Hey everyone,

I definitely said this last time too, so I'm sorry for repeating myself and for the delay! This chapter was a hard one to write, I actually gave up on it for a bit before understanding and inspiration struck anew. Thank you to those of you who are still reading and I hope your new year is going well so far!

Without further ado...

Enjoy!

"Welcome back to my channel. For those of you who just found HiddenRevelations, prepare to get your mind blown. For those of you who have been here before, I have a crazy one for you today."

Without any more explanation, the beanie-clad youtuber – Calamarauder online, but Chris everywhere else – leaned into his mic, "Here's what you need to know, okay? The truth is astronomers and even astrologists, and you know how I feel about that pseudo-intellectual shit, are confused by the seemingly random events going on in space. I mean, meteors hitting the ground in huge numbers? The sun shifting black in an unpredicted eclipse and then turning red? And not just normal sun red either, blood red." He raised his eyebrow, resting on the pause.

"We've never seen that before, nowhere in the modern record has anything like that been recorded." Chris threw up his finger up and stared directly into the camera, "But I said modern." Implications hung on the pause as he let the appropriate tension build. "There is one record of this." He made sure the strategically placed ring-light illuminated his heterochromia. "It's called the Apocalypse of Thomas." Leaning back, he drew his audience in. "See after Jesus was crucified, his followers started writing down all they could remember with the goal of spreading his message beyond their little corner of the globe. Then, once Christianity took hold, these records were collected and called the New Testament apocrypha because they weren't written by the official Church prophets. More on who got to decide who was a Church prophet later. What you need to know now is one of those writers was Thomas. Unfortunately, there isn't any more of his name that survives, but what's important are his words." The LEDs that backlit the room shifted from a soothing teal to a more suggestive orange.

"See Thomas knew John, the guy who wrote the Book of Revelations. And after John died, Thomas wrote down the prophesied events of what would lead to the apocalypse. John didn't include those signs in the biblical book because he wanted to test the faith and resiliency of the later followers of Jesus, so he told them to Thomas who recorded them in this separate document." Chris paused and let the flood of information sink in. "Do you follow me?"

It was rhetorical, of course, and after an internet appropriate beat, he continued, "Thomas's records were translated and transcribed and eventually ended up inspiring easier to understand documents like the Fifteen Signs before Doomsday in the Kildare Poems." Chris adjusted the massive pair of headphones crammed over his ears, but barely noticed the inconvenience, "Do you know what that poem talks about? What the Apocalypse of Thomas talks about?" He allowed indignance to work in his voice, "Stars falling so rapidly they pockmark the Earth's surface. The dead rising from their graves and tormenting the living. The sun turning black and then red. Animals stopping and staring up at the sky for long periods of time and shaking. Mountains falling!" He threw his hands up dramatically, "And we've already seen some of that happening in the last month! Stuff that our experts can't explain." He crossed his arms over his chest.

Dropping his voice, he tipped into the conspiracy of it all. "And just in case you need more evidence of the legitimacy of these documents, in the 1600s, like a thousand years after it was written, the Apocalypse of Thomas was decided to be sacrilegious, meaning it shouldn't be read, by Pope Gelasius. Who, by the way, we know nothing about. But the Gelasian Decree condemned the work, and it was decided that all related documents should be burned. Kept from seeing the light of day. These useful documents that for hundreds of years warned people of the end times were suddenly considered wrong by one man. You have to ask yourself, what was he protecting? Who was he to keep you from knowing the truth?" He leaned again into the camera, imploring his audience to accept his call to action.

"You have the right to know what is coming and how to protect yourself and your family. There are explanations and solutions, we're going to talk about them in the rest of this video but first, if you want to stock up for the coming apocalypse, you'll need this week's sponsor, ChowBucket…"

Chris trailed off into what would be the promo he filmed earlier in the day. The hook was always the hardest part and he had learned a long time ago that if he did the bulk of the video first, the lead-in was much easier. Ending the recording, he rocked back in his chair and stretched his arms in a wide arc. Cracking his knuckles and neck, he dropped his hands in unison on his mouse and keyboard. There was still so much work to do. Editing, scrubbing, clipping, hours' worth of work before he could share the truth to people who were finally listening. For years he had been talking about this, only to be called a zealot, conspiracy theorist, crazy, but now that it was impossible to miss, people were starting to listen, and he was going to milk it for all it was worth.

He wasn't the only one either, the thousands of theories that lurked in the darker corners of the internet were filtering out, building on the slow egress of panic that rippled and ebbed under society's consciousness. All over the world, people went about their days: drove to work, dropped their kids off at school, cooked dinner, cleaned the house, and tried desperately to ignore the deepening feeling in their collective guts that something was coming. That something was roiling under the Earth's crust or right above the stratosphere just waiting to crumble Creation into nothing. Until it happened, he was going to keep clipping thumbnails and saying yes to whatever sponsors sent him.

And then spending that money on gold and non-perishables, the things that would actually last when he was finally proven right.

Scarcely a step away from the dedicated scrivener, a trepidatious trembling started in his stomach as if a clutch of butterflies or a flock of birds were trying to escape. Only a few hurried steps out of the room, whatever creation had taken up residence was climbing up his throat. Free of Nakir's nervous gaze he sped, just short of running, sweat beading on his brow, as he tried to get…somewhere.

None of it should have been possible, of course, but nothing about reality seemed ready to stop the impossible physiological response or the raw emotion threatening to discorporate him. In Heaven.

This was what he wanted.

The assurance rang hollow, and that realization shot another jolt of knotting nerves through his system. His fingers and toes started to tingle. The frantic beat of wings was easing, but the heavy emptiness slowly eclipsing it was worse. It tightened and leached, darkening all it touched as the disdain of perfidy and horror clawed at the heart of him, the biproduct of some all-together larger creature. The brightness of the space around him hadn't darkened, but still turned sinister, as if it was designed to blind anyone looking too closely, to keep them from seeing the truth. Unconsciously, Aziraphale shielded his eyes, squinting into the corridors ahead of him.

This was what he wanted?

By some miracle, Aziraphale managed to hold it together. Past the nondescript offices, through an annoyingly populated hallway, and maneuvering around a particularly slow moving angelic pair. He was nearly safe when, "Archangel Aziraphale!" Snapping his arm down, he squinted into the oncoming light and tried to scrub the anguish off his face as he slowly turned to face his fate. He saw an angel he recognized but to say her name simply escaped him would undermine the existential dread he was currently battling. Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back, the folder held tight between them.

The angel skidded to a stop at Aziraphale's attention, and her gaze immediately flicked to the floor in a show of deference.

"Ahh, yes…ah." Aziraphale stuttered. "What can I do for you?" The greeting felt as hollow as he did. He should know her name.

Her pleated longuette skirt swished around her calves as a clipboard appeared abruptly between them. "I have the information and names you asked for, Supreme Archangel."

"Information and names?" He managed to parrot back as he forced a portion of his mind to focus on what she was saying.

Tugging the clipboard back, her expression crinkled into confusion as she nervously said, "You asked for an update on the Parousia and names of those who would be willing to go down to Earth? You told me to take up a list you could use." She lifted papers in conjunction with each description before gesturing to a rather thick stack underneath. "The Metatron also asked me to include the duty rosters that need your approval." Tentatively, she held the clipboard between them.

Aziraphale blinked a few times and took it with one hand, eternally thankful when it didn't shake, and slapped the folder to the bottom with the other. He skimmed the first sheet and noticed a couple names listed as collateral. Inwardly struggling with the need to flee, he flipped to the next page. Only a handful of names greeted him. Dropping the clipboard to his side, he felt the battering wrongness again in his throat. "This is all you could find?"

"Maybe if I had a little more time?" The angel said. Her confusion fell into embarrassment.

"No." Aziraphale snapped, more abruptly than he intended. Clearing his throat, he tried again. "No, it's alright." He inclined his head, "Thank you for trying." Dismissal dripped off his tone. When she didn't leave, Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Would it be possible to add my name to that list, Supreme Archangel?"

"Why didn't you just add it?"

"I'm not really allowed to go anywhere. Twelfth level registrar and all that." Her eyes widened at the hint of a complaint, and she dropped her gaze. Her voice was small when she added, "I just thought maybe if I mentioned it to you…" She trailed off.

Aziraphale ground his teeth – a habit he had picked up years ago when Crowley insisted on swapping all his pens for ones that used levers to switch the ink color – and admitted, "I would love to add your name, but I'm having trouble recalling it." Guilt joined the frustration he was still trying to cover.

The angel's expression fell as she self-consciously said, "Its Andromeda."

"Of course, Andromeda." Aziraphale deflated at the name and flicked his already struggling, but accusatory, gaze at the ceiling before returning it back to the angel. "I apologize. I shall remember that in the future. Now if you'll excuse me." Without waiting for a response, Aziraphale turned and hurried away, clutching both stacks before him. The interruption had done little to ease his concern. As he slipped into the room, he only managed a few broken breaths before a wracking sob let the dying creatures escape and a darkness to curl tightly in their place. He collapsed, falling back into the door that materialized as soon as he needed it. Drawing his knees into his chest, he stilled.

Even as his mind ran. A swirling mess of betrayal and anger and fear. Disconnectedness. Confusion. He couldn't make heads or tails of what he had read, of what he had seen, of what he believed or sensed tearing at his core. It just felt so…wrong.

Closing his eyes at the opacity, he reached inside. Grasping for anything that made sense. Her Love still pulsed where it always had, beating in his chest the way a heart would for a human. She was real. For one long breath, that eased his fears. The torrent of his thoughts calmed, and he let that familiar feeling curl into the darkened recesses. His breathing eased. A renewed sense of purpose filled in the cracks that had started to form.

In his relaxation, he let his walls fall. He could do this. Unconsciously, Aziraphale reached beyond himself looking for more of that sensation. When he didn't immediately find anything, his curiosity pushed him farther. Nothing. His eyes snapped open. The room cracked into sharp relief as the beauty around him echoed none of that Love. It didn't diffuse through the halls or the rooms. Nothing like the Bentley, Tadfield or even his bookshop. It was sterile. Cold.

The puttied fissures cracked irreparably. This was Heaven. If he could feel Her Love anywhere and everywhere, it should be here. The eddying winds in his mind ratcheted into a maelstrom. He grasped for something to hold on to, but it slipped through his fingers.

Nothing radiated through the halls or bled out of the floor. It was like he was back in the high rises of London or New York. All flash, hard-edged, and shiny, but with no…heart. No depth. No care or compassion or empathy. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Now that he recognized it, he couldn't suppress it. The lack sunk into him, wrapped around the blackened knot in his stomach and strengthening its oozing reach, slipping closer to where Her Love sat nestled.

Why?

His clenched hands dug into his knees and his tears fell faster.

What did it mean? What did any of it mean? Why had he even picked up that first report? Why hadn't he just listened? Done what he had been supposed to?

Suddenly, Aziraphale felt like he was on fire. Or freezing. Or being buffeted. Or still. All of the paradoxes with no ballast in sight. Another creeping realization slunk in under the existential crisis, he had been here a month, barely any time at all, but in the same thought, he knew a hundred years wouldn't be enough to fix the mess that was laid out before him.

To put it eloquently, Heaven was fucked. And so was he.

"What do you want from me?" He cried, praying for an answer.

Silence.

Aziraphale kicked his feet out in front of him like a petulant child, "It's Your fault I'm here," he accused. "Why won't You ever answer me?" His head thudded back against the door as he came as close to silently raging as was appropriate for the Supreme Archangel.

But for as badly as he wanted to be angry, he only found that old, familiar feeling of inadequacy. Its cutting blade taunted him as a chorus of voices – Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, even the Metatron – played over the celestial harmonies. They reminded him how soft he was, how unworthy of acknowledgement, how pathetic, how undeserving, how unloved, untrustworthy, deceitful, and on and on. And nothing spoke against them. Aziraphale closed his hands over his ears. He silently begged for it to stop. All angelic words were supposedly said with love and purpose, but that just allowed the painful and debilitating to slip in underneath.

Nothing stopped the flaying. Heaven's actions and inactions were wrapped up in those words, expertly carving away the little of the confidence he had left. There were no books to hide behind, no food, no duty, no purpose…

No demon.

The room's light cut through his tightly closed eyes, blinding him as he tried to find some respite, some shadow. The soothing celestial harmonies formed the backing track to his torment as he pressed his hands tighter over his ears, begging for some quiet.

His nails sank into the soft skin above his ears until a golden shimmer wept from the wounds. There would be no blood here, only beautiful, glistening ichor that slid down his wrists, soaking into the sleeves of his jacket. Like everything else, it was seemingly designed to protect an image of perfection.

The lashing words continued. Stupid. Poor. Pitiful. Pretender.

Independent of thought, his nails lengthened, causing exquisite pain he could feel.

Corrupted. Contemptible. Despicable.

Physical pain joined the psychological and Aziraphale had the fleeting thought that this might be the way he ends. In a puddle of tears, snot, and ichor. Very unbecoming for the Supreme Archangel. An ending that surely would buoy the charge of a systematic problem. A contrite voice, whispering in the dark, assured that at least the damage to his perceived corporation proved why he had always kept his nails short. It would have been dangerous to restore hundred year old books with long nails. Think of the damage to the binding? A shiver shot up his spine that had nothing to do with the barrage of voices.

Ignominy. Scornful. Humiliating. Fallen.

Chocolate. The juxtaposition of the sweet word shocked him and through the cacophony of his mind, a lazy memory played of Crowley standing on tiptoe just over Gabriel's shoulder holding a box. It had been opening day for his bookshop.

Hateful. Insolent. Condescending. The words sliced, demanding his undivided attention.

But some small part of him pushed back with…tennis. Crowley straddling a beautifully gilded box shoving tennis balls in every conceivable nook and cranny while he recited a particularly inflammatory note to Henry V to a very confused royal scribe. He relayed a flourish-ridden story to Shakespeare a hundred-odd years later.

Deplorable. Pitiable. Wretched. The distinctiveness of the voices muddled as the lacerations felt more like incised slices. But cuts could still kill.

Words. The time Crowley intentionally mis-set a royal printing press after the master had stepped out to relieve himself. All the Bibles were missing the "not" in the commandment about not committing adultery. The demon howled with laughter when he had finally told Aziraphale he had been the reason the local angel had been tasked with helping find the misprints. Aziraphale still had one of the Wicked Bibles in his shop.

Miserable. Tragic. Disgraceful. Dishonorable. They spoke in one voice, but the words were a paper cut.

Minesweeper. Another one of Crowley's more insidious mischiefs, he had been the one to suggest using the corners as a point of contact for the mines, forcing the addition of five through eight to the game. Humans loved it. And hated it. And it wasted days of productivity once it was included, along with solitaire, on the base loading software of every computer. That had been Crowley's doing as well.

On and on memories flitted out of that increasingly quiet place, beating the vicious voices into silence. As the choir finally ended its shrieking, Aziraphale slumped to his side, utterly spent. He managed to catch himself on an elbow, but given how badly it was shaking, the precariousness wouldn't last. His nonexistent heart hammered in his chest even as it hardened surreptitiously. Aziraphale swallowed and shakily pushed to his feet. Regardless of what he wanted, what he had wasn't right. He knew what he needed to do, and he couldn't wait any longer. Snapping his fingers, the combined ick of ichor, snot, and tears evaporated as he slipped toward the summoning sigils on quaking legs.

"You've been a hard one to find." Shax quipped, dropping into the chair across from Crowley.

A loud groan accompanied the exaggerated roll of his head as he dropped his wobbling gaze on Shax. "What do you want?" It wasn't exactly articulate. He added, "Don't you have a war to be planning or something?" It was just as lame, and his mood darkened further, but it did nothing to cure the lethargy that had him slumped hazardously on the chair.

"That's what I came to ask you about."

Crowley dropped his chin into his hand and his eyebrows raised above his sunglasses, "And what, pretell, would I know about that?" He smirked when she pursed her lips.

Shax leaned onto the table as if she was about to share a secret. "I came to see if your angel friend knew anything about what's going on." It wasn't so much a secret as a plea for information.

Crowley barked a laugh and finished his glass before pouring another. He met his replacement's – no, the new Grand Duke of Hell's – gaze and blandly said, "Yah, we're not exactly talking. Don't know anything that could be useful."

Shax straightened and narrowed her gaze. She regarded Crowley for a long moment. "Does that mean you're in need of allies?"

For the second time in as many moments, Crowley snorted, "No, I'm good."

"We could use you."

"You probably could." Crowley said with confidence his drunken-self had no right to inflect. He poured another glass. "I'm not interested. I'm sick of being pulled in every direction just to get the short end of every stick. You do your own thing, Heaven will do their own thing, and everyone better leave me the fuck out of it."

Shax raised her eyebrow, "He broke up with you, didn't he?" She crossed her arms over her chest, careful to spread the meticulously colored nails flat on her bicep, "Here I thought he wasn't your type."

Crowley scowled at the accurate read. "Do you really not know?" He sniped, allowing Oscar-worthy incredulousness in his voice to sell the implications.

"Know what?" Shax asked, her arms falling to the table as the in-charge façade fell away and her eyes widened, "What is there to know?"

Mischievousness danced behind Crowley's sunglasses, "I've been out of Hell for more than four years and I still know more than the Grand Duke." He spat the title with as much sass and contempt as he could. "Guess She does work in mysterious ways."

"What are you talking about? What's there to know?" Shax became increasingly worked up as evidenced by her train of thought. "I know there was a shake-up in leadership, I was there when Gabriel and Beelzebub left, but we haven't heard anything from our regular contacts, the only thing I could find out was that there has been an increase in the number of angels on Earth…" She stopped and gathered herself. Tapping her nail on the table, she innocently asked, "If he dumped you, why not just tell me what's going on?"

Crowley smiled and teased, "But this is so much more fun." He folded his hands in front of him. It was at least an enjoyable level of caused annoyance.

"We could get back at him for you."

Crowley stiffened. "You don't get it."

Shax grinned. "I think I get enough. He left you and now instead of using me to get back at him, you're going to do it yourself." She pursed her lips. "Just keep us in mind if you need any help. I'm sure I could find a few demons who would be willing to help you pluck his feathers."

Crowley snarled dangerously. "I don't want you anywhere near him. I don't want him anywhere near Heaven. And if I find out you've done anything…"

"So, he's back in Heaven." Shax said, tapping her finger against her cheek. Her gaze narrowed, "Is he the reason I haven't heard anything from anyone?" Snickering, she twisted the knife. "Here I thought he just went away, but he left you for Heaven." She tsked. "Seems like a surprisingly angelic decision to make."

Crowley blinked owlishly and only some of it was hidden behind his sunglasses. How had…what? The whiplash of the conversation made it difficult to collect his ricocheting thoughts. He gawked as subtly as possible as he tried to get a handle on the situation.

"Seems to me," Shax said, "that Heaven has, in fact, decided they do want a war." She crossed her arms again over her chest. "Bringing the halo-destroyer back into the fold is as good a declaration as the demons' destruction."

"No war, Shax." Crowley said hurriedly, while still trying to understand how the conversation had veered so wildly from entertaining. "No one wants a war."

"I think you're the only one who doesn't." Shax raised her eyebrow before flicking her fingers between them dismissively, "In any case, the portents have been piling up and war really does seem to be the only way good omens end."

"Portents? What? And I must imagine that the beings who get killed in a war don't generally want it to have happened either." Crowley clutched his fist on the table. "And halo-destroyer? That's a terrible name."

"No way you missed the signs that have been showing up. Meteor showers. Rising dead. The sun changing colors. Animals stopping what they're doing and staring up at the sky for hours on end, while crying." Disbelief dripped from her tone. "Where have you been for the last month?"

Crowley tipped a bottle toward her, but his forced nonchalance didn't keep the embarrassment from rising to his cheeks as he internally recounted how many days he was sure had passed.

"Oh." Shax said simply.

"Yeah."

Silence dropped between them as Shax slid off the chair. She dropped her hand on the table, "If you change your mind, you know how to find me."

Crowley inclined his head. And took a drink.

With an annoyed huff, Shax shuffled out of the bar. Crowley stewed in his seat, his hand closing tighter around the glass as the urge to chuck it at the closest wall intruded on his otherwise whipping thoughts. "Now that's a wholly human urge." He muttered to himself, prizing his fingers out of the heated indentations he hadn't realized he was creating. "You better be careful, Aziraphale."

Shattering glass cascaded onto the tile floor a moment after he considered it, he was still a demon after all.

Aziraphale could barely contain his completely frayed nerves. Thankfully, the trip to the communication sigil was far quieter and shorter than his trip from the archives. It was not without its anxiety-inducers, however. When he stuck his head into the gracelight, he wouldn't be able to hear anything else around him. It was in a private room certainly, but a compromising position. He folded his hands over his hips and plunged his head into the celestial light.

When he opened his eyes – he hadn't realized he closed them – rolling homesickness hit him. The bookshop looked much the same, stacks of books scattered about in a seemingly haphazard fashion, soft lamps that dressed the golden walls in a warm light – deepening the sickness into something sharply poignant – and the soft pattering of rain on the windows that somehow seemed to carry throughout the whole shop. Seeing it again was a balm on his soul and for a heady moment he drank it in, indulging the agony of loss that seemed to defined him.

A thud of books behind him demanded his return to purpose. Clearing his throat, he called, "Muriel?" The hovering head rotated only slightly before Aziraphale's whispered tone raised a little in urgency, "Are you there?"

"Yes!" Came the excited tone a moment before another stack tumbled. "Oh, no," the quiet voice worried, before they hurriedly called, "I'm here!" The smaller angel stumbled before the sigil. Their always-bright smile lit up at the image. "Archangel Aziraphale! It's been so long since I've heard from you. I've been keeping the bookshop in tiptop shape, and I've been careful not to sell anything just like you said. There have been days when that's been more difficult than others. Oh, how do you…"

"Muriel." Aziraphale interrupted the excited tirade.

Muriel stopped abruptly and looked up at Aziraphale with a shy smile. They folded their hands behind their back, their gaze finding the floor. "Sorry, it's just, this has all been so exciting." Duty smoothed the delight, and they deferentially asked, "What can I do for you, Supreme Archangel?"

Aziraphale frowned at the crush of enthusiasm and stab of infelicity. Still, he could ease the hurt later. He cleared his throat and put on his best impression of authority. "I need you to find Crowley."

"I don't know if Mr. Crowley likes me much." Muriel said sadly, twisting their foot behind them as they diverted their gaze.

"What do you mean?" Aziraphale asked gently. Crowley rarely showed acceptance, but he had seemed to take a shine to the young angel, if nothing more than for their amusement factor.

"I didn't see him for a long time. But then," They scrunched their nose and calculated the right timing, "three days ago he started showing up. At least once a day. He stands in front of the coffee shop, leaning on his car for hours. He just stares in the window. But when I try to wave or say anything, he snarls and leaves. Just today, he made a demon's face at me and this poor man fell over. He was only walking between us."

"Oh." Aziraphale deflated. "I see."

Muriel shrugged in agreement.

"Could you try to give him something from me? It's incredibly important." Aziraphale fidgeted with the ring on his pinkie just out of Muriel's sight. That twisting sickness deepened.

"Of course." Muriel brightened, "I've been wanting to talk to him about so much that's happened. I figured that if anyone would know what to do about the humans who keep coming in here and asking questions, it would be him."

"Yes, well, do that carefully. He's…particular."

Muriel smiled, but it didn't last. "How do I get him to come close enough to give him something?"

Important, practical question that. And one Aziraphale had come up with a slapdash answer to, informed only by thousands of years of knowledge and experience. Aziraphale cleared the lump in his throat and said, "You'll need a few things: a pen, paper, and the small, wrapped box in the top left drawer of my desk."

Muriel smiled brightly and ran off to grab the required supplies.

Aziraphale squinted through the sheen of holy light that encompassed his confined status as a floating head. For a whisper of a moment, Aziraphale allowed himself to consider never having taken the Metatron's offer. The guilt and joy that would have come from that decision. Aziraphale's expression must have fallen because as the bright scrivener stepped back into frame, their expression dipped and they quietly asked, "Are you alright, Supreme Archangel?"

Aziraphale cleared his throat, "Of course," he said with a small smile that never reached his eyes, "I was just thinking."

"About Mr. Crowley?" Muriel asked innocently.

"What? No, of course, not." Aziraphale quickly sputtered.

"Oh." Muriel said, dropping the pen and paper, "It's just you told me to get a pen and paper, so I assumed I was writing something for him." They held up a long, thin box wrapped in brown paper, "Is this the right one?"

"Yes, you're right. Of course." Aziraphale silently cursed his lack of tact and straightened his vest out of the light. "And that is the box. The letter shouldn't take long, I'll tell you what to write."

Muriel dipped the pen in ink, hovering over the paper as another thought struck them, "How do I give any of this to him? Will writing the letter be enough?"

"It won't." Aziraphale answered ominously. "In order to get his attention, you'll have to sell a book. Possibly a few. I'll explain that in due time." He shivered as he considered the monstrous process, but somehow the wrongness of that was nothing when compared to the lack-less world he was currently experiencing.

Aziraphale stepped back from the prayer sigil and wrung his hands. He had just sent an incredibly risky message, asking for an immense amount of trust from someone who had no reason to give it. His non-existent heart clenched, and his imagined stomach rolled as the thought of the demon tossing the letter and box refused to be suppressed. He stood before the sigil stock still and worrying his hands. A light creak broke the serenity of the obnoxious choir.

"Aziraphale." A careful voice called from behind him. There was an edge to the urgency.

Afraid to turn, Aziraphale's shoulders hitched up to his ears and he swallowed hard.

"I need to speak with you." The tone rose just slightly as if the speaker wasn't sure Aziraphale had heard.

The sound of wheels on marble reinforced his conclusion and it shot a shiver up his spine. Saraqael had been involved in much of what he had been reading. He refused to turn, but his voice betrayed his nerves when no sound made it past his lips. Thankfully, she couldn't see his carping.

"It's about Crowley."

That name. That did it and she knew it would. His stomach clenched anew, and he turned compulsively. "What about Crowley?" Aziraphale asked too quickly, too raw from seeing the bookshop again to hide much of anything. The only small redemption was that his voice didn't shake.

Saraqael scowled, multiple reactions played across her face, but she seemingly chose to bite them all back. "The Metatron's asking about him."

"Why?" Aziraphale asked, unable to hide the suspicion in his voice.

Saraqael reacted instinctively, holding up her hands in mollification, "I'm not sure. I didn't tell him anything other than he was in Soho." She tipped her chin forward as she regarded Aziraphale with a steady gaze. "I thought you should know that he's asking."

"That's all you told him?"

Saraqael nodded.

Aziraphale was quiet for a long moment before he muttered, "Thank you." Stepping off the sigil, he quietly asked, "Why didn't you tell him more? Surely, you have the capability."

Saraqael shrugged, but her hands closed on the armrests as her gaze darted away. "We designed stars together." Wistful remembrance colored her tone. She made a questioning noise low in her throat and offered a curter explanation, "I didn't like the way the Metatron talked. Demon or not, Crowley's not evil." Holding his gaze for an uncomfortably long clip, she tipped her chin toward the sigil, "What are you going to do?"

Aziraphale furrowed his brow at the minor revelation. "I'm not sure yet," he offered hesitantly. He twisted his fingers into knots before remembering himself and clasping his hands into a tight ball behind his back. "What do you think I should do?"

"Stop what's coming."

"And what is this?" Aziraphale pushed, "I can't find anything about it."

"Destruction." Saraqael said simply, "Complete destruction of Earth, of Hell. All of it. It's the recreation of the world before Humans. Before the Fall." She flicked her fingers and her wheelchair sped obediently toward the door. "I'll do what I can to help, but make sure to do it correctly." Saraquael called over her shoulder. She turned the corner and was gone.

Aziraphale was left to his own devices again. Even his turning mind could think of about forty different ways she could have helped at that moment. Although, little would matter if he didn't have someone he could trust working on Earth. There were no other motives, he told himself even as he tried to ignore the growing hope of seeing Crowley again.

Like Archangel Aziraphale suggested, Muriel left the open sign on display for nearly an entire day, far longer than the hour or two she had been before. It didn't take long before humans were browsing through the shelves and tucking books under their arms. But Muriel knew none of that would do any good unless the demon saw. They watched with one eye on the street, deftly thwarting buyers until Crowley stumbled into leaning against the Bentley.

Careful to divert their gaze from the window Muriel waited for the perfect moment.

It took longer than they strictly wanted, but when a well-dressed man came up to the desk with a well-loved, leather bound book in hand, Muriel made sure he was in view of the window as they made a show of pushing back on the sale and then eventually giving in.

Painstakingly writing a careful receipt, Muriel kept from grinning when Crowley stormed across the street. Smiling in relief at the deception, Muriel handed over the book and receipt before scrambling to grab the gift and letter from Aziraphale.

The man was in the entryway when the door was violently thrown open, the force of it nearly taking the gentle bell off its frame and scaring the man about to reach for the handle. Ignoring the anger radiating off the demon, Muriel threw their hand over their head and happily called, "Mr. Crowley!" Only for their expression to drop in horror as Crowley grabbed the human they had just "sold" a book to by his collar and dragged him back into the store.

Without pretense or ceremony, Crowley threw the man roughly down the step. He bounced against the wooden floor, and landed heavily on his arm as Crowley growled, "Put it back."

In a testament to a human's willingness to argue when money was at stake, the rather dour looking man pushed to his feet. Straightening his button-up shirt with one hand – the other was held tightly to his side – he defiantly said, "I will do no such thing, I already bought it from this nice young person here."

Crowley slithered into his face, "I'm telling you that if you don't put that book back, you'll have more to worry about than losing the money you paid." His voice was a threatening rattle, a snake's final warning.

The man's eyes went wide, and he shrunk back, but he still managed to stutter, "I…f ya…you want this…cough…so ba-badly, I'll sell it to you fa…for d-double the price."

Crowley growled and snapped his fingers. The man froze in his faux bravery, but the beads of sweat were painfully obvious on his brow. Crowley plucked the book out of his fingers and gently tucked it under his arm before he audibly whispered, "When I snap my fingers, you will have the sudden urge to run far, far away and when you finally stop running and fall asleep, you will have the worst nightmares of your life." He looked pointedly at Muriel and snapped his fingers.

The dour man blinked back to himself, took one look at Crowley, and darted, screaming, out the front door. At some point during that exchange, the last few people left in the shop had taken the dark cloud of a demon as their queue to leave.

Crowley snapped his fingers and the door slammed closed, the lock obeying his silent command after years of training. The fuming demon stalked toward the fidgeting angel, and his voice was the same low rattle as before, "You don't sell these books, you idiot." His voice rose with each word as he came to tower over Muriel.

"But…but he said…"

Crowley cut them off, "I don't care what he said. I'm telling you, these books are not for sale."

"I don't think you can tell me what to do." Muriel said nervously, twisting their fingers.

"Oh, can't I?" Crowley hissed dangerously. He slowly pulled his sunglasses off and stared Muriel down as he hissed, "Listen, thirty-seventh level scrivener, I can tell you whatever I want, because this is my bookshop when the real owner isn't here, and until I'm dosed with holy water or otherwise discorporated, you will do what I say."

"You haven't even been in here since Supreme Archangel Aziraphale left."

Crowley scowled at the title. He snapped, "I don't like you."

"I can tell." Muriel muttered, looking down at their hands.

"Unless you want to know how I got my title as the Tempter, I suggest you stop selling things you're not supposed to. Just mind the place." Crowley turned.

Muriel hurriedly said, "Wait! Don't leave yet. I have a message from Archangel Aziraphale."

Crowley stopped dead in his tracks and turned, wisps of smoke rising off his clothes. "What?" He snapped.

"He…he contacted me just the other day and asked if I could…umm…pass you a message."

"What is it?"

Muriel spun and took up the box and the letter they had dropped on the desk at Crowley's aggressive entrance. Holding it between them like a peace offering, Muriel said, "He told me that if you didn't think it was from him, whatever was in that box would prove it."

Crowley scoffed at the suggestion he wouldn't recognize Aziraphale's handwriting and pocketed the box. Flipping open the note, he immediately realized why the extra assurance was necessary – it wasn't Aziraphale's writing. Crowley scowled at Muriel who quickly diverted their gaze. Crowley skimmed the note,

"Then they said, 'Come, let us build ourselves a city, with a tower that reaches to the heavens, so that we may make a name for ourselves; otherwise we will be scattered over the face of the whole earth.'"

I need to speak with you, Crowley. It needs to be soon. If you're willing, please tell Muriel.

Yours,

Aziraphale

Crowley's voice was an angry poison, "The next time you talk to Supreme Archangel Aziraphale, you tell him that he got himself into it and he can get himself out." He turned on his heel and stalked out the door. The abused bell tinkled aggressively into quiet long after the Bently had torn away from the curb.

Muriel let out a breath they didn't realize they were holding. Breathing had been something they had quickly learned, because it was something humans did all the time. It had been comforting to pick up such a human trait so quickly. What they hadn't prepared for was how jarring it would be to have it threatened in such an abrupt manner.

Collecting their racing thoughts, Muriel woodenly turned the sign from "open" to "closed" and grabbed anything off a pile nearby before retreating into the second floor to curl in a wonderfully warm blanket.

Three bottles deep, Crowley slumped over the bar table, and his hand fell to rest on his jacket. The thin box Muriel had given him caught his attention. Scoffing at the sentimentality of keeping it, but unable to ignore the question of what was in it, he pulled it out and set it on the table in front of him. He poked it a few times, stared at it for longer, and then finally pulled the thin twine that was holding the whole thing wrapped.

Poking around the paper, he found the box's lid and flicked it off.

All he saw was red.

Curiosity peaked, he pulled the rectangular box to him and squinted at the contents, forcing his gaze to focus.

It was a red tie.

Crowley's expression scrunched as he clumsily pulled it out. A note tumbled from the folded fabric, but it was the unfurling of the tie that caught his attention first. He turned it over, and realized the lining was the same tartan pattern as Aziraphale's bow tie. The whisky's burn crawled back up his throat as Crowley slammed the tie down on the table, and swore, "Oh, for fuck's sake, Aziraphale." He took another long drag washing down the uncomfortable taste.

The folded note was stark against the dark table. Against his better judgement, Crowley carefully picked it up. Flicking it open, he recognized Aziraphale's lovely writing and for a moment, things were right again. Until he read the flowing script. "I know tartan isn't your style, but I wanted to say thank you for your demonic miracle. Always Yours, Aziraphale." It was dated 1941.

Like a wound torn open for the sake of a good salting, weeks' worth of drunken denial and general debasing mischief was erased as he considered the gift he had never been given.

"Always yours." Crowley mocked, drinking from the bottle, deep gulps that drained the whisky. With an exaggerated sigh, he slammed the bottle down, cracking the table and shattering the glass. Grumbling at the mess, he drunkenly asked, "Why did you never give it to me, Angel?"

"I gave Mr. Crowley the letter and the box." Muriel said, keeping the fear that still roiled in check as they talked to the Supreme Archangel.

"What did he say?" Aziraphale prompted.

Muriel diverted their gaze, chewing on their lip. "He told me to tell you that you got yourself into it and you need to get yourself out of it."

Aziraphale's expression dropped with a heavy sigh. He looked up, "Did he open the box?"

Muriel looked away and scrunched their nose in thought. The whole experience had been jarring and it took a moment for them to conclude, "I don't think he did." Their eyes widened in difficult-to-stop guilt, "Should I have told him to?"

Aziraphale shook his head, "No. Maybe it's best he didn't." That feeling of loss crept into the back of his mind as the annoying sting of tears threatened.

"Is everything alright, Archangel?"

Aziraphale smiled, but it never reached his eyes, and his voice betrayed him, "Not particularly." He hated the bluntness, but he hadn't had anyone he could talk honestly with for…too long. It shouldn't be Muriel, he knew that, but the bookshop touched on an ache he couldn't ignore. Talking didn't ease it, but it proved he remembered who he was. Why he had even bothered going to Heaven in the first place.

Muriel looked around like he was clearly talking to someone else and then, realizing no one else was, in fact, in the room, they took a step forward. "Do you need to talk about something?"

Aziraphale was taken aback by their intuition. He flicked his gaze up and noticed a stack of books on his front table that hadn't been there when he left. Looking back with the hint of a smirk, he asked, "Have you been reading, Muriel?" If it provided a bit of distraction, it was an added bonus.

Their eyes brightened in excitement. "Oh, yes. Anything that's interesting. You have so many books here. I recently finished 'The Man of Feeling' and no matter what, Harley would always try to help regardless of what happened to him. Just a few days ago, I was talking to Maggie over the road about it, and she said that you should always ask people who seem upset if they need to talk about it."

Aziraphale smiled despite himself. "Did she now?"

"Yes, and you seem…the humans would say sad, I think?" They furrowed their brow as they considered the words. Nodding confidently in their use, they continued, "And so, it's my job to ask what's wrong." They looked expectantly up at him.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to answer. He had every intention of spilling the exhaustion and despair he felt. How badly he missed Cr…having someone to talk to, but then he remembered himself. He remembered where he was. To say anything would be an exercise of futility. He needed deal with what was about to happen and voicing that weakness would ensure he wouldn't be able to do what needed to be done with or without a particular demon. Instead, he smiled and said, "I appreciate your concern, Muriel, but I cannot talk about it."

Their expression fell but they didn't push him.

And that's all I have for now! Trust me, a reunion is coming (that's been written forever!) but the story seemed better served by explaining the issues a bit more before diving back into the thing I really want to publish haha

I hope you enjoyed and feel free to let me know what you thought in the comments!

Have a wonderful day/night and stay creative!

-Lily