Aziraphale waved a hand through the air, sweeping aside one floating image and bringing up the next in the catalog - what seemed an endless march of pages reaching into the depths of Heaven.
In the image, a couple sat on a park bench, their heads bent together over a book of poetry. The young man had his arm around the lady as she read aloud:
"Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer..."
Even before she had finished, the angel swiped again.
Two middle-aged women sat around a campfire that had burned down to coals, their hands thrust into the pockets of their coats. One of them looked up. "Would you look at that?" she asked.
The other woman glanced up at the sky and let out a whistle. "That's a sight."
The two watched silently for a while as meteors laid lines of light across the night sky.
"Enough to make you think it's the Second Coming," the first woman said.
Aziraphale groaned and tipped his head back, closing his eyes.
Swipe.
"And finally for tonight's news: Many believe that the solar storm set to hit Earth is a sign of the end times, and the Second Coming of..."
Swipe.
He shook his head, opened his eyes, and lifted his hand in front of him, pulling downwards. The catalog disappeared, funneling back into its binder.
Ever hopeful, Aziraphale checked his progress. He had been at this for days, if not weeks.
.0000000000000000001%
"Oh, dear me." He rubbed at his eyes and blew out a breath. He'd go for a coffee - that would be just the ticket.
Then he remembered. There was no coffee in Heaven. No wine either, or cocoa.
The loss struck him like new, and he sat heavily just as a chair appeared beneath him. He placed his hands in his lap and looked around.
His "office" was an infinite blank space. His desk held the binder, but beyond that, as far as the eye could see, boundless white, interrupted only by an endless row of columns, as blinding white as the space around them, so that you almost couldn't see them. He had walked into one, when he'd first come back.
He had to admit, it was all rather... dull.
No. He shook his head. It was Heaven. Heaven wasn't dull. Heaven was clean - it was pristine, and perfect.
He could hear Crowley's voice in his mind. I'd rather a little dirt if it meant I could have a coffee. Piles of dirt, if it came with whiskey in it. Aziraphale pushed the thought away and looked over at his desk. He contemplated for a moment, then stood abruptly, straightening his jacket.
The Metatron had been speaking quietly with Michael, but when Aziraphale appeared at his "door" - which was really just a blank space surrounded by blank space - Michael snapped a folder shut and tucked it by her side.
"Come in, come in," the Metatron called to him, waving him forward. Aziraphale offered them both a smile, resisting the urge to glance down at the folder.
"I do hope I'm not interrupting," he said.
"Oh no, not at all. We were just finishing." The Metatron nodded at Michael, and she offered him a little bow. She turned to Aziraphale and inclined her head slightly.
Supreme Archangel, indeed, he thought as she walked away, her heels clicking against the cold white floor.
"Do come in," the Metatron said. "How have you been getting on?"
Aziraphale looked over his shoulder to make sure Michael had gone, then turned back and smiled again. "Quite well, thank you," he said. "I do believe I'm making some progress." One quintillionth of a percent was technically progress.
"Well I'm glad to hear it, glad to hear it." The Metatron clasped his hands behind his back and looked at him expectantly.
"I just wondered..." Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Well - you see - it is quite... tedious work, you know, combing through the files. And I can't say that I've uncovered anything yet of any particular use." He smiled apologetically. "It's only that I wondered if this particular task is really the best use of my time? Surely it could be assigned to someone of a... lower rank?"
"Oh, my boy." The Metatron waved a hand at him dismissively. "No, no, no - it is far too important for a common angel - especially someone who may not understand the idioms or the customs at play."
That was a good point. "I understand - that certainly does make sense." He smiled again, wringing his hands. "It's just that - as Supreme Archangel - I thought I might have responsibilities with more, um... well... responsibility."
But the Metatron was already shaking his head. "Not yet, Aziraphale. The time will come when you are ready to lead the way back down to Earth, to guide the son of God in his return. But first, we must know what the expectations are - how we can avoid the, er, tragedy of the last attempt."
Despite himself, Aziraphale was disappointed. But he nodded. "Understood," he said.
"Good," said the Metatron. "Please do let me know if you find anything."
"Certainly."
"Was there anything else?"
He considered for a moment, then said, "No. Nothing."
"All right then." The Metatron turned as if to walk into the blankness.
Blowing out a breath, Aziraphale spoke up. "Actually, there was... one other thing."
The Metatron turned back and raised an eyebrow.
"I had wondered if perhaps - that is, if you don't have an objection - I had thought that I might... pop down to Earth?" He offered his most winning smile.
The celestial eyes widened slightly. "To Earth?"
"Yes, I - well, I rather thought I might go for a cup of coffee."
"A coffee." The Metatron eyed him. "Tell me, Aziraphale. What has become of your friend, the demon Crowley?"
A tiny breath escaped him at the surprise of hearing his old friend's name. Panic threatened to rise, but he maintained a straight face. "The demon Crowley?" He hadn't spoken that name in weeks. It hurt to do so now, even as it felt like a caress on his lips. He chuckled, knowing it sounded awkward. "I can't say that I know, exactly." Still lying, after weeks back in Heaven. Shame burned his face, but he kept the smile plastered on.
"Mmm." The Metatron was quiet a moment, contemplating. "I have to say, Aziraphale, I really don't think it's a very good idea. I've enjoyed many hot beverages myself, as you know, but given the way that you and your... friend parted, I'm not sure it's worth the risk." He smiled regretfully. "I'm afraid it's probably best if you stay here, for now."
Aziraphale nodded slowly, disappointment settling in his stomach. "Very well." He smiled halfheartedly, then bowed to the Metatron. "Thank you."
He turned and left, leaving the blank white room and entering a blank white hallway.
As he walked, he could still feel the demon's name on his lips. Could still feel his lips on his lips - but no, it was better not to think of that.
In Earth time, it was five weeks, three days, fourteen hours, seventeen minutes, and twelve seconds since he had entered the elevator, and in all that time, he hadn't been given anything important to do. His only assignment so far had been to comb through the records for every instance in history in which someone had mentioned, "the Second Coming," and review them for relevance. It was important, the Metatron said, to know what people expected from the Second Coming, and how best they could make the whole thing as easy as possible for them. Aziraphale was happy to be helping, of course, but he would be lying if he said he didn't miss his bookshop. His chair, his winged mug. Crowley.
No.
He had been worried at first; he wouldn't lie to himself about that. When he had popped back up for his hundred-year-report back in AD 500, he'd heard uncomfortable rumors about the Second Coming - that Jesus would arrive at the Mount of Olives as a warrior with a double-edged sword, wearing a robe dipped in blood; that he and his armies would be riding on white horses and dressed in clean, white linen (Aziraphale didn't mind that last part so much).
But after the elevator ride five weeks ago, after Aziraphale had settled in and reported for duty, the Metatron assured him that it wouldn't be like that at all. They had learned a thing or two from Armageddon, he'd told him, and weren't sure they needed a war at all. Jesus could arrive on Earth inconspicuously, gather the faithful to him through prayer and preaching rather than through blood. It had soothed Aziraphale considerably, and confirmed that the choice he had made to come back to Heaven and be a part of changing it for the better was the right one.
Aziraphale returned to his room. He didn't need sleep, of course, but he liked to lie in the bed sometimes with the pillow over his face, blocking out the light.
At least in here, he'd been allowed to summon a few things, to make it more interesting than the pale emptiness of the rest of heaven. He had conjured a print of the first edition release of Paradise Lost and a little desk with a little chair and a little lamp. But of course it wasn't the same.
Aziraphale looked both ways before shutting the door to his room softly, then he turned the lock. It wouldn't keep anyone out, not if they really wanted to get in, but at least he would have some warning.
He sat on his bed and reached under the pillow. When he drew his hand back out, it was clutching a photograph - or whatever the nonmaterial, Heavenly equivalent was.
In it, a pale-haired demon in a handsome white coat sat primly on a bench in St. James Park. Beside him was a slouching, dark-haired demon in sunglasses, his hair long, his legs thrust out. The photo was in black and white, but of course he knew the color of the demon's hair - he knew what color it was in every type and level of light, knew the exact shade of golden yellow of the reptilian eyes hidden behind the sunglasses. He couldn't help thinking that the two beings looked like they fit together quite well.
Aziraphale stared at the photo and blew out a breath, rubbing a hand against the ache in his chest. Then, pinching his thumb and index finger together, he pressed them to the photo paper right where the demon's face was printed and spread them - and the demon's face magnified tenfold.
At first when he had returned, he had avoided every thought, mention, and memory of Crowley. The grief was too sharp, too fresh. But after the first couple of weeks, he felt as though some core part of him was missing - something as vital as an arm or a spine. It had not been difficult to slip the photograph from a desk in the Earth Observation Records Office - everyone was so trusting here. And seeing Crowley's face again had been such a relief; it felt decadent, like an indulgence, to rake his gaze down the soft, styled hair to the angular face, the lean hips, the long legs.
Aziraphale settled back against the pillow and glanced over to double-check that the door was locked. Then he held his hand out, still looking at the photo, and waggled his fingers in the air.
The demon's face grew larger until it was the size of a television screen, hovering in the air before him. And it began to move. The space around it changed, growing foggy, then clearing to reveal the inside of a flat.
The flat was dark. It would be the middle of the night. Aziraphale could make out a tall throne, cushioned in scarlet and trimmed in gold, set before an equally ostentatious, nearly empty desk. The room looked as though it were carved out of pale stone. A plinth against the wall held a small, golden statuette - a rendering of two winged beings wrestling, their bodies entwined.
Crowley sat, one arm above his head to grip the back of the chair, one leg slung over its arm. He wore tight black denim, and the angel let out a little breath as he drank in the sight of the demon's lean form. A black v-neck vest was buttoned down his front, revealing just a hint of chest hair. As Aziraphale watched, the demon turned his head, looking out of the dark window into the dark night. Just staring.
His glasses were off.
It was like coming to the edge of the desert and finding a pool of cold, clear water, as much as you could drink. Like coming back to your bookshop after a long day and sitting quietly with a mug of cocoa in the silent room. Like coming home. A relief; a release from longing.
He watched the face for he knew not how long. Long enough to see the demon sling his leg down, lean forward in the chair, and bury his head in his hands. Crowley rubbed his face, looking up at the window, his snakelike eyes unseeing.
Aziraphale's heart ached.
He shouldn't be watching this.
His hand trembled as he lifted it. He looked for a moment longer, not wanting it to end, never wanting to stop looking - but then he waved his hand in the air, and the image disappeared.
Aziraphale stared at the blank white wall of his room, his eyes as distant as the demon's had been. In his mind, all he saw were the golden yellow eyes, so empty, so mirthless.
ΔΙΑΒΑΖΕΙΣ
Forgivable
FanfictionBeginning with the final scene in the book shop, first from Aziraphale's perspective and then from Crowley's, then moving into the events that come after. (Cross-posted to AO3 as 'Please Forgive Me')
