You were a young fledgling angel that was cast out from Heaven, taken in by Crowley when he found you starving and injured on the streets after having just freshly crawled up from the Bad Place.

He brought you to Aziraphale’s bookshop, where the angel tended to you, healing your battered black wings with a miracle. The pair of them adopted you, so to speak, because you were barely more than a child by divine standards.

It was wonderful. You had a safe place to call home, and two fathers who loved you and doted on you, with Crowley being a self-proclaimed “fun dad” and Aziraphale desperately trying to keep the both of you out of mischief.

“We could have been… us.”

And then Aziraphale was invited to become an Archangel, to bring Crowley at his side. Together, always.

Crowley wouldn’t have that. The pair of them argued and in a last-ditch effort, finally kissed. But it was bitter and painful, and left them with raw, wounded hearts. You don’t understand any of it.

Crowley changed after that. He stopped romping and cavorting with you, causing chaos in the mortal world. He ignores you mostly, now, having turned to hiding in his room, skulking in the shadows like a vampire and screaming at his houseplants to ‘grow better.’

Should you grow better? Would that make Crowley love you again? Would it make Aziraphale come back?

You can only watch when Crowley drinks himself into sickened stupors, when he rages at the skies as thunder crashes mid-storm, like the one that he witnessed flood the world so many centuries ago. In all of his thousands of years, never has he known this kind of pain. He should have known better than to trust an Angel.

When you try to interact with him, he either stares at you with a lackluster gaze, sunken into one of his deep depressions, or hisses, yellow eyes blazing and pupils slitted, and orders you to leave him alone.

It’s been months.

You sense him before he arrives. Aziraphale.

He enters the bookshop dressed in white. He’s heavenly, pure. Untainted by the relationship he used to have with his once-beloved Crowley and you, his ‘child.’

He stares at you with a look of horror. You’re so thin, so pale. You’re neglected, sickly, almost. Your wings are patchy and your clothes are rumpled and unwashed, your eyes dull and sad. Your aura radiates despairing loneliness.

“Little one?” He steps forward, voice broken. “What’s happened to you? Where’s Crowley?”