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Aziraphale, although occasionally dismal over the past 11 years, still kept a glimmer of hope that they could stop the madness. End the apocalypse. That the battle didn’t have to be fought – that somehow it would be held off, and he could go on as normal. Maybe have a picnic. Or dine at the Ritz.
However, God has many ineffable plans. And in this one, they’re too late.
The children had tried to fight back, but they were only children. Adam Young had attempted to protect his friends, but he wasn’t ready. He was only a kid, after all. What was he supposed to do?
Aziraphale looked at Crowley, properly horrified. This was it; this was the end. Crowley didn’t look scared, like Aziraphale thought he would. Crowley looked back at Aziraphale and, with tears in his golden eyes, shook his head.
I don’t even like you!
You do!
At Satan’s call, Adam began the apocalypse.
Not long after, Earth became a landscape of hellfire.
War, Pollution, Famine, and Death seemed to take turns, reveling in the delight of the end. The continents split apart as the sea boiled and natural disasters reigned. Humans screamed as they died, begging and pleading to spare their lives, the lives of their children, the lives of their friends, the lives of their peers. No Angels heard them. No Angels cared. The soldiers from Heaven and Hell battled as nuclear bombs destroyed the life that was left.
Heaven won, only barely.
Heaven won, but at what cost?
“Crowley?” Aziraphales voice had gone after the first day of shouting, searching the scorched Earth for his friend. He stepped over rubble and skeletons, crossed rivers soaked in oil and radiation. He wasn’t quite sure where he was, all landmarks turned into rocks and ash. Everywhere he went he looked for life – maybe one human who had made it, or a cat trotting along covered in soot, or a bird perched on top of a warped bridge. But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Sirens blared from outposts, cities were vacant, farmland was inconsolable. Aziraphale walked for six more days, ignoring the calls from Heaven to return and assume his new duties. Instead, he walked, and he stumbled – over charred bone and melted steel, the ruins of the world he’d loved so much, the ruins of the world he had watched grow.
Crowley had begged him to run off to the stars. They could’ve picnicked on an asteroid, or danced on a moon. Kissed under a galaxy. Made love on a supernova.
He thought of Crowley’s face, of his jokes and odd be-bop music and that one certain scowl when he was trying to stop himself from smiling at something. Aziraphale thought of how he said – Kids, no, you can’t kill kids – at the Ark. Compassionate, still, after sauntering vaguely downwards, although he’d never admit it.
Aziraphale walked, and walked, and shouted out his best friend’s name. He cried, and he shouted some more, but then the cries came again until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t reason. Although none of that should matter, that his celestial body should be able to withstand Armageddon and then some, on the morning of the seventh he collapses.
He’s in his bookshop, and he’s re stocking his Oliver Wilde’s by which is his current most favorite. Obviously, this is taking him a while.
In the front of the shop the door opens but the bell doesn’t ring. He knows its Crowley, he can sense it like everything else, but he allows his mischievous friend the small giddiness of ‘sneaking’ up on him.
“Angel,” Crowley greets as he reaches the back of the store, “Organizing again?”
“Yes, just keeping busy.” Aziraphale turns his head slightly and he smiles, one of the small soft ones he reserves for this demon only. His chest warms when he gets one in return.
He continues stocking, and it takes him a small while to finish. If he speeds himself up to free up more time with his friend, he doesn’t notice.
“Wine?” Crowley asks, already helping himself to Aziraphales cabinet.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“Azira! Buddy!”
Aziraphale cracks open his eyes to blinding white light. Gabriel stands over him, beaming. Aziraphale closes them immediately, face cringing as he adjusts.
“He’s awake?” Michael, nearly annoyed.
“Yes.” Aziraphale answers, voice still scratchy. He re opens his eyes and sits up, taking in the soft cots in rows of twenty, a few others occupied by other angels.
“Well, now that you’re done moping over that waste of dirt and ozone, you should be fine to get back to work,” Gabriel pats him on the shoulder, albeit roughly. “You’re just lucky I find you somewhat charming, we could’ve had you seriously reprimanded for not fighting! But lucky for you, I’m a nice guy. And we did win, so say I’m in a good mood, and willing to give an old friend a favor.” Gabriel continues his beaming smile, shaking the shoulder his hand laid upon.
“How long have I been asleep?” Aziraphale asks, taking deep breaths he doesn’t exactly need.
“Time is a human construct,” Michael states, but after a beat she continues, “four Earth months.”
Aziraphale nods, in a daze, and Gabriel finally let’s go of his shoulder. “Get yourself resettled, and then back to work it is, Aziraphale!”
Aziraphale thinks of a green park, of a wooden bench, of black circle glasses. He thinks of fruity wine, and laughter, and quick-witted comments. He thinks of the Earth, smoldering in radiation and ash.
Stuff happened. I lost my best friend.
“Of course,” He hears himself say, “Right on it.”
Slowly, the world comes back together. Aziraphale turns down the invitation to help.
The fires are put out, the volcanoes end their spewing of lava, the radiation levels drop. Over two thousand years Earth turns green again, having healed from the humans who had inhabited it and the apocalypse that had broken it apart. Aziraphale had heard that there were even new humans, just a few that God herself had placed back on the Earth for a second time around. They had just discovered farming.
It takes him a while to step onto Earth again. At first, he doesn’t want to. Millennias of sitting at a white desk in Heaven, clicking through paperwork and typing up documents has left him scared of the new world below. He doesn’t know that soil, that air, the people or their new cultures.
Aziraphale had tried to find Crowley through Heaven’s databases, searching over the surviving demons that had been rounded up and sent back to Hell. Most of them weren’t even bothered with their names, simply called Demon 1287, Demon 1288, Demon 1289, and so on. He had searched everywhere he could, but nothing was known of the demon Crowley after Armageddon had begun and Aziraphale lost sight of him.
So, he types, and clicks, and reads. Mostly, he thinks on all the mistakes he made.
What if he had gone with Crowley to Alpha Centauri? He was so sure that he could stop it all, save Earth, avoid the war. He remembers the pained look on Crowley’s face when he’d told him no, both times. If he could go back in time, slap himself, shake himself, beg himself to choose the selfish choice; the one he wasn’t allowing himself to take, to run away and spend eternity with Crowley, picnicking under the nebula.
You go too fast for me, Crowley.
Aziraphale had told him in that car, the two holding onto so much unspoken. It only struck Aziraphale now that perhaps it was not Crowley moving too fast, but him moving too slow.
After four thousand years, humanity is at their Rome stage. They call it something else, though. Languages and cultures have changed, and it makes Aziraphale wonder how different their future will be. His first week spent on Earth warms his hardened heart, watching humans act so much like themselves again. It has been so long.
A child dances around as their mother laughs, picking them up and giving them kisses. Friends knock their cups together and drink their wine, and grilled lamb emits the nicest smell from the fire. Aziraphale wanders the market, handing gold coins to the young man selling figs. Placing the food into his knapsack, he feels quite old, his bones aching under no real strain but time.
The market is loud and bustling, and if he forgets himself enough, he can pretend he simply travelled back in time – that he is in Rome, and perhaps tomorrow he will go to a tavern for a drink and see his mischievous friend, and offer temptation, wine and oysters. They would get drunk and eat enough for ten people, just like last time, but at the end of the night Aziraphale would kiss Crowley instead of bidding him a good night. And Crowley would kiss him back. And perhaps they would do more, or perhaps not. And everything would be okay.
In his daze, someone shoves him from behind, and the many fruits in his hands go tumbling in the dirt, off the beaten path. Aziraphale grumbles, sighing and kneeling down to pick up the several pears he dropped. Someone stops beside him and grabs the few that tumbled the other way, dusting them on their tunic.
“Oh, why thank you,” Aziraphale says, letting a miracle transform the language. He stands, looking up at the fellow.
Amber eyes behind small, dark glasses meet his gaze. A sly smile hands him back his pears. If Aziraphale had a human heart, he’s positive it would have stopped.
“Ah, don’t mention it, angel.” Crowley shrugs, as if he hadn’t died to Aziraphale, as if for the past four thousand years Aziraphale hasn’t lived a single minute without the crushing guilt of losing him.
Crowley pushes his glasses farther up, covering the slip of gold that could be seen. He looks over his shoulder, nearly pouting, “Know any place to get a decent drink around here?”
I worked it all out.
Look, wherever you are, I’ll come to you. Where are you?
Aziraphale needs to know everything, what had happened to Crowley, where he has been, if he is okay.
“Of course,” Aziraphale says instead. They have all the time they need, now. He can breathe again. “I most certainly do.”