Every morning,

I feel you there.

I go on about my day,

Seeing your face in every reflection.

I want to say goodbye to you,

But nothing ever changes.

In the grand penthouse of Heaven, Crowley sits disguised as Aziraphale, his hands bound and his heart heavy with the weight of impending judgment. Before him stands three of the four archangels, Gabriel, Uriel, and the assumed Sandalphon, their eyes cold and stern as they watch him closely.

Gabriel, the leader of the archangels, turned his head slightly and spoke, his voice filled with righteous authority, "Is our guest here yet?" He directs his gaze at Crowley, who can feel rage building up within his soul.

Uriel, with their dark features contrasting sharply against the golden scales upon their cheek, responds, "He's in the basement, making his way up." The words hang in the air like a foreboding storm, signaling the approach of a reckoning long overdue for a treasonous angel.

A tense silence fills the room, broken only by the crackles of Hellfire set by a Duke of Hell. As Uriel releases Crowley from his binds, the pit of fire rages before them, a seething maelstrom of Hellfire that defies all natural laws. The flames dance with an unholy fervor, casting eerie, flickering shadows across the grand sterile penthouse of Heaven that has already been consumed by light. The pit is an abyss of crimson and orange, with tongues of fire licking the air, sending waves of intense heat rippling through the room. The archangels, who have been standing resolute, take involuntary steps back as the fiery pit roars to life. Their once cold and stoic expressions now show a hint of unease as the inferno's ferocity becomes all too real.

Crowley, still in his Aziraphale disguise, can't help but make a sardonic comment despite the dire circumstances that would have been awaiting his companion. "I suppose there's no chance of talking this out?" he quips, his voice filled with a mix of resignation and gallows humor as his blue eyes gaze into the pyre. "Well, it was a pleasure knowing you all. May we meet again under better conditions."

Gabriel's response is swift and harsh, his eyes narrowing as he shot Crowley a withering look.

"Shut your mouth and die already," he commands, his tone leaving no room for further discussion. It is abundantly clear that the archangels have no intention of negotiating with the traitor before them. The pit of fire stands as both an executioner and a testament to the consequences of actions, and there would be no reprieve. Without another word, the demon steps into the flames.

As Crowley takes a step into the raging pit of Hellfire, something rather unexpected occurs in front of the audience. To the astonishment of the archangels, nothing happens to him. His form remains unscathed, untouched by the searing flames that should have incinerated any angelic being. In fact, Crowley seems to revel in the fiery inferno, his eyes gleaming with an eerie delight as he stands unharmed amidst the blaze. The archangels gasp in collective disbelief. Their features contort in shock and confusion as they witness this seemingly impossible defiance of nature. It is as if the very fabric of reality has twisted in the presence of this figure who appeared to thrive in the midst of Hell's fury.

Gabriel, his voice now tinged with uncertainty, mutters, "Maybe this is more serious than we thought." His earlier confidence has given way to a growing sense of unease.

"He's gone native," Uriel comments, trying to grasp the sight before them. The rules of Heaven and Hell seem to blur in the face of this unprecedented revelation, leaving them with a profound sense of foreboding about the true nature of the being before them.

With an air of mischievous amusement, Crowley, still standing unharmed within the flames, decides to tease the bewildered archangels further. He puckers his lips and blows out a stream of fire in their direction, the flames twisting and curling around like playful serpents. It is a taunt, a reminder of his immunity, and a momentary display of defiance– all according to plan. But Gabriel, now deeply confused and filled with a mix of fear and predominantly anger, responds in a way that surprises even the other archangels. He extends his magnificent wings, which have been concealed until now, unfurling them with a grandeur that is awe-inspiring and protects himself and his comrades from the serpent flames. His wings are a dazzling display of pure, radiant light, a testament to his celestial might.

Seeing Gabriel's reaction, Uriel and Sandalphon quickly follow suit, extending their own celestial wings in a synchronized display of power. It is a rare sight, the archangels baring their divine wings in unison as a response to this extraordinary situation.

With an air of grim determination, Gabriel declares their alternative decision that had been decided upon in case of an incident. "Aziraphale," Gabriel begins, his voice resonating with authority, "as punishment for your actions, you shall be bound to Earth in a human form. You shall have no memory of your angelic past or the abilities you once possessed. You will live among humans, an angel without wings. Go crawl with the beings you betrayed Heaven for."

The pronouncement hangs in the air like a heavy judgment, sealing Crowley's fate with a unique and fitting punishment. It is a sentence that would forever alter the course of the former angel's existence, leaving him to navigate the complexities of humanity, stripped of his celestial identity. As the words leave the archangel's lips, Crowley's taunting expression melts into fear– a fear that cuts through the facade he had maintained for centuries, a fear more profound than any he had felt since the day he believed he had lost Aziraphale when the bookshop had burned down.

In that moment, the cruelty of his punishment sinks in. The prospect of losing not just his celestial powers and memories but also his connection to Aziraphale, the one being he had come to care for in this chaotic world, is a fate worse than any extinction. Before he can respond, all that he is left with is immense, trembling terror. His hands begin to shake, the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and panic fills every inch of his brain. Just as a small cry begins to leave his throat, a cry for the angel, his mind goes blank. The last thing he could think consumes him; At least it's me and not you, Angel...

Crowley's body seems to defy gravity, lifting off the ground, and he hovers in mid-air as the hell flames are extinguished. His blue eyes, once filled with fear, turn an eerie, unnatural white, as if all color had been drained from them just like his hair. It is as if the very essence of his being is being rewritten, erased, and overwritten. His history, his memories, his knowledge—all of it is stripped away, like pages torn from a book. The panic in his mind gives way to a blank void, a vast emptiness where his past experiences and connections had once resided. Every laugh, every stolen moment, gone in an instant to drift in the Cosmos. The transformation is swift and disorienting, leaving him suspended in this strange, white-washed state of existence. A clinical cleanse.

- -

Berkeley Square is a quaint and picturesque park nestled in the heart of London, surrounded by elegant Georgian townhouses with wrought iron railings. The square itself is a green oasis in the midst of the bustling city, a tranquil retreat where people could escape the noise and chaos of urban life. Tall, stately trees provide ample shade even in the early spring, their leaves rustling gently in the breeze. Wooden benches are scattered throughout, offering a peaceful spot for visitors to sit and enjoy the serene surroundings.

But on this particular afternoon, there is a notable absence in Berkeley Square. The usual sounds of chirping birds, which often grace the park with their melodic songs, are conspicuously absent. The silence is borderline eerie, as if nature itself holds its breath, waiting for something to happen.

The absence of the birds only adds to the unsettling atmosphere, intensifying Aziraphale's sense of foreboding as he stands there, waiting for Crowley's arrival. It is as though even the natural world senses that something was amiss, and it casts a shadow over the idyllic beauty of Berkeley Square. Aziraphale, having taken on the guise of Crowley for his punishment, sits in the square, a sense of unease and anxiety gnawing at him. He had successfully instilled fear into Beelzebub and even caused unease in Michael, an Archangel of Heaven, with his convincing performance as the demon in a bathtub of Holy Water. But now, he is left waiting, watching the minutes tick by on his pocket watch, as Crowley fails to appear at their agreed meeting point.

He had trusted that Crowley would be able to deceive the archangels long enough for Aziraphale to carry out the scheme, but something had clearly gone awry in the plan. Doubt begins to creep into Aziraphale's mind. Has Crowley been caught? Has Heaven discovered the ruse? Or is there some other unforeseen complication?

Aziraphale waits patiently on the bench, his anxiety growing with each passing moment. He had taken on this dangerous task to protect Crowley, to ensure that he wouldn't suffer the harsh punishment that had been decreed due to their intervention in Armageddon. But now, as the minutes turn into hours, he can't shake the feeling that something has gone terribly wrong. He wants to give the demon a benefit of the doubt; afterall, what punishment could have been placed on him that would destroy him portraying as an Angel?

As the sun begins its descent over Berkeley Square, casting long shadows across the park, Aziraphale rises from the bench, his movements deliberate, and his expression composed. He adjusts his waistcoat with a quick, practiced motion before setting off on a purposeful stride back to the bookshop. With each step, he retraces his path through the winding streets of London, making his way back to the familiar comfort of his bookshop that had been renovated. The bustling city carries on around him, oblivious to the numbness that devours his mind and body.

Aziraphale's thoughts remain focused on the task at hand, the need to maintain his composure and continue with his duties with the hope that perhaps Crowley is just gathering things to come back to him. There is no room for the overwhelming emotions that will inevitably come with the realization that Crowley might be gone for good. For now, he keeps his feelings at bay, determined to soldier on in the face of uncertainty.

As Aziraphale unlocks the front door to his beloved bookshop and steps into the threshold, he is met with an overwhelming sense of hollowness. The familiar creak of the door, once a comforting sound, now seems to echo with a melancholic taunt. He stands in the doorway, his gaze fixed on the interior of the bookshop that has been his sanctuary for decades, and his arms slack by his sides. But what once was a haven filled with the warmth of friendship and the joy of literary treasures now feels incredibly empty and devoid of light or comfort.

The bookshelves, once bursting with tomes of knowledge and tales of wonder, seem like mere placeholders, their contents unable to fill the void left by Crowley's absence. The nooks and reading corners, where he and the demon had shared laughter and secrets, now appear as desolate spaces, haunted by phantoms of their figures. The angel clenches his jaw, his teeth chattering of overwhelming emotion– a memory flashes in his mind.

It was a cool winter's eve. The pair sat by the fire drinking hot chocolate while Aziraphale read aloud from The Black Moth by Georgette Heyer. It was a warm touch, the feeling of Crowley's tired head resting against Aziraphale's shoulder as he drifted to sleep.

Aziraphale looks to his right shoulder where he can almost smell his brimstone hair mixed with cherrywood, and it feels as though somebody has stabbed him in the chest. The very air in the bookshop feels heavy with the weight of solitude, and Aziraphale's heart aches with the absence of his mischievous, once eternal, companion. The warmth that used to radiate from the bookshop's every corner has been replaced by a chilling void, leaving him standing there in the doorway, feeling utterly alone amidst the sea of books that had always been his solace. Aziraphale closes the heavy wooden door of his bookshop behind him, shutting out the world with a soft click. As he steps into the dimly lit interior, a shiver runs through his body, and his hands tremble ever so slightly. The weight of his emotions, carefully held in check until now, threatens to overcome him.

In the subdued light of the bookshop, he reaches for a set of electric candles, their artificial glow casting eerie shadows on the familiar bookshelves. With a deep breath, he ignites them, one by one, their soft illumination pushing back the encroaching darkness that seems to seep through the very walls.

As he moves through the bookshop, he's reminded of the countless times he and Crowley had shared this space, discussing literature, sipping fine wine, and indulging in the simple pleasures of life. With a need to distract himself, Aziraphale makes his way to the bathroom, each step heavy with the burden of his impending grief. Once inside, he stands before the mirror, his reflection staring back at him. But something is different. His true face, his angelic visage, has returned, a stark contrast to the demon's disguise he had worn.

The realization hits him like a tidal wave; if I am me... then he is gone. Aziraphale's composure crumbles. He clutches the edges of the sink, his shoulders shaking as he succumbs to sobs that have long been held at bay. The mirror reflects his tear-streaked face, his eyes red and swollen, as he mourns the loss of Crowley and the rupture of the deep bond they had shared for over 6000 years. The pain is unrelenting, a heavy weight pressing down on Aziraphale's chest as he falls to his knees, breaking off a piece of the sink that crashes to the floor.

"No. No!" Aziraphale grabs his chest, unable to breathe as he chokes on his tears, his hands cut from the ceramic shards. Each shallow breath feels like a struggle as he lays on the bathroom floor. The silence around him amplifies his sobs that echo back to him. He wishes that instead it was Crowley's voice, telling him that the plan worked brilliantly, that now they could live in peace.

In a blur, the angel finds himself amidst the wreckage of his bookshop, books strewn about, and cherished belongings scattered along the floor. The familiar scent of old pages is now tainted with the acrid scent of his own tears that fill their broken home.

Guilt claws at him, a merciless beast whispers in his ear, accusing him of failure.

If only I had done more,

Said more,

Perhaps he would still be here.

Aziraphale's hands tremble as he picks up a cherished volume of Botany for Beginners that lay discarded on the floor. The cover is scuffed, pages crumpled, and it mirrors the state of his own shattered heart. "Oh, Crowley, what have we done? What have I done?"

Aziraphale's anger flares like a sudden storm, his composure unraveling as he rages against the universe. He clenches his fists around the books, his normally gentle face contorts with fury. Rage swells within him for failing to protect Crowley in the moment he needed the angel most. With a roar of frustration, he sends a stack of books crashing to the floor, their pages fluttering like wounded birds without wings.

"How could you do this to me?! God, are you listening?! You have betrayed us! You have left him, to die without a single chance for redemption!" He curses the unfairness of it all, his voice a seething stream of obscenities and grievances. The bookshop, once a sanctuary, becomes a battleground for his anger, a canvas for his outrage as he unleashes his pent-up emotions on the world around him.

"No... it was me. I-It was always me, wasn't it?" He calls out, the tears falling from his cheeks onto his clothes like rainfall. "I should have never.." He chokes up on his words, letting the exasperated cries leave him, "Should have never let him go. It should have been me."

In that moment, amidst the destruction, the angel lets out a shaky sigh, slumping into the chair at his desk. He is alone now. Truly, alone. Amidst the wreckage of his bookshop, the angel sinks into the chair at his desk, his body trembling with sorrow. He has lost not only the love of his life but also a piece of himself. The realization of his role in their separation, his perceived failures, and the overwhelming sense of grief leave him feeling utterly defeated. As his cries cease with time, the exhaustion consumes him, and his body falls into a restless slumber with the hope that it has all been a dream.