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Office cubicles in Heaven were as bland and impersonal as the rest of it. Unauthorized personal adjustments were a slippery slope from pride to Pride, and then it was a straight shot to Below. Don’t pass Go, don’t collect 200 dollars. Just you and Satan and a Pinterest-inspired corkboard that managed to go unnoticed by Remiel, office manager, for three millennia before a spot inspection brought you Down.
The only items that distinguished Gabriel’s office from all the others was the collection of purple pens on the desk, a motivational poster in varying shades of cream and beige that read Climb Every Mountain hung behind the impassive cinderblock of a desk, and the rogue angel just about biting his cheek to keep from fidgeting in the chair across from him.
Aziraphale’s fingers drummed nervously on his knees as Gabriel silently read from the paper in front of him. The archangel gave a monotonous hum that could have been good, or could have signalled something Very Bad. He shuffled around the papers.
He looked up at Aziraphale with a cold stare.
“Well,” he said, “Tallying up the final count, you’ve made 5,893.6 fireable offenses in almost as many millennia. And that’s ignoring the incident with the flaming sword.”
Aziraphale tried for a weak smile. “Surely it can’t be that bad.”
“You think?” Gabriel pulled out a pair of reading spectacles and skimmed the page. “Just in the past century, you averted the apocalypse, consorted with a demon, shirked your Heavenly duties onto said demon while covering temptations . In addition to numerous blunders that directly impacted humanity and, by proxy, securing souls for the Almighty.”
“Everyone makes a few mistakes now and again,” Aziraphale twittered, though a particular incident with a trio of Nazis came to mind.
“You started the first World War.”
Aziraphale cringed. In his defense, he’d been obliviously lunching at a quaint cafe in Sarajevo when he mentioned to the sullen chap next to him that, oh, look, the Archduke is coming, how nice! How was he supposed to have known the young Gavrilo Princip had been trying to off Franz the whole morning?
“But I helped,” he offered weakly, “I was a medic - RAMC, 4 Armored Medical Regiment - to help with the, the gases. Er. Hell really outdid themselves with those - “
“Weapons that your acquaintance Crowley invented,” Gabriel cut in.
Technically speaking, that had been another human invention that Hell had given Crowley an unwarranted commendation for. Aziraphale did not dare correct the already pissed off archangel, who was on a roll.
Gabriel leaned back in his office chair, pinching the bridge of his nose wearily. “Look. We appreciate the effort, but frankly, you’re the worst angel we’ve ever had. Not including Those No Longer in Heaven. Barely. In fact, if it were up to us, you would have been fired by now. Lucky for you, it’s out of our jurisdiction.”
Both angels glanced surreptitiously upward. The decision of who had Fallen was solely up to the Almighty, no matter how many request for termination forms Gabriel submitted to the Metatron.
“Anyway,” Gabriel continued, once again cold and severe, “It’s almost better for us your little...Apocalypse stunt gave us cause to review your work history. Who knows what other mess you’d have made on Heaven’s behalf. I mean, just think - “
“Is this going somewhere?” Aziraphale interrupted. Icicles hung from his tone, causing the archangel to pause in mild shock. The Aziraphale from Before never would have used such a sharp, confident tone. He certainly wouldn’t have interrupted what was clearly a self-congratulatory dressing down of one’s coworker.
Crowley would have been proud.
Gabriel blinked.
“We’re offering you a severance package.” Another stack of papers appeared on the desk with a bell-like tinkle, bound together with a purple paperclip. “Immortality intact, corporation bundle with anti-virus updates every decade. A monthly miracle limit, which is outlined in section 𝚫. And - you’re to stop the bi-weekly reports to Heaven. We insist on that.”
Aziraphale took the stack gingerly. He thumbed through it with a raised brow.
“That’s it? There will be no other consequences for...well.”
Violent eyes hardened. Gabriel’s mouth pulled into a cold smile, and Aziraphale shivered. “We have nothing you can interfere with other than the Great Plan. All of this is in the understanding that, should you attempt to avert the future War, there will be no mercy a second time.” Then his face smoothed out into the usual faux-cheerful expression. He held out a purple pen. “Right! If there are no further questions, sign on the dotted lines έ through ψ.”
Aziraphale glanced through the packet thrice more, to the annoying thrum of impatient fingers on the desk. Then he licked the pen nib and signed a string of letters unknown to the mortal plane in silver ink. The forms vanished as he looped the final signature.
“Excellent! Now please, get out of my office.”
Aziraphale slugged morosely through the shop, picking up papers, putting them down, pulling books from shelves just to put them back after an idle skim. A full glass of port was the victim of continuous, contemplative swirling in his left hand. He’d summoned it, banished it from guilt, and re-summoned it several times before deciding that yes, its presence was in fact necessary, thank you very much.
Everywhere he looked, evidence of his own hedonistic tendencies mocked him. What sort of angel lounged around a den of veritable pleasures while Her creatures suffered unimaginable pains all around the globe? Aziraphale had while centuries away collecting rare books and vintage wines and lovely dinners out with a demon . Meanwhile, humans fought and bled and died from injustices, from illnesses and travesties and circumstances far beyond their control. From the demonic wiles of his supposed adversaries.
What a sham he was.
Aziraphale could have spent years sullenly cataloging each and every instance of selfish indulgence, and most likely would have, had it not been for the sudden ring of his telephone. The sound jarred him out of his self-deprecation.
The angel made of heavenly grace and humility snatched up the receiver. “We’re closed,” he said shortly.
“ Satan forbid you hold any reasonable opening hours,” said an amused, achingly familiar voice. One that couldn’t possibly be put off by poor business management practices like snapping at potential customers via landline.
Aziraphale felt the tension in his stomach loosen a touch. “Ah. Sorry, dear boy. Bit of a rough night. Is everything alright?”
“ Just checking in,” Crowley explained, sounding a tad relieved, “ Got called into the office today, thought they might’ve done the same to you. Wanted to make sure they didn’t cross any lines.”
“Yes, I was called in as well. Did you receive a - “
“Severance package?” Crowley snorted, “Yeah. Ridiculous, eh? I mean, monthly miracle limit? Where exactly do they get off?”
It was clearly a jibe meant for a round of infernal/celestial teasing, followed by a request for dinner or a subtle nudge for wine at the shop, evening stroll around the park, see where the night went from there. But Aziraphale’s mouth tasted dry and dusty, like the ashes of 6,000 years wasted.
He didn’t want wine anymore. He felt awful.
Instead, he found himself blurting, “Gabriel went through my paperwork. The real paperwork, not the forms I’ve been sending. Of my - my angelic conduct.”
“ Oh.” The voice sounded drastically less amused. “ What’s the damage with that, then?”
“Bad. Very bad. Worst angel of them all, apparently.” Aziraphale laughed hollowly.
“ Aw, dove... ”
“Don’t,” he reprimanded, a tad too sharp. He winced. “I don’t need your pity, Crowley.”
“ Wasn’t pity ,” the demon said quietly. There was a shuffling on the other end of the line. “ Look, why don’t you let me take you to dinner? How ‘bout the Wolseley? Haven’t been there in a tick - nothing a good pot du crème can’t fix, that’s what I always say. ”
Aziraphale’s stomach roiled sharply at the thought of such extravagant indulgence. “Thank you, dearest, but I’m really not in the mood.”
“ The Ivy then? Or maybe that cafe that opened near Trafalgar - “
“No!” Aziraphale winced at how harsh it’d come out, but he was near his breaking point. “I think perhaps I’d like some time alone tonight. If that’s alright.”
There was a shocked moment of silence on the other end. “Angel… ”
“Thank you for understanding. I’ll see you later.”
With that, Aziraphale hung up the phone with a crack . The sudden quiet in the shop was deafening crack. An inkling of guilt for the way he’d spoken to Crowley nudged at him, but the angel was far too emotionally drained to deal with that as well. He leant his head forward to press against the wall, eyes closed, breathing slow and shaky.
Then Aziraphale wandered off to the flat upstairs to make tea with trembling fingers.
It was three hours before he heard a knock at the door.
Aziraphale’s mood had only blackened further as time passed. A lackluster darjeeling had been miracled into hot toddies somewhere near suppertime. That had also been around when he’d pulled out the old assignment ledger and had taken to flipping morosely through the yellowing pages between sips of alcohol-infused tea.
Misery loves whiskey, as the saying went.
The ancient book had started off as an inventory of genuine do-gooding, and had devolved over the years into a collection of half-truths and hyperboles to cover his temptations as Crowley’s miracles. That he had dropped the ball became startlingly apparent around the fifteenth century. If Aziraphale were really being honest, evidence of his failures lingered in the pages as early as Middle Egypt, and grew worse from there.
He nearly spilled toddy all over the ledger as there was a resounding thud thud thud at the front door. Miffed, Aziraphale stalked towards it with the intention of telling the intruder off, as only one person would be at the shop so late.
Aziraphale swung open the door and glared at his infernal partner.
Crowley stood in the doorway, the tops of his shoulders soaked dark with rain. A plastic bag hung from each hand.
“I told you I don’t want to go out,” Aziraphale sniffled, “Why can’t you let me be miserable alone - “
“Fish and chips,” Crowley interrupted, hefting the plastic bag that dangled from his fingers, “From the place down the street. And Jaffa cakes. Shit food for feeling like shit.”
Aziraphale stared at him. Rain dripped sadly from the formerly well-coiffed lick of copper hair, tracing around the rims of his glasses. Adamant in his misery, Aziraphale sniffed.
“Well. We’d need a - “
“Shit wine to go with?” The demon lifted the bag in his other hand, which looked like it contained a box - a box - of rosé. “Got it covered. You gonna let me in, or am I gonna stand here and get soaked all night?”
The tantalizing smell of greasy chips wafted from the bag on a cold draft of wind. Aziraphale pursed his lips like he was thinking it over, but in reality, he was trying to hide the smile that threatened to break his moping. It wasn’t fooling anyone.
He stepped aside.
“Get in before you catch your death,” he scolded, and neither of them mentioned the obvious flaw in that.
Crowley swanned into the shop and made beeline for the comfortable study space. Master of temptation that he was, when Aziraphale followed, it was to find the cakes, chips, and various accoutrements spread out in a veritable feast of poor coping mechanisms across the coffee table. Two wine glasses were miracled from the aether with a flourish.
“Bon appetit,” said the demon, cracking open the affront to fine vineyards everywhere. With a glass of pink abomination passed into his hand by an insistent, not-nice-at-all hereditary enemy, Aziraphale was helpless but to dig in.
“Started the second world war my arse ,” Crowley snorted into his third grape-adjacent glass of wine, “Wha’were you s’pposed to do, huh? Tricky business, handguns. ‘S Gabriel ever tried stopping an ass - ashasa - ana - killin’ before? Uh-uh! ‘ Member Phillip II? Of Macedon? ”
Aziraphale, slumped halfway down the couch in defeat, sucked a smudge of chocolate from his thumb. “Hm. Had a point, though. Should have seen my file. Was this thick!” Here, the angel held his thumb and forefinger two inches apart and made a suitably flabbergasted expression.
The pair slouched on opposite armrests, legs tangled together. They’d each lost a waistcoat somewhere along the way; Crowley’s sunglasses had been relegated to the side table a while ago. At some point, Aziraphale’s feet had ended up in Crowley’s lap, and now the demon had one hand wrapped around a tartaned ankle, thumb rubbing gentle circles into the jut of bone. The angel had made it all of five minutes before spilling the whole of his woes in a sugar-induced tirade.
Crowley snorted. “Who gives a toss wha’ your file says! 6,000 years is enough time to wrack up anything - point deductions, commendations, blah blah. ‘Sides, I don’t see any of them offerin’ to help!”
Aziraphale ignored that. Instead, he sighed, glaring balefully down at the curve of his belly.
“Gabriel was right. I am soft. Used t’be the bloody guardian of the earstern gate, and now - bah! I couldn’t even d’fend myself when the archangels threatened us.”
He didn’t often talk about that. They’d had a conversation - just the one - about how frightening it was being pinned against the wall by Uriel, punched in the stomach by Sandalphon. Physical violence from Heaven was not something he’d ever considered before then.
“What’s wrong with soft?” The tone of Crowley’s voice took on a sharp-knifed edge, just bordering on a hiss. He didn’t like to be reminded of the day the world didn’t end. Especially not the parts when they’d been separated.
“Nothing wrong with soft. ” Aziraphale flapped his hand gracelessly, nose wrinkled in distaste, “Cept it shouldn’t be me . I mean, when’s th’ last time Uriel forgot to bless a priest because they got distracted by a book auction? Bloody awful angel’s what I am. Useless.”
It was far more than he’d intended to say; the alcohol had loosened his tongue quite a bit. Aziraphale felt his cheeks flush in embarrassment, eyes fixed on the spot above Crowley’s head.
Crowley was silent for a long few moments. He appeared to sober up. The thumb ceased its movements.
“You remember the wars?” he murmured, “The human ones. Upstairs didn’t want to do anything about them, said the humans would figure it out on their own. You were a medic, if my memory’s correct.”
Aziraphale nodded, now also sobered. “I was a medic.”
“Those boys out there. The ones hit by gas and shrapnel, the ones who were dying countries away from home. The ones who needed a friendly face even more because they were fighting for a country who barely tolerated them. You think they needed soft?”
It was like flicking a light switch. Aziraphale went very still, caught in the memories of miracling away injuries, of soothing terrified soldiers who were barely of age to be fighting, of blessing those he was not fast enough to save through smoke and tears. His hands tightened around the wine glass.
“What about all those kids out on the street who called you - what was it, Auntie?” Crowley cracked a half-smile, shifting the mood to something lighter, yet no less serious, “The ones whose families left them in the cold for being themselves. I’ll be they needed a soft touch, eh?”
Aziraphale let out a put-upon sigh. “Crowley…”
Crowley climbed over their legs and contorted himself inhumanely until he managed to flip around, feet on the armrest, head pillowed on Aziraphale’s thighs. Surprised, his partner’s hands came to rest on his shoulders, as if to stop whatever terrible truth came next.
“And,” he continued, muffled, “If you’ll remember a certain angel meeting a certain serpent outside a Garden. I can tell you that serpent expected anything but soft. But then there was a storm, and the angel covered him with his wing, and he thought, gosh, that’s awful nice of him. Maybe this demon thing’s not the end of the world. Maybe it can get better from here.
“What ‘m sayin’ is, screw fucking Gabriel and his fucking performance review. You can’t help everyone . Go mad if you did. But that doesn’t mean you’re not doing anything. You’re more the subtle type of good. Like helping uni students during end of term season and putting an extra tenner in a struggling mom’s purse at Sainsbury’s. Maybe you don’t fix all their problems, but you give ‘em the strength to fix it themselves. I think that’s pretty damn good, personally.”
Silence reigned for a brief, horrifying moment, in which Crowley feared he fucked up royally. Then he heard a wet sniffle from above him.
“Oh, my dear boy,” said a tearful Aziraphale, “ Thank you.“
Crowley relaxed, even as his face burned with mortification. “ Shadduuuup,” he whined into his thigh, “I am this close to discorporating, angel, I swear. My nice quota’s filled for the rest of the goddamned century.”
Aziraphale tugged at his t-shirt. “Come up here, please.”
“Don’ wanna.”
“ Please?”
Crowley groaned. “ Fine. But there better not be any sad angel eyes.”
With no shortage of wriggling, Crowley repositioned himself again so that he was propped up along the back of the couch. It was no surprise that the demon was met with a pair of shining blue eyes and a tremulous smile. Aziraphale tucked an imaginary wisp of hair behind his ear.
“What did I say about the sad angel eyes?” Crowley whispered, before leaning forward to kiss a tear trailing down Aziraphale’s cheek. The angel turned his head so that the next kiss was a chaste, simple thing on the lips. Crowley melted full against him, dropping his head to the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. “Feelin’ okay?”
Now that he was thinking without the filter of whiskey and shame obscuring the past, Aziraphale did feel marginally better. He could recount a number of times he’d brought a tearful student into the backroom for a cup of tea and a quiet space to study. Or leaving generous, life changing tips to the struggling waitresses and baristas. Just last week, the exhausted father at St Pancras had been offered a moment’s respite to gather themselves by a kindly man in a bowtie who, though not overly fond of children, took their screaming toddler into his arms like a natural. Said father was offered his dream job via mobile not ten minutes later, providing him the means to retain custody of his child.
It wasn’t a heavenly choir ridding humanity of a plague, nor a mighty chariotry battling the forces of evil in defense of Her children. But it would do.
“Rather. I love you,” Aziraphale murmured against his temple, “You always make everything better.”
Crowley slung an arm over Aziraphale’s chest. “Damn right I do,” he teased, with rather more confidence than he actually felt.
All it got him was a poke to the stomach. “Isn’t there something you’d like to say, darling?”
Crowley huffed and buried his head further.
“I love you too. I guess. Even if you eat all my Jaffa cakes.”
“You don’t even like Jaffa cakes!”
“Maybe I do, but someone eats them all. Ever thought of that?”
Aziraphle sighed dramatically even as his fingers started brushing through Crowley’s hair. “You really are a menace.”
“Hm. But I’m your menace.”