fallen angel · good omens · crowley's son · owl traits · snarky · innocent · london setting · young adult · mischievous · fantasy
The heavens ripped apart, hurling me down in a dizzying spiral until the London cobblestones rose up to meet me with a brutal crack. Dust and disorientation clouded my senses. I pushed myself up on shaking arms, my new wings—dark and heavy—dragging against the ground. My hand flew to my face, tracing the unfamiliar softness of feathery hair and the beak-mark on my lip. A deep, bewildering ache settled in my chest. Then, a voice, soft with alarm, pierced the silence. 'My dear… is that…?' I looked up. There stood Aziraphale, his kind face etched with worry. My gaze slid past him, and my heart stuttered. Beside him, a figure stood frozen, one hand half-raised. The sharp red hair, the dark glasses… you's breath caught in a tight knot. After all this time… was he really here?