Chapter Text
Three days after the demon invaded Heaven—and had been summarily thrown out—Gabriel began to notice something.
There was another one, up ahead—a group of angels congregating. No one rushing off to their next assignment, no one filling out any sort of paperwork. They simply clutched their memos in their hands and… talked to each other, a little huddled circle of haloes.
He hurried up to the group, clapping his hands. “Good to see everyone so excited this morning. What are we all planning? Anything fun?”
Immediately, the group began to disperse, with mutters of no, sir and quite busy, sir and very fun filing to do, sir. One angel in particular stood out.
“Dabriel,” he called. “I’ve been seeing you a lot lately.”
“Oh, you know. A messenger’s work is never done. Always something new to share.”
“Really. Only I thought you were a scribe.”
The angel shrugged, with a smile that didn’t reach their eyes. “You understand, sir. We all do what we must, when the situation calls for it.”
Dabriel vanished around a corner.
It’s nothing, Gabriel thought, continuing on his walk. Perhaps a bit of gossip, but that always dies down. Nothing they can prove. Nothing to substantiate it. Besides, it was justified. Everything we did was justified, in the name of winning the War.
Another circle up ahead. One glance at Gabriel and they dispersed, vanishing off to their duties.
But not before giving him looks that went far beyond disrespectful.
--
Rhoda sat by Desmond’s bed in the hospital for the better part of a week.
He’d wake up on occasion, but didn’t say much. A few broken limbs. Few ruptured organs. He’d live, but it would be a while before he was happy about it.
Others came in to visit. They’d eventually managed to get back into the basement to find everything gone and destroyed, all their equipment, everything they’d collected. Even the concrete floor had been torn apart and re-poured.
A few talked about starting again, but not with a lot of confidence.
“You think it’s worth it?” someone muttered as the group left again, Desmond having fallen back asleep under the powerful painkillers. “We can barely reconstruct one summoning ritual between us.”
“Gotta be backup notes somewhere.”
“Or—just think. Take our cuts and go. How much richer you need to be?”
Rhoda ignored them all.
Once the room was empty—just her and Desmond—she reached into her pocket and pulled it out. A small sphere of glowing red light.
Pure angelic power.
Not much, though, only as much as she could grab while the demon was distracted.
Demon. A fucking angel and a demon. Seemed obvious, once she’d had a chance to think over everything the angel said. Shouldn’t have gotten so distracted by the immediate puzzle.
Still. One handful of angelic power. She could do a lot with that.
She could heal Desmond completely, maybe half the hospital if she planned it right.
She could sell it. Only bit of free angelic power in the world. She could name her price.
She could keep it, let it settle into her soul, see how long that amazing feeling of bliss lasted.
Or…
The ball of power rolled from one finger to the next, like a coin trick, across the palm, around the back of the hand. She could experiment on it. Test out summoning and containment and compulsion spells. See what went wrong. Try again.
It would be a long process. She’d lost all her notes. But Rhoda had a good memory, an inquisitive mind, and a whole lot of patience.
And nothing had ever been gained by giving up at the first sign of resistance.
Except. What if it truly was impossible to control an angel? That beautiful wave of power destined to destroy anyone who touched it.
She rolled it across her knuckles one more time.
There was another possibility. An angel and a demon together. Powers twined about each other, like copper wire around a magnet. Would it be more stable? Or more dangerous?
“Nhh,” a grunt from the bed. Rhoda’s bit of light vanished, and she looked up to find Desmond—awake, eyes clearer than they’d been in days. “Well, that was a bust. We were so…goddamn… close. The hell are we supposed to do now?”
Rhoda ran her fingers across the ball of power and considered.
--
Two and a half weeks after their houseguests left, a letter arrived at Jasmine Cottage.
“That was quick,” Anathema said, reading it over breakfast.
“Mmmmh?” Newt wrapped his arms around her, peering over her shoulder. A sheet of very fine paper with an A.Z. Fell & Co. header, filled with the scrawling letters of a demon trying very hard to pretend he’d never heard of penmanship.
Nerds:
Gone to the South Downs. Be back in 1-50 years.
Angel wants you to stop by the shop every once in a while and talk to the books or whatever. Left instructions on his desk. Here are the keys, and some money for petrol and such. Parties are fine if you clean up, but absolutely no customers.
Also the keys to my flat. Do whatever, just don’t touch the artwork.
AJC
PS—Thanks. You know what for.
PPS—The plants I left behind know what they did. Don’t trust a word they say.
“Huh. Guess their magic stuff must be working again.”
“Either that or they know a very good Real Es—oh stars.” She pulled out a wad of money. “Is this as much as it looks like?”
“I…don’t think I can count that high.” Newt shuffled through the notes quickly. “I don’t need this much petrol. I don’t think the planet needs this much.”
“Well. At least you can put off the job search a…bit longer.” She raked her fingers through her hair, shaking her head. “I mean, I’ve got money, my Mom’s got money, but that’s…that’s a lot.”
Obviously, it was some sort of mistake. A mix-up in the exchange rate, a slipped decimal point, something.
One part of Newt’s mind insisted they should find a way to set it right. The other part was shrugging helplessly and pointing out that if the angel and demon didn’t want to be found, it would be rude to contact them over a banking error.
“Hang on, there’s something else.” Anathema pulled out a small card. “It’s…a…reservation at the Ritz. For a wedding. Our wedding.”
“But…we don’t even have a date!”
“It’s an open reservation. Do they do that?”
The back simply read, in far neater handwriting:
On me.
All my love,
A
“Huh.” Anathema blinked several times. “Guess I better propose.”
“I’ll go find you a fiance.”
“Nuh-uh. Already got one.” She snagged the back of his dressing gown and pulled him into her lap, laughing, and kissed him warmly. “They’ll be ok, right? I mean, an angel and a demon…”
“Dunno…” Newt put his arms around her shoulders, resting his head against hers. They both knew he hadn’t slept well in weeks, and he’d only heard what Crowley had been through. “But. They’ve made a start. That’s the important thing, right?”
“Yeah. Wish we could have helped more. Maybe...”
“Oh, no.” He tried to get away, but Anathema held him in place. “I was hoping for a break at least until Christmas.”
“No promises. But, I was thinking…” She reached up to adjust her glasses, then realized they were still upstairs beside the bed, and quickly wrapped her arm around Newt again where it belonged. “I know plenty of other witches, all over the place. Experts in just about everything but demon summoning. Maybe, if we all work together, we can come up with something better than ‘misdirection’ and ‘hoping it goes away.’ Maybe we can stop this from happening again.”
“I’m sure you can.” He kissed her, the faint taste of coffee on her lips. “You’re brilliant enough.”
“You’re not bad yourself. But before that, what do you say to a trip to London this weekend?” A teasing grin. “Find out if this Ritz place is any good.”
Newt considered this carefully. “Yeeesss. But if those plants turn out to be weird, let’s just get a hotel.”
--
Aziraphale and Crowley sat in their new back garden, swing rocking gently in the sunset breeze.
“Yeah,” Crowley grunted, an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “This was a good idea.”
“You can really breathe out here.” The angel smiled, resting against his husband.
“I mean, you can breathe anywhere about the same. Even underwater.” Crowley kissed the top of his head, short white hair not quite long enough to curl yet. “But yeah. I get your point.”
They watched the sky change colors, the flowers close up, the birds settling in for the night while the bats began their hunt. The stars overhead, appearing one by one, seemed larger, more real than the ones Crowley had miracled into the windows of his flat.
“So, sticking with the fuzzy jumpers?” Crowley asked.
Aziraphale smoothed his hands down the argyle-wool-monstrosity that perfectly replicated the colors of his favorite tartan. “Yes, I think it suits me. Pity about the glasses, I thought they looked quite good on you.”
“Everything looks good on me.” Crowley pulled off his glasses—black, not pink—and dropped to rest his head in Aziraphale’s lap. The view made him smile. His angel in a circle of constellations. All his favorite things in one place.
“You sure you won’t be more comfortable inside?” Aziraphale asked.
“Nah. You’re here. That’s the thing that counts.” He could already feel it, the angelic aura rolling in waves, layers of warmth, of protection, of healing. Aziraphale’s fingers, teasing their way through his hair. Everything he could want. “How are you feeling?”
“Simply wonderful,” though there was still something of the haunted look in his eyes.
Crowley gently took Aziraphale’s left hand, pressing it to his own right palm. The rough scar across the angel’s hand reflecting one on his own. The skin had healed hundreds of years ago, but he still felt it in his soul.
It wasn’t something he’d ever wanted to share with Aziraphale. But he did, mirror image. Same wound, same trauma, same nightmares now, too.
When Crowley woke in the night, reaching, clinging to the Heavenly warmth beside him, Aziraphale no longer had to wonder what he had dreamt.
When Aziraphale froze, clutching a chair or a door frame, breath coming quicker and quicker, Crowley never had to ask what was wrong.
It made things…not easier, because nothing about it was easy. But there was a seamlessness to how they went about their day, supporting each other. Building up Aziraphale’s confidence. Breaking down Crowley’s walls.
Finding their way out of the darkness.
“What is it, dearest?” The fingers in his hair paused, worried.
“Just thinking.” Talking still wasn’t easy, but he kept at it, a bit at a time. They both did. “We share everything now.”
“Ah.” Aziraphale twined their fingers together, giving Crowley’s hand a squeeze. “I suppose that truly makes it Our Side.”
“Nnnh. It isn’t what I wanted.” He wriggled a bit, pressing against Aziraphale’s soft middle. “I wanted Our Side to mean…softness. Warmth. Bottles of wine by the fire. Picnics and autumn leaves and long mornings in bed. All that shit you like.” But he smiled as he said it. “It’s what you deserve.”
“What we deserve.” Aziraphale kissed his hand. “And we have all that here. Every day with you is a miracle, the most wondrous I’ve ever beheld. To wake beside you in our bed, walk with you in our garden, burn dinner together in our kitchen.” He chuckled. “Yes, we have our darkness, but it doesn’t erase the beauty we share.”
“Still, I wish…”
“I know.” He pressed their twined fingers to his cheek. “One day, we will put that pain to rest, and all that will remain is peace and happiness, for as long as we like. And until then…” He tugged Crowley’s hand and the demon sat up, feeling two strong, soft arms wrap around him, twining his own across Aziraphale’s back. Circles of love, bound together, unbroken.
“Until then,” Crowley murmured, “I have all I need, right here.”
“As do I, my love.”