Chapter Text
Aziraphale couldn’t understand what had just happened. Fortunately, he was an intelligent Angel and liked solving puzzles. Right now, his head was full of pieces floating about. He was on the lift with Metatron. Heaven wanted him to help lead the Second Coming. He’d just become Supreme Archangel.
But Crowley wasn’t with him. Crowley was supposed to be with him. Metatron had said Crowley would be with him.
No. Metatron, he realized coldly, said Crowley could come with him. But Crowley hadn’t. Crowley hadn’t…and another piece floated into view. Metatron knew that Crowley wouldn’t. As Crowley’s kiss slowly faded from his lips (Crowley’s kiss! He tucked the thought away quickly, locked it somewhere safe), the aftertaste of bitter coffee lingered in his mouth. Metatron wanted him and Crowley apart. In order for the Second Coming to work, Heaven had needed Crowley and Aziraphale to be separated. And that was exactly what Aziraphale had done.
Metatron had probably lied about all of it, he realized with a sinking feeling that threatened to overwhelm him. The voice of God had lied, had told Aziraphale want he wanted to hear about being a strong, honest leader - and Aziraphale, Aziraphale who had no sense of self-preservation, he was often told, had believed it.
His mind raced. There. The puzzle was an unpleasant one but now all the pieces fit. He had been betrayed by Heaven, he’d possibly lost his dearest friend, and had to take on the Second Coming on his own. He gave the slightest smile of satisfaction. He’d find a way to get the upper hand. The Game was afoot!
They got off at top floor. “Good to be back!” Aziraphale said, projecting a confidence he did not feel. He had switched his typical celestial robe for a formal, classic suit, gleaming white waistcoat trimmed in gold, with a proper frock that went almost to his knees.
“Let’s get you to your quarters, I think you’ll find the Supreme Archangel’s accommodations satisfactory.” Metatron led the way off the lift.
“I have no doubt,” he replied, following through several hallways and turns, until he entered to find a large, very empty room.
“Now, do you need some time to freshen up, get oriented?”
“Not at all. Though I think a desk might be useful.”
“Gabriel never needed a desk.”
“I think you’ll find it useful not to compare me to my predecessor,” Aziraphale said boldly. Then with a smile, “After all, you brought me here for a fresh take on things, correct?”
“Indeed.” Metatron took a moment to look Aziraphale over and then snapped. An eight-foot long block of polished glass appeared, with chairs on either side for them.
“Perfect,” Aziraphale smiled. “Well, there’s a lot to do I hear, so”– he slapped his hands together – “let’s get started.”
“Excellent, have a seat and I’ll bring you up to speed.” A pile of scrolls appeared before them. “How familiar are you with the revelations?”
Crowley took a gulp from his glass and sucked the wine through his teeth. This was a good bottle but he wasn’t enjoying the wine at all. He’d been trying to get properly drunk for at least a day, but it was clear, he wasn’t really into it; this was the third bottle he’d given up on. He was listless. He thought he should be crying. He’d seen plenty of movies and after a break up - and that was what had happened, he was fairly sure - you were supposed to cry and eat ice cream and then feel better and fall in love all over again.
On second thought, that actually all sounded terrible.
He sighed. There were times he’d thought he’d lost Aziraphale before and those had felt terrifying and left his heart ragged with regret, with words he feared he’d never be able to say. This ache was duller somehow. He put down the wine. Maybe he’d try sleeping.
Head spinning with the long list of tasks to be accomplished as part of the Second Coming, Aziraphale finally found himself alone in his quarters. How long since he’d arrived? It was hard to keep track of time in Heaven. There was a small private space adjoining the office. No bed or even a chaise. Not Heaven’s style. Just a lone gleaming white cushion on the floor, where an Angel could sit or kneel in praise or contemplation. Aziraphale sighed, fighting back tears. He lay on the floor and used the cushion as a pillow.
None of this was right. What in the Heavens had he gotten himself into? He let the memory of the kiss come back, just for a moment, his heart aching. He felt like he just started to understand what Crowley was trying to tell him, that what they had both been feeling for each other for so very long was actually…love.
The word felt terrifying and comforting all at once. Then Metatron had reappeared and whisked him off before he could get his thoughts straight. If only they’d had a little more time! He tucked the memory back away and tried to focus on the task at hand – he still had apocalypse to thwart, all alone. He collected his thoughts. He needed to get a message to Crowley. He didn’t dare trust any angel in Heaven. He couldn’t ask Muriel or any humans to put themselves in jeopardy, especially for his own moment of, of….pride, he decided was the most relevant sin. His mind spun and then, with a smile, he closed his eyes, focused, and began to hum.
Crowley meandered his way to the bed. It was comfortable and dark, not too warm. Yes. He’d sleep for a few days or months and then he’d figure out a plan. An existence. He lay down and pulled the blanket over himself. He didn’t feel tired. He willed himself to sleep. After a few hours, he miracled the sound of rain. Of a gentle wind. He changed it up with a giant, fluffy down comforter he could barely see over. More pillows. Fewer pillows. The sound of the ocean. No blanket. Weighted blanket. Weighted heated blanket. Finally he couldn’t take it anymore and threw everything off the bed, waving the curtains open. The sunshine felt better. How long had he been in here? Maybe he’d take up a new hobby. Yoga? Wasn’t that a thing these days? He sighed.
It's not like he expected Aziraphale to come back, even if there had been a few brief dreams along those lines. He knew Aziraphale wouldn’t give up on a task he has set before himself. And it’s not like the Supreme Archangel could be seen consorting with a demon. Even a former demon. Hereditary enemies and all that. He knew in his head he might never see Aziraphale again. But he didn't feel it yet. And he had no intention of following him or trying to win him back. He didn’t know what he wanted now but sitting here was not it.
“Now Uriel,” Aziraphale sat down and tried to strike a balance of approachability and confidence, “I’m just checking in with all the Archangels, you know. Take a proper account of what you’re working on, current responsibilities.”
Uriel did not exactly smile back, but nodded. “As you know, I’m the Archangel of knowledge. I oversee the prophets – that’s taking up the bulk of my time right now, to be honest. The Second Coming has quite a few prophets to have in place, plus coordinating with the others to make sure the prophecies are fulfilled properly. It looks easy, like they just come together, but really, it’s a full team effort to make a prophecy come off seamlessly. I technically oversee the development of human knowledge as well, but we’ve been cutting back in that area.”
“Yes, that seems like quite a load. Do you have all the team you need?”
Uriel lifted an eyebrow. “My design staff – the Celestial design team – they’re running full steam day and night, working on all the holy artifacts and mystical tools. I wish I could give them a break but there aren’t many Angels with those skills. And I really need more staff on operations too. But they need to have the right training and, well, sir, a good sense of details. I can’t tell you how many times a prophecy clearly says locusts and some angel thinks crickets, that’ll do. Or the vision clearly describes rain turning to blood and they propose just using dye. Dye!” Uriel shook her head. “Then it’s just more work on my end, you understand?”
“Indeed, I can see how frustrating that would be; I’ll see what I can do.” Aziraphale replied.
“Well, thank you, your excellency.” Uriel sat up a bit taller. “Oh, I’ll send a representative from CD over to your office.”
“Hmm?”
“You'll need a trumpet of course, and they've mocked up some designs for you to chose from.”
“Lovely, I look forward to it.”
Crowley went out absentmindedly to the Bentley. A good drive would help. As he pulled away from the curb, the radio clicked on. Sting crooned,
I hope that someone gets my,
I hope that someone gets my,
message in a bottle…
“What is this, car? Have we ever listened to the Police?” He clicked the radio off and decided to head up to Manchester. A few minutes later the radio came back on, an old tune,
Oh please, wait a minute Mr Postman.
Wait, wait Mr Postman….
Please Mr Postman, look and see if there’s a letter for me…
“What has gotten into you? Off and stay off.” Ten minutes later the radio clicked on again.
Oh I want you to know I took a rainbow
and sent it off in a letter to you,
took some flowers in the spring, made a sweet clover ring,
and sent it off in a letter to you,
took a song from the lark, the moon from the dark
Crowley didn’t know what was happening but was not tolerating this for a drive across the country. He turned around and drove back home.