Work Text:
Aziraphale stands, his flaming sword in his hand, and watches his adversaries Fall.
They plummet from Heaven screaming and cursing and crying. Aziraphale watches, and he feels...
He feels, many, many things, most of which do not yet have names. But first among them, above and beneath and within all the darker, more painful, more complicated feelings, is relief.
He will not have to kill any more of them.
The Almighty is wise. The Almighty is merciful. Only a being as wise and as merciful as She could possibly come up with such an elegant, such a benevolent solution. Exile, rather than destruction.
Of course, the place She's sending them will not be nice. He understands, vaguely, that it is meant to be a punishment in itself. How could it not be, really? It isn't Heaven, and no place will ever be as beautiful or as welcoming as Heaven. It will be sad for them, no doubt, being cut off from their proper home, from the other angels, from the loving presence of God Herself.
But he will not have to kill any more of them.
(And if a tiny, half-heard voice in the back of his mind might be trying to whisper to him, might be saying something like, Yes, but why did you have to kill any of them? If God is all-wise and all-merciful, why didn't she simply exile them at the beginning, why did she make us fight each other, why do I have to know what it feels like to destroy my own kind? Well, if it is, he keeps it to himself, and tries very hard not to listen. Questioning the decisions of the Almighty is what got them into this in the first place, after all.)
Aziraphale extinguishes his sword as the last of them topples over the edge of Heaven, arms upraised and grasping as if trying desperately to hold on, or to pull the other half of Heaven down with them.
He hopes he never has to use the bloody thing again.
**
Heaven is different, after that. Quieter. Colder.
Aziraphale didn't know very many of the rebels, and none of them well, but he is surprised how much of a difference their absence makes. He finds himself, sometimes, missing the sound of their voices echoing down the halls of Heaven. Missing their questions and their complaints and their inappropriate jokes. No one makes inappropriate jokes anymore. No one ever complains.
He wonders, sometimes, how they're doing down there. Wonders if they're all right, if they're lonely, if they miss Heaven, miss the way things used to be.
If they miss the ones he killed.
**
Aziraphale stands on the Eastern Wall of Eden, in the aftermath of the second, human Fall, and he feels many, many things, some of which have been given names since the first time he experienced them.
First among them, around and behind and within all the others, is worry. Worry for Adam, for Eve. For their child, still half-formed and innocent in the womb. For the generations that will come after them. For this beautiful, vibrant, living world that he doesn't want to lose, and doesn't want to leave.
For himself, for what he did with his sword. He was meant to use it against them, if they tried to come back into Eden, if they rebelled any further. He wasn't meant to give it to them. Wasn't meant to use his own judgment about the right and wrong of any of it, either. Does that make him disobedient, as well? A questioner, a rebel, no different from... from...
"Well," says the demon, "that went over like a lead balloon."
He seems all right, the demon. Friendly. Kind, in his own way. Worried, like him. Confused, like him. Not a creature of filth and misery and pain. He doesn't seem evil, or frightening, no more than any of them did before the War. He feels... companionable, like a long-lost friend. Or perhaps a new neighbor.
Together, they wonder whether they've done the right or the wrong thing, and watch the flames of Aziraphale's sword disappearing over the horizon, as the rain begins to fall.
**
He's told, often enough after that, how wrong he was to think that way.
"Watch out for demons," Gabriel tells him, for the tenth time, or the hundredth. "Filthy traitors. Well, hey, at least you can smell 'em coming, right? Whoo-eee, do they stink!"
They don't, not if they keep their corporations healthy. It's only that they smell of themselves, not of Heaven. But Aziraphale says nothing.
"Thwart 'em whenever you can," says Gabriel. "Smite 'em when you get the opportunity. Don't be fooled, Aziraphale. We're still at war here. We can't ever let the enemy get the upper hand. I need every angel to give a hundred and ten percent on this one. You understand me?"
"Well, I'm not sure that I quite..."
"Aziraphale. Do. You. Understand me?"
"Yes," he says. "Yes, of course. We're... we are still at war." Somewhere in the depths of his mind flames are crackling along a blade, and his stomach clenches sourly around the excellent meal he's just consumed.
"Remember, they're not like us," says Gabriel. "Not anymore. No matter how much they might pretend otherwise, they're demons. They're the enemy. Never forget that."
He tries not to forget it. He repeats the words to himself, over and over.
He repeats them to the demon, over and over.
Sometimes, he manages to believe them. He's not sure the demon ever does.
**
Aziraphale stands at the end of the world, at the beginning of the next great war. There is a flaming sword in his hand, and a demon on his knees before him.
He is feeling many, many things, all of which he has names for now, even the ones that don't exist in Heaven. And first among them is...
He looks at Crowley, at the fear and the loss in his eyes. Crowley believes he is about to die at the hands of his own kind. He believes he's about to lose the battle he fought so hard to win. About to lose the home where he belongs. About to lose the divine, soul-nourishing, utterly necessary presence of love.
Aziraphale feels the same. He feels the same.
The angel lifts his sword. It's flaming like anything. He holds it up above the demon's head. He has a choice, in this moment. He has always had a choice. But he knows, at last, exactly what the right thing is.
He has faith.
"Come up with something," he says, as Crowley's eyes lock onto his for what cannot, must not, will not be the final time. "Or... or I'll never talk to you again!"
**
They talk to each other again. They talk to each other again, and again. They never stop talking.
Aziraphale puts away his sword. He does not take it up again.
And, this, at last, is the third Fall, a slower, kinder, far less lonely Fall: an angel and a demon falling together, into each other's arms.
**
Despite everything the two of them have ever been told, it isn't the end of the world.
It's only the end of the war.