Hey everyone,

For those of you still reading, sorry for the long delay, this was a difficult chapter to write for some reason but I hope you like it.

Enjoy!


Michael and Uriel appeared in the pre-established meeting room. Bright light streamed through the windows, illuminating the serene room, but it had little effect on the humming archangels. In fact, neither seemed particularly aware of the empty, out-of-the-way chamber, as both had their attention fixed on the doorway. An air of anxious expectation filled the barely defined room.

Silently they waited as the beautiful strains of celestial harmonies did little more than deepen the tension born of inaction. Uriel's hands twitched noncommittally, and Michael shifted from foot to foot, knocking the bag with the jawbone against her hip. Finally, Uriel snapped, "Are you sure we were meant to meet the Metatron now? We could have found another relic in the time we've waited."

"Yes, I'm sure." Turning slightly to draw Uriel's attention, Michael snarled, "And we wouldn't have been able to find anything given the short period we've been here."

"We would have if you looked harder." Uriel spat, meeting Michael's inherent challenge.

Both angels' eyes were iris-less. Their rigidly stretched postures vibrated with contained energy as they warred silently. Wills normally aligned pushed against the understanding of the other. The jawbone pulsed with power, as it had when they found it, drawing Uriel closer until they stood nose to nose with Michael. They were still snarling at each other when the object of their argument strode into the room seemingly oblivious to the state of his archangels.

"I apologize for my tardiness. There was another matter that demanded my attention." The Metatron's voice was a vaunted quiet that betrayed his comfort stepping into a room and being the most significant presence. For the archangels, his voice snapped the tension, and both abruptly turned, placations immediately on their tongues,

"It's not a problem, my Lord."

"We weren't waiting long."

The Metatron dismissed them with a curt wave of his hand. Without pretense, he asked, "Have you found any more of the relics I requested?"

Michael excitedly reported, "Yes, Your Grace. We have the jawbone with us now."

"We found the nails and part of the cross. And we recovered the blood of one of the saints." Uriel added hurriedly. It was difficult to tell if it was an attempt to one-up or to please.

The Metatron reacted with little more than a tight smile. "That is good to hear. I appreciate your diligence in this matter." He clasped his hands behind his back. His inscrutable gaze flicked between the pair before he carefully said, "While I know there are still more to recover, I need you to start on another piece of this project."

Uriel rubbed at a smudge of dirt on their chin, only managing to make it slightly lighter. "Of course. It is our duty to serve." There was none of the dismissive nature that permeated their interactions with Aziraphale.

The Metatron's tight smile eased into a smirk as he explained, "There is a place on Earth, known as Greenwich. It's in England, not too far from Aziraphale's old bookshop. It is a seemingly irrelevant place to most people, but it does have a particular…resonance."

"That is the location the humans based time zones on, correct?" Michael confidently asked. She had stopped shifting, but her hands kept clenching on the strap of the bag across her chest. Despite this frazzled movement, her attention was absorbed by the Metatron.

The Metatron inclined his head and continued, "I need you to start convincing the most faithful humans to gather there." He tapped his finger against his wrist, and added thoughtfully, "Do not appear to them as you have in the past. It will not benefit us to scare anyone into participation. Subtly convince them it is the most holy course of action. In doing so, you will ensure that only believers take part."

Michael furrowed her brow and looked at Uriel out of the corner of her eye. Slowly, she asked, "You want us to gather humans into one place?"

"Are the relics meant to be left with them?" Uriel followed her line of thought.

"Not yet." The Metatron said. "There is still time before the final omen is revealed. Only when that is done will the final battle begin. It will not do to allow the situation to go as incredibly wrong as Armageddon. We will not leave it to chance in the same way Satan did." He glanced out the window for a long moment before he said, "You simply need to get the humans there. Once they are in place and the final relics are collected, the opportunity to realize Her plan will present itself."

"How will we know?" Uriel's tone was apologetic.

The Metatron narrowed his eyes for a moment, but the disapproval disappeared in a blink, and his answer held the weight of prophecy, "The water of the world will stand on its end, asking for Her approval. The power of its piety will crack through all the crusts of the Earth, defining the battlefield and drawing Hell up to neutral ground. Only then will we have our fight. And we need to be prepared." His sharp gaze settled between the pair, but the conceit evaporated as he asked, "How close are you to finding the Chains?"

There was no immediate response to his question as even the angelic singing went silent with the revelation. The jawbone pulsed. Finally, it was Michael that risked admitting, "We need to speak with the scriveners; the last lead we followed turned out to be an ordinary set of manacles."

"It will do you well to find those and the others we've discussed quickly." The Metatron admonished in his gentle tone.

Michael inclined her head in deference but didn't argue.

"If you would like us to continue quickly, it would benefit us to avoid being summoned back during a search." Uriel said, "It led to significant…discomfort that we had not anticipated. And it made picking up the same trail more difficult when we were able to return."

"I will do what I can to prevent it." The Metatron promised. His expression soured as he elaborated, "It appears the new Supreme Archangel is more determined than I assumed he would be given what he left behind." He flicked his gaze away as if considering the next course of action, "I must admit, I anticipated far less…determination when I convinced him to join us." Turning his gaze back, he folded his hands behind his back and said, "Finish your work, I will do my best to shield you from his requests. For the time being, he should have his hands full with the principalities and dominions and you should be free to carry out your work." As if in an afterthought, the Metatron asked, "Do you know anything about the demon?"

Michael and Uriel exchanged a furrowed look before both said, "No." Uriel explained, "Our focus has been the relics." But an unangelic hunger growled when they promised, "We could find him as well, if you wish."

The Metatron shook his head, "It is not your responsibility. I will consult with Saraqael. They will have an idea of his location." He tapped his fingers against his palm thoughtfully before he dismissed them, "I do not wish to keep you from your quest any longer, please inform me when you have made significant progress."

"Of course, My Lord." Both archangels said, inclining their heads.


The problem with humans is the remarkable thing about them. See, when you give a creature the ability to make its own decisions, be creative, and control all within its domains, in many ways, you are providing control of reality. Especially when intervention seems so…gauche. I gave them choice, who am I to them what to do with it?

It does create a bit of a sticky paradox though. It is true that I know every human from birth, but babies don't have many thoughts and there's a lot of growing and learning that comes after. I don't have a hand in that, not really, so from time to time they create and do things that I couldn't anticipate. That's the problem with being all powerful, everyone expects you to know how every piece is going to work out.

But the truth is, I've always been a Creator, never a fortune teller. I can't tell you how it's all going to end and…again…I can't really get involved. Not quite yet, there's still some learning that needs to happen. But I'm digressing again, it's just been so long since I've talked to anyone other than the stars. Trust me, as interesting as they are, they have a difficult time holding a conversation that's not explosive. It gets old quickly. Now, where was I? Oh yes, humans…

It's a sticky paradox to not know where all this is going, but that's the cost of free will. At least for me. Every human, down to the most remote individual, has it. The choice to create and love and destroy and make the world into something of their choosing. I know their nature, but not their choices and as I said earlier, nurture has a profound impact on nature.

Were you listening?

I gave them the tools, but they built the house. And wrote the blueprints. It's not perfect. The eightieth floor leans a bit to the right and the front porch is slightly off-center, but for the most part they seem to be doing alright. It's still standing.

And that is the most beautiful, and dangerous, thing about them. For all their creativity, they've forgotten their full potential. A small number has taken free will away from the vast majority and that's a painful reality to watch. They've taken the authority piece too far and have forgotten the beauty of a world in harmony. They are My greatest Creation, but it seems they need a slight nudge if they're going to continue. That I'm probably going to have to do.

Still, it's a creation thing, not a fortune telling one.


Crowley shot up and rolled to his side, the human urge to expel whatever he had in his stomach slammed into him. He heaved as tears stung his eyes and the burn of bile made it worse. The bottle cradled against his chest rolled down the stairs before shattering against the stone walkway. Crowley couldn't notice as his consuming focus was on finding Aziraphale. Fighting through a blurry gaze, he lunged awkwardly to his feet. His panicked voice carried in the still night, "Angel! Angel, where are you?"

He swiped at the tears as he stumbled down the stairs. "Answer me, Aziraphale!" He demanded only to follow with a pleading, "Where are you?" Glass crunched under his foot, and he twisted bodily, left then right but to no avail. He staggered back up the few stairs and into the memorial proper. "Where'd you go? I can't find you!" He caught his foot on an uneven stone, and lurched to save himself, but his balance was gone and all he managed to do was tumble over the statute's low hedge. Instinctively throwing out his hands, he snarled when his right wrist contacted the stone with a smarting crack. Momentarily distracted, he tried to twist it. Pain shot up his forearm. Broken. Crowley ignored it. "Aziraphale, please!" He loudly admitted, "I can't…I can't find you!" He struggled to roll over the hedge as the smell of blood and sulfur gradually dissipated, replaced by the fresh scent of the flowers he had crushed. The manifested trauma followed on reluctant heels as the world slowly resolved around him.

His voice collapsed at the dawning realization as he begged, "Angel, please. Where are you?" Sobs cut his words to ribbons as the last vestiges of the nightmare wore away into the ordinary night. Crowley slumped. His head knocked into the statue, and he reveled in the sharp bite. "Why can't I find you?" He asked even as he knew the answer. Weeping, he pulled his legs fully behind the bush. Aziraphale's death, real or imagined, ripped open a wound that had barely had a chance to stop oozing. Regardless of the circumstance, he still didn't have his angel. Hadn't seen him in days… weeks…years. Wouldn't ever see him again. The time didn't matter because the space Aziraphale's presence had occupied was empty. And it seemed the longer it stayed that way, the quicker it siphoned away pieces of Crowley, pulling them into an abyss that promised destruction.

The soft symphony of the night deepened his anguish. These were the nights Aziraphale loved. When it was gentle and calm, and the humans would remark that it wasn't such a bad time for a walk. Crowley tried to curl away from it, but he couldn't hide: the croak of an insect bit at his heart; the scrabble of a creature tore at his sanity. And the terrible memory of blood and death shredded even more of his blackened soul.

Even still, frustration demanded movement and he kicked out his feet as he screamed, "Why?" When only the hoot of an owl responded, he threw his broken wrist on the leg cocked over the hedge. He tipped his unseeing eyes up and continued, "What did I do that was so terrible that you had to take everything from me? I know I made you mad, but I didn't kill anyone. I tried to help when I could."

He heard nothing in response, but the faraway sound of a car alarm.

"Typical." Crowley spat, "Talk to Job, talk to Moses, talk to…who else? What other humans?" He scrunched his nose as he considered names that were floating on the cusp of memory. Scoffing, he spat, "I know, I just can't remember." Raising his voice again, he asked, "Why even bother starting this whole universe if You weren't going to enjoy it?" Crowley pleaded with the unspeaking Being, his brow knitting in sorrow, "What was the point of us? Of the War? Of any of it?"

The headlights of an approaching car blinded him. Crowley threw his hand over his eyes to block some of the thrum-inducing brightness. "Do you really hate us that much?" A memory of searing agony flashed through his closed eyes. He dropped his hand as the car sped away. Looking back up at the sky, he muttered, "Suppose you always have."

Admitting it felt like being set adrift. He'd had his own side for so long that She felt as indifferent as Satan. It wasn't Satan who punished him, it was Beelzebub. It wasn't Satan who gave him assignments, it was Hastur. And so on and so on. But She had been the One to cast him out. To burn away his ability to love and be loved. In a harsh moment, he realized that Aziraphale had hidden that viciousness. The angel's endearing sense of goodness and optimism promised there was something worthwhile in the world. A flickering light that swore he wasn't as worthless as he had always assumed he was. As worthless as She had always assured him he was.

But then She had taken that away too.

Clearly, all her lingering apathy had really been veiled animosity. She had orchestrated Her revenge carefully. Or easily, given what She was. It explained why he was so different from the other demons; he had been allowed to find connections and build a reluctant trust. Once it was done, She had forced the same betrayal every other demon had known from the beginning. And in that moment, the realized hatred of his Creator sliced deeper than any of the punishments Hell had ever contrived. Hell had caused pain, She had torn the heart out of him…twice. He clutched the dirt in a desperate attempt to stay grounded in the vicious anger that realization should have caused. But even that emotion was as exhausted as the rest of him.

Through the tears, Crowley spat, "You can keep him." He sighed into the black night. "He was always more Yours than he was mine." It came out far more petulant than he intended.

And then the familiar urge to run consumed him. The urge to move and flex and get away from this new reality, to find something familiar. He shot up from behind the hedge. He only tripped once on the sprint back to his car, but he welcomed the stubbed toe. It was only after he laid his hand on the steering wheel that he realized his wrist was still broken. Dropping his unbroken hand off the wheel with a hiss, he leaned into the discomfort. It's what he deserved.

A little more of Crowley disappeared into the abyss.


One of the quirks of Heaven had always been the smattering of human creations that wound up decorating the grounds. As large, impressive constructs were made on Earth, the heavenly artisans, long since out of work, would recreate them on an impressive scale. This led to massive facsimiles littering the clouds around the seat of angelic power. No matter where an angel stood, masterpieces like the Eiffel Tower, Pyramids, and Hanging Gardens loomed in every window, perfect copies of their originals on Earth. It was as if someone was reminding someone else of something and couldn't think of a better way to do it than force the creativity of humans into continuous attention. But after six thousand years, even angels can look through magnificent things. Aziraphale was in the process of doing just that.

He had spent hours after that disastrous meeting coercing and cajoling scriveners, scribes, principalities, thrones, dominions, almost anyone who would listen into going down to Earth and he received only a few tentative agreements. Seemingly, only the angels he had sent initially had been interested in going. Eventually, he stormed back to his office and grabbed the closest file off the pile. If he had looked at the label, he might have put it back. Instead, he started reading and then couldn't stop.

It left him in the unenviable position of attempting not to panic as the file labeled "The 14th Century: Expanded" rested loosely against the table. If anyone were to wander in and ask what he was doing (if angels wandered), he would have assured the questioner he was thinking of what to do with the large number of angels uninterested in working with humans. And then figure out a convoluted way to connect that back to the file currently open in front of him and the others stacked neatly on the table.

Truly, though, he could only consider the multiple times he had seen Crowley interact so gently with humans. The times he had seen the demon try his damndest to mitigate as much pain as he could. He had been Hell's emissary, but it had always been with a touch of mischief that left humans on the front foot. The fourteenth century had been one of their worst times – Aziraphale was painfully aware of what it held – yet Crowley had always stayed. Had never considered leaving. Memories bubbled up and he hardly tried to squash them back.


December 1347 – San Severino, Italy

"Shh, va tutto bene, Gazza, so che fa male." Crowley cooed to the small girl stretched out on the thin straw mattress next to him. The bright eyes that had flashed in confidence days before were closed, and her curly auburn hair was sticky with sweat as she shifted uncomfortably. She whimpered as Crowley laid his hand gently over the boils under her arm. Gritting his teeth, the air around him shimmered as he demanded a demonic miracle. "Riposa bene, ti aiuterò."

Aziraphale watched him surreptitiously. When Crowley slumped a bit more into the wall, he didn't try to hide the worry etched into his expression. Still, the demon's flicking gaze brokered no argument as he pulled the heavy blanket over the girl's shoulders; Aziraphale shook his head and turned back to Margaret's father. Closing his eyes, he called enough of Heaven's power to avoid detection. It had been a piecemeal process from the beginning, but finally the fever cooled, and Aziraphale let out a sigh of marginal relief.

Crowley frowned at the young girl before he dropped his head against the wall. Letting out a shuddering breath, he asked through a scratched throat, "Do you have any idea what this is, Angel?"

Caught off guard by the language change, it took Aziraphale a moment to process what Crowley had asked. Shaking his head, he looked up at the exhausted demon, "I'm not sure what it is, but I heard talk of something like it a few years ago from…" He trailed off before, in muted triumph, he said, "Usiu, in Yingchang. He said something about a disease spreading through the port cities in the Yuan Empire." Aziraphale scrunched his nose, "It had something to do with rats as well…they caused it, or transmitted it, I believe. But I didn't know it had come all this way." Frustration colored his unsure tone.

"Guess we should be glad you got peckish, Angel." Crowley said with flippant honesty.

Aziraphale winced at the sober appreciation, "Yes." He pursed his lips. Shrugging, he said, "Who would have known that lemon squid would have led to this?" It wasn't really a question. Aziraphale called another minor miracle to beat back the last of the fever. As the miracle ended, an invisible taut string snapped, a corner had been turned. But it had taken more effort than it should have. Without looking up, Aziraphale hesitantly asked, "Does it seem like your miracles aren't having as much of an effect?"

"I didn't want to say it, but yes."

Aziraphale nodded.

The day slipped by in tense silence. Margaret slept on in feverish tossing, as the room held its breath and her father slept easier under Aziraphale's aid. As the sun settled on the horizon, Margaret gave a shuddering cry, her eyes squeezing as she twisted toward the wall, her hands wrapping tightly around her belly. Crowley growled something under his breath and whispered, "Dormi, piccolo." He closed his eyes tightly and the room vibrated with a satanic growl as he brutally twisted a large amount of hellish power into healing with a wide flourish. As suddenly as they had worsened, Margaret's whimpering cries eased and Crowley slumped awkwardly into a position that would have been uncomfortable for any naturally spined creature. He took in a shaky, unnecessary breath, before his gaze snapped to Aziraphale with burning intensity, "How's he doing?"

"Better." Aziraphale said instinctively, "He wasn't as sick as she, and I think that last miracle will be enough to deal with it." Aziraphale frowned at the strain cracking across the demon's expression, but he nodded toward Margaret instead, "How's she?"

"She'll be fine after she wakes up." Crowley swore through clenched teeth.

Aziraphale furrowed his brow, and tipped his head only slightly as he asked, "What did you do?"

Crowley scrunched his nose and waffled a bit on an answer before he admitted, "I blessed her."

Aziraphale's eyes went wide. "Yo…you gave her a demonic blessing?"

"It was that or she died, Angel." Crowley snarled. His eyes narrowed and he tempered his response, "She was sicker than he was, and she's younger. What did you want me to do?" The information was a truce, a plea to avoid judgement, but the deep growl promised no compromise if one was made.

Aziraphale bit his tongue at the proper response.


Present

Aziraphale blinked back tears as he tried to swallow the sorrow caused by the old, better left buried, memories. Even now, the ingrained sense of duty scraped painfully against the overwhelming sense of empathy. What they had done hadn't exactly been appropriate, intervention on a broad scale was frowned upon, but there had been something so horrific about what was happening that neither could help but…well, help. They had stayed in San Saverino for two months, healing as many as they could. The gratitude of the living spread quickly throughout the countryside and the supposedly blessed town was inundated. They had done all they could, but even with tireless miracles, it wasn't enough and by the time they left, they followed a path of pain and destruction that wove through the Italian, and European, countryside.

The report in his hands had clearly been written as a distilled history that placed the decisions of Heaven in their appropriate context. It held mined information from his reports and those of his counterparts and detailed the whole of the experience, but it was the inappropriate conclusions and questions that riled him the most. Still, he swallowed it back, desperate to squash the improper emotion, as was his duty. He could analyze once he was done.

Shaking the hackles away, he continued,

"The Great Mortality, as the humans took to calling it, spread quickly from the Sicilian ports. Some estimates suggest it spread four to six kilometers a day, one of the fastest traveling diseases since the Fall. It jumped from community to community through established trade routes, much like it had in the Yuan Empire, and that destroyed interlaced populations with efficiency and impunity. However, this transmission pattern also led to a strange circumstance where towns that had been removed from major trade lines were not affected for many years. In an unexpected way, this would prolong the potency of the sickness, and had the added impact of the complete destruction of entire towns.

It led to numerous mortal explanations for its ravaging nature, ranging from Her wrath to the corruption of man, but the reality was the virus was difficult to combat, especially for humans of such primitive means. Some reports from the period even suggest that angelic miracles were marginally less effective. It led to the conclusion, supported by many angels at the time, including the Supreme Archangel Gabriel, that Hell was in some way involved in its creation. It would spark a flurry of conversation when it came to the impact of such a mass sickness event."


October 1348 – East Grinstead, England

"How much longer are we going to have to do this?" Aziraphale chattered, his shaking hands clenched tightly into the heavy blanket he had over his shoulders. He looked up at Crowley, but even his eyes shook at the attempt at focusing.

Crowley unwound from the similar ball he had curled into and slithered over to Aziraphale. Settling close enough to press into his shoulder, Crowley pulled his fingers up from the floor with barely a flourish. As if a fire had been lit under them, a welcoming hellish heat warmed the space. With a heavy sigh, Crowley's head thudded against the wall as he conceded, "I don't know how much longer. This is clearly different than influenza or diphtheria, but eventually whoever started it has to allow for the cure. It'll just take a little longer than we thought. We just have to keep up with it the best we can until then."

Aziraphale nodded solemnly beside him. Slumping just enough to rest his head on Crowley's shoulder, "What's the point of all this?" He twisted his fingers together where they rested on his knees, "What are they getting out of it?"

"Who?" Crowley asked, his eyes on the half rotted ceiling.

"Hell." Aziraphale said confidently. Ignoring his current position, he added, "Surely, the goal of this was to lay any lack of action at Heaven's feet."

Crowley shrugged, but his voice flattened, "They don't tell me much, Angel." Doubt wavered in his tone, but he didn't vocalize any convicted argument when he said, "Haven't told me much since I failed to keep the barons from defecting back to whichever Henry was the really young one."

"That was over a hundred years ago, Crowley." Aziraphale said with an annoyed harrumph.

"Tell me about it." He quipped through clenched teeth. "Normally, I would be pleased they're leaving me alone…" He trailed off as he considered something across the molding room. "Would be nice to know what's going on with this."

"It would give us a way to figure out how to stop it more effectively." Aziraphale said softly. He lifted his head off Crowley's shoulder and let it fall back against the wall instead. They reveled in the warmth for a time before Aziraphale swallowed hard and admitted, "A few days ago, Gabriel told me I needed to stop filing so many miracle requests."

Crowley stiffened, "When? You've been with me the whole time?"

"You were inside with that large family, when he came by." Aziraphale turned up his nose, "Gabriel doesn't really like humans…and didn't feel like dealing with the sick ones, so it was easy to get him to stay outside."

"Why didn't you tell me, Angel?" Crowley demanded pulling far enough away from Aziraphale enough to look him in the eyes. "I could have hidden, been a snake, something…what if he had seen me?"

Despite the threat, a mischievous smile tugged and Aziraphale assured, "You blend in far better than you think, dear. Even if he had seen you, I don't know that he would have recognized you. He is quite dense." The minor insult shocked a barked laugh from Crowley, widening Aziraphale's smile.

Seemingly placated, Crowley settled next to Aziraphale. Nudging his shoulder slightly, he pulled a bit more of Hell's heat and promised, "I'll figure it out." The house creaked around them as if enjoying a hint of the heat it hadn't felt in a long time. Crowley dropped his hands on his knees and concluded, "We'll stay here for a bit and then we'll head into that town we saw from the top of the hill. Can't go into town shivering, they're going to think we're bringing the plague with us." He closed his eyes and dropped his head against the wall.

Aziraphale rested his head on Crowley's shoulder. A cold breeze drifted through the cracks in the wall, but it held little power against the hellheat. Soon the creaking and the breeze were joined by Crowley's soft snores. It seemed the demon could fall asleep anywhere. Aziraphale glanced up with a fond smile, before reaching for his hand. The loose fingers curled easily around his palm and Crowley shifted slightly, his head falling to rest on the crown of Aziraphale's head. Smiling softly, Aziraphale closed his eyes. It was a dangerous moment of selfishness, but for once he ignored it.


Present

The feeling of that warmth sat with him like a shameful memory. On the surface, it had been a necessity, taking that time to recover. Angels and demons could wear themselves down and, at the time, needing to parse out miracles to avoid notice had made it more difficult to truly rest.

But the shame persisted because it was wrapped in their proximity; in the immediate comfort that bucked any notion of their actual title as hereditary enemies. Regardless of management and experience, they had never eschewed it. Hidden it, but never outright ignored it.

It was wrong Crowley wasn't with him. Wrong that Heaven mandated Crowley not be there.

Aziraphale sat back in surprise. Where had that come from? The feeling of slipping into something whipping and dangerous slinked around the memories he was slow to rebury. Had that always been there? The acknowledgement only came with more questions, What are you holding on to? What are you hiding from? The quietly discordant thoughts became a bit louder as he desperately attempted to shut them down.

What are you doing here?

His throat tightened as he crumpled the paper in his fists. "Now's not the time for that," Aziraphale admonished, "You still have a job to do." Sniffling back the tears he didn't realize were forming, he battered the dissidence against the metaphorical rocks. He had a goal and a direction; he could question the situation once it was done.

Smoothing out the pages, Aziraphale cleared his throat and continued to read,

"The longer the plague continued, the more effectively it offered an opportunity to understand the human reaction to overwhelming events. While some, specifically those that survived, were pushed more fervently into faith, others still rejected the church, blaming it for the loss of specific lives. The longer the plague continued, the clearer it was that the largest factor in entrenching or losing faith seemed to be the status of close relations. For instance, a town in San Severino had a high survival rate, potentially due to angelic intervention…"

Aziraphale reddened at the foot-noted citation of his own report. Given Crowley's involvement, he hadn't been too specific about the explanations of the miracles, but he had recorded them, nonetheless, like with every instance of the Arrangement in their long history. And while none of their work had risen to the level of revivification, there were quite a few people who had needed miracles that tested the limits of their abilities. In any other time, with any measure of oversight, he would have been as guilty of the punishment he received as Crowley had been. At least in the view of their head offices.

"…and with that reality, the level of faith was far higher than in a city like Messina which fell into sin and debauchery. It appeared that when humans were faced with their own moral fragility demonstrated in large numbers, their instinct was to enjoy the limited time they instinctively understood they had.

It was at this point Supreme Archangel Gabriel, Archangels Uriel and Michael, along with the Angels Sandalphon, Saraqael, Zadkiel, Ariel, and the Metatron considered the benefits and costs of ending the plague. After much argument, it was decided to test if a protracted instance of experience would increase or decrease the reliance of the humans on a divine reality."

The pretentious article continued, but Aziraphale had to reread that last line. Heaven had considered ending the suffering. Heaven had considered ending the suffering of millions of humans and had seemingly chosen not to. It was as if the air had been driven from his lungs, like he was choking on the combination of recollections and reality. The questions he had just been asking screamed back with a vengeance. Memories were the only place he could run.


January 1350, somewhere in Wales

Aziraphale managed a few steps into the room before he crumpled into a heap near the closest wall. At least the roof was still intact, unbothered by the weight of the snow that settled on it. Pulling his knees to his chest, the angel sniffled back a few exhausted tears as he curled as tightly as he could, willing his corporation to warm. His fingers twitched against his knees as the slightly warmer air nipped at the icy, exposed digits.

Uncharacteristically silent, Crowley appeared at his side. He didn't press close or hedge his intentions, without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around Aziraphale and pulled him close. Bles…infernal heat followed.

Tucked into caring arms, Aziraphale lost the last threads of composure. Burying his head more securely into Crowley's shoulder, he cried. A muffled voice in the back of his mind reminded him of propriety, but, for once, he easily quieted it. He needed someone who understood, and he had it, he wasn't going to quibble about the color of his wings. A comforting rumble in his squished ear caught his attention before any of the gentle words made sense. "…kno' it's ha..., 'gel." Crowley's soothing placations were emphasized by the light lines his fingers traced along Aziraphale's arm. The demon squirmed a bit and the rumble became more intelligible, "We're doing the best we can." A hiss found its way under his tone when he added, "I know you're tired."

"So are you." Aziraphale whined, feeling only slightly guilty at the way his tears had already soaked through Crowley's woolen shirt.

Awkwardly, Crowley flinched, and pulled his shirt away from his chest before he hunched inward. His tone was flippant, if tight, when he dismissed the angel's concern, "I've been tired this entire century. Before any of this happened. Knew this one was going to be terrible, I guess." Crowley scoffed, "Haven't been this tired since the eleventh. And that one was a doozy."

"Do you want to try to sleep?" Aziraphale asked gently, ignoring the stream of consciousness attempt to distract.

"Can't right now, Angel. Too many people to help." He tightened his hand on Aziraphale's arm. The home they had found was dilapidated, the wood intact but rotted, and the fields around it overgrown; the closest settlement was almost a kilometer away. It was only the two of them.

Aziraphale smiled sadly despite himself. Quietly, he asked, "You won't get in trouble, will you?"

"If Hell hasn't said anything yet, I don't think they're suddenly going to start askin'."

They sat in silence for a long moment. Aziraphale broke it. "What happened while you were gone?" He bit his lip and tempered the request, "Were you able to find out anything?"

"You don't want to know, Angel." Crowley grumbled in his glib way. Shaking his head, he raised his voice, "I didn't find much, but I'm pretty sure this wasn't my lot. There was quite a bit of confusion down there about what's actually going on. More people than normal seem to be sinning and dying and it's baffling even the smarter demons." Crowley paused and let the creaking of the old house fill the silence before he quietly admitted, "I might have taken more ownership of this than I wanted to."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, too tired to ignore the deflection. They had already broken every conceivable boundary, there was no sense in acknowledging any of the others. Passing over Crowley's diversion, he pressed, "I do want to know, Crowley." He swallowed hard before he betrayed the small bit of information he had gathered, "I know someone hurt you. I must imagine it was at Beelzebub's orders."

There was a tense silence. Crowley cleared his throat, "You saw that?"

"The back of your jacket was stained..." Aziraphale said as an explanation. "They did something to your wings, didn't they?"

Crowley sighed heavily, "It's nothing. It barely hurts now."

"What'd they do?" Aziraphale all but growled.

"Beelzebub just wanted a few feathers. Punishment for Gazza." Crowley shrugged, uncommitted, "I guess your lot's got an eye on her, something about a sainthood for defending the downtrodden. Or walking around without shoes. Can't remember which it was, but rumor has it someone thought Margaret the Barefoot would be a clever title." He scoffed, "I think it's a bit too plain for her, but it is Heaven giving the sainthood." Crowley smirked as he tossed his hand dismissively, even as he shifted uncomfortably, "When they were done Beelzebub admitted they weren't as upset as they could have been."

Bypassing the bait again, Aziraphale pressed, "Did they take primaries?"

Crowley growled, but he shivered involuntarily before he said, "A few."

"They definitely tore them out then. Those take hundreds of years to grow back." Aziraphale snapped, pushing off Crowley's shoulder and turning to face him. He couldn't keep the indignance buried and he was sure his face was puffy from crying.

"It could have been worse." Crowley pleaded.

"How?" Aziraphale demanded, "How could it be worse than stripping your wings?"

"It was only four feathers, Angel." Crowley assured, laying his closest hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, "Trust me, there are worse ways to face punishment in Hell." His long fingers closed onto Aziraphale's arm as he pulled in back into his chest. "The feathers were a kindness."

Aziraphale resisted the insistent tug. "Why?" The anger had not quite dissipated.

Crowley met Aziraphale's gaze. Exposure, pain, and revulsion warred in his expression as he asked, "Are you sure you want to know, Angel?" Aziraphale nodded and leaned into Crowley's hands. The demon scrunched his nose but continued, "Quite a few of the people we saved became hedonists. Cavorting and decadence-ing up a storm once we left. Somethin' about 'eating, drinking, and staying merry'. According to Beelzebub, I deserved some credit for…convincing an angel to do Hell's work."

"Oh my," Aziraphale said, his cheeks going red as his stomach dropped, "Do you think I'll be hearing from Gabriel?"

Crowley shrugged, but anxiety radiated through his self-reassuring question, "Don't your lot just send a note?"

"Depends on what I get credited with doing." Aziraphale shuddered.

Crowley shifted his hands on Aziraphale's arms and pulled him back into his side before he promised, "Don't think Hell talks with Heaven." His fingers dug into Aziraphale's arm as he added, "And even if they do, tell them you saved a saint, they won't look much farther than that. You were there, after all."

Aziraphale buried his head back into Crowley's shoulder. Shifting close, he snuggled into an embrace he should never have accepted. An awkward, if content silence fell between them for a long moment, before Aziraphale asked, "Didn't you give Margaret a demonic blessing? Don't you think they'll notice?"

"I'm the Tempter, Aziraphale. I know how to hide my tracks." Crowley's voice was deadly serious. That title and assurance hung in the quiet air for a long moment before Crowley broke the gravity with a dismissive assurance, "And they won't look. She'll get the title without them ever checking."


Present Day

They had stayed in that house for four days as the snow fell in heavier and heavier flakes. The roof held with a few minor miracles and the infernal heat Crowley called kept them warm. For as dire as the world around them was, those stolen days had been a pleasure he had long learned to bury. Even now, it felt like a violation to remember. At the time, it had been desperation. At least that's what he told himself because it shouldn't have been comforting. None of it. Not the arms or the warmth or the feeling of ease that came from sitting so close to his hereditary enemy. They'd had rules after all. The lapels on his jacket tightened and he licked his tingling lips as he considered the last line they had crossed. They had done that so many times throughout the years, but that one felt so...final. Tears welled up again that had nothing to do with the latent memories or the callous reporting.

And this is worth it? The sneaking voice crept back in.

"Yes." Aziraphale snapped letting the violated anger beat back the tears. "I can fix it." Grumbling, he turned back to the last few pages of the report,

"After five human years, a concession was reached that the destructiveness of the disease was too intermittent to force faith. With the agreement of Supreme Archangel Gabriel, Archangels Uriel and Michael, along with the Angels Sandalphon, Saraqael, Zadkiel, Ariel, and the Metatron, the disease was suspended with the possibility of a potential resurgence if the problem of faith could be worked out. It would be allowed to return twice more, but in every iteration, the outcome was replicated. The conclusion was that when no cure came through broadly spiritual means, many humans turned to the sin of the flesh. A new method…"

Aziraphale's gaze wandered off the page. All of it, every bit of suffering could be laid at Heaven's doorstep. It might not have started as an angelic disease, but it became theirs as inaction became their blatant decision.

What are you doing here?

His ears started to ring, and a grinding started in his chest, like his fractured heart was hammering into nothing. Betrayal, that whispered voice assured. Tightness squeezed his chest as an unnecessary breath shuddered free and he didn't bother to drag in another. After everything he had giv…done and every assertion he had made about the nature of Heaven and Hell…His world tipped on its axis, throwing him so far off kilter that righting it seemed impossible. And yet, the only thought he could hold onto was, "You were right."

As that truth was expelled into that holy place, all the failures he had been facing, all the pushback, all the rejection, all the stress, all of it snapped into clarity. The weight of millions of years of dismissal, derision, and disdain landed squarely on his shoulders. Tears welled in his eyes as he unconsciously spun toward the door, even as a moment later he squashed the whispered suggestion of running.

Not that it mattered, he couldn't move. His feet wouldn't obey as the defensive part of his mind fought back. Surely, there had been a reason for the pain. For him to not know why it was happening. Surely, it had been a calculation for the betterment of humankind that had made the wanton death worth the suffering.

None of it eased the clawing fear scratched his throat as he considered what he had just read because saying it didn't make sense. It had been a failure. They had admitted it was a failure. That meant that all the lives lost, all the families torn apart, all the destruction was done for nothing. There was no improvement in faith or ending of Hell's hold. It was all worthless.

Heaven doesn't do anything without reason. He had heard that before, but the origin evaded him as he tried to grasp it.

The buzzing in his mind worsened as his mouth went dry and that squeezing sensation felt like it had shifted to crushing him. After everything he had been told, everything he had believed, how could this be the reality? Then the Metatron's voice ghosted above the buzzing, Once the seventh sign is revealed, we will be ready to vanquish Hell. All the defenses he could muster fell away. Everything in him stilled as the totality of his long existence crashed into him. Heaven would kill everyone to get what it wanted. All of it was a game, played on a board with sentient pawns. In that clarifying moment, Aziraphale finally realized Heaven would sacrifice the world to gain their victory.

"There wasn't any cause for any of this." Aziraphale muttered to himself, as he slammed the file on the desk causing the few small bottles and pens stacked across its surface to shudder and roll. "Not for Crowley's punishment, not for Margaret's sickness, or Job's loss, or Wee Morag's death, none of them deserved this."

He looked up into the glowing white ceiling, "Why did You allow any of this?" It was the closest he had ever come to anger at Her. The closest he had ever felt to Falling. He dropped his voice, defeated, "Why did You allow any of this?" Tears fell and Aziraphale dropped his head into his hands, "Why didn't I stop any of it?"

He expected nothing. She hadn't talked to him since that day outside the walls of Eden.

Now was no different.

Agitation hit as the urge to run, to find something familiar, crawled up his throat. His gaze darted around the room, skittering over the ostentatious reminders of the humans below and landing on the door. The closed door. He could go. He could run.

But what of the plans that are already in motion? His conscience whispered as the stinging urge to understand the Second Coming tickled the back of his mind. If Armageddon was the destruction of the world, and the Second Coming was its rebirth, what could that possibly mean? Especially given everything else he'd already read.

Panic seized him and he jumped to the miracled table. Digging through the mountain of what he had left to read, he snagged the last file, the one titled "Parousia". Blinking back the tears threatening after the last revelation, Aziraphale snapped the folder open. Blindly reaching in, he came away empty. Looking down he realized there was nothing in the file. No fabric he could grab, no paper, no scrap of information. He closed it. It looked stuffed full. Just to make sure he wasn't imagining it, Aziraphale opened the file again. Still empty. Aziraphale dropped back into his seat and pressed his fingers into the bridge of his nose.

What could that possibly mean?

In the blink of an eye, he was in the Scriveners' offices. Following the familiar route to Nakir, Aziraphale found him hunched over the desk seemingly working on nothing. Aziraphale's head was still pounding from his realization, and he shoved his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking. His voice was an octave higher than it should be as he asked without announcement, "Nakir, is it possible that you gave me the wrong file?"

The slight angel's head shot up at the question, but before he could say anything, another, more boisterous, voice echoed off the illusory walls from behind Aziraphale. "Three visitors in a day!"

"I'm sorry?" Aziraphale asked, turning to face the newest distraction. The angel was taller than Crowley, well dressed in the modern-adjacent suit that seemed to be the fashion, and had a goofy smile plastered on his face that disappeared the moment his eyes fell on Aziraphale. He dropped his gaze and deferentially said, "I apologize, Supreme Archangel. I didn't recognize you." He flicked his gaze up to Nakir and scrunched his nose with a shrug.

Shocked by the interaction, Aziraphale smirked. Instinctive manners momentarily quieted the personal revelations, as he said, "It's alright…uhhh…" He trailed off as he passed his hand between them before encouraging, "what's your name?"

"Seraph, 14th level historian, Archangel Aziraphale." Seraph said quickly. He cleared his throat; the excitement had evaporated into propriety, "I apologize for the cheek. It's just rare when we see anyone, let alone all three archangels in such a short time."

Chuckling under his breath, Aziraphale assured, "That wasn't cheek, Seraph." Unfortunately, the distraction was wearing off. He curled his fingers in his pockets trying to stay calm. Looking between the two, he tried to keep his voice conversational, "Michael and Uriel were down here earlier? What were they looking for?"

"Holy relics." Nakir said quietly, "They've been asking for lists of them since shortly after you got here."

"Relics? For what?"

The angels shared looked at each other and after a silent conversation, both shrugged. Seraph answered, "We're not sure, but they said they were looking for holy relics that had been left on Earth since the Garden's creation."

A flaming sword flashed in his mind. It's long buried, he assured himself, not even Heaven knows where it is. But that was only one relic, there were plenty others. Paradoxically, the information helped him focus. Heaven's duplicity. The missing file. All of it was just another piece of a dangerous puzzle. He looked up, "Thank you for telling me." Chewing on his tongue to buy a few more seconds, he finally asked, "Would you mind if I spoke to Nakir for a moment?"

Seraph dropped his gaze, "Of course, Supreme Archangel. I do again apologize for my dismissal earlier. It wasn't my intention to be so flippant."

"It's alright, Seraph. I appreciate your honesty."

Seraph inclined his head and disappeared out of the door.

Nakir looked nervously up at Aziraphale, "What can I help you with Archangel?"

Once he was sure there were no other ears nearby, Aziraphale dropped the Parousia file on Nakir's desk. "When I opened that seemingly stuffed file, there was nothing in it." To prove his point, he opened the folder and, again, there was nothing but the back of the replica cardboard. Unwilling to accuse, he innocently asked, "Is it possible that this is the wrong file? Maybe there's a piece of information that I'm missing?"

"N…no, Archangel." Nakir said, his eyes wide as he started at the empty file. Meeting Aziraphale's gaze, he said, "I can't touch that file, let alone pull the wrong one. If we have any information labeled 'The Second Coming' or 'Parousia', it should be there."

"Yes, that's what concerned me." Aziraphale muttered, already getting wrapped up in the implications. He unconsciously closed and opened the folder again, his brow furrowing at the quarce proven deception.

"I've never seen that happen before." Nakir admitted.

Aziraphale looked back to him, "How long have you been a scrivener?"

"Since the War."

Aziraphale nodded, "And you've never seen anything like this?"

"No, Supreme Archangel. The closest I've seen is when a file doesn't exist." Tapping his finger thoughtfully on the table, he said, "It's happened from time to time with human technology – they develop it so quickly – but never with something of ours."

"Well, that is a question mark." Aziraphale muttered, finally allowing some of the pent up anger to curl through his words. His gaze snapped up to Nakir's, "I need you to do something for me."

The scrivener nodded, hesitantly at first, but his voice was far more enthusiastic, "Of course, Archangel Aziraphale."

"Don't tell anyone about this until I have a chance to investigate it. Not even Seraph. Don't tell anyone I've asked about this; can you do that?"

"Of course, Supreme Archangel." Nakir said with a bow.

"Please stop doing that, Nakir." Aziraphale said in exasperation. Another traitorous thought reminded him that the only bow he could ever handle would have been Crowley's infinitely sarcastic one. Aziraphale snapped the file shut and turned to leave.

"Archangel?" Nakir's quiet voice caught him.

"Yes?" Aziraphale said over his shoulder.

"What are you going to do?" A hint of confidence and concern undercut the tone.

Aziraphale turned with a tight smile, "I'm going to reach out to a…well, someone."

"Someone you can trust?" The concern grew.

"I…used to be able to." Aziraphale cringed at the acknowledgement.

Nakir scrunched his nose, and deferentially dropped his gaze before he said, "Please be careful, Archangel Aziraphale."

Aziraphale smiled sickly, "I'll do my best."


As the Bentley scooted into the narrow streets of Soho, Crowley was a shadow of the creature he had been. Instead of intentionally hard edges and dark colors that hid compassion, the hard edges had been ruffled and softened by the depth of his hostility. All the care had been burned away, a punishment for slipping too close to the stars time and time again. He never did learn.

It was his lack of learning that ended him parked in front of the same bookshop he had been coming to for years. The same bookshop that had ended his peaceful existence weeks earlier. And still, he couldn't help but return.

He loomed outside the bookshop all dark scowls and flippant stares while he decided on what to do next. A couple walked past him, holding hands, her head on his shoulder and Crowley's frown deepened. He snapped his fingers and the car that was slowly passing miraculously hit a pothole, a splash of mud and muck drenched the pair even though the weather had been relatively dry. When the grating giggling continued even after the accident, Crowley snapped his fingers again, both their keys and wallets vanished. It wouldn't be until they made it home to change, they realized their predicament. It was unnecessarily annoying. Crowley found no joy in it.

His mood darkened farther when he looked in the bookshop. Muriel stood in the window, squinting through the glass. Tipping their head, their eyes narrowed for a long moment, before they started to aggressively wave, a stupidly bright smile on their face.

Pain knifed through his chest and Crowley felt the overwhelming urge to run. Just maybe not as far as before. He wanted to be angry, to rage and scream and burn, but he was just so exhausted. So empty. As if the last of himself had finally bled away and all he could do was haunt the places he used to belong. When he looked back up, Muriel was gone. Glancing up and down the street, Crowley caught sight of a dive bar, and started walking.


And that's all I have for now! We're getting close to a reunion - definitely the first scene of all of this I wrote - and then so much more as the plan sets into motion.

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

-Lily