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The angels smite Sodom and Gomorrah in 2152 BC. Aziraphale is there, of course. He had tried to talk the other angels out of it – “Really? We have to smite everyone? But there must be some way…”
But they had laughed at his strange ways, as they often did, and anyway the policy had already been decided. That wasn’t Aziraphale’s job. Gabriel had gently called his compassion commendable but misplaced.
And so, as night falls, Aziraphale stands alone on a bluff high above the cities as they burn.
“Your work?”
Aziraphale might’ve jumped, on another occasion. Tonight he only stares into the destruction below. Slowly, Crowley’s presence and his words slither into his consciousness, and when Crowley hisses thoughtfully, he answers, distracted, “No. I mean, not mine, personally. Uriel’s and Sandalphon’s.”
“What’s the smiting for this time?”
“Oh,” Aziraphale sighs, “They were unable to find even 10 righteous men. I… ” he trails off. He wasn’t allowed to help look.
“Kids, too? Again?”
“Crowley.”
It’s a new tone of voice Crowley hasn’t heard from Aziraphale before, and he doesn’t quite know what it means until the angel looks at him instead of the fire. He’s not crying, exactly, although only in the sense that there aren’t any tears on his face. But by now Crowley has seen grief on enough human faces to recognize it on this odd angel. He had indeed come to needle his Adversary, but suddenly the mischief goes out of him. Some angels always did smite harder than strictly necessary. There was little a Principality could do to stop an Archangel on the war path. Crowley feels an unexpected sympathy. “Oh, angel,” he sighs, face softening.
He can’t say any of the other things that come to mind, no “you poor thing,” or “I’m sure some of them will be alright,” or any of that. It’s too much already that he’s even acknowledged – that he’s seen the angel’s soft spot and not attacked. It’s too much that the angel let him see it.
He looks away, into the fire for a long moment, before he surprises himself, “Let’s get out of here.”
“Sorry?” Aziraphale asks, confusion sufficient to replace grief for a least a moment.
Crowley lets just a bit of mischief back into this eyes, quick quirk of the lips. “Let’s go – neither of us have any work at the moment, it’s all been rather taken care of, hasn’t it? All this doom and gloom – bit too much like home, if you ask me.”
The angel huffs. It’s not quite a laugh but Crowley will take it. “Where would we go?”
“China!”
This time Aziraphale does laugh, just a little. “It would take us ages just to get there.”
“Not if we fly.” Crowley waggles his eyebrows. “I mean, come on, when was the last time you really got to stretch your wings, hm?”
Aziraphale looks back into the burning pit below. His sorrow bleeds back to the surface, nearly palpable. Crowley is certain his offer will be dismissed – as a temptation or a bureaucratic impossibility or something. But then he hears the soft rustling of feathers and there are those lovely white wings he both covets and disdains. He unfurls his own grackle-black wings in answer.
*
They make it to China’s warm southern coast just as the sun begins to rise. They perch delicately on a quiet hilltop above a new and budding city, rice paddies carefully carved halfway up toward them. Crowley sits down, sprawling out a bit. Aziraphale carefully tucks himself onto the ground beside him. They sit quietly as orange and pink light washes over the wet, green world beneath them.
Once the sun and quite a few humans have risen for the day, Crowley says, “Look at them.”
“They’re marvelous,” Aziraphale says softly.
Crowley doesn’t disagree.