Chapter Text

1. A new Great Flood

London had always been a notoriously grey and rainy city. Therefore, the first two weeks of incessant rain, punctuated by some scattered thunder, did not arouse particular suspicions.

As the weeks turned into a month and the storms became heavier and more frequent, someone behind the shops’ curtains began to mutter under their breath and raise an eyebrow. When months became two and rumours about some tornadoes began to spread, in the streets clogged with water people railed against climate change, believed to be responsible for the raging rains. At the start of the fourth month of incessant rainfall, sudden storms and increasingly dark clouds at the horizon, London was now on the newspapers all over the world and the collective hysteria announced a new Great Flood - don't worry, dears, it is not true at all.

The situation was so dramatic that by looking out the window, any Londoner could have spotted some hopeful reporter or some dull preacher of doom being inexorably carried away by strong gusts of wind or torrents of water, along what had once been streets. The face of London had profoundly changed, becoming the city that everyone would recognize as "the New Venice".

The news of the inexplicable and sudden onset of rain travelled far and wide, from London to Beijing, from Mercury to Neptune, from Heaven to Hell, even to Alpha Centauri.

-Is this disaster Crowley's fault?

Beelzebub asked, without looking up from the newspaper they held in their hands.

-According to Aziraphale's last letter, so it seems.

Gabriel's response was followed by a sigh, as he spread a generous amount of butter on a slice of toast, with a thoughtful expression.

Beelzebub looked up at the sky - or rather, at space.

-He had never managed to create such turmoil. If he had done this millennia ago, I would have had barely any problem as Lord of Hell.

-He's heartbroken, Bubby. I highly doubt this is intentional.

Despite the effort, Beelzebub couldn’t refrain a smile at the silly nickname Gabriel had chosen. They tried to hide it by bringing the cup of tea in front of their lips.

-You make Crowley sound so sentimental… I would have never thought so.

Gabriel chuckled and reached over the table to place his hand on Beelzebub's.

-No one would have ever thought that about us either yet here we are.

Beelzebub gave him a big smile, which extended to their pitch-dark eyes. The warm, golden light of the stars around them created lively shades of colour on their skin and Gabriel lost himself staring at the reflection in their gaze. When Beelzebub spoke again, however, he thought he saw a hint of fear in it.

-Even with the permission of the Supreme Archangel, it is still a gamble to return. I don't want to lose you again.

Gabriel frowned and tightened his grip on Beelzebub's hand.

-While I was on Earth, Crowley risked his existence to protect me. Of course, he did to protect Aziraphale in the first place, but I still owe him a favour. Even though I fear I'm the last person he would like to see, it’s a moral duty.

-What an angelic sense of justice…

Beelzebub looked at him, exasperated and amused at the same time. In response, Gabriel shrugged and took a bite of the toast he had abandoned on the ceramic plate shortly before.

-You love me for this too, after all.

***

Gabriele's appearance was followed by a faint splash and a dull thump, like a stone falling into a pool of water. Like two legs immersed in a torrent of water up to their knees, perhaps.

Disoriented, the renegade angel looked around him. He was in a dark and narrow alley, surrounded by overflowing bins, emanating an unbearable stench mixed with the sweetish smell of damp and smog. At the end of the alley, he could glimpse the dim, cold lights of the streetlamps. Looking up through the light fog, he managed to saw the roofs of the houses next door standing out against a sky covered with deep gray clouds, threatening rain. According to his calculations, dawn must have been close, but not even one ray of sunlight could penetrate the thick blanket.

He had to be in Soho, London - he couldn't be wrong. Yet, the flooded streets and the light mist made the place unrecognizable. Suppressing a cold shiver as his legs moved through the freezing water (“Damned human senses,” he thought), he advanced to the main road.

He found himself in front of an intersection full of shops immersed in the quiet darkness of the early hours of the morning. Apart from the streetlamps, the only source of light came from a small window at the top left of a building bearing the sign “Mr. A. Z. Fell & Co. Bookshop”.

Gabriel smiled: it had to be Muriel.

Being an angel, after all, she had no need to sleep and Aziraphale, in his last report to the two fugitives, wrote with a certain pride that Muriel enjoyed managing the bookshop so much that she had decided to read all the volumes from the ground up. A remarkable feat, considering that it was Aziraphale's private collection, containing almost every book ever written, including some from the ancient Library of Alexandria (before it was set on fire - a real shame, if you ask me).

However, Gabriel did not head towards the bookshop. Beelzebub had told him, knowing Crowley well - and, believe me, they knew him really well, having spent a considerable part of eternity together as a Seraphim - that he certainly would not find him there. He was too proud for this kind of thing.

So, he turned and went straight on, towards Crowley's apartment; allowing him to stay in that house had been the last favour Beelzebub asked to Shax. The new Lord of Hell had more than one to return and had, reluctantly, agreed.

“More out of fear of Beelzebub's wrath than out of respect for her word,” thought Gabriel, amused.

***

When he knocked on the door, there was no answer.

-Crowley? Are you in there?

Nothing.

He knocked again.

Absolute silence.

He waited a few minutes before carefully placing a hand on the doorknob. He pushed the door slightly and it opened with a creak, without any resistance.

He entered the silent apartment with deliberate slowness, as if he expected an ambush or some miracle of protection ready to repel him. He closed the door behind him and waited. Nothing happened. With a mixture of anxiety and curiosity, he looked around.

He was in a small entryway filled with plants of various types and sizes. They were not, however, as lush as the plants that Gabriel - or rather, Jim - had seen Crowley bring into the library. They were almost all bent over, with yellowed and moth-eaten leaves. A small, dried-up cactus, on a shelf next to a mirror, waited for Gabriele to rest his gaze on it before collapsing on its side with a theatrically tragic look. Suddenly, all the plants began to sway, cracking their weak branches in the air like whips, in a repetitive, hypnotic dance.

Water. They were asking for water.

A sudden sound of glass breaking came from the living room and interrupted the dance of the plants, which began to tremble with fear. Gabriel suddenly turned and rushed into the next room.

In front of the enormous window overlooking the grey street, Crowley was laying stretched out on a dark leather sofa, in an extremely slouched and, apparently, uncomfortable position. Like London, his appearance was almost unrecognizable. His usual wire-rimmed sunglasses and a wide-brimmed black hat hid his face in the shadows. A thick, long, dark beard fell over the black shirt opened at the front, stained with what – Gabriele thought with disgust – looked like vomit. In his hand he held a half-empty bottle of wine and at least fifty others were scattered randomly around the room.

On the wallpaper not far from the door, a stain of ruby red wine with violet reflections dripped in large streams towards the dark parquet strewn with broken glass. On what remained of the label, Gabriel read the name "Gamay".

Crowley didn't look back at him or say anything.

-What a huge waste, don't you think?

Faced with that comment, Crowley didn't move, but made an annoyed noise. Was he talking about the wine?

-I know it's not a good time-, Gabriel began, -And I also know that I'm not particularly welcome -.

“Go away, then”, he wanted to reply. He wanted to send him away, throw a bottle at him. But he didn't. The enormous amount of alcohol in the body, which would have killed any human being, made everything foggy and confusing.

-Aziraphale sends me.

It was a moment.

From the window a flash of lightning lit up the room, followed at short distance by a deafening thunder. Crowley sat up, dropping the bottle, the heavy pelting sound of rain in the background. As he stood up, his hat had slipped to the floor, revealing long black hair, dirty and messy. It was only then, in the fleeting flash of the lightning, that Gabriel saw deep and recent scars along his face, at the level of his cheekbones, partially covered by his beard.

“Even demons,” he thought, “cry Holy Water.”

-The Supreme Archangel sent you, huh?

Crowley's voice came out croaky and hoarse, almost a strangled sound. He had considerable difficulty articulating words, his mouth dry and thick. How long had it been since he spoke? Weeks? Months? How much time had passed?

-Tell him, then, to go fuck himself. The hell with it, if he pleases.

A half-sob escaped his lips and with violent anger he jumped up, overturning the table in front of him. He advanced towards the window at a crooked pace.

Gabriel remained motionless, petrified, unable to move or utter even a single word.

-Why didn't he choose me?

Crowley’s voice was so low and broken, almost inaudible; more a thought to himself than a real question.

-Wha-what?

-You had a choice: Beelzebub or Heaven. You chose Beelzebub, against all logic, against all expectations, without thinking twice. He chose Heaven, instead.

Now his voice was perfectly steady, almost contemptuous. Crowley turned to stare at him with an indecipherable expression. Although he couldn't see his serpent-like pupils, he felt his searching gaze on him.

-Why are you here? - Crowley asked dryly, without giving him time to formulate an answer to the previous question.

-I... Well, yes... The weather... London... A disaster.

Crowley raised an eyebrow from behind his round glasses.

-I cannot help you.

Gabriele sighed. He certainly didn't expect the demon's full collaboration, but neither did he expect a total refusal. He tried to put the words together without showing his anguish.

-The weather, it is your fault, Crowley! I'm sorry about what happened, but...-

-Oh, you are sorry?!- Crowley's voice had reduced to a venomous hiss, full of anger. He tilted his head to a side and continued slowly, as if weighing every word: -I've badly phrased the previous sentence: you see, even if I wanted to, it is impossible for me to help you.

In the grey twilight, Gabriel saw him take off his glasses. Crowley, head bowed, advanced towards him, only to look up once he was a few inches away.

Gabriele let out a frightened cry, jumping backwards, almost tripping on the carpet at the entrance.

It wasn't Crowley's usual long-pupiled, yellow eyes looking straight at him. No, they were the brown eyes, determined and seething with anger, of the angel he had once been. For a moment, Gabriel saw him dressed in white, shining and proud; he saw him trying to open his large, majestic, black wings as a protection; he thought he heard that croaking laughter again, as he pushed him down from the gates of Paradise. He saw again the Fall in his dark eyes.

-No, no, it's not possible-, he murmured, leaning against the door jamb.

Crowley put his glasses back on with a decisive gesture, grinning at the effect he had.

-I am no longer a demon, Gabriel. Nor an angel. I no longer have control of my strength. I cannot help you.

He finished the sentence throwing himself back onto the sofa.

A few minutes of silence passed, in which Gabriel slowly composed himself, his head crowded with thoughts. His gaze fell out the window, where five children, hand in hand and backpacks on their shoulders, were desperately trying to make their way, against the wind, towards a school; their clothes soaked, their faces red from the cold.

-There must be something we can do.

-Indeed, there is something you can do.

Gabriele shifted his gaze to Crowley, whose determined expression did not bode well.

-Take away my memory. Take everything I remember and destroy it. Throw them on Sirius, Proxima Centauri, wherever you want. I don’t care.

-Heavens, I can't do this, Crowley! -, Gabriel's look was horrified, -You don't understand what it means, what you're asking for.

A bitter smile crossed Crowley’s face.

-Oh, I understand. I think I understand a whole lot better than you do. See, you got what you wanted the most…

His voice was sharp, but not full of anger as before. His tone hid a feeling that Gabriele would never have imagined Crowley could feel for anyone, let alone for himself: pity.

-You owe it to me, Gabriel.

Gabriel felt a sudden and heavy sense of suffocation and, at the same time, helplessness. He surrendered.

-I will do it. If that's what you really want, I will do it.

-Do I have your word as an angel that you will destroy my memories?

You must know, my trusted readers, that Gabriel was not accustomed to telling lies. Of course, lying is not in the nature of any angel, but he was, to be honest, completely incapable of it.

During his time on Earth in a mortal body, he had discovered that lies could not leave his lips without causing him unbearable physical pain. Crowley knew this and that was why he stared at him with particular insistence. As smart as he was, however, perhaps due to alcohol, Crowley had underestimated a small detail: having been disowned, Gabriel was no longer an angel, bureaucratically speaking.

Therefore, it was with only a vague headache that Gabriel replied:

-You have my word.