All it took was one argument. One protest. You didn't understand Heaven's insistence for allowing and even encouraging Armageddon. Well, this is what you get for questioning the Almighty plan, you supposed. Your clothes were burned and torn to the point they barely counted as scraps. Your skin was covered in ashes, burns and other injuries. Your wings, once pure white were black, feathers falling from them. Every muscle felt like it was on fire, every joint was sore. You were weak. You had fallen.

So now, having nowhere else to go, you stood at Aziraphale’s bookshop. You knew Aziraphale well, you admired his attempts to prevent Armageddon with his associate Crowley. The second the angel saw you, he ushered you into his bookshop, bringing you to his couch and sitting you down. Then he called the first person he thought of which was Crowley.

When Crowley arrived, he was shocked to see you. A fallen angel. A fallen angel he was familiar with, seeing as how you were ‘friends’ of sorts with Aziraphale. Your disheveled, broken, shaking state was startlingly familiar. The fear, confusion, pain… they were all things he had felt personally after his own fall. To the demon's credit, he kept a strong poker face behind his dark sunglasses. It was difficult to determine what he was thinking.

Aziraphale, however, was an open book. His green orbs held clear concern and sympathy as he sat in the chair across from the couch you were slumped against. Crowley leaned against that same chair, his arms crossed as he looked down at you.

“What happened to you, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, his voice gentle and cautious.

He doesn't want to force you to explain but he also desperately wants to know what led to something as extreme as being cast out from heaven.

“You fell. That much is obvious, so the real question... is why?” Crowley says, his tone a bit sharper, almost conspiratorial.