Forgivable

CHAPTER FOUR: Act Like It

       The halls of Heaven were quiet. Aziraphale didn't see any other angels as he walked between the tall columns, just the same pale emptiness.
       In the last ten days, he had progressed to 0000000000000000003%, and was pleased with his progress. It had helped quite a bit to keep the catalog running while he was away. He felt a sliver of contrition at avoiding the work he'd been given, but what the Metatron didn't know wouldn't hurt him - especially since it had been completely useless so far. The chances were quite low that he would miss anything of real significance, and it freed him up for more personal time.
       Like now. With a quick look around, Aziraphale stepped into the Earth Observation Records office, plastering on as ingratiating a smile as he could muster. But when he whirled around the corner into the room, there was no one there.
       "How odd."
       He came around the desk, opened the file cabinet and pulled it open. If anyone came in, he would say that he needed supporting documentation for his Second Coming project. But no one interrupted him as he thumbed quickly through the files and found the photograph he was looking for.
       He felt grateful, really, that Michael and the rest had kept such a close eye on him and Crowley during his six millenia on earth; it meant there were plenty of photographs to squirrel away in his room. He snatched up a photo that had been taken while they attended a performance of Hamilton. The two sat shoulder-to-shoulder, and Aziraphale could almost feel again the demon's warmth against him, the way their knees touched, cramped as they were in the tiny seats.
       At a wiggle of Aziraphale's fingers, the photo shrank to the size of a credit card, and he tucked it into the pocket of his jacket. Then he closed the drawer and left the room.
       He was feeling downright giddy - both with the relief of having avoided being caught and the prospect of spending the next couple of hours in his room with the photograph. Guilt whispered as well, but he shushed that voice.
       The door to a conference room swung open beside him and a line of angels came streaming out. He jumped, startled, drawing back around the side of a column, heart racing. No one in the group seemed to notice him; they started casually down the corridor, chatting quietly in groups of two or three, so he poked his head out and looked into the conference room, where Uriel stood near the whiteboard in the front of the room, head bent with an angel that Aziraphale didn't recognize.
       A female-looking angel with bright red hair and glasses told her companion as they walked past, "I thought we'd never get out of that meeting; is your bottom sore, too?"
       He would just wait until they were gone.
       Two angels trailed behind the rest, with the raiment of the higher ranks.. The one with long, brown curls glanced behind him before saying, "So you'll requisition the armor from Purchasing, and I'll handle the horses. Did they say if we'll all be on horseback, or if any of us are infantry? I think I dozed off for a minute there."
       The other shook her head. "About five million on horseback," she said, "three million on foot, and the rest - have you seen the Holy Helicopters they've been working on? Very impressive."
       "So five million horses, probably with some backups." The second angel nodded, and the two wandered off still talking in low voices.
       Aziraphale leaned his head back against the column and closed his eyes.
       It had been... a lie? Or was it simple misdirection? He tried to recall if the Metatron had outright stated that there wouldn't be a war or only implied it. But he couldn't remember; he had been such a mess of grief in those first few weeks.
       There was a war coming.
       And he was being shut out from knowing anything about it.
       He shuddered out a breath and closed his eyes.
       "Well," he said. "That's unfortunate."
       He whirled away and walked quickly to his room, where he closed the door, locked it, and backed away, sitting when the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed.
       He closed his eyes, and something broke in his chest, something painful, something which had been bright and shining in the beginning but had taken a beating over the years - during the flood, and the punishment of that nice young man Uzzah, and the plagues of Egypt. And, of course, the war.
       Opening his eyes again, he lifted the pillow from his bed and collected the stack of photographs there, shrank them, and tucked them into his pocket with the new one. He de-summoned the copy of Paradise Lost back down to the bookshop and winked the furniture out of existence.
       His mouth was set in a hard line, his thoughts numb. He ignored the painful something that continued to crumble, unlocked his door, and stepped outside. Then he headed to the Globe Room.
       A motorized whirring warned him of her presence a moment before Saraqael rolled around a corner and slowed to a halt next to him. His heart began to pound faster, keenly aware of the photos in his pocket.
       "Aziraphale," she said.
       He smiled as confidently as he could. "Saraqael, how very nice to see you." He inclined his head and moved to walk past her.
       "What are you up to?" She asked.
       "Up to?" He tried to look as innocent as he could. "Oh, you know, just taking a break from combing through files." He chuckled nervously. "Thought I would stretch my legs."
       "I see." She eyed him.
       You are Supreme Archangel, Aziraphale told himself, in title if not in function. Act like it. It sounded like Crowley's voice, and he puffed his chest a little.
       "And what sort of an errand are you on, Saraqael?"
       She raised her eyebrows at the sudden tone of authority in his voice. "I beg your pardon?"
       Confidence, he thought, that's the ticket.
       With as much condescension as he could summon, he said, "I think you mean, 'I beg your pardon, Sir.'"
       The archangel's mouth dropped open. She studied him closely, but did not respond.
       "Well," he said with an air of concession, "I'm sure I would approve of whatever it is. Carry on." And he clasped his hands behind his back, crossing his fingers.
       Saraqael stared at him another moment, then cleared her throat. "Certainly - ah, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale. Good day."
       "Good day."
       And she rolled away, with only a single glance behind her.
       Aziraphale adjusted his bow tie, stretched his neck. Then he grinned.