There was a pigeon in Aziraphale's bookshop.
It was a fat, scruffy gray bird of the sort that one saw everywhere in London, pecking through dustbins and pooping on cars, including the Bentley. So when Crowley saw this one fluttering around the office, carrying a precious first edition of Romeo and Juliet in its claws, he lunged to catch it - or tried to, anyway.
"Bless it, Muriel," he swore, scattering papers and crashing into furniture as he chased the bird, "This is why we don't open the windows!"
"But - but She asked me to," the little scrivener squeaked from the lower level. "Please, don't hurt Her!"
Crowley, in his outrage, did not notice Muriel's use of divine pronouns. The sight of one of Aziraphale's favorite plays (one of their favorite plays, despite or because they could never agree about it) being carried off like that made him want to breathe fire. Only the awareness of being surrounded by books restrained him. (After all, there was still a chance of Aziraphale coming back to reclaim the place someday … and if that was only Crowley's delusion, it was a delusion he was not prepared to give up.)
"I'll roast it on a spit if it doesn't give me that book! Oi, get back here, you pest!"
The pigeon flashed Crowley one beady-eyed sideways look, cooed in a way he could swear was condescending, and dived out the open window still clutching the book.
Crowley didn't think twice. He barrelled down the stairs.
"Mind the shop!" he yelled, running past a startled Muriel and into the street. Pedestrians scattered as he chased the pigeon along the sidewalk. He must have looked wild, a black blur with blazing yellow eyes and red hair spiking in all directions, but he couldn't care less what the humans thought right now. This was clearly no ordinary pigeon. Still, whatever forces it served, Upstairs or Downstairs, Crowley was not letting it have that blessed book.
He had no idea how the creature ended up leading him to his and Aziraphale's old park bench, but by the time he recognized the green lawn and sheltering trees, it was already too late. He reeled to a breathless stop just in time to see the pigeon drop the book.
It landed in the hands of someone sitting on the park bench, someone with soft white hair and an immaculate white suit. Someone whose gasp of delight as he held the leather-bound volume close was gloriously, terribly familiar.
"My book!" sighed the Archangel Aziraphale. "Spirit, how did You know which one … ? Oh, of course You know … Is he … ?"
The pigeon - spirit? - perched on the angel's shoulder and nudged his cheek, prompting him to turn around and meet Crowley's eyes.
Being promoted did not agree with him. The white suit might be as sleek and well-tailored as anything Gabriel had been used to wearing, but the face above it was pale, with dark circles under the eyes. Crowley didn't like the sight of his own reflection, but he wouldn't be surprised if he looked much the same.
Pride told him to run.
Something stronger kept him rooted to the path.
"Crowley! You're here!" Aziraphale leapt to his feet, blushing, holding the book against his chest like a shield. "I - I wasn't sure if you'd come, so - "
"So, what, you burglarized your own shop?" Crowley retorted, taking refuge in sarcasm, because if he didn't, he might do something humiliating, like run in the other direction, or throw his arms around the angel. "Don't tell me that flea-bitten feather duster is yours."
The feather duster in question flew up and dropped a perfectly aimed white splotch on Crowley's pinstriped jacket. He swore. The bird let out a guttural coo.
"Show some respect, if you please," Aziraphale huffed, his face still pink and his blue eyes looking everywhere but Crowley as he put down the book and pulled out the yellow silk pocket square from his suit. "This is the Holy Spirit. Third Person of the Trinity, remember? If anything, I'm Theirs."
"Right." Crowley wiped off the splotch and eyed the Spirit sideways, feeling demonically jealous of any entity to whom the angel would claim to belong. "You've got friends in high places now, eh? Congratulations, Archangel. You'll excuse me if I don't bow. I'd rather not show the back of my neck in front of that beak. Here." He crumpled the stained handkerchief into a ball and threw it back in Aziraphale's face.
"Why, you insufferable - " The angel's flush deepened; his hands balled into fists. Whatever he was about to call Crowley, however, was interrupted by another coo from the Spirit: a soft and gentle sound Crowley would never have expected the scrappy bird to make.
Aziraphale gave the bird a grateful, apologetic glance. He breathed deep, in and out, uncrumpled the handkerchief and pressed it between both palms. A tiny golden spark flickered across it. When he tucked it back into his breast pocket, it was not only ironed, but clean. Crowley caught the scent of lemon in the air. Yellow always had been the angel's favorite color.
"Actually … " Aziraphale looked up at him with a shaky smile, "I came here to tell you how sorry I am."
"For what?" Crowley asked, folding his arms. In his experience, when something sounded too good to be true, it usually was. "As I recall, the last time we spoke, you took it upon yourself to forgive me."
Aziraphale winced. "I shouldn't have tried to manage your career for you … "
"No, you shouldn't."
" … And I shouldn't have assumed you'd leave Earth. You were right. You do belong here." Aziraphale's expression turned wistful as he picked up a brown paper bag that had been sitting on the park bench, took out a handful of birdseed, and scattered it on the grass. The Spirit, indistinguishable from a flock of ordinary pigeons, pecked it up hungrily. When they scattered, some strutted around the grass to beg more food from picnicking families and camera-wielding tourists, some flew up to perch in the rustling evergreens, some went to cheerfully desecrate an old war monument by leaving droppings on the general's tricorne, and others swirled up into a sky almost as blue as the angel's eyes.
Aziraphale was homesick, Crowley realized, with a lurch of his ancient heart. He lived in Heaven and was on speaking terms with the Trinity, and still he was homesick for the life the two of them had shared.
"It's that boring Upstairs, eh?" He tried to speak casually, but hope leaked through his tone like pigeon droppings. "You know, you can always come back. The shop's still there - although not much longer, at the rate Muriel's giving away books … "
"Muriel's what - ? Never mind." Aziraphale looked briefly alarmed by this, but shook himself out of it to focus back on Crowley. "I'm afraid I can't."
"Oh." It was astonishing, even for a demon, how many new flavors of disappointment one could still discover after a few millennia. He turned away. "Right."
"No, it's not like - please, you have to understand - " Aziraphale's hand shot out to catch Crowley by the sleeve. "Upstairs is … it's nothing like I thought."
"What do you mean?"
But Crowley could already guess. Upstairs had made his skin crawl since the Fall, but then he was a demon; what did he expect? He'd been hoping against hope that it was only his own warped perspective showing; that for an angel in (more or less) good standing like Aziraphale, it would be different. One look at Aziraphale's white face and shadowed eyes, and Crowley knew it wasn't.
"It's the same place," Aziraphale whispered, as if afraid to be overheard. "What we've been calling Heaven is just Hell with different lighting. Michael and the others, they're … " He faltered.
"Demons?"
The angel nodded miserably. "And they don't even realize it! Every time the Creator phones, the number's blocked. Jesus tried everything short of explosives, because He doesn't want to hurt anyone. Spirit flies in and leaves messages on their desks, and they blame the junior scriveners. They can't even see Her when She's right in front of their faces."
Spirit fluttered back over to the bench and perched on the handrail, breathing hard. No wonder, Crowley thought with grudging sympathy, that the creature looked so disheveled. This, however, did not prevent him from wanting to wring Her feathery neck.
"You sent Aziraphale into a place like that?" he hissed at the bird. "What in the literal bloody Hell is wrong with You?"
The pigeon ruffled up to almost twice Her size, beady black eyes flashing, and launched back into the air. Aziraphale was between them in an instant.
"Crowley - "
"No!" Crowley snapped. "I don't owe these Three my obedience, so I can give Them a piece of my mind. Isn't it enough," he glowered at Spirit, who was now hovering at his eye level, each wingbeat whipping back his hair, "That You banished all of us who dared to ask questions? Did You have to send one of the last loyal angels You have left into that glass monstrosity the Council calls Heaven? Can't You see what that place is doing to him? It's not worth it, God. It's too high a price."
Crowley's voice cracked as he jabbed an accusing finger at Aziraphale's tired face, which was somewhere between horrified and grateful. Hiding how he felt about the angel was a hopeless endeavor, so he gave it up. What could God do now, separate them? Been there, done that.
That was when the Spirit made Her move.
She dive-bombed his head, as birds do when defending their nests, but when he ducked, she didn't pull back up.
She flew through him, as if She were made of gray mist.
And Crowley remembered what he'd spent thousands of years trying his hardest to forget.
/
Heaven was not white, but every color God could imagine. Stars and nebulae shone together, the darkness between them as innocent as light. But not much longer, as two opposing factions faced each other: Michael leading one side, Satan the other. A small red-headed angel peered anxiously out from behind Satan's massive wings. His mentor had been so encouraging at first, telling him he was right to doubt, that God's plan was flawed and Heaven had to change. But this was not at all the change the little star-maker had imagined.
"Children, please, you don't have to do this," said the Creator, golden voice darkened with concern. "I will hear you out. I can answer all your questions, if only - "
"Lies!" Satan interrupted, his followers shouting raucous agreement behind him. "You call us your children, but we know better. Puppets, that's all we are, to serve your precious mortals - "
"There's enough room in my world for all of you." The infinite universe swirled and sparkled around them as if to prove God's point. "There's no need to be jealous - "
"Don't bother, my Lord," Michael snapped, hand on her sword hilt, her followers sneering and whispering and looking down their noses at the rebel crowd. "There's no reasoning with this lot."
"I was about to say the same," Satan retorted.
"Stop it, both of you!" Metatron thundered from his position next to God. "Drop your weapons and stand down - "
"We don't take orders from either of you," Satan snapped back, pitchfork leveled. "If the mortals get to have free will, so can we!"
The two armies charged. When their weapons crossed, the clash tore the whole universe in two. A crack opened wide, black fire on one side, white ice on the other, God's rainbow colors bleaching and fading everywhere.
The last thing the falling angel saw before the black fire swallowed him was his friend Aziraphale, fighting desperately to cross the fissure. A few more wingbeats on both sides and they could have met in the middle - but shame held the former star-maker down like lead-coated wings.
This was his fault, his and the other rebels'. If they hadn't listened to Satan, if they hadn't fed his delusions and made him stronger, the universe might still be whole.
How could Aziraphale, or God, or anyone, forgive them after this?
/
Crowley's eyes were wet and his heart racing when the memory ran its course. Spirit was a warm bundle of feathers on his shoulder, cooing softly, compassion in every note.
"We really did that, didn't we?" he muttered, still dazed. "We ripped the world in half. If You were really the kind of God Satan tried to paint You, You would've been out for blood."
"They were," Aziraphale replied somberly. "Only blood could have filled that crack, but it wasn't ours. They took our punishment on Themself."
Spirit launched Herself back into the air and pounced on something on the ground. She snatched it up and flew higher with it, so that Crowley and Aziraphale could see it gleaming in the sunlight.
A nail.
For Crowley, who had witnessed the Crucifixion, the sharply pointed implement was all he needed to recall the sound of it being hammered into flesh and wood.
"But - that wasn't for us," he protested, "That was for the humans - "
Spirit dropped the nail into his blazer pocket and gave it a peck for good measure.
"It was for all of us," said Aziraphale.
"But … why?!"
"For the same reason," said the angel, blue eyes shining, "You and I switched places for the fire and holy water."
It was a reason they both knew, but the cosmic scale of it left Crowley staggered.
"Remember that time I was afraid of turning into a demon, and you laughed me back to common sense?"
"Yeah … and?"
The angel smiled wryly. "It's just as ridiculous in your case, my dear fellow. Look at you."
Spirit fluttered in a circle around Crowley's head and landed on his arm. What Aziraphale had said earlier, about the Council of Archangels shutting God out until they could no longer perceive the Three at all, and the significance struck him.
He was not the type to kneel to anyone, even God, but this impertinent little bird-form didn't seem the type to demand it either. Tentatively, Crowley stroked Her feathers. They were not only gray, but iridescent shades of purple and green.
He cracked a smile, and so did Aziraphale. Spirit preened.
"I suppose there's no stopping you, then," Crowley said reluctantly. "You really do have to go back. Heaven's secret agent, eh?"
Aziraphale chuckled. "It does sound rather exciting when you put it that way."
"Before you go, I … ahem … I owe you an apology too. I know you already forgave me, but what I did was low, even for a demon. Which, apparently. I'm not."
"Ah." Aziraphale looked down at his polished shoes, once again turning pink. Crowley could feel his own face heating up as well. "I take it you're referring to that kiss?"
Crowley jerked his head in an awkward nod. Spirit, sensing the tension, flew away to perch on a nearby tree branch.
"I didn't forgive you for kissing me. Although, really, you might have given me some warning."
Crowley could already feel the crack in the world opening underneath him - but Aziraphale's sudden impish grin kept him from falling.
"I forgave you," said his angel, "For waiting so long to finally do it."
"Oh?" Crowley grinned back and took a step into Aziraphale's personal space, then another. "In that case, I won't apologize next time."
"Then don't," Aziraphale breathed, leaning forward.
This time, neither one of them was surprised - including Spirit, who sang a song of celebration that they felt rather than heard: My beloved is mine and I am his. His left hand is under my head, and his right hand embraces me.
"Oi!" Crowley laughed and flapped a hand in mock indignation. "Give us some privacy, will ya?"
Spirit soared over the treetops, caroling all the way.
Both angels knew She would be there when they called.