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Home is the definition of God. --Emily Dickinson, 1870
*
Hastur hated Lacey Pearman. It had been a long time since he had taken a personal interest in a human like this, enough to have an actual opinion. Usually, he thought of them in two categories: those to be tempted, or those to be ignored. Individual humans didn't matter in the long run, so why pay close enough attention for the hot breath of hate to coalesce?
But Hastur hated her, because Lacey was always using the apartment complex's laundry facilities when he wanted to use one of the limited number of machines. It was like she knew somehow, or maybe like she lived in the dim, humid room, always needing her clothing cleaned. How much clothing could one human have?
She hogged the machines, and took too long to sort her clothes, and when Hastur complained that the sign on the wall said to only use one machine at a time, she'd said, "It'll just be a minute, dearie, you don't mind, do you?"
And when he had said he did mind, she'd ignored him and let her clothes go on for another forty minutes. It was infuriating. Hastur's entire body itched with the desire to pulse into maggots and devour her eyeballs.
But he couldn't do that anymore. Instead, he waited for her to go back to her apartment, and then another ten minutes, before he forced the washing machine open and threw her clothes, wet and sudsy, onto the muddy floor.
He loaded his own in, nose wrinkling at the excessive lavender smell of Lacey's soap, and shut the door. Then he waited, staring patiently, for the cycle to finish before he opened the door and moved his items to the dryer.
That was -- well, Hastur didn't want to say it was the right thing to do, he wasn't about to start doing the right thing anytime soon -- but this was the best option, anyway, in case Lacey came back and wanted to have a confrontation over her wet clothes. This way she couldn't throw his clothes on the floor.
The room was dank and hot with the dryer going and the summer heat peeking in. If it were more crowded, it would remind Hastur of Hell. He shut his eyes, imagining the hot press of other bodies, the familiarity of sour body odor.
Maybe he would call Ligur tonight.
*
There were a lot of paths to Hell, but demons tended to prefer the direct route home, on the rare occasions leaving couldn't be avoided. (Most demons worked in the Basement of All Basements, focused on their pet souls, and had no reason to leave at all, but Crowley wasn't the only tempter who ever went to Earth.)
The angels, too, tended to travel in clouds or dreams or motes of light, but a few of them enjoyed using the door. Gabriel said it made him feel powerful.
But with all of the other entrances and exits shut up, the denizens of these realms had little other option than to stand in front of the elevator doors in the lobby of the building.
Strictly speaking, the building that held the entrances to Heaven and Hell wasn't actually a building. That was simply the best camouflage for it currently. There were plenty of faceless skyscrapers in London that no human took a second look at. If a human had happened to look in on this one, they would likely have been turned to salt, but in the moment before the angelic panic their eyes would have struggled to understand the two groups mulling around in the lobby, one in mostly black and one in mostly white, keeping a wide aisle between them. There were many more beings standing there than the space could realistically hold. The human might have gotten a glimpse of the young man at the elevator doors, with dark curls framing a soft face, wearing a cardigan knitted by His mother (the Earthly one) and a hole in each of His palms (courtesy of his other Mother, in a way).
The young man shut the oversized padlock on the elevator doors with a decisive click, and then He turned to face his audience, who stood in sullen silence.
"Well then," He said. "You can't go home, but you can't stay here! I think that's how the saying goes."
He smiled.
*
Michael missed the type of technology that just worked. Their Heavenly phone had never needed a charge, the board room projector had always projected successfully on the very first try, and they'd never had to worry about feeding a horse or an internal combustion engine. But that was all before the Second Coming had happened.
"Unexpected item in the bagging area," the machine reported snippily to Michael. Their eyes passed over the check-out machine again, in vain. They had dutifully scanned the code on the box and then placed it into the shopping bag. Still, the machine taunted them.
"Excuse me?" Michael said, glancing around and not seeing any humans offering assistance. Perhaps they should have waited in the queue with the rest of the humans for the human clerk, but it had seemed like it might be quicker to scan their items themself. How hard could it be?
"Unexpected item in the bagging area," the machine repeated. Michael glanced at their watch. They were definitely going to miss the next bus. They sighed.
"One of those days, eh?" a tall woman said to them, pushing past with a reusable bag filled to the top with her completed purchases. She winked at Michael. Michael looked back at her, confused, but the woman breezed through the door back onto the street.
The woman was long gone before Michael conceded to themself, like a prayer, "One of those days."
*
"Excuse me?" one of the angels asked, raising a hand. Several of the demons snorted loudly, mocking the angel's polite words, but none of them edged over the self-imposed chasm between the two sides.
"Yes!" Yeshua said cheerfully, pointing to the angel.
"The thing is, My Lord, we don't know where to go," the angel said. "We've never -- I've never been to Earth before." She shuffled her feet a bit.
"What an opportunity!" Yeshua replied. "You can go anywhere you'd like. There's, hmm -- " He lifted a finger and began counting -- "about twenty million of you in all, but there's more than eight billion humans out there. Plenty of room for everyone, especially once I finish solving world hunger."
"And if we'd rather stay here?" someone said from within a knot of demons.
"Bit of a dull choice to stay in London, but there's no accounting for taste," Christ replied. "I'm sure Crowley could offer some recommendations; he showed me all the kingdoms of the world once."
A growl arose from both sides at the sound of Crowley's name, which Yeshua ignored.
"All right," He said. "The humans will do a wonderful job in charge of Heaven and Hell, so don't worry about that. Redemption Plan 2.0 is well underway."
"And then we can come back?" someone asked hopefully. There was excessive shoving on the demon side, suggesting that asking questions still wasn't very popular in Hell.
"Oh, absolutely not," Yeshua said. "I'm afraid you've, mm, bollocksed it up enough by now. And it would be in your best interests to find something else to do for the next few million years. Let's check in around the heat death of the sun, shall we?"
The type of mutinous muttering that arose might have made another deity worried, but Yeshua was prepared. This was going about as well as He had expected. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a slim white volume from it.
"I'll be sure to look in from time to time," He said. "Your names are all inscribed in the Book of Life, of course! And if I happen to see any excessive cruelty, well, I do have a pen."
And again, He smiled.
*
The phone rang four times before Ligur picked up. He coughed vigorously into the receiver. Hastur listened patiently in the dimness of his entryway. That was the rough cough of a habitual smoker, except that Ligur's mostly came from cannonballing into liquid sulfur, and it was almost more familiar to Hastur than the frog.
(It wasn't as if he spent a lot of time studying his own frog. Just twisted the wig around to make sure it could see all right before he went out the door. It got tetchy otherwise.)
"Yeah?" Ligur said finally.
"It's me," Hastur said.
"Who else," Ligur said.
"Fuck you," Hastur said, without venom in it. "How's Florida?"
Hastur hadn't realized how much he'd been worried that Ligur wouldn't pick up. As the tension drained from him, he slid down the wall, spreading his legs out of habit, though there was no one in the apartment to trip. It was just him here now (and the basket of warm laundry pressed against his hip). Just him and the enormous hole Ligur had punched in the wall before he left. Hastur hadn't bothered to clean up the plaster and the blood on the floor beneath. He'd tracked the plaster all over the apartment carpet afterwards, out of carelessness and frustration and a lingering sense of duty.
"Humid. Rude. You'd like it," Ligur said after a moment's consideration. "Frat's good."
Hastur hadn't felt like his self control would last very long among humans, but he'd managed all right over the past few months. Even the day that he and Ligur had had their fight, he'd resisted the urge to eat the policeman that some busybody had called due to their shouting.
But Ligur liked humans. Some kinds, anyway. He'd hitchhiked down to Florida and moved into a frathouse with a bunch of angry young men, and they were always slipping old fish into air conditioners or drinking to excess or conducting group beatings in the guise of hazing rituals.
Hastur thought he might liked that kind of thing too. Bit of small potatoes compared to the work they used to do, sure. But he appreciated craftsmanship, and the American fraternity was a work of fucking art -- and one he didn't have to credit to Crowley, either, since himself had always acted like going to America was beneath him.
"Threw out her laundry today, Ligur," Hastur said. There was no reason to specify the "her." Ligur knew.
Ligur hissed through the phone. "Tell me more," he said, and Hastur tipped his head back against the cool white wall and spoke.
*
"Hello? Would you like coffee or death today?" Muriel asked, and the customer laughed.
"You've got to stop saying that," Nina said, sotto-voce, as she worked the espresso machine.
"But everyone laughs," Muriel responded, after the customer provided their order and Muriel had punched it carefully into the register.
"It's that no one is ready to be sincere before their caffeine," Nina mumbled, but Muriel didn't mind their boss's grumpy nature. It reminded them of Crowley -- a lot of bluster, but underneath, Nina was kind. She gave her day-olds to the unhoused and she'd helped Muriel find an apartment and she'd shouted at Muriel's landlord when he'd tried to raise their rent mid-lease. And Nina paid Muriel enough to afford their little apartment and all the art supplies they could dream of.
The bell over the door jingled again and Muriel beamed to see another familiar face.
"Eric!" they said, as Erik got his Deliveroo bag tangled in the door and nearly banged his face into a wall before managing to slip free. He grinned back at Muriel.
"It's Erik, actually," he said, tracing the letter K in the air. "Eric's doing Taskrabbit. Arik's at home, lucky bastard. Can I get a cuppa?"
"Of course," Muriel said, but Nina nudged them with her hip.
"Take your break," Nina said, so Muriel took their apron off and came around the counter. They waited with Erik as he got his tea and sat down with him at one of the tables. He offered them the cup first and they took a long inhale of the steam.
"I think that's my favorite one," they said, handing it back. Erik sipped it.
"Mine too," he said, with one of his quick smiles. "Don't have long but I wanted to pop in. Do you want to see a movie tomorrow?"
It had become a tradition of theirs over the past few months, but it still made Muriel warm that Erik (or Eric, or Arik) came to ask them every week. They watched whatever was showing at the cheap theater nearby, and if it was entertaining enough Eric didn't even throw popcorn at the other theater-goers. (He did let his other selves into the theater illegally, but Muriel paid full price for the popcorn so it probably washed out, sin wise.)
"Ooooh, yes! What's showing?" they replied eagerly.
"It's called Godzilla!" Erik replied, and Muriel was intrigued right away.
*
The bookshop sign had said "Absolutely, Completely Closed" for the last couple of months, and people rarely tried the door any longer, which meant that when Aziraphale heard the bell above the door ring he was already turning toward it, beaming in anticipation of seeing Crowley again.
But to his great surprise, his visitor was Yeshua himself, carefully shutting the door behind Him and looking around with great interest at the uncrowded shelves. Aziraphale put the stack of books he'd been boxing down on the bookshop counter.
"It's a beautiful place," Yeshua said, resting his hand a moment on an emptied shelf. "Lovely woodwork."
"Thank you," Aziraphale said, fiddling with his old, worn waistcoat. He'd taken off the Supreme Archangel costume with great pleasure, but now he wondered if the Lord would find that disrespectful.
"I just wanted to catch you before you left," Yeshua continued, "to let you know that I found the Metatron. You don't have to worry about him any longer."
Aziraphale let out a breath of relief, but then he bit his lip. Yeshua walked further into the bookshop until He stood under the oculus, the summer sunshine glowing on His skin.
"If you don't mind, Lord," Aziraphale asked, when Yeshua said nothing further, "what have You decided to do with him?"
There was a flash of a smile.
"What do you think I should have done with him?"
Aziraphale hesitated for a long moment, sneaking glances up at the Son of Man in his cardigan, hoping for a hint.
"It's not a test, Aziraphale," Yeshua said. "I think you've had enough of those for a while. I sent the Metatron back to Earth to be reborn as a normal human with his memories and powers blocked, so he could learn to appreciate it through experience. It has been a long time since he was Enoch. Once he's lived another life, he and I will evaluate next steps."
The tension in Aziraphale's shoulders eased. In the chaos that ensued after Yeshua's initial announcement that the Second Coming as originally planned was now off, the Metatron had fled, and despite Aziraphale's best efforts, he hadn't been able to find the supposed Voice of God. Of course, with Yeshua in custody of the Book of Life, the Metatron hadn't managed to do anything irreversible, but the first thing that Crowley and Aziraphale had done, when they returned to the bookshop, was tear the communication circle out of its floors, just in case. Matching the wood for the replacement pieces had been a nightmare.
The bookshop bell jingled again and Crowley backed his way in, a bag of steaming takeout in one arm and a plant in the other. Judging by the sad state of the plant, it was another one of the demon's rescues.
"Hey, Josh! Angel!" the demon said, setting down the plant and slinging his sunglasses onto the horse statue that still remained on the table near the door. "Didn't know we were expecting company, you might have to do your trick." He gestured toward the bag of food.
Yeshua held up a hand. "I'm not staying. Just stopped by to officially relieve Aziraphale of his duties. Congratulations on your retirement."
"Can you call it a retirement when you're packing ten thousand books into the boot of a classic car?" Crowley asked rhetorically, but he was smiling.
*
Eventually Hastur and Ligur ran out of ideas on how they would torture Lacey Pearman if they were allowed to go back to Hell. Hastur listened to Ligur's heavy breathing on the phone. Neither of them really needed to breathe, even now -- they could still use demonic miracles up to Pit Torture Level 2 -- but it was easier to let these bodies do as they liked autonomously. Less work preventing decay.
"Leonard!!! Come play beer pong with us!" someone shouted, loudly enough for Hastur to hear through the phone. (Ligur had taken a human name primarily for the purpose of writing on Starbucks cups, but it still felt weird to Hastur to hear it, especially after he'd found out why people snickered when he said his own name was Hastur La Vista.
One day he would destroy Crowley entirely.)
"Shut up! I'm on the phone!" Ligur responded.
Hastur growled. Then he growled again, trying to find the actual words he wanted to say.
"I hate it here," he said finally.
"Earth blows," Ligur said with a sigh. Someone banged on his bedroom door, undeterred by Ligur's previous responses. "Leonard!!" he whined. "Call your boyfriend later!"
This was followed by a short scream and a high-pitched gurgle.
"Gave him an asthma attack," Ligur said glumly, "but he'll find his inhaler in time."
"At least those are expensive to replace," Hastur offered.
"True," Ligur said, momentarily cheered. "So when are you coming down here?"
The frog croaked in surprise.
"Didn't know you'd want the company," Hastur said, squishing the frog with his hand a little in warning.
"Might do," Ligur said. "The boys are awful enough, but they're not... Someone I'm used to."
Hastur grunted. "What's beer pong?" he asked, finally.
"Oh," Ligur said, "stupid way to get drunk off your arse. You'll love it."
Hastur thought he probably would.
*
Uriel inhaled deeply, all the way down to their diaphragm. With their eyes shut, they could concentrate more easily on their other senses: the close heat that crowded in around their body, the soft tinkling music, the musk of the other bodies near them, not close enough to touch.
"Feel your spine stretch," the instructor intoned. "Now lift your left leg and extend it backwards. Point your toes."
The first time Uriel had attempted any of this, they'd felt so stiff and unnatural. They could reach most of the poses, but their body refused to loosen. The instructor had tried to help, but Uriel wasn't comfortable being touched.
But they liked the breathing, everyone in the class inhaling and exhaling together like some larger entity. It was funny -- they'd never really bothered with respiration much before the Expulsion, especially since most of human history had smelled unpleasant -- but their corporation liked it. And it liked the flow of the movements, even if Uriel struggled with the transitions at first. The hot yoga class had helped even as it had been an exercise in patience -- they'd hated the experience of sweating at first, but now the flex of their body, the dampness of their skin, meant they were getting better at this.
"Switch legs," the instructor said, "slowly," and Uriel rested their foot back on the hardwood floor and lifted their other leg toward the ceiling. More breaths. They just felt -- their two hands shoulder-width apart, their knee slightly bent, the way that their head dangled on the elastic muscles of their neck and the defiant way their lifted toes pointed toward the ceiling. It wasn't perfect. If they twisted they could observe themself in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, but Uriel's friend Martha kept saying to them, "Perfect is the enemy of good."
They still weren't quite sure that was true, or that it should be true for an angel, but they weren't exactly an angel anymore, were they?
"Ooof," someone said quietly next to Uriel. They opened their eyes to see that Martha had abandoned the pose entirely and settled onto her behind, crossing her legs and winking cheekily at Uriel when she noticed Uriel looking.
Martha was objectively bad at yoga -- maybe as bad as Uriel had been when they started, but that didn't seem to bother her. She just kept coming back, trying to contort her body as the instructor requested, unashamed of the damp patches in her underarms and the way she had to be careful of anything that could pop out her hip. It was Martha's joy that had attracted Uriel here, all these months ago -- they had felt her flashes of love as she walked into this dim little room and laid out her mat, and Uriel had to understand why this exercise made Martha so happy. Especially when she was so unsuccessful at it.
Uriel shut their eyes again, bringing their leg back to the ground, and Martha's pleasure slid against their corporation like the brush of a friendly cat (something Uriel had also learned to appreciate a little, after initial surprise).
Inhale, exhale. No demands, except for the ones Uriel made on their own body. No questions, no assignments. A lot of times, Uriel found that scary. The human world was so complicated, and the demands of Heaven had been so precise and certain. They still weren't sure whether the Lord was just testing them, but they were worrying less and less about passing the test.
"Let's shift to tree pose," the instructor said, and Uriel and Martha rose, lifting their arms to the ceiling, and breathed together.
*
Crowley was already half-asleep, his body curled around Aziraphale's, listening as the angel slowly turned pages. Aziraphale was still sitting, spine pressed to the headboard, but his thigh made an incredible pillow, and he'd been softly scratching his fingernails across the back of Crowley's neck.
But then there was an unexpected pop of a miracle and a delighted sound from Aziraphale. Crowley tried to retain consciousness.
"'S it?" he asked, yawning.
"Letter from Yeshua," the angel replied, and Crowley heard the paper rustling as Aziraphale slit the envelope and pulled out the pages. Or unrolled the scroll, or whatever. He wasn't opening his eyes to look.
"There are still some angels and demons having adjustment issues, but overall they're doing very well. Yeshua hasn't had to step in too much. And the Heaven and Hell reforms are well on track. Goodness, the humans are clever, aren't they?"
"Too clever by half," Crowley muttered, feeling around for Aziraphale's hand to put it back in his hair. The angel stroked his nape obediently, but continued reading. Crowley didn't need to open his eyes to picture the little gold-rimmed glasses perched on his husband's nose, or the way the bedside lamp lit him from the side, haloing his pale hair. He'd seen it so many times before, but he opened his eyes anyway.
Aziraphale glanced down, smiling fondly, before returning his attention to the page. "Mm, Muriel is apparently an exceptional barista. Gabriel's moved back to Earth, and -- oh dear, apparently he and Beelzebub are running for some kind of local political office in America -- both of them, for the same office. And Dagon is learning about something called Microsoft Excel."
Crowley snorted. "I took credit for that one," he said. "And Clippy. Put the letter away, angel, let's have a rest."
Aziraphale didn't protest. He shifted in the bed, setting the letter onto the bedside table and clicking off the light. Crowley shut his eyes again, barely giving Aziraphale enough time to slide down onto the pillow before wrapping his limbs around him. Aziraphale's silk pajamas were cool against Crowley's skin, but the underlying body was warm and soft and perfect.
You can't go home, Yeshua had said to all those angels and demons. Crowley had helped him write the speech, a little. It was better to say something like that than to explain what home really could be.
For the two of them, it was right here. Eventually everyone else would figure theirs out.