Chapter Text
It has been fifteen years since the first day of the beginning of the rest of their lives and things have mostly gone back to the way they were Before; A. Z. Fell and Co was as it has always been (since the day it opened, even): books precariously stuffed onto shelves and piled ‘carelessly’ around the shop in a haphazard manner. Of course, if anyone knew anything about the owner it was that they did not treat their books without care—it was more the sentiment of the statement. ‘Chaotically’, would’ve been a better fit, possibly. Speaking of chaotic, the loud screech of tires resonates against the glass windows.
Up until recently, there hadn’t in fact been a person behind the ‘and Co’. Now, fifteen years from The Apocalypse That Couldn’t, a pristine Bentley (badly) parked (it’s on double yellow lines, much to the disdain to the traffic warden who doesn’t so much as have the motivation to put milk in their cereal let alone actually do their job) outside is a strong indication that a frequent ‘guest’ is over. ‘Guest’ is perhaps an outdated term to use for them, as Crowley hadn’t been a ‘guest’ in fifteen years, give or take—now both an occupant and business partner—and would’ve been at least mildly offended to be referred to as one. Come to think of it, there were very few things that weren’t outdated when it comes to Aziraphale—Crowley, of course, being one of them.
Aziraphale hadn’t been sure about Crowley’s presence in the bookshop. Not Crowley specifically but his presence —Aziraphale has no doubt in his mind about Crowley. But the discarded coat hanging off the back of a sofa, the misplaced books, the ridiculous pacing? Aziraphale had been caught off guard. In the first year, anyway. Now, Aziraphale just tuts. Besides, he quite enjoys the pop of green in the bookshop now—though is admittedly concerned that it might be too welcoming to customers. Maybe he should reconsider the statue.
Life has mostly gone back to normal—if normal is a word that could ever describe them—since the day the trials took place. As expected, Aziraphale and Crowley have been on high alert—almost paranoid—over any news from above or below. Despite their constant surveillance, their efforts have only been responded to by radio silence. No Gabriel, no Beelzebub—not even Metatron or God Herself have been in touch. Which wasn’t to say that Aziraphale had really expected either to make contact but he’d hoped anyway. Absolutely nothing. Most might consider this a good sign; a sign that Heaven and Hell were respectfully leaving the pair of them alone. ‘Most’ haven’t worked for Heaven and Hell for six thousand years. When it came to Occult and Ethereal entities, it is rarely that simple —and they both know that. So, while they are back to some of their routines—weekly nights out dining, unfailingly followed by copious amounts of alcohol and late night conversations—they still look over their backs just in case. ‘Just in case’ has become their motto, almost—locking the door despite knowing a supernatural being could get through without much thought ‘just in case’, checking the bookshop thoroughly when that noise they heard was most likely just some cat next door ‘just in case’.
***
“Fuck.” Crowley says, defeatedly throwing himself back against the sofa at the realisation Aziraphale has beaten him at scrabble again. This is routine, by now. It’s become weekly—Aziraphale suggests a game, Crowley claims to be ‘the best’ at it and Aziraphale beats him. Out of the dozens of times they’ve played (varying games, too, not just scrabble. Crowley finds Aziraphale gets too competitive over monopoly or UNO, though), Crowley remembers winning all of three times—and he has an inkling that the sneaky angel let him. Aziraphale has that sly, bastard smile on his face—one of Crowley’s favourites, if he has to choose (of course, he doesn’t have to choose because they’re okay). “‘Right, ‘right—you won. Don’t rub it in.”
“I would never.” Aziraphale has the cheek to look offended, primly picking nonexistent dust off of his cardigan sleeve. Crowley mimics him overdramatically, more aggressively brushing his pyjama sleeve—black and made of only the most comfortable materials. “...But you did say you were the best.” Aziraphale adds, after a moment. Crowley has the cheek to look offended, waving both arms dramatically.
The rest of the night is equally routine. Aziraphale finishes his hot chocolate and Crowley his cup of tea (black tea this time. Sometimes he likes it with milk), a quintessentially British pleasure that he had only himself taken up in the past five years or so—after a certain gluttonous Angel convinced him. He likes his much stronger and more bitter than most which shouldn’t come as a surprise to any being who has even a passing familiarity with the demon. Occasionally, Aziraphale will sneak a spoon of sugar into Crowley’s drink—which also shouldn’t come as much of a surprise. Once the game and their drinks are done, their night usually doesn’t last much longer.
***
“You gonna be up much longer, Angel?” Crowley questions, a somewhat disinterested look on his face. It might be translated to something like ‘Come to bed with me, Angel?’. With a yawn, Crowley braces himself on the doorway to stretch his limbs—enough to almost be touching the ceiling.
Only within the past decade or two had Aziraphale started to come around to the simple pleasure that is sleeping—specifically, sleeping alongside the one you love dearly. Sleep is a form of comfort and safety that he has no previous experience with. Crowley is patient. However, there is one thing Aziraphale needs to do before he joins his partner in the ‘recently’ cleared out bedroom of the flat above the shop. He is pretty sure—no, absolutely certain—Crowley would not be overly pleased with it, nor would the Other involved in what he needed to do, considering his current status as Not-Quite-Fallen-But-Still-Rebelious-Angel—a demon’s presence would be the cherry on top needed for swift smiting. He still isn’t certain that They won’t notice the being even when he is just out of sight. He isn’t certain that he won’t be smote anyway, demon or not. He isn’t certain of anything, truth be told. It’s quite distracting.
“Just a little while longer, my dear. I need to re-sort the Shakespearean section, those students that came in messed it right up.” This isn’t a complete lie; Aziraphale does need to straighten those books out. As the next term was right around the corner, he is expecting The Student Incident™️ to become a more frequent occurrence—but that could wait until after he is finished with the more pressing matter at hand.
“See you upstairs, then—if you don’t get caught up in one of the books you’re sorting, that is.” The demon smirks. “Good night, Angel.” Aziraphale lets the sound of footsteps that could be heard walking—or, rather, sauntering considering Crowley's regular gait—up the stairs fade away before he is able to let out a breath. Luckily for the angel, Crowley is asleep almost the moment his head hits the pillow. He needn't wait for long.
Rising from his chair, Aziraphale walks over towards the circular rug in the middle of the bookshop. Hands steady and sure, he carefully pulls it aside—making sure to roll it up neatly out of the way—revealing the intricately drawn out sigils of the communication circle. The last time he used this, it led to a misunderstanding and an altercation with Officer Shadwell which then led to the burning down of the whole bookshop. In the hopes to avoid such an event, Aziraphale, much to the relief and dismay of his demonic partner, had taken to switching out the usual candles for LED equivalents (they’ll have just the same effect he's sure; fire’s a demon thing, after all. It’s the light that counts). Placing them meticulously around the circle, he begins his prayer.
“Hello, ah, this is the Principality Aziraphale, requesting an audience with the Almighty.” This was a longshot, even by Aziraphale’s standards.
Nothing from Heaven since Crowley had gone up as him—it just concerned him. He has questions he hopes She can answer, he needs her to answer. He hadn’t been feeling her presence as strongly in recent years and it was worrying him. He knows Humans and Demons couldn't feel her grace but Angels are constantly awash in her light and her love and so sensitive to it they’d know if that light dimmed even slightly.
Minutes go by like hours, days, weeks… Aziraphale could only hope that it was God making time fickle. But no, no response was given. No God, no Metatron. Nothing. It wouldn't normally take this long for heaven to respond to him… Maybe they have cut off all communication with him—in fairness, it was what they’d both asked of Heaven and Hell. Maybe, just maybe, Heaven was leaving Crowley and himself alone… That should be a good thing… Shouldn't it? Still, this did nothing to quell the sinking feeling sat in Aziraphale’s gut. This is too easy. Too simple. Perhaps, he will try again another time. He hopes he can get through to the Almighty, prays he can. Putting away the candles and placing the rug back, he goes to do what he told Crowley he would—he felt a tiny bit bad for lying, though his mind is going to be plagued with questions and doubt over Heaven’s silence for the rest of the night.
***
Metatron had been sitting in his office—if one could call the space in which his consciousness exists an ‘office’—when Aziraphale’s call came in. He ponders what the outcast Angel wants. Nothing good, he imagines—or, he would imagine if he had an imagination. After another moment of moody pondering, he sends a warning to the Gabriel before preparing to appear to him. A courtesy he only offers to very few beings—including the Archangels (the ones he likes, at least) and a few select angels.
In Gabriel’s office, which is an actual, physical space—mostly—much like a human office, a fax machine that looks to be straight out of 1983 begins printing a message. The Archangel turns in his chair (in a style he would later deny being dramatic) and grabs the paper from the machine as soon as it finishes. It reads: Archangel F. Gabriel, The Archangel Metatron, Voice of God Herself, will be arriving shortly with an urgent message. Gabriel, against his better judgement, nonchalantly sets the paper onto his desk. ‘Urgent Messages’ were always boring—especially now that Heaven didn’t really have anything left to do, considering the Great War with Hell had been ‘temporarily postponed’. Regardless, he sits up a little straighter and smooths his suit jacket while he waits.
Moments later, the giant, translucent, disembodied head of Metatron descends through the white ceiling, coming to a stop once his entire face was visible to Gabriel. It is a little like watching a glass elevator move slowly.
“What can I do for you today, oh great one ?” The purple-eyed Angel says with more than a hint of sarcasm. Gabriel has given up on any attempts at preserving hierarchical professionalism.
“The Principality Aziraphale has attempted to contact the Almighty,” Metatron’s booming voice fills the room.
Gabriel stares at him for a moment, mouth slightly agape. He looks a bit like a fish, except that fish were cute. That is the last thing he expected to hear.
“He did?” Gabriel finally gets out.
“He did.” Metatron says, looking more than a little irritated at having to repeat himself. “Can I trust you to sort it out yourselves, or must I bring the Almighty into it?” Metatron, who hadn’t heard from God in roughly twenty years, did not want to disturb Her. Gabriel, who hadn’t heard God in over a thousand, nods his head. Then shakes it.
“ I’ll sort it.” Gabriel says, quickly. There’s a flattering look that passes over his face. Though, he’s quick to let an impassive, cold look slide right back over.
***
Dreams are funny things, as Crowley has found out a few times. He doesn’t dream often—be a bit weird if he did dream a lot, being a demon. Nightmares, too—but nothing beyond the ordinary. Once or twice a year. The nightmares were terribly predictable. They featured his fall, mostly. For a while after the whole ‘flooding the world’ incident it featured a lot of death—and then the bookshop. That made its presence repeatedly throughout the nightmares he’d had over the past fifteen years. Nightmares were predictable, dreams were not. Dreams could feature anything from Before, to Aziraphale, to bloody porridge (he’d woken up rather rattled from the latter. Just a bowl of porridge, slowly rotating inside a microwave until the loud ‘DING!’ woke him up with a start. He wasn’t sure if it counted as a nightmare or not). The dreams from Before were the least fun, what with his memory of Before being hazy at best.
This dream is particularly odd. Now, bear in mind that Crowley is not a lucid dreamer. Conscious-Crowley cannot be held accountable for Unconscious-Crowley’s actions. He’s not sure where he is. A salt-white box, that has no door and no apparent ceiling—Crowley isn’t quite sure on the last one, it’s all too bright to quite make heads and tails of anything. If he looks closely, the box has no corners and has No Business being called a box. But there’s four sides and floor, it probably counts. Crowley doesn’t dwell. Looking back on the moment, Crowley’s not sure what he’s thinking as he stands around in The Box. He must’ve been thinking something but the dream doesn’t quite render it right to hear.
There’s a disembodied voice. It starts with an old name, one that he no longer recognises and is not quite sure he can hear right. The voice frowns and repeats it once, before changing the name to something more squiggly. Something low and twisted, like a snake. It takes a moment to realise it’s Crowley’s Name—a capital ‘n’. He’s never heard it said through a feminine mouth. It’s quite nice, he thinks—the voice, that is, not the name. The name smells like sinking winds and sulphur pits, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. It says something else, something that doesn’t hit Crowley’s ears right. The sound vibrations are funny here, aren’t they? There’s something so lovely, so trustworthy about the voice. It says ‘cheer up, love, I’ve got buttered crumpets’ or ‘can I offer you tea and biscuits?’. Crowley, very briefly, understands why humans were so willing to forgive God, after the flood. It’s one of the thoughts that passes through his mind and will get lost as he wakes up.
Leave now, the voice says, and it’s the most coherent thing it says. Goodbye, it repeats that name again. The first one. The one that he can’t quite hear—but it’s there, on the tip of his tongue and ever so familiar. Crowley blinks and it’s gone.
Crowley’s not sure where he is now but at least it seems general physics apply. There’s a screen in front of him. He might’ve guessed it was glass but it was almost opaque. He’s fairly sure he’s spinning and everything is so warm . Then Crowley’s awake, staring at the ceiling with furrowed eyebrows and something along the lines of what the fuck not far from his lips.
***
It is another half an hour before Aziraphale makes his way up to his and Crowley’s bed. Crowley is still awake and hears Aziraphale enter, carefully fold and place down his cardigan and remove his slippers before sliding under the covers. The demon, at first, pretends to still be sleeping—he knows Aziraphale well enough to know that the simple fact of him being awake would alert the angel to the fact that fuckery is afoot.
However, once the Angel slips his arms gently around Crowley’s waist and snuggles close, he shifts himself further back into his warm embrace. Aziraphale nuzzles his face into the crook of his ‘husband’s’ (they hadn’t officially married one another yet as they didn’t see a frivolous, government-issued document as necessary to prove their commitment to one another; their few human acquaintances—specifically, one witch—had informed them that they acted like an old married couple) neck, eliciting a soft, contented hum .
“I didn’t mean to wake you, my love, I do apologize.” Aziraphale whispers faintly against Crowley’s ear. He presses a small kiss against the back of the demon’s jaw before letting his head rest against the pillow. Holding his partner in his arms is greatly comforting to him. Even though he knows he can’t share the night’s anxieties with Crowley, his presence, his closeness is enough to soothe his nerves. As long as they’re together, everything is going to be alright.
“You’re fine, Angel.” Crowley, unaware of his angel’s worries, responds in a voice that’s a little more croaky than he intended. He finds a similar comfort in Aziraphale’s arms. He isn’t exactly sure why his dream is so unsettling to him. Something about it feels less dreamlike and more like a… Warning? A message? And that name… Why is that name so familiar yet far away to him? He gives his head the slightest of shakes in an attempt to dispel his thoughts and turns to focus on the reassuring touch of Aziraphale. They both pretend to drift off into unconsciousness much sooner than they actually do, neither wanting to alert the others to their respective internal strife.
***
Across the street from the A.Z. Fell and Co Bookshop, a tall figure appears. Lavender eyes are piercing in the otherwise desolate street. Humans and their sleep routine. Gabriel can feel the presence of other supernatural beings, even in their dulled out form. Good, they’re asleep.