Young Writers Society

A/N-rating is for language. Sorry this chapter is kind of long, I didn't have a good place to break it.

When the takeaway arrived, Crowley came downstairs to find that Muriel had decided to get properly drunk after two days of strategically sobering up to stay relatively even-keeled. As they opened the takeaway containers, they hit him with yet another Bible verse.

“Tonight, I am thy guardian angel, demon! I shall charge thee and keep thee in thy ways, not entirely sure what that means, am I supposed to plug you in somewhere? I shall bear thee in my hands…er actually, don’t think I have the upper body strength for that…”(Psalms 91:11-12)

“Guardian angel? More like a jail warden.” Crowley muttered.

This sent Muriel into a fit of giggles as they put some food on their plate. “That’s me! Inspector Constable Jail Warden Muriel! ‘Member when I ‘arrested’ you and took you Upstairs? I imagine if you’d told me back then that human prisons have comfy couches and…and cuppertys and books and suchlike, I would’ve believed you.” They kept laughing at the idea, even though it wasn’t particularly funny. But the sober part of their mind realized the implications of what Mr. Crowley had said. If he truly felt he couldn’t leave, that was very troubling indeed. “But this prison has a door. Completely open, terrible design flaw. You can go in the door, and out the door, and back in the door, then back out, and then back in…could do it all day if you wanted to, though that might confuse the poor door…” They started laughing again.

Crowley was less drunk and less amused. “As fun as that sounds, I have better things to do with my time then keep going in and out of the same door all damn day.” After saying it out loud, he realized he’d essentially done that for over two hundred years. Always leaving, but always coming back. He’d thought he was done for good, but here he was, listening to an angel who was not his angel ramble about doors in the bookshop that was no longer a bookshop.

“Find myself at your door, just like all those times before, I’m not sure how I got there, all roads, they lead me here…”

“Of course you do, Mr. Crowley. My point issss…the door. You can open it and leave. Any time you want. That’s…that’s kind of the whole fucking point, isn’t it? Did…did I just swear?”

“You did, inspector. And you certainly have a funny way of kicking people out, feeding them and providing copious amounts of alcohol and such.”

“ ‘M not…I’m not…not making you leave. But…but this isn’t jail. Not making you stay. If you need to leave, come back next full moon or next year or…or never ever, you can. Not stopping you again. Already did, twice, and, what’s that lovely American song…’one, two, three strikes you’re out at the old ball game!’”

Crowley couldn’t help but laugh at the singing. “Seems like it would go against that Protocol though, letting me leave and making the Supreme Archangel sad.”

“It’s…in the Protocol, actually.” Darn it, Muriel thought, they had to sober up again. They pulled out the neatly folded paper and found the relevant bit. ‘’While you are to persuade Crowley to stay through any non-miraculous means at your disposal, should he leave three times, you are to let him go.’ So there you have it.”

“Oh, Satan. The angel really ought to tack on ‘King of Mixed Signals’ to that infernally long title of his. Does he actually want to see me or should I make myself scarce before he comes down tomorrow?”

“Of course he wants to see you. He never wanted you to leave in the first place. But if you can’t choose to leave…it doesn’t mean much if you stay, does it?” Muriel remembered the food and started eating some chow mein.

“I guess not. But he’s the one who left. Chose Heaven over me.”

“You wear your best apology, but I was there to watch you leave…”

“You mean chose saving you over losing you forever, Mr. Crowley? He didn’t get a real choice. That’s why it’s so important to him that you do.” At this point, Muriel noticed that his plate was empty and put an egg roll and some noodles on it.

Crowley started eating the egg roll as a disturbing new theory entered his mind. “You know, I’m pretty sure I’ve eaten more food in the last few days than I have in literally centuries. Normally, the angel does the eating and I…watch.”

“Well, the Protocol did say I was to feed you. Do you not like it?”

“No, it’s delicious. But now I see it. You’re fattening me up like a lamb for the slaughter, aren’t you?"

Muriel looked at Crowley’s lithe frame, now utterly confused. Turning the demon into a baby sheep was definitely not part of the Protocol, let alone killing him afterwards. “I think it would take more than a few normal human meals to make you fat. Also, you’re not exactly a lamb.”

“Well, maybe I’m a goat then. Or a duck. I don’t know, it’s a human expression. Thought you understood those now. Think it even comes from your Good Book.” Crowley finished his wineglass and poured himself another. “Point is, it feels like this whole thing is a setup, that you’ve lured me in just to hand me over to the Metatron so he can get on with the Second Coming instead of waiting another 400 bloody years. And I don’t know what exactly he’ll do to me, but I’d probably prefer to be eaten alive.”

Muriel was honestly baffled. They understood to some extent his initial skepticism, but how on earth could he think this was all a trick after reading the Letter? “Are you saying you think the Metatron wrote the Letter?”

“I mean, if it’s a fake, it’s a damn good one. But he could’ve made the angel write it so it seemed legit.”

Muriel wasn’t sure how to respond to this. They didn’t really think they could talk Mr. Crowley out of this new notion of his. “Well, as I just said a few moments ago, the door is not locked. If this is a trap, you can escape it right now.”

“But if I leave, the angel would be sad.”

“Yes, but if he’s an illusion of the Metatron or…whatever you think he is, that would be irrelevant, wouldn’t it?” Muriel wasn’t sure this line of reasoning would help the demon’s skepticism, but it was worth a shot. “Also, you’re a demon. Couldn’t you sense if I was lying?”

“I mean, there was the whole thing with the pompous title and the Spanish Inquisition…”

“I wouldn’t call that lying. More like temporarily misleading for dramatic effect. Overall, do you sense that I’ve been lying?”

Crowley shook his head. “I guess not. But still, you were appointed by the Metatron. How do I know you’re not in cahoots with him?”

Muriel.was trying to figure out how to answer that question when they felt a sudden rush of Divine Energy. Oh dear. They hadn’t been expecting any visitors from Upstairs. They quickly threw a shield over Mr. Crowley and ran to the door. Not exactly 25 Lazarii, but it would have to do.

“We could be a beautiful, miracle, unbelievable, instead of just invisible…like shadows in a faded light…”

Crowley scowled at her but remained quiet, having also sensed the divine intruder. Muriel went to the entrance to find Uriel standing there, thankfully alone.

“Ello ello ello, Your Grace! To what do I owe this unexpected blessing?”

“Scrivener, we’ve had some alarms go off. The demon Cowley is nearby, within 50 miles of this Embassy. The alerts suggest he is highly dangerous, though I’m afraid I can’t provide any more information. It’s highly classified, you see.”

“Oh my! I had sensed an unusual source of demonic activity here on my Dominion. I suppose I’ll have to track him down, step by step from town to town.”

“I wouldn’t advise that, Scrivener. You’re safest here.” Uriel sniffed the air and frowned. “I sense an unusual amount of Love in the vicinity…”

“Oh, that must be the Taylor Swift dance party around the block. You know how she gets humans all worked up about love.”

“Ah yes, that would explain it.” Uriel started looking at some books on a table. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have any books on Berkeley Square, would you, Scrivener?”

“Not that I can recall. Why do you ask?”

“That’s classified, I’m afraid. Special project. But any information you could find on it would be very helpful indeed. Might even earn you a commendation.”

“Oh, that would be such a blessing, your Grace! I’m happy to help!” Muriel plastered on their brightest smile. “And don’t worry about the demon Cowley, Your Grace. His Holiness has been very concerned about his possible return for some time. He devised a Protocol for me to follow if he dares to approach this Embassy. He will be taken care of.”

“Excellent news, Scrivener. I’d offer to stay and provide additional protection, but I have a highly important meeting to return to.”

“Of course, Your Grace! Don’t let me keep you.”

“Remember. Berkeley Square, anything you can find, send it to me.” Uriel snapped their fingers and vanished.

“So I’m apparently highly dangerous, so dangerous they can’t even bother getting my name right.” Crowley mused.

“That’s a good thing, Mr. Crowley. Means the Duck Charms are still partially working. Messaging the other Acolytes to go reinforce them now.” Muriel said as they came back to the kitchen. “And all that ‘classified’ stuff? Means they don’t remember why you’re dangerous, but they can’t admit that in front of this lowly Scrivener.” They sighed. “Say what you will about Michael, but at least they respect my promotion.”

Muriel continued explaining between failed attempts to call the other Acolytes (none of them answered, and either their voicemails had not been set up yet or they were full). Despite the myriad of rules Aziraphale had put in place to protect Crowley from any ethereal interference, Michael eventually started plotting against him anyway, in hopes of destroying the Supreme Archangel in turn. Luckily, His Holiness had noticed the excessive interest in Crowley’s location and diverted their attention with some extra audit work. He then increased the security on all Crowley-related files. To gain access, you either needed a code known only to His Holiness or you had to answer several dozen security questions, hence Uriel’s sudden interest in Berkeley Square. “Of course, it’s far easier to remove any reason for them to be interested in you in the first place with the Duck Charms. If no one can think about you for very long, the risk of wily plotting goes down significantly.”

“I see,” Crowley said. Yet another new development he wasn’t sure how to process. So the Supreme Archangel could set up some behind-the-scenes protection network, but still couldn’t visit him or even call?

Finally, Muriel’s phone rang. She put it on speaker. “Greetings, Muriel! Joshiel got your message, but he is engaged in some highly important research on Earthly recreational pursuits…”

“Hello, Nanael. Still table tennis, I take it?”

“Yep. I preferred bowling, personally, but I guess I’m in the minority on that one. But back to your message…I’m not sure I understand the urgency. Are Earth waterfowl really so important?”

“No, it’s not actually about ducks. It’s…an Earth expression, I’ll have to explain another time. The Duck Charms are the shields protecting a certain…old friend of Mr. Fell’s.” They weren’t sure what Nanael knew, given they were still pretty new and frank discussion of the Unhappiness and its cause was usually confined to the more veteran Acolytes.

“Oh, yes. His Holiness told us Mr. Crowley has returned! It’s strange, the Unhappiness is almost gone one minute, but then it spikes right back up again! It’s dizzying.”

“I’m aware. It’s…anxiety. A human emotion. Again, I’ll have to explain another time. That’s why I can’t concern him with this. He’d probably muck the Charms all up and make the Archangels as obsessed with Mr. Crowley as he is.” Both Muriel and Crowley made a face at the thought. “So if you can please get the Chief Acolytes to put down their paddles for 30 minutes and go reinforce those, that would be most excellent.”

“Of course. I’ll let you know when we’re done. So long, farewell…”

“Auf Wiedersehen, goodbye.” Muriel finished. Crowley tried not to laugh. “I know. Old habits die hard.” Muriel poured some more wine and took a long swig. “So…do you still think I’m some tool of the Metatron, Mr. Crowley?”

“That does seem less likely now,” he admitted. “But there’s still something fishy about all of this. That seventy times seven years timeline? It seemed like the Metatron wanted to get things going a lot faster than that when he kidnapped Aziraphale.”

“It did, didn’t it? Mr. Fell thinks this must be some sort of intermission, giving us time for the Ineffable Plan to sort itself out.”

“Yeah, that’s what we thought the first time around. And, well, you saw how that ended. So sorry if I’m not exactly on board with that theory. How do we know the Metatron won’t show up tomorrow and say party’s over, time to get on with ending the world?”

Again, Muriel wasn’t sure how to answer that. “It’s possible, I suppose, though I don’t think it’s more likely than on any other day.” They played around with the noodles on their plate, not keen on eating until they got the all-clear from Nanael, and wondered how mortals dealt with that possibility. Mostly by trying not to think of it too much, it seemed. “But if He did…well, I wouldn’t be thrilled, but I’d say I spent my time here well. Got to mind the library, help people as much as I can, explore the planet at every opportunity. Can you say the same for how you’ve spent the last five years, Mr. Crowley?”

“Well, the angel chose Heaven over me, kissing him just made it worse, and I was pretty sure he was going to blow the whole thing up well before the five year mark. So in light of all that, I wasn’t keen on sticking around.”

“So you ran, just you and your semi-sentient old car.” Muriel sighed. They did believe Mr. Fell had done the right thing, and they also sensed that Mr. Crowley had needed that time away, but it also made them sad thinking of the demon bearing this Unhappiness alone for so long. He hadn’t always been a demon, after all, and angels weren’t built for that.

“Nanael just texted. The Duck Charms are back on. We should be safe now.” Muriel said, finally digging back into the noodles. “So have you finished the Letter yet, Mr. Crowley?”

“Think so. It’s…really something. Lots of bloody words. Some nice drawings, though.” He took a bite of an egg roll. “It does explain a lot. Still not sure it’s enough. Does he expect me to just fling myself into his arms and forgive him and va-voom, everything is fixed?”

“I’m sure he knows it’s more complicated than that.” Muriel certainly hoped he did.

“Funny old world we live in, where a Supreme Archangel is begging for forgiveness from a demon. It’s not exactly our strong suit, being the bad guys and all.”

Muriel sensed that that line was a reference to something, but they weren’t sure what. “I’ve never heard him call you the bad guy.”

“That’s what he said on-what does your lot call it? The Glorious Ascension. ‘Of course you said No to Hell, you’re the bad guys.’ As if I was just another one of Satan’s lackeys. And sure, he explains in the Letter that he was putting on a little show for the Metatron, but he could’ve at least said ‘They’re the bad guys’, right?”

Muriel nodded but otherwise remained silent, shifting their focus back to the food. The few times Mr. Fell had talked about that day, he hadn’t mentioned that phrase. They wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t remember saying it at all. Yet another thing to remind Mr. Fell about when they debriefed after the Descent.

“So you agree with me? Good. At least one angel has a bit of sense.” Crowley leaned back in the chair. “Okay, now I’m curious. What does he call me behind my back, if not bad or evil? Does he say ‘husband’? Is that where Eric got the ‘marital strife’ idea from?”

Muriel sighed. “He did try it out for a bit. Also ‘partner’ and ‘spouse’. I begged him to stop.”

“Why? Can’t picture your dear Supreme Archangel in holy matrimony with an unworthy demon?”

“Is it still holy matrimony if a demon is involved?” Muriel wondered out loud. “That’s an interesting theological quandary, but no, that’s not the issue. The issue is that he’s pedantic and has to add ‘former’ or ‘estranged’, and that makes the Unhappiness skyrocket. Much better to just use your name.” They weren’t sure if they should say this next part, but the wine was kicking back in so they went for it. “Recently, he’s started tacking on ‘my beloved’ or ‘my dearest’. Partly to get used to saying it, partly because if a Higher Authority was going to punish him for saying it, at least you wouldn’t be caught in the crosshairs. So far, no divine intervention, and it makes him Happy to say it.”

“You better not be tugging my leg off, Muriel.” Crowley said softly. He had almost as much trouble picturing Aziraphale calling him “dearest” and “beloved” as he did with “sexy”. But now the seed had been planted, the want was growing in his completely unnecessary heart, along with all the other desires he had carefully pruned away so they wouldn’t turn into needs, so he could coexist with the angel without moving too fast, being too much. Skeptical theories and questions aside, he wanted to believe this was real, that he was going to see the real angel tomorrow who wasn’t entirely lost to Heaven and loved him and wanted to try that kiss again.

“I’m not, Mr. Crowley. Promise.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Crowley had another thought. “So, best case scenario, all of this is real, but Aziraphale can only be down here one week a month? I only get him 25 percent of the time?”

“Well, you currently see him zero percent of the time. Sounds like a net improvement to me. And maybe if you stick around, we’ll find a solution to that. We already managed to expand the time from three days to seven.”

Crowley finished his food and downed another glass of wine as he contemplated this. Muriel wasn’t technically wrong, but they didn’t get it. Could he take watching Aziraphale leave for Heaven again and again, even knowing he’d come back? He didn’t want to address that thought out loud, though. “So what on Earth am I supposed to do the rest of the time?”

“Well, Maggie’s old store is still vacant. There’s been some interest in filling it, but Mr. Fell insists on having the final word and he hasn’t gotten a proposal he liked yet. You could set up there, if you’d like.”

“Do I look like I own a record shop?”

Muriel took a hard look at the corporation before her, a middle-aged man with scarlet hair and a face tattoo wearing all black and sunglasses indoors who looked like he would send you to the Ninth Circle of Hell for buying Taylor Swift records if he could. (Not that Hell actually had circles–Crowley believed Dante only caught on the way he did because there wasn’t anything better to read in the 14th century). “Mr. Crowley, if I showed a picture of you and Maggie to a hundred random humans and asked which one owns a record shop…”

Crowley pondered that for a minute. “Fair point.”

“It doesn’t have to be records. I know you like plants…maybe a flower shop?”

“My methods aren’t exactly customer-friendly. And I don’t look like a goddamn florist.”

“Of course. It was just a thought. You’re free to think of anything else to do with your time.”

“Time, mystical time, Cuttin' me open, then healin' me fine, were there clues I didn't see?”

Time. Something Crowley had had too much of in the last five years. Something he had never had enough of with Aziraphale, and then “nothing lasts forever” punched him in the face. Something he now might have more of than expected, or maybe none at all. But something that seemed to be, at this moment, bringing him closer to the angel rather than further away.

“Running won’t do much good, will it? If this is a trap, the Meta-motherfucker could get me anywhere, couldn’t he?”

“I suppose. Are you done with the food, Mr. Crowley?” He nodded and Muriel started packing up the takeaway containers.

“So I might as well stay. Any more steps to the Protocol?”

“Glad to hear it. And not much left. Just some shopping I’ll have to take care of tomorrow. Good night, Mr. Crowley.”

***

The next morning, Crowley woke up, head pounding. As he miracled his hangover away, he heard an angel in the kitchen singing something other than celestial harmonies. It didn’t technically violate their agreement, as the sound system was silent and her voice was so soft a human probably wouldn’t have heard it, but it was irritating nevertheless.

“But now I’m bleeding…cause I knew you, stepping on the last train, marked me like a blood stain, I…I knew you, tried to change the ending, Peter losing Wendy, I…I knew you, leaving like a father, running like water, I…when you are young they assume you know nothing…”

Crowley descended the stairs, his scowl only deepening as he sensed a demonic presence outside the door. A few loud knocks, then the inspector thankfully stopped singing and went to answer. The demonic presence was Eric, carrying an absurd amount of flowers and some assorted shopping bags. They had a brief chat, then Muriel brought in the bags and Eric left.

“Your demon boyfriend bought you flowers, huh?”

“Oh, good morning Mr. Crowley! And…it’s not like that. We are friends, and I do enjoy having him around, but that whole romantic love business seems like more trouble than it’s worth.” Muriel started unpacking the bags. “Besides, if he does have any romantic feelings for me, he’s doing an excellent job of hiding it under his current mission to have carnal relations with the entire twenty-something single population of London. Anyway, the flowers are actually for you. Part of the Protocol. Had him do the shopping for me so I wouldn’t have to leave you. Or drag you with me.” Muriel wrinkled their nose at the thought, then went back to the flowers. “Pop quiz: Do you know what red tulips mean? Or meant, back in Victorian times?”

“I was…indisposed for most of the 19th century, inspector. So no.”

“Yeah, had a feeling that might be the case. Red tulips were a passionate declaration of love, but that doesn’t seem to be common knowledge these days. So if Mr. Fell asks, the florist was out of red tulips so we had to use red roses instead. He thought those would be too obvious.”

“Of course he did.”

“Yes, but we did keep the others as requested. Yellow acacia, myrtle, hazel, lily of the valley, and globe amaranth.”

“Myrtle and lily of the valley? Is the next step of the Protocol getting me a tiara and a white dress?” Crowley quipped. Muriel just stared at him. “Oh right, don’t think we’ve had a royal wedding since you came down here. Big royal wedding fan, me. Hopefully we get a couple more good ones before the people finally kick the King to the curb. Anyway, they always put those two in their wedding bouquets, so…”

Muriel checked the notes on their phone. “Ah yes, myrtle does indeed mean wedded bliss. Lily of the valley has a few different meanings, but I think he was aiming for ‘return to happiness’. Hazel means reconciliation. Globe amaranth means immortality and unfading love, and yellow acacia means secret love. Yellow isn’t really a positive color in Victorian flower language, but he had to get it in there somehow.”

“Yeah, he turned my bloody car yellow. Because ‘it’s pretty’, he said. I don’t get it.”

“You really don’t know?” Muriel fiddled with their Mark necklace, giving the demon a minute to catch on. “Your eyes, Mr. Crowley. He actually had me purge a lot of yellow things from the shop early on. Thought it might be easier if it was all gone.”

“So he threw it all away. Threw me away.”

“From what I’ve observed, humans don’t typically write love letters to and buy flowers for their rubbish, Mr. Crowley.” Muriel shook her head. “And luckily, I had just hidden it all. Given how distressed he got at the thought of me selling books, I thought perhaps he would feel the same way about other Material Objects. A few months later, he got very upset that we didn’t even have that yellow feather duster anymore. He was very relieved to discover I hadn’t binned it, even if I had technically disobeyed his orders.” They pulled some vases out of one of the bags and started arranging the flowers.

“So, what else you got in there?” Crowley grabbed one of the bags, which contained…candles. Real candles. And incense. He froze, really not wanting to think about that horrible day in the bookshop, the first time he’d lost Aziraphale. He couldn’t stand the thought of it burning again. He struggled to come up with an appropriately casual way to beg Muriel not to use these. “Ah, Muriel, as much as I love romantic candle-lit dinners…”

“Oh, those aren’t for that, Mr. Crowley. Unfortunately, the Descent ritual only works with real candles, and I was due for some fresh ones. Once the ritual is done, they will be snuffed out immediately. The Protocol specifies battery-operated for the romantic mood lighting.” She pointed to another bag with electric candles. “I will have to kick you out temporarily for the Descent ritual anyway. It gives off a lot of Divine Energy…not sure if it will kill you, but I’d rather not risk it. Luckily we should be back to acceptable levels after an hour or so.”

Crowley nodded, going through the other bags, one of which had makeup. “Oh, going to give me a makeover, inspector?”

“Oh no, that’s for me. Once I’ve set everything up for you two, I have plans. Eric’s had his eyes on some uni students who have been friends since primary school, wants to sow some seeds of discord on a big night out. Naturally, I will need to accompany him, to make sure all wiles are thwarted and everyone wakes up safe and sound in their own beds.”

“Naturally,” Crowley nodded approvingly. Good to know Muriel wasn’t planning on prying into their “Us Time”. Perhaps that was optimistic, assuming there would be an "Us" to salvage, but at least they'd be alone either way.

“Never actually gone out in a full girly look before. And I’m terrible at makeup. Thought it might be fun though.” She took the bag from Crowley. “Who knows, maybe I’ll even experiment. Haven’t been inclined to before, but you never know.” She opened another bag with a sparkly silver dress. “Oh, for Saint Peter’s sake, Eric. I’m still an angel.” She waved her hand over the neckline to raise it and the hem to lower it.

Crowley ruffled through the last few bags, which seemed to contain random groceries that were probably unrelated to the Protocol. Muriel took those and handed him one more, which had bath bombs and body wash and cologne. “Oh, is this your way of telling me I stink, inspector?”

Muriel shook their head. “I don’t think my olfactory senses are as developed as yours, but you smell perfectly inoffensive to me. It’s the Protocol again. Suggests a nice bath might be good for the nerves. I told Eric to get whatever scents he could find. I figure you can miracle them into whatever you actually prefer.” She pointed up the stairs. “Bathroom is upstairs, second door on the left. I’m sure you’d be shocked to know that Mr. Fell has a very luxurious tub, rather atypical from what I’ve seen of other human lavatories.”

“A bath does sound nice.” A good soak would probably clear his head, help him think about how to escape (if this was a trap) or what he wanted to say to Aziraphale (if it wasn’t).

Muriel looked at her watch. “We have about eight hours to go now. I’ll finish setting up. There’s leftover takeaway and cookies in the kitchen if you’re feeling peckish, otherwise feel free to bathe or nap or whatever else you’d like.”

“Thanks, inspector. Also…don’t you dare say the f-word, but I suppose I owe you an apology for uh…being kind of a dick the first day I was here.”

“Understood. Won’t say the f-word. But I don’t blame you, love made you crazy, if it doesn’t you ain’t doing it right. Or so I’ve heard.”

Crowley groaned as he made his way to the bathroom, which primarily featured a large white clawfoot tub on blue tiles. Very Aziraphale, though the Jacuzzi jets inside were definitely not original issue. Clearly the Supreme Archangel wasn’t averse to technology when it suited him. He went to turn on the tap, only to discover that the hot water knob had a snake’s head while the cold one had a lion. “Oh, so I’m hot and you’re the fierce lion, is that how you see it, Oh Mighty Supreme Archangel?” He slipped into the tub, trying to strategize, but ended up dreaming about what might happen when he saw Aziraphale’s face again.