraphale said with mock disappointment only to smile softly as he took a sip of the wine. It was a good vintage. Crowley always did miracle the best. Settling his glass in the grass, he plucked a piece of nut-laden tablet from the cloth.

Reclining into the arm of the bench, Crowley intently watched as Aziraphale took the first bite of his sweet treat. Unabashedly blatant, Crowley sipped his wine, content. Horses' hooves clacked across the cobblestones as keys jingled against locks thrown for the night, and murmured conversations in back alleys added to the ambiance, while the more natural sounds of small birds, bats, and insects joined the gentle symphony. Crowley and Aziraphale relaxed in that comfortable atmosphere. The moon rose with the stars giving everything a presently ethereal haze.

As Aziraphale lifted his last tablet, movement darted past them, sticking just enough to the shadows to be almost invisible. Aziraphale stilled. Crowley sat up in surprise, his wine sloshing over the glass's lip, "What was that?" He asked reflexively. His gaze snapped to Aziraphale's as he was quickly wrapping up the treat and shaking his head, "I have no idea."

Crowley miracled away the wine and the glasses, "Curious?"

"Lead the way." Aziraphale said, standing with a knowing smile. The pair hurried in the direction of the dark blur.

When they finally found the specter, she was in an alley lit by small fires and the rays of a dim streetlight. She was young and disheveled, like so many of the urchins scratching a living off the streets. Her hair was knotted and ratty, and her clothes threadbare at best and nothing close to warm, but as she pulled on the arm of a lanky girl whose appearance was far more ruffled than her own, there was an optimistic urgency shining off her. It reflected in her light voice as she hurriedly whispered, "There're spots. We can go now 'nd be there by mornin'." The brightness was unmistakable and painfully naive.

"Two spots?" The hint of hope in the taller girl's tone carried on the soft breeze.

Pulling her hand in the excitement of acceptance, the smaller girl explained to her pliable accomplice, "We have'ta get there first, so we have'ta go now." Any resistance crumbled and the girls rushed past Crowley and Aziraphale, their thin boots slapping against the cobblestones as if they weren't wearing any shoes at all.

Curiosity piqued and in quiet agreement, the pair followed the girls out of the city. It wasn't difficult, even with as quickly as they were running. The full moon threw a bright light, illuminating the two starlings as they wove through the earliest of the wagons coming into the city. Crowley and Aziraphale followed until they finally darted down an adjoining dirt road that led into a stand of trees.

Staying at a respectful distance, Crowley and Aziraphale trailed through the copse path until it opened to a large farm. The girls ran through the fields and only slowed as they hit the porch stairs of a well-maintained manor house. The horizon was just starting to lighten in the comforting reds and oranges of morning, illuminating the doorway of the eastern facing home. The girls waited for a long moment before the door opened, revealing a familiar, if older, face.

Squinting into the early morning, Aziraphale gasped and grabbed Crowley's arm at the presence, "Is that Elspeth?"

The demon's eyes crinkled at the corners as he hissed, "I believe it is." He looked at Aziraphale with a wicked smile on his face, "I told her to do good." As he looked back, the two girls were already being shepherded into the home. Leaves crinkled under his boots as he stepped forward, and thoughtfully said, "Looks like she's got quite a set-up here." He swooped his hand in an inviting gesture, "Shall we see what she's up to?"

"I would love to."

The invitation was a tad premature as they chose to wait until the earliest risers appeared in the fields before walking up to the door. Ignoring the quizzical and slightly hostile looks, Aziraphale knocked respectfully. After a few moments, it cracked open, revealing a small girl of no more than seven. Like the girls from the night before, she was a waif, her eyes a bit too big for her head, not helped by the mass of curly red hair that was messily tied back. She looked even younger when her eyes bugged and her voice shook, "We…uhh…don't 'ave men in 'ere. No beds neither."

"Oh," Aziraphale said quickly, "Uhh…we don't want to stay." Glancing at Crowley, he knelt to the young girl's level, "We know the woman who, we think, owns this home, and we were just hoping to talk to her."


The furniture in the sitting room was mismatched, and clearly scavenged, but comfortable. Where there would normally be paintings or tapestries on the walls, they were bare, the paint darker in the places they used to hang, but there was a fire burning low and warming the room against the day's slight chill. It was, by all accounts, a lovely place. However, they didn't have long to inspect before stomping boots and a familiar voice carried down the stairs, "We don't wan' any trouble, if ya' think ya' 'have a problem..." Elspeth trailed off as her gaze fell on the pair and her eyes widened. Still wearing the too large hat pulled over tied back hair, the only real difference from the Elspeth they had briefly known, was the quality of the jacket and pants she now wore. A range of expressions flashed across her face before she settled on a soft grimace. Her tone changed immediately, "Want some wine?" Without waiting for an answer, she disappeared into the long hallway.

Crowley and Aziraphale took up seats and waited. It didn't take long for her to reappear with three glasses and an open bottle. "Didn't think I'd eva see you again after wha' 'appened." Elspeth said in way of greeting as she handed the glasses over before settling rigidly into a third chair. She took a sip and looked expectantly from demon to angel.

"We didn't expect to see you again either, Elspeth."Aziraphale said gently. "We only happened upon this place after we heard the two young women you took in this morning talking about it." Aziraphale offered, explaining the chance circumstances.

"Usually how it happens." Elspeth said cautiously as she took another drink. Seemingly deciding something, she set her glass on the end table and slapped her hands on her thighs, "Look, if yoer here to take back the money, I could probly get ya' somethin' close to ninety guineas with the harvest, but I doubt I 'ave all of it. And I cann't give ya' the farm." Her expression soured as she looked hopefully between the pair.

It took a moment for her offer to settle in only for Aziraphale to cry, "Good Lord, no!" While Crowley's own nonchalant answer was far less determinant, "Wasn't my money." Aziraphale shot him an annoyed look before he turned to Elspeth, and hurriedly said, "We just wanted to see how you were doing. We would never take your money. Or the farm." He didn't bother to hide the horrified expression at even the suggestion.

"Oh." Elspeth said simply, finally dropping her rigid position. "Well." She cleared her throat awkwardly and stiltedly said, "Thank you for tha'."

Crowley, lounged in his chair as he was, broke the awkward silence. He flicked his hand vaguely in the direction of the room, "See you bought a farm."

"And did good." Elspeth said with a self-conscious smile.

"And did good." Crowley agreed, tipping his glass in her direction.

Some of the ingrained confidence reappeared as Elspeth leaned on her knees and fixed her gaze on Crowley, "Did you ever try laudanum again?"

Crowley sniffed at her suggestion and finished his wine in a gulp. He cleared his throat and said, "No. That was a onetime…experience."

Aziraphale winced at Crowley's response. The demon had been cagey about what happened after he disappeared, but he had been gone for long enough that Aziraphale knew that it hadn't been a pleasant encounter. Knowing the discomfort, he redirected the conversation, "What is this place?"

Darkness ghosted over her expression, and she glanced up at the ceiling for a moment before she met Aziraphale's gaze, "Misslieness. It's called Misslieness." Picking at her dirt-stained fingernails, she added, "Cann't help but think Morag woulda liked it here."

"I'm sure she would have." Aziraphale said softly. He leaned into her lower eye line, "From what I can see, it is a good thing you're doing here."

Elspeth worried her lip thoughtfully before she straightened in her seat, "Those tha' come get a bed and food. Assumin' they're available. Most stay a'while. But even when there arn't beds, we usually feed 'em 'nd let 'em say a night. Those that live 'ere haveta work when the crop's need sowin, take turns cookin' and cleanin' but whatever time's left is their own. Any money we get when we sell the extra crop gets split tween everyone who worked it." She gave a soft shrug, "I's not easy, but nicer 'han the city."

"That does sound quite nice." Aziraphale said gently, looking over to Crowley with a small smile. The demon's attention was still on the floor. Furrowing his brow, Aziraphale turned back to Elspeth, "How long can they stay?"

"Long as they want." Elspeth said with a nod, "Long as there's beds, 'm not turnin' anyone 'way." She picked at her nails, "I got sick of tryin' to find a new place every night." She bit her bottom lip and looked away, "'ssumin' I had enough coins."

"Does anyone bother you out here?"

"Few people." Elspeth answered, honestly, "We 'ad some thinkin' we offered somethin' other than crops, us bein' all women." She let the implications hang in the air before she added, "Set 'em straight pretty quick." She gave a half-hearted shrug, "We don't bother anyone and mostly we get left alone." She smiled but the pain that seemed to linger in her gaze never quite diminished. Even when she brightened a bit in pride, "Got summa the best crops in the city though."

"'m sure you do." Crowley offered; the short spurt of sorrow banished.


A tour and a short exchange later, Crowley and Aziraphale took their leave, a bounce to each step as they made their way back out onto the road. "Well, that was…fortuitous." Crowley said, a lazy smile on his face. Aziraphale nodded in agreement, a bright, sly smile on his, "It certainly was."

Something in his tone caught Crowley's attention and he couldn't help but playfully ask, "What are you thinking, Angel?"

"Clearly, it seems like you had a hand in something very good that night, dear." Aziraphale turned with a knowing smirk, "I believe it was also you who questioned the ineffability of poverty only a short time before." He closed his hands on the cane a bit tighter as they walked.

"Ineffability of poverty, Angel?" Crowley asked in disbelief. "The ineffability of poverty did nothing to help Elspeth. That was you, and a bit me," he tipped his head to each side before he added as an afterthought, "and a lot of laudanum."

"Heaven was using both of us to do good. Clearly, it was part of the plan." He gestured back to the large farmhouse. "She's doing far more good than grave-robbing now."

"How can you say that?" Crowley turned up his nose at the description, all hint of playfulness gone, "You really think Heaven's plan was to kill her friend so she could get a bigger house and stop grave-robbing. That was the plan?" His expression deepened into a scowl as he snapped, "Heaven would have left her to die and be cut apart. Same as Wee Morag. We helped her." Crowley growled, all the pain Elspeth still suffered mirrored his own as he turned fully on Aziraphale, "You are not this stupid, Angel. I know you're not. You're being obtuse and you must know that."

"Enough, Crowley. I will hear no more about this." He passed his hand between them but the look on his face hardened, "You don't like being used as an unwitting accomplice, and I understand that, but if an angel did something it was on Heaven's behalf."

Crowley stared at him flabbergasted. Taking a step back, he tipped his head and stiltedly said, "I think I'm going to go back to London."

"I can join you." Aziraphale countered, his hard expression dropping as he took a step forward, "I need to get back to the bookshop after all."

"No, I'll go on my own." Crowley said, turning north, "Got a few temptations to do in the Highlands first."

"That's the opposite direction." Aziraphale said, furrowing his brow.

Crowley pursed his lips and conceded through tight teeth, "So it is." He glanced up the road and said, "I just need to go, Angel." Taking a few steps north, he turned and said, "I'll be back in London soon."

Aziraphale watched him leave, the tablet sitting heavily in his pocket.


Heaven – Present Day

The quiet choir that seemed inescapable in Heaven continued its angelic singing as Aziraphale sat, rigidly still, staring at the report.

There were always justifications for the things that Heaven did, Aziraphale knew that. The nobility of poverty. The patience of devotion. The sacrifice of one for another. Creation was a world of compromises, but those compromises were always made for the betterment of the system. It wasn't ideal even if he understood it. But as his attention was continuously drawn to the descriptions, the callous nature of the punishment, the harder it was to ignore the emotion threatening to choke him.

Those angels weren't a part of Creation, they were angels. They had done wrong, but they had been divine. Created to be what She wanted them to be.

Aziraphale tore off his glasses, clutching the stem almost too tightly. They had been created to be what She had wanted them to be and yet they had worked against Her. Hadn't they? They had done terrible wrongs. He knew that, had seen the toll the war had taken.

But it was Crowley. Crowley, the demon who made just enough trouble to stay out of trouble and toe the line of mostly good. The demon who stood up to Satan for the sake of Her creation and was nearly killed for it. Why would the Metatron offer him a place in Heaven again if what he had done had warranted being tormented so viciously the first time? None of it made sense.

Familiar emotions warred with something else entirely as Aziraphale tried to beat back the unfamiliar, vicious thing. It coated his tongue in a bitter bite, like a wine that had been left open for far too long. It rolled his stomach and stung his eyes. Shame told him he had no right to question what She had done all those years ago. He was a lowly angel, a principality for most of his existence, privy to only the tiniest inclinations about the plan for the universe. Rationally, it spoke true, but in all his years of existence, he had never felt this truly put out. His hands clenched and released, only for his nails to dig into his palms. Tears splashed on the report's vellum, but it was an angelic facsimile and didn't soak up the salty water, instead allowing it to roll onto the desk as Aziraphale brushed it aside. He was crying over a demon and indulging in an emotion he wouldn't even name. What kind of angel was he?

In his frustration, Aziraphale dropped the report and pushed away from the desk, his forehead resting in his hand, held up by only a precarious elbow on the wide arm. He tried to take a deep breath, tried to reign in what he wasn't supposed to be feeling but it only continued to darken and knot. It was terrifying. And terror normally worked to focus his mind, but it continued to swirl, a sickening blend of emotions that left him feeling hollow and stupid.

"You've read it before, you stupid angel." He spat to himself, "Just name it." Guilt at even the threat of a conflicting emotion nearly sent him running, but when he closed his eyes all he could see was Crowley's blackened wings, his shattered body. It made him shudder. "Indignation," he muttered, and for a singular moment, he felt utter contempt at the villainy of Heaven. Felt it to the core of his being, a rotting blackened thing that bit at Her love where it nestled in his soul. But at the same time the rushing return of substance stopped the maelstrom.

His reaction was because this was Crowley. But there were other demons as well: Beelzebub. Hastur. Lingor. Dagon. Furfur. Even Shax. All of them were terrifying and none deserved Her redemption. Crowley was an anomaly of his kind. As he had been an anomaly as an angel. It had been early in the universe when Crowley had been punished. It could have been a mistake. There were many of them made during that time. And, given the report, She had little to do with the punishment as it was meted out.

Angels made mistakes. Of that Aziraphale was certain. They were angelic beings who erred on the side of the whole, but that was never a straight path. He had made too many mistakes to assume that the others had never made any. Perhaps the Metatron had offered redemption because he realized how undo Crowley's punishment had been at the time? What was the human saying? Oh yes, hindsight is 20/20.

It had been Heaven's fault, but not Hers. And he was now in a place where he could correct their callousness. Aziraphale looked up from his frustration, his gaze falling again on the report. Indignation shifted into determination. Crowley didn't trust Heaven because of what they had done to him, but if he could fix it, maybe he could find a way for Crowley to see that.

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale looked around the blazing white office. For the first time, he didn't feel that twinge of discomfort. That edge of fraud. He was here for a reason. He was the Supreme Archangel. He was chosen by the Voice of God to lead the Heavenly Host. Atonement was necessary, and so was improvement. It would have to be forgiveness. That had been the Metatron's suggestion after all. Aziraphale pushed to his feet, thunder pounding in his veins. He demanded a meeting.


Aziraphale sat stiffly in the chair, his expression stern and his hands folded before him as he waited for the others to filter in. He could allow no question of his purpose or commitment. For more than a week, he had been meeting the others as the Supreme Archangel, but with very little authority. His stomach twisted, nerves or settling indignation he wasn't sure, but he refused to go unheard this time. As footsteps echoed behind him, he refused to turn, fighting the gentile urge to greet them as they arrived.

Michael and Uriel dragged into the room, almost lethargic as they pulled back their seats with barely an acknowledgement. Michael looked particularly disheveled. They sat in silence until the Metatron arrived. The Voice of God inclined his head to Aziraphale and took a seat.

"We are no longer performing our duties as we should be." Aziraphale said, unwilling to broker any argument. He looked between them, his expression set. "As you know, I already sent a handful of angels down to bolster our numbers on Earth and brought back other principalities who do not want to continue there. They are currently taking on the roles of the others. And while that is also a problem, it's for another day. For now, those angels will stay on Earth, and I will be expecting to increase the number in due time."

The attitude of the meeting seemingly woke Michael, and she was staring at Aziraphale with a blend of anger, vengeance, and extreme tiredness. But she inclined her head, "Of course, Supreme Archangel." The sneer in the tone wasn't well disguised.

Aziraphale looked at Uriel. They looked ready to spit, but inclined their head as well, conceding, "You do have the most experience with humans."

Aziraphale nodded in return, a grim determination on his face as he explained, "Humans don't believe in Her love and our power anymore, not truly, and that is because we have vacated our duties. We were meant to guide, to help, and we've been absent for thousands of years. I've been looking at the records, everything that has led up to where we are today," Aziraphale glanced around the table, trying to read the expressions at his admission. Michael and Uriel raised their eyebrows in surprise but didn't speak, the Metatron offered nothing but a smirk. Frustrated, Aziraphale continued, "Since the new covenant, we have abdicated our responsibilities and have become comfortable letting the world play out as it will. That has led to suffering, and death that we bare nearly as much responsibility for as Hell. We have the chance to change that. To do good." His voice dropped painfully as he winced at the justification. It sounded so naïve when he said it out loud. But the archangels and the Metatron didn't flinch.

That ever-present shining music grated his teeth as he waited for a reaction or an answer. Or a challenge. Uriel obliged, "There is a limit to the number of angels we can have on Earth. And the number of miracles they can do." They said slowly, their eyes flicking to a point just over Michael's shoulder before they focused almost hungrily on Aziraphale.

"Why?" Aziraphale challenged, having heard that line before, but never finding a justification for it.

"Tradition. Free will. A truce." They said glibly. With a long, lazy blink, they added, "Take your pick, the outcome is the same. If we are continuously proving our existence, choice and faith doesn't exist. And humans are meant to have faith."

"What are they to have faith in if we continue to abandon them to violence, plague, and death? To all of the terrible things about their short lived existence?"

Michael lifted her head off her hand with significant effort, "Without their faith, how are we to know the good from the bad? They use their faith to demonstrate their worthiness." She blinked owlishly and her voice gained levity, "What good is their belief if it is constantly reinforced?"

Leaning into the table, Uriel joined on the attack, "Aren't you the one who was disciplined for using too many miracles?"

Aziraphale refused to let any of it show on his face as he bit back his frustration with both, "Traditions change. Slowly, I'll grant you, but they change." He dragged his hand down their clothing, "You have been changing appearance with the humans for years."

"And you've been stuck in the past, you soft thing." Uriel snarled, her eyes flashing, "There are reasons for the way things are carried out and your inability to grasp why is a problem that needs to be solved."

The aggression caught Aziraphale off-guard, and he swallowed nervously before he pushed back, "I have far more experience with the humans than any of you. They are a skeptical creation. A few more angels will do nothing more than alleviate some of their suffering, they will still question our existence and find it on their own if they choose. Our job is to fix the problems we have in reaching them." Aziraphale snapped. He straightened in his chair, refusing to back down, "We will be sending more angels to Earth, and we will be removing the limit on the number of miracles they can enact."

Michael leaned forward and folded her hands in frustrated reverence as she exasperatedly said, "They should find their fai…"

The Metatron cut her off with a short command, "No." He was looking at Aziraphale as he simply said, "We will not be following your full plan, Supreme Archangel."

Aziraphale's attention snapped to his, "Why not?"

The Metatron's unassuming expression softened, even if it didn't reach his eyes, "We cannot allow unlimited miracles." He looked to Michael and Uriel, "While I understand their reticence to change, and will support your decision to allow more angels, the number of miracles they can perform is Her mandate. The humans can be guided, but they need to make their own mistakes. If angels can stop poor decisions or render the consequences irrelevant, Michael and Uriel have a valid argument, there would be no point in their faith."

"But the prevalence of miracles would encourage them to look for an explanation. They can be very cynical and curious." Aziraphale held the Metatron's gaze as he said, "There are not enough angels to help every human. It would, at best, improve the lives of a small handful who could then share that with others. They would explore it and reach their own decisions."

The Metatron's expression slipped only slightly before he explained, "We cannot allow unlimited miracles, it would violate Her orders."

"If it is Her will." Aziraphale conceded before adding, "We will send more angels in the coming days." He was met with stoic expressions and the same ever-present humming music. It was a small victory, but it buoyed him on. He looked to the Metatron specifically, "You have yet to truly say anything about the Second Coming other than offering its guarantee, yet you continually say it needs to be discussed. Now seems as good a time as any."

The Metatron raised his eyebrow, as he smoothly said, "There are events that are in motion that cannot be stopped, but the end result will be a better world for all involved."

Oh, I don't trust him, Angel. Aziraphale pressed back the doubting voice. He kept his expression blank, but the familiar pang of nervousness he always felt when Gabriel asked him something very pointed crept up. He tried desperately to swallow it back and slowly said, "I refuse to support any destruction of Earth."

"As you said, Archangel Aziraphale, all things change." The Metatron offered, his gaze flicking to Michael and Uriel. Both straightened, albeit with a struggle.

"That is not a clarifying answer." Aziraphale said, his patience wearing thinner than he imagined it could.

The Metatron folded his hands before him and enigmatically said, "No I suppose it's not." He stared at Aziraphale.

A chill would have run up the Supreme Archangel's spine if he had still been on Earth. As it was, he remembered that rare feeling of dread, but the comforting presence that normally showed up on his left shoulder didn't materialize. You're on your own, remember? Aziraphale clasped his hands to keep them from shaking, the only outward expression he was willing to show. "As the Supreme Archangel, I demand to know what the outcome of the Second Coming will be."

"Rebirth." The Metatron said with a holy smile, "Her plan has been building for thousands of years, you and your friend stopped the apocalypse but that was destined to happen. She would not have wanted the world to end in such abject violence, with the Son of Satan as the primary creator of the world to come." His voice was a low rumble, "This has always been about more than the humans. We will be creating a world that is worthy of Her vision as well as Her creations, and it will begin with the destruction of Hell. We need Earth to do that."

The violence in that statement didn't match his countenance and Aziraphale didn't like the implications. He pushed for guarantees, "But the Earth will not be destroyed? No one will suffer?"

"Of course not." The Metatron assured, "Why would Her greatest creation suffer for our enemy's destruction?"

The feeling of dread eased, and Aziraphale let out a slow breath. Taking the chance to ease the last of his discomfort, he asked, "The meteor shower you mentioned days ago, did that kill anyone? Was it harmless?"

"To my knowledge, it was centered over the ocean." The Metatron said with a smile that never reached his eyes.

Aziraphale's hands stilled and calm settled in his chest. "What was it that you wished to discuss, then? It seemed a pressing matter when I arrived and now the only answers I can get are halfhearted at best." He asked with genuine curiosity.

Conciliatory, the Metatron said, "Ah yes, of course, that is my fault. I believed the events were going to take place at a much faster pace once you were in place, but the pieces have been falling into place at a slower clip than I anticipated." The Metatron called a shimmering globe to the space between them, and certain points were marked with golden stars. "These are the locations for the rest of the portents. They must all take place before the final restructuring can begin."

"How many have already taken place?"

"Only one. The second should be happening soon."

"How many will there be?"

"Seven." The Metatron offered, "You know how much She loves that number. Once the seventh sign is revealed, we will be ready to vanquish Hell and return the world to what She imagined it to be."

Aziraphale inclined his head, "Thank you for telling me. What will you require me to do to prepare?" His stomach squirmed at the prospect.

"I will tell you when the time comes." The Metatron said in a gentile way, soft words framed by hard edges. "For now, continue with your plans, it can only benefit us to have more angels that understand the workings of Earth." Abruptly standing, he said, "I believe that concludes this meeting. Surely, we all have duties to return to." The Metatron stared pointedly at each of the three archangels before he left.

Aziraphale looked to Michael and Uriel. Both had slumped back in their seats, forgoing the rigid postures they so often held. Leaning forward, he gently asked, "Are you both alright? You look…" he searched for the word, not knowing exactly how to describe what he thought given what he knew about them. Finally, he settled on the only word that could encapsulate it, "You both look very fatigued. Exhausted even."

Michael blinked their eyes wide and pushed woozily out from the table, "We're fine, Archangel." The sneer in her voice was a warning, but still Aziraphale jumped up and reached out as she wavered.

"I do not think you are."

Uriel rose with her, slower but steadier. "It is none of your concern." Taking a deep breath, they strode out of the room, Michael on their heels. And once again, Aziraphale was left alone after a meeting. A meeting that I called, he scoffed to himself. Sweeping out of his chair, Aziraphale again tried to squash the knot of indignation the meeting had done little to unwind.


Graveyards had always been particularly creepy things. Even now, the urge to hold his breath, as he had when he was younger, gripped him. Aayden shook his head, banishing the thought; he was seventeen now, well past thinking that driving past graveyards would invite ghosts, but as the creeping mists of the evening swirled around his feet, the urge to hold his breath lingered.

"Come on Aayden." Kira called from a few rows up, "I want to show you this one."

The urge slipped as Kira's light, playful voice reminded him why he was sneaking through the graveyard this close to dark. The beautiful blue-eyed girl he'd had a crush on since elementary school was picking respectfully through the headstones like she was dancing in a field of flowers. "I'm coming, Kira." Aayden called back, thankful when his voice didn't shake. He hurried forward, careful not to step on too many graves. Anything this old would definitely have something attached to it.

When he caught up, Kira was standing in front of a wide, tall headstone. He squinted into the failing light for a moment before he pulled out his phone and used the flashlight to study the impressive detail. It was a beautiful carving of a woman with long flowing hair and a roman-esque dress, wind-whipped to wrap just so around a man wearing pants and a nondescript shirt. The pair were holding hands, but it was the soft, loving expression on their faces that was the most striking. It was almost as if it was a picture, and it was in such good condition that when Aayden saw the date, he almost didn't believe it. "It's from the sixteen hundreds and it looks like this?"

"That's why I wanted to show it to you," Kira said excitedly, "I've never seen anything like this. And look at the artwork on the headstone." She gestured to the stones around them, "It's the only one with this level of detail, even when you take into account the wealthier graves. I've spent some time looking into it, this is rare, especially for one so old and in a relatively rural cemetery." Kira turned to face him, her expression turning curious, "What do you think their story was?"

It had been like this since they were kids. Kira's passion was history. She would read anything and everything she could get her hands on. The older the better. And Aayden loved the story. It made reading and history classes easy, and it had made them inseparable. A lovely prospect for a long time, until he had realized that he slowly started to love his best friend.

But he had debated himself about that long ago and for now, Aayden considered the headstone, swept up in the idea of telling a story she would like. "Ehrhart and Katharina," he said slowly, reading the names to get a sense of his characters. He could feel the blue-eyed gaze on him, as fixed as Katharina's was on Ehrhart.

"Ehrhart was a stone smith like his father and his father's father." Aayden began, turning to face the girl he loved, "But when he was a young boy, he'd spent a lot of time in the ruins up the road. On days when he didn't have to work, he would run up early in the morning, not returning until the sun was on the verge of setting. Even for as broken and scant as they were, victims to time and conquering, the way the carvings moved under the hands of the old Roman stonemasons transfixed him. It took him a long time to understand how stone fabric swayed with non-existent wind and frozen faces conveyed all manner of emotion and care." Aayden glanced back at the headstone, "And one day, when he'd thought he had figured it out, he'd decided to try his hand."

Kira smiled as she took his hands and pulled him down to sit. Her eyes were fixed on his, her mouth open slightly as she encouraged him to continue.

"Really, it took him ages to figure it out. He'd have to sneak rocks from the quarry to practice on, and the only thing he learned quickly was that the broad chisel he had couldn't free the beauty he wanted. So with his first real wages, he bought a used but fine chisel set from one of the older sculptors on a job at the church. Years went by as he honed his craft until he was as good as the skilled artisans who carved his simple stone-laying into beauty. But he was content to keep his skill to himself, a private beauty that only he knew. Until, one day as he sat amongst the ruins, carving a wolf into stone, she emerged out of the trees, like she had stepped out of the ruins." Aayden kept his gaze fixed on Kira and the words flowed easily, "Her hair was a chestnut brown, flowing and braided so she looked like a Gallic princess, but her eyes were a clear blue, the same shade as the sky after a heavy rain, when God promises that all the water was needed to feed the earth." Aayden swallowed hard, biting his lip for only a moment before he continued, "He loved her from the moment he saw her, and called out to her with a voice that he didn't recognize, but thrilled nonetheless when a bright smile curled across her face and she strode over to him, a faery out of a dream."

Kira took Aayden's hands and scooted until their knees were touching.

"They talked through the night, never realizing the sun had even set as the stars and the moon were enough light. From that moment on, they would meet daily. He continued to carve, but it was for her. The most exquisite pieces bled from his chisel when she was by his side. They were wed not long after and lived the rest of their lives, happy." He leaned in as he said it, careful not to lean too far, sure that he was just imagining Kira leaning in the same way. And then her lips were on his.

Shock pounded through him at the softness, the sweetness as her hands curled more fully around his, and she scooted just a little closer. It felt like fireworks and tasted like bundt cake and was the ground moving underneath them? It didn't matter, he never wanted to stop. But gently, she pulled away. When Aayden opened his eyes, he could feel the stupid grin on his face mirrored in the soft flush of her cheeks. He cursed his sweaty hands and the way his voice cracked when he said, "You…you kissed me."

Kira nodded, her impish smile brightening as her cheeks darkened farther. Her gaze skittered away nervously before it found his again, "I've wanted to do that for a while. I thought if I could…"

Aayden cut her off, pulling her close and kissing her again with a bit more confidence. The sweetness and softness were back and the way she gasped against his mouth made him smile with her; he felt the world rumble again.

And then it cracked. They were yanked apart as the ground erupted, sending them toppling away from each other. Kira's hand torn was from his as he rolled down a sudden hill, smacking his head against a stone that had shifted in the terraforming. His stomach rolled and his eyes refused to focus as he croaked out, "Kira!" Then suddenly, she was next to him, yanking him to his feet. She put his arm over her shoulder, and they ran. Dodging exploding showers of dirt and the loud chattering of skeletal bodies, disbelief was suspended for the sake of speed. The gates of the graveyard were still half open, and their legs burned as they sputtered on flying dirt and clods of grass. The iron gates were so tantalizingly close, but the taste of fear mingled with bundt cake, and they ran as if Hell was nipping at their heels.


Careening down the motorway at speeds that not even a broken speedometer could measure, Crowley took extensive issue with the slower than average traffic. Growling and spitting at their presence, he took to using miracles to get them out of the way. Engines blew gaskets. Mufflers fell off. Brakes stopped functioning (mostly safely, the cars took the brunt of the damage from the railing). And wheels rolled through the carnage that he left behind. It would be a traffic jam that would make the one on the M25 look slightly tamer and the work crews would take hours to clean it all up, but the worst part was that it only made Crowley feel marginally better. The frustration and anger simmered instead of boiled, but the feeling of being trapped, of spinning on an endless, teetering wheel gnawed at his questionable sanity. Still a few hours from London, he came across a sign for Stratford-Upon-Avon and the itching need for another drink crawled into his mind, momentarily displacing the want of sleep.

He jerked the wheel and whipped off onto the rural road with no one to slow him down.

Aziraphale would have liked the quaint image the drive into the city painted. Crowley could almost see the smile on his face as they saw the first "welcome" sign, the first of the red bricked houses of Shak…dammit, he knew he recognized the town name. Crowley paradoxically cursed his distraction at the same time he knew he needed more. Sliding into a street parking spot that hadn't existed until a few moments before, he jumped out of the car – still careful not to slam the door – and stalked down the street.

Tourists milled through the car-less streets as shop owners tried to catch their attention with Shakespeare associated items. Crowley scowled at the large bronze statue a stonesthrow from the Bard's birthplace and with a snap of his fingers the right arm and nose crumbled and fell away. The small tour group that had been taking pictures in front of it scrambled away with cries of surprise. Surveying the street, Crowley caught sight of the Tudor-style home that was the birthplace of the Bard, but his attention was drawn to the patisserie shop across the street. And the creeping realization that had he been here with Aziraphale they would have stopped. It set his non-essential blood to a boil. A woman with her son stepped out of said shop with sweets in hand. Crowley snarled and flicked his fingers. Both tripped on a sudden lip of a stone, the woman managed to hold onto her pastry, but the little boy's ended up in a puddle. Tears welled in his big eyes and his bottom lip wobbled as he looked at the lost treat. With a great sobbing gasp, those tears fell, and Crowley turned, sickened, and satisfied in equal measure. He stalked away.

A local woman unlucky enough to be in his path, wove through the crowd with what looked like sturdy, cloth grocery bags on her arms. In an instant, the bottom stitches of each bag gave way and the entirety of her shopping hit the stone walkway. Anger twinged the satisfaction as the tears of the child reached him. Striding a bit farther, he ignored the frustration of his own tears, begrudgingly grateful for the sunglasses. Passing a man clearly engrossed in a conversation, Crowley snapped his fingers. Developing butter fingers, the phone slipped out of his hand, and, without a demon-proof case, the crack was audible even from where Crowley stalked.

Only, the anger continued to deepen, and he agitatedly looked for another target.

The broom of a shopkeeper sweeping the quaint façade of his store burst into pieces. An art display on the sidewalk was blown apart by a gust of sudden wind. He kept moving, trying to outrun the choking ire that wasn't diminishing no matter what ruckus he caused. His harried footsteps changed as he hit a footbridge and saw a smiling couple walking arm in arm toward him. Crowley snarled. Snapping his fingers, he smirked as the man's attention was caught by a woman in a shapely red dress who appeared seemingly out of nowhere. The man's obvious stare drew anger from his partner. As she pulled her arm free, her face screwing up in a mix of distrust and denial, a pang of deep, regretful anger struck Crowley.

He turned in disgust. Stumbling away, that anger flared into something furious. Crowley wanted nothing more to direct it, but even as other people presented targets at the memorial he passed, the temptation suddenly left a bad taste. His manic attention centered on a drink, something to numb the confusion. Picking up his pace, he frantically looked for a pub – how are there no pubs on this stretch of a British street? – but his mind kept spinning, I don't hate any of these people, they haven't done anything. The discordant feeling snapped; I don't even know if I hate him. A voice that wasn't his whispered, You hate yourself.

Crowley stumbled at that realization just as he caught sight of a pub. Stands to reason, everyone else hates you, might as well join in. The crushing weight of that weightless thought nearly took him to his knees. It was nearly as bad as the look on Aziraphale's face when he said they could be angels again. In a way he had never felt, the reality of his being settled like a stone in his heart. He deserved nothing less than derision and, in that moment, he truly realized how incredibly, insanely stupid his actions had been. Tears in his eyes, Crowley stumbled into the pub. If only he could drink himself into non-existence.


He stayed until they asked him to leave, having had bottle after bottle in a desperate attempt to stop the spiral he couldn't control. He thought about making them forget him, but the prospect of using another miracle sickened him, and instead he grabbed the mostly full bottle and staggered onto the footpath. He made it to the memorial before he pitched sideways onto the stairs with a heavy thud. Dropping his head into his hands, he tried to choke back tears, but it didn't work.

He took another long drink of the alcohol. And then another when it didn't wash burn of disgust off his tongue. He finished the bottle, but all he felt was the woozy kind of sleep he had been avoiding. Knowing he should eschew it, Crowley leaned against the baluster and passed out. Too late, he could see those blue-tinged stars looming over him.


Familiar blue eyes were cut through with hateful fire and flowing tears.

"Don't touch me!" Aziraphale growled, his blackened, shredded wings flared in anger as he lunged toward the demon, his hands twisted into biting claws.

Crowley jumped back; his hands held up in placation as tears welled in his eyes. His voice cracked when he asked, "What happened, Angel?"

"What does it look like happened, demon?" Aziraphale snapped through tears.

"Why?"

"You. This is your fault." Aziraphale's chest was heaving as he snarled in Crowley's direction, as he gnashed his teeth at the prospect. Vicious anger oozed from his words, "You tempted me all these years. You ruined me."

"I didn't do anything." Crowley said earnestly. Sure, he had gotten Aziraphale reprimanded a few times, but Fallen? For what?

"You did!" Aziraphale bit back, "You've pushed me and tempted me and now you've ruined me." His eyes darted around the room, never meeting Crowley's gaze even as he spat angry explanations, "I fell because of you, you worthless, wretched thing." He started to move, his blackened wings flicking uncomfortably as if they were moving on their own in creaky desperation to remember what it was to be holy. It was disconcerting to watch.

Crowley had no idea what to say, if he even had the ability to speak past the tightening guilt in his throat. Only for his stomach to drop in abject fear as Aziraphale let out a choking, panicked sob. "Please talk to me, Angel." Crowley reacted, taking a step forward, his hands held open as he attempted to encourage Aziraphale to take the comfort.

"Don't call me that, foul beast." Aziraphale snarled, his darting gaze flicked across Crowley's, still spitting fire and tears. "I don't want to hear anything from you again." Under his breath, he muttered, "There it is." He closed his eyes and snapped his fingers. For a moment, nothing happened. A sharp smell of ozone cracked the space between them as the air began to shimmer before the flaming sword apparated in his hand.

Crowley shied away from the fiery weapon but didn't back down. "You don't have to do that An…Aziraphale. We can figure this out. Please, I'm sorry for whatever I did."

"By Her you are selfish. You've always been so selfish." Aziraphale sneered, "Convincing me to try things that would only ever get me looked at with scorn and derision. Tempting me. Persuading me that you were good. You've slowly ruined my world and I've been so naïve, so blinded, that I let you." Aziraphale snarled. He looked at the flaming sword, tightening his hand on the hilt with a pained hiss as the holy weapon burned him, the smell of searing flesh permeated the space, nearly choking out the scent of sulfur and brimstone. Aziraphale looked back to Crowley, his gaze finally settled as he slowly said, "You think this is for you." It should have been a question.

Crowley's eyes widened as he slowly put the pieces together in his mind. He took a step and the panicked words tumbled free, "Don't. Aziraphale, please, don't." His voice was a strangled plea as he lunged, his hands scrambling for the hilt of the blessed weapon. He barely managed to get one hand on it before Aziraphale succeeded in turning the blade on himself.

"No!" Crowley yelled, closing his other hand on the hilt a moment too late.

Aziraphale stood wavering on his feet as the holy fire licked up his demonic form. His eyes rolled in pain, but they firmly found Crowley's gaze. Accusation rolled off him. "You did this, Crowley." Aziraphale whispered, a trickle of golden-shined blood dripped down his chin. His eyes blinked slowly as his said, "You killed me." And then Aziraphale snapped his fingers. The sword disappeared, plunging the room into a hazily lit gray. Aziraphale dropped to his knees before toppling onto his back with a choking breath.

Crowley followed, begging, "No, please. Aziraphale, please." His hands hovered, desperate to stem the bleeding but unwilling to hurt his angel any further. Tears trailed down his cheeks, as he begged, "I'm so sorry, Aziraphale. For everything, I'm so sorry. Please let me help you." Out of instinctive panic, Crowley laid his hand on Aziraphale's arm.

"Don't touch me, demon. You've done enough." The vicious words were tired, as if hate was the only thing holding him there.

"I'm so sorry, Aziraphale." Crowley curled around his knees as he begged for Aziraphale to just let him help. "Please, Angel, let me help you. I can fix it."

Aziraphale slowly shook his head, his eyes fluttering to closed, "I'm not an angel, not anymore."

Crowley was forced to watch, his arms tight across his knees, as his stars faded away. Only after the breathing stilled did Crowley risk sliding his arms under the fallen angel. Only after the body went limp did he risk lifting him gently into his chest. Laying Aziraphale's head in the crook of his neck, Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale's shoulder and sobbed. The blackened wings hung behind him, same as the body in his arms. The only being he'd ever truly loved was dead and Crowley had no way to follow him.


And that's all I have for now!

Feel free to let me know what you thought in the reviews.

I hope you all have a wonderful night/day and stay creative!

-Lily