Chapter Text
Aziraphale sat down heavily on the floor and pulled his messenger bag into his lap. He took out a water bottle, a small quiche, and a cheap, sturdy Nokia cell phone, all courtesy of Mel. As he munched on the pie, he considered what to write.
He was no longer a soldier of Heaven; the deal had been signed. His marriage would be respected. Well, no, not respected. Grudgingly acknowledged, the angel supposed. They couldn’t punish him for it or order him to undo the contract, because he’d gotten married AFTER he’d been, quite literally, fired. [28]
But oh no! There was one last piece of paperwork that needed Crowley’s signature! And Aziraphale couldn’t find him anywhere! Whatever could they do? Best speed things up and let Aziraphale use the lift to see if he’s in Hell! Aziraphale was not very good at sarcasm, or lying. Therefore, the angel had only said things that were absolutely true and in the most genuine voice possible. So genuine, in fact, that Gabriel had thought he WAS lying or being sarcastic. Aziraphale had then given up and started threatening the archangel again. It was super effective.
Gabriel desperate to regain some dignity after giving permission, had spit out to “stay in Hell with your boyfriend for all I care” as Aziraphale walked away. The angel hadn’t had the nerves left to correct his terminology. It had been a scary, exhilarating conversation, and his nerves had caught up to him. His hands were still shaky, and his breath trembled. He gulped down some water to calm down a bit more. It didn’t help, of course, because now there was Heaven behind, but Hell ahead.
The lift doors ting-ed. It was time. Aziraphale pressed send – “The Plan worked. Going down. A” – and stood up as he tucked away the phone, sandwich paper and water bottle. A deep breath, then he stepped inside.
As the lift went down, Aziraphale stretched his neck, shook his shoulders out and swallowed nervously. The angel started to rub the quiche crumbs off his hands but thought better of it. With another thought, his hands were even grubbier. They were filthy with soot, which he rubbed all over his face with a disgusted huff.
He checked whether his flaming sword was still strapped to his back, then reconsidered. He unbuttoned his jacket and, with a snap of his fingers, shifted his sword up higher. [29] Now he could grab the hilt easier.
As he put the jacket back on, it shifted: his clothes crinkled, oozed, dirtied. Aziraphale’s nose scrunched up a bit as he pulled up a sooty hood that hadn’t been there before. It concealed his bright hair and the hilt of his sword well enough, though. Needs must.
He took up his bag, then faltered. There was a weapon in here far more terrifying to demons than his sword could be. Would he be that kind of soldier? He was no true soldier, who was he kidding? Could he be, after all this time? For all that angels and demons were supposedly hereditary enemies, he had come to realize they were of the same stock. Why would a random demon be more deserving of being destroyed than Gabriel, simply for standing in his way?
For that matter, there was no reason for angels and demons to be enemies. Oh, true, they fought for control over humanity and earth but they both showed the same lack of true concern. They were one and the same. Who were they to stand between the marriage of an angel and a demon? For goodness’ sake, their offices were connected! Michael had provided holy water for Beelzebub, and so had there been hellfire in Heaven. If the war between Heaven and Hell had happened, there would be no great change, only the turning of the wheel.
It was a wheel Aziraphale would take no part in. He left the weapon where it was and prayed he would not have to use it. He hoped he could be the angel that never would, but he knew that for all his bluster, his morals were on shakier grounds than Crowley’s. Really, it was a wonder he hadn’t ended up in Hell a long time ago.
It had always seemed tailormade to be his personal nightmare. Crowley used to rile him up with it, sometimes, when he was well in his cups. He’d describe how everyone had terrible hair, and filthy clothing. They’d never wash their face or clean their teeth. Nobody ate anything except human flesh, or rotten meat, or cilantro. They wouldn’t drink anything but sewage or stale tea which –in the angel’s mind – would taste very, very similar. Aziraphale would shiver theatrically and gripe about Crowley putting him off his feed [30] , before nibbling on a HobNob to recover from the conversation.
The lift stopped. The doors opened, and a great darkness spilled into the elevator cage. Aziraphale made a disgusted face as the smell hit him. Nope, definitely not lying about the lack of washing. A distant sound reached him, and he paled. It appeared Crowley had failed to mention the screaming.
Looks like Crowley had gotten an angel into Hell, twice. In a way, Crowley was now just about the most succeful demon ever. Aziraphale gladly imagined Crowley’s insulted face at being told as such. Or perhaps he'd find it funny.
Crowley, when being told by Hastur that Aziraphale was in Hell, did not find it funny at all. Then again, maybe that's because of the way he was told...