Chapter Text
< The Agent >: Aziraphale, have you ever considered being promoted to Archangel?
Crowley read it again.
He read it once more, meticulously, to confirm his eyes had not deceived him.
His brain was reacting to four separate components of this message simultaneously.
Component one: "have you ever considered" — this was a question, not an order, which meant the Metatron was sounding him out. Component two: "being promoted" — meaning this was a promotion, not a demotion, not a punishment. Component three: " Archangel" — one of the highest positions in Heaven, the very post Gabriel had just vacated. Component four — Aziraphale —
Hold on.
The Metatron was inviting Aziraphale to become Archangel?
< Flaming Sword >: You must be joking. How could I possibly be Archangel.
< The Agent >: I am entirely serious. Your performance as Heaven's representative on Earth has been exemplary.
< The Agent >: I believe you are more than capable of taking over Gabriel's responsibilities.
Aziraphale did not reply immediately. A few minutes passed —
< Flaming Sword >: I appreciate the recognition.
< Flaming Sword >: You know, I have a beloved on Earth.
< Flaming Sword >: I could not possibly abandon him and return to Heaven.
< The Agent >: You could have him elevated into Heaven as well.
Crowley felt his heart slam against his ribcage, each beat a dull, heavy thud. He gripped the phone tighter; the glow of the screen reflected off his sunglasses as two tiny white points of light.
< The Agent >: Heaven has the authority to elevate the soul of an ordinary human into Heaven ahead of its natural time.
< The Agent >: Provided your beloved is of upright character — and from the descriptions in your reports, he clearly is.
< The Agent >: The matter can be arranged.
And then a long, long silence.
Crowley didn't need to check the timestamps to know what that silence meant — Aziraphale had been stunned too. He had just been presented with a proposition: the position of Archangel, with a special dispensation to elevate a single human soul into Heaven. There had never been a precedent for this in the entire history of Heaven — it was very likely an ad-hoc condition the Metatron had thrown together for the sole purpose of winning Aziraphale over.
And the reason this proposition could be made at all was that the Metatron did not know Crowley was a demon.
Crowley read on.
< Flaming Sword >: My beloved — is not an ordinary human.
< The Agent >: What do you mean?
< Flaming Sword >: He is a demon.
< The Agent >: How could you consort with a demon!!!
The Metatron's message had been sent so rapidly that Crowley could feel the shock and fury spilling out from the other side of the screen.
He could almost picture the ancient angel's face — brows knotted, lips pressed into a thin line, probably clutching a quill pen that served no practical purpose whatsoever.
< Flaming Sword >: He is good at his core.
< Flaming Sword >: Regardless of my beloved's identity, this is my choice.
< Flaming Sword >: I think Heaven has no right to interfere.
Crowley stared at those two messages.
His beloved — Aziraphale — faced with Heaven's spokesperson, had said not "I know this is against regulations," not "please grant me an exception," but "this is my choice."
He scrolled further down, his fingertips moving with even greater care than before, as though handling a precious manuscript.
The Metatron was silent for a considerable while.
< The Agent >: …I can grant you a special privilege.
< The Agent >: To elevate a demon into Heaven. After all, demons and angels share the same origin.
This was an enormous concession — an unheard-of concession.
Heaven and Hell had stood in opposition for millennia, and never once had a demon been permitted to enter Heaven (a great many of them had, after all, come down from there in the first place) — let alone been allowed to be "converted" into a member of Heaven.
The Metatron must have been extraordinarily keen for Aziraphale to take the post, or extraordinarily worried about the chaos Gabriel's vacancy would cause, or both.
< Flaming Sword >: Are you in earnest?
< The Agent >: Heaven does not lie.
< Flaming Sword >: Thank you!
< Flaming Sword >: But I will need to consider it.
Consider it.
Crowley glared at those two words and felt something constricting inside his chest. An emotion that was ill-timed, professionally unbecoming, and thoroughly undemonic.
Aziraphale had absolutely been tempted.
He lifted his head and looked towards the bathroom door.
Music was still drifting out, slow and soft; Aziraphale was still in the bath. On the other side of that door, his angel was soaking in hot water, reading a book that wouldn't mind the steam, entirely unaware that his phone was being rifled through by a serpent in a state of severe emotional upheaval.
Crowley lowered his head and scrolled further.
He needed to find the follow-up. He needed to know how Aziraphale had ultimately replied.
But then something surfaced in his memory — so he scrolled back up and checked the date of that exchange.
The message "I will need to consider it" had been sent three days before Aziraphale had asked him, on the encrypted channel, "What if the two of you could be angels together? Wouldn't that be lovely?"
Three days prior.
So that suggestion — "being angels together" — had not been an idle whim on Aziraphale's part. He had been seriously weighing the Metatron's proposition. He had been testing Crowley's stance. He had been searching for a way.
And how had Crowley responded?
< Serpent >: Oh, give me a break.
< Serpent >: Setting aside the fact that I can't exactly become an angel — so I don't want to be in Hell, you think I want to be in Heaven?
< Serpent >: Honestly, I dislike Heaven even more. Everyone up there is insufferably sanctimonious.
He had slammed the door on Aziraphale's tentative probe — in a state of complete ignorance, cleanly, decisively, like a door swung shut with a bang.
Crowley felt his stomach — or rather, the demonic analogue of a stomach — plummet.
His fingertip continued to scroll.
After three more days of the same tedious back-and-forth of demands and evasions, Aziraphale had delivered his final reply.
< Flaming Sword >: Regarding the earlier proposition —
< Flaming Sword >: I am very sorry.
< Flaming Sword >: My beloved has no wish to accept such an arrangement. And therefore, neither do I.
< The Agent >: Have you thought this through clearly?
< The Agent >: Not every angel is given such an opportunity.
< Flaming Sword >: I am quite certain.
< The Agent >: I truly urge you to consider this further.
< The Agent >: Do not allow a demon to obstruct your path.
< Flaming Sword >: There is no need for further consideration.
< Flaming Sword >: It has nothing to do with him being a demon.
< Flaming Sword >: He is my beloved.
< Flaming Sword >: I respect his choice, and I hope you will respect mine.
A day later, the Metatron, apparently still deeply unwilling to let the matter rest, had sent another message.
< The Agent >: If this is your choice, I hope you will not come to regret it.
< Flaming Sword >: I am quite certain I will not regret it.
That was all of it.
Crowley cradled the phone in his hands, his touch very light, as though afraid of damaging it. Then he let himself tip backwards, sinking against the sofa, and stared at the ceiling.
Aziraphale had refused. Refused the highest office in Heaven. Refused a privilege without precedent. Refused the only chance to "purify" his exiled beloved.
All because Crowley didn't want to go to Heaven.
Crowley had merely said, "I hate Heaven." Three days later, Aziraphale had told the Metatron, "I do not accept."
The causal link between these two events was uncomfortably clear — specifically, extremely uncomfortable for Crowley.
He drew a deep breath, unsure of exactly what he was feeling. There was the sourness of lemon, the bitterness of dark chocolate, and yet, threaded through it, a hint of something sweet, like cream.
"Mmm. I spent a long time wondering whether I ought to tell you."
Crowley very nearly dropped the phone.
He whipped his head around — Aziraphale had somehow finished his bath without Crowley noticing, so absorbed had he been.
Aziraphale was wearing that beige bathrobe that looked every bit as soft as he was, his white hair plastered damply against his temples, standing barefoot behind the sofa. His expression was calm, but Crowley noticed the way his hand was lightly gripping the robe's sash, his knuckles faintly pale.
"And as it turns out," Aziraphale continued, "you've gone and found out on your own."
His gaze settled on the phone in Crowley's hands.
Crowley opened his mouth. Approximately thirty-two excuses surged up simultaneously — I just happened to see it; the phone told me it wanted me to look; your phone unlocked itself — but he swallowed all of them back down.
"It wasn't on purpose," he said. "Do you believe me?"
"I do."
There was not a shred of doubt in Aziraphale's voice, and that made Crowley feel infinitely worse.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner," Crowley said. The words had been meant as a question for Aziraphale, but they came out sounding more like an indictment of himself.
Aziraphale walked around the sofa and sat down beside him. The fabric of the bathrobe gave a soft rustle between them. He tied the sash slowly, as though the small motion could help him marshal his words.
"I didn't think it was necessary," he said at last. "You see — I handled it rather well. They won't be bothering us again."
He said it as lightly as though he had just resolved a utilities bill, rather than declined the most tempting offer in the history of Heaven.
Crowley stared at him for a very long time.
Aziraphale's face was still faintly flushed — from the hot water — and droplets from his hair were trickling down his temples. There was a little smudge of bath-steam moisture on the bridge of his nose. He looked soft, entirely unguarded, not remotely like an angel who had spent two weeks negotiating with the spokesperson of the Voice of God.
Crowley reached out and pulled him into his arms.
The motion was rather more forceful than he had intended. Aziraphale's bathrobe collar skewed to one side; his damp hair brushed against Crowley's chin, carrying the scent of lavender.
"Turning down the post of Archangel," Crowley said, his voice muffled in Aziraphale's hair. "You're mad."
"I am not mad. Didn't you also turn down the position of Prince of Hell?" Aziraphale said. He adjusted his posture slightly, settling into the embrace more comfortably, and added, in a matter-of-fact tone: "You want to stay on Earth. I also want to stay on Earth — so the two of us shall stay on Earth. It's as simple as that."
"But Heaven is —"
"Heaven doesn't have you."
Crowley's breath stopped.
Aziraphale had said it so offhandedly, as though stating a self-evident fact — the sky is blue, water is wet, Heaven doesn't have Crowley. Therefore, his answer was no.
"And besides," Aziraphale added softly, "I had intended to refuse from the start. The Metatron merely —"
"Gave you a better reason?"
"Gave me an opportunity to think," Aziraphale said. "And then I discovered that what I wanted had been perfectly clear all along."
Crowley's arms tightened.
He thought of how he had frantically searched for Aziraphale in that burning bookshop. He thought of how he had told Flaming Sword on the encrypted channel, "My beloved is so good, so utterly perfect." He thought of how he had said, "He will go to Heaven" — and what had Aziraphale replied, back then?
"But I believe — even if he and I were on opposite ends of creation — we would still love each other."
On opposite ends — one in Heaven, one in Hell.
But Aziraphale had said he believed they would love each other.
And now, Aziraphale had proved it with his actions: not just on opposite ends. If Heaven offered a path for him to ascend alone, he would refuse; and if Heaven offered a path for both of them to ascend — but Crowley didn't want to go — he would still refuse.
"You're an idiot," Crowley said.
"You've said."
"An idiot angel."
"You've said that too."
Crowley released him and cupped his face in his hands. Aziraphale's fair cheeks were warm against his palms, radiating a tender heat. Those pale blue eyes, like the sky, were looking at him — not with the look of an angel regarding a demon, nor with the look of one operative regarding another.
It was simply the look Aziraphale reserved for looking at Crowley.
"I don't plan on going anywhere either," Crowley said, holding Aziraphale's gaze.
"I know."
"I mean — anywhere that doesn't have you in it."
"I know," Aziraphale said, his mouth and eyes curving upwards together. "You call me angel every day. I can't be rid of you."
And then Crowley kissed him hard — his lips practically colliding with Aziraphale's.
And then he remembered the thing that had been interrupted by the ringtone before — that lovely evening Hell's phone call had so thoroughly sabotaged.
At this moment, his mobile lay silent on the far side of the living room, every Hell channel blocked, no ringtone waiting to shriek, no red bubble poised to flash in the notification bar.
In short, nothing was going to interrupt them now.
So he deepened the kiss, and Aziraphale's response was rather more fervent than he had anticipated — probably because that particular matter had been left sabotaged for several days now, and even an angel's patience, by any imaginable standard, had reached its absolute limit.
As for what happened next — and the mystery of who had knocked over the lavender essential oil in the bathroom, causing the entire flat to smell like a Provençal summer — Crowley insisted it was not his fault.
Aziraphale also insisted it was not his fault.
They ultimately agreed, by mutual consensus, that it was the Metatron's fault.