Chapter Text
Some time later…
It ended, as it began, with a knock on Crowley’s door.
It was still a solid, heavy thing. Still set with a cut-crystal window, although its protective wards were long gone – no need for them anymore – and its many bolts and latches were reduced down to a single, seldom-used lock.
The frame in which it stood was also much changed from Aziraphale’s first walk-up, covered in twisting vines and tiny star-like blossoms which seemed to glow in the late-afternoon light. Crowley’s garden had expanded to such an extent over the years that it was no longer easy to tell where the grounds ended and the cottage began: the walls and even the roof seemed to be in full bloom, vibrant like a spring meadow, dripping with flowers and laden with a sweet, satin scent.
“Kit!” Crowley exclaimed when he answered the door, his hair in a messy ponytail and a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder. His black shirt was dusted with flour. “How the hell are you? Come in!”
Standing on the porch, looking exceptionally out of place in his raggedy sixteenth-century jerkin and pantaloons, was a pale and haggard man no one would ever take for a famous playwright. For one thing, the eyepatch added a bit too much of a pirate vibe.
“Lord… Crowley…?” Christopher Marlowe managed. “Is it really…? Thou look’st so…”
Different, no doubt. The last time they saw one another, Marlowe had both his eyes and Crowley had a beard. To an Elizabethan, he must look half naked in just his shirtsleeves and a pair of tight trousers. And unsettling, with his golden eyes.
“Just got discharged today, eh?” Crowley said, not allowing it to deter him as he began ushering Marlowe inside. “I keep telling Beelzebub we need more transitional housing. Not everybody’s got family waiting for them when they get out.” But truthfully, he felt a bit touched that he was Kit’s first port of call. “How do y– how dost thou feel?” he asked. “Dost? Doth?”
The interior of the cottage was as verdant as outside, with plants seeming to grow from every available surface. Skylights brought down curtains of thick, buttery sunlight. Amidst the greenery were countless books, overflowing from shelves into stacks which seemed to occupy any corner not taken up by a potted plant.
“Thou art out of practice. There is no need to force it,” Marlowe said wearily. “My… wardens spoke as thou dost. I am used to it.”
Downstairs’s transition from torture dimension to correctional facility was a slow and painful one. Not for reasons of infrastructure or staff retraining – that had all gone swimmingly, actually[40] – but because no one could undo centuries of relentless torment with just a spot of Michael Schur-inspired rehabilitation. For as fragile as Kit was, it had to be a world of difference compared with the traumatized creature they’d first pulled out of the Pit.
“It’s good that you’re here,” Crowley said, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He found them trembling. “You can stay as long as you like. We’ve plenty of space. Izzy’s got some clothes that should fit…”
“Who?”
“My son.”
Marlowe’s eye widened to such a degree that it was a wonder it didn’t pop out and leave him blind. “Thou art married?”
“I know; I’m not a lord either. The lies, they just pile up.” Crowley said it self-effacingly, but he could sense Marlowe’s heartbreak, even through his state of shock. “Listen, I won’t ask your forgiveness–”
“I would have been damned with or without my Mephistophilis,” Marlowe said with a shake of his head, burying his disappointment down deep. “But tell me truthfully, thou art a father?”
“Well, father-shaped being, presently. Would you like to meet the family?” Crowley jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen. “Always room for one more at supper.”
Their connection was not deep enough for Crowley to pick out his individual thoughts, but he could sense the white noise of inner turmoil in Marlowe, yearning for something and dreading the risks that came with it.
“I… fear that would not be appropriate,” he said.
“Since when does Kit Marlowe care about what’s appropriate?”
“Since he hath spent four hundred years in a burning sarcophagus,” Marlowe admitted, fingering the edge of his eyepatch. Most new humans didn’t know how to reshape their forms without a bit of training. And even then, many didn’t care to, preferring to keep their scars as a reminder. “Already have I paid the price for being too certain in my convictions. I shan’t make the same mistake twice.”
“You’re not going to put your remaining eye out having dinner. Come on.”
The kitchen was open and bright, rich with the scent of coffee and fresh bread. At the counter, with their backs to Crowley and Marlowe, stood Aziraphale with a trio of younger-looking figures, working in an assembly line kneading, rolling, and cutting dough.
“Izzy,” Crowley said. “Borrow you a moment?”
The tallest of the youths, a sturdily built young lad with flaming red hair, turned and greeted his father with a bright smile.
“Sure,” he said, stepping away from the counter and removing his pinafore. He’d inherited Aziraphale’s blue eyes and pale skin, causing his freckles to stand out even more. “What’s up?”
The others paused their breadmaking work to have a look at their new visitor.
“Well! There’s a face I haven’t seen in some time,” Aziraphale remarked warmly. “I was wondering when we might meet again.”
“You are…” A name finally rattled free in Marlowe’s head. “Mister Orange, yes?”
“Ah. I mostly go by ‘Ezra’ these days…”
“Thought so. You look about the same size,” Crowley said, after eyeballing Marlowe and Izzy’s shoulder to waist ratios. “Take Kit here upstairs and let him have a few things from your closet, then show him to one of the guest rooms, would you?”
Many teen-shaped beings would pitch a fit at being assigned random host duties, but Izzy wasn’t bothered in the slightest. It came with the territory, being the son of an apostle.
He said to Marlowe, “You more of a sci-fi or a horror kinda guy?”
“I…” Marlowe tried and failed to make any sense of such a question.
“Oh, this man? Horror all the way,” Crowley said, ushering both Marlowe and his son toward the stairs. “You’re talking to the originator of the splatter film.”
“Anthony,” said Aziraphale from the mouth of the kitchen. “We’re a bit short on fresh basil, if you wouldn’t mind calling some forth from the garden?”
“In a minute, angel–”
“Thou hast a Christian name?” Marlowe cried, fast approaching his limit to cope with new revelations today.
“I wouldn’t call it that,” said Crowley, grinning. “Officially I’m non-denominational.”
Marlowe found himself shooed up the stairs behind Izzy with Crowley at his back. But he got only a few steps before his eyes snagged on a framed picture on the wall.
It was a family portrait. Crowley and Aziraphale sat in the center, dressed in their apostolic “raiments of office,” each with a small child in his lap. They were surrounded by a veritable crowd of progeny of all different ages and sizes, including about a dozen preadolescents.
Marlowe marveled at it. “How… how many children dost thou have?”
“Oh, that’s an old photo,” Crowley said, following his gaze. “Going by the haircuts, I’d say this was, phh, just before the First Council of Edinburgh maybe? We’ve some of the whole family in the den.”
“Thou hast certainly been busy…”
Izzy snickered. Crowley cleared his throat.
“I think maybe you were Below longer than you realize,” he said, some of the lofty humor dropping out of his voice. “Izzy and the little ones are about fifty years apart.”
“The oldest kids were all born right after another, though,” Izzy said, seeming to relish his parent’s discomfort. “Dad and Pa were really popping them out back in the day.”
“Israfel,” Crowley warned, to another devious snicker. “This one takes after me, if you can’t tell.”
Dinner was drawn completely from the Crowley-Fell family garden, with savory fruit tarts, three-bean shepherd’s pie, toasted tomato-basil sourdough, and stuffed twice-baked portobellos. Israfel helped the smaller children – Freddiel and Mercuriel – with their plates while Crowley uncorked a bottle of the couple’s favorite Baladi.
“You’d think it’d get old, raising kids,” Crowley said, pouring out three tall glasses for Marlowe, Aziraphale, and himself. “But it doesn’t. Every one of them’s a fresh new challenge. Freddie there spent her first fifteen years as a rabbit.”
Upon hearing her name, the young blonde child at the end of the table gave Marlowe a dimpled smile and magicked her ears into that of a wild hare.
“Perhaps slightly more unique than human children, then,” Marlowe said.
He pulled at the sleeve of his Saw VI T-shirt, no doubt feeling underdressed himself now. They’d have to take him into town tomorrow to get him something more age-appropriate.
“They’re as human as you or I,” Aziraphale corrected. “None of the ‘old’ variety have been born in… well, since long before these three came round. The only ‘old humans’ left are those souls that haven’t left Hell yet.”
He raised his glass and the rest of the table followed suit, the little ones lifting their juice cups with their most solemn “mature adult” faces on.
“And now there is one less of them,” Aziraphale said. “To your long-awaited rebirth, Mister Marlowe.”
“You do me a great honor,” Marlowe said as they toasted. “However–” He took a sip of his wine and swallowed hard, coughing. “Oh, that is…” He blinked, eyes watering. “Quite strong.”
“Suppose they didn’t have Josh Christ’s personal vintage on tap back when you were painting the town red,” said Crowley. He waved his hand over Kit’s glass, neutralizing some of the alcohol within. “There. Better than watering it down, right?”
A lot better, if the enthusiasm with which Christopher Marlowe proceeded to quaff his beverage was any indication.
“What I mean to say,” he continued after he’d fortified himself sufficiently, “is that I am unable to repay any of this kindness.”
“None of that, now,” said Aziraphale, reaching across the table to pat Marlowe’s hand. “It’s our duty as shepherds, not to mention our honor as patrons of the arts. Oh, but I wish our Marlowe were here, at least. She’s off in Sudan at the moment installing new water mains, bless her. Always so proactive.”
“You… named a daughter after me?” Marlowe asked, taken aback.
“Two daughters,” Crowley said. “Other one’s in London, studying architecture. She’s one of the younger ones.”
“They do grow up so fast,” Aziraphale sighed. “It feels like just last century we were teaching our Kitty how to fly.”
“The twins here don’t even have their wings yet.” Crowley indicated Freddiel and Mercuriel further down the table, presently sneaking unwanted peppers onto each other’s plates. “You’ll want to stick around for that, if you don’t decide to leave us for Shakespeare’s place. Fledglings are a kick.”
“You could give it a try yourself, if you wish,” Aziraphale said. “Most new humans find flying one of the easier skills to pick up when they’re just starting.”
Marlowe looked to Crowley for confirmation. He grinned.
“What say’st thou, Herr Doktor?” he asked. “Dost thou wish to fly as witches do and see the world entire?”
“My Mephistophilis,” the playwright said weakly. Crowley could feel the complex cocktail of emotions going on beneath the surface: gratitude at belonging, relief at feeling safe, and an endless well of regret. “Thou couldst tempt the dead back to life.”
“That’s Joshua, our eldest,” Crowley said after dinner, while giving Marlowe a tour of the den. He placed a finger on the photo just beneath the round face of a fully adult-shaped being, standing near the rear of the family portrait. “She’s with United Earth, working on land redistribution and repatriation. And that’s our second-born, Thecla. They’re a stellar cartographer, working out near Sirius B these days, or that’s what they said in their last letter. Between you and me, always a bit of a wild child, that one. Oh, there’s Junia, that’s our third-born… Might be easier to stop going chronologically. I’m bound to mix a few of ‘em up…”
“And these are all thy children?” Marlowe asked, transfixed.
“Well, apart from the clutch I’ve stashed away for the next time one of us feels like getting pregnant.” Crowley patted his perfectly flat stomach.
“Pardon, a ‘clutch’?”
“Hmm? Oh. Yeah, long story.” Rather than tell it, Crowley waved aside the topic and kept going through the family photo. “Here’s Raphael and Samael, that’s our oldest set of twins, and I’m pretty sure this is our Marlowe…”
Despite himself, Kit peered closer. The figure in the photo was slender with auburn hair and crystalline blue eyes. She wore Crowley’s characteristic smirk and one of his old leather jackets, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows.
“What is… ‘Angels Without Borders’?” Marlowe asked, squinting at the logo on her shirt.
“Oh, that’s the org she founded, back when the Kingdom of God first kicked off. Getting angels reskilled and helping with humanity instead of trying to control them.” Crowley was already moving on to the next dimpled face. “Let’s see. That’s Wilde; they're a real chip off the old block. Next to them’s Lennon, Erasmus, Stardust, Clementine…”
“Dare I ask if thou know’st the full number?”
“What kind of dad do you take me for? Of course I know how many kids I’ve got.” Crowley scanned the photograph for a moment anyway, just to be on the safe side. “Sixty-six.”
“Sixty-si–” Marlowe broke off, shaking his head in wonder. “One wonders how thou hast found time for anything else.”
Crowley snerked. “That’s retirement for you. It’s not like early days when we were running round apostling everywhere, getting governments up to speed and all that. These days being Beknighted of God mostly just means traveling up to Edinburgh twice a year for a conference slash weekend holiday.”
Marlowe took a seat on the couch, probably feeling the wine. He didn’t have thousands of years to build up a tolerance like his hosts did, after all.
“Thou art not at all the man I imagined thee to be, Lord Crowley…” he said.
Crowley sensed he wasn’t going to get through naming the rest of his children for a while. He left the portrait over the artificial fireplace and joined his friend on the sofa.
“Well, I’m not a man, first off,” he said.
“I know. I understand that now… It is simply…”
Crowley wished he could say Kit was the first friend to show up at his door, a hollowed-out husk struggling to cope with the new reality in which he found himself. If anything, Marlowe was bearing up like a champ – no screaming like Orson, no spitting condemnations like Frida, just your standard post-incarceration depression. So far.
“It takes some getting used to, living again,” Crowley said. “But it’ll be worth it, once you get your legs under you. Shakespeare’s building some kind of performing arts collective up in London. Can’t think of anyone he’d like to collaborate with more.”
Marlowe hung his head. “I fear that part of myself has been burned away for good.”
“Give it time. Mozart didn’t compose for over a century after he got out, and now everybody’s saying his new opera’s his best yet.”
“Mozart,” Kit repeated with another wry shake of his head. “How like the temptations of the Devil are the rewards of Heaven.”
“Not Heaven, just Earth. We can go see him this Friday, if you like. Ezra and I have season passes.”
Marlowe glowed for a moment, then his melancholy caught up to him again. He sighed, “‘For I was hungry and you gave me food; I was thirsty and you gave me drink; I was a stranger and you took me in; I was naked and you clothed me’…”
“Always a classic. But even ‘the Devil can cite scripture for his purpose,’” Crowley said with a wink. “Can never remember. Was that one of Bill’s or one of yours?”
“Tell thee truthfully,” Kit admitted, “I forget.”
Marlowe looked poised to fall into a coma if he were subjected to much more stress today, so Crowley suggested he turn in early. After he finally acquiesced to retire for the evening, Crowley returned downstairs to help Israfel with the washing up.
“I googled him,” Izzy said, rinsing the plate in a cool stream of water before passing it to his father to dry. “Didn’t know he was mates with Shakespeare. That’s pretty cool. You know they wrote Henry VI together? They didn’t teach that in school.”
Crowley smirked. It did no good to point out that no high school curriculum could possibly teach everything an insatiably curious young earth angel wanted to learn, especially not one who changed his focus of study every week and whose poor beleaguered teachers just couldn’t keep up. Crowley and Aziraphale had in fact already begun floating the idea of possibly moving Israfel up a couple years, like many of his siblings before him.
But that was a discussion for another time. Instead, Crowley dried the plate and asked, “Is that the one where the mad king steals the other king’s land and starts a war with Ireland?”
“No, that’s Richard II. Henry VI is the one with Joan of Arc.”
“Joan! Lovely girl. You should ask your father about her; he’s got some stories.”
“You need to read more, Dad,” Israfel sighed, exasperated. “It’s always ‘I was there at the birth of Cleopatra and I personally wrote the contract for Victoria Beckham’s soul’–”
“That’s your impression of me, is it? Cheeky little…”
Crowley used his powers to bend the stream of water and splash a few droplets on the lad’s face. Israfel sputtered and laughed, jabbing his elbow into his dad’s side.
The dishes didn’t get done for a while.
“Kit’s finally nodded off,” Crowley said later when he and Aziraphale were climbing into bed. “Think the anxiety kept him awake for a while, but now he’s just crashing.”
Most of the anti-surveillance wards that had once been inscribed in the walls of the cottage were now gone, but not the soundproofing wards around Crowley and Aziraphale’s bedroom. Otherwise their frequent lovemaking would keep the whole house up.
“There has to be a way to make the transition less onerous for them.” Aziraphale waited until Crowley was seated facing away from him and then scooted closer to begin plaiting his hair. “I should really speak to Mother Theresa about it.”
“His heart’s broken. That’s the real thing weighing him down.”
“You know you don’t need my permission if you wish to make the poor boy’s dreams come true.”
After so many years together, it didn’t even occur to either of them to be jealous over such a thing. They shared a soul, not to mention their bodies and minds. Who cared about a little extramarital how’s-your-father? If anything, it made great fodder for the bedroom.
But not in this case. “Wouldn’t be right. He may’ve mostly damned himself, but I certainly encouraged him,” Crowley said. Aziraphale’s fingers brushed over the nape of his neck and sent a little shiver of electricity down his spine. “Mh. Maybe I should go back to a short style.”
“And deprive me of such a lovely ‘handhold’?” Aziraphale asked, tying off the end of Crowley’s braid and giving it a “light” tug. It jolted a soft noise from Crowley’s throat.
“You’re incorrigible,” he said. He looked over his shoulder. “Maybe I want to take my time with you tonight.”
Now that they’d had a while to explore various genital and toy combinations – to say nothing of conceiving sixty-six kids together – Crowley’s confidence in the bedroom was much improved. He still cried sometimes, so overwhelmed with pleasure and love that he thought of it as unlocking the childhood he’d never had. But there were other times where Aziraphale liked to feel like that too, and Crowley did so enjoy giving Aziraphale what he wanted.
“Suppose what I want is to spoil you,” Aziraphale said, half muffled as he kissed a line down Crowley’s skin.
“Then it seems we’re at an impasse,” Crowley purred, twisting around like his spine still had too many vertebrae in it. He met Aziraphale’s lips with his own, feather-light, teasing. “How will we solve this problem?”
“With the precise application of a little persuasion,” Aziraphale said, leaning in to return the kiss with a much more assertive one. His hand slipped behind Crowley’s waist and tightened around his braid, pulling his head to the side to lay kisses along his throat.
Crowley submitted eagerly, becoming putty in his husband’s hands as they explored a body they had already mapped ten thousand times before. If he knew Aziraphale – and he did, better than any other creature living, up to and possibly including God – the bastard was going to bring him off with his fingers at least twice before going down on him.
Outside, the nightingales sang their regular evening concert. No two were ever the same. Crowley fed them extra high-quality bird seed to ensure it.
–Eternity’s not so bad, is it?– he mused as Aziraphale’s fingers finally, finally ventured between his legs. –With the right company.–
–I should say so.– Aziraphale’s fingers dipped inside his heat, finding that rough spot that responded so well to a bit of pressure. Crowley drew a shuddering breath. –My, sensitive tonight, are we?–
He followed his observation with a pinch of Crowley’s nipple, just to test whether his husband was feeling it there too. He was, of course. Crowley made a noise in the back of his throat, arching into the touch.
Aziraphale’s mouth was in snogging distance, so Crowley swept him into another, deeper kiss. Aziraphale’s fingers stroked over that tender spot inside him, eliciting a breathy moan and a twitch in his leg like a dog getting an itch scratched just right.
Crowley groped at Aziraphale’s shoulder. His hand wandered down his side to squeeze his soft, warm flesh before finally arriving at the same place between their bodies.
“O-oh,” Aziraphale managed, feeling Crowley’s fingers as they found his shy little clit. –Naughty boy. I thought we agreed to focus on you tonight.–
–Nothing stopping you. My body is your oyster. You’re just mine as well.– Crowley rubbed his fingers in shallow circles over the bud of Aziraphale’s clitoris.
–I’m not sure that saying works in bed,– Aziraphale began, his own hand faltering as the pleasure drove him to distraction. With a grunt, he slid their bodies closer together, dragging Crowley’s thigh to rest atop his so that their hands were snugly wedged between them.
The sudden jump in pressure jolted Crowley right over the edge, coming all over his husband’s hand as he moaned into his mouth. Crowley felt the smug note of satisfaction in Aziraphale’s thoughts and nipped his lower lip, just to be a brat.
“Don’t think I’m planning to stop,” Crowley said, voice tight and breathless as he slid his fingers between Aziraphale’s slick folds. He’d show this gorgeous bastard he could give as good as he got. –You know, if you wanted to have a go with Kit…–
–Bard swap? I take Marlowe and you take William?–
–Ugh, I’ll pass. The man just reminds me of Furfur for some reason.– [41]
–I suppose I might as well try my luck, then,– Aziraphale said. –Only after he’s properly settled, of course.–
–Of course.–
–And provided you’re actually all right with it and not simply saying that to be accommodating.–
–You’re much too articulate for being this close to coming, angel.–
–That was what I was going to say,– said Aziraphale, adding a third finger inside Crowley’s cunt and thrusting like he meant it.
Crowley snarled through his teeth as he came for a second time, hips shuddering and thighs squeezing crushingly tight around Aziraphale’s hand. “Angel!”
“Problem?” Aziraphale asked oh-so-innocently, nudging Crowley’s legs apart with his knee before he lost all circulation in his hand. He hadn’t stopped or even slowed with his fingers, still relentlessly prodding that spot that poured fire into Crowley’s veins. An ‘old human’ body would already be oversensitive and in pain, but not bodies like theirs.
“At least let me get you off once,” Crowley said.
“Hmm.” Aziraphale pretended to debate this. “I suppose there is one thing that would hit the spot right now.”
Ever since that first time they tried it, Aziraphale had gotten addicted to a certain type of stimulation. Crowley might not properly be a snake demon anymore, but he could still do weird things with his tongue.
He climbed up into a sitting position while Aziraphale rolled over onto his back, spreading his delectable pale thighs already marked with kiss bruises from their shag this morning. Crowley dove in without hesitation, burying his face in the sweet musk of Aziraphale’s cunt and flicking the suddenly forked tip of his tongue over his slit. He lapped at his juices, curled his tongue around his clit and sucked until Aziraphale was fighting the urge to buck his hips.
“Anthony,” he pleaded, his thoughts a tangle of desperate need.
Only then did Crowley plunge his tongue deep inside, unfurling and elongating until he touched the plump knot of tissue at the far end of Aziraphale’s cunt. It was already softened and tender, slightly bitter to the taste.
A lot of people in possession of a vulva hated getting this part of their anatomy played with. Crowley, for instance, found he couldn’t stand any sort of stimulation there at all, even when he wore Aziraphale’s body. But in his own shape, Aziraphale loved it.
His chest rose and fell sharply, the ticklish sensation giving way to a budding flame of warmth at the core of his body. His hips fidgeted; his inner walls tightened around Crowley’s tongue. Already on the edge, he came with a wrenching gasp, tingling heat shooting to his extremities all at once.
Crowley luxuriated in it, this pleasure he couldn’t experience himself except through his soulmate. He pressed the flat of his hand over Aziraphale’s lower belly, adding a precise amount of pressure from without as his tongue flicked over his still-coming cervix, lapping up his sour secretions with all the greedy enthusiasm with which Crowley licked his cock clean.
“You’re perfect, my love,” Aziraphale said, boneless and breathless, hips still twitching with the power of his aftershocks while Crowley drank his fill. “Absolutely plum pudding.”
–Be sure to use that one on Kit,– Crowley said, finally withdrawing his tongue but only to leave a few more marks on Aziraphale’s lovely soft thighs. –Victorian compliments probably sound futuristic to him.–
“Oh, stop, you silly old thing. Come here.”
Crowley climbed up, allowing himself to be guided into a deep, messy kiss.
They made love some more. A lot more. They were as hooked on each other as they were on wine, drunk on their own intermingled scent. It was not for nothing that they’d conceived sixty-six children together – maybe sixty-seven soon enough.
“We agreed not until Freddie and Curie had their adult wings,” Aziraphale said, sensing the direction of Crowley’s thoughts. There was no such thing as an unplanned pregnancy among new humans, so he continued fucking him into the mattress.
“But if you just – let me pause it in the second trimester – You know how good the sex is in the second tri–”
Aziraphale yanked on Crowley’s braid again, humming appreciatively at how this caused him to clamp down around his cock.
“Absolutely not. They’re still ensouled,” Aziraphale said over the very cool and macho squeak Crowley let out. “You’re the one who said he couldn’t lay them unfertilized because you’d, and I quote, ‘feel like the family chicken.’”
“Because you wondered what they’d taste like!” Crowley snarled, nails digging grooves into the sheets as each thrust pressed on that sweetest spot. “You can’t win an argument by making me come again, angel, I’m not that easily bought–”
He really wasn’t, but Aziraphale still knew exactly which buttons to press to completely scramble his brains. They’d have to have this conversation later, preferably not over breakfast.
“Oh, no, certainly not,” Aziraphale said, gentling his hold on Crowley’s hair as his beloved husband broke apart beneath him with a joyous sob. “We abolished money ages ago.”
Over the coming weeks and months, Marlowe had the privilege of meeting quite a few of Crowley and Aziraphale’s friends. Souls they had corrupted or saved, their many human allies, even both sets of Christ’s apostles. As the mortal side of Heaven had long since been merged into Creation and the administrative side now consisted entirely of a small handful of offices, there wasn’t much for Simon Peter or the rest of Jesus’s disciples to do Up Top. Besides periodic check-ins to ensure Heaven was keeping to the terms of the peace treaty, of course.
Marlowe tried to pick up the names and backstories as best he could, but it was all too clear he was getting overwhelmed. No one had even sat him down and explained what a record shop was yet, although he grasped that its proprietress and her partner were quite popular now that all the people who used to enjoy vinyl records were alive again.
Newt and Anathema, advisors to the Lord, now had children of their own. Not as many as Crowley and Aziraphale, because they weren’t insane, but a fair-sized clan of skeptics and pagans too psychic for their own good. Half were involved in apostolic work or decoding their ancestor’s many extant prophecies; the other half couldn’t be allowed near electronics.
Brian, Wensleydale, and Pepper, the Unwise, had permanent postings as advisors to the United Earth prime minister. Adam, the one like a Son of Man, had declined a similar cabinet position in order to travel the Earth and the cosmos beyond, investigating anomalies and (on occasion) fixing a few squidgy bits left over from the last time he’d repaired reality.
Muriel and Eric – the Scrivener and the Undying, now married and soulbonded like their predecessors – continued to act as Heaven and Hell’s representatives to Earth. They both based their offices out of the flat above A.Z. Fell & Co, preserving the bookshop as both a reliquary of knowledge and a diplomatic meeting space for the three planes.
With Satan kept in check via the Book of Life, Lord Beelzebub was effectively King of Hell. Collaborating with their celestial counterpart Supreme Archangel Gabriel was made much easier once the two took over Crowley’s old flat in Mayfair and turned it into their own little love nest. (Crowley tried not to think about it.)
John and James ben Zebedee, the original earthly Sons of Thunder, acted as checks to Beelzebub and Gabriel’s authority, ensuring human interests didn’t fall by the wayside in the governance of Heaven and Hell.
Mags got really into perfumes and started her own line of boutique scents. They had names like “Freedom is a Constant Struggle” and “ACAB.” She, Josh, and Judas (he went by Jude now) shared a house in restored Palestine. They traveled down to Jerusalem for all the major festivals, always with Josh’s mother Myriam and all His brothers and sisters in tow.[42]
Levi took over as Heaven’s lead auditor. Andrew, Thomas, and some of the other apostles formed a rock band, but they eventually broke up to pursue solo projects.
As for Paul, the not-an-apostle that Heaven had selected to “correct” Josh’s message, he finally got to meet his hero – and do something about the weird hatesex energy between him and Peter. Abstinence didn’t seem like that big of a deal on the other side of the Second Coming.
“Prithee, may I shake thy hand?” Christopher Marlowe asked Paul when the two visited. “One so rarely gets to meet the great villains of history.”
“Villain?” Paul cried while Peter laughed.
In fact, Kit had seen a rogue’s gallery of history’s most infamous in his time at the cottage. Nero, Sigmund Freud, Tony Blair… A lot of them looked like Aziraphale for some reason. But few had the far-reaching impact of Paul of Tarsus.
“Indeed,” Marlowe said. “Thou didst ‘ruin everything.’”
“Oh, Junia’s just kidding. She’s been like that since we met in prison,” Paul said, waving a dismissive hand. He paused as Peter muttered something in his ear. “She’s a man again?! Doesn’t he know what that does for the optics?”
“How’s the work?” Crowley asked one evening when Shax invited herself over.
They were in the back garden, fragrant with night flowers and apple blossoms, the promise of a nourishing summer rain in the air. Fireflies drifted lazily over the grass like drunken stars. Up above arced the shimmering band of the Milky Way, unreasonably bright and clear.
Inside the cottage, his husband and the youngest of his children were warm in bed. Marlowe was up in London for the weekend, carousing the night away with Shakespeare.
Shax had been considerate enough to use the front door rather than appear mysteriously behind Crowley as he was stepping out of the shower, so he’d rewarded her manners with a fresh pot of hellfire spice tea. It was a good “transitional” beverage for those demons just joining the new humanity, still unsure of their corporeal tastebuds. A bit like chicken soup, except Crowley had to keep a fire extinguisher nearby.
“Dreadful,” Shax said, miserably accepting her teacup. It was made from the same type of ceramic used for pouring liquid metal, and still she held it gingerly with the very tips of her gloved fingers. “Every day I glamour myself into some wretched human’s mother or spouse and try to appeal to their inner compassion.”
Not a job Crowley would want either, to be fair, but hardly dung-farming duty. It got her out, expanded her horizons, maybe even got her closer to developing some inner compassion of her own.
“Reckon it’s all hard-luck cases Down There now,” Crowley said, adding a dash of lemon to his own tea. “Murderers. Tyrants. J.K. Rowling. Don’t get the same satisfaction of a hard day’s work done well, do you, knowing they’ve still got a long road ahead of them.”
“You’ve never worked hard in your life,” Shax sniffed. “In fact, you’ve worked very hard not to have to work hard at any point.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Satan won’t be content to sit back and allow Beelzebub and their consort to rule things forever,” she warned. “Soon your precious Messiah will be fending off a war on two fronts.”
“You really think so?” Crowley reclined in his chair, savoring a first sip of a beverage that would incinerate an “old human’s” tongue. He hummed. Maybe he’d try it with orange instead of lemon next time. “I think both sides’ve finally got the whole thing out of their systems.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. That wasn’t the war.”
“Wasn’t it? Seemed pretty war-ish to me.”
A final confrontation in Heaven, major losses on both sides – just like the old days. Maybe that was all anyone needed, a little refresher on why the glories of battle weren’t so glorious.
Nose crinkling, Shax took a tentative sip of her tea. Her eyes lit up.
“Oh! Well, that’s… that’s not as terrible as I might’ve thought,” she said, a trace of flame licking her bottom lip as she drew the cup away from her mouth. “And you say your ‘daughter’ came up with the recipe?”
“Daughter at the moment. Brilliant, isn’t she?”
Despite being a dead ringer for Aziraphale in almost every respect, Austen had inherited Crowley’s tendency to cycle through genders like hairstyles. Which meant the cottage’s average tartan quotient could double or quadruple depending on whether she was into skirts when she visited. More, if she brought the grandkids.
Crowley and Shax got off topic for a bit, talking shop like the old days. But eventually things swung back around to him. That was why she was here, after all.
“Are you happy, Crowley?” she asked finally.
“I’ve never been happier in all my life,” Crowley said without hesitation.
“Sarcasm?”
“Not one drop. You’re right, Shax: I’ve a terrible work ethic, always have done. Retirement’s the second-best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“I’m not going to ask what the first-best thing is. I know it’s going to be something soppy about your angel. But…”
Shax took a deep, savoring sip of her tea and then placed it primly back down in its saucer. It was made of the same material as the heat shielding on spaceships.[43]
“…If you’re happy, then I suppose I’m forced to accept that,” she sighed, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Even if I’ll never understand it.”
“‘Never’ is a strong word.” According to Eric, Michael had recently scraped their way back into Shax’s good graces and the two had been spending some “quality time” not murdering each other. Eternity could be wonderful with the right company. “And how’s old Metatron settling in?”
“We’ve assigned him to the incels,” Shax said with a malicious smirk. “The phrenologists, specifically. Lord Beelzebub always was adept at finding ways for our ‘charges’ to torment each other.”
“Rehabilitate, Shax. Not torment. Now tell me everything.”
This is how the world ends: not with a bang, or a whimper, or at all.
Oh, one day entropy would catch up, but that was billions of years in the future; an Armageddon so impossibly remote that no one would ever think to start a religion over it. Until then, they had all the time in the universe – and all the universe in which to enjoy it.
“C’mere little sluggo,” Ose said, extending his claw to allow the little Trisolaran to inch onto his toe. “Let’s have a look at you.”
Ose hadn’t had any destination in particular in mind when he teleported away from the gang of Archangels. This place was light on atmosphere and the night life was nonexistent, but the locals were chill, and whoever had been here before him had left one hell of a cushy bed for him to sleep away 80% of the day on.
He squinted at the slug sparkling under the light of Alpha Centauri’s harsh three suns. It wore a tiny bowtie and tophat.
“Ain’t it always the way,” Ose said. “People’re always tryin’ to stuff their pets into funny outfits. What about them, I says.”
The slug continued creeping over his toe bean, not much of a conversationalist. That was just fine for Ose. No one to talk to him meant nobody to criticize him. Or stop him from sleeping away 80% of the day.
“I’ll call you Ligur,” he told the slug. “Not like you look like ‘im or anyfink, just easy to remember that way.”
“I like it,” agreed a new voice. Ose was ready to ignore it as another passing hallucination, but then it kept talking. “You ever miss him, your brother?”
“Nah.” Ose saw him every time he looked in the mirror, after all. He craned his head, curious to see where the hallucination was coming from. “Oi, You’re not that Grim Reaper bloke, are You?”
A figure stepped out of the shadows, walking as if under normal Earth gravity. He seemed traced in starlight, His long white robes flowing in a nonexistent breeze.
“He’s retired, actually,” said the Son of God. “Not much to do these days now that We’ve got the reincarnation program up and running. I was just passing through. A good friend told Me the view out here is amazing.”
Ose had not considered this before. He took a look. The asteroid was nestled amidst a crowded system of chaotically orbiting stars and planets, strewn with trails of shattered rock just like this one. Each of its three suns burned a different color, all of them entwined in a gossamer veil of stardust.
“S’not bad,” Ose conceded.
“Not bad at all. We’ll have to bring the gang out here for a picnic sometime. Oh – if that’s all right with you,” Josh Christ hastened to add.
Ose shrugged. “I don’t own nuffin’.”
“Great!” Without regard for the slug trail coating it, Josh took Ose’s paw in His own hands and shook it vigorously. “I’m Josh, by the way.”
“Yeah, I know who You are.” Even if Ose hadn’t, the way His hands seared the demon’s paw pads was a bit of a clue. “Ow.”
“Ooh, you’re an old style demon, aren’t you? Sorry.” Josh released his hand at once. “How long have you been out here?”
“Dunno. Slept for most of it.”
“Big mood,” said the Son of God. “I’m getting into my nap era too. Nice to finally have a holiday, you know?”
Ose couldn’t recall the last time he’d carried on a conversation this long without someone yelling at him. This Jesus man was something else.
“Say,” Ose said, a rare thought suddenly entering his mind. “You ever turned into a leopard?”
THE END
Footnotes
[40] As expected, the greatest opposition came from the former archangels who suddenly found themselves in human-facing roles. Hamaliel had only recently resigned themself to an eternity spent teaching childcare to history's worst parents. [back]
[41] The actual Furfur had been transferred Upstairs. Not for any reasons of merit, but because Josh needed someone to sandbag the few remaining Archangels into a state of 100% inefficiency. Everyone had something they were best at, and Furfur was finally allowed to excel at his. [back]
[42] Only once did Josh try to bring both His earthly families to the same festival at once. They had needed to block off an entire row of houses in Bethany just to accommodate the rest of Crowley and Aziraphale’s children. And their grandchildren. And great-grandchildren. Josh loved all His siblings and niblings, of course, but He found He didn’t love organizing dinner reservations for several hundred of them at once. [back]
[43] Scientists tried for centuries to make Jefferies tubes a reality, to no avail. Newton Pulsifer, God’s own science guy, issued a holy memorandum to spaceship manufacturers urging them to please get over it and focus on inventing something practical instead, like a sonic screwdriver. [back]